The deck passengers, the sailors, every one, in fact, used to speak of the soul as often and as much as they spoke of the land, of their work, of food and women.
“Soul” is the tenth word in the speech of simple people, a word expressive of life and movement.
I did not like to hear this word so habitually on people’s slippery tongues, and when the peasants used foul language, defiling their souls, it struck me to the heart.
I remember so well how carefully grandmother used to speak of the soul, — that secret receptacle of love, beauty, and joy. I believed that, after the death of a good person, white angels carried his soul to the good God of my grandmother, and He greeted it with tenderness. “Well, my dear one, my pure one, thou hast suffered and languished below.”
And He would give the soul the wings of seraphim — six white wings.
Yaakov Shumov spoke of the soul as carefully, as reluctantly, and as seldom as grandmother.
When he was abused, he never blasphemed, and when others discussed the soul he said nothing, bowing his red, bull-like neck.
When I asked him what the soul was like, he replied: “The soul is the breath of God.”
This did not enlighten me much, and I asked for more; upon which the stoker, inclining his head, said: “Even priests do not know much about the soul, little brother; that is hidden from us.”
He held my thoughts continually, in a stubborn effort to understand him, but it was an unsuccessful effort.
I saw nothing else but him. He shut out everything else with his broad figure.
The stewardess bore herself towards me with suspicious kindness. In the morning, I was deputed to take hot water for washing to her, although this was the duty of the second-class chambermaid, Lusha, a fresh, merry girl.
When I stood in the narrow cabin, near the stewardess, who was stripped to the waist, and looked upon her yellow body, flabby as half-baked pastry, I thought of the lissom, swarthy body of “Queen Margot,” and felt disgusted.
And the stewardess talked all the time, now complainingly and scolding, now crossly and mockingly.
I did not grasp the meaning of her speech, although I dimly guessed at it — at its pitiful, low, shameful meaning.
But I was not disturbed by it. I lived far away from the stewardess, and from all that went on in the boat. I lived behind a great rugged rock, which hid from me all that world. All that went on during those days and nights flowed aVay into space.
“Our Gavrilovna is quite in love with you.” I heard the laughing words of Lusha as in a dream.
“Open your mouth, and take your happiness.”
And not only did she make fun of me, but all the dining-room attendants knew of the weakness of their mistress. The cook said, with a frown: “The woman has tasted everything, and now she has a fancy for pastry!
People like that 1 You look, Pyeshkov, before you leap.”
And Yaakov also gave me paternal advice. “Of course, if you were a year or two older, I should give you different advice, but at your age, it is better for you to keep yourself to yourself.
However, you must do as you like.”
“Shut up!” said I. “The whole thing is disgusting.”
“Of course it is.”
But almost immediately after this, trying to make the limp hair on his head stand up with his fingers, he said tersely, in well-rounded periods: “Well, one must look at it from her point of view, too. She has a miserable, comfortless job.
Even a dog likes to be stroked, and how much more a human being.
A female lives by caresses, as a mushroom by moisture.
She ought to be ashamed of herself, but what is she to do?”
I asked, looking intently into his elusive eyes: “Do you begrudge her that, then?”
“What is she to me?
Is she my mother?
And if she were But you are a funny fellow!”
He laughed in a low voice, like the beating of a drum.
Sometimes when I looked at him, I seemed to be falling into silent space, into a bottomless pit full of twilight.
“Every one is married but you, Yaakov. Why haven’t you ever married?”
“Why?
I have always been a favorite with the women, thank God, but it’s like this.
When one is married, one has to live in one place, settle down on the land. My land is very poor, a very small piece, and my uncle has taken even that from me.
When my young brother came back from being a soldier, he fell out with our uncle, and was brought before the court for punching his head.
There was blood shed over the matter, in fact.
And for that they sent him to prison for a year and a half. When you come out of prison, son, there is only one road for you; and that leads back to prison again.
His wife was such a pleasant young woman — but what is the use of talking about it?
When one is married, one ought to be master of one’s own stable. But a soldier is not even master of his own life.”
“Do you say your prayers?”
“You fun — n — y — y fellow, of course I do!”
“But how?”
“All kinds of ways.”
“What prayers do you say?”
“I know the night prayers.
I say quite simply, my brother: ‘Lord Jesus, while I live, have mercy on me, and when I am dead give me rest. Save me. Lord, from sickness.’ and one or two other things I say.”