We were sitting on the deck. The warm moonlight night swam to meet us; the meadow-land of the shore was hardly visible beyond the silver water. In the heavens twinkled yellow lights; these were certain stars which had been captivated by the earth. All around there was movement, sleeplessly palpitating, quiet; but real life was going on. Into this pleasant, melancholy silence fell the hoarse words:
"And so we let go of each other's hands and parted."
Yaakov's stories were immodest, but not repulsive, for they were neither boastful nor cruel, and there was a ring of artlessness and sorrow in them. The moon in the sky was also shamelessly naked, and moved me in the same way, setting me fretting for I knew not what. I remembered only what was good, the very best thing in my life—Queen Margot and the verses, unforgettable in their truth:
Only a song has need of beauty,
While beauty has no need of songs.
Shaking off this dreamy mood as if it had been a light doze, I again asked the stoker about his life and what he had seen.
"You 're a funny fellow," he said. "What am I to tell you? I have seen everything. You ask have I seen a monastery? I have. Traktirs? I have seen them also. I have seen the life of a gentleman and the life of a peasant. I have lived well-fed, and I have lived hungry."
Slowly, as if he were crossing a deep stream by a shaky, dangerous bridge, he recalled the past.
"For instance, I was sitting in the police station after the horse-stealing affair. 'They will send me to Siberia,' I was thinking when the constable began to rage because the stove in his new house smoked. I said to him, 'This is a business which I can set right for you, your Honor,' He shut me up. 'It is a thing,' he grumbled, 'which the cleverest workman could not manage.' Then I said to him, 'Sometimes a shepherd is cleverer than a general.' I felt very brave toward every one just then. Nothing mattered now, with Siberia before me. 'All right; try,' he said, 'but if it smokes worse afterwards I will break all your bones for you.' In two days I had finished the work. The constable was astonished. 'Ach!' he cried, 'you fool, you blockhead! Why, you are a skilled workman, and you steal horses! How is it?' I said to him, 'That was simply a piece of foolery, your Honor.' 'That's true,' he said, 'it was foolery. I am sorry for you.' 'Yes, I am sorry,' he repeated. Do you see? A man in the police force, carrying out his duties without remorse, and yet he was sorry for me."
"Well, what happened then?" I asked him.
"Nothing. He was sorry for me. What else should happen?"