And it seemed to me that other people's griefs were amusing to him. He told me many stories, and I listened greedily. I remember his stories perfectly, but I do not remember one of them that was happy. He spoke more calmly than books. In books, I was often conscious of the feelings of the writer,—of his rage, his joy, his grief, his mockery; but the stoker never mocked, never judged. Nothing excited either his disgust or his pleasure to any extent. He spoke like an impartial witness at a trial, like a man who was a stranger alike to accuser, accused, and judge. This equanimity aroused in me an ever-increasing sense of irritated sorrow, a feeling of angry dislike for Yaakov.
Life burned before his eyes like the flame of the stove beneath the boilers. He stood in front of the stove with a wooden mallet in his pock-marked, coffee-colored hands, and softly struck the edge of the regulator, diminishing or increasing the heat.
"Hasn't all this done you harm?"
"Who would harm me? I am strong. You see what blows I can give!"
"I am not speaking of blows, but has not your soul been injured?"
"The soul cannot be hurt. The soul does not receive injuries," he said. "Souls are not affected by any human agency, by anything external."
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."