"Several things. Even what you don't say, gets to Him."
His manner to me was kind, but full of curiosity, as it might have been to a clever kitten which could perform amusing tricks. Sometimes, when I was sitting with him at night, when he smelt of naphtha, burning oil, and onions, for he loved onions and used to gnaw them raw, like apples, he would suddenly ask:
"Now, Olekha, lad, let's have some poetry."
I knew a lot of verse by heart, besides which I had a large notebook in which I had copied my favorites. I read "Rousslan" to him,' and he listened without moving, like a deaf and dumb man, holding his wheezy breath. Then he said to me in a low voice:
"That's a pleasant, harmonious, little story. Did you make it up yourself? There is a gentleman called Mukhin Pushkin. I have seen him."
"But this man was killed ever so long ago."
"What for?"
I told him the story in short words, as "Queen Margot" had told it to me. Yaakov listened, and then said calmly:
"Lots of people are ruined by women."
I often told him similar stories which I had read in books. They were all mixed up, effervescing in my mind into one long story of disturbed, beautiful lives, interspersed with flames of passion. They were full of senseless deeds of heroism, blue-blooded nobility, legendary feats, duels and deaths, noble words and mean actions. Rokambol was confused with the knightly forms of Lya-Molya and Annibal Kokonna, Ludovic XI took the form of the Père Grandet, the Comet Otletaev was mixed up with Henry IV. This story, in which I changed the character of the people and altered events according to my inspiration, became a whole world to me. I lived in it, free as grand-father's God, Who also played with every one as it pleased Him. While not hindering me from seeing the reality, such as it was, nor cooling my desire to understand living people, nevertheless this bookish chaos hid me by a transparent but impenetrable cloud from much of the infectious obscenity, the venomous poison of life. Books rendered many evils innocuous for me. Knowing how people loved and suffered, I could never enter a house of ill fame. Cheap depravity only roused a feeling of repulsion and pity for those to whom it was sweet. Rokambol taught me to be a Stoic, and not be conquered by circumstances. The hero of Dumas inspired me with the desire to give myself for some great cause. My favorite hero was the gay monarch, Henry IV, and it seemed to me that the glorious songs of B?ranger were written about him.