Beyond the prow, all in a foam, the river rushed swiftly. The seething, running water was audible, the dark shore gliding slowly along with it. On the deck lay snoring passengers. Among the benches, among the sleeping bodies, a tall faded woman in a black frock, with uncovered gray head, moved quietly, coming towards us. The stoker, nudging me, said softly: "Look--she is in trouble!" 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." 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."