I wanted to keep in our life the habits which Anatoly Petrovich had started. On our days off we used to go for walks round Moscow, as we had done when he was with us. But these walks made us feel sad. We kept on thinking of Father. In the evenings our games were a failure—we missed Father, his jokes and laughter.
One free evening on our way home, we stopped by a jeweler's shop. The lighted window was dazzlingly bright: scarlet, blue, green and violet lights gleamed and sparkled in the precious stones. There were necklaces, brooches and sparkling trinkets. Right in front, near the pane, on a big velvet cushion lay rows and rows of rings, and in each one of them gleamed some kind of gem, and showers of many-coloured sparks seemed to be flying out of every stone, just as they do from a grinder's wheel or the arm of a tram. The strange sparkle of the jewels fascinated the children. And suddenly Zoya said, "Daddy promised to tell me why rings have jewels, but never did..."
Just as suddenly she fell silent and pressed my hand tightly, as if asking to be forgiven for reminding me of Father.
"Mum, do you know why there are jewels in rings?" interrupted Shura.
And as we walked on I told the children the story of Prometheus. The children kept looking up at me, drinking in every word, and scarcely avoiding bumping into the passers-by. The ancient legend about the Titan who for the sake of man performed an amazing feat and suffered cruel torment captured their imagination.
"And one day Hercules, an uncommonly strong and kind man, a real hero, came to Prometheus," I related. "He feared no one, not even Zeus. With his sword he severed the chains which fastened Prometheus to the rock, and freed him. But at the command of Zeus, Prometheus never parted with his chain: one of the links with a splinter of rock in it was left on his hand. Ever since that time, in memory of Prometheus, people have worn rings on their fingers with gems in them."
Several days later I brought the children a book of Greek myths from the library, and began to read it to them aloud. And strange to say, for all their interest in Prometheus, they listened to me very unwillingly at first. Apparently, the demigods, whose names were so difficult to remember, seemed to them rather cold, distant and strange. Not like their old friends: Bear Sweet-Tooth, Patrikeyevna the Fox, Grey Wolf, the foolish fisher who left his tail in the icehole, and other aid friends from Russian folk tales. But little by little, the heroes of the myths found their way to the children's hearts. Shura and Zoya began to talk about Perseus, Hercules and Icarus as if they were living people.
Once, I remember, when Zoya said she felt sorry for Niobe, Shura retorted hotly, "But why did she boast?"
I knew that many more heroes of books would become near and dear to my children. I remember yet another incident.
"Fancy, you, a grownup, crying…" said Zoya in thoughtful wonder one day when she saw me reading The Gadfly, by Voynich.
"Some day you too shall read this book," I answered.
"And when will that be?"
"When you are, say, fourteen."
"O-oh, that's a long time yet," said Zoya.
It was clear that such a period of time seemed terribly, almost incredibly long to her.
Next: Books They Loved