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His passion for poetry, however, never died out, and he kept his memory for nothing but verses; a few days before his death he recited a passage from the Rossiad; but Pushkin he feared, as children fear bogies.
He did not read, he declaimed the verse majestically, in a torrent of rhythm, in a rolling outpour through his nose, like a man intoxicated, lifted out of himself, like the Pythian priestess. And, to tell the truth, it was this same Rossiad which aroused my enthusiasm most.
Punin and I made an effort to read something out of the Rossiad for the last time; we even locked ourselves up in the lumber-room it was useless to dream of going into the garden but at the very first line we both broke down, and I fairly bellowed like a calf, in spite of my twelve years, and my claims to be grown-up.
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