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Introduction

In the commemorative essay "At the Elder Varnava's" it is told how, forty years ago, I, a young, twenty-year-old student, "reeling from the Church", chose for a wedding trip - accidentally or not by chance - the ancient monastery, the Valaam Monastery. This trip did not pass without a trace: I took away a lot of impressions, sensations - and the book was published. This first book of mine, which brought me both joy and anxiety, has long been distributed in Russian cities and villages. Whether it exists abroad - I do not know; unlikely. Before the war, I was offered to republish it, but I refused: it was too young and light. Now I would not write like that; but the essence has remained to this day: bright Valaam. During this time, a lot has changed: both in me and outside. Russia, Orthodox Russia - where? Which?! And the whole world has changed. Do you remember...- and the Trinity-Sergius Lavra? And what about the Optina Hermitage? And what about Sarov? but Solovki?!. Valaam remained, survived. Is it still the same? They say it's still the same. Thank God. Well, of course, he has changed something - time, a new fate. They say that it accepts tourists, Europeans. This is not bad, and it is not scary for him: "let the world shine." Once I read in "Maten" about Valaam. The French journalist, of course, did not understand much "in Valaam", but he was imbued with respect. I remember writing: "They serve their idea... peasant monks." It's not bad if the "men" serve the idea. How much has the French journalist seen, what can surprise him? And Valaam was surprised. It's not bad. Yes, Valaam has become a little different. But he is still alive. I used to live in Russia, with the soul of the people. Now Russia is not heard, Russia does not come, does not bring its prayers, labor, kopecks, tenderness. But it still stands, Bright One. It is not destroyed, desecrated, or blown up. Harsh Finland is used to it. After all, in the past he was within its borders: nature united them. I remember forty years ago, the same Finns kept "police surveillance" over him. Valaam was not a stranger to them: the same as them - stern, silent, steadfast, strong, hard-working, - peasant. Valaam remained on his granite, "on the luda", as they say on Valaam - on the islands, in the forests, in the straits; with bells, with hermitages, with granite crosses on forest roads, with great silence in calm, with the roar of the forest and freedom in bad weather, with difficulty - for the Lord, "in the Name". Like St. Athos, Valaam, to this day, shines. Mount Athos is in the south, Valaam is in the north. In our twilight time, in the approaching "night of the world", we need lighthouses. Recently, as if to strengthen myself, I learned that two novices, whom I met in passing on Valaam, noted in a book, performed a feat over the years. He learned that they had become "the light of the world", that they lived. Balaam gave them obedience. And so, living threads stretched from the "now" to the past, and this past shines on me. In this light is that Valaam, far away. And I thought it would be useful to remember and tell about him: he is still the same, bright.

I. To Balaam

... At half past 3 o'clock in the morning, I was woken up by a bell in the corridor of the hotel. It was still quite dark. You can only see how the clouds run in the sky, now opening, now obscuring the stars. The outlines of the cathedral rise above the birches. The lake is thundering, birches are rustling. On the bell tower, they struck for the midnight office. The boots of the monks are knocking on the stone path - the monks are reaching for the cathedral.- In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit...- Amen.- "Alexander" is leaving in an hour, - says Brother Tikhon, a novice, - he has come since the evening, he has been watching for the waves.- Is the lake restless?- Not so much... wavy. There will be no big storm, but it will shake. We left Shlisselburg on the "Peter the Great" - it was so shaky that we got off at Konevets, sat out, prepared for Valaam. And now, on the Alexander, he will rock.- That's all right, - Brother Tikhon reassures us, - for a test for you, our lake humbles your spirit, but you will not be drowned, St. Arseny will save it.- No, he is not joking, he firmly believes that "there will be no sinking." I remember the joking words of the innkeeper - "and that's why you were shaken, so that they wouldn't pass by the Venerable One... So I had to stop by him... and now it will be good for you." Will it be? I hear the sea rolling in.We go to the cathedral to say goodbye. Dampness and a special, deep, smell of raging Ladoga overwhelms me. Torn clouds are running in the sky. At the holy gates of St. Arsenius, in schema, blesses us from the half-dark crease. In the door of the cathedral you can see rare candle lights. We enter the deserted church and hear the heartfelt exclamation of the serving hieromonk: "Hear us, O God our Savior, the hope of all the ends of the earth, and of those who are in the distant sea..." - and I remember the stormy sea, - ..."and be merciful, be merciful, O Master..." And I pray for mercy and remember how the St. Petersburg cabman-owner, who was going to Valaam on the "Peter I", used to say: "Whoever has not been to sea has not prayed to God." Arseny Konevsky flicker sleepily. Above them, in beautiful collections, there is a crimson velvet canopy. An old, barely moving monk, with his mouth open from weakness, puts down a candle trembling in them with both hands. Covered with a folded mantle, the monk prostrated motionless before the shrine in prayer. Under the arches there is darkness, in the darkness of the altar a seven-candlestick glows like colored lights, and it seems to me that I am standing at the midnight office on the Bright Day: only then there is such silence and twilight. And suddenly, from the lake, a steamer began to hum menacingly - calling to go. Casting a farewell glance at the quiet lamps over the silver reliquary of the Venerable, I went to the exit. "Have a good trip," someone said to me. I looked around. On the plank floor the mantle was blackened, the folds covered the head. "Thank you," I said with feeling to the invisible monk. The old innkeeper has already sent our things to the pier. We said goodbye to him cordially, even kissed. - "Go to Valaam - you will forget us... we are far from Valaam." And I remembered how he told me with sorrow that they had no schema-monks today. - "And everyone wants to see a schema-monk... everyone wants to be at least closer to a lofty feat." I felt sorry for this old man, offended for his monastery, full of faith that the Lord would want and show the glory of the monastery: He would grant them an ascetic too. We run downhill to the pier. The nun throws down the pier and looks after him. Further and further goes the overgrown Konevets. On the turbulent waters, the fiery sun rises, huge in the fog. "Sartanlax!" shouts the navigator. In front of us is the "Devil's Bay" - "Sartanlax" in Finnish, where the once black flock of ravens descended, expelled by the Monk from under the terrible "Horse-Stone", where there was a pagan temple. It is a deep bay bordered by forest. You can see houses, a pier, barrels, a white toy lighthouse on the spit. The sky is clear, the sun is already half the sky, and you can see how Konevets, all illuminated by the sun, lies on the waters, all illuminated by the sun, abandoned by us.Leaving boxes and barrels on the pier, the "Alexander" goes along the Finnish coast. Birches, fir trees, stony braids with white beacons near the water. The lake is not raging. They say that stones are not allowed, but as soon as we turn into the open, pray to God!- Will you please go to Valaam? - asks a red-cheeked guy in patent leather boots and a jacket. -Pray... That's good. This is the tenth time I have asceticized. On the iron part. The monks have great workshops, and we buy up what iron remains, a binding from their forges, three hundred pudics each. We are driving through a dangerous place, the stones are invisible, the captain made a slight mistake - goodbye. But only they do not break through. And then - they are going on a sacred business, not for revelry.I asked myself - and I, on what business? And - I don't know. We sail in quiet straits, among the whole bristles of "skerries". These are above-water stones, ridges overgrown with a skinny fir tree. In the coastal cliffs you can see villages covered with light draw, yellow skinny stripes - oats, barley. "Kronobor!" shouts the navigator. A wooden "Luther" church with a thin spire. Gloomy Finns, in jackets and strong, heavy boots, smoke pipes: not a smile under their shoeed hats. The stops ended. "Alexander" turns into the lake - to Valaam. They say it's seventy versts away.The sailors come running and fasten the sails tighter: the wind! The black waves seem to be covered with oil, they seem to me like molten graphite. The sails click. The steamer is now rushing, leaning to one side. We are rocking both side and keel, the rudder takes off and falls with a crash, and I remember the swing. An old Finn, the skipper, walks around the side, looking at something anxiously. They say that he watches that the chain does not break, the steering chain, - "then - wherever he drags it, throws it on the pebbles - dry yourself." The sails are torn and clicked. The sailors run to fasten it.- Isn't it Valaam? I ask the skipper, as if I see something. The captain looks out the chimney. A cloud flies in, beats with rain. Now you can't see anything. They say - no matter how much fog is enough, then - goodbye. Look, the sailors have already begun to listen - isn't he calling? What is calling? And the bells of Valaam: as the appearance disappears, the monks call, "here, to a quiet harbor, to the Venerables!" No, you don't hear the silver ringing, the islands of Valaam don't turn blue. The weary hours pass. The rain turns into a downpour, the wind screeches, the sails flapp. The pilgrims, in a group, sing - "There are no other imams in help... not imams of other hopes... Is it possible for Thee, O Lord-Maiden...""Balaam sees.." - I hear. Seemed! In front of us is a tall dark green island. The lake-sea around it boils with foam. "Alexander" runs to the granite wall, he will strike! Closer - the island splits into islands. You can see straits, stones, forests. Antiquity breathes from dark forests and stones. From behind the rocky cape, the Monastery Strait opened, magnificent. On the left, completely on the fly, there is a stone island, on it is a white church, a granite cross, behind - a dark forest. These are the lighthouse and the skete, the guardian of Valaam and the fence - the St. Nicholas Skete. The venerable saint watches on the waters, blesses those who enter the quiet waters of the monastery, shows the way "and to those who are in the distant sea." On them, high, there are forests. The air is resinous and viscous. And - silence. You can feel the bowels of the forest. Rest. Pilgrims seem to convey the feelings that envelop them. They sing - "O Gentle Light, holy - glory... The immeasurable Heavenly Father..." My heart is trembling in me. "In paradise like this...", someone's exclamation is heard. "It couldn't be better." A sharp whistle rolls down the strait. Forests and rocks answer him. To the left, on a sheer cliff, high, is the cathedral. On the blue domes, without the sun, the crosses sparkle - red gold. Maples are molded on a tall rock, hanging over the orchard. - "They have gardens... There are no gardens like this anywhere!" The monks look at the steamer with their dots. At the council, the Vespers are announced. A cart is descending the mountain. Pilgrims meet on the wooden pier. The monk-singers have stepped forward and are waiting." Having seen the Resurrection of Christ, let us worship the Holy Lord Jesus..." - they sing on the steamer and cross themselves on the crosses of the Cathedral." To the only sinless one..." - monks and a huge mass of pilgrims pour in from the pier.I see tears, shining eyes, new faces, enlightened. Clenching in his chest with delight. What power, what overflowing delight! And - you can feel - what a connection. She has bound everyone and leads everyone, and lifts them up, and carries away this one - this common song - confession - "To the One Sinless". All sinners, all are the same, we all flow, we all bow down. This has not been experienced either from the Stirners, or from the Spencers, or from the Strausses, or even from Shakespeare. I feel - my people. And what a bright people, how kind and blissful. I don't have a premonition of anything.- It was a little battered, - says a greeting acquaintance, a St. Petersburg cabman, - and we drove in the "Peter" clean as if on glass. On the pier there is a granite chapel. A thanksgiving service is served before the icon of the Mother of God. The sky is rainy. Everything is covered with a gray veil of bad weather. But there is grace in the soul. A sturdy short horse quickly carries us up the hill, to the majestic building of the hotel. On these rocks, in the forests - such a thing! I didn't wait, I didn't think. And I remember - on the way they said: "You will see such miracles.. And that's it - they... everything, by their own labors, and all by themselves, to the last carnation.."

II. The New World

Pilgrims descend to meet the steamer from the mountain. Yesterday Valaam celebrated the Transfiguration of the Lord, there was a great concourse of people: a new cathedral, shining with crosses for us, in the name of the Transfiguration. On the steamer they said that the whole of Valaam was full, people from all over the world. I ask the driver, a teenager in a skufeka, if there are many pilgrims. He does not answer. I ask louder; His ears are red, his shoulders are a little cringing, but he does not turn around, he is silent. I ask even louder, almost screaming. His ears turn even redder. I understand what he hears... And I remember, - they told us on the steamer: "Everyone is obedient there... if someone is not blessed, you will not get a word from that word." Perhaps our driver is not blessed to talk either. Apparently, he wants to answer, but he is obedient and therefore, from modesty, blushes. And our appearance, perhaps, confuses him. We do not look like pilgrims at all. The people we met were mostly simple people, with knapsacks and sacks, or bourgeois townspeople, with bundles and bags, the people were positive, "serious", and we were "knocked down by the wind", as one elderly woman, from St. Petersburg, called us on the steamer, who said to herself: "I have sons in the trade department, we have a large fish shop in Apraksin." And she determined accurately: we had only a suitcase, and we were dressed lightly, as if we had gone out "to walk for air." His wife, a girl at all, wore a summer hat with cherries and a "lively" talm, elbow-length, fashionable: the talm was in round holes, and through these holes there was a silver lining. I was dressed a little more solidly, in a student tunic, an overcoat on a cape, a cap on my ear. We left Moscow in hot weather, and here, on the lake-sea, "in the north", suddenly the cold turned in. The woman felt sorry for us: "How did they let you in like that! We have a snowball here here, dear, in August... you are so senseless." And all the way she wrapped her wife in a handkerchief.The pilgrims who met her looked into all their eyes - it seemed to say: "God-lovers, too... We have come for a walk!" I think embarrassed: the nun does not answer, and his ears turn red from obscenity. On its tower, in the "nest", there is an icon of the Valaam miracle workers, Sts. Sergius and Herman. The monks stand, in golden aureoles, and hold scrolls with the scriptures. Young eyes see sharply, and we read: on the left scroll - "Brethren, submit yourselves to the right-believing king...", and on the right, in St. Herman, - "The Three-Sunshine of the Right..." At the feet of the Monks is a lake; above them, in the azure sky, is the Transfiguration; On the wide stone porch meet several people of guest servants, in white cassocks, tied with leather belts, and at their head a stocky, short old man, in a shabby kamilavka, peers inquiringly at us: apparently - he did not expect such people. This is the "owner" of the hotel, Fr. Antipa. The look in his gray eyes is embarrassing: I remember how that woman cautiously said to us: "Here is God who has united, and lest they separate you! you to one cell, and your spouse to another. Thirty years ago my late husband and I were here, we were separated... such a statutory law is very strict with them, Elder Nazarius, of Sarov." My wife is seasick, I can hardly hold on either, how can I leave her? This frightens me, and I give my word, if it happens - with the first steamer from here!- Bless, Lord, a good stay... It's a good thing, the monks rejoice at you..." - Fr. Antipas greets you kindly, but with doubt, and his eyes look sternly. "From St. Petersburg, please?.. An inquisitive gaze. I expect in anxiety that it will "separate". The servants are waiting respectfully.- No, from Moscow... - I answer, and I see general surprise.- From Moscow?! - Fr. Antipa says doubtfully, - give up... - there is something indecisive in his voice. Most of them are from St. Petersburg, Pskov, Novgorod, Olonets, Finns. And now - what are they?.. The answer does not satisfy the wise Fr. Antipas. Piercing his gaze, he asks a "fateful" question: "Who are you... brother and sister?.. "No, husband and wife!" My somewhat provocative answer is, "Oh, youth!" - makes a strong impression. Fr. Antipas is puzzled and even adjusts his kamilavka. Novices are like statues.- There is someone--o.! from Moscow, far away... He looks at us above our heads, into the distance. What does he think? Does he think about the young people who are in front of him, about distant Moscow, where he has not been, about the strict rule of Elder Nazarius... Or did he remember the words of the prayer - "As God binds, let not man put asunder"? You can see how he hesitates. We look at it in confusion and wait for a decision. But he doesn't decide right away.- Wait a minute, dear... - he says sternly, and through the wide doors you can see him hurriedly walking up the stairs to the second floor. He will consult with someone?.. We stay with the mute servants. They look at our feet, we look at their red boots with nails. The clock on the bell tower is playing, the swifts are screaming. Red boots step over. A run of footsteps is heard: this is Fr. Antipas. He descends the stairs, picking up gray strands for the kamilavka, hides behind the door, rattles the keys... and - orders to take us to cell No27, on the first floor, to give us a samovar, "to rest from a distant path". A wonderful, bright old man. I want to tell him... He reminds me of someone who is no longer in the world.The novice takes our suitcase, leads us along the well-trodden whitish slabs.- Please, God bless... to the cell. A wonderful cell. White, light, a little narrow, true, but how wonderful! Two clean beds. In the corner there is an icon of the Venerable Saints I know. A pinkish lamp glows. The window is in the flower garden. There are dahlias, asters, golden-crimson marigolds, petunias. And - silence. To the right is the cathedral, above the monastery roofs, behind the buildings. Straight ahead - wild rocks beyond the strait, forests on them. The new, wonderful world that I met in my childhood - in the images - creeping at the feet of the God-pleasers: blue rivers, blue seas, hillocks, white towns, lakes, flat and crooked pines, looking like gigantic umbrellas, and everything - under white clouds-curls... the world in which the ascetics, the venerable, the unearthly... live - the world of Angels and heavenly people. And this forgotten world, which went somewhere with childhood, has come, alive. Do you remember that in early childhood you saw icons with "landscapes" in churches? In the foreground is a large Saint, and the scroll in his hand is white over the blue sea, over the brown hills, over the town? A mysterious world, wonderful, visible to a child's eye, close to a child's heart. In the cell there is a smell of oil from the lamp, freshly washed spruce floor, something fragrant and lenten, black rusks of pilgrimage. They call the clock on the bell tower and then strike it measuredly - four times.- Through the prayers of the Holy Fathers, Lord Jesus Christ our God, have mercy on us.. I look at the door: why doesn't anyone come in? Again someone calls:- Through the prayers of the Holy Fathers... Lord Jesus Christ our God?.. The door is quietly opened, a large book is thrust in, followed by oiled hair falling from his shoulder onto the book, and a good-looking novice enters. At the exclamation of the one who comes, it is necessary to aminize, without amen we do not enter. What "respect for the individual"! As a student, I did not think to meet such a thing "at the saints"! I have already solved the questions about the "parasitism of monks," about "hypocrisy," about the "uselessness of these trifles." Chernyshevsky, Belinsky, Dobrolyubov, and all those who have proved to me "the freedom of man from these prejudices," have never said such a thing: "Without amen we do not enter"! I am ready to shake hands warmly with this new teacher, but she is holding a book.- Allow me to write down your name-rank in a hotel notebook, according to the police rule... We are under the Finnish police. We don't look at passports, we believe it by appearance..." - says the novice. - Our hotel is not worldly, but with the blessing of the Venerables. No, we are not supposed to stand - neither for a meal, nor for a stand... What are you.. Read our rules, we have full freedom. As soon as they have strength, they give it to those who can, according to their wealth... I am in amazement. "Selfish monks"? What is it, why didn't Bebel talk about it, nor... "As soon as there will be strength... in terms of wealth... freedom full of souls".. "Stu-dent..?" - says the novice, - does it mean that you are doing science? We rarely have them... They say, students... Don't talk idle things. The Lord is with them.I ask if they have ascetics and schema-monks. Ten schema-monks live in all the sketes. Are there any clairvoyants? He smiles:- We are all clairvoyants: we know what will happen tomorrow. He humbly bows and leaves. Why did he answer me like that? I must have thought I was asking out of curiosity. Perhaps he thinks that I do not know what a clairvoyant means? He does not know that I saw the clairvoyant the other day, at the Trinity, Father Barnabas, who blessed us "on the way." Perhaps, he thinks he is a student, everything is like this, in mockery.- Through the prayers of the Holy Fathers, Lord Jesus Christ, our God, have mercy on us.. I say, "Amen." A novice, a new one, kicks at the door and brings in a bubbling samovar on a copper tray, with cups. He is simple, thick-nosed, his round face shines like a samovar. And call me brother Vasily. We are fellow countrymen, I am also from Moscow, from Sukharevka... Dad sold dishes. Well, how is Moscow, still standing, not failed? How can it not fail? It can fail. There is so much sin. Sinful cities always fail... Sodom - Gomorrah has failed! Well, eat to your health.Servants are walking along the corridor, singing stichera in a low voice. There are many pilgrims left from the feast, but they are not visible: they are standing for vespers. And we are condescending, from the road - a samovar.Like mice we quietly lie down to rest on the stone beds of Valaam. You close your eyes, and it is as if you are seasick in the sea. The clock on the bell tower strikes, and the "flasks" on the steamer come to mind. From the window the evening coolness blows, the breath of Ladoga. Sleep is sound, sound... I open my eyes... - Where is the day? The curtain is cloudy white, bubbling with a breeze - the breeze of the Valaam night. In the silk from the curtain you can see: the forest beyond the strait is confused, the sky is greenish-pale, the stars hint with dots. I remember that I was on Valaam, in a wonderful distance. Joy sings in me. I quietly go to the window so as not to disturb the sleeping woman, and quietly pull back the curtain. What silence! A dark wilderness on the rocks beyond the strait, nothing to be seen in it - sharp peaks of spruces? Somewhere, barely audible, Ladoga is still anxious. This is to the right, at the Nikolsky Island-Skete, the vigilant guard of Valaam. There, they say, is a lighthouse. Thus, they say, the saint "calls with fire." Petunias smell. Sleepy beats fall - ... three... seven... eight... Eight...- Through the prayers of the Holy Fathers, Lord Jesus Christ our God, have mercy on us... This is Brother Vasily. In the cell there is a pink light - from a slumbering lamp. Brother Basil lights a stearin candlestick in a red-copper candlestick. He brings bowls on a tray.- Fr. Antipas blessed, from the path, because we have a common meal. Tomorrow the abbot will announce it, but in the meantime eat it in your cell.In bowls there is cabbage soup with mushrooms, laurel and pepper, porridge with hemp oil, vinaigrette sprinkled with cumin seeds and dill; a foot of fragrant Valaam bread, in slices, - the monastery's black bread in glory, and the "Valaam" bread - "in glory", - a pot-bellied decanter of dark crimson kvass. Our food has a secret.- A secret..? - Even two secrets. At first, it is not tasty for a pure pilgrim. He will take a sip, smell and put down a spoon. And as soon as he gets in the suitcase, he gets used to it, and gets used to it so much that there is no need to wash the bowl. Other..? And another secret is this. At first, an unaccustomed person begins to weaken from our food, he loses weight, turns white... And then, as if something would break in him! He will go and go into power, and such a power is declared in him... there was no such power in the world when he ate all kinds of food. Our food is blessed, with prayer. Hymns are sung over it, and the spirit adds strength. If you find out yourself, you will live.10 hours. The pilgrims had a meal, prayed in the cathedral and have been sleeping for a long time. The monks are still in the church, listening to the rule. The cathedral darkens like a huge mass in the twilight sky. Do the crosses shine - from the moon? The harsh Valaam slumbers on a stone, protected from the world by the waters. Forests sleep on holy mountains, sheltered hermitages - on islands and wilds. It is getting lighter beyond the strait: the moon is shining from behind the black spruce peaks.

III. The Voice in the Night