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

Tired of the impressions of the day, I thoughtlessly fell asleep on the stone bed of Valaam.A sharp bell woke me up on the threshold of late night. A strange feeling - anxiety, joy... something familiar..? As if I were in the gymnasium, and the old porter, nicknamed "Caesar" because of his round bald head, announced with a joyful bell that the Latin lesson was over and it was time to run home. But someone, mysterious, interferes... And the familiar feeling - to somehow dodge the rehearsal, from the difficult "Bortnyansky", where I can't manage to "solo", and at home, in the garden, an unfinished skating rink is waiting for me - acutely worries me." Singing in time..." - a mournful voice is heard, - "mo-li-tve cha... Ah!" - and a sharp bell outside the door tells me irresistibly that I cannot avoid the rehearsal. And now somewhere they are already singing... and, as if the deacon of the Church of St. Nicholas in Tolmachi, who came to the gymnasium to serve pannikhidas and molebens with the gymnasium priest, for some reason sad, already exclaims in the hall: "Lord Jesus Christ... Our God..." - and falls silent. I want to sleep, but oh, the deacon won't leave. I feel that he needs me very much, and he stands somewhere outside the door and waits for me, and again begins to exclaim: "... And he rings and rings outside the door.How many years have passed since that Valaam night? Forty years! And I still hear this bell and exclamation. Did you think then - what will happen?! Did I think that the deacon from Tolmachi was not an ordinary deacon, but a connoisseur of the works of the Church Fathers and... Dostoevsky, that he would become a hieromonk, take the schema, accept the great feat of the Russian eldership, like Fr. Varnava at the Trinity, like Elder Ambrose of Optina, like Elder Macarius of Optina, who served for Dostoevsky as a prototype of Elder Zosima in "The Karamazovs"! Did I think then, in the firm Russian serenity, that a terrible time would come, and this deacon would be called from the strong hermitage, from the Smolensk-Zosima hermitage, like the ascetic Hieroschemamonk Fr. Alexis, revered by Orthodox Russia, to the All-Russian Council, and the lofty and strict lot would fall to him - to remove from behind the icon of the "Vladimir Mother of God" the name of the Holy Hierarch - Patriarch - Martyr Tikhon written on a piece of paper? Did I think that this bell and the exclamation of "Fr. Deacon" - "Time for singing, time for prayer" - as if in a dream, would become a sign of something for me?!. But then someone waiting outside the door stops ringing. I hear a familiar voice - and remember that there is no gymnasium, I am a student, I am in distant Valaam, yesterday I arrived, that I am married, that they wake me up for the Midnight Office and wait for an answer from me - "Amen". To the prayerful exclamation - here you need to "aminid". That is how the novice instructed me yesterday, and it was probably the voice of Fr. Anton, the innkeeper, who said to him in a low voice: "Don't wake up, Fyodor, let them rest from the journey... I hear the steps of the "alarm man" scratching on the slabs of the corridor, the sad melody goes on, the bell is muffled. Unhurried steps are heard along the corridor, the doors of the cells are slammed, pilgrims and altar boys pass by, singing in a low voice: "Behold, the Bridegroom is coming at midnight"... "Hear my voice in the morning..." I strike a match, look at my watch, but it's five o'clock. The night is deaf! - and I hear the bell ringing as if it were Holy Night! Joyful excitement in me. Everyone leaves, I need it too...- but the dream interrupts my thoughts. Pale blue sky, milky clouds, thin as muslin. On the whitewashed window there are cheerful streaks of sun. Maybe from the distant Ladoga, still anxious, there is a lively reflection from the waves - a "bunny" on the ceiling. I open the window, I see the velvet forests on the rocks, beyond the strait, I breathe in the air... - not the air, but youth, strength, hopes, joy - I see and feel, in my heart I melt - "the clear smile of nature". In the flower garden there were asters sprinkled with dew, fresh blue, pink and white stars - "earthly stars", lush dahlias, dark as church wine - everything refreshed by the dewy night, everything cheerful and, it seemed, everything sacred. And in the bush of fading rosehips - August, and here the rosehips have not yet bloomed! - some bird briskly whistles a short song of a small northern summer. And above all, fresh, bright and joyful, - a blessing chime - to "It is worthy". I do the usual morning movements in front of the window - "room gymnastics" - I breathe and breathe, absorb strong infusion air - from the great distances, from the forests and Ladoga. There is no such air anywhere. It is so transparent that you can see individual trees, variegated mosses on the stone, cracks and "puffs" behind the strait... how the mast is reeling on the monastery soima... how swallows draw black dots in the blue sky... As along the edge of the mountain, above the pier, a cast-iron lattice glitters in the sun.- Through the prayers of the Holy Fathers, Lord Jesus Christ our God... We are dressed, waiting for something, for some reason we are embarrassed to stick our noses out of the cell, and the exclamation of Brother Vasily delights us. I shout joyfully - "Amen!" Brother Vasily, anointed and new, he now reminds me of a young shopkeeper - brings in... dinner! And what about tea?- We have early lunch. Eleven, everyone has prayed - they have worked hard. And there are seagulls after the early one, whoever wishes. Well, maybe the father is a guest and will bless you with tea. Does it smell terribly delicious - like pearl barley soup? I look at the bowls: as if it were soup and porridge! The monastery's painted spoon, with a blessing handle on the stem, with a cathedral written in a hollow out, stands in the soup - it does not fall. Slices of purple beets and glossy camelina are scattered over the vinaigrette. Brother Vasily looks out the door to see if Father Antipa is coming: apparently he wants to talk, - from Moscow! That's good. The air is useful, then..." and his lips move, although he is silent. For some reason he stammered, but it was clear that he wanted to answer me. From all sorts of fleeting thoughts and superstition, one must say the "Jesus Prayer". You know?.. I do not know. He says, separately: "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner." only a few ascetics are vouchsafed this. And we, spiritual simplicity, so, as we walk for the time being, we absorb and become accustomed to ourselves. Even from a single sound, there can be salvation. I even argue that there can be no salvation from "sounding". Brother Vasily looks out of the door.- We need to enlighten you, - he says, sighing. - In our stupidity, the Lord condescends, enlightens even with the sound of the holy word. I'll tell you what kind of admonition I had. You will remember, for edification. The world does not understand this, but if you come to Valaam, enlighten yourself for the benefit of your soul. Like you, at first I began to doubt. And this, then, was a temptation from him. I began to think, and he settled in my soul, began to whisper: "Do not pray in passing, do not whisper a great word with an empty soul!" Maybe this heresy has become in me, fear? I went to my "elder"... Which "old man" then? And you don't know that?! Be sure to know how. In the world, all of you are shepherdless, like sheep without supervision, but here you can't. In our country, the enemy of salvation is very strained to confuse, he especially wants to win in the monastery, but in the world everything is under his command. Here, for the salvation of the soul, the abbot assigns to each of them an elder experienced in spiritual work. An elder is appointed for life. But we must reveal everything to him cleanly, every sinful thought or doubt, and he will instruct him. As if it takes all the burden from the soul upon itself, and we are relieved by this, like Christ in our bosom. And we are fortifying ourselves against the enemy's offensive. And I went to my elder. A wise old man, very loving. I came, and he looked at me like that. And I see that he knows that a spirit of malice is building a nest in my soul. And the elder said to me: "Pray, pray, and don't let you doubt!" As if he had foreseen, he said, "And don't let you doubt!" He blessed me and announced me. Did you proclaim it? And so here, on Valaam, they always say - he proclaimed. So, he ordered. "Repent," he said. "And here you have five hundred bowers a day, for your superstition." For forty days. Why, he said, I'll say a word to you for admonition, as if it were a parable." And he told such a parable... I was immediately imbued with the concept of meaning. That is why my elder is of a lofty spirit, as if he is a seeer.- What parable? I asked, eager to know, "but don't tempt me, don't laugh at me." A certain bishop, he said, had a learned bird, called a parrot, because it wore red feathers on its tail. And that parrot knew how to shout many words, he had heard a lot from that bishop. And the bishop had a habit... He was a strict bishop... Everything is as he instructs: "Do not dare!" - so he said everything, and very strictly. The parrot adopted and fell in love with that word. Everyone used to shout at him - "Don't dare!" and it happened that parrot flew away from the bishop... well, let's say, the servant did not finish the inspection. And that parrot soared into the very heavens. And for his escape he was sent to his hawk. I scratched him from above, grabbed his back... The parrot squeals with fear, and shouts at the top of his lungs - "Don't dare.." The hawk, as soon as he heard a human voice, got frightened and let the parrot out of fear! Here is such a parable. Of course, no one has seen such a thing, but such a parable is for admonition. The tempter of the serpent, the eternal enemy, guards like a hawk, and the very sound of the name of the Lord frightens him. So he confused me with doubts - "don't pray, don't remember!" He wanted to turn it around: he said, "I'm talking about it, I'm light-mindedly keeping the Holy Name in my mind." And he was admonished...- Through the prayers of the Holy Fathers, Lord Jesus Christ our God...- is heard outside the door, and in response to the answering "Amen" comes the anxious Fr. Antipas.- Why are you stuck, superstition? - he jokingly frightened his brother Vasily, - I'll give you obedience, to be silent for a week... Have you taken a break from the track? He asked kindly, and his eyes stared at the saucer with the cigarette butt. He sighed, but said nothing.I knew from the pilgrims and read the "rules" on the wall of the cell that smoking was not allowed in the monastery. I was indignant at the "strictness," but I admitted that the monks had the right to do so: they did not invite me, I came myself, and "they do not meddle in someone else's monastery with their own rule!" I said frankly: "Excuse me, father... "Yes, yes, a sinful weakness. Sometimes, they don't cross their foreheads, but when they wake up, they get to smoke. "That's what I did. "It's not a matter of tobacco, it's a matter of weakness, of pleasing the flesh. Abstinence is the first stage. Have you rested?- Everything is very good, - I say, - only hard, the sides hurt.- Is it the same?! Fr. Antipa looked reproachfully. - Will it be soft for us there? Feather beds are a ruin. The body basks and the soul sleeps. And what verse does the psalmist sing, eh? You don't know... "A man is like the grass of his days, like the flower of the country, so he fades: as the spirit passes through him, and he will not be, and will not know his place for it." "Here's the same. Do not please the body, for it is dust, but take care of the soul. We forget the soul. Your spirit is weak, you can't resist tobacco, and what is more important, what will happen. By the way, this is what I mean. And now you must observe the rule, appear to the father abbot, and ask for a blessing to live. I will lead you... you are from Moscow, and our abbot, Hegumen Gabriel, is also a little from Moscow, you will be fellow countrymen... "I'm very glad," I said, "with your blessing, father, let's go..." I try to get into a monastic tone, "and I feel that it's not going well. Fr. Antipas waves at me: "No, I'm not a hieromonk, I'm not worthy to bless..." I am a simple monk, I carry out hotel obedience. Decay, of course, and there is a lot of sin, but you can't have a monastery without a household... Later, taking a closer look at us, Fr. Antipas opened up a little, and I realized that this was not only obedience, but podvig, and a difficult podvig: Fr. Antipas overcame the temptation: the temptation, as he said, "to accept the most difficult podvig." Either a hieromonk or a host. And I got used to it. He puts on a whiter cassock and leads us, the "Moscow outlanders", to the holy gates, to the heart of the monastery, to the cathedral.

IV. At the Rector's. Miracles

We pass through the monastery gates, which are called saints: above them is the Church of Peter and Paul. Further - another gate. I say: "How do you live in a fortress!" Fr. Antipas does not understand, as if he says with a smile: "Desert dwellers should always stay in a fortress. Ah, you mean about stones... This is an economic matter, built for centuries. And we have a fortress against the enemy - the Cross of the Lord. You can't protect yourself from the enemy with a stone. We pass another gate, and the "monastery courtyard" opens. On the right is the magnificent Cathedral of the Transfiguration of the Lord. What a radiant light! What blue domes in azure, golden crosses glittering! He comes up, from childhood: "His face was like the sun, and His garments were white as snow." No, I haven't forgotten yet. I talked about this at the exam when I entered the gymnasium. And so, also on August 7, as it was then, the same sunny day, with the strong freshness of the north, and I saw, as I saw then, the Transfiguration of the Lord.Only then was Gorkin there, talking about the "three Saviors" [1] and comforting: "Don't be timid, they will let you into the school." And now they "let me in", and now I am a student... Dear Gorkin is no longer in the world, but here is almost the same, the same Russian and affectionate - Fr. Antipa. And his dialect is a little similar. Only he does not say "dear." - And now, dear, I will take you to be blessed by Fr. Hegumen Gabriel. He is good, do not be afraid, he will bless you for a good stay." Do not be afraid"... It was as if Gorkin used to say: "Don't be timid, they will let you in."To the left, opposite the cathedral, a wide glazed porch glitters in the sun - the entrance to the abbot's cells. A novice, in a white cassock, bows, silently, greets us. Clean, painted floors, carpeted "paths", ficus trees in tubs, a huge pawed arma. Fr. Antipas approaches the arma, removes a drop from a wide lance-shaped leaf with his finger and says in a whisper, reverently: "The Lord has commanded this flower to announce the weather: as soon as it begins to cry, wait for the rain. This army was planted by Fr. Damascene.The ceiling was set with vaults; On the white walls there are paintings, various views of Valaam, the works of visiting artists, a gift for hospitality. And here, in the framed portrait, is the stern master of Valaam, the great organizer, the late Fr. Damascene. He is revered on Valaam strongly. Wherever you go, you will stumble upon the works of his hands and iron will: bridges, roads, granite crosses, ditches lined with stone, water supply... Near the tall antique clock in a case, counting down the unhurried time of Valaam, there is a humble old praying mantis, in purple paws. And the bishop of Valaam will accept her? Everyone is accepted here: "We have no sight on faces." - Clearly, to each his respect...- Fr. Antipa says in a whisper. - Glory to the sun, glory to the moon... Well, she will be received later, and I will see you off in advance. I must hurry to the hotel, and you are from Moscow, you have a distant fame, and a special respect for the farther. I ask about the pale novice at the door, with his head bowed in sorrow, why he is so condemned. This place, at the lintel, is for bitter repentance. So he waits for obedience to himself. You don't look at him, he's already crushed. The sinner is not great... so, a little disobedient.The abbot comes out of the next room. The old woman wants to approach him, but Fr. Antipas defends him: "Don't be the first, show humility here - but there you will be the first. You're trying to get it, I know you, and we're doing it for the first time." tall, strong, with an intelligent look of kind and bright eyes. He speaks slowly, smoothly, apparently thinking whether he will get down to business. He blesses us. The guilty novice bows to him to the ground and begins to wait at the lintel. Fr. Gabriel honors us: he invites us to tea, to the living room. Fr. Antipas is pleased, blinking at me affectionately, as if he wants to say: "I told you not to be afraid!" The furniture of the living room is old, mahogany, heavy: the table is oval, and again there is a tall clock with chimes: it must be remembered - "the time for singing, the hour for prayer". Above the table is a painting by Shishkin, painted by the artist in the sea, "two versts away". Holy islands, dense forests on the rocks and a white monastery blessing with crosses; St. Nicholas Skete, All Saints Skete, and a seagull over the waters.- The famous Shishkin, - says the abbot, - worked here for the glory of God. Artists do not forget us, they love the nature of God. We have our own artists, they painted the whole cathedral themselves. Our school is also picturesque. Look at everything, both the shrines and our workshops. From Moscow, you... Do you know the Donskoy Monastery.. My father is buried there... and Gorkin. The abbot studied there:- I studied at the theological school there, Moscow is dear to me. And he smiled sadly, remembered.- I bless you, look at everything. And you can ride a horse, far away. And on the boat, and on our steamer, in the sketes.We receive a blessing - "for all that is good". This is very important here. Here, without a blessing, not a step, strictly.In front of us is the Cathedral of the Transfiguration. The Lord's, goes into the sky like a high bell tower. Thirty and three fathoms! The blue domes are burning. Granite columns in the windows and at the porch. Granite crosses on stone. Everything is surrounded by granite. Built to last. And everything was built by the monks, themselves. I can't believe it.- All by yourself?! - I ask the guide-monk. - The work of the brethren, - he answers humbly. And I remember how often it was said: "monks are parasites"! How can it be? "Everyone, to the last nail, on their own", "God helped", "they worked for the Lord". And all without boasting, humbly. We enter the finished lower church, - here is the altar of St. Sergius and Herman. Columns, vaults, walls are in patterns, in cherubs. On the bluish vault there are stars. And that's sami? All? The work of the brethren. And this iconostasis, carved, pink-blue and golden, - by yourself? The Lord helped.- And the icons..? "The work of the brethren." crosses on the domes?.. "They were pouring here. From the brethren they worked...- the monk humbly answers, fingering the rosary.They sing in an ancient, "famous" chant - Valaam. I hear the folk, simple, laborious, - both sadness and cries. And the voices are simple, simple. I hear my dear: they sang like that in a cooperative, we used to have ... In the columns, on the right, there is a silver reliquary, "sud". The relics of the Venerable Sergius and Herman are under a bushel. The monk explains sparingly: about seven hundred years ago, the monks returned from Nova-Gorod "to their homeland"; the relics were taken away from the Swedes, so that the "Luthers" would not be abused, and now, "deeply", they rest under a bushel. We bow down, venerate the faces on the silver. A prayer service is sung. Not far from the shrine is a schema-monk. He covered himself with schema, his face was not visible. I look at the schema with a shudder: crosses, words, prayer sewn in white on black? - skull, bones... To remember death? I remember: "A man is like the grass of his days..." I don't understand, but... Know? Would you talk..? But the schema-monk is motionless, all in the other. Schema-monks... Who? I, a student, do not know this. I don't know why. Or do I know? As if Gorkin was telling me..? The old carpenter knew. And I don't know.The upper temple is in decoration, there are scaffolding. The guide is taciturn, leads us into the network of crossbars, guards: "Don't look down, it's dangerous here." We walk hesitantly. They paint the walls, hang on thin boards - it's terrible. An old thin monk, all in paint, with a brush, explains: "And these are the Pharisees... What kind of noses do they have... Humped! And this is a parable... And he begins to explain the parable to us.- Yes, they are learned, - says the monk, - they know all the parables. You, Fr. Fedul, take them to the bell tower, tell them about the bells, and they know the parable, scholars. I have been ordered to take him to you, to give him from hand to hand.- Scientists, - Fr. Fedul looks at us. "Scientists don't know anything!" Scientists do not revere the Lord either. Do you revere the Lord? - he asks us, point-blank and sternly.- Well, Fr. Fedul...- our guide says embarrassedly, - then why did they come to the Venerables!- Don't be offended...- says Fr. Fedul, and in the look from under his gray eyebrows I see an inquisitive doubt. "There are many scholars who do not revere the Lord. And what does the Apostle say? Where are the smart and sensible, eh? Where are the questioners of this age, eh? At the Last Judgment they will answer. Well, let's go to the bell tower. The Lord is with you. I feel, embarrassed, that there is also some truth in the words of Fr. Fedul. We go up a wide granite staircase. We come across monks in working cassocks, with piles of lime and bricks. In the first bay there is a huge bell.- You're a lot of poods! - says Fr. Fedul. "Andreevsky, fifty versts away, can be heard in Karelia. The Apostle Andrew the First-Called himself entered here and proclaimed the Gospel to the fanatics. And "the proclamation went out into all the earth, and his word went out to the ends of the world." And its ringing is ma-a-lin! And what does Isaiah the prophet say? Well... You scientists, well? So you don't know. "Let them give glory and praise to the Lord in the isles, let them proclaim." So we proclaim on the islands.You can see the entire monastery, the strait, the steamer "St. Nicholas" at the pier, Ladoga sparkling in the sun.- A miracle affected this bell!- A miracle?.. - Faith moves mountains. Having said this, Fr. Fedul took a breath and looked at me, as if to say: "Do you understand, learned?!" "A miracle is not a miracle, and it will not yield to a miracle. We assign everyone to work, to obedience. Yes, our peasants know more about the land, and the Lord leads by skill. Here is Fr. Leonid, he was in the smithy. He was a foundryman, and then he was jealous. I went to the abbot and said: "I don't have enough work in the foundry, bless me, Father Abbot, to work in the smithy." Fr. Damascene gave his blessing: "Just don't be proud!" he said. And then this very bell was brought from St. Petersburg, brought to the mountain, placed near the chapel. Now we need to hang it on the poles, the cathedral has not yet begun to be laid. And the owner of the smithy fell ill and was in the hospital. So Hegumen Damascene sent the treasurer to Fr. Leonid: "To erect for him to forge eight clamps, a bell to be held on the pillars... he asked me to do it himself." The treasurer went to Fr. Leonid and announced. And he only forged nails, studied. He was afraid, he cried: "I dare not accept such obedience... not only forging clamps, but I don't see it, just like there are clamps." And the bell costs more money - well, it will come off bad clamps... What a ruin! Well, the treasurer announced to the abbot. "Go," says the abbot, "tell Fr. Leonida, I bless him." Fr. Leonid in the treasurer's note, shedding tears...- "I cannot accept obedience, I am unworthy!" Well, again Father Damascene blessed him: "Go and proclaim: he himself was jealous, let him work... I bless him, forge his collars. The Lord will help!" and what do you think.. - Fr. Fedul looked at us, - enlightenment came over him, he told himself, - he forged such wonderful clamps..! Swifts were curling under us, circling around the crosses, flying into the gaps of the bell tower. We climbed to the last tier.- Look at the sketes, where our schema-monks are found, where they live in the forests like wild animals, they give praise to the Lord.- And they are silent?.. - And they are silent... And what? Therefore, the will is cut off. Be silent - and he is silent. In the Forerunner Skete, Schema-monk Basilisk has been silent for another year. And he will remain silent anymore... And for forty years he will remain silent! As long as the abbot blesses, he will be silent until the term, and it will be a joy for him. Have you heard about Schema-monk John, who lived on an island? He loved, like I, a sinner, to talk to a good man. And the late Father Damascene has everything in plain sight. And he decided to test his obedience. He called - and said: "Consider yourself unworthy to talk to people, be silent! I allow you to talk to the Lord, yes, when you have to, with me or with your confessor." Up to 14 years old, that's it! And then, in order to test his humility even more, he declared: "You are not worthy to bear such a feat... Speak as usual." And he spoke, and did not complain. Well, do you have any?- And what is all this for? - I don't understand.- Scientists, but you don't understand. Yes, I am not condemning. Lord, forgive me. How can we fight the most terrible enemy, if we do not forge our will? Everything is on command, everything is on self-truncation, when we serve the Lord, and He leads us along the path. From what did the sin of Adam come? Out of disobedience. So it is with every sin on earth. Here we have a forge of God's children, holy workers... to the glory of the Lord and for the life of the earthly order. There will be sorrowful times, and then we will weep. Above us was the very last tier, "impassable," Fr. Fedul said, "a seeing trumpet." From there, through the spyglass, the one assigned to obedience watches when he brings the fog.- Can you send these scholars there, brother Lyaxandra? - Fr. Fedul asked his brother - "watching" Ladoga: ships wander in the fog, and the "watching" - watches, and when he sees a spark in the fog - orders to ring. - I don't dare, father...- the novice hesitated hesitantly, - the abbot only blessed me. If he announces, I will let him go. Fr. Fedul praised the novice.- Practice, brother Lyaxandra. And you know that nothing will do to the chimney, and it is impossible if there is no blessing.- It is good here, what beauty is far away!- Stand and see, how beautiful is the universe! Fr. Fedul agreed. "Remember your soul, take care of it." It is said: do not cleave to the treasure. Here," the old man pointed to the forest distances, "is the Skete of All Saints. We have schema-monks there. There is the Baptist, also a schema-monk. And here he is, it seems, Konevsky, also a schemamonk, Fr. Sysoy, a clairvoyant. And over there - and Lyaksandr Svirsky. All here, the desert is ours. Dark forests, granite crosses, silver-domed churches, holy places. Silence is with us, peace of mind. And whoever is a man of freedom, the spirit in him walks restlessly, and there is no peace in his bones.- Yes, you are a philosopher, Fr. Fedul! O. Fedul looked doubtfully: the unfamiliar word confused him. In your opinion, maybe it's a shame, but what do I... I do not accept superstition. And why did you say such a word? But because the spirit of superstition is in you troubled. Oh, how high! You, I suppose, are afraid to look at, but here, even higher, a nun painted a kumpolok and sang prayers. And the old man, he was over sixty. The wind, as if on a lake, swayed and dulled against the kumpolok, and he sang "To the King of Heaven", and sang somehow.. And why? Blessing, cutting off the will. "Climb, Fr. Anthimus!" the abbot announced, "he climbs and sings prayers. And thirty-three fathoms.. There, the brethren went out of the church, the hour for a meal has come. Well, let's go, I spoke to you.We began to descend from the bell tower. "Summer of the Lord": Apple Savior. ^

V. In the refectory

- Lord Jesus Christ our God, have mercy on us... Brother Vasily brings dinner.- I have only brought one person. And Fr. Antipas has assigned you an obedience," he says to me with a smile, "to go to the refectory. There we eat in a dignified manner, with the hagiographies. I don't understand, I ask him: what does it mean - "under the hagiographies"?- Everyone eats, and the next reader reads about the "hagiographies". This is so that harmful thoughts do not enter. Food is sanctified by prayer, and then nourishment is beneficial. I am surprised: it is in physiology that it is said that - I recently read Lewis's "Physiology". It turns out that the monks also know.I tell Brother Vasily that this is also said in science, so that you can eat in complete calm, without irritation. He looks at me doubtfully, whether there is a trick in my words.- We do not know your science, but the Holy Fathers established it so, from ancient times. There is such an instruction of Elder Nazarius of Sarov: "To eat in silence, as if you were performing some sacred action." "And in our opinion, the order of Elder Nazarius," says the stubborn brother Basil, "is not to defile your daily bread with evil thoughts. And for the female sex, for their person..." - he points to my wife, the refectory at our hotel. But for them the rite is not allowed, they eat without "hagiographies".- That's sad, - I say. - And what if you have bad thoughts? It is unfair to leave the female sex unprotected from temptation.Brother Vasily senses my joke and smiles. He says that the order for the brethren has been established, but in the convents, they say, they also eat under the "hagiographies." It is in the monastery quadrangle, opposite the gate, at the Church of the Dormition of the Most Holy Theotokos. Fr. Antipa meets and carries a basket. I looked into it and saw: a large red currant! It amazes me like a miracle. In Moscow, it left a long time ago, there the raspberries have already come down, and here - summer has returned again. Fr. Antipas takes out a brush, shows it to me and admires it himself: the currants shine juicily in the sun - live yakhontas! For the feast of the Transfiguration of the Lord, ten poods were collected, and these are the remainders, the rector blessed for a meal, for a hotel. Haven't you seen our gardens yet? Take a look. All monk Gregory, by his great labor. Through it, we have currants, and as many apples as we gather, and plums, and cherries, to the glory of the Lord. For twenty years he carried the earth on himself, poured it on the bare stone, on the rusty luda, and now all the brethren rejoice, and we rejoice the pilgrims. We even have oriental grass.- What kind of grass is this... Eastern?- Why, don't you know... is-sop! King David cries out in the Psalms?.. "Sprinkle me with hyssop... and I will be cleansed..." He lived in the East, so the Eastern, because. Go and eat with the brethren, listen to the teachings, and you will be nourished in health. You'll tell yourself later what delicious food you eat... With a prayer so delicious, consecrated.I enter the refectory. A long, low chamber, vaults. I see long, long tables, simple, uncovered, and on them, in orderly rows, bowls, light purple spoons, white handpieces, canvas bowls covering in pairs, all in even, even rows, salt cellars, tin ladles, squat wide vessels - bowls, as if made of dull old silver, filled with burgundy kvass, with ladles floating like ducks, dark slices of bread, and these snow-white handcuffs - linen like the wings of seagulls,.. - so reminds me of epic "swearing" tables and something close and dear to me...- working festive tables of our old yard in distant childhood? It smells thick and sweetish-spicy - kvass and warm bread. Thoughtfully and secretly they look from the desert walls - the venerable ascetics, in black schemas, bless. The brethren sit dignified at the tables, in deafening silence. I feel embarrassed, how they look inquiringly at me, so unseen here, in a gray student jacket, in gilded buttons with eagles, looking for a place for myself. Someone whispers to me sternly: "Give, give, for the brethren... the pilgrims are there, in the second ward." I pass through rows of dark, mute tables, looking in strict silence, and find a place - next to pale old Olonets. Opposite me sat the hushed Petersburgers, the cabmen who had traveled on the steamer with us. They blink at me familiarly, as if they want to say: "Here, brother, you can't talk... A skinny monk sits behind the old Olonets, looking at the empty bowl without raising his eyes, and it seems to me that he also says in silence: "Yes, strictly here." And immediately, as if on command, the altar boys get up from the tables and go to the kitchen for food. In front of the iconostasis, a monk earnestly crosses himself and makes prostrations. I ask the skinny monk why it is the monk who bows and does not sit with everyone. The monk does not answer. An acquaintance from St. Petersburg cautiously says: "I am guilty, I must assume." The gaunt monk whispers, without raising his eyes: "At the meal we are supposed to be silent." The acolytes bring in tin bowls with food, put them on the tables in rows, one bowl for four, and now I see how a tin strip stretches out on the tables - the road, smoking with fragrant brew. A discordant choir begins, as if something prayerful. It is the acolytes who cry out in a low voice, setting the bowls: "Lord Jesus Christ our God, have mercy on us." The elders at the tables answer them - "Amen". A silent rustle grows, blissfully restrained, - splashing, jingling; white handcuffs soar, broth pours into bowls, spoons flicker, pieces of bread darken, heads bow in order. It seems to me that a very important thing is happening. A sonorous, melodious voice reads from the ambo the "life" of this day. I listen to the rustle, to the measured, profound chewing of hundreds of people, and a thought that I had not thought of before: what an important thing is being done! It is as if I comprehend a deep meaning: "In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat thy bread." For the first time I feel, having forgotten, the most heartfelt prayer: "Give us this day our daily bread." I look at the old Olonets, how reverently and joyfully they eat this daily bread... they do not eat, but eat as a miraculous gift... they do not enjoy themselves, but receive them prayerfully, in order, in humility...- and I think: "How good it is! and this is not simple, not commonplace, but sacred something in this, elevating, sanctifying a person!" When I was a child, Gorkin told me, our carpenter: "Eat, my dear... This is our daily bread, we earned it with you... be baptized, you must always be baptized on bread, the gift of the Lord." Then I also ate - and with what reverence! - sour working bread, with carpenters, in the cooperative, and this "daily bread", forgotten in childhood, was unusually sweet. And then I remembered, I resonated here, on Valaam, in another cooperative - the same Russian ordinary people, who covered their shirts and shoulders with their cassocks, only special people, selected, gathered from the villages and fields of Russia in the name of God, "ideologically", as I said then. "We have more and more peasants," I remembered the words of Fr. Antipas.At our table there are pilgrims, mostly ordinary people, and even poor brethren, and these poor brethren eat from the same bowl and with the same spoon, linden, with a blessing handle on the stem, as the abbot, the guardian of the labor, St. Valaam. Old Olon residents, in worn-out grays, splendidly and diligently sip thick pearl barley soup and look around. It seems to me that they do not believe that they are equal here, it seems that they are afraid: how will they say, "Get out of here, this is not your place!" A skinny monk gently says to them: "Eat, brothers, for your health, for the glory of God," and also pours them soup. They look with hesitant eyes and cross themselves. "It's not often, I suppose, that you have to dine like this," the St. Petersburg cabman whispers, pointing to the old men, "poor people, these Olonets and Karelians, are glad - they have got their hands on pure bread." "It's so hearty and sweet... And no one will say a word.I see others, the same, with exhausted faces, in worn-out clothes, timidly looking, listening to the melodious voice of the reader: "The rich dwell in drink and food, but forgets about the poor and about the soul..." I listened, looked at the poor brethren, and my heart boiled. I think habitually, like a student: "Bebel doesn't know that... This is also socialism, only spiritual... if he came here, our monks could make amendments to his social system..."The bowls change. For pearl barley soup, they bring mashed potatoes with salted mushrooms. The old people are horrified: everyone is carrying! They put a new bowl: cabbage soup with mushrooms, covered with porridge.- Eat, brothers, to your health... "I'll fill it again," whispers the skinny monk, "get well on the taverns of Sts. Sergius and Herman." They were, too, like you and me, workers... It seems that the end of the meal is over. No, they also put it: porridge, with vegetable oil. Father.. And with a spirit! - the old man is amazed, sniffing at the spoon, - why such mercy... yes, with oil..! And so they carry on tin dishes a wonderful red currant, grown on the Valaam stone by the great labors of the unknown monk Gregory.- And this is pampering-oh...- says the St. Petersburg cabman, rejoicing. They looked at the kvass in the bowl and timidly asked the monk: "Can I have kvass?" - How much hunting will there be, - says the monk, scoops it up with a ladle and serves it. - Oh, kvass-juice... the kvasok is good...", says the old man, panting, passing the ladle to the other. "A noble kvasok... We forgot when we drank such kvasok... The meal ends with the singing of thanksgiving "for the brush". The abbot blesses, the brethren bow in order and go back to their cells. The monk at the iconostasis continues to make prostrations. I asked a monk I knew why the monk did not dine, but prayed. And for his fault and humility he tried him, and in obedience to him he proclaimed that the worshippers should be put down. At meals, in full view of the brethren. This is for humility, such obedience.- Why is there such a test, on all the people?- The monk sighs.- The abbot announced it, for the edification of everyone. Here, you say, there is a test on all the people... As if for shame. It is a joy for him that in the people, as if everyone accepts repentance from him. And no one will judge. Our will is with the Lord.I leave the refectory. Pilgrims go to take a nap. Who goes to the lattice to look at the expanses of Ladoga; On the threshold of the hotel, Fr. Antipas meets me, with his arms outstretched, as if he wants to hug me - a wonderful old man, really.- Well... We saw how we have a meal?.. Did you like it?- Wonderful, Fr. Antipas! And how they eat, and how they beat off the worshippers...- Oh, you joker, right...- laughs Fr. Antipas. - Humility is the way to salvation.- You know, Fr. Antipas...- I say, feeling that I cannot but say the most important thing that overwhelms my heart, - I am so grateful to you that you have proclaimed obedience to me...- No, no...- warns Fr. Antipas, - I am not worthy to proclaim... This is only Fr. Abbot, according to the rule. Yes, I was joking, obedience... I liked it - and thank God.- I learned from you the most important, the most profound... I understood how they eat their daily bread... And what is... Did Fr. Antipas understand me? He looked at me kindly and patted me on the shoulder.

VI. At the cemetery. Gardens. Fr. Nicholas

On a high rock, above the "Monastyrsky" Strait, the old Valaam cemetery rests. So one of the monks told us: "He is at rest." It is separated from the holy monastery by a white stone fence. There is a deafening silence in the monastery: Valaam is dozing to the soporific whisper of the pines, to the splashes of Ladoga; And here it is no longer silence, but muffled and deeper than silence: peace. So I thought then: "grave silence". And this bookish expression became clear to me. Old maples, lindens, in the gold and crimson of August, drop their leaves on the hillocks-graves overgrown with grass. The whole of Valaam is made of stone, it has a lot of granite and marble, but there are no tombstones to be seen. The monks of Valaam do not like tombstones: memory is a God-pleasing life. The Lord has everything in his memory. Round pebbles on grass bumps here and there." Novice Vasily. He passed away in the summer of 1871, on the 26th day of April, 23 years old," I read on the round of the grave. Who is he, where does he come from, why did he come to this remote cemetery in such years? "I was not even in the world yet, and he...!" - sadness runs through his soul, and floods the joyful consciousness that I am alive, young, and ahead... How much is ahead, in total! I look at my wife, young as I am, and our speaking eyes meet in one feeling: what joy, and how much is ahead - everything! We are cramped in this cemetery. I would like to leave... But the monk accompanying us is embarrassed: it is awkward to leave immediately, we need to look "at the schema-monks." They're all the same, just like the ones underneath. These are the graves of schemamonks, inhabitants of the wilds of Valaam, hermitages, deserts. Eleven of them rest, men of prayer, ascetics, silents. The oldest is 95 years old. I know that all these ascetics gave their lives to serve the "idea", that they are all people of a powerful will, but it is not clear to me, a young student, why they left their lives and loved ones, went into the forests. And what is left of them? Only tombstones and "hagiographies". I tell the monk. He sighs.- How is it possible...- he says, - and how much consolation did people have had from them? And how is it written in the Gospel with the Lord? "Let the corruptible of the world leave and take up her cross, and come after me." They have chosen a good yoke for themselves. How is it - for what! I'll tell you what's the matter. How do you take your soul for a trifle? And in it is all the matter, it must be preserved, brought up for eternal life, as it is predestined, in preparation. How come you can't understand? No, think about your soul. Listen. It is desolate here, but still the people reach the deepest deserts, the wilderness, and desire blessing and prayer from the holy ascetic man... His soul desires it. For example, one schema-monk among us was jealous, overthink, in temptation: I need to save my soul, cleanse it, and here I have entertainment from people. And he lived on a distant island, where people came to him once a year, demanding consolation. And he was jealous: I want to renounce the world completely. And so, look, what a will was done to him, what an instruction was given to him. It means that you are an ascetic, but remember these little ones. And so, he was blessed by the abbot, the abbot, and went to the Perm forests, to the wilderness, where only bears live. He went to the Perm Territory. He huddled deep in the forest, set up a cell for himself, like a kennel in a hole, covered himself with earth - he hissed and lived, correcting prayers. And there was the first warning to him. He went to the spring of water to get it, and came to his hermitage, and his hut was all swept away, and a bear seemed to be sitting on a stump. Well, he was afraid of that bear, buried himself in the bushes. Well, the bear sat for a while and left. The hermit straightened his cell and began to pray again. And then, as if that bear, you might think, he pointed out the path to him: suffering people came to the cell, seeking consolation, began to annoy him with his needs, to ask for advice and blessing. He went even further, into the most deaf deafness, fenced himself with a fence, hung shutters to the window... - and there they found a path to him. He would stand for prayer, and people were knocking and knocking on the fence, climbing over the fence, knocking at the window, asking for consolation and blessing. Then it was revealed to him: how much grief was uncovered around him, he felt sorry for the people. Maybe the Lord sent him to think so. And he is a simple schema-monk, not a hieromonk, he cannot bless, he has no right, he is not vouchsafed grace. At this point he even felt bitter, so imbued with the tears of those who came. And so, in the condescension of worldly sorrow and for his comfort, His Grace allowed him to bless. This is how ascetics are sought from us. And you say - why leave the world! For podvig, for consolation, he is already above the world, he is an ascetic, he leads souls... How is it possible! Look at how they are attracted to our schema-monks. It means that the soul desires purification, and you say - what is it for. No, it was not for nothing that they stood at the feat. I lived - and learned, learned a lot. And how I would like now, decades after that August morning, to find firmly on the podvig one who has renounced all earthly things - to be blessed. Where is Russia, which created bright elders, spiritual fathers of the people? Are they now, on the new Valaam? My heart tells me that there are, in the vast expanses of our native land, implicit ones, perhaps sprouting only in our great people. The time will come - and rare spiritual flowers will blossom: the Lord's sowing will not be destroyed.Right there, at the slabs, from the stump of a hundred-year-old linden, the wise monk made a chair, so that the one who came here would sit down to rest next to these eleven ascetics, who rose above the vanity of the world, and reflect on the transience of the transitory. We sat down. The yellow butterfly swayed on a stalk that grew out of the stove and flitted over the fence. Maple leaves fell silently, Ladoga splashed and sighed evenly under the rock, clouds slowly floated by... - everything spoke of movement, of time slipping away... Where to? On the edge of the cemetery there is a long, grassy slab. A stone inscription says on it that rests here... king! It's unbelievable. Magnus II Smek, king of Sweden: "having been in the crown, and was crowned with schema." There was one, but I have hardly been to Valaam. Or maybe... A high granite cross overshadows the peace of the departed - schema-monks, monks, laborers: "Rest with the saints, O Christ God, Thy servant..." At its foot is a scarlet late poppy, still in the dew. His wife timidly plucks it, - is it possible... In here? And, holding hands, with relief we go out of the fence, into the free air. Below, deeply, there is a strait. The sun burns brightly, splashes on the waves, blinds. The rocks on the other side of the strait are not so gloomy, the forest on them in the sun is cheerful. You can see how a nun with a birch bark basket is wandering along the shore, over the stones, blessed to go mushroom picking, for the brethren; a red boat with rowing monks sails to an island in the Strait. And to the right - free Ladoga, calm. Rarely will a gray wave flare up on it like a lamb, splash on the stones near Nikolsky Island. The hermitage on the island is a desert, not a single duckweed is visible. Directly opposite him, on the other side of the Strait, like another guardian of the silence of the forest kingdom, the silver-domed bell tower of the Great Skete of All Saints shines like a sun-topped golden cross over the peaked firs. Under the rock there are monastery gardens, and mighty maples stretch along the rock itself, the peaks, crimson and gold, rustle under our feet. There is no ground under your feet, but by some miracle you hang over the ocean of leaves. Beyond its edge, below, there are gardens. The glory of the laborers of Valaam, the glory is a miracle. On the stone - luda is called this stone on Valaam - gardens have sprung up. Spreading apple trees, pear-blows, through cherry trees - joy - are in regular rows. There are also the favorite berry bushes of currants and gooseberries, taken in a dignified manner in poles - you can even see from here the shining clusters of berries - through the yakhonts of red currants, heavy catkins of gooseberries. Pressed against a rock of granite, a wooden gazebo turns black, all in greenery, bird cherry, lilac and jasmine. What a beauty in spring.. - Are you curious? - asks an old novice in a skufeka. "Yes, we have paradise in the spring. Nightingales, the angelic breath of the air, the flowers of the Lord. It even floods your head, you can't move away. We have enough apples for the whole year. And what an Antonovka..! On the Annunciation, we console ourselves with a soaked apple. And you can make tea with tea... And think about it: after all, such beauty grows on a stone! For twenty years the monk Gabriel worked here, dragging the earth to the bald meadow, planting everything himself. And over there, to the right, at the bridge over the ravine, there is another garden. We have medicinal herbs growing there. There, on each apple tree, maybe a dozen or two varieties will be born through the efforts of Fr. Nicanor the Wise. - We have awards for apples, gold medals. And there are so many flowers, what kind of argins, and... something that is not there! We remove the icons, and the Life-Giving Cross, on the Exaltation of the Cross, and on the banners, on the procession of the cross when... Lilies even grow, white, pure, for example, the Archangel Gabriel is written, with lilies... The most so, all by work. In the month of June, the ice floes are still walking on our lake, and the gardens are blooming - fragrant, such an angelic breath... Where do you go, and you can still hear how the bird cherry tree gives itself... all over the monastery, it even languishes, we close the windows, stains the soul.- Will they go to the sketes? - asks a familiar pilgrim, a cabman from St. Petersburg, who went with them on a steamer. You see, our steamboat is smoking, they are making vapors. And where did they deign to go?- We went to Konevskaya, to Alexander Svirsky... And now where will they take you?- Fr. the treasurer announced that to St. Andrew the First-Called, the chapel there, at a height, a very picturesque beauty of the location. Have you ever been?- How can it not be, every year we go around all the sketes, always to the sketes, we rejoice the soul. When you didn't even have a steamship, you used to go in boats for twenty years. We are old pilgrims, then we did not choose these tickets. And now for the tickets, for money.- And what about ... Do you need to make steam? At one time they carried it on their own pair, on oars, and now we have to justify the steamer. And we do not demand from the poor pilgrim. Whoever is richer will pay for him, so it turns out all right, in God's way. Isn't it? And we are not from self-interest. We provide every pleasure for the pilgrim. They even sing a verse for a pilgrim, our nun came up with it. "The wonderful island of Valaam" is called "the abode of chosen people".You can see from above, as if on the pier, near the steamer, solemnly walking in long-brimmed cassocks and sharp shlykas, tied with leather belts, boys-nuns, given by their parents as spiritual instruction for a year or two. They behave in a dignified, respectable manner, even like real monks. On their faces - I looked at them for a long time - lay concentration, thoughtfulness, consciousness of some kind of feat, unusual for their years. Perhaps this is good. Fr. Antipas kept saying: "There will be no harm from the saint, prayers gain strength." You can't help but smile when you hear how a boy, serious beyond his years, entering your cell with the air of a humble brother, singing: "Through the prayers of the Holy Father, Lord, Jesus Christ, our God, po-lui na-as..."Not far away I see a stocky old man in a priestly hat. He stands at the bars and looks at the St. Nicholas Skete. His tanned fists are tapping on the bars as if with impatience. From there, from Ladoga, steamships come. But you can't see anything there yet. "Steamer!" - I hear a hoarse exclamation, anxious, excited, and I see how the old man's red boot hits the granite column of the grating. "Do you hear... Is it buzzing?" the old man says anxiously to himself. I looked to Ladoga - there was no steamer. I asked: "Are you waiting for the steamer...? He waved his hand, tiredly, hopelessly, so it seemed to me. All the deadlines have passed... I'm still waiting... Three years here... He spoke abruptly and, it seemed to me, irritated. He looked at us and smiled in confusion, as if he wanted to say: "See what the situation is," he smiled pitifully, guiltily. And I was embarrassed: a priest, an old man, and - for correction, like a boy! I was ashamed to ask him why he was under command, for correction. But he began to speak: "You know, Mr. Student... After all, I have a family there, six guys, the priest is grieving, waiting, and they have forgotten! Far away, near Ponevezhe, Olonets province, is our desolate place. Well, I am guilty, I confess, I drank. It's about time... The Lord has forgiven, He sees my repentance. It's hard to get through, I've become more prosperous in the village... my daughter is a teacher in the village, my boys are in the seminary...- Why don't you go if it's time...? "There is no consistory decree, and my parish is busy. And my priest has no money to bother. I kept waiting for the steamer to come, the decree would be sent, and the arrival would be given. Quietly, as if on wheels, a nun boy approached and fell at the priest's feet:- Bless me, Father Nicholas. The old man fervently blessed him and let him kiss his hand. He patted the nun's cheek. "His father brought him, according to his promise, to work for the monastery. I want to play with money, tea, to fight with the boys, eh?- No, no... - the boy said humbly and sadly, - there is a lot of sin...- Yes, there is a lot of sin... What does he say! Do you still know the sin? Sin, brother.. Lord, forgive my sins... Fr. Nicholas did not finish. A steamer on Ladoga hummed and smoked from behind the cape. In the Skete of St. Nicholas, on an island, two black figures appeared: hermits came out to look at the herald of the forsaken world. A white steamer enters the strait, announcing with a mighty roar the quiet forests on the rocks. He moves closer, closer. A dark crowd of pilgrims on deck is visible. You can hear how harmoniously they drink on the steamer, the church, causing the echo of the forest: "... may it shine forth for us sinners... Thy ever-o-o-s-s--s The monks on the pier answer: "... through the prayers of the Mother of God, O Giver of Light, glory to Thee." The monastery cart rolls down to the pier with a crash. A monk with a book solemnly descends a granite staircase. Pilgrims run along the mountain - to meet the "world". They come up to the bars, look. They said:- Father Nikolai ran like that... "Though he has become accustomed to us, he is eager for a sinful will," says the old novice, "and why? Superstition nourishes everything, it is not accustomed to cutting off one's will.We are frightened by these words. I feel unspeakably sorry for the poor father. We understand his melancholy. We hold hands tightly, walk to the hotel and say to each other with our eyes: no, never be separated! We are greeted by the annunciation for vespers, the evening glow on the domes, on the crosses.