Everything majestic and strong that you see on Valaam is associated with the name of Damascene. He was a wonderful owner, builder, strict ascetic, iron character. Chapels, crosses, roads, canals, hermitages, granite staircases, water supply, buildings, wells, gardens, a magnificent church, workshops, farms... - all this was created by his will, his mind. He gathered together the solitary hermits who lived in the forests and wilds and settled them in the hermitages. He supplemented the rule of the wise elder Nazarius of Sarov, introduced severe discipline. It was an abbot with an iron staff. And this iron man writes in his will: "I have loved Valaam all my life, I have loved each of you. My heart has always been open to your needs... But I was a coarse, simple, uneducated man - it is natural that my sincere, deep love for you sometimes did not find decent external expressions." From his youth, Damian - his secular name - felt an attraction "to other worlds": he went to wander around the monasteries, looking for a place of "spiritual perfection", until he settled on Valaam. It is remarkable that there are a few strange phenomena - "signs"? When he was going to Valaam for the first time, he met elders from the White Sea, who were going from Valaam to the monastery of Alexander Svirsky. When he came to Valaam and was walking along the forest road to the Skete of All Saints, the monk Theodorite met him and said: "Stay with us. Labor in obediences, in the skete, and in the wilderness. When he came to the Skete of All Saints, Elder Euthymius, nicknamed by the monks "spiritual street" for his ability to catch souls, bowed down to the ground to the newcomer. And the young man remained in the forests and deserts of Balaam. Elder Euthymius saw in the youth Damian a readiness to follow the paths that would be shown to him. And he began to forge a great character - the future abbot-owner, builder and ascetic. For example, he arranges a long retractable stick and every night, at 12 o'clock, he comes to wake up his disciple for midnight prayer and knocks with a stick on the window in the second tier, where Brother Damian's cell was. And on a stormy winter night, waist-deep in snow, the young man walked from the workhouse to the midnight office in the monastery. This Elder Euthymius was - or only seemed to be, taking it for a feat - a fool-for-Christ, bowed down to everyone on earth and incessantly wept "burning tears". In the monastery archives there is a letter from the monk Hilarion, in which he testifies that at his fervent request the deceased Elder Euthymius appeared to him with his own eyes, promising him this during his lifetime. He forbade him to wash his mortal body and even change his underwear. At last Damian was vouchsafed to accept monasticism, and the elder left him and withdrew to live in the wilderness.With the blessing of the hegumen, the monk Damascene settled six versts from the monastery, in the impassable wilderness of the forest, on the shore of two lakes. He was then 32 years old. He began to avoid meetings and conversations, ate rotten food, exhausted his flesh and wore chains. On stormy autumn nights, the rain knocked on the glass of the window, the wind howled in the chimney, the pine forest hummed with terrible voices, and Damascene stood at prayer. And so it was for seven long years. Sometimes in the night, says his life, someone terrible with disheveled hair rose from the lake, knocked on the window of the cell, broke down the door. Sometimes a multitude of demons danced around the cell, and the cell shook like a mill. Then came the difficult life in the Skete of All Saints, then the long-term hegumenship, full of ebullient activity, all kinds of construction - farming.- Would you like to take a look at the last act of our father, Fr. Damascene, the new cemetery? - the monk-leader who accompanied us everywhere suggested to us. - You will also see a forest nursery.A long alley of firs and larches leads to this cemetery from the monastery. All around is the kingdom of forest species: cedars, oaks, maples, lindens, firs, silver poplars, birches, larches, hazels...- all through the efforts of Damascene.- Here is our nursery, amateurs are sent to St. Petersburg, and we send them as a gift to benefactors. Near the beautiful church, with a Byzantine vault, there are bushes of jasmine, rosehips, honeysuckle, lilacs, roses and some kind of "fragrant fir tree".- And here is the grave of Fr. Damascene.A high granite cross over the tomb made of dark granite, flowers all around, a lot of sweet peas - Fr. Damascene the harsh loved it. Not far from the church is the cell of Elder Nazarius of Sarov, in front of it is again a granite cross. Fr. Damascene loved to build, and he built it of granite, for all eternity. Even on the farm, the two-tiered "Vienna" cellars are made of eternal granite. And the stairs, and bridges, and the sheathing of the ditches of the canals are made of granite. The monks said, with affection: "And our father himself seems to be made of granite too: he worked so hard, and there was enough strength for everything... Wherever you go on Valaam, you will find, quite unexpectedly, a granite cross or a granite chapel. You will go far into the forest. The road goes to no one knows where. Ahead of us is a forest like a wall, stone-blocks. You forget where you are..." - and suddenly, at the turn, under a wide spruce, as if under a tent, there is a chapel. The door is open; on the analogion there is a cross and the Gospel; the censer, the psalter, is ancient, and the Mother of God, or the meek Saviour, looks upon Himself with grace, calling to Himself those who work and are heavy laden. Sometimes a bird will fly out, spin over you and fly into the chapel. And there is a primeval forest all around. A breeze suddenly breaks through from somewhere, stirring the blue faded ribbon on the icon. It's good to sit here and think. Truly, the silence is holy. A squirrel flutters overhead, dropping cones. Otherwise, if it happens, a horned deer or a broad-sided moose will come out on your road, stand very close, look in both directions, hear the wheels on the rattlesnake "luda" or the prayer of a monk and slowly turn into the thicket, crunching windbreaks. You will experience an extraordinary feeling when you see a forest chapel like this: it seems to illuminate, and the wilds do not frown and do not frighten with the wilderness, but look sacredly, penetrate into the very soul. And you believe, you know that all this is the Lord's: a fallen mossy spruce, and a squirrel, and lingonberries, and a butterfly fluttering in the thicket. And you comprehend the wonderful meaning: "For seven are meek and humble in heart." And a joyful thought-hope is born: "If only everything were like this, everywhere, everywhere... There would be no "questions"... but the holy brotherhood." And then, in the youthful, reckless days, in this forest solitude, vague thoughts floated in that everything you know, school, selected from books, accidental... - all this is so insignificant before the mystery of life, which is about to be revealed miraculously, which, perhaps, these meek animals, the squirrel, the bird and the butterfly know... the subsoil somehow knows... From the cell of Elder Nazarius we go down the hill, go through a birch grove, very bright and gentle, and approach a hut under a canopy. The corners of the hut are rotten, the logs are overgrown with mold and moss.- This hut was built by Schema-monk Nicholas the Humble, the cell-attendant of Elder Nazarius. One, they say, worked with a hatchet. It is a hundred years old, and everything stands. He, father, was sleeping on the floor. In winter, it used to be filled with snow, in the autumn the roof of the rain would wash over the holey roof, and he would asceticize on the floor. And we, sinners, sleep on beds and even complain that it is harsh...", says the monk, as if this is a hint to us that we complained about the hard Valaam beds. The cell is small, two or three arshins. An old pine tree above it.- Here, it is cramped, and dirty, and low... in St. Petersburg, they probably set up better houses, but the Tsar himself deigned to come here, bowing down, deigned to talk with the elder, did not disdain ... That's it. Alexander the First... Have you heard of him? That's it. And what a Tsar he was, he conquered the very first warrior in the world, the formidable Napoleon of France, Bonaparte, according to a book! But he did not disdain, he bowed down... The door was low, and it was said to be tall, solid. and he bowed down, so it meant that he had to bow down before the Humble Father Nicholas... and even ate turnips at his place. Our Father Nicholas was simple, and he was not afraid. Well, I took a turnip from him... "There is nothing," he said, "to treat you, Father Sire, to me, such a guest... here is a sweet turnip I have..." And he took it as a good gift... he crunched, the turnip gave him. Yes, how do you look at everything... and-and-i-e.! where is the greatness, where is the glory, into what will He turn when the Lord calls from his earthly corruption? Where is the greatness, eh? - the monk asks us. We are silent. - In humility is greatness, because we are before the greatness of the wisdom of the Lord! And here is his grave, his bones took his peace.The wooden tomb covered the grave of the schemamonk Nicholas, the Humble. Gigantic tombstone candles stand over the grave of a pine tree.- Forgive me...- said the guide-monk suddenly. I was surprised: why should I forgive him!- Yes, I have told you a lot. It is not my business to think such a thing, but I have thought about greatness... I'm sorry. I have forgotten how Father Damascene wrote in verse.- In verse? - I was surprised, - how, did he compose poems?- He knew how to preach well... As a holy verse expressed. He will begin to sing so melodiously, you will listen.- So you found Fr. Damascene?- Why, he was vouchsafed. I keep in my mind his verse words, sweet ones. He spoke very clearly about us, idle talkers, so I remembered, in order to correct my superstition. Father himself repented before us, gave an example. And here, if you please, I remember his verse every day:Much today, brethren, I am a sinner, I have spoken,But I myself have done nothing good before the Lord.Woe to me, a sinner, and dry land, I have no good deeds,I speak, and do not do.Teach others - do not teach yourself.Alas, alas! O my soul, woe to thee! And he tried to bring others, the weak, to holiness.- In what did his holiness manifest itself?- How did it manifest itself? The monk pondered. - He was zealous for piety, he tore apart the shackles of demons. How did he tear it apart? Yes, here's how. A monk wants to leave the monastery - the demon pesters him - and our father will not allow it. Such was our case. Two monks were about to leave us. The abbot admonished them, no, he did not take their word, their hearts were petrified, numb. "Go then," he said, "to the shrine of St. Sergius and Herman, and there throw off your monastic garments. There you made a vow - there you will terminate it. And I have no blessing for you." That's how he turned the responsibility on them. Well, they were afraid and stayed. And he was a clairvoyant. He spoke well about the delights of this world, in verse, too:Whoever is addicted to the world,He will say goodbye to the desert.Here again I will be superstitious, forgive me. I struggle, but there is little, little humility in me.

XI. Forest meeting. The Story of a Wanderer. Cranes

We walk along the forest road, not knowing where it will lead. Granite everywhere, overgrown with moss, lingonberries. Eat lingonberries and blueberries that have not yet crumbled. There are a lot of thickets of raspberries, only it has come down. There must be a lot of hazel grouse here - the familiar whistles can be heard. There is no shooting on Valaam. The bird feels this, flies here and holds on. They say there are swans and loons. In the Konevsky skete you can also see loons - quite tame.A monk overtakes us in a single-wheeled car, bows and says: "Good way to you, the Lord is with you!" It fell silent. To the side, there's a fallen tree, a hundred-year-old one, it must be. Moss climbed into the empty hollow. I poke with a stick - only dust. How many years had passed since it fell, fifty or a hundred? A chamomile and dodder stretch from the hollow. Eyes are looking out from behind a mossy stump... How strange! "Look who is there... eyes?" - I say to my wife. Joyful, she whispered to me: "Yes, this... Fox!" Yes, a fox, completely tame. We look at her, do not move. She also looks at us. A strange feeling - closeness and trust, and inexplicable joy... why? The most ordinary fox, only... Cute. A moment - and disappeared somewhere. In a hollow, perhaps. Maybe there are fox cubs there.We go and think: what a wonderful meeting! Well, of course, wonderful. Life here is somehow different from there, in the world. Evil, as it were, retreated, became dulled. Both evil and fear. The beast is not afraid of man, and man also becomes different here. And I remember what I heard at a meal from the "lives", how a lion protected some saint from the desecration of a madman. Is it possible? And why not?Sacred places, sanctified by prayer. People change here, and animals change too. People here are not ordinary, as everywhere else: here they are selected "according to the spirit," someone told us, "as if through a sieve." People can change! There is something in different people... In the village where Damascene, the glorious abbot of Valaam, was born, there were other boys, but they did not go to search, but Damian went, "sifted out through the sieve." It means that there is something in a person that reaches out to the saint, seeks him. Special... soul? - that which does not die, as these hermits believe, that which can appear with one's own eyes, as the monk Hilarion testifies in his posthumous letter about the beloved elder Euthymius, who appeared to him from there, according to a promise. And this, our earthly things, therefore, are somehow connected with what is there?.. The books I have read, which I, as a student, unconsciously believed, which revealed to me "exact knowledge" proven by scientific experience, rejecting the miraculous, calling faith in the miraculous fantasy and "childish", firmly sit in me; But I close myself off from them with a trick: well, yes... knowledge denies, scientifically explains everything supernatural, but... Science is moving forward and, perhaps, somehow, someday, will penetrate into that...? Here is Lobachevsky, he has established a new kind of world, completely unlike ours, earthly - a world of the fourth dimension! And it turned out that what was proved by our Euclidean geometry is an obvious truth! - that parallel lines will never intersect ... - a pure mistake! I don't know yet how Lobachevsky proved it, I don't know any "fourth" dimension, but I'm glad that Lobachevsky really proved it - everyone recognized and glorified the genius of our mathematician! - proved that parallels must necessarily intersect - somewhere out there, in infinity. And it seems that this genius was very religious, like Newton, like all these good Valaam monks, like Elder Barnabas, who recently called us "Petersburgers", who somehow foresaw that tomorrow we were leaving for Petersburg! Monks, of course, are completely uneducated, do not know Sechenov's "Reflexes of the Brain", do not know Darwin's "Origin of Species", where it is said and almost proved that man descended from an ape, have not read Letourneau's "Progress of Morals", nor Ribot's "Psychology", nor Auguste Comte, nor Johann Strauss, where the divinity of Christ is denied... but still they are amazing... solve the most complex social problems over which Proudhon, Fourier, Bebeli have been struggling for a century... and even affect nature, the morals of animals, somehow sanctify them... by example? Immediately I remember that on Valaam... - this must be told to everyone who is interested in the progress of morality, this, of course, is not known in the world! - that here, on Valaam, it is strictly forbidden even to swing a whip at horses! you can't even find a whip here, as Fr. Antipas told me: "Everything is affectionate, and the horse understands the caress and the word of God... stubborn or difficult for her, in St. Petersburg now a crowbar cuts her in the belly with a boot or a whip in her eyes, but we have the word of God: you will say to her - "Well, with the Lord... I've rested, now take it," and she takes it up cheerfully. On Valaam, no one is beaten, no one is touched, the face of God is respected in man... - what a high level of culture and humanity! - but only obedience is proclaimed, worshippers and repentance, before all, at the meal. Of course, monks are uncultured in the sense of scientific knowledge, but... They give amazing examples of will, character, and strength of spirit. Of course, much in them is alien to me - it is impossible to look at life as that schema-monk in the skete does, for whom all life is only crawling to the grave, where the mortal body will be devoured by worms, this is not life, but horror! - Their asceticism is sometimes terrible, but their spiritual strength is very sympathetic to me. Often they are like children, but... It is said: "He hid it from the wise, and revealed it to babes!" I remember that such thoughts were aroused in my wife and me - I told her a lot then, and she listened happily - this amazing meeting with a fox near a rotten spruce - "forest meeting". This walk was wonderful: alone, in the forests, without a guide-monk, one on one with nature. But another meeting awaited us, which revealed a lot to us. Quite in front of us, a large bird that looked like a hen flew low in front of us, even clucked, and behind it a smaller one, about seven of them, like large chickens, perhaps a large partridge or, rather, a black grouse. We stood for a while, listened to the birds clucking behind the bushes, very close. And suddenly a granite chapel, under the fir trees! The spruces put their wide branches on its roof. An old man was sitting on a stone step and tapping the ground with a stick. He was not a monk, as I thought at first, but a pilgrim. He was wearing a worn-out, patched fur coat, already in winter. We sat down with him and talked. He came from afar, from near Voronezh, to bow to the saints.- His wife died a long time ago, the son knows where... I went to look for a job, but there was no news. So I decided to wander. I will live here, and by winter I will go to Solovki to bow to the Monks Zosima and Sabbatius.- Do you like it here, on Valaam?- It is good here, sincerely. Here I sit and see what the squirrels are cutting. With the blessing of the abbot, I went to the Konevsky Skete... This is where paradise is, holy silence... I bowed to Father Sysoy, he was a schema-monk there, in the wilderness itself, near the lakes. Hegumen Damascene worked there, and they showed him his bed - a coffin... I slept in a coffin. Visit Konevskaya, such silence and beauty, the century would not have gone. And I can't stay, it pulls me from place to place, like a migratory bird... For the third year I wandered, looking where it was better. Monasteries? And what is better than a monastery? Everything is true here, they do not offend a person, they are affectionate... And they will feed you, and bless you, and give you bread on the way. And in the city, as if - all I could do was talk: "You're a vagabond, so-and-so, show me the dirt port...", otherwise they will put you in a jail, and you don't know why... And then they threaten - "We will send you to your homeland..." Or what, they feel sorry for the place... Are they afraid of a person? Is it possible! And here they trust, they see that I am an old man, and they do not ask for work, but - go and have a meal... And they will pour and repeat, and let the tea go to brew - it's just paradise. Winter is hard, but summer is a pleasure. And what can I tell you, sir... Their animals are completely accustomed here, they are not afraid of humans. The other day I saw a fox, sitting on a stump, curling its tail, licking its lips. I got up - I was amazed, but she did not need anything, as if she even wanted to talk, only, of course, she did not have our language, the Lord did not give it. I crossed her, "The Lord be with you, you rational creature," I told her, and went. And she looks after me, licks her lips. It's just a wonder. And now I was happy to see a squirrel... She kept sitting here, over the chapel, as if she needed to pray. I looked, and in the chapel there were cones, spruce, they had dragged them for the winter... Otherwise, they are playing some kind of game. And in the skete... In the morning I was there, looking. The monk said to me, he lives with Schema-monk Sysoy: "Touch it with a stick, stroke it, they are given." Fish have gathered, in the sun, itching and burning, only not pike, but these... no, not crucian carp, but... kind of like a chub, so glad... or maybe whitefish... I don't know the nickname. Well, I put this stick into the fish, into their school... Nothing, they are not frightened, they rub against my stick, stroked them, faked them... like a fish soup there, thick and thick. They take you to the monastery when you need it. And they themselves are not supposed to have fish there even at Easter, a strict hermitage. He will start with a mark, because, he says, you can do it with a trough, they are easy. And how many fish... Ginger has already walked, along the hills... And there are milk mushrooms, and some boletus... and pigs, and aspen ... Fun to walk. And they don't bless you to take it... Everything is in turn, for the monastery obedience is given to the fishermen. The other day I went for obedience, I brought them such a basket. And what, they say, is soon, as if our light will be over... Have you not heard? And who says?- And I was walking, now I am going through the Tver province, in one village I went to spend the night with a peasant. Thus the praying mantis said there: "As the Annunciation will be on Easter on Thursday, so wait for the end of the world." Haven't you heard? Maybe so, she did it. And then, they said, a big star broke off, it was rushing straight at us... can hurt us... Haven't you heard? A wanderer told me this, he learned it from the master. It had long since broken, it had been flying for a thousand years, and it could fly by the glass, another thousand years, and then it might hurt, a big fire, he said, it would light it, there was a lot of heat in it, all iron, that star. He says that there may be people living on it too, only the most sinful ones... they sinned a lot, their star could not restrain them, from sins... it means that it is so ordained by God, as a punishment for sinners... well, she broke off the foundation... As you say... are you well literate?- Nothing, I say, someone laughed at you.- No, not trifles. I've seen stars fly. There were so many flights the other day, I saw Prokhor-Nikanor, I went to the midnight office - I saw it. Somehow they break down. I tried to explain to him how the meteors fell, but he must not have been able to understand. And I myself did not know about shooting stars.- Everything is possible, God has a lot of everything... No scientists can find out everything. And what they find out, it's up to the Lord allows. The Lord Jesus Christ has raised so many dead, and the scientists would have resurrected whom! They can starve, but they can straighten out from death - no. I have a hernia, I tighten this place tightly with a bag ... I went, the lady advised, to the doctor... We, he says, can cut you, trust us. I was in a good hospital, and the lady gave me a note. Can I, I ask, die from your knife? Well, he got angry: "I'm not a sorcerer, I can't say... it happens that they die." I was in Optina, and the monk advised me: anoint that place with holy oil. It became very good, the hernia went inside, I walk, nothing. But as if the stars were falling into the sea-ocean, people said... That is why the seas are warm, and it is warm there, there is no winter. There are such lands, warm. A lot of people went there from us, to look for free land, across the sea. The Turks are only unchristian there. And it's good to live there. This is for Siberia, for the mountains. Our Voronezh people called me, but where should I go, I am alone... I think I'm going to holy places, I'll make my soul happy.Some bird was whistling, cones were falling dullly on the road. The squirrel jumped at the tops, its lush tail glowing reddish in the sun, in the sky. I thought... And suddenly - a light ringing, a special ringing - with a crackle, as if someone was sorting out dry wooden strings, often, often. And louder, closer and closer, it rolled in with a knocking ringing.- Eh, cranes, perhaps...- said the wanderer. We looked up at the sky. A dark line stretched there, in sparkling. And from this line, in a triangle, with uneven edges, ringing at a great angle, poured out a knocking roar of anxiety, joy, some kind of exciting haste. To warm places, to afternoon...", the wanderer said thoughtfully. - They know that there will be frosts soon. Do they fly across the sea?- Yes, to warm countries, to warm waters.- They know where to fly. Our Voronezh people also went there, went by car with them, beyond Siberia, they will be cut ... The land is given by the treasury, only more bread is sown, I ordered. And the bread there, they say, will be born by itself, just sow, pick a little. And the tra-you are there... under the very roof... Living there! Here, a crane... A bird, but he understands his own benefits. The Lord makes even the bird wise, and it does not hunger. It does not sow, it does not reap, but it is full. Oh, they fry it... Look, another shoal!A long shining shoal disappeared behind the fir trees. Weaker are the shouts, individual cries of the backwards. And it became quiet, the rustle of squirrels can be heard.- Sabbath, the red summer is over, autumn has come... - said the wanderer.I looked at the bright sky, behind the fir trees. The silenced cries of anxiety and joy remained in my soul. They remained tight. This meeting at the Valaam chapel, in the wilderness of the forest, did not pass without a trace for me. Now I know that. She responded many years later, unexpectedly, in the dreary days of my life, when I was looking for myself - and did not find it - when I was serving in the Vladimir province, and the service was becoming a burden to me. How many times have I asked myself what path I should take, what my soul is seeking. Troubled were these difficult days of wandering, dissatisfaction with oneself, doubts. So I will travel around the towns until the end of my days, check the trade, spend the night at inns, play preference and screw, drink after robber, wait for awards and promotion. Sometimes there was some kind of light, I remembered that I once wrote, was published, began immediately with a respectable, "thick" magazine, as a student, in the first year... he even wrote a book, though immature and daring, "On the Rocks of Valaam", it was delayed by censorship, thirty-six pages were torn out of it, and it had to be redone and pasted... praised me for this book and scolded me..." - and after that he fell silent. I haven't written a single line for ten years. I did not think that I was a writer, I was afraid to think, I did not dare. A writer is a teacher of life. And me? I know so little. Writers are Pushkin, Gogol, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy... And I forgot about writing. I remember that at the end of August, in the difficult days of doubts and wanderings, almost despair, I went across the Klyazma River - to get away from myself, to forget myself. Beyond the Klyazma, beyond the meadow floodplain, there were forests, forests. On the hills, along the spruce forest, camelina have already appeared. I went into the wilderness, into the chapyzhnik, and left the world. I remembered Valaam, its holy wilderness. The same mossy spruces, the same deaf silence. Ten years have passed since then, I was a student then—how long ago it was! Then it seemed that everything was ahead, that life was just beginning. And now there is nothing ahead, there is only one bureaucratic strap, on a business trip tomorrow. And so it will be until the end. I remember lying on a hill, thinking in oppressive anguish, looking for a "way". And suddenly: as in the forests on Valaam... a far, far away ringing, a special ringing, with a crackle, as if someone was plucking on wooden strings... closer, louder, more audible. There was a knocking ringing. I remembered - cranes?! From that Valaam "meeting" - just ten years have passed! - I never heard such a ringing again, a sonorous hubbub of anxiety, joyful and exciting haste. Everything in me was shaken and confused by this scream. I looked at the sky behind the Christmas trees, waited anxiously, with excitement and pain. The same jamb, the corner, with uneven edges, the same... as there, on Valaam, when the whole life was still ahead - the most joyful and bright - there were no doubts, no languor, no anxious questions - where to decide, what to look for. A sonorous, sparkling shoal of birds that know their way well, beckoning, joyfully exciting and triumphant. Forgetting everything, my thoughts carried away with them into the blue. The shouts subsided, the last sparkle faded away - drowned behind the fir trees. And I kept seeing him off, watching him all the time: I was looking at something, not seeing, only the blue, which beckoned. Without thinking, without realizing, he found it. These two "meetings" merged into one. That same evening I wrote my first story, after ten years of waiting, a children's story - "To the Sun". I sent it to the "Children's Reading". It was published willingly and asked to send more. Forgetting the service, I wrote joyfully and easily, without seeing - "in blue". He lived and did not live, unconscious. He did not ask the question - where to go? Soon I felt the strength to say to my wife: "It seems that I have found what I need... I must quit the service." She said calmly, firmly: "I am ready for anything, if only you feel good." Not knowing what awaited us, she accepted with faith the unknown path that had opened up, the difficult path. And she encouraged me on it all my life.Did I think then, at the forest chapel, that all this would somehow resonate in life, somehow merge into it and be determined? And so, it was decided. Balaam tied me to himself. I recall a word spoken to us by schemamonk Fr. Sysoy, in the Konevsky skete, unconscious then, now, revealed to me: "May the Lord grant you to receive what you have come for." Then I thought - what did we come for? So they came, for nothing... Ride. And so, it was decided what - for something that was needed, what became the goal and content of all life, what absorbed, closed life - our life. Of what... - we were not aware. We sat for a long time at the chapel, in the silence of the forest. The tops of the spruces were touched a little by crimson, thickening with the gold of the sunset.- It's time to go to the monastery, the seagulls have already been missed... - said the wanderer, - soon there will be a nickname for the meal.And we went, thoughtful, from this forest kingdom, where the wilds are consecrated by chapels and crosses, where the remains of great spirits rest, where the animals look trustingly, without anger or fear.

XII. In the Konevsky Skete. Goodbye. Valaam's gift

We are going to the Konevsky skete, in the name of the Mother of God of Konev, six versts from the monastery. A tarantass pulled by a grey horse is served to the porch of the hotel. For the coachman - a Karelian nun, a "silent". He always drives the abbot and sits on the goats according to the rule: with fear and trembling. He did not utter a sound all the way. The horse is unhurried, lazy, and could walk well, but the whip is unknown to Valaam: "Blessed is he who has mercy on the cattle." We are driving through the forest. There is a strong smell of mushrooms, autumn bitter pine needles. The wet paws of the spruces cling to our hats and shower us with rain. It is uncomfortable in the forests now. And as soon as the real autumn rains and storms come, the forests begin to roar and howl, forest windbreaks fall - then it is terrible in the forests. And hermits in remote hermitages will stand at night in prayer, and during the days chop wood and gather deadwood. And the fishermen-monks on their ancient boats will go out to the stormy Ladoga to cast their nets; at the brick factory, laborers will crush wet clay into bricks, stonemasons will break granite on the mountains; the machinist-monk will go on the rocking "Valaam" for many versts to distant islands. Storms, downpours, blizzards - everything is one: Valaam will not stop his work - service "in the name": ascetic labors, prayers. Towards the Midnight Office - the elders move through snowdrifts, forests, straits. The Light of Christ shines on them. Autumn rust on it. Under the wheels it chews, oozes. What's that blushing there? Ah, rowan. Wet brushes hang down. Boredom and uncomfortable. There's a swamp over there: dull sedges, reeds swaying in the wind. A wet nun met, carrying pink mushrooms - camelina, young, washed. He nods to us cheerfully, as if there is no rain. Again the chapel, the black granite cross is crying with autumn tears. Squirrels are now in hollows, and a fox is taking a nap somewhere. Over there, over the field with a rotten barn, crows are rushing in the wind with rags - they have some business to do. The wheels of the tarantass rattle along the "luda". They rolled it: gently, again on the needles. The needles smell of stuffy turpentine dampness. Well, here we are. Across the road there was a wet wattle of brushwood, and there was no further way: a dead end, a hermitage.The nun silently stopped his horse and remained sitting like a mummy, and did not turn to us. So, to go out. Look for a passage in the wattle. We see lakes, bushes and a church from the hill. The rain is falling, rustling boredly on the leaves. We walked past the black gardens, reached a wooden church, but not a soul. Truly a hermitage, a desert. The church is locked. Behind the garden, on a hill, there are two adjacent huts. These are the cells of the desert dwellers, connected with a porch. They cry in the rain of the window, the smoke is smoking and creeping, the rain is for a long time. A crooked ladder is carved in a rocky hill. We slide up to the huts. But where are the wanderers? We look into the vestibule and see: here they are, the inhabitants of the hermitage. Three people sit on the floor: a gray-haired, skinny old man in a skufeka, with a pleasant face, deathly waxy, bloodless; a blackish monk, about forty years old, heavy-set, with hot eyes, and a young novice, fair-faced, with delicate features, in golden curls, as they paint angels. They sit silently and diligently peel the onions, cut the tops from the heads.- God help them, hello! They were so busy with work - and perhaps with mental prayer - that they did not hear us enter.- Ah, Lord have mercy...- said the old schemamonk, and I realized that this was Fr. Sysoy, about whom the wanderer had told us. "We're cutting onions, God have mercy." Apparently, we hit the wrong time. We were standing, silent. And they continue to slaughter as if we were not here. Finally, the schema-monk said again, as if with himself: "We are cutting the onion, Lord have mercy.I think: they have forgotten how to speak and are silent from embarrassment. I ask you to show us the church and the cell of Fr. Damascene.- Take the keys and show them... Tell me everything about the priest...", the old man says to the boy in curls. "And there is nothing to treat you with... Lord, have mercy... The boy leads us to the church, scraping the stones with his huge boots. The church is not rich, with hewn log walls, a modest iconostasis; boarded, in knots, floor. It smells of pine and incense. I ask the boy how long he has been on Valaam.- A year soon. And here, in the hermitage, six months. He is from St. Petersburg, served in the expedition of state papers.- What brought you to Valaam?- I don't know... I read about Valaam, and I liked how they live here. They serve God.- But it's difficult here, in such an uncomfortable environment... especially after St. Petersburg?- The Holy Fathers lived...- he says. I look at his angel locks. Maybe he was "eliminated" too? Young Damian must have been like that. There are such, special ones, who will be born somehow, alien to "this world". They are connected by a wooden bridge, above the channel. The banks are overgrown with sedges.- They say you have a lot of fish?- A live fish soup. We fish only for the monastery, and here the fish is not allowed to eat on great holidays. Our fish is tame, you can scoop it with a basket. Now it's gloomy, and when the sun is shining, the backs turn blue, they play with feathers. In our monastery they breed fish from caviar, there is such a factory. And they breed trout, and whitefish, and moose... The brethren do all sorts of things among us. We have a whole state, only a spiritual one, of course. And the candle factory, and we wet the leather, and we drive turpentine, and we have bookbinding, and we grow medicinal herbs, and felted cloth, and burn dishes, there is a meager factory... And the sawmill, and the stud farm, and granites are polished, and marble is polished. The Lord has made us wiser, and the foremen-workers are pulling us to us, from the St. Petersburg factories and the Soviet Union. After all, there are different people in the world... there are mischievous people, the working people, and there is also a "grain of the Lord" among the working people, who follow the word of God. So we live like a kingdom. The boy surprised me with his sensible speech.- Where did you study?- I graduated from the city school, and then my father arranged for me to join his expedition, to stir and rub paints. I began to draw there... We have thin engravers there, the first engravers in the whole world.- Did you get a salary?- Of course. I received 24 rubles per month, as a teenager, as a student. We have a special salary there, there are selected people, loyal, from father to son, even grandfathers served. After all, money is prepared there, and it is necessary to keep secrets, there are all strong people, faithful. It means that he is also strong, "eliminated". A very young man - and such a salary, theaters, all sorts of temptations, delicacies in the shops, a family, obviously, well-to-do... - and went off into the wilderness, here, to a hermitage, cutting onions, rattling in such boots - legs, I guess rubbed...- "I liked it, the Holy Fathers lived"!- Do you read any books here?- And what about the Fathers of the Church... Isaac the Syrian, Macarius of Egypt... what the "elder" will indicate, Fr. Sysoy. He also knows the Scriptures. He is simple in appearance and very humble in spirit, but firm in temptation. He leads well, he explains to me. Only he, of course, feels sorry for me, he is very kind... It would be more strict, but what about him... Schema-monk Sysoy comes up to us.- And here, - he points to a stone by the water, - loon birds build a nest and hatch chicks... And they are not afraid of us. The loon is an unsociable bird, the strictest, loves the farthest and strongest... Blind places, then. And here, even in the time of Fr. Damascene, when he was young, for more than fifty years everyone was led by auks. And every year only one couple arrives.- And today they arrived?- No, they didn't come back for something, it's the first year like this. They are small-chicked, they do not breed more than two. And the first year they did not arrive, or then always. It was an evil person in the world, maybe frightened them... shot, maybe.- How long have you been here at the skete?- Two years. Otherwise, he was a watchman in the Nikolsky Skete, on an island. Before the schema, his name was Fr. Stefan.- And what is this - "watchman"?.. Did you serve on Nikolsky Island?- The monastery was protected, from those who came. In winter, they wander to us on the ice... Well, he guarded, searched. The work of God, you can't miss it... temptation is brought to us, there are such mischievous people. They want to smuggle in sin, the forbidden. There are weak ones from the brethren. Well, I'm tobacco in the lake, and what's worse... on a pebble. And there were upsets... Dashing people beat me. I worked, and now I'm on vacation - digging beds, planting onions. Pray?! And I pray a little... Lord, have mercy. Well, God grant you to get what you came for. See them off, son, show them the cell of Father Damascene...", said Fr. Sysoy to the novice. - And I'll go, we'll cut the onion. Well, God save you, Queen of Heaven.He hobbled to his cell, and we crossed the bridge and climbed the hill, where under oaks, maples and lindens stood the now empty cell of Hegumen Damascene.On the wall of the log house there was a four-yard cross, the work of Damascene.We entered the cell-cell. This cage, a simple hut, is divided into four cages. In one he worked, and there was nowhere to turn; in another he prayed, in the third he copied the holy books, in the fourth he rested.- Here is his prayer room. Analogion, icon, chair. Through a tiny window you can see the edge of the lake, a hill overgrown with forest. Here the demons tempted him, frightened him, on stormy autumn nights, in this living grave. And he prayed. And this lasted for seven long years, until the main feat - the construction of the kingdom of Valaam.- And here is his bed.In the cage, under the window, there is a wooden coffin on the floor and a matting in it.We went out. The rain stopped. Drops hung everywhere on the leaves, sparkling with living diamonds in the sun. It peeked out of the cloud, shining in the shallow wave of the lake with a cold shine. Drooping mountain ashes burned with corals. Behind the lake, Fr. Sysoy is in the garden, digging onions.- Farewell, Fr. Sysoy! - I approached him. - God will forgive. God will forgive... Forgive us sinners... I shook his wax hand with a sad feeling. For some reason, I felt sorry for him, I thought he was old, he didn't have long to live. And he also thought: "Maybe he's happy... for he believes in the eternal, the heavenly..." we will never see each other again... here..." he said, as if on my thoughts, and looked into my eyes. There was something in his eyes... What did he not say with the words: "There we will meet"? I went into the canopy of the cells. The blackish monk was still cutting off the onion. You will leave, and we will stay. Tell me... I heard that the Germans wanted to fight the war... Can't you hear it? - he asked mysteriously.- I don't hear.- Well, and how are you doing there, in Russia, nothing?- Nothing.- And one pilgrim told me... as if Russia and France had struck up a friendship... Really?- Really.- Well... It's not right. The Frenchman is cunning. In vain, Russia is messing with them. And what... This one was ordinary, greedy for the world, with lively, even hot eyes, "unsifted": he would remain "in a sieve." We live in the forest, the bird will fly by - it will not tell, although it sees a lot. A motionless, soaked Karelian boy sleepily moved the reins. A chilled horse walked briskly, a heavy rain fell from the hazel tree.In the entrance hall of the hotel, Fr. Antipas stands at the door with a dish. We offer our ungenerous sacrifice for generous hospitality. Fr. Antipas bows to his waist.- We haven't stayed enough, not enough... - he says regretfully, - you behaved well, and I'm used to you, dear. Say a good word about us there. We hugged and kissed.- I'll tell you, father... There is something to say. I have seen a lot of good things, which I did not expect to see.- So do not forget us, good ones. Although we have broken away from the world, all people... Do not forget us, visit us. Now you go to the abbot, say goodbye... yes, first go to the saints, to Sergius-German, to our priests. They will keep you on the way. And we will deliver your luggage to the pier. Well, with the Lord.We bowed down to the saints and went up to the abbot's chambers - to receive, according to the Valaam custom, a blessing for the journey.- Well, how did you think we were here? The abbot asked. I said that my heart told me. He was evidently pleased.- We are far from the height of asceticism... as much as we can, to the extent of our spiritual poverty...", he said simply, blessing us. - We will always be glad to see you. If you grieve, come to pray. Prayer is everything and our wealth.We go down the granite steps to the pier. Are we sad to leave - are we used to it? The steamer "Peter" brought new pilgrims, for the feast of the Dormition, the day after tomorrow; they stretch uphill to the hotel. It is said that on June 28, the day of remembrance of St. Sergius and Herman, there are up to five thousand pilgrims. We go on deck. Below, the monks sing "It is worthy". Fr. Nicholas looks sadly at those who are leaving. I feel sorry for him. I shouted "Goodbye, Fr. Nicholas!" he approached the side with nervous quick steps, blinking in confusion, trying not to cry. His head drooped, his hands behind his back, as if condemned. "There, to your homeland, you... to their own... He wipes his face with a red handkerchief and holds the handkerchief to his eyes. And no order! They forgot, they do not give a parish. And how can I do without a visit... on the neck of the family. We are poor, powerless... Who has connections, and we have nothing.I think with sadness that I have no connections, I can't help with anything. It's a pity.- I'm exhausted...- whispers the old man, barely audible, - I feel that soon I will be completely sitting here, I will not be drawn there. Farewell, my dears.Later I learned that Fr. Nicholas's fears were justified, he remained in the monastery forever.A monk walks along the gangway, waving to us something wrapped in white paper.- Blessing the monastery on your path. I take it with a bow, unfold it and see - bread! Wonderful Valaam bread, rye, fragrant, with a thin crust, smells of gingerbread and honey. A piece of long carpet, five pounds. Here we eat it, crossing ourselves on the golden crosses and blue domes of the cathedral. And with this Valaam bread we eat for the last time, absorb into ourselves, put in our hearts the blissful things that we have seen and heard, that have illuminated us, the first steps of our life. We eat Valaam bread, tight in our chests. Eyes look at everything farewell, greedily. Will we never see it again? Never. In dreams we will see, in dreams. Farewell, Valaam, wonderful, bright. We say to each other - we talk with our looks and understand: how well we have done that we have chosen - for some reason - Valaam as the goal of our trip, the first trip in our lives. We say with our eyes:- Isn't it good?- Really, it's good. The sailors closed the board. The singer-nuns with sonorous trebles begin: "Thou hast been transformed on the mountain...!" On the steamer, the troparion is picked up. It rolls along the Monastery Strait, echoes in the stones, in the forests. The steamer rolls away from Valaam. The pilgrims take off their caps and cross themselves for the cathedral. Behind the bars, on the heights near the monastery, lonely black figures are looking, - it is impossible to make out: the monks are seeing off with a farewell look. A foamy tail of water crawls behind him, spreads in long braids, rolls to the rocky shores, slaps with white foam. Past the Skete of St. Nicholas, - Ladoga glitters there.- Farewell, Valaam... until next year! - voices are heard on the deck.On the granite cliffs there is a forest of peaked spruces. Above them is the golden cross of the Skete of All Saints.Here is the free Ladoga playing. The strait is behind us. The whole of Valaam is visible, all in the sun, the teeth of its cliffs. Somewhere at a height, behind the pines, there is a wooden toy church: a distant hermitage, Alexander Svirsky. The luminary of Valaam shines snowily - a magnificent cathedral with a great candle-bell tower. Sleeps. Its azure heads begin to flow into the sky, as well as the azure one. The walls in the green border of the forests are white. The snow bell tower burns for a long time with a candle - the shining gold of the cross. Flickers. Extinguished.