The mass grave cannot be seen from a distance. Coastal trees, a wild garden hide it. The stone steps were loose. A modest tombstone. Above him is a woman in a sweatshirt, with her head uncovered. She lowered her head. Russian woman. Soldier. Mother. I don't know who the author of this modest sculpture is, but I have never felt more excitement anywhere. Everything is simple, even ordinary, modest, without pathos and monumentality. Trees, the sky, birds above, a tombstone - and this woman. And I cried, although I used to think that I could no longer cry. May the earth be down to you, Russian people. And forgive us for these collapsed steps, the fence overgrown with rubbish. Pobuzh was empty again. But the Soldier's Mother of God is with you for all eternity... As promised, I went to say goodbye to the farm. I thought once again about those who were the author of the sculpture on the grave. We have many beautiful obelisks and memorials. Whose authors have received (and deservedly) all kinds of awards. But it seems to me that the highest reward for an artist is when his work ceases to be just a sculpture. People called a Russian woman in a sweatshirt the Soldier's Mother of God. Is there a top grade? An almost full bucket of milk was waiting for me on the farm. They asked not to offend and drink everything. After the third mug, I "broke". When Pobuj was far behind, I could still hear the humming on the farm. Who knows, maybe it was the last peasants of the Bug who worked? I climbed the mountain. The view was amazing. From the huge forest, there, in the east, it was as if children had run away and now they adorned the boundless hills with small green islands. Here was the border of the Kaluga region. Here the road ended. Some clever guy just plowed it. But I did not despair. Retyun, the nearest Tula village, was about three kilometers away, and I decided that it would not be difficult to overcome them.

And so it happened. Retyun met me as if from an ambush. Just now there was a field, a forest, a bend in the road - and here in front of me was a tiny dam with clear water and three children splashing in it. A thin man in wet family underpants came out of the nearest house, or rather garden.

- Tired from the journey? Refresh yourself, the water is wonderful. I swam with my children. Don't you want to eat? I'll bring something now," and he disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.

Soon the man appeared with a loaf and a can of milk, saying that his wife was at work, and he did not find anything more worthwhile. He was embarrassed to offer me raw eggs. I thought that he was unnecessarily ashamed. Raw eggs with brown bread and salt are a great thing. I remember how my grandmother told me about how my grandfather, working at the mill, once "washed" the work with a three-liter jar of first for two, having eaten a bucket of raw eggs. After all, genes are a strong thing. However, in this case, I thanked Anatoly Ivanovich (that was the name of the hospitable man), saying that he was unnecessarily worried, I was not hungry at all. I think he doubted this, watching how quickly the loaf disappeared, not to mention the milk. The sun had already begun to sink to the west. Anatoly Ivanovich's children, who had bathed until they were blue in the face, surrounded us. Unexpectedly for me, an ordinary light conversation began to take on a philosophical tinge. Anatoly Ivanovich talked about how he once left here for the city, how he toiled there for so many years. Now he's back and doesn't regret it. He works as a foreman. He loves books very much, but there is no one to discuss them with: people. The male half of it. Here I am interested in something completely different. What people are interested in. I could soon be convinced. A man sat down next to us, who called himself Semyon Semenovich. The state in which Semyon Semyonovich was could be defined as excited and joyful. But, apparently, he wanted to get even more excited. Anatoly Ivanovich, as if justifying himself, told me that "he drinks himself, but in moderation."

It was time for me to move on. After a short meeting, the best route was found, and we, shaking hands tightly, parted. But here the old story repeated itself. The roads were ploughed up, and I got lost. Instead of Slobodka, after long wanderings, I came to the bank of the same river that divided the Bug into three parts. It was Vyrka. And like in Pobuzh - with a swampy shore and a high left steep. I counted a dozen houses in the village. Village children passing by suggested what the village was called: Dolbino. I could not believe my ears. How? The village of the Kireevsky brothers, where they were born and lived most of their lives! I no longer doubted that I was destined to get lost. Yesterday I stood at their graves, today I came to their Penates. St. Ambrose blessed me to come to the native places of my spiritual children.

- Guys, - I ask, - tell me how to get to the estate, it must be here somewhere. - And before my eyes are the drawings of Vasily Andreevich Zhukovsky, who at one time lived here with Elagina, the mother of the Kireevsky brothers and his niece. What drawings! What an idyll and beauty they have. A rural paradise! Do not forget that here in Dolbino the poet experienced his strongest feeling, which dramatically passed through his entire life.

The boys looked at each other uncertainly.

- Are you talking about the monument? It's there, on the mountain, - they pointed to the opposite bank of the Vyrka, - But you are unlikely to go there. I did not clarify much for myself, but I thanked them, and inspired, forgetting about the twenty-five kilometers traveled, rushed forward. But soon I realized the pessimism of the guys. At first, I crossed a swaying tree, or rather, crawled over and found myself on the other side of the river. And at the same time in the swamp, having heroically passed it, he got all dirty in the mud. But that was not all. Then I had to climb the hill (I think Zhukovsky had a hill). But the hill was overgrown with nettles, burdocks and something else, from which my trousers were soon covered with thorny seeds. Finally, this is behind us. I walked through the remains of an apple orchard... What else could I expect? Thirty steps away, I saw something that looked like a marble pedestal. I approached and read: "Here, in Mishenskoye... the Russian writer V.A. Zhukovsky was born."

I don't understand anything. Mishenskoye is fifteen kilometers from here. Riddle. Meanwhile, I look around. The grass is well trampled. Clearly, they drive cows. There are no traces of the former buildings. A little lighter, you could try to look for the foundation of the house. In such places one thinks well: about merciless time, about memory, about forgetfulness... Somewhere there was a rumble - a thunderstorm was approaching. Remembering that I had walked twenty-five kilometers, I set off on my way back. And the mystery with the monument turned out to be quite simple. In the morning, everything was explained to me. A new monument was erected to Vasily Andreevich. Is the old to be lost? And the Kireevskys were not forgotten either. True, evil tongues claimed that the Belev authorities did not lose out from such savings (who will check all this now?). They took an old monument, screwed a plaque, from which it was clear that Pyotr Ivanovich and Ivan Ivanovich were born and lived in the village of Dolbino, installed and reported. And the people are curious, or maybe someone has coveted the sign: it shines after all. Shorter. The sign disappeared and the original letters appeared. They tried to cover it up, but it didn't help. This is how unlucky the Kireevskys are for the umpteenth time.

In the meantime, I made my way in the opposite direction. Midnight came. A fine rain, still timid, but already drizzling. There is not a single haystack around. A mosquito swarm was already howling and buzzing overhead. In the villages, they go to bed early, so I was not surprised by the lack of light in the houses. And you will not, looking at the night, knock and wake people. For the night when it is light. I don't know if it's worth writing about. But if there is hope that at least one person will read what you have written, you need to write everything honestly, as it was. I will not describe my mood. Two or three times I walked around the village. The only dog sleeping by the wattle fence considered it beneath his dignity even to bark at me. And then I remembered the words I had read in an old book. An old, wise man says to his grandson: "If there is any sorrow or need for anything, do not hesitate and ask the Lord. One can ask Him for small things and for great things. But you have to believe." I put my backpack on the ground, turned my face to the east and asked the Lord not to leave me, a sinner, and to give me a place to spend the night... A window lit up in the next house. Someone went out onto the porch.

"And where does he wear it?"

"Aren't you looking for me?" - I gave a voice. The woman did not flinch or be frightened. She smiled: "My husband works as a postman, something was delayed today." We started talking. Somehow imperceptibly, the conversation turned to illnesses, lack of medicines. The woman's husband had a stomach ulcer, and she herself was not in good health. I knew some herbs and told them a little about how they can be used for diseases. Soon the hostess's husband approached. We met.

"What are we standing for?" - she shook up. Let's go into the house and spend the night..." I dictated recipes, and my eyes were glued together. The pancakes only made things worse. And here is the bed. Probably, Solomon did not sleep on such a thing either. Lord, what bliss! And thank you, Lord, for not leaving me. Those were my last words. In the morning I was told that a thunderstorm had been rumbling all night.

June 21. Apple trees in the rain.