I thank Andrey, that's the name of the gatekeeper, and go to the kitchen. Several women, young and old, were clearing tables and washing dishes. They worked sparingly, in silence. I didn't explain anything. As soon as I sat down on the bench, two plates appeared - with boiled potatoes, cucumbers, a glass of compote and a lot of bread. However, is it worth describing every minute of your stay in the monastery? For me, they are precious and unique, who knows how interesting it is to others. Time seems to have stopped. I left my backpack and went to wander around the monastery, from church to church, from building to building. Suddenly, the summer heat was replaced by streams of water from the sky. They seemed to serve as a signal - the monastery came to life, many people appeared. Everyone was busy with something, I was the only one who stood fascinated and looked at the domes. The rain washed them. Drops flowed down, and the leaves on the old trees shone like spring. But just as unexpectedly, everything calmed down. The sun appeared and sparkled on the domes, foliage, and breast crosses of the monks. I recognized one of them. Tall, thin - the one who was in the bath. He was in a hurry somewhere. Soon I understood where and why. Over the monastery, over the surroundings, over the world, a high and clear bell ringing was heard. And froze. Then the second, the third. More and more confident. The doors of the temple opened. The service began. A short elderly man, dressed as they dressed in Russia fifty years ago, was waiting for it. High boots, kosovorotka. The face is peasant, intelligent, the movements are thorough, unhurried. He willingly told me that the service would be festive, because tomorrow there would be a Council of the 12 Apostles. And as you know, the apostle was also John the Theologian, whose name the monastery bears. The man was born in Ufa, where he lived, he came to Moscow on the business of his church, but he could not help coming here.

- This monastery is glorious, there have always been many righteous people here. People say that even under the Horde, many miracles were performed here. At that time, he was still an intercessor for the Russian land. How can it not rise, how can it not be reborn?

Indeed, I suddenly remembered one of the legends I had heard, directly related to the Monastery of St. John the Theologian. They say that there lived in the vicinity of the monastery a shepherd, an ordinary peasant boy. He had a cherished dream, he really wanted to become an icon painter. But the master did not take him as an apprentice, they said that he was untalented. The shepherd prayed all day long, asking God for help. And once, when the boy was sitting in tears at the monastery gates, he did not even notice how he fell asleep. And in a dream John the Theologian appeared to him and comforted him, and said that he would be an iconographer. And so it happened. And soon the fame of the young iconographer reached Ryazan, and the prince of Ryazan wanted to invite yesterday's shepherd to work with him. But the prince's court iconographer was jealous, and then the prince decided to arrange a competition between them. And our hero drew a falcon, and so skillfully that everyone gasped: the bird was as if it were alive. And the falcon suddenly fluttered, spread its wings and disappeared into the high sky. It became clear who won the bet. The service ended late in the evening. I have not been so tired for a long time and for a long time it has not been so pure and bright in my soul. The eldest among the pilgrims, Alexander, took care of me. We had dinner, and he escorted me to a two-story brick house, which had once been a sports school, and even earlier a monastery hotel.

"All the surrounding fields belonged to the monastery," Alexander tells me on the way. "And now you see for yourself what a ruin is all around. But never mind," and he uttered the same words as the man from Ufa, "the monastery will rise, it will certainly rise.

A year ago, Alexander read an announcement in the newspaper that helpers were needed in the restoration of the monastery. I took a vacation and came here. Liked? Not the right word. He felt that this was his place. Now he lives here as a novice. He is seriously thinking about becoming a monk. To serve God - what could be better than this?

- There are not many novices and pilgrims, but they work conscientiously, not out of fear, not for money, as in the world. It was a great joy to communicate with the monks, especially with the abbot, Father Abel. In general, choose the time and come here for at least a week...

So we came to the former sports school for conversations. The men slept in a large room on the first floor, the women on the second. I was immediately advised to hide things more securely in my backpack, even sneakers. Rats. They gnawed off half of one guy's sneaker. The room is in order. People are gradually approaching. The lights are turned off relatively early, but you also need to get up before dark. Alexander is a real commander. Before he turned off the light, I had time to take a good look at the room. There are many small icons, reproductions of paintings and photographs depicting the apostles, holy martyrs, the last Russian Tsar Nicholas Alexandrovich. There are especially many images of St. Sergius of Radonezh and St. Seraphim of Sarov. Pray. Already in the dark, as in distant childhood, a conversation arises. People are different. Some reasoning and questions seem naïve to me, but there is so much faith, sincerity, and purity in this naivety that I am ashamed of my thoughts. I begin to tell you about Optina. I feel that no one is sleeping. At first, Alexander grumbles from his seat: "Tomorrow I'll wake everyone up at five, you'll see," but soon he himself enthusiastically joins the conversation. We are talking about miracles, about the holy people of Russia, about the future of Russia. I hear the voice of Andrey, an old man from Ufa, those whom I met recently, or rather, just now. It was not until midnight that silence reigned over our room. Although, no. A powerful snoring was heard from the bed of the Ufa resident, but I no longer heard it.

July 13. Meshchora.

Six o'clock in the morning. Alexander had already prayed, but did not wake the others yet. Apparently, he regretted it. His sonorous voice was heard only when there were three or four people asleep. The rest were already on their feet. The coming morning brought its worries. I caught myself in a bitter thought: only I, sinful and idle, walk idly on earth. How many people, very different, I met on my way. But in one thing they were all similar. A new day meant new work for them. I went on the road, taking with me the kindest feelings about these people. And what did they think of me, looking after me? Andrey and Alexander approached. They explained to me how to get to the ferry across the Oka, the guys say goodbye. Andrei tells me the words that no one has ever said to me in my life: "May your guardian angel always be there." "God bless you," adds Alexander.

To be honest, I was so emotional that I didn't notice how I made it to the ferry. The ferryman had just landed. He brought a small herd of horses and two teenage drivers to our side. There were only two people on the other side of the hunters - me, and a short man in a canvas raincoat and tarpaulin boots. When I asked the ferryman how I could get along this meadow to Solotcha, he, for some reason, laughed, pointed to the peasant: "And he is going there. With him you will get there." In the same way, my Charon laughed when I handed him the coppers: "Hide it and don't make me laugh." And now we are walking very soon on the grass wet with dew. I will never know the name of my fellow traveler. One thing is certain: if it were not for him, I would not have reached Solotcha soon. He chose paths that, by all my standards, led in the opposite direction. But soon it turned out that we were bypassing another channel. And supposedly convenient paths rested on impassable reservoirs. Soon I realized that the person walking next to me belongs to the type of people about whom we in Russia speak very simply: "Eccentrics". Their eccentricities, small and large, are visible in everything they do. Every minute, after a long muttering under his breath, my fellow traveler suddenly blurted out: "I undoubtedly correspond to life and life's work." As I could understand, at this point in his life, his main concern was to repair the half of the house he inherited from his mother as soon as possible. He described it lovingly and in detail three or four times. With such a cheerful conversation, kilometers were covered quickly. And then he finished me off completely. I don't remember exactly what it was about. The peasant suddenly made a fierce face, somehow leaned forward, and in one breath gave out a quote either from an encyclopedia or from a popular brochure concerning our conversation. I jumped in surprise. However, everything turned out to be simple. My new acquaintance had an excellent memory, and since due to the lack of smoking, he, like many of his fellow villagers, began to use makhorka, paper was needed. Old newspapers and brochures were used. And since he smoked a lot, it took him about two hours a day to read the scraps from which the pipes were rolled. The range of his knowledge was unusually large: from agro-industrial issues to socialist realism. His weakness lay in the fragmentation of this same knowledge. Literally. The quote was often cut off in mid-sentence. "Then it was torn," he explained to me sincerely. Already in Solotcha, my strange fellow traveler unexpectedly turned into the nearest alley without saying a word. I didn't have time to thank him and ask him where to go next. However. There was no need for this. Solotcha is a small, one-story village. A real summer place. Strangely, this is how I imagined the place of residence of Timur and his friends, dad and his daughter from "The Blue Cup" and other works of Arkady Gaidar as a child. Although why should we be surprised? It is known that Gaidar repeatedly rested in Solotcha. However, Solotcha is better known as one of the favorite places of the no less famous writer - Paustovsky. Many of its residents will tell you about the writer, his habits, affections, hobbies. Quiet, green village. Important cats sit on the windows, tanned children splash in an amazingly beautiful river, dignified old women on benches. There is a feeling that everything here, from people to sparrows and cats, lives in its own special rhythm. Slow, as if a man was running, running, but suddenly he was too lazy to move on, but he had to move. In a corner of paradise, even the air was saturated with the aroma of enchanting laziness. There was a strong desire to knock on one of these cozy houses and ask to live for a week or two. Eat cherries, swim in the river, wander along the quiet streets, which, perhaps, remember Sergei Yesenin, who came here on foot from Konstantinov to Anna Snegina. But it was necessary to go further.

The village imperceptibly moved to the village of Zaborye. All. I was entering the Meshchera region, as ancient as the Russian land. A land of impenetrable forests, mighty pines, villages hidden in thickets, endless swamps, clear rivers. The next village, Laskovo, was all located in the forest. A village is like a village. Neither small nor large. I had almost passed it when the thought came to mind of where I could have heard the name of the village before. Affectionately, affectionately. I definitely heard it somewhere. Maybe he did? Is it?! Exactly, it was here. "Peter heard that there were many doctors in the Ryazan land, and ordered to take himself there - because of a serious illness he himself could not sit on a horse. And when they brought him to the Ryazan land, he sent all his retinue to look for doctors. One of the princely youths wandered into a village called Leskovo. He came to the gate of a house and saw no one. And he went into the house, but no one came out to meet him. Then he entered the upper room and saw an amazing sight: a girl was sitting at a loom and weaving linen, and a hare was jumping in front of her."

Here, in Laskovo, lived a wise Russian girl Fevronia, who became the wife of the Murom prince Peter. The Old Russian story tells with amazing warmth about these extraordinary people, about their love, loyalty, life and death. About the fact that neither during his lifetime, nor after death, evil fate and unkind people could not separate Peter and Fevronia. On July 8, the Orthodox Church celebrates the day of remembrance of the right-believing princes Peter and Fevronia of Murom.

In Laskovo there is a chapel built in honor of the famous native of these places. I was told that on July 8, many people from all over Russia came here. People remember the right-believing princess, they need her help and prayers. In the Meshchera surrounding villages and villages, I heard many stories about a Laskovskaya peasant woman who became a princess. Real apocrypha, born among the people hundreds of years after the writing of her life. By the way, in these places it is called Havronya or Hebronya. I remember one of these legends. I'm writing it down as I heard.

Hebronya, in the simplicity of her heart, told her friends that she would marry the prince of Murom. And that the prince's ambassadors would come for her, and she would ride in a sleigh through deep snow. They laughed at Hebronya. And when the winter passed, they did not give her a pass at all. Where is your prince, they shout. Where is the sleigh in which you will go? And she smiled at them, don't be in a hurry, they say, let's see who will laugh last. And what do you think? In the summer, just at this time, ambassadors from the prince come to her. And as soon as we were going to leave, it started snowing. For three days there was a snowstorm of chalk. They had to get to Murom on a sleigh. And at parting, Hebronya said to the affectionate people: "I do not hold a grudge against you, but I will teach you a little for mockery and disbelief. This is what our village is now, it will always remain so. There will be no more, but there will be less too." And so it happened. How many years have passed since then, and Laskovo stands within those boundaries. The man who told me this story, after a short pause, added, not without embarrassment: "True, this was the case until recently. And somewhere since that summer, Laskovo has had an increase. Summer residents from Moscow began to be built. But they, as you know, do not fear God."