It was already evening, when I slowly wandered from the skete to the monastery along a picturesque forest path. He wandered devastated and happy. This happens in childhood, when you commit some misdeed, carry the burden of what you have done in your soul for a long time, and then, shedding tears, you tell your mother about everything. And with forgiveness comes happiness, and you suddenly notice how wonderful everything around you is. And the emptiness is from the stone that fell from your soul.

I will not describe Optina. Firstly, it has already been described hundreds of times, and secondly, it is better to see once than to hear a hundred times. I will only say that, to my joy, I did not notice the tourists loitering idly here. No, there were people. But the difference between a tourist and a pilgrim is the same as between night and day. Some watch, others fall down. Some take away impressions, souvenirs, others bring questions, their hardships and doubts.

Near the entrance to the main temple of the monastery there are crosses. New crosses on old graves. The Optina elders rest here. There are also laymen - brothers Ivan and Peter Kireevsky. For the absolute majority of us, they are (as we were taught) Slavophiles. As if one word can characterize the whole life of a person. But Peter is a wonderful writer and collector, talented and self-sacrificing of the inexhaustible wealth of the Russian people: its songs, proverbs, sayings. Ivan is a philosopher whose legacy we have yet to study and understand. Thank God, the time for this has come. And in the temple there are the relics of St. Ambrose - the spiritual teacher of the Kireevsky brothers.

Entering the church, I was surprised to find that it was not just a service. More precisely, not service at all. Three young novices were ordained monks. Former names, surnames, former life - everything remained there, beyond the threshold of the monastery. A beautiful ritual in which there is solemnity, sorrow, and joy. The reliquary with the relics of the saint is open, and, probably, not only I have the feeling that Ambrose himself is blessing the new brothers - Arseny, Hilarion, Dositheus. A tall, stately monk with a noble gray beard pronounced a word without verbal beauty, all kinds of speech effects, but a strong, sinking word into the soul. He spoke about what a heavy cross it is to be a monk, how responsible and difficult it is. And what a joy it is to be a monk, casting aside all earthly and vain things, to serve the Lord, to save not only your own souls, but also the souls of those who remained in the world. Then all the monks present in the church, standing up in pores, began to approach and venerate the relics of Saint Ambrose. They were followed by laymen, first men, then women. Surprisingly, my heart suddenly began to beat like a drum. I did not understand this excitement. My hands suddenly became sweaty. The faces around me were like in a fog... Only when I went out into the street did I realize that it was not in vain that I got to the rite of monastic tonsure. It is not at all accidental that today, for the sake of this event, the relics of the monk were discovered. And in general, there are no coincidences in life. Whoever believes in chance does not believe in God. I knew for sure that my prayers in the cell had been answered. The holy elder blessed me for the journey.

June 19. On the banks of the Zhizdra.

Early, early morning. Kozelsk. The town is still asleep, only somewhere to the left, where small houses are hidden in the green of the trees, a rooster is crowing with might and main. The night rain slightly nailed the dust, which here, as in any Russian regional center, is in abundance. The rising sun silvered the dew on the fence and grass. The day promised to be hot, but for now, in these dawn hours, it was easy to walk. Behind them was the fast Zhizdra and the monastery on its bank, the road led along the main street. I walked and thought that cities are the same people. The fate of cities is like human destinies. There are great cities, known to everyone, there are unknown ones, living quietly and inconspicuously: there are Croesus among the cities, and there are Cinderellas, who were never destined to meet their prince. Among

There are two bright types of people: those who know how to live, and those who do not. It seems that they live in the same way, but for some everything is fine, and for others everything is not like people. They are called losers, eccentrics. It seems that God gave everything - a smart head, hard-working hands, a just and honest heart. Or maybe that's the point? Others, those who know how to live, have managed to understand that if you want to live, know how to spin. And these are not going to turn around, to compromise with their conscience. Sometimes it seems to me that all provincial cities that have been counting the chronology since the time of Troy's grandsons are from the category of those who do not know how to live. And judge for yourself. What picturesque places are located, what riches are around, how many centuries behind the soul, and look at them... Any metropolitan journalist who comes here for a day, in his photo essay (this is fashionable now) will write that he is very provincial and ordinary (read between the lines - gray and uninteresting), place three or four photographs - the only remaining church, a grandmother selling at the market, a half-naked beauty in the window of a kiosk... In short, the sentence has been pronounced. You can go further, because there are countless such towns in Russia... In those ancient times, when the Arabs triumphantly conquered one province after another, Christians also lived there. The Arabs offered the cities to surrender to the mercy of the victors, promising to save the lives of the citizens. Then those who accepted the Muslim faith were exempted from taxation. And soon there was a drop of Christians left in the Islamic ocean. What can you do, you need to be able to live. Cities are like people. People are like cities. And when the Mongols tried to act in Russia according to the "Arab scenario", they failed. It is clear when it refers to such great and powerful cities as Vladimir and Kyiv, they still had, albeit a small, but a chance. And what could tiny Kozelsk, which 750 years ago was "provincial and ordinary", hope for? The heroic defense of the city continued for several weeks, the Mongols called it the "evil city" and broke into it only when there was no one to defend it... Cities are like people...

The path leads away from the main road into a ravine. You get out of it - and you are already in the village of Deshevki. I looked back at Kozelsk for the last time. Optina churches are no longer visible. Still, I was mistaken in saying that the city was asleep. I see that at least a third of its residents have gathered at several buses and cars. Everything is clear: they see the guys off to the amiya. The air seems to be rarefied by the sound of an accordion. The accordion player played clumsily, but loudly. And, most importantly, sincerely. Lord, can this still happen in our time? Quite recently. On a Moscow bus. I became an unwitting witness to one conversation, during which a young man of about twenty-five suggested to another, even younger, who said that he would soon go to the army, what nonsense it was to do military service, and that prison was better than the army, and at the same time told several ways to avoid service. I do not think that the mothers of these Kozelsk boys with a light heart accompanied their children far away from home, then I am sure that neither they nor their sons had any thoughts of breaking their duty. After all, this is the Russian outback, and innovations reach here later. If they reach it at all.

Deshevki turned out to be a large village, imperceptibly turning into another, equally large one - Berezichi. The people here are open and talkative. A woman, running past me, hurried to the bus, which, apparently, was supposed to arrive, and threw it on the move, as if I was asking her for an explanation: "Here, fool, I'm late. And there would be a reason! I looked at how Matveevna, like a horse, plows on herself, as if she did not have a man."

I had to go along the road descending far down to the Zhizdra bridge, from there through the village of the glass factory to the Slagovishchi station. Then the track lay by rail. At best, only in the evening did I come to the Kireevskaya station. The path ahead was long. But I immediately decided to turn off the road, seeing a church on the side. Our ancestors knew how to find the most beautiful places for temples, tried to make the church visible from the farthest distance. The church in Bereznichi is no exception. Her fate is also typical. It was closed in the thirties. At first, something was stored in it, then it was abandoned completely. But they used to build it soundly, so it rises, it seems to be defeated, without domes, crosses, but still striving for the sky. I went inside.In several places there are even pieces of painting.One fragment can be seen well: children are hurrying to Christ. The hands are wide open, they stretch them out to the Lord, there are smiles on the faces of the mothers. The artist did not draw Jewish children at all, but his own, Russians (fortunately, there was a lot of nature around). Surprisingly, he even conveyed how blond children's curls were caressed by the breeze. "They brought children to him, that he might touch them; but the disciples did not admit those who brought them. When Jesus saw this, he was indignant, and said to them, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for of such is the kingdom of God." Verily I say unto you, Whosoever receiveth not the kingdom of God as a child shall not enter it. And having embraced them, he laid his hands on them, and blessed them" (Mark 10:13-16).

I confess that when I approached the bridge, I was pretty tired. Either from the heat, or from lack of habit: after all, it was the first day of the journey. So the fast and cool Zhizdra came in handy. In addition, I have a peculiar hobby: once I decided to swim in all the famous Russian rivers. I haven't bathed in Zhizdra yet. I was accompanied by five young gypsies. The soul of their company was Zina and Rada. The gypsies were swimming on the opposite bank, quite far from me, but the noise design was such that after five minutes I not only knew what their names were, what they thought of each other, but even all their shortcomings. Rada especially helped me in this. She looked about 9-10 years old, her older brothers and sister decided to teach her to swim. The most interesting thing is that the Rada itself did not want this. Zina was especially affected. To be honest, I did not suspect that the Russian language in the Gypsy interpretation is so sophisticated. When Rada yelled, furiously kicking with all her limbs, that her sister was an "old whore", it almost ended badly for the young gypsy. No, her sister did not even think of being offended by her, they just laughed so unanimously that they let go of their hands at once. But everything worked out. And when I was climbing the mountain that began right by the river, I heard a girl's singing coming from the river. Rada sang. And on the mountain, and I already knew it, there was once a rich estate of Prince Obolensky. There were once many Obolenskys in Russia, among them there were not only cornets. Their estates, or rather, what was left of them, I had previously met in Tula, Lipetsk, Ryazan and other regions. I never found out the exact name of this Obolensky (I think it was Nikolai Alexeevich), but he was, apparently, an outstanding person. And an excellent owner. The surname is noble, but it does not look like Gaev from "The Cherry Orchard" at all. He built a large glass factory, which still works perfectly, the station building at the Slagovishchi station, which is still the best building on this entire line. And his estate, plundered and plundered, continued to serve people to this day. Before the war, there was a sanatorium, during the war a hospital, now a boarding school for children with retarded development. The entrance is easy to find: even if there is nothing left of the former gate, the old lime trees, invariable companions of Russian estates, show where the entrance alley was. There are many new one-story buildings. And where is the manor's house? With difficulty, but I find it, or rather, what is left of it: four walls without a roof, or to be more precise, fragments of the walls. I tried to carry out "survey" work: here, apparently, there was a front entrance, on this lawn, apparently, flowers grew; A fruit garden descended to the river. Now all that remains of all this is the red skeleton of the house, and the lush greenery, from which you can make a complete herbarium called "wild plants of central Russia." But this sky remained the same as a hundred years ago, high, high, white from the heat. This river carries its warm waters. And just like a hundred years ago, a bumblebee buzzes, perching on a flower. I lay down under the hazelnut tree, closed my eyes... I don't know whether it was a dream, a dream, or a vision. I saw a girl in a white dress and with a ball in her hand. I would give her twelve years, but long white dresses grow up children. I could not see the features of the face. The girl shouted something, throwing the ball up. At the cry a little dog jumped out, white, with dark ears and spots on the side. Suddenly, the girl and the dog saw me. The dog rushed into the bushes and stopped. The child did not seem to be frightened, but, looking around, he went to the bushes. I want to shout: don't be afraid, I'm a casual traveler, but I'm a friend, only the words get stuck in my throat; I want to ask: what is your name, and again I can't. But from somewhere above came a quiet sound, like the rustle of leaves: Ta-nya, - Anya, -I... The girl looked at me for the last time and disappeared into the thicket. I opened my eyes. Where she had just stood, hazel branches shuddered sadly, as if someone had touched them. And yet there is no breeze, no man. Only heat, sky and old ruins.

There is very little left to tell about this day. Like a man stupefied by the heat, he wandered along the sleepers: it was impossible to go aside - the Gryazna River tried - there was a swampy forest all around. My heart began to fail.

People came in and out, looked in surprise at the eccentric, who was younger and braver, even approached. But I didn't care. I was asleep, and I dreamed of a girl in a white dress. I felt good. And for some reason I wanted to cry.

June 20. The Soldier's Mother of God.