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We saw a tall old man standing in the gate, lean, with a long beard, as is the case with saints, in a summer cap and a white undershirt, like Gorkin, with his hands behind his back under his undergarment, playing with his undershirt, as Gorkin likes. He even called us cute, so friendly. And he laughs at something, I think he heard our conversation. "From Moscow, it seems, you are experienced..." And everyone laughed.He listened calmly, well, smiled affectionately and said: "We must take into account... It's you who made a little mistake, dear. We do not let pilgrims in, and we have no relatives in Moscow... And you, it must be taken into account, have probably been pointed out to my second cousin. I heard that he had someone in Moscow who was distant, our Pereyaslav man. Go to him. Here, across the ravine, the river will be... Gorkin thanks him for his courtesy, bows so respectfully. . . . "Excuse me," he said, "your dignity, for your trouble. . . ." "Nothing, nothing, dear," he said, "it's a matter of keeping in mind, it happens, it's nothing. We wrapped it up, and he said: "And you have an old horse, only to ride on pilgrimage. And everything adds the proverb "must be taken into account" - it turns out very judiciously, it is pleasant to listen to him. Gorkin was so respectful to him, again begging to excuse him for disturbing him, and he suddenly said, soon like this: "Wait a minute, we must take into account . . . trolley?.. Where did you get one?.. Let me see, I am an amateur, I must take into account... Well, he has a conversation like Gorkin. Affectionately, judiciously, and just as he barks like Gorkin. And the eye also squints and winks a little. Gorkin gladly asks: "Please take a look... We are very glad that you like our cart, it has only become dusty." She tells him that this cart is ancient. "From his grandfather the cart," he pointed to me, and he looked at the cart, "and even earlier, and everyone was happy and amazed at the cart, and there is no such thing anywhere now, and no one has seen it." And the old man walks around the cart, touching the beds, knocking, looking at us this way and that, nimbly, hurrying to let us go. "Yes, yes, well, well... must be taken into account... yes, a cart... A good cart, an old one... The front, the rear looked around, touched. He was already running around the cart, not talking, fingering as if he were washing, and he was all on the cart. And Gorkin praises him - the carving, they say, is good, thin. "Yes," he said, "a cart, we must take it..." The work is rare.. He sat down, began to look at the "pillows" in an arc... to take into account..." — his fingers were so around the bed, and he kept shaking his head and twitching, pulling at his beard, — well, well... the miracles of the Lord... He threw his head up at Gorkin, blinked, and looked up somewhere. "But tell me, dear man," he said to Gorkin, and his voice became quieter, as if it were difficult to speak, and he was choking, "why is it that this bed is cleanly worked, and this one is like another hand?" The patterns are the same, but... Where, in your opinion, dear man, is the drawing thinner and softer? And then curious people began to approach from the square. The old man shouted to the janitor: "Lock the gates behind us!" "And you, my dears," he said to us, "come with me into the yard and wrap the horse.. And he ran into the yard. And we need to hurry. Gorkin whispered to Anti-Pushka: "Old man, as if not everything is at home... He wants to lock us up?" And the old man ran out to the gate again, hurried us, turned Crooked himself, waved and called, did not say a word. We followed him, and then we all felt frightened, as the gates were locked. "It's okay, dear, you'll have time," said the old man, "you must take into account..." Wait a minute.And climbed under the cart, under the rear wheels! Before we had time to come to our senses, he was already coming out, completely red, unable to rest. "So... well, well... must be accepted... Taking into account... And rubs his hands. And he pointed to the beds again: "And the multi-handed work... Which is right?.. And he shakes his head all over. Gorkin took a closer look, and said, in order to get off as soon as possible: "You'll be fair to say: that bed is cleaner, more drawn, more beautiful, more unsightly. The wallpaper is good, but the one is cleaner.We stand and wait for what will be done to us now. The gates are locked, the dogs are shaggy, and those who are on a chain are walking. The yard is huge, and the garden behind it. And all the big sheds, and the bast boxes in a heap, and under the canopies the young gray horses and something else wrapped in paper and put in boxes. And we want to drink death, but the old man runs around the cart and coughs all the time. He looked at the arc, threw up his hands and said to Gorkin: "Do you know what I'm going to say, dear man..." must be taken into account?.. Gorkin asks him: "Tell me quickly, excuse me..." We must be in a hurry, and the children are not fed, and... And the old man turned and began to cross himself at the pink bell tower-Trinity: and here it looks, standing just on the flight between the courtyard and the garden. "That's it. The monk himself, he brought you to me! O Lord, wonderful are Thy works.. And we don't understand anything, we ask you to let us go as soon as possible. And he said, as if sternly: "It is not yet known whether you will go and where you will go... must be taken into account! What is the name of your owner, whose cart? So. Gorkin said: "It's been a long time, I've been living with them for forty years, and it was before me, and before the owner, his father got it from his grandfather..." Daddy's grandfather here is him..." - he pointed at me, - he went to the crests on it, sold red goods. "And he didn't sell wooden dishes?.. spoons, bowls, rollers, cups... and?.. Gorkin says that he heard that they also sold wooden dishes... Their name is old, they still had a house before the Frenchman and still stands. Then the old man, praising him by the shoulder, bent him to the ground and dragged him under the cart: "Well, look, what's marked there..." do you understand?.. Then we all climbed under the cart, and the old man climbed into it with us, fidgeting like a little one, on the grass and pointing with his finger on the back "pillow". And there, in a black circle, it was burned - "A". "What is it," he said, "it's marked here..." az? "Az..." Gorkin said. "That," he said, "is what I am, I am... must be taken into account! And my dad is here — az! Aksyonov! Our cart.. We got out from under the cart. The old man wipes himself with a red handkerchief, cries as if he weeps, looks at Gorkin and is silent. And Gorkin is silent and also wipes himself. And we are all silent. What will he do with us now, I think, take the cart from us? And I also think: someone stole a cart from him and it got to us?.. And then the old man said: "Yes... must be taken into account... And Gorkin too, followed him: "Yes... What is this, your degree, does it turn out? "Lord.. The old man says. "You have brought me joy, dear... That's what. And my grandson treated you like this the other day... I haven't been around yet, I'm hot! Father's cart! He cut this side into the pattern, and I cut that side. I was probably not even twenty then, that's when. And I burned the sweep, and branded the whole thing, our old one, when we were still cutting dishes. There was no trace of these in chorus. In the shed lived... Not tea, but water! Well, we'll talk about that later, but here's what... The monk himself brought you to me, I will not let you go. Stay with me... Do me such a favor, respect.. We stand and are silent. And Gorkin looks at the cart and also seems to be crying. He began to speak, but his voice broke, quite weak, as when he told me about his sin: "They deigned to tell the truth, Your Grace, that the reverend is..." "Now I see the works of the Lord. That's it... From the monk such a thing-beauty came — to the monk it returned, and brought us. On the way out, we met your driver, he called us happy, as they asked him about you, not a name! They were confused, they were looking for it... and how many of us were taken away, and in your place they came... Led! The monk wished both you and us to rejoice... Now you can see it with your own eyes. Well, could he have thought, huh?! And I rolled the cart out of the trash, it came to my mind... how many years, perhaps, it stood, and they have already forgotten about it... But she waited... I saw the old master.. And we thank you most humbly, we do not dare to refuse, only we need to report to the owner that he is at the hotel. "Ka-ak, and the owner himself is here?!" The old man asks. "I rode up for a day..." As if it was necessary! "Well," he said, "I'd like to make their acquaintance very much." Tell them, I beg them, they say, to come to me tomorrow after Mass to drink tea and eat a pie. He asks, they say, Aksyonov. We'll talk. And I have a large gazebo in the garden, you will be at peace there, you will be my guests. Lord, Lord... And it has to happen.. And he kept looking at the cart. And we look. He stands and smooths the beds and shakes his head.

At the Venerable

Part 1

That's what everyone says – a living miracle has taken place. What a miracle! We were all wandering about—looking for Aksyonov's toy-maker, and everyone was frightening us that Aksyonov would not let the pilgrims in, and they had already driven us away from Aksyonov, and then it turned around, Aksyonov recognized the cart as if it were his work, and that the monk had brought it home to its owner—and it had stood there for a century! "And now we are Aksyonov's guests, in the Garden of Eden, in the gazebo. And somehow awkward even, as if we asked for it ourselves. Domna Panferovna reproaches Fedya: "Barefoot... And Fedya is sitting under a bush, hiding his legs. The Anti-Cannon is worried about the Curve: "What kind of autocracy... He took our horse over there! "Pray," she said, "rest, and my coachman goes after her." And she will not give herself to a stranger, she will neither drink nor eat. I need to tell him this, Aksyonov.Gorkin reassures him: it's okay, it'll be okay, let's say. And he ordered the cart to be emptied, as if it were already his... And Domna Panferovna is even more heated: the crows flew into the mansions that were not their own, they fell under the command, look out of the hands of strangers now... The rules are strict, the gates are locked, tell me how you need to leave... And if you happen to go in need, you are terrible dogs, call the janitor to see you off, what a stramot... Gorkin calms her down: "At least it's not a scandal, a brawler... The landlady's young lady will hear again, under the birch bush.. Well, a little shy, I see... in a foreign place there are their own rules, but one must submit: the monk himself brought it, there should be no evil... In what kind of garden, in paradise.. The garden... — and there is no end in sight. Meadows, birches, flowers, paths are strewn with red sand, green benches everywhere, in the beds Victoria is turning red, currants, gooseberries ... - so it burns in the sun - as much rosehip as you want, but all double ... and cherries, and apple trees, and plums, and they seemed to blow ... — well, whatever the soul desires. And on the meadow, under a birch tree, sits a beautiful young lady, all embroidered according to drawings and in beads with ribbons — she keeps looking at us. A gazebo is not a gazebo at all, but like a summer house. The glass is all multi-colored, the architraves and valances are of the most intricate workmanship, made of birch, under light varnish, with stars and checkers, skates and cockerels, cunning curls, suns and ripples... — carved, delicate. Gorkin said so: "Not a gazebo, but a song! And then Aksyonov from behind the bushes, as if in response to our thoughts: "Don't be shy, dear, make yourself comfortable. A samovar - whenever you want, bread from my table... And walk - go through the gate, through the garden, in the fence there, in the elderberry, right into the street, I'll tell you to unlock it... The boy will be here with you. The benches are wide, hay is laid... He called the young lady from under the birch tree, pointed at us, affectionately thus: "You, Manyusha, watch... They are happy to be, they are good people. And this," he said to us, "is my granddaughter, my mistress, we must take into account. it will please you. Live as long as you can live with the Lord. The monk himself brought them to us, Manyusha... I'll tell you later.And then Domna Panferovna, about Fedya: "Don't think about it, father, he's barefoot... He is a good parent, and it was for the salvation of his soul that he gave patent leather boots to a paralytic one. And they have a big lamb business in Moscow and a rich house... For no reason. Fedya huddled under a bush, and Aksyonov only smiled. "I," he said, "mother, and I don't think anything." "And you'll have a well behind the gazebo to wash." Refresh yourself after the journey, have a snack... I'll send the boy now. And we all rejoiced here. Domna Panferovna began to tell the young lady what we were like and what kind of houses we had in Moscow. And she picked a handful of red currants and regaled: "Please don't be shy, eat..." And then a boy, so nimble, shouted: "And here is Savka, to serve you... The landlord told me to refuel! And for dinner you will have noodles with mushrooms.I brought a jug of cracker kvass with ice, a cup of pickles in cabbage and a carpet of bread, just taken out of the oven. And the young lady ordered that we should have more soaked apples to cool down. Such a courteous girl, she keeps blushing and waving a book, tugging at it with her teeth and still saying: "Please, be at home..." She took us to the gazebo and let us show us the things on the shelves – sheep, cows, a woman with a yoke, a shepherd, bunnies, pilgrims... – everything is carved from wood. She tells us that it was her grandfather and great-grandfather who cut her, and they have it as a memory, they show the guests, from the old years. And it's even better in the house... There is a horse with a cart under the glass and a peasant is also mowing hay, and they even have a letter from the tsar hanging in a golden frame, that they really liked the toys, once my great-grandfather brought it to the tsar. Gorkin praises how clean the work is—he knows how to carve himself—and the young lady is very happy, she has taken everything off the shelves—the bears, the wolves, the blacksmith and the peasant, and the fox, and—" "How can he realize.. "Oh, what am I... You are tired, and you need to go to the vigil soon.. And she went under a birch tree to read her book. And we are for kvass and cucumbers.I can't believe my eyes where we got to! The garden through the glass is multi-colored: blue, gold, pink, and scarlet... and so joyful in our souls, as if we were in paradise. And the high bell tower-Trinity looks out from behind the birches. It's so beautiful.. Truly, the monk himself brought me here.Gorkin leads me to the hotel, to my father. Soon they will strike for the vigil, and he still needs to go to the bath, before the repentance. He is now wearing a blue cossack jacket and new boots, goat's; I am tired, I sit down by the pillars on the edge of the ravine, and begin to cry. In the ravine, sheds are smoking, "pancake houses" there on the river, it smells of pancakes with onions, fried fish, porridges... Pilgrims lie in burdocks, go down the stairs into the ravine, change their shoes, dry footcloths and onuchi on nettles. Higher, behind the ravine, the pink walls of the lavra, the blue domes, the high bell tower - the Trinity - mist and trembling through tears. Gorkin persuaded me not to resist, but I did not want to go, I shouted that he had lured me to a pilgrimage, and tortured me. There is neither a pine forest nor a cell. "What a cut slice I am... what?.. He is angry and laughing, sits down under the burdocks to me and persuades me that we should rejoice, and not cry: the monk looks at us. The pilgrims ask why the boy is crying - did he beat off his legs? They advise you to whip with speckles, and it will pull it off. Gorkin was angry with me, shouting: "Why are you wise with me?! He tied his hands and legs.. I cling to the posts, I don't want to go anywhere. They are fine, they will go in a cooperative, and Sanya the stutterer, a novice, will show them everything... like a sinner has a mote and a beam in his eye, and everyone will go to Chernigov, and into the caves, and the coffin of the monk will be sharpened with their teeth, and where they bake bread, and Sanya the novice will show them some junk and leavened bread, and in the Garden of Eden they will chill... And I went to the hotel.. "As a joke, I'm cut off to you, they say, you're a slice now, and you're stiff!" Gorkin says, smearing my tears with his finger. "Why be upset.. You'll ride with your sisters and mother in wheelchairs on pilgrimage, and we'll go with our gang, a pawn with a bag... I suppose your mother has arrived, waiting for you at the hotel. It's a sin to abandon your relatives... I won't go?.. I cling to the posts, I don't want to go to the hotel. I want to see my father... and tomorrow he will gallop to Moscow, and they will drill me, and I will not see the gray horses, and they will not let me go with Gorkin. He is angry, stomping at me: "Why did you tie me up.. I need to go to the bathhouse, and you're canning me? Well, if so... sit in burdocks, the blind will catch them.. He wants to leave me. I beg him not to leave, beg, for Christ's sake, to let me go on pilgrimage together... Then I'll go. He promises, points to the "pancake shops" in the ravine and promises to take them there tomorrow to eat kashnichki and pancakes. "Just don't be wise, I'll beg you." I walked well all the way, I was happy with you... And here - get out! It is he who confuses you, takes you away from the saint.My eyes are weeping, everyone is looking. They rolled with the ringing of threes and pairs, drove pilgrims from the station, dusted at us. I ask him to hire a cabman, my legs are very tired. He shouts at me: "Are you crazy?!" There it is, the hotel, you can see from here... and hire a cab for you?.. Can't you walk the street? I walked all the way - nothing, and here.. There, the reverend looks at how much you are. The high bell tower of the Trinity is looking at us. I obediently follow Gorkin. Heat, dust, legs can hardly walk. Here is a wide square, a white hotel building. Everyone is rolling up with a ringing of Trinity cabs. And we are still weaving - such a large area. The peasants with whips shouted to us: "I'll take you to Bethany.. Order Chernigov, merchants?.. Horses shake their heads at us, ring their golden capercaillies. The strollers smell wonderful - wheel ointment and leather, the village. The girls thrust us plates of strawberries and purses of birch mushrooms. An old innkeeper, in a white cassock and kamilavka, gently says that it is a sin for the monk to cry, and orders a young man with a towel to escort us "to the golden chambers", where a horseman from Moscow has stopped. It is cool, it smells of a monastery - lenten cabbage soup, bread, coals. They shouted from the corridor: "When is the samovar?" Pilgrims scurried up the stairs, clicking their keys at the door, asking our young man: "When is the vigil for you?" At the high door, the young man said in a whisper: "They didn't order us to wake you up for the vigil, you are very tired." The room is golden, velvet. On the round table in front of the sofa there is a stalled samovar, white fish on a piece of paper, strawberries, green cucumbers. It smells of heat and strawberries and something familiar, cute. I see in the corner, by the door, our Caucasian saddle — it smells so much — a silver whip on the window, a starched shirt that has fallen from the chair with its sleeves, with large gold cufflinks and blue letters on them, I recognize the smell of orange blossom. Father sleeps in another room, behind a screen, under a sheet; You can see her neck black from tanning and heel, which is tickled by flies. You can hear his breathing. Gorkin sat me down on a velvet armchair and told me to sit quietly, and when my father woke up, he would say that Gorkin had gone to the bathhouse before the fasting, and after the vigil he would run in and report everything. "Eat some fish and cucumber, refuel..." If you want, take a nap on the sofa, and I'll go. Quietly look, sit.I sit and swallow tears. Bells rattle under the window, cabmen shout. Waves from the breeze pass through the white curtains, and a pink tower is shown when it blows the curtain. A strict bishop in a white klobuk looks at me from the golden wall, as if to say: "Look quietly, sit!" I also see, in the fir trees, a tall and narrow cell with a dome, made of logs, a window under the roof, and in it St. Sergius in a golden aureole. His hands are clasped in palms, and a streak of golden light, like a new board, stretches out to him from the little God in the sky, and in it is a multitude of white birds. I look and look at this heavenly road, my eyes twinkle... "I'll take you to Bethany.. I shudder and wake up. The bishop looks at me: "Look quietly, sit!" Someone walks along the corridor, singing: ... Having come to the so-a-a-pad of the sun... The sun is creeping away from the curtains. The doors in the corridor slam, the keys click, and they leave for the vigil. Someone shouts outside the door: "We'll drink tea to our heart's content after the vigil!" I look at my father behind the screens - he is fast asleep on his back, he does not hear the flies crawling over his eyes. I look out the window.A large square is golden from the slanting sun, which has already gone behind the laurel. Above the walls — pink and white — there are blue pot-bellied domes with golden stars and a great bell tower-Trinity. On it you can see columns, and curls, and a golden bowl into which gold is poured from the cross. A golden hand jumps on the black circle of the clock. Pilgrims and monks pass through the gate with the tower. They play and the clock strikes intermittently - six o'clock.And my father sleeps and sleeps.In the mirror above the sofa I see... - my cheek stretched down and swollen and as if I had... two noses. I come closer and begin to look at myself. Oh, and here it is—as if I had four eyes, if you look like that—" but it was flattened, some kind of frog's snout. I saw the bishop threatening, and I moved away from the mirror. I eat white fish and strawberries... And again white fish, and cucumbers, and sugar. I count the silver money scattered on the table, put it in a column, as my father always does. Flies get sticky and annoying. The cabmen under the window begin to shout furiously: "Your Grace, I was dressed..." I'll take you to the skete! to Bethany, to the frisky.. to Chernigov, who is for fifty rubles?.. I look in at my father's. His hand dangled from the bed. The gold clock on the bedside table is ticking. I lie down on the sofa and cry into the green stuffy upholstery. As if it smells like bedbugs?.. I saw the upholstery sitting right next to my eyes, large and brown... I jumped up, sat down, looked at the cell, at the heavenly bright road... Someone quietly takes me... I know who. I squeeze my neck and cry into my hot shoulder. My father asked: "Why are you so angry?" but now I am crying with joy. He brings me to the window, waves the curtain on rings, asks: "Well, how good is our Trinity?" There is a lot of silver in the purse - "for Trinity toys!". He praises me: "And he got a great tan, his nose is even peeling off!" - he asks about Gorkin. I said that after the vigil he would run in and report, and now he went to the bathhouse, and then he would confess. The father laughs: "That's such a praying mantis, it's no match for us!" Well, tell me what you've seen.I'm telling you about the Garden of Eden, about the gray horses, about the toy maker Aksyonov, that he tells us to live in the gazebo, and took the cart for himself. The father does not believe it: "Is it in your dream?.. I say that it is true. "Aksyonov invites him to visit. He laughs: "Well, chat, chatterbox... I know you, the inventor! He begins to dress and sings his beloved: "To the Cross-at Thine-mu-u... we worship, the Lords-o-o-o-o... They beat for the vigil. I shudder at the good news, as if a booming, heavy ball rolled into the room. The spoon in my glass trembles in my chest, rattles. Like a breeze from the ringing, the curtain bubbles — a joyful chill, evening. The Lavra shines at the edges, seems light, light, made of pink and gold paper: the sun burns behind it. The monk raises a pink light on the gate – a lampada. Pilgrims stretch across the square, cross themselves at the holy gates.Father says that now he will kiss me to the relics, tomorrow he will leave me with Gorkin. "He'll show you everything.Mom won't come, she's sick, and he's waiting for business." He sprinkles his favorite orange blossom on a fresh, tight handkerchief brought in a horse purse, gives it to me to smell, grabbing it by the nose, as he always does, and, clicking his tongue juicy, says cheerfully: "Now we'll take warm prosphoras, I'll treat you with a kahorchik." And for dinner... We'll order a monastery hodgepodge, the Trinity Solyanka! He leads me across the square, to the Lavra.Its pink walls now seem higher, its blue domes huge. Stars are thickly stuffed on them. I look at the walls and happily think – something is behind them, there?.. Boron... and a high cell, with a window under the dome? I asked, "Shall we see the cell?" The father said, "We'll see, every monk there has a cell." He is wearing riding boots, a deft riding cap - everyone admires him. In front of the holy gates, crippled wretches sit in two rows, stretching out their wooden cups to meet him and chanting in different voices: "For Christ's sake... Orthodox, benefactors... breadwinners... for the nourishment of the soul-body... parents-relatives... St. Sergius... from the Holy Trinity... We walk between black, withered hands, between shaggy heads falling at our feet, which fidget on the dung at our feet, and throw pennies into cups. I see with fear the inverted blood eyelids, the tin eyesores, the sunken noses screwed under the cheeks, the ulcers, the yellow blisters, the dry legs like sticks... And ahead, far away, to the most holy gates, they wave and wave their cups, reach out to us with their hands, fall with their heads at our feet. There is twilight and chill in the holy gates, and then it is blinding from the light: behind the bell tower is the sun, looking into the span, and a huge black bell is visible, as if hanging in the sun. The earth trembles from the good news. I see churches — white, blue, pink — in a wide expanse, in the ringing. And everyone, it seems to me, calls. Crosses shine clearly in the sky, through, light. Swallows and swifts are flying. Pilgrims are sitting on the cobblestone square, chewing monastery bread. The servants in white are carrying carpets somewhere, holding them with their chins on top — a carpet of six. I am hungry, dizzy from the warm bread spirit - somewhere the bakery is close. Father says that we'll take some warm stuff later, but now we need to kiss it, while it's not cramped yet. Broad monks walk solemnly, waving their rosaries in their sleeves, incense blowing behind them.

Part 2

I looked out and searched – where was the cell with the dome and the Christmas trees? The father does not know what kind of cell it is. I ask about the sinner. "What kind of sinner?" "Yes, the beam is in his eye... Gorkin told me. "Well, we need to find out from Gorkin, he's a doc on this case.To the right is a large cathedral, with blue domes with thick golden stars. The flower garden smells fresh — white servants water the flower beds abundantly — it smells delicately of petunias and reseda. I can hear even through the good news how sharply the swifts scream.The Great Bell Tower-Trinity is above me. I looked, throwing back my head, and there was no cross in sight! A ringing falls from the sky, dizziness from the roar, the earth trembles. They push me with bags, kettles, rub my cheeks with armyaks. In the stampede, there is nothing to breathe. Someone touches the cap and says familiarly: "Ours is like a boy, an acquaintance..." They were going to get drunk.. I recognize an old woman with a handsome young woman who has beads around her neck. Is she Parasha? He looks at me affectionately, wants to say something as if, but my father takes me in his arms, otherwise they will crush me. Under the high canopy, a golden cross shines over the chalice, water gushes out of the cross; Water is drawn from the bowl with circles on a chain. I shouted: "Water from the cross.. The miracle is here.. I want to tell you about the miracle, but my father doesn't even look, he says - after that, otherwise you won't be able to get through. I sit on his shoulder, looking back at the cross under the canopy. Everyone is scooping up circles there, water is gushing out of the cross.At the small white church, with a golden roof and a lonely dome, there is such a crush that you cannot pass. Terrible voices shouted: "Don't push, for Christ's sake... Crush!.. Oh, there is nothing to breathe ... Lie down, don't push.. And the people are pushing more and more, swaying. My father tells me that this is the Trinity itself, the Trinity Cathedral, the relics of St. Sergius are here. They say all around: "Lord, and with the children here... Where else are you here with children! The man over there was crushed, dragged out without memory... Where to do with the children?!. And behind them they press more and more, squeeze, shout, sigh, cry: "Oh, dear... Let go, you won't rest... let me breathe at least once... soul for repentance... They cling to bags and kettles, children cry. A tall monk in a robe walks along, blesses, waves his rosary: "Make way, give way.. It is easy to part in front of him, wherever the place comes from! The monk passes, blessing, pulling out the mantle stuck behind him from the crowd. My father carries me after him.It is dark and stuffy in the church. From the darkness you can hear the familiar - Gorkin, used to sing: "Bring out of the dungeon du-shu mo-yu-u.. As if they are singing from under the ground. Children cry for a long time. Gilding and silver are shimmering, holy faces are peeping through, bunches of candles are blazing. On the high pillars, which seem to me to be walls, corollas are golden and shimmering. Light stripes fall into the narrow windows of the top, and bluish incense swirls in them. I want to go there, to freedom, to the iron crossbar, to the dove: there the doves fly, sparkling with their wings. I showed my father: "Doves live... The Father sighs, throws me up, changing his hand. Everyone says, sighing: "Well, you and I are in a mess... there is nothing to breathe." There are droplets on his forehead. I look at his crest, all wet, at the droplets, how they break off, and after them others swell, collide with each other, become large and come off, fall on his shoulder. His white shoulder was all wet and darkened. He throws his head back, opens his mouth wide, fanns himself with a handkerchief. Veins swelled on his black neck, and there were droplets on them. Under me are heads and handkerchiefs, crawling somewhere, crawling, pulling us with them. Everyone sighs and prays: "Father Venerable, saint of God... dear, help!". A woman is shouting under me, I see her sunken eyes, screaming at me: "Oh, let me in... I can't breathe... The girl died.. Her head, in a black scarf with yellow flies, falls somewhere, and instead of it, someone's red head pops out. He shouts behind us: "The woman has been crushed.. Orthodox, give up.. I'm stuffy with stuffiness and fear, I'm dizzy. It smells of heated orange blossom, my father waves a handkerchief at me, but I can't hear the breeze. His face was anxious, his voice hoarse: "Well, be patient, my dear, let's come up now..." I see different lights — crimson, blue, pink, green... — the quiet lights of the lamps. They do not move like sleepy. Above them are golden chains. Under the silver canopy they hang, higher and lower, like stars in the sky. The relics of the monk are under them. A tall, thin monk, in a folded robe, which all streams and shimmers in the flames of candles, stands motionless at the head, where the golden Trinity shines. I see something large, golden, like a shroud, or a high table all bound with gold, in it... covered with a pink veil. My father bowed me down and whispered: "Kiss me on the head." I'm afraid. The pale finger of a tall monk, with black polka dots, points to me a stitched cross of reticulated gold brocade on a pink covering. I kiss, feeling with my lips something hard, sweetish smelling of peace. I know that St. Sergius, the great saint of God, is here.We are sitting on a bench near a long pink house. They give me something sour to drink from a mug and wet my head. My father wipes his handkerchief, waves at himself and at me, says – barely catches his breath – he almost fell with me at the relics, such a stampede. They say that some died in the cathedral, the water was already poured out. It is cool here, it smells of watered flowers, damp grass. Pilgrims pass by and ask where they sell prosvirki. They say: "Over there, turn around the corner." And it is true: it smells of warm prosphoras. I see on the corner of the pink house an iron blue tablet; It has a pink swirl painted on it, so delicious. From around the corner they come out with knots, you can see the swirls. A young nun, in a white cassock with a black leather belt, gives me a warm prosphora and asks, bending down to me: "N-no-u-u..." Did you know M-me? And I'm Sa-sanya... Yurtso... I recognize at once: this is Sanya the stutterer, a novice, of our Trifonitch's granddaughters. His face is so kind, everything is covered with scrofula; his pale lips bulge out like a tube and tremble when he tries to speak. He calls us to the leavened bread, where his obedience is: "How... kavasku... our... mmo ... And Fedya is with us on the bench. He is in new boots, he has a curl in his hand, but he does not eat - he has just confessed, it is impossible. He says that they were with Gorkin at Chernigovskaya, they confessed to Father Varnava... and Gorkin is now in the cathedral, he will stand to the end. He is sad, he shakes his head all the time. He also says that Domna Panferovna is alone with Anyuta, and Antipushka with Gorkin, and he needs to go back to the cathedral. Sanya, the novice, said to his father: "Why... vasku... mo-mo... stubborn... He leads us to a kvass room, under a large house. It is cool there, smells of fragrant mint and sweet kvass. A little old man, father kvasnik, cordially treats us to the "abbot", from an iron ladle, and gives us a large slice of bread that is still warm, smelling as if it were gingerbread. He said: "Come back tomorrow, I'll treat you to sweet-rich food." We eat bread and watch how Sanya and another nun stir with oars in low tubs – they dilute kvass. And as if in a church: wide icons hang on the wall, lamps burn. The kvass here is special, the Trinity kvass – sacred, blessed, the father kvass baptizes both tubs and veselkas, when they are diluted, and when they are mashed – he baptizes. That's why it smells like gingerbread. The father asks if he is satisfied with Sanya. The kvasnik said: "Nothing, he works for the glory of God..." he is so zealous, he sleeps on the board, he gets up at night to pray, beats the bows.He orders Trifonitch to demolish the bow, he knows well how to do it: "We are countrymen with Trifonitch, from near Pereyaslavl... I also had a trade, I sold kvass. And now here's what my leaven is... For God's sake, for the brethren and all Orthodox Christians.He is such an affectionate old man, he shines all over as if he were a saint. The father says: "The soul rejoices to look at you... And the old man laughs: "And the Lord wipes it out..." That's the kind of kvasok he creates. But we're not good kvass, sour... We are far from the first grade.Both of them laugh, but I don't understand: what kind of kvass?.. My father said: "We are bad worshippers, we'd better go to the hotel." She now rings with a light, cheerful chime.Behind the holy gates the beggars still sit and beg piteously. The cabbies at the hotel offer to take him to Bethany, to Chernigovskaya. The guest kindly reproaches us: "Why haven't you prayed enough?" Well, never mind, the monk will not demand anything from a child. In the golden chambers there is a stuffy and viscous smell of warmed strawberries and something so cute... My father gives me a glass of sweet black wine with boiling water – kahorchik. This wine is from the Church, and it is always drunk with bread. A hot stream runs through me from the kahorchik, I feel good and calm now, and I greedily swallow the fragrant, warm prosphora. There is still light outside the windows. They call back in the darkened Lavra; the curtains are blowing from the breeze.I wake up from voices. A candle is burning. Father and Gorkin are sitting at the samovar. His father persuades: "At least you drink tea, you'll get sick!" He tells me how well I walked, he was so pleased with me - and I can't say so. He talks about the cart and about Aksyonov: a living miracle has happened. I thought that tomorrow after an early mass we would leave, it was a hot time, things were not waiting, and now this mess is to Aksyonov's! Gorkin begs to stay, attention should be paid: Aksyonov is a very respectable man, he will be offended. "I don't know, I haven't heard... Aksyonov? - says the father. "How did his cart get to us?" You say I knew my grandfather... It's strange, I've never heard of anything. And indeed, the reverend seems to have brought.Gorkin says thoughtfully: "It's all like that—we all know! And it comes out... And he begins to cry something. The father asks - what is it? "With joy, I am unworthy..." says Gorkin in tears, in a handkerchief, in a broken voice. "I confessed to Father Varnava..." I began to tell him about my sins... and about that sin of mine, about Grisha... how he was forced not to be afraid of heights. And he, blond, looked at me, smiled so well... and said, affectionately: "Oh, you blue-winged dove!" He covered me with a stole and let me go. "Come more often," he said, "to rejoice." Come more often... Why will it be - more often? Isn't he already giving instructions to the monastery?.. "And he likes you, that's what," says his father. "You're a monk without a monastery, just in a cossack hut." His face is bright, bright, like that of his father, and his eyes are full of rays, such as saints have. If he had a golden aureole," I thought, "and put it in the window under the dome... and the holy heavenly road?.. "And our Fedya was not blessed by Father Varnava to enter the monastery. Why, I wanted everything, on the way I opened up to us – I want to become a monk! I went to ask the elder for advice, to bless myself... and Father Varnava patted him on the cheek and said: "Such a ruddy, red-cheeked man – but to us, to the prosvirniks... Bagels are better baked with children! when, perhaps, you will treat me, son." And he did not bless. "With children," he said! It means that it is open to him. With the children, what did he say. Domna Panferovna kept laughing at him - he treated the young woman to strawberries. As he was leaving, Gorkin kissed me on the top and whispered in my ear: "But you guessed right, you forgave my sin! It smells of a bathhouse, incense, candles. He says that now we will see everything, and we will go to Father Varnava to be blessed, and we will see Mount Tabor in Bethany, and the boots of the monk, and the coffin. Of course, we'll look at the sinner, there's a beam in the eye... and the Last Judgment... I asked him about his cell. "I'll buy you a picture, like this," he points to the wall, "and you'll have a cell." Father says – joking as if and as if sadly: – you are Gorka, Gorka! Do you remember... "A pood of business, and she's a fool?" Well, I got out of the "poods" for a day. "And it's good, we should thank the Lord. And who knows what...," Gorkin says thoughtfully, "everything is under God." I don't sleep. Sleep is interrupted, I toss and turn from side to side. In front of my eyes - laurel, multi-colored lights. Everyone must be asleep by now, not slamming the doors in the hallway. Under the windows, horses step on a stone, sleepily shake their dull bells. The clock on the bell tower plays with sad iridescence. The curtains are drawn back, and a breeze blows into the room. I can see the sky with twinkling stars. I look at them and, perhaps, for the first time in my life, I wonder what is there?.. I rise on the pillow, look below: the light is shining, not at all like the stars, it does not twinkle. It's in the pink tower on the corner, I know. Is anyone praying? I look at the light, at the stars, and again I think, already with a sleepy thought – who is there?..

At the Trinity

Part 1

I hear a jumping chime in my dreams, as if they were ringing at Easter. I opened my eyes and saw a green picture: Christmas trees and cells, and St. Sergius, in a golden aureole, was giving a fat bear a loaf of bread. I am at the Trinity, and it is the Trinity that rings so much, and that is why there is such a light from the sky, joyfully blue and pure. The morning breeze sways the curtain, and I see a pink tower with a green top. It is all in the sun, blinding with windows. "I slept through the mass," Gorkin said from the other room, "and I was already communing, congratulate me!" "For the salvation of the soul!" He comes up, kisses me and corrects me: "For the health of the body, for the salvation of the soul - that's how it should be.He is in a starched shirt and a vest with a silver chain, so ceremonial. He smells of a feast – kahorchik, prosvirka and a special soap, made of some kind of "dawn grass", the bishop's soap, with which he washes himself only on Pascha and Christmas – someone brought him from Athos. I asked: "Did you wash your face at dawn?" "Why," he said, "I took communion nonche, a great day.He said, 'Let's go to the Lavra now, daddy will come back:' he went to see the Caucasus; we'll serve a moleben to the monk, we'll stand for the late one, and then papa will come to Aksyonov and gallop to Moscow, and we'll stay with us and see everything without haste. He tells me how they went to Chernigovskaya, were in time for matins, walked three versts at dawn, and did not see them, and the service was underground, in the cave church, and Father Varnava himself served. "I told the priest about you..." You are a good worshipper, they say, meticulous to the point of holiness. "Bring him," he said, "I'll see." He won't say in vain... darling, maybe he smells yours. Yes, again to me: "By all means!" That's how.I am glad, and a little frightened that he smells his darling. I asked - is he a saint? "How can I say... A saint is revealed after death. They will begin to flock, pannikhidas will be served, and there will be a conversation among the people that, they say, a saint, miracles of healing will come. The Alcheeraeans will say: "Many people revere him, it is necessary to paint his image and rule his service." Well, the relics are opened for glorification. So you can't force the people to revere them as a saint either, and when they do, according to their conscience. Here is St. Sergius... all the people revere him, O saint of God! Therefore, he deserved it... he knew the people well, he knew himself, his conscience told him. And Father Varnava is an ascetic and clairvoyant, he consoles everyone... not like us, sinners, but of a higher life. What a flow to him... Tomorrow we will go, for joy.Father comes, tells us to get ready as soon as possible - all our people are waiting at the hotel. He is angry that Gorkin has not eaten either polar cod or white fish, the wind is shaking him. Gorkin asked, "Don't be reluctant, he drank the heat with a swirl, and after the late mass he will break his fast." "Do you want to be a saint alive?" His father jokes and gives him a large prosphora with the Holy Trinity on the topping. Gorkin kisses the prosphora and then kisses his father three times, as if they were christening. My father laughs at my new shirt, embroidered with large roosters on the sleeves and collar: "Ek you have been painted!" and orders me to wet the whirlwinds. I smooth myself in front of the mirror, standing on the velvet sofa, and laugh as my ear stretched out, and Gorkin with two heads, and we all laugh. The cabmen shout merrily: "To Bethany on fresh ones.. Order to Chernigovskaya!" - as if we were invited. And the pink, morning laurel gleams merrily with crosses. Father is glad that he waved with us to the Trinity: "I rested so much... I haven't rested as much as I have here for a long time. "How can you do it, Sergey Ivanitch? . . . nowhere can you rest so spiritually as in a holy monastery..." says Gorkin and waves his arms as if flying on wings. "Spiritual relief... How is it possible! Yes... How weak it was yesterday! And after confession I forgot about my leg, I was flying on wings! And this is what Father Varnava vouchsafed to me... he joked as if: "Drive it with a prayer, and you will forget about your leg." And I forgot! And I slept for no more than an hour, and I don't want to sleep... the soul soars.. At the hotel, in the cold, our pilgrims are waiting, festive, elegant. Domna Panferovna is unrecognizable: she looks like a fat merchant's wife, in a white silk shawl with fringes and a kerchief made of lace, and her dress is lilac and wide. He sits and waves his handkerchief. And Anti-Pushka dressed up: he wore a pike-jacket with large buttons as if made of mother-of-pearl, and boots made of navaxen, just an old man from the shop, and not Anti-Cannon. And Fedya is dapper, even in a starched collar, in which he must be cramped - he is still twisting his neck and puffing up, his new boots are burning. Anyuta is wearing a pink muslin dress, a black velvet with a golden medallion on the neck - grandmother gave it to her! She wears white mittens on her hands, which she pulls off and puts on and takes off again, and she looks around at herself. I smeared my hair with lipstick, it even leaks on my forehead. I ask what she has, her tooth hurts... Does he wince? She whispered to me: "The new half-boots burn, there is no urine..." Just don't tell your grandmother, or she'll get angry and tell her to throw them off. With mushrooms and strawberries, women and girls beg to buy. A vessel made of straw on the ground, with boletus and boletus. The hostess and the novice dump the mushrooms into the basket. Domna Panferovna sighed: "Oh, I would take the chanterelles to fry them. Yes, now there is no time, we are going to the Lavra now. Chanterelles and Gorkin would have eaten: there are no more delicious fried ones! Well, yes, we will order chanterelles in pancake houses. People are pouring out of the Lavra, and they are pouring into the Lavra, there is a stampede in the gates. In the wretched row there is a desperate scream and a fight. Someone threw a whole handful — "for everyone!" — and everyone was fiddling on the ground, the dust was flying. An old woman was lying on her back, twisting her bast shoes, and a red-haired man was climbing through her, grabbing money from the ground. A shaggy beggar shakes his head at his feet, crying that he did not get it. Some feel sorry, and some shout: "If only they could be bored with water, just the dogs.. Such a sin – even at the most holy gates! A man rolled up on irons, wide, heady, squeaking and growling: "Forty years without legs, there was no poppy dew for three days.. A swollen face, red as fire, a beard black as black, hard as twigs, eyes like coals. Gorkin waves angrily: "The Lord be with you... from you, like from a tavern... There is no shame.. They say all around: "This one is famous, he drank his legs!" There is a lot of fraud, but the wretched will not get anything.The blind are singing, looking with leaden eyes into the sun, glittering on high foreheads. They sing about Lazarus. We listen and give a nickel. A prolaz-boy teases the blind men with a rhyme: La-zar, La-zar, Blind, lupogla-zai, Give me my money, Four kopecks.. People complain all around that the blind are only served, and the chief old man over there has a stone house in the village. The old man hears it and says: "It was, but the day after tomorrow it burned down!" the wretched shouted at the blind people: "They sing and sing, and then they drink beer in the garden! Gorkin gives it separately, "for the verse", and says that it is not for us to judge, but the deceived kopeck - and the purse and the soul - will return. We give it to a weak old man who is sitting aside: the strong, the rich drove him out of the wretched row.In the holy gates, with the saints, we go to the monastery shop, to buy some of the saints.Icons glitter on the walls, in foil and in vestments. Under the glass on the counter there are silver and gold crosses and images - it hurts to look at the shine. There are rosaries and belts with prayers, large cypress crosses and folding ones, and there is a pleasantly sour smell of sacred cypress. There are juniper staves in the breasts, with stripes and strokes burned on them. I see sacred pictures: "The Vision of Birds", "The Works of St. Sergius", "The Last Judgment". Everyone buys crosses, icons and belts with a prayer – we put them on the relics for consecration. My father bought me an image of the Holy Trinity, in a silver robe, and said: "This will be my blessing for you. For what? Gorkin tells me that this is a great thing..." "The blessing of the father and mother is a support, without it I do not take a step... How is it possible! If you pray to him, if you remember your father, you will pray.We also buy rings with a prayer, silver, with a blue and light blue pad, on which the letters of the prayer shine – "Venerable Father Sergius, pray to God for us". A handsome black-browed monk, with rosy cheeks, lays out with plump white hands rarities on the glass: crosses made of coral, chiseled spoons, made of cypress, with a blessing pen, with laurel written on a hump; Commemorations of leather and velvet with crosses made of gold on the top, velvet bags for scrolls, boxes of birch, cross chains, napkin rings with a prayer, embroidered pillows in the shape of a heart, prayer books, bracelets with crosses, breast icons in velvet ... — all sorts of rare things. He speaks softly, softly, in a prayerful voice, melodiously: "In memory of the Lavra of St. Sergius... acquire for your household what will be seen... Take a spoon and fork for the boy, the blessing of the holy monastery, for bodily strengthening... a hanging pocket for a handkerchief, a nose to wipe, chenille embroidery... Father buys Gorkin a folding cypress - the Holy Trinity, Chernigov and St. Sergius. Gorkin splashes: "The price... four rubles in silver!" and Antipushka bought an icon of the monk on enamel. And Anyuta and Domna Panferovna got a silver ring and a handbag for scrolls. And to Fedya - a picture, "The Works of St. Sergius in the Bread Shop": "If you hang it in your bagels, they will be sweeter than bagels. "Take the fragrant oil, consecrated, in vessels with the image of the monk, from infirmities..." the monk lays out greenish vials of oil from under the counter. and there is a smell of juniper — of a dense pine forest — from a heap of poured out chiseled glasses, trunks, cubes and mushrooms, from tiny buckets, from spilkins... The monk puts everything in a basket on which crosses are woven. We'll pick everything up later, at the exit.It's still cool, it smells of flowers from the gardens. There is a strong light from the bell tower of the Trinity – I see everything in pink: crosses, trembling with glitter, churches, domes, walls, shining glass. And the air seems pink, and the calling ringing, and the sky. Or — I see it now... pink light from the Lavra?.. "The pink light of the far?.. I am wearing a pink shirt, my father's pinkish jacket... a prosphora on an iron sign, a pinkish-wheat one on a pink longhouse, on a prosphora; clean long tables, wiped to a shine by the white sleeves of the servants, heaps of magnificent prosphoras on them, golden and pinkish-pale... white knots, girls in white handkerchiefs... strings of goose feathers, with which they write on the underbelly for repose and health, their rustle and rustle, the warm and spicy air blowing from the fragrant kneaders in the prosphora... — I see, hear and feel everything to this day. Pink knots on the benches and on the tables, light as prosphora; warm floor boards, clean as canvases, with spots of the morning sun, with the reflection of the bell tower of the Trinity, with pale crosses of windows; the fresh faces of the girls, quiet and affectionate, with handkerchiefs thrust over their eyes, washed to a gloss for the holiday; their clean hands, carefully carrying the scrolls... kind, timid old women, in bast shoes, in a piece of cloth, wandering to the shrines for hundreds of versts, feeling the sacred in their hearts... — I see everything to this day. We drink too. We saw that they were carrying a relaxed man, the very guy to whom Fedya had given his boots. The guy's hands lie in a cross, and on them, on a clean canvas shirt, like a dead man's, there is a new icon of the saint. And Fedina's boots at her feet! The old woman recognizes us and gasps as if we were her relatives. The guy looks at Fedya and says in a barely audible voice: "Your boots... I'll put it on... His eyes are clean, not festering. People shout: "Let them go, the sick man has been brought!" She crosses herself with it on the flowing glitter of the cross, drinks and sprays at the guy. He is also baptized. Everyone shouted: "Look, the relaxed man raised his hand and crossed himself.. They order to water on their feet, and everyone begins to water. The guy twitches and winces and suddenly begins to rise! Everyone shouts joyfully: "Look, he's already up.. moves his legs... They lift the guy, slip hay under his back, grab him under his arms, cross himself. And the guy crosses himself and sits! An old woman is crying over him. Everyone shouts that a living miracle has taken place. The guy asks the girl: "Dunka, drink some water..." They didn't give me a drink! They thrust their mugs in, hurry: "Drink, my dear... Drink three mugs at once.. You'll get up now.. Others warn: "Don't drink too much, don't be greedy..." the water is very cold, so as not to get cold?.. Others shout insistently: "Drink more.. Holy water, does not catch colds, it will polish the blood.. Gorkin advises the old woman: "To the relics, mother, apply ... And everyone says that — it will be! At the bell tower, someone shouts to the annunciation: "Hey, our... Zamoskvoretsky.. It turned out to be from the Savior-in-Nalyvki, a deacon whom we met under the Trinity. Now he is handsome, in a purple cassock. And the girls are all dressed up like flowers. And our singers are right there. We all hug. The deacon waves at the bell tower and admires: "What a voice! I sit and listen, I can't tear myself away... They talk about bells and singers – everyone knows: "Now it's the 'Corn-Eared' evangelis, a little one, a thousand pounds in total. The deacon tells us that after Mass and "Perespor" we will hear: the bell is small, but all the bells will ring and cover. The singers praise "The Swan": "Did you hear about the "Doxology" yesterday? Pure silver!The deacon promises to take us to the bell tower - it will be freer - his father is a friend of his bell-ringers, he will lead us through all the tiers, show us.We must hurry to the cathedral.There are still a few people, we prayed for the early ones. It is semi-dark in the cathedral; only in the narrow windows of the top shine streaks of sun, and doves' wings flash in them. It seems to me that there is heaven, and here is earth. In the dark rows of the iconostasis, sparks gleam, golden aureoles glow. On the walls there are ancient saints, with strict faces. The hours are read on the wing, a clear young voice merges with the singing at the relics: Venerable Father Sergie... Pray to God for na-as.. Under the canopy of silver, on four supports resembling a chapel, multi-colored star lamps glow over the shrine of St. Sergius. The hieromonk near the grave stands motionless and strict, as he did yesterday. Molebens are constantly sung. Gorkin asks the monk to put icons and crosses on the relics. Yellow lights from candles play on silver and gold. My father takes me in his arms. I look at the lamps on gold chains, large and smaller, going into the depths, under the canopy. On the raised alignment of the reliquary, made of silver, I see the image of the saint: the monk blesses us. The people venerate: they enter the silver side, climb the steps, bend over the shrine. And they sing and sing incessantly: Venerable Father Sergie... Pray to God for na-as.. My father is singing, and I am singing with an inner voice, in myself. Let the sick man go!

Part 2

The hieromonk at the grave points with his finger: bring it here. The peasants are carrying a relaxed man, who was poured at the cross. His frightened eyes look under the dome, into the light. The hieromonk indicates that it should be brought in as a side. He asks - what is the name? The old woman shouted, in tears: "Michael, father... Mikhail.. Pray for your son... Reverend Father.. The hieromonk says a familiar prayer, "Gorkin taught me: '... Soon show me a visit from above... to the suffering servant Mikhail, who flows in faith..."Gorkin prays fervently. I pray too. The old woman cries: "Our dear... An ambulance also came to help... The hieromonk looks into the grave of the monk and prays in a mournful, calling voice: "... and raise him up in praise of Thee..." The patient is lifted above the crayfish, turned to face, applied. The hieromonk takes the pink "air", puts it on the head of the sick person and crosses him three times. The old woman bangs her head against the crayfish. I'm getting scared. They sing and shout loudly: Venerable Father Sergie... Pray to God for na-as.. Everyone is singing. The lights of the lamps are flowing, the golden lights of the crayfish are trembling, the pink veil in the coffin is moving... — everything is alive! I see a blessing hand made of silver on the reliquary raised on the lid. The hieromonk covers me with something, and crosses me three times: "... in Thy singing... and praise unceasingly..."I remember these words. Gorkin repeated them many times, reminded them. They seemed wonderful to me and incomprehensible. Now they are both wonderful and understandable. We go out, breathe at the flower garden, listen to the bell ringing, look at the swallows, at the blue sky. We enter the cathedral again. The father brought me to Aksyonov in the Caucasus and handed me over to the young man. Aksyonov himself meets me, says: "It's very nice to meet you," and leads me to the front porch. A young lady embroidered according to the drawings, in multi-colored beads, leads me by the hand into the hall and begins to show me the rarities covered with glass bells: a horse carved from white wood and a cart, just like ours - only a toy - men in hats, as in the old days they carried, who mow hay, and a woman with buckets on a yoke. And he kept asking me: "Well... Do you like it?" The young man who drove us yesterday says to me affectionately: "Now I know who you are... You are a Moscow merchant, I know! And your last name is Petukhov... Do you see how many roosters are on you.. And everyone laughs. They show me an organ that plays with teeth – "Here is the daring troika rushing", treat me to fish pie at a large table and give me tea. I hear the voices of my father, Aksyonov and Gorkin from the other room. And he is there. The rooms are very clean and rich, the floors are parquet, star-shaped, rich images everywhere. The young man promises to give me the biggest horse. Then the young lady takes me to the garden and treats me to a victorian woman. In the gazebo they drink our tea, eat long pies with porridge. Savka runs up and demands me to my father: "Daddy is leaving!" The young lady herself leads me by the hand, away from the dogs. Her father and Aksyonov, Gorkin and the young man were walking around her, and the people were standing aside. A fat coachman holds the Caucasian by the bridle. They pat the cart, shake their heads and smile. Gorkin squats down and pokes his finger - I know where - at the "az". Father said to Aksyonov: "Yes, it's an amazing thing... and I did not know, I did not hear. Very, very nice, they reminded me of the old antiquity. I heard how, my grandfather sold dishes, after the French he brought them to Moscow, I heard. It turned out that our friends and companions were our old people. This is where the masters came from, where they were conceived, from the Trinity... It's a carving work.. "From us, from us, father... from the Trinity...," says Aksyonov. "The toys were cut for the children, and it was comforting themselves, remember.. My father invites him to visit us, to visit Moscow. Aksyonov promises to visit: "Your guests, the Lord will bring you to visit. So the relatives seem to remember everything. Why, you have to take into account... we are all relatives of the Lord and of the monk. I am very happy. It's good how it happened, it opened up by itself... at the monk's! As if this is how it should have been.He speaks touched, affectionately, and keeps patting the cart. "Excuse me, let's kiss each other, in our own way," my father said, and I could see on his face how excited he was: there were tears in his eyes. "Did you know my grandfather.. I don't remember him..." "But I remember, how ... " says Aksyonov. "He was taller and thicker than you, he was a cheerful man, a soul. Yes... must be taken into account... I'm old... Yes, I suppose he was seventeen years old, and he seems to be under your age, almost forty. Well, happily go, I'll see you again, the Lord willing.And they embrace each other in their own way. My father jumped up dashingly to the Caucasian, kissed me from Gorkin's arms, said goodbye to the young man by the hand, bowed to the beautiful young lady in the beads, gave me a penny for tea to the coachman, who was still holding the horse, ordered me to behave well — "otherwise my grandfather would punish me" — and dashingly galloped through the gate. "So we remembered the old days," Aksyonov said to Gorkin, "how well it turned out. And you, my dears, live, pray, without haste. As if relatives have been found.I still do not understand well why - relatives. Gorkin wipes his eyes with a handkerchief. Aksyonov looks somewhere, above the cart, and tears come to his eyes. "Roll it in," he says to the people on the cart and goes thoughtfully into the house. Even Fedya is asleep. After tea we will go to vespers, and tomorrow we will see everything. We'll live a little longer, and that's what papa said: "Live, you have nowhere to hurry." A young man with boys is playing skittles on a long track. Other young ladies come and take ours somewhere. The young lady said to us: "Play yourself, run... And we begin to eat to our heart's content. Anyuta tears up the Victorian woman and tells me about Father Varnava, how he confessed her. "Grandmother says you can't hide from him, he sees through everything. Here, I'll tell you, my grandmother herself told me, she knows everything... For example, one lady arrives, and she did not believe in God... Well, her clever people persuaded her to come, to see what a pleasing person, he could see through. Here she is, having arrived, saying... sat down at the table: "And what I have not seen, and what I have not heard! "And she saw and heard everything, she was rich. "What will he tell me!" – about the holy elder! Well, he could, grandmother says, send her a dead hour, for such blasphemous words. Only he is compassionate to sinners. And she sits at the table and breaks out of herself: "And why is he not coming, I can never wait!" And here will be the worst thing... Just don't be afraid, it will be good in the end. So, she was sitting, and the elder came out... and brings her a glass of empty tea, even without sugar. He greeted her and said: "And here is tea for you, and drink to your health." And the lady got angry and said: "And what are you, I don't want tea," from a holy man! As if she should be happy, the grandmother said, and she was like a demon in her: "I don't want tea!" grandmother said, bowed to her and said again: "Don't drink, don't drink... As it is, just talk with a spoon, chat!" And he left. What did he say! – dangle with a spoon. He left and did not come. And she sat and dangled with a spoon. Do you understand why he is doing this? He knew everything through and through. So she was chatting. That's when I understood... And it struck her. Then she repented with tears and became pious, respectful... Grandmother had seen it herself.. She tells a lot more. She says that maybe she herself will become a nun, if her grandmother dies in advance... "And what is it, in vain, to suffer!" So we sit under a currant bush, playing. Savka brings a samovar - it's time to drink tea, they will soon strike for vespers. Over tea, Gorkin tells us all why this happened to the cart. "As if they turned out to be relatives. But how it was, Aksyonov himself reported to me and dad. Your great-grandfather sold wooden dishes, junk. The French burned Moscow, left, ruined everything, no one had anything. So he realized in advance - everyone needs a household, dishes... No one has a spoon or bowl. I collected as much money as I could, went to these parts and far away, where dishes were sharpened. And I met this dad in Pereyaslavl Aksyonov. And that master carver, sharpened and cut all sorts of things, ornamental things, toys. And here there is no time for toys, for ruin! He lived poorly. And they met each other. And Aksyonov was a famous craftsman, from him, perhaps, these sheep and cows came from him, they sell them here at the Trinity, they buy them for the children's amusement... and he knew Metropolitan Platon himself, and he cut and polished him... and the hill in Bethany, Tabor, we will see tomorrow with you, he arranged. Only the metropolitan has already died, only now the French have left..." — and his support ended. And he had already made a cart for him, Platon, exactly the same as ours, with fine carving, with all sorts of decorations. And he also had the same cart, he worked with his son, with our current Aksyonov, whose house, and we are staying with him now. Well good. And everyone was amazed at their carts. And then, of course, everyone is ruined, there is no time for these balls. So your great-grandfather said to him: "I'll give you half a thousand to live on, buy dishes for me in all places, and then we'll work with you in the company." And they conceived such a business to drive dishes to Moscow. And then - just give it, it's still a shortage. People were smart... Aksyonov got rich, took up a toy again, went uphill. And then the toy was needed, the life calmed down and brightened. Now they, Aksyonov, how they work! Well good. So some time comes, and Aksyonov brings that debt to your great-grandfather. And as a gift - a brand new cart... Not their own, but the third one, they worked with their son, conscientiously. That's where our cart started, that's where it came from! And then that one died soon, and the other... old people. And the young people have forgotten each other. And the cart... Well, your grandfather drove it, sold red goods... And then the cart fell into the trash. And everyone forgot about it: a cart and a cart, but there is no interest to it, and it is not known what such a thing is for. Petite... It was covered with trash. And so, the Lord brought it, we dug it up, and we brought it into the light of God, when the time came for us to go to the Trinity-Sergius... So something pushed me, it came to my mind: let's take a cart, a light one, at us! And that's what brought her... she returned to her master. What a good response! That's why we're visiting now, and what respect you and I have. And again they recognized each other, as if relatives. On the other hand, we were received and caressed, in what grace we live! The old man began to cry, remembered his old things, father. How it turned out... And where... at the monk himself! And those carts are long gone, the other two. One was burned in a fire, at Metropolitan Platon's... and the other, at the Aksyonovs', also burned down in a big fire, a long time ago. They were no longer amused. The old man died, they got very rich from toys. The last things left on the shelves of the old man. This handicraft is unprofitable, for a good amateur who understands what is here... for their own joy and amusement... And who will buy! I ask: and now how, will Aksyonov take our cart? "No, they don't take back what they don't take. We'll have it left, we'll go home on it. They cleaned it up, cleaned it by the local craftsmen... They wanted to wash it, but the old man would not allow it. Let him wash it with the Lord's rain – that's what he said. Every day he admires it - he does not look enough. And the young man admired him. Only they won't make such a thing, it will take a lot of work! And I don't have such patience... Look at how Rezana is.. You can't do it with one hand and an eye, here you need to rejoice with your soul... The late Martyn was cutting the passers, try to cut it with one hatchet... What grapes.. This is a special matter, not an easy one. A bird sings in the bushes. They say," the young lady said to Domna Panferovna, "that the nightingales sing here at the very end, in a muffled way. And Fedya heard that he could not sleep at night. Gorkin goes out on the porch and says happily, sighing: "And how quiet, how good it is here... and the Trinity looks! O Gentle Light... holy glory... A bird whistles. In the Lavra, they preach the good news for vespers.

Benediction