On the days of our angels and at Christmas, we had holidays and children of familiar believers came to visit. Classmates were never called, because it was necessary to hide our faith. In general, acquaintances visited our house constantly, there were many friends, and with some families we even spent the summer together at dachas. But parents gathered a solemn table for guests only twice a year: in December - on the day of St. Nicholas (father's name day) and on New Year's Eve (mother's name day). We didn't have wine in the house even these days, and we had no idea what a toast or a glass was. We did not go to visit. Mother baked pies, and otherwise only sweets and tea were served on the table, and on Easter - Easter cake and Easter cake from cottage cheese. We, children, did not see any other way of life and believed that this was how it should be.

In general, the ascetic repentant mood of Nikolai Evgrafovich left its mark on the family. Adults talked only about religious topics, dad never laughed, and if it were not for the noise and hubbub from the cheerful Kolya, it would be sad in the house. Mother was sometimes burdened by this eternal fast, she wanted to "go out" somewhere, and she was offended by her husband for not seeing her off. Once they went together to some family holiday, but quickly returned and remembered with horror the cheerful social company, which they both did not approach in any way.

Mother sympathized with my father's mood, but felt sorry for his body and often vehemently protested against fasts and feats of "self-mortification," as she called my father's table. Mom was offended that he refused delicious dishes, because they were meat. I remember that often my mother almost with tears begged my father to drink milk or eat something hearty, quick. Dad protested, and quarrels began.

This was repeated almost always when my mother was going to sew or buy a new suit, coat, etc. "In virtue have prudence," says the Apostle, "otherwise the striving for podvig and virtue can become a source of sin." And so it was with us. Seryozha and I felt very keenly when the spirit of the world left the family. Our children's quarrels did not touch our hearts deeply, we could even after a fight an hour later, again, like children, peacefully sit next to each other, laugh and discuss our affairs. But the silence of my parents, their gloomy faces, my mother's tears, my father's sighs – this deeply upset Seryozha and me, and we cried a lot and bitterly. There were no scandals with us, but dad withdrew into himself, was sad, endlessly asked my mother for forgiveness, and she waved it off and cried. We did not understand what was happening between them. As we grew older, we began to guess that my father strove for holiness, and his ascetic life was beyond the power of his wife. But then the cause of the quarrels did not reach our reason, we cried and demanded peace. This grief was the reason that taught me to pray for peace in the family fervently, persistently and relentlessly. And how joyful it was when I saw that the Lord heard my prayer! We found daddy and mommy sitting next to each other on the couch, clinging to each other with a happy smile and a cheerful look. We rejoiced, Seryozha clapped his hands, jumped, and Kolya said solemnly: "And I knew that they would reconcile." He did not worry about quarrels, apparently he was smarter than us and understood that misunderstandings between parents stem from the excessive jealousy of dad for the salvation of souls, facing the ardent care of a loving mother, her concern for the health of our father. However, these quarrels stopped forever only after Kolenka was gone.

Once there was an incident that proved to me that the quarrels between my parents did not shake their mutual love, which was as deep as the water of a lake that rippled in a gust of wind and remained calm and unchanged at the bottom.

It was Holy Thursday during Holy Week. Mom had been silent and sad for several days, dad was also sad, concentrated in himself, we, the children, were concerned about the tense situation and cried quietly. In the evening, my mother left without telling us where she was going and when she would return. It was unusual and difficult. Dad invited us to read twelve passages from the Gospel. Suddenly, someone knocked on the front door. Dad opened it. A young man in a hat entered, well-dressed and friendly, in ironed trousers visible from under a black expensive coat, in shiny polished shoes. He apologized for disturbing us at a late hour, said that he was going through Moscow, handed my father a letter and asked for a place to stay for the night. He sat modestly in the kitchen, waiting for an answer. The letter was from Father Sergius Mechev, who was arrested and did not know where he was. Father Sergius asked the Pope "how we are doing," sent his blessing and greetings to "all of us" and his family.

Dad recognized the handwriting of a priest he knew, but the sight of the stranger confused Dad. "From the camp, and how he is dressed! Has he been sent? Isn't he a provocateur? And what strange words in the letter: how are you! Yes, I have never had anything to do with Father Sergius! Won't I ruin my family if I let a guest spend the night?" my father reasoned and consulted with us. We shrugged our shoulders, but regretted kicking the guest out - it was very cold outside. Dad stood in a corner in my mother's room in front of the icon of the Mother of God, read the troparion "To the zealous intercessor..." to the end and decided to refuse. He politely apologized, said that he had nothing to do with Father Sergius, that he himself had urgent scientific work, that his wife was not at home and therefore he could not provide the guest with accommodation for the night. The young man bowed and left, begging to be laid down on the floor in the kitchen. Dad shook his head silently. Soon my mother, who, it turned out, went to church, returned. Dad showed the letter and told me about the guest. My parents sat side by side, anxious, frightened, discussing what had happened, trying to calm each other down, to support each other with hope in the Lord God. "How they love each other, and it's as if they've never quarreled," I thought.

Later it turned out that the letter was fake, and the young man was sent.

The Beginning of Prayer and Struggle

My dear daddy saved our souls. He often read to us about the lives of the saints, explained the Gospel to us. Dad begged me to read at least one page, at least five minutes a day, from the spiritual literature that he selected for me. These were "The Path to Salvation", "What Is Spiritual Life" and other works of the Holy Fathers.

"Not interested?" he asked. "But it's like medicine - it tastes bad, but it is necessary. I beg you: read at least a little.

And out of love for my father, I took the Diveyevo Chronicle, the works of Theophan the Recluse. Little by little, but the light poured into my soul. I began to pray consciously, that is, to call on the Lord with my mind, without Whom my heart was already tormented by sins. And the child begins to feel remorse very early. It does not matter what sin is it – big or small, but it already darkens the light of God's grace in the child's soul, the child becomes sad, thoughtful, irritable. So it was with me.

I was about seven years old, and I was walking with my governess in the woods. Our cousin Yura, my age, was visiting us. He was a nervous, lively, developed child, he always came up with noisy games, which he directed, and Kolya always submitted to him. And so three boys were running through the forest screaming, with sticks in their hands. Apparently, they were playing war. Aunt Varya did not see them, she shrugged her shoulders, not knowing where the guys were. In vain she persuaded the children to pick strawberries, which here and there turned red under their feet. I was on Aunt Varya's side, called my brothers to her, ran after them through the forest, but all in vain. Excited, red, they returned home, but there were no berries in their cups. I collected more than a glass, even poured large juicy strawberries into the governess's vessel. When we sat down to eat, we were given porridge with milk. I poured berries thickly into my plate, and the boys looked at me with envy. Aunt Varya said to me: "Iss selbst! Die Knaben wollten kaine Behren im Wald sam-meln" ("Eat yourself! The boys did not want to pick berries in the forest"). I felt sorry for the guys, especially Kolya, who asked me to give them at least a spoonful of berries. But I did not give it, I proudly ate myself and condemned the brothers for their behavior in the forest. I remember that I could hardly swallow berries, I was so ashamed of myself, of my greed. Even now I remember this sin, these first pangs of conscience. May God forgive me, because I did not go to confession then. And when I went, I couldn't say, I didn't understand.