To the North with Father John of Kronstadt

Contents From the author Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV The writer of these lines happened to spend thirty-four days last summer inseparably with Father John. For thirty-four days I saw before me a man whose name is so dear not only to the Russian Orthodox people, but also to every foreigner and non-believer who has ever encountered the Kronstadt priest or turned to him with some kind of request. And these thirty-four days, which passed like a wonderful dream, will undoubtedly leave a deep imprint in my heart for the rest of my life. In our practical age, when personal egoism forces a person to be extremely cautious and care mainly about personal gain and well-being, when children often hear from their parents instructions like “you can’t live by the truth,” such a phenomenon as the personality of Father John represents that oasis in the sultry desert, in which a tired traveler can drink fresh, living water and gain strength for a further difficult journey. Father John is living proof that you can live the truth, you can live without deception, contrary to established modern opinion - you can live completely unselfishly and be happy. And he is happy, completely happy. Happy because whatever he does, he does it sincerely, as his Christian heart tells him. I remember those attacks on from. John, which I heard from some people after returning from the trip, regarding his letters about the Jews. “For mercy,” they told me, “why is there such inconsistency: at first he was indignant at the act of Christians who committed violence against Jews, and then suddenly he began to feel sorry for those same Christians, and even sent them financial help!” I agree that this may be inconsistent, and most importantly, imprudent on the part of Father John. It would be much more profitable for him to lead “one line,” that is, by interceding for the Jews and reproaching the Christians, in the same spirit and continue in order to be “consistent.” But oh. John lives by heart, not by calculation. And his Christian pastoral heart told him that he was not entirely right in blaming only Christians. A whole series of letters he received from Russian people from the south of Russia proved to him that Christians who committed illegal violence against Jews, although guilty, deserved leniency, since their violence was caused by violence on the part of the Jews. Now that I have gotten to know this wonderful man closely, I understand that he could not have done otherwise - he could not because he was always used to being sincere, and with this sincerity he conquered everyone. From Kronstadt to distant Sura in the north and on the way back to Yaroslavl on the Volga we traveled thousands of miles along lakes, canals and rivers. On the road, I clearly saw all the triumph, all the triumph of an honest, selfless life for the benefit of my neighbors. John. I saw how ordinary Russian people valued this life and how they expressed it. Most of the essays and drawings published here were placed in appendices to the Petersburg Listok newspaper. I had to send both essays and illustrations from the road while traveling. It is difficult to draw on time while moving a steamship that is constantly shuddering from the jolts of the engine - that is why a good half of my illustrations are photographs, which I generally do not like to resort to. With this publication, the author responds to those numerous letters from admirers of Fr. John, which were received both by the office of the “Petersburg Listok” and by the author personally and which contained a request to send the newspaper issues with travel essays “To the North from Fr. John." All such issues sold out very quickly, and therefore there was only one way left to satisfy the desire of admirers of Fr. John’s plan is to publish the essays separately, which we did as soon as possible. Departure from Kronstadt. – “Shestovets” and “Agafia” – Channels. – New Ladoga. Along the Svir River. May 25th is the day of the Holy Trinity. There is great excitement in Kronstadt. From. John, for the last time before leaving for his homeland, solemnly serves a mass and prayer service in St. Andrew's Cathedral on the occasion of the birthday of the Empress. A bright sunny day, after two days of continuous rain, contributes to the festive mood of the public, which, by the end of the service in the cathedral, poured out onto the streets of Kronstadt and accumulated in a thick mass in those places where it was supposed to pass from. John. With difficulty I made my way to the dam of the so-called Ust-Canal in the military harbor, where his own steamship “Lyubezny” was already waiting for the priest. The public was allowed here only with tickets. By half past two in the afternoon, when from the distant shouting and excitement in the crowd one could guess that from. John is already on his way, on the deck of the little “Lubezny” there was such a mass of people seeing off to St. Petersburg that I wondered where I would fit myself. John. But, thank God, they somehow fit in. It was only difficult to set sail from the shore, since the mourners, with tears in their eyes, grabbed the side of the ship and did not want to let go of the ship for a long time. When the ship finally separated from the shore, a loud voice was heard from the crowd: - Father, dear! I am a poor official, I tried to see you four times, and all in vain! Help, for God's sake! There is grief in my family! The priest asked the ship to approach the pier and handed over a bag of money to the one who asked. Finally, the "Dear" pulled away and headed towards the exit of the harbor. At this time, Petrovskaya Embankment appeared from behind the military ships and on it was a whole sea of ​​human heads. Screams and crying were heard, scarves flashed in the air, and several skiffs separated from the shore and headed across our steamer. But here is the exit from the port; We passed by several handsome, formidable cruisers and battleships, on which at that time, on the occasion of Tsar’s Day, flags of all countries were flying and music was thundering, and we went out into the bay. Far ahead, among the hazy horizon, the dome of St. Isaac's Cathedral glittered, and behind, like the wings of white gulls, the scarves of spiritual children from John. We stopped in St. Petersburg in order to disembark those seeing off from Kronstadt. On the Promenade des Anglais from. Ioanna was greeted by the abbess of the Ioannovsky Monastery he had recently founded on the Karpovka River in St. Petersburg, and Mother Angelina with the nun Eupraxia. Some fishmongers brought a yard-long live sterlet to the priest, and a crowd immediately grew on the sidewalk opposite the pier. - Dear father, you are our father, farewell! Happy swimming! Come quickly! All these good wishes came to us from all sides. When we set off, the crowd began to run along the embankment after us. Many fled all the way to the Kalashnikov pier and stopped only because here our steamer turned sharply towards the Okhten shore and disappeared behind the barges. When we reached the Church of St. Michael the Archangel, two skiffs separated from the shore and sailed towards us; the monks of the Nikiforovsky metochion greeted from. John with bread and salt. We arrived in Shlisselburg only at 11 pm. Here two steamships were already waiting for us - “Shestovets” and “Agafia”, provided for the journey from. John by the Vytegorsk merchant A. Loparev, since the “Dear” sits very deep and is inconvenient for sailing through canals. With great difficulty we transferred to new ships. In the evening, a few miles before Shlisselburg, the deck of the “Lyubezny” was covered with such a mass of some special midges, similar to moths, only much larger than the latter, that many, crushing them with their feet, slid and risked falling. Since everyone was very tired during the day and it was time to go to bed, then from. John went to the cabin of the small Shestovets, on which the owner of the ship himself, who had come to meet the priest from Vytegra, was waiting for him, and I was accompanying him from. John, the abbot of the Nikiforov Monastery, Hieromonk George, settled on the "Agathia". Having said goodbye to the last mourners, we immediately set sail and entered the Alexander II Canal. “Shestovets” walked ahead, “Agafia” trudged behind it. Ordinary steamships have the right to travel along canals no more than 7 versts per hour, but we walked at a speed of 10 versts, and therefore by 9 o’clock in the morning on May 26 we were already in Ladoga. Unexpected stop from. John in Novaya Ladoga alarmed the entire population of the city. The news is that from. John will celebrate mass in the Church of St. Clement, with the speed of lightning, flew around all the surroundings, and the people flocked to the church. When the mass ended, there was a huge crowd of people in the square in front of the church. From. John, having difficulty sitting down in the troika given to him, went to the house of the merchant Spirov, where he was invited to dinner. And then this whole mass began to stir and rushed after the crew. I, who was riding in the other carriage behind the priest, had to shout all the time along with the coachman for fear of crushing someone. Despite all the precautions, the apartment of Mr. Spirov, except for us, companions from. John, and the invited guests of honor, about forty people from the crowd. Everyone complained about their misfortunes and illnesses and asked for blessings. Father John treated everyone kindly and blessed everyone. Having had lunch after a short prayer service and thanking the hosts for their hospitality, we went to our ships and immediately set off on our further journey. Having passed the wide and rather busy mouth of the Volkhov, we again entered the boring, monotonous canal. An endless dam, overgrown with low willow trees, stretches out, from behind which the steel-gray Lake Ladoga appears from time to time - on one side and the same endless towpath on the other side. Behind the towpath, flooded meadows stretch for many miles, and here and there, only on a hillock, groups of trees can be seen, and occasionally a village with a white church will appear. In the middle of summer, the bleak picture of the Ladoga region is enlivened by an endless row of barges or, as they are called here, semi-boats, going along the canals one after another. A sad song, disgusting swearing and whistling of the drivers of the unfortunate barge horses will hang in the air from early morning until late at night. Now the navigation period has not yet arrived, and therefore only occasionally do we come across ships with timber. Unhappy horses drag these ships. It's hard to imagine anything sadder than these animals. Small, emaciated, their figure rather reminiscent of starved cows, they trudge along with their heads hanging; they trudge along in single file, one after the other, sighing heavily, until one of them, finally, having exhausted the rest of her strength, falls, never to get up again. Thanks to the fact that the canal is now almost free of ships, we proceeded without delays and by 6 pm on May 20th we arrived in Sviritsa. Sviritsa is a small village, concentrated mainly near the office of the chain shipping company. Here we boarded a large sea-type steamer "Bayan" and, taking the empty "Shestovets" in tow, entered the mouth of the river. Sviri. Here the area immediately changed. Instead of the boring low banks of the canal, the free, lively and fast beauty of Svir began. We are already within the Olonets province. The higher we rise along the river, the more mountainous its banks become. Among the forest, elevated meadows and fields sown with grain, every now and then you come across villages, the inhabitants of which, having learned from afar who is traveling on our steamer, pour out onto the shore in a motley crowd, bow to the ground, throw their hats up and try in every possible way to express their gratitude. John with my sympathies. As soon as we stopped at one pier to get firewood, a group of young girls immediately brought several bouquets of lilies of the valley to the priest. How much joy, how much happiness was written on the face of every old woman who managed to receive a blessing from. Joanna! From. John strokes the head, pats the shoulders, touches the eyes of the sick, and the latter, happy, return home with great moral uplift. We expected to get to the village. Ascension on May 27th, in the morning, but at one in the morning our ship suddenly stopped one mile from the Podandevsky threshold. It turned out that from the upper platform our pilot noticed that there was thick fog over the threshold. There was nothing to do; We landed on the shore and only at five o’clock in the morning we set off on our further journey. On the morning of May 27, we passed the formidable and largest rapid on the Svir, Sigovets, which got its name from the abundance of whitefish that are always caught here. The area north of Sigovets is remarkably beautiful. At every step, among the virgin forest, you come across villages with typical Olonets huts. The abundance of forest is expressed here in huge, sometimes three-story huts, under the roofs of which there is certainly a balcony. Closer to Lake Onega, the banks of the Svir gradually decrease, and therefore are less interesting than in its middle part. Finally, at 5 o’clock in the evening, we arrived in Voznesenye and, having collected firewood, went out into Lake Onega, releasing the “Shestovets”, which went to Vytegra by canal. Lake Onega. – Vytegra River. – Visiting A.P. Lopareva. - Vytegorsky churchyard. We went out into Lake Onega, leaving a disappointed audience in Ascension: everyone was hoping to see the priest, so a large crowd gathered at the pier where we loaded firewood, but... John was resting in the cabin at that time and came out on deck only when the ship was already sailing on a lake smooth as a mirror. We walked in a straight line east, to the mouth of the Vytegra River. To the right you can see the Olonets mountains, and on the left side the expanse of water merges with the sky and seems to be one gray mass, over which the white wings of seagulls flicker every now and then, flocks of wild ducks fly screaming, and below, at a distance of several fathoms from the steamer, seals frolic in the open space. To the north-west of us there is a strip of distant rocks known for their quarries. From the quarries, by the way, the Shoksha porphyry, from which the tomb of Napoleon I was made in Paris, and the Solomensky stone (7 versts from Petrozavodsk), taken to decorate St. Isaac's Cathedral in St. Petersburg, were taken. “That’s when I completely rest,” says the man who came up to me. John, - only on a ship is there an opportunity to spend time in complete peace. “My popularity is sometimes hard for me: I can’t show myself anywhere, I can’t go anywhere freely without being noticed. And, really, it's only worth somewhere from. John steps onto the shore, as a crowd surrounds him from all sides and it takes great effort to free himself from its embrace. It belongs to itself only when it is surrounded on all sides by water. On a small deck of a few square arshins, he has freedom for a short time as a reward for a whole year of living exclusively for others. However, even in this short time of leisure, I rarely see the priest idle. Either he reads the Holy Gospel, then he writes down his impressions in his diary, then he thinks about the sermon for the next day, since it is rare that we do not stop somewhere to serve mass. And only occasionally he walks along the deck, contemplating nature and admiring it. Thanks to good weather, we pretty soon passed Lake Onega and entered the mouth of the Vytegra River. This river makes a strange impression. Narrow, like a canal, always the same width, it passes through the flooded meadows in beautiful meanders. Instead of the banks, you can see the tops of bright green grass, drowned in the water. The waves running in both directions from our steamer fly onto these living green carpets and shake them. It turns out to be a very beautiful sight. It is difficult to imagine that this narrow swamp river is so deep that it can be navigable; and, meanwhile, large sea ships sail freely along the Vytegra. Almost at the very city of Vytegra we caught up with a huge steam schooner heading into the Caspian Sea. The Persians on board looked at us with bewilderment from their high deck, not understanding why the Russian people respectfully took off their hats and bowed so low in front of our ship. In the city of Vytegra, meeting from. Joanna was especially solemn. Despite the fact that it was already late, the whole city poured out onto the embankment, where the clergy and city authorities met the priest on the pier decorated with flags and covered with red cloth. In several carriages we went to the Loparev estate, located away from the mountains. Vytegra is three miles away, and we stopped at the famous Loparevsky Palazzo. The late Loparev came from a family of coachmen; Thanks to Russian ingenuity and lucrative contracts for the construction of locks on the Mariinsky system, he became a millionaire and decided to build a house in which he would not be ashamed to receive visiting dignitaries. The house is spacious, wooden, in Russian style. Carved ceilings and walls, majolica fireplaces and stoves, colossal mirrors, heavy carved furniture and paintings in rich frames indicate that the owner spared no expense in decorating the house. From. John has been staying here for nine years in a row. On the morning of May 28th, from. John served mass in the city of Vytegra and spoke a word against the schismatics, of whom there are many here. After the mass at the Loparevs’ house, the hospitable hostess A.P. Lopareva offered us lunch, which was attended by about 35 invited people. Much was said in honor of. John's speeches, but the most cordial and sympathetic was the short speech given impromptu by the missionary of the Vytegorsky district, priest N. Georgievsky. Here is its approximate content: “Deeply revered from. archpriest! Last year in the Vytegorsk Cathedral in your speech you said: “It gives me great joy to travel to all the cities of my dear Russia.” And for us you always bring true pleasure! In fact, as soon as you enter, father, into any town or city, despite weekdays, you hear the joyful, solemn ringing of a large bell, a council of employees gathers with you, merchants close their shops, peasants throw harrows and plows into the field, mothers bring in their children in droves for communion! A religious uplift of spirit is noticed, and the warmth of prayer intensifies. And no wonder: you, father, are the flame of prayer. Just as surrounding objects heat up from an ordinary fire, often catch fire and burn with a huge common fire, so your prayerful flame embraces everyone, both those serving and those praying, and the whole church prays with you - harder, warmer! In the evening from John walked for a long time in the small garden and in the garden he read the evening rule. The next day in the morning we made a trip to the Vytegorsky churchyard, where the priest served mass. The 22-domed church of the Vytegorsky churchyard is remarkably interesting in its architecture. It was built according to the Great Peter’s own drawing in 1788 and is still preserved in its original form. Another church, standing a few fathoms from the first, was built somewhat later and is not so interesting from the outside, but inside I found very rare wooden figures of the Savior and St., painted and dressed in costumes. Nila. On threes along the towpath. - In the locks. - At the Nevorotina plant. - Belozersky Canal. – Night alarm in the Goroditsky convent. In Vytegra we said goodbye to the Bayan, which has a deep draft. Having reloaded the luggage onto the Shestovets, which had arrived by this time, and the new steamer Kemu, provided to the priest by the merchant Nevorotin, we sent both ships forward several hours before our departure. They themselves decided to make a 26-verst journey on horseback in order to avoid boring stops at the 19 locks located here. At about five o'clock in the evening, on May 29, having said goodbye to the hospitable hostess, we set off in a long cortege in several troikas. The road here is very diverse. Either we are rushing along a smooth and narrow towpath, constantly forcing the oncoming horses of the barge haulers, dejectedly pulling their towline, to turn towards the oncoming horses, then we jump over the dam, rush with a roar along the bridge and, flying up the hill, we pass along the street of the village. The banks of the Vytegra here are hilly and picturesque, although the river itself in its shape is no different from an ordinary canal: it is always equally narrow and has no bays. We drove 26 miles unnoticed and went down to the pier of the Kanal Shipping Company, where at that time the Shestovets and Kema were already waiting for us, having managed to pass 19 obstacles “as they wanted.” We still had to go through a few more locks along the Novo-Mariinsky Canal. At each gateway there was a touching scene of the priest’s meeting with the instantly gathering people. “You are our red sunshine! My dear darling! Pray for us sinners!” – was heard from the crowd, who extended dozens of hands folded for blessing towards our ship from behind the airlock railing. When the water let into the lock lifted our steamer to the height of its sides, it took a lot of effort for us to set sail, since the people standing on the shore, clinging tightly to the steamer, did not let go for a long time. Everyone wanted to complain about their misfortunes and get consolation. Father distributed copper icons and crosses to many, although it was not easy, because there was a dump and people risked falling into the water. Having passed through the St. locks with great delays. Peter, St. George and St. Alexandra, we entered the river. Kovzhu and by 3 o’clock in the morning they arrived at the mouth of the Udashka River, where the large Nevorotin sawmill is located, producing boards with 120 workers for more than 90 thousand rubles. At the plant there is an exemplary fire brigade and a large house with a garden of the owners of the plant, the Nevorotin brothers. Since it was already three o'clock in the morning, we stayed on the ships until the morning. In the morning, Father John served mass 9 miles from the plant, in the Resurrection parish, where he preached a sermon on the topic of how we should live in love and harmony. After mass, the priest, as usual, went to see the local priest. At this time, a crowd of workers with their wives and children had already gathered at the Nevorotins’ house. Here Father John served a prayer service, after which he blessed and consoled the suffering for a very long time. What kind of complaints did the priest have to listen to! In particular, many women resort to his help. The husband of one is a drunkard, the other has no children, the third has some kind of incurable disease... And Father John will console everyone, caress everyone, give everyone hope. After the prayer service we were offered lunch, during which a choir of local amateurs sang spiritual things. When the champagne was served, toasts began for Father John, the hosts, the local clergy, etc., Father John remembered the poor people who earned a piece of bread by the sweat of their brow, and, taking a glass of champagne, went into the next room, where from behind the backs of the choristers several dozen eyes of workers, women and children were looking at our meal. It was necessary to see with what reverence these workers crossed themselves and took a sip of wine from the hands of the revered shepherd. At about two o'clock in the afternoon, in heavy rain, we set off on our further journey, accompanied by the owners of our ships, Messrs. Nevorotin and Loparev. Soon r. Kovzha imperceptibly crossed into the Belozersky Canal and from the deck we saw White Lake. The picture is almost the same as on the Ladoga canals, only the banks of the Belozersk canal are, perhaps, somewhat higher than the first ones. At about 9 o'clock in the evening we passed by Belozersk. The ancient residence of Sineus under hanging rain clouds presents a bleak picture of the outback when you look at Belozersk from the ship. Only the heads of its fourteen churches somewhat enliven the monotonous picture. At about eleven o'clock in the evening we left the canal and entered the wide, beautiful Sheksna. After the cramped confines of the canal, the river, which has spread widely and flooded the meadows, produces some kind of joyful impression. Despite the night, you constantly see large steamers with green and red lantern eyes. Caravans of barges are pulling. There are whistles and people shouting... At about one o'clock in the morning, in the distance, on the high bank of the Sheksna, the buildings of the Goritsky convent began to appear white, where they were waiting for the priest and where he was going to serve mass in the morning. Not wanting, however, to disturb the monastery at night, the priest decided to stop five miles from the monastery and spend the night in the Shestovets cabin in order to approach the monastery in the morning. Since it was not entirely comfortable to sleep in the cabin of the ship, especially since the best place had long been occupied by Hieromonk Georgy, who was reading his evening rule, I and I. V. Kachalov, the police officer who accompanied us from Vytegra, decided to go to the monastery on the “Kem” in order to spend the night in the monastery hotel. Unfortunately, this led to a small misunderstanding. When we were already approaching the monastery, we had to overtake one private steamboat, as a result of which the nuns watching from the bell tower, seeing two steamships going together, thought that Father John was coming, and therefore began to ring. We began to wave our handkerchiefs at them, wanting to stop the ringing of the bells, but the nuns took this for greetings and therefore did not stop. Soon the entire monastery with the abbess at its head was already on the shore. The bailiff appeared with the constables; Awakened people fled from the village next to the monastery... And everything turned out to be in vain. Confused, the police officer and I went ashore and announced that there was no one on the ship except Father George, who was praying and had heard nothing. At 8 o'clock. In the morning the priest arrived on the Shestovets and went straight from the pier to the monastery church, where he celebrated mass and introduced the Holy Mysteries to the nuns. After mass, a chair was placed in the first room of the abbot’s apartment for Father John. Here, taking turns ascending the stairs in an endless line, the sisters of the monastery approached the priest for a blessing. More than 600 sisters passed by the priest. After the sisters, the pilgrims followed in the same order, crowding the entire area in front of the abbess’s house. Having dined while the monastery choir sang with the abbess, we all went to the Kirillo-Belozersky Monastery, five miles away from the Goritsky Monastery. Here the priest served a short prayer service at the shrine of St. Kirill and, after drinking a glass of tea with the rector of the monastery, Archimandrite Theodosius, he went to the city of Kirillov to make some visits. At this time, our ships had already approached the city and were waiting for us on the river. Pozdushka, along which we later crossed into the Württemberg Canal, connecting Sheksna with Lake Kubensky. Meeting with the steamship "St. Nicholas the Wonderworker." - On Lake Kubenskoye. – Spaso-Kamensky Monastery. – Sad consequences of ice drift. – Gor. Totma on the river Sukhone. Our entire journey from Kirillov to Lake Kubenskoye was some kind of triumphal procession of Father John. What happened here defies description. Entire villages, young and old, poured out to meet us and ran for several miles, falling to their knees, stretching out their hands to Father John and crossing themselves. There was a fence along the way - and a motley crowd, without thinking, climbed onto it, jumped down and again ran after the steamer until the canal ended and a lake began, along which it was no longer possible to run. At one lock I noticed a very pretty girl, about twelve years old, who had already run about eight miles and was now earnestly asking for a cross. But here she never managed to give anything, since the thrown crosses and icons were instantly picked up by others. When the steamer, leaving the lock, went along the canal, I again saw a tireless girl among the running crowd. First she took off the scarf from her head, then she also took off her blouse, since it was very hot. By the end I saw her already running with her long hair flying in the air in only a shirt. She carried her entire wardrobe in her hand. I asked the helmsman to come closer to the shore and, seizing an opportune moment, very successfully threw Father John’s card to the tireless girl. She picked her up and, pressing her to her chest, still continued to run until the canal ended and a small lake began. Finally, at 7 pm at the 12th lock we met Father John’s own large steamship “St. Nicholas the Wonderworker,” who came for the priest from Sura. Three young nuns, the ship's servants, greeted us with tears. It turned out that they had been waiting for us for eleven days, since the priest had planned to leave Kronstadt earlier on May 15, but then postponed his departure. Having reloaded your luggage from the “Shestovets” and “Kema” onto the large and comfortable steamer “St. Nicholas the Wonderworker,” we said goodbye to the hospitable and kind gentlemen. Nevorotin, Loparev and I.V. Kachalov and went to Lake Kubenskoye, which was only a few miles away. “Shestovets” and “Kema” and the small railway steamer that later joined them greeted us goodbye for a long time with intermittent whistles. It turned out original and touching. Night found us in the middle of Lake Kubenskoye, where, due to thick fog, we had to anchor. When dawn broke, a very beautiful Spaso-Kamensky Monastery appeared in front of us, surrounded on all sides by water. The entire island on which this monastery is built has a circumference of about 200 fathoms; therefore, except for a small courtyard a short distance between the church and the hotel, the entire surface of the island is occupied by monastery buildings and a rescue station nestled in the eastern part of the monastery. Since it was about 8 o’clock in the morning, the priest decided to serve mass in the monastery, and therefore ordered to land on the island. Even from a distance, we noticed the ruins of a completely new one-story house and could not understand what the reason for the destruction was, since there could not be an earthquake, and in the event of a fire, the walls would have been smoked and the logs would have been charred, which was not noticed here. At the monastery we were told that everything was done by the ice drift last spring. Something terrible happens here every year when the rivers open up. Under the pressure of the water, the ice floes, piled one on top of the other, like countless enemies about to attack, crawl onto the shore, then onto the walls and, finally, even climb onto the roof of a high cathedral. Huge stones, picked up from the bottom by an ice mass, rise with the same mass to a terrible height. On the shore of the island to this day lies a stone weighing 500 pounds, removed after the ice drift from the roof of the monastery cathedral. The ancient Spaso-Kamensky Monastery, founded in the 13th century, currently makes a sad impression. Poverty and desolation are appalling! The altars in the altars stand empty, and only in one small chapel, when we arrived, Matins was going on. One can imagine how delighted those five monks who made up the entire brethren of the monastery were when Father John unexpectedly appeared in the church. Having served mass and contributed a substantial sum to the needs of the monastery, the priest said goodbye to the happy brethren, and at about 10 o’clock. In the morning we set off on our further journey. An hour later we entered the river. Sukhona, called Ramanga in its upper reaches. - Well, no, father, as you like, but I’m happier than you. You are a local resident, and he, the red sun, drives past you every year, well, it’s not a wonder that he stopped by. Now I’m making my way from Poltava to Solovki on a pilgrimage, but I accidentally ended up in Kamensky with you, and suddenly such happiness! I took communion with Father John of Kronstadt himself! Yes, I never dreamed of such happiness! The hieromonk of the Kamensky Monastery, to whom these words were addressed, in turn tried to prove to the praying mantis that he and his brethren were happier than her. Such a dispute took place on the shore of Kamensky Island, near our ship, before leaving. John from the abbot's apartment, a few minutes before our departure. How now I see the face of this old woman. How much sincere happiness, how much faith in her extinct eyes, wet with tears! A whole event happened in her life. From her conversation with the monk, I learned that she had long dreamed of seeing the priest, but did not dare to go to Kronstadt: she was afraid that they would not be allowed to see him. And suddenly such a happy meeting. For a long time afterwards she stood kneeling on the pier of the monastery and looked after our ship. The upper reaches of the Sukhona River, called here Ramanga, are very similar in character to the Vytegra River. Low banks, overgrown with bushes and poor hay, which usually remain unmown, stretch for many miles. In the spring, as a rule, this entire space is filled with water and, united with the Vologda River into one whole, it becomes a huge lake 75 miles wide. As we go downstream, the banks of the Sukhona become more mountainous and the current becomes faster. From Lake Kubenskoye to the rapids of Skorodum, over 266 versts, the Sukhona falls by 4.5 and further, over 257 versts - its fall reaches 24 degrees. The bottom of the Sukhona is very rocky; Every now and then you come across huge boulders, and therefore great experience and caution are required from the pilot. Our own pilots from Father John's steamship know the safe Northern Dvina and native Pinega well, but they do not dare to navigate the ship on the Sukhona on their own, and therefore we are led by a local pilot taken in Veliky Ustyug. A small, skinny man with a thin goatee, he stands at the helm, peering intently into the distance, into the fast waters of the Sukhona, on the surface of which, by barely noticeable spots and swells, one can recognize where the formidable boulders are hidden. He stands there continuously for two days and suffers only because he had to part with his inseparable friend - his dear pipe, since Father John does not like tobacco smoke. “Two days is nothing, you can survive,” he says, “because it’s a common thing; I had to stand for three days at a time, but it was already difficult: it made me feel painfully sleepy. Our pilot has been sailing along the Sukhona for twenty-six years, performing every navigation on 29 flights, and despite this, throughout our journey he vigilantly monitors the milestones and outlines of the banks, afraid of running into a stone. In some places we walk along the river, leaving the waymarks completely aside. According to the pilot, they especially cannot be trusted, because the railway pilots who place milestones here often make mistakes, despite the fact that each such pilot must monitor the fairway of his section over only a space of 25 versts. Early in the morning of June 2, we were already approaching the city of Totma, 9 versts from which the Tsareva River flows into the Sukhona. Here, during his journey to the north, Peter the Great drank tea, and further down lies the “Elk” stone, on which he dined. We stopped in Totma for only half an hour to deliver letters to the post office and stock up on some provisions. Therefore, it was not possible to examine the city and its antiquities in detail. Meanwhile, there is a lot of interesting things here. The city of Totma is widely spread on the left high bank of the river. Sukhona and its tributary river Pesya Denge, in the valley of which, on the outskirts of the city, stands the ancient Church of John the Baptist and the Spaso-Sumorin Monastery. This monastery was founded in 1551; the relics of its founder, Venerable, rest in it. Theodosius Sumorin, who was born in Vologda in the first half of the 16th century and lived in Totma to look after the salt pans that belonged to the Prilutsky Monastery at that time. The salt plant in Totma still exists, and up to 100,000 pounds of salt are mined annually. On the northern side of the city there is a small “Tsarev” meadow and nearby, along the Kovda River, an aspen grove of “gallows”, where Tsar Ivan Vasilyevich the Terrible dealt with the Totmeks. The beginning of Totma dates back to the 15th century. In 1539, the city was devastated by the Kazan Tatars; in 1565 Totma was mentioned among the cities of the oprichnina. During the troubled period of impostors, Totma took an active part in government affairs. Peter the Great sent Fyodor Abramovich Lopukhin, brother of Queen Evdokia, who, they say, lived for some time in the former Totemsky convent, to prison here. Along the Sukhona River. - Opoki. – Stay in the city of Ustyug the Great. Beyond Totma, the banks of the Sukhona rise even higher and are completely covered with dense forest, which has already fallen in huge quantities and cluttered the cliffs that descend steeply to the river. All this is the work of great waters and ice drift, which is no less terrible here than on Lake Kubenskoye. Near the village of Porog, above the dangerous crossing of Opoka, there is the bank of the Sukhona River, which reaches 40 fathoms here. heights, presents a very interesting sight. Imagine a huge, almost vertical wall for a mile, descending to a formidable threshold, which with its flow here describes an almost regular semicircle. Layers of lime, gypsum and sand, running in regular lines one above the other, make the shore look like a huge piece of layered marshmallow, cut with a sharp knife. The fall of the water and its speed are visible here to the eye. Our steamer, guided by an experienced hand, at first went almost straight onto the rocks over which the water was boiling. It seemed that in another minute we would hit the most dangerous place, especially since the pilot did not change the direction of the rudder. But then the secret was revealed. When the distance to the formidable stones remained no more than five fathoms, our steamer was picked up by some unknown force and carried with terrible speed in the direction completely opposite from the stones. A minute later we saw the formidable rapids already far behind us. It turned out that if we had taken a direction further from the stones, then the side current could have carried us to the opposite bank and crashed against the stones. Having made a sharp turn from the rapids, the river noticeably calmed down and its flow became quieter. We expected to pass Veliky Ustyug at night, but the fog that rose at about 11 o'clock in the evening forced us to anchor. The temperature dropped to +3°, and all the inhabitants of the ship hid in their cabins. Only the priest, having put on a fur coat and a warm skufa, remained on the deck for a long time, holding the inseparable Gospel in his hands, and apparently enjoyed the majestic silence and beauty of nature. At 6 o'clock in the morning, June 3, when the fog cleared, we set off on our further journey and by 8 o'clock we were already approaching Veliky Ustyug. Ustyug, like the city of Totma, located on the left mountainous bank of the Sukhona, is very beautiful. Its 28 churches, painted white and decorated with countless domes of the most bizarre shapes, give the impression of something fabulous from a distance. There's an air of antiquity about you here. It just seems to you that when you approach the city, on its shore, at the city gates, you will see guards in chain mail and iron caps; on the streets of the city near the rich towers you will come across boyars and merchants in rich Russian costumes, and from the little room of the high tower, from the quaint little window, the face of a black-eyed beauty, half-covered with a veil, will look at you. But this is only from a distance. Nearby, only churches and monasteries have retained their ancient appearance. Since the day before Father John did not serve mass, which is always a great deprivation for him, it was decided to stop in Ustyug, and the time was right - 8 o’clock in the morning. We approached the log embankment, dilapidated by the ice drift, and moored to the pier of the Northern Dvina Shipping Company. Not met by anyone, Father John and Hieromonk George took the first available cab in a very uncomfortable line and went straight to the cathedral, where, of course, no one was expecting them. Not wanting to waste valuable time, I grabbed a photographic camera and went to explore the city. First of all, I headed to the largest local bookstore, fully confident that I would find there a whole series of all kinds of photographs, open letters and albums with views of Ustyug and its beautiful surroundings. But, alas!.. Apart from two or three half-faded and fly-stained photographs, I found nothing. And this in a city abounding in antiquities and rarities, with up to 9 thousand inhabitants! I involuntarily remembered little Serdobol in Finland, where I had to wander two years ago, during my wanderings around the vast Mother Russia. Serdobol has a population of no more than 3 thousand and there are almost no antiquities, but what an abundance of all kinds of albums with phototypical views of Karelia! There are so many open letters and all kinds of publications. We haven't grown up to this yet! Meanwhile, Ustyug the Great, occupying a rare geographical position, constantly sees a lot of visiting guests, and not only Russians, but also foreigners. The Sukhona River connects it through the Duke of Wirtemberg's canal with the Volga, both capitals and lower provinces, and Vychegda with Siberia. Ustyug briskly trades with Arkhangelsk bread, lard, flax, soap, yuft, bristles and matting; its merchants visit fairs - Nizhny Novgorod, Irbit and Rostov, and the city itself is enlivened by the fair on the day of the Ustyug miracle worker St. Procopius, July 8th. With the holding of the Siberian railway. dor. from Perm to Kotlas, a wide field of trading activity opened up for the Ustyug residents. In ancient times the city was called Glyaden. On the current “Black Priluk” the city was founded in 1212 and occupied one of the leading places in the economic and political life of Russia, which is why, like Novgorod and Rostov, it is called “Great”. The city withstood Tatar raids more than once and took part in our movement to the east. Ustyug is the birthplace of the conqueror of the Amur Erofei Khabarov and the famous enlightener of the Zyryans in the 14th century, St. Stephen, Bishop of Perm. Next to the city Assumption Cathedral, in which Father John served mass and where it was difficult to penetrate, since the Ustyun residents, having learned about the unexpected arrival of the priest, quickly filled the church, there is a small cathedral of St. Procopius, in the left choir of which the relics of this saint rest. The righteous Procopius came to Novgorod from the German land in the middle of the 13th century, accepted Orthodoxy and the image of the fool for Christ. The most important event in the life of Ave. Procopius was, according to legend, the approach to Ustyug in 1290 on June 25th of a terrible stone cloud that broke out 20 versts from Ustyug in the Kotovalskaya volost. At the entrance to the cathedral, at the southern door, lies on a pedestal one of the stones that fell from a cloud, brought here in 1638. In the cathedral itself, there is a remarkable image of St. Procopius, embroidered with pearls. Nearby there is a small church with the relics of the rights. John. Two Ustyug monasteries - the male Arkhangelsk and the female Predtechensky monasteries on Sokolinaya Gora - date back to the 13th century. There is a lot of interesting things in Ustyug, but, of course, I had to limit myself to a very cursory review. Thanks also to the young local priest, who was so kind that, having learned for what purpose I was traveling, from nowhere he got me an inventory of some Ustyug churches and I was able to write down something right there, in the Cathedral of St. Procopy. After taking a few photographs and thanking the kind priest for his attention, I hurried to our ship. If I had arrived at the pier an hour later, I would have risked not getting on the ship at all, since the city already knew about the arrival of Father John and the embankment was crowded with people. Despite the police's strictures, several people from the public managed to get onto the ship. Father listened to everyone, blessed them, gave money to some, and when only “our own people” remained on the ship, we set sail. Again, the same picture as in Kronstadt, and in St. Petersburg, and in many other cities: Father John bows from the deck and blesses those seeing them off, and from the shore thousands of hands wave scarves, hats, and well-wishes and greetings reach us. On Malaya Dvina. - Kotlas. - Northern Dvina. Soon we saw the mouth of the Yuga River, 4 versts from the city. The so-called Malaya Dvina already begins here. The banks became noticeably lower and the river wider. The Malaya Dvina is only 66 versts long and merges with the river. Vychegda is two versts from the village of Kotlas, where the Perm-Kotlas railway ends. From the river you can see a whole row of railway barns, from which chutes descend down to the river, through which goods are very quickly reloaded from wagons onto steamships. Two sisters - Vychegda and Sukhona - the first from the east, the second from the west - carry their waters towards each other and, having merged into one, turn sharply to the north and, under the name of the Northern Dvina, continue their journey to the White Sea. But the eastern and western beauties definitely do not get along with each other and no, no, they will go in different directions, forming separate branches and channels. Low islands made of alluvial sand, overgrown with skinny willows, continually pile up among the immense expanse of the waters of the northern nurse - the Dvina. “Here it is, my dear, dear Northern Dvina,” Father John quietly whispers, peering with delight and reverence at the place where the river. Vychegda, having met with r. The Sukhona, or otherwise the Malaya Dvina, turned left and spilled over into the wide, mighty Northern Dvina. Many times in his life Father John had to sail along the Northern Dvina. As a young man, an unknown student at the Theological Academy, he traveled this way from St. Petersburg to his homeland. Now he has been passing here for many years in a row, surrounded by glory and universal love and respect, helping those in need with a generous hand. Whether the peasant’s cattle die, whether the hut burns down, or the church needs repairs, but one’s own funds are not enough, all hope lies with the priest. Father will come and help. True, people often abuse the trust of Father John, and the money given to satisfy a serious need does not reach its destination. But this is a common phenomenon in any charity, and it is impossible to eradicate this evil. However, even here the charm of the name of Father John does its job. Everyone knows that the priest, when helping people in need with money, not only does not make inquiries about the person who asks for help, but often gives money without counting it, just for luck - as much as he can get his hands on. He will only look into the eyes of those who turn to him with his pure, good gaze. Therefore, one must be too much of a spoiled person to decide to deceive the priest. And this is the strength of Father John. The common people approach him with the fear of God, seeing in him an inspired priest and a true shepherd-father, to whom they can bow their tired, exhausted head from work life. - Hello, Orthodox Christians, hello, dear children, hello, womb, hello, grandmother! These are the usual phrases that Father John addresses to the common people when our ship approaches the shore. And you need to see with your own eyes how much happiness, how much quiet joy these few words spoken by Father John bring in order to understand that he is for the Russian people and how strong the faith is in this downtrodden people! Tell these people just two words: “for faith and fatherland!” - and he will immediately turn into such a hero that he will have no equal in strength. At the entrance to the Northern Dvina we met a very beautiful steamship, crowded with pilgrims returning from Solovki. On the ship they recognized Father John standing on the wheelhouse, and people began to stir, waving their hats and scarves. This was the first greeting from the Northern Dvina, to which the priest joyfully responded, standing with his head naked and holding his straw hat high in the air. After the deserted Sukhona, where villages are only occasionally found, the Northern Dvina seems very lively. A long line stretches out caravan after caravan of timber rafted to Arkhangelsk. Russian forest wealth flows mainly from the river. Vychegda, and therefore most of the workers on the rafts are from Zyryan. Usually the largest raft, the “caravan” raft, floats ahead of the caravan. Here you often see a whole household: there is a clerk’s hut, decorated with a flag nailed to a high pole, right next to it there is a sleigh, obviously for the return trip in winter, there are household utensils, around which a woman is fussing. A little further away you can see several small huts - these are already for workers. On the remaining rafts, for the most part, there are no huts at all, and the workers spend day and night, in all weathers, in the open air. Large villages with beautiful, often very ancient churches can be found at every turn. The population is mainly engaged in shipping and fishing. Almost the entire crew of our ship are natives of the villages near Dvina. Women are in no way inferior to men in work; everyone is rowing vigorously both in boats and on rafts. If you see several men and women in a boat, then women will certainly row and unless only a man will sit at the helm. - Why is this so? – I asked to find out and asked our “commander”: - Why are women rowing while a man sits on the steering wheel? “Well, how could it be otherwise,” the commander was surprised in turn, “that’s why he’s the master, and their job is a woman’s: to obey.” That's it. Evening came, and then night, which we could only know from the clock, since it was as light as day. The impression is as if clouds were found in the sun and a light shadow lay on the ground. The smallest print is easy to read. But the feathered kingdom fell asleep. Ducks and loons do not ply the water, and seagulls do not flit in the air. Only on the shore and on the sandbanks do you often see long white stripes, as if unmelted snow lies or hundreds of white champignons have covered the shore with their mass - these are flocks of white gulls sleeping. There is a kind of solemn calm in nature and you can feel the night. Until two o'clock in the morning Father John walked along the deck, admiring the northern night, and only when the sun had already appeared did he retire to his cabin. The beauty of northern nature. - Pinega River. – Soylo village. The next day, June 4th, we passed by the provincial town of Solvychegodsk district - Krasnoborsk, famous for the squirrel fur fair (November 30th), and soon entered the Arkhangelsk province. On this day, the priest did not serve mass, as we were in a hurry, fearing that due to the drought the Pinega River would become shallow and it would be difficult for us to get to Sura by boat. In one place near the village of Lyablova we had to stop to get firewood. The shore here is high and steep. The peasants, who recognized Father John’s steamer, began to descend towards us along the sloping plane - as they say, “in their own carriage.” They sit on all fours and go down, as if on a sled from an icy mountain. The venerable priest, a local priest, and his mother came down from the mountain in the same way. They approached the ship and, not seeing Father John on deck, sang “Heavenly King.” Father John came out onto the deck and invited them to board the ship. The flock followed their priest onto the ship. It was impossible to let everyone in, because this would slow down the stacking of firewood, as a result of which the commander of the steamship ordered not to let the rest in. In view of this, many resorted to a trick: they would take two or three logs and take them to the ship, and then straight to the priest for his blessing... Many books and samples had to be distributed here. The kids also received a gift. Having loaded the firewood, we set off on our further journey and soon passed the monastery of the Kholmogory convent. Several nuns who were on the shore noticed our ship and rushed to the bell tower to ring. But since it was far from the bell tower, while they were running, our steamer had already gone far and we did not hear the ringing. Finally, at about 9 o’clock in the evening, the village of Ust-Pinega appeared in the distance, approaching it, we turned sharply and entered the Pinega River. In St. Petersburg, before my trip to the north, I heard from many: “And you want to go there; After all, our poor, boring north is nothing interesting.” And here, on Pinega, I became convinced that many do not have definite and correct information about our north. I had to travel only 300 miles from Ust-Pinega to Sura, and this path seemed like some kind of magical panorama. Pinega amazes with the diversity of its shores: in places you see a copy of the shores of the Valaam Islands: steep cliffs descending into the water, from the crevices of which century-old pines rise; in some places the banks resemble the spurs of the Carpathians on the Teterev River in Zhitomir; There are also characteristic Caucasian corners with abysses and cliffs, such as I have seen in the wilds of Dagestan. In one place near the Krasnogorsky monastery I saw an exact copy of Kyiv, in the same form as you see it when you approach from the south along the Dnieper. A series of steep chalk mountains, dotted with deep caves, and covered with dense forest on top, stretches for many miles. At night, when everyone was already asleep, I was awakened by noise on the deck. It turned out that we landed on the shore to take firewood. I go out onto the deck and see that, apart from the crew carrying firewood, only one is awake. John. He stands at his cabin, looking up at the sky, and is obviously praying. The wonderful forest aroma is intoxicating. Wanting to take a closer look at the forest, I went ashore and climbed the mountain. A wonderful panorama opened up before me - a boundless sea of ​​forest. The entire horizon is covered with dense untouched forest. I wanted to endlessly admire the wonderful landscape, but then the mosquito force asserted its rights... Billions of bloodthirsty insects rushed at me and forced me to run to the ship. Local peasants who have to work in the forest or near a river wear so-called mosquito nets. This is a kind of bashlyk, made of thick canvas, tightly fitting the entire head and shoulders; only the face remains uncovered, but to protect the face, the edges of the mosquito net are coated with tar. At 9 o'clock on the morning of June 4th we approached the small village of Soila and landed on the shore to celebrate mass. From. John always has with him a supply of bread and church wine, and therefore, no matter how unexpectedly he appears in any parish, there can be no interference with the performance of divine services. Soyla village – 40 yards, no more; it spreads along the left bank of the Pinega. Thanks to its large huts, spacious courtyards and two churches, stone and wooden, beautifully located above the river itself, this village seems from a distance to be a large village. In the stone church, due to its dilapidation, services are not held, and therefore the old local priest who met us led Father John to the wooden church. This church, with a hipped dome and vestibule adjacent to the church body on three sides, built from thick, mighty logs, already lopsided in places, is very interesting as an example of ancient Russian architecture. In the middle of the church, what first strikes you is the huge, almost man-sized, bas-relief image of St. St. Nicholas the Wonderworker holding a church in his left hand and a sword in his right hand, carved from wood and painted. The colors have darkened, cracked and fallen off in places, and the stern face of the holy Wonderworker, against a dark background, looks sadly at you with his big eyes. The blackened faces of the saints look just as sadly from the iconostasis. The altar is small and stuffy as the windows never open. Father John loves clean air most of all. Even in winter he sleeps with the window open. Therefore, it was necessary to expose the window frame here before starting the service. While Father John was reading the canon, local peasants began to enter the church in small groups. These are all sedate men with thick beards, intelligent eyes and tightly built figures. The women are dressed in colorful sundresses and quilted sleeveless vests; their heads are very beautifully tied with colored scarves. Having learned about the priest’s arrival, everyone dressed up before coming to church. Local peasants never knew serfdom or slavery, and this was reflected in their character. They all carry themselves with dignity and independence. Leaving the church, I walked along the only street of the village. The huts here are of the same type, two-story. In one half of the second floor there is a barn for sleighs and carts, which are brought here through a special “entrance” built outside the hut. Half of the lower floor is usually reserved for livestock. A few fathoms from the hut there is usually a barn for bread, and, in order to avoid the invasion of mice, called here “gnus”, the barn is built on four pillars shaped like mushrooms. It is very difficult for the “gnat” to get into the grain storage along such pillars. Having chosen a typical hut, near which stood a beautiful young woman in a picturesque costume, I began to make preparations to take a photograph. Seeing that the half-wild beauty was looking at me not only with curiosity, but also with fear, I hastened to explain to her the meaning of my apparatus. “Stay calm, I’ll take you down along with the hut,” I said. Imagine my disappointment when, in response to this, the beauty instantly turned around and said: “Oh, I’m afraid!” rushed into the hut and disappeared. There was nothing to do, I had to remove only the hut and a dog that turned up, very similar to a wolf. There are a lot of such dogs here; they are very beautiful and quite excellent watchmen. Walking along the street along a whole row of huts, from the windows of which several curious eyes looked at me, I met an elderly woman who, handing me a bundle, said: - Listen, you, I don’t know what to call you, here are your eggs! “Yes, my dear, I don’t need it,” I object. “Nothing, take it, just don’t point that thing of yours at my hut.” There was nothing to do, I had to refuse the eggs, promise that I would not shoot anything else, and retreat to the ship with the apparatus. Having served mass, during which the priest preached a sermon, warmly warning the local peasants against schismatics who were seducing the Orthodox people, Father John went for a quarter of an hour into the new, newly built priest's house, drank a glass of tea here and then, accompanied by the entire parish, headed to the ship, supported, as usual, by the arms of one of the accompanying people. What patience this man must have! Being always cheerful, strong in spirit, so much so that he is able to impart this strength to very many weak people, he unquestioningly allows himself to be led by the arms on a completely level place, like a relaxed old man, only because he knows that to refuse someone such zeal would mean offending the person. I myself saw and heard how many who escorted Father John in this way to some point then enthusiastically told their friends: “All the time I held my dear father by the hand and sat him down and kissed him on the shoulder.” It would seem that one could open one’s cassock to the light breeze and walk calmly to the ship... Dozens of bodies squeezed Father John into a dense mass, and he, swayed by this mass first to the left and then to the right, walks with an uneven gait along the loose sand. Only when the ship had already set sail from the shore did the priest, taking off his cassock, walk along the deck with his nervous, energetic gait. City of Pinega. – Alarming rumors about water loss. At about 12 o'clock in the afternoon we passed by the beautiful Krasnogorsky monastery, located on the right high bank of the Pinega. Below, under the mountain, among the dense forest, you can see the white skete church. Of course, we don’t even think about stopping, since there is less and less water in Pinega; Every now and then shallows appear, more and more often the shouts of one of the crew on the bow are heard, measuring the depth of the water. - Five, four, three and a half... Four, five, six - not looming! “Not looming” means: the stranding is over, you can go at full speed. At about two o'clock in the afternoon we were already approaching the city of Pinega. Just before the city, the river diverges into two branches, and therefore is very shallow in this place. At the very beginning of the city, the chimneys of a huge sawmill of the Volodin merchants appeared. They say that these Volodins have a fortune of about ten million, but they are known throughout the Arkhangelsk province for their stinginess. “And here,” our skipper tells me, “well, why should he, such a millionaire, one might say, need to dam one branch of the Pinega River!” All the water would go along one channel, and it would be deeper. After all, he would have opened a clear path for his own ships. No! This damned greed has overcome!... In Pinega I saw the “millionaire” himself. He came to the ship in high boots with bottles, a gray suit jacket and a cap. And the first thing he told Father John was a message so that the abbess of the Sursky monastery (who wanted to make him some order for the monastery), in the event of an order given by her, would remember that he, Volodin, above all loves accurate payments. Pinega, a small county town on the right bank of the Pinega River, has about a thousand residents of both sexes. The city is still relatively young and therefore does not represent anything historically interesting. The city is enlivened only by the Nikolskaya and Blagoveshchenskaya fairs, to which merchants from Galich, Kargopol, Arkhangelsk and Kholmogory come and leave the tundra with the products of their crafts: fish, fat, skins, furs and game - Samoyeds and residents of Ustsilma, Izhma, Pustozersk and Mezen. There are only two churches in Pinega, and even those, with their neglected appearance, testify to the complete indifference and negligence of the local moneybags. Meanwhile, Volodin alone, the owner of huge sawmills and a whole flotilla of steamships, by all accounts, has about ten million in capital. We stayed near the town of Pinega for only half an hour. It was necessary to take the monastery barge with some cargo in tow. At this time, several people boarded the ship, mostly from the local intelligentsia: a local police officer with his wife and daughter, clergy and merchants. We were told sad news here regarding the state of the water in Pinega. – The water is falling; no rain; “You’re unlikely to get to Sura,” the Pinezhans told us. There were many who wanted to go with us to Sura, but due to the fact that every extra pound of weight on the ship made our journey more difficult, we had to refuse everyone. Only two people came with us from Pinega: the local deacon and the timber merchant S.K. Kyrkalov, who came here to meet Father John. Severian Kuzmich Kyrkalov calls himself a “peasant”. This is a highly interesting personality. He walks simply, like most wealthy peasants engaged in trade; behaves extremely modestly. Being a deeply religious man and seeing in Father John a great man of prayer and an exemplary shepherd, Severian Kuzmich reveres the priest so much that he will never allow himself to wear a hat in his presence. That’s how Kyrkalov’s uncovered head remained in my memory. I saw her in Pinega, and among the shifting sands of Sura, and then on the way back, on the dusty streets of Arkhangelsk. The priest did not like this, and he more than once asked S.K. to cover his head. Then Kyrkalov resorted to cunning: “I forgot my hat at home,” he said. In Arkhangelsk, Kyrkalov has huge sawmills and brick factories; another plant is being built somewhere in Siberia; a hundred miles from Sura, downstream, in an area called Shotovaya Mountain, is his residence, so to speak, his base of operations. Here is his native village, his home and farm. S.K. Kyrkalov donates a lot to the church. In Arkhangelsk, at his own expense, he built the courtyard of the Sursky monastery, in his native village he is building a stone church and is a regular donor to the Ioannovsky monastery in Sura. Now S.K. Kyrkalov met us in Pinega so as not to be separated until Arkhangelsk itself. On the ship he occupied the most modest place, somewhere next to the kitchen on stacked firewood. It would be difficult to imagine this man as a businessman with an annual turnover of several hundred thousand rubles. At about three o'clock in the afternoon we had already left the town of Pinega and sailed further upstream, sailing much more quietly, since we were towing a barge. We passed the passages we encountered safely and did not lose hope of getting to Sura by boat. The three nuns on board the ship were most worried. “For mercy,” they cried, “what a holiday for us is the arrival of our dear father.” “We’ve been waiting for him for a whole year, for his arrival, and then we live for the whole year.” But if the ship doesn’t reach Sura, we’ll have to stay on it and not see the priest in Sura! Our “commander” did not lose hope of getting to Sura either. “If it rains in the upper reaches, the water will immediately rise, - she, Pinega, is crazy here,” he said. But there was little hope for rain; he was gone for a long time. The sun was blazing hot in the clear sky. On the high steep banks, a mighty forest dozed off in majestic silence. In one place we saw a religious procession passing through a clearing. The peasants asked the Almighty for rain. “God forbid if we have to ride horses,” one of Father John’s companions, Baroness T., tells me. “Here, every mile away, there is a mountain, and such that it’s scary to even look down.” You'll suffer. Baroness T. has been traveling with Father John for many years. I cannot remember without feeling sympathy for this person. Being a woman from an aristocratic circle, the wife of a little man, and now occupying a prominent position in one ministry, the baroness left the world, put on a black scarf and now occupies a small cell in the house of industry in Kronstadt, performing the duties of a librarian and in charge of the sale of spiritual books. For sixteen years, she said, she suffered from a debilitating female disease. She traveled to all foreign resorts in hopes of improving her health; but, alas... it was all in vain. Finally, she decided to turn to Father John, who had just entered into glory. “Father prayed, and the illness vanished as if by hand!” - she told me. “Then I felt that I could no longer remain in the environment around me. I went to my father and asked his advice on what I should do. And he told me: help the poor and thank God. Since then I left the light, and now I am happy that I can listen to mass and receive communion from the priest almost every day. On the road, the Baroness always occupies the most modest place, does not interfere with Father John’s eyes like others, sits somewhere in a remote corner and tries to be unnoticed. In the baroness's cabin there is always a huge supply of all kinds of crosses, icons, spiritual brochures and similar useful things for the people. She purchases all this on her own initiative and at her own expense and distributes it at every opportunity. The baroness also has a lot of sweets - whole boxes of gingerbread and sweets. “I have everything for the kids,” she says, “I really love giving gifts to the kids.” After all, the other boy had never seen a gingerbread since birth. But the baroness herself is a strict faster: she doesn’t eat not only fish, but even butter. It feeds exclusively on cucumbers, potatoes and olives. Unexpected trouble. – Verkolsky Monastery. - Devastated forests. – Meeting with the Samoyeds. Beyond the city of Pinega, the banks of the river have become positively charming. Every turn there was a new panorama, and I just didn’t know what to do; Meanwhile, it was necessary to sit in the cabin and work: develop photographs and finish some drawings that had already been started - and at the same time, I did not want to miss anything interesting that was visible from the deck of the ship. However, Father John himself often helped me out in this regard. If you come across some particularly beautiful view, and I’m not on deck, Father sends someone to the cabin to fetch me. Sometimes, looking up from work, you look out the small window of your cabin and don’t believe your eyes. In front of the window, a huge, almost vertical wall descends into the water; its upper part is not visible. But just now there was a low bank and the forest distance was blue on the horizon. In Pinega, both banks are of the same character and equally diverse; This is not what usually happens in rivers flowing from North to South or from South to North, where usually one bank is elevated and the other low. On the night of June 6th we hardly slept at all, it was so difficult to part with the charming nature. I didn't know which to choose; either what I saw above the water, or what was reflected in the water, smooth as a mirror. I wanted to throw myself into this alluring water and choke on the enchanting beauty of the northern night. At night, when we were taking firewood from some village, S.K. Kyrkalov left us. He got into the wagon and rushed to Shotova Mountain to warn his family that Father John would come to them and serve a prayer service. The next day, at about 11 o’clock in the morning, when we stopped just a few miles from Shotovaya Mountain to take firewood, S.K. Kyrkalov suddenly appeared in the distance on a pair of horses, in a light wicker wagon. Severian Kuzmich brought us sad news. “You can’t go any further on the steamer,” he announced, “there’s less than three-quarters of the water; Volodin's steamships did not reach Shotovaya Mountain and returned back. There was a fuss on the ship, since no one expected such a surprise so soon. This unpleasant news took everyone by surprise. I found myself in a most unpleasant situation, since all my things were laid out in the cabin, as if in an apartment. To go further without taking with me all my artistic and photographic supplies would mean stopping my work, and then my trip would be reduced to zero. To top it all off, I had just laid out wet photographic prints in my cabin that needed to be sent to St. Petersburg. There was nothing to do, I had to quickly put the most necessary things in a small basket and ask the nuns remaining on the ship to save the photographs when they dried. While I was packing my things, Father John had already left with Kyrkalov in his wagon. Another wagon soon arrived for me and Hieromonk George, on which the two of us sat down, taking our things with us. We had to drive along a sloping bank under a high cliff. However, very soon we found ourselves on a real road and entered a village located under Shotova Mountain. After driving about twenty yards, we stopped at a huge two-story hut built from massive logs. This was the house of S.K. Kyrkalov. Instead of a yard in front of Kyrkalov’s house, there is something like a small square, onto which the school and other huts face with their facades. Right next to the house there was a well under a canopy with a huge wooden wheel. Arriving at a porch with two entrances, we went up to the second floor along a staircase covered with red cloth and entered spacious rooms furnished in a city style. A fairly large group was already sitting at the dinner table, and Father George and I rushed straight to the hot soup. Fresh salmon soup, pies with fresh salmon, freshly salted salmon, boiled salmon... From that day on, wherever we stopped there was salmon at the base of the table. Salmon have entered the kingdom. The rest of the dishes were just extras. There is no fresh salmon in St. Petersburg: it’s difficult to get it, so Father Georgy and I had to try it in this form for the first time. I won’t say, however, that fresh salmon is anything piquant. The form in which it is sold here in St. Petersburg is still the best. After having lunch and, as usual, drinking tea from his own hands to the children, Father John went with S.K. Kyrkalov to inspect the place where the latter decided to build a stone church at his own expense. By this time, the local police officer and several double and triple tarantasses arrived at us, on which our entire caravan was supposed to set off on its further journey. On this day we had to make a 50-verst trek to the Verkolsky Monastery, where overnight accommodation was offered. Since there were ferries on our way, which were very delayed, many of our companions left in advance. Father George and I set off on the troika prepared for us, following the priest, who at exactly three o’clock in the afternoon also left on the troika in a comfortable carriage, kindly sent to meet him by the abbot of the Verkolsky monastery. S.K. Kyrkalov took over the duties of a coachman and therefore did not leave the box of Father John’s carriage all the way. Almost the entire fifty-mile journey from the estate of S.K. Kyrkalov to the Verkolsky Monastery we had to travel through the forest along a heavy sandy road. The latter is approaching the river. Pinega, then retreats into the depths of the forest, bypassing some ravine or too steep mountain. Occasionally we come across a village on our way. We drive along his street, accompanied by the cheerful barking of dogs and the low, slow bows of sedate peasants. When looking at these villages and villages, one cannot help but admire the power and breadth of scope. This power was expressed in the construction of spacious two-story huts, which preserved in their forms the remnants of that beautiful Russian architecture that created the Stroganov Chambers and the Kolomna Palace. The special beauty of the hut is given by the wide, steep and high porches with turned posts and railings, covered with high pointed corners, half-barrel and barrel roofs, cut into scales, and the bright original coloring of the valances, ridges, and platbands. Rural rural churches also serve as monuments of ancient architecture, with a typical local touch. In their peaked, tent-covered scaly roofs and enclosed by galleries with patterned carvings, the motif of coniferous and spruce forests is felt. Churches are usually dedicated, according to Novgorod custom, to the Transfiguration of the Lord and generally to the feasts of the Lord, and not to the Mother of God, as was customary in Moscow. Having traveled about six miles from Kyrkalov’s house, we had to stop in one such village, since Father John promised to visit a seriously ill poor woman here. When we stopped, we were surrounded by a crowd of peasants. All kinds of requests rained down on Father John from all sides. I don't know how to explain this. Are the people here poorer, or, due to their distance from the center, except from. John during his journey, there was no one to turn to, but nowhere during our long journey were they asked for material help as much as here. In the Novgorod province, for example, we did not know how to refuse all kinds of offerings from the peasants. One woman begs to accept a towel from her work, another a dozen eggs, a third a loaf of bread and a cup of strawberries. They refuse the money offered. -This is for him, the red sun; Please ask me not to offend me, the old woman, with your refusal. From your own labors! - she begs. Here in his homeland it is completely different. First of all, they ask for money. Since it is inconvenient to ask for a whole herd, the peasants very cleverly take up positions at different points of the road, scattering at a distance of several miles and some distance from each other. Every now and then, having heard our bell, a man or woman comes out of the thicket of the forest onto the road and, having accosted Father John’s carriage, they leave only when they receive what they ask for. As we floated along the river, we saw a mighty, slender forest and admired its freshness. Like a healthy hero stood in front of us in green chain mail. Now, when we had to penetrate into the very depths of this forest and see him before our eyes at close range, we sadly learned that this hero was very ill. Vast areas have been devastated by fires. Instead of a green forest, there are sadly charred black stumps and centuries-old pines lying in disarray, stretching out their blackened branches like hands. These were a kind of giant octopuses that froze in their death throes. The place of the fire ends, and the forest that survived the fire begins. But here the picture is no more cheerful. Giants lie at every step, sometimes with completely fresh branches, with greenery that has not had time to turn yellow. The roots burst out of the ground, taking part of the soil with them, and now stand like shields for their giants. Many trees have already become covered with moss and turned into dust. All this is a windfall, not removed by anyone, despite the fact that the navigable river sometimes flows only a few fathoms away. We could not help but pay attention to the huge trees we often came across, still standing in an upright position, but already half chopped off at their roots and therefore doomed to death. -Who spoils the trees like this? – we asked our driver. “And these are peasants,” he answers us. “He starts cutting a log for himself, gets halfway through it, and then he sees that the core is not suitable, he doesn’t like it, so he gives it up and goes to choose another one.” At me with my dear companion from. George, such an attitude towards our forest wealth made a depressing impression; Therefore, when the next day, at lunch at the abbot of the Verkolsky monastery, I had to meet and get acquainted with the local forest rangers, the first thing I talked about was the forest. I had to listen to the most contradictory explanations for the sad state of forestry. Some said that the forests are set on fire by the peasants themselves, since the treasury sells them the burned material cheaper. Others argued that this was absurd, since during a fire the peasants are driven to put out the fire, and therefore they must take time off from work, which is unprofitable for them. For some reason, there are no buyers for the beautiful logs dumped by the storm, and the treasury is not interested in their exploitation. In the end, one forester, who had been working here for about 8 years, frankly admitted to me that all these cut down and abandoned trees and, in general, the state of the entire forestry industry at first made a grave impression on him and surprised him; but now it’s okay, I’ve gotten used to everything and am convinced that it can’t be otherwise. “And you, if you lived here for several years, would also get used to it, there’s too much forest here,” he concluded his speech. I leave it to forestry experts to judge... We arrived at the Verkolsky Monastery at about 10 o’clock in the evening, falling behind the priest and arriving half an hour later than him, since we had to wait for the return of the ferry on which Father John had crossed Pinega before us. There was a near disaster on this ferry. When Father John and his crew were brought onto the ferry, a crowd, mostly women and children, rushed after him, and the ferry, already sitting almost level with the water, began to sink. Many jumped into the water and waded back to the shore, while others had to be transferred to a boat and brought back in it. When we arrived at the monastery, the priest was already walking around the rooms of the abbot’s spacious apartment. The first-class Verkolsky monastery attracts attention from afar with its solidity and amenities. Like a small city, it stands on the high bank of the Pinega, surrounded by a beautiful white stone wall with semicircular lattice windows emerging from a gallery running along the entire wall. Both churches, the bell tower and all the monastery buildings are painted white and stand out very beautifully against the dark green background of the dense forest. Since in the morning we had to serve Matins and Mass at the shrine of St. Artemy, in whose honor the monastery was founded at the beginning of the 17th century, we and Fr. George, having said goodbye to the priest and paid his respects to the extremely sympathetic and kind elder abbot, we went to the monastery hotel and soon fell asleep to the accompaniment of the monastery watchman’s beater. The next day, June 7 at 8 a.m., the priest was already serving at the cathedral with the local clergy and Fr. Georgiy at the shrine of Artemia Ave. After the mass, a large crowd of petitioners gathered in the abbot’s apartment, which Father John immediately satisfied. Having had a quick breakfast, we packed up and set off on our further journey. We still had 50 miles to go to Sura, which we did without changing horses or changing horses, in four hours. Hegumen Ioannikiy also went with us to Sura. We again had to lag behind Father John a little, since between the Verkolsky monastery and Sura we had to cross rivers on ferries three times. Again we had to travel almost the entire time by road, occasionally passing along the middle street of the village we met. In the forest there is still the same sad picture of devastation. Like monks in black hoods, tall charred stumps of dead trees stand against a bright light green background. Here lie fallen giants already covered with soft fluffy reindeer moss. In one place we noticed a huge eight-pointed wooden cross, draped in a shroud already half torn by the wind. “This was a bad place here,” our coachman explained to us, “troubles often happened to people: either an animal would eat the cattle, or a goblin would lead them into a quagmire and a person would go astray, but when they put up the cross, now there is nothing, there is nothing more than this.” We also met Samoyeds in the forest. A whole cross-eyed family drove past us in a wagon. “Now there are few of them here,” the same coachman explained to us, “but in winter they will be driven across the frozen Pinega by reindeer.” They are passing through to the fair in Pinega and Arkhangelsk. At about 4 o'clock in the afternoon, on the opposite bank of Pinega from us, we finally saw the homeland of Father John - the village of Sura. It’s a very small village, but from a distance it seems to you that you see a small county town. Next to the old wooden church in the name of St. St. Nicholas the Wonderworker majestically looks out over the surrounding area, a large new stone church in the name of the same saint, surrounded by a beautiful stone fence with an iron lattice. Right next door there are two large stone houses; in one there is a school, in the other - a monastery shop. A little further from behind the church one can see a beautifully-architected chapel built over the grave of Father John’s parent, a priest’s house and a number of large spacious huts. All this is the creation of Father John. “It was a bare place here,” the coachman explained to us, “there was nothing on the bare sand except an old church.” And now you can’t even recognize the old church, Father Ivan renovated it, and he built a new one - this is to everyone’s surprise. And, indeed, when I later examined the church built by Father John, I was amazed by its splendor. At first we took all these buildings for a monastery; but it turned out that the monastery was not yet visible. The monastery is located on the other side of the village and is closed by peasant buildings from the Pinega side. Having gone down a very steep mountain to the river, we saw on the opposite bank of the Pinega a pier decorated with flags and greenery. Here, an hour before our arrival, all of Sura with the sisters and the abbess of the Ioannovsky Monastery met their wonderful fellow villager. They say it was a wonderfully touching and majestic picture for us to see. George didn’t have to, which we later very much regretted. Having crossed to the opposite shore by ferry, we slowly trudged along the shifting sand on our tired horses. The sun is burning mercilessly. The wheels of our tarantass cut deep into the sand, and the horses stop to catch their breath. Finally we climbed the mountain and, driving past two churches and a school, we found ourselves almost on a straight street, bordered on both sides by rows of large spacious huts. There are boards for pedestrians near the huts, since it is very difficult to walk on the sand, in which your feet get stuck deep. The street was completely empty, since the entire village was in the monastery where Father John was. Finally, the roof of the monastery church with a dome made of galvanized iron appeared, and we, having driven about twenty yards, turned right and drove into the vast monastery courtyard, surrounded by a temporary wooden fence. Having entered the monastery courtyard, we turned sharply to the left and stopped at the porch of the main building, connected to the monastery wooden church. The entire population of Sura was here. Following the nun who showed us the way, we and Fr. George walked past the entrance to the church; We went up the steep wooden stairs to the second floor and entered the apartment of the abbess of the monastery. Around a large table, in a spacious, bright room, sat about fifteen people of the most varied audience. There were nuns, clergy, excise and forest officials with their wives and children, and several peasants. Most drank tea. Father John, in a cassock as white as snow, walked around the rooms, taking turns talking to one or the other. Seeing us from. George, he addressed us with the usual friendliness and helpfulness: “Here are my dear companions, please, refresh yourself from the road!” Since we have already eaten, then from. Georgy sat down on the sofa next to a tall man with a thick light brown beard, a tanned face and calloused hands - obviously a farmer, and I sat between him. George and a pretty, good-natured old woman, dressed the way all peasant women dress here. “This is my sister, and this is my nephew,” Father John told me, pointing to my neighbor and his neighbor. George. Neighbor from. Georgiy turned out to be my neighbor’s own son. In a distant corner of the room sat two more nephews of Father John - the younger children of his sister, also dressed like peasants and behaving extremely modestly. The two older nephews are married and engage in arable farming with their families. Here the selflessness of Father John was clearly evident. Another in his place would have made all his relatives rich, giving them the opportunity to live easily and richly. But for Father John, all people are equally close, and he does not give advantage to his relatives, whom he helps, but no more than to everyone else. And his relatives do not complain, because for a long time they have been accustomed to look at him as a special person, not of this world. Here I learned that even as a child, the son of psalm-reader Ilya Sergiev, little thoughtful Ivanushka, enjoyed special respect among his fellow villagers. If the man's horse goes missing, they go to ask Ivanushka to pray; if some kind of grief happens or someone gets sick, they go to Ivanushka again. But the wondrous boy grew up, and his glory, like the sun, shone over Orthodox Russia. And in the wild, harsh desert, among the dense forests near the shifting sands, where once, except for a dozen huts and a dilapidated wooden poor church, there was nothing, the walls of the majestic stone church began to turn white, golden crosses shone over the young monastery growing by leaps and bounds. All literate Russia still knew in the north the homeland of the great Russian scientist Lomonosov. Now all Orthodox Russia will also know Sura - the homeland of its venerable shepherd. Just four years ago, Father John laid the foundation for the Sura monastery. And now there are already 120 sisters in Sura, most of whom came here to the harsh wilderness from the farthest ends of Russia. Only the smallest percentage of nuns are natives of the Arkhangelsk province. The young nuns did not gather here for an easy life and not for a well-maintained monastery. It is difficult to create a good farm in a short time on loose sand. There is no garden, no vegetable gardens, no cultivated fields here yet. Everything will have to be created with hard work under the most difficult conditions, since the northern summer is short. Three months will pass, during which the sun almost never leaves the horizon, and a cold, stormy autumn will come. At the beginning of October, almost everything here is already covered with snow. The sun first appears for only a few hours, and then almost disappears completely. A long, harsh winter is coming. Mail arrives here only once a week. Communication with distant Russia is only by horse and reindeer. For almost nine months, all of nature is immersed in a deep sleep. A deep silence reigns, broken only by the ringing of the bell calling the sisters to the monastery church, and the howling of the wind and the groan of the blizzard, merging with the hungry howl of wild animals. It was to this monastery that young girls gathered, consciously ready at the same time for any kind of self-sacrifice. I have seen a lot of male and female monasteries in Russia, but I have never seen anything like this before. Not a monastery, but some kind of institute. No matter what the nun, she is a seventeen or eighteen year old child. The oldest of them, excluding, of course, the abbess, is about thirty years old. So what? According to the priest and mother abbess, all the sisters fulfill their duties with remarkable zeal. Each one uncomplainingly bears her obedience, no matter how difficult it may be. So strong is the spirit imparted to them in ardent sermons by their spiritual father and patron, Father John. Among the novices of the Sursky Monastery there are a lot of Kronstadt and Peterhof natives who decided to come here solely out of a feeling of deep reverence for Father John. One can therefore imagine what a holiday the arrival of Father John in Sura represents for the sisters of the monastery! During Father John's stay in Sura, many sisters were spared more difficult obedience. Thus, day laborers were hired at the monastery sawmill and brick factories, where the sisters usually work, to give the nuns the opportunity to see the priest, confess and receive communion from him. On the day of our arrival, Father John served Vespers here. The next morning, a big event awaited the entire monastery: general confession and communion with Father John. After serving Vespers, Father John stayed overnight in the building adjacent to the monastery church. In the same building, only on the floor below, his companions also lived: from. George, abbot of the Verkolsky monastery, from. Ioannikiy with his cellarer, Pinega deacon. An exception was made for me due to the fact that I needed to work and the neighbors might interfere. Therefore, I was offered a separate room in the new, newly built house of the monastery priest, where I went after Vespers together with its owner. Georgiy Makkaveev. We walked through the front garden to a small gate made in the wooden temporary fence surrounding the vast monastery courtyard, and emerged onto a sandy square. At the opposite end of the square I saw a beautiful two-story house with balconies. George. From the house itself to the monastery gate there are footbridges, just like throughout the village along its huts. If there were no walkways here, walking on the loose sand, in which your feet sink, would be extremely difficult. Entering the house from. George, I was amazed by its improvement. Fine furniture, huge mirrors, beautiful, tastefully selected wallpaper would do honor to any landowner's home. When I asked if there was a closet somewhere in which I could develop the records, from. Georgy led me into a dark room specially designed for photography with running water and all the amenities necessary for development. The priest of the Maccabees, as they say, is a jack of all trades, and therefore brought a lot of benefit already during the creation of the new monastery. On his initiative and under his direct supervision, a brick and sawmill were built in Sur; according to his own thoughts, a monastery was built 18 versts from Sura in a grove granted to the monastery by the Emperor. From. Georgy draws the plans for the buildings himself and supervises the progress of the work. He built a house for himself. George, too, according to his own plan. I was given a very comfortable room with a balcony on the second floor. The entire monastery courtyard with all the buildings is visible from here at a glance. Between the monastery fence and the house from. George, a stone foundation has already been laid for the wall, which next year will surround the young monastery on all sides. The next day, in the morning, Father John solemnly, in front of a crowded church, served mass, during which, turning to the young nuns, he delivered a deeply felt sermon on how nuns who dedicated themselves to God should live. Knowing the human soul well, the priest in his sermon touched on those issues that represent the most sore spots in the lives of nuns. Towards the end of the sermon, suppressed sobs began to be heard in the church, which then turned into continuous loud sobbing. When, having finished the sermon, Father John said: “Repent!”, everything in the church merged into one common roar. Ceremoniously, with reverence, the nuns began to approach one after another to receive communion. Father John himself gave communion to everyone who was in the church. When the service ended and people began to leave the church, I suddenly heard some noise, in which it was not difficult to distinguish the voice of Father John. During my entire journey, I never saw Father John become irritated with anyone or raise his voice, and therefore, extremely surprised, I hurried with the others to church. When I entered, the priest was no longer there - he left through the altar. - What's happened? - everyone asked. “There’s only one crazy person here,” the nun explained to us, “he’s chasing the priest everywhere and assuring everyone that Father John is none other than Christ himself, who appeared on earth.” For the priest, this is sheer grief. The madman was taken out of the church, but this, of course, will not help the matter. He will go to another place and repeat his absurdity among the people. Such faces are a heavy cross for Father John; with their wild antics they bring true grief to the priest. After having lunch with the abbess of the monastery, Father John went with her to the monastery, recently built in a centuries-old ship forest. Wanting to get acquainted with Sura, I, taking with me a photographic camera and an album, went first of all to the house of Father John. The house, or rather the hut, in which Father John was born, previously stood at a completely different end of the village and has now been moved here next to the monastery and covered, like the house of Peter the Great in St. Petersburg, with a cover by admirers of Father John. The hut, like all the huts here, is made of thick logs. Light enters the two surviving rooms through small windows with cloudy green glass. The first, larger room is almost entirely covered with images and pictures of spiritual content. A portrait of Father John also hangs here. In the corner in front of the images there is a simple table covered with a tablecloth, on which there is a bowl of water and candles prepared for the prayer service. In the second room, of the things contemporary with Father John that were in his parents' possession, only a stone millstone in a wooden box survived. That's all the simple decor of Father John's hut. Having traveled 36 miles on horseback to the Grove and back, Father John returned remarkably cheerful and joyful. Father was very pleased with the condition of the recently rebuilt and decorated skete church in the name of the Holy Trinity. Everyone was simply amazed at the energy of this wonderful man. To get up before everyone else, serve Matins and Mass, and, without rest, travel 36 miles along a difficult road in terrible heat - and not get tired, at 74 years of age - as you wish, but this is not an entirely ordinary thing. Throughout our journey, we more than once had to meet Father John’s peers, his classmates at the seminary. But what kind of decrepit old people are all these compared to him: he seems like a young man if you see his schoolmate. Having returned from the Grove and having drunk tea, the priest immediately went to inspect the newly built priest's house. George. From the window of the owner of the house, located on the second floor, Father John could see in full view his entire Sura, in the foreground of which stretched a wide monastery courtyard with all its buildings, some already completely finished, and some not yet finished and covered with scaffolding. To the left of the monastery stood a churchyard with its ancient wooden church, bordered on three sides by thin pine trees. Behind the pine forest flows the small river Sura, which flows into Pinega. On the banks of the Sura there are monastery factories - a sawmill and a brick factory. To the right of the monastery you can see the entire village of Sura, at the end of which there are white stone houses - a school and a shop and a beautiful stone church in the name of St. Nicholas the Wonderworker. For a long time, the priest could not tear himself away from the sight of Sura, dear to his heart, so transformed thanks to his labors, and finally, turning to the priest Father George and his wife, he said: “You know what, I’ll stay here with you, in this little room, to spend the night.” Of course, the owners were incredibly happy about this and began to fuss, wanting to make the bed more comfortable. From the windows of the monastery, the nuns saw how the priest stood for a long time before going to bed at the open window in a white cassock and looked at everything he had created, and before retiring, he blessed the young monastery. The next morning, June 9, Father John celebrated mass in the Cathedral of St. Nicholas the Wonderworker. Beautiful, shining with the gilding of an expensive iconostasis, the church was crowded with worshipers. In addition to the peasants, all the sisters of the Sursky monastery gathered here, who did not want to miss a single service of their adored benefactor and patron. After mass, everyone went to the chapel over the grave of the father’s father, where the latter served a requiem mass. After this, until almost three o'clock in the afternoon, the tireless Father John made visits to Sura: he visited all the priests in their apartments, visited his sister, went to the monastery shop, where he blessed the sister-clerks, and stopped at the school, where one of the students read him a poem. When the priest left school, the children poured out into the street to see him off. There are about forty students in all; Everyone is dressed like an institute: in dark brown dresses and white capes. After having lunch at the house of Father George, the priest decided to inspect the monastery factories, since the next day in the evening the departure from Sura was scheduled, before which there was still a trip to the skete Roshcha, and, therefore, there was very little time left. Having passed by the graveyard, consisting of two cemeteries - schismatic and Orthodox, we entered a courtyard cluttered with boards, at the end of which there are factories on the very bank of the Sura. Here, just like in the monastery itself, everything is still in its infancy, not completed or finished, although the plant is working with all its might. A steam engine puffs, saws on several machines screech, sawing logs, drive belts rush through the air from shaft to shaft. Father examined each department in detail. The explanation was given by the priest Father George. Father John waited patiently until the long log that he had inserted into the machine came out on the other side in the form of inch-long planks. Then everyone went downstairs, where the resulting board was inserted into a planer, which gave it the shape of a long cornice. Then the drive belts were moved to another shaft, and a steel saw wheel spun in front of us with terrible speed. The same board was now placed under the saw and in just two or three minutes it turned into several small individual pieces, which were immediately distributed to everyone present as souvenirs. From the sawmill department we went to the brick department, where before our eyes, bricks of very regular shape were very quickly made from shapeless pieces of clay, using a steam engine. Right next door, the same steam engine sets in motion a flour millstone. Thanks to the factories established here, local peasants received a new source of income and income. Having finished inspecting the factories, Father John thanked the workers for their efforts and returned to Father George’s house. The next day at 6 o'clock in the morning, Father John wished to serve matins and mass in the monastery church in the name of the Holy Trinity, which is located in the so-called Grove. In view of this, he decided to get up in the morning at four o’clock in order to travel in the cold while there were no gadflies, and he suggested that the nuns who wanted to attend the service make the journey on foot in the evening. Of course, the only sisters who did not go to the monastery were those who could not leave for some particularly important reasons. Most of the nuns, having taken off their shoes, immediately set off on the eighteen-mile journey. Some of our companions also left in the evening: Hieromonk Father George with S.K. Kyrkalov, Abbot Ioannikiy with priest Fr. Georgiy et al. The police officer promised to pick me up in the morning to go to the monastery at the same time as Father John. Unfortunately, he cruelly let me down and deprived me of the opportunity to visit the Grove. At 4 o'clock in the morning, June 10th, Father John was already on his feet. When I left my room, the priest was already driving out of the gate onto the road. The well-fed monastery horses picked up Father John’s light carriage and almost galloped along the forest road. In Sura, everyone tried to persuade Father John to stay a few more days. “Look at the clouds on the horizon,” said the Suryans, “just as soon as the water rises, your steamer will come right here.” But Father John was not created for an idle life. Sitting around doing nothing is the most tiring thing for him. And in Sura everything had already been done, and besides, his arrival was eagerly awaited on the Volga. Before the Volga, we still had to visit Arkhangelsk, Kholmogory and Vologda. Therefore, the priest was in a hurry, and our departure was finally decided. Father John returned from Roshcha at about 4 o'clock in the afternoon and lay down to rest a little after the tiring journey. Soon the rest of the pilgrims arrived. Later than everyone else, the sisters of the monastery returned, having gone to the Grove on foot. The latter were caught in the rain on the road, and they returned completely wet. Having rested for no more than an hour, the priest went out to the farewell dinner table, around which all his close relatives, acquaintances and collaborators in the creation of the monastery had already gathered. The Suryans caught every word of the priest and did not take their eyes off him, wanting to see enough of him before saying goodbye. Father John spoke in turn with one and then with the other, giving each the necessary instructions regarding his specialty. “While I am alive, I will not leave you in my care,” Father John said at parting to the sisters of his monastery, “but when I die, then the Lord God will not leave you.” Be only pious and worthy sisters of your monastery. Return trip to Arkhangelsk. – Twelve miles – twelve mountains. After lunch, we and ot. George asked Father John for his blessing to leave earlier, since we had to make the fifty-mile journey to the Verkolsky Monastery with just a couple of unimportant horses without harness. Having said goodbye to everyone, we set off on the road. No one also knew for sure where our ship was. It could have happened that, fearing to “get dry,” as they say here, he went down many miles lower, and then we would have had too long of a boat trip ahead of us. In view of such considerations, it was decided to ride to Shotovaya Mountain on horseback. Many of our companions left the day before us, fearing that there might not be enough horses for everyone on the road. We are from. George decided not to be separated and to follow everywhere together, since both he and I equally needed to be always as close as possible to Father John. We left Sura only an hour before the priest, in the expectation that, having bad horses and waiting for the return of the ferries that would transport Father John, we would have been late and would have arrived at the Verkolsky monastery much later than the priest if we had left at the same time as him. On this day the weather was perfectly favorable to us. There was a light rain, which swept away the dust, the heat subsided, and the gadflies, hiding under the leaves of the trees, did not bother the horses. Having crossed by ferry to the opposite bank of Pinega and climbed the steep hill, we took our last look at Sura. The streets of the village, as on the day of our arrival, were completely empty: the entire population was within the fence of the monastery, this time awaiting the departure of the priest. I sincerely regretted that our stay in this interesting place was so short. Having sent our last greetings to the homeland of Father John, we sat down as comfortably as possible and trotted lightly along the sandy road, constantly tossed up by the thick roots of trees that came across the road. We drove about a mile after a steep descent and suddenly heard the clatter of a horse behind us. Looking out of our wagon, we saw Father John's troika dashingly rushing after us. The priest himself, noticing us, began to wave his old favorite straw hat to us from afar. Like a young man, he rushed past us, nodding affectionately and smiling at us with his kind, charming smile. “Such grace has been given to man,” says our coachman, “he will only look at you and as if he will give you a ruble.” And, indeed, we all felt somehow immediately cheerful, cozy, and warm. Not only children need affection! Adults also need it, but not everyone will be able to caress and comfort an adult. Just before the monastery, our exhausted horses could hardly drag their feet. Traveling fifty miles without a break is not an easy thing. Finally, at about 11 o’clock in the evening, we drove into the fence of the monastery hotel and went into the monastery to see the priest, who was still staying with Abbot Ioannikis, before going to bed. Here at the abbot's we found some of Father John's companions who had left Sura before us, and among them S.K. Kyrkalov. We had to hear unpleasant news regarding our steamer: it went down beyond Shotova Gora even further downstream. So, instead of the fifty miles ahead to Shotovaya Mountain, we now had to travel much further to our ship. This was all the more sad because behind Shotovaya Mountain the most desperate mountainous road began. S.K. Kyrkalov offered to go to his place in Shotova Gora before us and prepare a barge there, on which we could all go down to the steamer along the river. Father approved this idea and blessed S.K. Kyrkalov on the road, who immediately got ready and left. At the same time, the rest of our companions left for fear of being left behind in the morning. We are from. George, having wished the priest good night, went to the hotel for the night. In the morning, Father John served at the cathedral with the hieromonk of the Verkala monastery and Fr. George had Matins and Mass and, having dined with the abbot, at about 12 noon he received a whole group of petitioners for the last time and went out onto the porch of the abbot’s house, where three well-fed monastery horses were waiting for him. When Father John got into the carriage, the coachman-monk started the horses; but for some reason the strong, handsome rooter became stubborn and did not want to budge. All the efforts of the monks, who took the stubborn horse by the bridle, and the coachman’s whip could not help the matter. The horse with wide-protruding nostrils snorted, shifted from foot to foot, and did not want to move forward at any cost. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Father John got out of the carriage, walked up to the stubborn horse and, tugging at the bangs, shouted something to it. After this, the horse immediately calmed down and the carriage of Father John and the priest quietly set off through the monastery courtyard, accompanied by the well-wishes of those seeing them off. By 7 o'clock in the evening we had already safely arrived in Shotova Gora, having again covered 50 versts without re-harnessing, and arrived at the house of S.K. Kyrkalov. Here again disappointing news awaited us. The steamer descended 80 miles below Shotovaya Mountain, and the barge on which it was supposed to sail turned out to be unsuitable for this purpose. Willy-nilly, the next day we had to jolt again in the tarantass, and at the same time along a much worse road than we had traveled so far. Father John spent the night in Kyrkalov’s house. On the morning of June 12, I woke up to the sound of bells, announcing to the surrounding peasants the imminent arrival of Father John at the Shotova Gora church. From. George had been on his feet for a long time and, standing in the corner in front of the icon case, performed his morning rule. Looking out the window, I saw a gray horse harnessed to a small sleigh, decorated with carpets, at the porch of S.K. Kyrkalov’s house. – What does this dream mean: in the summer and suddenly a sleigh?! – I was surprised. It turned out that in the Arkhangelsk province it is not uncommon to meet someone on a sleigh in the summer. There are places where it is much easier to drive through soft and slippery moss on a sled than on wheels that dig deep into the loose soil. For the priest, of course, the sleigh was prepared more to show honor. In the old days in Russia, bishops were transported like this. Soon the priest himself appeared, cheerful, joyful and friendly to everyone. He got into the sleigh and, accompanied by a dense crowd, rode across the field to the church, where a huge crowd of people had already gathered. After serving mass, Father John returned to S.K. Kyrkalov, where tea and lunch were prepared for us. An hour before the end of the service in the church, a paralyzed peasant was brought to Kyrkalov’s yard on a cart. From a distance, Father John saw the sick man and immediately approached him and began to ask how long he had been ill and what caused the illness. Then, placing his hands on his head, he said a prayer and calmed the patient, giving him hope for recovery. After lunch at S.K. Kyrkalov’s, we immediately decided to set off on a further journey in pursuit of our steamer. It was the most difficult journey on horseback, and therefore we withdrew. George again left an hour earlier than Father John, fearing that oncoming ferries would separate us. Just before leaving, our young coachman turned to me with a request to remove his young woman. Even earlier, I noticed a very beautiful young woman with a purely Russian type, walking around the yard in her colorful outfit, but, having already failed once in the village of Soyle, where I wanted to photograph the same young woman, I did not try to ask her to act. I immediately complied with the coachman’s request and removed his wife, placing her at the well. “This is my daughter,” the same old woman who took us to school for the night came up to me. “Your daughter is beautiful,” I couldn’t resist complimenting her. “I have four such and such,” said the flattered old woman, not without boasting, “and all of them are better than the other, and all of them are married.” - Well, goodbye, happy old woman, goodbye, beauty. I’ll send you cards from St. Petersburg,” I shouted from the mother and daughter’s tent. The driver set off the fresh horses, and we rode beyond the outskirts. The words of Baroness T. that there are twelve miles and twelve mountains here were completely justified. Every minute we have to go down to the very bottom of the ravine and, crossing the openwork bridge over the stream, which at the first good rain turns into a stormy stream, climb back up the mountain. We go down the mountain, braking the rear wheel, and when going up the mountain, we often ourselves help the horses drag our wagon. “This mountain is called Bishop,” the driver pointed out to us the steepest rise as we approached it. - Why was she called that? – I asked. “But because horses couldn’t even drag the bishop here; He had to stand up on his own feet. But now we had passed twelve mountains, and we began to descend to the river. “Now, on the other side, the road will be easier, smoother,” the coachman consoled us. Indeed, having crossed by ferry to the opposite, also mountainous shore, we rode more calmly. At the very top of the mountain, descending to Pinega and covering the village, we saw the upper part of the bell tower and on it several people were waiting for Father John to pass, so that when he appeared, they could ring the bells. At about ten o'clock in the evening we finally heard the clatter of horses behind us and the priest overtook us again. As before, he cheerfully nodded his head at us, shouted something and rushed past like a whirlwind, waving his hat at us. “Well, coachman, now don’t yawn, but blow as hard as you can,” we turned to our driver. But the horses turned out to be weak, and we very soon lost the crew. John out of sight. We were rescued by S.K. Kyrkalov, who caught up with us on fresh horses. We quickly transferred our things into his tarantass and rushed off again, sitting in an inclined position and holding our stomachs so that the shocks would not be so sensitive. Following us was another troika, on which were riding a woman and a girl of about twelve. It turned out that these were two sick people who were late in Shotova Gora for the departure of Father John and were now catching up with him to share their grief and receive a blessing. We crossed one small river by ferry, forded another, and finally, at about 11 o’clock in the evening, we saw our desired steamer from the mountain far below, near the sandy shore. Father John was already on the ship, which with the divorced couples was only waiting for the order to set sail. With great difficulty we descended the cliff along the loose sand and, paving a new road, somehow made it to the steamer. It turned out that during our stay in Sura, the steamship “St. Nicholas the Wonderworker suffered a minor accident: going downstream, he ran aground at full speed and could only move with great difficulty. As soon as Father John released the sick woman and the girl, the ship set sail from the shore and went downstream. At about 4 o'clock in the morning on June 13th we had already approached the city of Pinega, where we stopped to serve mass. After serving mass, Father John said goodbye to the local deacon, who traveled with us to Sura, and immediately ordered to sail on. At about one o'clock in the afternoon we passed by the Krasnogorsk Monastery. Our helmsman now had to keep a keen eye on the fairway. The whole team was on guard all the time. A man with a measuring pole almost never left the bow. Twice we hit the bottom of the river, but in the end we safely passed all the dangerous rapids. In one place, a sad picture appeared before our eyes: a steamer with passengers coming towards us stopped at a deserted shore, unable to continue its journey along the shallow river, and the passengers wandered along the shore with luggage in their hands. At 9 o'clock In the evening we finally approached Ust-Pinega and saw the wide, high-water Northern Dvina in the distance. The shallows ended and we felt free. Our path now lay directly north to Arkhangelsk, where, according to calculations, we should have arrived at about 4 o’clock in the morning. Not wanting to raise an alarm in the city at night, Father John ordered to stop about five miles from the city, and to approach the city no earlier than 8 o’clock in the morning. A small accident on a ship. – Stay in Arkhangelsk. In the morning, through my sleep, I heard the steamer moor to the shore, and then there was some commotion in the engine room next to my cabin. They were talking about something, arguing. It turned out that some pipe in the car had burst, and therefore it was impossible to get to Arkhangelsk, which was already visible at a distance of 3-4 miles from us, on our ship without a thorough repair. S.K. Kyrkalov came to our rescue, offering to call the Volodin steamship from Arkhangelsk by phone, which would take us to Arkhangelsk, and send our steamer in tow to a sawmill, where there were craftsmen who could fix the car. Thanks to the kindness of S.K. Kyrkalov, who went to the nearest sawmill and called the Volodin steamer from there by telephone, we did not have to sit in one place for long. Soon the white hull of a large, beautiful steamer appeared in the distance, quickly approaching our crashed “St. Nicholas the Wonderworker." The captain of the Volodin steamship told us that in Arkhangelsk yesterday, June 13th, they had been waiting all day for the arrival of Father John, and many, thinking that the priest might arrive at night, had been on duty on the banks of the Dvina until the morning. As soon as we boarded the arriving ship, the captain gave the order to set sail and we moved towards Arkhangelsk, glittering in the distance with the domes of its churches. There were about five miles left to the city center, but despite this, towing steamers scurried about on the surface of the river every now and then, maneuvering between huge sailing and steam ships at anchor, loaded mainly with timber and flour; Dozens of boats plied the water, crowded with workers from rafts and barges. All this life, on the eve of Arkhangelsk, is concentrated mainly around a number of sawmills scattered along the river bank. The closer you get to the city, the busier the river becomes and the more intense the activity of its inhabitants. A mass of huge foreign ships of all nationalities stands majestically in the middle of the river, surrounded on all sides, like parasites, by barges of various sizes, onto which goods are being loaded with noise and roar. In St. Petersburg, along the Neva, such a revival is not visible, since all port life is concentrated here outside the city. In Arkhangelsk, thanks to the width and depth of the S. Dvina, the largest foreign steamships can pass much higher than the city. But from behind the barges and a whole flotilla of sea vessels, the white walls of the most ancient Arkhangelsk monastery in the entire North appeared, and behind it, Arkhangelsk stretched out in one long line along the bank of the river. Father John, who had been standing all the time on the bow of the steamer and not taking his admiring gaze off the approaching city, at the sight of the monastery with which we passed, bared his head and made the sign of the cross. “This is where my teenage years passed,” he turned to me, pointing to the garden and the seminary building, which appeared not far from the Archangel Monastery. Father looked lovingly at every building in the city and gave me detailed explanations. “This monastery in the name of Archangel Michael was built 400 years before the founding of the city,” he said. – It now houses the Church Archaeological Society. And over there is a wooden house - this is the diocesan girls' school, behind it you can see a large stone house - this is the house of the bishop. Now look further, this is our Sursky farmstead. On the river embankment itself I saw a newly rebuilt two-story wooden building with a chapel. Opposite this house we landed at one of the piers, cluttered with bags of bread. From the pier, Father John first of all went on a visit to the bishop, from whom he was immediately received. The Bishop invited the priest to participate in concelebration with him the next morning in his home Church of the Cross, promising to send his carriage for Father John. From the bishop, Father John went to the neighboring Annunciation Church, built by residents of Kholmogory and Veliky Ustyug. There he served mass. At this time, in the courtyard of the Sursky Ioannovsky Monastery, a crowd of people had gathered and a few sisters, the inhabitants of the courtyard, were anxiously awaiting the arrival of Father John. The fact is that we brought with us a nun from Sura, who was supposed to replace the “elder” sister of the metochion, who was dying. On this occasion, they were eagerly waiting for the priest in the courtyard, who promised to arrive from the church with the Holy Gifts and give communion to the dying woman. I saw this nun who was led into Father John's room when he finally arrived from church. She hung in the arms of the sisters who supported her, barely moving her legs, exhausted, powerless, with sunken, dull eyes, and a face as yellow as wax. It seemed that she would not reach the end of the room and would die immediately. But then she was led into Father John’s room and the door was immediately closed behind her. Father began holy confession. At this time, all the stairs and passages between them were crowded with people. There was no one here! And an official without a position with a petition in his hands, and students, and merchants, and some girl with an atrophied hand, and a host of other sick and suffering people. The police bailiff fussed with all his might to establish at least some order to prevent a stampede. But then the door opened, and a nun who had already received communion appeared. She was still supported by the arms, but she walked much more cheerfully with visible spiritual uplift. In the evening of the same day, when Father John, having made visits to the governor and several other persons, again stopped by the courtyard and, together with others, sat down at the common tea table, I, turning back, to my great surprise, saw a sick nun sitting without any outside help on a chair behind Father John. Even a blush began to appear on her cheeks. She looked cheerfully at those around her and eagerly listened to every word spoken by the priest. I pointed it out to Father John. He quickly turned around, nodded his head at her and said: – Thank God, thank God, no one like God. On the third day of our stay in Arkhangelsk, I was even more amazed to see the same nun, completely healthy and thriving, appearing for mass in the huge Holy Trinity Cathedral, crowded with worshipers, where Father John served. She stood among the crowd without any outside help and prayed fervently. On the day of our arrival, Father John served Vespers in the Arkhangelsk Cathedral of the Holy Trinity, built on the site, according to legend, indicated by Peter the Great himself. This is a beautiful, majestic church, striking with the consistency and severity of the lines of its huge, several-tiered golden iconostasis. A wide staircase leads to the upper floor of the cathedral, on which are placed three cannons, granted by Peter I in 1701 to Archbishop Athanasius from a Swedish frigate and yacht taken that year near Arkhangelsk. At the wall to the right of the entrance, under a gilded canopy, supported by three columns and two carved wooden, human-sized angels, there is a six-foot pine cross, made with Peter the Great’s own hand in memory of the deliverance from the storm in the Horns of Una and transferred here from the Pertominsky monastery with the permission of Emperor Alexander I. On the cross, Peter carved the Dutch inscription: Dat Kruus maken Kartein Piter van a. Chr. 1694. The history of the construction of the cross and its transfer to Arkhangelsk is depicted on shields supported by angels. Near the cross is a standard and a Palestinian flag from the plane on which Peter I sailed from Vologda to Arkhangelsk. After Vespers in the cathedral, Father John went on a visit to the rector of the seminary, who lives in the building in which the priest himself once studied. In the corridor of the seminary we met one of her students who had not gone on vacation, who, seeing Father John, rushed to the rector to inform him about the unexpected arrival of the guest of honor. Having made a visit to the rector, during which the latter gave Father John a report on the activities of those educational institutions that use his financial assistance, the priest, accompanied by the rector and his family, went to the seminary garden, to the same garden where many years ago, as a young man, he sat with books, preparing for exams. Then the trees in the garden were young, but now the garden has grown into a huge shady park. It is not difficult to imagine the joyful feeling with which Father John, a passionate lover of nature, looked at every corner of the garden, which spoke to him of his long-gone seminary years. Having walked to the deepest end of the garden, Father John suddenly stopped in front of a tall, slender and strong tree, the branches of which had grown widely and hung over the path and neighboring bushes. Father John took off his hat and, as if greeting an old comrade, touched the tree with his hands. “Here is my peer,” he said, turning to us. – This was my favorite place in the garden. Under this tree I most often spent my leisure time and read books. While we were walking around the garden, a crowd began to gather in the latter, which gradually surrounded Father John and made further walking almost impossible. I had to say goodbye to the rector and his family and head for the exit. From the seminary we went to the diocesan women's school, which also enjoys the care of Father John. Here the priest visited a seriously ill pupil and, after drinking a glass of tea from the boss, went to the house of the local merchants Selyaninov, where a room had been prepared for him. Father John had stayed at the Selyaninovs’ house before. This is a beautifully furnished two-story stone mansion, facing Trinity Avenue opposite the governor's house. The extremely pleasant lady of the house gave us the most cordial welcome. The next morning, several people from the gentlemen’s acquaintances gathered in the hall adjacent to Father John’s room, waiting for him to leave before leaving for the Church of the Cross. The Selyaninovs, who wanted to receive a blessing from the priest. By the way, some strange old woman was also allowed in from the street. “Oh, thank them,” she wailed, “they missed it!” “I, father, came here from Yekaterinodar deliberately just to get to him,” she turned to me. “You see this hand,” she extended her right hand to me, moving her fingers, “after all, it was dangling three years ago from paralysis, and he, merciful, cured it with his prayer.” “I went to Kronstadt to see him then and now I’ve been healthy for three years, and I’m still working!” “But now my son, a carpenter, has taken up an unlucky business: he has become a drunkard. I thought and thought... I saved up every penny I could and came to see my father again. - Eh, if only they would let him see him. Soon the priest came out, and the old woman was one of the first to approach him. Having heard her request, Father John walked with her to the corner with the icons and, kneeling down, prayed. Having finished the prayer, he turned to the other petitioners, listening to each one individually. The old woman came up to me beaming. - Everything turned out so happily! It’s not for nothing that she came,” she said, not taking her eyes off Father John, who stood at the end of the room, talking with some old man. “And you know what,” she turned again in my direction, “after all, you won’t see such an opportunity again soon, “shouldn’t I also ask him to pray for my nephew: he sometimes has a headache, so that he never gets sick?” I advised her not to bother the priest anymore with trifles. This incident reminded me of an episode from the life of the late Metropolitan of Kiev Platon. The same old woman, during some big holiday in the Kyiv Lavra, after much effort, made her way in the crowd to the bishop’s hand and kissed it, shouted to her fellow countrywoman, who was standing at the other end of the church: “Akulina, make your way here; I won’t let you out until you come!” And indeed, she did not let go of the Metropolitan’s hand until her fellow countrywoman came up and kissed her. But then the bishop’s carriage arrived, and Father John went to serve in the Church of the Cross. The Bishop provided Father John with his carriage for the whole day, so the priest did not suffer as much from the terrible Arkhangelsk dust that day as on the previous day. Going to Arkhangelsk, Father John did not expect to stay there for more than two days. But here such a mass of all kinds of requests and invitations awaited him that the priest decided to stay one more day, promising to celebrate mass in the cathedral on the day of departure. From the Church of the Cross, Father John again drove to his courtyard, where he had to sort through a whole heap of letters and telegrams received from all over Russia. Before the evening we made a very interesting trip to the S.K. Kyrkalov plant in the so-called Maimaksa. Father John and Hieromonk George rode in the bishop's carriage, and I, the local bailiff and S.K. Kyrkalov sat in the latter's comfortable carriage. In bailiff Andrei Ivanovich Ivanov, I met a very interesting interlocutor. He was recently transferred to Arkhangelsk from Moscow, but despite this, he knows very well not only the city, but also all its surroundings, and is also well acquainted with the life of local port workers and their attitude towards foreigners. According to him, foreign Germans treat Russians in general and Russian workers in particular the worst. The descendants of large trading firms living in the German settlement, constituting the monetary aristocracy of the foreign population of Arkhangelsk, keep themselves withdrawn and are alien to Russian society. For some reason, the German sailors arriving on German ships behave especially defiantly towards the Russian port workers. There are clashes here among our workers with both the British and the French, but this always has a different character. “They get drunk, ours and the British or French fight among themselves over trifles, and then at the police station they make up and extend their hand to each other,” A.I. Ivanov told me. With the Germans things are always different. Even in a sober state, for some reason they try to show their advantage and arrogance over the Russians. Yes, we recently had a typical case: – Russian workers buy eggs at the market; Already traded the entire balance for 3 kopecks. for ten and they get the money. Suddenly the Germans standing nearby give the merchant 6 kopecks per ten and announce that they are taking the eggs. They say they bargained before, and therefore the eggs are ours. “Malshi, Russian pig,” says the German and shows a knife. Ours - in the teeth, and the German with a knife. A dangerously wounded, bloodied man is brought to the station. And all because the German gentlemen imagined that the universe existed exclusively for them, and the Russian men did not deserve better treatment. Of course, this is not about those Germans who have long gotten used to Russian society, made friends with it and even say to themselves that they are “bloody Russians.” Having left the courtyard of the Sursky Monastery, we drove along the main and almost the only street running parallel to S. Dvina - Trinity Avenue. Having driven past the cathedral and the governor's house, we went around the Lomonosov monument, which was very unsuccessful in its execution, and ended up in the Nemetskaya Sloboda. Every house is a wooden palazzo, surrounded by a flowering garden with the most quaint flower beds and fountains. Cleanliness and neatness in everything is the most German. Many houses are built in a medieval spirit: instead of the first floor there is a high foundation with a rustic wall and only on the second floor there are windows behind which silk curtains and some of the luxurious furnishings are visible. Having crossed the bridge over the Kuznechikha River, we entered the town of Solombala, famous in the history of Russian shipbuilding. At the entrance to the village, to the left of the bridge you can see the vast Solovetsky courtyard surrounded by a fence, the two-story stone building of which can accommodate up to 1,000 pilgrims. Further behind the birch grove you can see the Solombala Transfiguration Cathedral, built in 1760–1776, formerly called the Admiralty or Naval Cathedral. Having traveled all of Solombala, we came to an area called Maimanka, which received its name from the Maimaksa river washing it, one of the many branches of the S. Dvina. This is where the sawmill district began. We are driving along a path covered with boards. To the left and right there are huge stacks of already processed timber. A little further away, whole mountains of cuttings from logs are piled up, which are burned in winter to clear the place here, since thanks to the accumulation of such a mass of forest, no one needs it and therefore they don’t even take it for nothing. At the plant of S.K. Kyrkalova from. John served a prayer service, and we went back the same way. In one place we met a rich landau quickly rolling towards us. Since the place was very narrow, we, afraid of getting caught in the wheels, stopped in full confidence that the oncoming coachman would also hold his horses. But the coachman continued to drive quickly. Meanwhile, behind our carriage there was now a wide bishop’s carriage, in which Father John was sitting and which could easily be touched. In view of this, when we reached the landau, we shouted to the coachman to drive more quietly. - But, but, but, but! – the thick bass answered threateningly. “That’s what you can do with such fruit,” the bailiff later said. “His pocket is stuffed tightly, and he feels his strength.” On the way back we had to visit several houses where they were eagerly awaiting the arrival of Father John. In almost every house I saw a huge polar bear skin spread on the floor. They say that here during the fair you can buy a beautiful polar bear skin for 25 rubles. On June 16, Father John served mass for the last time in the cathedral, during which he delivered a deeply felt sermon on how to educate youth in the faith and protect them from the harmful influence of some writers who deny all the foundations of Orthodoxy. After the mass, Father John had to visit several more houses, and only at five o’clock in the afternoon, having served a prayer service in the chapel of the Sursky metochion, the priest, accompanied by almost the entire city with the governor at the head, arrived on his now repaired ship, and we set sail. We walked the whole way from Arkhangelsk in five hours. First we sailed along the North. Dvina, then turned into a rather narrow branch of the Dvina - the Kurya or Kuropalka river, separating the large sandy, willow-covered Kurostrov from Kholmogory. Kuropalka turned out to be very shallow, and our steamer kept touching the sandy bottom of the river with its bottom. We were not afraid to “dry out”, since the sea tides still have their influence here, and therefore we tried to get as close as possible to Kholmogory. But we were never able to get to the city itself by boat. We had to stop about three miles from the city at a small hillock, where horses had already been sent for us from the Kholmogory convent. Father John, met by several nuns, announced to them that he would go to spend the night with his second sister, the widow of a priest, living several miles from the monastery, and by 9 o’clock in the morning he would arrive at the monastery to serve mass. We are from. George sat down in a line and, picked up by a pair of round horses, rushed after Father John. Soon we reached the city and drove along its dusty, rather wide street past small, mostly one-story houses, from the gates of which their inhabitants hurriedly ran out and bowed low to Father John. Kholmogory is a small county town with a little over a thousand inhabitants, located along the banks of the Kuropalka River. As you know, on the Kholmogory meadows, cattle known for their milk production and beauty are raised, bred under Peter the Great by crossing a local breed with a Dutch one. The area, known in our chronicles under the name Kolmogor or Kholmogor, belongs to one of the most ancient settlements of the Novgorodians in the Dvina land and is identified by some historians with Golmgard mentioned in the Scandinavian sagas. The city arose from several villages and graveyards that were in this area, changing their names when they were moved from one place to another, caused by strong floods of the Dvina. The current city is located a mile down the river from the place where it was located at the end of the 17th century and where the cathedral and monastery stand completely alone in a meadow to this day. Soon the majestic Transfiguration Cathedral appeared, standing on a hill a few steps from the monastery fence, and therefore we took from a distance to be part of the monastery. Seeing Father John approaching, the nuns rang their bell tower and the entire monastery poured out to meet him. But the priest turned to the side and drove along the road leading to the village where his sister lives. Only my friend and I went to the monastery. Georgiy. Despite the fact that it was already about eleven o'clock in the evening, in anticipation of the arrival of Father John, no one slept in the monastery and all its gates were open; therefore, having handed over our belongings to the monastery hotel, located outside the monastery fence, we and Fr. George entered the monastery in order to introduce himself to the abbess and inspect the monastery. The small monastery courtyard, surrounded on all sides by buildings housing the sisters' cells, refectory, workshops, kitchen and bakery, close to the cathedral ends in white stone chambers, built in the 17th century and then intended to house the bishop's staff. In 1744, the unfortunate offspring of Tsar Ivan Alekseevich was sent here for imprisonment by their father Anton Ulrich, who, after his wife Anna Leopoldovna died here from childbirth, spent 34 years with his four children under strict supervision. Now, in the room where the prisoners languished, the monastery’s schema-monster is at rest. On the second floor of the chambers there is a very interesting Assumption Church in its plan, adjacent to the premises of the schema-monastery. Of the objects contemporary with the family of Anton Ulrich, except for a few portraits that have suffered from time to time and stored in the apartment of the abbess, almost nothing remains in the Kholmogory Monastery. Only stone vaults and strongly built walls remained silent witnesses to the long-past heavy drama. Having examined the church, we went into the refectory - a small room, very poorly furnished, and from there we went down to the bakery and prosphora room. Of the monastery's workshops in recent times, we were able to see only icon painting. The large, bright room was completely lined with easels with the nuns’ works begun and some already completed. On long wooden tables lay drawings made from plaster masks and body parts. I looked at my watch; it was exactly 12 o'clock at night, and we examined the work without a lamp and did not even have to strain our eyes to look at small things - it was so light. After spending the night at the hotel, we hurried to the monastery church, where nuns were hurrying from all over, since Father John, who had promised to arrive at 9 o’clock in the morning, unexpectedly arrived a whole hour earlier and was already reading the canon. The small monastery church quickly filled with people who came here from Kholmogory and surrounding villages. “We don’t have such a gathering of people even on the day of Holy Easter,” the monastery treasurer later told me. According to her, the surrounding population, half consisting of Old Believers, has a very cold attitude towards the church and almost does not visit the monastery. The funds of the monastery are therefore extremely meager and are only to a small extent supported by pilgrims who come here, coming from Russia to Solovki. During the service in the church, I also saw two schema-nuns of the monastery. They sat hunched over on their stools, resting their hands on their staves, and were in remarkable harmony with those heavy arches that hung over their decrepit bodies, hidden under wide, black and white cloaks of schemata. Only the nose and part of the protruding chin were visible. The rest of the faces of both elders were covered with their sad headdress. After finishing the service in the church, Father John, accompanied by the local clergy, walked on foot to the majestic Transfiguration Cathedral, located just a few hundred steps from the monastery. The cathedral was built in 1685 by the first Archbishop of Kholmogory and Vazhi Athanasius, a famous opponent of the schism, a favorite of Peter I and his collaborator in the north. Built on the model of the Moscow Assumption Cathedral, the Kholmogory Cathedral is remarkable for its beautiful five-tiered iconostasis, choirs suspended above the altar and beautiful resonance. On both walls of the cathedral there are tombs of six archbishops and four bishops who died in the diocese, with portraits of each of them above the tomb and epitaphs, starting with the Most Reverend Athanasius, depicted beardless due to a famous episode from his life that occurred in Moscow during the council there in the presence of Princess Sophia, when the monk Sergius from Suzdal, better known as Nikita Pustosvyat, who wanted to conduct a debate about the “right faith” directly with the patriarch and irritated by the objections of the Right Reverend Athanasius, rushed at him shouting: “Why are you getting above your head!” - and tore out his beard. In the altar of the cathedral, the local priest showed us a whole collection of the most precious monuments of hoary antiquity, consisting of church utensils, airs, mitres, gospels and crosses from the time of Ivan the Terrible and other eras. Father John examined each individual item in detail and listened to the explanations given by the rector of the cathedral. When we left the cathedral, it began to rain, and then the priest amazed everyone with his amazing cheerfulness. “Well, brothers, we need to run away from the rain, otherwise we’ll get wet,” he said, turning to those accompanying us, and, having picked up his cassock more comfortably, he soon ran the entire distance from the cathedral to the monastery. The old priests who were with him, despite the fact that many of them were much younger than Father John, of course, were far behind him. Having dined with the abbess, we said goodbye to the monastery and returned to the ship. On the other side of Kuropalka stretches for many miles, dotted with villages, sandy Kurostrov, an ancient Chud settlement and the birthplace of M.V. Lomonosov. Behind the willow bushes on the hill you can see a rather sparse spruce forest, the remnant of a mysterious dense forest, in which, according to the legend of the Icelandic chronicler Sturleson, stood the church of the miracle idol of Iomala, richly decorated with precious stones, holding on its knees a bowl full of gold coins and of such a size that if it were filled with water, four could drink from it to their fill. At that time, a fur fair well known far beyond the borders of Biarmia was taking place on Kurostrov, and the Norwegians who came to this fair robbed the idol at night and, in order to remove the necklace from it, cut it up. Having woken up, the guards raised the alarm and the Chud chased after the Norwegians, but they, being more skilled in military affairs, defeated the Chud in an area that still bears the name of the Massacre and is located lower along the Dvina. To the side of the road leading to the Lomonosov (formerly Vozhkorinskaya) volost, there is a small chapel that has existed since 1659. It was erected, according to legend, at the burial site of three Chud princes. In the village of Lomonosovka, the former Denisovka (aka Boloto), in a small garden there is the Lomonosov School, founded in 1868 and built on the site where the house of Lomonosov’s father Vasily Dorofeev stood, a one-story building with 10 windows with a small library, a bone carving class and a room for the teacher. This school is the only memory of Lomonosov. No other monuments, memories or legends now exist about our famous scientist and poet in his homeland. At about 3 o'clock in the afternoon we again went to the North. Dvina and went against the current back to the south. Now our path lay on the Volga along the same North. Dvina and Sukhona, and there was a stop in Vologda. We now sailed slowly against the current and, moreover, stopped every day to serve mass in those villages that we approached around 8–9 o’clock in the morning. Thus, we completed the entire journey from Kholmogory to Vologda in five days. During these days I witnessed two scenes that will remain in my memory forever. I heard a lot about events that took place through prayer from. John. I also saw people who experienced the effect of Father John’s prayer and were cured of one or another illness. I myself, apart from the amazingly rapid recovery of the nun that occurred in the Sura metochion in Arkhangelsk after the priest’s prayer, had never seen anything before. And now, before my eyes, two incidents occurred, which I will leave to the reader to judge. I myself convey only what I saw, without any embellishment, and I accurately name the places in which the described facts occurred, in order to give those who wish to check what is described with local residents. Back on June 18th in the evening, when we passed by the village of Troitsky, located on the border of the Arkhangelsk and Vologda provinces, we noticed clouds of white smoke far on the horizon. The further we moved upstream, the thicker the smoke became. Finally, soon we were completely enveloped in a shroud of fragrant smoke and enjoyed its smell. The forests in the surrounding area, tundra and juniper were burning. On the morning of June 19, we stopped at the village of Yagryshi, 120 versts from Kotlas. The peasants did not immediately come to the church, which Father John had already entered, since the majority were located outside the outskirts. Everyone fearfully awaited the approaching fire, which slowly but surely did its terrible work, getting closer and closer from the tundra to the villages scattered on the banks of the Dvina. However, the news of the unexpected arrival of Fr. John quickly spread around everyone, and soon the Yagrysh church was filled with peasants from several villages. Everyone asked Father John to pray for the sending of rain, which had not happened in this area for three months. Wanting to take photographs, I left the church before the end of the service and began installing the apparatus on the deck of our steamship “St. Nicholas the Wonderworker." While I was fiddling with the devices, clouds began to approach from the south and a shadow fell on the hot ground. When the mass ended and Father John, accompanied by a huge crowd of people, left the church and headed to the ship, it began to rain. Everyone joyfully looked at the horizon covered with dark clouds and piously crossed their naked heads. When the priest entered the deck and the crew of the ship began to drop anchor, the entire shore was covered with a huge crowd of people. Many were forced to enter the water in order to see the priest closer, and did not take their enthusiastic gaze off Father John. Finally, a venerable gray-haired old man came out of the crowd and, bowing to the ground to Father John, said the following: “Your high blessing! For three months we did not have a drop of dew, the drought depleted our land, our fields; the fire surrounded our villages on all sides and threatened our homes, and so you, at our request, prayed for us, and the Lord sent us rain. Please accept our gratitude, Your Reverence.” At the last words, the whole people fell to their knees as one person. “No one like God, no one like God,” the priest repeated, affectionately nodding his head to everyone. As the steamer left the shore, several people sang psalms; the people took it up, and the voices of a powerful chorus of a thousand-strong crowd continued to fly for a long time after our retreating steamer. Only a terrible downpour, drumming on the roof of our ship, finally drowned out the voice of the crowd, which did not want to disperse even in the rain. The name of Father John is associated with many cases where the matter was not the healing of the sick, but things that had nothing to do with the nervous system and human psyche. Two such incidents happened before my eyes during our trip. I just told you one of them, naming exactly the place where it happened. I do not name where and with whom the second incident occurred, since I do not consider myself to have the right to make public the names of the persons in whose family grief occurs, especially since the fact itself is interesting here, and not the names of the persons involved in it. In one merchant family, which had long been conducting a large wholesale trade, as a result of the unfortunate passion for wine of its head, things began to deteriorate. The bills came due, but the family could not pay them, since at that time all the capital was in circulation, and there was not enough cash. Three days after our arrival in the city where the said family lives, an inventory of the property and all the luxurious furnishings belonging to them was to be made. The family was in terrible grief. They invited Father John, who served a prayer service. The next day, before we left for our further journey, one of the local residents, whom I had met the day before, came up to me and said: – Do you know what happiness Father John brought to N.N.’s family? -What's the matter? - I ask. - Yes, of course: soon after his departure some merchants came to them and bought goods for six thousand rubles. Now they have the opportunity to get rid of the inventory of property. A lot of such incidents happened and are happening in the life of Father John. At about 12 o'clock at night on June 19th we passed by Kotlas and sailed upstream of the Sukhona. The night became noticeably darker, especially since the sky was overcast with clouds, from which rain fell from time to time. By 8 o'clock on June 20th we arrived at Veliky Ustyug. This time the priest served mass in the Cathedral of St. Procopy of the Righteous. When from. John was about to return to the ship; he was asked to visit a sick young man who had been hurt by a horse and was now lying at home, unable to move. According to those who asked to visit him, the doctors refused to treat him, since the patient had developed something like gangrene. When Father John came to the sick man, he told him: – If you can pray with faith, then pray and hope – and the Lord will hear you and help you. “I believe, father, I believe with all my heart, pray for me,” the young man answered him. Father John began to pray. When, after finishing the prayer, Father John, having said goodbye to his family, headed towards the exit, the sick man himself rose from his seat, threw his crutches aside and, staggering, went to accompany Father John to the exit. “Look, mom,” he said, “I can already hold myself without crutches.” Such a rapid metamorphosis interested even Father John himself, and he told the patient that when he recovered completely, he should write him a letter about himself. From Ustyug to Vologda. – Stay in Vologda. - Again on Lake Kubenskoye. - Sheksna. From Ustyug to Vologda we sailed a distance of three days, stopping every day to serve mass in the villages we met along the way. Everywhere, as before, people flocked from all sides and besieged the priest with all sorts of requests, and, to the honor of those who turned to him, it must be said that all these requests were more about satisfying moral, spiritual needs than about material help. In one place, during our stop at a small village where we were getting firewood, a woman, along with other peasants, came onto our ship, carrying some strange creature on her back, pressed tightly against her. The monkey is not a monkey, but it doesn’t look much like a human either. The hunched torso in long, beautiful places (as in the original - editor's note "ABC of Faith") with the same long and thin arms was pressed tightly against the mother's back. The large elongated head with sunken cheeks hung forward and seemed ready to tear away from the thin neck with a huge Adam's apple. It turned out that this strange creature is 19 years old. His mother lowered him onto the deck of the ship at the feet of Father John. - Pray, dear, for him. He has been asking you for a long time. So he doesn’t understand anything, because he’s poor, but he’s been asking for everything for a long time,” she turned to the priest. The little wretched creature raised its crazy eyes upward and smiled at Father John. Father took his head in his hands and began to stroke and caress him. “This happened to him out of fright,” his mother explained to us. When he was still a boy, about five years old, he was scared at a fire. Since then he has become sick and stupid. After Father John’s blessing, the little creature noticeably perked up. He rejoiced, vaguely realizing that he was caressed by the same kind Kronstadt father, Father Ivan, who was so often mentioned in his village and in his family since childhood. When our ship set sail from the shore, behind a crowd of women who had gone knee-deep into the water, I saw Stepushka, that was the name of the frightened boy, sitting on the shore, completely cheerful. He threw pebbles up and rejoiced like little children rejoice. The women surrounded him and looked with curiosity at him, then at our retreating ship. Obviously, something happened to Stepushka that doesn’t usually happen to him. On the morning of June 21, Father John celebrated mass in the large village of Brusnitsa that we encountered. This village left a strong impression in my memory for two reasons: firstly, it is very beautifully spread out along the mountainous bank of the Sukhona and with its massive, quaint huts and purely Russian simple population, not yet touched by urban culture, it represents one of those corners of indigenous Rus' that are becoming less and less common on large navigable rivers; and secondly, here I am - I almost stepped on a dead man. A strange custom exists here during funeral services for the dead. During mass, they are placed not in the middle of the church, as is customary in our country, but on the floor near the side wall at the entrance to the church. When I entered the church where Father John was already serving, a dense crowd of worshipers filled the church in a dense mass. The apple, as they say, had nowhere to fall. I somehow squeezed my way to the side wall and slowly made my way forward, peering with curiosity at the old blackened paintings on the walls. Suddenly my leg felt something hard. Thinking that this was a step in front of the image, I already raised my leg to stand on it - but, looking down, I staggered back in horror. At my feet, parallel to the wall, stood a low wooden coffin containing a deceased person. If I hadn’t looked at the floor, my foot would have been in a coffin. The next morning we were already fifty miles from the village of Shuisky and celebrated mass in the village of Ikolitsy. The people here are of a completely different character than in Brusnitsy. Sundresses disappeared and were replaced by ugly city-style sweaters. The banks of the Sukhona have become noticeably lower and more monotonous. In the evening we entered the Vologda River, which cuts through flood fields and meadows like a narrow ribbon. In the spring, all visible space is covered with water, and then the river bed. Vologda can only be recognized by the tall pillars dug into its banks. Night fell and it became completely dark. Towing steamers with barges constantly come our way, and we have difficulty maneuvering among them. At midnight we landed on the shore several miles from the city of Vologda. A huge three-story steamer of the Northern Society, “Reverend Savvaty,” passed by us, making voyages between Vologda and Arkhangelsk. Like a huge house with a mass of windows illuminated by electricity, in which dozens of human heads were visible, quickly rushed past us, leaving a trail in the air of a billion sparks flying out of the chimney. At about eight o'clock in the morning we approached the mountains. Vologda, and Father John immediately went to the Spasograd Cathedral, where he celebrated mass. Having then made the necessary visits to the city, Father John drove to the estate of the city head N.A. Volkov, located three miles from Vologda. The old manor house of Mr. Volkov is surrounded by a huge garden with long shady alleys. When we approached the estate, about forty people of the most diverse crowd had already entered the garden; then this number increased to three hundred people. All the time until lunch, which was scheduled at 2 o'clock in the afternoon, Father John walked around the garden, talking with those who came up to him for a blessing, caressing the children and examining all the interesting corners of the garden. Soon the Vologda bishop, governor and vice-governor arrived. Lunch was served on the open veranda overlooking the garden. The public took advantage of this circumstance, flooded the garden and did not want to part with Father John, and surrounded our veranda on all sides. We found ourselves, as it were, on the stage of a theater “fully assembled” and therefore did not feel entirely comfortable. But what was to be done with the people who did not want to take their eyes off their beloved shepherd? At the end of lunch, Father John went down to the bottom step of the porch and the whole crowd in strict order walked past him in line, receiving a blessing. Out of fear that there might be a stampede when seeing off Father John at the pier where our steamer was docked, the priest was offered to board a Putisky steamer at another pier, on which representatives of the city, headed by the governor, expressed their desire to see the priest off until our steamer left the river. Vologda to Sukhona. Thus, the public gathered on the embankment unexpectedly saw Father John appear on a railroad steamer passing by the pier. Behind the Putin steamer our “St. Nicholas the Wonderworker” and in this order walked to the place where Father John, having said goodbye to those seeing him off, walked along the ladder to his deck. In the evening we passed the 1st lock and soon went out into Lake Kubenskoye. Heavy lead clouds hung over the lake. A gusty wind blows forcefully towards us and drives wave after wave. On Lake Kubenskoye we got quite rocked. My companions told me that on this lake, on one of his trips to his homeland, Father John almost became a victim of the elements, risking to cross the stormy lake on the small Loparev steamboat “Shestovets”, which several times was ready to dive into the abyss of water along with its passengers, but by some miracle he was saved. On the morning of June 24, leaving the lake into the canal, we went through four locks and stopped at the Annunciation parish, where Father John celebrated mass. A huge stone church, a lot of shops, several inns - everything testifies to the prosperity of the local population, mainly engaged in trade. Having served mass, we immediately set off on the road. Again crowds of people ran after us from lock to lock. Women, old men and children were running, running for several miles, stumbling and falling from exhaustion. We soon entered the narrow Alex Channel. Virtembergsky and, having passed about five locks, turned to Sheksna. Here we had to go through two more huge stone sluices built on Sheksna itself. On the granite embankments, on both sides of the locks, a crowd of people gathered as our steamer approached. But it was no longer the people, the people who met and saw us off on the canals, but the public. There are many ladies and young ladies, students, officials and merchants. The majority are local summer residents. Everyone behaves decorously, bowing respectfully and approaching Father John for a blessing. Sheksna and Volga. – Stop in Rybinsk. - Vaulovo estate. And suddenly, in the silence, hysterical screams are heard. A young woman is brought to the steamer, supported by an old woman and a lock watchman. - Father, dear, help her! - the old woman shouts. - What's the matter, grandma? - asks Father John and goes to the edge of the deck to see the crying woman closer. “Father, grief happened to me,” says a young woman, who looks no older than 18 years old, through tears. “I didn’t live with my husband for a year, and he killed himself while drunk.” Now I am left alone with the child. And I don’t know whether it’s possible to pray for him, whether it’s possible to give remembrance for a sinful soul to the church. Father John told her that it was possible and necessary to pray for a sinful soul, and that he himself would pray for her, but that she should not be commemorated in church. Taking a new pilot, we left the lock and swam quite quickly downstream. After the empty northern rivers, where only occasionally a village appeared among the dense forests, Sheksna seems very lively and populated. Every now and then, pretty dachas, densely populated villages and tall factory chimneys appear on its banks. Endless caravans of barges, towed by huge steamships, are stretching towards us. In one place, several caravans, each bark 5 or 6, completely blocked the already narrow river and we had to moor to the shore and wait for the fairway to clear. We passed by Cherepovets at night and stopped here for a few minutes in the hope that the nuns of the Leushinsky Monastery would meet us and give us letters from St. Petersburg. But since we were not sailing according to schedule, the nuns were not waiting for us at night, and therefore we had to continue our journey without receiving the mail that interested us. The night had already fallen completely dark, and therefore the crew of our ship vigilantly followed the signal lanterns indicating the fairway. On the morning of June 25, a large passenger steamer caught up with us and from its bridge they shouted at us through a bullhorn to stop, since the nuns of the Leushinsky monastery were about to transfer to us. It turned out that after our departure from Cherepovets, the pier immediately informed the monastery about us and the nuns with the abbess at their head, without wasting time, gathered and set off in pursuit of us. When the gangplank was thrown from ship to ship, Mother Superior Taisiya and two nuns came over to us. Even earlier, somehow in a conversation, Father John told me that the Leushinsky abbess was a very smart and educated woman who graduated from the Catherine Institute. Being the granddaughter of the great Pushkin, mother Taisiya inherited from her grandfather a love of poetry and herself wrote many poems, published in a separate book and published in some periodicals. The arrival of Mother Superior Taisia ​​brought great excitement to our ship. Many received long-awaited news from their loved ones and rejoiced that everything was fine at home - everyone was healthy. Mother Taisiya informed Father John about the affairs of her monastery, in which the priest was always very interested. Now, at the Leushinsky monastery, about 300 students of pedagogical courses located at the monastery were eagerly awaiting the arrival of Father John. Future teachers wanted to receive the priest’s blessing before entering a difficult life. At about two o'clock in the afternoon we stopped at one place near an inn to load firewood. The people who were here were so happy about Father John that the crew of our ship did not have to carry firewood at all. The firewood was quickly carried from the shore to the ship by a hundred volunteers. Worn by peasants, women, old people and teenagers, boys and girls. To top it all off, the owner of the inn and the owner of the firewood flatly refused to take money for the firewood. “For mercy, such happiness has fallen on my head,” she said, “and suddenly I’ll take money from my dear father.” Before evening, when no more than twenty miles remained before the confluence of the Sheksna and the Volga, we saw a half-flooded barge loaded with bread on the left bank of the river. Several people on the barge waved their hats at us and shouted something. Seeing the people in need, Father John ordered to stop. Soon a boat floated up to us from a barge and there were three people in it, as it turned out later - the merchant-owner of the flooded goods, his clerk and the agent of the insurance Company in which the goods were insured. All three were very tipsy, and therefore did not immediately realize whose ship they had been taken on and what kind of priest was standing in front of them on the deck. The insurance company agent was especially cheerful. Climbing onto the deck, he shouted to the worker who had brought the whole company in the boat: “There’s a basket of beer under the bench, so you take it to second grade, we’ll finish it off there!” - and, taking out a cigarette case from his pocket, he was about to light a cigarette. Someone present noticed to him that no one smokes on the ship, since the priest does not like tobacco smoke. “Excuse me, what does this have to do with father,” he protested... But then his eyes turned to Father John, who was looking at him tenderly, and he, obviously realizing what kind of priest was standing in front of him, almost dropped his cigarette case. - Yes, really, this can’t be! – his lips began to babble. “Father, dear, forgive us for Christ’s sake, but we thought we were on an ordinary ship.” - What happiness! I have seen you more than once, but always from afar; I couldn’t get to you for the people. He and his two companions could not come to their senses for a long time. And they were glad that they saw Father John so unexpectedly, and at the same time they were ashamed that they got on the priest’s ship in such an ugly form. They were offered tea and shown to a separate cabin. - This is probably out of grief, right? – I couldn’t resist asking. - What a grief! “With joy, not with grief,” the same cheerful agent laughs. “What a joy it is that so much goods were lost: after all, this is a loss to the owner,” I was surprised. “Listen, this is a loss for you,” he turned with a poisonous smile to the owner of the bread and laughed loudly. From further conversation, I realized that the owner of the goods was not only not saddened by its destruction, but, on the contrary, was very pleased with this circumstance. “If only a barge with bread would arrive in St. Petersburg, and if only a buyer for the bread would be found,” the agent explained to me, “then the job is ready: go and get the insurance premium.” Soon the whole company, settled down among chests and suitcases, fell into a deep, drunken sleep, and when the ship arrived in Rybinsk and they were woken up, they somehow quietly disappeared from the ship, obviously embarrassed about the past. At 8 o'clock. In the evening we entered the Volga and stopped at Rybinsk. A whole forest of masts and steamship pipes. A whole floating city on the river. Wooden and canvas roofs cover millions of pounds of grain, brought here in huge barges that covered the entire river in a dense mass. The river disappeared under the caravans that arrived from the lower reaches of Mother Volga. Only a narrow passage is left for navigation. Therefore, it was very difficult to approach one of the piers of Rybinsk. We moored to the pier of the state-owned rescue steamer "Okhrana" and, in order to get ashore, had to pass through the wide deck of the "Okhrana", the sailors of which helped to hold back the pressure of the crowd when Father John boarded the carriage handed to him. The Okhrana steamer fully lives up to its name. Standing among huge caravans, the “Security” is ready every minute to come to the aid of a ship in an accident. The Okhrana has several independent vehicles for both fire extinguishing and drainage. Father John spent the night in the house of a local large grain merchant, the city of Klementyev. Mr. Klementyev's house faces the embankment, and therefore for a long time, before going to bed, we admired the wonderful panorama of the Volga, along which dozens of different steamships, illuminated with multi-colored lights, scurried back and forth. In the morning, Father John celebrated mass in the beautiful cathedral and then went on visits to the city. Taking advantage of the free time, I went to inspect the new church at the Baskakovsky shelter. Everyone in the city was talking about this church, as there was a heated debate about whether it could be opened for worshipers or not. The fact is that built in a new style, according to a project approved and approved by Moscow professors by students of the Stroganov School, some local critics did not like it and therefore remained closed. The church made the most pleasant impression on me. I cannot imagine a more successful combination of the new style with the ancient Byzantine. The trouble is that local critics did not understand everything. They found the oxidized silver of the tabernacle very similar to mold, and they did not like it. You see, everything needs to shine like a just cleaned samovar. But this is not here. On the contrary, in everything you can see the effort to convey the impression of a native Russian old woman, which was brilliantly done by the builders. In my opinion, in the new church of the Baskakovsky shelter, the city of Rybinsk has acquired a new attraction and it will be a great pity if, at the behest of a pike, they begin to “correct” it. Having dined with the hospitable family of Messrs. Klementiev, Father John said goodbye to the owners, visited several more families in the city and arrived on the ship. At three o'clock in the afternoon we had already set sail from the Okhrana pier and, having somehow made our way between the caravans of ships to the middle of the river, we sailed down the Volga. Father John was now traveling to inspect an estate in Borisoglebsky district, donated to the Ioannovsky St. Petersburg Monastery by Senator Mordvinov. At about 6 o'clock in the evening we were already approaching Romanov-Borisoglebsk, on the embankment of which a large crowd of people had gathered in anticipation of Father John. Somehow making our way among the human bodies to the carriages prepared for us, we sat down and drove first along the bank steeply descending to the Volga past old dilapidated shacks and one-story wooden houses, then climbed the mountain, drove past the beautiful ancient cathedral, in which a few years ago the famous disaster with pilgrims occurred, and then drove out onto the road leading to Vaulovo - an estate owned by now the Ioannovsky Monastery. The road goes through mountainous, highly picturesque terrain. Shady groves give way to rich fields. A whole yellow sea of ​​ripened bread sways on the left and right sides of the black road. Tall windmills with wings half torn off by a recent storm stand on hills. Behind them one can see the rich huts of wealthy peasants. Not huts, but pretty dachas with patterned windows and porches and often with an iron roof. And it’s not surprising, because the owners are mostly engaged in trade in St. Petersburg or Moscow. Only their families live here. But then, among the green grove, two white ancient churches appeared, the same white bell tower and a large manor house. This is Vaulovo, the former property of Senator Mordvinov. - Good property; It will be good for the nuns here,” the coachman spoke to us. “This bell tower is wonderful,” he continued, “the bells in it are so chosen that “Kol Slaven” can be played.” And there is a bell ringer who plays. They will probably leave it at the bell tower. And they will probably leave the priest here, Father Pavel, too, because he is a rare priest. Not a priest, but a father! He has been serving here for thirty-six years. Yes, how it serves! And there are no singers here, but people come to him from other parishes, so he serves with his soul... He is a faster and a man of righteous life,” our coachman finished when we were already driving into the wide courtyard of the estate, where we were greeted by the owner of the house with purely Russian cordiality and hospitality.