Children's faith and Optina Elder Ambrose

Contents I • II • III • IV • V • VI • VII • VIII • IX • X • XI • XII • XIII I have blood in my heart. Under the cross is my grave; As in all ancient Russian families, the faith was passed down to us from our ancestors. I know about the many sacrifices made to her by the family of my father, one of whose ancestors is already mentioned among the boyars of Dimitri Donskoy, and, also, by the ancestors of my mother. I visited monasteries in which they were investors, and I had to read names related to me among the ancient monks who ended their lives in the monasteries to which they benefited while living in the world. We were raised as believers. From early childhood I remember the Trinity Lavra and other monasteries, and before the age of seven, like all of us, I knew many prayers by heart. God knows why and where, from time immemorial, a special sympathy for pilgrim pedestrians arose in me, and when we were taken for walks in the park in the fall and spring, I caught up with the wanderers going to New Jerusalem to put in their hands the saved caramels for tea, which, probably, many of them did not drink. But it seems to me that it is not the education system, but the random circumstances unforeseen by people, arranged by God’s Providence, that strengthen the spontaneity and warmth of faith in the heart, which cannot be erased by anything later. When I was five years old, a Russian woman, Klavdiya Ivanovna, from Kaluga, was taken for my little sister. She was a good-natured girl, breathing health and gaiety. We boys also had some contact with her, and every day in the morning she gave us a sip of holy water and a tiny cracker from the prosphora that she brought from church on Sundays. I don’t remember how much she talked or what she said about faith. But I remember that she was devout in her faith, rose up for matins, and when I think about believers, Claudia Ivanovna, whose face I don’t even remember, stands before me as an example of immediate faith. Almost a quarter of a century has passed since then, and I cannot look at the cabinet where she kept water and crackers without sadness and gratitude. When Claudia Ivanovna left for Kaluga, where, it seems, she got married, she was replaced by a young Parisian, Mlle Adele, with whom I, too, due to my closeness to my sister, had a lot of contacts. And I was very worried about the afterlife of Mlle Adele. My teacher, Nikolai Afanasyevich, who entered the university from seminary, was a theologian in my eyes, and from him I heard that to save the soul one must be Orthodox. I knew that Mlle Adele was very pious (I still have the Catholic icon she gave me). So how is she? And I turned to my Nikolai Afanasyevich with this question. “Mlle Adele will not be saved? Does that mean she will be in hell? He could not refute my conclusion, which saddened me also because the same fate awaited the old Englishwoman who had been with my mother in her youth, and whom we loved terribly, and other foreigners who touched our family and children's world. I was reassured by my aunt, who was the supreme leader of our upbringing. From her I learned for the first time that in every nation a person who fears God is pleasing to Him. Since I began to read, I remember three things in print that made a lasting impression on me (before the age of seven). There was one, several sheets of paper torn from some book about the original ascetics of the Kiev Pechersk Lavra, and, especially, about St. Feodosia. The letters of these stories turned into pictures for me, and I clearly saw the monk as a little boy, baking prosphora or putting on chains, secretly from his mother. One picture gave me even more. How strong its impact was can be seen from the fact that it completely overshadowed another major event. On the eve of Christmas Eve, an examination of various subjects was held in my father's half, in a solemn atmosphere, with lit candelabra. Since my father was never present at our lessons, this was a big event. Several people gathered who sometimes came to our nurseries and brought gifts on holidays, then my teacher, the brothers’ teacher, the drawing teacher, the French teacher, some important archpriest and other teachers or professors, but still, most of all the solemnity was given by the presence of my father, who seemed to be the most significant person of all those present. And, although we saw him every day and even the day before after lunch, he took us in a sleigh and drove us along Tverskaya and Kuznetsky with the brightly lit windows of the shops, still this event, through him taking on such significance, seemed so great that another era was definitely about to begin behind it. I was, of course, very excited. Then it turned out that my exam lasted five minutes. But even before they started asking me, I was distracted by another impression. In those advertisements that were already scattered in illustrated publications, I found a picture that captivated me extremely. She depicted Metropolitan Philip refusing a blessing to Ivan the Terrible. I don’t know now why I understood it - whether they told me about it before, or on the same day I asked my Nikolai Afanasyevich to explain the picture to me, but I was completely absorbed in what it depicted. The whole day I was under such an impression, as if I myself were present in the Assumption Cathedral, which I already knew then, because on my name day they took me there to mass - I was present at the event itself. I knew about Ivan the Terrible before, and Philip suddenly rose before me from the dark distance, as if alive, exciting and delighting me inexpressibly. The brothers' exam was over, we were given wonderful books, and the brothers could not tear themselves away from the large German publication with pictures in colors of the entire animal world, and in my eyes there was still a black illustration; but I was careful not to tell anyone what and what delight it brought me. Before going to bed, I was sent to take a bath, and since there was no one in the room, I, to the soft sounds of the water, barely audibly splashing when I moved, peered for a long time at this distant picture of the Russian past; I was impressed by her in bed, already falling asleep, and since then she has been close to me. Just as now, I remember my first impressions of the spiritual image of St. Sergius. I was seven years old, and one autumn evening, after dinner, at about 7 o’clock, when everyone was taken away for a ride, I was punished and left at home. I then went to the nanny’s room, where a fat, good-natured maid was sitting. The nanny asked me to read aloud a thin book, printed on bad paper, about St. Sergius. And the semi-dark room, with two women listening attentively, with a high table, with a lower frame on which my feet, which did not reach the floor, rested - this peaceful room was filled with persistent images, strong in meekness, and captivating in their truth. The first lonely years in the forest, a small monastery, incessant work and prayer, a visit to the Mother of God, miracles - everything was revealed with some kind of attractive and inviting force. I don’t remember how or from whom, but probably at the same time they told me about Father Seraphim of Sarov. Then, for about twenty years, I did not hear about him, but the idea of ​​him, vaguely, without his name, remained in me, so that when I later learned about him from stories and books, I remembered him as if he were not a stranger. The impressions of childhood are of terrible importance for all life, and the soul has an amazing ability to conceal and, after decades, reproduce the impressions of the past. Not only events, there were poems that were read to me as a child, the words of which I forgot, but I remembered their content, looked for them and found them ten or more years later. When I began to emerge from childhood and I had my own affairs, school affairs, I began to feel the need for help, and then I began to pray. I was proud and was the first student in my class. Since it seemed to me the greatest misfortune and unbearable humiliation to be overthrown, I vigilantly guarded my place, and was constantly afraid that some misfortune would result with points. And, especially, before quarters, which we called “transfers,” I prayed for a long time. Whether the content of such a prayer was correct and legal - I will not dwell on that now. But this taught me to know the area where real help is given. Subsequently, in important circumstances of my life, I received such confirmations of my faith that, as for every person who has tested his faith in practice, the evidence of any deniers is powerless and ridiculous. Maybe - in this case, the only answer to the most eloquent of them - maybe you have, to some extent, the art of cleverly playing with words. But, excuse my frankness, how can I be interested in your speeches when what you reject is for me the most real of realities. You say there is no God. And for a person who is a believer and has not lost the ability to be aware of everything, His existence is more undoubted than the light of the sun, because he has touched this existence many times, to express it visually, with his own hands. Prayers, which consist, so to speak, of begging for what we think we need, become less and less frequent as a person grows mentally. Then he begins to comprehend, and the conviction strengthens in him that he himself does not know what is necessary and useful for him, and only one thing remains - “Thy will be done, Thy will be done!” But then another petition becomes more and more persistent: “Whether I want it or not, save me!” - and a request for the gift of strength to bear the heavy burden of life. Leaving aside external troubles and burdens - what suffering there is in one endless world of inner life! And, what’s even more terrible is that there is no one to blame, for example, in case of disappointments, unappreciated feelings, or when it turns out to be forever impossible to do what was the subject of many years of cherished and seemingly easily fulfilled and legitimate desires. There is no one to share such grief with, because it will only be ridiculed, and one must endure, hiding everything from others, when the soul as if takes on volume and presses, squeezes, or seems to be torn apart deep inside. What to do when grief reaches such physical sensations as not to fall, wringing your hands, without words and without a request in front of the icons, so that they see there and do not let you suffocate until the soul gets used to it, as it gets used to everything to such an extent that for some people who have experienced a lot, it is easier to bear new sorrow than joy. When they began to let me walk the streets alone, I began to go into churches and chapels that I had never been to before, but some remained closer than others. How, for example, could I not consider the Iveron Chapel my home? I remember the icon from as far back as I can remember. One of my first memories (three years old) is the last Christmas tree in my grandmother’s big house. New Year's Eve. In the white ballroom, brightly lit, a prayer service is being held in front of Iverskaya. About thirty people, adults, children and very young children - all their own family, the closest ones. Someone is sitting in armchairs, I see and remember only the gray frill of a smart cap. And, among all the triumph and significance of this event for me, Iverskaya stands in a halo. Then, how many times they bring her to our house. And, leaving Moscow for the summer, we every time land in front of the chapel, approach the icon and hear the eternal cry to Her: “Have mercy on our prayer, and grant joy instead of sorrow,” and every time it becomes sad that real prosperity can be darkened, and these words will receive a guiding meaning. Every April, before exams, she is brought to the gymnasium, and I look at her face, illuminated by the joyful rays of the hot sun, slowly rising upward in the arms of the senior gymnasium students... So, an infection has come to our house; a few people are dangerous. The eldest, 18-year-old brother, is in six days of agony. Doctors are no longer hiding. The father, who has not left his bed for two months, gets up and leaves. I'm accompanying him. Evening, the streets are already empty. He orders to go to Iverskaya. We are silent. And it’s empty, they’ll close it soon. He lights candles: is it for him, or so that he has enough strength for himself? We return silently... Here, I am an adult and am moving from Moscow. I’m standing in the same chapel again, and it seems to me that I’m taking it all in and taking it with me, because life without her is somehow strange... After such connections, is it really not all my own? When now, driving through Moscow, I come to this icon, I then also come to my own past, clothed in flesh and blood, with everything that was sorrow and joy... And I am sure that those who once went here and then experienced the disaster of loss of faith cannot, even from a distance, not love this place. So, people with whom you once lived soul to soul, no matter what divisions life later makes, in a hidden corner of the heart will still remain dear, for the sake of those feelings that you once gave them. I had just turned eighteen, and university was expecting me in the fall. It was a great time. Firstly, the harsh time of education was over and freedom awaited. There were no more boring forced lessons, there was so much light ahead, and when I began to peer into the future, my gaze went further and further into the tempting expanse, so that there was no end to my dreams. There was an infinite amount of strength and inspiration. Everything felt somehow passionate, and everything seemed full of meaning. There was an irrevocable, rosy time of the first youth. In the middle of the summer I went for a week to visit one of my aunts, who lived on an old estate in the K province. In this estate, one of the few that were completely preserved from the general pogrom and belittlement, life flowed somehow softly and quietly. The railway was far away, mail was delivered in five days, politics was never discussed. That summer one of her sons lived with his mother. About five years older than me, very dexterous and attractive, he was on a good road. Since it seemed to me that he wanted to subjugate me to himself, since I grew up in Moscow, and my aunt and her children lived in St. Petersburg during the winters, and he considered me a bit of a provincial, I constantly argued with him. He had already gone through many frivolous adventures in his life, and loved to tease me with stories about them; and then I was strict about it, and it made him laugh. He said that I should be put in a jar of alcohol for the edification of posterity. Then he made me angry by laughing at certain things related to religion. Every day, in the evening, we rode for a long time with him, and here he enlightened me most of all. When I got too tired of this, I spurred my horse and galloped, and he tried to catch up with me and shouted after me, laughing, things I didn’t like. Such discussions took place during our long walks through my aunt’s large forest dachas, where she sent us to see if the felling was too large. Despite our fundamental disagreement with my brother, to whom I was all the less inferior because his position in life was somewhat higher than mine, everything went well, and in the evenings we peacefully played chess with him, or alternately read aloud to my aunt the memoirs of some significant personalities, until one of us began to doze off in her solemn and decorous living room. Then we parted, and, no matter how inclined my head was to boundless dreams that dispel sleep, I fell asleep quickly and sweetly until a new carefree and fresh morning. And so, in the midst of our quiet life, an event happened that then seemed unimportant, but whose significance grows and grows in my eyes every year. My aunt's husband came to visit us. He lived, partly on his estates, partly in different corners of Europe, partly in Russian capitals, and did not see his wife very much. The children were raised by their mother, she spent her own money on them. But the father was on the sidelines, and the children treated him patronizingly. The house was filled with excitement. He was fussy, and his speech always flowed like water through a broken dam. Auntie, with equal grandeur and calmness, listened or did not listen to him. Political combinations, a trivial meeting on the railway, dogmatic subtlety, court news, historical discoveries, ladies' toilets, a star again noticed by astronomers, a Parisian article, a new novel, all sorts of stories about his countless acquaintances - all this excited him in equal measure and was described to anyone who wanted to listen to him. He told even more things when he was alone with the youth. By the way, he found that we were living motionlessly, that during these days and a half he was beginning to get sucked in, and that we needed to be shaken up. And it occurred to him to invite his aunt to go on her own to Optina Pustyn, where he himself ended up last year among his endless wanderings, and he talked about her with his usual gusto, like a man who knows a lot about spiritual subjects. “I think,” the aunt briefly answered the assumptions of her husband, who began to develop them with fervor, “that poor Vasya would be very glad to see us.” Vasya was her husband’s nephew, about 25 years old, who lived for several years in Optina, and his aunt called him “poor,” primarily because she considered it a disaster to be her husband’s nephew. Before evening tea, the aunt talked longer than usual in her usual place, in the corridor, at the door to the library, with the manager, immediately called her son, and over tea announced that tomorrow after lunch, which would be earlier than always, we were going to Optina. This evening they are sending a base 120 miles away. We will spend the night halfway to the base; We are traveling in a large carriage of four, followed by a couple of carts with a cellar and provisions; and in front is a cart with a collapsible bed for my aunt. We take as much hay and oats as we can, the aunt and the girl and two of us young people are going. - How will I be here alone, Mashenka? – asked the aunt’s husband. “I’ll be very glad, Michel,” she answered, without even hinting that she could take him with her, “I’ll be glad if you stay here.” This is where people stay. They will cook for you. He had never been embarrassed in his life. A minute later he was filling us with information and instructions, which were sometimes interrupted by auntie’s sensible remarks. It turns out that before tea she sat down at her table, took detailed maps of the L and Kaluga provinces and wrote down the names of the main villages along the road, indicating the distances, and then thought about what she needed to learn from her husband. – Who should I go to there, Michel? - she said, “After all, I’m not interested in monks, but I want to be polite.” He named and described various officials. - Well, then, Mashenka, you could come in - he lives there in a separate house in retirement, his name is the consul there, the writer Leontyev - well, who - and the uncle quite correctly determined the direction of Leontyev. - Well, how can I go to a stranger? - Auntie calmly objected, spreading butter on a freshly cut golden bun. - But, he is a man of very good society... The other day in St. Petersburg, Prince Ivan Pavlych... - Oh, how funny you are, Michel... I can’t go to him. So that he could say after me: what an annoying woman I was. “But the main thing,” began the aunt’s husband, “is the old man.” There is a famous old man there. He is even said to be insightful. Now, when you go to him, you will need to kneel before him. That's how it is. - Why is that! – I screamed indignantly. - So that I kneel in front of some unfamiliar monk; never! I don’t respect the current monks - and I won’t kneel. No one objected to me, only my cousin deliberately stared at me with his eyes and said: - What is this, but what about the “irmos”? He learned the word irmos from somewhere, and tried to tease me with this word. His mother looked at him sternly and said: “I can’t stand it when you, Vadim, say stupid things... I agree with Lolo,” she continued, “I don’t like monks either.” “But perhaps this old monk is indeed a respectable man.” Going to bed, I still did not calm down from the thought that excited me that I had to kneel before some monk unknown to me. The thing was that the monks were my sore spot. As much as I loved the ancient monks known to me from books and internally admired them, I was so indignant at the shortcomings in modern monasteries that I myself noticed or heard about. And when there were religious disputes in the senior classes of the gymnasium and they shouted at me, calling famous monasteries by name, that their well-fed monks should be driven out to the arable land - what could I say? And, haven’t I myself seen more clearly than others how the rules of such ancient guardians of monasticism as Basil the Great were perverted, who, by his worldly charm, in addition to his spiritual height, captivated me and their Russian followers, like the Venerable. Sergius... Many phenomena stung me to the point of pain, because I valued and honored what they humiliated in the eyes of society. And I was terribly angry with such people. Later, I realized that perfection is rare, that monks were previously in a world whose corruption affected them; that if there are charlatans among scientists, science is not humiliated by this; that the very renunciation of the world is such a feat that a person, accepting it, at least for that minute was at a significant height, even if he could fall later. The main thing I realized, much later, was that it was not for me, who was a worthless layman, did not keep fasts, did not pray sometimes for weeks, was proud, arrogant, malicious and full of other shortcomings visible to me and, nevertheless, not banished by me: it was not my business at all to judge others. Wasn’t it sad the state of the boy who, without taking care of himself, checked others and, without doing anything in the midst of a free life, wanted to hand out sheets of praise for the past and blame the present? But, be that as it may, I was opposed to the monks. And regarding the Optina elder, unknown to me, about whom I heard for the first time that evening, there was some kind of anger in me, strange in its intensity. The next day, at six o'clock in the evening, we drove away from the porch. My aunt’s husband, who had been demanding in vain since dinner that the hot foursome of blacks served to us be driven around in advance, now begged the coachman to drive more carefully. Auntie smiled indulgently. She was not afraid of anything in the world, and whenever the horses carried her, she sat firmly in her place, and was never thrown out of the carriage. We set off. He continued to shout about something, punctuating his already inaudible words with exclamations: “Mashinka, Mashinka,” he laughed and, at the same time, diligently baptized the crew. We spent the night in a district town 40 miles away; We set out further at 6 o’clock in the morning, and in the middle of the day we fed once. In the evening we arrived at the village where there was a base, and, taking fresh horses, which we cared for less than an expensive set of blacks, we set off further. Our last trip on blacks was very pleasant. We were already in Kaluga province. Pretty girls and women with rakes on their shoulders escorted creaking carts with high, fresh-looking and fragrant hay. There was a healthy cheerfulness in the air, and the river smelled of coolness and spaciousness. The fading sky gently covered this expanse, and the first stars, not yet bright, were already visible. While they were re-harnessing, I managed to listen to a pre-romantic story from an elderly woman, whose face I could no longer distinguish in the darkness. And somehow this made it even better. They made a carriage out of the stroller. We settled down lying down, explained to the coachman that he had to continue driving on the highway until at dawn he reached the district town of Serpeisk, where we would feed, and we set off. In the cold, slowly, there was a long trek of 50 miles ahead; then, after four feedings, at the beginning of the next night we thought to be in Optina. We all soon fell asleep. When I woke up, we were standing on a narrow road that ran through a young forest. Vadim, talking excitedly to the coachman, got out of the carriage. The night was ending, and a whitish light crept onto the road from above. It was clear that we had lost our way and lost the highway, as we were on a narrow road. The coachman fell asleep, the horses turned off the main road, and, not controlled by him, ran until he woke up. Stopping the screams of Vadim, who was cruelly scolding the coachman, the aunt ordered to move on. We had to meet some housing or passers-by. And so it happened. And we learned then that, having made 25 versts along the right path, we turned aside and are now 10 versts from the place from which we left. After an hour's drive, we found ourselves in a large village, here we fed and went to bed. Since the cart with the bed was in front, the aunt was laid out on a table placed diagonally in the room, as the dead are placed. At 9 o'clock we drove on, very dissatisfied, to the city of Serpeisk. We were hit by a severe thunderstorm with continuous downpour. But it was comfortable and good in the stroller, and, bending down to the window in the harness, under the caressing sound of falling water, I devoured a fascinating historical novel. But it was difficult for the horses to run along the washed-out road. By noon we reached Serpeisk and barely crawled up the steep and slippery mountain on which the city lies. The postal route began here, and I persuaded my aunt to leave our horses here until our return journey and take the postal ones. Having now no need to stop, except for a quarter of an hour, for re-harnessing at stations, we could be in Optina in the evening, which was, it seems, 100 miles away, to the cities of Meshchovsk and Sukhinichi. The ride was wonderful. The thunderstorm softened the heat that had bothered us the day before and blew dust along the road. Receiving good tips, the coachmen drove hard, encouraging the horses with whoops and whistles. Before sunset I finished my novel and gave myself up to the pleasure of driving fast. We were all silent. The carriage swayed quietly on its springs, and the slender clatter of the horses combined with the sound of quickly rolling wheels into music, which I could never hear enough of. The sky burned down. The twilight grew thicker, and my head, not entertained by external impressions, began to think intensely. “Well, what is he, what is he like,” I asked myself for the first time, during the journey, beginning to think in detail about the person who had so excited me then. “Now, if it weren’t for my aunt’s husband telling me, I might have believed it.” And how unpleasant it is, some kind of subtle spiritual insult, that I should outwardly bow before a person for whom I feel nothing. And, at the same time, all these stories, from which I still don’t understand what his height is - this has already confused me. And I'm a little scared if he really is a saint. I'm both happy and scared. How will I know if he is a saint? And what will happen if he is a saint, and precisely because he sees that I want to see what he is like? And all this confuses me." I was very self-confident, and then I had not yet met that person who could embarrass me. All earthly greatness left me calm and indifferent. But I was vaguely aware that I would be intimidated by spiritual heights, and then I would feel insignificant and pathetic. Such a height has always occupied, attracted and delighted me; and it seemed to me that if I had found in a person the unconditional full expression of it, then there would be no limits to my inner delight, fidelity and worship of such heights. Only one such meeting could have embarrassed me. And, perhaps, my excitement before the elder came from the fact that I, although vaguely, had a presentiment that he would humble me or that I myself, having seen him, would humble myself before him. And the bad feeling of pride was protected from this. Around midnight we saw the moonlit white bell towers of Kozelsk, 2 versts from which Optina is located. Here we are on the bank of the deep-flowing Zhizdra in this place, and while the ferry is being served to us at the driver’s call, I look at Optina, standing here now, across the river, on a hill. There are no lights. Her life is sleeping, inaccessible and secret. And she herself, sharply protruding from the black wall that surrounded her on all sides, a forest, all white, somehow thin and tall, rises, as if carried away into the sky. We were awakened the next morning by the loud ringing of bells. It was July 15, and that year they celebrated the 900th anniversary of the baptism of Russia. In the cathedral I did not find the luxury of decoration and vestments that I was accustomed to in Moscow and in the monasteries that embarrassed me. After the service, we visited the dean, then had dinner at our hotel, then went to rest. But I could not sleep and went to Vespers when I heard the gospel. I was impressed by the previously unfamiliar humble appearance of the monks and the enthusiasm with which the choir, descending from two choirs into the middle of the church, sang the stichera proclaimed by the young canonarch. Both in the expressions of their faces and in the strength of their singing, the religious conviction that permeated them was clearly visible. In general, the environment was not at all what I was used to in other monasteries. Instead of soft, elegant robes and scented hair, instead of proudly raised heads, I saw thick, coarse clothes, and simplicity that covered everything: the gait was humble; when meeting anyone - a low bow; there is an expression of purity and serenity on their faces. But for some reason I didn’t want to take a closer look at the monks. Having admitted to myself that they were good, very good, I suddenly realized, at the same time, what a terribly difficult life they lead, and this was, at once, an exposure of my broad life, and such an element that could suddenly pull me into itself, and the world was so beckoning me. It seemed to me that I would be more scared if I were here alone, and I was encouraged that next to me was the same even, pleasantly mocking and balanced Vadim, and my calm aunt, not expecting anything here. They did not accept any of the impressions of the monastery, which enveloped and sank deeply into me, and I clung to them, vaguely feeling how good it would be for future eternity to give up everything and go to Optina, like these monks, but, much more than that, feeling a thirst to plunge into the free young life that was opening up to me with all its charms. And therefore, everything that told me that I was only here for two days, and that our goal was only a pleasant horse ride, with a rest in Optina, all this made me happy. And the comfort with which we settled in the hotel, bringing with us our habits, and our people, and my Russian and foreign books, which described the life that I loved so much, that is, family, relationships with different people, the village - all this convinced me that I was called to live in the world and that, although I want to become a good person, the monastery is not for me, no matter how much I honor it in the idea. On the first day we didn’t go to the elder at all, and we were all tired of Vasya, the nephew of my aunt’s husband, who lived in Optina as a novice. Perhaps his uncle was to blame for what happened to him. But it was difficult in his company. He was inexpressibly fussy, disorderly, rushed from subject to subject, disturbed everyone with impossible requests and, at the same time, was, in essence, an ascetic who ceded a large fortune to his sister and received through his uncle one hundred rubles a month from his remaining capital. He spent this money in the most unproductive way on trifles. He moved to Optina from another monastery, where he entered from the world, having been to a dozen educational institutions, first very aristocratic, and then, increasingly worse, and without learning anything. I had great respect when I was away from him for his sincerity in his faith. And I was angry that Vadim treated him with disdain and mockery - not the attacking and lively one with which he treated me, challenging me to attack, but with sluggish mockery, as if he were treating a person far from equal to him. I was sad when I remembered how his parents, who had an excellent position in life, cared for him, how they always stopped by to see us when they went to St. Petersburg for the winter, and how much life promised him then. His sister was happy, rich, visible, and wrote him dry short letters twice a year. And, while I respected him, I, at the same time, suffered not very patiently from his intolerability. He took away my toothbrushes and nail brushes, thrust me a stale loaf of bread as a delicacy, which bore traces of his not very washed fingers, wanted to comb his tangled hair with my comb, demanded that I give him an item that I could not do without, and did not agree when I assured him that I would rather send him the same item. In his cell I could barely swallow tea, everything was so dirty, and the disorder was indescribable. While all the other monks stood motionless in their places during the services, he darted around the church a hundred times, as if he were omnipresent; appearing in different corners, whispering and winking at us and, volunteering to read from the psalter, he completely disappeared before his turn. And, meanwhile, could this confused person, superfluous in the world and difficult to bear in the monastery, be considered abnormal, when he had a whole, strong, worldview, carried out by him and in his life, which Vadim, who looked down on him so down, well-placed and capable, did not have, and when behind him in the past there was a great sacrifice, and now there was a great daily feat? Vasya brought to us an elderly monk from a monastery, who belonged to a good family in the world. This monk was very fond of art, and he kept many artistic publications on church subjects. All three of us visitors loved painting, and then, having met an expert, we started talking about this inexhaustible topic. Then he moved on to religious issues, and for the first time in my life I heard brilliant and deep discussions about various aspects of life and faith. He illuminated all his positions with extremely clear comparisons taken from external life. On the second day we went to the monastery three times, but the elder did not receive us. This unmet expectation made me feel uncomfortable. The aunt, who hardly ever had to wait for anyone, did not express displeasure, but said that she did not consider it necessary to bother him if he had no time. In an unpleasant mood, in the evening I wandered with Vadim through the deep, centuries-old forest that surrounds Optina. I felt the weight of some great unfulfilled duty and annoying emptiness. At the same time, the ill will towards the elder that had subsided within me was now returning again. Why is it now inaccessible to us? The third day has arrived. Nikolai Ivanovich, our skete acquaintance, and the monastery dean tried to make sure we could see the elder as quickly and surely as possible. The horses were already ordered by early the next morning. For quite a long time after late mass, I sat with Vadim in a small room in the old man’s wooden house. This house is built along the line of the wooden fence of the monastery, so that women who are prohibited from entering the monastery can still enter the elder from the outside. The space of the monastery, planted with apple and plum trees with preserved centuries-old conifers, looked out the window, with other houses, a wooden church and shady paths bordered by high-rising fragrant flowers. The house had a small porch; the door had a window hung from the inside with muslin and opened into a semi-dark hallway; to the right of the entryway was the reception room. Its walls were hung with portraits of various ascetics of the last century and some bishops. The front corner was filled with large icons, and a lamp was glowing. A sofa, several armchairs and a bookcase with spiritual books completed the decoration. I tried to become interested in these books in order to drown out the anxiety of anticipation. But in vain. And my angry impatience increased. Again we did not wait to be received. We were advised to arrive at 5 o'clock. How strange such an attitude towards visitors from afar might seem, about whom, in addition, the monastery authorities spoke and asked. Subsequently, I learned that the elder often pushed away people who came to see what he was like, or approached, like Auntie and Vadim, with complete indifference, to maintain decency, or, like me, with condemnation. At six o'clock we went again to the monastery, and so did the aunt, who had not been there in the morning. She said now that, all the same, it would be a short walk for her. After a while, sitting in the men's waiting room, we learned from the cell attendant that the aunt had seen the elder, and he asked us to wait. Nikolai Ivanovich took us to his cell to drink tea. But as soon as we started drinking tea, someone announced that the elder had left his cells and was walking around the monastery. I have never experienced more intense anticipation, impatience, and wariness as at that moment when we left Nikolai Ivanovich. Finally, it was certain that I would now see the old man. And, no matter how excited I was, I grabbed myself morally and said to myself: “Well, I’ll see what it is!” The monastery dean led us to the elder. In front of me was a hunched man, leaning on a stick, dressed in a warm black cassock and a warm black soft kamilavka. I don't remember his first look; I only remember that I approached him, withdrawing into myself, with a closed heart. “Everyone respects you,” I convinced myself. “But for me it’s nothing.” I just want to look at you with curiosity about what you are.” We were named to him, drawing his attention to us. We got down on one knee. He said nothing, silently crossed himself and, without stopping to look at us, walked on. - “You still come!” - Nikolai Ivanovich and the dean told us. I tried not to miss a single step of the elder. He, walking quickly, walked about 50 steps ahead of us, in a transverse alley, with some man - and walked along it back and forth several times. Having finished a conversation with that person, which lasted about 3 minutes, alone, he then headed straight ahead. We came closer. A healthy man from the common people quickly approached him and hurriedly spoke. - A worker, father, from the Oryol factories. It worked so well - I wanted to change it. Bless us to Odessa, go. There's a lot of work there. The elder looked at him vigilantly, then looked into the distance. “No, not to Odessa,” he said. - Bless, father, to Odessa, they pay well there. - No, it’s not the way for you to go to Odessa. – And he looked into the distance again. - Oh, go to Voronezh or Kyiv. Go there. He crossed this man and moved on... “What is this,” flashed through my amazed brain. “Why does he speak so bluntly?” Then someone came up complaining of illness, and he quickly said something to him. At the turn to the alley leading to his house, there were several bearded men in bast shoes and clothes made from the village. - Who are they? - asked the old man. “To your mercy,” answered one of the men, while the others bowed low. - Kostroma. So, they heard that your legs hurt, so they wove you soft little paws. Wear it for your health,” and they handed him several pairs of bast shoes. He kindly thanked them, talked to them, took, felt and praised the bast shoes. At this time something was happening in me. Charm came over me from this meeting of the old man with a worker sent instead of Odessa to Voronezh, with men who, many hundreds of miles away, brought him bast shoes out of their zeal. That warmth of feeling and the element of immediate faith, which through the space of centuries I guessed when I dreamed of the first pilgrims going to the initial desert of St. Sergius for advice and blessing - now stood before me alive. And here there were low cell houses with porches, a log fence and old pine trees, just like there were five centuries ago. The superficial speculations and complexity, which, perverting me, prevented me from being myself, suddenly disappeared, dissipated without a trace like darkness in the rays of the sun, and the whole soul opened up to this new phenomenon for it. I no longer delved into myself, but I was joyful and warm, and I felt that what was happening in front of me was truthful, good and valuable. The elder approached the porch. Now I stood next to him, not caring whether he thought about me, whether he noticed me. I myself looked at him with a joyful smile and felt: “If you want, talk; If you don’t want it, it means I’m not worthy. And you, how amazingly good!” They reminded him about us again, they called him his cousin again. “He serves ***,” I said, quite freely and simply to the old man, “here, now you had his mother.” I'm her relative. The elder blessed him without saying anything. Then the elder turned to me. “Well, look,” I thought, cheerfully looking him straight in the eyes. “There’s just a lot of bad stuff!” “And I,” I began first, “graduated from high school.” We live in Moscow. Now I will be at the university. “Well, study legal sciences, study,” he said. These words were necessary for me, although I later did not fulfill them, and throughout my university years I was interested in non-legal subjects, and was a poor student, in comparison with the brilliant position in the gymnasium. “Do you believe in God, in the Holy Trinity,” he asked me, still looking intently. – Never argue about faith. Leave them alone. You won’t prove it to them, but you will upset yourself. Don't argue with them. And it was not in the eyebrow, but in the eye. “But,” I said, “I love it,” and I named the activity that interested me in one of the branches of the arts. - Is this possible? – It’s possible, just so that everything is clean, so that there is never any temptation. - We are leaving tomorrow, father, in the morning. Bless us. He crossed us and went through the porch into his house. That same evening, Nikolai Ivanovich told us many examples of the elder’s insight and his gentle and warming treatment, and how his people were always overwhelmed, and what a hard life he endured. And I terribly regretted that I saw so little of him. - Well, how did you like him? - I asked my aunt the next morning, when we drove a few miles from Optina. - Undoubtedly, an extremely smart person. I talked to him for about five minutes. By the way, I asked him if he approved of Vasya being in the monastery. And he said: “Where else will they tolerate him? He can only live in a monastery.” But I didn’t think about the old man’s intelligence. I was under the impression of a new phenomenon that I had never seen before. I was captivated by his holiness, which I felt without understanding what it was. And now, when I came into contact with her and with that incomprehensible abyss of love, which, as a consequence of his shrine, was in him, I was no longer afraid of Optina. I now began to dimly understand that the purpose of the elders is to bless and encourage both living life and the joys sent by God, which will be even greater if in these joys they remember the Source of everything that is good in life. And later, I realized that here they teach people to live well, that is, happily, and here they help people bear the hardships of life that befall them, whatever they may be. And how could one be afraid of such a place where everything was for the sake of God and, therefore, full of compassion for people, and where, the harsher they were to themselves, the kinder they were to others? On a clear evening at the end of August, I was flying on a postal troika along the Kaluga highway to Optina. At the last station, the horses, with a young root worker, were harnessed to me, and to the cheerful ringing of the bell, overtaking the cart with sheaves, I enjoyed my joyful mood, and the upcoming meeting, and the beauty of the evening, and my youth. I have experienced an abyss of new impressions this year. The entire soul opened up to the calling life. There was so much hope ahead, everything seemed so possible. There were so many plans swarming in my head, so much faith in people - sympathy and “beautiful soul” - and success in everything, and nothing has yet embarrassed this celebration of youth. Only a slight shadow was some remorse for the fact that few of the good decisions were carried out, that often what was done was not the good that he wanted, but the bad that he did not want. But even this consciousness that there was repentance was more pleasing than tormenting. I went to Optina to confess to Father Ambrose and talk to him about many, many things. In the winter I wrote to him twice, consulting with him. The next morning, at about 10 o'clock, I was waiting in the small waiting room. A tall, hefty colonel, who was sitting with me, was summoned to the elder; as I learned, he was from Turkestan. Leaving his three little sons in the waiting room, he went to the elder’s cell. There were people in the reception room, of different ranks and from different places, all arriving. Returning about ten minutes later, the colonel led his sons into the dark hallway. The elder had to go there for the so-called “general blessing.” I stood in the hallway at the threshold to the reception room. One of the doors in their depths opened. Everyone knelt down. The sound of a stick on the floor was heard, and Father Ambrose appeared in the entryway and began to bless everyone and talk to those who turned to him. The colonel who was next to me, clasping his boys standing in front of him with his mighty arms, said: - Here, father, bless us to raise! With a touching smile, Father Ambrose said to his father: - Look, what heroes! - and, stroking their heads, asked their names, and blessed each one, bending down to them and looking into their eyes. Then I followed. The cell attendant called me: “My brother and I had them last year.” “Ah, Levushka,” said Fr. cheerfully. Ambrose - now he has arrived himself. - Yes, father, I came to you myself. And, turning, he went to his room. The room was small, with a tiled stove. Tree branches looked through the windows. There was a very simple wooden bed against one wall, and a sofa opposite. At the head there is a completely simple, unpainted table, with books and prosphora. The walls were hung with images and drawings. He lay down on the bed and, turning to me, said, pointing to a chair standing nearby. But I knelt down next to the bed, and not at all in order to show humility, but because I somehow wanted it, and began to talk to him. On this visit to Optina, I spent more than a week in it and visited the elder every day. There are no words to convey the blessed feeling that descended on the soul in his presence. This, of course, was a consequence of the grace that lived in him. If there is any disturbing thought in your head, an unpleasant feeling, some kind of fear, doubt - as soon as you see it, everything is gone as if by hand, and your heart is so calm and sweet, as if you had entered God's fence and saw God's protection over you. You will come to him; already at the door, before he crossed the threshold, he is greeted by a friendly, cheerful, often humorous word; you start talking - and as they say! Better and clearer than with yourself. You feel that he understands everything, the slightest nuances of your thoughts, all the twists of your soul. And often you want to add something important, but in one word he says that he understands it and already means it. In this respect, he was like an old friend who had studied you inside and out, who knew your whole life from childhood and understood you, therefore, every minute without a word, or even without words at all. It seems to me that for everyone who resorted to Father Ambrose, he appears in two ways: firstly, a great elder, a renowned ascetic, with an aura of holiness, with wondrous gifts, who worked miracles during his lifetime; and then, for everyone individually, the closest, most affectionate, most touching person you can imagine. And both of these sides in Father Ambrose complemented and elevated each other. It was the same with me. Firstly, I was amazed at him as a bright phenomenon in which I saw the embodiment of the truth, as I understood it. All that nobility, all those lofty traits that captivated me not only in the great people of the Church, but also in those fictional persons in literature who captivated me with their idealism and love for people - I now saw in him. For example, I was thinking about social issues, having already come to the conclusion that the truth of social life is achievable only with the truth of the individual individuals who make up society. I was told about some defender of the people, like Rochefort, who makes huge money by publishing a newspaper calling for an uprising, and when the victims of his preaching die after the trial, he continues to live as a great master on the money that they brought him for the leaflet that destroyed them. I remembered then another person who did not take on the solution of social problems, but who actually solved them by the example of his life. This exhausted man, forever exhausted by illness, is a martyr of his love for people: for isn’t it torture for a person with a warm heart to accept daily the abyss of revelations of the most difficult spiritual issues, deep disasters and terrible falls into sin, with which they turn to the elders. And he, who served people with all his might; he, with his happy abilities and understanding of affairs, who could create a secure and broad position in the world, lived in such a way that he took from life no more than what in our course of political economy I just completed was called existenzminimum. And what people carried in trust to him, he supported the needy, either by giving them shelter forever, or by giving them the opportunity to wait for better circumstances, or by erecting churches and monasteries. I loved those old times of the primacy of the Church, when She was served by people who contained within themselves all the gifts of intelligence, education, worldly splendor, name, wealth - and everything: wisdom, strength, and dignity, bringing with them to Christ. I admired our Philip, who spoke the truth and took pity on the people who were dying for it; and here - what did I see, besides the same pity and unconditional truth, and a nature rich in its gifts, which dedicated all its strength to God? And therefore, this man stood before me as a living embodiment of church power, and I saw in him the spirit of Christ and the results of His teaching. And so, in the same man whom I considered the great glory of our Church, I, like everyone else, found the most loving person, ready to live my life with me. And how high was the love that he gave me when I compared it with the feelings of others towards me. Others loved me either out of kinship, or because they mistakenly assumed good qualities in me and, by sympathizing with them, they seemed to elevate themselves. Almost everyone, pretending to be friendly towards me, consoled themselves, and, in any case, asked for a certain payment for their affection, which consisted of respect and love for them. And he loved me only because I needed him, and for that he did not expect anything from me. I could seriously offend him, leave, return - and I would be met with the same ardent desire to help me in everything. I knew very well that if I became a freak, or gloomy, or became very stupid - in general, I would lose the opportunity to be pleasant, or my position in life would decrease, and I would become a loser - everyone would turn away from me. And then he would begin to warm me even more. And therefore I boldly told myself that no one loved me more than him, and no one would love me. And he loved with that love that our people so heartfeltly express with the word I regret, i.e. with all the strength of the soul to want to serve another. And such love is most necessary for happiness. Teaching how to live, Fr. Ambrose did not bother with instructions. But often, as if thrown in passing, a remark remained forever in the brain and became a rule of life, which one never had to repent of. He immediately assessed every action and every intention with the corresponding word of the law, and everything became clear. It seems to me that when they came to him with sin, he did not torment him with reproaches because he believed too much in regenerating grace and in that spark of God that sufficiently torments the soul with suffering for any unrighteousness. And he nurtured in a person not despair, as a consequence of a known offense, but a general feeling of repentance and humility, which recognizes that without the special help of God our best aspirations are in vain, that our efforts are not a means, but a condition of salvation. But what he strictly demanded was complete obedience to the Church. For example, he insisted that I keep fasts. Partly because I was spoiled, partly because it was difficult to do this at home when everyone ate meager food, I didn’t do it, and it brought me nothing but harm. Just as dusty trees become clean and cheerful after a refreshing rain, communication with Fr. Ambrose. You were surrounded by him with such ardent sympathy, such benevolence that this, giving you happiness, made you better, because true sympathy somehow itself elevates the soul of those who are shown it and forces them to examine themselves more strictly. And now, feeling this attitude about Fr. Ambrose, I talked to him, telling him my plans and desires, and discussing how to achieve what. You could tell him everything; he took everything related to man to heart. When I told him that I really like English hygiene, and that I want to arrange a shower for myself so that I can shower myself from it without the help of others, he himself explained to me how to arrange it. He went over my daily schedule with me and assigned the amount of sleep. When I told him that I was trying to keep a booklet, written according to Franklin’s method, with the names of my shortcomings and with marks every day in which of them I was guilty, he ordered me to throw it away. He found that she was developing self-satisfaction, and that it was much better to simply realize her worthlessness and hourly force herself to duty. Then he said a word that I often heard from him: “Live simpler, live simpler.” In keeping with the impetuosity of my nature, in several phrases spoken at different times, he left me with warnings for the rest of my life. And often later, in my liveliness, when I got into trouble, I recalled his thoughtfulness with sadness and remorse. Among the life assumptions that I revealed to the elder and which he blessed me with, some seemed completely impossible to fulfill. And, meanwhile, life went on, or rather, God’s will gradually brought closer the fulfillment of what he considered possible and necessary. And, if I see that it is necessary to begin some business blessed by the elder - if a regiment of experts in this matter gathers here with a prophecy of failure - I know that it will succeed. And, little by little, I completely got used to not doing anything important without asking the elder in advance. How can I know what I truly desire when desires change like the wind? How can I judge whether an action is good and useful when those countless future side circumstances that will bring about certain consequences are hidden from me? And, at the same time, not only in place of my inexperience do I put the wisdom of the elders, not only do I seek the advice of a person who knows better than me what is more useful to me in a spiritual sense - the most important thing is this. I believed that when I asked him with faith in order to obey his decision, he (perhaps without delving into my circumstances rationally) - with a special gift from God, received an inspiration - to show me exactly what the will of God was. Already under the successor of Father Ambrose, I witnessed the following example of what obedience to an elder means. One of my friends, fulfilling the wishes of his parents, served without any inclination to do so. He was tormented by a position that was considered by others to be prominent, pleasant and good. An offer was made to him of a service that, while representing an advancement in all respects, was at the same time to his heart. At first, there was only talk about it; then a decisive response was required. I asked him for permission to sign up with the Optina elder for him. The elder’s advice was to refuse, and I persuaded my friend to write a refusal. It was summer, in the village. We ourselves went to the train station to throw a letter into the mail car. “Now,” he said gloomily, when we sat back in the carriage, “I did a thing - well, humanly speaking..., stupid, unreasonable.” I can't stand my service. She makes me unhappy, she poisons my life. I see a wonderful way out - and I have to turn away. I did it. But for me to have fun - no! A few days later, with complete surprise, another proposal was made to him, which, being superior in everything to the first, was completely in accordance with his inclinations, as if created for him. And then the elder hastily advised him to immediately accept this offer. Parting that time with Fr. Ambrose, I told him that I wanted to go to the Tikhonov Hermitage, near Kaluga, and bathe in the healing well there; but that I had a sore throat and a runny nose; so what to do? “With faith you can,” he said, “go.” While I was driving there, I developed something like the flu. It was halfway through September, and I was swimming in terribly cold water in disgusting weather, with wind and drizzling rain. But I arrived in Moscow the next day completely healthy. Of course, this was one of the many healings of Fr. Ambrose, who, hiding his gift, often sent to shrines, and many often recovered before reaching them. About two more years passed. From time to time I wrote to Father Ambrose, and the same thoughtfulness touched me in his reply letters. I have already entered my last year. In the spring, news came from K.N. Leontyev 2, whom I met, that at one time the old man, who was 79 years old at that time, had become very weak. But in the summer he got better. In August, from the village where I went to Optina for the first time, as if for a pleasant walk, and where I now went as best man for Vadim’s wedding, I went to Optina for the third time. I had a lot of burdens on my soul from which I hoped to be liberated there. Father Ambrose was in Shamordin, where a day after arriving in Optina I went with K.N. Leontyev, who also needed to see the elder. That significant number of visitors who always visited Optina now gravitated to Shamordin. Situated in a delightful area, above a very high cliff, dominating the endless view of the lowland, this monastery was in the hottest period of development. The log cells of the cells were spread wide, with apple trees planted between them; The foundation for a huge cathedral was laid. There were rumors that the bishop was demanding the elder’s return to Optina, but the elder, for reasons known only to him, was delaying. He was destined to leave here in a coffin. Everything in Shamordin breathed the old man. Here he was honored with that boundless warmth and zeal that women invest in their feelings. K. N. Leontyev stayed with the elder for a long time, talking about a very important matter. When I went in after him to Fr. Ambrose, I was amazed by his appearance. His strength seemed to have completely left him. Several times during the short time that I stayed with him, my head threw back, so that I became afraid. The hand could barely make a barely noticeable movement to bless. Bringing my head almost to his lips, I had great difficulty understanding his words. Having said what bothered me most and asked about what was most necessary, I left, shocked by this suffering and self-sacrifice. And they waited for me and came again and again; People also stood at the windows, waiting for the elder to come out to bless those who had come. During the way back to Optina, K. N. Leontyev told me that the elder advised him to move to Sergiev Posad, and since he, who lived on a pension and royalties for articles, did not now have free money to raise the whole house, the elder supplied him, insisting on a speedy departure. This was also a remarkable case of serendipity. K. N. Leontyev died that same fall at Trinity, a few weeks after the death of the elder. His admirers could gather for his burial, while his death without the elder in Optina would have entailed an abyss of difficulties for his relatives and for other reasons. Two days later I went again to Shamordin. Father Ambrose was now stronger. I expected many important events for myself that year and talked about everything with the elder. Here he said a few phrases in passing, which later often guided me. I asked him to give me an icon as a blessing, and he gave an icon of St. Nicholas the Wonderworker; I also asked to bless my sister, and he overshadowed her through the air with another, which I had to convey to her. “Now,” I said to the elder, “I probably won’t be in these places for a long time.” “Who knows,” he said. - And you'll be there soon. - No, father. Next year I will be in another part of Russia, and then I will be a soldier. I won't get here for a long time. - You are all yours. And there will be a reason, and you will come soon. - No, father, it’s impossible. - You can’t be out-argued. Go for now, I'll call you again. The cell attendant came in with a change of linen. Due to extreme weakness and heat in his body, the old man was constantly sweating, so recently everyone changed his underwear 3-6 times an hour, which was also terribly tiring. At this time I told someone that I would be away from Optina for a long time, and Fr. Ambrose says that I will come soon, but that, in my opinion, this is impossible. When I returned to Fr. Ambrose, he was in disguise. I helped him put on his shoes because he wanted to go to another room. We were alone. “Father,” I told him, “if I don’t see you again, don’t leave me.” I loved you very much. Don't forget there. I don’t remember if he said a word to this. But in his wonderful expression and in his eyes, which looked at me intently and for a long time, and around in the air, I felt a new surge of love, from all sides, in response, engulfing me - a surge of love that I will never forget. I supported the elder by the arms while he, leaning on a crutch, moved into the large adjacent room, the abbess’s reception room. He walked over to one of the chairs near the table and sat down. I wanted to stand, but he firmly ordered me to sit down. This happened to me for the first time. I spent another five minutes like this. I told him how difficult it was for me to get along with myself and how much I hated myself; and heard from him once again about how all life must be a continuous bloody struggle in order to be saved, and that God helps only when a person strives with strength towards Him. I repeated to him everything I hoped for, and what attracted me in life, and what I would like to make of myself. And when I left, the old man seemed so cheerful to me that, despite the request I had just made, I was infinitely far from the thought of the proximity of what happened so soon. On October 14, I got up early and at about seven o’clock I went for a walk on an empty stomach. The day was dry and clear. When I returned, I went to the dining room, where everything was ready for me. After an early walk, I was hungry and looked with pleasure at the various edible things waiting for me. There was a newspaper lying on a table nearby and, unfolding it, I began to look through it indifferently. The name Kaluga caught my eye in the telegram column; I looked at the words that followed this name and froze. There was, in essence, such a simple, so often encountered news - about death. On October 10, Elder Hieroschemamonk Ambrose died in Optina Hermitage. I walked into my room with the newspaper open and sat there for a long time, dumbfounded. The next morning I left Kaluga for Optina by post office. At the post office they said that during these days they were knocked off their feet, the persecution was terrible. There were two of us traveling. The other was a man who had previously been interested in various teachings, who visited Tolstoy and, taking a closer look at him, sharply convicted him of inconsistency. Unable to find a solution or a path to life, he was close to suicide when he accidentally ended up with Father Ambrose. He spoke to him for a long time, and he believed. For him, this loss was inexpressible. After all, the elder raised him to life. He told me about him and his conversations; about how a few days ago, at that very moment when he was in Moscow in great need, he received help from the elder by mail. I was completely absorbed in one thought. I knew well that all Russian saints were glorified by incorruption, and, knowing the biographies of many saints, I could not help but believe that Fr. Ambrose is a saint by his works, by his height and by his gifts. I knew that during his lifetime he appeared to suffering people and called them to him in Optina, where they recognized him as the elder of their visions. I believed in him so much that the knowledge that he would not be glorified would have been a terrible blow for me, and not just a blow, but a severe test before which my faith could have wavered. If this is not a shrine, then how can one be saved, how can one earn God’s mercy? Having reached the town of Przemysl, located halfway along the road, in order to avoid the depressing station during the re-harness, I ordered to be taken to the inn, where I always had a snack. His fat old mistress, as well as her then deceased husband, were always unpleasant to me for their moral immobility. - What, father, for the funeral? - she told me. - Well, they glorified him, they glorified him then: holy, yes holy. There it is! Father Macarius stood there for many days - nothing happened. And this one got spoiled. The strong spirit has gone. These words insulted and cut me to the heart. “No matter what they say,” I thought, “you are a saint to me!” But in the depths of my soul I passionately longed for this ecclesiastical, miraculous manifestation of the shrine, handed down from ancient times, and I yearned without it. The closer we were to Optina, the more news there was. We learned that on this very day he was supposed to be buried, that earlier he had been solemnly transferred from Shamordin, and that this procession was more like the transfer of relics. From churches along the way we were greeted with processions of the cross. In the endless wave of people surrounding the coffin, mothers laid their children to the coffin. Everyone spoke loudly about the sign that, despite strong winds and heavy rain, during the 15-verst journey from Shamordin to Optina, not a single candle went out. Indeed, yesterday’s downpour was evidenced by the stubborn mud through which we slowly moved. The review from the Przemysl janitor was the only one so far. Near Optina we learned that a funeral had taken place. And I hoped until the last minute that they would be postponed. Now you come across tarantasses and carts. They show the silent, dejected sisters returning to the orphaned Shamordin. They could not tear themselves away from the grave until darkness fell. We drove up to Zhizdra. There is no need to call the ferry - the bridge has been built. “Thank God,” says the coachman, “he survived.” They were afraid that if the people felled, they would not hold back. Here is the monastery; here is the road to the graves of the elders. White chapels above them. There was a light where there was a path. Under the light, a small shapeless mound is the last peace... That same evening I went to see one of the initial monks. Here I could directly talk about what confused me. They all took it in stride. - Father himself said: “I received a lot of glory from people during my life, and therefore there will be a stench from me.” Now, some are judging him. Meanwhile, the first day there was a smell, and then less and less. Today, the hieromonk said, during the funeral service I stood at the coffin and heard a fragrance. A skete monk who was nearby and was in charge of construction in Shamordin told how the priest, who had once made a remark to him, then, when he could almost no longer speak, and was lifted into his arms to rest from lying down, called him to him with his gaze, and, placing his head on his shoulder, quietly called him by name three times, as if apologizing. When I approached the monastery the next morning, I met a nun from the educated and upper class who was following the elder, and I told her how confident I was of his holiness. - Yes, I would not have endured what they said if he himself had not reassured me in advance. Shortly before his death, he urgently ordered me several times to read the book of Job, and then said: “Do you remember: all his relatives fled from the stench of Job’s plagues. But God raised it whole.” - And then he told how the sinner died, and his body was preserved, but the righteous died, and there was a stench, and people glorified the sinner and blasphemed the righteous - so God gave them in the end what they were looking for. Now I was completely calm. I then lived through unspeakable days in Optina, often going to the monastery, which somehow became particularly close to the elder’s memory. It stood quiet, with the trees covered with frost, under a clear sky, and some special grace filled both the monastery and Optina. Among the general grief, the expression of which was all the more powerful because it was hidden under the monastic calm and restraint, there was no confusion. Everything had the same strict order and order. And so, above this self-absorbed sadness and indelible memory of the departed, there was some kind of joy, such spiritual delight, such confidence in a blissful eternity and in the closeness of the righteous, that such a bright mood, as if renounced from the earth, no longer had to be experienced. I think this joy came from heaven. This was the joy of the great soul of the old man, returned to his homeland from the disasters and labors of the earth; and he shared this joy, as before, with his children. It was also believed that God would not allow such a wonderful institution as the eldership to perish, and quietly, by itself, the eldership passed to the deceased’s close disciple of many years, Father Joseph. From Optin I went to Shamordin, the grief of which cannot be described. There were up to five hundred sisters left there orphaned, without means. There they reminded me of my argument that I would not be in those places for a long time. Late on a cold night I left Shamordin to be in Moscow the next evening. I was in a hurry. I had to get there on time. Crossing the Oka beyond Przemysl, through my drowsiness, I heard the heavily frozen wave hitting the ferry. Having approached Kaluga, I learned that there was no crossing over the Oka River; The bridge has been dismantled, and there is no point in walking on the ice. In vain I offered to pay dearly to have them move me, laying down the boards. There were no brave souls, and the train was leaving in an hour. And it was terrible to sit here with arms folded. “Is it really possible,” I finally said to myself, “I am imprisoned here for several days because I went to Optina and there will be no help for me!” At this time they came running to tell me that one boatman had found an unfrozen place in the middle, and had broken through the ice along the edges. I moved and caught the train. From the window of the carriage I looked at the plain that lay before me, covered with snow. And a proud tenderness for the land in which I was born and which I began to understand more and more, enveloped me. Without looking up, I peered into the quiet, monotonous expanse, and something deep breathed into me from its thoughtfulness and silence, from which sometimes people like a deceased elder emerge. So, I was left to live alone and, having buried a person who was irreplaceable to me, I, at the same time, spent my youth. He was the guardian of this youth, which without him, perhaps, would have been very bad. The fact that he existed on earth kept me from doing many bad things. I told him absolutely everything. And the thought that in the Kaluga wilderness there lives a holy man who thinks about me - about how ashamed and painful it will be for me to confess to him, and also the pity that my sins will offend him, since he wants my life to be bright - all this served as a bridle for me. Late in the evening I entered my room, where I lived, hidden from others, my inner life, and where so many times I thought about him. Nothing external now distracted me, and I suddenly froze in the doorway and stood motionless for a long time. Only after losing it and returning to ordinary life did I understand what he was for me. It felt strange to me. It seemed especially hard that I was left alone, without him, when my independent life was approaching. But then I told myself that the deprivation of seeing him alive was mitigated by the fact that he himself could constantly see me, and I could call upon him. And as I lay in bed, peering into the semi-darkness of the room, I thought that he would come here at night and look at me. I knew the legend that the soul walks for 40 days in those places where it was loved, and it seemed to me that because of this he could come to me. During the Nativity fast I fasted and had to join in the Feast of the Entry. On the night of it, I dreamed that I was standing before the royal doors, and my confessor was holding the Chalice, and in the altar, near the Throne, in a shiny golden cap, all shining with light - Fr. Ambrose looks at me. When I woke up, I felt great happiness, and later I remembered that November 21st is his birthday. But I prepared for this day, forgetting about the coincidence. Then I sometimes saw him without remembering how; only an extremely joyful feeling at the end of the dream told me about the vision. Now, at the elder’s grave there is a chapel where people go to pray. There are six hundred sisters in Shamordin. His letters are published in magazines; there were descriptions of his afterlife phenomena and miracles. Now, when I happen to stand over his grave, I realize how infinitely much has gone into this grave for me, because I will never again see such a phenomenon with my own eyes, never meet such a soul again. On the tombstone, I read with excitement the words from the Apostle, embossed in gold in white marble: For I was given to the weak, for I will gain the weak. I would have everything for everyone, but I will save everyone 3. These words resurrect an old man for me, affectionate, smiling, warming. It seems to me that I see him again, how he, glorified, holy, tries to seem like a simple man, so that his height does not embarrass us, who came to him with sins and weaknesses... It’s as if an unforgettable quiet voice is heard again and looks at the dear friendly look, which alone gives the soul such inexpressible happiness... As if there is no more separation; joy descended upon life again, and everything in life became good... And then, covering that now distant earthly image, another one stands before me - all illuminated by an unearthly radiance. And my faith tells me that the one whom I knew living on earth is now a great miracle worker in heaven. Tsarskoye Selo. October 1898 Compiler's note. In this essay, in the form of a narrative told in the first person, the stories heard by the compiler of the essay from one person who knew the deceased elder Fr. Ambrose. Having settled on these stories, due to sincerity, and also because they shed some light on the extremely interesting significance of the elders in the life of the believing part of an educated society, the compiler convinced that person to allow him to convey what he heard in the form of a coherent story, without being embarrassed by the fact that it will touch on some aspects of inner life, which is inevitable by the very content of the story. Here is some information for people who have not read articles about Optina Pustyn and about Fr. that appeared in the press. Ambrose. Elder Fr. Ambrose was born on November 21, 1812 in the Tambov province in the family of a village clerk and, after completing a course at the seminary, was for some time a teacher at the Lipetsk Theological School. Having entered Optina early, in the last years of the life of the famous elder Fr. Makaria was his closest collaborator and, after his death, replaced his teacher. Very poor health, oh. Ambrose has been exhausted for the past few decades and, for the most part, took it while lying on his bed. He had a huge flock scattered throughout Russia, acquired the gifts of interpretation of the Holy Scriptures, insight, healing and consolation. O. Ambrose was full of charming power, attracting people to him. They asked him for advice in difficult situations in life and brought him mental burdens and grief. He died on October 10, 1891 in the village he founded in the 15th century. from Optina, Shamorda women's community, and was buried in Optina. During his burial, there were signs. After his death there were apparitions of him and healings from him. Optina Pustyn published a detailed biography of the elder. Famous writer, author of the book “East, Russia and Slavism”. He lived the last years of his life near Optina.