From family memories

The village of Pokrovskoye was an old noble nest. In the last century, it was owned by Alexander Semenovich Bryanchaninov, one of the most respected people in the province. Formerly a page-chamber under Emperor Paul, then a friend of Pozdeev and other pious Masons of that time, who left St. Petersburg after 1812, he transferred his refined habits to the northern wilderness. Pokrovskoye was rebuilt by him. His will and artistic taste created a small Versailles with a castle-house, a royal garden and an elegant church on the barren hill of a clayey Russian mountain. Typically, manor houses were then built wooden, quadrangular, with a large locker and a cramped hallway, where there was always a smell of ammonia. In the servant's room of the Pokrovsky house, as in the rooms, there was the smell of flowers brought from the greenhouse, or fine French tobacco. The master sniffed; Smoking was considered bad manners here. It was not the Osips and Zakhars who served the master, but a well-trained valet who knew his job; the other servants were the same, especially the uncle and the respectable, although still young, nanny for the children. Alexander Semenovich and his wife had sixteen children; They all grew up during their first years under the supervision of nanny Efimovna, devoted in soul and body. In cases of serious illness of one of the children, the nanny came to the lady with a report: “Mother Sofya Afanasyevna, please bless the little one, they are working.” The mother walked, blessed the child and calmly returned to her duty. And her duty was to please her husband and maintain the dignity of the noble family. And since no one stopped the children from getting sick and dying, nine out of sixteen people survived. The eldest was Dmitry Alexandrovich, later a famous clergyman, and the youngest was my mother, Marya Alexandrovna... And for me, in my childhood and early youth, Pokrovskoye was a fairy tale, a dream come true. The memory of Pokrovskaya antiquity is still vivid in me: tall rose bushes in the walls between the windows, a blue living room with damask furniture, a round hall, spacious and bright, where the grandchildren and children of the great master gathered for stately dinners; balcony with white lions, fragrant jasmines all around; above the balcony on the stone wall of the house there are stucco decorations in the form of knight’s armor; inside there is a wide twisted staircase to the top and mezzanines at the top with mysterious attics. Oh, how mysterious these low, dark attics were! What amazing stories my imagination filled them with! And who knows how many actual stories they have witnessed? In this beautiful house, in this dream come true, the young generation of the Bryanchaninovs grew up. Several friendly couples naturally formed among the children. Only the eldest daughter, Alexandra Alexandrovna, unloved by her mother, stood alone. Dmitry Alexandrovich shared thoughts and feelings with his next brother, Peter. Cheerful, rosy-cheeked Sasha got along with everyone. The middle ones - Senyushka and Lizonka, similar to each other, were playing pranks together. Graceful Sonechka was drawn to Dmitry with her soul and was loved by him. My younger brother Misha shared such an inseparable friendship with my mother that the family nicknamed them by their common name “Mishmashak.” The main rule of upbringing in Pokrovsky was considered to be inexorable severity. The master's tact and bright mind and education strangely coexisted with despotism, which outdid the precepts of Domostroy itself. Sofya Afanasyevna dearly loved her son Dmitry, but love for children was hidden here, like an unworthy weakness. It was the kingdom of the rod. After one unfair punishment, my mother decided to protest; For this she was whipped a second time until she fainted. Mikhail Alexandrovich, a proud boy, once bit his hand until it bled, trying not to scream during the execution. His fault was that, having heard a conversation in the village about the elder’s scams, he, with his characteristic vehemence, ran to tell his daddy about it. He interfered in the affairs of adults, which, of course, was not allowed. I remember that in his old age my grandfather once said about his children: “I was strict with the older ones - and lost; I spoiled the smaller ones and didn’t win anything. I don’t know what he hoped to win, and why he lost to those who brought honor to his name is unclear. But if the younger ones were pampered in the manner described, then what should the older ones have to endure? And is it any wonder that the memories of a sad childhood later instilled some coldness in their attitude towards their father? The education that the young Brianchaninovs received was brilliant for that time. Every day a fresh troika brought the best teachers from the city and took them back; two teachers and a governess lived permanently. Attention was paid to the arts; in a talented family, some had a penchant for music, others for literature; for others - to painting. All these talents developed. At the same time, the children of the Bryanchaninovsky house were not only punished, but also kept from hand to mouth in the morning. Not out of stinginess, of course: the harsh system demanded it. Having gone blind in old age, Nanny Efimovna lived out her life in our Veprevsky house. We children ran in the evenings to listen to her pray. She prayed out loud, long and tearfully, for herself and for everyone she loved, and with sobs she begged God to forgive her the sin that she once, angry, slapped the young lady Lizaveta Alexandrovna. Having before her eyes the daily cutting of children, this pure soul blamed herself for the only, probably light blow! Pyotr Alexandrovich, the governor and an old man, remembered this nanny as his benefactor. “Those slices of bread that Efimovna secretly slipped us were cute!” - he said in a voice trembling with excitement. Efimovna always tried to hide the children’s guilt from the masters: the uncle, on the contrary, a faithful Cerberus, did not miss a single one. The morning began in Pokrovsky with reports. I can vividly imagine these reports from the stories of my mother and blind nanny... Seven o'clock. The master had already left the bedroom and went to the office. The household members with a sinking heart heard the trumpet sound of his nose blowing, which meant that he was angry. Headman Matvey walked upstairs, stepping carefully in big boots. Nanny Efimovna came into the bedroom with a report about the children. The bedroom is a spacious and cool room with columns and a single wide window into the garden. The lady was not there. She was sitting in front of the toilet in a small pink restroom. With her hands folded under her chest like a monk, Efimovna made a low bow at the door. – Mother Sofya Afanasyevna, good morning! The lady turned her calm, slightly pale face towards her. - Well, Efimovna? Is everything okay? - That's it, mother; Sonechka's cough went away. - So don’t tie her throat. Lizanka what? – she asked about her favorite. “We had a good night,” Efimovna said, returning her smile with a smile. - And Masha? – the lady asked more indifferently. - Mashenka was worried. Still in poor health. Again, mother, I should rub them in the bathhouse for a month or two. If you please remember, they didn’t go until they were three years old, so I went to the bathhouse alone... “No need, she’s already big,” interrupted the mother. The nanny suppressed a sigh. - We were worried in the evening, crying in our sleep; six years old, what's even bigger? - she added at her own risk, out of pity for the sick girl. She knew the reason for her tears in her dream: the child was intimidated yesterday, teaching prayers “with passion.” Sofya Afanasyevna did not answer. Busy with her thoughts, she absentmindedly fingered the expensive trinkets in the sink lying by the mirror. – How did Alexandra Alexandrovna... sleep at night? Efimovna lowered her eyes. She would like to remain silent, but the matter was out of the ordinary. The lady noticed her indecisiveness and repeated persistently and sternly: – Was Alexandra Alexandrovna sleeping, I ask? - Mother, they... prayed. The mother shrugged her shoulders and “thought” with an involuntary hostile feeling about her daughter. – I don’t like these quirks. Everyone is sleeping, no worse than her, and she... There is time for everything... You can go. After Efimovna, the guy came in. The lady, angry at the news of her daughter’s night prayer, did not respond to his bow. But the honored and faithful servant, not embarrassed by the lady’s stern appearance, gave his report. “Everyone is healthy in the nursery, ma’am.” Pyotr Alexandrovich deigned to tear his boot yesterday. They deigned to go out to the pond in the evening and tore it up. - Alone, sir. Dmitry Alexandrovich did not deign to leave. “Mitenka is always smart,” Sofya Afanasyevna thought, softening. “Really, we should even punish him...” and, without finishing her thought, asked: – Semyon Alexandrovich teased Alexandra Alexandrovna. The lady waved her hand: past! - Mikhailo Alexandrovich deigned to run around the calidor instead of going to bed. You wanted to make some noise. I reported what was not ordered; didn't deign to listen... Mishenka, like poor Makar, was always hit by cones. Alexandra Alexandrovna was loved by her father, just as Dmitry Alexandrovich was loved by her mother, but Mishenka was unloved by both parents. His antics were so inappropriate, he did not caress his parents when he was supposed to, and if he did, it was at the wrong time, his eyes wandered so strangely, and his hair stuck out in curls, he had such an absurd, preoccupied look, as if he was always thinking about something. Is it appropriate to think when you yourself are not visible from the ground? and could this be liked in a house where only fear and obedience were required of children? Dmitry Alexandrovich was also thoughtful, but his mother, a society woman, considered this thoughtfulness an integral part of his brilliant abilities, which caressed her ambitious dreams with the prospect of a high future career for her son. Finishing his report, the man announced: - Dmitry Alexandrovich was deigned to read the psalm by heart in bed: “God have mercy on me, as man has trampled on me”... They deigned to say: this psalm suits many. Sofya Afanasyevna, slightly bowing her head, mentally ran through the beginning of the psalm, thought a little and with a quick glance asked the uncle: “You don’t know whether Mitenka was talking about himself or about all people?” The uncle was sure that the young master was applying the words of the psalm specifically to himself and his brothers. But he did not have clear evidence for this and, as a conscientious person, did not want to testify falsely. He answered: “I can’t know, madam mother.” “I’m afraid Mitenka is too serious,” the mother said barely audibly. Good and smart, but why so serious?.. Remembering Mitenka’s intelligence and beauty, she thought bitterly how could her husband not love such a perfect son? And her thought instantly turned to the whole mass of sorrows, hopes, efforts, hourly tension of mind and will, which constituted the inner essence of her life, hiding under the external decorum of high and imperturbable decency. But she did not allow herself to indulge in these thoughts. Covering her curly hair with a wide gathered cap, she stood up and with a stately gait, the gait of a lady, left the bedrooms. A man's nursery, painted on the plaster with green and white stripes converging on the ceiling like a tent. A large semicircular window offers a view of the church. The second window is opposite the tops of the old linden trees in the garden, and only by bending over can you see at their roots, below, the densely shaded soil and long flexible benches - rocking chairs. While the guy, Dormidont Dmitrich, was walking around with a report, two boys, 13 and 12 years old, sat in the window niche, taking advantage of the temporary absence of their overseer. The eldest of them was later famous in St. Petersburg for his beauty. But now sadness was visible on the thin features of his face and in his large dark eyes - not fleeting, childish, but hopeless, deep, the sight of which would make a sensitive person feel cold. In Pokrovsky there were no people sensitive to this subject. Children's grief did not surprise anyone. Efimovna alone wept with barren and secret tears over the sorrows of her pets. In Petrusha’s rougher features one could not see either the same beauty or the same intelligence as Mitenka’s, but the expression of despondency was the same. “I love looking here so much,” the older boy said in a whisper, peering into the sea of ​​greenery outside the window. As if in these tops, in these leaves, in this air without boundaries - and I myself am free... It’s as if you live as a bird and forget everything... Petrusha sighed. His thoughts had a more realistic direction. – Somehow we will spend today! - he said. His brother's eyebrows, similar to his mother's, moved slightly on his white, clean forehead. “Yes,” he answered, without taking his eyes off the window. – I think there are children who get up in the morning and are happy... - Everything. That they are loved, that there is another day... a good one... ahead. And we wake up in fear... - And it’s a pity that you woke up! - Petrusha burst out louder than he intended. - Shhh! - Mitenka stopped him and looked around. But there was no one nearby. The younger brothers were sleeping. Petrusha leaned towards Mitenka. – Have you already changed your mind? – he asked barely audibly, but with a special expression. -Have you forgotten... what you wanted? – the brother repeated insistently. The steps of Dormidont Dmitrich were heard on the stairs. Mitenka stood up and walked lightly towards the sleepy children. “Get up, dears,” he said, gently running his thin and gentle hand over their faces. - Get up, they'll take you away... Then, returning to the window, he quickly blew on the glass and wrote on the matte coating that had formed: “You can’t run away from daddy.” And he wiped everything off with his shirt sleeve at the very moment when the Cerberus guy opened the door. Meanwhile, the girls, under the supervision of the governess, were tied with corsets and dressed in muslin dresses with a low neckline. Then the command came: - Faites votre entrie mesdemoiselles! Girls with sad faces and bare pale arms ceremoniously crouched one after another, pronouncing the French greeting to their parents. It was a rehearsal for the entrance. Downstairs they were already drinking tea. The large samovar was making noise at full speed. Sitting at the tea set was a mother wearing a cap and a yellow camelot cape with a cape. Her white hands, dry and thoroughbred, quickly and smoothly poured tea and distributed cups to those present. With that politeness that constituted her main charm, Maman carried on a conversation with the teachers and a visiting relative; she did so alone, because Dad was out of sorts and gloomily silent. Mom looked happy and calm. The girls were just coming down the stairs when the boys were already in the dining room and Mishenka received his punishment - deprivation of a kiss on his hand. Cups of liquid tea for the children were placed on a large teaching table, with a couple of wheat buns or crackers with each cup. After tea, classes had to begin (there were no summer holidays), and the children were not allowed to eat anything else until lunch. It was at this time that the nanny looked for and found an opportunity to hand over to the elders somewhere in the corridor a piece of black bread that she had taken for herself from the kitchen. Nothing else could be taken away from her without arousing suspicion. The younger children had less supervision and life was easier for them; Between lessons, the boys managed to run into the garden to pick apples and share them with their sisters; This was done under fear, but it seemed all the more fun. One should not think that the life of the young Brianchaninovs was completely joyless. Much was demanded of them, but much was given to them. A swing and excellent winter mountains in the garden were built for them; rafts on the pond, horse riding; not only boys, but also girls were occasionally allowed to accompany their father on a hunt: this was a noble custom. They used fruit generously, because fruit was not sold, of course, and apples were considered bags in Pokrovsky. But besides all this, how much happiness nature could bring to these sensitive children: walks, impressions of a beautiful garden, a wide expanse of fields and meadows, the beauty of Pokrovsky, spread out on two hills, clean air. And it’s a pity that these beautiful, pure joys, the lot of the happy few, were so often mixed with a painful feeling of fear. This incident was not forgotten by the older brothers. A landowner I knew came to Pokrovskoye with his teenage sons. As a result, Mitenka and Petrusha's lessons were stopped: they had to keep the guests occupied. The boys went for walks very sedately, without any pranks, because they no longer considered themselves children. We admired the fountain, sat in the grotto and returned for tea. For the young gentlemen, tea was served separately from the adults. An uncle served them. For tea, rich crackers made from white flour were served for the guests, and others made from homemade wheat flour were served for our own. But Mitenka and Petrusha, in the midst of the conversation, each took two white crackers for themselves, just as the guests took them. “Not out of greed, I assure you,” said Pyotr Alexandrovich, later recounting this incident in our house, “but because it was humiliating to show the guests that we are not given the same thing as them... The guy saw the crime and reported it. After the guests left, both brothers were forced to kneel for three hours, while they were forced to hold a white cracker in their mouths. All the household members walked past and saw this. “We were ashamed, Mashenka, deadly ashamed.” The crackers melt in our mouths, we don’t dare swallow them... And most importantly, we’re ashamed, the old man said with a bitter expression. - Well, that’s a shame. We weren’t little after all... Why?? What enormous strength, what excess of energy welled up in these young souls, if under such a regime they did not become depersonalized, did not become dull, did not grow up downtrodden and weak-willed! What gave them this power? Partly - the breadth of lordly life and nature. But most importantly, faith. In that Gospel, which says: “Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden,” they found consolation, strength to endure, and devotion to duty. The mood of the entire Pokrovsk Bryanchaninov family was deeply Orthodox and ecclesiastical; Voltairianism did not touch the grandfather’s soul. And who could the unfortunate children hope for except God? Severe upbringing played for them the role of that heavy hammer, which, “crushing glass, forges damask steel.” It forged from them people of strict honesty and a serious attitude to life; there was nothing vulgar in them, but there was, perhaps, not enough gentleness of character, tolerance for the feelings and ideas of others. Five or six years have passed since the scenes described - a lot has changed. The parental ferule has weakened, at least for the sons. Young men in military uniform already feel almost free. In winter, when they come to Pokrovskoye, they go to balls in the city, accompanying their mothers and sisters, and in the village they ride in troikas and outside the outskirts they invite pretty peasant girls into their sleighs. The sisters, in their wide cloaks, are also given rides, but less willingly, and they often tip the sleigh into the snow, making fun of the young ladies. Under the young gentlemen, a guy loyal to the master still lives in St. Petersburg and still sends reports to Pokrovskoe with the following content, for example: “... Pyotr Alexandrovich, while at an evening with the gentlemen Annenkovs, deigned to lose a cambric handkerchief with a monogram... That same evening, Mikhaila Alexandrovich deigned to buy expensive perfume, for 5 rubles a small bottle, and I reported that I could scent myself with cologne; you, Dormidon Dmitrich, spray yourself with cologne.” And I’m not just splashing, but my heart hurts over every single penny of your kindness. Again, Alexander Alexandrovich deigns not to return for a long time at night and conversations are not very similar among other gentlemen officers, but in other cases it happened that they got up before light and left. They don’t say where, and I, Your Lordship’s servant, followed and found out that they deign to go to the Nevsky Lavra for matins before the service, and I report this to Your Lordship, and that Dmitry Alexandrovich without question deigns to arrive at the Lavra whenever he is free from duty in the palace; and Dmitry Alexandrovich’s linen is all intact, which came with us from the estate, and they are friends only with one gentleman officer Chi[khachov] and go to the Lavra together.” Reading these messages, Alexander Semenovich frowned and shrugged his shoulders, but had to admit that all this was in the order of things, and if there was anything strange in the behavior of his sons, it was most likely their commitment to the Nevsky Lavra, and not Sashenka’s nightly adventures. More years pass. Dmitry Alexandrovich upsets his parents: he enters a monastery, abandoning his secular career, which was in full swing. Meanwhile, Sofya Afanasyevna begins to get sick, recovers, but the disease progresses, and her beloved son himself has to bury his dead mother 1. Pokrovskoe remains without a hostess. While Sofia Afanasyevna was still alive, Alexandra Alexandrovna, out of passionate love, married a certain former guardsman Zhandre. Soon Sonechka also became the wife of an educated young man from the best society - Boborykin. The two youngest daughters remained as girls - Lisa and Maria. Efimovna took the place of their mother, stood up for them in front of the formidable master, and was even beaten by him for this intercession. When you think about that ancient time - the time of serfdom - it is amazing how much more kindness and a sound understanding of things, even an understanding of Christian duty, was in the simple peasant soul than in those “wise ones” who imagined themselves to be the noblest of the noble, and not only imagined, but actually were such in their midst. An example is this nanny Efimovna, who prayed like the holy fool Grisha in Tolstoy. She was the same age as Sofya Afanasyevna, was given as her dowry, and always remembered her “duty” of exceptional devotion to the lady and her children. In her youth, like other girls, she had a dream of happiness: the gardener Philadelph fell in love with her. Every morning a bouquet of fresh flowers appeared on her window. She and Philadelph were a nice couple. But when she asked the gentlemen for permission to get married, she was refused. – Who else can I entrust the children to? - the lady cried. - No, no, I need you, stay as a nanny. And the dream flew away. Without complaint, without reproach, the meek heart sacrificed itself. Efimovna was left with the bitter joy of remembering the servant of God Philadelph in prayer for the rest of her life. Sofya Afanasyevna died, but Alexander Semenovich did not yet feel like an old man. He has new plans. He begins to court one of the young ladies he knows. There are rumors that he intends to get married. Then Lisa and Maria ask the brothers for help. Brianchaninov’s sons came to Pokrovskoye as unexpected and unwanted guests. Respectfully, but firmly, they told their father that they would not tolerate a strange woman in their mother’s place. And no matter how much he lost his temper, they stood their ground. Classic scenes took place. Eventually the old man relented. Life in Pokrovskoe began again, seemingly ordinary. But the mother’s absence made itself felt, and the sisters soon realized that they had to hurry to get married. Their father did not stop them. Elizaveta Alexandrovna was the first to accept the proposal of the distinguished but already very elderly general, and two months later my mother also became the wife of a young neighboring landowner, a man of unconditional honesty and straightforwardness, but unequal to her in education and habits. All the chicks of the old house flew away. Their fate was varied. Dmitry Alexandrovich was waiting for the episcopal see, Pyotr Alexandrovich - the governor's post. The eldest of the sisters, after serious troubles and separation from her husband, fell into a dark insanity. She lived alone with her little daughter in the wilderness of her assigned village, where snow covered the porch and wolves howled under the windows. The aunts came into the girl’s situation and placed her in the institute; however, this girl, after an original life, the life of a journalist in the Katkovsky camp, ended up in a mental hospital. Sofya Aleksandrovna Boborykina died in her twenty-third year, leaving two girls who grew up as well-mannered and secular young ladies, under the supervision of their father - so smart and loving that he not only did not suppress their personalities, but, on the contrary, helped them develop their independence and a serious view of everything around them. Of the Brianchaninov brothers, death crippled Alexander Alexandrovich while still in the military, in the young and flourishing years of his life, which he used too greedily. But before his death, he took secret tonsure. Mikhail Alexandrovich rushed about in St. Petersburg, leaving military service due to lack of funds. Thanks to the connections of his brother, Archimandrite Sergius Hermitage, he received good positions several times, but did not stay in them. And it’s clear: a person has whole worlds in his head and heart, but here there is bureaucracy, and most importantly, everywhere there is one or another lie, and he couldn’t stand that. Finally, he grabbed onto something else: he bought a carriage factory on credit; but was he, a nobleman to the core, supposed to engage in commercial business? He married in St. Petersburg a girl worthy of all respect, but poor and not noble, whom his proud relatives did not want to recognize as theirs. Having burned out at the factory, Mikhail Alexandrovich considered it a salvation for himself that his father singled him out, generously giving him a large and profitable estate in the northern wilderness 2. However, he subsequently lived there too due to his impracticality, although he managed the farm himself and went along with the workers, with an ax and in an overcoat, to fetch logs into the forest. His wife was his guardian angel for a long time, she lived constantly in the wilderness and died, leaving behind a bright memory in all those who knew her. When Alexander Semenovich accompanied his eldest son to St. Petersburg for the first time, on the way, in the carriage, he asked him what type of service he preferred. The son, without hesitation, answered: Service to the King of Heaven. The father did not pay attention to these words, but when the son carried them out, becoming a humble and poor novice, all Brianchaninov’s pride reared up. The biography of Bishop Ignatius (Dmitry Alexandrovich) tells in some detail about how much he suffered as a result of the despotic ambition of his parents, who did not reconcile with his calling. Monasticism was not a career for this man or a means to make money. He always gave away almost everything he had. The same family trait was reflected in the character of my mother; S.V. Boborykina, the eldest of the daughters of Fr.’s beloved sister, was the same. Ignatius. Other Brianchaninovs also knew how to sacrifice a lot, but not to their neighbors in general, but to their loved ones. So, Pyotr Alexandrovich used his entire fortune to publish the books of his beloved brother. Having learned about the death of his sister, Boborykina, Father Ignatius (who was already a monk at that time) wrote to my mother. He asked for details about the last days of Sofia Alexandrovna’s life, explaining that he was connected with her by ties of exclusive friendship and hoped to see her in a future life, according to the word of the Holy Scripture: “God brings like-minded people into the house”... My grandfather's ambition was satisfied when Father Ignatius received the rank of archimandrite in his youth. In those days, spiritual ranks were more difficult to achieve than now, and more merit was required for this. So the grandfather relented. But it was already too late: his son’s health was strained by hardships and sorrows of all kinds, and the memory of the injustice that poisoned his childhood and youth was never erased from his heart. Having served for several years in the Sergius Hermitage, personally known to the Emperor, respected by the Heir and the Grand Dukes, Father Ignatius wanted to visit his native places. Perhaps life in public view, with inevitable troubles, along with inevitable official honor, tired him, and he longed for nature, cordiality and simplicity. But in Pokrovskoye he was given a ceremonial meeting, “in keeping with his position.” Of course, all his relatives came and walked around him with such reverence, as if he had been canonized alive. Alexander Semenovich himself gave a tone of such extreme honor in his attitude towards his son. On the day of his arrival, Father Ignatius was, of course, at his mother’s grave; and remained in the cemetery long after the priest had celebrated the funeral service. The next day a solemn service was scheduled in the Church of the Intercession. Neighbors arrived, crowds of peasants gathered to look at the archimandrite; They hoped that even if Father Ignatius did not serve, he would say, maybe he would speak... In the morning, when the whole family gathered in the corner “billiard room” waiting for the first strike of the bell, Father Ignatius sat down on the sofa next to the two Boborykin girls and said: - Father, I won’t go to church today. Not very healthy. You all go, God will bless you, and I’ll stay with them,” he points to the children. The grandfather was amazed, threw up his hands, but... did not dare to object. Left alone, Father Ignatius called his cell attendant, went out with the children into the garden and there, with the help of this cell attendant, Nikolenka, he rode his nieces on the mountain all the time while the service was going on in the church - on that excellently arranged mountain in the garden, on which he himself rode in childhood 3 . What he wanted happened: the parade didn’t work out, and many thought: “What kind of saint is he if he plays with children instead of praying in church?” Father Ignatius did not stay long in Pokrovskoye this time. It was probably during this visit that he wrote the prose poem “Cemetery”... If I’m not mistaken, after this visit, Father Ignatius was only once more in Pokrovskoye, and also for a short time. Dmitry Alexandrovich traveled to Vologda on business and visited his father, but their relationship was exclusively formal. There was no correspondence between the Bishop and Alexander Semenovich. Father Ignatius did not interrupt his warm and family relations with the daughters of his beloved sister, the Boborykins, until his death. They often used his spiritual advice. And not just spiritual ones. He did not neglect taking care of his correct appearance; the former secular man affected this. Once, in the Sergius Hermitage, noticing that the nieces who came to him did not have their hair styled the way they did it in the capital at that time, he asked his sister, the general’s wife, to go with them where they should go and arrange for their hair to be impeccable. If he saw something insufficiently graceful on the sisters, he would quietly ask: - What are you wearing, what outfit? S.V. Boborykina had the habit, like many others, of wearing a modest, dark dress when going to church. The Bishop did not approve of this. - Why is this? - he said. – Do you think that God is more pleased to see you in a black dress than in an ordinary one? Or do you think that by changing clothes you will become closer to God, more worthy? The sisters sometimes repented to him, lamenting their sins and complaining about temptations. He answered. - There is no need to condemn yourself. The Lord came into the world for sinners. Why are you surprised that you are a sinner? Aren't you like everyone else? Well, pride and so on. Others have it all, why shouldn't you? So you consider yourself better than others? More humble? “With my merits... Let someone else accept it the way I do!” This is the pride of humility. “God has no small details,” he also used to say. “Everyone struggles with a major challenge. If a thunderstorm comes, a person gathers all his strength against it. It is easy to defeat a major temptation. But we must accustom ourselves to tolerate petty things complacently. This is more difficult. Look, they are cleaning your room, and every day they put the scissors with the toe towards you, every day you have to rearrange them as needed, and you have to not be upset by this, not get angry, endure it every day... Four years before the death of Bishop Ignatius, my mother went to the Babaevsky monastery, where he lived in retirement, and took me with her. I was small, and my impressions survived in fragments. I remember the spacious bishop’s living room with windows overlooking the river. It is not gloomy: its monochrome walls are a pleasant chocolate tone. Above the sofa hang large oval portraits of the brothers in gilded frames. There are a lot of books on the tables and on the floor: the living room also serves as an office. There is not much furniture, but everything is solid: the simplicity of highly developed taste. Behind this room was another, narrow bedroom, which had the appearance of a more intimate shelter. There were robes hanging on the wall, and on the table lay several beautiful rosaries - gifts from friends. The Bishop himself was a tall, important man, very elderly, but did not yet seem like an old man. Only his face, plump and pale, revealed his inner pain. I remember that he usually sat on the sofa, my mother too, and next to the Bishop on the armchair was Pyotr Alexandrovich. Majestic with us, Pyotr Alexandrovich behaved respectfully towards his brother, even emphasizing this respect too much. I sat for long hours next to my mother, listening to speeches I couldn’t understand and looking at already familiar objects in the living room. It happened that a cell attendant would answer the bell and, having heard the order, would smile at me subtly as he left. Or even better: in a cassock, with downcast eyes, a handsome man, Brother Alyosha, came in and, despite the strict monastic correctness of his manner, he always found the opportunity to encourage me with a quick glance. “Are you bored? asked this look. - Be patient, we’ll go with Fr. in the evening. Moses to ride." Pyotr Alexandrovich lived in Babayki with his brother as a layman; he wore an old-style gray frock coat; everyone understood that he was a monk at heart and adhered to the monastic rule, although he did not take tonsure, perhaps so that it would be more convenient for him to bother about the publication of the Vladyka’s works. He published them at his own expense, and I know that he had to tinker a lot, not just because of the material side of the matter: some difficulties arose, obstacles were put in place, and he went to explain things to high-ranking officials, taking advantage of his position as a former governor. Leaving the governor's post after his beloved brother on Babayki, he took his son Alyosha from the gymnasium and assigned him as a novice to the monastery. But Alyosha was externally and internally similar to his mother; the cheerful gentleness of his character and his full-flowing cheerfulness prevented him from becoming a monk in his soul. His interesting appearance attracted provincial ladies to Babaev’s churches in the same way as the subtle beauty of Bishop Ignatius in his young years attracted St. Petersburg ladies to the Sergius Hermitage, but in the latter case their intentions were in vain, shattered by the high seriousness and monastic dispassion of the archimandrite, and immodest female glances left a mark on the young Alyosha’s soul. Having reached adulthood, he left the monastery; launched, so to speak, his boat into the sea of life, retaining, however, throughout his life a deep devotion to the Orthodox faith and a lot of real Christian humility in his soul... It is interesting that all the Bryanchaninovs did not love Catholicism, but they did not love it so much that they did not recognize anything worthy in it, hardly even considering the Catholic Church to be the real Church of Christ. One grandfather, a man of broader views, read spiritual Catholic books and was partly interested in Thomas a à Kempis, and this disturbed and outraged the children, mainly the older ones. Vladyka Ignatius died before his father. It was spring, high water; None of the relatives could go to the funeral. Sofya Vasilyevna Boborykina went alone, a hot girl and capable of great devotion. Grandfather did not want to let her go. - This is madness! You won't go. - Forgive me, Grand Papa, I’ll go. - I don’t bless you. “It makes me very sad, but I feel like I have to go.” There was no railway from Vologda at that time. Sofya Vladimirovna left with the maid in the cart of a familiar commission agent, Pyotr Ledkov. There was no transportation near Yaroslavl; Sofya Vladimirovna drove further outside the city and there hired a peasant who, for a good price, delivered two women to the other side, despite the danger of moving. Then they got to Babayki relatively easily. After the deceased bishop there was no inheritance left. 14 kopecks were found in the pocket of his cassock. This was all he had, because only two or three days before his death he gave seventy-five rubles to a peasant whose horse had died. Grandfather survived him because he took care of himself, and in this regard he was no stranger to some selfishness, however, completely natural. He could not talk about everything with his sons and daughters and avoided exciting conversations. Exciting conversations very rarely lead to mutual understanding and reassurance. Grandfather was smart and knew it. And therefore the main topic of his conversations with children was politics. In politics, all the Brianchaninovs had the same view. But how warmly attentive he was to all of his people, especially to his grandchildren! I knew my grandfather in his deep old age, but a beautiful and kind old age: his former severity disappeared. In his clear eyes shone that condescension, purchased at the cost of a long experience of life, a life of thought, which is found only in good old people. He cared about his appearance. What noble calm was in his face, with his delicate features, in his manner - important, friendly and old-fashioned! How beautiful was his graceful head with thick silver hair, his straight figure and leisurely, sweet, condescending speech! And when his sons Pyotr Alexandrovich sat next to him, heavy, shaven, with sharp lines of the face, in a gray, bulky frock coat; or Mikhail Alexandrovich, with an inspired but absent-minded look, bald, with a wide, shaggy beard, then, truly, the grandfather seemed more handsome than them, and almost younger. His concepts were undoubtedly broader: he was interested in many of the things that they despised in their orthodox one-sidedness. The grandfather violated his manner of not entering into intimacy for the Boborykin sisters, secular girls who grew up without a mother. How he knew how to guess their difficulties without asking questions, to warmly support them in difficult times with a sympathetic look, a fleeting, encouraging word, or otherwise: to give two magnificent roses for a corsage and to cross the girl. I was a child, but it is impossible for me to forget with what affection he treated my mother and me to the best peaches and cherries from the garden, how often he pleased me by sending flowers to Veprevo for Easter or early vegetables from the greenhouse! I have a special reason to remember my grandfather kindly. He alone of all the Brianchaninovs loved my father, appreciating his incorruptible straightforwardness. Once, when his father, after talking with him, was leaving, simple and straightforward, as always, Alexander Semenovich, turning to those present, said: – This man is a saint, and he doesn’t even suspect it... In full memory, Alexander Semenovich lived to be 91 4 years old and died without much suffering from pneumonia. After the death of Bishop Ignatius, not far from Babayka, a circle of people was grouped, connected with Pyotr Alexandrovich by like-mindedness and acquaintance and who considered themselves close in spirit to the deceased Bishop... I want to make a reservation: I am not writing here either about the Brianchaninovs’ career, or about the external events of their lives: all this, no doubt, is of great interest, but not for me. I was always interested only in their out-of-the-ordinary moral character. Moreover, I am writing exclusively about people who grew up under the roof of the Pokrovsky house, and not about their children, and especially not about another branch of the Brianchaninovs from the Yurov estate, as having a completely different character. Everything that I say here about the Brianchaninovs in general cannot concern Bishop Ignatius. As a man of exceptional intelligence and character, he always stood somewhat alone, and his path from childhood was different from the path of his brothers and sisters. This is also expressed in his biography compiled by Pyotr Alexandrovich... Sofya Afanasyevna Bryanchaninova died on July 25. 1832 – Ed. Mikhail Aleksandrovich Brianchaninov (23.VIII.1811–17.1.1887) subsequently went to become a monk in Optina Pustyn, where he soon died. – Ed. In one private letter, A. N. Kupreyanova explains: “The mountains from which Father Ignatius rode the children in the summer were wooden; that is, the mountains were chosen to be real, and the skating rink was made of boards, and wooden strollers on wheels.” – Ed. The saint's father, Alexander Semenovich Brianchaninov, died on April 19, 1874 - Ed. Alexandra Nikolaevna Kupreyanova is the Saint’s own niece. – Ed.