In the Far East (letters from a Japanese missionary)

Preface Letter I. August 21, 1891. Black Sea Letter II. August 25th. Mediterranean Sea Letter III. September 7th. Indian Ocean. 9° north latitude, 71° east. duty. Letter IV. September 14. Sea of ​​Bengal September 15. Gulf of Malacca Letter V. September 19. Strait of Malacca Letter VI. September 28 Hong Kong Letter VII. October 8. Vladivostok Letter VIII. October 14. Nagasaki and the Japanese Mediterranean Sea Letter IX. October 20. Tokyo Letter X. November 16. Tokyo November 17th Letter XI. December 14, 1890 Osaka Letter XII. 30th January 1891 Osaka Letter XIII. March 20, 1891 Tokyo Letter XIV. May 14, 1891 Tokyo Letter XV. 1st June 1891. Tokyo Letter XVI. 15th July 1891 Tokyo Letter XVII. October 28, 1891 Tokyo Letter XVIII. December 26, 1891 Nagasaki Letter XIX. March 5, 1892 Hong Kong Letter XX. April 14, 1892 Tokyo Letter XXI. August 10, 1892 Tokyo Letter XXII. November 14, 1892 Tokyo Letter XXIII. January 18, 1893 Kyoto Letter XXIV. May 4, 1893 Kyoto Conclusion In 1890, having just completed a course at the St. Petersburg Theological Academy, I received an appointment to the Japanese Spiritual Mission. It’s clear with what feelings I spent my last summer in Russia. Japan, or actually the great personality of its enlightener, Rev. Nicholas, couldn’t get it out of my head. How many thoughts did Fr. and I change our minds about? A. (two of us were appointed). I remember that the Japanese translation of the Octoechos was the first book, as if the first pledge that connected us with this hitherto unknown country. These are the mysterious hieroglyphs that you will have to know, from which you will have to learn yourself and teach others the life of Christ. Goshkevich's lexicon, most faulty in all respects, Smirnov's Japanese grammar, inconvenient to study, the American edition of the New Testament in Japanese - how many times have we held them in our hands and leafed through them. But for now everything was a silent secret and attractive in its obscurity. Staying for two whole months before leaving: Fr. A. was supposed to go on the 15th, and I was supposed to go on the 20th of August on the ships of the Volunteer Fleet. I was also drawn to the hitherto unknown “abroad” and the sea, which I never got around to seeing after living for four years in St. Petersburg. I also imagined wonderful countries on the way to Japan: India, China, etc. Finally, the thoughts came to an end: reality set in. Having traveled to my homeland, and then again in St. Petersburg, in mid-August I was in Odessa, from where I went to the Far East on the Kostroma. The trip turned out to be very successful: we stopped a lot and for a long time, a lot could be seen and noticed. I never stopped communicating all this in my letters. Then my Japanese life also found a fairly detailed description in the same letters. Chance led me to visit China and its coastal cities. A lot of information has accumulated and is varied. You could say that the entire coastal Asia passed before my eyes: Constantinople, Port Said, Perim, Colombo, Penang, Singapore, Saigon, Hong Kong, Amoy 1, Vladivostok, Shanghai, not to mention Japan itself. Many people advised me to print my letters. I wanted to see them in print also because from them readers can get at least an approximate idea of ​​the great work that our mission is accomplishing, or the Rev. Nikolai, in Japan. Of course, a lot in the letters would need to be corrected, some information would have come out differently if I had written it down, for example, now, some, perhaps, would have been completely excluded. But, following the advice, I type almost as I wrote then, in order to maintain the freshness of the impression. Of course, these impressions, upon leaving the bench directly abroad, at sea, etc., turned out to be, perhaps, more vivid than they should have been; in many ways, I may have been mistaken. But I think that the reader will forgive me these involuntary hobbies and mistakes: after all, the impressions from life were not invented, from them, nevertheless, one can at least get some idea of ​​​​the countries that are described. Much, moreover, was corrected later, in further letters, as I myself became acquainted with life there. Letter I. August 21st, 1891. Black Sea So, goodbye, Russia. I am writing this letter in the wardroom of the Kostroma. Through the windows you can see only the boundless blue of the Black Sea. There is not a cloud in the sky, not a piece of land on the sea, not a single black dot... Everything is blue and blue. The steamer goes straight along the river, not moving. You forget what it would be like to be at sea, if it weren’t for this all-drowning blue, to which the eye is not yet accustomed and the endless expanse of which is not yet able to admire. However, you need to say something about your departure from Russia. Having examined Moscow, Zvenigorod and New Jerusalem, and served the last liturgy in Russia in Kyiv on the Dormition, I arrived in Odessa on the 17th at 9 o’clock in the morning. Three days of endless bustle passed. I had to get my luggage, sent in advance, I had to stock up on St. peace, St. gifts. It was necessary to find and receive all the church things, then go to a thousand different public and non-public places. And all this is groping, with a loss of time. Finally the 20th arrived and twelve o'clock in the afternoon. Returning from my last trip, I packed my things, infinitely satisfied with the complete set of vestments, St. vessels, antimins. All this will make it possible not to be without service at sea. I had a bite to eat, paid the hotel bill and went to the pier, filled with all sorts of expectations and prepared to experience all sorts of sensations that, according to rumors, are usually experienced when parting with one’s homeland and land. We drove and drove, and finally I saw my “Kostroma” right in front of me, or, rather, just the stairs to the “Kostroma”. Amid the general hubbub and bustle, I didn’t even notice that I had approached the very side of the ship (the steamer was moored to the shore). There was no time to think, or to look at the ship, the crowd was bustling, in a hurry and did not wait. I climbed up the stairs (I confess, I didn’t know then that at sea there are no stairs, no ropes, no windows, but only a ladder, ends, portholes, etc. I expressed myself then in a completely land-based manner). The cabin was already waiting for me. Without any special procedure, therefore, I packed my things and went out onto the deck to breathe and look. It was somewhat wild in an unfamiliar and hitherto unprecedented environment. Everything here is new, starting with the steamer and ending with the smallest detail of this whole scene. I started with the ship. It was a huge black monster with three masts. There are three buildings on the upper deck: a pilothouse at the stern (there are premises for passenger cabins, for the wardroom, all this is on the upper deck), a pilothouse in the middle of the ship (officers' cabins, a kitchen, etc., with a car underneath) and something like a pilothouse at the bow (later I found out that this is not the bow, but a forecastle and that the crew is housed there). Above the aft deckhouse is a platform, the usual place for cabin passengers. An awning is stretched over it in hot weather. Here you can see a few hints of furniture, in the form of broken tropical cane chairs (longhairs), two garden benches, several folding stools. There is not too much furniture. But... then even this seemed like a luxury. Two boats are suspended above both sides. There are ropes rolled into circles (it’s my fault, into coils). That's all the decoration. Above the middle deckhouse there is a captain's bridge, a captain's cabin, several boats, etc. The third-class passengers were not visible, and it was not yet possible to find out where their abode was. Our cabins are wow. True, they are not large, and their furnishings are undemanding, but we don’t need luxury. There are three of us in the cabin. I didn’t know who my companions were yet. There were four beds. Two at a time: one above the other. We occupied three, the fourth served as a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and everything else we needed. The washbasin is the most inconvenient from our Russian point of view: you need to constantly press some button so that the water flows; There is no way you can adapt to pressing and washing at the same time, since there are only two hands. However, we'll get used to it. The corridor in which our cabins are located opens into the wardroom. This is a fairly large room, quite low, like everything on a ship. The longitudinal walls are occupied by a solid sofa. In front of him, on both sides of the room, are long tables. This is for lunch. Some of the passengers sit on the sofa, the other part is placed in chairs with swivel seats screwed to the floor, on the other side of the table. On one of the transverse walls, which is connected to our cabins, there is a piano, on the opposite wall there is a low chest of drawers with a marble board on top and a large mirror on the wall. Among the company cabins there is a mast, beautifully decorated with mahogany. On it is nailed a map of the globe indicating the main sea routes. Here you have all our decorations. Passengers are usually on the upper deck; they eat and drink more in the wardroom (and sometimes write, as for example, I do now). The time schedule, apparently, aims to leave as little time as possible for business and as much time as possible for rest, sleep, etc. From 7 to 9 o’clock in the morning, everyone is obliged to drink tea (it is allowed to finish it earlier, but woe to those who slept for 9 hours! The buffet will close for them and the waiter will coldly say: “extra,” that is, they will give tea, but they will write it down separately). At 11 o'clock breakfast (or lunch, if you prefer) of two courses. From 2 to 3 you can drink tea again, but with a special fee. At 5 lunch. I haven’t yet found out what happens afterwards, because yesterday lunch was not at the scheduled time, at 6 and a half o’clock. As you can see, there is no need to go hungry and complain about boredom and a lot of free time. But back to the story. I went out on deck. Here the same hustle and bustle continued. The ship was loading. They were loading some chests, suitcases, boxes, baskets, bags. The lifting machine (winch) worked tirelessly, filling everything with its crackling sound. Her iron lever will stretch overboard, just like a hand. The chain that is being lowered for the goods will rattle along it. Silence. The worker grabs several chests, bags, etc. with a rope and hooks the rope onto a hook at the end of the winch chain. “Vira, winch,” a half-asleep, half-dissatisfied voice is heard. The winch is cracking again. The load rises over the side. Stop... Some valve in the car is being changed... Again the ratchet. The load, together with the iron lever, slowly describes a circle in the air... Hanging over the bottomless abyss of the hold. Another pause, again something moves in the car. Ratchet again. The cargo descends and disappears in the hold. From there they will shout several more times: “Stop”, several more times: “Mine” (come on). And finally, with relief, “vira”, the winch pulls out the empty chain this time to go overboard again for new prey. There is a groan on the deck and on the shore near the ship. Everyone drags something, everyone considers it his duty to shout about something. It's hard to understand what's going on here. A particularly touching picture was presented by animals - cows and bulls, which they tried by all means to invite onto the ship. The poor four-legged creatures were obviously not at all attracted by this enviable prospect. As much strength as they had, they rested on the narrow ramps, roaring - they must have sensed that only appetite forced people to carry them with them. The pier and the deck were full of all sorts of people. The diversity of costumes and types was striking. What and who was not here? There were examples of the simplicity and simplicity of their costume that strongly resembled primitive times. There were Greeks and Jews and everyone. I stood for a long time, occupied with this contemplation. Time, however, passed. It was about 5 pm when the first whistle was blown. Another hour passed. Finally, the third whistle. The gangway was removed, the ropes were given away and... goodbye to Rus'. Our steamer shuddered, began to puff, and slowly, slowly began to turn away from the shore. The crowd, about this, began to shout “hurray”, waving their hats, scarves and just their hands. Our sailors responded in kind. And thus, amid this general scream, we moved away from the pier and quietly walked through the roadstead. Having rounded the pier, our ship stopped behind the lighthouse. “We will stand here until 12 o’clock at night.” There was general bewilderment, but so far there was no one to resolve it. Meanwhile, the lunch bell rang. Went. The wardroom was welcomingly lit, the tables were set. All that remained was to take seats. But we all, like a herd, huddled in the middle until the captain came to our rescue and made us sit down. We sat down. The silence was impossible; there was simply no breeze. This caused the heat in the wardroom to reach tropical levels. The poor passengers, sweating their brows, ate, ate, dried themselves, ate again... And so on for a long time, diligently. Most of the passengers, as I looked at them, were all officers, and for the most part fresh out of school, fledglings. They all went to Eastern Siberia to begin their service. There is one doctor, also just graduated, going to Sakhalin and staying in the same cabin with me. There is an architect who has also barely completed his course and is also going to Sakhalin. There are two generals, one with his wife, the other, more important, with his daughter. The company, as you can see, is mostly a start-up. After lunch, everyone moved to the deck, under the awning, and enjoyed a delightful painting in the style of Aivazovsky. The light of the moon stretches across the sea into infinity. The sky is clear and starry. In the distance a mass of lights burned: Odessa and the raid with its ships. Silhouettes of sailing ships flashed in the distance. Some steamship was knocking, approaching Odessa and showing its multi-colored lights from time to time. And it was so lovely, so spacious and so mysterious in this sea, outside the roadstead. I would have looked at it without ceasing, and would never have walked away from this marvelous picture, penetrating deeply into the soul. “Why, however, are we standing?” - we asked each other more than once (as soon as the ship left the shore, something immediately united us all, everyone began to look at each other as if they were acquaintances). Someone who knew was found and explained to us that the reason was all in the Turk. He does not allow us to enter his harbor before sunrise or after sunset, otherwise they will shoot, and the costs of shooting will be deducted from us. Not wanting to be exposed to such trouble and not finding it convenient to stand in sight of Constantinople at night, the captain of our ship decided that it was better to stand in sight of Odessa, and then go non-stop to Constantinople. “Reasonable. But why leave Odessa so early and stand outside the roadstead, when it would be more convenient to stand at the pier?” Our leader could not say anything to this. “It might be to keep on schedule.” Later we learned that you can’t leave Odessa after sunset. I thought I’d wait until 12 o’clock and see how we would get away from Odessa completely. But the lack of sleep and the whole day of running took their toll. I had to retreat from my decision. I went to my cabin and, without any claims to strong sensations when saying goodbye to the earth, etc., I fell asleep in the most dry way and did not wake up until 8 o’clock in the morning. I woke up and the first thing I did was look at the sea, now open in the true sense. But this unusual blue was so enormous, so absorbing, that even the feeling of infinity could not be experienced. Consciousness is completely lost in this boundless vault, in these swollen masses of water in all directions (the sea surface seems elevated to the horizon). Only then, little by little, do you begin to realize it. You can admire this vastness and think while looking at it only after several days of sea travel. Then, indeed, you can spend whole days, especially nights, looking and thinking, and experiencing the infinity of this mighty element. At 10 and a half o'clock we had a prayer service. On the upper deck, or more precisely, in mundane terms, on the poop deck, they set up something like a tent made of large flags. They set up a table covered with gold vestments. On it there is an icon, a cross, a gospel, and two candlesticks. An improvised choir was formed from a “figurative”, some kind of psalm-reader, who was accidentally found among the third-class passengers, and several officers. At first they were separated, but then they got better and things went smoothly. Then we’ll arrange a rehearsal, and then it will turn out even better. B 7 hours from half. evenings - prayer for the crew and third class passengers on deck. The weather is wonderful. The sea is like a mirror. And now there is no trace of the heat, like in Odessa: the steamer, with its movement, produces a fairly noticeable current of air, and the breeze drives away any heat. No pitching. In a word, not a sea voyage, but a walk. They only talk about the Red Sea. The heat there, they say, reaches an impossible degree. However, it's time to end the letter. Tomorrow morning we will arrive in Constantinople. It will be necessary to admire the Bosporus; then there will be no time to finish the letter. So, goodbye in Port Said. Letter II. August 25th. Mediterranean Sea We actually arrived in Constantinople in the morning, that is, to the Bosphorus, because the procedure with the quarantine inspection, with the examination of the pass, etc. delayed us for two hours too much. Only at 11 o'clock did we finally drop anchor in the middle of the Bosphorus opposite St. Sofia. What the Bosphorus is like from a ship can only be seen, but not described. I can’t even believe that such an incomparable panorama could exist in reality, not in a painting. The strait is quite narrow for a sea, like a river. It goes in twists and turns. And so, as if by a pike’s command, more and more delights unfold before you, one more beautiful than the other, one more picturesque than the other. You don’t have time to get a good look at one, and the Bosphorus is in a hurry to amaze you with another, you pull out from behind the coastal mountains a corner that you have not yet seen and is even more picturesque. I think that I could go here on purpose to see all this in person. But the main thing is ahead. After several turns, you finally see the city, and in the background, on a hillock, in the middle of several minarets, St. Sofia. Constantinople with its mosques, minarets, palaces, with its ever-smoking, bustling, teeming roadstead with boats, steamships, ships, with a whole sea of ​​houses piled up in heaps on all the surrounding hills, wonderful cypress trees, with all its wealth in all its oriental attire appears before your admiring gaze. Wonderful, wonderful city! He knew how to choose the place of St. for you. Konstantin! It’s as if Europe and Asia have joined forces here to better decorate you! As soon as “Kostroma” became, another picture, more everyday, opened before our eyes. The steamer was immediately surrounded by a whole flotilla of boats with all kinds of supplies: some offered fruit, beautiful fruit, some - sweets, some - shoes, fezzes, some - what. And all of these were black gentlemen, Turks and Greeks, and all of this mercilessly distorted our Russian language, using gestures and glances, in every possible way attracting us to their product. From the other side, where the ladder was lowered, caiques arrived, sharply different in their elegant appearance from the merchant boats. The rowers are dressed in white (and clean) clothes, with red fezzes on their heads. The caique is carpeted. The rowers look great. However, all these picturesque and non-picturesque boats were left with nothing: we were put on some kind of company boat and everyone was transported ashore at public expense. Our station was the shop of a Greek man who spoke Russian very well and willingly offered us his services to find a guide, a cab driver, etc. Our company was large: 18 people. They also added a guide, who, despite his Orthodoxy, knowledge of the Russian language, and familiarity with Russia, turned out to be a very bad guide. We settled into four landaus and raced around Constantinople. “What a mixture of clothes and faces!” Who haven't we seen here? Turks, Greeks, blacks, Europeans, all of this swarmed the streets, sitting, standing, walking and running in all directions, colorful in their costumes and filling the air with all kinds of dialects. Red fezzes, of course, predominated, alternating with white turbans. There were soldiers, officers, dervishes, mullahs in their masquerade robes. But dogs, dogs! Just whole millions! And all these are dogs of the simplest form - mongrels, tattered, dirty, sleepy, and in their temperament must be very reminiscent of their faithful owners. The streets of Tsar Grad are very bad: the dirt and stench are unimaginable. The streets are mostly narrow and dark. In general, anyone who wants to leave a good memory of Constantinople should not leave the ship ashore. Like any reality, Constantinople is only good from afar. First of all, we drove up to St. Sofia. It's also good from the sea. Up close it is difficult to understand: the Turkish extensions, clumsy and, to top it all, shabby, completely clutter it up. We entered a vast courtyard, surrounded by a high, two or one and a half fathoms, iron grating. In the middle of the courtyard, under a canopy, and also behind an iron grate, there is a huge fountain. Near him, several traders of sacred things, mainly rosaries, which are in great use among the Turks, pitched their tents and just tables. Here we were joined by another guide, a very young man who spoke four languages: French, English, German and Italian, and, like everyone else in Constantinople, knew a few words of Russian. Thanks to him, our half of the company saw much more than the other, who followed the first, Orthodox guide. We enter St. Sofia. First of all, they put shoes on our feet; we didn’t have to take off our boots. For this they asked to take off their hats. This is obviously a concession to Europe. We entered the gallery, or porch, which goes around the entire church on two floors. This is a very wide and high corridor. The floor is covered with mats, you can’t hear footsteps. It's quiet and somewhat gloomy here. Somehow the voices fade away, you involuntarily fall silent in this majestic, captive church. We were shown several remains of Byzantine mosaics on the ceilings and walls of the corridor. We saw a column that seemed to have been cut by Mohammed (the conquering sultan). There is his handprint on the wall right there. This happy sultan must have had amazing hands. Traces of crosses, portraits of the emperor and empress are noticeable in some places, all of this sleeps under the barbaric cover of plaster. The Turks tried to cover everything up and bury it. For how long? Finally, we entered the church itself. Great, grandiose St. Sofia. But it’s somehow hard to contemplate her desecrated greatness. This Muslim platform in place of the altar, these clumsy skinny chandeliers reaching almost to the floor, these ridiculous green shields that cover some Christian images above and between the arches! How sad it all is, how dissonant it is, how inappropriate it is here. The huge area of ​​the church is covered with mats throughout its entire width. Along the walls there are some kind of fences with and without elevations, probably the places of some mullahs. On the left side (from the entrance) at the (former) altar there is a covered place for the Sultan on columns. In some places, mostly near the doors, kneeling figures of Muslims praying were visible. From time to time their sobbing and muttering could be heard. And once upon a time, hundreds of priests, deacons and singers in the richest clothes now filled the empty and destroyed altar. Once upon a time there was splendor here that made Solomon's temple pale. Everything is over. Everything is desecrated, abandoned, desecrated. It’s hard and sad in this great church. However, God is not in greatness and power; He came through reproach and humiliation. This must be the way of His Church, if only it remains faithful to Him. We stood for a long time in St. Sofia. The overall appearance of the interior is amazing. The dome, huge as the sky, rests so lightly on the arches that you forget about the matter. This is absolutely the vault of heaven hanging in the air. There are no huge, clumsy pillars supporting the dome in our churches that are crushing with their mass. Everything hangs, and to complete the illusion, the light also falls from the dome: the windows are not in the lantern, but right in the dome. And this apparently simplest combination of lines made us stand silently in front of this miracle and look at it without getting tired. Yes, Justinian was right to admire and be proud of his creation. Having paid two francs per person, we left St. Sofia and went to see other sights. We saw an Egyptian obelisk on which was nailed an inscription in several languages, announcing to posterity the overthrow of the Janissaries. Here, not far away, by some miracle, the entire tattered Byzantine column is standing. We saw a dungeon with a thousand columns: the remnant of a Byzantine water supply system. We looked at the coffins of the sultans. We also walked around the famous Istanbul bazaar, where you don’t know what to marvel at, whether it’s the variety of its sellers, their pestering, or the general dirt, stench, darkness, some kind of musty fog that fills everything there. It must be true that a true believer, despite all his ablutions, and perhaps thanks to them, cannot live without dirt. It’s good that there are ready-made, free orderlies, in the form of dogs, who destroy garbage: without dogs, Constantinople would have long ago rotted and suffocated in its filth. We drove past the Sultan's gardens and palaces, seeing, of course, nothing but tightly closed gates; True, the gate is very elegant. In general, the city left some kind of confusion in my head. He deafened us, stunned us. You need to stay in it for more than one day to get your bearings, although apart from Sofia (and museums), there are no particularly rare things in it, except for itself. We should, of course, visit the patriarch, but our company did not arrive, and then it was already evening: we needed to hurry to Kostroma. Only on the ship was it possible to somewhat come to one’s senses and make sense of the mass of never-before-experienced impressions. For the first time, to be among a foreign, non-Russian people, in a foreign country and directly fall into such a whirlpool - here you will inevitably become confused and will not soon come to your senses. On the morning of the 23rd, we passed the Dardanelles and entered the Archipelago. Here we made our first naval debut, and not particularly brilliantly. There was a barely noticeable swell, a dead swell, as the sailors called it. There is no wind, no waves, but the ship is rocking. Of course, the motion was subtle; but, going to sea, we all read and heard that there is rolling at sea and that in such cases there is seasickness - therefore, there must be seasickness in the present case. And so, more from the fact that they knew about the pitching and saw it than they felt it, our passengers were finally prepared to suffer from seasickness. First, of course, the ladies, and then, looking at them, everyone felt uneasy. Everyone began to notice a particularly concentrated expression on their faces, some for some reason retreated to the side, while others completely cleared the position and disappeared. Our hosts tried to somehow disperse this obsession, but nothing helped: a concentrated expression spread to all faces, solitudes on board became more frequent, positions began to be cleared not only unexpectedly, but also with possible haste. And then, as luck would have it, an engineer turned up with medicine. Going to sea, we all read with special attention various “remedies for seasickness” in the newspapers. I remember somewhere and I read that eucalyptus gum helps a lot. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately), I could not find this gum in pharmacies. The engineer couldn't find it either. But (this is what rationalism means) he did not stop there. He was offered eucalyptus oil instead of gum. Our pharmacist and consider that eucalyptus is eucalyptus everywhere, and oil will help. Poor engineer! The oil had just the opposite effect. He believed in him for a long time. He accepted, ran to the board, accepted again, and ran again... And he treated me along with others. I'm sitting in the wardroom writing a letter. It must be coming straight from the side. “What, father, how do you feel?” “Oh, wow, I say, it just makes me feel a little sick.” - “Eh, take some drops. Right is better than languishing. It helps a lot." Let me try, I think, - even if I don’t feel the need now, it still doesn’t hurt to give a warning. Accepted... Before the engineer had time to seal his ill-fated bottle, I, sincerely thanking him for the drops, was forced to hide in the corridor for a while. Treated, nothing to say. That's why he suffered with his drops. The poor man was hounded all the way. Now everyone has calmed down little by little. The drops are just fun now. Tonight we will arrive in Port Said. Then they say it will work. The Red Sea is painted with the most terrible colors. You will need to stock up on light clothing in Port Said; wearing black is unthinkable there. The next letter will have to be sent only from Colombo. We won’t go into Aden or Perim: there’s cholera there. Letter III. September 7th. Indian Ocean. 9° north latitude, 71° east. duty. I will begin where the Port Said letter left off. On Saturday (August 23) we were supposed to arrive in Port Said, an important place for us in many respects: there we needed to stock up on tropical clothes and say goodbye to European waters. The Mediterranean Sea, although surrounded by Asian and African shores, is still semi-European, it still smells, as they say, of the Russian spirit. From Port Said the real Asia will begin, the countries are completely infidel. Among all sorts of rumors and considerations of what to buy, where to go, etc., evening imperceptibly approached. We had lunch. It was the beginning of the seventh hour when I invited the commander to serve an all-night vigil. The offer was accepted with joy by everyone. Now they began to build an altar from the flags. The singers were found. And so, under the continuous sound of the propeller, among the already darkened sea, our singing spread far, far away. Rarely have I prayed like this time. During the day it is too light at sea. You involuntarily separate yourself from him. Now, when the sea was just making an invisible noise, when you just felt its closeness and infinity, you somehow merged with it. As if it too were participating in this weak singing of ours, fading among the waves. Evening tea was therefore more lively than usual. At about 9 o'clock a slightly flickering luminous point appeared on the horizon: it was the Damiet Lighthouse (Nile Delta). Of course, there was nothing special in this world, but everyone considered it their sacred duty to pester one of the sailors three times and ask one of the sailors what it was, where it was, and how it was (questions that one cannot say particularly gave the sailors pleasure), and having asked, everyone for some reason looked for half an hour at the lighthouse that they finally recognized, not that they admired it, but simply looked, as if wanting to ask something else from it. The lighthouse remained to our right, barely flickering on the horizon. “The Port Said lighthouse should now be visible. “A huge electric star,” said the ship’s doctor standing next to me. Our attention has tripled. We stood and stood, and finally the commander (he was right there with us) was told from the bridge that the Port Said lighthouse was visible. Despite all our efforts, however, we absolutely could not make out anything. They saw only the dark sea and dark sky, and behind them the Damiet lighthouse flickered, dying. No huge electric star anywhere. The captain finally took pity on us and took us with him to the bridge. There, our eyes saw the same dark sky and sea, and only on the very horizon the naked eye could hardly discern some foggy spot. This was a huge electric star. The walk to it was still three hours, and we walked 11 knots, you can imagine what the horizon is like here, and what the strength of the lighthouse is. So, we were at the Suez Canal. According to the commander, the canal is in the hands of a French company, which monitors its serviceability and for this takes a fairly significant amount from each passing steamship. Here I remembered the bridge in Constantinople. They say that this bridge is from deep, that is, Byzantine antiquity. There, too, they take money from all passers-by. But, my God, what a bridge this is! It would be much more natural to give a bonus for crossing the bridge rather than charge a fee. Well, I thought, if the channel is maintained on the same basis, then things are bad. However, the luminous spot began to become clearer and clearer, taking the form of a truly huge star. Little by little, a slightly noticeable row of city lights began to appear near her. Port Said, apparently, was already close. A sparkler was lit on our ship (i.e., it was the fault of the flare); a pilot was called from the port (every ship is required to take a pilot to pass through the canal). There was no answer from there; they must have slept in Port Said. They lit it again. After a minute of waiting, a rocket soared over the horizon: the pilot rode out to meet the steamer. Following the rocket, according to the sailors, the lights of a pilot boat appeared in the sea: but these lights, probably for the elite, we, mere mortals, never saw them. At one o'clock in the morning the pilot arrived and took the Kostroma under his leadership. Port Said was already in full view. We were there at one o'clock. At night, of course, it was impossible to make out anything except the lights, the spectacle awaited us for tomorrow, and now we all went to bed. However, hardly many managed to fall asleep: they began to prepare the “winch” and such noise and crackling began throughout the ship that only their ears were ringing. Only then, much later, did we calm down on the deck, and then we could fall asleep. The next morning, when I woke up, I decided to stay on the ship until breakfast. I didn’t have a secular or, moreover, a tropical suit, and in a spiritual one, as they convinced me then in Constantinople, there was no way I could go. Afterwards I was in my spiritual dress everywhere, I was alone, without any escort, and nowhere did I encounter anything other than special respect and courtesy. For a priest to wear a secular suit abroad is one of our many superstitions that it’s time to give up. I repent very much that I listened to my teachers then. Having nothing else to do, I began to examine the embankment and the whole situation. We were loading coal. Several barges, covered with a thick layer of soot and filled to the brim with coal, moored from both sides. Some kind of black, very black humanity was swarming around on these barges. Some of these strange gentlemen carried coal in pieces, others collected it in straw or reed baskets, and, putting the basket on their shoulders, set off along narrow planks to the steamer. Other already empty porters were coming down to meet them. It’s amazing how they managed to move apart on such a narrow board, when it would seem that even one with a load could not walk on it. I read somewhere that the type of Egyptian fellah has remained unchanged since the time of the pharaohs. This thought came to my mind when I saw the load of coal. Well, imagine if you were to take a photograph at the moment when the porters with baskets on their shoulders are on the board, and if you were to remove all the current surroundings: the ship, the embankment, etc., and leave only a white background, the picture would look positively like the Egyptian pyramids. The same people, the same clothes, the same baskets, the same position and techniques for holding on to a narrow board, at first glance somewhat unnatural, strained - everything, too, down to the smallest detail... So this is accurate and historically true, which involuntarily attracts attention. I pointed out this fact to some of the remaining passengers, and everyone involuntarily agreed with me. Amazing vitality of both the type and the everyday situation. After breakfast, when our companions, who had returned from the shore, provided us with white suits, we went ashore in a whole crowd. Our driver was some descendant of the pharaohs in a white turban and some kind of shirt or robe, one cannot say that it was sparkling clean. There are thousands of these gentlemen here. They're all here hunting. Everyone is guarding visitors, and as soon as you go ashore, they will all rush towards you. It takes a lot of habit and determination to rid yourself of their annoying and, of course, not disinterested services. Having made our way through this army, we found ourselves on the main street of Port Said. Our journey was limited to this, because further on it will all be the same. You are going through this in vain, wasting your time and energy. In terms of size, it is a very small seaside town. As far as I remember, there are only two or three streets in it, running parallel to the shore. They are intersected by several lanes (including General) due to their general character. Port Said is very reminiscent of the Nizhny Novgorod Fair. Like there, here life is also in full swing, but at the same time, everything somehow makes it clear that this life is artificial, brought from somewhere outside, that none of these screaming, fussing people have solid ground under them here, they live here only, as in a hotel. And the buildings all look somehow temporary, like booths, although some have seven floors. All this, with balconies and galleries, seems so light and airy that at any time it threatens to disappear forever. The population of Port Said is quite consistent with its character. People from all countries gathered here, gathered with the sole purpose of grabbing something for themselves from the common loot, quickly filling their pockets and moving back to their homeland. Who isn't here?! And the Greeks, and the Arabs, and the Italians, and the French, and everyone. All this is sold (there are no buyers in Port Said, they come on passing ships). All this deceives, deceives its random buyers, knowing that they will only be seen once, that the buyer must buy from them, even if he did not want to. Hence, the fraud here is extreme, exemplary. Hence the fact that in Port Said there are a lot of all kinds of shops, hotels, taverns, but there is not a single decent store, not a single decent shop or hotel. “This, as one of our passengers very wittily put it, is the world’s tavern of the lowest standard.” Indeed, Port Said, no matter which way you look at it, is a tavern. To top it off, it resembles a tavern, and the morals of its inhabitants are completely tavern-like: fights and murders are sometimes committed there in broad daylight. We ourselves witnessed one of these tavern scenes. Loaded with all sorts of shopping and quite tired from the heat, we sat down to drink soda water. Suddenly, a Turkish officer (on foot) rushes past us, at full speed, surrounded by a crowd of boys, etc. All of this was screaming at the top of his lungs and flying headlong towards the pier. We ask those around us what kind of trotting competition this is. They did some kind of magical manipulations, trying almost to depict on our noses that this had happened; but still we could not understand anything. Afterwards, when we went home and got into the boat, another boat came to meet us on the shore, and in it was a familiar trotting officer with several Turks, who were carefully holding some fellah who was bloody from head to toe. It turns out that it was the most ordinary thing: some garson shot three times at this fellah, and this last one, with a bullet through his head and hand, entered the care of public charity. – Here’s a picture of Port Said life. Is it a good corner? Despite such passions, we still stocked up with everything we needed. We got white suits, tropical hats, and everything. Of course, we haven’t forgotten about woolen shirts: in hot, especially tropical countries, rarely anyone gets by without wool. Linen fabric gets cold quickly. A slight drop in temperature or a slight breeze is enough to catch a cold: and catching a cold here is, perhaps, much more dangerous than here. As a last resort, you need to have paper underwear. It is not for nothing that flax grows in the north, while cotton is assigned to the south. Having stocked up with everything, we returned to the ship. There, on the deck, a whole fair was taking place: merchants entered there and covered the entire deck with their goods, which were very suspicious in their quality. It was a big temptation for our settlements. With what appetite they looked at various beads and scarves. Some were actually tempted. Around 3 pm our anchorage stopped, the traders were driven away, the gangplanks were raised, we weighed anchor and set off, with the intention of not going ashore until Colombo itself. The Suez Canal begins directly from Port Said. This is a fairly narrow channel, allowing only one ship to pass through. All of us, who were preparing to admire this eighth miracle with special interest, were severely disappointed. The enormity of the canal is understandable, but not noticeable, especially from on board a large steamship, such as ours, the canal seems like a ditch. If we take into account its deserted, languidly monotonous shores, the necessarily slow movement, and all this in considerable heat, then the result is something very boring and heavy. To our right, sea water was still visible for a long time, from which the channel is separated by a narrow sandy strip. In the distance, endless sands were yellowing everywhere, stretching beyond the horizon. To the left lay a whole, continuous desert, dull, gray-yellow, only slightly shaded by small hills. To the right appeared a caravan of five camels, as yellow, faded, silent and sad as the desert itself. The rest of another caravan was visible to the left. Several camels lay there, completely blending into the general gray-yellow background. Beside them, their mahouts also lay slightly visible. There is nothing more than this in the desert. Only our one steamer slowly, slowly crawled in the middle of this kingdom of death, with its whistling and puffing its deathly peace. You can change your mind face to face with this silent, dead infinity. I remembered all the heroes of the spirit who found a great school for themselves here, or if not here, then in similar deserts. The austere desert can teach you a lot and give you many thoughts. The monotony of the landscape was then pleasantly broken by a narrow strip of greenery that appeared along the right bank and accompanied us almost to Suez. It turns out that there is a narrow freshwater canal here. Fresh water produced this greenery. Our steamer moved forward very slowly. According to the rules, it is supposed to go no more than five knots per hour. It was getting boring. Occasionally we came across dredging machines and towing steamers belonging to the company. All this is evidence of continuous work on the canal. Its banks are crumbling from steamships, the bottom is littered, it is necessary to constantly deepen it and clean it. It is necessary to strengthen its banks. It is not for nothing that a high fee is charged for the passage of a steamship: the work is still ongoing and the work is large and expensive. Our despondency soon came to an end: the evening darkness hid the desert from us, and night was night everywhere. It cannot be burdensome and depressing, like the desert. The canal became invisible, only signal lights, red and green, showing us the way, flickered along a long alley in the thick darkness. At about 11 o'clock at night a signal was given from the nearest station that an oncoming steamer was coming. It is impossible for two steamships to pass each other in the canal. Therefore, the entire channel is divided into several stations. Each station has a special place where one steamer moored to the shore until its luckier opponent, who managed to be the first to enter the station, passes by. This time we had to moor. They lowered two boats with sailors and took the ropes ashore. And the story began. The winch crackled, the officers screamed, the sailors ran. The silence of the Arabian desert was broken in the most unceremonious manner. “Give it to the stern,” they shouted from the captain’s bridge. “Vira winch,” they echoed from the stern. The matter was not without strong expressions, and they were given to the sleeping desert. To top it all off, some order was given that went wrong, and we fumbled with the mooring for an hour and a half. Meanwhile, the electric lantern of the oncoming steamship was getting closer and closer, standing out strangely against the dark background of the deserted night. We waited a little longer, and around one in the morning we looked with envy at the white, puffing monster that triumphantly sailed past us. It turned out to be a two-masted Prussian mail steamer. Having wished him a safe voyage, we, having shouted some more, weighed anchor and went our way. Luckily for us, we didn’t have to moor again, only the next day, not far from the exit from the canal, we met two or three more steamships, but this time luck was on our side: we passed victoriously, while they stood sadly clinging to the shore. On Monday, around three o'clock, the Port of Suez finally appeared, and in the distance the city of Suez. The cities, of course, could not be seen from a distance, but as for the port of Suez, it is in some respects a very remarkable place. Imagine a completely bare, sandy and stone island, which is simply scary to look at under the scorching rays of the sun, as it resembles a slab. The British established themselves on this island, blocking the entrance to the canal. Here they have a magnificent granite embankment with clean, one might say, graceful stairs to the water. There is a church and several houses on the embankment. But what is most surprising and unexpected here is a whole alley of trees, which by some miracle were preserved in the middle of this oven. However, the alley did not change the general impression: despite these attempts at life, the island was still a hot stove and how people managed to live here was positively incomprehensible to us. Having passed Port Suez and made a large semicircle, we anchored in the Gulf of Suez, already in the Red Sea. Here the change in the water was immediately noticeable. The Suez Canal is filled with some kind of greenish, milky liquid, while in the Red Sea the water is completely blue, with some even a purple tint. By the way, I remembered the difference in water in the Black and Mediterranean seas. In the Black Sea, the water is rather green, in the moonlight it looks like emerald; in the Mediterranean Sea the water seemed to us somehow even unnaturally blue, as if some kind of paint had been dissolved in it. Here in the ocean (where we are going now) the water does not seem to have a special color, but it is clean and amazingly transparent. We stood in the Gulf of Suez for two hours, presenting some papers or something else to someone. Our enterprising captain came up with a kind of entertainment for the passengers: they decided to catch sharks, of which they say there are a lot here. They took out a hook, skewered it with a pound of meat and launched it into the sea. However, the sharks must have had lunch: not one was flattered by our bait, although they were visible in the vicinity. The salesmen arrived as usual. This time it was Arabs with different things. Our attention focused on one little Arab girl in a rather undemanding costume. His entire boat was littered with small wooden boxes of dates. They asked the price. One piece per franc. A whole box of dates (of course, the freshest, straight from the tree, after all, Arabia), and only for a franc! We, inciting each other, pounced on these dates and bought almost the entire boat from the boy. Well, and dates! I think even our livestock wouldn’t eat them. They gave us some rotten, littered ones that we simply couldn’t take into our mouths. I had to make sure that in Arabia, not all dates grow on trees, some lie under them. Someone bought Turkish delight, but it turned out to be some kind of pine resin mixed with sugar and flour (plus magenta from the box). So we, without catching a single shark and having breakfasted on rotten dates, set off from this happy (for sellers) Arabia. It was about 6 p.m. o'clock in the evening. Until now, happiness has favored us: we passed the Black Sea without any wind or heat. Mediterranean too with rare happiness. We also happily entered the Red Sea. We were moving at full speed, even unfurling the sail on the front mast. There was a fairly noticeable tailwind blowing, which both increased our speed and reduced the heat. Our tropical suits were still unnecessary. But then the night passes, Tuesday passes. The water temperature keeps rising, reaching 26 degrees in the bath. The wind, as if on purpose, died down and blew slightly from behind. The heat not only did not decrease because of this, but even increased to the extreme: this breeze destroyed with itself even the insignificant movement of air that the ship produced under its own power. The silence was motionless, suffocating. The heat was deadly. Of course, it was impossible to stay in the cabin for a minute; everything that could crawled out onto the deck and spent the whole day there. You go to the cabin, stay there for a few minutes and come out already wet from head to toe. A double awning was stretched over the poop, but it was no easier under it either. It was impossible to take off the hats: one decided to sit for some time without a hat, and for that he paid with a headache for the whole day. What were we doing during this time? Positively nothing. Only the winterers did not lose heart and, dripping with sweat, screwed onto two tables. The temperature probably doesn't affect the game. We tried, we read, but absolutely nothing comes to mind. It’s good that the time on the ship is distributed so carelessly that the day slips through your fingers, otherwise you would have to suffer more. To top it all off, the displaced children began to die. Four of us died. And this is still a happy flight: there are usually more. The heat positively kills them. There are no provisions for heat on our ship. No fans, nothing. On good passenger cars there are mechanical fans driven by the machine. You can also live in cabins with them. For us, this was not conceivable even at night. We slept mostly on the deck. Taking advantage of some coolness in the evening, you will sit for a long time. And you won’t fall asleep even if you wanted to: the people are all on deck and are not silent, you can’t sleep no matter how much you want. You fall asleep long after midnight, and in the morning, at dawn, a command comes to the deck to wash the deck. Whether you like it or not, you need to go to the cabin to get some sleep. And so, at 8 o’clock, and some even later, our companions begin to jump out of the cabins one after another, red, wet, like mice, completely beside themselves from the spiritual bath they received. And there was nowhere and nothing to freshen up with: the water in the washbasin was hot. No matter how much you pour yourself on it, it doesn’t refresh you at all. The unfortunate man will run out to the wardroom, and there he will be greeted by a sarcastic: “extra,” the tea has already been overspent. He comes out on deck, where they laugh at him and congratulate him, instead of “good morning”, “enjoy your bath.” Quite a disaster! We had breakfast and lunch upstairs under the tent. During the day we admired entire herds of dolphins swimming and playing on the surface of the water. But they too must have been hot: their movements were somehow heavy and lazy. Flying fish, like sparrows, jumped from under the bow of the steamer. They say that sometimes the wind blows this fish all the way to the deck. Night falls and everyone breathes a little easier. At least there are no scorching rays of the sun, although the stuffiness remains the same. The sea begins to glow with phosphorescent light, and for a long, long time we admire its play under the stern and bow of the steamer. The night before Friday and Saturday (August 30 and September 1) we walked at half speed; The islands began, and with them dangers. It turns out, as our sailors told us, the Red Sea is one of the dangerous ones: there are many shoals and pitfalls in it, and, moreover, there are places that are poorly explored. Here, for example, is an illustration of what has been said. On the last voyage, “Kostroma” safely passed the Red Sea and arrived in Colombo. Here we get a telegram that in the Red Sea at such and such latitude and longitude some foreign ship crashed on an underwater rock. They hastened to put this stone on the map. Imagine their surprise and, at the same time, horror when it turned out that this stone lay exactly on the line the Kostroma had just passed. Very instructive in this regard is the so-called “steamboat cemetery”, which we had to pass at about five in the morning on September 1st. Several steamships sank at different times in this lovely corner. Their skeletons were visible from the water for a long time afterwards, as a lesson for all those passing by. However, everything in the world comes to an end, and the Red Sea also came to an end. On Saturday, September 1, islands began to appear more and more often, foreshadowing the proximity of the Gulf of Aden. Well, and the islands. Just rocks! No trees, no grass. It even makes me sad to look at their yellow-gray mountains. Like gravestones rising out of the water. Finally, cries were heard: “Perim! Perim! Everyone, of course, as if on command, turned their gaze forward to the horizon. There, to the right and left, some black masses could be seen - these were the shores of the Bab-el-Mandeb Strait. To the left rose a huge rock, after which the strait is named, all somehow gray and gloomy, and along its entire length, in height and width, there was only one white house, something like a tower. To the right, on the same deserted gray-yellow shore was Perim (on an island). This is nothing more than a small island. There is an insignificant village on it (unless it is a settlement of only workers), an ice factory and a very large coal warehouse. The British also settled here. We raised a signal (a well-known combination of flags): “Is Perim in quarantine?” Three more flags: “Let’s go.” After that, our “Kostroma”, but entering the bay, anchored. The pilot arrived, but in his haste he did not understand our signal. He thought we were waiting for him. He was, of course, calmed down and sent back. While the pilot left, while the ice was brought in, unloaded, etc., quite some time passed; and meanwhile the blacks gathered at the ship, to the great horror and amusement of our settlers. Indeed, interesting faces. The type, of course, is quite famous from the paintings, but I did not at all expect to see red hair on some of them. I remember they told us that all blacks have black hair. What didn’t our visitors do?! Their main occupation was to catch coins in the water. As soon as the steamer throws a coin into the water, several people are diving from the boats. And one will certainly return with a coin in his mouth. It's amazing how sharks don't touch them. Whether it’s the color that protects them or a specific smell, sharks rarely attack black ones. The blacks also brought goods. There were more corals, mostly white, and, it seemed, inexpensive. One has only to point out to the Negro something from his goods, and instantly, with this thing in his hand, he climbs up to the very poop along the side, not at all embarrassed by the smooth iron surface of it, like a cat. We were also surprised by the indifference with which the blacks treated the temperature of the ice they loaded. They completely calmly took pieces of ice with their bare hands, placed them on their equally bare shoulders, and stood on the ice with their bare feet. In a word, it was as if they didn’t feel the cold. Finally, the ice was taken, the agent with letters (more precisely, with notes, since no one could write letters during this unexpected stop) was escorted out. We raised the anchor and moved on. It was the evening of September 1, Saturday. Tomorrow we decided to serve the liturgy. I forgot to write to you that we celebrated August 30th in the Red Sea. We had a ceremonial prayer service for many years, etc. Despite the tropical heat, almost everyone dressed in full ceremonial uniform. They prayed by the sweat of their brow in the most literal sense. Flags were waving on the masts, there were toasts at the table, only the passengers hurried to change back into their tropical clothes. On the morning of September 2, I say, we gathered to serve the liturgy. For some reason the preparations took an impossibly long time; only at the beginning of the 11th we managed to finish them. Meanwhile, by this time we began to go more and more into the open sea. The previously mirror-like, motionless surface began to worry a little. The steamer began to rock. And the further, the more. My pilgrims began to dwindle one after another. In the middle of mass, the sea parted completely, so that two sailors had to hold the throne and the altar. I served, balancing as if on a tightrope, and sincerely repenting that I had begun the liturgy. But in the morning it was so good, and if they had not delayed building the altar, then everything would have worked out perfectly. The mass ended successfully. He even gave communion to one child. Afterwards I had to worry a little about myself during the pitching, but this also passed safely. This time it rocked much more than in the Mediterranean, although again the sailors refused to call it rocking. The passengers, believing in the pitching, suffered greatly. There was not a single lady at breakfast, and the men sitting at breakfast often made emergency flights from the table somewhere. The sailors assured that in the evening we would arrive at the island of Sokotora and use it as shelter from the waves (this was a monsoon swell coming from the south). But our expectations were in vain: no Sokotora helped, we were rocked, and we were rocked by Sokotora. On Monday morning (3rd) I woke up shaky. I was rocking mercilessly, then my legs would rise up, then my head. And all this is so unceremonious and imperious. You seem so unhappy at these moments, lying on your bed and making involuntary evolutions. You try to contemptuously not notice all this, turn to the wall, but alas, your head hits the cold and damp wall painfully, and it’s as if someone is deliberately squeezing your face into the pillow. You try to straighten up, adjust the pillow, but the bed pays for this with a blow to the forehead. A very unpleasant and stupid situation. I got up from my bed and made a rather difficult excursion to get my clothes and shoes, which this time did not want to obey. He splashed water around himself, almost poking his nose into the washbasin. Then, having tried again (and more than once) the strength of the walls in the cabin and in the corridor, I climbed out onto the upper deck. There's pitching in all its glory. Our Kostroma rocked helplessly, despite its size. The swell (the sailors never agreed to call it waves) tossed us around mercilessly. For now, however, it was still possible to walk. But then a wave came, fuck... and everything that was on the left side flew to the starboard... The table of unfortunate winterers (who did not stop screwing even in illness) did a terrible somersault, followed by a chorus of chairs, armchairs, winterers, benches, passengers - all of this, overtaking each other, was in a hurry to hit the starboard side, so that they could then walk back with the same haste. There was an unimaginable noise and uproar. Everyone tried to find a foothold, grabbed the ropes, a neighbor, a chair and continued their journey with them. The furniture had to be tied down. Many of the lying passengers tied themselves down. We already had lunch in the wardroom, and the table had the full decoration of the rocking season: small fences were placed that kept plates, glasses, etc. on the table and did not allow them to pass into the laps of the passengers. In general, the rolling was real (for us, at least) and it continued from Monday until yesterday evening (i.e. until Thursday the 6th). The mood, however, was rather cheerful. Attacks of seasickness were met with laughter, and even a “Society for Lovers of Seasickness” was established. The engineer's famous drops continued to be the butt of jokes. Of course, no one else took the drops from the engineer, and he himself finally lost faith in them. After two days everyone got used to the pitching. We had lunch and breakfast regularly and almost to the full complement. However, despite all the habit, the position was not natural. Constantly swinging, constantly feeling some kind of lead in my head, in the end, it became sickening. Little by little, the ocean began to seem monotonous and uncomfortable. Everything is water and water. It's hard, sad. I wanted land, even a small patch, even just one step on solid ground. Many began to say that it was in vain that they did not go through Siberia, it is true that it is shaking there, there are uncomfortable carriages and longer, etc., but there is still no such melancholy. Many promised themselves to go back by land. The mood of Columbus’s companions became clear to us, who, out of anguish, even rebelled against their commander. In our country there was no expectation of rebellion, but there was, indeed, general melancholy. For eleven whole days you didn’t go ashore, and for so many days you didn’t see land, and on top of that, you were constantly rocking. This finally drove me out of patience. The heat, thank God, is no longer as hot as in the Red Sea. There is wind here and, from a land perspective, a decent one. On the first day it was even kind of cool (obviously after the bath in the Red Sea). We are going very well, it’s only a pity that we changed course so as not to go straight across the waves. We go from Socotra to Bombay, then from some degree we turned towards Minicoy (it will be visible today at about ten o’clock in the evening. Of course, we will only see the light of its lighthouse: darkness sets in here almost immediately after sunset). Our entertainment is provided by the pictures that the ocean and sky offer us. The sun, plunging into the ocean waters in the evening, puts such delicate and varied colors on the sky that no one would believe it if all this were conveyed exactly in a painting. You might expect red and blue, but where do soft green and even yellow and orange come from? The clouds under this bizarre shade take on even more bizarre shapes. What kind of figures can you see in the evening sky in the ocean! Either some fantastic palace or grotto rises, then someone’s monstrous face pops up. Once they even saw a whole Chinese man in his full attire, with a braid and a fan. Here on land, it seems, such pictures do not happen. And there are clouds there, and looking at them you can build castles in the air, but what is in the ocean is probably not there. The figures here are too bizarre and detailed. The sunset burns for a long time. Finally, the clouds begin to turn purple, blue, and black. The entire sky and sea are covered in darkness. Then another sight opens up, even more amazing. The ocean lights up with lights. The waves are all crested with fire, and there are whole fiery cascades under the bow and stern of the ship. Behind the steamer the fiery road goes far, far away. The Red Sea was shining, partly the Mediterranean, but here in the ocean there was positive illumination. We admire her for a long time. You lean on the side and stand silently for a long, long time, listening to the mighty splash of the waves and admiring this wonderful light. It comes from somewhere inside, spreads somehow without a center, and without rays, as if some kind of light matter is spilling over the sea. On Wednesday (5th) at about 10 am, sperm whales were seen. There were several of them. Their movements are amazingly fast. One of them, to whom we especially paid attention, dived under our steamer (of course, he was not under the side, but at a very respectable distance), and after just half a minute he had already emerged on the other side, a mile away, if not more. It was not necessary to consider what kind of animals they were: they appeared too unexpectedly and disappeared from sight too quickly. I only saw the tail and splashes of water (the sperm whale does not shoot water upward like a fountain, like a whale, but only pimples). These entertainments slightly diversified our boring pastime. In general, I would still like to get to land as quickly as possible and walk around it. Now the proximity of the parking lot lifted our spirits somewhat. It feels like the end is coming. And the sea has become livelier, and oncoming steamships are more common. On Sunday, God willing, we will be in Colombo. Today we are going to serve the all-night vigil, and tomorrow the liturgy (Nativity of the Virgin Mary). P.S. September 8 (Saturday). There is almost no motion, the heat is not particularly strong; We are almost content. Tomorrow at 9 am we hope to be in Colombo. This is what our sailors say through clenched teeth, whom we pester every minute, and who most of all dislike this question. It seems we will be staying in Colombo for a long time. Maybe we can rest on dry ground. A tempting prospect. Letter IV. September 14. sea of bengal On Sunday, the 9th, in a dream, I heard an extraordinary revival and voices near me, which I later recognized as the voices of my cabin mates: the captain and the doctor. One magic word: “We’ve arrived” made me jump out of my bed and quickly get dressed. Having quickly washed myself, I ran out onto the deck. My eyes saw a picture seen many times in illustrated magazines. Colombo was still far away: we stood behind the pier, at the entrance to the harbor, waiting for the pilot. In the distance, on the flat, low-lying shore, a palm forest could be seen everywhere, and almost nothing except it, it covered everything. The city itself seemed to be an insignificant bunch of houses, completely lost and blurred among the greenery. There were churches and multi-storey buildings there, but the main tone was not them, but palm trees and greenery. A quarter of an hour later we were brought into the raid. Here we experienced the usual scene when entering the port. Our steamer lowered the ramps and was immediately surrounded by boats with and without goods. This time everything was new, unprecedented, original to a tropical degree. First of all, the local boats are original. This is something like our cattle feed log. You take a log or a block, put the sides on it, and you get a rather long, narrow box. There are several benches in it, very cramped, only one person can sit, and even then, squeezing their legs. Your entire torso and legs are above the surface of the water. The boat is bound to capsize. To avoid this, another log, without sides, is attached to the boat, parallel to it, on long, thick poles. This results in a trapezoid lying on the water. One of its long sides is occupied by a boat, and the other by the aforementioned log. Two, three, sometimes four people (not counting the three rowers) sit in such a boat. Sometimes the sail also rises. This boat can go very fast. The merchants themselves also deserved full attention. Most of them were Sinhalese of the trading class, whose clothing was a remarkable mixture of European, South Indian and African. To an ordinary skirt (more precisely, a piece of material, wide and long, which was wrapped around their torso, from waist to toe), these gentlemen added a jacket made of dark blue material. On the head of the Mohammedans they wear a high cap made of some kind of multi-colored straw or reed, woven with patterns. True Sinhalese wear long hair, which is tied at the back of the head in a knot and decorated with an ordinary tortoiseshell comb, such as our women wear. The head, despite the scorching rays of the sun, remains open. The lower class stands closer to nature. His clothing is only a piece of cloth wrapped around his body in the form of a skirt. Some are content with one belt. The rest of the body is exposed to the sun, the head is also open. Some don’t even have a comb, and their hair, gathered in a bun at the back of the head, has blossomed over time and flutters like a plume. Skin color is dark olive. However, the facial features are very regular, almost beautiful. Men are generally more beautiful than women. The children are very reminiscent of our gypsies. The traders were allowed onto the deck, which they instantly turned into an oriental market. What wasn’t there?.. One offered a model of the Indian boat just described. Another thrust into his hands a cane made of ebony (alas, in most cases tinted) or coconut palm. The third was carried around with all kinds of boxes and boxes trimmed with ivory. They sold silver items of very fine and elegant designs. There were ebony elephants, Kashmiri shawls, lace, carpets. But what was especially abundant were precious stones: I think more than a dozen Indians were loaded with them. Unfortunately, it is no longer the 15th or 17th century; everything that can be exported has been exported to Europe, and the Indians have ceased to be good-natured Fridays. The gems here are pure glass. Therefore, rather hasty changes are taking place with prices. One, for example, asked for 33 rupees for a stone (about 20 rubles in paper), and paid for one. A ring with two sapphires and an alexandrite was sold for 44 rupees and was sold for three. To completely amaze us with Indian miracles, a magician with two snakes arrived on our ship. By the way, before our eyes, he sowed a banana seed and grew from it a tree the size of an elbow. Only this Indian miracle turned out to be fake: a treacherous bag, of the most European type, showed too eloquently where this tree came from. Soon, however, it was time for breakfast, and the magician had to leave. After breakfast, with rare pleasure, we got into the boat (and not the boat, as I said before), and went ashore. It was hard to figure it out in my head. There was so much new here: palm trees, and Indians, and a long-unseen shore, the air itself, the closer to the shore, the more it became somehow special, it was saturated with some kind of spicy, somewhat intoxicating smell (it, as it turned out later, was the smell of coconut, after all, very unpleasant). It was with great pleasure that we entered the red land of Colombo. They were going to walk endlessly. But here comes another test. Before we had time to properly go ashore, a whole gang of guides and beggars, and someone else, rushed at us. They all shouted, pestered us, and almost tore us apart. “Russian, Russian, come on.” They liked this “come on” so much that later they couldn’t resist it anywhere. It’s an amazing thing, why is it only the Russian who should and can “give”, while the rest of us take everything from the Indians? Of course, the Russians themselves spoiled the people. However, this trait is a little restless, more sympathetic than the dictatorship with which our Europeans usually treat the Indians, Chinese, etc. At least you see that these are people and they treat people like human beings. Despite this philosophy, we had a very bad time among the tormenting crowd of guides and boatmen. None of us spoke English, but here, it seems, this is the only language that is understood. In our unfortunate situation, some gentleman helped us, who must have taken pity on us. He was wearing a tropical pith helmet and dressed quite decently. He came up to us and spoke in English. We just smiled and bowed. Then he switched to French. We have found experts. This gentleman was French. He undertook to take us around the city and show us everything that could be seen in an English city on Sunday. Thanks to him, we set off. Everything was locked, of course. The British were not visible: they were sitting at home. Only Hindus walked along the streets, and there weren’t very many of them in this part of the city. The streets seemed deserted. But what a beauty these highways are. The soil must be very good. You walk exactly on the floor. Only the red earth with its dust is deadly for white tropical suits. We hired two cabs and set off around the city. The city, not counting its commercial part, is a continuous tropical garden. There are palm trees and bananas everywhere; here and there an Indian’s shack will peek out from under a bush. It is low, and dirty, and primitive in its design. Its inhabitants themselves are sitting on the threshold, or so. Smoke pours out of the open and barely closing door. Very uncomfortable and untidy. The homes of English Europeans are hidden in gardens; for the most part, only gates open onto the street. Through the bars you can see the courtyard, there are fan-shaped palm trees and flowers. Everything is organized very well for them, not like their feeders – the Hindus. In Colombo they show some kind of Buddhist temple, but we didn’t have to visit it. However, it is impossible to be in India for the first time and see everything: it is quite enough to get acquainted with the general view of life and nature there. In fact, everything is new there, starting from the people and ending with the most insignificant detail of their life situation. There is no need to go to museums and botanical gardens, just walk down the street; for a newcomer this is better than any museum. In Colombo I experienced Japanese riding in public for the first time. A small stroller for one person, with two wheels. The driver grabs the shafts and rushes you as hard as a horse. For the first time, it’s somewhat embarrassing: it’s somehow awkward to ride on the same person as yourself. But then you will realize that on boats, too, manual labor, a person also replaces the machine, and the cab driver receives income. Returning to the ship, we learned good news: the ship would stay until Tuesday. The opportunity arose to devote a whole day to exploring Ceylon. A company was formed to go to Kandy, a beautiful mountain town about a hundred miles by rail into Ceylon. I readily joined this company. The next day, Monday 10th, we were woken up early. There were six of us. A guide who spoke Russian also rode with us. At 7 p.m. o'clock the train left Colombo. We immediately found ourselves as if in an art gallery: the views along this road to Kandy were so luxurious and varied. The path first ran through a palm forest with its spicy smell, occasionally came across rice fields, and occasionally villages. Then came the mountains, each higher than the other, each more picturesque than the other. Our train rose and rose, passing through tunnels and climbing along narrow cornices to incredible heights. As you drive, there is a wall on the right, a deep valley on the left, fields, forests, rivers, villages on it - a whole panorama. There are also mountains and mountains all around, covered with tropically luxurious vegetation. It's amazing how generous nature is here. Wherever there is even a drop of moisture, vegetation suppresses everything with its abundance, even excess. A palm tree is growing. From under its very roots stretch several more species, large and small, with and without flowers, and under them, in the very wilderness, barely having room for itself, grass, also luxurious, plentiful to the point of excess, barely makes its way into the light. But this is not enough for tropical nature; it wants to reclaim the air for itself: this whole heap of greenery is intertwined with some kind of ivy, which climbs up the trunk of a palm tree, clings to the branches and greenery of the trees that have grown from under it, spreads across the grass, covering everything, as if afraid to show the sun even a piece of unoccupied land. Amazing luxury, amazing performance! It is not for nothing that human buildings seem to disappear among the forest, drowning in its abundance; how can an insignificant, weak person compare with this all-conquering force of life? What will he do against her? It is not for nothing that immersion in this nature, the abyss in it, was the life goal of the Brahmins. Among Indian nature, it is easy to understand one’s insignificance, it is easy to imagine oneself as just an insignificant twig among a boundless, luxurious forest overflowing with life. Here you disappear, fade to nothing. What are the rice fields here? They also represent an example of abundance and luxury. The surface of the earth is slightly furrowed, the grains are barely hidden, and the rain lightly waters them. Everything is somehow in moderation, with calculation, almost stingy and meager, but here everything is in excess. The fields are nothing more than artificial swamps. By means of small dams or earthen walls, they are arranged in valleys or on mountain slopes in the form of terraces. It turns out something like a large box into which water is poured. Therefore, they plow here almost in the water: the buffaloes literally go neck-deep in the mud. That's why the harvest is not the same as ours. Nature here is wasteful, but also generous. Along the mountain slopes there were quite often tea plantations, and occasionally coffee plantations. This is already a matter for the British, competing with China. Our train climbed and climbed. It was getting cool, the trees had changed. The palm trees are gone. Nature has taken on a form more familiar to us. But this is not for long: on a cliff near the road we noticed some kind of monument. It was the British who wanted to perpetuate the memory of the builder of the railway in Kandy. Indeed, he has earned general recognition for his journey. How much work did she require? What mountains had to be drilled? We, too, were sincerely grateful to him that, thanks to the road, we were able to be so close to India and bathe in the amazing luxury of its nature. The descent began from the monument. The train was slowed down. The road went downhill noticeably. This, however, does not last long. Kandi was already close. A little more time, and we get out of the car, completely amazed, overwhelmed by everything we saw on the road. It’s as if you’re emerging from some rich art gallery, or better yet, from a panorama. Everything we saw was so varied, so luxurious, so picturesque. There is nothing special about Kandy itself, after everything we have already seen. There they showed us a Buddhist temple, and in it a tomb with the remains of a Buddha. At least that's what our guide told us. I, however, was not particularly carried away by this new spectacle: I expected to see more in Japan, by the way, then I would know the language and would not have to turn to a guide for help, who, like any guide, would certainly tell a lot of tall tales. We also visited the botanical garden, which contains the flowers of the local and already luxurious nature. But this was already positively too much for us. We could not yet come to our senses from ordinary tropical vegetation, but here they show its rarities. It was beyond our sensibility. They are willingly allowed into this garden. One of the gardeners was even so generous that he gave one of our companions the fruit of a chocolate tree. It's a rarity for us. At 2 pm we left Kandy. Once again the charming surroundings flashed before our eyes. But our attention was tired (one of the companions even fell asleep from the excess of feelings, looking out the window). And the constant luxury became cloying. I wanted something sour, coarser, something like our kvass or black bread. Everything here was already too fatty, sweet, and rich. We remembered our birch tree here. She is much more modest, somehow more chaste and healthier than the local blossoming, oiled, stupefying, discharged nature. Of course it's amazing. But she is too luxurious to love, to calm down among her. It suffocates, not soothes. I remembered Goncharov’s description of the local nature. Indeed, the writer was right when he said that tropical nature is first liked, and then becomes cloying. And the fruits here are only good as long as they are rare, you get used to them, and then all these bananas, pineapples, etc. will not let you forget our apple. Where are they supposed to get to him? They will never be equal. At six and a half o'clock in the evening we were already at Kostroma. It was pleasant to relax on her familiar, almost native, deck from the whole mass of impressions that so uncontrollably poured on us from all sides throughout the whole day. It was night. The darkness here seems even thicker than here, as if a black blanket is descending over everything. The darkness is impenetrable. All life freezes and falls silent. And in the midst of this silent darkness, suddenly, as if a star lights up very low above the earth. Here she is, somehow hesitating, moving, somehow incorrectly rushing through the black night. Here's another star. These are glowing bugs. Their little lanterns burn amazingly brightly here. They make the night seem even thicker, more impenetrable and more mysterious. She no longer sleeps, you feel that under this impenetrable cover life continues to boil, that perhaps millions of creatures are moving around you in the darkness of the night, continuing their daily work and daily struggle for existence. You ponder even more deeply into the silent, but not dead darkness, into the endless and continuous life hidden from you. You hear the mysterious “om”. Again the Brahmins flash before the mind's eye, suppressed by nature, striving to merge with it. The next day, the two of us were again on the shore, this time without any guides. I wanted to walk around the earth again and take a closer look, without annoying strangers and non-explanatory indications of the local everyday life and people. The sun was blazing down. But the heat here is much easier to bear than ours. It’s hot and stuffy here, but here you feel the fiery rays of the sun directly on you, burning you without suffocating you. This burning sensation even becomes somewhat pleasant; you just need to ensure that your head is better protected, otherwise you can get sunstroke. Indians always cover their heads with something white when they bathe. It is interesting to see a huge white turban floating on the surface of some pond, or better yet, a swamp. For some reason, all the ponds here look unclean; it’s scary to look at the already black people swimming in this muddy liquid. By faith, Hindus must belong to all religions. One guide had a cross around his neck and called himself a Catholic. We saw a Hindu Catholic priest at one of the railway stations. Just a priest: a low, black hat with a slightly curved brim, a black cassock, a shaved face, and a prayer book in his hand. In a word, everything is Catholic down to the last detail, only the color of the skin gives it away a little. I had to deeply regret that we have not yet matured enough to have our own mission here; we are still confined to the framework of narrow nationalism. We only care about our own, forgetting that the Lord came for everyone without distinction and sent apostles to all the peoples of the globe. Why are ours more worthy, for example, than these Hindus? They will say that we have no people. Completely untrue. If only there was a desire, the people, that is, church leaders in the field of the Lord will always be found. After all, they go from Theological Academies to all sorts of departments. They found it necessary to reduce the staff of the Academies. Obviously, we do not suffer from a lack of people, but from an excess of them, overproduction. Why not separate at least two people here? These two, perhaps, would have time to start something, perhaps they would have time to form successors from the Indians themselves, as, for example, now in Japan. They will say we don’t have the funds. True, we are poorer than some Americans. But let our mission begin small. God will help, then we will get to the big one. After all, we spend a million rubles, at the very minimum, on church vestments alone. Now, at least one hundredth or several hundredths of this amount could be separated here. This would be more than enough for the first time. No, it must be not the scarcity of funds and people that is the reason here, but coldness towards faith, attachment only to personal well-being. Yes, we still have a lot, a lot to live and do in order to grow into an Orthodox mission (not Catholic and Protestant - God forbid from this). At five and a half o'clock in the evening we weighed anchor and went out to the open sea, into open space, into fresh air. The spicy smell of coconut became positively disgusting. Unfortunately, we also let our clothes be washed here, which were also completely suffused with this smell. So I had to suffer all the way, enduring the Colombian stop a thousand times. September 15. Gulf of Malacca The pitching reached its highest level yesterday. Before entering the Strait of Malacca, the monsoon and monsoon swell concentrate. That is why the excitement here is strong and somehow indefinite, shaking mercilessly. However, we all got used to it. We even learned to walk while pumping. You balance yourself on the deck, then you fall on one leg, then on the other. Quite entertaining if it weren't so annoying and long. Yesterday at about 10 o’clock in the evening we entered the Strait of Malacca, the swell has disappeared and our “Kostroma” is moving completely smoothly, like in the Red Sea. We are only afraid that the heat would not be the same as there. So far nothing, you can breathe freely. Our route has changed somewhat. From Colombo we took the cargo to Penang (a small island off the coast of Malacca, about 5 degrees north latitude). That's why we spent an extra day in Colombo. Before Singapore, you now need to go to Penang, which is called the “paradise of the east” for the luxury of its vegetation, the beauty of the area and its healthy climate. But what will happen next to Singapore is now difficult to say. I don’t even know how I’ll get to Japan: there’s cholera in Nagasaki, so you can’t go there. But, on the other hand, there is cholera in Vladivostok. If the Kostroma goes there, then it will not be allowed into any port, and it will not be allowed through the canal. I'll have to sit out somewhere, quarantine. We don’t yet know how we will unravel this Gordian knot. I could leave “Kostroma” somewhere before reaching Japan, but I cannot leave the displaced people whom I was tasked with escorting to Vladivostok. We'll see, however, maybe by then everything will work out somehow. Letter V. September 19. Strait of Malacca One more small piece to spare: Penang is already behind us, and today we will arrive in Singapore. Approaching Penang, we read its description in the English navigation guide. What is not said about him. And they called it paradise, and they extolled its climate, etc., etc. We were already eager to explore it, to breathe its air. We arrived there on Sunday (17th), arrived early in the morning; therefore, I have not seen what Penang is like from afar. Having gotten up from sleep, I went up to the poop and from here I admired this paradise of the east to my heart's content. Really nice corner. It is nothing more than a small island, about 30 miles long and 15 miles wide. Its surface is very mountainous. Near the city itself there is a remarkable peak with a height of, it seems, 2800 feet. All the mountains are covered with the most wonderful vegetation that the luxurious east could bring to its paradise. On the eastern side of the island lies the city of Penang, or Georgetown. The strait in this place, between the island and Malacca, forms a magnificent harbor about five miles wide. Standing in this harbor, you don’t know what to admire. To the right is the city, picturesquely jutting out from the dark green screen of the mountains. Behind it are huge mountains, from the top of which the clouds do not descend. Just a roadstead, full of ships of all kinds of nations and shapes: from English steamships to Chinese junks. On the left, the low shore of Malacca rises from the sea, all green with continuous vegetation; and then, from behind the horizon, some mountains of the most unexpected colors appear blue in the fog. I wanted to get to the shore as quickly as possible to see it all for myself, especially since the directions spoke of a waterfall that, somewhere nearby outside the city, rolled down from a height of 2500 feet. However, the mountains dropped a cloud of rain on us (it was approaching autumn, the rainy season), and our trip inevitably had to be postponed). After breakfast, we couldn’t stand it any longer: the seven of us gathered and, under the leadership of one ship’s officer, went ashore. It was still raining. We somehow hid from him under our umbrellas. It’s good that the Malays will soon carry you in their small boats, otherwise it would be very bad for our spider web tropical suits. Finally, my foot felt solid ground, and a minute later we were already riding in two covered carriages along the streets of Penang. The city, or rather the part of it that we passed through, is nothing special after Colombo. The same eternal greenery that hides the buildings, the same beautiful fan-shaped palm trees in front of the windows in the English courtyard, the same wretched dwellings of the natives, even the muddy puddles in which they take their daily baths, were not forgotten. The soil, like in Colombo, is red. Red and tiles on the roofs. Greens and reds are the main tones of the local urban landscapes. On the occasion of Sunday, the streets were deserted. Occasionally we came across Malays and Chinese, both of which we had not yet seen. The Malays, surprisingly, wear more black clothes. How can this be explained in the tropical heat here? On their heads are small embroidered caps, like Montenegrin or Greek ones. Some of them had gilded caps. The goal of our aspirations was the waterfall, or rather the botanical garden in which the waterfall was located. We soon arrived at this garden. The garden is, of course, very nice, it has a lot of different plants and a lot of lawns. By the way, one greenhouse caught our attention (if you can call a gazebo woven from thin twigs a greenhouse). All kinds of small plants were collected here. There are several specimens that grow completely without any jars and without soil: they are attached with wire to a board and hung from the wall, that’s all. But all this was examined only in passing. We hurried to the waterfall. Having walked the entire garden, we climbed a rather primitive path up the mountain and, after much climbing, finally reached a Buddhist chapel, where a Malay sells flowers as souvenirs (this is done, it seems, in all Buddhist temples and chapels in India). This is where the most important thing lies. The chapel is leaned against a sheer rock 17 meters high. From the top of this wall a column of water three fathoms wide falls. It falls almost vertically and is smashed to pieces at the foot of the chapel. The noise is unimaginable. The spray rushes in whole clouds and with its dampness pierces you right through - the fog completely obscures your eyes. The first moment you feel as if you are in the midst of our winter blizzard. Everything is spinning before your eyes, carried away, turning white. There's a groan in my ears. The platforms, thrown over a vertical stream, tremble, like in a water mill. Standing on these platforms for a long time, of course, is not entirely comfortable: you can get wet to the bone. Therefore, after admiring this unprecedented spectacle for about five minutes, we set off on the way back. Our company increased with two more passengers. We came across another group of about 15 people, they were all ours too, they took advantage of the fact that the rain had now stopped. Having wished them to get a better look at the waterfall, we ourselves were at a crossroads in thought: we had not yet been to the very top of the peak, but we wanted to be in the clouds. Our driver (who is also a guide) assured us that we would never climb the mountain, the journey was two whole hours, that our lungs would not be enough for such a climb. Our ranks wavered: five decided to go to the city for riding horses, while the remaining five people remained with their previous desire. They left with the guide and we headed up the mountain. We actually walked for two or an hour and a half, uphill and uphill. The journey for us, who are not accustomed to the mountains, is very tiring, especially after a long time on the ship. But none of us regretted going. The journey is full of interest. There is a pretty good spiral road up the mountain, and a good road for the same place (English, of course). In dry season it is more difficult to walk along it: the sand (red), I think, makes movement much more difficult. But after the rain, hard ground formed, sufficient to support a pedestrian. There was one less obstacle for us. The climb is generally steep; in some places there are only flatter roads. In this case, at the fork in the road there is a characteristic inscription on a white board: “For elderly people,” and on the other branch of the road: “For young people.” Everyone can choose what suits their lungs best. The road passes through a dense tropical forest, which literally stands like a wall on both sides. Sometimes you go out into a clearing, onto a cornice, and then the view is simply magical: in the opening hollow you see only the tops of the trees, a solid dark green mass that covers everything. Then a raid with black stripes instead of steamers, and then Malacca is green and purple. And so beyond the horizon. Look at this picture for a while, rest, and then hit the road again, up the mountain. From the forest you can hear some strange whistling, hissing that never stops. Obviously there was life there. But, with all our desire, we have not seen a single specimen of the local animals. According to the stories, there should be monkeys and something else here. In general, we somehow have more life in the fields and in the forest. Some bird is constantly chirping here, and if it doesn’t chirp, it will at least fly past you. There are only greens and insects here. As far as I remember, even in India, in Ceylon we did not see, much less hear, a single bird. They must have flown away, or are hiding from the scorching heat here. Rising higher and higher, we passed some native huts. We saw someone’s beautiful villa, which we almost ended up in as traveling foreigners. In the end, despite frequent stops and relatively cool (or not as hot as usual) weather, we were wet as mice and extremely tired. The road definitely laughed at us. It will seem like the top. The end is here... you are approaching, alas... this is only the beginning of a new ascent, even steeper and higher. Let's exhale, look at each other, someone will mutter some remark or make a joke at the expense of a companion. Then we walk again to a new turn, where we are again disappointed. Thirst also tormented us, although we more than once took advantage of streams and simply puddles that came across along the way Finally, there was a whiff of cold, and the fog above became closer and closer. Another steep climb and at a bend in the road a white board with some kind of inscription appeared. Well, again it is clear: “For old and young people”, again it is clear that we will have to rise and there will probably be no end to this unfortunate rise. Our vanguard approached the plaque. It said: “That’s the grace.” What does this mean? None of those who approached spoke English. It looks like a tiger, but it seems tigers don’t make signs on their holes, presumably something else. We waited for our leader, the officer, who was slowly puffing at the very tail of our company, wet through and red as a beet. Having caught his breath, he finally resolved our bewilderment: there are no tigers or anything terrible like that. It simply means: “to the pub.” Then we remembered that, according to the directions, there should be a hotel at the top of the mountain. The pub is probably this hotel. The end is coming soon. Having gathered our strength and inspired ourselves with the thought of a quick rest, we increased our pace and walked up the mountain again. Again our leader puffed back and again we were sweating and drinking from puddles. But here was a clearing, a terrace, and above it, on a terrible steep slope about forty meters high, sat some gray house, on which some of us guessed the inscription: “That’s the grace.” This is our end, our promised land! No matter how funny it sounds, this time we were sincerely happy about the tavern, as if we were in real Palestine. We had to walk for another quarter of an hour along the road winding around the mountain. Finally, the last turn and before our eyes there are several houses located along a small street. On a small pavilion or gazebo the inscription “Post” was visible. Then I remembered that I had a letter in my pocket. They're in now. There we were met by a young Dutchman who provided us with stamps and volunteered to take us to “To the Grace”. We've arrived. The tavern turned out to be a very clean and cozy house with a hall, a living room, several living rooms and two terraces towards the sea. It turns out that one could live in this house for several days, as did this time one English family who disappeared from the first room during our invasion: our red faces and wet suits must have been very scary. The Malays served us soda water with cognac, and we began to quench our thirst together. After resting a bit, we went to the terrace to look around. It was visible far away. Our raid seemed like a small river, and “Kostroma” seemed like an insignificant spot. It’s a pity that the rising clouds covered almost everything. But... the clouds are below! That's what was especially interesting, although these clouds showed themselves in the most unpleasant way: they made us positively cold in our wet suits. Even so, this was the first time we rose above the clouds. We sat here for quite a long time. And fatigue somehow kept me stuck in place, and I had to wait out the rain, which came again several times. We thought we could then make our way to the place where the waterfall begins, but it was already well after five o’clock, at six it gets dark here, and in front of us was still the entire road we had just covered. Traveling at night through these mountains and forests, and even in an unfamiliar area, could not particularly attract anyone. We decided, without wasting time, to set off from the mountain and return to Kostroma. We went down, of course, much faster than we went up. We only went down for about fifty minutes. Already below, under the mountain, we realized how high we had to be. As we later learned, our riders could not ride there on their horses, and thus deprived themselves of great pleasure. Evening overtook us while still on the road. In the darkness, we somehow found our drivers, who were patiently waiting for us near the garden, and set off through the city streets to the pier. Everything was dark, only the beetles sometimes glowed, but then they hid. The darkness is impenetrable. To top off our misfortunes, a strong wind blew and terrible rain poured down, real tropical rain. The journey took a completely unpleasant turn. We arrived under the cover of darkness and in the rain to the pier, where it was even worse. The tide began to rise, a fast current formed in the strait, which tore everything with it. The wind blew up the wave. It was impossible to stand on the pier (wooden, floating), as she was tossed up and down by the excitement. The boats arrived, but it was scary to approach them. With the slightest mistake, you could miss the boat, and a sea bath in such a situation, God knows how it would end. After much effort and hesitation, we finally settled into two small boats (which don’t seem to lift more than three). Let's swim. We began to be thrown from side to side, and the current carried us uncontrollably downwards from the roadstead and the city. As luck would have it, “Kostroma” stood far higher. The poor Malay who was driving us was exhausted. Add to this the rain that poured down on us from above, as if from a bucket, the waves that lashed us from the sides, the impenetrable darkness all around, which left us in complete uncertainty about where we were, where we were sailing, where our “Kostroma” was. A minute, or more precisely half an hour, is most unpleasant. We struggled for a long time, rising and again giving way to the current, and finally the huge silhouette of our “Kostroma” became blackened in front of us. She stood with her stern towards us. We breathed a sigh of relief, seeing the end of our torment. Here is the stern, now it is level with the boat, here is the ladder, another moment and we are home. A sailor is waiting for us on the ladder. The boatman throws the rope, ties the boat, the sailor extended his hand to me. Just at home... Suddenly a strong wave hits the boat, the rope breaks or comes untied and we are again in the dark, again far from “Kostroma”, and again the rain pours on us and the waves lash us. We arrived a second time, again failure. Only the third time we managed to step onto the gangway, along which we climbed to the deck, where all the passengers gathered to watch our efforts. I think not a single veteran sailor climbed the ladder of his ship with such pleasure as we did after such a transition and an unprecedented shower. There was definitely not a single dry thread on us. Our poor thread tropical suits stuck to our bodies like the feathers of a wet chicken. Our tropical, pith hats turned into poorly baked pancakes, thus revealing yet another case of Port Said swindle. We quickly went to the cabin. We changed our clothes: otherwise, in the tropics this shower will not be in vain. But, no matter how sad our appearance was, no matter how much we resembled wet chickens, nevertheless, we were at home and could now go to bed peacefully; and let the sea make noise and worry in the impenetrable darkness. The whole next day passed with a load of rice, which we had to transport to Hong Kong (again a new port, unexpected). None of our company went ashore: their legs were starting to feel bad after yesterday’s climb. At about 10 pm they began to raise the anchor and then a small incident occurred. According to the rules of this port, every ship docked here must drop two anchors. Over the course of two days, the current in the strait changed several times and our ship, therefore, turned around several times during this time on its anchor chains. The chains, of course, got mixed up and there was no way to pull out the anchors. In addition, some Austrian or Italian steamer came near us. His anchors are intertwined with ours. And the story began... There was a moment when the ships completely crowded each other, there were only about two arshins left between the sides. A little more and a most unpleasant incident could have happened... We languished with the anchors for two and a half hours, and only after midnight we managed to get out of this ill-fated “paradise of the east.” We are going very well. No excitement. Only from time to time the incoming squalls greatly disturb us with their downpour. The coast of Malacca is constantly visible on the left. There are islands, mostly mountainous, sometimes conical, but not like those in the Red Sea. Here these are not tombstones, depressing with their desolation. The local islands, from the top to the very sea water, are covered with the richest vegetation, the same tropical forest that we saw in Colombo and Penang. Our journey, in general, is very interesting and not so tiring. Now it's the beginning of two o'clock. Singapore should be in three hours. Letter VI. 28 September Hong Kong I am writing to you from almost dry ground: we are standing on the Hong Kong roadstead. Therefore, you can judge what our journey from Singapore to Hong Kong was like if during the journey it was impossible to choose the time and place for writing. It really wasn't a good ride. But now all this has passed, and what has passed is very nice. On September 19, as I think I wrote to you, we were approaching Singapore. The sailors told us a lot about it, telling us about the charm of the parking lot and the shore itself, and about the crowd of different tribes on the streets, etc. We wanted to test all this by experience and push through it ourselves, although the ascent to the mountains still resonated in our legs. At an hour or so, the outskirts of Singapore began to emerge from the horizon. The coastal strip, which had always been on our left side, began to approach, bending little by little under our nose (the nose, of course, is a ship's). Sumatra appeared from the starboard side, first a small dot, and then a whole mass of green land, which also ran towards us, approaching Malacca. There were some islands that made the strait even narrower. We finally walked straight onto a green wall, in which there was no visible passage. But then smoke appeared, and behind the smoke a small white pilot boat floated out of the wall: Singapore, therefore, was already very close. Meanwhile, the time approached 4 p.m. at the hour when our lunch was scheduled, this time an hour earlier. No matter how tempting it was to look at the rolling green mountains, however, at the even more tempting bell for dinner, not a soul was left on the deck. Everyone wanted to finish lunch before arriving at the port, so that later they could watch and admire nature in freedom. However, Singapore was so close that while we were eating, it completely snuck up on us. The wardroom suddenly became somewhat darker, and some kind of green light hit the windows. We were sailing in a narrow strait between Singapore and another small island, very narrow. We were entering the Singapore roadstead. Before we had finished our lunch, the usual commotion arose from the port side at the entrance to the port. It was making noise on the shore where we were supposed to moor. At the top we also heard the usual: “Give it to the stern,” “vira winch.” You could hear stomping, running, and the noise of ropes on the deck. Apparently we were anchoring or mooring. We go out onto the deck. We gathered at our cabins, under the poop on the port side. Directly opposite us, at the same height, stood another crowd, lining up along a wooden embankment. They were waiting for us. Our steamer gradually approached, pulling up the ropes and tapping its propeller from time to time. The crowd standing on the shore was, as usual, the most motley. There are Malays, Chinese, and Europeans of all nations here. Some were in a hurry to show us their goods from afar. They seduced us with whole piles of pineapples, shawls and the inevitable precious stones. Shells of all kinds are wonderful here. They are brought in by the boatload. I don't know why they don't do this in other ports. Maybe there are especially many of them here. Somebody, by all indications, a Jew was more excited than anyone else, shouting, waving his arms, running along the embankment, giving orders to the workers and occasionally exchanging French phrases with some of our officers. It turns out to be the local harbormaster. Several lanky Englishmen stood, looking somehow over the crowd, as if through a spinning wheel, in their grandiose tropical helmets. But our general attention focused on one group: a gentleman, about thirty-five years old, standing arm in arm with a lady. It must be Russian, we thought. There is some elusive trait, not conveyed in words, in every nation. A little experience is enough to make almost no mistakes at first glance. What told us that the gentleman standing in front of us was really Russian? None of us, of course, could explain it, but our premonition was justified. This was a Russian officer who and his wife were traveling from Eastern Siberia to Marseille and from there to Russia. He was traveling on a French steamer (“Messageries Maritimes”), which stood right there, stern to stern with our steamer. Regarding this premonition, I remember another incident that happened much later, also during a trip on a French steamer. One gentleman constantly tried to talk to me. It must be Russian, I thought. But the stranger spoke French and English, but not a word in Russian. “What nationality are you?” I ask him. “German,” he said somehow strangely through his teeth. “Oh, I think he’s Russian, but for some reason he’s embarrassed to call himself one.” In the evening, as usual, they stayed on the deck for a long time, lying on long chairs. My friend had a nightmare. Suddenly I heard: “Oh, I’ll die, I’ll die”... My guess was justified, although neither now nor then I could say why I didn’t believe that this gentleman was German. The embankment was nothing special, or better said, it consisted only of black, soot-covered coal storage sheds in a rather deserted area. Right behind them there were some swamps, and already beyond the swamps housing began, first in the form of a native village, maybe a village, several factories, then there was a field, and only beyond the field did the Chinese part of the city begin. It takes quite a long drive to get to the city itself, i.e., its European part. When the long and noisy story of mooring ended, we collected a whole expedition of letters and set off on a neighboring French mail ship; the opportunity presented itself to send our letters as quickly as possible: the ship was leaving today. Before we had time to set foot on the ground, a gentleman approached me, looking like a commission agent, a barman or something like that. The face is shaved, but of course not clean. This is how we portray older Italians. He spoke something in French, handing me a letter. I only understood: “Monsieur le cure Petersburg.” Looking at the handwriting of the address, I realized that this was a letter from Fr. A., who took advantage of this gentleman to send me news about himself. They are coming five days ahead of us. A bell ringer assigned to the cathedral in Tokyo is also traveling on the ship with him. Japan is close again. Now let's go north, straight towards it. Once I get there? Having thanked the stranger, I joined the rest of the company, which was already walking along the shore along the huge French steamer. After quite entertaining pantomimes with some plump gentleman standing on the deck of the ship, our company split up: some went to inspect the entire ship, and the doctor and I went downstairs to the first-class wardroom, where the postal official’s cabin was also located. With the feeling of savages who had found themselves in a palace, we descended the wide, one might say, luxurious staircase into a large, elegantly decorated hall and mess hall. After our closet, it was a real palace. A nimble footman in uniform (alas! How primitive our steamship Ivans and Peters in somewhat faded white suits seemed to us) showed us the cabin of a postal official, in it, in the door, half-closed with a curtain, amidst the peculiar noise, the rustle of continuously rotating fans, sat an elderly, dry man with his back to us, poring over something in a book. He accepted our letters patronizingly, affixed stamps, and took payment even more patronizingly, all the while smoking his thick cigar. We hastened to retreat, taking another appetizing look at the luxurious first class wardroom. However, ours is much better, no matter how good all the French cabins are there. On the embankment, Malay cab drivers with their carriages approached us. Four of us sat in one of them. The driver is a Malay with a broad face and a black beard, wearing a red bandage on his head. (I later learned that red protects against sun rays just as well as white). Now we could no longer see much: the darkness that soon came forced us to reduce our observations. We walked around the city, along very nice boulevards, and tried to suffocate in the Chinese part of the city. That's dirt! You just can’t think of anything to attribute this to. All peoples have housing, and not everywhere it is clean, but even looking at a Chinese lair is sickening, not to mention the stench, which makes it impossible to walk on the streets of Chinese settlements. There is a lot of traffic in the city. The crowd is replete with its diversity. There are blocks that are quite European, with shops and mirrored glass. There are very good hotels. In one of them, on the terrace, in the middle of a crowd of different languages ​​and nationalities, we sat down. We were treated to something like hot water with pepper. We called this cloudy and caustic liquid tea. The British also managed to make their own Indian brew from tea. However, you soon get used to it. After drinking what we refused to call tea, we returned home with the intention of not going ashore again: there was nothing more to see in Singapore. Here, however, there is a wonderful botanical garden. They say it is the first in the east in terms of its wealth. The following days a real fair took place near our ship. Merchants pitched their tents and laid out their goods. Our settlers and their children wandered from tent to tent, trying on beads and scarves. They argued in all the jargon possible for them, in Russian telling the Malay that he was asking for too much. Just like here somewhere in the village, at the market. Interest in shopping, however, has waned a bit. We managed to see a lot. Singapore felt like a repeat. Here, by the way, I had to try the famous tropical fruit for the first time: mangosteen. It looks like something like a potato or turnip (only rounder), dark red in color. You need to carefully cut through the rather thick soft shell, soaked in red tannin. Inside is a small white kernel, tender, fibrous, made up of several particles, like an orange. This small core contains the actual mangosteen that the south boasts of. Of course it's good. But it’s too little for such labor to get it. In the evening, at 7 o'clock, we finally weighed anchor and set off from Singapore. We took the cargo to Hong Kong. At first it was very good. There was no motion, so on Sunday, the 23rd, mass was celebrated. But then, from Sunday evening, it began to rain like buckets, and the rolling developed such that it makes one ashamed to remember our torment in the Indian Ocean. Our test continued Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday night. The passengers again swore to each other that they were traveling by sea for the last time, and that they would have to return by land. But when we arrived in Hong Kong and learned that a typhoon was passing 20 hours away from us, which tore off the boat on the French steamer, then we began to thank God that everything was working out so well for us, everything was so safe. Now there was only one station to Japan. But there is cholera, somewhere and someday will the Lord bring me? Letter VII. October 8. Vladivostok You have already received my telegram, and you know that my wanderings will soon end. Yes, already Vladivostok... I'm tired of hanging around in the sea, especially after the pleasure it brought me at last, at parting; but somehow I don’t want to leave the familiar deck of the Kostroma. We got used to it and got used to it. Everything here became familiar, almost familiar, not excluding the ropes in the circles (which we all already called bays), the not entirely comfortable benches and the more uncomfortable, annoying daily rocking of the deck in the morning. Now it’s become a pity to give up everything. Many of the passengers, having moved ashore to a hotel, still cannot completely detach themselves from the Kostroma, no, no, and some of them will drop by to sit in its wardroom, drink tea with their former companions, and talk. Habit is a great thing. However, I must end my journey. We arrived in Hong Kong on September 27 at noon. It took a long time to stop, as we entered without a pilot. Soon the owners of our cargo arrived, soon they took us to the shore, soon they moored to the same wooden embankment as in Singapore, but time passed, and imperceptibly passed until our lunch. We went to the city in the evening. First, the impenetrable Chinese part, thoroughly saturated with some kind of miasma. Horrible Chinese shops, especially food shops, where you expect to find the most impossible meat. And everything stinks and stinks. We entered the main street. European shops were locked. We went to see Ivan Ivanovich, a Chinese who knows (though very little) Russian and has a sign on the door with this name and country. Ivan Ivanovich sells materials, it seems to be everything he comes across. Here he also has a chess carved from bone (in his words, from ivory, but...). Ivan Ivanovich himself was not there, and his sons, clerks, do not speak Russian at all. We sat for some time in their shop, looked at the Chinese trade: Chinese buyers came to us. The Chinese generally look smart. Many behave very respectably, especially in a cart with a fan in their hands. It’s just a pity that their beardless faces, especially those of old people, make them look like older women. The local coolies (working people) look pitiful. Only God knows what they live for. Some have only one boat. He lives on it, carries passengers on it, and that’s it. His whole house is here. This is where he was born, and this is where he may die. Some people say they eat garbage from steamships. This is life... Here, in general, the Chinese are somehow slaughtered and driven by the British, for whom they are just beasts of burden and labor for their grandiose buildings in the mountains and, in general, for all their comfort. So they really look like working cattle, driven, powerless, starving, despised, and, of course, sincerely hating their uninvited masters who subjugate them with money. For this reason, the buildings here and the whole way of life of the British are magnificent. I’m not talking about the city itself, about its beautiful shops, about hotels in the form of palaces, all this is nothing special for such a global destination, all this is natural and ordinary. It is amazing how the British managed to make such a paradise out of bare, lifeless rock, as Hong Kong was before their rule. It’s amazing that the former wastelands now have excellent beaches, that where there used to be bare mountain slopes, impassable to anyone, there are now highways lined with cement, with bridges, gutters and even benches for rest. It is surprising, further, to see huge houses at the very top of the peak, where it is difficult to climb on foot, and where a railway train now climbs along a chain. This victory of man over inhospitable nature is amazing. A comparison with Vladivostok is involuntarily imposed. What an endless difference, and, of course, not in favor of Vladivostok. There, one might say, there is nothing yet, there is only someone and something waiting to start living, there is only a station, a bivouac, but here there is already a full, independent life. However, who is the culprit of all this amazing comfort, this victory over nature? All this was watered down with sweat, and maybe even blood, by the local pack animals - the Chinese. Rich exploiters took advantage of their industriousness and bought their labor and life for a paltry daily wage. No, let it not be so convenient, not so comfortable here, let our Manzas speak Russian poorly, just so that we don’t drink blood from the so-called natives. I also visited the top of the peak and drove along the local vertical road. The commander and I went there together. First we rode in a rickshaw through the smelly, smoky Chinese part. Here, in fact, one street runs along the shore and on a flat plane. The rest all go up floors. A little away from the main street and riding a rickshaw becomes difficult, and there are no horses in sight. The Victoria Garden also overlooks the main street, or rather its foot, which is higher up the mountain. This wonderful garden is worth seeing. At this point on the main street, a tree-lined path climbs up the slope of the mountain. Here we released our drivers and went on foot. But then we come across several pairs of porters with palanquins. Of course, they pester you in an unimaginable way. Let's try it. A palanquin in the form of a small box with a seat was placed on the ground. We sat down. The porters quickly lifted long shafts onto their shoulders and walked up the hill, rhythmically shaking their burdens. At first it’s not entirely calm in this carriage, it’s a little strange to ride on the back of your neighbor, it’s already too reminiscent of the east. But everything is the same everywhere, only the appearance changes, but in reality everyone rides one another. Soon we were brought to a small house - a station, where several gentlemen were already sitting, waiting for the railway train. We bought tickets. A few minutes later the train departed. The small trailer boldly went up the mountain. At first the road goes quite gently, but then it takes on such a slope that it becomes scary to look back at the line you have passed: it seems like an abyss into which the carriage will fall at any moment. The slope is so great that you end up sitting, one might say, lying down, or have to bend over backwards to maintain an upright position. A strange optical illusion is created by the growing trees, houses, etc. around you. You don’t notice how you are gradually leaving the vertical position. And suddenly you see that trees and houses are gradually losing their vertical position, beginning to lean more and more towards the ground, threatening to fall and collapse. This illusion is so strong that later, when you realize that you are changing the situation yourself, and not houses or trees, even after that you cannot get rid of it. At the top of the rise there is a steam engine, which winds the chain onto the iron shaft. Each carriage is equipped with a brake. We were curious to know if there ever were misfortunes on this puzzling road. We were told no. If the chain breaks, the conductor always has time to stop the car. They even say that every month they test this stopper: they run the car along the rails without a chain with a load. The conductor manages to stop him in midair. The position of the conductor in this case is still unpleasant. We had lunch upstairs. By the way, we ate a local tropical delicacy: curry. This is a rather unique dish for us northerners. Rice is boiled and served with a sauce made from pepper and similar caustic substances, with game. But this is not enough: this dish is accompanied by a whole pharmacy of all kinds of potions, all caustic, mouth-ying, like mustard or pepper. There's also bamboo jam, don't take this as a joke. This is not the same as birch noodles. Literally, the jam is not bad, it is made from young bamboo shoots, there is some small dried fish, and several other similar numbers. In the end, the result is such a mixture, such a charge of all sorts of caustic things that it’s scary to even bring it to your mouth, But without this curry, you can’t do it here. The stomach requires strong stimulation, otherwise it does not work. On the morning of the 29th we left Hong Kong straight to Vladivostok. Although the telegraph reported that there was no cholera in Japan, nothing had yet been officially heard about the lifting of quarantine. We are now going north, and the farther we go, the more we move away from the eternal summer of the tropics and head towards autumn. On the 30th we entered the Taiwan Strait, where we were destined to endure our final test. A very strong north wind was blowing, tearing everything off the deck. It was difficult to walk. The tent was removed for the first time after Odessa. On our deck it became somehow unnaturally light and deserted, only the mast and iron posts stuck out, and the chains stretched across, which had until now supported the awning. Just like a garden in autumn, yellowed and leafless. The sky was constantly overcast with clouds, constantly turning grey, and threatening rain. The temperature dropped and dropped. I had to take out my long-forgotten black and warm dress. It's completely autumn. We now huddled together on the uncomfortable, open deck, no longer finding on it those secluded corners where we had previously found peace and solitude. Everything is open and leafless. But that would be nothing. Only the imagination suffers from this. Taiwan gave us a stronger feeling. The current in the Taiwan Strait is always very strong. A weak steamer probably won’t row against him. Especially this time, when an even stronger contrary wind joined the current. The waves were huge. Our Kostroma rocked, helplessly diving with its bow and stern, like a small boat. On every big wave, the propeller was exposed and then a terrible, soul-rending crash echoed throughout the entire ship, from which all the nerves, already tense and tired, shuddered. This crackling sound was especially unpleasant at night in our stern. We are sitting in the wardroom, balancing on chairs, conversations are not going well. Vint continues: tuu-tuu-tuu, tuu-tuu-tuu... Suddenly: trrrrr... “Oh, you’re a misfortune! “Again,” someone will say, looking reproachfully towards the stern or at the mechanic, if he happened to be here. And in a minute the screw will still knock... The main problem was that the opposite current and wind greatly reduced our progress. We trudged 4-5 knots at a time. This increased the despondency even more, although, as we learned later, we were again happier than others: the walking here is even slower. On October 1 we passed the strait. The current weakened, the speed increased, but the rolling continued. The screw was still cracking. On October 4, some islands appeared on the right, slightly blue on the horizon. "What is this?" – I ask the doctor. "Japan. Now we are passing abeam Nagasaki." Of course, I also asked to explain what a traverse is. This is perpendicular to the ship's voyage from a given point. All I understood was that Japan was right next to me. I felt at home, in the place. Even though I’ll have to make my way to Vladivostok, even though they’ll keep me there, maybe for a long time, I’m still here, I won’t have to travel much. Questions arose. Everything that had been heard during the journey was listened to again. How will we go, where is your stop, where is the mission, etc. Everyone’s eyes turned to the blue silhouettes of the land of the rising sun. On the 5th we passed Dazhelet, a very mountainous island, which with its spiky peaks sticks out before your eyes all day long, eventually boring you. You walk and walk and he’s still here. Now we’ve passed it, now we’re walking for a few more hours, but look back: it’s still Dazhelet. October 6, our last day on the ship. Tomorrow, in the morning, there will be an end to our wanderings, and with it the end of our common life. Everyone will go in their own direction, some to Khabarovsk, some to Posyet, some to where. During the flight we managed to get used to each other. Now it was as if I didn’t want to leave. We had a farewell breakfast. Speeches and toasts were made. The commander was presented with a silver brother as a memory of our voyage. After breakfast we sat for a long time in a common circle, remembering the path we had traveled so happily. Here the drops again appeared on stage to everyone’s amusement. After breakfast everyone began to get ready. Pack your things. Make your purchases known and in order. They were all brought into the cabin and placed on empty beds; now we need to find a place for them in suitcases and boxes. I, however, was in no hurry to get ready and say goodbye to the ship. If I don’t have to go to Japan on it, then, in any case, I’ll live on it the entire time it’s in Vladivostok. The day imperceptibly approached evening. After lunch, we tried once again to admire the sea, now dark, as a farewell, but it was so uncomfortable and cold at the top that we had to quickly give up this desire. We gathered again in the wardroom. Someone sat down at the piano. Singers were found. Over tea, talking and singing, our last evening passed in unison among the sea in the wardroom of the Kostroma. It was already very late when our company began to gradually dwindle, going to bed for the last time in the cabin. On the morning of the 7th, thick fog covered the sea. They say, however, that this fog spread only along the bottom; from the captain's bridge one could see the clear sky and all the surroundings. Our journey did not slow down. Now, through the whiteout, mountains appeared on both sides (we were already entering the roadstead). A fire guard rushed past us in the fog. They rested peacefully there, and only now they noticed our “Kostroma”. Oh, Rus'... We went to the shore. There was some kind of barn there. Then there were fences, then more fences, then more fences. In the distance one could see small wooden houses along the primitive embankment, without any heretical devices. The barracks are visible. On the other side stretched the roadstead on which our Pacific squadron stood. On the shore along the roadstead there is a small town, like any local Russian town. There is a very nice church in the middle. There are several good buildings around it, then again fences and fences, with unpaved streets, with pigs, puddles, etc. Just like ours. There was a crowd of Chinese on the shore near the ship. They behaved more freely here and looked out more friendly. Someone “asked someone with honor”... In a word, we are home. There was even tenderness on everyone. The oversleeping patrol arrived and sat in our wardroom over tea. They reported, by the way, that there was a fair amount of cholera here. This one died, that one died, many were missing. Our Vladivostok passengers received all the sad news. Little by little guests began to gather to us. A whole crowd of officers from the squadron came, different ranks came with and without reports to different commanders who were traveling with us. The wardroom turned into a bazaar. Some of our people were already saying goodbye, leaving for the shore. Then Fr., whom I had not seen for a long time, came to me. A. He arrived here about five days ago, and now he hung, as they say, between heaven and earth. All the rooms in the hotel were occupied, he had to wander from room to room with his steamship companions. We talked a lot about the trip. He had to suffer more: he can’t stand the motion at all, and he had much more to do on the way. Barely able to stand on his feet from seasickness, the poor fellow had to correct the services, read prayers in the morning and evening, etc., for several parties of prisoners who were traveling with them. Nothing definite was known about our further journey. Will Kostroma go there? Nobody could say anything. Meanwhile, right before our noses, a large Japanese steamship departed from the pier for Nagasaki. Today another one left (on the 8th), on the 20th the Baikal, a steamship of some local company, will leave. Then the Vladivostok, a Voluntary Fleet steamship, will sail. But all this is not soon. We'll have to sit here by the sea for a long time and wait for the weather. By the way, here we were informed that in Russia there was alarming news about Kostroma (because it did not enter Aden). Now we are glad that we sent our notes from Perim. P.S. October 11. Sea of ​​Japan. Quite unexpectedly, I had to continue my letter in an unexpected place and send it, also unexpectedly, from Nagasaki. We are no longer in Vladivostok and not on a Voluntary Fleet ship, but in the Sea of ​​Japan and under the Norwegian flag. This metamorphosis happened suddenly, in just half an hour or an hour. On the 9th I sat calmly at morning tea in the company of two or three of our companions, who were preparing to go ashore. An agent of the Voluntary Fleet came here. We started talking, of course, about our trip to Nagasaki. “Will Kostroma go? – I ask him. “In all likelihood, no. For this, she will be quarantined in Odessa for 38 days. - The entire cargo will be transferred to Vladivostok. You can then move there too. Yes, if you like, I can send you to Nagasaki today,” he suddenly tells me. “Today a Danish steamer and a truck are heading there. Of course, you won’t find the same amenities as ours, but you will get to Nagasaki. But you won’t agree to sit on their gaber soups?” “How can we disagree? Of course we agree. The sooner the better." “So the ship leaves at 10 o’clock this morning, we need to hurry.” Of course, I began to hurry, threw away my tea, took my hat, and a minute later we were already shaking in a charabanc through the streets of Vladivostok. It was already ten o'clock at the beginning. I had to buy tickets, collect my unpacked luggage, and move from Kostroma to this ship. Time was running out. On the way we met Fr. A., who was peacefully going somewhere to inquire about a bathhouse, obviously not having any thoughts that he would now have to give up any thought about a Russian bathhouse for several years. He was urgently returned home, and they went to the office of Kunst and Albers, the local Rothschilds. The inquiries made were favorable: the ship could give us two cabins and accept our Theodore (the bell ringer) as a deck passenger. Leaving the agent to buy tickets there, I ran headlong to Kostroma. He immediately threw my things into the suitcase, leaving half of them here for transfer to Vladivostok. I quickly said goodbye to my former companions and Kostroma. There weren't many of them. It’s a pity that we didn’t have to say goodbye to some of the ship’s officers; I have the best memories of them. Manza, that is, the local Chinese, took me to the Danish steamer (which turned out to be Norwegian). His Russian accent was so good that I didn’t understand a word, no matter how pleasant it was to exchange a few Russian words as I said goodbye to Russia. It was almost ten o'clock when I stepped onto the deck of the Frithjof Nansen. My companions, O A. and Theodore, were already there. A quarter of an hour later our ship blew its last whistle and set off. The Kostroma residents all poured onto the poop deck, their farewell “hurray” was heard from there, the flag lowered three times (a naval bow) and our Kostroma gradually disappeared behind the mountains. Now we are completely outside of Russia. No one on the ship speaks a word of Russian. You have to use your entire philological reserve. It's good that Fr. A. speak French. You can at least talk to the captain. Others do not know any language other than their own. Our ship, of course, is several times smaller than the Kostroma. It only has two masts. There is no quarter-deck or anything usual on a passenger ship. The wardroom can accommodate only eight people. On the sides there are two cabins for passengers and one large one for the captain. In the middle is a table, with a hanging lamp and then what looks like a hanging shelf with compartments for a decanter and glasses. In general, it’s cramped and a bit dark. The company is good, however. The captain is not yet an old man, rather young, healthy, ruddy, obviously not knowing what illness, boredom, etc. are. His navigator is a very typical Norwegian navigator, as they are portrayed in various travels and novels. The nose is always red, the clothes and face are gray, the look is gloomy, and he is not keen on talking. But in essence he is a very kind person. When he meets in the morning, he says: “Zrotvoy,” i.e., “hello.” Well, what then? This word is indeed difficult for a non-Russian to pronounce. A mechanic is also a gray person in general, but in a different way. He looks a little swollen, shows signs of effeminacy, is much more talkative than the navigator, and perhaps occasionally smiles. Both of them have beards, only the navigator’s beard is reddish-yellow, straight, goes straight down, neither widening nor narrowing, while the mechanic’s beard is spade-shaped and light brown in color. At lunch or breakfast, when our whole company gathers, all three gentlemen (except for them there is no one) try to be as helpful as possible to us. The people are good. It’s a pity that you have to limit yourself to gestures and glances. We also have a servant. His name is Lingold, as he solemnly told us. This one is straight Scandinavian from head to toe. A wide face, and sideburns, and blue eyes, and that’s it. Important to the last degree, although he is patronizingly helpful with us. We have up to 500 Chinese on deck. They are traveling from Vladivostok to their homeland. They came to Vladivostok, worked, made some money for themselves, and now they are returning to give way to others. The Chinese will always and everywhere, except in his homeland, be an alien plant. We spoke to some. Some know two or three words in Russian. The attitude seems to be not as unfriendly as in Hong Kong. But the main decoration of the third class in the hold, undoubtedly, is our Theodore, sitting on our suitcases, in his long “spinzhak” - a robe, in a red graduation shirt, in a vest, with a huge and wide beard and with a pipe. My God, how majestically and at the same time contemptuously he looked at the Chinese crowding around him. He has passed through the tropics, now he is walking in the cold, but he is still the same, in the same black cloth “spinjak”, vest and red shirt. Climates and latitudes obviously do not exist for it. We're all going well. In the morning, the islands blocking the entrance to Nagasaki are visible. In the distance, a dark silhouette of the shores is drawn on the horizon; this is Honshu, the main island of Japan. A few more hours and we will approach the shores of Kyushu, the southern island of Japan on which Nagasaki is located. At about 11 or 12 o'clock we hope to drop anchor in the Nagasaki roadstead. Yesterday the day went remarkably well, no pitching, no cold. It was a wonderful, sunny day. Even our seemingly stern Norwegians somehow became clearer. They must have wanted to talk to us, but only the captain could fulfill his desire. Finally, that evening after dinner, we actually started talking. Mainly, of course, Fr. A. The captain turned out to be a very good, sincere person. Imperceptibly we moved on to the most intimate topics. The captain told us that his father was a professor in Christiania, and his uncle was a pastor there. He has a fiancée in Norway who has been waiting for him for three years. But Karl still cannot return to his Fatherland; the ship cannot take him on commission to Europe. O.A. gave him his card. The captain then promised to send him from Norway with his bride (it must be said that he really kept his promise. Three years later, O. A. received a letter and photograph from him). It's shaking a little today. I still endure, but poor oh. A. hopelessly disappeared into his cabin. Yes, and I may have to lie down. However, it won't be long now. Another half a day and we are home. Letter VIII. October 14. Nagasaki and the Japanese Mediterranean Sea Here we are in Japan. A few more days and we will see Tokyo itself. Soon the end of our wanderings will come. As I wrote, on the evening of the 13th we were supposed to arrive in Nagasaki. Thanks to the wonderful weather, a moonlit night, which allowed us to go at full speed, our calculations were fully justified. At about 9 o'clock the Nagasaki lighthouse will become visible, sparkling welcomingly on the horizon. Here it is, Japan. We'll see her soon, soon. It turned out that the lighthouse was visible 30 miles or more away. We walked to him and walked, and for two whole hours he deceived us with his proximity. We managed to hold our own and, despite the coolness of the night, remained on deck until the very end. The Nagasaki roadstead is a closed bay on all sides, which is connected to the sea only by a long narrow passage. Approaching the port itself, you may not even suspect its existence: the narrow strait leading to the inner bay completely disappears among the green shores and behind small islands. At night, only the lighthouse gave away the proximity of the port. We walked past some dark mountains and islands, with one solid dark wall ahead. It seems that the steamer is about to crash somewhere into the shore, and there is no further progress. The lighthouse was coming straight at us, then suddenly moved away to the side and passed by on the starboard side. We walked straight towards the wall. Suddenly these dark mountains give way, forming a narrow passage, like a mountain gorge, and you walk, as if along a river, between high banks. Is there anything on them, or are they completely deserted? Nothing was visible at night. Some lights flashing across the water near the shore enlivened the picture, indicating the presence of a person. Finally, the ship enters the inner roadstead. A whole amphitheater of lights suddenly opens up in front of you in all directions. This is Nagasaki, which is scattered around its almost circular bay. The ships moored in the roadstead were visible, but what kind of city this was was now impossible to make out. All that was heard was the noise of the city. Some screams. Perhaps the night watchmen developed their voices in the silence of the night. Despite the late hour (it was 11 o’clock), several boats approached the ship: they were already Japanese. Through the darkness of the night we could hardly see the Japanese “kirimons” 2 (as sailors distort this word). Our Chinese companions exchanged a few words with them. Here it is, the Japanese language. But for now these were vague sounds for us. Someday we will also talk. We stood on the deck for half an hour. We admired the rows of lights and listened to the noise coming from the invisible city. It was already about 12 o'clock when we went down to our cabins to spend our last night at sea. However, I slept poorly. The thought that we were now in Japan, that tomorrow we would see it, that we would set foot on its soil, did not let us fall asleep. I tossed and turned for a long time in my narrow, coffin-like bed. And then nearby, behind the door to the wardroom, an English conversation arose: either a pilot or some local agent had arrived. He persistently talked for a long time about something with the captain. Under their endless whistling and hissing, under a whole cascade of “yes”, etc., I finally, well after midnight, managed to fall asleep. It was seven o'clock in the morning when Fr. A. went out to the wardroom to drink our last morning coffee on the Nansen. Our Lingold dressed himself in a wide snow-white apron, and, with even greater importance, on the occasion of our arrival at the port, polished our boots as brightly as possible for farewell. There was something festive about his tall, solid figure. Meanwhile, Japanese people in kimonos and European dresses were crowding at the door with all sorts of offers. One thrust a card with the hotel address, the other insisted in all dialects that he was a laundress, and therefore asked to hand over our linen to him. We must, however, give them justice: all these proposals were made without any impudence and intrusiveness, as we are accustomed to seeing in other ports and among other peoples. The Japanese are courteous and polite. He always smiles, with a polite, but not humiliating bow. After some perplexity, we finally chose one Japanese man, in a European dress, who had it on his card. "Cook Hotel", and handed over their hand-made things to him. We had a lot of luggage with us. My suitcase was completely dwarfed by some boxes that were traveling with us to Tokyo. We spent a long time fumbling with our luggage. They dragged and dragged him out of the hold. The load on the Japanese boat took even longer; the Japanese are generally slow. A whole mountain formed on the boat, to the top of which we later descended, saying goodbye to the hospitable ship and its commander. Let's swim. Our driver was still a young Japanese man in a kimono, with blue glasses on his eyes. His assistant was another, younger one, still without glasses. On the shore they had already noticed us and the steps of the granite embankment were covered with a crowd of various porters and cab drivers: they smelled income from our pile of luggage. Our Theodore came into frantic delight at the sight of the Japanese, with their kimonos and strange exclamations. Their shaved heads and long robes reminded him of a madhouse. Their screams made him burst out laughing. In a word, our approach to the shore was very fun. From the shore, from afar, the “kuruma” (cab drivers, exact translation: “carriage”) bowed and smiled at us. Our luggage, of course, was snatched up in a minute, and Theodore and I were almost captured along the way. We strenuously convinced the porters that we needed to go to the Cook Hotel, already anticipating (especially me, since I had not gone ashore in Vladivostok) all the sweetness of resting on dry land after almost two months of living in a steamer cabin. This time, however, not everything turned out as we would have liked. Our things were moved to some kind of warehouse right next to the pier, which later turned out to be a customs office. And the Japanese official in European dress, and the porters and cab drivers, who surrounded us in a crowd, tried hard to explain something to us, smiling, bowing and looking with great curiosity at our Theodore, who was still laughing. Of course, we didn’t understand anything here. We tried to hammer into their heads: “Kuk-hotel, Kuk-hotel”... But nothing came of it. - “I have the honor to bow. “Hello, father,” suddenly came from behind. We turn around. In front of us, according to all the signs, he was Russian, and he was a bad guy at that: the reprimand, and everything was a bad guy, Great Russian (later we found out that he was from Arkhangelsk). We, of course, were incredibly happy about this meeting and asked him to help us in this situation. - “So I went out to the shop, and I saw some priests driving up. These are ours, I think. Go help." He really helped us. First of all, he told us that we needed to go to the consul and ask him for a pass for our things. He also hired two rickshaws for us. Fr. and I A. set off, and Theodore remained with his things, continuing to serve as a center for a whole crowd of Japanese. He looked very impressive in his undershirt and red shirt for graduation. We drove for the first time on Japanese soil. In contrast to China, it is very clean here, at least at first glance. There are many European houses, but there is no longer that English imprint that all the ports we have seen bear on them: the Japanese know how to adopt someone else’s without losing theirs. The city, despite all its European innovations, was still Japanese. In a blur, streets, shops, Japanese houses, some kind of Catholic church or monastery flashed before us. We saw a whole school of girls, walking in pairs under the leadership of Catholic nuns. This is missionary work. We are gradually entering his sphere. We climbed the mountain, and there it was not far to the consulate. We were greeted at the door by a Japanese man who bowed politely, touching his knees with his hand and crouching a little. He spoke Russian. We walked into the yard, then along a lovely path up the mountain. There, in a small house, was the consul's home. He arranged everything for us. We wrote a telegram to Tokyo about our arrival and about passports. No foreigners are allowed to enter Japan. Are there only a few seaside ones?” cities (including Nagasaki), where they can live freely. To get inside the country, you need to stock up on a passport from the Japanese Foreign Ministry. We thought of going by boat only to Kobe, and from there to Tokyo by rail, in order to be able to see the country. That's why we needed passports. In conclusion, the consul advised us to leave our luggage at the customs office before departure, and then come to him for breakfast. We returned to our Theodore. They took their carry-on luggage and, accompanied by a whole crowd of Japanese, large and small, finally went to their “Cook Hotel”. This time our kind new acquaintance helped us make sense of the crowd of overly helpful Japanese. The hotel gave us two nice rooms, decorated with Japanese paintings, Japanese dishes and rather outdated European furniture, and even more outdated European prints. It’s as if everything European is doomed to extinction, and only one Japanese thing is destined for a new life. I had heard of Japanese cardboard houses before; our hotel could serve as an example of one of these, although it was built in a European style. Its walls are nothing more than thin plank partitions through which the wind freely blows wherever it pleases. Windows occupy almost two-thirds of the walls. In winter, if there is one here (and there should be, because in the room, among the furniture, one could see a small iron stove, obviously for cold weather), winter here, one must assume, is not particularly pleasant in such a lantern. We were soon settled into our two rooms. Somehow I couldn’t even believe that this time our home wouldn’t go anywhere, that nothing would rock it, that we wouldn’t have to tie down our things. The innkeeper immediately appeared. He spoke in Russian and offered tea in the Russian manner. We already drank tea, but for such an important event it’s impossible not to try it, especially not boiling water with pepper, but real tea. We asked to serve tea and then, when the time came, to feed our Theodore lunch while we went to the consulate for breakfast. After breakfast, during which the consul asked us about our journey, and even more told us various things about Japan, he took us to the Russian (naval) hospital. She is right there, in the same yard. Next to it is a small chapel. There were no sick people yet (squadron in Vladivostok). Everywhere is spacious, there is a lot of air. This hospital must be carefully maintained. From here we thought of going to explore the city, but an approaching cloud forced us to hurry to the Cook Hotel. They came to Theodore, who was standing complacently on the veranda in only a vest and a red shirt. He was quite pleased with breakfast. They served, he said, endlessly. This is understandable: the British in hotels and on ships serve a lot of dishes so that you can choose. Theodore, of course, did not know either the English language or English customs, and therefore patiently ate everything that the Japanese served him. Add to this his figure, seated at an elegantly set table, with a fork and knife in his hands, admiring the napkin fanned out in a glass. Fr. and I A. laughed long and uncontrollably, imagining this ceremonial dinner of our Theodore. The next day, a Japanese steamer, the Jokohama-maru, left Nagasaki for Kobe. We had to ride on it too. Together with the consular translator, a very respectable young Japanese (however, all Japanese, until they are completely old, seem almost like youths. Some of them look more than 18 or 20 years old, but in reality he is over 30), we went around the city to buy tickets for the ship, and since the ship turned out to be so loaded that it could not accept our luggage, we had to go to the transport office, having previously exchanged money for Japanese banknotes. These latter, like everything else in Japan, are something remarkable. Each of them is decorated with some kind of rather carefully decorated design and certainly with a humorous touch. Some people just directly ask to be included in some cartoon magazine. The figure of some fat, pot-bellied gentleman on short legs with a bag of money and a curious smile on his thick lips is especially often repeated. Afterwards they found out that this is the god of wealth. A rather peculiar, to say the least, attitude towards objects of religious veneration. We drove to the transport office through the Japanese part of the city. Everywhere there is movement, crowding, noise. Our train, especially our costumes (we were, of course, in our spiritual dress) attracted everyone's attention. But not a single disrespectful gesture was visible, not even a glance. Very delicate people. Perhaps, however, they are accustomed to seeing our ship’s chaplains here when our squadron winters here. The transport office was located in an ordinary Japanese house, small, clean, made of cardboard. The wall facing the street was pushed back by a third or two, and from the street, without any entrances or stairs, we walked straight into the very presence. Two-thirds of the small room was occupied by a raised platform, like a bunk, an arshin or a little less from the floor. On this elevation there were mats, and there was a small brazier with coals, not so much for heat as for pipes. Four Japanese men sat near this brazier, their legs tucked under them and sipping their miniature pipes, which they continually knocked out on the edge of the brazier, only to immediately fill them and light them again. Chairs were placed for us in the remaining part of the room free from bunks; the floor here was simply earthen: this part was obviously something like a hallway or hallway. We were served on a small round tray with three even smaller cups of green tea, no sugar, no anything. It tastes something vague, like our drunken tea. However, this is just out of habit. We soon got rid of it here, returned home, where the consul came to see us and spent a long time describing to us how and what we needed to see along the way: but we would hardly have to take his advice. Now we don’t know either the language or the customs of these people. Is it really possible here again to go in tow behind some guide who doesn’t so much explain as irritate and confuse. It’s better to wait until we get comfortable here. At five o'clock we were already on the deck of the Jokohama-maru. It was a very large passenger steamer with three masts. The inside is decorated beautifully, almost luxuriously, much better than some of our Voluntary, but at least. The first class wardroom is all white, covered with gilded walls and Japanese designs. Electrical equipment. A wonderful ship. There are many passengers with us and it seems from all nations. There are English, there are French, and Russian. O.A. found among them one of his acquaintances from Vladivostok. He went to America and from there to St. Petersburg. With him was some Englishman who served in the mines in Siberia. He made us laugh all the way with his funny Russian language. Our literacy is difficult for all of them. Everyone was divided into several companies by nation. We only meet for lunch. The English whistle and hiss, perform sacred acts at dinner, and after dinner they fool around on the deck or, most importantly, exercise with their noses in the air. The French are always on pins and needles, as if they are going to tell you some kind of pun and, moreover, they are merciless. The Chinese (the servants here are Chinese) scream disgustingly. The Japanese chatter and bow. Pandemonium! We are now walking along the inland sea, which is famous for the picturesqueness of its shores. Indeed, you can look at it from time to time. Only here there is no longer the same grandeur as we saw in other places. The nature here is just beautiful: small valleys, small bays, all painted in the most delicate colors. All this is so reminiscent of a Japanese garden with its artificially miniature trees. This is also the sea, the same Bosphorus, if you like, but all this is in miniature, all this is transferred to watercolor. The officers on the ship are all foreigners, mainly, of course, English: Europeans still don’t really trust the Japanese. There are, however. one and a Japanese guy, kind of downtrodden, in his uniform frock coat with braid. Tomorrow we hope to come to Kobe. Have our passports arrived there? If you came, maybe we’ll go further on the same day. And there we will see Tokyo soon. Letter IX. October 20. Tokyo So, the end of wandering with its eternal idleness, the end of the eternal change of people and places. I am no longer writing on a ship or in a hotel, but on dry land and in my room. Somehow God will bring me to live here and get down to business here. I don’t even want to talk about the end of my wanderings, all this has passed, it has outlived its time, now I am more interested in the present and the future. However, it is necessary to finish, especially since there is not much left. On October 17, at 6 am, the Jokohama-maru dropped anchor in Kobe. It was necessary to get up and say goodbye to the sea forever. The Chinese servant served us tee (tea). While we were getting up and getting ready, someone at our door wished us “dobgava zhdagovya.” Really, I think, a Jew? Turned around... that's it. In front of us stood a man of medium height, very decently dressed, his “peishes”, of course, had his hair cut, he spoke French and English perfectly, but as soon as he started speaking Russian, immediately he would start spouting “zhdagovya”, etc. Straightforward – “from us”. This gentleman turned out to be a commission agent in a French hotel where the “Uvsherushki” stay. Without further conversation, we accepted the offer of our “gemlyak”. At about 8 o'clock we boarded the boat, leaving the ship and the sea, perhaps forever. I remember Goncharov describes this parting with the sea. It was a pity, he says, to leave this great, formidable element, which can sometimes be so inhospitable and to which you still get used, become close. I don’t know if we experienced the same thing, but we just wanted to look at the sea one last time. More than once we turned from the boat to the steamer, and to the roadstead, and to the blue sea stretching into infinity. There was no particular delay with passports. The first time, however, at the German consulate (there were no Russians in Kobe at that time), they answered our question whether passports had arrived for us in the negative. There was a danger of spending an extra day in Kobe. But an hour later we were already holding in our hands a thick sheet of glossy paper, and on this sheet there were Chinese and Japanese letters, two huge red stamps, also with hieroglyphs, and among all this our names, written in French, could be seen alone. Theodore, although he does not know how to read Russian, however, he was quite amazed at the strange letter in the passport: “Kes, notes,” he repeated several times. The good thing about all this was that we could set off on our next journey that same day. The consul in Nagasaki advised us to explore the wonderful places of Japan along the way: Osaka, Kyoto, Nagoya. Anyone who travels to Japan for the first time and does not intend to stay in it for a long time, of course, must see all this, especially Japanese Moscow - Kyoto, where Japanese life and customs are most characteristically revealed. But we decided to go straight to Tokyo. The inspection requires at least two days, and we had to hurry, it was time to end our wanderings. On the other hand, the prospect of again being towed by some guide, not understanding anything well, was far from attractive, especially since then, perhaps, you would have to visit here more than once and then understand and examine everything without a guide. We took tickets directly to Tokyo. The train left at six o'clock in the evening, so at half an hour past five we were already at the station. The station, of course, is nothing special. In the passenger hall in the middle there is a table littered with newspapers, Japanese, of course. Near him, several young Japanese (or at least who seemed young to our European eyes) were reading newspapers, muttering hilariously out loud in a somewhat singsong voice. The audience mostly wears robes and “geta” (shoes, something like wooden benches that are attached to the feet with a belt or string). Some grandmother with blackened teeth brought her granddaughter on her back, wearing a small multi-colored robe and a knitted hat. The children here are generally very cute: in their colorful robes with wide sleeves, which almost drag along the ground, they are very reminiscent of butterflies. The girls' heads are cropped into a bracket, and the back of the head is shaved. The belt is wide and bright in color. Adults wear more modest colors, more black and dark blue, and also gray. Long to the toes, the robe with wide sleeves is tied with a belt two or three inches wide; it is wrapped around the body three or four times. Women also hang something incomprehensible from their belts on their backs, either a pillow or just a piece of cloth folded several times. This strange addition usually comes with patterns, and, apparently, serves as an object of ostentation. The hair is terribly oiled and combed very intricately. The men are generally dressed more respectably and simply; not all of the young men even have a silk belt; they are simply girded with a white linen one. Each of them has a bag of tobacco and a miniature pipe in their belt; some of them also have a watch chain: this is a European innovation. Some were in full European suit, which, to tell the truth, is always worn by the Japanese and is dirtier and fits worse than his national, very elegant and very respectable suit. Many of the men, if not all, were wearing European-style hats, their hair was cut in a European style, only two villagers, with incredible knapsacks on their shoulders, shone with their ancient Japanese hairstyles. The forehead and the entire upper part of the head is shaved with a wedge towards the back of the head, and from there sticks out a small braid, somehow folded in half and tied. There were no hats for this type of attire. Their appearance was perhaps more grey, but at least more simple and good-natured. It must be here, like with us, that these qualities have left the cities for the villages. All this came and went, tapping their wooden shoes, and always bowing and smiling at each other. They bowed especially diligently when saying goodbye. The hands folded together were lowered to the feet, the head was bowed as low as possible. And since it is immediately impossible to accurately calculate the distance to your interlocutor, in order not to bump their foreheads, the Japanese bow slightly to the side of each other, turning their heads slightly towards their interlocutor and continuing to continuously hiss and sob somehow strangely, saying, presumably, the most pleasant things. Quite entertaining for the first time. A rare exception was a group of Englishmen with some kind of reverend 4 in the center. Reverend was describing something to his listeners, probably about the mission, and the listeners sat with their necks strangely stretched out, like geese, and looked in bewilderment at everything around them. Obviously travelers. Third call. Everyone hastily hides in the carriages. The train starts, whistles and finally leaves the station and the city quickly rushing past us. We look at the surroundings, at the sea, at the arable fields, but all this is soon hidden from view under the cover of night. You can see the dark silhouettes of mountains in the distance, some lights flicker across dark fields, sometimes you can make out a forest, a bamboo thicket will appear on one side or the other of the train. But all this is in the dark, all this merges into indifference. From time to time we stop at the station. On the wooden platform a peculiar knocking sound of “geta” is heard, villagers pass with huge bundles on their shoulders, a railway attendant runs by with a lamp, a distorted sound is heard; the almost belly voice of a boy with some goods, tea, oranges, etc. Then the bell rings, the whistle blows, and the train again rushes through the darkness, scattering its sparks across the fields. In the morning the picture changed. Instead of impenetrable darkness, endless greenery now looked out the windows of the carriage. There is greenery everywhere, and everything is so fresh and good. Forests were visible across the mountains, mostly pine forests, with spreading pines that were unusual for us. All around are cultivated fields, and cultivated with remarkable precision, even panache. Apparently, every farmer wanted not only the benefit of his plot, but also wanted to see beauty in it. There are very often villages, with their thatched roofs strongly reminiscent of our Russian village. Then came mountains, valleys, tunnels, bridges. The area became extremely picturesque. Not to mention the Japanese sacred mountain: Fuji (or san), translated: treeless (something like: “bald” in Kyiv). With its conical peak, reaching into the sky, shining with snow, it dominates everything, and indeed, it deserves the surprise and reverence that the Japanese give it. You can look at it for hours and you will never get tired of it or find it monotonous. The train went around it for a long time; several stations are located at its foot. Then came the seashore: this is the Pacific Ocean in the proper sense. Here is Yokohama with its huge and constantly crowded train station. Here several foreigners boarded the train and filled our carriage. Yokohama is one of those cities where foreigners are allowed to settle and trade. This is the main port of all Japan. From here there is a direct route to and from America. For Tokyo, where there is no pier in the shallow waters of the bay, Yokohama serves as something like our Kronstadt. Therefore, traffic between the capital and its port is always the busiest. Another fifty minutes and we are in Tokyo. To the right, an endless sea with boats and small islands on it opened up again; to the left were the streets and alleys of the Japanese capital. The houses are mostly small, low, with cardboard walls, or rather screens instead of walls. Some strange building like a tower flashed by (this, as we later learned, is nothing more than a lookout: in good weather, the Japanese go there to look at the surrounding views). Finally, here is the station. We gladly straightened out our tired limbs, grabbed our luggage and went out onto the wooden platform. Among the hurrying, knocking “getas”, and never-ending bowing and smiling crowd, we reached the exit. There, a whole army of rickshaws were snatching up passengers, touchingly inviting us, among others, into their small carts. “Surugadai Nikolai,” we repeated the memorized phrase several times. The driver made the most courtly curtsy, covered my legs with a blanket, although it was not cold at all, rather hot, and we drove off. Ahead, of course, by the size of his beard, rode Theodore with his traveling bag and umbrella, in a red shirt and undercoat. Tokyo is a very vast city. I was even told that in terms of space it is the first capital in the world. Once upon a time there lived a shogun, the military ruler of Japan, who, while paying tawdry honors to the real ruler, the Mikado, deprived him of all power and even wealth. The shogun had everything. All the daimeons, the sovereign princes among whom Japan was divided, were directly subordinate to him. The shogun, of course, had a lot of troops, there were vassal princes and samurai. They all lived here in Tokyo. In order to keep the rest of the daimeons subordinate, the shogun forced them to live here too. Daimeon came, of course, also with an army, with servants. For this purpose, each of them had a vast palace here, with gardens, with all kinds of buildings. It is not surprising that Tokyo spreads over an extraordinary breadth. Now that the shogunism has come to an end, when the entire feudal system has been destroyed, the palaces of the daimeons have been bought by the government and broken down, the huge crowd of samurai has been scattered and Tokyo is now comparatively quieter and more deserted. In place of the palaces there are wastelands covered with greenery and occasionally trees. But another life begins to bubble up. On the outskirts, where previously non-official people lived - merchants, artisans, life continues the same. There are still many Japanese buildings and Japanese costumes there, but next to them European innovations are beginning to appear more and more in both costume and buildings. Industry and trade are developing, factories are appearing. A new life begins, European, commercial, thirsty for profit. However, this was not enough in old Japan - only in a different form. On the first streets from the station there is a lot of European stuff, there is even a horse tram, and at that it is the most ordinary, nothing special, even as dirty as in Europe. After driving a few streets, you come to a vacant lot surrounding the imperial palace - a fortress with huge ramparts and canals. The palace stands behind several walls and a mere mortal will not have to see it. Only the roof ridge can be seen through the wall. We passed a bridge, several fortress gates, admired the ridge of the palace from behind the very last wall, several more gates and ditches, and before us was again bustling life, again noise and running around. But our attention was riveted by the hill that reigns over this whole whirlpool, and on the hill our Orthodox church was white, shining with its cross in the clear sky. Here it is, this banner of Christ, raised from the very middle of paganism, boldly preaching Christ in the face of the whole World. Our hats involuntarily took off; we wanted to pray that we too would serve as best we could, under the shadow of this banner, for the glory of this saint. Cross. Yes, a lot, a lot has been said about this cathedral. There were people who gave their last pennies to him. But there were detractors and, of course, there are still today, who are trying in every possible way to somehow curse this holy cause, and do not miss the opportunity to throw stones at the mission and its cathedral in front of everyone, both ours and others. But their childhood injections cannot harm her. The cause of God stands, having the seal of God, and is not afraid of this barking. They said that this cathedral was useless. Maybe for them, who come to church only for royal prayer services, and for Easter, and then in order to make, so to speak, a preface to breaking the fast. I was among Christians, far from the cathedral, in Kyoto, where Buddhism had built a nest for itself, where a Catholic church was built, where Protestants have a university, where in general the forces of the world seemed to absorb the insignificant wave of Orthodoxy. I was there and I know with what triumph the few Orthodox Christians there speak about our Tokyo Cathedral. For them he is the same as St. Sofia for the Greeks, or Novgorodians, is their visible center, their banner, their support in cowardice, the guarantee of their future triumph. One must know the Japanese church in order to build this cathedral and to properly appreciate its greatest significance for it. Our drivers fled, but very quickly. Soon we were at Surugadai itself and the mission. We entered the mission yard. To the right were two-story buildings, mission premises, to the left stood the fully completed (but not yet consecrated) cathedral. At the entrance to the house we were met by several young Japanese, smiling and bowing, even more welcoming than anyone we had seen before. None of them spoke Russian, but everyone understood who we were and what we needed, especially since the word “Nikolai” was repeated by each of us an infinite number of times. We were shown the entrance to the bishop's reception room. Let's go in. It’s a very small room, the walls are hung with various engravings, there’s a sofa, a few chairs, in general, it’s very cramped and a bit dark. Rev. Nikolai was not here, he was upstairs, where the stairs led from the same hallway. We didn't have to wait long. We were about to head upstairs, when a very tall man in a cassock, a long neck chain from a watch, and an embroidered belt quickly descended from the stairs. This was our Bishop Nikolai, who had been working day and night in the local difficult, uncultivated field for more than thirty years. “You are welcome,” he spoke quickly, blessing us with a wide cross. Come to the living room." The salon, which bore the solemn name of the living room, was the darkish cell that we had just examined. Having exchanged a few words with us in the so-called living room, Rev. led us, quickly, as always, up the stairs to our rooms, which were prepared and awaiting our arrival. We passed along the road through the junior class of the local seminary. The students sit in Japanese style on the floor with their legs tucked under them. Instead of desks, there are low and long benches in front of them. There was a Chinese language lesson, and the little Japanese were diligently drawing out the most impossible Chinese characters with large brushes. The teacher from the pulpit quacked, hissed and completely fell apart in curtsies. It was an old man, small, thin, shaved. According to the Reverend, he accepted Christianity a long time ago, and now his son is studying in St. Petersburg, at the Theological Academy. Having sat us down for tea, Rev. I ran to gather my young flock to church: on the occasion of our arrival, a thanksgiving prayer service had to be served. The church was located in the same building, next to the classroom we had just seen. It was already cramped, accommodating only boys and girls from our schools. Everyone was waiting for the cathedral: people now had to stand in the hallway and on the stairs, or even could not hear or see anything at all. We stood on the choir. Meanwhile, the church was filling up. Students from a girls' school with several teachers came in pairs, as quietly as sheep. More sprightly, but also, compared to ours, the seminarians came and settled down quite modestly. The service has begun. The Rev. himself served. with a Japanese priest and deacon. Everyone served in Japanese, only the Reverend, on the occasion of our arrival, spoke exclamations and read the Gospel in Slavonic. The choir generally sang very well. About a hundred of the students and students sang. The tunes, of course, are all ours, only the words are different. The deacon also spoke in a somewhat sing-song litany, only his voice did not have anything deafening, shouting, like our Russian archdeacons. After praying, we returned to our room, where almost all the local inhabitants had gathered. Some asked us about the journey, about Russia, some, not knowing the language, just smiled friendly and bowed, sometimes turning to the Reverend for help. or to someone else who knows Russian. Afterwards the reverend, this time leaving his studies, took us around all his possessions. First of all, of course, to the cathedral. From the outside it is completely ready. Now they begin to set up the iconostasis, hang the chandelier and carry out similar internal and final work. The cathedral was built in a strictly Byzantine style: there is a Greek cross at the base, there are no pillars inside, so the dome rests on arches and therefore there is a sea of ​​light and space. The western doors lead first to the narthex, on the right side of which there is a baptismal chamber, built with donations from some Japanese Christians, and on the left is a dressing room: there are shelves for the “geta” of students and, in general, all visitors to the church. The floor is expected to be carpeted, so everyone will have to leave their shoes at the entrance. Above the vestibule on the second floor there is a sacristy, and above it rises a bell tower. The cathedral stands on the very edge of the Surugadai hill, with its eastern and southern walls facing the cliffs of the hill. The hill here is lined with stones. A staircase from below (now only preliminary walkways) rests on the southern side doors of the cathedral. There is a rather wide Japanese house under the mountain. Junior seminarians now live here. But this is only for the time being: the house is scheduled for demolition, since it is already old, and since its place is needed for stairs, etc. The western entrance of the cathedral is located directly opposite the main mission buildings, which go in a ligature, two buildings together. Here is the current church, the bishop's home, his office, the homes of missionaries, some academic teachers (single), seminary classes, students of the catechetical school live, etc. It is something like Noah's Ark in terms of the multitude and diversity of its inhabitants. The second group of mission buildings is located separately, on a different street, but from corner to corner with the first group. On the very corner there is a Japanese building for a girls' school, or our diocesan school. There are now up to eighty pupils; There are a few of them who come, most of whom live here. We walked around their premises, of course, throwing off our barbaric boots. Here we were met by Anna-san, an old Christian Japanese woman who, despite her years, tirelessly continues to work with her pupils. Apparently, she is a very good boss: the students all love her and listen to her. We were shown how they learn to cook food. We were in cassocks (the Reverend ordered to take off our cassocks and not differ from them in costume), but we had not yet stocked up on sewn belts; Anna-san now realized this and that same evening brought us a belt - these are the works of her pupils. Right there in the courtyard there is a room for local painters. One Japanese woman studied church painting at the St. Petersburg convent and now works here. Next to the school is the apartment of Father Pavel Sato, a priest who is assigned to the cathedral. He lives here with his Praskovya-san, his wife, and many children. This couple is pretty amazing. Father Paul was one of the first to convert to Christianity. There was a time when he carried a saber and fought like other samurai. Praskovya-san was the most zealous pagan. She diligently bowed to various idols in the “miya” (Shinto shrine) of her city. Father Pavel was a warlike man and not particularly tender with his wife. But suddenly he becomes both quiet and gentle. Praskovya-san takes the reins of government into his own hands and begins to dominate poor Fr. Pavel. It got to the point that when Fr. Pavel once told Praskovya-san that there is no need to bow to blockheads, and even such ugly ones, then Praskovya-san went completely on the offensive and the former warlike samurai suffered a fair amount from his estranged wife. He, however, to her surprise, endured everything in silence, without protesting or defending himself. This was repeated several times, oh. Pavel only remained silent or left. Finally, one day Praskovya-san knelt down before her god, clapping her hands, folding her hands as usual, and getting ready to pray. Suddenly she remembered the words of her husband: “Why bow to the blocks? How can God be in such disgrace?” The prayer flew away from Praskovya-san, she involuntarily looked at the ugly, caricatured figure in front of which she was about to pray. “Indeed, this is a block of wood, and the ugliest one at that. Will he really hear and save? After a little time, Praskovya-san already knew her husband’s secret, why he became so quiet and compassionate, she also believed in Christ, and after a little more time, she was already Praskovya, wore a cross, and no longer prayed to logs. Now this couple lives peacefully, both are already old, have many children, all are Christians. O. Pavel sometimes becomes sad and moping, but Praskovya makes everything better with her inexhaustible complacency. We drank tea with them, with Japanese cake. Father Pavel chuckled benignly, having nothing to say to us, since he did not know the Russian language, and Praskovya, bowing, treated us to cake and tea. Further, along the street and next to Fr.’s apartment. Paul, a house in which the editorial office of the local church magazine and translations is located. Finally, there is a vast courtyard and a dormitory for 10 seminarians. All these buildings are already old and dilapidated. Everything requires restructuring, but it’s not yet done, the church needs to be finished. There were no people here; everyone was still in the main building attending classes. Now there are two classes in the seminary: first and fifth. Here students are not recruited annually, but randomly; If there are enough people willing to study, a new course opens now (of course, from the beginning of the academic year). In general, the program is the same as in our seminaries, only the Japanese are freed from the classical burden that so retards our theological teaching and in many ways spoils and slows it down. The Japanese do not teach Latin, but they are alive and understand theology no worse than our Latin scholars, and it turned out that the course could be shortened to seven years (instead of our ten). Teaching is conducted in Japanese, but the textbooks are mostly Russian and have not been translated. The Russian language is taught in the lower grades in such a way that the older ones can (depending on their ability) read quite well, and some can speak partly. However, Russification of the Japanese is not at all part of the mission’s tasks; it aims only to teach the Japanese about Christianity. The Russian language is taught at the seminary simply so that seminarians can then read Russian theological books, translate, etc. In a word, so that there is an actual connection with the Mother Church. The next day, also together with the reverend, we visited another parish in Tokyo. In the Koozi-matsi quarter there is another small church, with a catechist school and something like a kindergarten for young children. There the rector is Fr. Pavel Nitsuma, hieromonk, works very hard for the church. In Tokyo there are now up to three thousand Christians, who are divided into several churches, that is, communities headed by catechists or deacons. Each community has a church house, where its catechist lives and where various church meetings take place: for sermons, for some meetings on church issues, etc. For divine services they converge either at the Mission or at the Koozi-matsi church, depending on the distance. There used to be a third central point with a church, but during a big fire, this house burned down. Now there are only two. All communities are divided among several priests, some of whom are limited only to Tokyo, while others have parishes outside Tokyo, sometimes over long distances. After lunch we had a lesson at the catechist school. This year there were two classes, usually one. The course lasts two years and consists of theology only. People of all ages come here, from twenty to forty. Having completed the second year, they all become catechists in various churches, first under the leadership of some old catechist, and then independently. There was a lesson going on from the Most Reverend himself. He taught dogmatics. The textbook, of course, is Japanese, with scribbles. All teaching is conducted exclusively in Japanese, because none of the students have ever heard the Russian language. But the main thing awaited us in the evening: the seminarians begged from the Rev. for some recreation on the occasion of our arrival. It should have been evening. Of course, they came to us with invitations. At about eight o'clock in the evening we went to the seminary dormitory. There, in the largest room, all the seminarians were sitting at low tables and benches. In front of each of them lay gifts, small cups for Japanese tea, teapots with hot water, etc. In the front corner was a European table, covered, of course, with a luxurious tablecloth, that is, a red flannelette blanket. A huge samovar glittered on the table, there was some kind of flower in a jar, and all sorts of treats were piled on top. All this is for honored visitors, that is, for teachers, missionaries, etc. In the middle, near the front wall, which was all hung with long paper ribbons with some kind of Chinese inscriptions, there was another table, small, without any treats, on it there was only a kettle with cold water and a glass. This is nothing more, nothing less than a pulpit for our speakers, and the incomprehensible hieroglyphs on the ribbons on the front wall are nothing more than the topic on which they were supposed to speak that evening. The bishop came, everyone sang “Heavenly King” (in Japanese) in chorus, and the evening began. Some speaker11 would come out to the makeshift pulpit and very importantly develop some intricate topic before the audience. Several people spoke Japanese, two spoke Russian. The content of the speeches was based on our visit, the needs of the Japanese church, and the calling of preachers and pastors was passionately discussed. The speakers were very respectable. They behaved quite like an orator, everyone certainly drank water from a glass several times, although some had to begin their speech by protecting themselves from suspicions of being too young. (“Never, never,” the equally elderly listeners shouted passionately in response). Rev. did not miss this opportunity, and after many speeches he himself gave them a speech. The guys listened attentively, and then covered the speech with applause... The audience generally behaved very animatedly. Here, fortunately, there is no such alienation between students and their teachers and educators that we observe in our lower and secondary religious educational institutions. Relationships are simpler and closer. In general, these seminarians are very nice people, with their lively speeches and their lively noise. Of course, a lot is said at these “simbokukwai” (brotherly meeting) trifles, but there is still some benefit. Sometimes sensible things are said. And most importantly, the subject of these speeches is still the same sermon, still the same church. The seminarian actually gets used to looking at himself as a candidate for the priesthood or catechesis. His life may be defined by these speeches. There are such meetings in our other schools, not excluding the girls’ school, and our young ladies also do not lag behind their brothers: they also have a table with water, female speakers also come out and give speeches, only their topics are more and more moral, edifying. Yes, life here is in full swing everywhere, in schools, in the editorial office, in the office, and on buildings, and all this is based on one reverend. Nikolai, he is everywhere, everything was started and maintained by him. However, I’ll wait and see, then I’ll write about everything. Letter X. November 16. Tokyo We have a holiday today. We celebrate the proclamation of the constitution. There is rejoicing throughout the city. There are flags and Japanese lanterns everywhere. Crowds of dressed-up people fill the streets and squares. Waiting for the Emperor to pass. We, in our Surugadai, did not remain indifferent to this celebration. They served a prayer service for many years to the Japanese royal house. Yesterday there was “shimbokuquay” at the seminary. We were there too. The situation, of course, is already familiar. Only the invitation was somewhat different. Three seminarians came into the room and presented an invitation card. It turns out they even have a special stamp for printing such tickets. Having presented the ticket, the company was in no hurry to leave, but looked touchingly straight into the eyes. This means you have to pay for the ticket. Thus, tribute is collected from all teachers. They buy treats for this and celebrate. Eloquence, of course, knew no bounds. These Japanese have an amazing ability to speak. Force anyone to speak impromptu, and he won’t be embarrassed at all. Moreover, they have some kind of passion for speaking, as if their tongues were itching. Our Christians organized a public “talking meeting” in Tokyo regarding the proclamation of the constitution. Of course, there is some benefit here. From these speaking meetings (enzetsu-kwai - literally: meeting for speeches) pagans can learn something about Christianity. Although now this Japanese custom is already too abused. Several people, Japanese and foreign preachers, gather and begin to talk to one another on various topics. Everyone, of course, will say maybe it’s the case. But if you string several speeches one on top of the other, moreover about a subject that is not entirely known, then your head will become so confused that when you get home, the poor listener will not be able to figure it out. As an advertisement about Christianity, such meetings are good, but only while Christianity is unknown, and in order to arouse interest in it. But there is usually no direct benefit, that is, sincere appeals, from such unplanned and noisy speaking meetings. During all this time I spoke a lot with Rev. Nicholas about the past and present of our mission. I had to learn a lot of instructive and wonderful things. I'll tell you what I know and remember. This must have been in 1857 or so. The St. Petersburg Academy (Theological) received a proposal from the Synod whether any of the students would be willing to go as a consular priest in Hakodate to Japan, so that, if the opportunity presented itself, they would begin Christian preaching there. Several people signed up, but everyone wanted to go as married priests. Student Kosatkin also approached the signature sheet. He had never thought about monasticism before, although he knew that he would be in the service of the church. “Should I go?” he asked himself. “Yes, we need to go,” sounded in his conscience. Just not married. Just one thing: either a family or a mission, and even so far away and in an unknown country.” He signed that he wanted to go and become a monk. And the next day he submitted a petition to the rector of the academy for tonsure. So suddenly this turn took place, and it took place forever: since then Fr. Nicholas no longer knew anyone or anything except the church and the mission he had planted. Then we had to travel through Siberia. In Nikolaevsk about. Nicholas spent the winter, and here he met with another great missionary, Rev. Innocent. The saint fatherly caressed the young missionary. He told him a lot about his future business, gave him all sorts of instructions. “Do you have a good cassock?” he asked. However, Vladyka did not like the academic cassock. “When you go there, everyone will see what kind of priest he is, what kind of priests they have. You need to immediately instill respect in them. Buy velvet.” Velvet purchased. The Bishop armed himself with scissors and cut out a cassock for Fr. Nicholas. “Here,” it will be better. Is there a cross? There was no cross yet: he was waiting for Fr. Nicholas in Hakodate. “Well, at least take this one,” said the Vladyka, putting it around his neck. Nicholas a bronze cross for the Sevastopol company. “Even though it’s not quite the same shape, it’s still a cross, and without it it’s not good to come to the Japanese. And not only the Japanese, but also the Europeans will be watching.” In such an improvised costume, Fr. Nikolai set foot on Japanese soil. “When I went there, he says, I dreamed a lot about my Japan. She was pictured in my imagination as a bride, waiting for my arrival with a bouquet in her hands. Now the news of Christ will sweep through its darkness, and everything will be renewed. I arrived and saw that my bride was sleeping in the most prosaic way and didn’t even think about me.” At that time, Japan had just been opened to Europeans. All the old orders of the shogun's time were still in full force. The Japanese not only shunned the Europeans, but also outright hated them. Often, from around the corner, Europeans were cut down with sabers and stones were thrown at them. Life was generally turbulent and even dangerous. It was impossible to even think about preaching. Even a Japanese language teacher was hard to find. Everyone communicating with Europeans was suspected, looked at askance and even persecuted. No one agreed at first. One o. Nikolai was hired. I studied with him for two days, and then he saw that the teacher not only did not go to class, but also did not meet with Fr. Nikolai doesn’t want to, he’s afraid of persecution. At first, we had to limit ourselves to only serving in the consular church and fulfilling the requirements for the Russians who ended up in Hakodate. Non-Orthodox Christians did not yet have clergy, and so Fr. Nikolai became a shepherd for all of them. Many patients called him, seeking spiritual consolation. All family events and civil holidays were not complete without Fr. Nicholas, all Christians, thus, without distinction of religion, rallied, among the crowd of pagans who hated them, into a close circle around Fr. Nicholas. Soon, however, the Japanese became accustomed to the Europeans, it became possible to find teachers, and their own clergy, Protestants and Catholics, came to the non-Orthodox. For Fr. A different life began for Nicholas: he sat down with the language and literature of the Japanese, and studied all this, without straightening his back, for eight years. I read Chinese classics with my teacher, read Japanese history, read various works by Japanese writers of ancient and modern times (in this area, Father Nikolai can be called an expert among the Japanese). Then came Buddhism. Father Nikolai began to invite bonzes (Buddhist spiritualists) to his place and with them he read a good part of Buddhist literature that was difficult to understand (even incomprehensible without a good commentary). I read all this with enthusiasm, completely devoting myself to my work. The teachers could not stand such intense work and demanded rest, then Fr. Nicholas hired two or three teachers, and read and read, trying to penetrate the soul of the Japanese people, whom he came to enlighten with the light of Christ. Even now he recalls with delight this time of intense and at the same time quiet desk work, and, like any ardent activist, he thinks that even now he would find rest for himself in such silence. Having mastered the language, Fr. Nikolai began to take a closer look at life. I went from house to house and got to know the people of Hakodate. He never missed an opportunity to visit some visiting storyteller. In Japan there is a special profession: storyteller. This is approximately the same as we have some kind of writer, fiction writer, only public (in every city there is a special public hall, a talking shop, where these public stories take place). In several readings he tells the whole story, all this is written down in shorthand, and then printed, and the novel is ready. Listening to such a storyteller is useful not only for practicing the language, but mainly for studying Japanese life and character. The worldview of this people becomes clear, its cherished thoughts and ideals are revealed. Went about. Nicholas also listen to Buddhist preachers. There are more of these, of course, for the sake of language, because from this sermon hardly anyone will understand the essence of Buddhism. The purpose of preaching for Buddhists is not so much to teach their listeners as to make them feel sorry for them. They are first-hand experts at this. Here gestures, voice intonation, glances, artificial thickening of colors, etc. are used. Preachers, in general, are truly exemplary in terms of language and pronunciation. Listening to them, perhaps, is even useful, but it is difficult to learn the teachings of Buddhism from them: all this preaching and all the pastoral leadership in Buddhism is based on lies. There is no God in Buddhism and there cannot be. Buddhism is an attempt to explain the World and human life without God, and, of course, it comes to complete despair. Its goal is emptiness. The bonzes (at least the educated ones) know and understand all this, they know that, in particular, all the countless deities with which Buddhism has been enriched either from other religions or having made their various teachers into gods, all these deities are nothing more than dead, i.e. according to their concept, people who have turned into nothing, or even just personified ideas. They know this, but they also know that prayer, that is, a person’s desire for a Buddha, spiritual kinship with him, can save a person, make him capable of being in nirvana. And so the bosses begin to teach the people prayer, force them to bow to gilded statues, smoke opium, cry in front of various Amida-butsu, Kwanpon-sama, ask them for their salvation. They teach the people all this, knowing full well that all this is an empty comedy, that there is no Kwanpon, all that is needed is this pointless fervor of the soul, this is its desire for nirvana, which alone saves. The people cannot understand the height of this teaching; it must be led by deception, but they are not; They deceive their believers, proud of their perfect knowledge and despising them all, like a stupid, gullible herd. This fundamental falsity of the position of the Buddhist clergy lies the reason for its irrevocable damage, the perversion of the very essence of their conscience. Therefore, even after accepting Christianity, despite all their eloquence and all their ability to wield the word over the souls of their listeners, few of them become reliable catechists. You can always be afraid that the old leaven will resurface again. And the preachers are truly wonderful. Ordinary, rural bonzes, for the most part, are not at all educated, they barely know how to read their service books, and they cannot understand them either. Preachers are educated people who have completed a course in some good Buddhist school, of which there are several at the main temples. They are usually sent on a preaching tour throughout Japan. Such a preacher will arrive in a famous city, live there for a week or more, speaking a whole series of sermons on a well-known topic, and then set off on his further journey. Once during these eight years Fr. Nikolai also had to visit the Japanese capital, Tokyo (at that time the shogun still lived here). The consul, going to introduce himself to the shogun, took him among his retinue. At that time, this embassy could not yet safely pass through the streets of the capital. The Japanese samurai have a trait that is most unchivalrous, almost animalistic: to kill their unarmed enemy or simply a foreigner who is presented as an enemy. Even if the foreigner is completely unarmed, even if he is unable to defend himself, the samurai will not hesitate, or better yet, will not hesitate to stab him, and he will certainly do this from around the corner, or from behind. However, the samurai had even more vile customs. For example, a person needs to try a new saber. For this purpose, it was by no means considered reprehensible (at least in conscience) to go out into the street at night and hack to death the first beggar he came across, be he old or young. And sometimes they simply stood around the corner and cut off the head of whoever decided to pass this way this time. The inhabitants will get up in the morning and see a lying corpse: “Oh, it must be someone trying the saber.” Subsequently, my teacher told me that in the old days it was considered dexterity to sneak up behind three people walking in a row and smack the head of the middle one without touching those on the side. And he, apparently, did not realize the entire vileness of this senseless murder of a person like himself (my teacher was a pagan), for him it was simply a disorder, an uncultured custom, nothing more. It’s understandable how one could rely on such nice inhabitants. The embassy in Tokyo had to be under strong escort, and even so, once, when they made a ceremonial visit to the shogun, they had to return by a different route. And this is in the very capital of the shogun. O. Nikolai, however, examined the city. The common people (merchants, artisans) do not have such hatred; they rather met with curiosity the equestrian figure of a foreigner, almost twice the height of an ordinary Japanese (the Reverend is very tall), surrounded by the shogun's convoy. When he entered one shop to buy something, the entire area where the shop was located was covered with people; it was very interesting to look at the “outside”. Having finally seen Fr. Nicholas, the crowd greeted him with a deafening cry, laughing good-naturedly at him. “Yes,” added the Rev., there was a time when they looked at us, but now even if anyone, it’s even annoying.” Then Fr. Nikolai turned his attention to Surugadai. On it was the dwelling of some daimeon, with a high tower. “This is where there should be a good view of the city,” Fr. thought then. Nikolai, having no idea that in 25 years an Orthodox church would be erected on this very spot and that he would be its builder. The embassy returned to Hakodate. Life went on as usual. Also sitting with books, also listening to different teachers, also studying the Japanese. However, God decided to be an Orthodox church in Japan as well. Just as the apostles went with preaching not where and when they wanted, but when the Holy Spirit commanded them, so our mission in Japan began by accident, not at all as its founder, Fr. Nikolai. His fencing teacher Sawabe, a “kannushi” (Shinto priest, not Buddhist), a samurai to the core, with satanic pride and hatred of all foreigners, often visited the consul’s son. He looked especially unfriendly at the future missionary, Fr. Nicholas. Shrinking his already small figure, Sawabe always walked sideways, almost gnashing his teeth and muttering something under his breath. O. Nikolai noticed this, and tried to find out from Savabe the reason for his incomprehensible anger towards him. One day, this samurai came to Fr. Nikolai's room. “Why are you so angry with me?” asked Sawabe Fr. Nikolai. “You foreigners need to be killed off all of you. You came here to spy on our land. And you, with your preaching, will harm Japan the most,” Sawabe answered angrily. “Do you know what my teaching is?” The angry but honest Sawabe was stumped; he had not yet heard anything about Christianity and rebelled against it simply because it was a foreign religion. “No, I don’t know,” he answered. Nikolai. Is it fair to judge, let alone condemn, someone without listening to him? Is it fair to blaspheme what you don’t know? First listen and find out, then judge. If things get worse, then drive us out of here. Then you will be fair. “Well, speak,” the samurai growled, sternly crossing his arms over his chest (the usual pose of a Japanese when he is worried about something, when he is thinking about something, or is simply silently angry). O. Nikolai began to speak. He spoke to him about God, about sin, about the soul and its immortality. The samurai gradually straightened his hands, raised his head, and instead of senseless anger, a lively interest lit up in his eyes. A little later, he had already taken out from his sleeve (the pocket fits in the wide sleeve of his robe) a book for notes, a pencil (almost every Japanese has both with him, and writes down everything that strikes him, be it some story or just a good view along the way)... He began to write down the words of Fr. Nicholas, and then left, deep in thought, and promised to come again. This was the beginning of Orthodox preaching in Japan. Father Nicholas, of course, did not want to believe that anything would come of this fanatic, but God destined him precisely to be the firstborn of the Japanese church. He started going to Fr. Nicholas more and more often, bombarded him with questions, first as co-questioners, and then as a tester of the truth. After some time, Father Nicholas gave him the New Testament, which Savaba read with captivating interest. “I couldn’t openly read this book, Savabe himself later told it at the council, but I wanted to read it. So I came up with the idea of ​​reading while I was performing services at my miya (Shinto shrine). You put the Gospel in front of you instead of a pagan service book, and you read it by tapping on an ordinary drum. Nobody thinks that I am reading foreign heresy.” The faith he heard deeply took hold of Sawabe’s heart. He decided to give up his priesthood and be baptized. A mysterious ritual was also performed in secret. Savabe received the name Paul, in honor of St. the apostle, whom Fr. especially reveres and admires. Nikolai. This new Christian began to convert his doctor friend to Christianity. He was rougher in heart and therefore did not succumb to the influence of faith for a long time. More and more questions and objections were constantly arising in his head. More than once Pavel came to Fr. Nikolai is in a sad mood. His friend completely defeated him in the argument and gave him such an objection that Pavel was forced to remain silent. Then Fr. Nicholas supplied Paul with new supplies, new strength. He left cheerful. Again, a few days later, he appears broken and despondent, again Fr. raised him up. Nikolai. Until, finally, they both arrived: Pavel and his friend, doctor Sakai. This one was also baptized with the name John. Subsequently, he became another torch of Christianity in Japan. Having received baptism, he immediately abandoned everything, all his habits, all his weaknesses, and from a pagan, after baptism, he became an ascetic. Seeing that the work has begun and believing that now it will go on and will not stop until it covers all of Japan, Fr. Nicholas then went to Russia to seek the opening of a Japanese spiritual mission. The troubles, of course, continued for a very long time; Fr. had to stay in Russia for about two years. Nicholas, when his efforts were finally crowned with success. The mission was approved and the missionaries were given salaries. These were, at first, almost the only means of the emerging mission. This required supporting myself and the entire church. O. Nikolai returned to his Japan, now as the head of the mission. Meanwhile, the grain sown there did not remain fruitless: Paul and John quietly, in friendly conversations, preached Christianity to their close friends. All this was done secretly, stealthily, because at that time Christianity was not yet allowed to the Japanese. The sermon took place during a walk outside the city, among the mountains surrounding Hakodate. Then many of the current priests converted, for example, Fr. John Ono, the best preacher in the Japanese church. All these were samurai, mainly from the northern provinces, with their dull accent and ungraceful, according to Japanese standards, manners. Wes were a kind of Galileans who were looked down upon by the rest of the Japanese. And here God chose the weak and poor of the world in order to later defeat the rich and strong. Father Nikolai, upon his return, became the head of his small community. He soon had a Russian assistant, Fr. Anatoly, later archimandrite, now deceased. A small flock gathered around them, struggling with poverty, but burning with faith and continuing to spread. Those were truly heroic times, reminiscent of the early years of Christianity. The community lived fraternally, sharing their meager income with each other. Pavel Savabe, of course, abandoned his “mia” and began to earn his living by labor, for which he was not at all capable. He comes up with some kind of craft, the whole family begins work, what little is left is sold, materials and tools are bought, after a week it all goes down the drain, and poor Pavel has to invent something new. He sold his “katana” (saber) and sold all his samurai clothing. There was a reason for this. Doctor Sakai earned money through his medical art and what he received was used for the general benefit. And all this, all this brotherly love and communication was among the alien and hostile pagan crowd, hiding from the gaze of ill-wishers. When the preaching in Hakodate was already established, it was necessary to think about spreading the faith in other parts of Japan. Fr. stayed in Hakodate. Anatoly, Pavel Sawabe went to his home capital Sendai (can be called the capital of northern Japan). O. Nikolai went to Tokyo. There a new Hakodate began for him. It was necessary to start the case again, out of nothing. Tokyo was not included in the number of cities open to Europeans. It is only half-open: in it, as in Osaka, only one quarter (concession) is reserved for Europeans, where they can settle, trade, etc. The rest of the city is a foreign country for them; they can go there without any passports, but they cannot settle there or even spend the night. A. Nikolai had to rent himself a room in Conception. It was the smallest house you could imagine. There were two rooms in which the large one could fit ten people on the floor, without any furniture, but the other was just a cell. This cramped room was the nursery of the emerging and now very numerous Tokyo church. Fr had to re-experience and endure a lot here. Nikolai. It took him a lot of effort to find this apartment first. He spent several days, literally, between heaven and earth. Some Englishman he knew gave him shelter for the night, and during the day he wandered around the city, studying it, looking closely at the people: he dined at Japanese hotels, trying to somehow fill the day until the hour when he could return to the Englishman’s shelter. Found an apartment. New concerns arose: it was necessary to try to find listeners, and secretly from the authorities, since the Japanese were not yet allowed to accept Christianity. After various efforts, with the help of friends, we finally managed to gather about fifteen people. In a cramped house, Fr. Nicholas, the first Orthodox sermon opened in Tokyo. The listeners filled the “hall”, sitting almost on top of each other, and Fr. Nikolai, in order to save his place, climbed into a smaller closet and from there, as if from some sanctuary or, more simply, a nest, he preached. Of course, the period of announcement lasted quite some time. Many of those who began to listen then fell behind, some new ones joined, until the sermon took on the appearance of a catechumen in the proper sense. Meanwhile, Fr. Nikolai did not stop studying the Japanese people in his free time. He kept walking around, getting to know everything, listening to everything. At this time he made acquaintance with one boss. which I later remembered a lot about in a good way. It was some kind of old, old bonze, very learned and very moral, the likes of which no longer exist in Japan. “A completely holy man,” Fr. spoke about him. Nikolai, meek, gentle, positively possessing nothing.” O. Nikolai spoke to him several times, and about Christianity. He always greeted this conversation with a smile: “I know, I know, all this is like ours. It's the same." And no persuasion could influence him. He also read the Gospel. But I didn’t see the main thing in him and didn’t want to admit it. In his poor room hung a large picture of a Buddhist paradise. The favorite theme of the bonze when Fr. Nikolai, it was time to tell him in which department he, the boss, should now be. It also informed him about the number of prayers read: “Namu Amida butsu” (“I honor Buddha Amida,” a constant prayer or exclamation of Buddhists in Japan). I’m praying for you too.” Father Nikolai often sat with this boss, talking with him about faith, about Japan, about preaching Christianity. The old boss treated the latter very kindly. By the way, he told Fr. Nikolai and about the politeness with which the bonzes of all Tokyo churches treated him. One day he came to listen to a sermon. The huge hall of the church was occupied by the public. Everyone, of course, sat on the floor with their legs crossed. The bosses wanted to seat their guest in a European style. They didn't have chairs. Then the chief boss, without thinking twice, let Fr. Nicholas to his altar (which is a little more than half an arshin high), moved various incense burners and decorations to the side, and politely offered Fr. Nikolai take a place here. And the people looked at this desecration of their shrine with complete calm. Sermon in a small house by Fr. Nicholas, however, it was successful. Twelve people were finally prepared for St. baptism Quietly from everyone, St. sacrament of O. Nikolai rejoiced. The first stone was laid. We can continue. He comes to his old friend, the bonze. He hands him some kind of Japanese manuscript notebook. “Ha-ko read it.” Took o. Nikolai unfolded this notebook and gasped. It described in detail the baptismal ceremony he had just performed, and even included drawings. So much for you. Perhaps the government will force him to stop preaching, and even evict him from the capital. Someone gave it away, or simply listened and reported. Bonza, meanwhile, chuckled good-naturedly at Fr. Nicholas, and then reassured him, saying that nothing bad would come of this. This document, it turns out, was submitted to some of their highest spiritual council, in which three of the most important and learned bonzes sat (including this old man). There they wanted to raise a case, but the old man interceded, and the case did not take place. The first beginning of preaching in Tokyo, therefore, owes much to this good bonze. Meanwhile, life in Japan went on as usual. The shogun fell, the Mikado emerged from his honorable imprisonment. The European party took control. The Japanese attacked everything European. All kinds of schools began to open, teaching in European languages: English, French, German. A Russian school is also open. Father Nikolai became a teacher there, dividing his time between school and preaching, which, by the way, continued at Concession. There were now more listeners, the sermon went on openly. U o. Nicholas already had assistants from his first converts. Pavel Sawabe was a priest and traveled around Japan preaching. Fr. himself Nicholas was not yet allowed to make these trips: foreigners were not allowed into the country. However, even now you can penetrate beyond the established line only with a passport from the minister, and this passport can only be obtained under some plausible pretext: either you need to study a language, or doctors advise you to breathe clean air, etc. Of course, all this is now an empty formality, painful only for the officials who issue these passports. But this formality can always cease to be a formality, and then it will not be long before you get inside the country. A place was purchased in Surugadai. Mission buildings began to be built one after another. Mission schools began to open, etc., etc. Life was in full swing. O. Nikolai no longer taught in a Russian school, completely devoting himself to the mission. He translated liturgical books, taught in his schools, conducted catechesis, and corresponded with all his priests and catechists, now scattered throughout Japan. Consecrated bishop, Rev. Nicholas had already become the shepherd and head of his young church. Apart from her, he has nothing in the world: to her he brings all the rich reserve of his spiritual powers. After some time, Rev. Nicholas began to fulfill his cherished desire: to build a cathedral on Surugadai, which would be a worthy representative of the Orthodox Church in Tokyo before the eyes of all paganism and heterodoxy. Now this wish has been fulfilled. The consecration of the cathedral will soon take place. And there again there was tireless activity: visiting churches, translating liturgical books, and there was no end in sight to the work that the Reverend set himself to do. Nikolai. Now I can hear and see the cannon salute from my window. It must have been the emperor who proclaimed the constitution. My apartment, in terms of location, is very good. The mission house stands on the very cliff of Surugaday. Almost under the windows begins a whole sea of ​​houses, with black tiled roofs, with white screens instead of windows. On the contrary, about a mile and a half away from us, another similar hill rises, on which the imperial palace is located, with its huge green ramparts, this white barracks, and a dense imperial garden. A cannon shot is fired from these ramparts every day at noon. They still fire fireworks from there now. To the left of the palace, Tokyo stretches almost to the horizon. And further, on the very horizon, a strip of sea is visible. Here it is always free. It does not have that forest of masts that can always be seen in large coastal cities: the bay here is shallow, the port has been moved from here to Yokohama. To the right the horizon is not so wide. The area there is elevated and our Surugadai does not dominate it. From a distance, over the horizon, sugar Fuji-san rises here. Its top is now white with snow. They say that it is about 40 Japanese “ri” before it, that is, from 130 to 160 versts. In clear weather it is visible very well. It will be covered in darkness, so we need to wait for rain. Yesterday the letter was not sent by mail, I will add something. Yesterday I walked around the city a lot, seeing its sights. At one o'clock in the afternoon we, with S.S. Miy, a Japanese candidate at the Kyiv Academy, set off for Ueno. This is nothing more than a large park, which had to serve completely different purposes under the old and new rule. Previously, this was a sacred place, the tomb of the shoguns. There were only Buddhist monasteries and bonzes. An imperturbable silence reigned. They say that luminaries of Buddhist learning lived there, attracting students from all over Japan. Now this is a place for folk festivals, with its noise, crowds, with different “cha-ya”, that is, in our opinion, taverns. However, there are still alleys, especially near ancient churches, where it is still quiet. You'll be happy to stay there longer. It’s so nice under these giant hundred-year-old trees, away from the annoying noise of the market. No wonder there were many deep thinkers here. These two stories, the old and the new, appear before you when you enter Ueno. On the one hand, innovation and Europeanism screams at you from all sides, starting from the tired costumes of the Europeanizing Japanese and ending with an art exhibition where paintings by Japanese artists in a European style are collected. On the other hand, you see remnants of the former shogunal greatness everywhere. Here is the main alley leading to the monastery-tomb of the shoguns. Its entire length is lined with stone Buddhist lantern monuments. These are all offerings to the deceased shogun from his vassal princes. You approach a silent church, or more precisely, to the church fence, with the gates tightly locked, here on both sides of the gate there is already a whole forest of such lanterns, placed right in a pile for lack of space. We didn’t have to go inside, since we were waiting for some relatives of the former shogun and were preparing to receive them. A little further you will be shown a gate, all riddled with bullets and pierced with bayonets. These are traces of the last battle of the shogun's troops with the imperial ones. There is also a monument in Ueno to the shogunal defenders who fell in this battle. There is a giant Buddha statue in a sitting position. Buddha sits with his legs crossed cross-legged and his hands folded on his knees. Despite the ugly size of this statue, the Buddha's face does not make a repulsive impression. He's definitely asleep. The face is feminine: this, they say, is to express the gentleness and meekness of the Buddha. The statue is cast in bronze and is now almost black in color. In the old days there was a large church next to it, but during the battle it burned to the ground. Among the more recent innovations in Ueno are museums of Japanese antiquities and a permanent exhibition of goods, the so-called “kankoba”. Something between a passage and a simple farce. All sorts of things are sold there. Most of all, of course, lacquer items, which the Japanese are great masters at. S.S. Mii then took me to see the local Japanese university. A huge area is occupied by buildings of various faculties (there is also engineering). The buildings are all European. Some also house students' dormitories, who, of course, wear European uniforms. In the university fence there are many separate small houses, also of European construction, these are apartments for European professors. Now there are fewer and fewer of them. The Japanese are trying to fill the vacancies with their own, and the vacancies are released simply with the end of the contracts. Once a Japanese successor has been prepared, they simply bow to the professor who has served his term, sometimes not giving him permission to even sell his belongings in the professor’s apartment: Europeans, supposedly, cannot trade beyond the specified line. I don’t know how things are going with the current Japanese professors. In the newspapers, foreigners made fun of these professors. They say that they diligently try to be like their European predecessors in everything: they also sit in the pulpit, they also put glasses on their noses, they even read from the same sections, but the result is somewhat different. Then we went to visit Miyu. He is married to a Christian woman and lives in half his own house, that is, he bought a house without land, but pays for the land monthly. In Tokyo, they say, most houses are built like this on apartments. The decor in Miya's house is quite Japanese. There is a soft mat on the floor; there is no furniture. We were treated to tea and Japanese cookies. All this is placed directly on the floor. The cleanliness everywhere is exemplary. My wife Mia does not speak Russian. I had to use my entire poor stock of Japanese words. I now regularly study Japanese. The same old man whom we saw when we first arrived at the Mission in the seminary class writing calligraphy is now our teacher. Each lesson begins, of course, with hissing, bowing and squats. He is an excellent teacher, but out of politeness, sometimes he does not correct mistakes and in the end the result is not entirely pleasant. At one time, the old man was a progressive person, one of the first in Japan to start learning French. Even now he tries to show off his knowledge on every occasion. “Ways,” you hear during the lesson. This means: “pti”, i.e. small. We are still standing aloof from life here. Let's just take a look. And things are in full swing here. Either classes or singing in several places at once. Rev. constantly receives a mass of letters from its catechists and priests. Each of them is obliged to write monthly to the bishop about the state of his church. There are now up to 150 catechists and priests - therefore, 150 obligatory letters are sent every month, and on top of that there are also optional ones. Moreover, the Japanese always considers it his duty to make a huge and, if possible, empty attack on a letter, and at the end of the letter he will certainly apologize for writing only two inches, even though the reader is more inclined to say that the letter is more than two fathoms. Japanese letters are written on soft Japanese paper, the width of our usual postal square, and the length according to the desire and ability of the scribe. Having written on one strip of paper, glue (with the narrow side) another to it, then a third. Is it not possible to master 150 such epistoles? Rev. He reads it all himself. In addition, in the morning he goes to teach at the catechist school in Koozi-matsi. After lunch he has lessons at the local catechist school. Then translation of books, then buildings, then various reports, then endless visitors. All this requires a lot of energy and dedication to the task, especially since the pleasure received from this task (humanly speaking) cannot be compared with the sorrows and torments that it brings. No wonder the Rev. says: “There are moments when they start lashing your wounds like a scourge, you just can’t find a place for yourself from moral torment. You can’t sleep for three nights in a row.” The Japanese's secretiveness from foreigners and their certain alienation from us (of course, not all of them) cause constant torment. And then their instability. Everything is going great, suddenly, under some influence, the Japanese may give you such a pill, as they say, that you will not come to your senses soon. However, the work of God is progressing, despite these dark clouds. Perhaps it is better that Christianity is not adopted here for missionaries: in this way, it can directly take root on a national basis, and (therefore) take unshakable roots. I have been to the service here several times. They sing beautifully, although sometimes they go apart. But this is rare. The regent complains about their lack of hearing. This is understandable, because the Japanese, in our sense of the word, have almost no singing. Their musicians do not consider it a particular crime to fight in discord with the accompaniment. However, after several years of studying at school, children sometimes develop hearing. One even turned out to be a pretty good regent. O.A. left for Hakodate. In two weeks, when the rector of the embassy church arrives from there, I will leave here for Osaka, the Venice of Japan. Letter XI. December 14, 1890 Osaka On November 29, I left Tokyo by rail, which was already familiar to us. Sixteen hours flew by quickly. At night, I didn’t have to notice all the numerous tunnels and bridges here that color the road so much. There are no kaki (persimmon, a wonderful Japanese fruit) at the stations now, but mikana (tangerines) are in abundance. But the most wonderful thing for a foreigner is, of course, a travel lunch or, in Japanese, “bento”. You give the peddler five cents (7 kopecks) and he gives you a small box made of wood shavings. What is there in this box? The main thing is rice, white, clean, without any impurities like oil, etc. Even more tempting delicacies are carefully fenced off in a corner: a miniature piece of fried egg, an even smaller piece of fish, something like half a ruff, a piece of salted radish (invariably eaten by the Japanese after their dinners, as a snack), ten grains of sweet peas (this is already a cake). Yes, it’s impossible to count everything. And all this can be taken on a fork at once. These Japanese are amazing miniaturists. And they have it all so clean. Right there in this box you find well-planed and clean wood chips. Break it in two and you have a pair of chopsticks that replace our forks and spoons. Both cheap and cheerful. Finally, to the right of the road, an endless plain of water sparkled; This is Lake Biwa, glorified by Japanese poets. All around it are mountains covered with forest. In previous years, everything here was full of monasteries and bonzes, and even now there are still quite a few of them left. Here on its shore is the city of Otsu. There is one last tunnel and the train rushes through a green valley, through a bamboo forest to Japanese Moscow - Kyoto, or Miyako (the first name is Chinese, and the second is purely Japanese, both translated means: capital). Now, in accordance with Tokyo (the eastern capital, as the former Yedo was called with the change of government), it is called Saikeo, that is, the western capital. Another hour and a half, and Osaka. Taking my camelot robe, umbrella and stick under my armpits, I went out onto the platform. "Serugi-shimpu"! (Fr. Sergius), was heard near me. He was a fairly tall man with an officer's mustache and large features. This means he is a Christian. Mutual bow with hands placed on knees and “konnitsiva” (hello). Three more came up behind him. Also “cavalry” and the same bow. My new friends sat me down on the sofa. Two went to get my luggage, and two began to engage me in conversation. The conversations, of course, were on a general topic, that is, they consisted more of a desire to talk and smiles, since the familiar words had disappeared somewhere this time. However, I at least recognized the names. The tall man who met me as I exited the carriage was called Vasily Tade, a local catechist, and the other was Thomas Tanaka, also a catechist. The rest: one is a singing teacher sent here for a while from Tokyo, and the other is my Japanese language teacher. His name is Pavel Isogai. This one was in European costume. We received our luggage and set off. Osaka is a very big city. They say there are up to 600 thousand inhabitants. It is located at the mouth of a fairly large navigable river, which in the city breaks into several branches. Add to this the countless number of canals, and the result is something that truly resembles Venice. On a small island in the middle of the river there is a Shinto shrine (miya), and near it rises something like a Turkish minaret. This is a monument to the famous shogun Hideyoshi, the thunder of China and the conqueror of Korea. Another monument to Hideyoshi is the “shiro” (castle). Osaka was the capital of the shoguns. Now Osaka is increasingly eclipsing Kyoto, developing by leaps and bounds. Now it is the commercial, industrial and, perhaps, intellectual center of all lower Japan, a kind of southern capital. We crossed the magnificent suspension bridge connecting the riverside part of the city with the main one. A few fathoms down the street, turn right and climb up the hill, and there our church house is nearby. This is already, in the proper sense, a Japanese house, or, better to say, a whole connection of houses connected to each other by various passages and galleries. Previously, some famous kitchen was located here, and now there is a church house with a church and everything else. The priest Fr. now lives here. John Ono, a very good, eloquent preacher. He is in charge of the church in Osaka (more than 200 people) and a mass of churches scattered in different directions from Osaka, sometimes for a hundred or more miles. There are churches even on the neighboring island (Shikoku), where it is especially difficult for Fr. John to travel. Each priest is obliged to travel around his parish four times a year, mainly during Lent, for confession and St. communion. In addition, there are emergency trips: to give farewell to a dying person, for a funeral, etc. At the time of a visit to a priest, our Christians sometimes schedule various church meetings, sometimes public ones for preaching. There is also an apartment for the missionary in our Osaka house. In the past, it was intended to establish a special missionary camp here. At one time a missionary, the deceased Fr., even lived here. Anatoly, who purchased this house with the money he collected in Russia. He also had a catechist school here. But then, with the translation of Fr. Anatoly to the place of rector of the embassy church, this house was abandoned, the school was closed 5. Nowadays, missionaries who come again from Russia to study the language sometimes live here, like me, for example. However, the catechist school may be opened again, just to get funds. And there is enough space here for an entire university. In addition to the priest, here, in the same house, lives the catechist Thomas, then the singing teacher, then my teacher, then Joachim and Anna, the most good-natured old man and woman, posing as something like the local hosts, then several more people, more or less officials. In a word, this is a kind of ark: God only grant that more people will be saved from the surrounding flood in it. The rear facade of our house opens onto a small front garden or just a terrace, from which there is a beautiful view of the river with its several iron bridges, the part of the city beyond the river, etc. This beauty, however, costs us quite a lot: in winter the river blows with such cold that we simply cannot live in our cardboard houses. When you get up in the morning, it’s 5–6 degrees. There is only hope for a small iron stove, and from the stove you can rather learn the impermanence of human affairs than warm yourself. No matter how much you heat it up, within half an hour the heat will go out, leaving a layer of thick coal soot on everything, not excluding the missionary person. Soon after my arrival, Fr. himself entered the room. Ono, his wife brought a cup of European tea on a tray, and his son, a boy of about nine, brought a wooden plate with tangerines. Our priests usually wear Japanese costume, which is so close to the spiritual. During the Divine Service, our cassock is put on. However, Fr. He also wears a cassock during his rounds around the parish. Following Fr. It came one after another, and all the inhabitants of our ark, and some of the outside Christians who learned about my arrival. The next day Fr. It was supposed to go to Kyoto, and I unexpectedly had to perform Divine Services in Japanese for the first time. It was Saturday. On Sunday they served a mass service, since the antimins took Fr. John. The church is located in a fairly large room, for about 200 people. Its northern and western walls all consist of glass screens and open onto the garden. Iconostasis in one tier. Athonite painting: again the memory of Fr. Anatoly, who, after graduating from the Academy and before coming here, lived for some time on Athos. Several Christians, men and women, sang under the direction of Matsuki (the singing teacher). They sang, of course, not as well as in Tokyo, but not bad either. I spoke litanies and exclamations on pieces of paper: Japanese words were written in Russian letters. This is usually done here by foreigners, because it takes a long time to learn how to read Chinese (the Japanese, as you know, use Chinese characters when writing), but one must serve at all costs. After the service, the Christians sat on the floor, and the catechist came up to me for a blessing and began to preach a sermon. Another catechist preached at the mass. Here, not a single holiday service is complete without a sermon. Now I'm learning Japanese little by little. In the morning you get up, drink tea, warm up from the night cold - from the next room you can hear the barely audible shuffling of feet, then the door opens and a hissing or sobbing is heard, as if someone is eating or drinking something very hot. This is my “sensei” (teacher) with the unchanged vocabulary of Goshkevich under his arm, with a notebook, with “konnichiwa” and with a specific Japanese smell. Books are left at the entrance. One bow before the image, then the sensei, bowing his head low, comes up for the blessing (the Japanese have established the custom of accepting a blessing not with their hands, but with their head). Then the seating begins. My sensei puts a chair at the table for himself, then returns to the door for the book left there, brings it to the table, then goes to drag lexicons from the window, and after a whole series of such evolutions he sits next to me and begins the lesson. This is how it should be and then he won’t think of cutting his adventures into one go. Now with him we are reading a brochure by a Japanese Protestant catechist, under the loud title: “Christianity and Politics.” No matter how hard all these gentlemen try to convince them that politics is a secondary matter for them, they cannot get rid of it. Nationalism absorbs the entire soul of the Japanese, especially the Protestant, who accepts Christianity more in order to be more like a European. Yes, Christianity faces a difficult struggle here, and it seems that the main problem is that the ideals and passions here are too petty and insignificant. The Japanese and their Confucius do not extend beyond simple correctness and civil decency. That is why the Japanese does not know deep falls, raging passions: everything with him is orderly, decent, even his small sins are dealt with correctly, so he does not have to apologize or repent of them. They tell him about repentance, but he puts forward his correctness. Why am I worse than others? He does not understand virtues in the proper sense, and correct shortcomings, no matter how you point them out to him, of course, cannot make a special impression on him due to their very pettiness. Everything for him comes down to the state and his Japanese people. He doesn't want to put God first. It is difficult for such people to talk about the need to know God when all their attention is focused on what will come out of this worship of God for their state and for themselves. It is not for nothing that reports from Protestant missions continually talk about the cooling of the Japanese towards Christianity. At first, the Japanese thought that everything European was useful and did not separate culture from religion. Now they are beginning to understand that the culture of Europe, although it owes a lot to Christianity, however, does not coincide with the latter, that it is possible to accept culture without becoming a Christian, and the fascination with Europeanism is gradually passing. Hence the cooling. After this, you will involuntarily marvel at God’s mercy over our mission. We don’t have schools with European programs, or hospitals with a whole staff of nurses, and various “help” don’t pour in from the mission left and right. Alien to any cultural and political tasks, our mission has set itself the goal of preaching Christ and His Teachings to Japan, in its pure form, without any additions or reinterpretations. That is why the grace of God, living in the Church of Christ, does not leave our mission. This Last One is strong not materially and not by the number of its workers and not by their special talents, but directly by the grace of Christ and by that alone. What are mission forces? Well, in comparison with Protestant and Catholic ones. Against entire armies of their European missionaries, we have only Japanese, converts, only superficially educated. True, at the head of everything is the Rev. Nikolai, raising preachers, but he is all alone. It is not people who win here, but grace and truth. The mission only sows seeds, but God grows it. The bishop gave me many cases from his practice, from the practice of catechists, where this independence of missionary work from human considerations and calculations is positively visible. The most eloquent, polished sermons are sometimes like ringing brass; and sometimes a completely careless, illogical, generally unsuccessful sermon (during which, the Vladyka said, it’s a shame to even look at the listeners) has an amazing success. For the most part, and it happens that success occurs where there was no hope, and where everything is calculated almost with mathematical precision, nothing comes of it. So everything says that there is a Master of this matter, Who Himself directs it as He pleases. Therefore, the very methods of our mission bear a special, purely apostolic imprint. Catholics and Protestants usually decide in advance where they will preach. Usually a city is chosen that is remarkable in some way, either in terms of trade, or in terms of its cultural significance, such as, for example, in Japan, Kyoto, Osaka, Sendai, Nagoya, etc. A missionary camp is set up in the chosen city, and European missionaries settle. A school and a hospital are being opened. Japanese catechists are sent to all the streets; Religious brochures are distributed among the people. In a word, all available means are used, not excluding the broadest “charity.” Having outlined a point, they forcefully impose themselves on the city, not retreating from anything. Meanwhile, in our mission this approach is recognized as incorrect. Our churches, now scattered throughout Japan, began and developed spontaneously, independent of missionary plans and considerations. Several Christians come to the city to earn money and trade. They make acquaintances and find someone else who is a believer. They begin to gather together on holidays for prayer and mutual edification in the Word of God - and so the church is open. Some of the pagans ask them about faith, conversations and disputes begin, some are inclined to believe. Christians write a general letter to the bishop or, more often, to the council (which takes place every year) with a request to send them a catechist. If there is a free one, the council or bishop sends him at the request of Christians. This is already a canonical recognition of the church. Henceforth it is included in the lists of Japanese churches as part of the whole. Of course, sometimes catechists are sent and just try to see if it is possible to found churches in this or that city. But the mission never tried to put its will in the place of God’s, never persisted in preaching when it was convinced that preaching in a given place was useless, that God’s Will was not yet there for there to be a church here. The catechist was transferred somewhere else. And it’s remarkable that sometimes the church started at the point left behind, but it started by itself, in addition to the sermon. This is how, for example, a church appeared in Kyoto. A catechist was sent there several times. There was no benefit. But two years ago, in the manner indicated above, two or three families of Christians met there, began to pray together, then asked for a catechist, and now it is a recognized church and has several newly baptized people (though so far only from out of town). Everything is not done according to human plans and calculations. This is the strength of our mission, the guarantee of its future. And that the grace of God operates in the church, proof of this is the actual miracles that sometimes happen here. Thus, healing is often accompanied by the sacrament of baptism. One woman, for example, was carried into the church house by four people (they had to climb a mountain), but she emerged from the baptismal font already healthy and returned home without help. The sacrament of anointing is directly accepted specifically for healing, and many cases are known when this healing was actually performed, or the patient suffered a painless death. Or here's another example. Our seminarian is going home for the holidays. On the way, he visits his relatives and finds them at the bedside of a dying member of the family. It was a pity for their seminarian. Here he may remember more than once the promise of the Lord about miracles in the true church, mentioned in lessons. He took out his prayer book and began to pray with all the purity and sincerity of faith that could only be in his childish soul. And the “prayer of faith” really saved the sick man. The Lord raised it up. Or else. The parents of this seminarian (in Nagoya) were still pagans, although their seminarian son convinced them to be baptized. They also had a son, who was also not baptized, and now he becomes mortally ill. The disease was dangerous, the doctors sentenced the patient to death. The old people were beside themselves with sadness. It was the night of the Holy Resurrection of Christ. The son was completely dying. At his deathbed, the old men came up with the idea whether the faith of their eldest son, a seminarian, would help. “Now all Christians are also awake and praying; let us also pray to the Christian God, maybe He will help.” They took out the prayer book their son had left behind. And so these old men, exhausted from sadness, on Holy Night, at the bedside of their dying son, began to read prayers to a God still unknown to them. There were many things, of course, they didn’t understand; one thing they understood was that this was the last resort, and therefore they took it up with all their hearts. Therefore, their fervent prayer was heard. Their son stood up, and now all three are good Christians. They say, and now their faith helps many. Of course, there are very few such hot lamps of faith, but still they exist, and the Japanese church will not be lost with them. Of course, not all adamants have faith; many are careless, just like here in Russia. Immersed in everyday interests, they care little about the soul, about faith, they appear in church only on major holidays, and even then not always. But there are almost no apostates in the proper sense. Usually, people who have converted to Orthodoxy in the hope of receiving some benefit from it renounce. Such people, of course, immediately have to be disappointed, because apart from the privilege of paying for the church, the new Christian does not enjoy anything. But there are not many of them, because our mission is quite safe from this side. Various poor people, losers, and bankrupts fall away. Such people are lured by non-Orthodox people (especially Catholics). But these appeals do not bring them any particular comfort: the seduced do not go either to our prayer meetings or to them, and at the first improvement in their affairs they go back again. Yes, God's blessing is undoubtedly there. No wonder the Rev. Nikolai never ceases to repeat that sooner or later Japan will become Orthodox. The other day, due to illness, Fr. Yes, I had to perform the burial. Everything is like in Russia. The same tunes and the same order. If possible, all Christians gather for the funeral. The coffin was escorted to the cemetery without vestments. I walked ahead in a cassock and cross. A grave cross was also carried behind the coffin. This is now an established custom. Our Christians are buried in a common cemetery, together with pagans, only, of course, their graves are sharply different from non-Christians. Firstly, a cross is placed over them, and secondly, they are longer than the pagan ones. The Japanese give their dead the position that a person has in the womb, i.e. hands are pressed to the face, and knees are bent to the chest. That is why the Japanese coffin has the shape of a tub, which is buried vertically in the ground. For Buddhists it is burned. On the way back, we met a funeral procession of pagans. In front is a closed, specially shaped palanquin with a coffin, behind it is a crowd of relatives, all in white. These are Shintoists. The mourners were happily talking to each other. Among the Japanese, in general, it seems to be considered indecent to express one’s grief. It is customary to hide inner feelings under an ordinary Japanese smile. In the city they met another procession. It was already Buddhist. Some rich man must have been buried. In front of the coffin they carried a whole forest of trees, two in a row, at least twenty pairs. On each tree there is a plaque with the name of the bearer. This is the last sign of respect for the deceased. This custom is very developed here. For example, when the famous Russian botanist Maksimovich, who developed the local flora, died, his students and admirers, of whom there are many here, brought the bishop a basket of flowers with a business card. This is for the soul of the deceased, they said. Behind the trees in the procession was followed a Japanese man in a wide hat, carrying on a yoke two boxes, of which in one the sins were supposed, and in the other the virtues of the deceased. Next are several rickshaws with yellow, black and gray bonzes, two on each carriage, and finally a purple bonze, supposed to be the abbot. Then the coffin in the palanquin and a crowd of people. Buddhism holds its head quite high in these parts. Osaka has many large churches belonging to various sects. Subsequently, all this needs to be studied more closely. Letter XII. January 30th, 1891 Osaka Today is the Japanese New Year, already the third in a row: the first is the state year, celebrated together with the Europeans in a new style; the second is our Orthodox (it was, however, only me who celebrated it; Christians celebrate and serve a prayer service in the new style (on January 1st for them only the Circumcision of the Lord), and, finally, the third today, the old Japanese national one. It is observed more in the villages. Previously, the Japanese used the lunar year and began approximately in February. I also have something new: in the month of January I had to take the first step in the missionary field, or, more precisely, to see how such steps are taken. About halfway through January I received from Rev. Nicholas a letter in which he informed me of his long-standing desire to develop preaching in Kyoto. There is already a church there, there is also a catechist, but he is still young, inexperienced, and not sufficiently educated. Meanwhile, one of the seminary teachers has become free and can now be separated to preach. It was decided to send him to Kyoto. I have to help him with advice, and most importantly, serve as a sign, so to speak, because the name of a foreigner is still attractive to the Japanese. With the arrival of Savabe (the aforementioned teacher is the son of the famous Father Pavel Savabe), we had to form a council here and then act. Savabe arrived, and on January 17, a council or, if you want, a council: I, Fr. Ono, Sawabe and two local catechists. Everyone appeared in “rei-fuku” (in a uniform dress), that is, in a black “haori” (outer clothing corresponding in meaning to our frock coat, and in shape strongly reminiscent of a Greek half-duckleak). Three coats of arms were white on the sleeves and on the back. We prayed. I said what's the matter. My interlocutors tilted their heads first to the right, then to the left, crossed their arms, were silent, and finally, one of them said, hesitantly, “sayo” (like our “yes,” and the meeting opened). Sawabe and I represented ourselves as nadnyaks or radicals, we threatened the immediate destruction of all Buddhism, we wanted to launch the most energetic attack against Kyoto. But our not ponderous swiftness was broken by the icy immobility of our more experienced opponents. After several turns of the matter from one side to the other, after repeated repetitions, we finally decided: Sawabe should go on Friday, because the day after the cathedral, to notify all the Christians there and invite them on Sunday to “kyoquay,” that is, to the church house. I'll go on Sunday. The second rule was: do not hold out much hope for success; Kyoto does not offer anything comforting in this regard. There are not so many houses in it, but rather “tera” (temples) of all the countless branches of Buddhism. All these "tera", remarkable either for their antiquity or for their significance for one or another sect, attract tens of thousands of pilgrims from all over Japan to Kyoto. They come in whole crowds, both old and young, in special colorful costumes, chanting Buddhist prayers and lamentations. All this brings their pennies to Kyoto, all this rents a room there, buys food, etc. In a word, this is living capital for the Kyoto residents, not to mention the bosses who grow fat from pilgrimage alms. Therefore, not a single more or less real Kyoto resident will even think about Christianity and turning to it: losing “tera” for him means losing a unique means of easy money. On Saturday I got ready, that is, I packed my vestments, cross, gospel, etc., since on Sunday I had to leave early, and in winter the Japanese are not particularly keen on getting up early. Many good thoughts flashed through my head when the Sunday Gospel of Matthew was read at the all-night vigil: “As you go, teach all languages,” this is the call and command. “And lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age,” this is encouragement and an inexhaustible source of strength. In the morning at seven o'clock we got into the cart that was waiting for us and rushed down from our mountain. The morning was fresh and frosty. The city was waking up. Several sleepy, shivering townsfolk were pushing aside the wooden shields with which the Japanese cover their paper walls at night in winter. Clerks wrapped in scarves walk across the bridge. The faces are blue, the figures are shrunken. The arms are hidden somewhere inside, so that the thick sleeves stick out empty, like wings. Another dressed himself in a red flannel blanket, adapting it like a rotunda. In general, everything feels depressing: cold, cold... I, however, felt good in a warm cassock, and the anticipation of the beginning of the business somehow especially cheered me up and lifted my spirit. Not without some tragicomedy: I ​​drive up to the station and then I remember that I forgot my passport. That's it for you!.. It was too late to go back. I tell my teacher. But, it must be, either my pronunciation was already too peculiar, so that even the sensei, who was accustomed to it, could not understand anything, or this latter thought that he did not understand me. Amazing thing with the Japanese! They all believe that their language is difficult for foreigners. Therefore, at first the Japanese will never understand us; it seems to him that what you are saying is not what you want to say. And so he begins to rack his brains and get lost in guesses. What could you mix the words you speak with? You talk about your passport, but it seems to him that you mixed your passport with a business card and, of course, he can’t understand why you needed this card. Rarely will a Japanese answer you from the first word; he will only smile at you and look at the teacher so that he can explain your words to him. For beginners, this is positively torture. You can clearly see that he understood the words, but he is not content with their literal meaning; he wants to penetrate somewhere beyond reality. Same this time. My teacher couldn't figure out what I needed. However, he took the tickets, so he didn’t have to show his passport: we got into the carriage without a passport. There were a lot of people. Just on this day in Kyoto there was a festival of “Inari”, i.e. the church of the fox. This church is located near Kyoto, about ten minutes walk. In terms of its rank, it is perhaps the first among the Shinto shrines maintained by the government. I still don’t really know what kind of Inari this is. They say that this holiday attracts a lot of people from all over the area to Kyoto. It seems that many people go out more to party and feast. At 9 o'clock we were already in Kyoto. We were met at the station by our Christians: two catechists (Sawabe and Sasaba, the former local catechist, still a very young man) and two Japanese students. One is Panteleimon - a doctor, the other is Vasily. All four bowed low, smiling affectionately, and at the same time with undisguised curiosity, looking at the hitherto unprecedented Russian “Simpa” (the last two had recently received baptism). After mutual bows and greetings, we got into four carriages and set off on a solemn train through the city: me in front, my sensei behind me, then the others in twos. The city of Kyoto is remarkable, first of all, for its layout: its streets intersect at right angles, and run from north to south and from west to east. In the northern or upper part of the city is the ancient imperial palace, now carefully preserved in its former form. At that time, court nobles of the highest ranks lived near the palace, who... earned their living by giving lessons in dancing and playing ball, as well as small handicrafts permitted by their rank. The material resources of the country were all in the hands of the shogun, but only the ranks were left to the Mikado's share. That is why the courtiers, who were often superior to the shogun himself, lived poorer than the last samurai with the last shogun's vassal. Now there are few noble houses left in the northern part of Kyoto. All the nobles moved to Tokyo. They dressed in European style and are no longer poor as before. In the lower or southern part of the city, in the old days, traders and craftsmen lived. There was a brisk trade there, and the now famous lacquerware and silk fabrics, earthenware and porcelain were produced. The sharp difference between the upper and lower parts of the city remains to this day: Kyoto is silent and deserted at the top, noisy and crowded at the bottom. We quickly rushed along a straight street and were soon at the church house. He is hired by the mission and therefore is no different from other Japanese houses. Pushing aside the very low, lattice door and bending as much as possible, you enter a narrow covered courtyard. To the right is the entrance to the rooms, that is, two steps and screens covered with white paper. You take off your shoes and go up to the first room, completely free of furniture. The owners are waiting for you there, sitting on the floor with their legs crossed (as required by Japanese etiquette). You are greeted with a bow to the ground, and you respond in kind. In Kyoto and its environs, old-fashioned customs are still observed, so bowing here is especially ceremonial. They bow somewhat diagonally from each other, rise a little from the ground three times, look through the ear at their interlocutor, bow again, saying the most kind things and sobbing. An unfamiliar person may think that either the host or the guest have done something very wrong to each other and are now asking for forgiveness. All this happens in the front room. Everyone is welcome here. This is the place for short visits. Only closer and more honored guests penetrate further into the so-called “zasiki,” i.e., the living room. A true Kyoto resident will not soon let in not only a foreigner, but also an out-of-town Japanese. The most welcoming atmosphere awaited us in the “zasiki”: a red flannelette blanket was spread out in the middle of the room, which was supposed to replace the table. Each of us was laid out with chairs, so to speak, that is, small rectangular rugs for sitting, with our legs tucked under. In cold weather, they move you a “hibatsi,” that is, a wooden box filled with ashes with a small taganchik and hot coals in the middle. This achieves relative warmth, if, of course, you are wearing something cottony. On the same “hibaci” a small cast-iron, very oddly shaped kettle of water is boiled, and a tea set is also placed nearby, but at any time you can be treated to real Japanese green tea... We sat down. In addition to those who arrived with us, there were Luka and Sophia (Ruka and Sohia, as the Japanese pronounce them), husband and wife. They serve as masters of the house. The husband sat with us, and the wife at the door - this is also a requirement of ancient Japanese etiquette. At ten o'clock the mass service began. The furnishings of our house of worship are extremely poor. On the eastern side hangs an icon of the Savior, 6 inches in size, under it there is a simple wooden table covered in canvas vestments. On the table is a Japanese candlestick with a black earthen wax candle (the kind used in Japanese everyday life). Analogies aside (also a simple wooden one, covered with canvas). That's it. About sixteen of us gathered. Everyone sang with all their might, perhaps not particularly harmoniously, given the lack of an ear for music among the Japanese, but they sang diligently. After the mass, they held a “soodan”, that is, a council. All the Christians sat around, Sawabe and I began to explain the matter to them and convinced them to help the catechist, find listeners, etc. Everyone was ready to help, but everyone certainly said in advance that the people of Kyoto were a people of stone, unyielding to any preaching. The main thing is that in our current premises it is unthinkable to open a public sermon: it is very “Kitanai”, dirty, poor. Therefore, it is necessary to find a new, better premises. In Kyoto this is not an easy task. For a foreigner, and especially for Yaso-kyo (the religion of Jesus), Kyoto residents rarely have an apartment. So our “soodan” ended only with promises. Of course, I had to gesticulate more than speak, for lack of words. But something worse awaited me before leaving: my sensei finally understood what I told him at the Osaka station and with horror hurried me to write a telegram to Osaka so that they would send me a passport with a servant. No matter how unpleasant it was to make such a fuss over trifles, I had to give in and wait in Kyoto for my ill-fated passport. A remarkable trait among the Japanese is respect for the law; Once there is a rule, you need to follow it. I remembered then our Slavic debauchery; our rules are written more so that they are not followed. The Japanese are ahead of us in this regard. Of course, when the telegram to Osaka was written, I was far from admiring this trait of the Japanese character. We had to return late at night. The carriages were also full: our morning companions were also returning, but this time everyone was very tipsy; the foxes must have celebrated their name day as it should. The next Sunday, the 27th, in memory of John Chrysostom, we again went to Kyoto, this time without any special adventures with the passport. This trip was more comforting than the previous one. My catechists were more cheerful, and the Christians came more enthusiastic. Listeners, it turns out, are starting to show up. Two were found among the students of the medical school, these were brought by Panteleimon, who devotes himself to the church with all his soul and is ready to serve it. Two women came here to stay with a Christian for two months. If they are baptized, perhaps they will serve as the firstfruits of the church in their hometown, here are examples of how Christianity is spreading here. Particularly important for us was the visit of a local person who came to meet Sawabe during his stay in Kyoto. He has his own home in Kyoto and is a natural Kyoto native. Purchasing it for the church would be very important for its further spread: Kyoto residents don’t get along well with nonresidents, and now there are only nonresidents in the church. It would be happiness for us if he were baptized. I caught a glimpse of the local Protestant University “Doosishya”. It is organized with joint donations from Americans and Japanese pagans. The professors used to be Americans, but now, little by little, all the positions are filled by the Japanese. As a result, the university is increasingly losing its Christian character. It also has a theological school, like a seminary or catechetical school, but they say it is not ranked highly and is not respected among the students. Out of 800–900, only 69 study at theological school. There are universities and many hospitals around. There are also rooms for students in special buildings. The university buildings are large, made of stone... In appearance, it generally makes an impression. We also passed by a Catholic church. Quite a spacious building. However, we were not allowed inside: Catholics still do not give up their habit of hiding and doing everything in secret. In general, Kyoto has many attractions, mainly religious ones. For example, there is a kind of spiritual academy for Buddhists here. They say there are teachers and Europeans there. It is divided into two branches: secular and spiritual. Those who graduate from the first move on to the second. Among the subjects taught in the spiritual department is criticism of the gospel, in which, of course, learned Germans provide a considerable service to Buddhists. It will be difficult for our emerging church here to fight all this. She is almost invisible next to such organized and numerous opponents. However, this is not the first time on our mission to start a business under such conditions. Our preaching began from the north and when it reached the middle of Japan, all the places here were already occupied by Catholics and Protestants. And, despite this, our preachers did not retreat in fear, they began their work, and God also helped them, as in the north. It will help here too. Letter XIII. March 20, 1891 Tokyo We calmed down a little after our ceremonial meetings. Life finally resumed its usual routine. First of all, I am no longer in Osaka, but in Tokyo. Before I had time to go to Kyoto three times, I received a letter from the Reverend. Nicholas with an invitation to appear in Tokyo as soon as possible: the consecration of the cathedral is expected to take place on February 24th, therefore, it is necessary to prepare. I quickly got ready and came here. There were still three weeks left before the consecration, but they flew by completely unnoticed among various preparations and gatherings. The sacristy and vessels were moved to the new cathedral. They interpreted the divine service, especially the rite of consecration, to all the celebrants and those serving in the church, taught what everyone should do during the consecration, etc. There was a lot to do, and all, of course, little things that absolutely did not allow them to do anything else. An amazing wealth of utensils in the new cathedral! I think that a cathedral, even rare in Russia, can now be equal to ours. Nechaev-Maltsev’s donations are especially precious. For all three thrones, he ordered Ovchinnikov a complete set of sacred vessels. Little things are not forgotten, up to and including the prosphora plates. And all this is in the same style, and all this is highly artistic. What kind of donation this is, you can judge by the altar cross in the main altar, it is the size of an arshin or more and is made of pure silver (gilded) with a cast silver crucifix of very large sizes, even difficult to wear in religious processions. The memorial service is also magnificent: on a large silver base, which is all occupied by chandeliers for candles, rises a cast silver Golgotha ​​with the same crucifix (five inches in size), and on the sides, cast figures of the Mother of God and St. John the Theologian. Arks for all three thrones are also good. How much could all this cost?!.. Another benefactor, Samoilov, donated another huge ark, gilded silver, with beautiful relief images and enamel, to the main throne. Some Moscow lady donated a jug for storing myrrh. This is also a rarity of its kind: silver, covered with enamel, a beautiful image of the Descent of the Holy Spirit on the Apostles. Cost 5,000 rubles. All this is festive, Easter, but how many more ordinary expensive things have been donated: gospels, vessels, censers, there is simply no counting. In general, the cathedral is sufficiently, even abundantly, equipped with utensils. I think that not only the cathedral, but even the mission churches, which will open a hundred years later, can be supplied with utensils, especially vessels. Yes, our Orthodox believers know how to sacrifice. This generous gift from the mother church will remain memorable for the Japanese forever. Our Christians also collected donations among themselves for the church. The only trouble is that the first harvest is wasted along with the collector. They, however, collected more, and now with this exclusively money a baptismal sanctuary will be built at the cathedral. Little by little the priests began to converge. Fr. came. Pavel Savabe. He is now quite an old man, although it was not so much the summer that made him old, but his illness. His spirit is still vigorous, especially when he is inspired by something, but his flesh is weak. He now runs a small church in the north. Came from the very north of the big island. Boris Yamamura, a remarkably handsome priest of tall stature, with a large gray beard and very gentle and at the same time intelligent eyes. He is now one of the most zealous pastors of the Japanese church. His parish is huge, and he travels almost constantly. My friend Fr. John Ono met his old friend Fr. Petra Sasagawa from Sendai. Both of them are turned to Christ Fr. Pavel Sawabe and were among the first to be baptized in Japan. It was still impossible to preach openly at that time, and so these two friends left Fr. Paul walked into the mountains, of which there are a lot near Hakodate, and there they listened to the beginnings of Christ’s teaching. Rev. Nikolai was in Russia at that time, working on opening a Mission. Returning, he baptized them and then prepared them for catechetical service. Now both of them preach diligently. Fr. arrived from Shizuoka. Matvey Kageta. He looks kind of angry, with furrowed eyebrows and gloomy. Woe to the carried away speakers at the cathedral: Fr. Matvey will unceremoniously circumcise anyone who even slightly shows the intention of repeating the same thing for the third and fourth time. It is generally distinguished by its remarkable straightforwardness. As a shepherd, very good, ardently religious and zealous. It is not for nothing that in his parish there are several cases of healings during the performance of the sacrament. A total of 10 Japanese priests gathered. Two did not arrive (the northernmost and the southernmost, 18 in all). Deacons – 5. On the eve of the consecration, an all-night vigil was held in the new cathedral, outside the altar, as required by the charter - mainly Christians were present. After the service, the bishop went to the middle to preach. All Christians sat down, occupying almost the entire width of the cathedral. The bishop spoke about how the construction of this cathedral began, how Orthodox Russia responded to this holy cause, spoke about the significance of the cathedral for Japan and for mutual ties between the Russian and Japanese churches. Until about eleven o'clock the movement continued in the mission, that is, mainly in the apartment of the Rev. Nicholas, without whom not even the most insignificant detail is done here, and at two o’clock he already ordered himself to be woken up: to prepare for the consecration. It was necessary to read him a whole book of Chinese characters (the rite of consecration was performed in Japanese). Of course, the entire rank was translated by the Rev. himself. Nicholas, but it was necessary to view it before the service. It was also necessary to prepare an appropriate sermon for such an important occasion. It takes a lot of time, but the blessing of water is scheduled for seven o’clock in the morning. The only pity is that the sleepless night made itself felt: the voice disappeared. Therefore, I had to abandon the sermon during the service. At seven o'clock one of the Japanese priests performed the blessing of water, and at eight o'clock the first sound of an Orthodox bell in Tokyo rang out. Until now, the service had been performed without ringing, but now even the Russian bell ringer was present (Theodore, who came with us). There is no need to say with what interest the Japanese listened to this unheard of music. The Japanese have bells, and even huge ones, not inferior to ours. They have a slightly different shape, oblong. They are rung by striking the outside of the bell with a large log. The sound is thick and very soft. In any case, they do not have such skilled bell ringers as our Theodore. The service was distinguished by unprecedented solemnity. 19 priests (three Russian) and four deacons served with the bishop. The seminarians sang with the students of the girls' school, and we must give them credit, they sang beautifully. Then the newspapers were especially surprised by this choir. About 150 people sang; I don’t think there has ever been such a choir in Japan. There were a lot of guests at the consecration. All members of the diplomatic corps, representatives of almost all missions (with the exception, of course, of the Catholic one), many different local celebrities, scientists, writers, etc. Ministers could not be there, because the consecration coincided with the closure of parliament. All the guests were then invited to a snack in the mission buildings. The cathedral was overcrowded with people, although they were allowed in only with tickets, that is, only Christians and their relatives. Whole thousands of pagans gathered around the mission fence: they were afraid of some kind of demonstration during the procession around the cathedral; but all these fears turned out to be completely in vain: the people behaved decorously, many even took off their hats when the clergy passed by. Before we had time to finish with the guests and with cleaning the church, the bell sounded again - for the all-night vigil. The next day after mass, the bishop and all 19 priests served a prayer service for the health of the donors. The cathedral was again crowded with worshipers, a good half of whom this time consisted of pagans. These latter generally behave quite well. There are, of course, some incidents like the following. Some “oji-san” will enter the first porch, take off his “geta”, and suddenly through the open door he sees a golden, shiny iconostasis; This amazes him so much that he rushes headlong through the porch and the entire cathedral to the salt, like a butterfly to the fire. Of course, someone who doesn’t know might think that somewhere, if not in the church itself, there is a strong fire. Sometimes the kids start some kind of game in the corner. Or in the middle of the service a whistle will suddenly be heard; This is a pagan Japanese expressing his admiration at the sight of the iconostasis. It also happens that our pilgrims (of course, pagans), lost in the crowd, begin to look for each other, as if in a forest, almost by hooting. However, this is only at first; visitors quickly got used to our procedures, especially since there is a notice posted at the doors, and there are special guards in the cathedral. At every opportunity, the cathedral was filled with people. Now, of course, they don’t come in crowds anymore, but there are always people in the cathedral. The cathedral is open for inspection all day long, and people continually come in small parties, five or ten people. The city dwellers have visited everyone, followed by the provincials from all over Japan. Anyone who comes here to see the city’s sights (such travel is very developed in Japan) is taken by cabs to our cathedral. As you can see, there are a lot of people - and they all look at our church, at our icons, at our worship. The question cannot help but arise in their minds: why all this, what kind of faith is this? A great excuse to start a conversation with a pagan about faith. The Council turned out to be the most essential aid for preaching. You just need to use it properly. It was necessary to appoint a person who would constantly be in the cathedral and explain to the pagans everything that they needed. If anyone's interest in faith is aroused, our guide would indicate the address of the nearest catechist in Tokyo, or in the homeland of the pagan. On occasion, I would give out little books with a brief outline of Christian teaching. Rev. At first I wanted to entrust all this to me, but, of course, after the first experiments I had to abandon this idea: and I actually studied the language for only about two months, this is too little to talk with pagans unaccustomed to broken accents about such an important issue as faith. A Christian, a believer, will forgive the missionary all his grammatical shortcomings, because he looks at him as a teacher of truth, while a pagan sees in him only a blaring foreigner who involuntarily excites laughter. Besides, I couldn’t be in church all the time. Now one old man, Jonah, has been assigned to this task, and he sits in the church from morning until night. The man turned out to be very talkative, and his explanations turn out to be entire sermons. They happen, of course. He also has disputes, especially with young people, with students. Only our old man treats them with such long refutations that the poor objectors then don’t know how to leave. Иона потом рассчитывал, что на каждый день круглым счетом приходится по одному, по два человека, которые настолько заинтересовываются проповедью, что спрашивают адрес катехизатора. During the first week, however, the cathedral was rarely opened to such visitors. В четверг и субботу освящены были оба придела, а в свободное от службы время происходили заседания собора. As we know, a council meets annually in our church. Previously, catechists and priests from all over Japan gathered, but now it is very expensive and inconvenient to gather everyone every year, so the church had to be divided into two halves and gathered each in turn every other year. Therefore, the cathedral is held one year in Tokyo for the northern half, and another year in Osaka for the southern half. The time of the meeting coincides with the end of Peter's fast. This time, however, an exception was made: everything was collected in February. The cathedral came out very crowded. Its meetings took place in the chapel of St. Peter and Paul. A small table was placed next to the salt, behind which the bishop and senior priests were placed, and then on either side in dense columns the rest of the priests and catechists were located on the floor. The first meeting was of a purely festive nature: various telegrams, letters, addresses, etc., sent and presented from all over Japan, were read. Addresses are written on huge scrolls in as ornate and lengthy a manner as possible. They were read either by the authors themselves or by one of the catechists. Of course, the address of our learned translator Nakai (the bishop’s chief collaborator in translating the liturgical books, a Japanese scholar, an expert in history and literature, no taller than two arshins) could only be read by himself: an ordinary mortal cannot read those sophisticated signs that Nakai uses. There are, as you know, several thousand Chinese characters. Not everyone knows the fourth share of them. Therefore, the Japanese write their reading in Japanese alphabet (kata-kana) next to Chinese characters. This mixed Japanese-Chinese script is usually used in manuscripts. Hence a special kind of literary vanity: to write only in Chinese characters, and in such a way that not everyone without a vocabulary can read. You can probably laugh at this, but aren’t our Latin terms the same as Chinese characters? The same thing, only in a different form. On the 26th (Tuesday) ordinary meetings of the council began. Each of them began and ended with a prayer. The usual saying was: “Blessed is our God.” Everyone sang “O Heavenly King, Blessed art thou, O Christ our God.” At the end of the meeting “It is worthy” and the release of Pentecost. The bishop began the first meeting by putting on an epitrachelion and an omophorion. After the prayer, they were given a speech about the state of preaching in the period after the last council. This time was not particularly favorable: the number of requests was much less than before. Where is the reason for this? They referred to the general enthusiasm for political issues (regarding the opening of parliament), crop failures, floods, etc., public disasters that diverted spiritual attention to material objects. Therefore, the past year has been difficult and fruitless for all missions in general; everyone complains about the lack of listeners. The bishop urged everyone not to equate themselves with heterodoxy, and not to justify themselves by the example of heterodox missions. Is there a reason in ourselves, in the lack of sufficient dedication on our part? The speech was lively and energetic. The entire congregation listened intently, never taking their eyes off the preacher. Later I happened to talk about preaching with one of the Japanese catechists. He compared Fr. John Ono and the bishop. O. John speaks evenly, smoothly, consistently, roundedly. Not a single thought is left out of his plan. The pronunciation itself is just as calm and even. You need to listen to him with your hands folded on your knees and your head bowed (a common Japanese posture when thinking). It's about. It provokes quiet reflection. Rev. You can’t listen to Nikolai with your head down, no one will be able to sit still. He lights up all over during the sermon and ignites the listeners, attracting everyone to him. The bowed heads rise and their gazes are involuntarily drawn to his inspired expression. It’s not for nothing that until now, for thirty years now (now 35), Rev. Nikolai works day and night in the field of the Lord and does not yet think about rest. The next meeting was blessed by Fr. Pavel Sawabe, who also gave a speech: described the first times of the Orthodox Church in Japan, how he turned to Christianity, how the conversion of others began, how they were in poverty while they supported each other and shared everything. This story was deeply edifying. The whole history of this creation of the church, this grace-filled growth of a barely noticeable gospel seed, involuntarily flashed before my eyes. The speeches, like everything that was said or done at the council, were immediately recorded by two stenographers. All this is then published in a separate book and sent to churches. After the speech, the cathedral opened its classes. Letters submitted to the council from various churches or from individuals with requests for catechists were read. One church asks for a new catechist, the other, on the contrary, asks that the old one not be taken away, etc. All requests for catechists are then discussed in a special priestly meeting, at which no one except priests and deacons is present. This meeting is completely private and domestic. Here, every priest, without hesitation, can express his opinion about this or that catechist, whether he is suitable in a given place or not. The distribution of catechists, in general, is a very difficult question: not a single priest, of course, wants to let a good person leave his parish, and he will also not willingly accept a bad one. There are a lot of requests. So all this needs to be sorted out in order to benefit the cause and not offend anyone. This wastes a lot of time. Having finished with the distribution, they convene the entire council and announce the decision of the priestly meeting. Sometimes they are dissatisfied, some ask for change; The cathedral sometimes immediately makes changes if it finds it necessary and convenient. A new priest was elected at the council. Christians of seventeen churches from the parish of Fr. Boris (a huge parish) was asked to give them a separate priest and as a candidate they pointed to the deacon of the Sendai Church, Fr. Joanna Katakura. Everyone found this choice good; the candidate himself, of course, refused, asking to be postponed while he asked the Sendai parishioners if they had anything against his departure. The next day a telegram arrived that the parishioners had nothing. Then the election was declared valid. The newly elected one bowed at the feet of the bishop, accepted the blessing from him, then with the same bow accepted the blessing from Fr. Boris, at which they priestly kissed each other’s hands and, in conclusion, Fr. Katakura bowed to both sides of the entire cathedral. At first he will be under some guidance from Fr. Boris. At the same meeting a deacon was elected for the Osaka Church. Here, in general, the ancient church rule regarding the selection of clergy by the entire church is strictly observed. People are elected to priesthood no earlier than 30 years of age, and to deacons no earlier than 25. The newly elected were inducted on Sunday. The cathedral ended with a liturgy and a thanksgiving service after it. The catechists, however, held a speaking meeting (enzetsu-quai) in the cathedral in the evening. The cathedral was packed, and our speakers, one before the other, poured out whole streams of eloquence. Since it was not allowed to express approval and censure in the cathedral, the speaking meeting was not so noisy. When approved, the Japanese applaud and shout: “heya” (English hear), when condemned, “but” (English “no,” which could no longer be distorted). As you can see, it’s completely American. In the first week, all our students fasted and received communion. We gathered for church three times a day. The same reading, the same bows to the ground with the prayer of Ephraim the Syrian, everything is like in Russia. Our disciples fast twice during Lent. Often some of them join in the middle of the year for some occasion or simply as desired. The churches have not yet established regular fasting: the priests must be away, there is no daily service. Christians confess at any time on Sundays and holidays. Now I have moved to Tokyo. Of course, I still cannot explain faith to visiting pagans. But even without this there is a deal. It’s just a pity that I had to give up Japanese for a while. If you don’t establish yourself in it first, you probably won’t be able to reverse this loss later. Now we are in the season of “sakura”, i.e. cherry blossoms. Here the cherries reach enormous sizes with a thick trunk. The fruit they produce is not good, but they are not planted for the fruit, but for the color. And they bloom truly luxuriously. The Japanese plant them in entire alleys, and during flowering they go there to look: they sit under the cherries, admire them, drink sake, and some will write poetry. Generally they are happy. Indeed, the Japanese are great hunters of flowers, and, moreover, all of them, regardless of age or condition. To meet some village “oji-san” (grandfather or uncle) with a spiky beard, in “waraji” (straw sandals), with a blue scarf on his head... Well, where would he seem to have such a tender feeling as love for flowers, and you watch this “oji-san” trudge for several miles, or maybe tens of miles, to watch asters or peonies bloom in some famous garden. Crowds go to look at “momiji” (a tree with leaves like a maple, only smaller), which at certain times turns red like blood (like our oak tree, only none of us would even think of going into the forest to admire it). Or, for example, in Tokyo, in the summer, it seems, in the month of August some kind of flower blooms there. Night or morning queen, in Japanese. It blooms before sunrise and closes when it appears. And at two o'clock in the morning almost all of Tokyo gathers at the gardeners to look at this queen. I was there too!.. The flower is very ordinary, planted in small jars, which are arranged on shelves. And there are thousands of people. Let’s say that some flowers are very good, but for the sake of this, getting up at midnight, giving up what you’re doing and coming here, for everyone, both old and young... From our point of view, this is too much. There are hardly any people in the world with such a finely developed aesthetic sense and taste as the Japanese. You can verify this by having some “Daiku-san” (carpenter) do something for you. You will immediately see that he pays his main attention not to strength or speed of work, but to its elegance. Letter XIV. May 14, 1891 Tokyo You already know in detail what happened here on April 29 near Kyoto (in Otsu). Now all this, thank God, is over. The heir Tsarevich returned safely to Vladivostok and the excitement caused by this event gradually subsided. How unexpected it all was, how wildly it all happened! Everyone was preparing to welcome the dear guest cordially, with honor, preparing various offerings for him, celebrations, illuminations, etc. And suddenly some ridiculous (tsumoranai) Tsuda Sanzo turned everything upside down. Now all of Japan is disgraced and saddened, and he laughs with his ridiculous samurai patriotism. The news of what had happened came to us on the same day, an hour or two after the event, and struck us like thunder on a clear day. It was Monday of St. Thomas Week, when we usually celebrate the Easter commemoration of the dead: the funeral liturgy is served, and then all the Christians with the priests and the choir of singers go to the cemeteries. They go around all Christian graves with prayer and Easter songs. We also went there to see and pray together with the Christians. After dinner, I sat calmly with an English newspaper (published here) and read a description of the Tsarevich’s journey through southern Japan, about the reception given to him in Kobe, etc. Suddenly, the Reverend runs into my room quickly, as always. Nicholas with a miter box in his hands. - “What are you doing? Let's go! - "Where? Why?” I asked him in complete bewilderment. - “Don’t you know? After all, the Tsarevich was wounded near Kyoto. Let’s go to the embassy to serve a prayer service.” At the embassy we found complete confusion. Preparations for the reception of the Heir to the Tsarevich were still continuing, meanwhile the remaining hosts (the envoy was with the Tsarevich) were in grave uncertainty. The telegram from the ministry had the following content: “Near Kyoto, one policeman hit the Tsarevich on the head with a saber; although the wounds are deep, the composition of the spirit is solid.” The telegram, as you see, is completely vague, raising all sorts of fears. What's there? How did it all end? We intended to serve a prayer of thanksgiving for deliverance from death, but, seeing the mood of those present, we decided to serve for the sick, as most appropriate to the circumstances. After the prayer service, everyone gathered together, shared their impressions, concerns, and wrote a telegram to the Tsarevich from the entire Russian colony. No additional news was received, although a messenger went to the ministry every half hour. We left for home without waiting for anything. At home everything was quiet, no one knew about what had happened. Shortly after his arrival, a Christian came to the bishop, who was in charge of photographs that they wanted to present to the Tsarevich; Rev. Nikolai calmly reasoned with him, saying nothing about the news of the day. No sooner had this finished than Fr. Pavel Sato. These also started talking about preparations for the reception: they talked about icons to present to the Tsarevich and Prince George. None of them knew or heard anything yet. The bishop finally told them that the offering of the icons might have to be postponed because the Tsarevich was wounded. The listeners did not understand at first, they were so amazed by this news. After this, everyone in the mission quickly found out, and then the whole evening, our Japanese walked around hanging their heads, spreading their arms, and saying: “Taihenno koto”... (i.e., “a terrible thing” or “fathers, what happened”) After some time, news came from the embassy that the Tsarevich had moved to Kyoto and that the government was sending an emergency train there, on which all Russians could travel. Rev. Nikolai decided to go. The training camp was, of course, very short, and we held it in Kyoto. The feeling of uncertainty still continued, but some confidence appeared in my soul that the danger was not so great if it was possible to move to Kyoto immediately after the wound... Meanwhile, the doors of our cathedral were unlocked, and fire was shining in the windows. It turns out that our students and students gathered with Fr. Pavel Sato (he is their confessor) to pray for the health of the Tsarevich. We, of course, could not force them to pray for our Tsarevich: with his painful patriotism (a kind of patridomania), the Japanese cannot come to terms with praying for a foreign Sovereign, this in his amazing head seems to be a betrayal of his Mikado. It was all the more comforting to see this voluntary prayer on the part of our students, who, like any youth, are, of course, more radical than adults. The next day, Christians from Tokyo churches held a prayer service. All evening and the next day our Christians came to my room one after another with expressions of sympathy. Everyone was embarrassed and dejected to the last degree. Compare our situation and theirs, and you will probably say that they are even worse off than us. We now calmed down: the newspapers brought favorable news: there was obviously no more danger. We could only thank God that it all ended so happily. Meanwhile, this brought little relief to the Japanese: the shameful stain continued to lie on Japan and, the further it went, the more it was revealed and became more noticeable. I even felt sorry for these innocent people who had to pay for the ugly patriotism of some Tsuda. Our Theodore, with pure Russian indignation, first scolded the Japanese, calling them “beasts” and “monkeys” for wounding the innocent Tsarevich. “What did he do to them?” But then our Theodore relented, at the sight of the general sadness of the Japanese: “Well, how are they to blame? After all, they are now worse than us, more ashamed.” On May 1st, Rev. Nikolai with the most comforting news. The Tsarevich was slightly wounded and is now completely recovering. In Kyoto, Rev. Nicholas was very graciously received by the Tsarevich. He informed him about the sadness of all his Christians, about their prayer for the Tsarevich. The heir Tsarevich thanked the bishop and said that because of one person he had not at all changed his good opinion of Japan. In the same room (purely Japanese) there was also the Greek prince George, whom the Heir Tsarevich introduced to the Most Reverend. Nicholas as his savior. Soon, news came to us about the transfer of distinguished guests from Kyoto to Kobe on a Russian military ship, and, finally, about the departure of the entire Russian squadron to Vladivostok. Two drivers who carried the Tsarevich during the sad event and in one way or another contributed to his salvation were royally awarded. Generous donations were made to various charitable institutions. The Orthodox mission, which also received a royal gift: $10,000, was not forgotten. It's a thing of the past now. All that remained was a shameful stain on Japan, and an annoying police guard near the mission. There are several overdressed police officers in the yard, and three obvious ones on the street. Everyone is waiting for some continuation of the Kyoto story, they are afraid for our bishop (who, more than once, in the past, was in danger). However, we hope this guard will soon end, because there is no danger. I haven’t written to you yet about how our holidays went. On Palm Sunday there were a lot of people during the all-night vigil. There are no willow trees in Japan, and it’s too late for them, so the sakura blossomed, and so, all our pilgrims and we stood with white and pink sakura. It turned out something like Pentecost. During the Holy Passion, the seminarians and students again joined in communion. On Maundy Thursday we listened to 12 gospels. There is some peculiarity here. With us, what we read, what we listen to, what we read is equally clear or incomprehensible. It's not like that with the Japanese. The Gospel is printed in Chinese characters, which have two pronunciations: Chinese (distorted) and purely Japanese. The first can be compared with foreign words used in our language. Well, if the reader reads purely in Japanese, the reader can easily understand the reading. But most educated people, of course, read purely Chinese reading and writing with the first pronunciation. Chinese words are monosyllabic and therefore there are a lot of monosounding words. Eg. “Xing” means: new, heart, faith, spirit, etc. Of course, the listener, especially when reading quickly, without appropriate gestures, cannot understand much. And if the reader stands far away and does not read completely separately, then it is impossible to make out anything from him. A peculiar necessity arose to have a book before my eyes in order to understand what I was reading. And now our pilgrims stand behind the 12 Gospels with books, and the candles in their hands have ceased to be a simple symbol: they are also necessary for reading. Of course, Easter was celebrated especially solemnly. All our Christians (all over Japan) break their fast not at home, but near the church - in Tokyo - in the mission. To achieve this, each private Tokyo community (church) occupies one of the rooms in the mission buildings, decorates it to the best of its ability, trying to outdo its neighbors in elegance. Bring flowers, “kake-mono” - scrolls with sayings of Chinese sages, with some poem, for Christians - with the words of Holy Scripture, also with Japanese paintings. Such scrolls hang in a place of honor in the Japanese zashiki. In the old church, which is located in one of the rooms of the mission building, Easter cakes, eggs, etc. are placed. This is also a subject of competition. What shapes are these Easter cakes given? They make them in the shape of a bowl, in the shape of a ship, in the shape of a house, etc., etc., whatever Japanese ingenuity can come up with. Eggs are also painted in all sorts of colors. In addition, various cookies are brought, in the form of crosses and birds. All this is placed in special groups on shelves, decorated with a whole forest of flowering plants and flags. The church takes on the most festive look. From 8 p.m. on Saturday they opened the reading of the Acts of the Apostles, and the seminarians decided to speak sermons in the old church, one after another. The zeal of our young preachers this time, however, did not find an answer in the listeners; after a while the Christians asked the preachers from there to be transferred somewhere else, because they were preventing them from decorating their Easter cakes. The divine service was performed, of course, in the same way as in Russia. All Christians stood with candles. Priests in white vestments. The church was positively magnificent. One thing was missing for us Russians: there was no this mysterious and at the same time solemn chime on Easter night, to which we are so accustomed and which so especially attunes the soul. There were pagans all around us; it was inappropriate to wake them up at midnight with our noisy bells. However, everyone here was accustomed to silent celebration; no one noticed the lack. After the service, Rev. Nikolai went to consecrate Easter cakes for Christians in the old church, and walked with congratulations through all the mission rooms where different churches were located. We priests (three of us) went to schools to bless the Easter for the students. Everywhere is illuminated, everywhere is fun, joyful. At the mission, in one of the rooms, a table was set for all the clergy, teachers, translators, and in general for all our officials. We were visiting the Rev. Nicholas. Our fellow Greek guests were also here with us. By the way, there was one priest who surprised us quite a bit with his visit to Japan to collect donations for the church. Rev. himself Nikolai, however, was not with us: he needed to accept congratulations. Every Christian, when leaving home, must go to his “tsai-simp” (the great spiritual father, that is, in our opinion, the bishop - only the Japanese word says more about the moral significance of the bishop) to congratulate him and share Christ with him. The bishop gives each one a red egg. So time passed until six o'clock in the morning. But even then no one thought about rest. Before I had time to return to my room, our catechetical school came in with its full complement and declared that “her eyes want to pop out” (equivalent to our “congratulations”, the eyes of the Japanese pop out, obviously due to special joy) and “Christ fukukwatsusu” (is risen). I had to lie that my eyes were also bulging out of their sockets. Following them came the students of the singing school, then all sorts of official and non-official Christians came - all with a joyful “Christ is risen,” with smiles and bows. There are few kisses here: this is not a local custom at all and is unlikely to take root here. Even parents don't kiss their children. A little later the right choir came with the priest; they sang “Christ is Risen,” “Angel Cries,” etc., in a word, like in Russia. Then - the left choir, then - the school from Koozi-matsi. Easter singing was heard throughout our mission all day long. Letter XV. 1st June 1891. Tokyo The summer season has begun at our school, and with it the constant recreation. Do you think this is something ordinary? No, there is little that is ordinary here. Schoolchildren celebrate their outings here with such a bang that their Russian comrades would never even think of it. Foreplay, of course, is the most ordinary. A deputation from the school appears in the room of every more or less official person with the most polite bows and innocent faces. Narrow eyes are completely drowned in a smile. The messengers hand you a ticket and become even more touching. You need to pay for the ticket. Having thus collected a certain amount, the students buy themselves various gifts, and most importantly, jockey caps and all kinds of prizes for future games. The selection of prizes is remarkable, very typical. Our seminarians and schoolchildren in general would hardly have thought of such things. For example, a handkerchief, soap, tooth powder, a toilet drawer, a notebook, without which not a single Japanese person will go anywhere. These Japanese people have amazing practices. On the appointed day, in the morning, the seminarians, all in multi-colored jockey caps, two in a row, come to the mission courtyard and line up in front of the bishop's windows. At the head of the column flutters a huge white flag with yard-long Chinese letters: “Orthodox Theological School.” Similar flags are in the middle and at the tail of the column, and then almost every seminarian holds small flags of all colors in their hands. Rev. Nicholas came out to this army, blessed it, said a few words, and the army, full of flags and cheerfully talking among themselves, walked through the streets of Tokyo. She needs to go far, about eight miles, to the suburban town of Oji, famous for its Inari or fox church. After lunch, we went there with several Japanese teachers. The place is truly wonderful; That’s why the Japanese chose it for recreation (at the same time as us, another school was celebrating recreation in the same Oji). Our guys camped on a half-mountain, under large spreading trees, and below was a wide plain, sown with crops, now green. Villages were visible here and there. To the side a large stationery factory was smoking. Our seminarians, having finished their "gozen" (rice or lunch in general), now gathered in a group, rested from the morning journey and from games, amused themselves with various stories and jokes. All Japanese have an amazing habit of counting on their fingers. They will not do the simplest arithmetic operation, so as not to resort to their fingers. What is this? Is it a lack of education or, perhaps, a natural lack of synthesis? In general, the Japanese have strong analysis before synthesis It is not easy for them to assimilate the general, but they immediately grasp and note each component part, which, therefore, is acquired by them separately. This is obviously the fruit of their Chinese literacy. For seven years, and maybe more, every Japanese sits at this letter, and his whole task during all this time is not to miss any subtle detail in which one letter differs from another. you will get used to analysis and to quickly assimilate details. After sitting for a while, my two teachers (Miy and Morita, both of them now, in 1895, already priests) went to wander around the surrounding area, went into the nearest villages, and looked into different corners. Our path lay more like a field, among green grain. We walked along a country path; On both sides of it, water flowed quickly along the grooves. This is artificial irrigation. All this is arranged simply, cheaply, and at the same time all this is useful and practical. It is impossible not to give justice to the Japanese in this regard. The walk through the fields was excellent. Occasionally, only the smell from a unique fertilizer made me remember that the Japanese learned all the wonders of their culture from the Chinese. It’s an amazing thing: the people are very capable, smart, practical, and almost one and a half thousand years have passed since they borrowed their culture from the Chinese, and during all this time it never occurred to them to make any adaptations for Japan in this culture. The Chinese built very good houses for the south, but for northern Japan these houses are too airy, you have to freeze mercilessly in them in winter and sit with your entire wardrobe loaded down on you. Perhaps the Japanese thought more about war among themselves, but left culture to the Chinese they despised. Will the same thing happen with European culture? They will take over everything from the Europeans, adopt new inventions faster, perhaps, than the Europeans themselves, but they will add nothing of their own. The fields were sown with barley and partly wheat. Barley here turns out to be cheaper than rice and serves as a support for the latter for the villagers. It is consumed half and half with rice. It is interesting to compare the methods of arable farming here with ours. The local peasant works mainly, if not exclusively, with his own hands, without the help of domestic animals. This may be more difficult, but the arable land is finished just right for an exhibition. With the same attention to detail as Japanese lacquerware. Having plowed his plot with a hoe and cleared it of weeds and roots, the Japanese makes beds with his hands the entire length or width of the plot and then begins to sow, or rather, plant bread: the grains are scattered in small pinches, just as we plant flowers in jars. Of course, the work is very long, but then it’s nice to look at such arable land. Another will sow his plot with various grains and vegetables: a bed of barley, a bed of buckwheat, then poppy seeds, then again barley, vegetables, etc. The arable land turns into a kind of flower garden. The main concern and labor is sowing rice. First of all, you need a nursery for rice. To do this, a small piece of land, two fathoms or less, is allocated and separated by earthen partitions. Water from a nearby stream flows here and little by little a real swamp is formed. Then the peasant plows, or rather, kneads, the dirt, the depth of which reaches the waist. After this, grains of rice are thrown here, and a pole with ropes hung with colorful pieces of paper is placed on top - this is a scarecrow for birds. The grains float in this nursery until they sprout and “wakaba” (seedlings, young grass) grows. Then the Japanese rice planting festival begins, something very similar to our haymaking in its cheerful atmosphere. The Japanese dress up, tie white or blue scarves around their heads and, with bunches of fresh young greenery, begin to walk in rows across the arable land, planting rice. They say it turns out to be a picturesque view. The townspeople go to see this seating arrangement somewhere outside the city, on a hill known throughout the city. They sit there, sip tea or more “sake”, admire the beauty, “kessiki” (view), and, of course, write or at least read poetry. A Japanese cannot do without “uta” (poems) and “sake” (wine) if “kessiki” really makes an impression on him. Sowers, of course, may have a different opinion about sowing rice: walking through the mud all day with a bent back is not particularly easy. However, if possible, they also have a festive, cheerful look. Wandering in different directions, we finally came to the famous local Inari. The church itself, of course, is no different from other “miya” in any significant way. First of all, you pass through the “tori-mon” - this is a specially shaped gate, a distinctive feature of Shinto shrines. Their structure is as follows: two large pillars, on which a crossbar is placed, the long, protruding ends of which are slightly curved upward; Below this crossbar, another one is installed between the pillars without protruding ends. Both crossbars are connected to each other in the middle by a small board or stick (with a rather unique symbolic meaning). Sometimes a table with some sacred inscription is hung to this connecting board. That's the whole structure of these gates. For the most part, they are wooden, but they are also made from stones, and sometimes, in especially wonderful churches, they are cast from bronze. Through the gate you enter the church courtyard. Directly opposite the gate there is a special raised platform under a canopy: dancing takes place here during the holidays. Further, at the same distance, along the same straight line, you see the first section of the church. There are no special images in it: a mirror serves as a symbol of the deity. On the sides there are signs with the names of the dead, and there are two-part breads made from rice flour. Straw is hung along the cornice - also a symbol of the deity. Mere mortals are allowed only here, to the threshold of the "yashiro", but it is located even further, also in a straight line. This is a very small building, a hut; it seems that only priests are allowed there. In Inari, the only difference was that through the gate you step onto a stone, rather impressive staircase, along which you climb to the sanctuary. On the sides of the stairs there are statues of foxes and people. The main beauty is the huge hundred-year-old trees that shade the stairs and the sanctuary. There's nothing special here. A narrow staircase leads from the sanctuary - a path up the mountain, this is the path to the fox’s own apartment. The path winds along the mountainside under the trees. Every now and then you come across small “Tori-mons” made from poles. These are offerings to the fox from her admirers; the offerings cannot be said to be too generous. Each Tory Mon also has the name of the donor written on it. Higher up the mountain, these “Tori-mons” are placed in such numbers that they form a continuous corridor, along which you need to make your way, bending down strongly, if not out of respect for the fox, then at least so as not to hit your head on the low “Tori-mons”. Having passed this peculiar corridor, you finally come to some kind of hut on chicken legs - either a birdhouse or a chapel. The small doors are locked, but through the round holes (for alms) you can see the inside of the magic hut. There is little interesting there, but a lot of dust and dirt. On the shelves there are crappy images of foxes, dusty and shabby, and scattered cakes that visitors treat the fox to. The shelves take up almost all the space inside, so you can't see what's underneath them. There, obviously, is supposed to be the home, or bedroom, of the most mysterious inhabitant. There are other similar huts a little to the side. It must be for other foxes, only those are still young and do not enjoy honor: “Tori-mon” stand only in front of some and in small numbers. The fox's coat of arms is painted on the huts: a flaming ball. When we returned, we found our guys in full swing of all sorts of games and sports. Prizes were raffled off. All these games seem to be a European innovation. Together with the school, all school rules came here from the Old World. Our army arrived home at about 7 pm and, as in the morning, lined up in front of the bishop’s windows. The bishop came out again. Our guys suddenly sang “To the King of Heaven.” It wasn’t entirely comfortable in jockey caps and with flags,” Rev. Nikolai asked to sing something more suitable. Then the loud peals of the Japanese anthem were heard: “Kimi-ga yo-wa.” In conclusion, they shouted something incomprehensible to the bishop, either “oooh” or “hurray,” and went in the same ceremonial march to their seminary. There was also some kind of parade with singing of the anthem and shouting. Tomorrow, obviously, everyone will refuse to answer the lesson, on the occasion of recreation. Now we are entering the most unpleasant period, the so-called “nyubai”. For a month or even forty days, light rain drizzles almost continuously. The dampness is unimaginable, unprecedented here. You can’t leave the dress on the wall in the shade; in a day or two it will all be covered with mold. The furniture is damp, the cabinets cannot be opened, and their doors are swollen from the dampness. In fact, it was literally impossible to open the church cabinets in the new cathedral. They were made in winter, when the air was very dry, and so, during the nyubai, we had to take the sacristy from there and, despite our efforts, we were unable to get anything. Add the stuffiness to the rain, probably from the south wind, and you will get some idea of ​​our nyubai. Headaches almost never stop for those who are not used to it, and the Japanese themselves suffer no less than we do. A disaster for the nervous and rheumatic. Our poor seminarians have to endure a double whammy: exams begin. They are a weak people compared to ours. They often get sick and cannot withstand intense mental work. The head begins to hurt, and the poor man has to stop studying. Ours are in even better conditions, they eat meat two or three times a week; you can’t get far on rice. For the holidays we are thinking of sending half of them to the dacha, where I am also planning to travel. Letter XVI. July 15, 1891 Tokyo Today I returned from my trip. I lived in the country, walked through the mountains, breathed fresh air, and now I’m back in Tokyo. I will describe to you what interesting things I saw. On July 3, Theodore and I left Tokyo by rail at 9 and a half in the morning. We needed to go to Koozu station, where we would transfer to a horse-drawn railway carriage. From here the path lies along the plain. To the right you can see huge, green mountains, which all run ahead of you and little by little take over the horizon. On the left, the sea opens up from time to time. The horsecar runs along the old Japanese road, the so-called Tokaido, which runs from Tokyo to Kyoto. In the old days, all the great and small dignitaries passed through here, as did troops, goods, etc. The traffic was generally very lively. Despite this, the road is not very wide, especially when compared with our big roads. This is explained by the fact that in the old days movement was carried out mostly on foot, in stoles or on horseback. At the same time, anyone who was not a samurai, if he sat on horseback, had to get off the horse and bow deeply to every samurai he met. Therefore, no special latitude was required: there is room for bowing on the sides of the road. Now the railway has been built in Kyoto and the Tokaido is in disrepair. We pass through the city of Odowara. It stretched almost one street into an endless space. You go and go, there’s just no end in sight. Horses change. New passengers board, and two village “oba-asans” with black teeth, their mouths open, look at us for a long time, especially at Theodore. We're going along Odowara again. Here on the left side is our Orthodox Church. Wooden, white. There is her lovely garden all around. This church is not consecrated; it is actually a house of prayer, in which the liturgy is celebrated on a portable antimension. But in appearance there is no difference from the church: there is a dome and a cross on it, there is a very nice, although inexpensive, iconostasis, a throne, an altar. Many houses of worship are arranged in the same way inside. Fr. pastors here. Peter Kano, one of the first Christians. After Odowara, the Tokaido remains to the left, and we drive along a wide green plain, breathing in the wonderful, fresh air of the field, free from road dust. The valley is quite wide. A transparent river flows through it in playful meanders. Sometimes the banks are lined with it and the channel is smooth, sometimes it rushes from one edge of the valley to the other, looking for a path through piles of stones. We move it several times. The mountains are now close, nearby on both sides. We can now fully admire their green heights. They are huge and picturesque. But even we are delighted with the places, despite our unfamiliarity with mountain beauty. Wonderful places. And it's all so green, so fresh. No wonder Japan was called the green island. Everything here is green. The mountains are covered with green forest; where the forest is too high, thick green grass rushes to occupy the top of the mountain. One cannot help but admire the freshness of spring everywhere. But here comes Yumoto. This is where the horse-drawn line ends, because further on the road goes uphill. We arrived at the border of the Hakone Hills. This hill is remarkable for the abundance of all kinds of mineral, hot, etc. waters. There are sources everywhere, starting with Yumoto himself. And with the springs, their obligatory companions are bathrooms with rooms, hotels, reoria (cookhouses), and visiting people everywhere. From Yumoto the valley is divided into two by a mountain ridge. If we go to the left, we will find a waterfall, which is often visited by lovers of kessiki (species), and further on the opposite side of the valley the old road to Hakone “Tokaido” makes its way along the steep slopes). Our path lies to the right. We cross the hanging wooden bridge. We walk past hotels, past stalls with all kinds of Japanese products, toys, boxes, canes, etc. The road rises more and more noticeably, and the valley, now narrow, takes on a completely mountainous appearance. Below, in the depths, a mountain river boils and foams, with huge walls on both sides. A little later, a white house with a dome in the middle “castle”, as the English call it in guidebooks, will appear and disappear again in the green heights. 'This is our dacha. Another two minutes pass and above us, a little lower than the castle, on the very edge of the steep, our Orthodox church with its seven domes will turn white among the trees. Both the church and the castle were built by Fr. Vladimir, or, as they call him here, “Vradimir” (the Japanese do not have the letter “l”). He collected money, bought this place (of course, in the name of the Japanese), planted a garden, a flower garden, built a house, a church, etc. In his free time, he was always here with the seminarians (he headed the seminary and taught in it; in this regard, he was one of the few zealous assistants of the Reverend. Nicholas, who still remembers him with gratitude for this). We need to go past the entire dacha to the village of Tonusava, there is a bridge over the river. The road is beautiful, wide, smooth and very flat. But what is most amazing about the mountain gorge is the electric lighting. Well, aren't the Japanese great? In our capital you won’t see this luxury, but here in the mountains, far from any capitals and provincial cities. And all this is relatively inexpensive for them: the same river that makes noise down there also serves as the engine for an electric machine. This illuminates Yumoto with all its restaurants and rooms, and the road in the mountains to Miyanoshita. This is the name of a village or, better yet, a summer cottage in the mountains, about eight miles from Yumoto. There is wonderful air, good baths, a picturesque view - that’s why almost the entire European colony comes there in the summer. For Europeans, there are two or three huge hotels with all amenities. Isn't this road with electric lighting also for them? Then one should not be particularly surprised at the ingenuity of the Japanese. In Tonusawa you need to cross a suspension bridge, climb past small Japanese shacks along a crooked street. Our area begins behind them. A staircase runs in zigzags along the steep slope - this is “Mikhey-zaka” (Mikheevsky ascent or descent), as the seminarians called it after the name of our gardener who arranged this ascent. Our dacha is a very picturesque garden, partly located on terraces. On the upper terrace, right next to the mountain, there is a rather large European house with two floors. It was built for Countess Putyatin (the daughter of the famous Count Putyatin, who concluded a treaty with Japan on the Kuril Islands. The treaty, however, was not particularly successful, since they gave our Kuril Islands to the Japanese for our southern half of the island of Sakhalin). This countess did a lot for the mission. The main buildings in the mission, a girls' school, were built with her funds. The Countess came here to serve as a missionary, but illness, which always kept her in bed, later forced her to leave her holy work. On the next terrace there is a castle, in which seminarians now live during our visit. A little away from it is a small house, semi-European: this is the memory of another missionary who worked here for some time, Maria Cherkasy (she is now working in Palestine). Finally, on the lowest platform, as I said, on the edge of a cliff, there is a church. Now it's all abandoned. The Castle is barely holding on, and so is the Cherkasskaya House: the church, although white on the outside, has also rotted and is threatening to fall. Huge bells, hanging for no one knows why (and how did they drag them up such an inaccessible steep slope?), only pull him even more towards the ground. Previously, when Vladimir was here, he supported all this in addition to the mission: there was a place for his recreation with his students. Now the practical significance of the dacha has disappeared, and it is in disrepair. However, if there were people who wanted to build a monastery here, it would be difficult to find a more picturesque and more suitable place. In the summer there are still people in the surrounding area, but even then, it’s rare, very rare that an outsider will come to our site. After the dacha season, there is such silence here, such solitude that one could not wish for anything better for a monk. There is plenty of space for a monastery. Besides the garden (very extensive), the mission owns the entire mountain adjacent to the rear. The desire to have a monastery there has long been born, but there are no suitable people and no funds to make this desire come true. Theodore and I stayed in Putyatina’s house. Of course, there isn’t much furniture there, but we don’t need a lot. Soon our seminarians arrived with bows. They dragged Theodore through all the local attractions, including the baths, to a place on the river where eels are especially well caught (the Japanese are great hunters of them, and they cook them skillfully). Poor Theodore barely returned later; the fleet-footed guides discouraged him from any desire to travel. There is a lot of greenery and freshness here. But the wonderful thing is that Japanese flowers do not emit any smell. Theodore noticed this first of all. Everything in Japan is cute and beautiful. Their flowers are beautiful, but they are not fragrant. Their birds are lovely, but they don't sing. The Japanese are exquisitely kind and affectionate, but they do not have kisses. You walk exactly in a panorama, see nature, cities, people; but all these are just pictures, only the outer side of life, hiding the emptiness. On July 4th, before lunch, we walked up the mountain to a Buddhist temple. It's a quarter of an hour's quick climb from us. In ancient times, this church was widely known and attracted many fans. From Tonusava itself, a kind of sacred road led to it, all lined with Buddhist stone idols on both sides. On steep ascents there were wide stone stairs, the number of steps of which was known to pious fans: on each step “Namu Amida bu” was read. Now the stamp of oblivion is on everything. The road is neglected, the stairs are destroyed, idols have fallen or are standing without heads and arms. Fans stopped coming here. Theodore and I and several seminarians climbed the sacred mountain. First, on both sides there are Buddhist cemeteries, dull, silent, with their peculiar Buddhist smell (from some kind of leaf). These are obviously family tombs, which is why they are still kept clean. Above them, halfway from the church, there are the usual tera wooden gates, all covered with the names of travelers. Next to them stands a large stone pillar. On one side it is written: “Namu Amida bu,” and on the other they claim that there is a direct road to heaven. From here the climb becomes steeper, the stairs disappear for a while, and the road goes through the forest. There are idols here and there. Theodore was especially surprised by the eight-armed Buddha. He could not understand why the Japanese attached eight arms to their god. Soon we reached the site where the tara (church) of this cemetery stands, passed it and climbed a very steep and uncomfortable path to an ancient cave, located another ten to fifteen minutes above the church. In the old days, some Buddhist bonze ascetic lived in this cave; His iron staff is now kept in a container. A few years ago, Fr. went here in the summer. Ioann Sakai, already deceased. He was distinguished by his ascetic life. The cave has two sections. Some light still penetrates into the first from the low door, but the second is completely dark. You can only get there with a torch. Both departments are very small. There are many different Buddhist idols there, but the dampness and dirt are simply unbearable. It’s hard to imagine how the ascetics lived here. However, the next year I saw an ascetic again in this cave: some boss decided to save himself there. I don’t know if he lived there permanently, because I met him downstairs, in the tera. He complained that in damp weather it was unbearably sickening in the cave... The cave is located on such a rapid that it is simply creepy to look at. It is all covered with huge, barely holding on, blocky stones and giant fallen pine trees. All this seems to be rushing down like a waterfall, and a gray bulk of rock hangs over the cave. This is all about to move... They say that in winter, when a lot of snow accumulates on the mountains, stones, sometimes very large ones, fall from the peaks and fly down noisily, breaking and felling pine trees along the way. That's why there are a lot of fallen trees here. Having descended from there, we entered the tera. In its main compartment there are three gilded idols: in the middle, Amida with a silver star in her forehead, in an ordinary pose (with her legs crossed and her hands folded on her knees with her thumbs together). On the sides are two “Kwannon”, one with a blooming lotus flower in her hands, and the other with her hands folded in prayer in a Catholic manner. “Kwannon” is a female deity, the goddess of good fortune. They say (the opinion of one English bishop-writer) that this deity was borrowed by Buddhism from the island of Sokotor, from the Arabs, with whom India has always been in close relations. Amida himself bears undoubted similarities with the Persian Tseru-ane-Akerene. Apparently, he converted to Buddhism from the Persians. This last one has no deities. What gods can a religion that is essentially atheistic have? In order to occupy its empty altar with something, Buddhism takes into itself all the gods it encounters in one country or another. Of course, the learned bonzes consider all these Amida and Kwannon to be simple personifications of different ideas, but they preach to the people and the people believe that all these are living beings to whom they can turn with prayer for help. This is how Buddhism lies. Kwannon is highly revered in Japan; churches have been erected in her honor everywhere. By the way, there is a very revered church in Tokyo, Asakusa. This church is very ancient and remarkable, in addition, for its idol, which is considered among the people to be miraculous. This idol was made of some kind of ebony and now, from constant touching and rubbing, it has turned into an unrecognizable block. In front of the idols there is an oblong altar, on it there are several fancy incense burners, lamps, and golden lotus flowers made of wood. It smelled of smoke and bosses. In front of the altar there is a rug for the bonze and an open book, probably a prayer book, and next to it is an image of some mythical turtle made of wood. The bonze hits this turtle with a stick during prayer. You can hear his monotonous, humming muttering and these methodical, dreary blows from afar. This time we didn’t meet anyone in tera. Its only occupant did not come out of his room to us. He is generally a great lover of solitude and does not like to show himself in the light of God. For example, there was a fire in the village below, and the bonze learned about this event in his parish only a month and a half later. At the very edge of the site, near the stairs along which we climbed to the tera, there is an old, old, swaying bell tower, or better, just a wooden canopy with a bell. They ring by hitting the bell with a small log hung like a battering ram. Around the bell tower is a cemetery with ancient monuments. They are all carved from stone. Some of them show mysterious Buddhist symbols and Sanskrit inscriptions. We stayed here for a long time, looking at the monuments. In general, the appearance of a cemetery is serious, but in a Buddhist way the soul is somehow especially attuned, somehow it freezes under the influx of deeply mysterious sadness. Before the mind's eye, the thousand-year history of Buddhism is resurrected, the history of feats of the mind, before which all European philosophy is childish babble, the history of iron efforts of will, in the name of teaching, fettered the carnal nature of man. And all these heroic efforts, all this insatiable desire to solve the riddle of life should have ended here, under the slab, should have revealed to man only nirvana, that is, nothing. Poor man! A pitiful existence without meaning, without purpose, with a riddle at the beginning and with traceless destruction at the end! Why suffer, why force your nature if it has to disappear into the sea of ​​a life that is alien to it and unloving? But a person wants the truth, wants to penetrate higher and further, wants to live a truly human life. This is how Buddha comes to mind with his suffering smile. Woe to you, man, if you live without God. In the cemetery, among the Buddhist graves, like a harbinger of new life, stands a monument to one of the students of our girls’ school. She died at the dacha and was buried according to the Orthodox tradition here, in the Buddhist cemetery with the permission of the bonze, who generally treats the dead kindly. Above her grave stands the same gray granite monument, but on it is a cross and a Japanese-Chinese inscription: “Servant of God Faith.” We prayed over her grave and went down to our dacha. On the 5th we had to stay at home: it rained almost the whole day, and on the 6th we again went with Theodore and the Japanese overseer of the seminary to inspect the surroundings. This time we followed Yumoto to the waterfall. There is a very nice garden there with the inevitable “cha-ya” with colored lanterns and goldfish. The newly built pavilion houses various idols, transferred here from some ancient church. They are shown simply as rarities. The figure of Fu-doo, placed in a special hut on a small island, is remarkable. A large ugly black idol, with sparkling white eyes, a sword in its right hand, and a rope in its left. I didn’t get the meaning; seems to be a kind of retributive justice. We crossed the swinging bridge over the river and headed up the mountain to a very ancient Buddhist tera. We walked through tea plantations. Several Japanese women and Japanese men wearing blue headscarves were collecting tea. Theodore approached one woman, took the basket from her and began shaking it and throwing it around, thinking how good it would be to transplant one bush to us in Russia. The woman was not at all embarrassed by this unceremoniousness of the ijin; apparently everyone here was accustomed to travelers and their curiosity. In the church, for a certain fee, we were shown various rarities: ancient paintings (especially remarkable is one representing Shakya Muni after fasting, amazingly vividly painted), various vessels, books, etc. Most Buddhist temples are real museums of rarities. They are now visited precisely as museums. We were received by two bosses and treated to tea. One bonze, cleaned up and polite, said that he had been to Tokyo and had seen “Nikorai-san.” A very kind bonze, but with an unpleasant dry look, which almost all bonzes have. His other comrade was looking for something simpler. Dressed in an ordinary gray haori, his head and beard have not been shaved for a long time, his nose has a strong purple tint. He obviously doesn’t care much about Buddhism, and he hardly understands anything about it, but he might have a lot of interesting things to say about “sake.” The 7th was Sunday, so in the evening they served something like an abbreviated all-night vigil, and on Sunday they served mass. During both services, one of the seminarians preached a sermon. Some two Englishmen came to our call, stood in the doorway, craning their necks, and listened to the sermon. Whether they understood anything is unknown. On the 12th we took a rather long trip to Hakone. A whole camp went: all the seminarians, the warden and me, only Theodore, who was tired of the mountains, especially the rice table, flatly refused to travel. We left around seven in the morning and headed towards Miyanoshita. We all walked along the same beautiful road with electric lighting that leads from Yumoto. Only, the further you go, the deeper the gorge becomes, in which the river roars, and the more picturesque the mountains become. There are no bare peaks to be seen, everything is covered either with forest or grass (on very high mountains), and round gray mounds, sometimes of enormous size, are scattered across the grass. This must be a trace of previous volcanic eruptions. Many peaks have the shape of a strict cone, slightly truncated. And besides all this, the abundance of hot springs speaks of the hidden work of underground forces. For Miyanoshita, for example. We passed through Asina, where even the air was heavy from numerous sulfur springs. In the same district there are two Hells, large and small (Dai-ji-goku and Seo-ji-goku). Both of them are a small space on the mountainside, all smoking and hissing from a lot of hot fumes. They say the air there is saturated with sulfur and it is difficult to breathe. Soon after Miyanoshita, the road loses all its European amenities and turns into an ordinary Japanese path-path: further, there must be no need for it, Europeans all live in Miyanoshita and rarely penetrate further. The climbs are getting steeper and longer. Unfortunately for us, after yesterday's rain the road was muddy and slippery. I remember one pass was especially difficult. What did it cost to climb it?! Just a disaster! With great effort we reached the “tateb”, located at the top of it. Tateba is a small roadside shop. In it you can get tea, Japanese cake, and most importantly, clean, cold water and sit and take a break from the journey. Some talkative “obaasan” (definitely “obaasan” and not “ojisan”) will run out to meet you, sit you down, and serve you tea. Tea and a box with coal for a pipe are necessary accessories for any such tateba. There is no fee for this, this is supposed to be a free courtesy on the part of the obaasans. But the visitor also obliges, as a matter of decency, to give something to the hostess. Of course, some pennies are given, although, depending on the visitor’s clothing, the obaasan sometimes receives more. If you take a cookie or an egg, this is already a trade and the obaasan will not hesitate to tell you how much you should pay for it. Along the way you can see a remarkable statue of Jizoo (god of mercy) of its kind. It is very large in size and all carved out of rock. At one time the “tama” between the eyebrows (the ball or stone, the distinctive accessory of the Buddha, depicting, it seems, a star) was made of pure gold, but now it has been taken out, and there is a hole in poor Jizoo’s forehead; the chin and hand of his raised right hand were broken off, the stairs leading up to him were overgrown. The shapes of the statue are very correct and the face is not without some artistry. True, this is the usual Buddhist type of frozen goodness and femininity. Around the main statue there are several small ones, also upholstered and broken. Around midday we finally arrived in Hakone, famous for its picturesque mountain lake. In the old days, under the shogun's rule, Hakone was the main customs house or outpost on the road from Kyoto to Tokyo. Everything took place here. The village flourished. Now this is a distant mountain wilderness, into which only tourists go, and even those only for the beautiful lake. However, during the summer several summer residents live in the village, there are Japanese, there are also foreigners, of course, missionary teachers. They have a small summer school here for the Japanese, where they preach and teach children. We stopped to rest in Ryooriya and ordered ourselves the most Lucullan Japanese lunch (we, however, brought rice with us from home). Ryooriya's back façade looked directly onto the famous lake, but we didn't have a chance to admire it properly: the day was very cloudy, there was thick fog over the lake. All the pictures disappeared under this inexorable veil. In Hakone there is also a Shinto shrine (Miya), famous for its antiquity and history, the so-called Gongen. A very spectacular road lined with hundred-year-old giant trees leads to it. The church is surrounded by a red wall. In the outer courtyard, under the awnings, there are many ancient paintings. We were returning from Hakone along the old road, Tookaido. Truly a terrible road. It was laid through the main ridge and laid without any attempts to somehow correct the nature: the climbs are most impossible. Moreover, in its old days this road was paved with large stones, and now all these stones stick out as everyone pleases. You can't look up without tripping. Travel here is only possible on foot or in a palanquin, and even then it is difficult to imagine how poor porters climb such rapids. But the views here are truly picturesque; much bolder, more majestic than on the new road. The seminarians are great at walking, the main thing is that they walk very modestly, attacking only lizards, of which there are a lot here in the mountains. In Hakone itself they caught and killed me; they wanted to throw her into the lake, but Obaasan, the mistress of Ryooriya, opposed this. “It will rain,” he says. Don't we have any similar superstition? Some seminarians did not waste anything they saw. An open notebook in one hand, a pencil behind the ear. Something wonderful will be encountered, now it is being recorded - whether it will be a waterfall, a mountain of an original shape, or an amazing obaasan with a growth on his forehead. We returned home late in the evening, at eight o'clock, tired and wet. It was difficult to climb up to our dacha, according to Micah-zaka. Because of this, they fell asleep in the most heroic sleep. This morning, at five o'clock, Theodore and I left the dacha and returned to Tokyo. Everyone feels good in the mountains, but there are billions of mosquitoes there. Poor Theodore especially suffered from them for some reason. In general, summer in Japan is infested with mosquitoes; you can’t sleep without a canopy, even in cities. Mosquitoes are especially biting. In a week or five days, Rev. Nikolai goes to churches in the north of Japan, and I stay here to do housekeeping. Letter XVII. October 28, 1891 Tokyo Sad times have come in the world: there is famine in Russia, there is an earthquake here, which even the old-timers cannot remember. We didn't experience anything special in Tokyo. There was some shaking, but that's not unusual in October. Here at this time earthquakes are perhaps as common as thunderstorms here in the summer. There is no harm from hesitation, so everyone treats it quite calmly. So it is this time. At seven o'clock in the morning I had just come to my room from prayer from the catechetical school. We must tell you that every day at 7 o'clock in the morning there is a common prayer for students of the catechetical and singing schools. They gather in the baptismal sanctuary. Rev. Nikolai always makes the initial exclamation himself and says leave at the end. During his absence, one of the missionaries sometimes goes to prayer. Before I could get home, suddenly the floor began to move under my feet, the large bookcase cracked, the hanging lamp swayed. Earthquake... The shaking of the soil continued longer than usual, it was noticeable how our thick walls were shaking. It was so instructive that I found myself already on the stairs leading to the courtyard, where other inhabitants were heading from different ends of the building, assuring each other that they were very curious to find out if everything was safe outside. However, all the details of the earthquake were limited to this emergency trip. A little later, classes began and time went on as usual. I now teach at a seminary. Teaching is in Japanese. The Japanese are accustomed to oral teaching: coming to class with a written notebook and reading for everyone’s edification is absolutely impossible here, no one will listen. We have to talk. Of course, sometimes instead of “definition” or “limitation” you will say “fence”, instead of “position” (thesis) you will say “luggage”, or even worse, but seminarians manage to understand this too. Their textbooks on my subject (dogmatics) are Japanese, this makes their work a lot easier. So, on October 16, we calmly continued our studies, without thinking much about the earthquake. It turned out later that only one edge of Tokyo was affected, but the main center of the earthquake was far from here, about three hundred miles away. Something truly amazing happened there. Entire cities were destroyed, thousands of people died. The further you go, the telegraph brings more and more terrible news. For example, in the province of Aitsi, where the large city of Nagoya is located, 2,428 people were killed by the earthquake, 3,110 were injured; 42,345 houses were completely destroyed or burned down, 18,100 were partially destroyed. In the neighboring province (Gifu), 5,173 people were killed and 6,527 people were wounded; 40,474 houses were completely destroyed, partly 41,963. The city of Gifu itself and its neighboring Ogaki were almost destroyed. In their place is now a vast desert, smoking ruins and charred trees. The earthquake occurred just at the time when the Japanese were preparing their morning breakfast, a fire was lit in every house, so along with the fall of the houses, a fire began in several places at once, which finished off what was left by the earthquake. Many people, buried under the rubble, wounded and mutilated, were burned alive. Many victims died simply because they were not seen in time. There were terrible cases. An old Japanese woman is running, her hand has been crushed by a falling house. It is impossible to pull it out, but meanwhile the house is on fire, she will have to burn over a low fire. The son runs up and, after vain efforts to free his mother, must cut off her crushed hand and thus save her. Many people died in one tera, where people had gathered to listen to some kind of sermon: at the very first tremors of the soil, the tera fell with its entire mass and crushed everyone. The railway was destroyed, the telegraph was broken in many places, so at first it was impossible to really find out what happened. Our Christians also suffered, of course. A church in Nagoya was destroyed, leaving only the altar. Rev. Nikolai at that time was touring the churches of central Japan and was about to return home by rail. But the message stopped and he had to move across the area of ​​destruction to Dzinrikisha. According to him, the sight there is truly heartbreaking. Everything is destroyed, burned, the residents walk around sadly, rummaging around in the remains of their homes. Many of them are bandaged, bandaged, on crutches. “For the second time,” said the Rev. Nikolay, I wouldn’t go there for any amount of thousands.” Of the Christians, only two were killed and wounded, which is a remarkable coincidence. We had one catechist, who was later dismissed from his post for negligence and inability. This man became involved with the daughter of a very respectable Christian; They fled secretly from their parents' house and began to live in Ogaki. These spouses, for obvious reasons, avoided Christians. Even when their son was born, they did not bother to baptize him, perhaps ashamed to go to church. And this child and mother became the only among our Christians to be victims of the earthquake. Having gotten up in the morning, my father was in the yard, brushing his teeth (the Japanese strictly observe this). Suddenly, hit, he falls to the ground. Having risen, he sees that only the roof remains of the house. He rushed to the ruins, began knocking and shouting, but there was no answer. Only after a while was the voice of the worker, who was buried under the ruins, heard. The owner broke the roof and freed the worker, and then together they began to look for his wife and child. The wife was found without any signs of life; a huge beam apparently hit her straight on the spine and laid her down in place. The mother must have instinctively grabbed the child's armpit in a moment of danger, and he suffocated there. The unfortunate husband and father was amazed to the extreme. He felt sorry for his relatives, but it was especially hard to recognize himself as partly the cause of this bitter fate; his conscience told him that God was punishing them for neglecting their faith. He also came to the bishop in Tokyo, wept bitterly, repented of his sin and asked to be accepted into the service of the church again. The event was very instructive and made a strong impression on everyone. Indeed, God cannot be mocked. They say that such a terrible earthquake has not occurred in Japan for 37 years, since the so-called great Tokyo earthquake. Then there was a real doomsday. For a whole month, people were afraid to return to their homes and lived in tents in camps. A fabulous number of people died, supposedly 40 mana, i.e. 400 thousand people in Tokyo alone. The dead lay in heaps. The streets were then narrow, in many places bridges over canals were destroyed, and fire broke out during an earthquake. The mass of people, thus cut off from the rest of the city, died from the flames or drowned in the canals where they rushed, seeking salvation from the fire. Thousands of victims were buried; many churches were founded as cemeteries for earthquake victims. One of these cemeteries is directly called: “Juu-man”, i.e. 10 mana (100 thousand)... Of course, these figures may be exaggerated, and even greatly, but the number of victims was still colossal. By the way, the Russian frigate Diana also perished in this great earthquake off the coast of Japan. Now there is a wonderful upsurge of spirit throughout Japan. Everyone is trying to do something for the victims. They collect money, equip squads of sisters of mercy to the scene of disaster, set up shelters and temporary hospitals there, look after the wounded, collect orphans and homeless people. Our Christians are not lagging behind: a gathering is also going on among them, and the girls’ school is pinching lint and sewing various clothes for the victims. Europeans also help, especially, of course, spiritual missions. Now the excitement has subsided a little, the death toll has stopped increasing every day, and even some desire to reduce them is noticeable. Life becomes mundane. Recently, not far from the mission, a new iron bridge was opened. It opens, of course, with some rituals, but the main thing is to find the oldest person in the vicinity. He must be the first to cross the bridge. This time they found two old men, completely equal in age, both of them were 105 years old. Preference could not be given to either of them; they were both taken. On the appointed day and hour, the old men held hands and hobbled across the bridge. A countless crowd of people greeted this venerable couple with loud shouts. Tokyo is generally getting ready. Huge buildings for ministries are now being erected on former wastelands. After the earthquake, faith in European buildings, however, was somewhat shaken. Some kind of device is needed to protect these buildings from falling. Rev. Nikolai returned from his trip to the churches - he returned, of course, tired and broken, having lost a lot of weight, but more inspired than usual. This journey is difficult, but the difficulty is abundantly rewarded by the high spirits it brings. This is not an audit of the subordinate diocese, not a test of the serviceability of catechists and priests, this is all secondary, the main thing is visiting churches, encouraging Christians, and the arrangement of everything that in every church requires such an arrangement. This journey is completely apostolic both in its goals (“Take comfort in the common faith, yours and mine,” mutual encouragement) and in the method of execution. Usually the bishop goes, where possible, by rail, and where not, to dzinrikisha. He is accompanied by the parish priest. A crowd of Christians gathers at the station, receives a blessing from the shikyo (bishop), and then takes the long jinrikisha train to the church house. Christians also gathered there. After the first greetings, the service begins; or Vespers, if it is in the evening, or Obednitsa, if in the morning. The priest usually serves, then the bishop, having put on the stole and omophorion (he does not take the robe with him. Where can one turn around in it in small and low Japanese rooms?), begins the teaching. Then the metric is taken and the names of all those baptized and registered in this church are read. It is found out where each of them is at the moment, how he observes his faith, whether he is diligent in going to church, etc. Various local needs are asked, sometimes Christians make some requests, assumptions, etc. Sometimes Christians coincide with the bishop’s arrival with a public sermon for the pagans. Some public talking shop is hired, announcements are posted in advance about the arrival of the famous “Nikorai”, about the sermon. At the appointed hour the people gather. Of course, our “co-workers” also come, as they call themselves when talking to us, that is, bosses with their shaved, round heads. They come to establish order “junsa”, that is, a policeman, sometimes several. Everyone sits down on the floor. The meeting opens with a speech from one of the catechists or from particularly talkative Christians, several people speak, then the priest speaks, and finally the bishop speaks, usually for an hour, but no more: the listeners get tired. He is usually dressed in a cassock and panagia, but without a hood and without... boots. The costume, perhaps, is not entirely customary for a Russian bishop in a public meeting, and even for a sermon, but here it cannot be otherwise. It happens that he is in full bishop's vestments and in a miter, but without boots, for example, at the consecration of a new house of worship. “Have you ever seen a bishop without boots?” he asked me jokingly on one of these occasions. Speech is sometimes interrupted by a shrill, somehow stabbed cry: “shitsumon” (objection). Out of habit, a particularly nervous person may be completely confused by this crazy exclamation. The objection is listened to, and if it can be resolved without disturbing the sequence of speech, it is immediately resolved, otherwise the objector is asked to wait until the end. After the speech, the preacher himself turns to the listeners with the question of whether any of them have anything to say against. Sometimes a real dispute ensues, with shouts, gestures, ridicule, etc. Sometimes “our colleagues” conspire to cause a scandal during the sermon. They persuade a crowd of young people, mostly students from Buddhist schools. Before the preacher has time to begin, shouts and objections rise, his answers are drowned out. Christians come out in defense of the preacher, an unimaginable uproar arises. Buddhists sometimes get into a fight, turn out the lamps in the meeting, and begin to push each other. The matter ends with police intervention. However, with the bishop it did not come to such scandals; his opponents still respect him, and with his usual dignity he always knows how to shame and calm the noisy. “I’ve lived in Japan for thirty years,” he once said on a similar occasion, and have never encountered such rudeness. It’s a shame that good old Japanese morals are starting to deteriorate.” Our “co-workers” fell silent in embarrassment. Rev. Nikolai stays in each church for a day, sometimes two, sometimes more. During this time, he visits the houses of all Christians, is present at all their simbokuquays (meetings), gives speeches there, and preaches. From morning until late at night, business is in full swing. And the day ended, the Christians went home, the priest and the catechist also went to rest; and the bishop opens his notebook, write down everything in detail, what you saw, what you said to whom, what you ordered, so that you can remember all this later in Tokyo. I’ve finished writing, I need to read the emergency letters and messages sent from Tokyo or somewhere else, and after reading, write a response. And so until deep, deep into the night he sits with his work and with a heartfelt sad thought about his infant flock. And tomorrow at first light you need to get up, go to the homes of Christians, and, perhaps, go somewhere further for the same work, all-day work and sleepless nights. This requires a lot of strength, and most importantly, faith and love. Much later, Rev. Nikolai in a letter tried to find out for me the secret of church government. I think it will be instructive to share a few lines of this letter with the reader. Rev. Nicholas in this letter raises the question of what it means to have the ability to lead, to govern the church. “What is needed here is the heart - the ability to be imbued with the needs of a neighbor or neighbors, to feel the sorrows and joys of others as if they were your own, and at the same time, cool-headed reflection on how to eliminate sorrows and strengthen joys - and the determination to act in the direction indicated by the heart and mind, and the firmness and authority to make an action a rule for others, and so on and so forth, depending on the circumstances. When I visit a church, no matter how small it may be, for that time I become a full member of it, so for me at that time other churches, and indeed the whole world, do not seem to exist (if letters arrive from other churches, it does not even occur to me to read them among the affairs of that church, but I read them at night, freed from local affairs). Naturally, the entire state of that church, with all the local needs, sorrows and joys down to the smallest detail, will all flow entirely into the soul - and is it then difficult to discuss, advise, convince, insist, etc.? It’s all so simple, it all flows naturally from the tongue, from the heart. You just need to have prudence, not to turn everything into splashes that disappear without a trace; systematicity and constancy are needed, we must not forget where and to whom what was said, what was decreed, and ensure that it is fulfilled. To do this, I keep records in churches, and different ones at that: about churches, about catechists, about houses of prayer, about sermons and instructions given, carefully writing everything down in four notebooks in each church.” Possessing this secret, Rev. Nikolai doesn’t get tired in his Japan and, of course, he won’t get tired until his death. “There are many who care about Christ, but not many who are fathers.” These journeys are difficult, tiring, and sometimes you can experience troubles. But sometimes the young flock will amuse their daddy with some curiosity. For example, Christians gather for Simbokukwai. The speakers should be primarily Christians themselves. Of course, for the guest of honor, speakers were previously prepared with the help of a catechist. Here comes out to a kind of podium, that is, to a table covered with a flannelette blanket, a provincial obaasan, the most ordinary, of course, some kind of gingerbread seller. He lays out the sheets of his “enzetsu” (speech) on the table, solemnly puts on huge glasses with copper frames, maybe even with a ribbon, coughs once or twice, and the speech begins. Obaasan mercilessly destroys paganism and heterodoxy. “Some people say there is no God,” she quips. Come on, show me how an egg is laid without a chicken?... And a victorious look at the audience. Suddenly, after one of these looks, something happened: there was some bewilderment on the faces of the listeners, and the obaasan, having lost his agility and victoriousness, grunted somehow embarrassedly after each word. It turns out that a line is missing, and it’s too late to go back. However, after many words, the meaning is restored and the obaasan retreats to its place in triumph. Christians try to receive their dai-simp better, feed them, and generally calm them down. In simpler churches this is done simply. Several Christians bring a “bento”, that is, a small box with a Japanese lunch, rice, etc. Sometimes they order such a lunch at a hotel, this is already the highest level. Another hospitable person will bring raw fish to the bishop, and even strives to serve it while it is trembling, for which, of course, he receives instruction. But there are churches where they are not content with such a simple technique. The bishop is European, he needs to be received in a European way. Woe to the bishop if this Europeanism is determined only by hearsay. For example, he comes to one of these churches. How to treat a foreigner? They serve him one, single egg in hot water! The eggs, of course, were gone at that moment, but I was terribly hungry. The bishop consoled himself mentally that they would give him more food in the evening, somehow he could endure it. Suddenly, from behind the screens, the instructive voice of Fr. Matthew. “The sikeo (bishop) needs nothing in the evening; he never has dinner.” Here it is for you.... Overnight too. Usually the bishop sleeps in the Japanese style, that is, on the floor under a futon (feather bed and blanket). It's excellent on soft mats. But the Japanese again want to provide more peace for the bishop. He comes to one church, and there the Christian women got together, bought material and arranged a mattress and pillows for the bishop’s arrival. Yes, the mattress is extraordinary, but it is too long and too wide. “No matter how you stretch out,” the bishop later said, only two or three feet remain in reserve.” It was the Christian women who heard that the bishop was very tall and wanted to please him. Sometimes, however, these attempts to become European, for all their curiosity, almost lead to tears. The bishop arrives at church, terribly tired, of course, preaches a sermon, spends the whole day busy with Christians and pagans, and finally, late in the evening, he goes to bed, barely alive from exhaustion. He is solemnly taken to the prepared room and even more solemnly shown to the prepared bed. In the middle of a large and empty room there is either a box or a coffin in which something is laid. And narrow and short, neither stretch nor turn. But you can’t refuse: they treat you to this bed with all their diligence, and they prepared it not without a little labor and consultation. The bishop spent that night in the Procrustean bed and got up even more tired and exhausted. On the same day it was necessary to go further to a nearby village. “I’ll rest there,” thought the bishop. But before he had time to leave the village, he saw: in front of him, four young men were dragging something absurd. He's catching up with them. Great God! they are dragging this terrible bed. Therefore, in the next church they will treat you to the same torture and sleepless night. “Well, no, I won’t give up this time.” In the evening, the hosts, with the most pleasant smiles, invited the bishop to retire to his bed. But the bishop begged to be released to repentance and allowed to sleep next to this bed, on the floor. The owners, fortunately, took pity and did not particularly insist on the bed. As you can see, there are sadnesses of a very special nature here. This is already in the true sense, “trouble from relatives.” Letter XVIII. December 26, 1891 Nagasaki There was another change in my position on our military cruiser “Memory of Azov”: a priest fell ill, our mission was asked to replace him, and so I, as I was on hand (Fr. A. is far away, in Hakodate), had to go. Again I’m on the “small tree” along the blue waves of the ocean. This time the small tree is a huge steel giant, stirrups with pipes and masts, with a crew of 600 people, with cannons, etc. I boarded it in Yokohama on December 6th. We went to Kobe and from there, after staying there for three days, to Nagasaki. We passed through the same amazingly picturesque Japanese Mediterranean Sea. It is quite narrow - it seems that the banks are always visible and stand on the other side. Now it was serene and shone like a mirror, enchanting the eye with its watercolor blue. From time to time we came across strange Japanese ships with chopped sterns, rather tall and clumsy. Such food was invented in the good old years by the Japanese trustee government in order to deprive its loyal subjects of the opportunity to undertake long journeys at sea and, thus, protect them from the corrupting influence of foreignness. The remedy, as you can see, is very simple and radical. In the old days, the Japanese had relations not only with their neighbors, but also with Europe. Then the Jesuit fathers came, began to preach Christianity and, as was their habit, began to stir things up and intrigue. The shogun became furious, and the beating of Christians, unprecedented in its cruelty and consistency, began. Only a small handful of them escaped, hiding in the mountains of the island of Kiy-Siy. Throughout all the cities of Japan, decrees carved on wood were posted on poles, in which Christianity was declared a harmful religion, and every Christian was sentenced to death. Foreigners were prohibited from entering the country (an exception was made only for the Dutch, and even then under extremely humiliating conditions), and anyone who entered was subject to the death penalty. Likewise, the Japanese had no right to cross the borders of their fatherland. Whoever dared to leave the fatherland could not return, otherwise the death penalty would be imposed. Since then, Japan has been locked up and walled up for three hundred years, and Japanese sailors had to travel around their seas with their stern cut off. In the old days, the Japanese were very generous with the death penalty and murder in general. Remember, for example, how they tried a new saber. The master-samurai, angry with his servant, sometimes immediately chopped off his head, and then regretted that he had been somewhat in vain in his haste. In general, this dark, disgusting trait of the Japanese character is amazing - this cold, calculating murder for the sake of murder. There’s not even any heroism here - just a senseless waste of life, without purpose, without justification. Or, for example, all these so-called heroic deeds of the Japanese against the Europeans, when the latter were finally allowed into the country. The samurai always sneaked up on the European somewhere in the corner, in the backyard, certainly from behind, if he did not know in advance that he did not have any weapons, and chopped him down. Having hacked him to death, he went to the authorities and announced his feat, so that he too would be senselessly, without any heroism or feat, stabbed to death in fulfillment of the law. Of course, a lot of blood was shed without any sense in Europe, especially during the times of chivalry, and even now it is shed, but there at least no one ever justifies such a shameful murder from around the corner: there they at least come out openly against each other, there at least there is courage. But, in Japanese murder, this is not even the case: to quietly stab a man, to hack him from behind, often completely defenseless, and then come and pointlessly present your head under the ax, is this courage? This is just a stupid throwing away of life, the value of which a person does not understand. The Japanese also had heroes and famous ones, but most samurai, especially in the last period of the shogunism, degenerated into the described killers from around the corner. Or, for example, the Japanese “harakiri”, which is, of course, also known to you. The man sits in the usual Japanese pose, with his legs tucked under him, and picks up a long dagger without a handle, wrapped almost to the very end in linen, leaving only a small blade. With the remaining tip, the samurai rips open his stomach. First you just need to cut the stomach: if the dagger goes too deep, then the strength will weaken and the “hara-kiri” will fail. Having cut the stomach, you need to jump, the stomach will burst, the entrails will fall out (to do this, it is advised to have a vessel with water on hand where you can put these entrails). With the remaining strength you need to cut your carotid artery in your neck and thus die. Well, isn’t this senseless animalism! There is some kind of sophistication in cruelty, and, moreover, aimless, inexplicable and unjustifiable. What does this samurai, rummaging around in his insides, want to show the world? This is not a heroic death at all, it is a self-frenzy that does not understand its actions. “Harakiri” was a strange privilege of the samurai’s animalism - other mortals were simply slaughtered if they did not manage to die peacefully. In any more or less unfortunate circumstances or dishonor, the samurai ripped open his stomach. If a samurai was sentenced to death, then he was simply sent a dagger and he personally, in the presence of government officials and his friends, carried out the sentence on himself. Sometimes the daimeon and ordinary warriors of the enemy he killed were condemned to “harakiri”, which is why they tried to somehow capture him in their own hands and then politely and strenuously begged him to do them the favor of cutting open his venerable belly, because, according to accepted custom, they needed to place his highly respected head on the grave of their murdered master. Such a kind request could not be ignored. If the daimeon was unforgiving or so uneducated that he did not understand the request, then the samurai, with appropriate apologies and, of course, bows, respectfully cut off his head. Don’t think that I myself am inventing all this ego for the sake of a red word. All this really happened. Not far from Tokyo, a church dedicated to forty (or twenty) “roonin” is still shown. In the old days, samurai who were left without a daimeon were called roonin. So, here, the owner of these forty-one samurai was sentenced to death by one court nobleman. The owner was executed, and the samurai became roonin. It was necessary to take revenge. But the courtier, of course, understood the customs of the country no worse than the Roonins and therefore was on guard, surrounding himself with guards. Then the roonins scatter and completely disappear from sight. The courtier finally came to the conviction that there would be no revenge on him, abandoned his caution, and released the guards. That's all the Roonin needed. The eldest gathered them, they made themselves the armor that anyone could (because it was impossible to buy: they would notice), and at night they attacked the house of the ill-fated courtier. The leader of the Roonin, on his knees, bowing to the ground, asked the courtier to rip open his stomach, not daring to touch such a noble person. But the courtier was a coward, so the Roonin, “osore-nagara” (“although it is scary”, the same as ours: “not to be said in your presence,” “not to be done to you,” etc.), had to kill the courtier themselves. They solemnly carried his head to the grave of their master. In the city, of course, everyone quickly found out, the Roonin were greeted with honor on the streets, the nobles sent their butlers to invite them to rest at a crossroads, and generally honored them as having fulfilled their samurai duty (revenge for the master). Then, according to routine, all these heroes were ordered to rip their bellies, which they did for everyone’s edification, and now lie under forty-one monuments near the grave of their master. The bonza in that church will show you their weapons, even the well in which they washed the courtier's head before placing it on the master's grave. The story, as you can see, is very instructive. They sneaked up, caught them, stabbed them, and then let themselves be stabbed. And this, according to local concepts, is the highest heroic feat, the Japanese are proud of these forty roonin and the story about them goes from mouth to mouth, like our story about Susanin, or about someone like that... This reflects the character of the people, their worldview. Now, of course, the Japanese are not allowed to rip open their bellies or cut their ill-wishers in broad daylight or at night, but the old culture, of course, is not driven out by this prohibition. No, no, and this old samurai senseless animalism will break through again. Apparently, the attempt on the life of our Tsarevich stemmed from the same source. Tsuda wanted to stab himself, then allow himself to be stabbed, so that later he could be glorified as a hero who laid down his life for the fatherland. This time, however, his calculations did not come true: instead of songs of praise, curses rained down on him from all sides. From the same source come all the exploits of the local anarchists “soshi” (soshi, as they distort this word in the newspapers in the English way). Many reproach the Japanese for depravity and point out the benefits of Christianity precisely in the destruction of this evil. But to reproach a Japanese for debauchery by a European means not noticing the beam in his own eye. Anything but chastity can be learned from modern cultural humanity. But I think the Japanese could gradually wean themselves from animalism, from senseless contempt for life, for their existence, under the influence of culture, because this animalism simply comes from the coarseness of morals, from savagery. And all this with exquisite elegance, with polite bows, with the sweetest smiles: an elegant appearance and a callous heart. Again I remember Japanese flowers without scent and beautiful birds without singing. And our cruiser goes on and on along the azure mirror of the Mediterranean Sea, overtaking both junks and steamships (they tried the move, and therefore went at full steam all the time). Black smoke billows out of its three chimneys, and the St. George flag flutters at the stern (this is in memory of the Battle of Navarino, where the Russian ship Azov distinguished itself). The sea is calm, not a ripple, not a wrinkle on its surface. The air is transparent, the sky is clear, clean, joyful, green shores of the most picturesque shapes are visible, green hills, pearly bays are visible, all this in miniature, and all this is so elegant, so painted in the most delicate tones. It seems that one would like to live and rejoice in this wonderful world of God, and yet how much blood has been spilled into these pearly waters, across these bizarre fields laughing with hills. By the way, a Turkish battleship also died in the Mediterranean Sea not so long ago. The Sultan sent him here to take Mikado the order, but gave him only wishes for the journey. And so the poor battleship wandered around the world for an endless number of days and months, begging kind people for money for coals. By some miracle he reached Japan, received a Japanese order from Mikado for the Sultan, but could not endure the return journey: in the Mediterranean Sea (Japanese) during a hurricane, this ill-fated battleship broke in half, and everyone died. Only a few people were saved, and the Japanese cruisers later delivered them to Constantinople, to the surprise of everyone. We stayed at anchor that night, and the next day in the evening we arrived in Nagasaki, where we are now staying, and will remain there for another two weeks, so that we can then go to Hong Kong for the winter. Life here follows a strict order, all hours are occupied and determined. In the morning at five o'clock, and sometimes earlier, a drum or a slotted horn gathers all the sailors for prayer. When you come to the upper deck, all 600 people gather in two lines on both sides. You can’t see any faces, it’s dark, but you can feel the morning chilliness and lack of sleep in everything. The retarded ones approach with a sleepy step; the figure of the watch officer, in a black overcoat with a raised collar, is visible to the side. He is also chilly and wants to sleep. Everyone shudders and yawns, covering their faces with their sleeves. Then we hear from the officer: “Take off your caps,” and we sing “Our Father.” At first it comes out hoarsely and sleepily, only a few sing, then everyone finally wakes up and the end sounds solemn and powerful. The team is given “tea to drink”, after which the usual morning activities begin. Rolling up the deck. The officer shouts “Copper-iron” to clean. They bring “cleanliness” to the upper deck. This is the name of a small box with a whole pharmacy of everything unclean, there are dirty, oily rags, and tow, and sand, and crushed brick, etc., etc., and all this is “cleanliness.” So time passes until eight hours. At eight o'clock the main local daily parade takes place - the raising of the flag. All officers must come out to this semi-pagan celebration. As soon as the clock strikes eight, the musicians play a special march, everyone takes off their caps, and the flag is quietly raised at the stern. Next - “God Save the Tsar”, followed by the national anthems of all those nations whose ships are in the roadstead. Here the chords of the English anthem pour out pompously, the English seem to be with their noses raised, with their inflated “I” (I). The good-natured Yankees rushed after them frivolously and dashingly. Here are the smiling Japanese wriggling sweetly in their bows. In the evening, the flag is also solemnly lowered, and instead of anthems, “How Glorious” is played. At sunset, this hymn is positively magnificent. On holidays, a camp church gathers. A throne, an altar, an iconostasis are set up, with very nice icons, and candlesticks are hung in front of them. My Maslov (messenger), performing the position of a clergyman, dressed to the nines, in boots with creaks, walks solemnly, putting candles to the icons, for which our sailors, zealous for the church, are very generous. A small choir of sailors sings. The service goes, of course, very quickly, according to the military, but thank God for that. Directly opposite the royal doors is a ladder to the upper deck, to the right and left there are huge cannons, officers near them, and further, behind the engine hatches, a solid wall of sailors darkens, with their quick Russian crosses and bows. Of course, there are all kinds in between. There are drunkards, and frivolous people, etc., but, in general, these are a golden people, whose pure soul could not be spoiled even by centuries of slavery to the Tatars and landowners. The only pity is that now they wander like sheep without a shepherd, eating only meager crumbs. They greedily catch every word about the soul, about salvation, as long as someone tells them. That’s why sectarians penetrate everywhere and find followers. It is easy to confuse an ignoramus, especially one who sincerely desires the light of truth and salvation. It is impossible to prohibit the acceptance of false teaching; the truth must be revealed to a person, then he himself will not accept the lie. The Japanese treat our sailors very kindly, especially in Nagasaki, where the Russians have been wintering in entire squadrons for many years. This is where our sailors meet traditionally. For example, Bengoro. What could be more original than this type?! Dry, thin, with a brown face and hands, with slanted eyes, with pathetic tufts instead of a beard and mustache, and... in a tailcoat with a top hat. You have to see it to understand how amazing it is. Or a venerable old Japanese man comes into the wardroom and recommends to those who don’t know him yet (and there are very few of them) that he is a turtle-man. Others complain after him, more subtly and more simply: one sobs and assures that he is a cat-man, and the other, with the same prefaces, calls himself a dog-man. A whole staff of Japanese with animal nicknames. All of them are ready to fulfill any order for you, bring you anything and find what you want. The holidays will come: Christmas, New Year, all these servants come with congratulations, bringing the same caster (biscuit) with various cunning decorations. Many speak Russian. Our site in Nagasaki has a very special look. They also make suggestions to me, calling me “bonza-san.” One, for example, even offered to straighten our church candlesticks. There are bows and smiles everywhere on the streets, boundless courtesy. Perhaps, however, the reason for all this is simple: the sailors generously pour money here. However, all sailors are generous, but they love ours more. Letter XIX. 5 March 1892 Hong Kong We've been in Hong Kong for almost two months. It’s a wonderful city, and the weather here is even better: warm, clear, somehow I can’t even believe that it’s winter now. In recent days, however, clouds have begun to roll in and it rains from time to time, but this is only in the last days, with the beginning of spring; this did not happen before. Hong Kong residents even began to fear this clear weather. She threatened to leave them without water. No matter how cunning the English are, no matter how inventive they are in everything that is needed for their comfort and, in general, for the improvement of their lives, they cannot outwit nature either. There is no rain for a long time, and there is no water even in Hong Kong itself. Hong Kong proper is a small island lying off the very coast of East Asia, at approximately 22 degrees north latitude, not far from Canton, Macau, etc. The strait between the island and the mainland forms a beautiful roadstead, as in the English Penang. On the inner side of the island, towards the strait, just like in Penang, there is a city that, like Penang's George Town, has an English name: the city of Victoria. But, both there and here, the English name cannot be retained: everywhere both cities are known by the Chinese names of the islands on which they are located. Anyone who visits Hong Kong needs to take the tram to the Peak. I was already there on my first visit to Hong Kong. From there there is an excellent view of the roadstead, the sea and the city. Those who wish can also ascend in palanquins: excellent roads are built everywhere. And so on throughout the island. In the city itself there is a beautiful Victoria Garden with its ponds. You should definitely look at the cemeteries outside the city. There are several of them, special for each religion. There is Catholic, Protestant (English), Mohammedan, Parsi. Everything is located nearby. The English one is especially good: it is not a cemetery, but the most luxurious park, decorated with tropical richness. Grave monuments somehow disappear among the mighty greenery. Life triumphs over the symbols of death. Only one thing will unpleasantly strike anyone who takes a close look at this cemetery: there is not a single Chinese monument on it, although there are undoubtedly Chinese Protestants in the city. The cultured Englishmen, boasting of their knowledge of the Bible and adherence to it, obviously disdained their Chinese co-religionists. Afterwards, while walking outside the city, we found a cemetery for Chinese Protestants; it is located far under the mountain, in a ravine. Abandoned, deserted, unsightly. Some crosses say that this is a Christian cemetery, and not a burial place for some criminals and outcasts. Such separatism does not honor Protestants. Catholics are much more consistent in this regard: once a person is accepted into the church, they do not disdain him, and after death his remains will find a place next to the European. At the local Catholic cemetery, among the luxurious monuments of the Portuguese, you also see modest crosses with Chinese inscriptions: these are Chinese Catholics. If these crosses had not spoiled the rich English cemetery-park, there would have been a place for them there too. The city has several churches of different faiths. There are several missionary institutions, educational institutions, etc. It was very interesting for me to see all this, especially since I now understood a little English. One day we, together with one of the officers, actually went to inspect. First we came to St. Paul College. This is an English establishment designed specifically for the Chinese. According to the original plan, it should be something like a missionary seminary, but for now only one lower school is open. The English bishop now lives in the College house, in charge of the diocese of Cantona. On the second floor, in one of the spacious rooms, the mentioned school is located. We entered. There were about forty Chinese people sitting in the room, all wearing skullcaps and braids. Everyone is dressed the same, very neatly. They were also taught by a Chinese man with an intelligent face. When we entered, he stood up and approached us, speaking quite clearly in English. He turned out to be a Protestant. Some of his disciples were also Protestants, but the majority were pagans. The school, according to him, did not have a direct missionary task; its goal was English education in general. Both the teacher and the students must have been very interested in my costume, which was unprecedented for them, but the amazing Chinese consistency, only occasionally a glance revealed that the Chinese was examining us in detail. Above this College and not far from it stands a very large Catholic Cathedral. We headed there. The cathedral was almost empty. Here and there lonely pilgrims sat on benches. In a side aisle an elderly Chinese man was teaching something to about ten Chinese children. This must be catechesis. When leaving the cathedral, I met some Chinese serving at the church. Using such commonly understood words as “Catholic”, “Roma”, “pater”, we managed to find out that he was a Christian and that the priest’s apartment was located next to the cathedral. To look and look, we went to the priests. We were led along a dark corridor to a door. We knocked and entered. A tall Chinese man with an aquiline nose and a wedge-shaped French beard stood up to meet us. He was wearing a Chinese blue skirt and a black jacket, and on his feet were Chinese shoes, “hooves,” as the Russians characteristically called them. On his head was an ordinary skullcap with a red ball, from under it a long braid descended almost along the floor, real or fake, I don’t know. In a word, he's literally Chinese. Despite this masquerade, however, one could immediately see that the person standing before us was a European. The question is, does it make sense to change clothes after this, when a person cannot hide his nationality? Catholics everywhere try to be wise. Just as in the good old days the Lord Jesus was deliberately portrayed as a Chinese with a braid, etc., or even as a Buddha, so now they come up with special costumes for their missionaries. Just be a true Christian, a true messenger of Christ, then no clothing, no nationality will harm the sermon. Of course, it's not the suit. But this technique of sneaking up somehow unnoticed and catching it is very typical. This technique is used everywhere and always in the Catholic Church; The priests try to lead a flock that does not hear and does not see, attracted by bait to the teachings of Christ. Christ didn't do that. The room we entered served as the priest's reception room and study, apparently. I had previously heard a lot about the simplicity of life of Catholic missionaries. Everyone is surprised at this, even the Protestants themselves. While Protestant missionaries receive large salaries and surround themselves with purely English comfort, Catholic priests receive a pittance, no more than a simple Japanese catechist, and live without any comforts. The room fully confirmed this rumor. There was a simple wooden, unpainted table, littered with papers and books, and in front of it was an equally simple chair. There is a desk and a bookcase against the wall. In addition, several old and different-sized chairs, also very simple. Everything is not only simple, but downright poor and wretched. Not the slightest hint of any concern for convenience. It was not even a living room, but some kind of temporary premises. For his work, the man, apparently, wanted to give up any thought about himself, about his well-being. We sat down, the Chinese apologized that he was not used to speaking English, he had to stay in China for a long time, where English is not heard at all. For us it was even better, not so scary with our breaking. Our host was an Italian by birth and spent many years in a mission inside China, and is now appointed here to Hong Kong as a vicar. Having learned that we were Russian, he was quite surprised that we spoke English and not French. “All Russians speak French.” It was apparently unpleasant for him to learn that I was also a missionary. Catholics always keep aloof from other missions. Amazing rivalry! However, this trait is characteristic of many non-Catholics. I asked how many Chinese Christians they have here? The priest replied that their main flock in Hong Kong were the Portuguese, the Chinese only by the way. “However, he noted, we have up to two thousand Chinese here.” At the same time, I almost smiled, remembering that the missionary round number always needs to be understood especially. When we, the missionaries, have a flock of one thousand and one people, then when asked about its number we always answer with a round number: “so, they say, two thousand, about that.” At least, in the Bible Society store, which I visited shortly before, the Methodist salesman said that there were very few Chinese Catholics here, about two hundred. Pater spoke to us about the mission inside China. The Chinese, according to him, are difficult to preach; the people, in general, are unwilling to change anything of their own. But, having been baptized, a Chinese becomes a good, permanent Christian. It is assumed, of course, that only those who are sincerely baptized are immutable. There are undoubtedly such people; this is proven by the history of the recent persecution of Christians in China. The newspapers mentioned several cases when Chinese Christians gave themselves up to be beaten by a dispersed pagan crowd just to save their priests from beatings. This says a lot, especially since the priest is not a Chinese, but the same European hated by the Chinese. Another Chinese man, a real one, entered the room while we were there. Without saying a word, he knelt before the priest, as if before an icon. Discipline among Catholics obviously flourishes. After talking with the priest for half an hour, we asked him to show us their institutions, especially the famous St. Joseph College. Father went to show us the way. At the entrance to the cathedral sacristy stood several other priests. Two or three of them were so-called Christian brothers. It is like a monastic order with exclusively pedagogical tasks. They are dressed in black robes with white ties hanging down to their chests. At that time, a sermon was being preached in Chinese in the cathedral; All the students and teachers of the College were also there: there was a fast and they were preparing for confession. We still asked to show us the College. Then one of the Christian brothers, with a red beard, short stature, and glasses, separated from the group. He led us up a stone staircase that climbed steeply straight from the cathedral up the mountain to a large three-story building. This was St. College. Joseph, established by the Christian Brothers, they have quite a lot of such colleges in Europe, in America, and here in the East. They do not pursue missionary goals (that is, the spread of Christianity among pagans): their task is purely pedagogical, to educate young people. Of course, this education is given in a strictly Catholic spirit. The youth are taken straight to their father for silent service. If I'm not mistaken, the Order of the Christian Brothers almost owes its origin to the Jesuits. At least Ignatius of Loyola is in great honor with them. The purpose of this brotherhood is therefore quite definite. Not embarrassed by nationality, but pursuing only one religious goal, Latin, the Christian Brothers offer education, whatever is needed where. In Saigon they have a French college, and here they have an English college. “It’s impossible to do without us,” the director of this College later told me: a Portuguese needs an English education, otherwise he won’t be able to get bread here.” Our guide turned out to be Irish, therefore he hated the English and spoke French. He has been serving in the Fellowship Colleges for 14 years. He spent five years in Ceylon, four in Singapore. Now I came to Hong Kong for a year's vacation (due to illness). We walked around the entire building with him. There are seven classes in college, I think. The student dormitory is also located here. We especially liked the fact that the monastic teachers live in the same hostel. They all have a common table and even a common study room. This is a fairly spacious room; Around the walls there are several desks for teachers and a desk for the director's brother. This is all the external difference of the latter; in all other respects he is the same simple monk as the teachers. None of the Christian brothers accepts the priesthood, or, if he accepts, he also leaves the order: in order for the brothers to be able to devote themselves entirely to the work of education, the priest will need to be distracted by external pastoral duties. Spending the day with the students and the evening in a common, busy room, teachers and the director are left to themselves only at night: each has a separate bedroom. It is impossible not to give honor to the Catholics for this discipline of theirs, which is visible in the entire external life of their clergy. If he called himself a monk, then he does not consider it shameful or, in general, a deprivation for himself to lead his outer life like a monk. The director could, of course, have a larger apartment, could afford differences in clothes and table, and, in any case, could study not in the common room with the other teachers, but he prefers to remain in everything a simple monk, as he is, content with power and service, without using them to calm down. This trait is worthy of all praise and imitation. We went down again to the cathedral, from which, meanwhile, choral singing could be heard. Students and teachers of the College gathered in the left aisle. It was Benedictio. A dark-skinned Portuguese priest served; a Chinese man in a white surplice served him; the braid descended strangely down the surplice. The service soon ended, and we went home, and our guide did not fail to wish us a speedy occupation of Korea and Constantinople. “Otherwise the British will take Boreas and convert them to Protestantism.” A few days later I was again at the College alone, and this time during class time. The director, a remarkably handsome elderly man, with a pitch-black beard that was beginning to turn silver, received me with the utmost kindness and walked me through all the classes. Showed everything. The teachers were exactly the right choice: all huge, black-bearded, and to help them were given three short, completely young Christian brothers, red-haired to the last degree. They were all Americans, it seems, of Irish origin; at least they tried from the first words to declare their dislike for England. Classes are arranged in pairs: senior and junior. The older one is taught by a black teacher, and the younger one (connected by a glass door) is taught by his red-haired assistant. In case of any confusion, the assistant can immediately seek advice from the elder. Almost all of the students are Portuguese, and there are also Chinese in the senior classes. The college, according to the director, does not have any missionary goals, but if the Chinese turn to them, they will accept them without distinction of religion. In the lower grades, the Chinese study separately from the Europeans, but in the older grades they join together. The racial division between the students is very strong: even for games, a special place had to be reserved for the Chinese. The relationships between teachers and students are also striking. There is no noticeable tension or pressure. They are simple and friendly. When the director enters, everyone, of course, stands up, but they smile at him so affectionately that there is not a trace of that belittling awe that the appearance of a boss often produces on students. It is not without reason that they say that it is rare among the educators of Catholic colleges who do not maintain ties with their students even after they leave the college. In many difficult situations in life, he continues to be a confidant and advisor. The students took advantage of my visit to somewhat shorten their lessons under plausible pretext. One of them went to the director and asked him for something, smiling tenderly. “All right,” said the director. After a while, all the students went out into the garden. We followed them too. It turns out that preparations were underway for a future public competition between different schools in Hong Kong. Everyone will gather at the hippodrome and measure their physical strength. Now, under the leadership of one of the black teachers, the guys, divided into two parties, pulled on a rope (pull). Obviously, schools were seriously preparing for a public health test of students. The director strongly called to come to the hippodrome at the appointed hour and see on whose side the victory would be. Among the Protestant institutions, I had the opportunity to visit the Berlin Fóundling Hospital, that is, an educational home. It is located in a large gray house in West Point, surrounded on all sides by a beautiful garden. I walked up the garden path, approached the house and went onto the terrace. Through the glass door, without meeting anyone anywhere, I got inside and found myself in a small classroom in which even smaller Chinese girls in blue dresses sat at small desks. An old Chinese man wearing huge round copper glasses was teaching them something. The appearance of my cassock disrupted for a moment the peaceful activities of the class. But the old Chinese hurried to dispatch one lively little one, and I quickly followed her to the second floor. Soon some mistress appeared, as it turned out later, the wife of the local pastor. She took me into the living room and asked me to wait: “The pastor will come now.” Indeed, a few minutes later the pastor arrived in a clerical black frock coat and white tie. A little later, his wife also came, a very cordial, pretty German woman, quite elderly. She brought coffee and we spent a good hour in the most pleasant way, talking about the mission and everything. Wonderful people - this pastor and his wife. This hospital, according to the pastor, now houses up to 90 female children, foundlings. In China, girls are not treated on ceremony: in some provinces it is customary to keep no more than three of them in a family, or even just one - when the fourth or second one is born, she is simply thrown out onto the road without further consideration. The committee of Berlin ladies came to the aid of these unfortunate little ones and set up this orphanage. Special agents and simply German missionaries collect girls from China and transport them here. Here they are accepted from the very first age, raised, educated, of course, in a Christian way, but leaving their nationality intact, and then sent to Honolulu and somewhere else, where they get married, and, in general, get settled. The pastor himself belonged to the Rhine Mission, spent six years inside China, and is now temporarily holding the post of pastor at a hospital, serving at the same time as something like a treasurer and commission agent for all his comrades working inside China: he sends them salaries, books, etc. The wife also spent two whole years with her husband, sharing missionary labors with him. I had to remember with sadness the absence of a women’s mission in Russia. How much she could do to enlighten the local people with Christianity. A woman penetrates much further than a man, into the family itself, not to mention the fact that for pagan women it is more natural and clearer to hear a sermon from a woman. His Eminence Nicholas often thought about this shortcoming of ours, but these thoughts remain thoughts, our women do not go to the mission. According to the pastor, their mission, or better yet, a branch of the mission, worked among the Chinese who spoke the Pun-Kin dialect (if I didn’t misinterpret the Chinese name) or the southern, Cantonese dialect. It is known that the Chinese are divided into two main groups according to their dialects: northern and southern, and the difference in pronunciation, etc., is so great that the Chinese of different groups are completely unable to understand each other. These dialects have the names: northern and southern, but in fact they are mixed together throughout China, so that you can find two villages nearby that speak different languages ​​and do not understand each other 6 . Hence, it became necessary to divide the entire mission into two departments: one for the northern dialect and the other for the southern. The networks of their stations are intertwined across China, but they each act independently: to study both dialects means to study two Chinese languages ​​at once, and only a very select few are able to do this. In the department where Mr. Gottschalk (the last name of my owner) was, up to 300 people were converted to Christ. In general, they handle with great difficulty. I asked him if he ever had to preach and generally work to convert pagans here in Hong Kong? This, it turned out, is no longer his specialty (the Germans have a specialty everywhere, everywhere): his job now is to be a pastor at the hospital. There are, of course, cases, but he does not have to regularly conduct the work of preaching, and he cannot: for this he needs an open church, not a home one. We finished the coffee, I said goodbye to the hostess, and the pastor and I went to inspect the hospital. We saw the children's bedroom with their beds without pillows. In the dining room, the children had lunch, eating rice from the usual small cups and chopsticks, just like in Japan. Miss Probst, a very young German girl, was looking after the case. There are seven such girls here, all working for Christ, looking after the children. Then we passed through the recreation room, in which there was a whole collection of baby strollers: this was for those who could not yet walk. The little pupils ran out to meet us and sweetly extended their little hands, saying goodbye to us. "Pu-nen" (goodbye). This is no longer a Chinese custom, but the pastor says that this digression was made because the Bible also mentions the hand greeting. We examined the shelter chapel. In it, the pastor serves twice every Sunday: at 11 o’clock in German and at one o’clock in Chinese. Everyone sings to the accompaniment of a harmonium. Children also take part in singing, although the Chinese, according to the pastor (as well as the Japanese), do not have an ear for music. However, children somehow learn to sing on their own and sing quite well. Then we walked through the classrooms, one of which I was already in. Some texts from the Gospel in Chinese are hung on red paper on the walls. There was a harmonium in the senior room. Morning and evening prayers of all the inhabitants of the house took place here. In the pastor's office there is a whole warehouse of various Chinese books. Protestants of different missions compete with each other in publishing small brochures or treatises of religious content and try in every way to distribute them among the pagan people of a given country. They put them on display in their missions, give them to everyone who comes, and hand them out right on the streets. I heard about one Japanese missionary - an American, who, when going for a walk, always filled his pockets with such brochures and distributed them to those he met. They say that such distribution of brochures does not remain fruitless: there are cases of conversion precisely because of these brochures. With the construction of the cathedral, we also started this distribution, only we don’t give it to everyone, but only to those who are interested in Christianity. Careless distribution right and left, like careless preaching, can sometimes cause harm instead of benefit. Just as people stop listening to a sermon that is forcibly offered, so they can stop reading tracts. Our Bible Society, judging by the reports, is certainly trying to sell St. a book, and not as a gift, precisely because a person may not read a book given as a gift. The same goes for brochures. The pastor accompanied me to the street, and I took leave of him, wishing him every success in his holy work. Letter XX. April 14, 1892 Tokyo On March 19th we finally left Hong Kong and the next day arrived at Amoy, a coastal city in China, lying at the entrance to the Formosa Strait from the south. The English index about this city says that even among Chinese cities it is remarkable for its dirt. One had to expect something extraordinary, unprecedented, because even cities that are clean, from the Chinese point of view, are striking in their uncleanliness. We stopped in some kind of strait. In front of us was a small island of the most ordinary shape. It bears traces of European settlement. This is Kulangsu, an island allocated to the Europeans, where their settlement is located. By crossing this island or going around it by boat, you can get to Amoy itself, the Chinese city. There is some kind of church in it, something else, but all this remained unexamined. The two of us went to look around. We crossed Kulangsu, which gives the impression of a very good summer cottage place, there is a lot of greenery in it. A Chinese man in a blue boat took us to the other side. From the very first steps I had to make sure that the pointer was completely correct. We did not at all expect to encounter such a disgusting cesspool as we actually encountered. The streets are only two arshins wide, so we had to walk in single file. Sunlight doesn't penetrate here. In some places, across the street at a height of one or one and a half fathoms, poles are thrown, on them everything that there was no place below is piled: here the laundry is dried, here the palanquin is waiting for its owner to need it, here is the brushwood, and what else is not here? All this hangs above your head, and all this obscures the already narrow strip of sky that is visible from the ill-fated street. But, my God, what is this street like? What kind of sewage does not flow down and fall on her? Chinese food stalls, with their special disgusting smell, spread their fumes and miasma, which remain hanging in the air. In the stinking darkness, residents are swarming with their work, and next to them, dirty pigs, dogs, and children are lying around on the damp, moldy ground. The foot slips on unclean soil, the soul is indignant at this extreme beastliness in which it sees a person here... How do these people live, how do they still have the strength to be born and grow here in contaminated air, without the sun, almost without light? My companion could not stand even a quarter of an hour. “Back, back. Impossible" ... We rushed into the cross street and, fortunately, soon reached the shore from which we began our journey. There is something like a pier built here. Hundreds of boats with Chinese boatmen stood near the shore. Another crowd gathered on the shore. It was impossible to understand what they were discussing here, but, apparently, there were no special activities for them here. When we arrived, everyone stared at us: I was in a cassock, my companion was in civilian clothes. And the wonderful thing is that there was not a single sympathetic look, not a single good-natured smile, as we are used to seeing in Japan. Some kind of irreconcilable cold malice looks out of those hard eyes of the Chinese. Not nice people. Not far from the coast stood our cruiser "Zabiyaka", which came straight from Russia a little after our arrival in Amoy. We went there, quite surprising our fellow countrymen, who, of course, least expected a Russian priest from such a remote corner of China as Amoy. After sitting in a welcoming circle of officers, talking with them about their difficult transition, etc., we set off, together with several “Zabiyak” officers, on a further detour, this time to the settlement. From this side, Kulangsu is much more picturesque. Here you can see rocks, although not particularly high, but steep and of the most bizarre shapes. First of all, we inspected the signal station. It is placed on a separate pointed rock, a kind of natural tower. A small hut was stuck to the side, the home of a Chinese watchman, and on top there was a mast for signals. The climb up there is steep and inconvenient, but the view is very good: everything is in full view. Some singing, obviously not Chinese, reached our ears; a choir of children’s voices sang. There was probably some missionary institution nearby. The Chinese watchman pointed us to a two-story house located right at the base of the cliff, just on the opposite side of the rise. In order not to waste time, and most importantly, not to lose the open house, we went down, or better yet, rolled straight down without a road, and were soon in front of the goal of our endeavor. The singing continued, but there was not a soul anywhere... We hesitantly went up into the corridor-gallery, and even more hesitantly took a few steps to the glass door that led into the room. There were about thirty little Chinese girls sitting at black desks. On the front wall hung a crucifix and several icons. We were apparently in the Foundling House for Italian Nuns, which was mentioned in the Directory. This is an institution with the same tasks and goals as the Hong Kong German House that I described in my last letter. But the order here, as it turned out, was not at all the same. As soon as our strange figures appeared in the glass door, all thirty girls, with amazing squeaks and screams, rushed down the corridor in panic. Curiosity still won this time over Eva’s great-granddaughters; at the doorway from the corridor they crowded together and looked at us. We, quite taken aback by such an unexpected commotion, nevertheless remained to wait to see if any of the teachers would come out. But the expectations were in vain: no one came out, and the eldest of the students rather inhospitably began to wave their hands at us so that we would leave from where we came. There is nothing to do, let's go back. Finally, a fat, fat Chinese woman appeared at the door, to whom I turned with the question of whether it was possible to inspect their establishment. But this Chinese woman also shook her head negatively and slammed the doors to make it more convincing. Small fry was exposed in the windows, but the windows began to quickly be closed with shutters. What a welcome! According to Catholic custom, these nuns thus hide from people. A custom that cannot be approved. Escorted from the Catholic school in such triumph, we went to wander around the island. There were streets and complete wastelands, with high cliffs, completely wild places. Somehow you can’t understand the Settlement plan. In one of these vacant lots stood a Buddhist temple, or rather a chapel. Bonza served in what should have been an evening service. He purred something while standing (and not sitting, like the Japanese) in front of his idol. Noticing that we had arrived, the bonze stepped away from the idol and stood in profile. That's how polite they are! In ancient times there was a monastery near the chapel; at least in the rocks that form a real castle nearby, undoubtedly some Buddhist ascetics lived in the old days; all the rocks are dotted with Chinese inscriptions. We walk through the streets again. Again choral singing is heard, this time male voices were heard and the chanting is exactly the same as what I heard in the Anglican Cathedral in Hong Kong. This is undoubtedly a mission. We entered a fairly clean yard with swings and other school supplies. Singing came from the second floor of a wooden house of an ordinary colonial building. There were several Chinese people visible there, who were singing. We were soon noticed, and about five Chinese jumped out to meet us. All are young, twenty years old or so, all have smart, good faces. Everyone looked at us kindly, kindly, and there was no trace of that hidden hostility that we had just seen in the Chinese city. Unfortunately, we did not speak Chinese, and none of them knew a word of English, they did not even understand words like Christian, Christ, etc. However, we were taken to the classroom. There were maps on the walls, including a map of Palestine, and Bibles in Chinese, English, and Chinese in English letters were laid out on the teacher's table. Obviously, this is a missionary school and specifically of English or American Protestants. Meanwhile, several more students ran into the room. They crowded around us, looked into our faces, smiled, and in general, in every way except words, tried to express to us their courtesy and friendliness. Finally, we were rescued by another Chinese man, a little older than those around us, it was a teacher. He knew, although also very weakly and with a bad accent, the English language (obviously, this school is set up quite normally: it gives the Chinese Christianity and education, but does not make Europeans out of them). With various attacks on English grammar on both sides, we managed to find out that all the young Chinese crowding around us were Christians and that the school belonged to the Scottish Presbyterian Mission. The Scots missionary is called Mr. Thomson and some other one whose name they couldn’t make out. The school has two classes, and the one we were in had 16 people. Let's go to the second floor. There was a student dormitory there. Very well arranged. Each pupil has a separate room. There is a bed with a muslin canopy (this is not at all tender, as it might seem from our northern point of view; mosquitoes here do not allow you to sleep without canopies). In the room there is then a table and a bookcase with books. Everything is very neat and clean. In some rooms, their owners sat at tables and read some books at the top of their lungs. When we appeared, the reading, of course, stopped and the reader, having kindly bowed to us, joined our retinue. When I saw such a structure of the school, I realized that this could not be just a lower school. "What is this? theological school?, I ask the teacher, “Yes.” “And then you all become preachers”? - Yes. He himself taught Bible interpretation at school. We went into the teacher's room. She was no different from the students. On the table there is a Bible and a small Daily Book, with religious reflections for each day of the year. We went down a little hill, in the same yard, into the student canteen and kitchen. There dinner was already ready for our kind hosts, and we, not wanting to torment them with hunger, bowed to them and left. The school, according to the teacher, has only been set up for the last year, which is why it looks so clean and cheerful. Mr. Thomson lived in a special house nearby, exactly the same construction and size as the school. I have heard before that Protestant missionaries generally live in large spaces. However, it is absolutely impossible to compare them with Catholic ones. Protestants are for the most part family people, and where there is a wife, there will certainly be some comfort, some conveniences of life, which a single person cannot arrange, and would not even think of providing. This time, however, we did not go to the missionary, limiting ourselves to only an external look at his home. We were told that the Scottish mission in Amoy and, mainly, in some other two provinces had up to 6,000 people baptized. Yes, it's a round sum... The next day we left Amoy. There was no pitching (according to the sailors, however). We also had a service at Annunciation. But I had to give up the evening conversation on the eve of the holiday; I became somewhat faint-hearted, although I felt sorry for my listeners, who cast expectant glances at me. Wonderful people. And how they repent in confession. This is where we learn sincere humility and a sense of sinfulness. It’s amazing that there are pure souls, although they have to fall from time to time. There are also rigorists among them, but these are not narrow performers of duty. A sense of legality is not particularly characteristic of us Russians, and perhaps all Slavs in general; we are neither Germans nor Japanese. The Russian rigorist has a feeling of fear of God, of God's law. These feelings are usually expected only among people who have lived, who are somewhat outdated, but I happened to meet very young men, first-year sailors, who reverently said, “It’s impossible. This is not according to the law." They must have come from some God-fearing old family with a good home life. Of course, most of them are frivolous, but where is there without infirmities?.. On Lazarus Saturday, March 28th, we stopped near Chifoo. A piercing north wind was blowing. The sky was cloudy. It was cold and damp on the upper deck. In the distance one could see Chefu, or, strictly speaking, the place where Chefu was supposed to be. Foggy, gray, unsightly. And then there was still a slight rocking, even though we were at anchor. Not good at all. Of all the things, Chief saw a large house standing on the shore, this was the office of some large Russian tea merchant. Our admiral transferred to the Sivuch and went on it to Tienzin and from there to Beijing, and we turned directly east and went across the Yellow Sea to Nagasaki. The north wind was increasing and the waves were getting stronger. The All-Night Vigil on the eve of Palm Sunday was somehow served. But in the morning I had to abandon the service. We expected even greater waves and wind. A storm was coming. But our ship, to the great pride of the mechanic, did not betray us: late at night, at about 10 o’clock, in impenetrable darkness, we entered the roadstead in a quiet Nagasaki marina. In the darkness, the distinctive lights of Vladimir Monomakh, who spent the winter here and now welcomed our arrival, shone sharply. The solemn days of Holy Week passed wonderfully, we celebrated Easter joyfully. And there the Saratov, a Voluntary Fleet steamship, arrived in Nagasaki, with the long-awaited hieromonk, my deputy. On Easter Friday a small Japanese steamer was leaving for Kobe: I decided to go on it. The officers and sailors said goodbye to me cordially, and I, encouraged by their good wishes, set off at night. My soul rested among these good people. In first class, some boss was traveling with me. At first they started talking. We, they say, are pursuing the same goal: the moral benefit of the people. But then, when several more passengers boarded with us at one of the intermediate stations, for some reason he became embarrassed and hid until he arrived in Kobe. Judging by his behavior, etc., he belonged to a new sect of Buddhism, which may be called Buddhist Protestantism. Old Buddhism tried to achieve salvation through grueling feats, and thus turned, strictly speaking, into a monastic order; the laity existed only as an inevitable inconsistency; marriage was rejected, it was forbidden to eat meat, etc. But then one elderly bonze appeared in Japan, who received a revelation that all exploits, celibacy, abstinence from meat, etc., have no meaning - a person is saved only by a higher power. It’s all up to the person being saved to call on this power for help. Bonza, free from all suspicion in his old age, conveyed the revelation to his closest disciple and forced him to marry. This is how this sect was founded: Shin-shuu. It is currently the most widespread sect in Japan. And the reason for this is its peculiar policy in the past era. When the shogunal house, committed to Buddhism, reigned, it strongly patronized all sects. Old Buddhism, already inclined to look down on the masses of the people as ignoramuses, now, thanks to the generous gifts of the government, completely abandoned the people: they did not need their offerings. Only one new sect rejected government help and turned to the people, which is why the whole people switched to it. He was, of course, attracted by the very teaching of the new sect: in it, the layman was more or less a full-fledged person (although he was also interpreted as a dark ignoramus). And the bonzes were married, somewhat insured from that general debauchery with which the bonzes of other sects, old Buddhism, were shamelessly infected. At the head of the new sect is something like a high priest, as in other sects. The only difference is that in the new sect the dignity of the high priest is hereditarily passed from father to son in one princely family. Soon the influence of this prince became so great that it inspired serious fears in the government. The latter, under favorable circumstances, intervened in disputes over the inheritance of the high priestly dignity and managed to split this sect into two: Nishi-Honganzi and Higashi-Honganzi, i.e., the Western Church and the Eastern Church. Each is headed by the same high priest, but, of course, the power of each is not as extensive and not as dangerous as the power of the previous one. These sects are no different from each other in their beliefs and rituals and apparently live peacefully. Both now prosper (comparatively): the largest and most ornate tera almost always belong to them. These tera are especially grandiose in Kyoto, where the main headquarters of both sects is located. On Monday 13th we arrived in Kobe early in the morning. There was a terrible fog, you couldn't see anything. You could hear that Kobe was very close. Through the darkness one could hear the noise of the city, the clatter of carriages and machines in factories, but the city was not visible. We stood in agonizing anticipation for a long time. Finally, the white curtain lifted, and it turned out that we were standing with our nose directly at the side of a huge warship. A little more and it would have been very bad. That same day I left by rail for Tokyo, where I arrived today to my great joy. Everything is the same here: the running machine continues to work tirelessly and continuously. His Eminence Nicholas taught for me at the seminary and at the girls’ school, without abandoning his usual duties. Now he is little by little getting ready to leave again: to explore the churches of the southern half. This time he will be on the trip for a very long time, maybe until the cathedral - which is supposed to be in Osaka in August. We will be left here alone again. I will continue to teach at the seminary and at the girls' school. Letter XXI. August 10, 1892 Tokyo The other day we returned from Osaka from the cathedral. This time the cathedral was purely businesslike and therefore more interesting, and now I understood more clearly what they were talking about. The Council began on August 3rd and its meetings took place in a church already familiar to me and you, in the church house in Osaka. The setting, of course, is ordinary: the same table at the sole for the bishop and priests. The catechists were also arranged in two columns (this time, however, not on the floor, but on chairs). Representatives from some churches sat on benches near the western wall facing the altar. This time the cathedral was not as numerous as in Tokyo: only six priests were with the bishop. They are all from the southern half of Japan. Fr already familiar. Matvey Kageta, Fr. John Ono (from Osaka), Fr. Nikita Mori, whose parish embraces the southern part of the large Japanese island. Fr. Jacob Takaya, a gray-haired, very good-natured old man, always calm, friendly, Fr. Peter Kavano, still quite young, both of them from the very South Island, Kyushu. Orthodoxy is just beginning to spread there, and it must fight hard against the heterodoxy that penetrated there earlier. Do not think, however, that our mission will ever engage in the notorious “catch of souls”, which both Catholics and Protestants diligently practice. Their first goal, especially among Catholics, is to recapture several Christians from someone else’s mission and then take on the pagans. Hence the disputes, strife, hence the abusive direction of their preaching. We don't have that. They come to us from heterodoxy, we accept them, but the preaching of our mission is always directed at the pagans. If any of these latter asks our preacher about heterodoxy, he is advised to go to a heterodox preacher and learn from him, and then compare. “Our business, they say, is to preach Christ’s teaching, and not to sort out other people’s affairs.” By the way, I remembered one interesting incident regarding this trick. Once two catechists, ours and the Catholic one, got into a conversation about preaching. Ours began to reprimand the Catholics why they were so hostile towards other missions and preachers. “Eh, that’s enough, brother,” answered the Catholic, “yes, it’s like two hotels: one invites you in front of the other. It can’t be otherwise.” Amazing cynicism! Protestants, of course, shout about freedom of conscience, etc. But their preaching sometimes shines with the most rude attacks against other confessions. The Reverend Nicholas told me such a case. During the first period of his activity, back in Hakodate, he had a good acquaintance who was a Protestant missionary, a bishop, as they are called, or, in essence, a superintendent of the American Methodists. One day this missionary was giving a public sermon, and then the tall figure of the Reverend appeared in the distance. “Look, there he is, there is the servant of the devil,” the preacher pointed out to his listeners. And this is all before the eyes of the pagans, who still need to be told who I. Christ was, to say that we have One God, etc. It is not for nothing that the opponents of the mission are now laughing that the Japanese have not yet recognized Christ, but have heard enough of the mutual abuse of Christian preachers. That is why some of them now, when they hear the word Christianity, just wave their hands. This, they say, is the same as with us, the bosses, who only know that they argue and divide among themselves. If, moreover, the pagan sees that everyone wants to lure him to come with various handouts, etc., then he loses all respect for both the missionary and the faith that the latter preaches. So, there were six of us priests (including me), one deacon, ordained last year at the cathedral. I know him from the perplexed question he asked: does the warmth poured into the Holy Spirit transubstantiate? Cup after fulfilling it? There were from 35 to 40 catechists, and up to ten representatives from churches. The bishop and I sat down at the table, catechists and electors, as stated above. Sitting next to me was the good-natured Fr. The one who explained to me when something in the speeches was incomprehensible to me. We gathered at 8 o'clock in the morning. After a prayer sung by everyone, His Grace Nicholas, dressed in an epitrachelion and an omophorion (although without a hood, but this time in boots), made a welcoming speech, and the meetings of the cathedral opened with the reading of statistical information about Christians of the Japanese Church. Each priest of the northern and southern Church, regardless, submits to the council an annual report on his parish, on the number of converts, deaths, etc. Now reports were presented for the whole 17 months, since last year’s council was convened in the third month, and this one in the eighth. All those baptized during this period of time throughout Japan turned out to be 1,737 people (including infants of Christian parents, although, of course, this is a small part). Excluding deaths, the number of baptisms in Japan has now risen to 20,048. The result is very comforting, especially under the current difficult circumstances. If things continue to progress with the same success, then by the end of the century, God willing, there will be up to 30 thousand in the Japanese church. The reading of statistics continued until 12 o'clock, the hour when all Japanese, from the Mikado to the last beggar, eat their gozen. We, of course, followed the general rule and suspended the meeting until two o'clock. After the break, the usual petitions began to be read for the transfer of catechists, for the opening of new Churches, etc. All this is discussed and resolved at a special meeting of priests, and the final result of all deliberations is only announced to the council. After the petitions, various oral proposals began. One catechist, who had been a seminary teacher in theological subjects for a long time and was now sent to preach in Kyushu, a very educated man (knows Russian), stood up and began to speak and the need to determine the “direction” of church preaching. Where should the main focus be, in the east or in the west? If in the west, then we need to weaken the preaching in the east and send an excess of preachers here. Now it is not clear what is the main subject of our concerns, where our center is. Another catechist, a friend of the first, expressed the same thought even more clearly. It is necessary to divide all of Japan into districts under numbers and assign each such district to a priest, then mark the most important points with red dots on the map and place catechists in them. If Christianity establishes itself in these red dots, it will automatically penetrate into the surrounding villages that depend on the cities. This idea is not new: almost all more or less learned catechists adhere to it. They see it as very logical and reasonable: since the center is ours, then everything that depends on it will also be ours. I wrote to you earlier about the principles on which our preaching in Japan is based and lives: the Orthodox goes where there is a desire to listen to him. If he is not accepted somewhere, he does not at all try to forcibly establish himself there, but goes to another place (Matthew 10:14). And this is quite reasonable for every true Christian: he knows that it is not he himself, not his abilities, but the grace of God that acts in converting the pagans. It is necessary, therefore, to follow her instructions, and not draw up a plan for yourself and try, at all costs, to fulfill it. Non-Orthodox people act just the opposite, guided precisely by logic: if the main place is taken, everyone else will follow it. The Reverend Nicholas vehemently objected to both catechists. To the first he said that we do not have the right to choose one east for ourselves and abandon the west, or vice versa: we are sent to everyone. Until now, we have limited ourselves to one part not because we wanted to enlighten the other, but because there were not, and are not, a sufficient number of preachers. They started from the east again, not by any calculations, but simply because it had to be so, it was God’s will: the Russian consulate was in the north, and the first preacher (as a priest) was destined to live with it, willy-nilly, therefore Christianity came not from the west, but from the east (the Japanese call the east of Japan that part of it that we would call the north). From the east it gradually moves to the west. And now, perhaps, the time is approaching when there will be as many of our forces in the west as in the east. In view of this, it is proposed to open a catechetical school in Osaka directly for the West. Why hasn't this happened yet? The reason, of course, is that there are no funds, and the main thing is that the West, generally accepted, is not nearly as ready to accept Christ’s teaching as the East. Everyone knows by what means heterodoxy is strong here, if only one can say that it is strong.” “To abandon the east in order to strengthen ourselves in the west or to choose several red points for ourselves in order to transfer catechists there from other places is not only unreasonable, but we have no right to do this: this would mean killing churches in many places at once. If we now had to start the matter again, then we could argue about different main points. But things are already underway, because the church already exists. Do we really need to abandon Christians to go look for new ones?” All these thoughts about plans, about red dots, etc. come from simple imitation of non-Orthodox people. And an amazing thing: more educated catechists who have read various “Supensa” and heard about “Hekeru” (as Spencer and Hegel are pronounced in Japanese) are inclined to this unreasonable imitation, simply because, they say, that’s how it is with them. I later had to make sure that the common people, various village “obaasans” are freer from this copying, and, at the same time, from that malicious dislike towards foreigners, which, oddly enough, these zealous copyers suffer from. The Osaka catechist Tade then raised the question of what needs to be kept in mind now: is it the preservation of believers, or the acquisition of new ones? There were different assumptions. One advised saving more, another to acquire, the third allowed a combination of both tasks: seven parts for saving, and three for acquisition. They even proposed that special guardians be chosen from among Christians, and that catechists be sent exclusively for acquisition. Someone wanted to give these guards a special salary, which, of course, was immediately rejected: this, they say, would be the same as for Catholics who pay for their zeal for the church. Once the question was asked about salaries, they began to talk about the salaries of catechists. They receive, indeed, little, most only enough to somehow subsist. Families are very cramped. Of course, their gaze involuntarily stops at the wealthy life of non-Orthodox catechists: both Catholics and Protestants pay catechists well. That is why these latter are always well dressed and live without poverty. Therefore, even now they are talking passionately about salaries. Source of income. every preacher, of course, his flock. But our flock is still too small and scattered to support its shepherds at its own expense. In all of Japan, it seems that only the church in Hakodate has its own priest. Some churches maintain catechists. Some others pay them half their salary or hire a house of worship at their own expense. Everything else comes from the mission. One can hardly demand more, although sometimes complaints are heard that constant subsidies from Europeans have somewhat spoiled Christians; They are waiting more for the Europeans to arrange a church for them, but they themselves are stingy with donations. This may be true. Our Russian peasants are by no means richer than the Japanese, however, they generously donate to the church. And that the Japanese are also capable of sacrifice is proven by numerous examples, for example, of Buddhists. Later I had the opportunity to talk a lot about these Buddhist donations. Now a huge tera is being built in Kyoto, costing something like 5 million dollars - all this is the sacrifice of private people. Neighboring peasants often make a vow to earn a certain amount for the ter. And so he works for himself during the day, and for Tera at night. Having thus earned a hundred dollars at night, he carries them, wrapped in a rag, to Kyoto. Therefore, there is zeal. Maybe the Europeans really did spoil the Japanese. But, of course, this is true - only to a certain extent. Most of our parishes are still too small to have enough funds. Eyes, therefore, turned again to the mission. It would be good if the salary were increased from there. We talked about this topic for a long time, looking at it from different angles. O. Matvey finally got tired of listening to all this. He stood up and, casting his gloomy gaze over the speakers, told them that it was a shame for a preacher of Christ’s teaching to talk about salaries. We must work for Christ, unselfishly, not for a salary. There will be such zeal for the sake of Christ, then the salary will not be small, and there will not be such empty questions, he added quite angrily, like the one that a catechist needs: to preserve or gain Christians. “Everyone start in his own place, as anyone understands, start with zeal, with jealousy, then you will see what is most needed. And how much salary to give and to whom, let’s leave it to the bishop (daisimp); As long as he determines, then thank God.” The Reverend answered these arguments in detail. “Keep or acquire? These two things are inseparable. Let there be only jealousy. If a catechist with sincere zeal takes up the task of preserving Christians, raises their faith, love, cultivates in them a truly Christian mood, a Christian heart, such a church community cannot remain without influence on the pagan world around it: a city standing on the top of a mountain cannot hide, the light cannot but shine. If a catechist chooses to acquire new children of the church and zealously begins to work on this, then will not his true zeal for Christ ignite the hearts of the Christians of his parish? He who is lazy about acquisitions will gradually fall asleep and put his Christians to sleep. The main thing, therefore, is not to sleep, to stay awake, but to argue where to start is completely unnecessary, this is how God will lead everyone. There is nothing to talk about the salary; nothing can be added. The Reverend knows how hard it is for catechists, especially family ones, but there is nothing to do, the mission cannot give a large salary. Whoever wants to get more, work hard: the flock will not leave a zealous shepherd without material help. And most importantly, we need to remember the apostle’s covenant: having food and clothing, we will be content with it. Everyone knows the reproaches against Protestant missionaries for their wealthy lives. It is not at all desirable and inappropriate for the Orthodox to be subjected to the same thing. Remember Who you are following, concludes the Reverend. Of course, each of you could lead a more sufficient life by becoming, for example, an official, etc. Remember that you came here not for profit, but for the sake of Christ, and the more selfless your service is, the higher your feat, the more touching the preacher’s service and the more daring. So, let’s give up the thought of increasing the salary: it’s impossible to increase it and there’s no place to do it, but talking about it only frustrates the matter and doesn’t lead to any good.” The discussions continued until the evening, when the meeting was adjourned. The next day there was a priestly meeting. We gathered in the bishop’s room (in my former apartment): His Eminence Nicholas, us, six priests, and a deacon of the Osaka church. The main business of this meeting is the distribution of catechists, a highly complicated and difficult matter. How many petitions are being submitted from all over Japan! It is necessary to give each catechist a suitable place, each parish a suitable catechist. One is not comfortable there, another is here, the third would be convenient but does not want to move to another place; and most importantly, every priest will gladly give up bad catechists, but will never agree to lose good ones. All these interests must be reconciled without sacrificing the general benefit of the church. The whole day passed for distribution. O. Peter Kavanaugh was the most offended. They decided to take his best catechist as a teacher to the new catechist school in Osaka, and instead of him they sent those whom no one wanted to accept. He protested. To console him, they transferred one very good catechist from the parish, Fr. Nikita, then it was his turn to get angry. In the parish of Fr. There was one remote place (Koozi), with which there was most of the fuss. Who should we send there? The young man is inconvenient: in such a wilderness he will soon become bored, and the old man cannot be sent away either; The speech of the inhabitants is so different from the usual that an elderly person will not soon get used to it. “Even I, talked about. After so many years of service here, I don’t know all their words.” After the distribution, some catechists were promoted to the next degree. With us, after all, they all fall into three degrees; Catechists are already experienced and long-serving preachers. Behind them are fuku-den-kyo-sha, assistant catechists. In fact, they preach and run parishes on their own. Finally, den-kyo-sei, catechist students. These are just beginners, having recently graduated from the catechetical school (seminarians are usually appointed fuku-den-kyo-sha). The den-kyo-sei stand under some guidance from the nearest catechist. The salary rises in accordance with the degree: some receive ten, others eight yen (i.e. 15 and 12 rubles), of course, for those with large families and those serving the church with something special, for example, translations, etc., an exception is made. Some get 20 yen, although very few. This time, six people were promoted to catechists and three to assistants. After all this, they talked about the catechetical school in Osaka. The students were already in mind: about ten people asked to be accepted into the school. And here you cannot go without a choice: Many of the pagans, having heard about the school, strive to get into it, hoping for a good salary upon completion of the course, while some simply want to stay for two years on a ready-made basis, moreover, in a city such as Tokyo and Osaka. Of course, such students are completely undesirable. Hence the rule: whoever wants to go to school must come and be supported during the exams at his own expense. Only those who seriously want to go to school will agree to such conditions. Then, a recommendation from a priest and Christians is required. Of the ten people mentioned, six will probably be accepted. The course at the school will be two years. One year in Osaka and another in Tokyo. The latter is because there are ready teachers in Tokyo. The teacher in Osaka in previous years was Fr. Ono, who declared himself an experienced teacher, having trained several good catechists for the church. But his large parish did not allow him to attend school. Now to the aid of Fr. It is appointed by Morita, a former seminary teacher. He, by the way, was converted to Christianity by the Reverend Nicholas himself, at the very beginning of his activities in Tokyo, almost among those twelve who were the first fruits of those baptized in Tokyo - The students of the newly opened school are intended exclusively for the western or southern half of Japan. The next day, August 5th, the entire cathedral gathered for the last time. The reading of the list of catechists compiled by the priests began, after which everyone stood up to express their consent. Then Bishop Nicholas stood up and in a long speech made several orders regarding church life, the necessity of which he became convinced of during his visits to churches. “Very many of our catechists have several villages or cities under their jurisdiction. The catechist lives in one of them permanently, but visits the others from time to time. If there are catechumens somewhere, he stays there for a week or ten days, preaches, and then moves to another place to stay there for the same amount of time. Of course, this order is caused solely by a lack of catechists, and in practice it is extremely inconvenient: after listening to the teaching for a week, the catechumens must then wait twenty days, or even a whole month, until the catechist returns and continues the catechism. During this time, they will have time to re-forget a lot, the impression of what was said before will be smoothed out, and the jealousy for listening will naturally weaken. If the housewife, having slightly warmed up the food, blows out the fire, then a little later lights the fire again for a minute and puts it out again, can she be expected to cook the food? (Comparisons in Japanese sermons are always numerous). That is why it is noticed that there are many people listening everywhere, but very few are baptized; the majority lag behind halfway. In view of this, accept for the future as a law: the catechist must live where he has listeners. Let him live there without leaving for a month or a month and a half. If he preaches sermons every day, then during this time he will have time to prepare for baptism. Even if he doesn’t prepare it, then, in any case, he will have time to lay a fairly solid foundation, so that it will no longer be dangerous for the catechumens to wait a month or even more without preaching, they will not forget and will not weaken in zeal. If the listeners are in two places at once, determine your place by consultation with the priest or by the majority of the listeners and work with those chosen continuously, while asking the rest to wait: there will be no harm from this for them. It often happens that when the catechist and his students have already completed half the catechumenate course, a new student arrives. The catechist, to save time, invites him to listen with others. This order can be canceled once and for all: you cannot start the course of announcement from the middle. You can be sure that such a listener will soon fall behind: much in the words of the catechist will seem strange, incomprehensible to him and, therefore, not interesting. And his questions will only distract from the matter and interfere with others. With a new one, start the announcement separately, but if this is not possible, ask to wait until the next game. “How can catechists preserve their believers if all the time is spent acquiring new ones? For this it will be quite enough if the catechist goes around his district once every twenty days or a month.” “In some churches, especially in the north, there is an institution that is very useful for the church, this is a permanent “simbokukwai” (brotherly meeting). In some churches there is one, common for men and women, in some there are two, for men and women separately. Once or twice a month, members of the Simbokuquay (for the most part, all Christians of a given village) gather either in the church house or at someone’s house - they give sermons, speeches on spiritual topics, decide various matters concerning the church, etc. In other places, each member is obliged to make a certain contribution to the church. This money is sometimes used to rent a church house, sometimes to pay a salary to the catechist, and to cover all preaching expenses (renting a room for public preaching, travel expenses for the priest, etc.). Not to mention this material side, all such simbokukwai constitute an irreplaceable tool in the hands of a zealous catechist, a tool all the more important because it does not have to be invented or adopted from the outside, it was created and developed by life itself, without any coercion or instructions. We need to give it our full attention. Many catechists (and mainly, I would add, civilized ones), copying the Protestants, start “sennen-kwai” (youth meetings). These meetings have an educational purpose - for Christians, of course, in the Christian spirit. But the fact is that Orthodox Christians, Catholics, Protestants, Buddhists, and anyone else can enroll in Sennen-kwai, each of them, of course, preserving their faith. And as a result, only a shadow remains of Christianity, and some colorless water, in the form of a general doctrine of good and evil. It is not for nothing that one sometimes hears from Protestant catechists that they do not believe in the Divinity of Jesus Christ. In Orthodox society and for the Orthodox Church, such sennen-kwai are not particularly useful. We will develop and support what we have, what we have developed, especially since our Simbokukwai (they have much in common with our southern Russian brotherhoods, only, of course, on a small scale) find justification for themselves in the Holy Scriptures. Christ, besides the 12, had 70 more apostles. Of course, the latter correspond more to our catechists, but here are lessons for all believers in general. These seventy were ordinary believers, minding their own business, but at the call of Christ they gathered and went to preach, and then returned to their business again. In the same way, now ordinary believers, gathering for Simbokukvay or contributing morally or materially to Simbokukvay, gather to serve Christ and contribute to this service, because the purpose of the meeting is to kindle the faith, support the brothers, mutually preach the word of God, in a word, to establish and spread the kingdom of God. For female simbokukwai, the model is in the Gospel wives (myrrh-bearers), who also made up a circle (kwai) of persons who dedicated themselves to the service of Christ. Many wives later labored together with the apostles in preaching. Our women's shimbokukwai is a unique application of this women's service to the cause of Christ: assistance in preaching and participation in it. So, from now on, it is obligatory in every church where there is a sufficient number of members, let there be a simbokukwai, either common for everyone, or for men and women separately. It is better if there are two separate shimbokuquay: more people can take part in preaching and speeches, and for women to preach in front of women is both more convenient and decent. Whether there will be any monetary contributions is a matter of voluntary decision of each church; we are now talking only about the spiritual side, about preaching. How to perform these simbokukwai? First of all, it is necessary that the believers themselves speak, and not the catechists. In the latter case, believers would constantly only have to listen, and there could be no significant benefit from this. When a believer himself gives a speech, he needs to prepare for it. And during the preparation, how many new things will he have to learn, how many will he have to change his mind, re-experience, how, consequently, how deeply and in detail he can study the object of faith he has taken! And to hear your friend speaking a speech he himself composed and felt is much more edifying and intelligible than the sermon of a catechist, to whom everyone is more or less accustomed to listening. Let several people speak at each meeting: two, three. The job of catechists is to monitor the choice of topics and help in composing the sermon, correcting what is needed, etc. Topics are best taken from Sacred History. Let the second topic be from the lives of saints, inexhaustible in the wealth of material and always instructive; the third is the interpretation of Holy Scripture. You can gather at least once a month, preferably on Sunday, as the most free day. (In Japan, with the introduction of a new calendar, the European custom of Sunday rest was introduced. On this day, both schoolchildren and officials, and many private individuals are free. Therefore, in Japanese Orthodox churches, a simple Sunday day is celebrated more than the twelfth holiday, if it happens in the week, excluding the Nativity of Christ and the day of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul. We recall the ancient practice of the Christian Church to consecrate with church memories the days that were previously holidays for the people. Of course, over time, the Japanese will get used to the church year, when Christianity will live longer in Japan and there will be more Christians). It has been noticed that some churches do not have Sunday schools for Christian children. This needs to be corrected immediately. Studying in government schools, children sometimes do not hear anything about Christ and God - it is necessary to teach them in a special way. Let the catechists abandon all extraneous sciences, arithmetic, history, etc., which are usually taught in Sunday schools among Protestants, and focus only on the Law of God. For other sciences there are six days in the week, but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord your God. You can, of course, gather children on other days; Sunday is indicated only as the most convenient (they do not study in secular schools) and decent. At the end of his speech, the Bishop mentioned one not very comforting phenomenon of church life. In some churches he noticed people who were quite weak (reitan, in Japanese). These are people who have been baptized and are included in the church register, but are very careless about the matter of faith: they do not go to church. They do not participate in parish meetings and contributions, to confession and St. Communion is not started. One cannot call them apostates, because they do not renounce their faith (there are very, very few of them), they do not stop praying to God, and they do not even remove icons from the most prominent places in their home. It is also true that many people are included in this category simply because they are located in an unknown place. A person will receive baptism, and then move somewhere or go to work, where there is neither a priest nor a catechist nearby. He would like to enter the church, and confess, and take communion, but due to the distance he cannot. Some of these may, over time, grow cold towards the faith without ceasing to be Christians. To cure this evil, it has long been decreed in the church that everyone who leaves for the side takes from his priest a certificate of his baptism and that he can begin the sacrament of communion. For his part, the priest must notify the parish priest of the area where these Christians are going, so that he knows about them and visits during his rounds around the parish. Then many will not be included in the reitan due to a misunderstanding, and many will not lose their zeal for faith. But this is only one side of the matter. Undoubtedly, there are those who are weakened and those who have not gone anywhere - they live in the same place where both the Church and the catechist are. Of course, many reasons can be found for this, but catechists and priests are not without fault here. Perhaps catechists who are not zealous enough allow those who are not fully prepared to be baptized, most importantly, without thoroughly testing how deeply and sincerely these latter believed. Before baptism, those approaching it are also tested by the parish priest. Many, indeed, after such a test are temporarily removed from baptism, as not being sufficiently prepared. Let all priests fulfill this duty with the same strictness, remembering what answer they must give before God for each person baptized. - But neither the catechist, nor, especially, the priest can know well who they are preparing. It is also necessary to know what the life of each baptized person was like before. Of course, no one has the right to refuse baptism to a person who previously lived immorally: Christ came to save precisely such sinners. The deeper and more old the wound, the more glorious the healing, the more evident the grace. But baptism washes only those who sincerely approach it, only those who want to give up their filth and henceforth live in purity. Ours is not like that of Catholics: no one is reborn mechanically or magically, you need desire and will. It is necessary, therefore, to test with all caution how sincerely this or that person desires a new life, and only after such testing and research should one baptize. Who could help the priest in such research? None other than the receivers (dai-fu). They are, for the most part, permanent residents of this city; they knew the baptized person before in his everyday life. He often turned to the catechist, thanks to their mediation. The recipients, therefore, have every opportunity to fully recognize the person being baptized. Yes, they are obliged to know him, since at baptism they give the church a guarantee for its new member, a guarantee of his faith, his sincerity. Receivers tell lies and sin terribly if they give a guarantee, but they themselves do not really know for whom they are guaranteeing. Priests and catechists have a responsibility to explain this to Christians so that everyone understands the important responsibility that recipients assume. So, catechists must prepare well for baptism, priests must strictly test, and Christian recipients must know well for whom they vouch before the church and God.” The bishop's speech continued for more than half an hour. After her, one catechist presented three examples of which people and how they fall into the category of the weakened. In Maebashi (a city near Tokyo, famous for its sericulture), two women were well prepared for baptism and were baptized. Soon after baptism, they had to return with their husbands to their village; there were no Orthodox Christians there or nearby. They always had a desire to confess and communion, but for this they had to go either to Maebashi or somewhere else, to go far and for several days, and the pagan husband, of course, does not allow him to be away from business. These women ended up in reitan. One Christian went to work (in the mines, it seems) in such a wilderness that the preacher never looked there. Of course, he did not have to go to confession or St. Participles. He disappeared from the eyes of the Orthodox and was enrolled in the Reitan. But then this worker hears a rumor that an Orthodox preacher or priest is passing through one of the nearby villages, and he, leaving work, runs out of breath for several miles to exchange at least a word with his spiritual shepherd. Can such a person be considered to have lost faith? But you can’t leave him without help: life will take its toll and can drown out his faith. The third case was again in Maebashi. One girl from a fanatical pagan family was baptized (the old mother was especially intolerant, since in general women, especially older ones, are distinguished by greater fanaticism in Japan than men). Willy-nilly, she had to hide her Christianity and, despite her desire, stay away from Christians and the Church. Unfortunately, this girl became mortally ill and died without any guidance: the fear of her mother’s anger kept her from declaring her faith until the last moment. On her deathbed, already at her last breath, she quietly asked her sister from her mother to be buried in the white shirt she had worn at baptism. After her death, the sister reported this request to her mother, and she was so touched that she herself came to the church house and asked Christians to pray for the deceased. How to judge this poor girl? Of course, she did not have the determination to suffer for Christ, she could not be a martyr, but... aren’t we, Christians and catechists, to blame for this: we need to find her and support her. According to the speaker, it is necessary to send a special priest to help these lost ones: let him be freed from the management of one or another parish and let him constantly travel throughout Japan, looking for Christians without a parish, edify them, give them communion, etc. Rev. Nikolai stood up again and said that it was inappropriate to appoint a special priest, and it was useless: how would he find these missing people? How will he know, having arrived, for example, in Kyoto, that there are such Christians here? You will again have to turn to local Christians or the parish priest. Keeping their flock is the common duty of all catechists and especially priests; they must all have each individual believer under their eyes, they must find out where someone is going for a long time. If it’s nearby, try to visit and support them; if they’re in another parish, notify the parish priest and transfer them to his care. When there is no way to support messages, then there is nothing to do. But if there is even the slightest opportunity, the priest will give a great answer to God if he does not take advantage of this opportunity. We must answer to God for every soul entrusted to us, no matter how bad and insignificant it may be. Each shepherd will appear before God with his flock to say: “Behold, I and the children whom God has given me. Having exhausted these and current issues, the council began reading the catechetical rules and instructions for catechists of the Japanese Church. This reading takes place at each council for the purpose of various amendments and additions that church practice causes. At the same time, they talk very much and willingly about the very verbal edition of these rules, about which “monzi” (Chinese sign) to use in this or that place. The amazing wealth of characters in the Chinese language! For every slightest shade in a concept, the Chinese hasten to come up with a special sign. By combining invented signs in pairs, simply microscopic precision in expression is achieved. And what a vast field this is for the scientific ingenuity, for the wit, perhaps, the vanity of all the more or less educated Japanese! Everyone is inspired, everyone proposes their own version, passionately, and proves it. And there is no end to these bickering over Monzie. This time, when reading the rules, the question of the cathedral was also raised. One catechist suggested convening a council for the entire church in Tokyo at once, and not, as now, for each half separately, and, in order to avoid costs, convene it every two years. The inconvenience of the present order is that the catechists of the northern and southern halves do not see each other at all. This proposal was accepted by everyone; the Rev. was for it. Nikolai. But oh. It came out in defense of the old order. “How long the cathedral will exist in the Japanese church is unknown, many, many hundred years. Meanwhile, the cathedral in Osaka, which is threatened with closure, brings undoubted benefits for Christianity in this region. Is it reasonable to give up this benefit, especially for a temporary establishment? In Tokyo, Orthodoxy is noticeable even without a cathedral, but here the congress of Orthodox preachers, as a rule, arouses everyone’s attention.” We decided to leave the cathedral as is. In conclusion, the catechism was announced to the cathedral about the opening of a catechetical school in Osaka. Everyone was asked to help her by sending suitable students, donations, etc. Then they read a prayer and Rev. Nicholas addressed the cathedral with his last word of edification. “God has helped us so far, and will help us later. We, finally, are only an insignificant instrument in the hands of God, but God himself converts and revives people. One should not be embarrassed, one should go straight and boldly to the work of God with the hope of victory. One thing is needed for this: love for your brothers. It is a sin and a shame for you, the Japanese, to sit idly by while around you forty million of your fellow tribesmen are wandering in the darkness, looking for the Creator and pleasing Him in their own way. Your faith will not save you if you do not have love, because without love even torments and miracles are nothing (1 Cor. 13). They say that you can’t help but get bored, constantly doing the same thing, repeating the same teaching hundreds of times to different listeners. To say this is a sin. The food is always the same, however, we don’t get bored eating every day. A doctor and a merchant don’t do the same thing all the time? Why should monotony only bring boredom and despondency to preachers? We need to put ourselves in the position of a listener, we need to remember that the sermon may be old for us, but for the listener it is not at all old, that this is his daily bread, that without it he will perish. You need to love the listener, feel his extreme need, then there will be nothing boring in these constant repetitions of the same thing. We need patience in this and prayer to God for help and support.” Having then given a general blessing, the bishop closed the cathedral. In the evening there was an all-night vigil, and the next day I went to Tokyo. The Reverend remained for a few more days to say goodbye to the catechists. He knows each of them, and knows their weaknesses. At parting, say something to each of them, scold, encourage, console. He urges all of them to write to him without fail every month about everything that happens in their churches. I may have already gone into too much detail about the cathedral, but I think it is easiest to get to know our church at the cathedral; here it appears almost all of a sudden with its needs, its troubling questions, with its good and bad sides. As you can see, there is still a whole sea of ​​things to do, the small Orthodox herd is almost lost in the forty million mass of paganism. But it fights and little by little it wins. Fighters, of course, are also people, subject to human weaknesses, they can become despondent and carried away by vanity, and others, perhaps, will sometimes succumb to selfish calculations. Everyone is human, everyone is human. But these wretched fighters, with weaknesses, with their comparatively insignificant education, deprived of any more or less honorable position in society, preaching the faith, which everyone calls the Russian faith (and from Russia, according to European and Japanese conviction, can anything good come?), these fighters, who are met in pagan society with contempt and slander for betraying the fatherland, nevertheless, stand against the all-powerful world and slowly, but faithfully moving forward behind their leader. The bosses, strong in their dialectics and boasting of philosophy, are inferior to them, and the heterodox, who came here fully armed with European culture, which is so tempting for the Japanese, are inferior to them. Even if the non-Orthodox are larger in number, only the work of the Orthodox mission differs in strength, as the non-Orthodox themselves admit this in their reports. You will involuntarily remember the word of the Savior: do not be afraid, little, truly small and wretched flock, for I bequeath to you the kingdom. Of course, this local Japanese kingdom is only necessary and is only achieved with effort and not suddenly. Japan will not immediately be Christian, perhaps not even; will directly take over from the European states their religious indifference or, better to say, irreligion, but the Orthodox Church will still exist among the people and not as a foreign guest, like Catholicism and Protestantism (it is not for nothing that Japanese Protestants are now shouting that the European form of Christianity does not suit the Japanese character and mentality, it is necessary to invent Japanese Christianity for the Japanese), Orthodoxy will be native to the Japanese, their national a property, as it became for us Russians, for Bulgarians, Arabs, as it is for the Greeks, from whom we received it. None of us will now say that he believes in the Greek faith, it is our native, folk one. The same will happen in Japan later. Letter XXII. November 14, 1892 Tokyo After the council, His Eminence Nicholas decided to send me for permanent residence in Kyoto, partly in order to get to know real Japan better, and partly to provide some assistance to confessors in this region. So, at the end of August or, in Japanese, at the beginning of the ninth month, I came here, to the ancient capital of Mikado and the center of the national and religious life of Japan, in its own way Japanese Moscow. According to the original plan, I was supposed to live separately from the catechist and the church so that our presence would be more noticeable. Therefore, immediately upon my arrival, having somehow settled into the catechist’s apartment, I set out to find an apartment for myself. Christians also searched, and the catechist and I also searched, but all our searches turned out to be in vain. Either the houses offered were too bad or our new fellow citizens did not want us as neighbors at all. Sometimes the owners wouldn’t mind letting us into the apartment, but the neighborhood doesn’t want to, and here the patriarchal power of the neighborhood is very developed. And how can a true follower of some tera let Yaso-kyo into his apartment? Willy-nilly, I had to give up a separate apartment and arrange a home for myself in a church house, especially since the second floor was completely empty. They called a daika (carpenter). He drew up an estimate and then bothered us with his knocking for almost a month. They work surprisingly slowly here. Our carpenter could do all this in three or four days. But for that, there would not be such grace, such care in finishing: the Japanese are masters at this. Upstairs they made a room for me (glass windows), and another large room was turned into a prayer room. They built both a throne and an altar. From Tokyo they sent us a large icon of Christ the Savior in a good frame. The walls are covered with white wallpaper, the floor shines with new tatami, a large window on the side gives in a lot of light - it’s clean, bright and cheerful in our prayer room. It can accommodate up to thirty-five people. Now, perhaps, it is too spacious. We also have an antimension, so we can also serve the liturgy. Services take place, of course, only on holidays and mainly on Sundays. The evening before, if possible later, we serve a shortened all-night vigil. We sing everything that we can sing with our meager singing means. Christians here are all busy people, artisans, and cannot dispose of their time arbitrarily. It’s good if they learn to sing at least a little on holiday. Therefore, the all-night vigil is scheduled later, at seven or even eight o’clock. In the morning we serve mass or mass. Both services are always accompanied by a sermon. In the evening I usually speak, in the morning the catechist, sometimes, if the topic comes up very interesting, we both speak, one after the other. Christians sit on the floor during a sermon, I sit on a stool. The vestments are removed, and the conversation proceeds completely at home, although, of course, the listeners do not allow any liberties: everyone remembers that they are present at the Divine service and listening to the word of God. The service and the Sermon are over, then immediately in the place of prayer conversations arise and let, the prayer is over, we can talk. Sometimes, of course, there are mistakes in this regard. One day we served a liturgy (the sermon occurs during the sacrament. During the priest’s communion, the curtain is also lowered). I started consuming St. Gifts, suddenly I feel something like tobacco smoke, and from behind comes the characteristic sound of a pipe and a hibazi. I turn around and see: my pilgrims are seated in a circle near the brazier, in which we keep coals for the censer, and are calmly smoking, peacefully talking about something. Their confusion knew no bounds when I said that smoking in a church where the liturgy had just been celebrated was extremely irreverent. What to do? Not all of a sudden: after all, they had never been to a real church before. After the all-night vigil, almost all Christians gather downstairs with the catechist and read Holy Scripture, which the catechist explains to them. If it’s cold, they come to me too. A samovar was brought here from Osaka. After the all-night vigil, we place it on the table, and my guests sit down wherever they can: some on a chair, some on a bed, and most right on the floor. It’s very cramped, you can’t step or move, and then it gets unbearably stuffy, but no one is embarrassed by this: you can open the door because of the stuffiness, and the conversation is the most amicable. Sometimes after the service we have a parish council, where we resolve various issues. For example, the first question raised in front of me was shimbokuquai. For now, they decided to have one common shimbokuquai for men and women, and to gather not on Sunday, but on the 1st of every month, because here in Kyoto, the first and 15th are celebrated by everyone: both merchants and artisans. The day before they receive all their salaries, make payments, etc., and then go out for the day. Although Sunday is more or less observed by Christians, not everyone is free from their work. The place of meeting was not the church house, but the houses of all Christians in turn, of course, if the latter were the owners. In this case, they preferred the houses of Christians again to facilitate preaching: the neighbors soon get used to Christian meetings in a church house and then are not at all interested in them, while a meeting in a private house once every few months, a meeting that is generally unusual, cannot go unnoticed. God willing, it will attract some to listen to what will be said at this meeting or lead to questions about its purpose, faith, etc. Now there is a queue of shimbokuquai, and so far there have been two of them. The first was in the Wetani family's apartment. These are poor people, artisans (they make silk fabrics). The father is sick, legless, but a good Christian; his wife and eldest son, a young man of 18, work for him. There are two more young sons. They are all Christians who were baptized in one of the churches closest to Kyoto and have now moved here. They live in a rented shack, and there are two or three more such corners in the yard, inhabited by the same poor people. The Japanese houses are completely open, everything is visible and audible, so our meeting, in essence, took place in the courtyard among the pagans crowding around the Uetani shack. There weren't many of us gathered this time, only about eight or ten people. We sang to the King of Heaven, then sat in a circle on the floor in a dark room, the only one in the shack. Move aside the screen and you are in the yard. After the prayer, I said a few words before starting the task (about the mustard seed, which will later grow into a big tree). Next, Philip Murakami, the eldest son of our other large Christian family, spoke; he spoke on the text of Matt. 7:13, about the narrow and wide way. Behind him, Luke Maka-kooji, a factory worker, spoke not without fire about Christian love and the need for all of us to be fully armed soldiers, with all readiness to stand guard over the truth of Christ and go to the aid of the pagan world around us. Next is the catechist and me again. During the conversation, Anna Shimano, a gingerbread seller, came and was assigned to tell the life of the saint. But with all her zeal, our Anna could not overcome her embarrassment, and now she came last. Obviously, we will have to have a special shimbokukwai for women, otherwise they will only have to listen. The speeches were followed by refreshments. Each of those present took out a small coin (five rin or half a yen), and one of the owner’s sons went to buy o-kashi, that is, Japanese sweets or cookies. What is there: sweet beans, dough from potatoes and peas with sugar and salt, in a word, the most delicate dishes. This time the owners sinned against the general agreement: they also prepared a treat of their own, which is not allowed on Simbokukvai. During the “o-cha” and “o-kashi” time flew by, and we only returned home late in the evening in heavy rain. At the next simbokuquay, it occurred to me to read to my listeners some biographical information about Philaret, Metropolitan of Moscow (from the Soulful Reading). Several cases of healing the sick, etc. were mentioned there. It was necessary to see with what continuous attention my Christians listened. In general, stories about miracles and revelations of grace in modern times arouse incomparable interest among Christians. In this they see a new guarantee of the truth of the faith that they accepted from the Russians. That's why the name Fr. John of Kronstadt is very popular in the Japanese church. What will come of our shimbokukui, of course, cannot yet be said, but even if they do not serve to spread Christianity in Kyoto, they are useful for ourselves. Our Kyoto Christians came from different sides and ends of Japan, and the reprimand is not the same, and the position in society is not the same. What, for example, can some railway official have in common with an assistant at a factory or with some gingerbread seller? On Simbokukwai they sit next to each other, get to know each other better and get used to each other. Simbokukwai is truly a fraternal meeting and leads to the strengthening and development of brotherly love among Christians. However, we need to introduce you to our parish. We have six Christian houses in our parish, and all of them, as if on purpose, are located almost in a circle on the outskirts of the city. Let's start from the north. There in the northeast corner is the house of Takata, a railway official. Wife and two children. This house, or, in essence, Takata himself, was still listed as a sort of reitan: he didn’t go to church, didn’t participate in the general offerings to the church, and didn’t let his wife in either. It is difficult to understand the reason for this, because in his reception room in the main place there hangs an icon and there are church books. It seems that he moved away because of displeasure with the catechist. Takata did not like the fact that the catechist was making a fuss in the church, trying to attract the attention of the pagans, and by Protestant means: he set up a secular school in the church house, with an unfortunate English language, he started a sennenquay, a meeting of young people without distinction of religions, which all ended, as one would expect, in a complete fiasco. Now there are no more such scenes (however, now the catechist from last year is different, he was taken to Tokyo). Now, thank God, Takata has reformed, goes to church, takes his children with him, makes his monthly donations, and in general has become a good Christian. Far in the northwestern corner, in a cramped hut in a common courtyard, live Luka and Sofia (in Japanese accent: Ruka and Sohia) Nakakooji. Their room is poor, and meager, and black, you can barely stretch out in the room, but there are several icons on the wall, a candle in front of them, and a lower portrait of the Reverend Nicholas. Descending to the south (the square on which Kyoto stands is completely flat, but out of respect for the imperial palace, located in the northern part of the city, we all pretend that we are ascending to the north and descending to the south), we will meet Uetani’s apartment, where the last Shimbokukwai took place. Even lower down live Okumura, husband and wife, the latter has not yet been baptized, but will soon begin her baptism. When the previous catechist left, she inevitably had to wait for his successor, since she, being unaccustomed to the pronunciation of a foreigner, of course, could not successfully listen to the announcement from me. The trouble with our speech is that it takes a long time to acquire the skill of distinguishing book speech from simple speech; for a foreigner, all words are equally simple or sophisticated. And here the difference in book language is incomparably greater than even among us. Having studied various terms from dogma, over which several translators have puzzled for a long time, looking for the most accurate expression, we begin to deafen illiterate listeners with them. It takes a lot of skill to avoid this very undesirable phenomenon. In addition, the language in these places is so peculiar that they do not understand the general literary speech. The Reverend Nicholas told me such cases from his practice. While touring the diocese, he arrived in one village in the parish of Fr. Nikita (southern part of the main Japanese island, Honshu or Nippon). Christian women gathered to see him in the evening, Rev. addressed them with a sermon. I looked, my listeners, sitting around me, shook their heads affirmatively, looked into my eyes, in one word, in every way they showed that they completely shared my words. I get even more inspired and talk for a long time. Well? understand? I ask them at the end. They didn’t understand anything, they answered. This plunged me into extreme bewilderment, and the one sitting next to Fr. Nikita just chuckled and then explained that women in this place speak their own special language, even words such as father or mother are special. Men, however, understand general Japanese speech everywhere. Therefore, I have to refuse to denounce this woman for now, so as not to waste time and so as not to discourage her with my eloquence from listening to Christian teaching. God willing, the catechist will announce it, and after the new year, perhaps, she will be baptized. Even lower to the south, at the end of the main local street (Saneo-doori), which divides Kyoto crosswise into two almost equal halves, stands the shop of our Anna Shimano. Her husband is a pagan, a native of Kyoto, but quite good-natured and allows his wife to believe as she wants. Right behind the bench they have a small room and here in the most visible place hangs an icon. Anna has an old mother who was baptized in Kyoto, and a brother, also a Christian. Now he is a kuruma, that is, a cab driver. They live separately from Anna, with other pagan relatives, so we have no access to their house. Anna is one of our best Christians. Despite her poverty, she contributes almost more to the church than all the others (in our country, each member of the parish contributes a certain amount monthly. At general meetings, usually before Easter or at Christmas, everyone determines the amount of their contribution). More than once I had to notice how Anna, after the service, when everyone had left, would go into the prayer room and quietly drop her offering into a mug for the church. This is already in excess of what is required and goes towards some special needs. It is remarkable that this simple, completely illiterate woman has such a clear faith, alien to any extraneous admixtures of superstition, that more than one of our intellectuals who boast of reason and science would envy her. Anna's mother (Varvara) was baptized at an old age, about sixty. Of course, all her life, like any other pagan, she lived among superstitions, various signs, conspiracies; in her old age, all this will not immediately fall behind. And now Varvara, no, no, will start talking about bad omens, the evil eye, etc. Our Anna always reminds her mother that everything is in the hands of God, no eye can do anything without God. What seems to be more common than all these signs and beliefs in a simple, one might say, dark woman? Obviously, true faith, no matter how simple it is, is always alien to superstition, from which no science can free a person. The last Christian house is in the southeast corner of the city. The Murakami family lives there, six people: father and mother, two sons, already adults, two daughters. All Christians. They are engaged in finishing copper utensils, making drawings on them, etc., for which Kyoto is also famous. Our two sons and eldest daughter are the most ardent members of our improvised church choir. In general, this is the most active and zealous family for the church, helping the catechist a lot in preaching, finding listeners, sometimes the sons give sermons if the catechist for some reason cannot or is absent. Pavel Okamura and this family were the first Christians who met by chance in Kyoto, they started liturgical meetings on holidays, which is why the current Kyoto Orthodox Church later developed. I wrote to you about this once before. So much for all our homes or families. Besides them, there are several other single Christians living in pagan families. The most important of them, undoubtedly, is Panteleimon Shibahara, a young man, a doctor, the first of those baptized in Kyoto, so to speak, the first-born of the local church. He lives not far from the church house, in the hospital of a pagan doctor, and burns in the full sense of the word with the faith of a convert. Despite his youth, Christians elected him sutsuji. i.e., the headman or elder in our parish. And, indeed, the Kyoto church can be proud of him. Several people have already been converted due to his private sermon. Mainly, after all, this private preaching promotes the spread of Christianity. If a Christian meets one of the pagans, he finds out that this is Yaso-kyo, questions begin, and sometimes, if a close friendship has developed, then ridicule. The Christian explains, interests, and then introduces him to the catechist, who is supposed to announce the person brought and reveal to him the Christian teaching in full. Of course, the assistance of Christians is sometimes limited only to the fact that they bring their acquaintances to the catechist. Panteleimon usually lays down the first foundation of faith; his catechumen comes to the catechist already with faith. Our preaching is very slow and slow. The people of Kyoto are too stubborn in their ancient faith to pay attention to us. True, sometimes some of them come to me. Of course, from the very first words you start talking about faith. He invariably bows, confirms everything you tell him, not a single objection, not a single bewilderment. A sure sign that the sermon does not affect him at all. Invariably, everyone is persuaded to come regularly on certain days to listen to the teaching, and invariably everyone does not keep his promise. No wonder the Christians warned me that the people of Kyoto are sweet in speech and gentle in their manners, but they are all liars and shun all non-Kyoto people. Therefore, up to now, not a single native Kyoto resident has had to convert to Christ; all Christians here are strangers. Of course, it would be possible to start a school, a hospital, start charity, people would be found, only God bless them, with such Christians. However, do not think that we are completely unsuccessful: at the Introduction, one pharmacist or apothecary student, Panteleimon’s friend at the hospital, will be baptized. Panteleimon brought him to me, and I, in the absence of a catechist at that time, had to announce him. He comes to see me every day for a month, we talk for an hour or more. Our announcement is usually carried out according to the book of St. Demetrius of Rostov: Mirror of Orthodoxy (Osie no Kagama). By the Introduction the course of catechumen will end, then we will perform baptism. By that time, two more girls were prepared: Takata's daughter and Anna Shimano's adopted daughter. In all likelihood, the baptism will be performed by Fr. John of Osaka, who by that time will go to the parish (in this post most, if not all Christians, confess and receive communion) and will first visit us. At the Introduction, therefore, three more will be added to our 25 people (not counting the catechist’s family), three souls enlightened by Christ’s grace. God will help, and there will be more. Panteleimon had already begun to talk about his other friend at the hospital, also a pharmacy student, still very young. Then Okuruma’s wife, and then maybe someone else, now still a stranger. Unexpectedly, I had to become acquainted with our public preaching in practice. To the west of Kyoto, about twenty miles, lies the city of Kameoka. There are said to be up to forty thousand inhabitants in it, and they all live the life of Kyoto and think with its thoughts. What is accepted in Kyoto should be accepted here. What is considered indecent in Kyoto deserves the same here. Kameoka, and the entire surrounding country, always follows Kyoto. That is why Christianity is taking root in this area very slowly: in Kameoka, for example, there is hardly any more or less significant community of Christians (at least equal to our Kyoto one); if there are Christians, then only isolated individuals. Nowadays they even have little interest in Christianity, and Protestants with their public preaching are partly to blame for this. Three people arrive at once, rent a room, and begin to pour out their words to the crowd one after another. Such a discordant sermon on random, unrelated topics did not convince anyone and could not convince anyone, but the crowd was instilled with the idea that Christianity was familiar to them, and it was no longer interesting to listen to a new sermon about it. And now, some missionary comes, puts up posters, appoints a day and hour for the sermon, but no one except his acquaintances comes to listen to him: they are tired. We have about six Christians in Kameoka, four belonging to the same family, the rest single. The catechist also lives there not so much, of course, for Kameoka itself, but for the surrounding area, where several other families are scattered in different villages and hamlets. So, this catechist had long been calling us with our Kyoto catechist to come to him one day, tempting us with beautiful views along the way, and most importantly, the opportunity to return from there in a boat along a mountain river - a waterfall, indeed, one of the local attractions, which not a single good or serviceable tourist misses. About two weeks ago, we hired two kurums and set off. It was quite fresh, it was quite winter here. The luxurious greenery that covers all the mountains and hills around was now decorated with purple: the momiji leaves turned red, therefore, for the Japanese, a cheerful season had begun. In the spring they admire the cherries, in the fall they run into the forests and mountains to look at momiji. They walk in crowds, shudder from the cold, hide their hands in their sleeves, grunt, but still walk, and even write poetry, and, of course, drink sake. They also have noticeable places where there are especially many momiji or where they are located especially picturesquely. Go look at Kyoto lacquerware, and you'll probably find several trays or boxes on which gold in different colors is reproduced, some kind of sure with a blushing momiji. Our Kurumas rolled along a soft road past endless monasteries and tera with their characteristic fences and gates. I think half of Kyoto is occupied by them. Here and there children were playing in the ter's yard. These, of course, are students of highly learned bonzes; fortunately, a student can be both a stranger and a native one. Then came the rice fields. The rice had already been harvested, and there were sheaves that had not yet been harvested. Every now and then we came across Kyoto residents with momiji branches in their hands: they were returning from a walk in the surrounding mountains. Various thoughts swarmed in my head. I also thought about the people of Kyoto, who cannot be penetrated by anything; I thought about the next shimbokuquai, and about whether Takata would continue to be as diligent as he had shown himself to be lately, but little by little his thoughts focused on one subject. What if the catechist is going to give a public sermon to the pagans on the occasion of our arrival? Frankly, my heart sank at this opportunity. You can still show off your eloquence in front of Anna or Grandma Uetani: even if you lie, these kind souls will not punish you. But what will I do in front of a crowd of unfamiliar pagans? After all, in this way we can arouse such laughter in them that for many years to come our preaching will be funny to them. I began in my mind to compose a sermon about the Godlikeness of man and, together, about the main contradictions in his nature, in order to then derive from here the doctrine of salvation by I. Christ. Everything went smoothly, the words were found, although I felt that if I stumbled in the sermon once, my entire stock of Japanese words would immediately disappear. We arrived in Kameoka. The city stretched out over a long distance, almost in one order, in a long, very long ribbon. We drove, drove to our church house. We arrive and - alas! - near the entrance there is a huge sheet of paper taped, and on it my name is written in katakana in huge letters with an announcement about the sermon. Therefore, retreat is possible only under the pretext of some sudden illness. Our catechist is still quite a young man, having recently married an equally young Christian woman (she was no longer at home). The poor man is bored sitting in such an ungrateful corner as Kameoka and its environs. There are almost no listeners, and some of them are of such a type that they are even more hopeless. One walked and walked, almost believed and began to talk seriously about baptism, and suddenly he became afraid of people’s rumors: what will the neighbors say if I am baptized, perhaps they will laugh. In general, this area is not yet ready to accept Christ’s teachings, just like Kyoto itself. But if he accepts it, he will accept it with his entire mass and forever. It is necessary, therefore, to wait and endure the scarcity of fruits. Our leaven disappears, is hidden in three measures of flour, but, undoubtedly, it also produces its effect on the local people; there will be a time when it will make all this mass ferment. After lunch we walked around the few local Christians. There is only one family home here. The owner is a tableware merchant. He has a wife and two small children, all Christians. But the best Christian in the house, and, perhaps, in the entire Kameoka church, is the sick sister of this merchant. For ten years now she has been lying without legs, unable to stand up or sit down. She is still quite young: about 25 years old. Life, therefore, was only still unfolding before her, perhaps happiness. How many reasons does this have to grumble at God and at one’s fate! The poor girl endures everything humbly, reading the Gospel and other Christian books that fall into her hands (she was baptized in bed). The catechist and I sat next to her and talked, marveling at her truly Christian patience and complacency. We went into another pagan house. One of the sons is a Christian, the rest are pagans. Father, an old, old old man, constantly gets together, or at least says that he is going to be baptized, listened, I think, to all our preachers who happened to be here, and he often goes to the current catechist, talks about his desire to listen to a sermon, but still doesn’t get around to starting: a sure sign that he will not be a Christian. There is also one Christian clerk in Kameoka, he was also visited this time. A sermon was scheduled for the evening. The screens were removed and three rooms in the church house were made into one large hall. A table was placed against the wall with the usual red flannelette blanket instead of a tablecloth, with a kettle for water and a glass. In the evening, my former teacher (in Osaka) came with his Catholic friend, both of them are now teachers in a rural school near Kameoka. At the appointed hour the pagans began to gather. Our room was filled, some were standing at the entrance, generally sitting modestly and decorously. The Kameoka catechist began to say something endlessly, talking for an hour and a half, in order, as he later explained, to gain time and gather more listeners. Then our Kyoto catechist appeared as a visitor, this time dressed in European costume for the celebration. Then it was my turn. I drank the water, I must admit, with a feeling very close to that with which one jumps into cold water. But God helped, he said wow for half an hour that it was amazing, he never made a mistake, he spoke more evenly and correctly than he did before Christians. In special cases, there must be special help from God. Just don't abuse this hope. Our listeners, unfortunately, sat very quietly and did not make a single objection. This reminded me of the people of Kyoto with their gentle smiles, constant agreement to everything, but with an inaccessible soul. At about ten o'clock our sermon ended, the listeners left, and we sat in a circle near the hibatsi and talked for a long time about all sorts of things, having a fair amount of debating with our Catholic guest. A very remarkable and characteristic feature in his disputes: often, when he cannot answer an Orthodox objection, he refers to his priests. They have huge Latin books that no one else can read, and in those books all this is perfectly explained. Isn’t it a purely Catholic feature to walk with your eyes closed, holding on to your priest’s cassock? The next day we returned to our place in Kyoto, going down the river. We hired a large flat-bottomed boat, the kind that usually go along this river, rafting timber, etc. At first we set off from Kameoka with oars, but after half an hour the oars turned out to be unnecessary: ​​a strong current picked us up and carried us away. The water level went downhill noticeably, and the current became faster and faster. In some places the river noisily rushes over a pile of stones, forming a real waterfall. Then our rowers stand on the bow of the boat and push off the encountered rocks and stones with long poles. The journey in general is very unique and interesting, not to mention the beautiful views, the green mountains, the magnificent momiji, etc. An hour and a half later we were at the foot of Arishi-yama, the mountain that covers Kyoto from the northwest, and another half hour later we were at home. So far, my missionary exploits have been limited to this rather unsuccessful attempt at public preaching in terms of acquiring new Christians. The announcement, of course, cannot be called a sermon in the proper sense; it is rather an explanation of already perceived truths. Yes, the catechumen is not considered the duty of the priest in our country: he manages the parish, shepherds Christians, preaches, but the catechist is obliged to prepare for baptism. As you can see, I have very little to do with the church, leaving a lot of time for my private studies, studying the language, visiting the local attractions, etc. As in Osaka, I hired a Japanese language teacher, this time not a Christian. He has his own school in Kyoto, something like free courses in Chinese literature. Young adults who have completed their studies in government schools come to him for a certain fee. By the way, they learn the invariable English language and something else. He comes to my house, of course, in the morning. Now we read with him the Chinese Four Books, that is, three main works (or better, a collection of sayings) of Confucius and one of Mencius. This, one might say, is the alpha and omega of Chinese everyday philosophy. Reading these sayings and listening to my loquacious teacher’s comments on them, you can see the dry, base, but very decent soul of the Chinese. He has everything in moderation, everything is in order, everything is according to the law, but everything is thoroughly saturated with the most hopeless materialism, everything is limited to one earth. After this, one must also be surprised that among the followers of Confucius there are sometimes true believers. It’s good, of course, if a person takes from Confucius his everyday rules without their lining, if he applies the dogma of decency to himself, to his soul, understood in a Christian way, then, of course, a lot of good can be expected from such a person, both firmness of convictions and consistency in putting them into practice. But if the spirit is also received with the form, then man cannot rise above the earth. My teacher and I sometimes debate about Christianity. He highly praises our faith, sometimes saying that Christ’s teaching is better than Confucius’s. But, obviously, he will never be a Christian, although on Sundays he goes to the Protestant kirk. There are so many attractions here that one day I will devote an entire letter to them. For example, there are two king bells here. It is especially large at the Dai-butsu Church. Only, alas! per day you can hit it three times. And was it worth spending so much money and effort after that to amuse idle tourists? Dai-butsu himself is also remarkable. You enter a special church, more precisely, a large wooden tent or booth, and immediately in front of you, almost the entire width of the tent, stands the most terrible and huge face. This is the famous Dai-butsu of Kyoto. As a matter of fact, the statue consists of one head and shoulders, and, despite this, reaches a height of five fathoms. The size of the face is terrible, even the sleepy beauty usual in Buddhist statues is lost. You can climb up a ladder to the very back of the Dai-butsu, where a small altar is erected. They say that in the old days the image was made of bronze, but it was destroyed in a fire. The remains of this bronze Dai-butsu are still visible. The actual statue or bust itself was made by the hard-working merchants of Osaka. All this is a thing of the past, now overgrown with the grass of oblivion. The people either became Shintoists or sects of new Buddhism, and various Dai-butsu seem to belong to the Ten-dai sect, and now serve only as an object of idle curiosity. Letter XXIII. January 18, 1893 Kyoto We also met and spent Christmastide here, but here they are completely mixed up, since many people celebrate the year according to the new style, December 20th. The Japanese year begins approximately in February, in a word - with the transition from winter to spring. But now the European chronology has been introduced and the old year is remembered in some remote villages, and among old people who cannot come to terms with the idea that the new year begins with a full moon. The New Year celebration here is very interesting and reminded me of our Maslenitsa, which, by the way, should also begin around the transition from winter to spring. New Year's Eve is spent in various preparations and calculations with the old year. There is general excitement in the city. At night, no one closes their eyes, except those who are very sick. If some lazy people do fall asleep, then, in any case, after 12, in the new year. Housewives have a lot to do. They need to drive out the devil, who rather unceremoniously settled in their home last year. You need to prepare “motsi,” a New Year’s dish, which is directly identical in meaning to our pancakes or Little Russian kutya. It looks like something like dumplings made from rice, grated in a special way, something sticky, viscous, one cannot say that it is very easy on the stomach (but after all, this is sacred food, these are pancakes, and with them there is no question of digestive convenience at all). Motzi is boiled and served with a sauce strictly defined for each day. In the first three days (or a week, I don’t know for sure), the sauce is made from all the vegetables (certainly local, Japanese) that are used in Japanese cuisine. On the eighth day they make a sauce from sweet peas or lentils, and on the 15th and 30th from something else. New Year's Eve, therefore, passes in trouble. – And not just for the housewives, since the whole family is interested and helps in the preparation as much as they can. But, after all, motsi is boiled, and for this you need fire, not the everyday fire that has been used for a whole year, not the fire from barbaric matches: for motsi you need fire that is also New Year’s, sacred. Such fire can only be obtained from Miya Gion. This is the church of the god of Kyoto land. A fire always burns in it, to which all of Kyoto is sent on the night of the New Year, or at least it was sent before, when the corrupting influence of European culture had not yet penetrated here. Each one goes to Gion with a straw rope for fire, and, having lit it, returns home, twisting and waving it in all directions. Thus, whole thousands of people march, filling all the streets of the city. Imagine what an original spectacle this is. In the good old days, there was another, also very commendable custom: the always polite and respectful people of Kyoto, this time, precisely when going or returning from Gion, were obliged to abandon their politeness and be as rude as possible. Every push with the elbow, every accidental touch had to be answered with a kick, or even a slap in the face. Therefore, there was a general fight in the streets. A lovely custom!.. Before 12 o'clock the whole city freezes in anticipation, but as soon as midnight strikes, incoherent screams rise throughout the city again, there is movement again in the streets, crowds of clerks are loudly carrying carts loaded with all sorts of goods, “hatsu-ni”, i.e., the first load, an initiative, in our opinion. While the clock strikes twelve, you need to quickly load the cart and move it from its place, and then drive it through the streets. All this is to ensure that trade goes well in the new year. Having done such exercise around the city, having shouted enough, they return home and eat motzi. After this, the more zealous continue to stay awake, and the lazy ones fall asleep, but only until about 5 or 4 in the morning, when they get up again, eat motsi and again drag their “hatsu-ni” through the streets. And so the whole morning until lunch, and, perhaps, the whole day until the evening. Everyone brings their carts: clerks from large stores carry them, coopers carry their buckets and tubs, even the garbage men don’t lag behind: dressed up, if possible, they carry their huge baskets. The painful custom of New Year's visits also flourishes here, and the Japanese, too, and even incomparably more than ours, run from end to end on this day, dressed in “hakama” (wide trousers in meaning - tailcoat). Even simple craftsmen and shopkeepers bear this universal duty, and not for the seagulls, but only as a duty. In most cases, the owner, of course, is not at home, then a business card is left. You don’t know why the owner needs this card, but here they know, at least they knew in the good old days. The New Year's card has the ability to produce the voice of its master when necessary. All you have to do is collect all the New Year's cards together and hang them by the door. Imagine how frightened a thief must be if he dared to quietly sneak into your house at night, when each card would scream in the voice of its owner! Now, of course, alas, this meaning and benefit of the cards has been forgotten, they are simply thrown away like a useless thing. We also celebrated: at seven o’clock in the morning we served a prayer service, then ate motzi and went to congratulate each other. On Christmas Day, after mass, the Christians first gathered at my place, drank tea, sitting in all sorts of chairs, on the floor, and even standing in the entryway. Then we had a common lunch or breakfast: we shared food at the Japanese kitchen. Rice was cooked with different seasonings. Christians throughout almost all of Japan spend Christmas Day this way. On the second day of the holiday, the catechist and singer and I went to the homes of Christians to glorify them, just like you do in Russia. And the weather was reminiscent of home; it was quite cold, even frosty, the puddles had been frozen all morning. The Christians greeted us with their usual cordiality. In every house, in a place of honor, there was a red flannelette blanket spread out on it, a tea set, if possible, a new one or some fancy, expensive one, sometimes there were also “zabutons,” small round or square rugs for a seat. In some houses candles were lit in front of the icons. “We sang what is usually sung during praise, drank o-cha with the hosts, ate o-kasi (cake), and moved on. In one place, our praise infuriated the bonze. The house was located right next to the ter, and our venerable co-servant “atama-po maruki sensei” (teacher with a round head), as the bonzes are jokingly called for their shaved heads, was forced to listen to our troparia, and the litany, and that’s all. He especially didn’t like “Du avaremeyo” (Lord have mercy). At his grumbling, our people laughed, and the boss fell silent. From this you can also see how thin the walls of Japanese houses are. Another one was baptized on Epiphany, a young man, a pharmacy student, a comrade who was baptized on the Introduction (he was named Nicholas). The first time I had to perform the sacrament myself. It is carried out here, of course, without any changes compared to the charter. On the eve, before or after the all-night vigil, the prayers of the first and second announcements are read, the third is an integral part of the rite of baptism itself. Sometimes the person being baptized the day before is invited to confess his sins, but permission is not given to him, as he is not yet a Christian. In the morning, if possible, all Christians gather. There is a font in the room, something like a Japanese bathtub or even a straight bathtub (only, of course, not used for everyday needs), it is simply made of wood without any decorations. When the time comes for immersion, the person being baptized goes into the font, kneels there, and the priest, placing his hand on his head, tilts him into the water three times, saying: “The servant of God is baptized”... The newly enlightened one, upon leaving the font, puts on a white “kimono”, over which he wears his usual clothes. Then everyone goes to the prayer room and performs the liturgy, if there is an antimension, or just a liturgy, during which the new Christian receives Holy Communion. And then there are congratulations, rejoicing, and, of course, he himself rejoices more. “Before baptism,” one of the Christians told me, everything was somehow unclear, uneasy in my soul. You get baptized, and right away it’s as if you sat down, your soul will calm down and everything will become certain.” Yes, of course, this is how it should be: “before unloved, but now beloved,” “before not My people, but now My people,” “not strangers and strangers, but companions with the saints and relatives, close to God.” This should be felt by everyone who receives St. baptism with faith. We named the new Christian Damian, in honor of St. unmercenary doctor. He himself asked to give him the name of a saint who, like him, would practice medicine, would be “isya.” This, of course, was taught to him by Shibahara, who also bears the name of a healer (Panteleimon). God would grant that our Damian would remain longer in the company of Panteleimon; a better leader for him could not be found. The wife of Okumura, one of our Christians (I once wrote to you about him), was also preparing for baptism. Now she already bears a Christian name, but for some reason this time she could not. Let's baptize her in Lent. Recently another new catechumen, a student at Dooshisha (the local Protestant University), came to us. He started listening to teaching in Nagoya, but had to stop when he moved here. Now he's going to continue. Maybe we’ll have time to cook it together with Yulia, as we now call our catechumen. This student Morita told me a lot about Dooshisha. This university has several departments, including theology. The founders, of course, had a very good goal: to bring secular education under the influence of Christianity. But it turned out quite the opposite. The majority of secular American teachers turned out to be atheists, hostile to Christianity, and unbelief made great progress among students. Now the Americans are beginning to return to America, and in their place, according to the usual Japanese practice, pagan Japanese are appointed, and the semi-Christian university is increasingly losing the last traces of Christianity every year. Our dear co-workers treat us with their howls every morning. In one of the sects (Zen-shuu, contemplative, it seems) there is a rule to go every day to collect alms, and from about eight o’clock party after party in wide hats with bags passed by our house. It is impossible to make out what they are singing, they just howl terribly. The main celebrity of the Sen Shuu sect, a very learned bonze, ascetic, now lives in Kyoto, the last “half of a person” remaining in Buddhism. I don’t remember who exactly, but some famous Japanese said several years ago that there were only one and a half people left in Buddhism: our Kyoto ascetic was half, and someone else was a whole person. Now the whole person has already died, and only half of all Japanese Buddhism remains. This half lives in one of the quietest corners of Kyoto beyond Dooshisha, among the vast parks left over from the former happy times of Buddhism. The monastery at one time must have been both rich and great. Its entrance gate has still been preserved, almost half a mile forward. Leading from them to the monastery is a most luxurious, very majestic alley of huge, hundred-year-old trees, with statues in places, with a bridge across a pond, classic for Buddhist monasteries, overgrown with lotus. But, alas, now no one walks through these triumphal gates and across this philosophical bridge, and indeed it is impossible: on the majestic alley, now completely unimpressive beds have been laid out and tea is growing. Where kings used to get married in the Capitol... The monastery has several churches, two very large, spacious rooms for monks. All around there is a gallery or simply a covered passage for various processions and censings, which, it must be said, are very accepted in this sect during worship. In other sects, the bonze usually sits in one place in front of the idol during worship and hums his endless: “Namu meo keo Renge-keo” or “Namu Amida bu.” The first is that it belongs to the Rente sect, the most militant or fanatical sect of Japanese Buddhism, which does not even get along with other Buddhist sects (which, of course, is quite incomprehensible, since the sects in old Buddhism differ from each other, in essence, only in particulars, features in rituals, etc., such as Catholic and monastic orders). Another prayer or exclamation belongs to all sects without distinction. So, in other sects, I say. The bonze always sits, purrs and sometimes taps in time with some strange figure lying in front of him (some kind of mythical turtle). In Zen-shuu, the bonze walks purring, for which they have special paths that go and intertwine with each other throughout the church. In addition, there are also special processions on famous holidays. The monastery I’m talking about is now completely asleep, I’ve been to it several times, and, apart from simple workers digging something near the gate, I’ve never met or even heard anyone else. The large mansions stood silently, but the main church, it seemed, was completely boarded up. In the early morning, however, they say there is some activity there. At three o'clock in the morning or earlier, as in all Buddhist monasteries, the morning service is held, after which the famous bonze preaches. The bosses of this sect and others interested in preaching gather to see him from all over Kyoto. The boss talks for an hour or two, speaking, of course, ornately and scientifically, that is, impossibly sophisticated, so that enormous skill is required to understand anything of his wisdom. It is not for nothing that people have a proverb about this ingenuity of Buddhist bosses. After the sermon, the disciples have breakfast and then go howling around the city, collecting alms. Do not think that I call the singing of the bonzes a howl out of dislike for them; there is no other way to call it, a howl in the most direct and literal sense. The Zen-shuu sect belongs to the most abstract and contemplative sects of Buddhism, therefore, I don’t know if it ever had a special spread and influence on the people. In Kyoto in the old years another sect, Ten-dai-shuu, flourished. In the northeastern corner of the Kyoto valley rises a huge, spiky mountain that dominates the entire valley and all the surrounding mountains. This is Hi-ey-zan or a mountain similar to Ey, the mountain in China on which the founder of this sect lived. Hi-ei-zan was a kind of Mount Athos for the Japanese Tendai. In the old years, the entire area, from top to bottom, was covered with Buddhist monasteries, temples and chapels. There were also philosophical schools, etc. Up to three thousand monks lived there, and the people were not what they are now. More than once in the history of Japan, hi-ei-zan concelebrants put aside their rosaries and prayer books, covered their shaved heads with helmets, and with weapons in their hands, in armor, descended from their mountain down to Kyoto. Then they, especially in alliance with the bonzes of other similar Athos (and there were several of them in Japan, for each large sect - their own), were terrible for the Japanese emperors themselves. Now all this has passed, the weapons have been taken away from the bonzes, the offerings fall to their share much less, and therefore Tendai Athos has become deserted. Many churches have been destroyed, many are empty, the bonzes are now not even a tenth of what they were before. Nevertheless, Hi-ei-zan is interesting even now, and maybe even now they are especially interesting, inspiring on their visitor various dreams about their past life. There you walk through some special kingdom, there is silence everywhere, silent churches everywhere, traces of some kind of effort and deeds everywhere. After all, people lived with all this. Of course, the warring bosses could hardly explain to us why and why they live, and, perhaps, it would be inconvenient to ask them about their exploits. But there were also real ascetics. The entire mountain is covered with dense forest, which makes its mystery and special charm even greater. We walked there all day, and what did we not see there? We also saw footprints of Buddha imprinted on the stone. Most of all, the name of the Japanese hero-hero Benkei is remembered there. Benkei was also a bonzo; when he lived is unknown, at least to me. He was an exemplary monk and a hero. On Khi-ei-zan they showed us a source of water that opened through Benkei’s prayers. “That’s what they say,” added the old woman who showed us this source with a smile (oh skepticism!). And then there are two churches nearby, connected by a roof and a gallery on pillars: Benkei found these churches somewhere far below, he liked them, and without thinking twice, he put his mighty shoulder under the gallery and moved these two churches, like a yoke with buckets, to his home on Hi-ei-zan. You go down from Hi-ei-zan to the opposite side of Kyoto, to the famous Lake Biwa, about half an hour's drive along the shore of this lake, and you meet the famous Buddhist temple Mii-dera. In the old years, this monastery also had a lot of power, and its abbot was held in great esteem, so that he could argue for primacy with the abbot of Khi-ei-zan himself. During the funeral of one emperor, a dispute over the presidency almost led to an internecine war. So, in this Mii-dera (church of three wells) they will show you a huge bell, it looks like five hundred pounds. This bell hung, it seems, on Hi-ei-zan and rang very loudly and melodiously, to the great chagrin of the rival Mi-dera. Benkei, “ikatte” (angry), went there one fine day, put the bell on his shoulders and brought it here (The question arises, where did Benkei live: on Hi-eizan or in Mii-dera? But this is a negative criticism). Continuing to walk in the same direction along the Biwa bank towards Otsu, we will meet a Shinto shrine with a rare pine tree, which alone represents an entire garden. She is from the creeping pine breed, but during her long life she reached monstrous proportions, which, of course, is enough to recognize her as sacred. The height of the tree is 90 feet, the width of the branches from east to west is 240 feet, from north to south 288 feet; it all stands on supports, so that only after looking at it for a long time will you realize that it is one tree. But let's return to Hi-ey-zan. There are three notable faces on it: Azyari in the past (inkeo), Azyari present and a candidate for Azyari: for all times according to Azyari: past, present and future. Azyari in translation means actually an ascetic, but in the present case this name is an honorary title for the abbot of all the monasteries of Khi-ey-zan. For each of the three Azyari there are special monasteries on the mountain, held in high esteem and known for their wealth and rarities. In the topmost of them lives an Azyari-Inkeo, a common Azyari. His monastery is famous for the bronze roof of its marvelous church and an idol depicting some ancient famous bonze of this sect. This idol is considered so sacred that it is not shown to the common people; it always stands closed and is opened only to the emperor or to the imperial envoy. In previous years, on a certain day, the Mikado himself came here, and every year they send a rich offering from him to the monastery and the ordinary Azyari. Now all this is just legend. An ordinary Azyari lives in his monastery in complete tranquility, not engaging in any administrative matters. His experience makes his advice very necessary and important, his influence makes everyone respect him. Therefore, he enjoys much more respect and honor than the Azyari in charge. When a non-regular Azyari dies, the current Azyari retires, and his place is taken by a candidate, who until now had been languishing in anticipation and lived in the lower of the main monasteries. Then the question arises of finding a person to replace this candidate or future Azyari. The chosen one assumes his office after a long and difficult trial. For three years he must wander on pilgrimages: the first year he must visit all the churches and monasteries on Khi-ey-zan every day; in the second year and also daily - all the churches and monasteries in Kyoto, in the third year more churches and monasteries in the immediate vicinity of Kyoto are added to the lesson. When he begins his trial, zealous laymen gather in a crowd and follow him incessantly for ten days or so, supporting him by the hands, shoulders, etc., in general, helping him in every possible way, since at this time he is not supposed to sit and rest. So, at least, says the law and custom; in practice, there may be relaxations, as in any practice. Having completed the apprenticeship, the Azyari of the future settles in the lower monastery and waits patiently or impatiently for the death of the ordinary Azyari, so that he himself can take control of the entire mountain of Khi-ey-zan. But no matter how holy Azyari is. Whatever miracles and powers are attributed to him, all of them are not worth half the “monzeki”, the head of the sect of new Buddhism, although the latter (or better the latter, since the sect split into two branches, and each of them has its own monzeki) is married. I heard many stories about this Monzeki, especially about the fanatical adoration he enjoys among the people. There are always two young men near Monzeki, something like assistants, who never leave him. One of them, familiar to our Panteleimon, told the story. Every year Monzeki travels around part of Japan, visiting his Buddhists. One day, a year ago, they took a boat to a city on Kiy-Siy. The entire coast was covered with a dense mass of people of all ages and conditions. As soon as the steamer dropped anchor, whole thousands of men and women, having taken off their outer clothing, rushed into the sea and formed a trellis on the water right up to the steamer. Some stood, some swam, if it was deep. Each one grabbed hands with his counterpart and placed boards on his hands - a living bridge was formed, along which the Monzeki solemnly walked. Offerings to this honored guest, of course, are pouring in like a river, just be quick to take them. Therefore, he travels slowly, stopping for the night every five ri. But even this seems not enough to his loyal admirers; each village tries to get their dear guest to stay overnight without being in line. These efforts are mostly expressed in bribing assistants, and sometimes taking more radical measures. In Mino, for example, in order to invite Monzeki to come to them, his admirers armed themselves with ropes and caught the kurum on which Monzeki was riding. This latter mounted a horse, but the horses’ legs were tied: the monzeks were in a “kago” (palanquin), but they also seized the palanquin with ropes. I had to give in. One day, the monzeki of the western branch (Nishi-Honganzi) decided to visit a village belonging to the monzeki of the eastern branch (Higashi-Honganzi), because there was “waboku”, that is, they did not quarrel with each other at that time. It so happened that he had to go to this foreign part earlier than to his own. They were greatly offended - of course, not at Monzeki, since he is above all worldly trifles, but at his assistants, they allegedly arranged all this. They placed a tyn on the road and, taking a drekolye, began to wait, with the firm intention of beating and killing the assistants if the Monzeki nevertheless went to strangers first. And in this case I had to give in. All this, of course, happened in the provinces where Buddhism is strong, where its most fanatical adherents are still found. For example, in one of the cities of northern Japan, that is, on the coast facing Vladivostok, a monzeki was awaiting the arrival, a special fence was built in order to somehow protect it from the pressure of a fanatical crowd, and there was a reinforced police presence. The Monzeks have finally arrived. Before he had time to leave the station, one peasant breaks down the fence, rushes to Monzeki and grabs him. The police rushed to push away the overly zealous admirer, but he only insisted that now it would be good for him to die together with the living Kami-sama (god). I had to tinker with it for a long time. All this is evidence that Buddhism has not died in some places, although, of course, these living gods themselves with their assistants, etc., long ago abandoned all faith. In the provinces where Buddhism has not yet died, the preaching is now not particularly lively and successful, compared with other provinces, but there, perhaps, there is more hope for mass conversion and, in general, for the adoption of Christianity in the future. The main obstacle to faith, after all, is not false faith, but coldness, lukewarmness, with which nothing can be done. Someone who argues and hates the preacher for preaching is more likely to believe than someone who smiles and agrees to everything, for example, a Kyoto resident. In Kyoto, it is true, the attachment to Buddhism is also great, but this attachment is of a very special kind. The people of Kyoto feed on the tera and the pilgrims, they are afraid of losing their livelihood, they do not even dare to ask themselves sincerely how much they believe in all these tera and in the bonzes with their purring. It is not for nothing that various jokes and proverbs about bosses are most common here. Letter XXIV. May 4, 1893 Kyoto During the long period of time that has passed since my last letter to you, a lot of water has passed under the bridge, a lot of interesting things have happened, and most of all there have been various holidays of ours and pagans. I will, however, start from the beginning if possible. Not long before Lent, I went to Tokyo, not so much on business, but because I wanted to see my people. The journey was not pleasant. It was cold in the thin railway cars, the poor foot warmers were of little help, and then there was a snowstorm and constant drifts on the road. I had to stand at stations several times for an hour or more, and at the end of it all, instead of morning, I arrived in Tokyo at six o’clock in the evening. Of course, the snowdrifts reminded one of one’s homeland, but, after all, it’s nice to look at the snow dressed in a fur coat, but wearing a light cassock is far from the same pleasure. However, it’s only bad at night: in the morning, along with the darkness, both winds and snowstorms disappear, and the cold decreases significantly. However, I cannot understand how the Japanese, having lived, according to their stories, for two thousand years in their country, still could not invent anything to protect against its cold weather. Loading your entire wardrobe on yourself and sitting and smoking next to a smoking hibazi, still shivering from the cold, is, in any case, not witty. What do they have to experience in the north, where the winter is longer and harsher, perhaps a little milder than the Russian one? Our mission had a guest at that time - Fr. P., newly appointed Chinese missionary. It was impossible to get to Beijing in winter, or at least it was very difficult, so he came to us in Japan for the winter and, by the way, to look at our country and our mission. Time passed quite unnoticed. I taught several times at the seminary and at the catechist school, instead of a Japanese teacher whose son became terminally ill. We also had to start rewriting the report for last year. Usually, the report is compiled and rewritten in triplicate by the Rev. himself. Nikolai, who finds time and energy for everything. But this time some order came, it was necessary to move some article to another place, and so all three copies of the already prepared thick report had to be rewritten again. The Eminence was forced to turn to our assistance. The trouble is with these reports! So, on Wednesday in the fourth week, we went together with Fr. P. on the way back: he accompanied me to Kyoto to board a French ship in Kobe and cross over to China. On the way we decided to visit our churches in Hamamatsu and Nagoya. From Tokyo, of course, news was sent to both churches, and therefore they were expecting us. Hamamatsu is located approximately halfway between Kyoto and Tokyo. We arrived there around four in the evening. Many Christians had already gathered at the station, all in festive clothes, all with bows and smiles. The local church is perhaps the best in material terms, and in moral terms it is by no means bad. Almost all local homeowners are Christians and live in abundance with entire families. The very first family of several generations, everyone lives together under the leadership of an old father, and all are good Christians. This family bought and donated a large plot of land for the church house, and they almost built the house itself. The old man strictly observes his faith and is not ashamed to confess it before his fellow citizens. On Sunday his shops (he is one of the first rich men in the city) are always locked. He also does not pay for city festivities in honor of some church. This holiday, of course, has more of a civil character than a religious one, but still the reason for it is pagan, and the Christian conscience cannot always approve of a Christian’s participation in it. Fellow citizens are trying to somehow repay the old man for his firmness, but they cannot do anything with him, all their arrows are limited only to not watering the streets in front of his house, etc. The catechist in Hamamatsu receives his salary not from the mission, but from the church. This is one of not many examples. However, nowhere are the material conditions as good as in this church. All the Christians, one after another, came up to us for blessing, bowing their heads low (the blessing is taken here not with the hands, but on the head, which, according to Japanese concepts of respect, is more decent. However, this custom established itself, perhaps even contrary to the instructions of the missionaries). After greeting them, we got into the jin-rikisha and rushed through the streets to the church house. A long line of another twenty or more jin-riksya with Christians also quickly rushed behind us. In the city, of course, to the great joy and pleasure of the reception managers, there was a great sensation. The church house is located on one of the good streets. It was built somewhat according to the European model, that is, made of wood with glass windows, two floors, painted with white oil paint, and whitened throughout the entire street. Another party of Christians greeted us on the porch with the same smiles. We, of course, took off our barbaric shoes and went straight up to the second floor, where the prayer house was located. It looks like a church with an iconostasis, a throne and an altar. Everywhere is clean and tidy. The painting on the icons is good, there are beautiful vessels on the altar. It is obvious that they look after the church and are zealous for it. According to the custom here when visiting churches, I, having put on a cassock and the local stole and phelonion, began Vespers. One of the young Christians put on a surplice and stood on the left choir as the psalm-reader (the catechist was not at home). Several girls, led by a singing teacher, formed a choir, whose diligence covered (and not without success) some shortcomings in harmony. Vespers ended, I took off my epitrachelion and phelonion and, sitting down on a stool by the solea, delivered the sermon as best I could. My listeners were all men, since their housewives were left to do housework. They sat on the floor with their legs crossed, their hands folded on their knees and their heads bowed in concentration. I prayed to God that they would understand my tongue-tiedness. After Vespers, we went downstairs, met the Christians, drank o-cha with various cookies, and then we were taken to spend the night in the kitchen, since there are no decent hotels here. The stewards led us into the most honorable room, with a kakemono, with fancy columns of pine trees in the bark, with a view of the river (however, this view had to be closed and curtained if possible: it was cold, and the dampness from the river was completely inhospitable). After a while, a Japanese dinner was served, that is, gozen with various soups and fish soup, with sweets in the form of beans in sugar, with eels, a real Lucullan dinner! The stewards handed us a tray of dinner, placed a round bowl of rice next to us on the floor, and then, sobbing and bowing, they retired to another room and slammed the doors behind them (or rather, they closed the screens). This is one of the types of Japanese politeness: let the guest enjoy dinner without being embarrassed by the presence of the hosts. A bed was then prepared for us in the same room. They brought a whole mountain of blankets (futons), each two inches thick, or even more, real mattresses; so that they bend, something like sleeves are sewn to them, just as thick and heavy. You cover yourself with a blanket, and the sleeves, going down on either side, make the blanket fit snugly. I managed to get used to such an overnight stay, and therefore did not wake up until the morning. But my poor companion, who came from the tropics and had never spent the night at street temperatures in winter, suffered all night, promising himself never to spend the night in a Japanese house in the future. In the morning the owner served us o-cha. This was no longer for payment, but out of respect, as they say, and it meant that we should also show the owner some respect, that is, give something for tea. This is required by Japanese decency, and the size of the “tea” is determined by the social rank of the guest. We, of course, observed this custom, and so, when we left, servants ran out from all over the house, from the kitchen, from the yard, bowing to the ground and thanking us with sobs (although they, the poor ones, will not get any of this tea). This is also a requirement of etiquette, now unknown in big cities. We went to the homes of Christians. There are many of them here, so our visits had to be shortened to the last degree. They limited themselves only to entering the doors of each house, bowing to the owners, who hastily put on their uniform kimonos, receiving thanks for their visit and moving on. At eleven o'clock I served mass in the same manner as yesterday, only this time it was women who prayed and listened to my sermon: their husbands sat at home. After the sermon, some Philemon and Baucis, an old man and an old woman, came forward and asked to serve a thanksgiving prayer service; The old man turned 71 on this day, and the old woman, although she did not celebrate her birthday today, still had reason to thank God for her longevity: she was 73 years old. If possible, they served a prayer service (there was no book and they had to compose a litany), and after that there was a treat downstairs for everyone: red rice, that is, rice boiled with red peas - the highest delicacy! The children gathered with us. Some simply looked at us, holding tightly to their mother’s lap and intently sucking their finger, some cautiously took gifts from our hands, hastily running back if possible. But there were also those whom we asked for prayers and that’s it. By the way, three girl friends came up, baptized together, one was called Sin (Faith), the other Li (Love), the third Bo (Hope). This is the first time names have been translated into Japanese. Usually, each of our Christians has two names: Japanese and Christian. For convenience, they are now trying to give newborns a Japanese name that would be a little reminiscent of a Christian one. Here they guessed to simply translate Christian names. Moreover, we have these names translated into Russian. The guys, crossing themselves, read prayers and commandments to us, for which they received, of course, a reward. God grant that these young shoots in other churches are also carefully educated. The future depends on them. After a while we said goodbye to our kind hosts and set off on the same solemn train to the railway station. It takes about two hours to get to Nagoya, so we were there soon. The church house here is quite extensive (as the church is numerous). The chapel is also built on the model of a church, with an iconostasis, etc. It’s only a pity that we were late in our arrival: they were expecting us in the morning, and then all the Christians gathered. They waited and waited and went their separate ways. And now it was too late to collect them: Nagoya is a huge city, some would have to walk for an hour or more. There were still about thirty people. Vespers was served again, and there was a sermon again. The catechist stood on the left choir and corrected the service of the psalm-reader. Several people were singing. I would like to talk with these Christians, I would like to visit them all. But we didn’t have time: at night we went further, so as not to spend the night again in a Japanese house. We had a quick look around the city, passing by the famous “shiro” (ancient fortress) with its golden fish on the roofs. We visited some of the Christians whose houses were on the road. One, by the way, is a photographer, owner of the best photography here. Christian is also good and chosen by Shitsuji. i.e., the church elder. At midnight we set off further to Kyoto, where we arrived the next day at five o’clock in the morning, frozen through and regretting a thousand times for not staying the night in Nagoya. O.P. stayed with me for four days, patiently enduring the cramped and uncomfortable room. We, however, did not waste time in vain: in the morning and evening, while it was light, we drove around the local attractions and O.P. examined everything as a tourist, and I, using a plausible excuse, because I would not have gathered alone. We also visited Kin-kaku-ji, that is, the golden palace. This is, strictly speaking, a Buddhist monastery, in the garden of which stands the pleasure palace of some emperor, a round pavilion with a golden peacock (the symbol of the emperor) on top. In the garden you will be shown the place where the founder of this palace drank o-cha, and many other things reminiscent of ancient times. From the upper gallery you will be shown a pond and red fish, which the emperor once admired and fed. You can also buy food for a yen and throw it to the fish in memory of the emperor. After inspection (as in every Buddhist monastery, Kin-kaku-ji has a lot of all sorts of archaeological rarities, ancient expensive paintings, screens, dishes, furniture), visitors are treated to “ma-cha.” This is tea in powder, it is brewed in a special way and drunk from large cups with different ceremonies, strictly established, with a special type of cookies and even in a special room specially adapted for drinking this tea. In Kin-kaku-ji, of course, we were not given a special room, and we did not know the intricacies of the tea ceremony; we drank a cup each in the most barbaric, ordinary way. During tea, the characteristic purring and howling of the praying bonze was heard. - “What is this with you? We ask the bonzu who treated us. - “This is Vespers for us, it happens every day at these hours.” It is necessary to see whether such an opportunity to observe monastic life in Buddhism will hardly ever arise. It turns out that this vespers was quite ordinary. A young bonze - a boy of about twelve - sat on the floor in front of the idol and zealously chanted something like that, bending at the top of his lungs and striking a gong. The monastery brethren, whom they actually wanted to see, thus offered prayers to the boy, themselves, no doubt, busy with more important matters. Quite witty, although not nearly as good as the prayer mills of Tibetan Buddhists. On Saturday, that is, the day after our arrival, Fr. arrived. John Ono from Osaka. In the evening he confessed some of the Christians, and in the morning he baptized our Julia. I celebrated the liturgy, during which both the newly baptized woman and the confessors communed with St. Tain. Both at the all-night vigil and at mass I gave myself and the Christians the rare pleasure of listening to the sermon of Fr. John. Indeed, he speaks exemplarily. He speaks very simply, but so clearly, so smoothly that it is positively impossible to get tired of listening to him. This is how his clear, transparent and simple speech flows. The next day Fr. John went further to the churches, and we and Fr. P. headed to Osaka, where on this day one of the most solemn and crowded Buddhist celebrations - the festival of the dead - should take place. I may have once written to you that in Osaka there is a wonderful Tenno-ji church, which is actually a whole series of large and small churches enclosed within one enclosure. This is a whole huge block on the edge of the city. On the day of remembrance of the dead, a solemn service is held in Tennozi with the participation of the chief bonze, and more than tens of thousands of people gather there. Unfortunately, we were not in time for this service; we only saw how the main bonze drove out of the church in a jin-rikisha with livery drivers. A wave of people carried us through the streets (the jin-rikisha traffic had to stop) to the entrance gate of Tenno-zi. We entered the courtyard through the double row of police - there was a crush everywhere, there was movement everywhere. There are, of course, more strollers, simple spectators, than pilgrims, but there are countless numbers of the latter. In all the churches, the bonzes do not have time to collect money, thousands of candles are burning (everyone who wants to buys a candle in the church and lights it). In the open-air courtyard there is a special platform, on which a small idol is placed and the bonzes sit with all their accessories, with gongs, with prayer books. This is because churches do not have room for everyone. Each pilgrim gives the bonze a small tablet (one could say a tree leaf, this tablet is so thin and elegant) or tablets with the names of their deceased relatives. The bonza receives the money, reads some kind of prayer, hits the gong or bell and returns the tablets, the commemoration is completed. After this, it is useful to wash away the sins of the dead, and all the equipment for this is immediately at hand: in Tennozi there is a fountain that has this wonderful gift of washing away the sins of the dead. For a few rin or kopecks you can get a ladle with a long handle; you just have to hold a sign on this ladle to the flowing stream of water, and the sins of the deceased will be completely washed away. Both cheap and useful... There are merchants with seeds sitting at the gate. Those who don’t want to spend a lot of money can buy these seeds and then pour a pinch into a mug at each church. Sparrows are also sold here; for a few kopecks you can release one of the little prisoners to freedom - this is also in memory of the dead. On this day there was a lot of work for the cemetery bonzes throughout Japan; Without fail, every Buddhist family, and, perhaps, a Shinto family (here, after all, these two faiths are completely mixed in practice), goes to the graves of their ancestors, brings them rice and invites the bonze to serve a memorial service. In the evening I spent time with Fr. P. to Kobe. Tomorrow the French steamer left, on which he went to his China, and I returned to Kyoto, read Japanese history with my teacher in the morning and, from time to time, visit the Christians on their shimbokukwai, etc. Easter is coming soon, which, as you know, is especially lively and joyful in Japan. We prepared for it diligently. On Maundy Thursday and Saturday there were communicants. We read the twelve Gospels, etc. They sent us a small shroud and real wax candles from Tokyo. Murakami donated shiny copper candlesticks and made a three-candlestick from wire. Meanwhile, rehearsals and preparations were underway. On Saturday, around eight o'clock in the evening, the church house was already buzzing like a beehive, all of our people had gathered, their pagan acquaintances and relatives came with them (many of them, however, stayed for the service), several people from surrounding towns and villages where there is no Orthodox Church came together. I confessed to one of our Christians who could not confess during Lent. I see another one coming, a complete stranger. It turns out that the poor woman had not received communion for three years. She lives in Kobe in a pagan family, there is neither a church nor a catechist there. It’s a long way to go to Osaka to confess and receive communion. She visited the Osaka church only on Easter and thought that on this day it was impossible to confess and receive communion. Now seeing that I was confessing, she came running to me. Here is an example of our “reitan,” that is, a weakened Christian woman. Of course, one could not help but scold her for neglecting the holy duty of confession and communion, but can one call her fallen or apostate? How many of us would then have to be crossed off the list of Christians. This unexpected return of the lost sheep was a joyful gift to us for Easter, everyone sincerely welcomed her arrival. At about eight o'clock in the evening I began reading the Acts of the Apostles, and Christians who wanted to began reading after me. The reading, however, was not particularly successful for us: new people kept coming, we had to accept them, explain them, show them. At eleven and a half they began the Midnight Office, with the reading of the canon of Great Saturday. A minute or two before twelve, we all lit candles and, singing “Thy Resurrection, O Christ the Savior,” left the church in the vestibule, closed the doors and froze for a moment, waiting for midnight. Then I said: “Glory to the Saints” and sang “Christ is Risen” (in Japanese, of course). My Christians were so inspired that they all began to sing together and sang throughout Matins and Mass. Our prayer room was hot from the candles, cramped, stuffy from the incense. But it’s joyful and cheerful, completely festive, Easter-like. We agreed to sing in turns: one troparion for me, the other for Christians. This achieved two or even three goals at once: the singers did not get tired, and the attention of the listeners was always maintained during alternating singing, and the service went on much faster - our improvised choir, the more it sang, the more it stretched out. After mass, everyone went downstairs to break their fast. The screens were removed and a fairly spacious hall was formed from the entire lower floor. We sat in a circle on the floor, and after prayer we began to treat ourselves. Everyone brought something edible or sweet with them. Some have rice with seasonings, some o-kashi, and everyone will certainly have a few red eggs and a strangely shaped piece of bread. All these dishes first lay on the table under a large flower, then they moved to the floor and began to go around in a circle. The fun was endless. My Sookitsi (servant) made me laugh a lot with his Japanese slow-witted imitation. I needed to make tea. And so he diligently began to drag all my furniture on top and place it around the table. It turned out to be all for tea: seeing that I always drink tea on a chair at the table. He imagined that without chairs and a table in Russian style, he couldn’t drink tea at all; nothing would come of it on the floor. At the same time, I remember another similar anecdote from Japanese church life. At the mission there was regent Tikhai, brother of the late Fr. Anatoly himself is also deceased. When directing the choir, he had the habit of swinging both arms wildly, as many do. It happened one day to Rev. Nicholas to come to one church, where Tikhai had visited at one time and taught Christians to sing. Everyone sang, maybe not in harmony, but, in any case, they sang, it was possible to listen, and it was possible to pray. But every single singer was diligently waving both hands, and the guys, of course, found very interesting fun in this. “What are you doing?” Rev. asked them. It turned out that they thought that without waving there could be no church singing. You can therefore judge how carefully you need to handle every little thing, every detail, in the structure of the church, in behavior during Divine services. Out of zeal to preserve Christian customs in everything, the Japanese can copy completely unnecessary things. Our conversation continued until the morning - no one even thought of sleeping that night. At about eight o'clock I, the catechist and two Christians, went for a walk, examined the exhibition, the palace garden of the emperor's father, or the retired emperor, etc. In the evening at seven o'clock we served vespers, and the next day we went around all the Christians with the cross and singing “Christ is Risen.” God has brought us to spend Easter joyfully. And after Fomin Sunday, that student Doosisya, about whom I wrote to you in my last letter, was soon baptized. I performed the announcement and baptism myself. The person being baptized was named John. Little by little, but still our church is growing. God willing and will grow over time. The only trouble is that real Kyoto residents do not give in to preaching, all the newcomers are baptized - without real Kyoto residents it is difficult to establish more or less close relationships, to get acquainted with Kyoto residents: they avoid strangers. In summer, Kyoto celebrates. Each part of it has its own special Shinto religious holiday. Our part celebrates on Gion (June 15th of the new style). The next part to the south is Inari, i.e. the fox church, which is located near Kyoto to the south. I happened to see this holiday on May 6th. Art. The main feature of these holidays are solemn processions with “mikoshi” or “hoko”. The first is nothing more than a small portable chapel, gilded and decorated with carvings, with round mirrors on the sides - a symbol of God. This symbol has its own history. One day, the goddess Ama-tera-sama (sun), angry at something, hid in a cave. On earth, of course, it suddenly became dark and gloomy. The gods gathered for advice on what to do here, how to lure out the offended goddess. So one cunning god came up with an idea to show her a mirror: the goddess will see herself in the mirror, will not stand it, will be curious, and then catch her. The calculations turned out to be correct: the goddess could not stand it, looked out of the cave, and then she was caught with a straw rope. Since then, Ama-tera-sama no longer acts up and shines on the earth, and the mirror and straw rope have become part of Shinto shrines. As many as five huge mikoshi are brought to the Inari festival. All of them are gilded, painted, covered with red blankets, and on top of the main one is a metal golden peacock. Under each of them, stretchers of appropriate sizes are made of logs. It turns out to be very heavy, and each mikoshi is carried by 50–60 people. April 15th Art. all these five mikoshi are brought to Kyoto and stand in a certain place until May 6, when their solemn return home takes place, which I also saw. In general, something unimaginable, monstrous. First, an endless procession of various ancient banners, flags, banners, badges, etc., etc., stretches for a long time, up to a hundred pieces, if not more. Everything goes on measuredly, sedately and for a long time to the point of tiresomeness. The bearers are dressed in a strange costume of the courtiers of the past (in essence, this is an ancient Chinese costume adopted by the Japanese): wide robes, wide sleeves and the same trousers. Small hats, black, either wooden or leather, are somehow molded onto their heads, held in place only by a thick white cord. Behind the banners and flags, riding on a horse, all white and just as wide, was the assistant of one of the main kannushi (Shinto priests), and behind him in an open landau for a couple (oh, civilization!) one of the priests in the same attire and with the fan (of a special shape) invariable for kannushi in his hand. The mikoshi should have followed him, but they were not yet visible: their non-polar heaviness did not allow them to rush. But then in the distance a red spot appeared in the street and, bouncing slightly, slowly began to approach us. Soon random shouts, hubbub, and ringing of bells were heard. Each mokosi has several huge bells, the size of a human head. My God, what happened here! Each mikoshi had a shift of three porters, in addition, just guides, mostly boys, so that around each mikoshi there would be up to two hundred people crowded. They are all dressed in a short white dress, with bare legs (alas, here too the ancient custom, which allowed one to be content with only a sling for celebrations, has been violated), they are all tied with white scarves with the blue coats of arms of Inari, they are all drunk to smithereens, they all shout out some short saying, they all dance, they all go wild as only anyone can and wants to. Above all this chaos, a strange mikoshi is swaying and jumping (the porters too - dancing, albeit with distorted faces). In more significant places, the porters stop and, with wild screams, lift the mikoshi up, and there is always some warm place nearby with refreshments, sake, etc. In general, the result is something impossible, almost demonic. And we must also give justice to the restraint and mannerism of the Japanese; if others had been in their place, then many of the cardboard houses along the road would have been missing after this procession: a mikoshi with a stretcher made of logs could have served as an excellent battering ram. The Mikoshi followed one after another at large intervals, there were five of them. Then again banners and flags, although not as many as at the beginning, several horses in a fancy ancient military dress, the grooms leading them also resembled the old days. Several pairs of Miya servants with regalia and signs of the church and the main priest: some kind of ball, something like a scepter, etc. Then again civilization: a carriage and in it the main priest himself in a snow-white wide robe with a fan in his hands. Behind him are two servants with a long-handled umbrella and a fan. In conclusion, the assistant priest is riding on a horse in a white robe, with a cap on his head. “We stood for a long time while this procession passed, and then we walked around the streets where Inari was celebrated. There is decoration everywhere, painted lanterns and flags everywhere. The goods were taken out of the shops and in their place were put the most magnificent screens, some rare appliances, furniture, and precious kimonos were hung up, which had been preserved, perhaps, from generation to generation. Everyone tries to show off in front of their neighbors. In every house they receive guests, drink sake, eat tai (fish), large crayfish. Sake is drunk like we do, with different rituals. Instead of us clinking glasses, the Japanese exchange glasses, after rinsing them, of course. After the feast, each guest, having rinsed his glass, hands it to the host, and this latter, horrible dictu, must drink it all. As you can see, the owner's position is not particularly safe. On other holidays they wear, as I said, “hoko”, that is, a spear. This is a huge pole, at the end of which is attached a blade a yard long, wide, but very thin, so that it bends when it swings. The pole is painted and decorated in every possible way, but its main decoration is a long banner, lowered almost to the ground. It is made from the most magnificent material, embroidered with rich embroidery, and, in general, is a great rarity for anyone. Each neighborhood or quarter in a given part of the city tries to have its own hoko at the festival, arranges it, decorates it, sparing no expense. Some strong man is chosen to carry it: at every step you need to shake the hoko so that its bells ring and its curved blade sparkles in the sun. The organizers of the hoko themselves or their youth, exhausted to the nines, support their precious banner. During this procession there is no such madness as during Inari, everything is orderly, graceful, order, silence. Mikoshi is carried, after all, by the peasants of the surrounding villages, and blood-born Kyoto residents also participate here. An interesting procession also took place on the third of May (15 AD) from the imperial palace to one of the most revered places, located near Kyoto to the north. In the old years, the emperor sent his extraordinary envoy there or even went himself with gifts and worship. He was, of course, accompanied by a huge retinue in her courtly attire, with the insignia assigned to each rank. Now the emperor is not here, but the procession is still being reproduced as accurately as possible, even the chariot in which the emperor is supposed to be carried is carried. Warriors are walking in their armor, leaders are riding, carrying banners. And all this with punctual fidelity to the ancient ceremony. The only anachronism is the European costumes of the gendarmerie officers accompanying the procession. If it weren’t for them, one could be completely transported in one’s imagination to ancient Japan. – In general, there are a lot of interesting things in our Japanese Moscow at this time. This letter was the last from Japan: shortly before it, not unexpectedly, of course, a decree was received on my transfer to Russia, and I had to get ready. It was sad to part with the Kyoto Christians; we managed to get used to each other and fall in love. They were also saddened by the fate of their church; now it would again become small, insignificant among other churches, a barely noticeable handful of people, with a simple catechist at its head. However, this fear was hardly justified then, and later it was not justified at all: now Fr. Simeon Min, candidate of the Kyiv Academy, the first Japanese academician to take holy orders. This is, for the Kyoto church, of course, several times better than my stay. – This church is still small, but it is growing every year, and now, they say, some of the real Kyoto residents have been baptized. God willing, over time there will be more of them, and then (and even now, there is no doubt) the cause of Orthodoxy in Kyoto will be fully secured. Soon after my departure, other Japanese academicians began to arrive from Russia; now there are eight or nine of them. They fill places in the Seminary and in other schools, publish magazines, and translate books from Russian. In general, work proceeds as usual, without being delayed in the slightest by the absence of Russian workers. His Eminence Nicholas managed to educate leaders for the Japanese field and now has the joy of seeing the good consequences of his labors. There is only one thing that is not in Japan: there is no monastery in it and there are no monks among the Japanese, as was the case in the very first times of Christianity in Russia. The monastery would have served as an unshakable fulcrum for the entire future, the first Japanese archpastors would have been educated there, and all the weary workers in the field of the Lord would have found moral peace and support. This monastery has always been a favorite dream of the Rev. Nicholas, but this dream, no matter how sweet or enticing it is, still remains a dream. There are no funds, there are no suitable people, these suitable people do not go there. And the place is ready: a dacha in Tonusava. A better place for its amazing picturesqueness, its remoteness from the world, and its silence cannot be found. In recent days, the Japanese Church has had to endure much anxiety. Russia's intervention in the Sino-Japanese War greatly embittered the proud Japanese, and their hatred, of course, spread to everything Russian. And so Christians had to endure various antics of this wounded pride. They called them traitors, etc. This greatly embarrassed Christians. Then, of course, the sermon could not go as freely and with such success as before. But all these are fleeting clouds, they will pass without leaving a trace on the sky. The cause of God will not be lost in Japan, despite all the hopes and expectations of those who do not sympathize with it here and there. There will be a time when, perhaps, not a single Russian will be there, when the influx of donations from Russia stops, this will, of course, cause a deep wound to the church cause, but this wound will again be only temporary, because the Japanese mission has a hall of life in itself, an undoubted guarantee, and precisely in the fact that it already lives its own life and now it has priests, preachers, etc., and all this is its own, brought up here, brought up by Japanese teachers, in the Japanese spirit. The Japanese church also has that holy seed that stands for the world, and these are those of its true members who are scattered throughout all its numerous communities, its various Anna Shimanos, Panteleimons, Shibaharas and many, many others, who have not even heard of Russia and Russian missionaries, except for their “sikeo Nikolai”, and who nevertheless believed in Christ and believe in Him, and will believe, kindling others with your faith. Of course, it is difficult to expect that Japan in its entirety will ever come to Christ, just as, for example, our Rus' came under St. Vladimir. The Japanese are too accustomed to being indifferent to the matter of faith, and they have seen too much of this indifference among the Europeans to ever seriously raise the issue. However, who knows what will happen ahead? With development, the government will come to the idea of ​​​​the absurdity of its state religion, and once it has arrived, it can hardly keep it for long. The current generation, of course, is still too accustomed to it. But let’s wait to see how the generation of the next forty to fifty years will look at it. But even if this Establishment does not exist (yes, it is right and is it especially desirable?), Orthodoxy will still go its own way, quietly, slowly, but constantly and firmly. And God bless Japan... Now - Xiamen, a city of sub-provincial significance in the province of Fujian (PRC), the largest port of the province, on the coast of the Taiwan Strait. Further in the text, when mentioning the names of cities, exotic fruits, and vehicles, their modern spelling is used - approx. electronic edition. Before the reform, Japanese women blackened their teeth when they got married. Now this custom is being removed. Occasionally you can meet some grandmother with a black mouth. A common title for a clergyman in English. It opened once and after Fr. Anatolia. A. Ono was a teacher and trained 4-5 good catechists. Then the school had to be closed: to combine the parish and teaching at the school for Fr. It turned out to be impossible Afterwards I had to see Chinese people of different dialects speaking to each other in English. You might be interested in: