The end of the whole thing is the crown, which means. The crown of the whole thing. Application of proverbs in literature

The end is the crown of the body- (from pog. the end of the matter, the crown of the successful completion of the matter; end 1) limit, completion; 2) male genital organ 1) initial value; 2) about the male genital organ... Live speech. Dictionary of colloquial expressions

A good end to the whole thing is the crown. See START END...

Wed. Ende gut, Alles gut. Wed. Άρχης καλης κάλλιστον είναι και τέλος. A good beginning makes an even better end. Gregor. Nazians. See the end crowns the matter...

A good end, the crown of the whole affair. Wed. Ende gut, Alles gut. Wed. Ἀρχῆς καλῆς κάλλιστον εἶναι καὶ τέλος. Per. A good beginning makes the end even better. Gregor. Nazians. See the end is the crowning thing... Michelson's Large Explanatory and Phraseological Dictionary (original spelling)

Husband. ring, rim, hoop, circle, stripe in a circle, with · meaning. the exalted position or honorable significance of a thing. | The outline of radiance, shine around the head of a saint on icons; | royal headdress, crown; | girl's headband,... ... Dahl's Explanatory Dictionary

Husband. (· derogates. horse) limit in space, in duration, in time, in action, etc., the opposite of the beginning. In space or in the size of an object, the swing and the end are the same, because every edge, the limit of an object, conditionally, can be... ... Dahl's Explanatory Dictionary

The end of the matter is the crown. Wed. Business... not quite over. We stopped by to finish... A good deed... Every job ends well... Melnikov. On the mountains. 2, 4. Wed. The reader will learn... a story... that will then expand wider and more spacious as it approaches... Michelson's Large Explanatory and Phraseological Dictionary

The end of the matter is the crown. The end crowns the matter (beautifies it). See START END... IN AND. Dahl. Proverbs of the Russian people

Ntsa; m. 1. only units. High Wreath (usually as a symbol of suffering, martyrdom). Ternovy v. (symbol of martyrdom, suffering). Accept martyrdom c. (consciously doom yourself to torment, suffering). ● According to the Gospel story, before the execution... ... encyclopedic Dictionary

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• How You Like It Twelfth Night The End is the Crown of Comedy T 3, Shakespeare W.. Stylishly designed gift set in leather binding, with gold embossing on the cover, three-sided gold edge and silk ribbon. . "Intrade Corporation" presents to your…

THE END OF THE THING IS THE CROWN OR THE STORY ABOUT HOW, WHY, WHY AND ALL THIS, FOR WHAT?
WHAT IS THE CROWN WITHOUT THE MOST IMPORTANT THING, NOT ONLY THE MEANING OF THE GIVEER, BUT ALSO THE ESSENCE OF WHAT IS HAPPENING, OBVIOUS TO THOSE WHO NEED IT, DOING IT?

“We all rush after miracles, but there is nothing more wonderful...”
WHERE IS THE BEGINNING OF THE END WITH WHICH THE BEGINNING BEGINS?

Everything is not really what it seems. This is, as they say, a medical fact. - And what is a fact, if not what was agreed upon, agreed upon and proclaimed by socially significant persons in general and personally by those whom this concerns in particular.

Thus, those who have something special in what is happening sees, realizes and understands, and is classified as a triad. - Called yourself a milk mushroom, climb into the box. Like the story about how a jug got into the habit of walking on water...

In any situation, there are three of everything, always and everywhere. And there is a place to BE. - That which is, That which is not, and That which can be, but for the time being, for one reason or another, is hidden or, nevertheless, invisible. - Invisible because it is hidden, invisible because we are beyond the strength and ability to see, or because we can, but have forgotten or don’t want to? - That's really a question. However, it is bad luck for the mind to be laziness, habit and habit not connected, and therefore active, purposeful, and therefore creative.

As for what is beyond the obvious, the familiar and the usual, then the people have their own words for it. Miracle - wonderful, wonder - wonderful, for example. Scientifically, this is called phenomenology, synesthesia or extrasensory perception, or rather, it is called, not to say teased. - Usually there is a space of teases and horror stories in kindergarten during primary socialization. The lesson of this passage-experience is awareness - they tease the one who teases, beat the one who runs away, attack the one who is not able to cope with his fears.

In fact, the energy-information paradigm, through such a phenomenon as extrasensory perception, tries to indicate the essence of what is happening. To the very essence that is inside and outside, and also, in everyone, it is available and is certainly present. There is something there, however, what is there may vary from case to case. What should be taken into account and in the context of certain circumstances should be taken into account.

The one that is in everyone, but not everyone takes the trouble to See and Realize it, in order to Understand what’s what, how, why, why, and what ALL this is for. - And how in the end?

But you never know what other questions may arise. The road can be mastered by those who walk. A person, body, soul and spirit, is alive until questions about life not only appear in him, but also arise as if from nowhere. The very ones to which you can, need and should give worthy answers with your life. - This is the very case when the giving hand never fails. - What you come with is the same...

THERE IS MANY DEARS, ONE WAY - FROM THE BEGINNING TO YOURSELF, LEADING TO YOURSELF, ACQUIRING YOUR CHEERED THINGS AND DREAM, IN LIFE'S MOST IMPORTANT WAY, PROMOTING TO IMPLEMENTATION. AND THEN TO THE HOUSE THAT THE STEPFATHER CALLS, THE SAME WHERE THE NEW HEAVEN AND THE NEW EARTH, WHERE THE TRUTH Dwells

And all you have to do is perceive, realize, understand and restore order in your own body with your own hand. - This is the very thing that is Salvation.

AS TO THE UNEXPECTED, UNEXPECTED, THERE IS AS MUCH AS YOU WANT, IN EVERY DAY, EVERY MINUTE AND EVERY MOMENT... JUST HAVE TIME TO TURN UP

Everything that is outside indicates what needs to be seen, realized and understood inside. Yes, get to work, organize in the right direction, direct accordingly.

Everything that happens and takes place inside points to something located outside and asks you to pay attention to it. In everything there is something specific for joy and benefit to see, to understand, to think, to say in tune, to suggest, and perhaps to do or act. This is the high art of Stalking, as the ability to find oneself, the world, the world in oneself and oneself in it and, through controlled stupidity, tracking, discovering.

THERE IS A UP AND A BOTTOM, AND THEREFORE THERE IS AN ASCENDING AND A DESCENDING...

And also, left and right, ass and front. It is there, between this and that, that there is the very porch on which we all dwell from birth. For those who are not in the subject: - “We sat on the golden porch...” And further in the text. - Why not an installation, a program that not only can, but also creates and embodies all kinds of everyday collisions and plots. - Or even worse - “I just had time to say it - the door quietly creaked...”

IF THERE IS ONE, THEN THERE CANNOT BE THE OTHER, BUT BETWEEN THEM - ...
THINK, HEAD, THINK, ALTHOUGH AGAIN, IT’S OBVIOUSLY NOT GOING TO GET UP WITH YOUR HEAD HERE. AND IF SO, THEN... ESPECIALLY SINCE IT IS BETTER, MORE, MORE INTERESTING, TASTIER, HEALTHIER AND MORE TOGETHER.

MOVEMENT HERE, MOVEMENT HERE... THIS IS THE FAST-FAST FLIGHT OF THE VANITY OF VANITIES AND VANITY OF THE SPIRIT, WHICH IS CALLED THE AGE OF CHANGE IN THE PEOPLE. THE ESSENCE IS THAT WHAT IS HAPPENING IS NOTHING BUT A SEPARATOR, SEPARATING THE GOATS FROM THE GOATS.

AND THIS IS NOT HAPPENING ANYWHERE BEHIND THE MOUNTAINS, BEHIND THE VALLEYS, IN THE THREE-NINTH KINGDOM, SOMEWHERE ELSE, IN SUCH A STATE. AND EXACTLY HERE - HERE AND NOW, RIGHT BEFORE OUR EYES. - ARE YOU READY TO TAKE PART IN WHAT IS HAPPENING?

IS THE REST WHERE? HE IS ALSO HERE, BETWEEN THIS AND THIS - IN THE VERY MIDDLE.

ONLY IN CALM WATER ARE THE GLOWING PEAKS OF MOUNTAIN PEAKS REFLECTED...

The powers of the Night, the powers of the DAY, and - ETERNITY ALWAYS!

The scene is written in prose, replete with rude expressions, and ends with “dogrels” in Elena’s monologue. The main characters of the comedy speak in the same base style - Helen, the Countess, Bertram, the King in introductory conversations not directly related to the action with the jester and Parole - all these scenes, as well as the pompous speeches of the courtiers, were probably transferred without any changes to the later processing from the original edition. But as the action becomes more dramatic, the general tone changes and approaches the nobility of Shakespeare's mature works: the countess's parting speech to her son, the countess's conversations with Helen about her love for Bertram, the king's memories of Bertram's father are written in sustained blank verse; prose in some places, such as in the manager’s story about Elena’s feelings for Bertram (D. I, sc. 3) stands out for its simplicity and serious tone against the background of the rude jokes of other characters. Individual thoughts and hints, as well as the nature of some scenes, give reason to assume that “The End of the Whole Business is the Crown” was written either directly or shortly after “Hamlet”: for example. the countess's instructions to her departing son are reminiscent of Polonius' farewell to Laertes, the jester's ironic stories about court life, about the servility of the courtiers (in a conversation with the countess, D. II, sc. 2) - Hamlet's mockery of Polonius in a conversation about the appearance and shape of clouds. The comedy contains antics against the Puritans - the jester ridicules Catholic and Protestant fanatics; This reflects Shakespeare’s indignation against ostentatious piety, which also dates the comedy to the era of Hamlet.

The plot of the comedy was borrowed by Shakespeare from Boccaccio’s novella (Decameron, 3rd day, new 9), which was known to Shakespeare from the English translation by William Paynter in his “Palace of Pleasure” (1566). From a comparison of the comedy with Boccaccio’s novella it is clear how Shakespeare knew how to deepen the psychological meaning of implausible, fantastic, and sometimes, as in this case, almost offensive to the moral sense of positions and actions. Boccaccio's novella “Giletta of Narbonne” belongs to a series of stories about selflessly and slavishly loving women who through the power of humility. and with their readiness for all kinds of humiliation they conquer the hearts of their harsh chosen ones. Such is, for example, Griselda in the last novella of “The Decameron” - the ideal embodiment of tenderness and femininity, in contrast to Griselda, she is enterprising and indiscriminate in the choice of means to achieve her goal; she comes running, they deprive her of both femininity and spiritual beauty. Gillette, according to the story, is a rich orphan, the daughter of the famous doctor Girard of Narbonne. She loves the son of the Count of Roussillon, Beltramo, her childhood friend, and therefore refuses all the brilliant parties offered to her. Beltramo went to Paris, to the court of the French king; Having learned about the king's incurable illness (a tumor on his chest), Gillette builds her plans on this. She comes to the court, invites the king to heal him - her father gave her the secrets of his art - and when the king actually recovers at the time she appointed, Giletta asks as a reward that the king marry her to Beltramo. Despite his undisguised contempt for the daughter of a simple doctor, the young count agrees to the marriage, fulfilling the will of the king; but immediately after the crown he leaves for the war in Florence, where he becomes a partisan of the Florentines against Sienna. The young Countess of Roussillon goes alone to the domains of her husband, wisely manages his lands and gains the sympathy of his subjects. Having established order in the country, devastated by the long absence of the owner, she sends messengers to her husband with a request for the reasons for his voluntary exile - if he does not return because of her, then it would be better for her to leave. Beltramo sends her a rude and merciless answer: “Let her do as she knows,” he conveys to her through her messengers. “I will only return to her when she has this ring on her finger (the one that Beltramo loved very much and never took off her finger), and when she holds her son in her arms, whose father would be me.” The obvious impossibility of these conditions does not stop the enterprising Gillette, and she immediately conceives new cunning plans. She announces to everyone her intention to leave the count’s possessions forever and spend the rest of her days wandering through holy places; then, taking with her only a devoted maid, as well as a lot of silver and jewelry, she goes straight to Florence in the clothes of a wanderer. There, having settled in the house of a widow, she sees Beltramo passing by the windows and, asking about him as a stranger, learns about his love for a poor girl who rejects his advances. Gillette goes to the girl's mother and offers her a big reward if she agrees to help her abandoned wife regain her husband's favor. She agrees, and Gillette, identifying herself, reveals her plan to her. It is necessary that the girl demand his ring from the lover Beltramo, and then allow him to secretly sneak into her room at night, where instead of the young Florentine, Gillette herself will be waiting for the Count. The plan is being carried out. After some time, Giletta feels like a mother, and generously rewards mother and daughter, who, having passed the need for them, leave Florence. Beltramo also returns to Roussillon, having learned about the Countess's departure. Giletta remains in Florence, gives birth to two twins there, very similar to their father, and after a while returns to her homeland; Having learned that a magnificent celebration is being held in the Beltramo castle on All Saints' Day, she appears there in the clothes of a wanderer, with children in her arms, falls on her knees in front of her husband and, sobbing, asks him to recognize her as his wife: she fulfilled all the conditions he set, got his ring and bore him two sons. Amazed and touched, Beltramo asks her about everything that happened, bows before the strength and constancy of her love, and love and harmony are established between the spouses.

The implausibility of the plot is not smoothed out in the novel by any psychological motivation, all events are controlled by chance and the character of the heroine with her obsessive love is the least attractive. Her actions lack any inner truth. It is impossible to allow a deeply and tenderly loving girl, as Gillette is supposed to be, to forcibly marry a man who openly rejected her, and it is even more unacceptable for her cunning plans to awaken love in him - on the contrary, in the form as Gillette's plans are presented in Boccaccio, they should have even more restored Beltramo against the woman who was annoying to the point of shamelessness. For Boccaccio, the interest, of course, is not in psychological truth, but in a colorful, cheerful depiction of a piquant love adventure.

Shakespeare extracted rich psychological material from the rude anecdote, created from the rude, unfeminine Gillette one of the most touching types of his female gallery, and brought so much of his own into the intractable plot that the idea of ​​his comedy comes close to the psychological tasks developed in other plays, drawn from completely different sources.

Based on the plot of Boccaccio's novella, a play by the Italian Bernardo Accoldi, "Virginia", was written before Shakespeare, presented in Sienna at the festival in honor of the wedding of Magnifico Antonio Spanocchi and published in Florence in 1513 (its author died in 1534). Klein proves in his Gesch. des Italien Drama"s" (I) that Shakespeare knew this play, but it is much more plausible that he only used Boccaccio’s novella translated by Panther.

The heroine of the comedy, Elena, has much in common with Julia from “The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” also a selflessly loving girl who follows her lover who rejects her, with Viola in “Twelfth Night,” and with Portia in “The Merchant of Venice.” And the whole story of a girl who, with her strong and bold love, conquers the heart of an obstinate young man, is an interesting pendant to “The Pacification of the Shrew” - the only difference is that there the active role belongs to a man, here to a woman. This is the whole difficulty of the plot: how to portray an enterprising woman fighting for her happiness without depriving her of the charm of her femininity. In the Italian novella this problem is not resolved; Shakespeare, captivated by the difficulty of the plot, coped with it brilliantly. The entire struggle of Elena, winning her happiness, is transferred to the inner world, all the power that gives her victory lies in the depth and holiness of her feelings, and external facts, the actions to which she resorts, lose their intentionality, become only exponents of spiritual experiences, arise naturally from the very circumstances, without making a predetermined plan. Shakespeare achieves this by introducing subtle psychological details into the action. In this comedy, as in all his works, he treats the source extremely carefully, reproduces everything factual absolutely correctly, but gives the facts his own illumination, and thereby puts a new meaning into them. To the faces derived from Boccaccio, Shakespeare adds several new ones; in his comedy, Bertram's mother, the old Countess of Roussillon, plays a large role; she encourages Elena's touching love, takes her side, insists on her trip to Paris. This removes from Elena the reproach of unfeminine importunity and indelicacy. She only loves, only strives to master Bertram’s love, and grabs all the means that are put into her hands, precisely thanks to the strength of her victorious desire. In contrast to Gillette, she does not make any plans of conquest and, on the contrary, considers her feeling hopeless - the active role partly belongs to the old countess, who, with her intervention, protects the purity and tenderness of the image of Elena. Shakespeare also ennobled Bertram, giving him as an adviser a vulgar and boastful comrade, Parole, already entirely created by Shakespeare: Boccaccio does not mention any of Beltramo’s comrades. The password is Bertram’s evil genius, pushing him into carousing and rudeness; his influence determines the young man’s heartless arrogance towards the “poor doctor’s daughter”; in the further development of the action, there is a struggle for power over Bertram’s soul; The dramatic interest of the comedy comes down largely to the question of who will win: Helen with her noble love, or Password, corrupting Bertram, i.e. i.e. whether victory will be on the side of good or evil. Hence the usual parallelism in Shakespeare’s dramas between two actions: on the one hand, the love drama of Helen, on the other, the denunciation of Password; Having become convinced of his baseness and infidelity, Bertram thereby learns to appreciate the nobility and love of Elena.

Having created a new character, the braggart Parole, expanding and deepening the plot, Shakespeare introduced an ethical motive into it and presented the struggle between the loyalty of a sincerely loving woman and the feigned, selfish devotion of a flattering coward, thereby ennobling and giving moral interest to the hero of the unfolding love drama. Beltramo in the novella is so rude and vulgar in his aristocratic arrogance that Gillette's love for him is completely implausible. Shakespeare's Bertram is also very unattractive when, out of class prejudice, he refuses to marry Helen, and especially at the end, when he brazenly lies and slanderes an innocent girl, Diana, who makes a fair claim on him. But to some extent he is justified by the bad influence of the Password, and Elena’s victory marks a moral turning point in him. Bertram also corrects himself, abandoning the Password and recognizing Helen, like Prince Harry in Henry IV, rejecting Falstaff and other old drinking companions. In addition to the Countess and Parole, Shakespeare introduced into his comedy the old Lord Lafay, who provides evidence of Elena’s nobility, and the steward of the Countess of Roussillon, who also testifies to the strength and humility of Elena’s feelings.

With the help of these new persons, absent from the original source, as well as complicated psychological motives, Shakespeare created an interesting, psychologically thoughtful comedy from an unattractive, even repulsive plot. However, The End of It All is not one of Shakespeare's best works. The plot, however, remains crude - Elena still imposes herself on her husband, taking advantage of her rights to the king’s gratitude, and any violence against feelings is unbearable for a sophisticated understanding of love. In addition, the way in which she fulfills the conditions set by her husband is not only implausible - this is not the fault of Shakespeare, but of the original source - but is very rude and incompatible not only with purely feminine, but also with human dignity in general. Therefore, critics’ attacks on this comedy are understandable. German Shakespeare scholars - Rümelin, Genet - talk about the psychological implausibility of the action, about the unbearable “unfemininity” of Elena; Genet doubts the possibility of a happy family life for Bertram and Elena, since he does not allow the success of “such efforts of love.” He places immeasurably higher than Helena the German classic example of a girl conquering with the power of love and humility: Kleist's K?tcheu von Heilbronn. Among Shakespeare scholars, however, there are also defenders of comedy, especially the character of the heroine; Gervinus very extensively proves the purity of her feelings, sees in her an example of humble and undaunted female love and extols the subtle psychological motivation for actions and events that are striking in their improbability in the short story. Elze sees the meaning of comedy in the depiction of a truly feminine creature who retains her femininity even in an offensive position so unusual for a woman. Sydney Lee considers Helen one of Shakespeare's greatest creations, despite the fact that she violates the laws of girlish modesty; he notes touching tenderness in the depiction of the suffering of rejected love. Indeed, for all the roughness of the plot, which was also reflected in Shakespeare’s adaptation, the comedy “The End of the Whole Thing is the Crown” is imbued with high idealism, and the analysis of love is made with deep insight into the complex motives of human feelings.

At the heart of Shakespeare's comedy is the idea of ​​the power of love, which with its integrity and intensity overcomes all obstacles. Elena does not have any plans, she only loves, suffers from the seeming hopelessness of her love, but at the same time she is proud, free and courageous. This alone is where her strength lies. When Bertram leaves for Paris, to the court, she is sad; everyone attributes her sadness to thoughts about her deceased father, but in her first monologue she talks about the true cause of her grief; She considers her love hopeless, but does not repent of it. Elena’s words are meek and gentle: she only strives to be near Bertram, to look at him, although she knows that this bliss is also great torment. No thoughts of “conquering” Bertram arise in her mind. Parole's unbridled speeches arouse in her a desire to go to Paris - she saw from his words that many temptations awaited Bertram at court, and jealousy inspired her. At this moment she feels the strength of her love, and, without even imagining what she could do, she begins to believe in the possibility of happiness inherent in the rise of her feelings, in the passion of her desire. The monologue that ends her conversation with Password is very characteristic: it is a transition from a passive, unconscious feeling to an active force, a psychological explanation of further actions generated by awakened, self-conscious spiritual power. Before her, the barriers of girlish modesty disappear, but spiritual purity and humility before the person who aroused an enthusiastic boundless feeling remain inviolable; the result is an amazingly poetic mixture of enterprise, bordering on shamelessness, and tender meekness, a willingness to endure all kinds of suffering in the name of love. This is Elena throughout the play. She demands from the king, as a reward for healing, the right to choose her husband, but she becomes timid, approaching Bertram and saying: “I dare not say that I chose you. “No, I give myself into your power, as long as my life lasts.” She endures her husband’s severity without complaint, tenderly asks him for a farewell kiss, and with touching humility accepts his refusal and the order to go alone to his mother in Roussillon. She idolizes the object of her love, strives only to become worthy of his attention; her love is service to God, whom she loved with all her soul, and this shade of religious cult brings pathos to all her actions and words. When Bertram, as if mocking her, sends her in writing the conditions under which he agrees to return to her, she falls into despair and, in contrast to Boccaci's Gillette, does not think at all about the possibility of outwitting her husband, but surrenders herself to the will of God. Thinking only about her husband, she leaves home to give him the opportunity to return, and spreads a rumor about her death to reassure him. She goes to Florence for him without a specific plan of action; she wants to be near Bertram - she doesn’t think about anything else; Only a meeting with a widow and her daughter awakens her activity, and she carries out a plan that requires deep faith in the power of her feelings. Boccaci's Gillette wins with cunning, Elena - with the spontaneity of her love, which sanctifies all her actions. Psychological motivation, the predominance of the inner world over external events, constant mental struggle, faith in the holiness of one’s motives - all this makes the image of Elena a touching example of true love, capable of anything, free - and therefore triumphant. The object of her love, Bertram, is not very attractive, but the holiness of her feeling, which has justification only in its own depth, emerges all the more powerfully. And yet, in comparison with Beltramo in the novella, the hero of Shakespeare's comedy is more interesting, since his moral depravity is explained by the influence of the Password. If we assume that our comedy was written before Henry IV, then the Password is interesting as a preparatory sketch for Falstaff; in cowardice and boasting, it represents a development of Plautus’s “miles gloriosus,” and it outlines many of the features so brilliantly developed by Shakespeare in the type of Falstaff. The scene of the exposure of Parole's lies and betrayal by Bertram's comrades is vividly reminiscent of the scenes with the imaginary attack of robbers in “Henry IV” (see the article by Prof. Storozhenko about the attitude of Parole to Falstaff: “Prototypes of Falstaff” in his book “Experiments in the Study of Shakespeare,” 1902).

An old, sick man climbs the stairs to the fifth floor. It's not easy for her. Try it when you are already well over eighty, but with sore legs. But she stubbornly goes. Our old people, they are generally stubborn, they are even tougher.

There, on the fifth floor, is the priest’s apartment, but it is not at all a fact that he is at home. The old woman walks at random. If no one answers her knock on the door, she will sit next to her on the step and wait. And she can wait for hours - sit and quietly doze. And only after making sure that there is, in fact, no one in the apartment, the woman begins to descend. Oh-ho-ho, sometimes going down is more difficult than climbing up. Finally, the road down is overcome, and the old woman heads towards the temple.

So she can circle around all day long until the long-awaited meeting occurs. True, for some reason the priest does not show any joy; on the contrary, his face becomes boring, and an expression of fatal hopelessness appears in his eyes.

- Did you bring it? – the priest asks quietly.

- As always? Nothing new?

- No, everything is as usual.

- Okay, come here.

The old woman rummages through her knapsack and hands the priest a squared school notebook. Father, without looking, puts the notebook in his pocket, so that after a few minutes, just as without looking, he throws it into the trash container.

- That's not all. Another mystery.

“Give me a riddle,” the priest agrees. He knows that without speaking out, his grandmother still won’t leave him alone.

“Then tell me,” and the grandmother makes a verbal pun. Something like, remember from our childhood: “Horses go to the ball”? - A? Tell me, tell me! “But her riddles are usually of such indecent content that there is no way to present them here.”

“Lord, have mercy,” the priest crosses himself. “I don’t know, mother, the answer to your riddle.”

- Oh, you scoundrel! – the satisfied old woman laughs and shakes her finger at him, “You know everything.” Look here, look me in the eyes,” and she, actively gesticulating, almost shouts: “They’re walking on the balcony!” Do you understand? On the balcony! Ha ha ha! “You still, you still listen to me,” the old woman shouts, mincing next to the widely striding priest, and a stream of obscene jokes and anecdotes begins.

She seems like a decent person, she came from Tyumen to live out her life with her children. An excellent student of education, she worked all her life at school as a history and social studies teacher. And in the end such a disaster. For some reason, she really needed to regularly hand it over to the priest once every three or four months, having filled the notebook with all sorts of obscene stories, poems and ditties. The unfortunate woman wanders around until she finds him and is freed from her burden.

But this is not enough, you still need to pester him with some nonsense, tell dirty jokes. The person will speak out and only then will he leave, so that in a few months he will again take up the pen and write, and write.

Always the same, like a broken record. And try not to listen to her, she will sit in your entrance and cry pitifully, like a little kitten, and scratch her hand at the door.

Oh, I myself know how difficult it can be to cope with such a grandmother. At one time, there lived a politically active old woman in our building. May she rest in heaven. Its activity increased during periods of preparation for the next election campaign. Brought up in her former political preferences, she, becoming a representative of her earthly idol, collected signatures in his support. And we all signed up at the entrance, but not because we were so inflamed with love for him, but only in order to get rid of the activist grandmother.

She was a very smart woman and understood that during the day you might not do this, but at night you won’t get away with it. And if you really want to sleep, sign any piece of paper.

I tried to talk to her about the soul and God, but, alas, nothing came of it. The old woman began to complain about her health, about her sore legs and blind eyes. Now I’m thinking, maybe I should have visited her at night?

Old age is the crown of life. We all understand that someday we will become old, but we all want to see ourselves as young and are trying to push this bar further. Today it is no longer customary to say: “he is an old man,” it is correct to say: “he is a man of the third age.” And go figure out what this “third age” thing is. If you look in magazines, if anyone undertakes to talk about old people and give them some advice, they often write about the “autumn of relationships,” this is about how older people should behave in bed. You read such a note and think, why doesn’t anyone say anything about the “fourth age”?

Once I was traveling in the same compartment with an elderly woman of about eighty. At first she simply sighed, and then began to confess that while relaxing in a sanatorium, she met a prominent man of eighty-six years old. Within a month, they managed to fall in love with each other so much that he proposed marriage to her. And now she was going to meet his sons and was still worried about how they would receive her.

Of course, on the one hand, what’s bad here - people, even older ones, have found each other, they receive advice and love. Then how should I understand the words of my elder Nina? She says that after you turn sixty, you can consider yourself dead. And each new day, like a gift from Heaven, should be spent only on good deeds and prayer. Carnal desires, thoughts about money and the like are not for you, because you are no longer there.

For some reason, we don’t think at all about how we will die. In reason or not, in suffering or in peace? Someone will say, what difference does it make how I die, it’s much more important to live, and let’s die somehow. Of course, how to live is a very important question, but, probably, one cannot exist without the other. Otherwise, why do we ask in our prayers for a peaceful, shameless, painless death?

I knew a man who had heart disease all his life, and this was his normal condition. He was already well over sixty, he was dying, and his wife called me. The man confessed for the first time in his life, took communion, and after that he lived for another six months. And then one day he wakes up in the morning and feels that his heart doesn’t hurt. For the first time in many years. He called his wife, shared this joy with her, and immediately died in her arms.

Or, as I was told about. Recently he suffered from cancer and experienced severe pain. And just like that, unexpectedly in the morning I felt full of joy and strength. Nothing hurts. He tells Vera Maksimovna, his wife, about this, and the wise woman immediately sends for the priest. The priest gave communion to the sufferer, and he walked away peacefully. No pain. For some reason this is important.

We ask for a non-shameful death, but what if the Lord deprives a person of reason, and he, like that old woman, torments his priest with indecent ditties and anecdotes? What if the patient does not control himself at all, and the passions that have taken possession of his soul are already freely commanding his poor old sick body?

I knew one foreman; we once worked together on the railroad. A man is like a man, not better than others, but not worse either. He could, of course, shout at his subordinates about work, but he never became angry, he was a fair boss. When retirement age was already looming on the horizon, the man suddenly fell ill and turned into a big child. He followed his wife like a calf on a string. But gradually his character began to deteriorate, and if at first he never swore, now he did nothing but swear.

Some more time passed, and our comrade was already swearing not only at his family, but also at everyone he fixed with his eyes. And it would be okay, if he only cursed, he also fought. Poor woman, what she had to experience... Then the children agreed and handed over their father to a special institution. There he was kept separately from other guests, as he became very aggressive.

Of course, loved ones continued to love their father, or rather the memory of him. Periodically visiting the unfortunate man in a special establishment, they brought him something tasty. And until the last day they considered themselves guilty of letting their father die in the arms of strangers. When relatives came for a date, the father was taken out, and from time to time he, increasingly losing strength, nevertheless continued, spewing out monstrous blasphemy, to rush at his wife and children. And if it weren’t for the orderlies, he would definitely have torn them to pieces.

And one early Sunday morning I leave the house and meet a neighbor walking her dog. We said hello, word for word, I called her to church, she apologized and didn’t go. I wave my hand in her direction, and she answers me:

“Don’t think that I’m an unbeliever.” I didn’t expect it, but I had to believe it.

— Why, I wonder, “had to”?

“I just saw how Girin died, I worked in the hospital then.”

Ivan Rodionovich Girin was a well-known personality in our area, and not only in our area. Biologist, professor, academician, holder of many orders. In fact, he is a very worthy and decent person, an excellent organizer. The only thing that amazed me was his complete atheism. Although by that time he had buried all his loved ones and lived alone. During various public events, I tried to talk to Girin about Christ, invited him to see the temple we had restored, but in response, the scientist invariably made such a gesture with his hands, as if he was disgusted by the very fact that I was addressing him. He never uttered a word in response, but limited himself only to that disgusted gesture.

After retiring, the honored veteran, possessing a beautiful velvety voice, regularly performed in amateur concerts, sang popular romances and masterfully read poems by his beloved Yesenin.

“When I came to work in the therapy department, just at the same time Girin himself was delivered by ambulance. He was placed in a separate room, and I was told to watch him and not leave anywhere. So I looked at him enough. As soon as I went somewhere, he was already crawling on his knees along the corridor. Crazy eyes does not react to anyone and only constantly screams:

- Comrades! Where are you, comrades?! Why is there no one, where is everyone?! I feel bad, comrades, help me!

I drag him by the arms and drag him into the room, and he takes off his clothes, climbs onto the bed, leans on his stick and sings romances or reads Yesenin. I’ll go up to him and ask:

- Comrade Girin, comrade Girin, please go to bed, you can’t behave like that.

And in response he waves a stick and, like a monkey from behind bars, tries to get me with it. Don’t look at the fact that he was an old man, but he was strong. One day I go into his room and see that he has come to his senses and ask:

- Ivan Radionovich, dear, let's invite the priest, he will give you communion, and you will feel better.

You should have seen the way he looked at me, I had never seen his eyes like that before. They became somehow inhuman and emitted so much hatred that my tongue sank to the very bottom of my stomach in horror. Those hateful eyes of Girin haunted me for a long time after his death. It was only in church that I truly came to my senses.”

So draw your conclusions. If you look from the outside, such a person has soared so high and done a lot of useful things, but in reality, before his death, his soul turned out to be completely empty, just romances. It turns out that everything done not in God feeds our soul and is not beneficial, but on the contrary, only damages the soul.

But in my memory, thank God, there are other examples. Once they asked me to give communion to one of my grandmothers. I come to them on Sunday after the service, I see my grandmother sitting at the table, in front of her is a large bowl of milk with bread crumbled into it. There are no teeth anymore, so she’s screwing up this prison.

“Oh,” the old woman rejoices, “he’s already arrived.” And I decided to have a little snack, I just hobbled home. - I think where did she go? “I was in the church,” my interlocutor continues, “you served well, and the wings sang like angels, well, so nicely, it hurt my soul.” I love our church, father, I don’t miss a single service and in general I love everyone.

I’m already at a loss, I don’t understand anything: she says she goes to church all the time, but then why does she invite me to my house for communion, and I don’t remember seeing her at services. Here the daughter appears, points her finger at her mother and twists it to her temple, saying, don’t listen to her, she says “hello.”

And I couldn’t help but shed tears from emotion, so much for your illness. A man has lost his reason, but in his world he still goes to church, prays and takes communion.

The Apostle Paul has these words: “Remember your teachers... and, looking at the end of their lives, imitate their faith.” He probably meant their martyrdom, but for us it sounds a little different. Remember how Father Anatoly passes away in the film “The Island”? He crossed himself, lay down in the house and fell asleep. Without any terrible visions. You say, it’s like in the movies! Yes, today only in the movies, but such a death was the norm for us until recently.

If you ever find yourself in, then to the right, along the altar of the Assumption Cathedral, among the graves of noble and famous people, you will see the grave of a simple peasant from the village of Kharlanikha, Vasily Matveevich Nikolaev. And here on the monument his entire simple biography is written down.

“I spent my whole life in labor. In his youth he worked in a factory, then by choice he served as a state forester for 3 years. After that, he began to buy forest plots from the treasury and from peasants, cut them up with his own hands and sold them. Subsequently, he acquired ownership of the land with the forest and worked on it tirelessly. He was content with the simplest food and never drank tea. He lived in marriage for three years and had two children, a son and a daughter, the rest of the time, more than 50 years, he lived as a widower. He loved to travel to holy places. He went on pilgrimage to Kyiv for more than 17 years, was in Old Jerusalem and on Holy Athos, in Sarov and other places, and was a church warden in his parish church for 29 years. Despite the fact that he later had a good income, he did not change his life and valued his own labor above all else. His favorite pastime was working in the forest, clearing the forest, sawing and cutting up meadows for mowing. Shortly before his death, he received the Holy Mysteries, and 2 days before his death he was seen working. From November 15 to 16 he fell ill and no more than 3 hours before his death he came on his feet to the front corner under the icon, crossed the place, lay down and soon died, being 78 years old.”

I read this epitaph and remember how a religious woman, a mass entertainer in one of the rest homes, complained about the old people on vacation that during Holy Week they demanded that they dance.

- Good Friday, father, I look from the balcony at this dancing crowd. After all, one old man, they will have to answer very soon, but they are still flirting and winking at each other.

One person died this year. He was already quite old; he had gone through the war, studied, worked, and raised children. In his old age he became a widower and lived out his life alone. Periodically, his daughter visited him, and on one of these visits she managed to persuade him to take communion. So this time she was ready to go, bought a ticket, and in the morning the call came. Come immediately, my father is dying, he fell and broke his hip.

The daughter arrived the next day and says:

“I come in, my father is unconscious, he’s in a fever.” And there is a specific corpse smell in the house. I immediately realized that “they” were already here. She grabbed holy water, sprinkled everything around her father, and the smell disappeared, and he calmed down and stopped trembling.

Whenever her father began to worry, she began to read, and his breathing was restored. It was just very difficult to read; my head often started to hurt. Another ten days passed like this. The night before his death, at about three in the morning, the old man suddenly became worried, stood up straight and threw his hands up. The daughter realized that her father was leaving and began to repeat to herself. She repeated for a very long time, the father stopped raising his hands and forgot again.

In the morning they learned that a woman, a Jehovah's Witness, had died at night right above them. Her neighbor was sleeping at home at that time, and a Jehovah’s Witness was dying behind the wall. At the same three o'clock in the morning she woke up with a feeling of incomprehensible animal fear. She jumped out of bed and ran to the kitchen. I sat there, curled up in a ball, and couldn’t bring myself to go back to the room. This inexplicable, overwhelming feeling of fear arises when “they” come. The soul of the old man, which was already ready to leave the body, felt their presence and experienced horror. But his daughter’s prayer helped, he stayed until the evening and left as if he had fallen asleep. I drank the “bitter cup” and that’s it.

In the city this evening they celebrated some kind of anniversary. The moment the father closed his eyes, dozens of bright colorful balls from the festive fireworks exploded in the air. And you think how providential everything is - it was as if the old soldier was being seen off on his last journey with volleys of ceremonial fireworks.

I don’t know what awaits me in my last days and months before leaving for eternity. It’s hard to imagine, but I really want it to be like that simple peasant Vasily Matveyevich Nikolaev - he crossed the corner of the house, lay down and died - but such a bright death still needs to be earned. And if the Lord deprives me of reason for some reason, then it would be like that little granny who in visions kept going and going to church for services and in her madness continued to glorify Christ.

Irka opened her eyes, feeling that someone was painfully rubbing her ears. Radulga bent over her. Irka did not immediately recognize her, because the Valkyrie’s face was darker than the moonlit sky above it.

-Are you awake? Can you understand me? How many fingers am I showing? – Radulga shouted, waving her hand in front of her nose.

– Enough to make me feel much better! – the Three-Kopeck Maiden reassured her, trying to get up.

She was not allowed to do so and they laid her on the ground, although the ground was cold and Irka would have gladly parted with her. Next to Radulga stood Lamina, Haara and their squires. All that was missing was Bagrov. His absence worried Irka very much.

She wanted to say: “Matvey, take the Stone of the Way and never part with it! I won it for you. He's yours again."

- Quiet! You'll wake everyone up! Quiet, they tell you! - Radulga shouted so loudly that the windows upstairs slammed furiously. The residents of the house refused to admit that the fate of the universe was being decided in their yard.

Irka was not surprised by Radulga’s screams. She knew that the loudest scream is always the one who restores silence. This is because he is yelling with every right. Others scream like birds, and therefore they are rarely able to calm down the one who restores silence.

- Where is Matvey? – Irka asked Vovan. Of those present, he seemed to her the most sane.

He shrugged:

- Don't know. Didn't come back.

- How long have we been gone? Three hours, three o'clock? Five?

“Seven minutes,” Haara answered, without even looking at her watch.

Irka hardly believed her. It seemed to her that they spent much more time behind the Gate.

The three-kopeck maiden violated the ban and sat down. Vovan held her by the shoulders. Looking around, she discovered that she was lying at the booth right next to the gate. The radiance left them, and the gate seemed the most dreary in the world.

– What’s wrong with Methodius? Did he wake up? – Irka asked.

- Still would! He immediately got up and went into the entrance. Business: never even looked back. We wanted to catch up with him, but here we look: you’re lying down! – Lamina explained and added with concern: “How did you even end up behind the Fire Gate?” Have you seen Kvodnon? Didn't he break through?

Irka shook her head, which made her feel slightly nauseous, and suddenly realized what had alerted her when she heard about Mefa. There she dragged him like a log. Here he immediately got up and walked. Memory, with belated helpfulness, suggested that there, behind the gate, the outline of Meph’s body sometimes doubled.

Irka resolutely escaped from the Valkyries' hands. Runka was lying on the ground three steps away. She bent down to pick it up and felt dizzy. Vovan and Alik supported her.

- Which entrance did Mef go to? – Irka shouted.

Vovan and Alik simultaneously pointed to the middle one.

Methodius woke up on the move. It was a strange feeling - his body was busily walking somewhere, and he jumped into it as if into a passing train. Methodius began to resist. He was unable to take control, but still occasionally his body began to obey him, and so Kvodnon moved clumsily, stumbling as if drunk.

Having looked around the house busily, the lord of darkness confidently headed into the open entrance. At the entrance, Mef changed tactics and, having stopped fighting for control of his entire body, devoted all his strength to seizing control of at least his right hand.

Kvodnon was not ready for this, and Buslaev grabbed the railing with a death grip. The Lord of Darkness hissed and began to hit his hand with his left fist, tearing his fingers off the railing. It was very painful, but still the right hand is stronger than the left. Mef, without letting go, held on dead. He already felt that Kvodnon could not force him out of his right hand without losing control over the rest of his body - and this encouraged Buslaev. It’s a pity he can’t shout, calling the Valkyries: his vocal cords are under the control of Kvodnon.

Having made sure that his fingers could not be torn off, the lord of darkness began to pat his pockets with his left hand, looking for a knife. Mef knew that there was no knife, and he triumphed, but he rejoiced too early.

– You can’t defeat me, Buslaev!.. You’re doomed! You are afraid of harming yourself, but I am not afraid of anything. Soon you will go beyond the Fire Gates again! – Kvodnon hissed. - And here is the proof!

The Lord of Darkness bent down, and Meph realized with horror that Kvodnon was going to bite off his thumb, which was bothering him more than the others. Bite it off with your own teeth! Having let go of the railing, Buslaev sharply bent his arm and tried to knock himself out with a blow to the chin. It only hit him in passing, because Kvodnon managed to jerk his head. Then the Lord of Darkness grabbed his right hand with his left and held it, preventing him from grabbing the railing again.

A shadow swayed towards them from the mailboxes. Methodius saw a thin, flexible young man with a nose that resembled a duck’s beak. He recognized him. They had already met on the banks of the Moscow River.

Holding the sword in his lowered hand, the young man stepped towards them. Buslaev expected a blow, but the young man knelt down, like a warrior waiting to be knighted.

- I'm ready, lord! Ligul told me everything. We will merge together, receive your former powers and begin to master the darkness together. Ligul will remain the owner of the Chancellery. He thinks he's had enough of this.

Kvodnon looked around and looked at him intently for several seconds, without letting go of Meph’s wrist.

“So, smart little Ligul became the lord of darkness after me?” he wheezed. – Excellent choice!.. How are you? Don't you feel sorry for giving me your body?

- No, sir! We will be one with you. “You and I,” Shilov answered with enthusiasm.

There was nothing foreign in his mind now - neither a dead bird, nor a four-year-old boy.

Kvodnon released Meph’s wrist and solemnly placed his left hand on the young man’s head. Buslaev's fist darted towards his own chin. Meth realized too late that the lord of darkness had done this on purpose. The body was already subordinate to Methodius. Kvodnon’s consciousness has gone into another person, completely submissive to him, who will not cling to the railing.

Mef knocked himself out completely in vain, although by doing so, without knowing it, he saved his life. Shilov - from now on we will call him Kvodnon - casually stepped over the lying Buslaev and went out into the street. He had no time for Methodius, whose existence he had already forgotten. He didn’t even want to remember now that Buslaev’s magical powers still remained with him.

Kvodnon looked at his sword with greedy joy. How long did he not hold it, forced to confine himself to its pathetic shadow! A round head flashed on a nearby roof. No, not a succubus or a commission agent. The Lord of Darkness had a nose for clerks. A broken, scar-like grin appeared on his face, common on a guard accustomed to being his other half.

“All the smart little ones have a common flaw: they think the grunts are idiots!” - Kvodnon muttered.

As soon as he noticed the round head of the spy, he instantly understood what the current owner of Tartarus expected from him. Ligul dreamed that Kvodnon, having regained his former strength, would crush the defense of Eden. After which the old lord, who wasted money on a single flash, will again retreat behind the Fiery Gates, and the pitiful cunning clerk will reap the fruits of the harvest planted by others.

Kvodnon sharply jerked the handle from top to bottom, and a vertical scar appeared on the bark of the nearest tree. The Lord of Darkness clenched and unclenched his fingers. He already saw that he liked Shilov’s light, nimble, merciless body. These thin hands have steel strength. No wonder Ligul kept him in Tartarus for so long. And Kvodnon felt unmistakably and truly that this young living body had visited Tartarus.

“You have grown a beautiful body for me, clerk!” Submissive and faithful! But you were wrong about one thing! It will not dance to your tune!

Three Valkyries, Irka and the squires were already running towards the lord of darkness. Meph, who had just woken up, was swaying behind him. Kvodnon, without turning around, lashed back with his flexible sword. Buslaev barely had time to jump back into the entrance.

Mef saw that the young man, who had taken Kvodnon into himself, was wrapped in an impenetrable black cocoon, into which light did not penetrate. The whole place seemed like a black hole. Lamina pointed a lantern beam at Kvodnon, and the lantern burst in her hand.

Haara, emerging from behind the car, threw a spear. It was an excellent, fast, classically executed throw. But Kvodnon casually flicked his invisible sword, and the Valkyrie’s thrown spear tumbled into the dust. But, repelling Haara’s attack, his back was to Lamina, and she, taking advantage of this, threw a moon spear at him.

The spear crashed into the center of the cocoon, trembled and, meeting an obstacle, fell. Kvodnon looked back and with a click of his sword separated the tip from the shaft. He was not even wounded: the cocoon reflected the blow. Keeping near the house, where the flexible sword could not reach him, Methodius ran over to Lamina.

Shrouded in a cocoon, Kvodnon walked leisurely through the yard. Valkyries, Irka and Buslaev ran after him, not risking getting closer. Haara managed to raise her spear. Lamina grabbed only the tip, which was no more useful than a long knife.

- Do you realize who you brought? Our spears are powerless! – Lamina shouted, turning her indignant round face to Buslaev.

Met had nothing to object to. He really “dragged” Kvodnon. How voluntary it was didn’t matter. Hastily looking around the yard, he found with his eyes his spatula, shining dimly in the trampled grass.

Having picked it up, he rushed towards Kvodnon and attacked him with a horseshoe, avoiding the obstacle. The meaning of the technique was that the sword, by sharply moving the handle forward, “flowed around” the blade set out to block it and, without losing the inertia of the attack, attacked the enemy’s neck along the horseshoe.

But for some reason the neck was not in the expected place. Kvodnon retreated and, moving away from the blade, poked Meph in the liver with the hilt of his sword. Buslaev bent over in pain. Kvodnon could have easily finished him off, but he wanted to prolong the pleasure.

– Do you realize that the winner takes all? – Kvodnon asked, and Mef immediately had to roll, saving himself from a quick blow coming at waist level. And roll again. Kvodnon amused himself by chasing him with his sword, like an owner chasing a lazy horse on a line.

Only now Mef became acquainted with all the capabilities of Kvodnon’s sword. Its total length was about two and a half meters. It was at this distance that he reached and cut. Similar to a whip, it hardened and became straight when necessary. When struck from above, he contrived to bend around the enemy’s sword and with his thin end, like a snake’s tail, tried to sting him in the eye or carotid artery.

Knowing that the defender always gives up the initiative to the attacker, Buslaev tried to choose a second to attack, but Kvodnon did not give him the slightest chance. But the worst thing was something else: Mef became convinced that his faith in his own sword was too weak.

Buslaev realized this when, during one of the rebounds, he managed to successfully touch Kvodnon’s wrist. And nothing. Not a scratch, not a scarlet streak that would appear even from a blow with a wooden ruler. Methodius did not fully trust his sword, and it stubbornly did not respond to him.

Frustrated by another failure, Buslaev hesitated to leave. Trying to make up time, he leaned too far back and fell. I tried to roll, but the instincts of an experienced fighter told me that I couldn’t make it in time. Now a blow will fall on him from above, which he will not be able to repel.

To his surprise, Kvodnon did not take the chance. When, after a feverish double roll, the lord of darkness again found himself in the field of view of Meph, he saw that his enemy was being attacked by Irka, bravely jumping up with his rune. At first he was not ready for the attack and was forced to retreat. However, Mef saw that Kvodnon was retreating only to pull Irka towards himself and cut her with a counter attack.

Without thinking about why he was doing this, Meph pressed his spatha to his chest with a funny, not at all fighting movement that would make any serious swordsman smile.

- Help me! I can’t do anything myself! My strength is not enough! Do something! – Meph whispered to the sword.

The words - simple and not thought out in advance - for the first time did not diverge from the movement of the heart. He didn’t just talk and ask: he believed in what he was asking for. All of him merged with his request into a single whole. At that moment, Buslaev truly felt complete helplessness. He has reached the limit of his human capabilities.

- Help me please!

A scarlet spark lit up in the massive top of the spat. It seemed as if the sword had been thrown into a forge, and it was gradually heating up and filling with heat. A scarlet glow spread from the hilt and gradually engulfed the entire blade.

Meph felt a physical heat, not at all similar to the dry magical flame to which he was accustomed. He saw how the poplar fluff that accidentally touched the blade burned and curled into black worms. In the first second, when the sword was engulfed in fire, Methodius threw it away in surprise and was now afraid to pick it up again. It seemed to him that he would burn the meat in his palm to the bone. As a test, he pushed the sword with a dry branch, and it was instantly engulfed in flames.

Irka screamed. Kwodnon's sword wrapped around her left bicep, ringing it with a bloody ribbon. It’s impossible to hold a heavy hand with one hand, much less fight. Irka was biding her time by hastily retreating, but Mef understood that with the very first leap Kvodnon would catch up with her and kill her.

Grabbing the flaming spatha, Meph jumped at Kvodnon like a cat. Quickly attack before his hand burns like that branch. Perhaps for the first time in a long time, he did not think about the battle plan. In general, he had difficulty understanding what his body was doing - as happens in a fight with beginners. There were no feints, attacks, horseshoes, complicated stances or defenses - there was a single and coherent battle. Just as a book in its best moments is written, driven by a single thought, which itself already attracts words, so this battle took place as something integral and separate, previously unknown to Mefu.

Consciousness flared up, like a camera flashing with a delayed flash, and then Buslaev realized that now he was cutting, and now he was stabbing, but this always happened with a delay. That is, when Meph realized that he had just struck from below, his sword was already making a slashing blow from above, or his body was twisting and avoiding the attack.

Meph lost track of time, completely surrendering to the battle. For the first minutes he did not believe that he was alive at all. Then, in one of the flashes, I noticed tense surprise, almost concern, on Kvodnon’s face. He no longer succumbed to him, sincerely not understanding why his stinging and swift sword could not find a single gap in Meph’s defense, but, on the contrary, was forced to defend himself all the time.

Buslaev pressed. The blade in his hand was a continuous line of fire that was impossible to look at. The “fiery” of the sword was not limited to one blade and spread to Meph’s arm, covering it up to the elbow. At the same time, Buslaev felt that the fire did not burn him, but, on the contrary, filled him with an incomprehensible, selfless, sacrificial joy, which he had never experienced before in his life. Well, perhaps at school, when by mistake he was punished instead of a classmate who set fire to a box of films for a film projector and almost poisoned the entire floor with a chemical stench, and Mef did not spill the beans, even when the enraged math teacher dragged him along the corridor.

The fiery streak continued to attack Kvodnon, looking for the slightest flaws in the defense. Meph couldn't tell whether he was fighting himself or whether it was the sword's doing. It was as if he had become a vessel that contained something higher - something that, having merged with him, did not enslave him, did not make him a puppet, but, on the contrary, filled him with delight, life and strength. This alone was worth breathing. Everything else, petty, selfish, fearful, now seemed like just cardboard.

It seemed as if the sword of light was just waiting for this, as if its combined strength could only manifest itself in Meth’s awareness of its weakness. He flew like lightning, ahead of and guessing any thought.

The long and flexible blade now interfered with the lord of darkness, because Meph stuck to his opponent and stung him like a wasp, not allowing him to break the distance. He delivered several blows and abruptly came from the side, walking directly under the hilt of his rushing sword. It was like a dance: one - two - three - moving.

Kvodnon lost momentum and began to turn, but it turned out that he was already turning under attack. There was no time left for attack - only for defense. The Lord of Darkness began to get angry and lose patience. The boy, whom he initially treated as a sucker, turned out to be an unexpected biter.

The protective cocoon faded and then flared up again. Mef noticed how he gradually curled up, pulling himself up. Having lured Kvodnon to repeat the combination, Mef deceived him with a false dive under the handle. Having waited until the lord of darkness began to turn, Buslaev rushed in the opposite direction. Finding himself on the side for a moment, he very unsportsmanlikely held Kvodnon’s elbow with his left hand and, pulling his opponent towards himself, planted him on the spatha. It was done simply and roughly, like someone stabbing someone with a knife in a gateway.

Without turning the blade in the wound, as the “kind” Ares would have demanded, Meph pulled out the sword and ran behind Kvodnon’s back, ready, if necessary, for a new blow. But we managed without him. Kvodnon exhaled hoarsely, turned to Mef on weak legs and, pressing his hands to his stomach, fell down.

In a few seconds, the face of the lord of darkness changed many expressions. It bent like rubber, as if the skull didn’t exist inside. Then the face hardened, became unexpectedly calm, and a dark swarm, similar to a bee, flew out of the mouth that was wide open. Having ruffled the ground with a strong gust of wind, he threw a handful of prickly sand into Meph’s face, wrapped himself around the Fire Gate booth and, pushing into the gate, in which the Stone of the Path still continued to flicker, melted.

Meph looked not at the disappeared swarm, forever caught in that world of dreary repetitions, but at the man he had just killed. On the ground in front of him lay a thin young man in a thick sweater. Buslaev looked in deep confusion at his thin wrist, clutching the hilt of a flexible sword. Suddenly, without warning, the rain started pouring down. It was not strong, but with surprisingly heavy drops. The poplar fluff moved as if alive, as if it was trying to crawl away and escape the rain.

Gelata, who had arrived during the battle, appeared next to Shilov and, kneeling down, began to carefully examine him. Then she raised her rain-drenched face.

- I do not get it. Where?

- Why go where? – Meth didn’t understand.

-Where did you hurt him?

-Can't you see it? I drove spatha under his ribs. “It had to reach the heart,” Buslaev answered hopelessly.

Gelata pulled up Shilov’s sweater. I looked for a long time. Then, muttering: “That’s the point, it’s not visible!” – she put her ear to her chest.

- Like a clock! - she said.

- What - like a clock?

- My heart beats like a clock. He's alive.

Mef looked at her incredulously:

- Who is alive? Kvodnon?

- No. This guy.

- Can't be!

Gelata looked at his lowered spatha.

– This is the sword of light? It is so? I think: he only hits the one he fights. He fought with Kvodnon. Understand?

Buslaev thought quickly, but still, as it turned out, not fast enough.

“Why then?..” he began.

Shilov's thin fingers closed around the hilt of the sword, which no one had taken from him. A flexible blade entwined Mefu's neck and trembled at his temple, ready to plunge into the brain at the owner's order.

- That's why! - said Shilov. - Everyone dropped their weapons! Alive!

- Hey, you! If you kill him, I will kill you! – she warned, raising her hand.

- This is a good plan. Let's stop there! – Victor said so indifferently that Irka realized that he was not afraid of death.

Vovan, spreading his empty arms, stepped towards Shilov.

- Listen, brother! – he began friendly. - Think for yourself! The Fire Gates are closed! Kvodnon is already there, and he will not return back!.. You are completely alone! What are you going to...

A quick kick...even though it was a head kick that required a high hip lift and a great stretch. Vovan collapsed.

“I’ll figure it out myself...” Shilov muttered and quickly turned his head. “What the hell is this?” he began, stunned.

A giant with a mace rushed towards them with huge leaps. Before reaching Shilov a few meters, he stopped and stared at a small object illuminated by the moon, lying on the trampled ground. Shilov and the giant noticed him at the same time.

A Russian warrior lay on the ground with a bent stand and a broken sword that had fallen out of Victor’s pocket.

Matvey came to his senses in the attic, which stretched over the entire house. Traces of pigeon droppings were visible on the insulated pipes running along the walls. Bagrov lay entangled in a rope as carefully as only spiders and succubi - creatures of a nature similar in thoroughness - can confuse. But spiders confuse the body, and succubi confuse both bodies and souls.

An old coat covered Matvey from above. The coat stank so strongly that Bagrov would have found it difficult to say how long and exactly how it had been used. Most likely, someone spent the night in the attic in winter and spring. This was evidenced by a large number of chaotically scattered objects: boxes, empty bottles, a suitcase with a torn off lid.

The mouth was covered with a rag. There is no use calling for help. No matter how hard you try, you will still call the same rag.

Matvey lay there and, raising his head, tried to burn through the rope with his eyes. Mirovud once taught him this. But apparently he turned out to be a worthless student. The rope smoked, darkened evenly, then began to stink, but refused to burn out. Realizing that he would rather fry himself, Matvey left the rope alone.

He lay there and thought. The flow of thoughts either returned to concern for Irka, or dived into the past. Without any external reason, Matvey remembered that one Saturday last winter he went to a flea market in Izmailovo and bought homemade chess pieces, made with great love for small work, and a set of different-sized knives and chisels for wood carving.

They were sold by a skinny old man in a ski cap.

-Why is it so cheap? - Matvey asked when the money was paid and the knives with chess moved into his bag.

- I cut mine off! They lie there and tease the soul! - answered the grandfather. What struck Matvey most of all was that there was no resentment or annoyance in his grandfather’s voice. Calm recognition of the fact.

At home, having opened the zipper on the bag, Bagrov poured knives and chisels onto the floor. They preserved the memory of human hands. A bluish sheen of metal, a spot of rust that has been cleaned off, a ring near the handle pressed with pliers. Apparently, the shank popped out, and the craftsman turned out a new handle, strengthening the joint for strength. Matvey felt uncomfortable in front of that grandfather and his hands. I bought it and plan to keep the knives in idle captivity.

He went out, wandered around Sokolniki, found a suitable piece of board and, returning, sat down to cut. There was no experience. The chisel slipped, cutting off a piece that was either too large or too small. I regularly came across stubborn twigs that, when they fell out, left an annoying hole in the tree.

The knives and chisels were mischievous, refusing to recognize Matvey as their owner, but they did not take into account that Bagrov was stubborn. Having ruined one board, he immediately went for another. This time he was not looking for a thick board: he was content with the boards from the box. They were soft and gave in to the knife without stubbornness.

Matvey cut out the hanger, then took on the spoon, but messed it up and, not admitting defeat, began hastily remaking the spoon into a jumping puma. Irka, then still confined to a wheelchair, looked at Matvey with joy, but also with concern. She regarded Bagrov's abilities with some distrust. He was talented, but little capable of regular, routine, daily work. And this is worse than having no talent at all. Just an empty translation of intellectual resources. Smart Irka was afraid that Matvey was about to begin a creative binge, which would end with what all binges end with - a hangover.

And so it happened. A week later Bagrov abandoned everything. But now he lay there and realized that he wanted to cut wood again. Slowly, patiently, without excessive heat, but every day. If only the guy with the flexible sword didn't get to Irka!

Matvey groaned from powerlessness and began to roll over the boxes. He found a bottle and, raising his legs, kicked it with his heels until it broke. It took a long time to beat - Bagrov did not suspect that an ordinary bottle could be so strong. Having chosen a suitable one from the fragments, he began to rub the rope against it. The fragment slipped, and instead of a rope, he cut his hand.

Suddenly Matvey heard a sound and turned his head to the attic window. Someone was climbing around the house - along its outer wall facing the street - using window sills, balconies and other ledges. Not even ten seconds had passed before the window was squeezed out and a puffing giant squeezed through. He had a mace strapped to his shoulders.

- Zigya! – Bagrov called out when the giant, not used to the darkness of the attic, almost lowered his massive knee on his face.

The giant carefully removed his knee and, looking around, sat down on the floor. He didn't understand who was talking to him. In the low attic the giant could only fit lying down or squatting.

“Mommy said, “Climb.” Zigya climbs. What are you doing here?

- Lie! – Matvey explained.

Zigya digested the information for some time.

- Climbing. “He’s not just climbing, but he’s climbing,” he explained to himself.

Then Zigya got down on all fours and began to look at Bagrov’s face, turning him towards the moonlight.

-What are you looking at? – Matvey asked.

- I’m looking: do you have a face like a dude or not?

- Dluzeskoe! - Bagrov mimicked.

Zigya nodded with satisfaction and carefully laid Matvey on the floor.

- Good, one hundred servants! Mommy said: if it doesn’t work, kill it!

Matvey was glad that he did not answer otherwise, and demanded that Zigya untie him. The request was simple, but for some reason it caused a lot of doubts in the giant.

- Mommy didn’t tell me to tie anyone up! She said to help daddy. And you are not daddy!

Matvey almost howled.

– What about “do a good deed”?

“Mommy didn’t tell me to do the pose.” She said: “Don’t touch this little thing, don’t eat garbage, don’t put your pussy near your eyes, kill the moisture and help daddy,” Zigya boomed.

- What do you like?

Zigya broke into a smile:

– Zigya loves sariki and big masyns: trucks, tlactols, timber trucks, tleylelas.

Matvey realized that through the efforts of Praskovya’s mother, Zigya had become an expert in big masks.

– I’ll draw you a beautiful car! Very big! You've never seen this before! It’s called a “Mars rover,” Bagrov promised.

Zigya looked doubtfully at Matvey, who was wrapped in ropes.

-You don’t have a calendar!

- It's in my pocket!

Zigya, snoring, reached into his pocket to check.

- Eh, no! – Bagrov said hastily. - You untie me first!

Zigya began to think again, this time, fortunately, for a short time.

“He’s not a pussy and he’s not a looker!” He has a kalandas and a Dluze face! - he muttered under his breath, as if going in front of someone. Then he bent over Bagrov and did not untie, but casually tore the ropes, as if he were dealing with rotten paper twine.

Bagrov stretched his numb legs.

- Finally! Let's go!

- How about licking the little girl?

- It is dark here! I'll draw on the street! – Without looking back, Matvey quickly walked towards the stairs.

The deceived baby sighed and trudged after him...

Well, then the wedges of the two narratives came together. Seeing Shilov with his sword wrapped around the “daddy’s” neck, Zigya came to the conclusion that this was the “enemy” and rushed at the scoundrel with a mace. But, before reaching a few steps, he stopped. Backlit by the moon, a warrior lay on the ground with a bent stand and a broken sword.

- My trotter! And I thought: he was calving! – Zigya exclaimed joyfully.

Mef felt the tension of the sword that had wrapped around his neck ease.

Shilov and Zigya rushed towards the soldier at the same time, colliding their foreheads. Then they raised their heads at the same time, looking at each other. The past years have changed Zigya monstrously. His chest was covered with red fur, his muscles were bulging, his skin was rough, his face was covered in scars. One thing remained unchanged - the joyfully naive look of the child.

A long, endless minute passed. Shilov picked up the bronze warrior and handed it to Ziga. The moon blazed in the scratched cloak.

-Are you alive, Nikita? But I left you in the basement! - said Shilov.

Zigya straightened up sharply. Stepped back. His huge face reflected horror - a reflection of the old fear that had sunk to the bottom of the consciousness. He even shielded himself with his hand, as if he was afraid that Shilov would grab him again and push him through the basement window.

- You're awesome, Vitya! You dropped me! I hurt my leg! It was dark and cold there! I cried and called for you and mom for a long time! And then my grandmother came with a backpack and fucked me!

Shilov turned away. He lowered his head and walked away. The flexible edge of the invisible sword left a mark on the wet ground, as if from a crawling snake. He walked past the Valkyries, past Meph, and never looked back. He was already at the garages when a huge paw fell on his shoulder, bending him to the ground. When required, Zigya knew how to move silently. Shilov looked around. Zigya held out his little finger, bent like a shark hook and about the same size.

- Love, love, love and don’t fight anymore! I missed you!

Mef stands and watches as two Tartarians - one huge like a rock, and the other thin and fragile - shake their clasped little fingers in the direct streams of rain. And next to Mef, holding hands, stand Matvey and Irka. Both are a little sad and somehow solemn in a special way. Mef does not know that Irka’s legs and Matvey’s heart are still captive of Mamzelkina, and does not understand the reasons. But the main thing is that they have each other and the Stone of the Path, which has already left the Fire Gate, lies in Irka’s pocket.

Buslaev raised his blade. The spatha went out. The inspiration faded. Mef bent down, found a chick on the ground and hit it with his sword as a test. The little chick fell rather out of resentment that everyone was squeezing her, poor thing. Of course, she turned out to be whole.

– Shouldn’t I go to bed? – Buslaev asked himself.

After which he turned and really went to bed. A uniform metallic ringing could already be heard behind the Khrushchevka of a rare series. It rolled in waves. At times the ringing turned into crackling. It was, showering electric sparks with wet “mustaches”, that the first trolleybuses took to the route.