The church service on Easter is especially solemn, since it marks the main event of the year for Christians. On the saving night of the Holy Resurrection of Christ, it is customary to stay awake. From the evening of Holy Saturday, the Acts of the Holy Apostles are read in the church, containing evidence of the Resurrection of Christ, followed by the Easter Midnight Office with the canon of Holy Saturday.
The Easter service begins with a religious procession at midnight from Saturday to Sunday. It is advisable to arrive at the temple a little earlier. But since not all people can come to church at midnight, many churches usually have two or even three Liturgies. They usually repeat in the morning and afternoon on Sunday.
Anyone can participate in the service and bless Easter cakes, regardless of whether they are baptized. However, unbaptized people are not supposed to receive communion. Those wishing to take part in the procession must come to the temple sober. Appearing at a service while intoxicated is considered a sign of disrespect for the holiday.
Fasting ends after the end of the Divine Liturgy and communion. Annually festive service ends around 4 am. After this, believers can return home to break their fast, or, if desired, do so directly in church. For those who missed it night service, the fast ends after the end of the Liturgy that the parishioner was able to attend to receive communion.
Features of the Easter Procession
The service on Holy Saturday before Easter, which in 2018 will be on April 7, begins a few hours before midnight. The clergy are at the throne, they light candles. The same is done by people who come to church for services. The singing begins at the altar, followed by the Easter peal.
It is when the bells in the temple begin to ring that night that the procession of the Cross begins. The procession seems to be going towards the risen Jesus Christ. Always at the beginning of the turn a man is walking, who carries a lantern, followed by a cross, the image of the Virgin Mary. The clergy walk in two rows, and the choir and all believers also perform the procession.
You walk around the temple three times, and each time you need to stop in front of its closed doors. This tradition has its own symbolism - the closed doors of the temple are a symbol of the entrance to the cave where the Tomb of Jesus Christ was. Only after the clergyman says that Christ is Risen do the doors of the temple open.
The procession solemnly enters the temple through the open doors and the service continues. This is already a festive service about the wonderful Resurrection of Christ and Easter has already arrived. A procession of the cross in any church on the eve of Easter is a must; it is a spectacular and massive event that allows you to truly feel the spirit of the holiday. You can serve snowdrift salad on the festive table.
Several important rules on how to behave during the Easter service in church:
- Under no circumstances should you turn your back to the altar during the service;
- Turn off mobile phones upon entering the temple premises;
- If you take children with you, you need to make sure that they behave quietly, understand the essence of what is happening, do not run around and do not distract people;
- While reading, the priest often crosses himself with the cross and the Gospel; it is not necessary to be baptized every time, but you must bow at such moments.
- Every believer who is at a church service must be baptized with the words: “Lord, have mercy,” “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit,” “Glory to the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.”
- You need to cross yourself three times when entering the temple, and also three times when leaving the temple.
- During Easter service It is not customary to kiss three times and give each other colored eggs; this must be done after the service is over.
- Clothing should be clean and modest. Women should not come to church wearing trousers and without covering their heads.
- It is always necessary to be baptized without gloves.
- Please also note that you are not allowed to speak loudly to each other or talk on the phone during the service.
What time will the Easter service begin at the Cathedral of Christ the Savior?
Every year Christians look forward to this great holiday. Not everyone will be able to get to the Cathedral of Christ the Savior.
Therefore, the Great Easter service can be watched in live. This year the live broadcast will be at 23.30. You can watch it on Channel One.
Video greetings on Easter
The most difficult thing on the day before Easter is to keep your soul trembling and calm. The bustle of consecrating Easter cakes and colored eggs, cleaning the apartment and preparing the festive meal. In the evening you just want to sit down at the table and celebrate. Therefore, the Charter suggests spending this day in church and listening to the reading of the book of the Acts of the Holy Apostles. Most churches actually read the Acts. The day turns into very late evening, and believers gathering for festive services are greeted by the bright red festive decoration of the church.
Easter. Artist Y. Kuzenkova.
At midnight the Easter religious procession takes place. But first they read the canon that they have already heard, the same one popularly called “The Wave of the Sea...”. Then the priest (or priests and deacons) go to the altar. There is some joyful bustle (those who are at an Easter service not for the first time know, it is connected with the fact that the people distribute roles during the religious procession: who will go with a lantern, who with banners. But the temple falls silent. From the altar you can hear singing: “Thy Resurrection "Christ the Savior Angels are singing in heaven," the priest and those with him appear in white vestments and go out into the street. In front of the priest they carry a lantern, banners, icons and a cross from the altar, followed by the choir, and all the praying people with candles (according to tradition, candles on Easter - red). Everyone must leave the temple and its doors are closed. The procession goes around the temple and stops in front of its closed doors, as if in front of the burial cave of Christ.
And then the moment happens that they have been waiting for all year (and they fast, perhaps, for the sake of this moment of spiritual happiness). The priest sings the Easter troparion three times: “Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death and giving life to those in the tombs!” Following him, the choir sings three times, the singing is picked up by everyone who came to pray that night. Then the priest sings verses (the first of them begins with the words “May God rise again...) to which everyone sings along the Easter troparion. Then three times in one breath the people respond to the priest’s exclamation: “Christ is risen”! - “Truly he is risen”! The doors open, and in a joyful crowd, people enter the temple to the sound of bells, continuing to sing the troparion of Easter.
When everyone is already inside, the choir sings the Easter canon - the most joyful poetic work of church hymnography. There are words in it about how the king and prophet David “galloped before the ark of hay,” this means that he danced in front of the Ark of the Covenant, anticipating our today's fun. In general, on this night all liturgical texts are sung and just like that - “jumping while playing.”
After each song of the canon, the priest comes out of the altar, proclaims prayer requests and addresses the temple three times: “Christ is Risen!” and those praying do not tire of answering him, “Truly he is risen!” There is a tradition that is observed in many temples. After each song, the priest puts on a vestment of a different color.
The canon is finished and the stichera of Easter are sung, the backgammon is Christed, that is, everyone who is in the church greets each other: “Christ is Risen” - “Truly He is Risen” and kisses three times.
On this night, many unusual and joyful things await the worshiper. The Royal Doors both open and remain open until next Sunday. You can see everything the priest does during the Liturgy. The service of the hours, usually quite long, is replaced by the singing of the Easter hours, fast and joyful. At the Liturgy you can hear how the Gospel sounds in different languages (at this service it is supposed to be read in ancient Greek, Latin, Church Slavonic and in general in all possible dialects).
The Easter service ends with the Liturgy. At the end, a special Easter bread - artos - is blessed, pieces of which will be distributed on the Saturday following Easter.
The service ends and people go home (it happens that parishes host communal meals) to break their fast. And breaking the fast lasts all seven days following Easter...
COMPLETE COLLECTION
WORKS OF A. K. SHELLER-MIKHAILOV.
SECOND EDITION
edited and with a critical-biographical essay by A. M. Skabichevsky and with the appendix of a portrait of Sheller.
VOLUME FOURTEEN.
Supplement to the magazine "Niva" for 1905.
ST. PETERSBURG.
Edition by A. F. MARX.
1905.
EASTER NIGHT
For the sake of revising ancient manuscripts, I had to spend the last weeks of one of the Great Lents in a small suburban monastery in the province. Here I also met Svetloe Christ's Sunday. Easter this year was very late, and spring was already in full swing - the snow had melted, the ice on the rivers had broken, the buds were turning green on the trees, from a distance it seemed that the forests and gardens were in full summer decoration. After lunch, I went to sleep in the room assigned to me, however, I could not sleep. A white morning looked out the window of my cell, the incessant chirping of birds reached my ears like an alarming whisper, the memories of those happy years when I celebrated this bright holiday not in solitude, but among my beloved family, were resurrected in my memory, and a melancholy feeling pinched me heart, bitter thoughts began to swirl in my head about my loved ones who had gone to their graves, about the life I had lived, about the proximity of the time when my hour would strike. Questions arose, difficult, burning questions, about how life was lived, what was done. Oh, these damned, painful results! How many days, months, years have been lived and how little, shamefully little has been done! Having tossed and turned in fruitless efforts to fall asleep on my bed, I finally decided to get up and go out to cool my head in the air. The monastery stood on a fairly high bank of the river, separating it from the city, which was located on the other, low-lying bank of the river. The townspeople communicated with the monastery by ferry, although it was possible to get here through a bridge, but for this they had to make a long detour. I left the monastery fence through the gate that was open that night and sat down on a flat stone that replaced the bench at the monastery gate. Below, the river, now freed from its icy shackles, quietly carried its yellowish-turbid waters. Along the sandy shore stood several boats and ferries, moored by monastery workers who had completed their transportation work to a poorly constructed pier with vitally important bridges, a hastily knocked together booth and a puzzling staircase rising up from the raft. There were no people visible anywhere, neither on the shore, nor on the raft, nor on the boats. On the city shore, now slightly obscured by the darkness of the night, complete calm also reigned, there were no lights shining anywhere, no smoke rising above the houses. Everyone, obviously, enjoyed a sweet sleep, resting after the night service and breaking the fast. It was already almost light in the air, and the short spring night was ready to give way to a clear morning. “You woke up early today,” a pleasant and soft baritone was heard near me. I raised my head and saw in the open gate a slender and beautiful figure one of the novices with a thin waist, tied with a wide belt, with long, thick, wavy black hair, like a woman’s, spilling over her shoulders. A little surprised by his appearance, I answered: “I didn’t get enough sleep.” But how are you not sleeping? During Lent, it seems, they were quite tired... He smiled barely noticeably, a soft, sad smile. “I never sleep on the night of Holy Resurrection,” he answered. “This night is good!” He fell silent and stared somewhere into the distance with his beautiful dark gray eyes, which seemed black under his thick dark eyelashes. I've been interested in him for a long time. From the very first days of my stay in the monastery, I paid attention to this young man. At first I was struck by the remarkable beauty of this pale, matte face, the slenderness of this thin and graceful figure, the softness of his leisurely movements; then, rummaging through the monastery manuscripts, I saw in him an intelligent person, with some education, with a certain curiosity; Then I was interested in the question of why he went to the monastery, where he stands somehow apart, is distinguished by restraint and looks more like a scientist than a monk, rummaging through old manuscripts and books, putting in order the ancient monastery treasures. Now it seemed possible for me to have a heart-to-heart talk with him, ask him questions and find out at least something about his past, which greatly aroused my curiosity. “Yes, it’s a good night,” I repeated his words. “So I couldn’t sleep, because I remembered how this night was once spent in my own family... And you probably remember the same thing?” It’s not easy for a lonely person to get rid of these memories... “I didn’t have a family,” he answered briefly, continuing to look thoughtfully into space. Some bitter note sounded in his voice. “Are you an orphan?” I asked. “Yes,” he answered. “Rootless.” There was silence for a minute. He sank down next to me on a stone and, still looking into space, where a barely noticeable strip of ruddy dawn appeared, said thoughtfully: “Not only did I grow up an orphan: I almost became a criminal, an outcast of society, one of those who the right of self-defense is poisoned and exterminated, like wild animals that threaten both individuals and the entire society. It had to happen... He stopped for a minute, as if a little embarrassed to continue, and asked me with a soft smile: “You, of course, don’t believe in miracles?” Without giving me time to answer the proposed question, he finished: “It would have taken, if not a miracle, then a strong moral shock, for me to be saved from the fate that awaited me.” .. A quiet sigh escaped from his chest. I waited for several minutes, thinking that he would begin to tell me about the past. But he was silent, lost in thought. His pale, beautiful face looked serious, his thin black eyebrows knitted slightly, his eyes expressed concentration. I called out to him: “I hope your past is not a secret?” He shuddered; he seemed to have forgotten about my presence and did not expect that I could speak. - No. What a secret!” he said, shrugging his shoulders slightly. “But perhaps I’m indelicately evoking sad memories in you,” I noted. A smile crossed his lips. “I haven’t forgotten anything and I can’t forget,” he answered. “What I can tell you out loud does not leave me for a minute... And with some special animation, as if with fear, he added : - Yes, and God forbid I ever forget this... What would happen to me then?.. “You once expressed surprise when you noticed my love of rummaging through old manuscripts and books,” my young interlocutor began his story. “It’s just a habit; she has been coming to me since childhood. As soon as I began to remember myself, I was among a mass of books, large and thick, old and dilapidated. Many of them were almost bigger and fatter, and in any case older than me, crawling among them in my teacher’s office. This was an old professor, scientist, academician, one of those persons about whom people speak with respect in an educated society, so as not to be branded as ignoramuses, and whose works no one ever reads, knowing that there is nothing interesting in them and nothing in common with life. How and when I got to him, I really can’t tell you. One of his relatives, my mother, threw me to him when I was two years old - she threw me not in the way that is usually done by simple women, not at the front doors, not furtively, not at night, but in broad daylight she brought me to the old man and abandoned me. he has me. It is unlikely that he would have kept me with him if he had not had a cook, Domna Savishna, who grumbled angrily at him from morning to night for everything - both for the fact that he was a slob, and for the fact that he trashed the whole apartment rubbish and rubbish, as she called books and antiquities, and because he couldn’t think about the child. For the latter, he got it the most, and every time with this grumbling the old bachelor became lost, like a guilty schoolboy, and began to fuss, absolutely not knowing what he needed to do. He knew on which shelf he needed to put the new book, but where and how to put the child - he himself could not figure it out; she, his housekeeper and leader in practical life, insisted that he take me with him; She nagged him when, in her opinion, it was necessary to do something for me. My teacher was neither angry, nor rude, nor grumpy. He simply forgot about everything that existed, trying to resolve questions about what had long ceased to exist, and even about what, perhaps, had never existed. His forgetfulness reached the point that he often forgot to wash his face in the morning, smooth his tousled hair before leaving the house, wipe his beard while eating, and even take a fork when he needed to eat, whereby, without taking his eyes off the book, he would randomly reach out with his fingers. sauce, for roast, for fried potatoes. Domna Savishna grumbled long and lengthily about all this, constantly ending her grumbling with the same refrain: “Vyachenka doesn’t have pants, but you don’t have anything to do,” “Well, you have to teach Vyachenka, tea, but you don’t even know how.” And then my pants appeared, then they began to teach me. Grumbling at the old man, Domna Savishna, nevertheless, tried in every possible way to justify and elevate him in my eyes, explaining to me that he “wouldn’t hurt a fly,” “that he’s as simple as a child,” that “any rogue can deceive him.” It's all me I saw and understood without her, and in my own way I loved my teacher because he did not crowd me, did not scold me, did not drill me. Nevertheless, I loved Domna Savishna more; I almost adored her, and it seemed to me that there was no better creature in the world than her. I treasured her every caress and I could hardly have slept so sweetly and peacefully if before bedtime Domna Savishna had not come up to my bed to see if I was sleeping and stroked my hair with a plump soft hand in a quiet whisper: “Sleep.” ", little angel, Christ is with you." I spent almost all my free hours from school in the kitchen in the company of Domna Savishna. She first told me fairy tales, then conveyed her memories of the former life of serfs; I read books aloud to her, which she listened to, it seems, more out of love for me than for them, but most often I read her the Gospel, which she loved to listen to and which she asked me to read every time I forgot to do it myself. This is how my life passed until I was fifteen. The narrator stopped for a minute, as if finding it difficult to continue his confession. “When I was fifteen years old, my adoptive father fell dangerously ill,” he finally continued again. “Domna Savishna became very worried and followed him like a child, sometimes crying bitterly at the thought that he would die. At this time, for the first time, something new was reflected in my character. - “How will we live then?” “I once asked Domna Savishna. “What are we!” she answered. “God willing, we won’t die of hunger. It’s crushing me. It’s tormenting me beyond what God forbid.” She didn’t think about herself at all, but I began to think more and more strongly about both myself and her. Are we really going to have to go through the world? Has the old man really not made a spiritual will? Will the money he has really go to strangers? The old man’s torment no longer bothered me at all, and sometimes, imagining that he had not made a spiritual will, I began to be angry with him: “All my life I’ve been delving into all sorts of literary carrion, but I haven’t even thought about living people! Even if they perish - he doesn't care! Book eater! At the same time, some other inner voice reproached me for these feelings and thoughts: “The person who warmed and fed you is suffering and dying next to you, and you only think about what will happen to you next!” For two weeks this first internal struggle took place in me, which prevented me from even studying at the gymnasium, when suddenly one day my teacher felt very bad, and agony began. Domna Savishna whispered in tears: “It’s ending!” This word cut me like a knife. I approached the old man, looked at him, he was no longer breathing. “He’s dead!” I exclaimed in horror and immediately said in a breathless voice: “We must quickly look to see if there is a spiritual will, see how much money is left, otherwise everyone, everyone will take someone else’s.” Domna Savishna looked at me reproachfully, almost indignantly. “We didn’t close our eyes, but we’ll rob him!” she said sharply through her tears and added more softly: “That’s enough, Vyachenka!” I was confused and began to confusedly, as if in a fever, tell her that it was not right for her to go on, that she needed to know how she would exist. I talked all about her and thought about myself. She interrupted me: “I won’t go around the world, and I won’t be a thief! We’ll get by somehow...” And then people appeared—strangers, as I said—and took everything that my teacher had. Moreover, they gave orders at the funeral, looked at me with disdain and made hints that Domna Savishna had probably stolen part of the old man’s capital. They were convinced that he had much more money, and were looking for someone to take out their anger on for their disappointed hopes. I couldn’t stand this and in the evening I hotly said to Domna Savishna: “So we were waiting for strangers to drive us out of here, and how they would drive us out, accusing and cursing us like robbers!” - “Come on, Vyachenka, they are not strangers, but relatives. We are strangers like that,” said the old woman. “Are you a stranger, when you’ve been babysitting him all your life?” - I exclaimed. - “I was his serf before, and then I served for a salary,” she answered: “and they are blood relatives.” - “Well, if you are not related to him, then I am not a stranger.” “,” I said passionately. “Come on, Vyachenka!” she said quietly and affectionately. “Of course, I shouldn’t tell you this, but now you can’t do without it, apparently. Your mother was the niece of the late Peter.” Dmitrievich, and you are not related to him, my dear, therefore, may the Lord God forgive her, she was not married to your dad...” Again the narrator interrupted the story, gloomily looking into the distance and as if experiencing in his soul everything that seemed to be has long been forgotten. Then he added abruptly in great emotion: “At that moment I seemed to hate the whole world, my teacher, my mother, my father, my illegitimate relatives!” Despite the fact that I wanted to hear the end of this story, I would not have dared to ask the narrator to continue it, since these memories were apparently difficult for him. However, after being silent for a while and calming down somewhat, he himself continued the interrupted story. He looked intently at me with a questioning gaze and said: “Has anyone made sacrifices for you?” Has anyone laid down everything for you, life, soul? Has anyone fainted because of you under the yoke of labor and hardship? If not, then you will hardly understand what I went through, changed my mind and felt when, thrown out into the street from my teacher’s house, I found myself dependent on Domna Savishna, only her dependent. Words cannot express this; you have to experience it yourself to understand. There are such little things of feelings and thoughts: gratitude for the sacrifice made, the bitter consciousness that you live at someone else’s expense, torment for the efforts and suffering of another being and the fear that this being will break under the weight of labor - fear for him and for oneself. No matter how hard I try to convey to you all these shades, I will not be able to do it even halfway and you will have to fill it all up with your own instincts. My old lady entered the service and began to support me, renting me a closet in the same house where she found a place for herself. In vain I ran around the city and looked for lessons, correspondence, and any kind of occupation. I found nothing and had to exist solely on the means of this simple old woman, who was now working tirelessly. She lived as a servant for a distant relative of my late teacher; in free hours she washed my linen or knitted and sewed various items of women's toilet for sale; she went to bed late and got up early, and all this so that I was dressed, shod, fed and could study. I wanted to leave the gymnasium, but she did not allow me to do this and even became angry and offended. “Who will need you as a fool?” she told me. “Or have you become too lazy to work? So, I’m an old man, and I’m working.” I interrupted her hotly: “That’s why I want to leave the gymnasium, so that you , old, didn’t bend her hump for me.” “Well, am I going to sit with folded arms as the princess of Astrakhan?” she answered. “And what kind of place will they give you, an ignoramus and a youngster? Grow a mustache first, and then think about the place." I submitted to her and began to study zealously. But it could not drown out the ominous work of thought in my brain. My mother and father abandoned me as a three-year-old child to my old uncle and never even inquired about me. My uncle, like a little dog, allowed me to live in his house and didn’t even think about what I would do if I remained on the street after his death. His uncles, who did not visit him during his life because he was a “dirty old man,” who called him contemptuously a “walking mummy,” robbed after his death all his property and drove out the people close to him, me and Domna Savishna, to all four directions, not being ashamed to even hint that we probably managed to rob the old man fairly well. She works like an ox to support me, a stranger to her, and sees neither joy nor happiness, despite my kindness. Where is the truth? Where is the justice? I can’t tell you what had a particularly strong effect on my nerves - the cramped closet in the basement rented from a carpenter, the not particularly nutritious food, the persistent desire to go first in the gymnasium, the intense reading of all sorts of books indiscriminately in my free hours, or my gloomy thoughts , who could not find an answer - but I know one thing, that I had a terrible nervous disorder. I lost my temper during arguments with my comrades; I would choke with anger if someone walked ahead of me in the class, especially when one of the rich people overtook me; I shuddered when unexpectedly someone called out to me or touched me; I either cried inconsolably in my corner, or became gloomy and felt some kind of bitterness in my soul. All somewhat wealthy people became my enemies, because I saw in them individuals similar in their criminal frivolity to my father and mother, or who reminded me of the callous egoism of my uncle, who withered among his learned research, or who resurrected in my imagination the images of those fragrant and my smart relatives, who treated the slobby old man with disdain and did not disdain to rummage through every corner of his home when the robbery called the division of inheritance was taking place here. In order not to resemble these people in any way, I began to take little care of my appearance, began to boast about the rips in my dress and the patches on my boots. But the main, predominant feature in my character was, I repeat, bitterness. A breakdown of strength always followed him. Kicking a dog that came across on the road, offending a comrade to tears, looking with pleasure at a violent bloody fight, all this amused me for a while, and then I cried, fought and repented in my closet, calling myself a scoundrel, a soulless creature, a scoundrel, and It was so easy to end all this - with my nervous disorder, and with Domna Savishna’s back-breaking work, and with fear for the future: all I had to do was rob the old man with whom Domna Savishna now lived. The narrator pronounced the last words especially clearly, as if emphasizing them, then interrupted the story, knitted his eyebrows again and breathed heavily, as if from fatigue. “These memories are difficult for you,” I noted. “I am ashamed that I...” He did not let me finish the sentence I had begun and answered somewhat abruptly: “No, well... I already told you that my the past constantly lives in my memory... It’s hard to talk and not remember... And, gathering his strength, he continued the story. - This fatal thought haunted me for not a day, not two. Like a nightmare, like the persecution of an evil spirit, it tormented me day and night. I tried to get rid of her, but in my brain, against my will, evidence appeared that otherwise both Domna Savishna and I would only perish. If this old man dies, Domna Savishna will again remain on the pavement, and the first scoundrels who come across will take possession of his wealth. If Domna Savishna dies before him, I will no longer have any support, and I will even have to leave the gymnasium when those other scoundrels dressed in smart uniforms will eat the fruits of education. Back then I didn’t call the well-fed anything else than scoundrels. And what does it mean to this person if several thousand are missing from him? And even if this loss had a heavy impact on him, is it worth pitying him? He himself did not spare anyone, either before, when he was engaged in usury, or now, when he lives in retirement. Unfortunately, this man really did not deserve respect, love, or condescension. Once he was a moneylender, discounted bills at high interest rates and, having amassed large capital, lived for his own pleasure. Ill-gotten money was lived on in filthy debauchery. Wrinkled, toothless, bald, in a black wig, with tinted eyebrows, this greasy old man became a regular at club masquerades, wandered along Nevsky, catching various unfortunate creatures. He took Domna Savishna in only because he knew her honesty and could calmly leave his apartment in her care during his evening and night excursions. It seemed to me a sinless thing to rob him. Little by little, the question began to boil down for me only to how to steal in order to bury the ends in the water. I had already begun to think about it as something that absolutely had to be done. In my opinion, this was a feat, not a crime. If anything delayed me from carrying out my intended plan, it was that sometimes the thought flashed through my head: “What if he catches me stealing?” To this, finally, a cruel answer appeared: “then we’ll have to put an end to him ourselves; the dog’s death is a dog’s death.” This thought encouraged and made me happy. He, this man whom I hardly knew and only saw briefly a few times, became in my eyes my personal enemy. According to the code of laws, he was a complete stranger to me, but I assured myself then that I was a relative, a close relative, and scolded and cursed him for the fact that he did not even want to know me. I needed pretexts for hatred and curses, to justify what I had planned. While visiting Domna Savishna, in the evenings I entered the rooms of the former moneylender, looked closely, thought, and sometimes I was consoled by the thought: “I’ll kill him here.” “Vyachenka, it’s time to wander around,” Domna Savishna called me from the kitchen then. “I’d rather read a book than wander around the rooms in the dark.” Willy-nilly, I returned to her and fulfilled her wishes, read her the “Gospel” and “Lives”... These readings were now torture for me. The “Lives” that she loved to listen to so much raised reproaches from my conscience in me. Here people were described who steadfastly endured all kinds of torment and became even more virtuous and kind in the midst of these torments. And I? I tried, deliberately deceiving my conscience, to blaspheme, to call all this fairy tales, fiction, impossible absurdities. The voice of conscience rose within me, but I tried to drown it out, deceiving myself. “And Domna Savishna? Does she ever complain about fate?” a question appeared in my head. “Wasn’t she horrified at the thought of getting rich by robbery when Pyotr Dmitrievich died? Didn’t she remain both pure and good amid all the trials...” “Well, she’s a narrow-minded and undeveloped woman, that’s all!” " I lied to myself and mocked, viciously mocked those who considered it necessary to be good among the evil, virtuous among the vicious: “Sheep going to the slaughter! Chickens crawling under the cook’s knife!” “Vyachenka, my dear, what’s wrong with you? You should get some treatment,” Domna Savishna told me anxiously, looking at me sympathetically and feeling my head. “My head, my head, it’s burning like it’s on fire!” Oh, you're not good; they put it in a coffin more beautifully." She was right: I was sick, dangerously sick, not so much physically as morally. The scarlet strip of dawn, on the left side of the city, where the river made a sharp turn, had long since begun to expand, and soon the sun should have appeared from behind the distant forest, which now seemed bluish-green and sharply outlined in the clear, transparent air. My interlocutor and I somehow involuntarily turned our gazes in that direction and admired the picturesque landscape. “It must be a very good day,” I said. “Yes, spring is in full swing,” my interlocutor answered with a quiet sigh. “And then it was spring when a great revolution took place in me.” Spring revives everything healthy and strong, but woe to the sick and weak at this time: healthy breathing spring is often not tolerated by sore nerves and exhausted chests. The cradle of the healthy, it is the grave of the sick. I remember well how heavily the end of Lent and the beginning of spring affected my nerves. Domna Savishna, who strictly observed fasts in general and deprived herself of much for my sake, became seriously ill during Holy Week, and I was seized with horror. I was not so much saddened by the thought that she might die as I was afraid for my future in the event of her death. This fear was stronger than my love for her. I was aware of this, I castigated myself for it with contempt and could not overcome this feeling. I walked around as if in delirium, and thought only about one thing: “What will happen to me?” “Rob, rob the old man quickly,” a secret voice whispered to me, and I made plans on how to do it. And then, painfully, painfully, I asked myself: “What horror would my old lady be in if she knew what I was planning, what I was thinking about, foreseeing her imminent death?” Lord, what a chaos of contradictions sometimes happens in the human soul! In these feverish, half-mad thoughts, I celebrated the Holy Day. I did not go to matins and, sitting in my closet in front of the candle, thought over my plans. I opened the book, trying to drive away these ominous thoughts, but I did not succeed. They crawled into my head of their own accord, annoying, like delirium, like a nightmare. There was a terrible struggle going on inside me, and at times it seemed to me that I was going crazy. And from the street came the joyful gospel, speaking of the resurrection of the Redeemer of the world. I leaned my elbows on the table, resting my head on my palms, and it seemed to me that this head was ready to crack. Suddenly, behind me, quickly, as if from a strong gust of wind, the door opened, and someone’s voice, hasty and intermittent, spoke sternly: “I have risen... risen from the dead, and you... What are you doing? How dare you be here? be?.. Where are you? What are you?.. I am Christ, and you..." I jumped up in horror and found myself face to face with an emaciated pale figure, with short-cropped but thick black hair, in white clothes that fell to the floor, like a tunic... Large, black, feverishly shining eyes angrily looked at me in the semi-darkness. I was drenched in cold sweat, I recoiled towards the table, but a man unknown to me in white clothes took another step towards me, and his emaciated pale face with shiny black eyes leaned close to my face, and I heard a whisper that amazed me: “I am Christ.” , Judas!" I will never forget this look and this whisper, from which my whole body went cold and my consciousness became clouded. Before I came to my senses, some people burst into my room noisily and rushed at a person unknown to me. He screamed and spoke quickly: “I am Christ! I am risen! You want to crucify me again!” and began to struggle out of their powerful hands, but they had already managed to take possession of him. Not understanding what was happening to me, seeing only that they wanted to take him, that they were fighting him, I rushed to defend him and began shouting: “Leave him, leave him, you villains!” I beat someone, grabbed someone’s clothes. But they roughly pushed me away, then they twisted the stranger’s arms and dragged him away. I don’t know how long I screamed and begged these people to leave him, how long I lay unconscious, but I only remember that when I came to consciousness in the morning, lying on my bed, two women stood next to me: Domna Savishna, who could barely move her legs and the wife of my landlord-carpenter, and the latter was reciting, probably for the hundredth time: “And why were you scared, my mother?” I didn’t recognize our carpenter Savka. Savka escaped from the insane asylum and came running to him, and he got scared. Savka was a young fellow carpenter, who at first suffered from heavy drinking, then suddenly stopped drinking and fell into melancholy. In a fit of serious mental illness, he once even tried to hang himself. He was taken out of the loop and sent to a mental hospital, where his mental illness worsened even more. A year ago I saw this Savva, I knew about his unaccountable melancholy, and his attempt to commit suicide, and his stay in the insane asylum, where he called himself Christ and from where he fled that night and suddenly entered my closet, raging previously and in the rooms of the carpenter-owner... All this was explained so simply, so naturally, and everyone laughed at the incident, at Savva, who imagined himself to be Christ, at my fear and attempts to protect Savka. I was the only one who didn't laugh. They advised me to go to sleep and left me alone. Tired, exhausted, I fell into a heavy sleep, and in my dreams I dreamed of this inflamed look and heard this ominous whisper: “I am Christ, Judas!” I woke up in a cold sweat and timidly looked around. The next day, Domna Savishna, dragging herself back to me again and seeing me, clasped her hands in horror, so I changed in one day. It was as if something was pressing me down... The young man fell silent for a minute and then, looking into the distance illuminated by the rising sun, he spoke again in thought: “I have nothing more to say.” In short words you cannot retell what is going on in the soul, but to spread the word - perhaps, the ability is not enough to convey everything, to find out everything. The thought that I would certainly become a scoundrel if I continued to live in the world did not cease to haunt me from that day on. It had slipped through my brain before, but it only slipped like the light of lightning in the darkness of the night. Now she illuminated my soul with a bright light. Yes, it became quite clear to me that I was incapable of either endurance or fight, that I was envious and unjust, that there was something vicious in me, something primarily driving me to crime. All around me there were still rumors and jokes about the drunken Savka, and I, only I, understood that in the person of Savka the Lord had sent me a warning against temptations. When I came to the gymnasium after the holidays, they remarked to me: “Why are you so lost in the water?” I remained like this all the time until I finished my course, until I entered the monastery. As soon as I stepped behind these walls, I breathed a wide sigh of relief: I felt that they sheltered me from crimes... “And your Domna Savishna did not hold you back?” I involuntarily asked. “She died,” the young man answered with a sigh. “Yes, even if she hadn’t died, she wouldn’t have held back: I would have told her everything, and she would have understood me.” Of course, all this may seem strange to you, but she was a simple person, it would have been easy for her to understand all this... “And you don’t repent of your decision?” I asked, not without curiosity. -- What do you! What do you! The Lord is with you! - he exclaimed ardently protesting, almost in fear. - I have become a new person here...... And, as if not wanting to talk more about himself, he pointed out into the distance: - Look, look, water It really burns, reflecting the sun. What a wonderful picture! Indeed, the picture was amazingly good. The sun, rising from behind the forest, was now flooding everything with its bright light, reflecting in the water. People in colorful festive attire were already scurrying about on the city shore. White smoke curled over the houses from hundreds of chimneys, melting in the transparent air. On the ferry, stretching and shivering, two boatmen could be seen emerging from their booth. The cheerful ringing of bells was heard in the air, and hundreds of birds continually chirped and sang, fluttering from branch to branch in the dense trees of the monastery cemetery and garden.Local residents remember how in recent times, on Easter, groups of activists went from house to house and, snooping around other people’s homes, as if they were at home, looking for Easter eggs and Easter cakes. Those caught red-handed were later branded at meetings and expelled from work. Perhaps because of these morning searches, it then became a custom in these parts to celebrate Easter as the New Year. That is, late in the evening on Holy Saturday they sat down at the festive table, and after libations they went to the procession of the Cross.
In short, there was enough work for the police at Easter. But there has never been such a difficult Easter as in 1993 in Optina - a crowded church buzzing with conversations and many drunk people in the courtyard. And at 11 o’clock in the evening, as the investigation later established, the killer came to the monastery.
Optina icon painter Maria Levistam says: “On Easter night, many felt an incomprehensible anxiety. And I kept imagining that there was a man standing in the temple with a knife and preparing to attack the priests. I even stood closer to the priests in order to rush to cross him. Suspicion is a sin, and I repented of this in confession. And the priest says: “Mary, don’t throw yourself on the knife, but pray better.”
I remember the incident. The boy Seryozha stood on the pulpit at the entrance to the altar and involuntarily disturbed the employees. In the world, this boy served at the altar and now, crowded by the crowd, huddled closer to the altar door. Monk Trofim, who carried notes to the altar, constantly bumped into him and finally, unable to bear it, asked: “Why are you hanging around here?” “I think,” the boy answered, “can I enter the altar?” “No,” said the monk Trofim. “And so that I don’t see you here again.”
The boy was very surprised when the monk Trofim later found him in a crowded church and said guiltily: “Forgive me, brother. Maybe this is the last time we see you on earth, and I offended you.” It was really the last time they saw each other on earth.
Nun Irina and others recall that on that Easter night the monk Ferapont did not stand in his usual place, but as he stood at the funeral table, he froze, with his eyes downcast, in prayerful sorrow. The monk was pressed and pushed, but he did not notice anything. They remember how a certain tipsy person asked to light a candle for the repose, explaining that his relative had died today, and he himself, since he was drunk, had no right to touch the shrine. The candle was handed over to the monk Ferapont. He lit it and forgot himself, standing with a burning candle in his hand. They looked back at the monk in bewilderment, but he still stood with his head bowed, with a funeral candle in his hand. Finally, having crossed himself, he put the candle on the eve and went to his last confession in his life.
Hieromonk D. says: “Several hours before the murder, during the Easter service, the monk Ferapont confessed to me. I was then in terrible despondency - and was already ready to leave the monastery, and after his confession it suddenly became somehow light and joyful, as if it was not he, but I myself who had confessed: “Where should I go when there are such brothers here!..” So and it turned out: he left, and I stayed.”
On his last Easter night, Fr. Vasily confessed before the start Procession of the Cross, and then went out to confession in the morning - at the end of the liturgy. A humble person is always inconspicuous, and about Fr. Vasily only learned posthumously that he had already acquired special power prayers and, it seems, the gift of insight. Confessions from Fr. Vasily left an unusually strong impression on many, and in order to convey it, we will break the chronology by talking not only about the confessions on that last night.
Muscovite E.T. says: “Father Vasily was perspicacious, and a few hours before the murder he revealed to me the outcome of one story that was bothering me. The story was like this. I have a friend from my youth, whom I refused to marry at one time. “To spite” me, he immediately married the first woman he met, but he could not live with her. Only much later did he finally have real family. And on Easter 1993, my friend came to Optina with donations from his organization. And at the meeting he said that he had recently come to faith, but his wife was an unbeliever, and he left the family a year ago.
He had a conflict at home, and out of resentment towards his wife, he asked me to marry him. But I saw that my friend was grieving for his wife and his little daughter. He just doesn’t want to admit it out of pride and is again eager to “prove” something.
All this was so depressing that when I went to confession to Fr. I came to Vasily almost in tears. “Yes, this is a serious temptation,” said the priest. “But if you carry it with dignity, everything will be fine.” “Pray, father,” I asked. Father Vasily silently prayed with detachment, and then said, beaming and with extraordinary firmness: “Everything will be fine!” And so it happened.
The murder on Easter was such a shock, when it burned out everything superficial from the feelings. And my friend returned to the family, writing to me later that he and his wife got married, go to church together, and their little daughter is the most happy, endlessly repeating: “Daddy is back!”
Regent Olga says: “Before Easter, such a temptation happened that I was literally thrown off track. On Easter I had to sing in the choir, and I wanted to confess and receive communion on Holy Saturday.
I stood up at the liturgy to confess to Fr. Vasily, but the line of communicants was so huge that by the end of the liturgy it became clear that I would not get to confession. I even left the queue in disappointment. I'm standing behind Fr. Vasily and I think: “Well, how can I go to the choir in such a state?” And suddenly oh. Vasily says to me, turning around: “Well, what do you have?” And he immediately took me to confession. After confession, not a trace of my temptation remained, but it fell to me to sing a memorial service for my father on Easter.”
Nun Zinaida, and at that time a pensioner Tatyana Ermachkova, who worked for free in the refectory of the monastery from the first day of the revival of Optina, tells the story: “How well Fr. Basil! Father was kind and loving, and you walk away after confession with such a light soul, as if you were born again into the world.
Before Easter we worked in the refectory and at night. There is no time to straighten up. Where is the rule for Communion here? And so on the morning of Holy Saturday I speak about. Vasily: “Father, I really want to take communion on Easter, but I have no time to prepare.” - “Take communion.” - “It’s like - without preparing?” “Nothing,” he says, “you will pray a lot later.” And it’s true - how much we prayed at the funeral of our brothers! And to this day I pray for them, my dear ones.”
Hierodeacon L. says: “Before Easter, I was so busy with business that I was essentially not ready for communion. He said this in confession to Fr. Vasily, and he responded: “And you be ready, like Gagarin and Titov.” This was said seemingly as a joke, but I only remembered Gagarin’s sudden death, also in the midst of his labors.”
Icon painter Tamara Mushketova says: “Before Easter 1993, I experienced two big shocks - my grandmother died. She was a nun. And then people close to me slandered me. I closed myself off then. And suddenly she burst into tears in confession with Fr. Vasily, and the priest listened silently and nodded sympathetically.
Previously, I was embarrassed to confess to Fr. Vasily - after all, we are almost the same age. And then it was forgotten that he was young, and everything disappeared except our Lord Jesus Christ, before whom the soul trustingly revealed itself. I was then preparing for communion and said to Fr. Vasily, that with all my desire I cannot completely forgive the people who slandered me, “How are you going to take communion? - Fr. was surprised. Basil. - I can’t allow you to take communion if you can’t forgive.
I try, father, but it doesn’t work.
If you can forgive, take communion,” said Fr. Basil. And he added quietly: “We must forgive.” Just like before death.
I asked Fr. Vasily prayed for me and moved away from the lectern, trying to evoke a feeling of repentance in herself. But the feeling was far-fetched and empty of resentment towards others. This went on for about ten minutes. And suddenly I cried again, seeing everything and everyone as before my death - I no longer needed to forgive anyone: everyone was so dear and loved that I was only surprised at the worthlessness of the previous grievances. It was such an overwhelming love for people that I realized that this was beyond my measure and came from the priest, through his prayers. And I didn’t hesitate to go to the Chalice.”
The artist Irina L. from St. Petersburg says: “I first came to Optina Pustyn in 1992 for the patronal feast of the Entry of the Blessed Virgin Mary into the Temple and went to confession at the nearest analogue. K o. Vasily, as it turned out later.
Before this, I had recently been baptized and did not know how to confess. But, I remember, I suddenly began to cry when Fr. Vasily covered me with the stole, reading a prayer of permission. I was ashamed of tears, but they flowed naturally from the feeling of God’s great mercy. My name is Fr. Vasily did not ask, I myself did not call him, and therefore I was very surprised when I heard him say my name: “Irina” while reading the prayer of permission. “How does he know my name? - I was perplexed. “Maybe someone told him?” But there was no one to tell - no one in the monastery knew me.
It would seem that there was something special that connected me with Fr. Vasily? One confession, one communion and one blessing for the journey. But after his death, he repeatedly appeared in my dreams. One day I see - oh. Vasily stands at the lectern, as if in confession, and says to me: “Irina, you have taken thirty-two splinters out of yourself, but there is still one left.” You usually don’t trust dreams and don’t even remember them. But this dream gave off such a sense of reality that in two years I went to Optina twenty-five times, looking for the thirty-third thorn in myself. And I had no peace until I left the world and went to the monastery with the blessing of the priest, who became my spiritual father here. But at that time I didn’t even know the name of my spiritual father: Fr. Vasily on the fortieth day of his death - on Ascension.”
The Venerable Optina Elder Nektarios wrote: “Our Lord Jesus Christ, praying in the Garden of Gethsemane, is to some extent the image of every confessor in relation to his spiritual children, for he also takes upon himself their sins. What a great thing this is and what he has to go through!”
It is not given to us to know about those inner experiences of Fr. Vasily, when, pressed by the crowd, he stood at the lectern on his last Easter night, beginning to confess with early morning and not sitting down until midnight. And at night there was a moment that was remembered by many: “Look, the priest is feeling bad,” someone’s child said loudly. And everyone looked at Fr. Vasily - he stood at the lectern already in a pre-fainting state with his face pale to blue. Hieromonk Philaret at that time finished blessing the Easter cakes and walked through the church, cheerfully sprinkling everyone calling to him: “Father, sprinkle me too!” In passing, he sprinkled Fr. Vasily and was already moving on when he called out to him: “Sprinkle me stronger. Something’s hard.” He sprinkled it again; and seeing Fr.’s nod. Vasily, sprinkled him so heartily that his whole face was flooded with water. “Nothing, nothing,” she sighed. Vasily is relieved. “Now it’s nothing.” And he began to confess again.
So this Gethsemane loneliness of the shepherd stands before our eyes in the crowd, leaning on the lectern with their sorrows, and more often - mourners: “Father, she told me this! How can we live after this?” Nothing, we live. But there is no father...
The dean of the monastery, Abbot Paphnutius, recalls how on Good Friday he suddenly thought at the sight of Fr. Vasily: “No longer a tenant.” The load on the hieromonks was then incredible: Fr. Vasily served and confessed all Holy Week, and after a sleepless Easter night, according to the schedule, he had to confess at the early liturgy in the monastery, and then at the late liturgy in the Church of St. Hilarion the Great. “Who was to be appointed? - Abbot Paphnutius complained. - Many priests were already sick from overwork, but Fr. Vasily willingly undertook to replace the sick. He loved to serve." The Lord gave him plenty of time to serve in the end, but his face was already visible.
Many people remember that during the procession on Easter, Fr. Vasily carried the icon of the “Resurrection of Christ” and was the only one of all the priests in red vestments. The Lord chose him this Easter as his high priest, who will slaughter the Paschal Lamb at the proskomedia. They remember that the proskomedia of Fr. Vasily always did it clearly, cutting the Lamb's prosphora with quick and precise movement. But this Easter he hesitated, tormented and not daring to begin the proskomedia, and even retreated for a moment from the altar. “What are you, oh. Basil?" - they asked him. “It’s so hard, I feel like I’m stabbing myself,” he replied. Then he performed this Great Sacrifice and sat down on a chair in exhaustion. “What, oh. Vasily, are you tired? - those in the altar asked him. “I’ve never been so tired,” he admitted. “It’s like the carriage was unloaded.” At the end of the liturgy, Fr. Vasily went to confession again.
Pyotr Alekseev, now a student at the St. Tikhon’s Theological Institute, and at that time a youth working in obedience in Optina, says: “At that time I had a music teacher in Kozelsk, Valentina Vasilievna. She is a wonderful person, but like many, it is difficult for her and she has to earn a living by performing concerts. Just on Holy Saturday there was a concert at the House of Officers, and after the concert there was a banquet. Now Valentina Vasilyevna sings in the choir, but then she had just come to faith, but strictly kept the fast, preparing to receive communion on Easter. And when they raised a toast to her at the banquet, she, at the general insistence, took a sip of champagne.
On the way to Optina, she told a Muscovite friend about the temptation with champagne, and she said such accusatory words to her, forbidding her to take communion, that Valentina Vasilievna cried all Easter night. And at dawn Fr. went to confession. Vasily, and she came to him. And now Valentina Vasilievna cries, telling how she sipped champagne, having lost the sacrament, and Fr. Vasily hands her a red Easter egg and says joyfully: “Christ is risen! Take communion!” How glad Valentina Vasilyevna was to receive communion on Easter! When the next morning she heard about the murder in Optina, she immediately ran to the monastery. And the Easter egg of the new martyr Vasily of Optina has been cherished since then as a shrine.”
Easter 1993 was unusually crowded and noisy. But the fatigue of the night took its toll - talkative people left the temple. And during the Liturgy of the faithful, the church had already stood still, praying in silence.
There is that moment on Easter night when the inexplicable happens: it would seem that everyone is tired and exhausted from drowsiness. But suddenly such grace strikes the heart that there is neither sleep nor fatigue, and the spirit rejoices in the Resurrection of Christ. How to describe this wondrous grace of Easter, when the sky is open and “Angels are singing in heaven”?
A draft description of Easter, made in 1989 by the future hieromonk Vasily, has survived. But before we bring him, let's talk about that moment of the last Easter, when at the end of the liturgy Fr. Vasily went out to canonish the choir. “Father, but you are tired,” the regent, Hierodeacon Seraphim, told him. - You rest. We can handle it ourselves." “And I am obedient,” said Fr. cheerfully. Vasily, the governor’s father blessed me.” This was Optina's best canonarch. And many remember how, overwhelmed with joy, he canonized his last Easter, saying in a clear young voice: “May God rise again and let His enemies be scattered.” And the brethren sing, and the whole temple sings: “The holy Easter has appeared to us today; Easter is new holy: Easter is mysterious..."
“And it’s as if an exclamation bursts from his lips: “May God rise again and His enemies be scattered,” he wrote on his first Optina Easter. - What great and mysterious words! How the soul trembles and rejoices hearing them! What fiery grace they are filled with on Easter night! They are as vast as the sky and as close as breathing. They contain a long wait, transformed in the moment of meeting, everyday adversity, absorbed into eternity, the age-old languor of a weak human soul, disappeared in the joy of possessing the truth. The night parted before the light of these words, time fled from their face...
The temple becomes like an overflowing healing cup. “Come, let’s drink new beer.” The wedding feast is prepared by Christ himself, the invitation comes from the lips of God himself. No longer Easter service is underway in the church, and the Easter feast. "Christ is Risen!" - “Truly he is risen!”, cries ring out, and the wine of joy and gladness splashes over the edge, renewing souls for eternal life.
The heart understands more than ever that everything we receive from God is received freely. Our imperfect offerings are eclipsed by God's generosity and become invisible, just as fire is invisible in the blinding radiance of the sun.
How to describe Easter night? How to express in words its greatness, glory and beauty? Only by rewriting the rite of the Easter service from beginning to end is it possible to do this. No other words are suitable for this. How to convey the Easter moment on paper? What can I say to make it clear and tangible? One can only throw up one’s hands in bewilderment and point to the festively decorated church: “Come and enjoy...”
Whoever has lived this day does not require proof of the existence of eternal life, no interpretation of words is required Holy Scripture: “And time will be no more” (Rev. 10:6).
The service ended at 5.10 am. And although the sleepless night is behind us, there is such vigor and joy that you want one thing - to celebrate. Almost everyone today is a communicant, and this is a special state of mind: “Easter! Let us embrace each other with joy...” And upon leaving the church everyone celebrates with Christ, hugging and inviting each other to Easter cakes.
Everyone is cheerful, like children. And just like in childhood, the eyes notice the fun. Here vertically challenged Hierodeacon Raphael shares Christ with the huge Fr. Vasily:
Well, what, dad? - the hierodeacon laughs. “Christ is risen!”
Truly risen! - Fr. beams. Basil.
And the air rings with the gospel, and the bell ringers glorify Christ - Monk Trofim, Monk Ferapont and Hierodeacon Lavrenty. The monk Trofim rejoices and beams in what seems to be unbearable joy, but the monk Ferapont has a shy smile. Before Easter, it seems his eye hurt, and there was a trace of green paint on his eyelid. This time the hood is not pulled down over his eyes, and therefore you can see what a childishly open good face he has and huge eyes.
And then the celebration spills out into the city. It was a custom among Optina parishioners in those years to leave Optina singing. The people in the villages here are vociferous, and buses went from Optina to the city, where they sang and sang, without getting tired: “Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death and giving life to those in the tombs!”
“Easter is coming,” they said on this occasion in the city, rejoicing at the new custom of singing publicly on Easter. And if evening Holy Saturday If, at times, it was overshadowed by drunken fights, then Easter itself in Kozelsk and the villages always proceeded surprisingly peacefully - everyone was smart, decorous, men in white shirts. Everyone goes to each other to celebrate Christ, and even speech on this day takes on a special decorum - on Easter you cannot say a rude word or offend anyone. Easter is a holy day.
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