: Protodeacon, a great reading enthusiast, during the service should anathematize Count Leo Tolstoy, over whose books he cries with tenderness and tenderness.

On Sunday morning, the protodeacon makes a voice: lubricates the throat, rinses it with boric acid, breathes steam. The wife brings him a glass of vodka. A man weighing nine and a half pounds and with a huge chest, the protodeacon is afraid of his small, thin, yellow-faced wife. The Protodeacon, a great reading enthusiast, read a lovely story all night. Having come to the cathedral for service, he constantly thinks about what he has read.

The Protodeacon is already ending his service when they bring him a note from the archpriest, in which he was ordered to anathematize Count Leo Tolstoy. The protodeacon is horrified: he must anathematize the one over whose story he cried all night from tenderness and tenderness.

The Protodeacon reads the curses to the monks and Czernets excommunicated, and then, in all the power of his enormous voice, he wishes Leo Tolstoy long summers and, contrary to the rite, lifts a candle upstairs. The chorus of boys picks it up. Protodeacon takes off his brocade clothes and leaves the temple, people part in front of him. The wife runs after him and laments that he is now waiting for him.

“I don’t care,” the deacon replies, and for the first time the wife quietly shies.