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He spent his childhood and youth in the city of Nikolaev in Ukraine. Here he graduated from the shipbuilding institute, got married, and later the whole family was baptized. In the 1980s he worked as a shipbuilding engineer, a builder, in forestry, in a brigade for decorative design premises.

Together with his wife Alla he organized a family Orphanage, in which they raised three of their own and nine adopted children. Father Mikhail’s eldest son, Ilya Shpolyansky, as of April 2014, ran the Litopis enterprise, which employed people with disabilities.

February 5 of the year prot. Michael was banned from the priesthood by Archbishop Pitirim (Starinsky) of Nikolaev. According to Father Mikhail, the reason was the presence of adopted children in his family, who, according to the ruling bishop, should be supported at the expense of the state, and not at the expense of the church. (This is despite the fact that Father Michael’s family not only did not receive any funds from the diocese, but were not even exempt from the diocesan tax - 20% total income parish and family). Also, according to Father Mikhail, the successful operation of the book tray was a “thorn in the flesh” for the diocese Orthodox literature, which they, with the blessing of Father John Krestyankin and the initially given (and never officially revoked) permission of the diocese, installed in the city.

The reason for the ban, according to Father Mikhail, was the article “The Earthly Church: Breaks and Breaks” published in the “Vestnik RHD”. Is there anyone to build bridges? , in which many phenomena of modern church life are critically assessed, including the arbitrariness of the episcopate in relation to subordinate priests. He also publicly proposed discussing the situation with the persecution of one of the diocesan clergy at a diocesan meeting (which had not met at all for three years before).

Soon, at the request of parishioners (more than 1000 signatures with full data of the signatories, including 95% of the entire adult population of the village of Staraya Bogdanovka, as well as people’s deputies, cultural figures, heads of enterprises, etc.), a commission from the Kiev Metropolis arrived from Kiev to headed by the administrator of the UOC, Archbishop Pereyaslav-Khmelnitsky Mitrofan (Yurchuk), who restored Father Mikhail in ministry, but Archbishop Pitirim transferred Father Mikhail to such a distant parish, which he was physically unable to visit for health reasons. Having traveled there for every service for several months (and again, against the backdrop of diocesan reprimands for not being there all the time), having suffered a very serious illness (mini-stroke), he left the staff “temporarily for health reasons” (the bishop refused to let him go, demanded moving to another region, but the metropolis gave instructions to release the “out-of-state staff”). After that, he wrote most of his books, which were so beloved by readers. He could not serve anywhere in the diocese, so from time to time he came to Kiev, where he served in the Catherine’s community of the UOC, and then brought home the Holy Gifts and on Sundays and holidays he himself served as a “monastery”, at which he received communion with these presanctified Gifts.

In the autumn of the year, prot. Mikhail came to the Kiev Maidan, where, together with a few other priests of the UOC, he served prayers in the chapel near the city hall.

There is great meaning in the fact that Father Mikhail Shpolyansky went to a place where “there is no illness and sadness,” on Svetlaya.

Here on earth, the Kingdom of Joy was his home, where he tirelessly gathered everyone he met - homeless children, homeless people, irrepressible questioners who demanded final answers from him to the latest questions, respectable theologians, friends, parishioners and random people he met. There were no strangers for him - there are no strangers in the Kingdom.

It is no coincidence that his book, published in 2008, caused so much joy in the church community and surprise in the non-church community - “just think, what a book the priest wrote!” - was called “Anabasis”, that is, “ascent”, the only possible path in the earthly vale. The journey was made very carefully and gratefully for every meeting, for the first birds on the Kinburn Spit, which was for him a place of freedom and happiness, for every book, question, objection.

However, the Anabasis is not just a walk in the mountains, but a military campaign, movement through unfriendly territory. Over time, you see more and more clearly how exactly his life fits into these meanings - anything can happen in war, and the territory, even the one that Father Mikhail cultivated and loved, was unfriendly. He suffered from this, but he did not stop loving her, just as he did not stop loving his sometimes very “inconvenient” children - with a non-judgmental “well-behaved” love. “Sometimes it’s very difficult with them, because what’s everyone’s story... It’s just a pity.” This was once said about children, but it applied to everything.

The path led from Leningrad to Nikolaev, where, after graduating from the shipbuilding institute, an inquisitive young man who always read “more than he should” worked first in a design bureau, then in a forestry department, in a boiler room, in a team for decorative design of buildings, wherever he had to .

In the fall of 1983 he was baptized. “Teachers to Christ” were european art and A.S. Pushkin.

“...his path - from a secular youth opposed to “atheism” (which is natural for the non-conformism of youth) to genuine religiosity - and, as a result, living Orthodox church life could not fail to make the deepest impression on me,” Father Mikhail recalled many years later. – The last straw was Pushkin’s words, cursorily written in the margins notebook 1830 on French: “To not allow the existence of the Divine means to be more absurd than those nations who think... that the world rests on a rhinoceros.” And then I said to myself: since Pushkin believed in God, that means I believe too.”.

Three years after his baptism, the then Bishop of Nikolaev and Kirovograd Sevastian invited him to take orders, but, on the advice of his godfather, Father Mikhail did not rush - and went to the Pskov-Pechersky Monastery for a blessing.

When, finally, on his third visit (it was 1987) he managed to get to Father John (Krestyankin), he listened carefully to his doubts and advised him to prepare for the priesthood, and “if God wills, He will bring you without your will - when the time comes.” .

Three more years passed - and on July 18, 1990, Father Mikhail was ordained a priest, and on July 21, he served the first service in his first and only church in Staraya Bogdanovka.

By that time local residents they knew exactly where “the home of Christians who allow them to live” was; it is possible that the openness of the house and the immense responsiveness of its inhabitants was the most convincing preaching of the Good News for the motley population of Staraya Bogdanovka.

Soon the first “burdened” arrived - some with alcoholism, some with drug addiction, some with their own restlessness. Guests were welcomed, fed, listened to, shelter was found for the homeless, and work was offered. Some stayed, others, out of habit of a different life, sooner or later left, but they knew: they had the opportunity to return.

In 1997, children with tragic biographies that were not childishly tragic began to appear in the house of father Mikhail Shpolyansky. The "idea" of family orphanage they did not deliberately carry it out: it developed on its own. “We didn’t dare,” Father Mikhail admitted, but was it possible to refuse Lena, whose father drowned while fishing and whose mother was a heavy drinker? Behind her are Fedya and Igor with extensive experience. street life and Dima with a very difficult character, then Masha, at first she hardly spoke and could not play, the last, in 2006, Alik.

Behind funny stories about the eleven “children” that Father Mikhail loved to talk about - a rare respect for the fate and freedom of each of them, trust and endless labor of love, the one that “believes everything, hopes everything, endures everything,” reveals to everyone the idea about him, returns the meaning and value. However, this pedagogy extended to adults as well.

I first saw Father Mikhail in 2002 at the Assumption Readings, which were held by the Center for European Humanitarian Studies at the Kiev-Mohyla Academy together with the Kyiv Theological Academy and the Kiev-Pechersk Lavra.

Well-known scientists and church leaders spoke, intelligently, correctly, subtly reasoned, and then a huge man with a thick, tousled beard (Leskov’s Archpriest Tuberozov and Deacon Achilles in one person) rose to the pulpit and began to speak such a shining truth about the Church, about the powerlessness worn out by frequent use religious rhetoric, about why we are witnesses of anything but the Kingdom, that we wanted to hide in its immense cassock - and stay there, next to the truth.

It was not possible to approach - during the break, the stunning, radiant priest was surrounded, the tail of questioners followed him up the stairs, the most persistent stepped on his cassock, Father Mikhail pulled it out and managed to answer everyone at once. Or rather, not everyone, everyone. “Everyone” did not exist for him, just as pious abstractions did not exist. “Anechka, Mishenka, Tanechka, Yurochka...” All tenderness for everyone. The habit of calling adults diminutive names did not confuse you, on the contrary, it returned you to that abandoned garden, where you are still not afraid to trust and be surprised.

This, like many other things, began to be revealed later, when Father Mikhail, arriving in Kyiv, began to visit (and occasionally serve) in the parish of St. Catherine of Alexandria. Most often he appeared on Sundays, and Saturday was filled with a premonition of the holiday: “Father Michael will come!” This meant rejoicing, noisy conversations about how people are living now, and a huge, invisible blanket of mercy with which he enveloped all of us, including those who, outside of Father Michael, would hardly have noticed each other.

No less than his all-encompassing kindness, what was striking about him was the combination of other very high qualities - steadfastness, reliability and what in Italian is called allegria - liveliness, lightness, which happens in people who live without regard for themselves. Filled with joy lasting balloon, which pulls everyone into the sky.

After the service, we drink tea, lament about everyday life and argue whether it is possible for the virtual space to become a new Christian community, open to those who stand at church fence and does not dare to enter it. “Church is when everyone is together, a space where everyone finds themselves in God”...

There were his books about this - the beloved “Anabasis”, “The Beatitudes”, “Pure Spirit” - and entries in “Live Journal”, in the title of which Father Michael took the words from the Epistle of the Apostle John “Love one another” (John. 13:34).

The “virtual space of understanding” he created more than once became a place where warring parties were reconciled. And even now his word, unexpectedly and, as always, at the most necessary moment, emerging from an almost forgotten comment or letter, drives out fear, shakes out conscience from its slumber, but, most importantly, turns up the life “pyramid” so that at its base it turns out that it is not strong calculation, not pragmatic “positivity”, but “crazy” evangelical mercy: “Don’t rush, follow your heart and prayer, not fear, and everything will be with Christ (both the given joy and the inevitable suffering).”

People of all different beliefs, habits, positions, and destinies came to him, called, and wrote to him. You don’t know where to look for advice or consolation, you’re tired of copybooks and arrogant, exaggerated piety, you’re confused in people and circumstances - that means, to Father Mikhail. Skeptics did not believe at first (“they say, we know your clergy”), and then it turned out that he was saying exactly the word that the interlocutor most needed to hear.

He had the rare gift of seeing through appearances - where another would condemn, warn and forbid, he said: “Come on, be bold... Don’t be afraid, ask - show me the way, I’ll go stink. Ask seriously – and listen.” And another time I’m almost sure that he will support me in my determination to “take up the cross,” and in response: “Think about it, and only do it if you absolutely cannot do without it...” More often than not, it turned out that without the “cross with homemade decorations” it is quite possible make do.

He not only saw his interlocutor as a whole, at the same time as he was now and as he was called to be, but he trusted even that experience that was alien or strange to him. “If you think that this is your calling, try and try not to offend anyone.”

Father Mikhail himself could only offend someone who really wanted to be offended. His love was enough for everyone, and no one would think of arguing about whom he loved more, each with a separate love intended only for him. She hugged, consoled, sobered, reconciled - everything in his presence acquired the proper meaning and scale, each meeting overflowed with multi-colored, iridescent happiness.

And most of all he loved Life, just like this, with capital letters, as Gift and Presence, synonymous with immortality. He loved everything that was involved in it - children, cats and other living creatures, steppe plants, birds, “frivolous stories” in which, like few people, could hear parables, Tasty food, rejoiced at every glimmer of sanity or talent. The hard-won, self-tested knowledge that life is inexhaustible and endless, hurried to share it with everyone who is abandoned, confused, and despondent.

From here, out of love for life - a family orphanage, trips to the Kinburn Spit, where friends flocked in the summer, generous feasts, conversations about the only thing needed, in which there was not a single idle word. His “practical theology of consolation and hope” was also born of fidelity to Life and gratitude for it - no matter what happened.

The focus of “living life” for Father Michael was the Eucharist. “We must hold on to the Cup; Christ is in it.” We got it as an inheritance and as a lesson fiery love to the Church and burning pain about it. Out of pain, a person can speak sharply - and yet those who hunger and thirst for truth are called blessed; about the indifferently complacent, it is said differently - “... do not be lukewarm.”

Father Michael was anxious that the Church remain the messenger of the Kingdom - and never, under any circumstances, betray its calling. He suffered in order to remain faithful to her, who brings “from all and for all,” who knows no divisions, and is not subject to any earthly ideologies.

He walked long and hard towards such a vision of the Church and really wanted everyone to be saved. For this reason, he accepted everyone into his heart, including the most unbearable, remembered everyone, was with everyone at the right moment - not a “teacher of life,” but a companion, a friend, for whom nothing is accidental or insignificant.

One could desperately argue with him, moreover, he rejoiced in disagreements as an opportunity to learn, to “argue” to the truth, and where it was not possible to agree on words, he managed to cover up differences of opinion with such unalloyed and unconditional love, before which the difference of ideas receded: “...I allow you to write harshly and argue only because I love you immensely...”. Another lesson left to us as a legacy is the ability to appreciate, as a God-given gift, the freedom of others, those who are different.

“No one can believe in God unless he sees the light eternal life in the eyes of another person,” said one of the witnesses closest to Father Michael of the 20th century, Metropolitan Sourozhsky Anthony. Those who were lucky enough to be close to Father Mikhail saw this generous, joyful light. “That means there are no separations, there is a huge meeting, that means someone suddenly hugs us by the shoulders in the dark...”

Priest Mikhail Shpolyansky. Australian spy. Or My Anabasis-2. Nikolaev, 2011, pp. 26, 28.

They asked me to tell you more about him, and he deserves to be talked about.
Father Mikhail, a former designer and ship builder, has been a priest for 15 years (just turned when I was on his spit).
Also in Soviet years was considered “unreliable” and was even almost tried for “espionage” for... Australia. The only Australian “spy” in the entire USSR at that time. How did this happen? It’s just that once in a friendly conversation, he half-jokingly said that in a modern world war, if one happens, only Australia has a chance to survive. Away from the whole world - there is no need to waste charges. Therefore, if it makes sense to emigrate, then only to Australia. Someone knocked - and the “case” began to unwind. At that time, one of his relatives was some kind of boss in the car-building ministry, and some kind of leak of information to the West had long been noticed there. So, Shpolyansky is a spy - he’s even preparing to run away to Australia. The “case” is inflated to the point of ridiculousness. As it turned out later, it even included as evidence a complaint that Shpolyansky wrote as a 17-year-old boy with friends in a beer bar about the dilution of beer! It turns out that we still don’t know much about our “organs” :)
They were already summoned for interrogation... but Brezhnev’s death saved him. The persecution stopped, although I had to quit my job. Although even before Gorbachev, a lecturer traveled around the Nikolaev region and talked about “how the spy Shpolyansky was exposed.” Under Gorbachev, the “spy” became bolder and filed an appeal. A colonel arrived from Moscow, they reviewed the case (it was then that the former defendant saw all these volumes with his own eyes), apologized and even offered to reinstate him at work with compensation for his salary and (!) career growth. But the future priest was already a believer, he was satisfied with working in the boiler room (all of us, our generation of janitors, watchmen and stokers).
Well, no further details. Became a priest. Parish in the village of Bogdanovka. What was once a place of “exile” (the priests there changed in a kaleido-skirting way) turned into a solid, thriving parish.
From here begins what still constitutes an essential part of Father Mikhail’s life. He began to accept orphans into his family (he even sheltered one homeless ex-prisoner). This is how a family orphanage appears in Bogdanovka. He still considers the orphanage to be the most important and productive in his life. But, as usual, not everyone thinks so. Dissatisfaction was brewing in the hierarchy that Father Mikhail was doing “not his own business,” although the church was inspected and parish life was unusually active. And then the moment came when, after his public intercession for one persecuted priest at a diocesan meeting, he himself became persecuted. He was removed from his native parish and deliberately mockingly sent as a third priest to a distant parish with the condition of permanent stay there. This threatened the existence of the orphanage, so Father Mikhail filed a petition to leave the state. The request was granted, but in such a way that the “out of the ordinary” state actually turned into a “forbidden” one. Wherever he came to serve, Fr. Mikhail, the rector, immediately received a scolding from the diocese. Therefore, Father Mikhail stopped visiting churches in his diocese and only when he was in Kyiv would he serve at a liturgy with a famous priest. At home, on Sundays and holidays, he serves mass for the family, followed by communion with the spare Gifts. Now he wants only one thing - to allow a house church for an orphanage, but even in this he is prevented.
During the days of the “Orange Revolution”, he appeared on television explaining that belonging to the MP does not mean an unconditional obligation to vote for the “Orthodox” Yanukovych. The only thing that saved him from being defrocked was that the Orthodox hierarchy has now taken a wait-and-see attitude. But when the opportunity arises, they do not miss the opportunity to “suggest” that Shpolyansky is a “schismatic” and “already almost defrocked.”
Since all kinds of discussion life has revived in Ukraine these days, Father Mikhail, naturally, was involved in it. Intra-church problems, the place of the Church in society, interchurch and interdenominational contacts... This has become, in the words of Fr. Michael, one of the three directions of his life. The first and most important thing is the orphanage. But the third one - writing. Even in our Minsk church some of his books are sold. The books are easy and interesting to read. It is written simply and about “the most important things”. There on the spit, I read with pleasure his informative book about the 10 commandments. This is not boring theology, but interesting conversation"Push". It seems like it’s for “beginners,” but I (of course, also in in a certain sense"newcomer") I read with benefit. Even earlier, I read a book about miracles in Orthodoxy. It seems like a hackneyed topic, but it’s presented brightly.
So if you see it, I recommend it.
During the cold season, Father Mikhail lives with the orphanage in Bogdanovka, and in summer season moves to the same Kinburn Spit to which he invited me. And although my disappointment is known, I do not regret it, if only because of the opportunity to communicate and get to know Fr. Mikhail, his relatives, friends and children. Some children have already grown up. Lead decent life, although they are all from “disadvantaged” backgrounds. There are now four of the Fosters - three girls and a boy. What my mother immediately noted was that in their appearance and look there is nothing so elusively “orphanage-like” that often happens with orphans. By the way, they all call their father and mother “dad” and “mama.”
When I went to the spit, I was in the mood to argue with Fr. Mikhail and argue sharply. That's how it was :) But oh. Mikhail showed himself to be a real priest and simply smart person. Without being offended by my attacks, he diligently entered into everything I said. And not always right away, but he perceived everything adequately, and not only understood, but sometimes even became convinced and agreed. And in general, we turned out to have many common points of contact in our views on the Church, what it should be... And this is very rare for me now - in Lately even misunderstandings, and even accusations of anger and dislike for people. Well.. It’s my fault - I have to think about how, to whom and what to say... But under Fr. Mikhail doesn’t need to adapt. You can relax. And this is what rest is:)

The editors of the Pravtudey portal say goodbye to their dear friend and the invaluable prayer leader, priest Mikhail Shpolyansky, who died untimely on April 25 at 20.28 Ukrainian time.

Father Mikhail was born in Leningrad, and soon, still in infancy, he and his parents moved to Ukraine, to Nikolaev, where he spent his childhood and youth. There he graduated from the shipbuilding institute, got married and, having believed in God, was baptized with his entire family - for which he was fired from his job at the shipbuilding design bureau under the ridiculous pretext of “suspicion of espionage.” After his dismissal, he spent a long time doing odd jobs: he worked in forestry in Karelia, at a construction site, and in an indoor decoration team. In 1990, at the age of 34, he was ordained a priest and received a parish in the village of Staraya Bogdanovka near Nikolaev, where he lived with his family for the rest of his life until his last days.

Together with Mother Alla, Father Mikhail organized a “family” orphanage, and, simply put, they began to take in and accept abandoned children into their family, whom they raised and educated - there were 11 of them in total.

In 2003, priest Mikhail Shpolyansky was banned from ministry and later sent into exile. He spoke about the reasons for the “punishment” on the pages of LiveJournal:

« On February 5, 2003, I was banned from ministry. The reason was indeed the situation described by the respected kalakazo - the presence in our family of adopted children, who, according to the word of the ruling bishop, should be supported at the expense of the state, and not at the expense of the church. (This despite the fact that we not only did not receive any funds from the diocese, but were not even exempt from the diocesan tax - 20% of the total income of the parish and family). But the bishop could not bear that sponsors were helping us. In a conversation with the head of the district administration of our district, the bishop demanded that the orphanage be closed and the children transferred to a boarding school. Motivation - sponsors should help the diocese, and not individual parishes.

Also a “thorn in the flesh” for the diocese was the successful operation of the book tray of Orthodox literature, which we, with the blessing of Fr. John Krestyankin and the originally given (and never officially revoked) PERMISSION from the Diocese, was installed in the city. It seemed to Vladyka that “crazy thousands of dollars were circulating there” (my proposal to transfer ALL trade in goods to the diocese so that 300 dollars a month would be allocated for the orphanage was not accepted).

The last straw that overwhelmed the patience of the “clergy” was my public proposal to discuss the situation with the persecution of one of the diocesan clergy at a diocesan meeting (which had not met at all for three years before).

The reason for the ban was the article “The Earthly Church: Breaks and Breaks” published in the “Vestnik RHD”. Is there anyone to build bridges? (present in the Internet field). Based on an anonymous (later it became known that Zabuga signed the text) and very ambiguous review of the KDA, by the decision of the diocesan council (with all the pressure from the bishop, a majority of only one vote) I was banned from serving “for disrespect for the clergy” temporarily “for the period of a month’s vacation until the appearance of repentance." At the same time, a young man specially ordained for this purpose (three priests had previously refused such a mission), Dmitry Zavislyuk, was immediately assigned to my parish. He was guarded (from me?) by a bishop's sexton with nunchucks. Zavislyuk was placed on diocesan pay and regularly reported to the diocese about my activities (thus, the words spoken to him on the bus by my daughter, “How is His Majesty Bishop Pitirim?” were classified in the diocese as “a mockery of the priesthood”). Today, Zavislyuk has completely ruined the parish, he himself has moved somewhere from the village, services are not held every week, the church is not heated in winter, there are weeds and devastation everywhere, and even the crosses on the church and the water-blessed chapel have given way. Well, that February, at the request of parishioners (more than 1000 signatures with full data of the signatories, including 95% of the entire adult population of our village, as well as people’s deputies, cultural figures, heads of enterprises, etc.), a commission arrived from Kiev to headed by bishop Mitrofan (Administrator of Affairs of the UOC), who lifted the ban on ministry.

After the commission left, the diocesan bishop, using his inalienable right, transferred me to serve in a distant parish with the requirement to remain there permanently. I physically could not move my huge family there, if only because of the lack of housing (we were allocated departmental housing for an orphanage in Staraya Bogdanovka). Having traveled there for every service for several months (and again, against the backdrop of diocesan reprimands for not being there all the time), having suffered a very serious illness (mini-stroke), I left the staff “temporarily for health reasons” (the bishop refused to let me go and demanded a move to another region, but the metropolis gave instructions to release the “out of state”). What state am I in now?

More for a long time I was persecuted in every possible way, not given the opportunity not only to concelebrate (even in the cathedral), but also to partake of the secular rite, accused of a host of unimaginable sins - from organizing a sect to “exploiting children”, etc. Since the winter of 2005, they have not touched it anymore.

Despite all the hardships of what happened, I am eternally grateful to the Lord for everything I experienced. There is no room to talk about it here, but I truly see in all this a gift of the Father’s infinite mercy. God bless!»

Having been recruited “for the staff”, despite the persecution and reproach that continued until his death from Bishop Pitirim and the “false brethren” from among his associates, Fr. Mikhail continued to serve at home, in the house church for his family and numerous “children and household members.” He was widely known as a loving shepherd and confessor, who lovingly received everyone who came to his wide arms - and there were truly crowds of them. For his kindness and warmth, he received the nickname “good priest”, which was common among local migrants Central Asia and other “orphan and wretched” whom he never refused to help. Being always persecuted and oppressed by the “church” authorities, he was truly the PEOPLE’S SHEPHERD in best traditions universal Christianity.

Eternal memory and the Kingdom of Heaven to dear Fr. Michael, let us pray for the repose of his soul in the hope that he, too, will remember us, sinners, before the Throne of the Most High.

Colonel Bolbotun, having lost seven Cossacks killed and nine wounded and seven horses, walked half a mile from Pecherskaya Square to Reznikovskaya Street and stopped there again. Here reinforcements approached the retreating cadet chain. There was one armored car in it. A gray, clumsy turtle with towers crawled along Moskovskaya Street and rolled across Pechersk three times with a comet's tail, reminiscent of the noise of dry leaves (three inches), Bolbotun instantly dismounted, the grooms led the horses into the alley, Bolbotun's regiment lay down in chains, settling slightly back to Pecherskaya Square , and a sluggish duel began. The turtle blocked Moscow Street and occasionally rumbled. The sounds were answered by liquid chatter in batches from the mouth of Suvorovskaya Street. There in the snow lay a chain that had fallen off Pecherskaya under the fire of Bolbotun and its reinforcements, which turned out like this:

Dr-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r...

First squad?

Yes, I'm listening.

Immediately send two officer companies to Pechersk.

I obey. Drrrrr... Ti... Ti... Ti... Ti...

And it came to Pechersk: 14 officers, three cadets, one student, one cadet and one actor from the miniature theater.

Alas. A liquid chain alone is, of course, not enough. Even with the reinforcement of one turtle. As many as four turtles should have come up. And we can confidently say that if they had approached, Colonel Bolbotun would have been forced to leave Pechersk. But they didn't come.

This happened because the hetman’s armored division, consisting of four excellent vehicles, was assigned as the commander of the second vehicle by none other than the famous ensign, who personally received the St. George Cross from the hands of Alexander Fedorovich Kerensky in May 1917, Mikhail Semenovich Shpolyansky.

Mikhail Semenovich was black and shaven, with velvet sideburns, extremely similar to Evgeny Onegin. Mikhail Semenovich became known to the entire City immediately upon his arrival from the city of St. Petersburg. Mikhail Semenovich became famous as an excellent reader in the “Ashes” club of his own poems “Drops of Saturn” and as an excellent organizer of poets and chairman of the City Poetic Order “Magnetic Triolet”. In addition, Mikhail Semenych had no equal as an orator, in addition, he drove machines, both military and civilian, and also supported a ballerina opera house Musya Ford and another lady, whose name Mikhail Semenovich, as a gentleman, did not reveal to anyone, had a lot of money and generously loaned it to members of the “Magnetic Triolet”;

drank white wine

played iron

bought the painting “The Bathing Venetian”,

lived on Khreshchatyk at night,

in the morning at the Bilboke cafe,

during the day - in a cozy room at the best hotel "Continental",

in the evening - in “Ashes”,

wrote at dawn treatise"The Intuitive in Gogol."

The Hetman City died three hours earlier than it should have, precisely because Mikhail Semenovich, on December 2, 1918, in the evening in “Dust,” declared the following to Stepanov, Sheyer, Slonykh and Cheremshin (the head of the “Magnetic Triolet”):

All are scoundrels. Both the hetman and Petliura. But Petlyura is also a pogromist. The most important thing, however, is not this. I got bored because I haven't thrown bombs for a long time.

At the end of the dinner at the “Ashes”, for which Mikhail Semenovich paid, he, Mikhail Semenovich, dressed in an expensive fur coat with a beaver collar and a top hat, was seen off by the entire “Magnetic Triolet” and the fifth, a certain drunk in a coat with goat fur. Shpolyansky knew little about him: firstly, that he was sick with syphilis, and secondly, that he wrote anti-God poems, which Mikhail Semenovich, who has great literary connections, added to one of the Moscow collections and, thirdly, that he is Rusakov, the son of a librarian.

The man with syphilis cried into his goat's fur under the electric lamp of Khreshchatyk and, digging into Shpolyansky's beaver cuffs, said:

Shpolyansky, you are the strongest of all in this city, which is rotting just like me. You are so good that you can even be forgiven for your eerie resemblance to Onegin! Listen, Shpolyansky... It’s indecent to resemble Onegin. You are somehow too healthy... There is no noble wormhole in you that could make you really an outstanding person our days... Here I am, rotting and proud of it. You are too healthy, but you are strong as a screw, so screw up there!.. Screw up!.. Like this...

And the syphilitic showed how to do it. Grasping the lantern, he really screwed around it, somehow becoming long and thin, like a snake. Prostitutes walked by, in green, red, black and white caps, beautiful as dolls, and cheerfully muttered to the screw:

Sniffed, y-your mother?

The cannons fired very far away and Mikhail Semenych really looked like Onegin under the snow flying in the electric light.

“Go to sleep,” he said to the syphilitic screw, turning his face a little so that he would not cough on him, “go,” he pushed the goat’s coat into his chest with the ends of his fingers. Black kid gloves touched the worn cheviot and the eyes of the one being pushed were completely glassy. We separated. Mikhail Semenovich called the cab driver, shouted to him “Malo-Provalnaya” and drove off, and the goat fur, staggering, went on foot to his place in Podol.

In the librarian’s apartment, at night, in Podol, in front of a mirror, holding a lit candle in his hand, stood the owner of a goat fur, naked to the waist. Fear jumped in his eyes like the devil, his hands trembled, and the syphilitic said and his lips jumped like a child’s:

My God, my God, my God... Horror, horror, horror... Ah, this evening! I am not happy. After all, Scheier was with me and, behold, he is healthy, he did not become infected, because he happy man. Maybe go and kill this same Lelka? But what's the point? Who will explain to me what the point is? Oh, Lord, Lord... I’m 24 years old and I could, could... Fifteen years will pass, maybe less, and now, different pupils, bending legs, then crazy idiotic speeches, and then - I’m a rotten, wet corpse.

Topless thin body was reflected in the dusty dressing table, the candle burned out in a high-raised hand, and a delicate and thin star rash was visible on the chest. Tears flowed uncontrollably down the patient’s cheeks and his body shook and swayed.

I need to shoot myself. But I don’t have the strength for this, why should I lie to you, my God? Why would I lie to you, my reflection?

He took a small lady's desk from the drawer thin book, printed on the worst gray paper. On the cover it was printed in red letters:

Ah-ah-ah,” the patient groaned painfully, gritting his teeth. “Ah,” he repeated in inescapable torment.

He is with distorted face suddenly he spat on the page with the poem and threw the book on the floor, then dropped to his knees, and, crossing himself with small trembling crosses, bowing and touching the dusty parquet floor with his cold forehead, began to pray, raising his eyes to the black, joyless window:

Lord, forgive me and have mercy on me for writing these vile words. But why are you so cruel? For what? I know that you punished me. Oh, how terribly you punished me! Please look at my skin. I swear to you by all that is holy, by all that is dear to me in the world, by the memory of my late mother, I have been punished enough. I believe in you! I believe with my soul, my body, every thread of my brain. I believe and resort only to you, because nowhere in the world is there anyone who could help me. I have no hope for anyone but you. Forgive me and make sure the medicine helps me! Forgive me for deciding that you were not there: if you were not there, I would now be a pitiful mangy dog ​​without hope. But I am human and strong only because you exist and at any moment I can turn to you with a prayer for help. And I believe that you will hear my prayers, forgive me and heal me. Heal me, oh Lord, forget about the vileness that I wrote in a fit of madness, drunk, on cocaine. Don't let me rot and I swear that I will become human again. Strengthen my strength, save me from cocaine, save me from weakness of spirit and deliver me from Mikhail Semenovich Shpolyansky!..

The candle floated, the room became cold, in the morning the patient’s skin was covered with small pimples, and the patient’s soul felt significantly better.

Mikhail Semenovich Shpolyansky spent the rest of the night on Malaya Provalnaya Street in a large room with a low ceiling and an old portrait, on which epaulettes from the 40s looked dimly, touched by time. Mikhail Semyonovich, without a jacket, wearing only a white marshmallow shirt, over which was a black vest with a large neckline, sat on a narrow chaise longue and said the following words to a woman with a pale and matte face:

Well, Yulia, I have finally decided and am joining this bastard - the hetman in the armored division.

After this, the woman, wrapped in a gray down scarf, tormented half an hour ago and crushed by the kisses of the passionate Onegin, answered like this:

I really regret that I never understood and cannot understand your plans.

Mikhail Semyonovich took a small glass of fragrant cognac from the table in front of the chaise longue, sipped it and said:

And it's not necessary.

Two days after this conversation, Mikhail Semenych was transformed. Instead of a top hat, he was wearing a pancake-shaped cap with an officer's cockade; instead of a civilian dress, he was wearing a short sheepskin coat reaching to his knees and wearing crumpled protective shoulder straps. Hands in gloves with bells, like Marseille in the Huguenots, legs in gaiters. Mikhail Semenovich was smeared from head to toe in machine oil (even his face) and for some reason in soot. Once, and precisely on December 9, two vehicles went into battle near the City and, it must be said, they were extremely successful. They crawled 20 versts along the highway and after their very first three-inch blows and machine-gun howl, Petlyura’s chains fled from them. Ensign Strashkevich, a ruddy-cheeked enthusiast and commander of the 4th vehicle, swore to Mikhail Semenovich that all four vehicles, if released at once, alone could defend the City. This conversation took place on the evening of the 9th, and on the 11th in the group of Shchur, Kopylov and others (gunners, two drivers and a mechanic), Shpolyansky, the division duty officer, spoke at dusk like this:

You know, friends, in essence, big question, are we doing the right thing in defending this hetman? We are in his hands nothing more than an expensive and dangerous toy, with the help of which he instills the darkest reaction. Who knows, perhaps Petliura’s clash with the hetman is historically shown, and from this clash a third historical force should be born, and perhaps the only correct one.

Listeners adored Mikhail Semenych for the same thing they adored him for at the Prah club - for his exceptional eloquence.

What kind of power is this? - asked Kopylov, puffing on a goat leg.

The smart, stocky blond Shchur squinted slyly and winked at his interlocutors somewhere to the northeast. The group talked a little more and dispersed. On the evening of December 12, in the same close company, a second conversation took place with Mikhail Semenovich behind the car sheds. The subject of this conversation remained unknown, but it is well known that on the eve of December 14, when Shchur, Kopylov and snub-nosed Petrukhin were on duty in the division barns, Mikhail Semenovich appeared in the barns, carrying a large package in wrapping paper. Sentinel Shchur let him into the barn, where a vile light bulb was burning dimly and red, and Kopylov winked rather familiarly at the bag and asked:

“Yeah,” answered Mikhail Semenovich.

In the barn, a lamp came near the cars, flickering like an eye, and a preoccupied Mikhail Semenovich was fiddling with the mechanic, preparing them for tomorrow’s performance.

Reason: paper from the division commander, Captain Pleshko - “on the fourteenth of December, at eight o’clock in the morning, move to Pechersk with 4 vehicles”

The joint efforts of Mikhail Semenovich and the mechanic to prepare the vehicles for battle yielded some strange results. Three vehicles, completely healthy the day before (the fourth was in battle under the command of Strashkevich), on the morning of December 14th could not move, as if they had been paralyzed. No one could understand what happened to them. Some kind of rubbish settled in the jets and no matter how much they were blown out with tire pumps, nothing helped. In the morning, near three cars in a muddy dawn, there was a sad bustle with lanterns. Captain Pleshko was pale, looked around like a wolf and demanded a mechanic. This is where the disasters began. The mechanic has disappeared. It turned out that his address in the division, contrary to all the rules, was completely unknown. There was a rumor that the mechanic suddenly fell ill with typhus. This was at 8 o'clock, and at 8:30 am Captain Pleshko suffered a second blow. Ensign Shpolyansky, who left at 4 a.m. after fiddling with cars for Pechersk on a motorcycle driven by Shchur, did not return. Shchur alone returned and told a sad story. The motorcycle drove into Verkhnyaya Telichka and in vain Shchur tried to dissuade Warrant Officer Shpolyansky from reckless actions. The said Shpolyansky, known throughout the division for his exceptional bravery, left Shchur and took a carbine and a hand grenade and went alone into the darkness to reconnaissance to the railway track. Shchur heard shots. Shchur is absolutely sure that the enemy’s advanced patrol, which dropped into Telichka, met Shpolyansky and, of course, killed him in an unequal battle. Shchur waited for the ensign for two hours, although he ordered to wait for him for only one hour, and after that to return to the division, so as not to endanger himself and the state-owned motorcycle No. 8175.

Captain Pleshko became even paler after Shchur’s story. Birds on the phone from the headquarters of the Hetman and General Kartuzov sang during interruptions and demanded that the cars leave. At 9 o'clock the ruddy enthusiast Strashkevich returned from the positions in the fourth vehicle, and part of his blush was transferred to the cheeks of the division commander. The enthusiast drove the car to Pechersk and, as already mentioned, it locked Suvorovskaya Street.

At 10 o'clock in the morning Pleshko's pallor became unchanged. Two gunners, two drivers and one machine gunner disappeared without a trace. All attempts to move the cars were unsuccessful. Shchur did not return from the position, having left on the orders of Captain Pleshko on a motorcycle. It goes without saying that the motorcycle didn’t come back either, because it couldn’t come back on its own! The birds on the phones started making threats. The more the day dawned, the more miracles happened in the division. The artillerymen Duvan and Maltsev and a couple of machine gunners disappeared. The cars took on a mysterious and abandoned look; there were nuts, keys and some buckets lying around them.

And at noon, at noon, the division commander himself, Captain Pleshko, disappeared.