“Yes, I am a believer,” Skovoroda laughed. “Such monks can heal not only a woman, but a fig tree as well!”
Kyrylo knitted his brows, angrily shook his ‘aureole’ and smiled. “I see you still have the knack of ruffling feathers.”
“You once had a sharp tongue yourself.”
“In ten years, it got worn down, erased. It’s like an old whetstone now,” the vicar sighed sorrowfully. “Think it’s easy to please both God and the people?”
“Then don’t try to please them.”
“And what about the order? And the habit of constantly being respected by those around me? And my approaching old age?”
“Most precious of all is spiritual peace and harmony.”
“You can’t be satiated on spiritual peace alone, Hrytsko.”
“Bliss lies not in satiety, Kyrylo, but in kindred toil, in the certainty that you are living accord
