The Eighth Net
Misfortune takes many paths. The new archimandrite and rector, Iov Bazylevych, was meek, soft‑hearted and sickly. Meanwhile, the bishop lived in Belgorod and did not visit Kharkiv once throughout the entire winter nor did he summon anyone before his stern eyes. And then suddenly – here you had it!
One evening while Hryhoriy and Kordet were sitting in the prefect’s cell and reflecting who was right – the Bible or Nicolaus Copernicus – a frightened Yasha Pravytsky burst in and whispered: “The rector is summoning both of you. His grace has just arrived!”
“Coming after me,” Kordet sighed. “Plaudite, cives, plaudite, amici, finita est comoedia!”1
“Intuition?”
“No, logic. Porfyriy Kraisky isn’t a person who stops at half measures.” He took a bottle from his pocket, uncorked i
