the horseshoe,
the grasshopper forecast...
He prophesied me death, as if
he were a monk.
But with my fate strapped to my
saddle fast,
I'm riding now in the time to come
And surging on the stirrups to my
own drum.
My immortality is quite enough
for me.
For my own blood to flow ages
through,
For steady warmth and a haven
safe and true
I'd give my life self-willingly and
freely,
Had not its volatile, needle-like
sword
Been leading me, like a thread,
throughout the world.
Marousia? And the children?
Where are the children?
I'm going to tell everybody
that you've stolen the book.
- What?
- I will, you'll see.
- Now stop it!
- Go on, tell everybody!
I will, anyway!
Marina!
You could have come more often.
You know that he's missing you.
Let Ignat live with me.
Are you serious?
You said yourself
that he would like to.
With you it's better to keep one's
mouth shut.
You mean I'm inventing this
for my own pleasure?
Let's ask him.
Whatever he decides...
Besides, it will make your life
much easier.
Why would this make it easier for me?
Have you collected your books?
Go say goodbye to your father.
Your mother and I would like
to ask you...
What?
Wouldn't it be better if you lived
with me?
How?
You and I will live together.
Haven't you said so to your mother?
Said what? When?
No, please.
We really look alike,
don't we?
Not at all!
What do you want from your mother?
What kind of relationship?
The kind of relationship you had
in your childhood is impossible.
You speak of some feeling of
guilt,
of her life being ruined because of
you...
Well, you can't get away from it.
And what she needs is for you
to become a baby again,
for her to be able to carry you
and protect you.
Why on earth am I meddling in it?
It's always like this...
Why are you whimpering?
Explain it.
Should I marry him or not?
- Do I know him?
- No...
Is he Ukrainian?
Does it matter?
- What is he doing?
- He is a writer.
Doesn't his name happen to be
Dostoyevsky?
Yes, Dostoyevsky.
He hasn't written anything
worthwhile. Nobody knows him.
He must be about 40, isn't he?
Apparently he's got no talent?
You've changed so much.
So, he has no talent, he doesn't write
anything.
He does write, but they don't
publish him.
Look, our precious flunk
has put something on fire.
No need to be so ironic about
his flunking.
If he doesn't finish school,
he'll end up being drafted.
And you will go begging
to have him exempted from the army.
This is all the result of your
indulging him.
By the way, the army would be
good for him.
Why don't you call your mother?
After Aunt Lisa's death she stayed
in bed for three days.
Wasn't she supposed to come here
at five?
Is it so difficult
to make the first move?
We were talking about Ignat.
It may be my fault, too.
Or is it because we got so bourgeois?
And our embourgeoisement is
so dense, so Asian.
With private ownership nonexistent,
our well-being is on the rise.
Nothing makes any sense anymore.
Why do you get so irritated?
I know a family
whose 15-year-old son said:
"I'm leaving you.
It disgusts me to see
how you weasel around
trying to please everybody."
Good boy.
Not like our booby.
Unfortunately, our boy would never
say such a thing.
I can imagine that family of yours!
They're no worse than we are.
He works for a newspaper.
And thinks he's a writer, too.
Though he's unable to understand
that a book is not a way of making
money but a statement.
A poet is called upon
to provoke a spiritual jolt
and not to cultivate idolaters.
What am I going to do?
You're going to get married.
Do you happen to remember
who was it who saw a bush on fire?
I mean the angel as a bush?
I don't remember.
In any case, it was not Ignat.
Maybe we should send him
to a cadet school?
An angel as a flame coming from
a bush appeared to Prophet Moses.
He led his people out across the sea.
Why has nothing like that
ever appeared to me?