- Oh yeah? Could pass for an angel.
- Yep, that’s him. An angel of adventure.
- Who’s that sitting?
- Lunyov.
He’s the oldest one here.
Beautiful mind.
But Sasha Lebedev is pure gold.
- Got it.
- Lopukhin, how old are you?
- Fourteen, why?
- No reason.
I was born with heart of passion;
I love to spend my time with friends…
Or waste it in some other fashion
like drinking till the evening ends.
- What do you mean by that?
- Oh, that’s not mine.
It’s by Lermontov, Mikhail Yuriyevich.
When he wrote these verses,
he had just turned fourteen himself.
At that time, with a touch of frivolity,
you could simply call him “Mishka.”
Or, rather, Michel, as he was known then.
Fairly pedestrian either way, right?
- No idea.
What’s so great about those verses,
anyway? Drinking and stuff…
I can come up with something like that.
Furikov, he can for sure.
- What?
- Seriously. You totally can.
- Oh, very funny.
- Or how is this:
He set out on a journey boring,
wrapped tightly in a cloak he wore.
The coach’s bell, its voice imploring,
rang, rang, and then was heard no more.
Though he’s already fifteen in that one.
Quite a difference, isn’t it?
- I don’t find.
- Too bad.
- Kids! Enough messing around.
Can we begin now?
- We can.
- Hello, children.
- Hello.
- We can do better. Hello, children!
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