We / Мы. Книга для чтения на английском языке

I saw only flame-some fireplace of her own was blazing there – and shapes resembling…

This, of course was natural: I saw myself reflected in her eyes. But what I was feeling was unnatural and unlike me (it must have been the opressive effect of the surroundings). I felt definitely frightened. I felt trapped, imprisoned in that primitive cage, caught by the savage whirlwind of the ancient life.

“You know what,” said 1-380. “Step out for a moment to the next room.” Her voice came from there, from within, from behind the dark windows of her eyes, where the fireplace was blazing.

I went out and sat down. From a shelf on the wall, the snubnosed, asymmetrical physiognomy of some ancient poet (Pushkin, I think) smiled faintly right into my face. Why was I sitting there, meekly enduring that smile? Why all of this? Why was I there – why these ridiculous feelings? That irritating, repellent woman, her strange game…

A closet door was shut behind the wall, the rustle of silk. I barely restrained myself from going in and… I don’t remember exactly – I must have wanted to say very sharp words to her.

But she had already come out. She wore a short, old, vivid yellow dress, a black hat, black stockings. The dress was of light silk. I could see the stockings, very long, much higher than the knees. And the bare throat, and the shadow between…

“Look, you are clearly trying to be original, but don’t you…”

“Clearly,” she interrupted me, “to be original is to be in some way distinct from others.

Hence, to be original is to violate equality. And that which in the language of the ancients was called �being banal’ is with us merely the fulfillment of our duty. Because…”

“Yes, yes! Precisely.” I could not restrain myself. “And there is no reason for you to… to…”

She went over to the statue of the snub-nosed poet and, drawing down the blinds over the wild flame of her eyes, blaring within her, behind her windows, she said a very sensible thing (this time, it seems to me, entirely in earnest, perhaps to mollify me).

“Don’t you find it astonishing that once upon a time people tolerated such characters? And not only tolerated, but worshiped them? What a slavish spirit! Don’t you think?”

“It’s clear… I mean…” (That damned “It’s clear” again!)

“Oh, yes, I understand. But actually, these poets were masters far more powerful than their crowned kings.