Читать книгу Kobiety (Women). A Novel of Polish Life онлайн

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“Therefore, I do not trouble whether I shall in that world be myself or not myself: nor even whether I shall be or not be....”

She gazes at me, her eyes wide open, and says under her breath:

“Yes, I see.”

“And, do you know, the capacity of thus abstracting one’s thought itself from its outward form, of looking upon the universe and one’s very thought from such a standpoint, sets one on heights incomprehensibly sublime, and gives the purest, the most unearthly delight.”

... There is a black cat here, with eyes like emeralds; it ranges noiselessly amongst the rows of gravestones. A singularly sociable creature; it follows us everywhere in our walks, like a dog.... When I look at it, I cannot help believing in Metempsychosis: there must dwell within this cat some very refined aristocratic soul, one that looks upon everything with supreme scepticism.

“What is the matter, Martha?”

“Nothing. I have only dropped a hairpin.”

A tortoise-shell pin has fallen out of her thick black tresses, and dropped on to the earth with a faint sound.