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Zofia Nalkowska
Kobiety (Women): A Novel of Polish Life
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4010716Kobiety (Women): A Novel of Polish Lifehttps://www.gandhi.com.mx/kobiety--women--a-novel-of-polish-life-9781465640451/phttps://gandhi.vtexassets.com/arquivos/ids/2611096/4f8c626d-f883-4747-b377-24873cfc266b.jpg?v=6383842111815300009797MXNLibrary of AlexandriaInStock/Ebooks/3946789Kobiety (Women): A Novel of Polish Life9797https://www.gandhi.com.mx/kobiety--women--a-novel-of-polish-life-9781465640451/phttps://gandhi.vtexassets.com/arquivos/ids/2611096/4f8c626d-f883-4747-b377-24873cfc266b.jpg?v=638384211181530000InStockMXN99999DIEbook20209781465640451_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9781465640451_<p>Girt with a girdle of morning-glory and vetches in full blossom, and twining a great wreath of heavy corn-flowers round my head, I lie upon my back in the forest glade. It is a fine summer afternoon, and sultry. In the pines overhead there is a faint murmur, continuous, a little sad; the birches, with their slender waving boughs, utter a quiet whisper, but no breeze is to be felt. As I lie here, I presently fall to crooning a sing-song chantnot any known air, but one made up of many tunes, heard long ago, or never heard at all. The words, too, are either remembered, or they spring up as I sing. If the rhyme fails me, I do not break off the tune to find one, but make an assonance do just as well. So I sing of a dream I have dreamt, and then of lovehot, burning love,and I end with an invocation to the Faun of the wood; for my desire is toward him. It is warm and still. By fits and starts birds chirpso softly that they seem to be whispering. I half expect to see a chamois, with long horns curling back from its brow, peep out wistfully from between the birch-trunks. The sun, shining athwart the leaves that quiver, flings mobile twinkling rounds of light upon the pine-needles. I close my eyes. A great bright stain appears, followed by a succession of rainbow hues, ending in a spot of scarlet flame. It is warm and still. The scent of wild thyme is in my nostrils. Behold me, a woodland nymph, awaiting the Faun of the woods! I have left my vast ice-plains, my Northern Lights, my cold silvery dreams among the stalactites of my grottoes, and have come to bask in the strong sunshine of life. And I welcome life with a peal of laughter, the outcome of many a day of tortured thought and fruitless pondering. I yield myself up to it, not from any internal weakness, but submitting to its brutality with a supreme effort that crushes down all repulsion, all revolt. Upon the ruins of my mystic dreams there has grown up a lush rank flowerthe worship of Life and its delights. And my resignation is ungrudging, royally complete: for I do love life, in spite of all. My mindmy cruel, insatiable, gloomy mindwould have put happiness to death; but I now trample it down. To-day I will pluck the flame-red blossom of Life: and my song shall call upon the Faun! No Faun comes to my call; but instead of his hoofs, I hear the gallop of a horse in the distance. Laying my ear to the ground, I make sure. Yes, I know: it is Janusz, coming after me. So I cease from singing, and lie silent and without motion; he is riding along the forest pathway, and I hope he may miss me, hidden here among the pines. And yet I am not unaware that, should he ride past and not discover me, I should feel disappointed. Notwithstanding, I make no movement. The only deceit I care to shun is self-deceit. Janusz, who has seen me afar amongst the birches and the pines, urges his horse forward, and approaches behind me, so that I cannot catch sight of him. He means (so I guess) to come upon me suddenly with a rush, and frighten or flutter me, or in some way or other throw me off my balance. On which account, I take care not to make the least movement, lying with my hands clasped underneath my head, and looking up at the sky. He rides at me with a swift run, and reins in his horse only two paces away from me. He at once realizes that my attitude is a challenge; it annoys him. There is a pause. In order to make me turn my head in his direction, he keeps his horse standing in the same place: this is hard to do. But I too remain motionless, repressing a desire to laugh. Janusz is, I know, too good a rider to let his beast tread upon me. I can hear it snorting impatiently, and its hoofs pawing the ground.</p>...9781465640451_Library of Alexandrialibro_electonico_dc2fba73-89eb-3c04-8725-6c4db39cd5b9_9781465640451;9781465640451_9781465640451Zofia NalkowskaInglésMéxicohttps://getbook.kobo.com/koboid-prod-public/markmoxford-epub-9d408bf0-b65d-4707-b0ef-df3185b44c58.epub2020-03-16T00:00:00+00:00Library of Alexandria