A Terrible Vengeance
by Gogol, NikolayXII
Far from the Ukraine, beyond Poland and the populous town of Lemberg, run ranges of high mountains. Mountain after mountain, like chains of stone flung to the right and to the left over the land, they fetter it with layers of rock to keep out the resounding turbulent sea. These stony chains stretch into Wallachia and the Sedmigrad region and stand like a huge horseshoe between the Galician and Hungarian peoples. There are no such mountains in our country. The eye shrinks from viewing them and no human foot has climbed to their tops. They are a wonderful sight. Were they perhaps caused by some angry sea that broke away from its wide shores in a storm and threw its monstrous waves aloft only to have them turn to stone, and remain motionless in the air? Or did heavy storm clouds fall from heaven and cumber up the earth? For they have the same gray color and their white crests flash and sparkle in the sun.
Until you get to the Carpathian Mountains you may hear Russian speech, and just beyond the mountain there are still here and there echoes of our native tongue; but further beyond, faith and speech are different. The numerous Hungarian people live there; they ride, fight, and drink like any Cossack, and do not grudge gold pieces from their pockets for their horses’ trappings and costly coats. There are great wide lakes among the mountains. They are still as glass and reflect bare mountaintops and the green slopes below like mirrors.
But who rides through the night on a huge black horse whether stars shine or not? What hero of superhuman stature gallops under the mountains, above the lakes, is mirrored with his gigantic horse in the still waters and throws his vast reflection on the mountains?
His plated armor glitters; his saber rattles against the saddle; his helmet is tilted forward; his mustaches are black; his eyes are closed, his eyelashes are drooping—he is asleep and drowsily holds the reins; and on the same horse sits with him a young child, and he too is asleep and drowsily holds on to the hero. Who is he, where goes he, and why? Who knows? Not one day nor two has he been traveling over the mountains. Day breaks, the sun shines, and he is seen no more; only from time to time the mountain people behold a long shadow flitting over the mountains, though the sky is bright and there is no cloud upon it. But as soon as night brings back the darkness, he appears again and is reflected in the lakes and his quivering shadow follows him. He has crossed many mountains and at last he reaches Krivan. There is no mountain in the Carpathians higher than this one; it towers like a monarch above the others. There the horse and his rider halted and sank into even deeper slumber and the clouds descended and covered them and hid them from view.