Historical fiction; Hungarian fiction -- Translations into English; Transylvania (Romania) -- History -- Fiction
And before us the mountains still rise higher and higher. One feels
tempted to scale these fresh giants also, in order to find out whether
there is really any end to them. Now too even the Rima has forsaken us.
Deep down below, we perceive a round, dark-blue lakelet, enclosed on all
sides by steep rocks, on the mirror-like surface of which white swans
are bathing beneath the shadows of the pines dependent over the water's
edge. In the midst of this lakelet, the source of the Rima tosses and
tumbles, casting its bubbling crystal fathoms high, and keeping the
lakelet in perpetual ebullition, as if some spirit were trying to raise
up the whole lake with his head.
And yet another mountain range starts up before our eyes, covered with
thick fir-woods, though nothing else will grow on the steep ridge, which
is covered along its whole length by masses of rock piled one on the top
of the other. Nowhere does a single green speck meet the eye.
Having scaled these heights also, we naturally fancy that at last we
have reached the highest point, when suddenly, high above the dark fir
forests, a white giant emerges, and before the eyes of the wearied
mountaineer rise the lofty distant peaks of the Silver Alps,
representing the unattainable with their towering, snowy pyramids.
Here we pause.
All along the mountain ridge, standing out the more distinctly for the
great distance, meanders a footpath, disappearing among the pine forests
at one point and re-emerging at another, thereby showing that some one
must dwell here in the wilderness, a circumstance the more startling as,
up to this point, the region has seemed altogether uninhabited, while
beyond it shimmer the still more inhospitable snowy mountains.
From the top of this peak one sees hundreds and hundreds of mountains
and valleys exactly resembling one another. The eye grows weary of
regarding them, and so long as the sun's rays strike obliquely over the
region, suffusing it with a golden mist, one can barely distinguish the
separate parts of the oppressively sublime panorama.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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