The Works of Nikolai Gogol, Vol. 1

fiery, cold-clad sparks sparkled, and the beautiful river brilliantly bared its silver breast, onto which the green curls of the trees fell luxuriously. Capricious, like her in those intoxicating hours when a faithful mirror so enviously encapsulates her forehead full of pride and dazzling brilliance, her lily-white shoulders, and her marble neck, shaded by a dark wave fallen from her light-brown hair, when she throws away some ornaments with disdain only to replace them with others, and her whims have no end—she changes her surroundings almost every year, chooses a new path for herself, and surrounds herself with new, diverse landscapes. Rows of mills lifted broad waves onto their heavy wheels and powerfully threw them, breaking them into spray, showering the surroundings with dust, and bathing them in noise. The cart with our familiar passengers drove onto the bridge at this moment, and the river, in all its beauty and majesty, stretched out before them like a solid sheet of glass. The sky, the green and blue forests, the people, the carts with pots, the mills—everything was inverted, standing and walking upside down, without falling into the blue, beautiful abyss. Our beauty became lost in thought, looking at the luxury of the view,