战争与和平(上)-第356章

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“Why；　aren’t　you　asleep；　sir？”　said　a　Cossack；　sitting　under　the　waggon。
“No；　but　…　Lihatchev—I　believe　that’s　your　name；　eh？　You　know　I　have　only　just　come　back。　We　have　been　calling　on　the　French。”　And　Petya　gave　the　Cossack　a　detailed　account；　not　only　of　his　adventure；　but　also　of　his　reasons　for　going；　and　why　he　thought　it　better　to　risk　his　life　than　to　do　things　in　a　haphazard　way。
“Well；　you　must　be　sleepy；　get　a　little　sleep；”　said　the　Cossack。
“No；　I　am　used　to　it；”　answered　Petya。　“And　how　are　the　flints　in　our　pistols—not　worn　out？　I　brought　some　with　me。　Don’t　you　want　any？　Do　take　some。”
The　Cossack　popped　out　from　under　the　waggon　to　take　a　closer　look　at　Petya。
“For；　you　see；　I　like　to　do　everything　carefully；”　said　Petya。　“Some　men；　you　know；　leave　things　to　chance；　and　don’t　have　things　ready；　and　then　they　regret　it。　I　don’t　like　that。”
“No；　to　be　sure；”　said　the　Cossack。
“Oh；　and　another　thing；　please；　my　dear　fellow；　sharpen　my　sabre　for　me；　I　have　blunt　…”　（but　Petya　could　not　bring　out　a　lie）　…　“it　has　never　been　sharpened。　Can　you　do　that？”
“To　be　sure　I　can。”
Lihatchev　stood　up；　and　rummaged　in　the　baggage；　and　Petya　stood　and　heard　the　martial　sound　of　steel　and　whetstone。　He　clambered　on　to　the　waggon；　and　sat　on　the　edge　of　it。　The　Cossack　sharpened　the　sabre　below。
“Are　the　other　brave　fellows　asleep？”　said　Petya。
“Some　are　asleep；　and　some　are　awake；　like　us。”
“And　what　about　the　boy？”
“Vesenny？　He’s　lying　yonder　in　the　hay。　He’s　sleeping　well　after　his　fright。　He　was　so　pleased。”
For　a　long　while　after　that　Petya　sat　quiet；　listening　to　the　sounds。　There　was　a　sound　of　footsteps　in　the　darkness；　and　a　dark　figure　appeared。
“What　are　you　sharpening？”　asked　a　man　coming　up　to　the　waggon。
“A　sabre　for　the　gentleman　here。”
“That’s　a　good　thing；”　said　the　man；　who　seemed　to　Petya　to　be　an　hussar。　“Was　the　cup　left　with　you　here？”
“It’s　yonder　by　the　wheel。”　The　hussar　took　the　cup。　“It　will　soon　be　daylight；”　he　added；　yawning；　as　he　walked　off。
Petya　must；　one　would　suppose；　have　known　that　he　was　in　a　wood；　with　Denisov’s　band　of　irregulars；　a　verst　from　the　road；　that　he　was　sitting　on　a　waggon　captured　from　the　French；　that　there　were　horses　fastened　to　it；　that　under　it　was　sitting　the　Cossack　Lihatchev　sharpening　his　sabre；　that　the　big；　black　blur　on　the　right　was　the　hut；　and　the　red；　bright　glow　below　on　the　left　the　dying　camp…fire；　that　the　man　who　had　come　for　the　cup　was　an　hussar　who　was　thirsty。　But　Petya　knew　nothing　of　all　that；　and　refused　to　know　it。　He　was　in　a　fairyland；　in　which　nothing　was　like　the　reality。　The　big　patch　of　shadow　might　be　a　hut　certainly；　but　it　might　be　a　cave　leading　down　into　the　very　depths　of　the　earth。　The　red　patch　might　be　a　fire；　but　it　might　be　the　eye　of　a　huge　monster。　Perhaps　he　really　was　sitting　now　on　a　waggon；　but　very　likely　he　was　sitting　not　on　a　waggon；　but　on　a　fearfully　high　tower；　and　if　he　fell　off；　he　would　go　on　flying　to　the　earth　for　a　whole　day；　for　a　whole　month—fly　and　fly　for　ever　and　never　reach　it。　Perhaps　it　was　simply　the　Cossack　Lihatchev　sitting　under　the　waggon；　but　very　likely　it　was　the　kindest；　bravest；　most　wonderful　and　splendid　man　in　the　world　whom　no　one　knew　of。　Perhaps　it　really　was　an　hussar　who　had　come　for　water　and　gone　into　the　hollow；　but　perhaps　he　had　just　vanished；　vanished　altogether　and　was　no　more。
Whatever　Petya　had　seen　now；　it　would　not　have　surprised　him。　He　was　in　a　land　of　fairies；　where　everything　was　possible。
He　gazed　at　the　sky。　The　sky　too　was　an　enchanted　realm　like　the　earth。　It　had　begun　to　clear；　and　the　clouds　were　scudding　over　the　tree…tops；　as　though　unveiling　the　stars。　At　times　it　seemed　as　though　they　were　swept　away；　and　there　were　glimpses　of　clear；　black　sky　between　them。　At　times　these　black　patches　looked　like　storm…clouds。　At　times　the　sky　seemed　to　rise　high；　high　overhead；　and　then　again　to　be　dropping　down　so　that　one　could　reach　it　with　the　hand。
Petya　closed　his　eyes　and　began　to　nod。　The　branches　dripped。　There　was　a　low　hum　of　talk　and　the　sound　of　some　one　snoring。　The　horses　neighed　and　scuffled。
“Ozheeg；　zheeg；　ozheeg；　zheeg…”　hissed　the　sabre　on　the　whetstone；　and　all　at　once　Petya　seemed　to　hear　harmonious　music；　an　orchestra　playing　some　unfamiliar；　solemnly　sweet　hymn。　Petya　was　as　musical　by　nature　as　Natasha；　and　far　more　so　than　Nikolay；　but　he　had　had　no　musical　training；　and　never　thought　about　music；　so　that　the　melody　that　came　unexpectedly　into　his　mind　had　a　special　freshness　and　charm　for　him。　The　music　became　more　and　more　distinct。　The　melody　grew　and　passed　from　one　instrument　to　another。　There　was　being　played　what　is　called　a　fugue；　though　Petya　had　not　the　slightest　idea　of　what　was　meant　by　a　fugue。　Each　instrument—one　like　a　violin；　others　like　flutes；　but　fuller　and　more　melodious　than　violins　and　flutes—played　its　part；　and　before　it　had　finished　the　air；　melted　in　with　another；　beginning　almost　the　same　air；　and　with　a　third　and　a　fourth；　and　all　mingled　into　one　harmony；　and　parted　again；　and　again　mingled　into　solemn　church　music；　and　then　into　some　brilliant　and　triumphant　song　of　victory。
“Oh　yes；　of　course　I　am　dreaming；”　Petya　said　to　himself；　nodding　forward。　“It　is　only　in　my　ears。　Perhaps；　though；　it’s　my　own　music。　Come；　again。　Strike　up；　my　music！　Come！…”
He　closed　his　eyes。　And　from　various　directions　the　sounds　began　vibrating　as　though　from　a　distance；　began　to　strike　up；　to　part；　and　to　mingle　again；　all　joined　in　the　same　sweet　and　solemn　hymn。　“Ah　how　exquisite！　As　much　as　I　want；　and　as　I　like　it！”　Petya　said　to　himself。　He　tried　to　conduct　this　immense　orchestra。
“Come；　softly；　softly；　now！”　And　the　sounds　obeyed　him。　“Come；　now　fuller；　livelier！　More　and　more　joyful！”　And　from　unknown　depths　rose　the　swelling；　triumphant　sounds。　“Now；　voices；　join　in！”　Petya　commanded。　And　at　first　in　the　distance　he　heard　men’s　voices；　then　women’s。　The　voices　swelled　into　rhythmic；　triumphant　fulness。　Petya　felt　awe　and　joy　as　he　drank　in　their　marvellous　beauty。
With　the　triumphant　march　of　victory　mingled　the　song　of　voices；　and　the　drip　of　the　branches　and　the　zheeg；　zheeg；　zheeg　of　the　sabre　on　the　whetstone；　and　again　the　horses　neighed　and　scuffled；　not　disturbing　the　harmony；　but　blending　into　it。　How　long　it　lasted；　Petya　could　not　tell；　he　was　enjoying　it；　and　wondering　all　the　while　at　his　own　enjoyment；　and　regretting　he　had　no　one　to　share　it　with。　He　was　waked　by　the　friendly　voice　of　Lihatchev。
“It’s　ready；　your　honour；　you　can　cut　the　Frenchman　in　two　now。”
Petya　waked　up。
“Why；　it’s　light　already；　it’s　really　getting　light；”　he　cried。　The　horses；　unseen　before；　were　visible　to　the　tails　now；　and　through　the　leafless　boughs　there　could　be　seen　a　watery　light。　Petya　shook　himself；　jumped　up；　took　a　rouble　out　of　his　pocket；　and　gave　it　to　Lihatchev；　brandished　his　sabre　to　try　it；　and　thrust　it　into　the　scabbard。　The　Cossacks　were　untying　the　horses　and　fastening　the　saddlegirths。
“And　here　is　the　commander；”　said　Lihatchev。
Denisov　came　out　of　the　hut；　and　calling　to　Petya；　bade　him　get　ready。


Chapter　11
RAPIDLY　in　the　twilight　the　men　picked　out　their　horses；　tightened　saddlegirths；　and　formed　into　parties。　Denisov　stood　by　the　hut；　giving　the　last　orders。　The　infantry　of　the　detachment　moved　on　along　the　road；　hundreds　of　feet　splashing　through　the　mud。　They　quickly　vanished　among　the　trees　in　the　mist　before　the　dawn。　The　esaul　gave　some　order　to　the　Cossacks。　Petya　held　his　horse　by　the　bridle；　eagerly　awaiting　the　word　of　command　to　mount。　His　face　glowed　from　a　dip　in　cold　water；　and　his　eyes　gleamed。　He　felt　a　chill　running　down　his　back；　and　a　kind　of　rapid；　rhythmic　throbbing　all　over。
“Well；　have　you　everything　ready？”　said　Denisov。　“Give　us　our　horses。”
They　brought　the　horses　up。　Denisov　was　vexed　with　the　Cossack　because　the　saddlegirths　were　slack；　and　swore　at　him　as　he　mounted　his　horse。　Petya　put　his　foot　in　the　stirrup。　The　horse；　as　its　habit　was；　made　as　though　to　nip　at　his　leg；　but　Petya　leaped　into　the　saddle；　unconscious　of　his　own　weight；　and　looking　round　at　the　hussars