War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [686]
Whatever Petya might have seen now, nothing would have astonished him. He was in a magic kingdom in which everything was possible.
He looked at the sky. The sky was as magical as the earth. The sky was clearing, and clouds raced over the treetops, as if uncovering the stars. Sometimes it seemed that the clouds dispersed and a black, clear sky appeared. Sometimes it seemed that these black patches were clouds. Sometimes it seemed that the sky rose high, high above his head; sometimes the sky came right down, so that he could touch it with his hand.
Petya began to close his eyes and rock.
Drops dripped. Quiet talk went on. Horses neighed and scuffled. Someone snored.
“Ozhik, zhik, ozhik, zhik…” whistled the saber being sharpened. And suddenly Petya heard a harmonious chorus of music, playing some unknown, solemnly sweet hymn. Petya was musical, like Natasha, and more so than Nikolai, but he had never studied music or thought about music, and therefore the melodies that unexpectedly came to his head were especially new and attractive to him. The music played more and more audibly. The melody grew, passing from one instrument to another. What is known as a fugue was going on, though Petya had not the slightest idea of what a fugue was. Each instrument, now resembling a violin, now trumpets—but better and clearer than violins and trumpets—each instrument played its own part and, before finishing its motif, merged with another, starting out almost the same, and with a third, and with a fourth, and they all merged into one and scattered again, and merged again, now solemn and churchly, now brightly brilliant and victorious.
“Ah, yes, it’s me dreaming,” Petya said to himself, rocking forward. “It’s in my ears. And maybe it’s my music. Well, again. Go on, my music! Now!…”
He closed his eyes. And on all sides, as if from far away, sounds trembled, began to harmonize, scattered, merged, and again all joined in the same sweet and solemn hymn. “Ah, how lovely that is! As much as I like and however I like,” Petya said to himself. He attempted to conduct this huge chorus of instruments.
“Softer, softer now, fade away.” And the sounds obeyed him. “Fuller now, merrier. More, more joyful.” And swelling, solemn sounds rose from an unknown depth. “Now, voices, join in!” Petya ordered. And voices, first men’s, then women’s, came from far away. The voices grew, grew in a measured, solemn effort. Petya felt frightened and joyful hearkening to their uncommon beauty.
The song merged with the solemn, victorious march, and drops dripped, and bzhik, zhik, zhik…whistled the saber, and again the horses scuffled and neighed, not disrupting the chorus, but entering into it.
Petya did not know how long it went on; he enjoyed it, was surprised all the while at his enjoyment and sorry there was no one to share in it. He was awakened by Likhachev’s gentle voice.
“It’s ready, Your Honor, you’ll split a Frenchman right in two.”
Petya woke up.
“It’s getting light already, really getting light!” he cried.
The formerly invisible horses could now be seen down to their tails, and a watery light was coming through the bared branches. Petya shook himself, jumped up, took a rouble from his pocket and gave it to Likhachev, swung the saber to try it out, and put it in the scabbard. The Cossacks were untying the horses and tightening their saddle girths.
“And here’s the commander,” said Likhachev.
Denisov came out of the guardhouse and, calling Petya, told him to get ready.
XI
In the half darkness, horses were quickly taken, girths were tightened, and units were formed. Denisov stood by the guardhouse giving last-minute orders. The infantry of the party, splashing with a hundred feet, went ahead on the road and quickly disappeared among the trees in the predawn mist. The esaul was giving some orders to the Cossacks. Petya was holding his horse by the bridle, waiting impatiently for the order to mount up. Washed with cold water, his face, especially his eyes, burned