Kabanata Kabanata 308 · 第308章

Having returned to the watchman’s hut, Pétya found Denísov in the

passage. He was awaiting Pétya’s return in a state of agitation,

anxiety, and self-reproach for having let him go.

“Thank God!” he exclaimed. “Yes, thank God!” he repeated, listening to

Pétya’s rapturous account. “But, devil take you, I haven’t slept because

of you! Well, thank God. Now lie down. We can still get a nap before

morning.”

“But... no,” said Pétya, “I don’t want to sleep yet. Besides I know

myself, if I fall asleep it’s finished. And then I am used to not

sleeping before a battle.”

He sat awhile in the hut joyfully recalling the details of his

expedition and vividly picturing to himself what would happen next day.

Then, noticing that Denísov was asleep, he rose and went out of doors.

It was still quite dark outside. The rain was over, but drops were still

falling from the trees. Near the watchman’s hut the black shapes of the

Cossacks’ shanties and of horses tethered together could be seen. Behind

the hut the dark shapes of the two wagons with their horses beside them

were discernible, and in the hollow the dying campfire gleamed red.

Not all the Cossacks and hussars were asleep; here and there, amid the

sounds of falling drops and the munching of the horses near by, could be

heard low voices which seemed to be whispering.

Pétya came out, peered into the darkness, and went up to the wagons.

Someone was snoring under them, and around them stood saddled horses

munching their oats. In the dark Pétya recognized his own horse, which

he called “Karabákh” though it was of Ukranian breed, and went up to it.

“Well, Karabákh! We’ll do some service tomorrow,” said he, sniffing its

nostrils and kissing it.

“Why aren’t you asleep, sir?” said a Cossack who was sitting under a

wagon.

“No, ah... Likhachëv—isn’t that your name? Do you know I have only just

come back! We’ve been into the French camp.”

And Pétya gave the Cossack a detailed account not only of his ride but

also of his object, and why he considered it better to risk his life

than to act “just anyhow.”

“Well, you should get some sleep now,” said the Cossack.

“No, I am used to this,” said Pétya. “I say, aren’t the flints in your

pistols worn out? I brought some with me. Don’t you want any? You can

have some.”

The Cossack bent forward from under the wagon to get a closer look at

Pétya.

“Because I am accustomed to doing everything accurately,” said Pétya.

“Some fellows do things just anyhow, without preparation, and then

they’re sorry for it afterwards. I don’t like that.”

“Just so,” said the Cossack.

“Oh yes, another thing! Please, my dear fellow, will you sharpen my

saber for me? It’s got bl...” (Pétya feared to tell a lie, and the saber

never had been sharpened.) “Can you do it?”

“Of course I can.”

Likhachëv got up, rummaged in his pack, and soon Pétya heard the warlike

sound of steel on whetstone. He climbed onto the wagon and sat on its

edge. The Cossack was sharpening the saber under the wagon.

“I say! Are the lads asleep?” asked Pétya.

“Some are, and some aren’t—like us.”

“Well, and that boy?”

“Vesénny? Oh, he’s thrown himself down there in the passage. Fast asleep

after his fright. He was that glad!”

After that Pétya remained silent for a long time, listening to the

sounds. He heard footsteps in the darkness and a black figure appeared.

“What are you sharpening?” asked a man coming up to the wagon.

“Why, this gentleman’s saber.”

“That’s right,” said the man, whom Pétya took to be an hussar. “Was the

cup left here?”

“There, by the wheel!”

The hussar took the cup.

“It must be daylight soon,” said he, yawning, and went away.

Pétya ought to have known that he was in a forest with Denísov’s

guerrilla band, less than a mile from the road, sitting on a wagon

captured from the French beside which horses were tethered, that under

it Likhachëv was sitting sharpening a saber for him, that the big dark

blotch to the right was the watchman’s hut, and the red blotch below to

the left was the dying embers of a campfire, that the man who had come

for the cup was an hussar who wanted a drink; but he neither knew nor

waited to know anything of all this. He was in a fairy kingdom where

nothing resembled reality. The big dark blotch might really be the

watchman’s hut or it might be a cavern leading to the very depths of

the earth. Perhaps the red spot was a fire, or it might be the eye of an

enormous monster. Perhaps he was really sitting on a wagon, but it might

very well be that he was not sitting on a wagon but on a terribly high

tower from which, if he fell, he would have to fall for a whole day or a

whole month, or go on falling and never reach the bottom. Perhaps it

was just the Cossack, Likhachëv, who was sitting under the wagon, but it

might be the kindest, bravest, most wonderful, most splendid man in the

world, whom no one knew of. It might really have been that the hussar

came for water and went back into the hollow, but perhaps he had simply

vanished—disappeared altogether and dissolved into nothingness.

Nothing Pétya could have seen now would have surprised him. He was in a

fairy kingdom where everything was possible.

He looked up at the sky. And the sky was a fairy realm like the earth.

It was clearing, and over the tops of the trees clouds were swiftly

sailing as if unveiling the stars. Sometimes it looked as if the clouds

were passing, and a clear black sky appeared. Sometimes it seemed as

if the black spaces were clouds. Sometimes the sky seemed to be rising

high, high overhead, and then it seemed to sink so low that one could

touch it with one’s hand.

Pétya’s eyes began to close and he swayed a little.

The trees were dripping. Quiet talking was heard. The horses neighed and

jostled one another. Someone snored.

“Ozheg-zheg, Ozheg-zheg...” hissed the saber against the whetstone,

and suddenly Pétya heard an harmonious orchestra playing some unknown,

sweetly solemn hymn. Pétya was as musical as Natásha and more so than

Nicholas, but had never learned music or thought about it, and so the

melody that unexpectedly came to his mind seemed to him particularly

fresh and attractive. The music became more and more audible. The melody

grew and passed from one instrument to another. And what was played was

a fugue—though Pétya had not the least conception of what a fugue is.

Each instrument—now resembling a violin and now a horn, but better

and clearer than violin or horn—played its own part, and before it had

finished the melody merged with another instrument that began almost the

same air, and then with a third and a fourth; and they all blended into

one and again became separate and again blended, now into solemn church

music, now into something dazzlingly brilliant and triumphant.

“Oh—why, that was in a dream!” Pétya said to himself, as he lurched

forward. “It’s in my ears. But perhaps it’s music of my own. Well, go

on, my music! Now!...”

He closed his eyes, and, from all sides as if from a distance, sounds

fluttered, grew into harmonies, separated, blended, and again all

mingled into the same sweet and solemn hymn. “Oh, this is delightful!

As much as I like and as I like!” said Pétya to himself. He tried to

conduct that enormous orchestra.

“Now softly, softly die away!” and the sounds obeyed him. “Now fuller,

more joyful. Still more and more joyful!” And from an unknown depth rose

increasingly triumphant sounds. “Now voices join in!” ordered Pétya. And

at first from afar he heard men’s voices and then women’s. The voices

grew in harmonious triumphant strength, and Pétya listened to their

surpassing beauty in awe and joy.

With a solemn triumphal march there mingled a song, the drip from the

trees, and the hissing of the saber, “Ozheg-zheg-zheg...” and again the

horses jostled one another and neighed, not disturbing the choir but

joining in it.

Pétya did not know how long this lasted: he enjoyed himself all the

time, wondered at his enjoyment and regretted that there was no one to

share it. He was awakened by Likhachëv’s kindly voice.

“It’s ready, your honor; you can split a Frenchman in half with it!”

Pétya woke up.

“It’s getting light, it’s really getting light!” he exclaimed.

The horses that had previously been invisible could now be seen to their

very tails, and a watery light showed itself through the bare branches.

Pétya shook himself, jumped up, took a ruble from his pocket and gave it

to Likhachëv; then he flourished the saber, tested it, and sheathed

it. The Cossacks were untying their horses and tightening their saddle

girths.

“And here’s the commander,” said Likhachëv.

Denísov came out of the watchman’s hut and, having called Pétya, gave

orders to get ready.