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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
.
