War And Peace

Petya ought to have been fully aware that he was in a wood with Denisov’s guerrillas, less than a mile from the road, perched on a wagon captured from the French with horses tethered to it, that down on the ground the Cossack Likhachov was sitting sharpening his sabre for him, that the big, black blur on the right was their hut, and the bright red glow down on the left was the dying camp-fire, and the man who had come for the cup was a thirsty hussar, but he wasn’t aware of any of this, and he didn’t want to know. He was far away in a land of magic where nothing bore any resemblance to real life. That big black patch of shadow might well be a hut, but it could also be a cave leading down to the centre of the earth. The red patch might be a fire, but it could also be the eye of a huge monster. Maybe he really was perched on a wagon, but it was just as likely he wasn’t perched on a wagon, he was on the top of a fearfully high tower, and if he fell off it would take him a whole day, a whole month to reach the ground – or maybe he would fly on and on for ever and never reach the ground. Maybe it was only the Cossack Likhachov sitting down there under the wagon, but it was just as likely to be the kindest, bravest, most wonderful and marvellous man in the world, only nobody knew about him. Maybe it had been a hussar who had come for a drink of water and gone back down the hollow, but perhaps he was a man who had vanished, disappeared from the face of the earth, never to reappear.

Whatever Petya might have seen now, it wouldn’t have come as a surprise. He was in a land of pure magic, where anything was possible.

He glanced up at the sky. That too was as magical as the earth. It was beginning to clear, and the clouds scudded across the tree-tops as if they wanted to uncover the stars. For a moment it seemed as if the heavens were clearing to open up a pure black sky. Then these black patches began to look like stormclouds. Then the sky seemed to soar away higher and higher; then it was falling back, falling down, and you could almost reach out and touch it.

Petya’s eyes were closing and he was beginning to nod. Raindrops dripped. Low voices murmured. The horses neighed and shook themselves. Somebody snored.

‘Swish, swish!’ went the sabre on the stone, and all at once Petya seemed to hear the melodious strains of a lovely orchestra playing a sweet and solemn hymn he had never heard before. Petya’s musical ear was as good as Natasha’s, and much more acute than Nikolay’s, but he had never studied music and never even thought about music, so the melodies that suddenly flooded into his mind had a special freshness and charm. The music swelled louder and clearer. A theme developed and passed from one instrument to another. They were playing a fugue, though Petya hadn’t the slightest idea what a fugue was. Each instrument took up the theme, first the violins, then the horns, except they were brighter and purer than violins and horns, but half-way through each instrument blended into another one as it took over the theme almost exactly, then came a third and a fourth, until they all blended harmoniously together, then went off on their own, and blended once again in a splendid crescendo of holy music alternating with a brilliant and triumphant song of victory.

‘Oh yes, I know I’m only dreaming,’ Petya said to himself as he lurched forward, nodding. ‘It’s just a sound in my ears. But wait – maybe this is my music. Let’s hear it again. Give me my music! Yes!’

He closed his eyes. And from all sides, as if they were starting a long way away, the sounds rose from a low tremor, blending in harmony, going their own ways and then blending again, coming together in the same sweet and solemn hymn. ‘Oh, what a lovely sound! All I want, and just as I want it!’ Petya said to himself. He tried conducting this tremendous orchestra.

‘Sh! Sh! Let it die away there!’ And the sounds responded. ‘Come on, give me a bit more. Make it sound happier! More joy, yes, more joy!’ And from hidden depths rose a great crescendo of triumphant sound. ‘Now, the voices, let me hear you!’ Petya commanded. And far away he heard the men’s voices followed by the women’s. The voices swelled in another rhythmic, triumphant crescendo. Petya yielded to their extraordinary beauty with a mixture of awe and delight.

The singing blended with the victory march, the raindrops dripped and sabre swished on stone as the horses shook themselves again and neighed, though instead of disrupting the harmony they were drawn into it. Petya had no idea how long this lasted. He was revelling in it, wondering all the while at his own sense of pleasure and feeling sorry there was no one to share it with. He was woken up by the friendly voice of Likhachov.

‘Everything’s ready, sir. Time to cut them Froggies in two.’

Petya opened his eyes.