战争与和平(上)-第317节

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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　moving　up　from　behind　in　the　darkness；　he　rode　up　to　Denisov。
“Vassily　Fyodorovitch；　you　will　trust　me　with　some　commission？　Please…for　God’s　sake…”　he　said。　Denisov　seemed　to　have　forgotten　Petya’s　existence。　He　looked　round　at　him。
“One　thing　I　beg　of　you；”　he　said　sternly；　“to　obey　me　and　not　to　put　yourself　forward。”
All　the　way　Denisov　did　not　say　another　word　to　Petya；　he　rode　on　in　silence。　By　the　time　that　they　reached　the　edge　of　the　wood；　it　was　perceptibly　getting　light　in　the　open　country。　Denisov　whispered　something　to　the　esaul；　and　the　Cossacks　began　riding　by　Petya　and　Denisov。　When　they　had　all　passed　on　Denisov　put　his　spurs　to　his　horse；　and　rode　downhill。　Slipping　and　sinking　back　on　their　haunches；　the　horses　slid　down　into　the　hollow　with　their　riders。　Petya　kept　beside　Denisov。　The　tremor　all　over　him　was　growing　more　intense。　It　was　getting　lighter　and　lighter；　but　the　mist　hid　objects　at　a　distance。　When　he　had　reached　the　bottom；　Denisov　looked　back　and　nodded　to　the　Cossack　beside　him。
“The　signal；”　he　said。　The　Cossack　raised　his　arm；　and　a　shot　rang　out。　At　the　same　moment　they　heard　the　tramp　of　horses　galloping　in　front；　shouts　from　different　directions；　and　more　shots。
The　instant　that　he　heard　the　first　tramp　of　hoofs　and　shouts；　Petya　gave　the　rein　to　his　horse；　and　lashing　him　on；　galloped　forward；　heedless　of　Denisov；　who　shouted　to　him。　It　seemed　to　Petya　that　it　suddenly　became　broad　daylight；　as　though　it　were　midday；　at　the　moment　when　he　heard　the　shot。　He　galloped　to　the　bridge。　The　Cossacks　were　galloping　along　the　road　in　front。　At　the　bridge　he　jostled　against　a　Cossack　who　had　lagged　behind；　and　he　galloped　on。　In　front　Petya　saw　men　of　some　sort—the　French　he　supposed—running　across　the　road　from　right　to　left。　One　slipped　in　the　mud　under　his　horse’s　legs。
Cossacks　were　crowding　about　a　hut；　doing　something。　A　fearful　scream　rose　out　of　the　middle　of　the　crowd。　Petya　galloped　to　this　crowd；　and　the　first　thing　he　saw　was　the　white　face　and　trembling　lower…jaw　of　a　Frenchman；　who　had　clutched　hold　of　a　lance　aimed　at　his　breast。
“Hurrah！…Mates…ours…”　shouted　Petya；　and　giving　the　rein　to　his　excited　horse；　he　galloped　on　down　the　village　street。
He　heard　firing　in　front。　Cossacks；　hussars；　and　tattered　Russian　prisoners；　running　up　from　both　sides　of　the　road；　were　all　shouting　something　loud　and　unintelligible。　A　gallant…looking　Frenchman；　in　a　blue　coat；　with　a　red；　frowning　face；　and　no　cap；　was　keeping　back　the　hussars　with　a　bayonet。　By　the　time　that　Petya　galloped　up；　the　Frenchman　had　fallen。　“Too　late　again；”　flashed　through　Petya’s　brain；　and　he　galloped　to　the　spot　where　he　heard　the　hottest　fire。　The　shots　came　from　the　yard　of　the　manor…house　where　he　had　been　the　night　before　with　Dolohov。　The　French　were　ambushing　there　behind　the　fence　in　among　the　bushes　of　the　overgrown　garden；　and　firing　at　the　Cossacks　who　were　crowding　round　the　gates。　As　he　rode　up　to　the　gates；　Petya　caught　a　glimpse　in　the　smoke　of　Dolohov’s　white；　greenish　face；　as　he　shouted　something　to　the　men。　“Go　round。　Wait　for　the　infantry！”　he　was　shouting；　just　as　Petya　rode　up　to　him。
“Wait？　…　Hurrah！…”　shouted　Petya；　and　without　pausing　a　moment；　he　galloped　towards　the　spot　where　he　heard　the　shots；　and　where　the　smoke　was　the　thickest。　There　came　a　volley　of　shots　with　the　sound　of　bullets　whizzing　by　and　thudding　into　something。　The　Cossacks　and　Dolohov　galloped　in　at　the　gates　after　Petya。　In　the　thick；　hovering　smoke　the　French　flung　down　their　arms　and　ran　out　of　the　bushes　to　meet　the　Cossacks；　or　fled　downhill　towards　the　pond。　Petya　was　galloping　on　round　the　courtyard；　but　instead　of　holding　the　reins；　he　was　flinging　up　both　arms　in　a　strange　way；　and　slanting　more　and　more　to　one　side　in　the　saddle。　The　horse　stepped　on　to　the　ashes　of　the　fire　smouldering　in　the　morning　light；　and　stopped　short。　Petya　fell　heavily　on　the　wet　earth。　The　Cossacks　saw　his　arms　and　legs　twitching　rapidly；　though　his　head　did　not　move。　A　bullet　had　passed　through　his　brain。
After　parleying　with　the　French　senior　officer；　who　came　out　of　the　house　with　a　handkerchief　on　a　sword　to　announce　that　they　surrendered；　Dolohov　got　off　his　horse　and　went　up　to　Petya；　who　lay　motionless　with　outstretched　arms。
“Done　for；”　he　said　frowning；　and　walked　to　the　gate　to　Denisov；　who　was　riding　towards　him。
“Killed？”　cried　Denisov；　even　from　a　distance　recognising　the　familiar；　unmistakably　lifeless　posture　in　which　Petya’s　body　was　lying。
“Done　for；”　Dolohov　repeated；　as　though　the　utterance　of　those　words　afforded　him　satisfaction；　and　he　walked　rapidly　towards　the　prisoners；　whom　the　Cossacks　were　hurriedly　surrounding。　“No　quarter！”　he　shouted　to　Denisov。　Denisov　made　no　reply。　He　went　up　to　Petya；　got　off　his　horse；　and　with　trembling　hands　turned　over　the　blood…stained；　mud…spattered　face　that　was　already　turning　white。
“I’m　fond　of　sweet　things。　They　are　capital　raisins；　take　them　all；”　came　into　his　mind。　And　the　Cossac