it with one's hand.

Petya'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 Petya heard an harmonious orchestra playing some unknown,
sweetly solemn hymn. Petya was as musical as Natasha 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 Petya 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!" Petya 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 Petya 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 Petya. And
at first from afar he heard men's voices and then women's. The voices
grew in harmonious triumphant strength, and Petya 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.

Petya 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 Likhachev's kindly voice.