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“WELL, now, that's all,” said Kutuzov, as he signed the last paper,
and rising clumsily, and straightening his fat, white neck, he went
to the door with a more cheerful countenance.
The priest's wife, with the colour rushing to her face, snatched up the dish,
and though she had been so long preparing, she did not succeed in presenting it
at the right moment. With a low bow she offered it to Kutuzov. Kutuzov screwed
up his eyes. He smiled, chucked her under the chin, and said:
“And what a pretty face! Thank you, my dear!”
He took some gold coins out of his trouser pocket, and put them on the dish.
“Well, and how are we getting on?” he said, going towards the room that had been
assigned him. The priest's wife, with smiling dimples on her rosy face, followed
to show him the room. The adjutant came out to Prince Andrey in the porch, and
invited him to lunch. Half an hour later Kutuzov sent for Prince Andrey. He was
reclining in a low chair, still in the same unbuttoned military coat. He had a
French novel in his hand, and at Prince Andrey's entrance laid a paper-knife in
it and put it aside. It was Les Chevaliers du Cygne, a work by Madame de
Genlis, as Prince Andrey saw by the cover.
“Well, sit down; sit down here. Let us have a little talk,” said Kutuzov.
“It's sad; very sad. But remember, my dear, think of me as a father, another
father, to you …!”
Prince Andrey told Kutuzov all he knew about his father's end, and what he
had seen at Bleak Hills.
“To think what we have been brought to!” Kutuzov cried suddenly, in a voice
full of feeling, Prince Andrey's story evidently bringing vividly before him the
position of Russia.
“Wait a bit; wait a bit!” he added, with a vindictive look in his face, and
apparently unwilling to continue a conversation that stirred him too deeply, he
said:
“I sent for you to keep you with me.”
“I thank your highness!” answered Prince Andrey, “but I am afraid I am no
more good for staff work,” he said, with a smile, which Kutuzov noticed. He
looked at him inquiringly. “And the great thing is,” added Prince Andrey, “I am
used to my regiment. I like the officers; and I think the men have come to like
me. I should be sorry to leave the regiment. If I decline the honour of being in
attendance on you, believe me …”
Kutuzov's podgy face beamed with a shrewd, good-natured, and yet subtly
ironical expression. He cut Bolkonsky short.
“I'm sure you would have been of use to me. But you're right; you're right.
It's not here that we want men. There are always a multitude of counsellors; but
men are scarce. The regiments wouldn't be what they are if all the would-be
counsellors would serve in them like you. I remember you at Austerlitz. I
remember, I remember you with the flag!” said Kutuzov, and a flush of pleasure
came into Prince Andrey's face at this reminiscence. Kutuzov held out his hand
to him, offering him his cheek to kiss, and again Prince Andrey saw tears in the
old man's eye. Though Prince Andrey knew Kutuzov's tears were apt to come
easily, and that he was particularly affectionate and tender with him from the
desire to show sympathy with his loss, yet he felt this reminder of Austerlitz
agreeable and flattering.
“Go your own way, and God bless you in it. … I know your path is the path of
honour!” He paused. “I missed you at Bucharest. I wanted some one to send …” And
changing the subject, Kutuzov began talking of the Turkish war, and of the peace
that had been concluded. “Yes, I have been roundly abused,” he said, “both for
the war and the peace … but it all happened in the nick of time.” “ ‘Everything
comes in time for him who knows how to wait,' ” he said, quoting the French
proverb. “And there were as many counsellors there as here, …” he went on,
returning to the superfluity of advisers, a subject which evidently occupied his
mind. “Ugh, counsellors and counsellors!” he said. “If we had listened to all of
them, we should be in Turkey now. We should not have made peace, and the war
would never have been over. Always in haste, and more haste, worse speed.
Kamensky would have come to grief there, if he hadn't died. He went storming
fortresses with thirty thousand men. It's easy enough to take fortresses, but
it's hard to finish off a campaign successfully. Storms and attacks are not
what's wanted, but time and patience. Kamensky sent his soldiers
to attack Rustchuk, but I trusted to them alone—time and patience—and I took
more fortresses than Kamensky, and made the Turks eat horseflesh!” He shook his
head. “And the French shall, too. Take my word for it,” cried Kutuzov, growing
warmer and slapping himself on the chest, “I'll make them eat horseflesh!” And
again his eye was dim with tears.
“We shall have to give battle, though, shan't we?” said Prince Andrey.
“We must, if every one wants to; there is no help for it.… But, mark my
words, my dear boy! The strongest of all warriors are these two—time and
patience. They do it all, and our wise counsellors n'entendent pas de cette
oreille, voilà le mal. Some say ay, and some say no. What's one to do?” he
asked, evidently expecting a reply. “Come, what would you have me do?” he
repeated, and his eyes twinkled with a profound, shrewd expression. “I'll tell
you what to do,” he said, since Prince Andrey still did not answer. “I'll tell
you what to do, and what I do. Dans le doute, mon cher”—he
paused—“abstiens-toi.” He articulated deliberately the French
saying.
“Well, good-bye, my dear. Remember, with all my heart, I feel for your
sorrow, and that for you I'm not his highness, nor prince, nor
commander-in-chief, but simply a father to you. If you want anything, come
straight to me. Good-bye, my dear boy!” Again he embraced and kissed him.
And before Prince Andrey had closed the door, Kutuzov settled himself
comfortably with a sigh, and renewed the unfinished novel of Madame Genlis,
Les Chevaliers du Cygne.
How, and why it was, Prince Andrey could not explain, but after this
interview with Kutuzov, he went back to his regiment feeling reassured as to the
future course of the war, and as to the man to whom its guidance was intrusted.
The more clearly he perceived the absence of everything personal in the old
leader, who seemed to have nothing left of his own but habits of passions, and
instead of an intellect grasping events and making plans, had only the capacity
for the calm contemplation of the course of events, the more confident he felt
that all would be as it should be. “He will put in nothing of himself. He will
contrive nothing, will undertake nothing,” thought Prince Andrey; “but he will
hear everything, will think of everything, will put everything in its place,
will not hinder anything that could be of use, and will not allow anything that
could do harm. He knows that there is something stronger and more important than
his will—that is the inevitable march of events, and he can see them, can grasp
their significance, and, seeing their significance, can abstain from meddling,
from following his own will, and aiming at something else. And the chief
reason,” thought Prince Andrey, “why one believes in him is that he's Russian,
in spite of Madame Genlis's novel and the French proverbs, that his voice shook
when he said, ‘What we have been brought to!' and that he choked when he said
‘he would make them eat horseflesh!' ”
It was this feeling, more or less consciously shared by all, that determined
the unanimous approval given to the appointment of Kutuzov to the chief command,
in accordance with national sentiment, and in opposition to the intrigues at
court.
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