War And Peace: Book 10 - CHAPTER XVI

作者: Leo Tolstoy

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Author: Leo Tolstoy

“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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