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 eyes. 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
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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 eyes were 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 ccttc oreille, voila 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
