And so Varvara, to her parents' relief, had taken herself off to their Tambov estate - not to idle her time away, but to nurture and educate the peasant children. It was there, in a brand-new school building still exuding the scent of fresh pinewood sawdust, that she had met the St Petersburg student Pyotr Yablokov, her Petya. Pyotr taught arithmetic, geography and basic natural science and Varvara taught all the other subjects. Quite soon, however, the peasants had realised that there were neither wages nor any other form of gratification to be earned by attending school, and they had taken their children back home - Enough of that loafing about, there's work to be done! But by that time Varya and Petya had already mapped out the course of their future life: free, modern, founded on mutual respect and a rational division of responsibilities.
She had put an end to humiliating dependence on her parents' handouts and they had rented a flat on the Vyborg side - with mice, but also with three whole rooms - in order to be able to live like Vera Pavlovna and Lopukhov in Chernyshevsky's What is to be Done! They each had their own territory and the third room was reserved for one-to-one discussions and receiving guests. To the landlords they had called themselves husband and wife, but their cohabitation was exclusively comradely in nature: in the evening they would read, drink tea and converse in the communal living room, then they wished each other good night and went to their separate rooms. They had lived in this way for almost a year, and lived very well, in perfect harmony, without any vulgarity or filth. Pyotr studied at the university and gave lessons and Varvara qualified as a stenographer and earned as much as a hundred roubles a month. She kept the records of court proceedings and took down the memoirs of a crazy old general, the conqueror of Warsaw,- and then, on the recommendation of friends, she had found herself recording the text of a novel for a Great Writer (we shall dispense with names, since the arrangement ended in unpleasantness). Varya regarded the Great Writer with veneration and had absolutely refused to accept any payment, feeling that she was quite fortunate enough to be doing such work at all; but the intellectual luminary had misinterpreted her refusal. He was terribly old, over fifty, burdened with a large family and not at all good-looking, but there was no denying that he spoke eloquently and convincingly: virginity really was a ridiculous prejudice, bourgeois morality was repulsive and there was nothing shameful about human nature. Varya had listened and then consulted for hours on end with her Petya about what she ought to do. Petya agreed that chastity and hypocritical piety were shackles imposed on women, but he resolutely counselled her against entering into physiological relations with the Great Writer. He grew heated and attempted to demonstrate that the Writer was not so very Great after all, even though he did have past services to his credit - that many progressive people actually regarded him as a reactionary. It had all ended, as previously mentioned, unpleasantly. One day the Great Writer, breaking off the dictation of a scene of exceptional power (Varya was writing with tears in her eyes) began breathing noisily, then he gave a loud snort, embraced his brown-haired stenographer clumsily round the shoulders and dragged her over to the divan. For a while she endured his unintelligible whisperings and the touch of his trembling fingers, which had become hopelessly entangled in her hooks and buttons, until suddenly she realised quite clearly -she did not, in fact, understand it so much as sense it -that this was all wrong and it simply could not happen. She pushed the Great Writer away, ran out of the room and never went back.
This story had a bad effect on Pyotr. It was March, spring had come early, the breeze blowing from the Neva was redolent of open spaces and drifting ice, and Pyotr had given her an ultimatum: things could not go on as they were,- they were made for each other,- their relations had stood the test of time. They were both flesh and blood and they had no business attempting to defy the laws of nature. Of course, he would settle for carnal love without a wedding ceremony, but it would be better to get married properly, since it would spare them many complications. And somehow he had managed to put things so cleverly that afterwards only one thing was discussed: which kind of wedding they should have, civil or church. The arguments continued until April, but in April the long-expected war for the liberation of the Russian people's Slav brethren had broken out, and as a man of honour Pyotr Yablokov had signed up as a volunteer. Before his departure Varya had promised him two things: that she would soon give him her final answer and that they would assuredly fight together side by side - somehow she would think of a way.
And so she had. Not immediately, but she had thought of a way. She had failed to get a job as a nurse in a temporary military infirmary or a field hospital -they refused to take her incomplete midwifery studies into consideration. Nor were female telegraphers being taken on for active army service, Varya had been on the point of succumbing to despair when a letter arrived from Roumania: Petya complained that he had not been allowed to join the infantry because of his flat feet and had been retained at headquarters on the staff of the commander-in-chief, the Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich - for volunteer Yablokov was a mathematician and the army was desperately short of cryptographers.
It would not be too difficult to find some kind of work at general headquarters, Varya had decided, or, if the worst came to the worst, simply to lose herself in the hurly-burly at the rear, and she had immediately formulated The Plan, of which the first two stages had worked so wonderfully well, but the third had culminated in disaster.
Meanwhile events were moving to a conclusion. The crimson-nosed landlord burbled something menacing and began waddling towards Varya, wiping his hands on a grey towel and looking in his red shirt very much like an executioner approaching the block. Her mouth went dry and she felt a bit sick. Perhaps she should pretend to be deaf and dumb?
The dejected type sitting with his back to her rose unhurriedly to his feet, walked over to Varya's table and sat down facing her without speaking. She saw a pale face, almost boyish despite the greying temples, with cold blue eyes, a thin moustache and an unsmiling mouth. It was a strange face, quite unlike the faces of the other peasants, though the stranger was dressed in the same way as they were - excepting only that his jacket was a little newer and his shirt was cleaner.
The blue-eyed stranger did not even glance round at the landlord; he merely waved his hand dismissively, and the menacing executioner immediately withdrew behind his counter. Varya, however, felt none the calmer for that. On the contrary, indeed, the most terrifying part was only just about to begin.
She wrinkled up her forehead, readying herself for the sound of foreign speech. Better if she did not speak but merely nodded and shook her head. Only she must not forget that the Bulgarians did everything in reverse: when you nodded it meant 'No'; when you shook your head it meant 'Yes'.
The blue-eyed man, however, did not ask her any questions. He sighed dejectedly, and spoke to her with a slight stammer in perfect Russian:
'Ah, m-mademoiselle, you would have done better to wait for your fiance at home. This is not a novel by Mayne Reed. Things could have t-turned out very badly.'
Chapter Two
IN WHICH MANY INTERESTING MEN APPEAR
The Russian Invalid
(St Petersburg) 2 (14) July 1877
Following the conclusion of an armistice between the Sublime Porte and Serbia many patriots of the Slavic cause, valiant knights of the Russian land who served as volunteers under the leadership of the courageous General Chernyaev, have hearkened to the call of the Tsar-Liberator and at the risk of their lives are making their way over wild mountains and through dark forests to the land of Bulgaria, in order to be reunited with the Orthodox Christian forces and crown their sacred feat of arms with the long-awaited victory.
Varya did not immediately grasp the meaning of what had been said. Out of inertia she first nodded, then shook her head and only after that did she open her mouth wide in amazement.
'Don't be surprised,' the strange peasant said in a dull voice. 'The fact that you are a g-girl is immediately obvious - a strand of your hair has crept out from under your cap on that side. That is one.' (Varya furtively tucked the treacherous curl back into place.) 'The fact that you are Russian is also obvious: the snub nose, the Great Russian line of the cheekbones, the light-brown hair, and - most importantly - the absence of any sun-tan. That is two. As for your fiance, that is equally simple: you are p-proceeding on your way surreptitiously, so you must be on private business. And what private business could a young woman of your age possibly have with an army in the field? Only romance. That makes three. Now for number f-four: that moustachioed fellow who brought you in here and then disappeared was your guide? And, of course, your money was hidden among your things? F-foolish. You should keep everything of importance about your p-person. What is your name?'
'Varya Suvorova, Varvara Andreevna Suvorova.' Varya whispered in fright. 'Who are you? Where are you from?'
'Erast Petrovich Fandorin. A Serbian volunteer. I am making my way home from Turkish captivity.'
Thank God
1
Varya had already decided he must be a hallucination. A Serbian volunteer! From Turkish captivity! Glancing reverentially at his grey temples, she was unable to refrain from asking, and even pointing impolitely with her finger: 'Is that because they tortured you there? I've read about the horrors of Turkish captivity. And I suppose that's what caused your stammer too?'
Erast Fandorin frowned and replied reluctantly. 'Nobody tortured me. They plied me with coffee from morning till evening and conversed exclusively in French. I lived as a guest with the K-Kaimakam of Vidin.'
'With whom?'
'Vidin is a town on the Roumanian border, and a kaimakam is a governor. As for the stammer, that is a c-consequence of an old concussion.'
'So you escaped?' she asked enviously. 'And you are on your way to the active army to continue the fight?'
'No, I have done quite enough fighting already.'
Varya's face must have expressed extreme bewilderment. In any event, the volunteer felt it necessary to elucidate: 'War, Varvara Andreevna, is abominable and disgusting. In war no one is right and no one is wrong. And there are good and bad on both sides. Only the good are usually k-killed first.'
'Then why did you go to Serbia as a volunteer?' she asked heatedly. 'Nobody drove you to it, I suppose?'
'Out of egotistical considerations. I was unwell and in need of treatment.'
Varya was astonished. 'Can people be healed by war?'
'Yes. The sight of others' p-pain makes it easier to bear one's own. I found myself at the front two weeks before Chernyaev's army was routed. After that I had more than my fill of wandering through the mountains and shooting. Thank God, I don't th-think I hit anybody.'
He is either trying to strike a pose or is simply a cynic, Varya thought, rather annoyed, and she remarked caustically: 'You should have stayed with your kaimakam until the war was over. What point was there in escaping?'
'I did not escape. Yusuf-pasha let me go.'
'Then what on earth brought you to Bulgaria?'
'A certain matter,' Fandorin replied curtly. 'Where were you heading yourself?'
'To Tsarevitsy, to the commander-in-chief's headquarters. And you?'
'To Bela. Rumour has it that His Majesty's staff is located there.' The volunteer paused, knitted his narrow eyebrows briefly in displeasure and sighed. 'But I could go to the commander-in-chief.'
'Really?' Varya exclaimed in delight. 'Oh, let's go together, shall we? I really don't know what I should have done if I hadn't met you.'
'There is really nothing t-to it. You would have ordered the landlord to deliver you into the custody of the nearest Russian unit, and that would have been the end of the matter.'
'Ordered? The landlord of a koichma!
’
Varya asked fearfully.
'This is not a koichma, but a mehana.' 'Very well, a mehana. But the village is Moslem, surely?' 'It is.'
'Then they would have handed me over to the Turks!'
'I have no wish to offend you, Varvara Andreevna, but you are not of the slightest interest to the Turks, and this way the landlord would m-most certainly have received a reward from your fiance.'
'I would much rather go with you,' Varya implored him. 'Oh, please!'
'I have one old nag, on its last legs. It cannot take two of us. And all the money I have is three kurus. Enough to pay for the wine and cheese, but no more . . . We need another horse or at least an ass. And that will require at least a hundred.'
Varya's new acquaintance paused while he pondered on something. He glanced across at the dice-players and sighed heavily once again: 'Stay here. I shall be back in a moment.'
He walked slowly over to the gamblers and stood beside their table for five minutes, observing. Then he said something (Varya could not hear it) at which all of them instantly stopped casting the dice and turned towards him. Fandorin pointed to Varya and she squirmed on her chair under the stares that were directed at her. Then there was a burst of general laughter - quite obviously ribald and insulting to Varya, but it clearly never even entered Fandorin's head to defend a lady's honour. Instead he shook the hand of some fat man with a moustache and sat down on the bench. The others made room for him and a knot of curious observers rapidly gathered round the table.