On the one hand, things were going very badly; you might even say they could not possibly be any worse. Poor Petya was still languishing under lock and key -after the Plevna bloodbath the noxious Kazanzaki had lost interest in the cryptographer, but the threat of a court martial remained as real as ever. And the fortunes of war had proved fickle: the golden fish that granted wishes had turned into a prickly sea scorpion and disappeared into the abyss, leaving their hands scratched and bleeding.
But on the other hand (this was something that Varya was ashamed to admit even to herself), her life had never been so . . . interesting. That was the word: 'interesting'. That was it exactly.
And the reason, in all honesty, was obscenely simple: it was the first time in Varya's life that she had been courted at the same time by so many admirers - and such admirers too! Her recent travelling companions on the railway or the scrofulous students of St Petersburg could not possibly compare. No matter how hard she tried to suppress it, these banal, womanish feelings still sprang up like weeds in her vain, foolish heart. It was terrible.
For instance, on the morning of the 18th of June (a most important and memorable day, concerning which more below) Varya woke with a smile on her face. Before she was even awake and had barely even sensed the sunlight through her tightly shut eyelids, even as she was still stretching sweetly, she was already in a cheerful, happy, festive mood. It was only afterwards, when her mind had woken up as well as her body, that she remembered about Petya and the war. With an effort of will Varya forced herself to frown and think about sad realities, but something quite different kept creeping into her stubborn, drowsy head, in the manner of Agafya Tikhonovna: if she could supplement Petya's devotion with Sobolev's fame, and Zurov's daredevil panache, and Charles's talent, and Fandorin's piercing glance . . . But no - Erast Petrovich did not suit the case, for not by any stretch of the imagination could she number him among her admirers.
Nothing really seemed clear as far as the titular counsellor was concerned. Varya's position as his assistant remained, as ever, purely nominal. Fandorin did not initiate her into his secrets, although he was apparently dealing with real business of some kind, not just trivialities. He either disappeared for long periods or, on the contrary, simply sat in his tent receiving visits from Bulgarian peasants wearing smelly sheepskin hats. Varya guessed that they must be from Plevna, but her pride would not allow her to ask any questions. What was so remarkable about that anyway? It was not as if people from Plevna were rare visitors to the Russian camp. Even McLaughlin had his own informant, who provided him with exclusive intelligence on the life of the Turkish garrison. Of course, the Irishman did not share this knowledge with the Russian command, stubbornly citing his 'journalistic ethics', but the readers of the Daily News knew all about Osman-pasha's order of the day and the massive redoubts that were springing up around the besieged town, growing mightier by the hour.
This time, however, the Western Division of the Russian army was making thorough preparations for battle. The storming of Plevna was set for today, and everybody was saying that the 'misunderstanding over Plevna' would certainly be set to rights. Yesterday Erast Petrovich had traced out a diagram of all the Turkish fortifications for Varya on the ground with a stick and explained that, according to absolutely reliable information in his possession, Osman-pasha had 20,000 askers and 58 artillery pieces, while Lieutenant-General Kriedener had moved up 32,000 soldiers and 176 field-guns to the town, and the Roumanians were due to arrive at any time. A cunning and strictly secret disposition of forces had been devised, involving a concealed outflanking manoeuvre and a diversionary attack. Fandorin had explained it all so well that Varya had immediately believed in the imminent victory of Russian arms and stopped paying much attention - she was more interested in watching the titular counsellor and trying to guess how he was connected with the blonde girl in his locket. Kazanzaki had said something strange about a marriage. Could she really be his better half? But she was too young to be his wife - no more than a little girl!
Varya knew about her because three days earlier, when she looked into Erast Petrovich's tent after breakfast, she had seen him lying sound asleep on his bed fully dressed, even in his dirty boots. He had been missing for the whole of the previous day, which meant he had probably only returned shortly before dawn. Just as she was about to creep quietly away she had suddenly noticed the silver locket dangling out of the sleeping man's collar on to his chest. The temptation had been too great. Varya had tiptoed across to the bed, keeping her eyes fixed on Fandorin's face. Lying there breathing regularly with his mouth slightly open, the titular counsellor looked like a mischievous little boy who had smeared powder on his temples as a prank.
Varya had gingerly picked up the locket with her finger and thumb, clicked open the lid and seen the tiny portrait. A pretty little china doll, a real Madchen-Gretchen: golden curls, little eyes and little mouth, tiny cheeks. Really nothing special. Varya had cast a glance of disapproval at the sleeper and blushed bright red: the bright-blue eyes with the pitch-black pupils were peering gravely at her from under their long lashes.
Trying to explain would have been stupid. Varya had simply fled, which was not so very clever either, but at least an unpleasant scene had been avoided. Strangely enough, afterwards Fandorin had behaved as though the episode had never happened.
He was a cold, disagreeable man, he rarely joined in other people's conversations, and when he did he was bound to say something that made Varya's hackles rise. Take, for instance, that argument about parliament and the sovereignty of the people that had blown up during the picnic (a large party of them had gone off into the hills and dragged Fandorin along with them, although he had been dying to go back and skulk in his lair).
Paladin had started telling them about the constitution that had been introduced in Turkey the year before by the former grand vizier Midhat-pasha. It was very interesting. Would you believe it - an uncivilised Asiatic country like that, but it actually had a parliament, not like Russia.
Then they had started arguing about which parliamentary system was the best. McLaughlin was for the British system and Paladin, even though he was a Frenchman, was for the American, while Sobolev campaigned for some indigenous Russian system of the nobility and peasantry.
When Varya had demanded the franchise for women, they had all made fun of her and that crude soldier Sobolev had started scoffing: 'Oh, Varvara Andreevna, once you women are given the vote, you'll elect a parliament full of nothing but your own handsome little darlings and sweethearts. If you women had to choose between Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky and our Captain Zurov, who would you cast your vote for? You see?'
'Gentlemen, can people be elected to parliament compulsorily?' the hussar had asked in alarm, and the general mood had become even merrier.
Varya had struggled in vain to explain about equal rights, citing the American territory of Wyoming, where women had been allowed to vote and nothing terrible had happened to Wyoming as a result. No one had taken anything she said seriously.
'Why don't you say anything?' Varya had appealed to Fandorin, who had promptly distinguished himself by saying something that would have been better left unsaid altogether.
'Varvara Andreevna, I am opposed to democracy in general.' (He had blushed even as he said it.) 'One man is unequal to another from the very beginning, and there is nothing you can do about it. The democratic principle infringes the rights of those who are more intelligent, more talented and harder-working; it places them in a position of dependence on the foolish will of the stupid, talentless and lazy, because society always contains more of the latter. Let our compatriots first learn to rid themselves of their swinish ways and earn the right to bear the title of citizen, and then we can start thinking about a parliament.'
This absolutely outlandish declaration had left Varya completely flummoxed, but Paladin had come to the rescue.
'Nonetheless, if a country has already introduced voting rights,' he had said gently (the conversation, of course, was conducted in French), 'it is surely unjust to disenfranchise half of mankind, and the better half at that.'
Remembering those remarkable words, Varya smiled, turned on to her side and began thinking about Paladin. Thank God that Kazanzaki had finally left the man in peace. It had been General Kriedener's decision to base his strategy on the contents of some interview! Poor Paladin had been eating his heart out and pestering absolutely everyone he met with his explanations and excuses. Varya liked him even more when he was feeling guilty and miserable like that. Previously she had thought him just a little too conceited, too accustomed to general admiration, and she had deliberately kept her distance, but now the need for that had fallen away, and Varya had begun to behave quite naturally and affectionately with the Frenchman. He was cheerful and easy to be with, not like Erast Petrovich, and he knew such a terrible lot - about Turkey and the ancient history of the East, and French history. All those places he had seen, driven by his thirst for adventure! And how charmingly he narrated his little recits drolesl - so witty, so lively, without any false posturing at all. How Varya adored it when Paladin responded to one of her questions with a significant pause and an intriguing smile and then said: 'Oh, c'est toute une histoire, mademoiselle.' And then, unlike that tight-lipped Fandorin, he would immediately tell her the story.
Most of the time the stories were funny, but sometimes they were frightening. Varya remembered one of them particularly well.
'Mademoiselle Barbara, you berate Orientals for their lack of respect for human life, and you are quite right to do so.' (They had been discussing the atrocities committed by the Bashi-Bazouks.) 'But after all, these are savages, barbarians, who have not yet developed far beyond the level of tigers or crocodiles. Let me describe to you a scene that I observed in that most civilised of countries, England. Oh, c'est toute une histoire . . . The British place such a high value on human life that they regard suicide as the most heinous of sins - and the penalty they apply for an attempt to do away with oneself is capital punishment. They have not yet gone that far in the East. Several years ago, when I was in London, a prisoner in the jail was due to be hanged. He had committed a terrible crime - somehow he had obtained a razor and attempted to cut his own throat. He had even been partly successful, but he was saved by the timely intervention of the prison doctor. Since I found the judge's logic in this case quite astounding, I decided that I must watch the execution with my own eyes. And after using my connections to obtain a pass for the execution, I was not disappointed.
'The condemned man had damaged his vocal cords and could do no more than wheeze, so they dispensed with his final word. Quite a long time was spent on squabbling with the doctor, who claimed that the man could not be hanged - the cut would re-open and the hanged man would be able to breathe directly through his trachea. The prosecuting counsel and the governor of the prison consulted and ordered the executioner to proceed. But the doctor was proved right: the pressure of the noose immediately re-opened the wound and the man dangling at the end of the rope began sucking in air with an appalling whistling sound. He hung there for five, ten, fifteen minutes and still did not die, although his face turned blue.
'They decided to summon the judge who had passed sentence on him. But since the execution took place at dawn, a considerable time was required to wake the judge. He arrived an hour later and issued a verdict worthy of Solomon: take the condemned man down from the gallows and hang him again, but this time tie the noose below the cut, not above it. They did as he said and the second attempt was successful. There you have the fruits of civilisation.'
Afterwards Varya had dreamed in the night of a hanged man with a laughing throat. 'There is no death,' the throat said in Paladin's voice and began oozing blood. 'You can only go back to the starting line.'
But those words about going back to the starting line belonged to Sobolev. 'Ah, Varvara Andreevna, my entire life is an obstacle race,' the young general had complained to her, shaking his close-cropped head bitterly. 'But the umpire keeps disqualifying me and sending me back to the starting line. Why, judge for yourself: I began in the horse guards and served with distinction against the Poles, but got involved in a stupid affair with a Polish girl; so it was back to the starting line. I graduated from the General Headquarters Academy and was given a posting to Turkestan, and then there was a stupid duel with a fatal outcome; so it was back to the starting line again, if you please. I married a prince's daughter and thought I would be happy - I was anything but ... So there I was on my own again, right back where I started, with my dreams shattered. I managed to have myself sent off to the desert again and I was as hard on myself as I was on everyone else. I only survived by a miracle, but still
I'm left empty-handed yet again. Here I sit vegetating like some useless hanger-on and waiting for a new start. But will it ever come?'
Varya felt sorry for Paladin, but not for Sobolev. In the first place, Michel's complaints about being sent back to the starting line were overdone - at the age of thirty-two he was, after all, a general of the imperial retinue, with two Orders of St George and a gold sword; and in the second place, he was far too obviously bidding for sympathy. No doubt when he was still a cadet his senior comrades had explained to him that victory in love could be won in two ways: either by a cavalry charge or by painstaking excavation of the approaches to the over-compassionate female heart.