‘And if we asked the United States to send us troops?’
‘Why would they come, they are Russia’s friends. Was it not President Roosevelt who brought about a reconciliation between the Tsar and the Mikado?’
‘But there is Shuster. Would they want to help him?’
‘Shuster is very popular in Persia; but at home he is hardly known. The American leaders will not be able to appreciate why he has got on the wrong side of London and St Petersburg.’
‘We could suggest to them building a railway. Perhaps they would be enticed to come to our help.’
‘Perhaps, but not for six months, and the Tsar will be here within two weeks.’
‘And the Turks? The Germans? And why not the Japanese? Did they not crush the Russians in Manchuria?’ Suddenly a young deputy from Kirman suggested, with a hint of a smile, that the throne of Persia should be offered to the Mikado, at which Fazel exploded:
‘We must be aware, once and for all, that we can not even make an appeal to the people of Isfahan! If we join battle, it will be in Teheran, with the people of Teheran and with arms which are currently in the capital. Just as in Tabriz three years ago. And it is not a thousand Cossacks that will be sent to fight us but fifty thousand. We must know that we will fight without the slightest chance of winning.
Coming from anyone else, this disheartening speech would have aroused a torrent of accusations. Coming from the hero of Tabriz, the most eminent ‘son of Adam’, the words were taken for what they were — an expression of cruel reality. After that it was difficult to preach resistance, but that however was just what Fazel did.
‘If we are ready to fight, it is solely in order to safeguard the future. Does Persia not still live in the memory of the Imam Hussein? Yet this martyr did no more than lead a lost battle. He was defeated, crushed and massacred and it is he whom we honour. Persia needs blood in order to believe. There are seventy-two of us, the same number as Hussein’s companions. If we die, this Parliament will become a place of pilgrimage and democracy will be anchored for centuries in the ground of the Orient.
They all declared themselves ready to die, but they did not die. Not that they weakened or betrayed their cause. Exactly the opposite — they tried to organise the city’s defences and volunteers, particularly ‘sons of Adam’, presented themselves in great numbers, just as in Tabriz. However it was to no avail. After invading the north of the country, the Tsar’s troops were now advancing in the direction of the capital. Only the snow slowed down their progress a little.
On 24 December the fallen Prime Minister decided to take power again by force. Aided by Cossacks, Bakhtiari tribes and an important section of the army and the police, he made himself master of the capital and had the dissolution of Parliament proclaimed. Several deputies were arrested. Those who had been most active, with Fazel at the head of the list, were condemned to exile.
The first act of the new regime was officially to accept the terms of the Tsar’s ultimatum. A polite letter informed Morgan Shuster that an end had been put to his functions as Treasurer General. He had only been in Persia for eight months, albeit eight hectic and dizzying months, which all but changed the face of the Orient.
On 11 January 1912, Shuster was seen off with honours. The young Shah placed his own car at his disposal, along with his French chauffeur Monsieur Varlet, to drive him to the port of Enzeli. There were a lot of us, foreigners and Persians, who came to bid him farewell, some in front of his residence and others along the road. There were of course no cheers, just the discreet gestures of thousands of hands, the tears of men and women and a crowd of strangers who were crying like abandoned lovers. Along the whole route there was only one insignificant incident: as the convoy went past, a Cossack picked up a stone and made as if to throw it in the direction of the American; I do not believe that he even carried through his action.
When the car had disappeared beyond the Kazvin Gate, I walked a little in the company of Charles Russel. Then I made my way alone, by foot, to Shireen’s palace.
‘You seem rather crestfallen,’ she said as she received me.
‘I have just come from bidding farewell to Shuster.’
‘Ah! He has finally gone!’
I was not certain whether I had understood the tone of her exclamation. She explained herself.
‘Today I have been wondering whether it would not have been better if he had never set foot in this country.’
I looked at her with horror.
‘It is you who are saying that to me!’
‘Yes, it is I, Shireen, who am saying that. I, who applauded the American’s arrival, I who approved every one of his actions, I who saw him as a redeemer. Now I regret the fact that he did not stay in far-off America.’
‘But what did he do wrong?’
‘Nothing. And that is precisely the proof that he did not understand Persia.’
I really was not following her.
‘If a minister is right and the king mistaken, a wife is right when her husband is wrong or a soldier correct and his officer off course, are they not punished doubly? In the eyes of the weak, it is wrong to be right. Compared to the Russians and the English, Persia is weak and should have known how to behave like a weak person.’
‘Until the end of time? Should Persia not recover one day and construct a modern state, educate its people and enter into the concert of prosperous and respected nations? That is what Shuster was trying to do.’
‘For that I grant him the greatest admiration. However I cannot help thinking that if he had succeeded a little less we would not be in this lamentable situation today with our democracy destroyed and our territory invaded.’
‘The Tsar’s ambitions being what they are, that would have happened sooner or later.’
‘It is always better for a misfortune to happen later. Do you know the story of Mullah Nasruddin’s talking ass?’
Mullah Nasruddin was the semi-legendary hero of all the anecdotes and parables of Persia, Transoxania and Asia Minor. Shireen told the story:
‘It was said that a half-mad king had condemned Nasruddin to death for having stolen an ass. Just as he was about to be led off for execution he exclaimed: “That beast is in reality my brother. A magician made him look like that, but if he were entrusted to me for a year I would teach him to speak like us again!” Intrigued, the monarch made the accused repeat his promise before decreeing: “Very well! But if within one year from today the ass does not speak, you will be executed.” As he went out, Nasruddin was accosted by his wife: “How can you make a promise like that? You know very well that this ass will not speak.” “Of course I know,” replied Nasruddin, “but during the year the king might die, the ass might or even I might.”’
The princess went on:
‘If we had been able to gain some time, Russia might have got bogged down in the Balkans or in China. What’s more, the Tsar is not eternal, he could die or be shaken by riots or revolts, as happened six years ago. We should have been patient and waited, used tricks, procrastinated, yielded, told lies and given promises. That has always been the wisdom of the Orient; Shuster wanted to make us move to the rhythm of the Occident, he steered us straight to shipwreck.’
She seemed to be suffering from having said that, so I avoided contradicting her. She added:
‘Persia makes me think of an unlucky sailing boat. The sailors constantly complain that there is not enough wind to move, and suddenly, as if to punish them, Heaven sends them a tornado.’
We stayed silent for a long time, weighed down in thought. Then I put my arm around her affectionately.