The Governor

FEAR was in his eyes. He moistened his lips and whispered: ‘They have arrested my brother.’

There was something familiar in the face; yet I failed to place him.

‘Who are you?’ I inquired.

‘ Don’t you know me, Sah’b? I am the brother of your clerk, Mirza Moussa. The police have taken him.’

‘The police!’ I exclaimed.

‘He was playing the tar in a garden. Mussulmans were there. It is Ramazan. The priests . . . ’

His voice died, from the abjectness of his terror. It was the terror of the Jew, sensing, from afar off, the pogrom; of the Armenian, haunted by a dark foreboding of massacre. My clerk, I remembered, was a Bahai. He belonged to that small community of Persian Jews who have abandoned their faith, storied and picturesque, for the newest of the world religions.

Life in that small Bahai community, outwardly at least, was peaceful and secure; but from time to time something would happen which made one wonder if that appearance of well-being were anything more than an appearance. There were persons, it was said, who watched for ‘incidents’ — furtively, intently; and who, when they occurred, seized upon them to lash into action the latent hatred of the scum of the bazaar for the Bahais, knowing that when that hatred is aroused nothing will satisfy it but blood.

Thus one would chance too often, in the affairs of the Bahais, upon that spectre, Fear. On the edge of the town, along the foothills of the Elvend and reaching deep into those fertile valleys which pierce its mass, a thousand orchards blossom. There the people, in the summer months, carry their rugs and samovars to picnic in the open air. Into one of these orchards my clerk had wandered with a few friends, Bahais like himself. They had taken with them a tar, a Persian mandolin. They had carried a tar with them and a samovar, mindless that it was the Blessed Month, when Mussulmans fast all day; forgetting that fanaticism waxes on empty stomachs. The sight of those young men, followers of the execrated Bab, making merry in the month of fasting, had infuriated some fanatic Mussulman. There had been an altercation. Perhaps the Mussulman had struck the Bahai. If he had, I am quite sure that the young man would not have dared to strike back. In the end the police had interfered. The Bahai had been arrested — for disturbing the peace during Ramazan.

I thought: ‘The priests will be taking a hand in this; I must see the Governor.’

Emir-ol-Molk was Governor at the time. Though he had hardly passed his fortieth year, he was of an age that is dead. I hesitate to call him a reactionary — he was far beyond that. In spite of the Constitution, of Parliament, of the Press, he believed that the directest road to truth was by torture, and that the best adornment for a town square was not a band stand but a gallows. He held that the surest way to put an end to burglary was to catch a thief and cut off his fingers. His specific for brigandage, the bête noire of Persian governors, was the Getch, the Plaster: a brigand is lowered to his neck in a pit, which is then filled with liquid plaster—this, as it sets, expands. It is for an encouragement to the others.

His method for bringing down the price of bread was to nail the Chief of the Bakers by the ears to his shop door; or, if that failed, to bake him in his own oven. When that redoubtable bandit Abbas, tired of pursuit, offered to give himself up in exchange for a free pardon, Emir-ol-Molk swore on the Koran that, if he surrendered, not a hair of his head would be touched. Yet, when Abbas came in, the Governor had him kicking the air before that rascal had time to drink, in memory of the Martyrs, a cup of cold water.

Yet in his demeanor Emir-ol-Molk was of a mildness! A dapper, wellgroomed little man, with a soft humorous voice. When I think of him I forget his cruelties; but his gayety, his humor, his love of a good story, his eye for a situation — these I shall not easily forget. And I remember that the people still say: ‘When Emir-ol-Molk was Governor, there was cheapness, and the Vilayet was safe.’ Whence it may be concluded that it is unwise to apply to one country the standards of another.

The Ferenghi — be he missionary, traveler, manager of a local bank or trading company — will approach the governor of a province half as large as England on a basis of perfect equality. It is the prerogative of the successful West over the East, the unfortunate, the defeated.

A liveried, barefooted attendant disappeared behind a curtain to announce to His Excellency my advent. I was ushered into a long, bare room. Its white plastered walls were pierced with little le arched recesses, in rows one above another. Hundreds of tiny mirrors had been inserted in the spaces between these recesses, making the walls shine like burnished silver. On the floor lay a huge carpet, of noble and antique design. That, and those niched and mirrored walls, gave to the room a spare but dignified adornment.

His Excellency was seated at the far end. The floor about him was strewn with papers — whence I concluded that he had been busy with his secretary. It is the prerogative of those in high places to sign documents and throw them on the floor for the secretary to collect.

He rose and with a smile invited me to sit on the only other chair in that vast chamber. Then an attendant set before me a small table and another brought a tray on which were a tiny glass of tea and a plate of round macaroons. Because it was the month of fasting, the Governor must not be served — at least in public.

His Excellency knew, of course, the object of my sudden visit; and I, of course, knew that he knew. Yet we avoided, with perfect understanding, a too precipitate discussion of the subject. Only when the second glass of tea had been consumed did I venture to touch, indirectly, upon the matter.

He had heard something about a young Bahai. Was he my clerk? The priests, as usual, were making a fuss. It was all too ridiculous.

Here was an opening; I remembered that ancient and bitter feud between Church and State in Persia. I said: —

‘Your Excellency knows, of course, that the priests are at the bottom of this and that they are trying to incite the people against the Bahai. Your Excellency has not forgotten the disorders which took place in Melayir last year, when two Bahais were murdered.

Are the priests mad enough to think that they can revive the days of Sheikh Bagher, who cared so little for the Governor’s authority that he cut off a man’s head in the public square with a stroke of a sword?’

The Governor laughed, his delicate, deprecating laugh. ’The priests are a little fond of taking a hand in affairs which are not their special concern,’he said. ‘Perhaps some day they may find out how tender is my regard for them. Yet, to say truth, those Bahais do give us a lot of trouble. He was a good Mussulman, the Bab, yet he founded a new religion. Why did he do that? As if there were not enough religions already — excellent ones, too! And as if we governors have not enough complications! But you wish to save your Bahai Mirza, eh? Well, well, we must see what can be done. Suppose we begin by postponing the trial until after Ramazan. That will give their blood a little time to cool. Also, things will look different to them when their stomachs are full. Let me see. If we postpone the trial, must the young man be kept in custody? Perhaps, if you will undertake to produce him in three weeks’ time, I might let him out. Will that do? Are you satisfied?’

I thanked him profusely and sincerely. ‘When the trial comes on — ’I began.

The Governor waved his hand. ‘One thing at a time,’ he said. ‘You Europeans are always trying to look ahead too far. Who knows what may happen after three weeks? Do I know? Do you know? Suppose this Jew who turned Babi should now turn Mussulman? Or suppose the chief mollah should turn Babi! Eh, that would be a good one! Agha Fazel a Babi!’ And he threw back his head and laughed delightedly at the incongruousness of the idea.

I thanked him again, and assured him that I would answer for my clerk’s appearance at the trial. Then I requested him to command my departure.

That evening, after dark, my servant knocked at my study door and announced that my Mirza, the Bahai, was without. The Governor apparently had lost no time in ordering his release.

He almost ran toward me, and seized my hand in both of his. He would have knelt before me if I had let him. And all this he did humbly, deprecatingly, without a word, in the Persian manner.

I said: ‘I am glad that the Governor released you so quickly, Moussa. Did he tell you that he has put off the case until after Ramazan? Meantime you may resume your work. I have given the Governor my assurance that you will be present when the case comes on.’

He stood before me, silent, with eyes downcast, holding his left wrist in his right hand. Then, without lifting his eyes, he said: ‘Did the Governor ask Your Honor to give the undertaking that I should be present at the trial?'

‘He did,’ I answered, ‘and I gave the undertaking willingly. The trial will take place in three weeks, after Ramazan. By that time the hearts of the mollahs will be softer and their blood cooler.’

He shivered.

‘Do not be afraid, Moussa,’ I said. ‘Everything will be arranged. The Governor will not permit any injustice. He cares nothing for the mollahs. Of course, you must give me your word that you will not leave Hamadan before the trial.’

‘I will do as Your Honor and His Excellency desire.’ Then he waited with hands clasped and eyes downcast for the order to retire.

Three days later my clerk broke his bail.

It was like this. I went off for the week-end, to shoot gazelle from a Ford car. On Monday I was back again at my desk. Requiring some particulars, I rang for Moussa.

The spreader of carpets — which is the pleasant Persian idiom for an office servant — appeared and informed me, in his bland, noncommittal way, that Mirza Moussa had not appeared that morning.

‘Did he send a message?’ I inquired.

He had not sent any message.

‘Go to his house, Asker, and see if he is sick,’ I said, ‘ and ask why he has not sent a message.’

The spreader of carpets disappeared. He returned in an hour, bringing with him Moussa’s brother, the one who had first given me news of his arrest. I questioned him. He spoke haltingly, but without that terror which had previously possessed him. Indeed it seemed to me that I detected a note, if not of triumph, of indifference in his voice. Moussa had disappeared. He did not know where he was. On Saturday, after office hours, Moussa had left the house and he had not returned. They had searched everywhere.

My first impulse was to kick the fellow, who was so plainly lying. It was inconceivable that Moussa, who after all was a Jew first and a Bahai afterward, should so set at naught the traditions of his race as to leave his family without a hint of whither he was going. I reasoned, however, that under the same tradition Moussa’s brother would never divulge the secret. Anyhow, it was plainly my duty, as surety for Moussa, to inform the Governor at once and take my medicine.

Emir-ol-Molk was alone. I was ushered into the long, bare room at once. I lost no time in making known the object of my visit. He listened without a word, and when I had finished he snapped out: ‘You stood surety for the man!’

‘I did,’ I answered. ‘I was stupid enough to rely on his sense of honor and his loyalty to me. I took no steps to keep him under surveillance. I was wrong, of course.’

‘What are you going to do about it?’ he snapped out again.

‘That rests with you, Excellency.’

He looked at me sullenly for a moment from under his black eyebrows. Then he threw back his head and broke into a ripple of laughter. ‘Oh, you Ferenghis!’ he cried. ‘Truly you are without that ruse which is the very attar of existence! You need an abacus to show you that the half of a thousand is five hundred! Listen! It was I, Emir-ol-Molk, who told your stupid Bahai to run away. Did I do that because I loved the Bahais? Or because this was a short way out of such a stupidity? Or because the man is a clerk of the Kompani? No. I did it as a little lesson to the mollahs — just to show them that they must cease from meddling in my affairs. A first, small lesson. Oh, they understood it soon enough! They knew, of course, that it was all my doing. They are not Ferenghis. The next day Agha Fazel — you know him, the man with a turban like the mountain of Elvend — came to see me. There were two or three others with him whose turbans are a little lower — a very little lower. I laughed at them. I said: “Is that the way you look after your prisoner? Is that the way you watch over the interests of our holy religion? Why did you let the man out of your sight? But even now,”

I said, “all is not lost. TheSah’b stood surety for him. Go to the English Consul and make a protest — perhaps the English Consul will find him for you!” That was a good one, eh? The English Consul! They would go to hell first! The sons of burned fathers!’ He threw back his head again and laughed his soft, delighted laugh.

A liveried attendant entered the room, carrying a tray on which lay a sealed telegram. Emir-ol-Molk, still smiling at my discomfiture, took up a paper knife and slit open the envelope.

The man was changed. The handsome olive face was purple and forbidding. The veins stood out like whipcord on his neck and forehead. The humorous, laughter-loving mouth was twisted with passion. Anger, hatred, cruelty, burned in the eyes. He sprang to his feet, and began striding up and down the room, clenching and unclenching his hands. ‘Ah!’ he cried. ‘They have beaten me this time, but by the Justice of God I will repay them!’

Then, catching sight of me, he swung round. ‘Your idiot of a Bahai has made a fool of me,’ he cried. I told him to get away and cover up his tracks, but the mollahs were too clever for him. Do you know what they have done? They have caught him in the bazaar in Kermanshah and murdered him.'