The Russian

I

ALONG the side wall at the far end of the vast apartment sat half a dozen sober-garbed officials, primly, in a row.

A small, distinguished-looking old gentleman, with restless eyes and a nose hooked and bony as the beak of a hawk, occupied a chair on the opposite side of the room, a chair larger and more ornamented than the others. His black coat was of the finest broadcloth, ample in the frock, with an upright collar notched at the throat like a clergyman’s. His legs, too short to reach the floor, rested on the spell of his chair. His small feet were shod in patent leather. He wore his black pill-box hat jauntily over one ear. His silver-white moustache betokened scorn of those accepted ministers of age, indigo and henna. He was called the Sword of the State, and he was Governor of Tabriz and of the province of Azerbaijan.

A young officer, in the red-and-blue uniform of the brigade of Persian Cossacks, dusty and travel-stained, stood at attention in the middle of the room. He was responding, in sullen monosyllables, to a string of questions addressed to him by the Governor’s deputy, a scarecrow of a man in a gaberdine of smooth gray cloth. In these proceedings the Governor took no part. He sat deep in his chair, tugging his white moustache, heedless, seemingly, of what was going on.

At last the young officer, exasperated by this stupid inquisition and emboldened by the silence of the old gentleman, swaggered across the carpeted floor and addressed the Vice Governor with that half-concealed contempt with which the military, even in defeat, regard the civil power.

’His Exalted Presence wished to be informed of the progress of operations. I have kept him informed. It is not my affair to answer for what has happened.’

‘Nevertheless, you should speak with more respect of the Government troops,’ said the Vice Governor. He glanced nervously at the little old gentleman for an indication of support, but failed to discover any sign of it in his demeanor.

‘What I have written, what I have said now,’ cried the young officer hotly, ‘is the truth! If I had not told the truth — ’

‘You would have been thrown into prison,’ interrupted the Sword of the State coolly. ‘Go on.’

The young soldier was for a moment confused by this unlooked-for interruption, but quickly regained his self-possession. He turned, addressing more properly the Governor, and continued: —

‘The army, sir, is shattered. The Kurds suddenly opened fire with half a dozen machine guns. The Staff did not even know that they possessed any. They cursed first the British and then the Turks for supplying them. As for the troops, they were too frightened to fire. They hugged the ground in their shallow trenches. When the Kurds charged, they ran like partridges.’

‘The Kurds are still far away, are they not?’ hazarded, with feigned detachment, the Chief Secretary, a large, black-bearded gentleman in a white turban.

‘Do not be alarmed, Sadr,’ interrupted grimly the Sword of the State. ‘Your villages are not in danger.’ At this remark the members of the Council laughed, a little nervously. The gentleman in the white turban looked confused and subsided.

‘They are not so far away,’ replied the young soldier. ‘The battle, if one can call it that, took place on this side of Salmas. Our troops were scattered. Most of them are hiding in the villages and are lost to us. Some are falling back on Khoi with the guns. From Khoi to Tabriz is six days’ march.’

‘The Kurds will never dare to attack Tabriz, the second city of the Empire!’ cried the Vice Governor. He glanced in alarm at the heavily embroidered curtain which hung, in lieu of a door, over the entrance, as if he feared that those savage warriors might break in upon them then and there.

‘By Abu’l Fazl,’ cried the Sword of the State, ‘if I had a chance to loot Tabriz, I would take it!’

There was a movement behind the embroidered curtain which hung over the doorway. Then a thin, piping voice broke in upon the deliberations of the Council: —

‘A petition is made to the Most Exalted Presence! There is a man who sells caviare—’

Everyone turned. A bent old man, in the blue tunic and faded gilt buttons of the Governor’s livery, barefooted and wearing on his head a balloonshaped hat, stood before the curtain.

‘ Caviare! ’ exclaimed the Vice Governor, that scarecrow of a man.

‘Caviare?’ questioned the large gentleman in the white turban.

‘Hossein Khan,’ said the Vice Governor severely, ‘how often must you be told not to allow others to interrupt nor yet to interrupt yourself the deliberations of the Council?’

‘This man who sells caviare,’ continued the old servant in his piping voice, ‘ yes — and cheeses from Erivan and fish in boxes —’

‘Silence!’ thundered the Sword of the State.

‘He is a Russian general,’ said the shrill, piping voice of Hossein Khan.

The Sword of the State started and sat bolt upright in his chair. ‘Eh? What did you say? A Russian general? ’

‘A Russian general,’ piped the voice of Hossein Khan. ‘True, he keeps a shop in the bazaar, but he has had experience of fighting with Kurds.

‘A Russian general,’ sniggered the Vice Governor, ‘who sells caviare and cheeses! ’

‘And why not?’ cried the little, keeneyed old man who was called the Sword of the State, looking sharply from one to the other as if he dared any one of them to answer him. ‘And why not? He is doubtless a general of the late régime, a man of presence in his own country, one who possessed, perhaps, lands and villages. He cannot return to Russia, because they are murdering men of honor there and stealing their estates. He remains with us. He is without money, yet he must live. He thinks that there may be a demand here for the caviare and cheeses of his country. Instead of standing at street corners or living on the charity of others, he opens a small shop. He makes honorably his expenses.

‘You have told us, Hossein Khan,’continued the Sword of the State, ‘that this Russian general has had experience of Kurdish warfare. Perhaps he served under Linievitch in Kurdistan. I knew Linievitch. He was a gallant officer and an honorable man. The Bolsheviki took him as he was selling matches in the streets of Tiflis; they shot him because they knew that he was a better man than they.’ The old man stood up before them all. ‘The tale of the sufferings of these men will never be told. Many that I have known have sunk under the weight of their misfortunes. For these we are sorrowful. And for those who are struggling to maintain their dignity we have respect. Hossein Khan, you have forgotten to give us the name of this general who is a guest in our city.’

‘A petition is made to the Exalted Presence,’ answered the old servant. ‘His name is Rouevsky.’

‘I have no doubt that General Rouevsky is an honorable person. Also, his advice at this moment will be valuable to us. Hossein Khan, go at once to the shop of His Excellency. Present to him the Governor’s compliments, and request him to bring His Honor to us here at the Government House, as early as it is convenient for him to do so.’ He waved an arm. ‘The Council is dismissed.’

The old servant smiled delightedly. He touched his right eye, to denote that he pledged that organ against the execution of the command. Then he disappeared behind the curtain.

II

‘He is here,’ said the piping voice of Hossein Khan.

‘His Excellency is welcome.’ As Hossein Khan held the curtain open, the Sword of the State rose to receive his visitor.

A tall Russian of about thirty-five advanced easily to meet the Governor. His eyes were blue, frank, and smiling.

His fair, closely cropped head was set squarely on broad shoulders. He wore a shirt of black sateen, closed at the neck, which buttoned over his left shoulder and hung like a short skirt outside his trousers. A thin black leather belt hung loosely round his waist. His boots, which came up almost to his knees, showed signs of wear. When he smiled, which was often, his teeth showed white and regular under a fair, drooping moustache.

‘You are welcome, General, ’ said the Governor, extending his hand to the Russian. ‘Pray be seated. Shall we converse in Persian? Or perhaps you understand our Turki better?’

‘For me Turki is easier,’ answered the Russian in the dialect of Azerbaijan.

‘Excellent,’ answered the Governor. ‘ I am myself a Turk of Azerbaijan, and of course I prefer my own language. You know, we Azerbaijanis never learn to speak Persian properly; to say truth, we don’t like to use it, except for writing. General, before we go further, I must express my regret to you that we have been strangers to each other until now. We governors are supposed to know everything, yet I am ashamed to say that I did not hear until to-day that you were a guest in our city.’

The Russian smiled whimsically. ‘A guest? You call it that?’

‘It is not often that we can profit by the misfortunes of our friends,’ said the old gentleman, bowing gravely.

‘And now that I have apologized for my ignorance and remissness, I will give you a more selfish reason for requesting the honor of your presence to-day. Will you pardon me if I ask a few questions which may appear unseemly? I will explain to you immediately the reason. General, I understand that you have had some experience of warfare with the Kurds. Is that so?’

‘I commanded the cavalry under Linievitch,’ said the Russian simply.

‘Linievitch? Indeed. I knew him well. He commanded a sotnia of Cossacks which was stationed in Hamadan, where I was governor before the war. He was a captain then. An excellent man.’

‘We loved him,’ said the Russian. ‘He is dead.’

‘I heard with horror of the end of that brave man,’ said the Governor. ‘May I express to you, his comrade in arms, the sympathy of all good Persians and their detestation of these crimes?’

The Russian bowed, but did not speak.

‘And now,’ said the Sword of the State, ‘I will tell you what is on my mind. A young officer has just returned from the front, where, as you know, the Kurds are giving trouble. Our operations there are not going well — in fact, things are going very badly. There has been a battle near Salmas. In the picturesque language of my young officer, our troops ran like partridges. Did you ever hear of such a thing? Persian troops — like partridges!’

The Governor glanced keenly at the Russian, who made no remark. The old man went on.

‘The Kurds are advancing on Khoi, looting the villages and carrying off the cattle. There is apparently nothing to prevent them from taking Khoi, and perhaps from advancing on Tabriz. That, in short, is the situation. General, you know the country and the Kurds. I should like you to say frankly what you would do, if you were in my place.’

The Russian paused a moment, hesitated, then answered with a smile: —

‘If I were in Your Excellency’s place, I would not tell anyone what I intended to do.’

‘Good!’ cried the Sword of the State. ‘But suppose your opinion were asked, merely as an expert?’

The Russian paused again and considered. Then he answered slowly: —

‘I would advise a change in the high command.’

‘Ah,’ said the Sword of the State quickly, ‘and whom would you appoint?’

The Russian again paused to consider. Then he answered gravely, without trace of vanity or bravado: —

‘ Myself.’

The little old gentleman nodded understandingly, but made no reply. His thoughts were in the capital. What would they say in Tehran? Peh! Let them say! He was too old to care. His business was to beat the Kurd. Yes, but was this the way to do it? How could he put aside a brother of the Minister of War and replace him by a Russian? No. If he did that, the soup would boil over. Affairs are not managed in that way. Nevertheless, something could be arranged.

He spoke seriously to the Russian. ‘General, it is impossible. Why? For many reasons, but one is enough: this Habibullah Khan, our fat, amiable commander of the troops, is a brother of the Minister of War. You understand that if I were to do as you suggest I should soon be on my way to Tehran, and you would again be selling caviare; and what is more, you would be selling it cheap, lest the Kurds should get it for nothing! No. Affairs with us are not managed like that.

‘There is, however, an easier road. I could send, for instance, to Habibullah Khan an assistant, an adviser. Perhaps even a Chief of Staff! That — yes. Why, he would be pleased and flattered to have under him a general of the Tsar’s army! A general who has served under Linievitch in Kurdistan and who would relieve him of much of the headache of war; who would help him to reëstablish a reputation which is at present somewhat under a cloud! You would have no trouble with Habibullah. I will see to that if necessary. I have only to remind him that a certain dispatch about the affair at Salmas has not yet been sent to Tehran, but that it might still be sent! I am confident, however, that this will not be necessary. Habibullah is really an excellent fellow. I am very fond of him. For a soldier, he considers, it is true, a little too much his stomach — which, I warn you, is of a capacity! So much the better. If you feed him well he will leave everything to you. What do you say?’

The Russian did not wait to consider. He answered: —

‘I will go.’

‘I knew that you would appreciate the delicacy of the situation. By the way, a few tins of your caviare would make Habibullah your friend forever. He has a passion for caviare. Goodbye. In a month I shall hear that the Kurds are making for the frontier with our cavalry at their heels. Remember, feed him well, and if you need anything, I am here.’

III

During the weeks that ensued, the old gentleman who was called the Sword of the State followed, as closely as he could from such a distance, the fruition of his plans. The reports which he regularly received from divers confidential sources he diligently checked and compared. In the main, they tallied. There were accounts of continuous grinding drills, of grueling route marches, of daily rifle and artillery practice, of tests with transport , of small manœuvres with all arms. The army was certainly being hammered into shape.

Not a day passed without a telegram from the Russian. He must have blankets or boots or coats or saddles or tents or ammunition. He was insatiable, that man; and he wanted everything immediately — as if anything in the world could be had immediately! Nevertheless, he must be satisfied.

One day it was telephones — he must have thirty telephones at once. What should a man want with thirty telephones to fight the Kurds? And where could he, the Sword of the State, find thirty telephones? He sent for the Director, the Reis-i-Telephon. The Reis-i-Telephon had only three in stock.

‘How many are there in the houses?’ inquired the Governor.

‘We have thirty subscribers, Excellency.’

‘Bring me their telephones!’ cried the Sword of the State. ‘By the Tomb of the Prophet, the Russian shall be satisfied!’

The old man, to do him justice, gave his lieutenant magnificent support. He scoured the bazaar, he threatened contractors, he cajoled merchants, he threw camel drivers into prison, he harangued, with dire menaces, those hardened usurers of Tabriz, so that they gave him money, lest something worse befall them. What could he do? The Russian was always wiring for money, money, money. It was a war, and wars drink money as a desert drinks water. By Imam Reza, he should be satisfied!

Then late one afternoon a mudbespattered car whizzed into the garden of the Government House. It was the Russian. He jumped out and climbed the stone steps three at a time. In half an hour he was gone. But not before he had obtained the Governor’s sanction to another of his schemes. It was to raise a regiment from among the Christian refugees who had been driven out of their frontier villages by the Kurds. The very next day the first two hundred of them left for Khoi. In three days a thousand tough, hardened peasants had marched, singing, out of Tabriz to join the army and avenge their wrongs.

And then, after two months of telegrams and counter-telegrams, of comings and goings, of scouring the bazaar to find the impossible, of endless caravans of supplies, of frenzied finance — there was silence! It was as if Khoi had been swallowed up. Not a whisper, not a telegram, not a report ! The Kurds — were there any Kurds? The army — had it ever existed? Those were days of deep anxiety for the old man. His brow was black. No member of the Council dared approach him. He tried, almost every hour, to communicate with Khoi. But always there was the same reply from the operator: ‘Khoi does not answer.’

And then, at last, there was a telegram! The Sword of the State tore it open. It was short enough: —

The enemy is routed; 300 killed, 300 wounded and prisoners; six chiefs taken; all their guns captured; our casualties 100 in all.

HABIBULLAH

The Governor drew a long breath, then laughed and rubbed his hands. ‘He has done it, that Russian, by Abu’l Fazl!’ He took up the telegram and read it a second time. ‘Habibullah? Oh yes, he is in command. I had forgotten it.’ He chuckled. ‘Though Habibullah signs the telegram, he never wrote it. It is the Russian’s — laconic, like himself. Habibullah would have telegraphed ten pages.’ He gave orders for the town to be illuminated in honor of the victory.

During the next few days further news of the battle filtered in. It seemed that the brunt of the attack, as was fitting, had been borne by the Persian troops, who had covered themselves with glory. The Christian refugees had been placed in the second line, in support. Later, it was hinted that they had received orders to fire on the Persians if they ran!

When the Sword of the State heard that, he flared up, but then lay back in his chair and roared with laughter. ‘By the Tomb of the Prophet,’ he cried, ‘I must remember that! It needed this Russian to teach us how to make the Persians fight!’

IV

Hossein Khan raised the heavy embroidered curtain and stood before it with hands crossed over his middle, waiting to be addressed. ‘What is it?’ said the Sword of the State testily.

‘There is a petition to the Exalted Presence,’ said Hossein Khan in his piping voice. ‘He has opened his shop again.’

‘Who has opened what shop?’ said the Governor.

‘The Russian,’ answered Hossein Khan.

‘Eh?’ cried the Sword of the State, turning swiftly in his chair.

‘Until to-day it was closed,’ said Hossein Khan. ‘This morning it was open. The Russian—’

‘Yes?’ said the Sword of the State impatiently.

‘He is there,’ said Hossein Khan.

‘Ah!’ said the Sword of the State. ‘So he has arrived. He will come to see me presently.’

The Russian did not appear that day. Nor the day after. The Sword of the State waited, becoming more and more impatient. On the afternoon of the third day, he ordered his horse and said to Hossein Khan, ‘Come.’

Thus the good people of Tabriz were surprised by the unusual spectacle of their Governor, the Sword of the State, riding through the town, attended only by the head of his servants.

Hossein Khan pointed across the street to a narrow door, the upper part of which was glazed with square panes of thin, greenish glass, which played tricks when you looked through it. On one side of the door was a shop window, glazed with the same wavy glass, behind which were neatly displayed a round red cheese, a few tins of sardines, two large sausages, and a small open cask of caviare.

‘It is there,’said Hossein Khan, and dismounted to hold his master’s horse.

The Sword of the State advanced toward the shop and opened the glass door. Within, along one side, ran a wooden counter, unpainted, on which stood a pair of Russian scales of heavy metal, and an abacus. Against the wall was a glazed fixture of unpainted wood. On its three narrow shelves was a miscellaneous stock of what the Russians call ‘conserves’ — fish, butter, caviare, and the like — in tins. The Russian was standing before his fixture, with his back to the door. He was wearing the same black shirt, gathered in at the waist, which he had worn on the day of his first visit to the Governor.

The Sword of the State advanced toward the counter.

‘A pound of caviare,’he said.

The Russian turned. He took a round tin from the fixture behind him and laid it gravely on the counter.

‘Why have you not been to see me?’ said the Sword of the State.

The Russian smiled, his good, serious smile.

‘The business for which I was engaged was finished. There was my shop. I thought I should like to come back to it — without any fuss.’

‘What!’ cried the old gentleman. ‘After you have defeated the Kurds for us, you leave us, like that, to sell caviare and cheeses!’

‘Why not?’ said the Russian. ‘You see, I undertook this Kurdish business because—I was a little tired of waiting; but I knew that it would be finished quickly —’

‘Waiting?’ questioned the Sword of the State.

‘Yes. Now once more I have no engagements. I am free — to sell my caviare and cheeses! Free — and ready.’

‘Free?’ questioned the Sword of the State. ‘Ready? For what?’

‘For Russia,’answered Rouevsky. ‘She will need me before long.’