xymnovel Chapter 300 The Dilemma of the Reformers
Chapter 300 The Dilemma of the Reformers
Chapter 300 The Dilemma of the Reformers
The meeting room at Lancaster House had become a quagmire built of words and red tape.
Unable to force Greece to comply with his ultimatum-like stance any longer, the Marquess of Salisbury changed tactics. He instructed representatives of England and France to engage in endless, tedious discussions about the jurisdiction over every village in Epirus, the navigability of every river, and even the forestry taxation of every grove of trees.
Time became his new weapon. He intended to use it to exhaust the Greeks' patience and cripple their finances.
"Regarding the tariff rates at the Port of Preveza, we believe they must be reduced by fifty percent from their current levels to reflect its openness as an international free port," the French representative said arrogantly, circling his finger on the map.
Venizelos adjusted his glasses and pulled out a thin catalog from the mountain of documents.
"Mr. Ambassador, you make a very good point. However, before discussing tariffs, perhaps we should first define the boundaries of the 'inner harbor' and 'outer harbor' of Preveza. Here is a 15th-century nautical chart drawn by the Republic of Venice, which I believe is of great value to our discussion today."
The French representative's expression stiffened for a moment.
The meeting devolved into another two-hour academic debate on historical geography.
Constantine sat not far away, listening quietly. His gaze passed over Venizelos's tireless back and landed on the other end of the conference table. At the Ottoman delegation's seats, the bloated Pashas were wiping sweat from their brows with handkerchiefs, their eyes unfocused, completely unable to keep up with the pace of the negotiations.
In an inconspicuous corner behind them sat a young man. He was thin, dressed in an ill-fitting Western-style suit, his back ramrod straight, like a javelin stuck in the mud. His fists were clenched, and his eyes held barely suppressed anger.
Constantine's gaze lingered on him for a moment before he looked away.
He got up and left the meeting room quietly.
The official residence's study.
London outside the window was shrouded in thick fog, as always.
Constantine stood before the enormous world map, his gaze not lingering on the Balkans or London, but across the entire European continent, settling on the vast land known as Anatolia.
The door was pushed open silently.
Alexandros Dimitriopoulos walked in. He placed a thin brown paper document bag on the desk.
"Your Highness, here is the information you requested."
Constantine picked up the file bag and tore open the seal. Inside were more than a dozen pages, written in German and French, detailing information about an organization called "Young Turkey."
The composition of the membership, political platform, scope of activities, and the biographies of several key leaders.
His finger finally stopped on a name—Ahmed Riza.
A graduate of the Sorbonne University in Paris, he was deeply influenced by the French positivist philosopher Auguste Comte.
An idealist.
A patriot who deeply abhorred the corrupt rule of the Sultan.
"A reformer who longed to build a new, modern Turkey on the ruins of the Ottoman Empire."
The last page of the document contained a sketch portrait. It was of the young man with fiery eyes who sat in the corner of the conference room.
Constantine put down the documents.
He knew that this young man before him, and the emerging force behind him, were Greece's most dangerous and most worthy adversary in Asia Minor for the next few decades.
He closed the file bag and handed it back to Dimitriopoulos.
"Make the arrangements," he said calmly. "I need to meet with a French journalist, Jean-Pierre Rousseau."
Dimitriopoulos took the document bag, bowed, and withdrew.
Afternoon tea time, in the reception room of the official residence.
The crackling flames in the fireplace dispelled the chill from the room.
French journalist Jean-Pierre Rousseau sat on a plush sofa, a steaming cup of black tea in his hand. He was a middle-aged man in his forties, with bright eyes and an air of idealistic passion.
The newspaper he edited was known for its sympathy for the independence and liberation movements of various nations.
Just a few days ago, it was he who, with the most passionate words, reported on Sofia's righteous act in Ioannina, calling it "a great victory of mercy over barbarity."
Constantine did not discuss negotiations or war. He simply spoke with Mr. Rousseau, as a history enthusiast, about European history from the French Revolution to the Franco-Prussian War.
From the construction of nation-states to the advantages and disadvantages of constitutional monarchy and republican systems.
From the impact of the Industrial Revolution on social structures to the awakening of national consciousness through the popularization of education.
Constantine's profound knowledge and insightful views prompted Rousseau to nod frequently, his eyes revealing the excitement of having met a kindred spirit.
"Your Highness, your thoughts have surpassed those of most monarchs of this era," Rousseau said sincerely, setting down his teacup.
"I am merely a student standing on the shoulders of giants," Constantine humbly replied. "Those who truly drive history are the pioneers who find a way out for their nations in the darkness. They deserve respect, no matter which country they are in."
He changed the subject, speaking in a casual tone.
"Just like in the Ottoman Empire, I have heard of some enlightened intellectuals who are working hard to bring progressive French ideas to their ancient country. I have deep sympathy and understanding for their courage."
Rousseau's eyes lit up; this was exactly the topic that interested him most.
The two chatted for a long time until the sky outside the window began to turn dusky.
Rousseau rose to take his leave.
Constantine saw him to the door. As they shook hands in farewell, Constantine seemed to suddenly remember something.
"By the way, Mr. Rousseau."
"Your Highness, please give your orders."
"I have heard that there is a gentleman named Ahmed Riza in the Ottoman delegation. I have read some of his articles published in Paris, and he is a respectable thinker."
Constantine released his grip and turned to look out the window at the blurry, gray outline of the city.
"If you have the opportunity to meet him, could you please convey a line of poetry that I have read?"
Curious, Rousseau took out his notebook and pen, ready to take notes.
Constantine's voice, mingled with the London fog, sounded somewhat ethereal.
"The old chains have broken, but the new master has not yet arrived."
He paused for a moment, then read the second half of the sentence.
"The Sultan's palace is very large, but it cannot accommodate monarchs from two different eras."
Rousseau's pen flew across the paper. He jotted down the suggestive line of poetry, but did not fully grasp its deeper meaning.
He felt only that this was an enlightened monarch paying homage from afar to another foreign reformer.
He put the notebook away, bowed to Constantine, and turned to leave.
Constantine watched his figure disappear into the fog without moving.
A message has been sent.
It will transcend the negotiating table and the barriers of faith to knock on the inner door of a dying empire.