xymnovel Chapter 303 Clash of Systems
Chapter 303 Clash of Systems
Chapter 303 Clash of Systems
On the balcony, the night breeze ruffled Venizelos's clothes. The distant clamor and music from the banquet hall seemed isolated and unreal, cut off by an invisible wall. This place had become an island of two ideas, a battlefield of fierce clashes.
Ahmed Riza's chest heaved violently. Venizelos's nonchalant words were like a red-hot iron rod, precisely piercing the deepest humiliation in his heart.
He took a sudden step forward, his voice rising with excitement and trembling uncontrollably.
"A nation must be ruled by its people! Its power should come from parliament, from every vote cast by the people, not from that ridiculous, illusory inheritance of blood!"
In his eyes burned the flame of an idealist. It was a power he had drawn under the kerosene lamps of Paris, in the classrooms of the Sorbonne, a power powerful enough to burn down the entire old world. He believed he had grasped the truth.
"Monarchy is a remnant of the Middle Ages! It is a heavy shackle that imprisons a nation from modern civilization! It should have been swept into the dustbin of history long ago; only the most ignorant and backward countries would worship it as a god!"
He waved his arms as if he were issuing a long-suppressed accusation of anger against the entire corrupt Ottoman Empire.
Venizelos listened quietly.
He neither interrupted nor refuted, but simply scrutinized the passionate young man before him with an almost scholarly gaze. Like an experienced old doctor observing a delirious patient with a high fever, his eyes held no anger, only a calm, almost compassionate, inquiry.
Venizelos only spoke slowly after Ahmed Riza stopped, panting heavily, due to his emotional state.
"Mr. Riza, the blueprint you've drawn is beautiful." He picked up his glass, gently swirling it, the red liquid rippling in circles. "Liberty, equality, fraternity—these words shine like gold; who wouldn't yearn for them?"
His voice, in stark contrast to the other person's impassioned tone, was as calm as a bottomless river.
"But have you ever considered what would happen if, in a country with centuries of imperial history, where people are accustomed from birth to worshiping a supreme leader and entrusting their fate to a Padisha, this pillar of support that everyone looks up to was suddenly removed?"
This question was like a bucket of ice water poured over Ahmed Riza's burning passion.
Venizelos gave him no time to think; he continued speaking slowly and deliberately, each word like a carefully polished pebble, falling steadily.
"Take France for example, the source of your republican ideas. Since you admire it so much, let's have a good talk about it."
With each sentence he spoke, he took a step forward, and an invisible aura began to press down on the other person.
"How many years has it taken for France to embark on its path to republicanism? From the storming of the Bastille to today, a century has passed. Has France truly achieved stability? Have they ever enjoyed a generation of peace?"
"The Jacobin guillotine was stained with the blood of revolutionaries and innocents. And then? The crown of Emperor Napoleon, who crowned himself with the bones of all the youth of Europe. The Bourbon Restoration, the July Monarchy, the brief spring of the Second Republic, and the long winter of the Second Empire."
His voice turned low, as if he were recounting a painful family history.
"Finally, there was the flames of the Paris Commune. The workers of Paris risked their lives to pursue an ideal state in their hearts, only to be met with bullets fired by the Versailles government."
He stood before Ahmed Riza, his gaze piercing through his glasses, looking directly into the other's pupils, which were slightly constricted by shock.
"A country that does not have a sufficiently strong middle class as a social stabilizer, a national literacy rate of less than 10 percent, and most people who cannot even write their own names, will not ultimately gain freedom if it blindly and fanatically promotes a republic."
"Instead, it's an endless civil war, a playground for ambitious individuals, and a cycle of military strongmen. The people overthrow one emperor, only to be met with ten, a hundred, even more brutal warlords who will tear the entire country to pieces in their struggle for power!"
This series of cold, brutal historical facts, like heavy punches wrapped in iron, slammed into Ahmed Riza's face. He opened his mouth, wanting to refute, but found that his theories, learned from books, seemed so pale and powerless in the face of bloody reality.
"Could it be—" His voice was hoarse, his throat tight, "that we must give up the chance for a new life just because we're afraid of the pain of childbirth? Ottoman needs a complete revolution, a sweeping revolution, to cleanse all the filth!"
"The flames of revolution can destroy the old world, but they may not necessarily build a new one." Venizelos shook his head, his tone becoming more serious than ever before. "After the flames subside, what remains is often just scorched earth. Mr. Riza, let me ask you a very practical question."
.
He stared at the other person, speaking slowly and deliberately.
"When the Sultan's authority collapses, who will fill the power vacuum? Will it be you intellectuals in Paris, with your pens and mouths? Or will it be the generals who hold military power and are stationed in every corner of the empire, with their guns and cannons?"
This question struck Ahmed like a bolt of lightning. He thought of the Macedonian Third Army and the Syrian Fourth Army—those arrogant and fierce generals. Would they obey the commands of a group of intellectuals?
The answer sent a chill down his spine.
“Sometimes,” Venizelos’s voice softened, with a strange guiding quality, “a wise monarch with absolute authority, implementing reforms from the top down with an iron fist, is far more beneficial to a country riddled with problems than a bottom-up revolution destined to spiral out of control.”
"Because he is the most direct embodiment of national interests. The strength of the nation is the continuation of his family's glory. The destruction of the nation is the end of his personal power. He has no way out."
The debate on the balcony lasted for a long time.
Venizelos did not use any flowery language; he simply used his rich experience as a politician, which he had gained through turbulent times, and irrefutable historical examples to utterly refute Ahmed Riza's perfect republican ideals, which he had learned from French books.
He did not destroy the other person's patriotism, but he destroyed their naivety.
He made Ahmed Riza realize for the first time that the path to national salvation was far more complex, dirty, and realistic than he had imagined in the Parisian cafes.
Seeing the young man's dejected appearance, Venizelos knew that the task assigned by His Highness Constantine had been completed.
He took the folded note out of his pocket.
"Mr. Riza, perhaps you should consider Türkiye's future from a different perspective."
He gently placed the note on the cool marble railing of the balcony.
Ahmed Riza's gaze was firmly drawn to the small note, as if it contained the devil who could answer all his questions.
Venizelos didn't say another word. He straightened his tie, turned around, and walked back into the brightly lit, bustling banquet hall, leaving behind a shattered ideal and a cruel reality for the lonely figure behind him.