AN ENGLISHWOMAN IN ANGORA
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[Illustration:
MISS GRACE ELLISON.
The first British woman to visit Angora since the beginning of the
Nationalist Movement. She has always stood for Anglo-Turkish
friendship.
Frontispiece
]
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AN ENGLISHWOMAN
IN ANGORA :: :: By
GRACE ELLISON :: :: ::
════════════════════════════════════════
With 34 illustrations, reproduced from the Author’s
own sketches and photographs, and with a cartoon by
L. Raven Hill
_LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.
PATERNOSTER ROW_
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TO
MY DEAR MOTHER
AND TO MY LATE FATHER,
CAPT. JOHN ELLISON,
IN LOVING MEMORY OF HIS BEAUTIFUL LIFE:
HIS EVER COURAGEOUS DEFENCE OF JUSTICE,
HONOUR, AND TRUTH.
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FOREWORD
AN ENGLISHWOMAN IN ANGORA
AT the time of writing I am the only Englishwoman who has been in Angora
since the Nationalist movement began.
Others, moved by curiosity, have sought permission to visit the country
under its new _régime_, but Nationalist Turkey has bidden them
wait—until she is sure that her guests will write, or speak, the _truth_
about what they may see, and can be trusted to forget the prejudices
with which they would almost certainly arrive.
For myself, I have three times been welcomed to Turkey with open arms
_on account_ of my nationality. On this occasion I was still welcome,
but _in spite of_ my nationality—an ugly truth that my mind almost
refuses to accept.
To compare impressions from these visits one must first ask: “How could
such a change of attitude come to pass?”
Formerly Great Britain was _the_ country of all countries that “counted”
in Turkey. To be a “gentleman”—(they used the English word)—was the
Turks’ highest ambition. British stuffs were chosen in preference to
French, _not_ because they were finer or of greater value, but simply
because they were _British_. Our ideals, our policy, and, I must add,
our governesses, were almost regarded as sacred in Turkish eyes.
And now I am advised, for greater safety, to travel as an American! God
forbid! I stand by the old flag.
I would smile, could the tears be hidden, when I recall the police
officer who so solemnly enquired if _I was sure_ I was not an American.
“Perfectly sure,” I replied.
“How then,” said he, “has that impossibility—an Englishwoman in
Angora—become possible?”
“Your Government,” I answered, “has made it possible. As you have no one
else here from my country, I have given myself this mission.... An old
friend of the Turks, a woman who loves her own country! Can she not do
_something_ for that peace between us, which is a supreme necessity to
both? That is why I am here.”
* * * * *
I do not forget that Turks were our “enemies” in the war. But they came
back, beaten to the dust—and penitent. Then was the moment for us to
have made our own terms. In that mood Turkey would have
accepted—anything, but the _one thing_ we imposed on her—the Greeks at
Smyrna! That policy of sheer folly has transformed the veneration of her
people into fear and distrust, if not hate.
Unjustly and unreasonably as we have behaved towards our old ally, we
were not, indeed, alone in this mischievous exalting of Greek
aggressions. Dare we not now own our mistake? We are great enough, and
strong enough, to be generous, to mend our ways!
To-day, surely, it is the duty of English patriots to pour oil on the
troubled waters, to explain to Turkey what _can_ be explained, and to
paint our countrymen, at least, less “black” than they have been made to
seem by our rivals’ pen!
Lausanne Palace Hotel,
Lausanne,
_January, 1923_.
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CONTENTS
FOREWORD
PAGE
An Englishwoman in Angora ix
List of Illustrations xv
CHAPTER I
On Board the _Pierre Loti_—Turkey’s Debt 17
to Loti’s Magic Pen
CHAPTER II
Turkey and Tolerance—A Friendship Wasted 22
CHAPTER III
Malta: the Name I was to Hear Throughout 29
Anatolia
CHAPTER IV
Athens—“We Have Loved Helen; Must We 36
Divorce Her?”
CHAPTER V
Smyrna: a Picture of Desolation 43
CHAPTER VI
British Chivalry!—Brave Women a 54
Nuisance!
CHAPTER VII
Smyrna—God’s Work—The Exquisite 60
Sunset—Man’s Work—War
CHAPTER VIII
Emotions and Impressions—“On the 71
Way”—Nowhere to House the Poor People
CHAPTER IX
More Impressions-“Sitting Amidst an Army 79
of Supposed Savage Fanatics, Debating
the Greatness of God”
CHAPTER X
A Journey on Foot—A Country Made by God, 85
untouched by Man
CHAPTER XI
A Public Meeting at Ouchak—Hospitality—A 94
Sacred Rite
CHAPTER XII
A Luggage Train—The Worst Stage of My 104
Whole Journey
CHAPTER XIII
A Third-Class Compartment—A Frenchman 114
Amongst the Ruins
CHAPTER XIV
In the “Train de Luxe”—The Supreme Good 122
Fellowship of English
Laughter—Journeying Towards the Cradle
of New Turkey
CHAPTER XV
Angora I.—Entering a “Brotherhood”—An 132
Atmosphere of Camaraderie
CHAPTER XVI
Angora II.—At the Home of My Kind and 141
Courteous Host
CHAPTER XVII
Angora III.—The Marvellous Atmosphere of 147
a Great Birth
CHAPTER XVIII
The Ghazi Mustapha Kemal Pasha—The 159
Greatest Man in Turkey To-day
CHAPTER XIX
An Interview with the Ghazi Mustapha 174
Kemal Pasha
CHAPTER XX
Mustapha Kemal Pasha—The Man Who is 179
Master of His Fate
CHAPTER XXI
A Turkish Cabinet—The Three Best-Known 192
Ministers—A Cabinet of Young Men
CHAPTER XXII
Turkish Cabinet—The Less-known Ministers 198
of the Sovereign State
CHAPTER XXIII
The Foreign Colony in Angora—A Group of 202
Foreign Personalities
CHAPTER XXIV
Halidé Edib Hanoum, Author and Patriot—A 205
Woman Dowered with the All-Conquering
Gifts of the Truly Brave
CHAPTER XXV
Hospitals—Schools—Education and the 215
Nationalist Writers—The Days Pass, but
There is Still Much to Be Done and
Seen
CHAPTER XXVI
Last Days in Angora: Excursions, 226
Conversations, Picnics—HAÏDAR Bey’s
Party
CHAPTER XXVII
Rome, the Eternal City—A Visit to the 239
Catholics in Angora
CHAPTER XXVIII
Three Diplomats at Rome—The Guardianship 249
of the Holy Tomb
CHAPTER XXIX
_En Route_ for Constantinople—A Night at 254
Bilidjik Under the Frost-Laden Skies
CHAPTER XXX
From Bilidjik to Broussa by Yaili—After 259
the day’s Roughening Experiences one
can Sleep whatever the Accommodation
CHAPTER XXXI
A Few Days in Broussa—The True Islam 273
Atmosphere
CHAPTER XXXII
Constantinople No Longer the Capital—The 285
Heart and Spirit of Turkey are in
Angora
CHAPTER XXXIII
Lausanne Palace Hotel—The Home of 298
Turkey, France, and Japan—“Every
Possible Phase of Complete
Internationalism”
CHAPTER XXXIV
Turkey and the League of Nations—The 313
Parliament of Nations Must Be Truly
Impartial and International
CHAPTER XXXV
The Future—Above All, a Lasting Peace 318
Index 321
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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Miss Grace Ellison _Frontispiece_
Burnt Quarter in the French Part of 48
Smyrna near the Quay
Lord Curzon: “Turkey for the Turks, 64
indeed!”
In an Ox Wagon 89
From a Turk’s Back 104
H.M. The Kaliph of Islam 112
A Battle Royal with my Tangled, Dusty 122
Hair
A Bottle of Evian—Under the Table 123
General Moueddine Pasha, Military 128
Instructor of Mustapha Kemal Pasha
The Market-place at Angora 136
“The carriages swing from angle to 137
angle”
Grand National Assembly at Angora 144
“There is so much to sketch from our 145
front door”
The Ghazi Mustapha Kemal Pasha, 160
President of the Grand National
Assembly, Angora
On the wall of Mustapha Kemal Pasha’s 164
study the Sultan Osman looks down on
Mustapha Kemal Pasha
The Ante-room at Tchan-Kaya 165
Mustapha Kemal Pasha’s Sitting-room 168
Mustapha Kemal Pasha Walking in the 171
Grounds of Tchan-Kaya
General Ismet Pasha, Minister for 176
Foreign Affairs
Rauf Bey, Prime Minister 192
Halidé Hanoum, the well-known writer, 208
patriot, and feminist leader
Dr. Adnan Bey, High Commissioner for 208
Constantinople
Agha Aglou Ahmed Bey, Director of the 224
Angora Press
A Luncheon Party at the Ottoman Bank, 240
Angora
The Yaili with Drawn Curtains 255
Broussa 256
“He has the right to say, ‘Look at me’” 261
The Tomb of the Sultan Osman at Broussa 272
General Refet Pasha and Colonel Mougin 288
in Constantinople
Lausanne Palace Hotel 304
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An Englishwoman in Angora
CHAPTER I
ON BOARD THE “PIERRE LOTI”—TURKEY’S DEBT TO LOTI’S MAGIC PEN
OVER a sea as smooth as ice, the sun shining brightly most of the way,
the Messageries Maritimes steamer _Pierre Loti_ is carrying us to
Smyrna. Ten years ago, to a beaten Turkey (unable, it was supposed, to
face an enemy for years to come), I had taken the same trip. And now,
despite the prophets, I am returning to a victorious people; doubly
victorious, since all the odds were against them.
“That is the kind of story I love,” I remarked to the sympathetic
captain and his daughter, with whom I generally lunched as guest in
their own cabin. They, indeed, were particularly interested in my
adventure, for they knew the Near East well, and this was to be their
last visit. Because he had just reached the age limit of those who ‘go
down to the sea in ships,’ though it was only when you caught the word
‘papa’ upon his daughter’s lips that anyone would suspect the fact.
So they are blessed who marry young!
“It seems strange,” I told him one morning, “to be here—on board the
_Pierre Loti_, and surely a presage of good luck, since his books have
done so much to increase and widen my inborn sympathies with the East.”
Still more strange it proved; since the captain himself had named the
ship for his admiration of the great French writer and in memory of
personal friendship between them. A rare literary association for a
steamer once in the service of the Czars. Wherefore, also, I found the
master’s works in the ship’s library, and could renew acquaintance with
many an old favourite: “Ramuntcho,” “Matelot,” “Ispahan,” “Les Pêcheurs
d’Islande” and the “Désenchantées.”
The captain told me of his visit to Rochefort, and _I_ told _him_ how
Antoine went to the same house for final instructions upon the staging
of “Ramuntcho,” which, however, did not prove a success. How, indeed,
could anyone think of dramatising Pierre Loti, whether in prose or
verse? He gives us neither psychology nor dramatic incident. I can only
suppose that Antoine permitted them to be produced—to show once for all
that the thing could not be done; a hard lesson for the master!
“Among Loti’s collection of priceless treasures, rifled from every
corner of the East, Antoine sought in vain for somewhere to place his
hat! Finally, he hooked it on to an Eastern idol, and their talk began.
In a few moments, however, there was a pause, for the astonished
dramatist caught sight of the offending headgear suspended, as he
supposed, in mid-air. However, a closer look revealed that it was
resting upon a thin stream of water. The Eastern idol was a fountain!”
The captain expressed his surprise that I should not only be so familiar
with Loti’s work, but that I could really know anything intimately of
his private life, “seeing how the Frenchman disliked my own country.”
“My dear sir,” I replied, “if we are to find our friends to-day only
among those who love England, we should be limited indeed. You and your
charming daughter, _par exemple_, are you precisely admirers of the
British Government?...
“To me, Art is first, and the rest—nowhere! I care not whether the
genius first saw daylight in Paris, in New York, or in Timbuctoo. I have
more friends out of England than in England. Like Kipling’s cat, ‘all
places are alike to me.’ I only ask that your land be warm; and with all
peoples who do not rob me I am ready and eager to be good friends. To
‘guard the frontiers’ in Art would be to bring back the Dark Ages. The
most sincere love of one’s own country should never teach one to be
disdainful of _les autres_.”
“You are going to Nationalist Turkey,” he replied, “you will find
yourself right up against Chauvinism all the time.”
“I don’t believe it. Forgive me, I really think you exaggerate. And
besides—with my strong sympathies for the Turks!—I have always found
Orientals the most broad-minded men.”
Then I brought back the talk to Pierre Loti. “Why do you say that he
dislikes England so much?” I asked. “He _does_ object to golf near the
Pyramids; he _is_ a little sarcastic about ‘Messrs. Thos. Cook & Co.,
Egypt, Ltd.,’ forgetting what it means to travel without them; he
dislikes our Government for its pro-Greek policy and its injustice
towards the Turks. As an Englishwoman I agree. And, like him, too, I
regard New York as the nearest earthly approach to hell! We certainly do
not hate America; only its noise, its materialism, and its advertising.
“I knew Pierre Loti best, perhaps, at his charming Basque home in
Hendaye—thanks to my friendship with his heroines, Melek and Zeyneb. I
know, at one time, he resented what seemed to him our Edward VII.’s
‘interference’ in French affairs. But that master of diplomats never
gave his advice unasked; and, when he was told of the great Frenchman’s
hostility, Pierre Loti was promptly invited to Windsor, and they became
the best of friends. Would he were with us now, that he might but talk
with the Ministers of both nations!
“After Windsor, Loti, I’m sure, would have spared his sarcasm. ‘There is
one thing left now,’ he once declared. ‘We must appeal to H.M. Edward
VII. _He_ only can do what he likes in France!’ The French Admiralty had
just refused him permission to carry away from one of their ships the
table on which he had written the ‘Désenchantées.’”
The captain, it seemed, was ready to waive this point.
“But I do not consider,” he resumed, “that Loti’s books are a true
picture of Turkey as she is.”
“They would not, indeed, suit his arch-enemy Messrs. Cook,” I replied;
“as Turner painted, he wrote, for those who have eyes to see. Tell him
you never saw _his_ Turkey, and he would reply: ‘Don’t you wish you
could?’...
“Had Loti himself been English, he would, naturally, have reached a
larger public among us. The warmth of his colouring is too often lost in
translation. As a schoolgirl I learnt by heart the wonderful Preface to
his “Ispahan”: ‘_Qui vent venir avec moi voir les roses d’Ispahan_,’ and
I have dreamt of those roses ever since.”
The captain then spoke of the avenue at Constantinople which bears his
name.
“A charming remembrance,” I replied, “but he needs no such ‘rosemary.’
Do we realise, I wonder, what French influence in the Near East owes to
his supreme art. In England, except for a small minority, the word
Turkey only means a vision of fair houris, veiled in the mysteries of
the past, the great ‘Red’ Sultan, and massacres in Armenia. To France it
means Aziadé, the Green Mosque at Brousse, Djénane, and the Fantômes
d’Orient. Public opinion, to-day, can be ‘manufactured’ as easily as
butter and cheese; but the imaginations once stirred by the magician’s
pen will not yield so easily to the last Brew of Hate. France is not
going to lose her dream of the East woven from Loti’s pen. A debt of
gratitude neither she, nor Turkey itself, can ever pay.”
To travel by this steamer, bearing the name of a writer one loves so
well, brings unceasing delight. Your menu-card, the life-belts on deck,
even the towels, all bear a name to fill the mind with memory of
beautiful things. As my eyes fell on the _Pierre Loti’s_ lifeboat,
swinging on its davits, I recalled the “Pêcheurs d’Islande,” with its
tragic close: “and he never returned!” All the sorrow, the suffering,
and the heart-ache; the useless watching, waiting, and longing—this, for
the women, is War!
Are we, indeed, to begin _that_ all over again? For a “Greater Greece”
than the Greeks themselves can sustain?
If _all_ women who have suffered (and who has not?) would march to
Westminster to protest, would any hear and pause? Can we fight a Press
in the service of profiteers, bolstering up the Government, blocking the
public view?
Are we not, after all, mere “pawns” of a Destiny that none can avert?
* * * * *
Pierre Loti’s long and interesting life is now very quickly drawing to
its close. He has written his last words—a defence of his beloved Turks.
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