MALTA: THE NAME I WAS TO HEAR THROUGHOUT ANATOLIA
OUR first stopping-place was Malta, the name I was destined to hear from
one end of Anatolia to the other.
Was it not of Malta that Angora was born; and since “the trouble” in the
East, Malta has been turned into a universal dumping-ground for
officers’ wives and refugees. Whenever M. Kemal Pasha lifts his little
finger, or Rauf Bey opens his mouth, the women and children are bundled
off to Malta. They return, indeed, on any excuse, at the first
opportunity (as why should they not?), until a panic-stricken Government
again sends them to exile. One lady with us had done the trip in this
way four times!
Constantinople, without our women, makes one wonder if it were so wise
as it appears, thus to play for safety! After all, cannot the
Englishwoman endure what the Russian, Greek and Armenian are left to put
up with? If the husband is in danger, should not his wife be with him?
“We want to ‘protect’ our women,” I had been told, and there is no finer
ideal than chivalry. But, after Constantinople, I would suggest that we
women also “want to protect our men!”
Softening, perhaps, the frankness for which my “French” education has
been so often held responsible, I would only say: “There are alluring
distractions!”
And in marriage I pin my faith upon the Italian proverb: “Keep to the
women and cows of your own country.”
The utter destitution of so many members of the old Russian aristocracy,
has not deprived its women of their temperamental charm. It has provided
them with an occasion (genuine enough, God knows) for tears no British
youth can resist, unmoved as he will remain under the fiercest
shell-fire.
Yet one Englishman told me his Russian wife had taken every penny he
possessed, and vanished—he knew not where. Another “fears it is only a
matter of time. His ‘noble’ wife cannot be expected to put up with
Clapham, and when something better turns up, he will be discarded.” One
married “a sweet, soft voice” out of sheer loneliness; and another,
foolish and rich, clothed in priceless ermine the lady he met “at a
bar!” There is no need to dwell on other, less honourable,
“consequences” of such “casual” meetings.
At every corner in Constantinople the “bar” invites the busy and the
brave to cocktails or a whisky, an example we have given the “despised”
Turk, who had the wisdom to make Angora “dry.” Here, too, is the best of
chances for pro-Greek propaganda, as our men meet no “Turkish” women,
who are “really” safe in the bosom of their families. One is tempted,
almost, to hope that for them the day of “freedom” may be postponed.
Facing this ugly side of what an “Army of Occupation” must always
entail, does the Englishwoman who absolutely refused to “leave” need to
stand on her defence? “Vanity Fair,” moreover, may serve to remind us
that there were English women near Waterloo; and do our present
generation require such careful wrapping in cotton-wool, while they are,
nevertheless, too often left unprotected in the drab, hum-drum life of a
modern “business” world.
It is remarkable, again, to reflect that every Turk one meets, who
really “counts for something” in Angora, is a “Malta” man. If M. Kemal
Pasha believed in decorations, surely a special medal would have been
devised for those who had “visited” Malta.
As a prison, it is agreeable enough, though the climate strikes one as
enervating. The sun shines, even brightly, for the greater part of the
year, and sunshine softens the captive’s lot! Had I never visited the
island I should have soon learnt to know “the sights,” for in so many
homes of Angora, Maltese picture postcards are displayed, almost like
holy relics: Valetta, the “Chapel of Bones” (a barbaric idea), the
Mahommedan cemetery, the cathedral, and the landing-stage. Everywhere,
too, are the fair ladies of Malta, whose head-dresses closely resemble
the Turkish tcharchaff.
The Angelus had sounded as I first entered the cathedral, to find myself
amidst long rows of black-veiled women, reverently kneeling on the cold
inlaid-marble floor, their heads bent in prayer, their fingers counting
the beads as they recited their rosaries. The native type is
dark-skinned, almost Mongolian, but they all speak English. For are they
not British subjects, paid in British money, and entitled to our
protection? There was talk, indeed, of extending the cover of
“Nationalism” to them also; but, personally, I still felt everywhere,
and all the time, that calming atmosphere of order, happiness, and
prosperity that is brought by the British flag.
How is it, then, that we have so consistently failed to quiet the
Turkish storms? Of course, every one of the “powers” has been involved,
each playing for its own hand, striving to end or prolong the war in its
own interests.
It is well known that the Turk himself has above all committed one
crime—he has kept Constantinople!
Bent on a policy of peace (!) we undertook to disarm Turkey; but the
mission despatched to Anatolia for this purpose could, or would, not
accomplish its task. Then in May, 1919, despite the Mudros Armistice, we
allowed the Greeks to occupy Smyrna! In March of the following year,
came the English _coup d’état_!
The highest personalities—generals, important officials, anyone
suspected of sympathy with the Nationalists—were arrested, placed in the
hold of a man-of-war, for internment at Malta. All were taken on mere
suspicion, thrust into prison without trial!
Yet the _naïveté_ of the whole proceeding is almost _more_ puzzling than
its high-handed injustice! These dangerous men (!), supposed to be
plotting against Great Britain, are all huddled together, and left to
their own devices, for two years—and then released! Were we afraid? Did
we repent? Will Government never _pursue_ one policy to its logical
conclusion?
I could but “wonder about” these things as I knelt in prayer. Clouds of
incense have filled the cathedral, the Blessed Sacrament is safely
returned to the tabernacle, the huge candles are extinguished, and the
veiled ladies are reverently leaving the dimly-lighted church. Cannot
faith bring peace?
“There must be peace.” I, who have faith in the spoken word, will
declare it, everywhere and all the time, and will count him traitor who
utters a word to the contrary. But I will tell them in Angora that “I am
sorry for” Malta!
* * * * *
Fethi Bey, Minister of the Interior, carries his comfortable Turkish
philosophy to the last extreme. Whatever happens, he will say that “It
might have been worse.” In Malta, he acknowledged that he would have
preferred greater comfort, but, then, “he _might_ have been much more
uncomfortable!” In any case, he seized upon the chance to learn English,
and learnt it remarkably well. It is best, he believes, to understand an
enemy; and, to that end, you must learn his language. Of Mr. Lloyd
George, he declared that “Turkey owes him a debt of gratitude we can
never repay.... But for the occupation of Smyrna, and the Malta _coup
d’état_, there would have been no Nationalists. But for your Prime
Minister we might all of us have been vassals. Indeed, we owe him a
great deal.”
When I asked him what to expect in Angora, he warned me that “I must not
look for the luxuries of the Savoy.”
“Well, I can leave our jazz bands without one pang,” I replied.
“But you may find worse things in Angora than Jazz bands.”
Men like Fethi Bey, ready to meet all emergencies without complaint,
make the right material to face the problem of Reconstruction, in a
country ruined from end to end; and what a comfort it is to meet a man
without a grievance!
When I attempted to sympathise with him for having to ride, because no
motor could take these snow-blocked roads, he declared that “exercise
would do him good.” When his horse stumbled, “it might have been worse.”
Yet, on _my_ account, he apologised again and again for the condition of
Angora; and I could only compare his humorous comparison with the Savoy,
to Dr. Réchad’s strange attempt at consolation: “You certainly won’t
need any evening dresses.”
It is, no doubt, the gift for always making the best of a bad bargain,
that works for peace in the Turkish home. Your husband is not perfect,
but “he might be worse”; the food is bad, but there might not be any; if
the rooms are not clean, “we have known dirtier.” It is an
“accommodating” point of view!
There is a story by Nasreddin Hodja, the great Turkish wit, which
happily illustrates this racial characteristic. The Anatolian lived in
constant terror of a vociferous wife, though no doubt he often reflected
that there were worse women in the world. One day, however, someone told
him that she had fallen into the river, and was being carried away by
the tide. “Don’t worry,” said he, with a stoic’s calm, “she will go
against it. She always does.”
On another occasion, this man of wit had carried a basket of figs to the
lame Timur, on an official visit of respect. Timur amused himself by
throwing the fruit in the Hodja’s face; but at each blow he cried out:
“Allah is Great.” When asked why he so often praised God, he answered:
“My wife wanted me to bring you apples.” Since Timur was privileged, if
it pleased him, to strike the guest, he “thanked God” that he had chosen
_the smaller_ and lighter fruit.
As for my own mission in Malta, I had really come to buy a British
flag!, as Messrs. Cook’s manager at Naples had supplied “everything” but
just that.
For years I have never travelled without a Union Jack. The idea of
undertaking so long and dangerous a journey without it, filled me with
strange foreboding. Everywhere on the Front I had my “flag.” In a state
of coma at the military hospital, the nuns were in great distress
because I had expressed a wish to be buried in the flag, which, being
under my pillow, was nowhere to be found! Naturally, in Paris I had
foreseen my need. But the registered trunk, booked to Rome, had fallen
on evil days, and there will be no luck for the “thief,” who is probably
polishing his boots with my sacred relic!
At first, I seemed unable to escape the lace-makers of Malta; and when,
following the direction of a naval officer, I found myself at last in a
real “Harrod’s Store,” my luck, also, was still out. At the Army and
Navy, the managing director declared they had “no sale for Union
Jacks.”... Each man possessed his own. He dared not sell me the firm’s
flag, for an order to hoist it might be given at any moment; and, if he
failed to obey, he would very likely be driven out of the island!
As a last resource, I drove to a man said to have “flags for hire.” By
this time I was too frenzied with disappointment to conceal my
eagerness, and they promised me one for £7! Luckily enough, excitement
prompted me to unfurl my treasure then and there, to find myself gazing,
in mute astonishment, upon the Stars and Stripes! “Isn’t it the same
thing?” cried the impostor, as I flung myself out of the shop.
But time and tide wait for no woman, and I must silence my
superstitions, to join the _Pierre Loti_ once more. Taking a last look
on the fortifications of Malta, my thoughts turned to the imprisoned
Turks, and my heart was filled with shame.
One day, perhaps, the Turks may hold Malta sacred, for assuredly the
cream of her people were gathered there. One might almost have thought
that such men as Prince Said Halim (late Grand Vizier), Rauf Bey, Fethi
Bey, Hussein Djahid, and my admirable Angora guide,) Vely-Nedjdat, had
been carefully selected to keep each other company.
Mrs. Stan-Harding once said of her eight and a half months in a Soviet
prison: “At least I had this advantage, I met the best people in
Russia.” As her hearers seemed puzzled by such a statement, she added,
“They were all, naturally, in prison!”
I must tell them, in Angora, that England, at least, has always honestly
tried to put right her own wrong-doings, and one day (may it be soon!)
she will “redeem” herself to them also.
Mr. H. G. Wells somewhere describes the strange, great love we often
feel for those we have deeply wronged—the wife, the friend, the enemy.
May it not, at the long last, be so “after the war?”
Who knows if, indeed, this be not the dark hour before the dawn, of our
nation’s friendships—with those we have been led to hate?
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