BRITISH CHIVALRY!—BRAVE WOMEN A NUISANCE!
“WOMEN are so absurdly brave,” said a charming British official, “that
is why they are such a nuisance.”
He was seated at a small, improvised and over-crowded bureau in one of
the few remaining houses on the Smyrna Quay. He had just sufficient of a
Scotch accent to make one see that he would stand no nonsense—an asset,
surely, in his position. Yet the obvious and zealous concern for his own
countrywoman proved that, however carefully the calm exterior of the
Scot may hide his feelings, his heart beats strong and true. He is no
less proud, too, of his “women” than any citizen of the States!
But this able and active young man, master of any emergency at a crisis,
could not accept my point of view about the Nationalist Turk. That,
certainly, was not _his_ fault, for who is there to interpret this “new”
people to him? He only knows that, for the first time, Turks have dared
to express themselves, and—like brave women—are becoming a great
nuisance! Under the good Hamid, these lazy people were easy enough to
manage. “Turkey for the Turks!” What a monstrous notion! Yet one feels,
nay knows, that he has plenty of intelligence, will face facts, and
learn to accept the inevitable.
Meanwhile, I, for my part, am throwing a most unwelcome additional
weight upon his already over-burdened shoulders. He is clearly annoyed
at my having come so far, and, in his place, who would not have felt the
same?
But, unfortunately for him, he knows very well that a woman who, despite
difficulties well-nigh insurmountable, has been able to reach Smyrna
without a British viza, means to get her way and will not be lightly
driven back.
If only the man had adopted the bullying and supercilious tone that
becomes a uniform! One can so easily meet the “correct” officialism,
counter its attacks, stand up to its incivility, and go one’s own way
with a clear conscience. But it was not to be with my Scotch friend.
“I admire your courage immensely,” he said with a courteous grace, “but,
pardon my asking, what is the sense of it all?”
“I want to study ‘the movement’ at Angora, and to see the national hero,
M. Kemal Pasha.”
“Is it worth risking your life for that? Forgive me, it does seem rather
a wicked waste.”
Outside his windows, on the calm waters of the bay, rode warships of
many nations. The bright sun looked down, unkindly it almost seemed,
upon the ruin and desolation around us. The arms of England, France and
America were all there. Holland, he told me, had begged in terror for
the protection of a warship.
“Terror of what?” I asked.
“Have you not heard, can you not see, we are on the brink of war?
To-morrow you will be going home with the others. Our Government has
given orders for the immediate evacuation of all our people. Later you
will receive final instructions, and be told the meeting-place. This
time it is war. There is no help for it. It has to come.”
He showed me a flashlight, well hidden in a corner of that dilapidated
office, which would send out its news of “safety” when every Englishman
had left the town, and he, my friend, had followed them in a boat with
its oars muffled—if he were able to get away. If not, well, he had done
his duty!
But I remained unmoved. “Do not worry about me. I have made all my
plans, and shall start to-morrow for Angora. I know the risks, and I
know, too, that all will be well for me.”
At first, evidently, his official mind suspected that I was playing with
his nerves, idly boasting of what no one would seriously attempt. When
convinced, however, that I really meant what I said, he banged his fist
on the table and just shouted:
“By Jove, if you belonged to me, you should _not go_.”
How I hoped he had lost his temper! But no, in another moment he was
again all quiet concern, courteously persuasive.
“But,” said I, “I have reached here against long odds. I have come
entirely on my own responsibility, and at my own expense. The Turks who
met me here will take care of me, not my family nor my Government. Even
war will not stop me.”
“And when there is war,” he replied, with a note of almost despairing
entreaty, “for as there is a God above, it will come this time. Think of
it! A woman absolutely alone among the Turks; not a European to help
her. Six months, at least, in a concentration camp, illness, perhaps
torture. God knows what will happen to you!”
“I shall not be put into a concentration camp, for there will be no war.
I am going to stop it!”
I was smiling now, which only added to his distress.
“My dear young lady,” he cried, “keep your courage for some wiser, finer
cause. Britain needs you.... Seriously, you are not going, are you?—And
the war!”
“I shall nurse the British soldiers, or else return——”
“You speak of the Turks as if you trusted them. Is this wise?”
“Indeed, yes. I know them. The only way to treat a Turk _is_ to trust
him. He has never yet let me down. Why should he now? Even at this
crisis you will find there is no other way but trust with the Moslem.”
Of course he was not convinced.
“Charming theories, but dangerous in practice; above all, dangerous for
you. Go home. You can see your friends again when things are more
settled. Don’t think I don’t admire your pluck; I do. In all my
experience I never met a woman ready for greater risk; but we value you
too much to let you go.”
It was a wearisome line of attack. I could so much more easily have
dealt with violence from a would-be dictator. I tried again, hoping to
silence a busy man.
“Please imagine you are an American,” I suggested, “and that time is
money.”
“Time is _not_ money when a woman’s life is at stake. Forgive me, your
courage—which I shall never forget—is immense, but you are not a
sportsman!”
“What do you mean?”
“It is not fair to us—Englishmen! What will the Turks think of us,
allowing it? They will have a mighty poor opinion of British chivalry.
And we do not deserve it! Would they let one of _their_ women do such a
thing? We, too, protect our women!”
I was losing ground, at least _that_ appeal hurt; but I could not yield.
“You need not worry,” I replied, with more unconcern than I could really
feel at the moment. “I will see that they understand. They _do_ know how
England cares for her women; but they know me, what a determined
customer I am. They will not blame you.”
He played his last card, bashfully indeed, but with a grim resolve that
won my respect.
“Dear lady, I have no wish to be personal, but you have driven me to it.
You are not—ugly enough to undertake this journey.... Go and see the
British Navy you love so much. We will look after the Turks, and you
too. Come and see them when we have finished with them.”
I saw that I must not only be firm, but I must speak, and speak plainly.
“If any harm comes of it,” I said, seriously enough, God knows, “it will
be my own fault. The Turk respects women who respect themselves. Ten
years ago I went to Asia Minor, with a military escort, the only woman;
but I was absolutely safe all the time, everywhere.”
There was no more to be said. Discomfited, indeed, by so much chivalry,
I left him, intending, after all, to wait and see if war were declared.
But, fortunately, I had given no promise, for to the Scotchman I knew
truth and honour were sacred things.
In justice to the official attitude, it should be clearly said that no
one could be expected to understand what I should have given up had I
returned to England, under orders, with the rest of my compatriots.
What, after all, were the difficulties that I had overcome in comparison
with my real object—to reach Angora? What matter if the family coffers,
the purses of my friends, and even editorial generosity, were one and
all closed against me? None should have on their conscience that they
had sent me to my death!
My contract with the newspaper! It was “deliver the goods and your
reward shall be handsome.” The goods, indeed, are delivered and, in a
fashion, made public. They have not, however, been acknowledged as
“woman’s work,” and the reward seems still far to seek!
I had not supposed that in journalism “the sex” must suffer the double
loss of justice and credit. The articles were certainly not stamped with
any plain mark of a _feminine_ special correspondent.
Unfortunately, we are not in Turkey! where women’s achievements have
still the “novelty” that can command a fine flourish of trumpets, where
no cry has been needed of “equal work—equal pay!”
Had I foreseen, should I then have returned to punish ingratitude? I
think not. At such a moment I could not forego the most thrilling
chapter of the story that has held me for so many years; ever since,
indeed, I used to climb on the knee of the dear being whose name I bear,
to hear him tell of his journeyings to those Eastern lands—Japan and
China, India and Moslem Turkey.
Many curious interpretations have been put upon my interest in these
peoples. The Turks themselves have wondered how it came about.
It is because they had been my friends long years before I ever set foot
on their now familiar land. Its colours, its beauty, its glorious
summers and sunsets, the fine thought and philosophy of its high-minded,
sober people, were known to me in the nursery, as only a child can live
in the imaginations stirred by those it loves. They were always brothers
to me, the Orientals of India and Persia, Egypt, Arabia, and Turkey. I
would give much, indeed, to secure for them the happiness they deserve
for what they have given to the culture and to the civilisation of the
world.
The stupidity of treating the Asiatic as an “inferior” I could never
understand. It is no less impolitic than unjust. What a delight, in our
century of semi-tones and of commercialism, to talk with men like
Tagore!
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