SMYRNA—GOD’S WORK—THE EXQUISITE SUNSET—MAN’S WORK—WAR
I TAKE daily walks in Smyrna, with one of the Vali’s officers, chiefly
among the ruins. The European part of the town (save for a few houses on
the quay and a few hospitals, schools, and churches) has simply ceased
to exist. The empty “shells” of what were once fine streets are a great
danger to passers-by and must all be blasted.
When I told my guide that from the deck of the _Pierre Loti_ the town
showed scarcely a sign of fire, he promptly led me—for eight
hours—through the most horrible _débris_! Instructed to treat me with
great respect, he marched steadily ahead with all the gravity of a
funeral mute. He had been told, moreover, to reconstruct, as it were,
the whole city for my information, and he was obviously determined to
overlook no detail. He pointed out exactly how the fire had been
planned, and why it had broken out too soon. Passing the Stores, he laid
a finger upon the very spots marked by grenades that Greeks and
Armenians had thrown. There was a grim disgust and disdain in his last
comment: “And all this _funniness_ is supposed to have been done _by
us_!”—a strange use of the word funniness.
On another occasion, resting a moment among the ruins of what had once
been an altar, watching the poor Turkish natives as they raked the
_débris_ for firewood, we were suddenly surrounded by a most dismal
procession of limping cats and dogs, thin as boards, crying with hunger
and pain, homeless, maimed, and with none to claim them or cherish their
shrunken limbs. I suggested that we should buy a little ether and send
them to their long sleep. My companion was shocked beyond words.
“Poor beasts,” he exclaimed, “have not they as much right to be on God’s
earth as we? Who are we that we should dare to cut short their
existence?”
Naturally I did what I could to express all the sympathy his words
aroused; determining, nevertheless, in my own mind, that I would beg the
Englishman or the Italian to accomplish this errand of mercy.
At the same time, the incident only further excited my deep interest in
the strange mentality of a people who claim the full rights of existence
even for maimed cats and dogs, and are yet held guilty by the whole
world of massacring millions of Christians for mere sport.
Later that day I was for the moment extremely puzzled by the strange
behaviour of all the inhabitants within sight, which certainly seemed
most _un_-Turkish. “I have known your people for fifteen years,” I said
(only intending a mild joke), “and this is the first time I have ever
seen a Turk hurry! What is the matter?”
“They are going to blast the ruins,” was my companion’s calm reply.
To my thinking it was, indeed, time to be off; and I hopped away like
the others, in and out among the charred ruins, at one moment catching
my heel, at another tearing my skirt and coat. When, panting and
breathless, we at last reached comparative safety, I laughingly asked my
guide why he had given me no warning. “You could have no idea whether I
could run like this at the last moment.”
“His Excellency told me that you were to be treated with the utmost
respect,” was the solemn reply!
It was true that the day before I had been informed that it was
forbidden to take photographs among the ruins, and I at once closed my
Kodak. But in the evening an apology arrived from the Chief of
Police.:—“I might photograph, when and where I pleased.”
I can only suppose my guide believed that “Allah would guard me” when
the blasting began; at least, whatever was to be my fate, he was ready
to share it!
* * * * *
We have been wandering about the muddy streets of the bazaar,
immortalised by Pierre Loti. It is here, in these little Turkish
booths—the tinker’s, tailor’s, and shoemaker’s, the meat-man’s, the
baker’s, and the sweet-seller’s—that the inhabitants of Smyrna must do
their shopping to-day. How can we think of Frank Street and its vast
European “emporium,” now no more than a smouldering heap of crumbling
ruins?
Town-planning is as yet unknown in Turkey. Here, as elsewhere, the
houses seem to be straggling upon the hillside, forming an architectural
patchwork far more picturesque than the most correct symmetry.
We are now to ascend Mont Pegasus, and though I hate climbing, the
sunset panorama of an Eastern city will reward a greater effort than
this. To look on the fading sunlight in all its glorious magnificence of
purple and scarlet and mauve, is to know we are in the presence of God;
and if ever the world needed His guidance, it surely must seek Him now.
“That,” I murmured, “is how God meant us to find His world—a life of
sunshine, a death of beauty. No fear, no shrinking before what must come
to all; but His glory reflected about us, as the sun’s beauty is reborn
for us in the infinite, waiting sea.
“Look up, and then turn your eyes down to man’s work below our
feet—black war, grey ruin and desolation!”
* * * * *
An English lady, Mrs. de C——, the widow of a distinguished British
Minister in Teheran and Bucharest, has just given me a more level-headed
and _fair_ description of the Smyrna fire than I have yet heard from any
other eye-witness. Her husband was manager of the Aidin Railway, and had
the luck to unearth a unique collection of priceless antiques along the
route. Tea was served in the entrance hall of their house in the
European quarter, one of the few still erect, which reminded me of the
British Museum. One could fancy oneself among the treasures of the
Parthenon, which it has fallen to British hands to preserve.
She told me she owed her home to the wind’s kindness. “We were on the
roof all night, watching its varying directions, although it did not
come our way until about 2.30 A.M. As the abandoned Greek ammunition was
all stored behind us, we could no longer risk staying in the face of the
wind. At the same moment a flashlight from H.M.S. _Iron Duke_ began to
play on the pier, and we realised that Admiral de Brock was signalling
for us to leave the town. Pushing our way through a howling mob of men
and animals, we at last reached the waiting boat; but no sooner were we
on board than, to our relief, the wind once more veered. There was a
chance for one side of the Smyrna Quay, on which stood the Aidin
station.”
In her judgment, the Turks acted throughout with the greatest
moderation. Everywhere in Anatolia I found clear evidence that Greeks
had indulged in the worst type of barbarianism, amply sufficient to
justify any slight Turkish excesses that may have occurred in Smyrna.
Since her Greek household had all departed, Mrs. de C—— was very busy
“about many things”—dusting, sweeping, and cooking. Nor were her
sympathies very keen with the Greek refugees, to many of whom she had
extended hospitality. They had accepted a night’s lodging, and then
decamped with sheets, blankets, pillows, towels, and clothes!
Lunch, however, had been served for her by a “Catholic,” who cooked
Turkish dishes to perfection. “Catholic” is now the last word in
“Nationality,” covering a multitude of “pasts,” and saving the
“Christian” from having to answer awkward questions.
The “Catholic” who waits on me at the hotel was an upholsterer in quite
a large way of business. The sewing-woman, whom I have occasionally
employed for odd jobs, though a Greek, is also “Catholic.” In Angora
these derelicts are self-styled “Catholic Turks.”
* * * * *
I have boarded the warship, despite the captain’s fear of a woman’s pen.
What would he find to say about my _real_ intentions? Most of us,
happily, can look on sailors of all nations, as I do, absolutely without
prejudice. For here, at least, none can capture our laurels, and all the
world loves a British sailor.
Amidst the beautiful fittings of his luxurious cabin, I was received by
the captain with every mark of the courtesy that is second nature to the
real English gentleman. He was a naval man to his finger-tips, stamped
all over with Nelson’s magic call to “Duty.” For his magnificent
achievements in the war, his V.C. was indeed richly deserved; and yet, I
wondered, is it the wisest policy to expose this _real_ “personage” to
the kind of actually trivial irregularities which in a town like Smyrna
a too formal officialism may so easily mistake for grave affronts to our
national prestige?
While in Smyrna I saw an example of such real dangers—a mere nothing
that might suddenly have developed into a _casus belli_, though in this
case any serious disaster was, luckily, averted.
The Turks had given the sailors from different warships special
permission to land on the quay without the formality of going through
the Custom House. Unfortunately, certain Armenian girls saw their chance
to coax the sailormen into helping them to escape. I am told that the
British were adamant to tales of woe that turned Americans, French, and
Italians to putty; but I will not believe it, for I prefer to think our
men had their share in defying the law to help women.
The Turkish authorities, however, were, naturally and properly,
indignant at the deception, and gave orders that in future everyone
should land at the Custom House. Most unfortunately, the order was
immediately carried out, without a warning to the captain. When that
personage came ashore next morning, therefore, he found himself
confronted by an Anatolian peasant, rifle in hand, who actually slipped
in an extra cartridge under the great man’s eye.
Our consul, of course, intervened, and the captain, with his sword
drawn, was permitted to land, ample apologies being tendered in due
course by a repentant Vali.
No more was heard of this incident; but with some “big” men it would not
have been allowed to end there.
I admit that a warning should have reached the captain; but Turks are
proverbially careless about official details. It was just bad luck, too,
that some petty officer was not the first to land, who could have borne
the indignity without loss of prestige, and “arranged” matters for his
chief; but if we must appoint our “best” men to such a post, someone
smaller should be sent in advance to spy out the land. Friction is bound
to occur between our experienced officers, statesmen, or diplomats
(above all, if their sense of humour is not very keen) and the primitive
Anatolians of young Turkey. We should, surely, have been well advised in
this matter to follow the French way of employing “middle men” for a
time.
I love the casual freedom of Turkish customs, which will suffer a train
to be kept waiting for my private comfort; but the characteristic may be
extremely trying on another occasion. Every virtue has its pet vice!
When I visited Turkey after the Balkan war our steamer somehow “missed”
the mouth of the bay, and no one remembered the exact position of the
mines! As a matter of fact, the _Senegal_ was blown to atoms only a few
days ahead, and our own escape was pure luck. There was considerable
alarm on board, and I was once more filled with gratitude for my own
small share of the fatalism of the Turk!
On this occasion, for my own private benefit, I could also have wished
that our captain had been a “smaller” man, or one less scrupulously
compact of duty. When I admitted that I had really come on board in
search of a British flag, no matter how torn and tattered, he only
looked at me as though I were mad.
“You don’t seem to know much about the inner workings of the navy,” was
all he _said_.
“One does not bother about the ‘inner workings’ of anything one loves,”
I answered.
So with the gravest courtesy he explained to me that a new flag could
not possibly be obtained until the “tattered” one had been handed over
to H.Q. Nevertheless I believe that a French, Italian, or even an
American, captain would have contrived some means of acceding to my
request.
As it happens, I once saw the man off his guard. He was playing the host
to a beautiful Englishwoman and her French husband, his neighbours on
their own yacht, and no one could have seemed more naturally genial and
light-hearted, with his really delightful sense of humour. Is it
_necessary_ for a uniform to conceal all traces of humanity? Why could
not the world see the man’s best side in the officer? The strictest
sense of “fair play,” combined with great patience, will work even
better with the Turks when added to a generous supply of smiles and wit.
* * * * *
When the Vali sent word that all was ready for me to proceed on my way
to Angora, I could not hesitate. Whatever my compatriots may have said,
and would, no doubt, have now repeated with greater emphasis, I could
not think of having allowed him to take so much trouble on my account
for nothing!
Above all, particularly towards a Moslem, the last thing that any lady
could think of doing would be to betray the slightest lack of trust.
What matter if we were on the brink of war? It simply never entered my
head that I could really come to any harm from the Turks!
It is of interest, nevertheless, to put on record the various, not
altogether unreasonable, warnings that I received at the hotel in Smyrna
from my fellow-guests. One and all were quite convinced that I had taken
leave of my senses. Only a mad woman would think of going to Angora at
this season and on the brink of war!
_The Spaniard_ had spent his life in the Near East and knew the Turks!
“Your own friends,” he said, “the Ministers who know you, may show you
the greatest respect; but you are English and cannot speak the language.
The _people_ are mere fanatics!” However, he gave me a box of insect
powder, a bottle of iodine, and—most welcome of all to me—a yard of
flannel to make an abdominal belt!
_One Italian_ implored me to “come back and enjoy the Italian skies....
You will freeze in Angora.” He gave me a packet of chocolate and half a
bottle of cognac.
_A Second Italian_ could only endeavour to “face the fact” that I was
determined to have my way. As he knew something of where I was going, he
brought me quinine, asperin, mosquito-cream, and calomel.
_The Dane_ was horrified to learn that I had no gold. “Gold is essential
in war-time. Gold saved my life in Russia;” and he handed me in exchange
for paper fifty gold Turkish pounds, which, however, proved more weighty
than useful.
_The Dutch Parson_ gave me his blessing. Though generally optimistic and
pro-Turk, he admitted that things looked unusually black at the moment,
and advised me to “wait and see.”
_A British Naval Officer_ would not admit the sarcasm of his comment
that it was “very interesting” of me to “go to Angora!” He considered
“the Turks the finest race on the face of the earth.... My God, they
know what I mean!” And, personally, I believe they knew very well.
_One American_ could only repeat that “it was a mad idea.... We are not
safe even here. There is plenty of oil there, certainly, but—heroics
_is_ heroics!”
_A Second American_ wanted to know “what they were giving me for this
stunt,” and guessed “it was a pretty high figure.” That I was going on
my own responsibility and paying my own way he “simply would not
believe.”
_The South American_ was the first of them all to express any confidence
that the Turks would be kind. What _he_ dreaded for me was the
discomfort. “Above all,” he said, “avoid the Red Army.”
_The Englishman_ characteristically pinned his faith on the courage of
our race. “It has brought you here,” said he, “and I believe it will
bring you back.... Here is my woollen jacket, a tin of milk, and this
letter to an American friend of mine. Promise me, if _ever_ you are in
difficulty, you will seek his help.”
I afterwards made inquiries about this invaluable ally, though I was,
fortunately, in no danger. I found that, after all, he never reached
Angora, though he had applied to go there last March!
_A Third Italian_ told me that he had just found a little silver St.
Antoine de Padou among the ruins.... “My prayers for you will go with it
always. After the snows of Angora, our Italian sunshine, its songs and
its laughter, will await you.” Besides the St. Anthony, he gave me a
book of Italian proverbs, a box of insect-powder, cough-drops, and
chocolate.
_The Frenchman_ only exclaimed: “No Angora for me, _merci_! I am
counting the hours until the boat arrives to take me away from all
this.”
_The Englishwoman_ (Mrs. de C——) felt proud to think of the “feather in
a woman’s cap,” that such an adventure would surely prove.
_The Dutchman_ declared that he would trust even his own daughter on
such a journey, if “the Vali had pledged his word for her safe
conduct.... I know this country inside out—its language, its dangers,
its possibilities, its virtues and faults.... You may trust the Vali....
If war breaks out, they will take you, with all possible politeness, to
the nearest frontier.”
He gave me all kinds of useful information, and much-needed boxes of
matches and cigarettes.
Truly a wonderful budget of advice and a most original collection of
gifts! Did ever a woman thus start such a quest?
Yet they had made me sad! Some were born here, others had lived in the
country all their lives, and how few of them would trust the Turk, to
whom, after all, they owed, at least, their material existence.
“I will show you,” I said, as we were all assembled for farewell, “that
I am right, and you are _all_ wrong. Though my country may turn on
Turkey, she will be good to me.”
* * * * *
It was nearly seven o’clock next morning before the officer came for me.
It was so late that our horses had to be whipped up to a smart pace over
the bumpy road to the station. My conductor had been so anxious about
all arrangements, that he had packed the food for our five or seven
days’ trip, and entrusted it to a chauffeur, who was perverse enough not
to wake up in time.
This certainly might be regarded as an omen of ill-luck, and even as I
got into the train, between the officer and a cheik (who had been
professor of Arabic at Oxford), the South American stepped forward to
ask whether, after all, I had not better return with him.
“And show the Turks I do not trust them.... Never. Besides, this
gentleman has lived in Oxford, and is therefore almost a compatriot.
Tell my friends in Smyrna that I am perfectly well and happy, and that I
am going to have a lovely time.”
I saw that both my conductors were greatly pleased by my expressions of
trust, which they well knew how to appreciate.
Nevertheless, when we had been driving along the quay and my eyes had
fallen on our own man-of-war flying the Union Jack without which, for
the first time in my life, I was embarking upon my perilous way, I was
not far from tears.
My thoughts were crowded with all that England has ever meant to me,
from the quiet corner in the churchyard where my father is sleeping, to
the little face, seldom innocent of jam, that looks up so eagerly to
tell his “Auntie” he has been a naughty boy.
Shall I, indeed, soon find myself in an “enemy” country, which surely
should be, as I have always known it, the land of my England’s dearest
friends?
------------------------------------------------------------------------