A PUBLIC MEETING AT OUCHAK—HOSPITALITY—A SACRED RITE
AT Ouchak, I frankly declined to spend another night in a luggage train.
I admired the Turks’ resourcefulness in coping with the extremely
limited service of trains—the women inside a luggage-van and the men on
the roof. I do not regret the fact that I have probably endured even
more discomfort than other European visitors to Angora, since I have
attempted and achieved more. But for the moment it seemed really
essential to pause and rest.
We were told they had only one private train car on _this_ side of the
break in the line, which had been reserved for the Minister of Finance,
whom we should probably soon meet. Engines were terribly “short,” and
most of the trains had been burnt by Greeks.
The Governor drove us to the house of one of the wealthiest men in the
town, once the headquarters of King Constantine. Our host proved to be a
mere lad of twenty, who was nevertheless directing a large carpet
factory which had partially escaped destruction, with considerable
efficiency and skill.
Thanking us with graceful dignity for the honour of our visit, he gave
immediate direction for our reception in his noble guest-chamber. He
apologised for the bareness of rooms, rifled by Greeks; but, in my
judgment, the rich and wonderful carpets were furniture enough.
As M. Kemal Pasha had taken over the house from King Constantine, our
host asked me, in joke, whose “bed” I would choose! I naturally at once
replied M. Kemal’s. “Ah no,” said he, “you must not decide without
seeing both.”
Being always afraid of air-raids, the Greek sovereign had taken an
underground suite, certainly arranged with great taste and every
attention to creature comfort. Lit and heated by electricity, the
arrangements closely resembled a German trench. M. Kemal Pasha had slept
on the first, or top, floor, and as I like to think, under my white
satin covering, worked with irises. It was a proud moment for our
host—that _I_ should occupy a bed already honoured by M. Kemal!
I told him how at Gerbervilliers Sœur Julie once let me sleep in a bed
previously occupied by Cardinal X., and even conferred on me the supreme
honour of using his Eminence’s sheet! That “last touch,” said my host,
he, “unfortunately, could not repeat. The Pasha’s sheets!—well, they
were not _here_.”
We soon sat down with the Governor, the Mayor, and other “notables,” to
a well-cooked meal of Turkish delicacies, supervised by our host
himself. My only criticism of Turkish dishes is based on their
“fattening” qualities, and the pleasure in flavours which tempt one to
over-eat.
More “notables” appeared for an afternoon reception, in strange and
picturesque costumes: Deputies, hodjas, and judges. How I longed to
borrow that judge’s saxe-blue silk robe for a dressing-gown; but,
knowing that he would “give” me anything for which I expressed a fancy,
my honour sternly forbade the request! Everyone had left their shoes on
the mat, and sat in their stockinged feet. My muddy boots were a
disgrace.
They all talked Nationalism, overjoyed by the recent victories and, I
cannot deny, bitter against Great Britain.
I was invited to a big “Nationalist” meeting, to be held that night at
the Young Men’s Club, and was only too glad to have the chance of
answering the questions I knew they would want to put. It is always wise
to encourage our critics to air their grievances.
We were conducted up a rickety staircase to a large room thick with
smoke. The men were all wearing kalpaks, and evidently puzzled at first
by the “Englishwoman in their midst.” Some of them smiled, others
plainly showed their surprise, and others just stared.
After the cheik had opened the meeting in a very few words, our host
rose to explain my presence. He told them that I had come to Angora
entirely on my own responsibility, because, though our authorities
called it “brink of war,” I wanted to convince the Turks that we should
not _have_ war.
Then, with the Governor as my interpreter, I begged them “to believe
that Mr. Lloyd George’s policy was _not_ the policy of the English
people. He had only followed Gladstone in _this_ matter, and he had been
led astray by M. Venizelos. No other Englishman would make war on
Turkey, and we, the people, were therefore determined upon his fall.”
“_Inch Allah_,” cried the people.
Then I said that “whether our Conservatives or Labour men followed Mr.
Lloyd George, it would make no difference to them. Both parties are all
for peace. I was not Turkey’s only friend in Great Britain. We who knew
were all hard at work for peace.”
It was a strange meeting! Did the Governor really translate what the men
actually said? Some were obviously filled with anger, though
“_saura-saura_ and Mr. Lloyd George” was all I could catch. The Governor
interpreted, “The speaker does not approve of Mr. Lloyd George’s
policy.”
“Nor do I,” I replied, which made them all laugh heartily.
“In any case,” I concluded, “there is not going to be war. It is
contrary to all reason, and we have been enemies long enough! We are
going to be great friends now.”
I answered a host of questions, which, however, the Governor had
softened in his interpretation to avoid hurting my feelings.
Finally my host invited the audience to express their appreciation of
the visit from an Englishwoman, who had persisted, against such terrible
odds, in coming to give them so much “news” from Great Britain; and the
old wooden roofs echoed to their cheers and clapping.
Maybe the British Government would scarcely have approved our meeting;
but there are many people in England who take a different view; and as I
told the people, “I had been seven years on the French front (a real
slice out of one’s life) and I knew what war meant. I will not believe
our men are going to be led to war again. However our politicians may
talk, whatever hysteria may be printed in the Press, we have sound,
practical reasons for friendship. There is nothing in the Nationalist
Pact to which Great Britain can seriously object; nothing, certainly, to
justify the shedding of blood on either side.”
After the meeting we drove back to our comfortable quarters, and talked
long into the night over tea and cigarettes. Too tired to sleep, I told
my host if once I dozed off there would be no waking me “this side of
anytime,” so I “let myself go” upon the glories of old England and the
fine traditions of our race—a subject my present companions were still
perfectly ready to applaud.
We passed on to America and her big Press. To their taste, British
journalism is “just dry bones—without a breath of life.” They must have
something picturesque, unrestrained by any considerations of taste or
possible hurt to the feelings of those concerned.
I told them of the strange pride with which an American dared to boast
of an “interview” with King Constantine. “His Majesty,” as the reporter
had written, “without asking me even to sit down, drew from his pocket a
handsome case and helped himself to a cigarette. He naturally did not
offer one to me.”
Constantine was, naturally, infuriated by the sarcastic implication, and
denied the “interview” altogether. The “man from the States” promptly
started an “action” against him, and withdrew it, once he had thus
secured far more publicity (which means dollars) than all the
“interviews” he might have secured with deposed royalties, would ever
have brought his way.
A lady compatriot of his, in the same spirit, once claimed to have
secured an “interview” with M. Kemal Pasha, and wrote that “he smoked
Player’s cigarettes.” When I told her friend that this was certainly
untrue, he said: “What matters! It was good copy.”
I was not, however, altogether surprised to learn that this “impression”
of Constantine was, most probably, quite true. All kinds of similar
stories were in circulation about the dead monarch, but the Turkish
officers were of opinion that, though as commander-in-chief he certainly
appeared to live underground, there was little he could be expected to
achieve with the army at his command. To be _fearless_ is a commandant’s
first duty, and for that quality they were as ready to praise the fallen
Djémal and Enver as M. Kemal Pasha himself. With all his faults and
mistakes, none could accuse Enver of fear.
My “lady’s maid” on this occasion proved to be a picturesque young
woman, dressed in very bright colours, wearing her hair in two long
plaits enclosed in a gay scarf. With the pleasant zeal of her race, she
squandered the whole contents of a beautiful Eastern water-jug in
“pouring them over my hands,” a process which used up all the water long
before I felt clean! And not even grease and eau-de-Cologne would drive
off half the effects of these terrible days from my face. It was a case
for Turkish baths. And Nazafer, my little maid, proved so timid and
gentle a hairdresser that I had to use some English “force” in this
direction when she had left me for the night.
Yet words cannot express the delight of this welcome change to all the
luxuries of civilisation. A blazing wood fire, a hot bottle, and the
generous supply of white satin cushions worked in a lovely iris design
on my vast, picturesque bed!
If the dogs outside could only accept their grievances with the silent
dignity of the East! As I peep through my lattice windows over the
half-ruined city, now bathed in the silver light of the new moon, I can
only marvel again that we hear scarcely a murmur from these suffering
people in their terrible distress. What do we want with this mutilated
country for which they are ready to die?
Here is the tale of a patriot that outstrips the wildest imagination to
have conceived. A certain woman, so poor that she had but one miserable
garment to protect her starving babe, catches sight of some “munitions”
that are lying near her, _exposed_ to the cold! She does not hesitate a
moment, but lifting her poor child’s only covering, carefully wraps it
round the “instruments of war.” Maybe the good God will send me another
child,” she whispered; “at all costs, my country must be saved!”
How dare we attempt to hamper these people’s freedom, bought at so dear
a price? Surely the future is _theirs_ to shape as they will.
When the morning is well advanced, and the sun is streaming upon me
through scarlet lace curtains, I am at last awakened from dreams of
burning cities to the alarms of war. Downstairs, sad and bewildered
faces almost convince me that actual hostilities have begun. But I am
now fully awake, and still refuse to believe.
“It is absolute nonsense,” I insist on telling them. “_My_ country is
_your_ friend.”
But even the optimism of our host had been shaken by the pessimist
newspaper reports. They all knew, however, that, if it _was_ war, I
should stay with them, and they would allow me to nurse our own
“men.”... It was not the “men” who would make war; and I gladly repeated
their high tributes to the fine soldierly qualities of the Turk, in
startling contrast to most Germans!
* * * * *
Our host himself superintended the preparation of my breakfast tray—eggs
and butter, honey and jam, fruits and cheese.
“You have sent me a grocer’s shop,” I exclaimed to him later, but he
waived aside my gratitude with a casual, “Don’t mention it.”
I reminded him that he had promised I should see “madame” and the baby.
“Could not she share our meal?” He said she was tired and really
preferred to rest. Was the excuse diplomatic?
He told me that almost immediately after their marriage (about a year
and a half ago, when she was only seventeen), they had “escaped” to
Rhodes, and it was only too likely their brief experience of home—such
as war had left them—would be once more cruelly interrupted. She,
unfortunately, did not speak French, but I could easily read in her
large, pathetic, dark eyes the excuses she strove to offer for what
would never have struck me as “inadequate” hospitality.
I tried to convey my deep sympathy to her husband. “You seem like a
couple of dear children,” I said, “just eager to make us all happy.”
“Every Turk,” he replied gravely, “must marry young. The country needs
children.”
M. Kemal Pasha entirely confirmed the curious impressions that this
household could not fail to produce on any visitor from Europe. It
almost made one think of Turkey as the social Antipodes. In England so
many women are now doing men’s work, in addition to their own. Here we
see men working for both sexes. I have no doubt the sweet little lady
had “prepared” everything in advance, but when we arrived, she felt it
becoming to disappear! It was our host, again, whom I had surprised in
the midst of his ministrations for a most excellent lunch!
The afternoon was spent in driving about the pillaged city, visiting our
host’s carpet-factory and a number of weaving-looms in private houses.
It is a privilege, indeed, to see all these treasures of beauty shaping
before one’s eyes. It must, I think, be a great relief for the “tired in
mind” to “get busy” about mechanical work. One’s fingers soon turn into
machines, weaving the wool in and out of the frame, cutting the pile,
the whole process of creating those wonderful Eastern “floorings” we all
admire. The making of even “high art” goods must rest the nerves, like
the “perpetual motion” of my Scotch mother’s knitting needles!
In the distance the cemetery looked like a large field, glaring with
poppies and cornflowers that it was puzzling to find so late in this
cold climate. As we approached, however, the picturesque scene proved to
come from dyed wool left to dry on the tombstones, which were,
themselves, of a turban-like shape.
In the market we were astonished to find how quickly trade had
recovered, almost to pre-war activity, since my last visit. Somehow they
have discovered tools and wood to patch up booths for the old business.
I told my companions I “hoped the people would soon be given material to
rebuild the whole town, that Europe would send money in admiring
recognition of their ‘already proven’ ability to help themselves.”
It seemed almost a “confessional” for me, as the officers and municipal
authorities, the deputies and the hodjas, plied me with question after
question, because they knew I would tell them all I could, and speak the
truth!
They brought me photographs—of cities in ruins, of mutilated and
disfigured human beings!—unfortunately too primitive for reproduction,
but no less invaluable as documentary evidence, almost too ghastly for
man to “look on and live”!
We drove also to the aviation ground and were shown what the officer in
charge had contrived to make of the cannon left by Greeks. Though
everything was systematically hacked to pieces, it had been all “put
together again” by the Turks with astonishing patience and perseverance.
Naturally proud of his work, and delighted to tell us how it had all
been managed, the officer, fortunately, quite forgot I was English. He
was telling us that he found a few French 75’s, but that most of the
guns were howitzers. Suddenly realising the need for caution, or rather
courtesy, he burst out: “Cannon, Lloyd George,” and won from us all the
most grateful and laughing applause.
I was further especially pleased with his outspoken pride in the Turkish
women aviators, of whom his own wife had been one. All honour to
them—from that Jeanne d’Arc of Turkey, Halidé Hanoum, to every woman who
had unloaded munitions from the boats and “done her bit” in the
factories!
He told us how women had watched for ships bringing munitions as for
angels of deliverance. How they toiled at the unloading and bore their
burdens with uncomplaining zeal. No man must lift a finger for work that
could possibly be undertaken by women. As M. Kemal Pasha says: “The
women have _done_ their part in saving the country, they must _have_
their share in governing it.”
It has always been supposed that France supplied most of these
munitions. But the Turks paid _us_ £5,000 sterling (at the present rate
of exchange) for a load of their own munitions that we had “picked up,”
and they bought arms from the English officers in Constantinople.
Further supplies, of course, were obtained from Frenchmen, Italians,
Russians, and, incredible as it may seem, from the Greeks themselves.
Turkey bought arms wherever she could, and set herself the grim task of
readjustment.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, the Governor had been telegraphing for us in all directions
all day, for news of a train to take us on our way. All the services, of
course, were disorganised, and the line cut—a message from Smyrna to
Kassaba might take twelve days! We would not worry, or hope!
At about 9.30, we hear of another luggage train! It is not a long
journey from Ouchak to Afioun-Karahissar. We are now well supplied with
food and candles, a dilapidated deck-chair has been dug out for me, and
the cheik’s brilliant conversation will “make history” of the night.
I had managed to have a few words with our host’s wife before we left
the house. Her husband translating, she thanked me again and again for
my visit, and then, asking me to excuse her going to see an ailing
brother, she sailed away with her little babe in her arms. As she turned
smiling on us from the big gateway, I could not resist blowing a kiss to
the child-like and pathetic figure she made—for all the world like a
schoolgirl and her doll!
Towards evening, as we were preparing to leave our host, I caught sight
of a few tears rolling down his cheeks. Like an Englishman, he quickly
brushed them aside, and turned to me with a smile.
What had I said, or done? We had been skating on thin ice all the time.
I would never deliberately hurt anyone’s feelings, but I cannot resist a
joke, and, in a foreign language, there is danger of misunderstanding.
I found a chance of asking the cheik to tell me frankly if I had
unwittingly given any offence, for which I would be only too eager to
tender my sincere regret and apology. But he explained: Our host’s
brother-in-law had died during the night, and, not wishing to disturb
our entertainment, his wife had bravely set out alone to attend the
funeral.
So even the most intimate domestic sorrow was not permitted to interrupt
our enjoyment; the intrusion, as it _must_ be felt, of an unknown woman
from an enemy land!
I have never met, even in Turkey, such a fine spirit of hospitality.
_My_ tears could not be kept back. Here was a mere lad heaping coals of
fire on my head. Again and again the words sternly echoed in my brain:
“These things should never have been.”
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