A THIRD-CLASS COMPARTMENT—A FRENCHMAN AMONGST THE RUINS
AFTER a few miles of such travelling as had now become familiar, I
determined that I would change my carriage and pay a visit to the French
colonel—which proved far more lengthy than I had intended.
When I had manipulated the climb, I found plenty of room in spite of
boxes.
“What on earth are you doing here?” was his first question, to which I
gave him a _tu quoque_.
“I am looking after the French interests in Syria,” he replied, an
answer that could not fail to provoke a laugh.
“That is well worth noting,” I said, “a parallel to my journey from
London to Edinburgh, _via_ Paris! It will make ‘good news’ for the
British Foreign Office.”
“And in what way can it concern them?” was the stiff reply. “Their own
record in these parts is not entirely _sans reproche_.”
“Don’t forget I am an Englishwoman and not, as you insist on saying, an
American.”
“Is it not practically the same? You speak one language.”
I started up, almost in anger. “Never dare to say such a thing again. I
might as well ask whether you were a Senegali. The language is the same.
Individual Americans, some parts of their country, I consider, are
magnificent, but their Government!”
“Will any Government bear close inspection?”
“Perhaps not.”
“You regard the States precisely as I should expect from an
Englishwoman. But, after all, what has Great Britain done in Turkey,
after ‘letting us down’ over ‘reparations’—perfidious Albion!”
“I may be dense,” I returned (somewhat evasively, I admit), “but what
exactly is the connection between Syria and M. Kemal Pasha?”
“Everything and nothing,” was the characteristically enigmatic reply.
“I take that as courteous French for ‘mind your business,’ as charming a
phrase as your _Pourquoi-parceque_.”
He supposed that “I had been sent to Angora by the British Government,”
and I promised to send him notes on my conversation with “the
authorities” at Smyrna.
“Naturally,” the colonel persisted, “they would _pretend_ they had
nothing to do with your undertaking; but do they not pay your expenses?”
“I never heard of our Government having _paid_ a woman; I never heard of
their even consulting a woman—except Miss Bell—and, according to Colonel
Laurence, her great charm is that everyone takes her for a man!”
The colonel laughed.
“I am absolutely independent; nor shall I send a word to the Press
unless I want to do so.... The Government may exile me or send me to
prison; so may the Turks. But I _shall_ describe _what I see as I see
it_; and if anyone can prove me in error, I will correct my statements
and apologise.
“So few of us have the courage to write either articles or books in the
spirit of true independence that truth demands. We writers should not be
at the beck and call of newspaper editors. We ought not to respect their
policy if it offend our conscience or the truth. _They_ should follow
our lead. Had we only had more _esprit de corps_ this terribly false
position of Great Britain in Anatolia to-day could never have come
about.
“If the articles in which I have told the truth are _not_ published you
will know the reason. The editor has his opinions, and I refuse to
change mine.”
“What about the British propaganda?”
“There is no British propaganda.”
The colonel laughed, loud and long. “No country,” he said, “has spent so
much on ‘intelligence’ as Great Britain. Gold has been poured from her
coffers. That is why she has been so badly served.”
“I entirely agree. We _have_ squandered millions in the Near East—in
Palestine, Mesopotamia, and everywhere else. But towards women no
Government has been so mean. It is our own fault; ‘cheap labour’ is
considered patriotic; and, after all, the Government could not find the
money to squander unless someone was willing to take their pittance.”
“My dear young lady, the British are rolling in money.”
“M. Briand told the same tale till I cornered him one day, and then he
said: ‘Your country is so rich that she can even afford to give ‘golden’
hair to her women!’”
“Well,” he replied, “I can but admire you—to have undertaken such a
journey, at such a time, without the backing of your Government or the
Press—and all for no purpose!”
“You are frank,” I said with a smile. “Do you think I could have
accomplished more with the financial backing that your women can always
command from your Government?”
“I cannot understand your Government.”
“Neither can I.... That’s why I am here.... Do you remember the Bible
story of a city offered salvation if but _one_ righteous and upright man
could be found within her gates? So, God willing, may I, as _one_
Englishwoman and a friend, preserve for my country some last shred of
respect and faith in our honour among the Moslems of Turkey and India,
Egypt, Persia, and Palestine.”
Courtesy, I suppose, kept him silent, and we were soon busy with
preparations for dinner. He produced a towel for serviette, a piece of
newspaper for table-cloth, and—luxury of luxuries—a knife, a fork, and a
mug in which to enjoy some good French wine! The menu, too, was a
change: _foie gras_ and sardines, almonds and figs, apples and jam.
“I shall come and dine with you again,” said I, lest he should be too
shy to invite me.
I found that the colonel and his staff could fully sympathise, from
their own experience, with my anathemas upon luggage traffic. I told him
“no doubt it was he and his friends who were making those awful ‘night
noises’ that so alarmed me”; and though, of course, he denied it, my
story received the tribute of a polite and good-natured laugh.
“I admire your courage,” he said again.
“Reserve your judgment. You will have time enough to see later what a
combative person I can be.”
“_Nous verrons._”
We reached Eski-Chéir at about nine o’clock, and a telegram announced to
the colonel that a special private car was on its way to meet him.
“Now,” said he, “I can offer hospitality, not only to you, but to your
friends as well.”
We went to a café for tea, where numbers of Turks, wearing kalpaks, were
singing patriotic songs. Directly they had finished, I clapped my hands,
crying: “M. Kemal Pasha, _Chok Guzel_,” and their delight was obvious.
“Poor fellows,” said the colonel, whom I began to find sympathetic, “it
needs such a tiny effort; they will respond to the least hint of real
sympathy.”
There is nothing sordid about this little tumble-down café, though its
floors are thick with mud and the attendants are charmingly shabby. “At
least,” I said, “this dirt and discomfort is artistic.... What artist
would dream of painting an American sky-scraper, luxurious and
comfortable though it be? Yet here one could cover the walls of an
exhibition from one day’s experience. The picturesque water-pots, the
quaint trays, the artistic tea-glasses and coffee-cups, the colouring of
the costumes.
“If Mr. Chester of the U.S. has come here to sweep away all this he is
an enemy of Art.
“I love creature comforts—warmth, baths, and perfumes, but I sincerely
trust no fever of reform will ever induce the Turks to spoil their
surroundings; and, above all, that they will never call in American
specialists to teach them building achievements. By all means let them
adopt American hygiene; but American architecture, God forbid!
“I will pay honour where honour is due. To all who have so nobly
perpetuated the work of Florence Nightingale I bow the knee. But what
will American innovations do for Turkey?
“In the East End of New York, America’s melting-pot, I once saw a
picturesque old Jew reading Spinoza in the original, as he sat absorbed
on the sidewalk. His velvet cap was old and shabby, the long grizzly
beard maybe none too clean; but in the primitive robes of his ancient
race he looked a true Oriental.
“Then appeared his ‘American son’—a ‘Bowery’ accent, many smart rings, a
costly gold watchchain across his brightly-coloured waistcoat, spats and
patents, and a ‘time is money’ expression on his alert face. Which of
the generations would you prefer?
“If the Turk ever asks our advice, I sincerely hope no ‘counsels from
Europe’ will ever replace the artistic traditions of the East....
Europeanised Turks are not the ‘best’ Turks.
“You have already, alas, in the Hippodrome at Constantinople, that
cheap, ‘made in Germany’ monstrosity of a fountain, which the
once-mighty Emperor William bequeathed to you as the ‘souvenir’ of a
visit to ‘his brother,’ Abdul Hamid! Why has war left it untouched?”
* * * * *
It was a strange comfort to compare the happy faces of these men with
those one knew under the late Sultans. In those days, two or three
meeting together in a café were always in fear of arrest as
“suspects.” I remember what songs broke forth on the Night of the
Constitution—funereal, indeed, they sounded to our thinking, but such
_are_ their songs of joy.
Then they sang for joy, since “freedom” was too new a thing for serious
contentment; oppression had only just been lifted, the sense of security
had not arrived. Now, in the sure knowledge of freedom from the Greeks
and from Imperial rule, they sit, calm and confident and well satisfied,
no longer an Emperor’s slaves, but citizens of a Free State. Can one
wonder that every one of them would die rather than lose one inch of the
liberty so bravely won?
“Please tell them,” I asked the officer, “that I have been in Turkey for
every crisis of progress in recent history, and that none has filled me
with such proud delight as the victory of M. Kemal Pasha. I am here
to-day to offer him my congratulations.”
The colonel politely remarked that it would have been only “prudent”
speculation for the British Government to have despatched me upon the
mission I had undertaken for myself.
I thought how well it would be for many of my compatriots to do similar
work in other lands. It may be against all our traditions, but
“propaganda” could now do much for England. Here, on the brink of war,
where all men were filled with righteous indignation against us, I have
at least been able to leave a “better impression” of my country in
wayside cafés and many Turkish homes.
Yet, as official language would express it, I have not “licked the boots
of the Turks,” and everywhere I have been treated with the true courtesy
of the chivalrous. May the experience not prove to have laid the
foundation of a new and interesting career for women? To explain in all
lands, and to all envious or hostile peoples, the true greatness of the
British Empire, will not be work in vain.
Since my return I have been frequently asked to explain the rôle of the
French colonel in Angora. I cannot feel that his presence implied any
disloyalty to Great Britain. Again and again we have been asked by
France to modify our policy in the Near East. But as neither threats nor
coaxing has availed to save us from being the tools of designing Greece,
France was driven to “make her own arrangements.”
I do not say that she abandoned Cilicia simply for conscience’ sake, or
that she gave back that rich cotton district to Turkey from a pure love
of justice. But I am ready to congratulate her on the wisdom of retiring
before she was driven out. We must obviously own that Angora is not on
the direct road back to Syria, and that the colonel has lingered some
months by the way. That, however, is really his own business; and I do
not forget that I, too, once went to Turkey for six weeks and stayed six
months! No doubt he is no less welcome to M. Kemal Pasha than I was to
the Grand Vizier’s daughter.
He certainly proved an invaluable source of information. As I told him,
“he must have telegraphed to his Government every time he heard the
Pasha sneeze”; and, emphatically, he has done good work. Honest,
upright, and sincere, he can “explain many things” to the Turks, and
assist them with tactful advice. At the worst, he has harmed no one,
which cannot be said of all diplomatists in Constantinople!
I, personally, can respect those with whom I do not agree, even those
who, on behalf of their own country, dislike mine. It would surely have
been more prudent to _follow_ the French example, by having a
representative in Angora, than to criticise them. Suspicion leads
nowhere, and such a man as General Harington “on the spot” could have
done a great deal to hasten peace.
France has no desire, or, at least, no considered campaign, to undermine
our influence in the East; and the colonel, at any rate, was quite aware
that, whatever the gratitude Turkey may owe and feel to her, it is
England who will soon (once more) hold the first place in Turkey’s
affections. The terrible and tragic bunglings of these last years will
then be forgotten.
They have told me themselves that M. Franklin-Bouillon did all he could
to advise them to preserve good relations with England.
* * * * *
The car arrived about eleven o’clock, and though we were driven to spend
the night in the station (a junction between HAÏDAR Pasha, Angora and
Smyrna); though the wind howled over the beating rain, and the train
shrieked in the distance, the contrast of so much comfort (on the
luxurious couch of a roomy car) with the experience of the previous
night, made one feel that the discomfort itself had been worth while.
As the colonel, the cheik and the officers in turn brought me a glass of
tea by way of nightcap, I said to each: “How good it is to be here!”
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