IN THE “TRAIN DE LUXE”—THE SUPREME GOOD FELLOWSHIP OF ENGLISH
LAUGHTER—JOURNEYING TOWARDS THE CRADLE OF NEW TURKEY
IT was well past ten when I woke next morning. Though the sun was
blazing through the uncurtained windows, I had slept undisturbed.
[Illustration:
A Battle Royal with my Tangled, Dusty Hair.
]
There had, of course, been no chance of “undressing for the night.” But
I had been able to take off my boots, and having a whole compartment to
myself, I was only too glad to take out my wire brush for the luxury of
a “battle royal” with my tangled and dusty hair.
I was still only half awake and far too tired to think of _les
convenances_, when a smiling crowd of excited and gesticulating
Turks suddenly appeared on the platform. Truth to tell, the
six-days-and-five-nights’ journey seemed like an eternity. I had
forgotten Smyrna—almost forgotten the war. Were these happy children
the “enemies” of my country?
A tactful little bird now reminded me that Turks are not used to the
vision of ladies “at the toilette,” and it was, perhaps, a somewhat
perverse form of gratitude that tempted me to fill my rubber basin from
my host’s bottle of Evian in order to wash my hands “under the table.”
[Illustration:
A Bottle of Evian—Under the Table.
]
Despite haste and discretion, however, I experienced an unusual sense of
being dressed and clean, as I eventually stepped out into the daylight
to make the acquaintance of Eski-Chéir.
I found the colonel on the platform talking with animation to a
nice-looking Turkish general, who also, it appeared, had a saloon, to
which we all three soon adjourned for coffee and talk. He, too, will
scarcely believe that I am English.... “I did not think Englishwomen
could laugh so heartily,” was his excuse for scepticism.
“My dear sir,” I replied, “I was born laughing, and shall keep it up to
the bitter end. God has given me a few gifts—not many—and that for which
I give most thanks is a keen sense of humour.”
So I trotted out all the experiences of my journey one by one, not
forgetting the Greek I had to “shake” at Athens, and the Frenchman in
the “Caracole.” Convulsed with laughter, they one and all shouted: “She
is _not_ English!”
This strange impression of our race prevails, I know, also in France and
America. They forget Shakespeare’s Falstaff and the supreme “good
fellowship of English laughter.” French wit, no doubt, reveals the swift
play of a keener and more subtle intellect; ours is a “midsummer
madness” of warm hearts in the Forests of Arden.
For my part, when the “literature” mistress challenged her class to
“hunt for humour” in “Julius Cæsar,” I put my finger upon the Stage
Direction—“Enter Cæsar in his nightgown!” I could not then, nor can I
now, agree that Brutus’s wife’s distracted hurrying away, and then
recalling, the page for news of his master is anything but tragic
pathos.
Few nations, again, will enjoy as we do a joke against themselves. When
I published a “Turkish Woman’s Impressions of Europe,” about ten years
ago, in which she so happily hit off the weakness of our Western
civilisations, the Continent was up in arms. It was an _English_ critic
who gaily expressed his “most sincere thanks” for so “thorough a
dressing-down.” No publisher in the States would take the following
book, with Americans as “victims,” for fear of his “sensitive” and
“patriotic” (!) readers.
* * * * *
At a half-ruined restaurant near the station, over the most excellent
meal I ever tasted in such miserable surroundings, we had a long talk
with General Mouedine Pasha and his two sons about politics and some
curious stories they had heard somewhere about England. It is natural
that these men should not be interested in any other subject. The
general, he told us, had been in and out of prison for the last fifteen
years—exiled by Abdul Hamid, escaping, and caught again. After the
Armistice he left Constantinople, at great personal risk, to join M.
Kemal Pasha; was, for a time, Governor of Adana, and is now taking up
his post as Ambassador at Teheran. Most of the leading soldier
Nationalists—M. Kemal Pasha and Fethi Bey among the rest—seem to have
been his grateful pupils, and, naturally, he is a proud man to-day.
If only the authorities at Lausanne had known or could imagine anything
about life in Angora during the last three years! All the best men
exiled, persecuted, and imprisoned. What wonder that Nationalism had
grown into a religion!
He was indignant at the suggestion that French officers, or a British
strategist, were “wanted” in the Turkish Army. “My pupils,” he said,
“are more fitted to _give_ instruction than to receive it....
“The buying and selling of munitions, the haggling and bargaining
introduced in the army—all that ought _not_ to be—came from Germany.”
He was not the _only_ “big man” in Turkey to lose faith in their
war-ally, or to recognise some compensation for their terrible defeat in
the freedom from Teuton rule that it involved; but they are not,
therefore, any more kindly disposed to the yoke of “the Allies.”
Eski-Chéir had been one of the most flourishing towns in Anatolia, and
was destined from its position as a junction between two big railway
lines—Angora and Baghdad—to become more prosperous year by year. Every
town, of course, has its own story of looting, “violation of women,” and
fire; but to the spectator all now seem very much alike, and what
chiefly impressed one here was the amazing rapidity with which it had
started to recover.
If the produce be only lifted from the backs of patient and sure-footed
donkeys on to the Mother Earth, it is, after all, extraordinary that
there should yet be any produce left. Peasants ready to walk miles along
muddy roads to sell their goods in such small quantities for so little
profit will scarcely welcome the cost of transport by modern methods.
For them, time is _not_ money, and four weeks’ tramp beside a donkey is
far cheaper than a few hours by train.
It surprised me to find the curio-merchants already again supplied with
their tempting wares: mother-o’-pearl ikons and other relics, old
coffee-mills, coral seals, cameos, etc. Trade was fairly brisk, being
run on the sound basis of quick profits and small returns, fair prices
and honest dealing.
The attractions, of course, come nowhere near those of the famous bazaar
at Constantinople; but I was grateful to find so little haggling over
the price. I remember two types of merchants at Constantinople. One
kindly-looking old man with a long white beard was sitting cross-legged
over his charcoal fire, making himself a cup of coffee. When I inquired
about a fine Persian dressing-gown that took my fancy, he simply
answered: “Much too dear for you,” and so dismissed me. The other always
asked for three times what he was prepared to accept—a most irritating
habit. When I visited the bazaar in Turkish dress, my Turkish sister, of
course a real Turk, asked if he really found he _could_ rob people in
this way. “I never rob Turks,” was the naïve reply, “only the English
and the Americans.” The temptation to disclose my nationality was
strong, but in those less liberal days it might have meant “trouble” for
my friend.
Here I soon saw it would be waste of time to visit _any_ bazaar after
the French colonel. He counts it a day wasted if he has not found some
treasures, which are all sent for him to Paris.... “Poor man,” as my
friend the innkeeper would have remarked, “he is so far from home!”
In Eski-Chéir before the fire, however, art had been altogether put away
for munitions. The factories worked day and night, cannons and lorries
in readiness all the time. One day we shall learn something at least of
the ceaseless efforts by which victory was snatched out of nothing.
We left the town at about ten o’clock in the evening. At last we are
actually _en route_ for Angora. “I cannot even yet quite believe,” said
I, “that I am really starting, that I shall really arrive.” I heard that
some American women (more enterprising, or less expensive, than their
confrères) have reached Ismidt, but can get no further.
It was, indeed, “hard-going,” and I believe that the colonel’s “salon”
only just came in time. I was told, four years ago, by the eminent Jean
Louis Faure, that _if_ I survived at all it would be as a permanent and
complete invalid. Yet I have faced more since then than most “strong”
people would care to attempt.
The Turks, remember, who could not obtain or afford a yaili (the native
carriage) were driven to “walk” the eight hundred miles to Angora in a
climate that more than doubles the strain on one’s physique.
* * * * *
As soon as we meet new faces, the questions about Lloyd George all begin
over again.
I told the story of _Les Misérables_. How the ambitious Welsh lad and
his uncle, the village cobbler, “worked at the French” together in the
old days, one looking out “what a word meant” in the dictionary, the
other discovering how to pronounce it. Mr. Lloyd George had often
declared that the policy of his whole career came straight from his
first study of that immortal classic—“to devote his life to helping the
‘under dog.’”
Perhaps he has lost the copy of _Les Misérables_ he used always to carry
with him, and so missed the road to that magnificent goal; so, at least,
it seemed to my Turkish audience. “That is the man, a democrat who could
understand and appreciate our fight for freedom; what has driven him to
hate us?”
I could only repeat such “explanation” as I had been able to offer
before to their compatriots of the mountains.
The colonel was kind enough to suggest how much I might have saved
England had I been here a year ago.
“It is very doubtful,” I answered, “whether I could have done much, even
then. Our Government makes up its own mind without listening to outside
information. As a matter of fact, Colonel Aubrey Herbert, a _recognised_
authority on the Near East, called twice at 10, Downing Street, to urge
that very scheme upon the Premier’s private secretary, Mr. Philip Kerr,
but they preferred to keep me in England.”
“But why is your ‘intelligence’ so badly managed?” he asked.
“What evidence can you produce for such an assumption?” was my retort.
“There could surely be no other explanation of your leaving the Greeks
without support ... unless, indeed, they are right who whisper that Mr.
Lloyd George actually wanted the opposing armies to exterminate each
other. His conduct, certainly, lent colour to the charge.”
But I refused to be drawn.... “‘Intelligence’ is not my province,” I
answered, “although I _can_ say that the Turks were not served much
better in that respect.... They won by ‘faith’; what we of the West call
‘superstition.’”
I was able to more or less look after the son of an eminent Turkish lady
writer during his studies in Paris, just after the Treaty of Sèvres. His
father, one of the leading Governors under the last administration, had
given up all to follow M. Kemal Pasha. When I asked the boy whether they
had any hope of success, he just flashed out: “They _must_ succeed. His
stars are ‘right.’ He _could_ not fail!”
On the other hand, Turkish diplomats, one and all, declared he would
fail.
[Illustration:
GENERAL MOUEDDINE PASHA.
MILITARY INSTRUCTOR OF MUSTAPHA KEMAL PASHA.
TURKISH AMBASSADOR AT TEHERAN (PERSIA).
p. 128
]
“Must such splendid efforts be thrown away?” I sadly answered; “are
there _no_ circumstances that _might_ arise to justify at least some
hope?”
“My dear lady,” was the courteous and grave reply, “we _wish_ him
success, as you do; but you have too much good sense to believe in fairy
tales. The Pasha has neither money nor munitions. He has the Greeks
(well supported by the Allies and the Sultan) against him on the north,
the Armenians on the east, the French on the south. He will put up a
brave fight and perish in the attempt. The days of miracles are past.”
But the miracle happened!
* * * * *
And now, as the train followed the line of the victorious army, our
young men took out their maps and eagerly pointed out to us these, now
almost sacred, landmarks. Their father, at the same time, explained many
technical details—why such and such a position could not be maintained,
where the Greek strategy had failed, how General Trécoupis (now
thankful, no doubt, to be in the Turks’ hands at Eski-Chéir) had
surrendered to a mere lieutenant.
By way of return for all this interesting information, I told a few
simple stories about the Royal Family of Great Britain, which I have
always found interest these people far more than my “grander,” or more
romantic, reminiscences from the Courts of Europe.
They are never tired of hearing that our Edward VII. only required _one_
“gentleman in waiting” at a time at Marienbad; whereas the Czar
(Ferdinand) of Bulgaria was always accompanied by a suite of eight or
nine. Sir Edward Goschen was instructed to dress, like his royal master,
in a green Tyrolese hat with its little shooting feather. He was sent to
sit on “the king’s bench” until the crowd had satisfied their natural
desires for “a good view,” and gone home to breakfast. _Then_ Edward
VII. himself arrived.
I went on to tell of a Wagner concert, so crowded that a certain little
American lady of about seventy quietly settled into the only empty seat
that the King’s attendant just happened to have vacated. She simply
“refused to believe” the scandalised authorities when they told her that
she was sitting beside the King of England. Edward enjoyed the joke,
would not allow “his friend,” to be disturbed, and chattered merrily to
her between the music to the end of the programme.
Her countrywomen, in Ascot gowns, driving their four-horse carriages up
to the golf-course at Marienbad, _in search of_ an introduction, did not
find His Majesty so easy to approach. The most determined of them all
(up against something that “money” could not buy) was driven to use her
scissors to cut off a few hairs from his dog’s tail. “At least,” she
said, “if I have no souvenir of the King of England, I have a bit of his
dog,” and she mounted the hairs in a locket and wore it until she died.
“You see,” I concluded, “how much these ‘democrats’ admire a king. Will
the fever, I wonder, ever take root in the East?”
* * * * *
When we reached the Sakharia, the eyes of the general were filled with
tears, and it was some time before he managed to speak of what _had
been_. It seemed, indeed, too good to be true. The Greeks had penetrated
to Sakharia; and now they were driven out of the whole country!
“Without our Pasha,” said he, “we should still be slaves. To-day, none
dare fail in duty to our Fatherland!”
They were all this man’s pupils, these Nationalist leaders. To his fine,
upright character they owe an example they are proud to acknowledge. His
sons told me that he was in exile for six years, and they had no idea
where he was! It was easy to see how they admired him and how devoted he
was to them; and now his work at Teheran will not be easy; such men give
their whole lives to service!
We have travelled quickly and comfortably over this desolate country;
the little engine, _stoked with wood_, is tugging its long burden up the
long heights.
“Look,” said the colonel, “there is Angora.”
“That little village perched on a hill?”
“It is not a village,” he corrected, “it is a town.”
Yet somehow I felt this was not what I had expected ... “such a tiny
speck of a place to bear so great a name!”
Well, I had my first peep at that which I had come so far to see—the
cradle of the New Turkey. Soon I shall meet the hero of the
Nationalists!
------------------------------------------------------------------------