ANGORA I.—ENTERING A “BROTHERHOOD”—AN ATMOSPHERE OF CAMARADERIE
“WELL, what did you expect to see?” asked the colonel.
“Really, I don’t know exactly,” said I, “but something different.... I
suppose I am foolish enough to look for some sort of likeness to our
Western towns.... There is a certain resemblance in parts to a town in
the Rhondda Valley, except that the Welsh mining districts are sordid
and this is picturesque.”
“Why not leave it as it is,” said the colonel—“unique and impossible to
classify? Begin your explorations at my house, where you can enjoy
another glass of warm tea.”
This, in fact, was the first house I entered, and the last I left, in
Angora.
On a crowded platform—for the arrival of a train is an event—stood a
Chef de Cabinet of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and other officials.
The Prime Minister embraced his old friend the cheik, and carried him
off to his simple two-roomed dwelling.
When I met Fethi Bey in London, it seemed incredible that he should have
been treated as an enemy and exiled to Malta. Now that I came to know
Rauf Bey, it was impossible not to feel the same. Away in these distant
mountains, he speaks the most excellent English, without even an accent.
I remember a merchant of Smyrna, who complained to me that “these
horrible people expect us to learn their language, to speak and write
it.”
“And why not?” I answered. “They learn ours.”
“Oh, that’s quite different. Besides, Turkish is much too difficult.”
I reminded him of Mrs. John Burns. When her husband became a Cabinet
Minister, a certain fine lady decided to amuse herself by inviting “the
man’s wife” to tea. Her note ran: “Do excuse my not having called on
you. It is so far for me to come from Mayfair to Battersea.” Mrs. Burns
replied: “It is exactly the same distance from Battersea to Mayfair.”
“That is a charming story, but it will not persuade me to learn
Turkish.”
The Prime Minister, for some reason wearing a fez in place of the
picturesque kalpak, brought me apologies for Fethi Bey’s absence. “It is
Friday, and he has not been to the office all day.” We had all forgotten
that it was the Moslem Sunday.
“Now we are going to be friends,” I said later to Rauf Bey, “we must
arrange ‘the same day’ for our prayers of thanksgiving for peace.”
“It is you who will have to change,” he replied, smiling; “you must
learn to go our ways now.”
Here, indeed, at this far-away little station, one seemed to be entering
some kindly “brotherhood.” Everyone was wringing the colonel’s hand,
embracing the general and the cheik. I felt, too, that my
fellow-passengers were telling them about “a new member” they wanted to
introduce, saying heartily: “She will soon know all about the rules of
our club.” Everyone here plainly “stood for” the same ideals. We are
talking like friends already, without the formality of an introduction.
We are all working for a definite and well-defined goal. Houses are
scarcely needed for hospitality in a town with this atmosphere of
_camaraderie_.
I found myself chatting with the Prime Minister as though we were old
members of the same club. When, a few minutes later, I described the
unconscious influence to the colonel, he only said to his friends: “See
how quickly she catches the atmosphere of this delightful place!”
Here it is sympathy with Turkey in her bid for freedom that gives one
the _entré_ to the society, as in London one gains admission to the
club, in my case for example, as a writer of books. There is no sense of
suspicion. You feel you have a right to be here all the time. If you
were not _trusted_ you would not be allowed over the threshold.
Soldiers and refugees, officers and deputies, they are all on the
platform. Everybody has seen us, everybody has greeted us; next morning
the kindest little paragraph of welcome appears in the newspapers. I
have completely forgotten the war!
The colonel lives on the first floor of what was in the “beginning of
days” the Station Hotel. M. Kemal Pasha himself lived there for a time,
and now it is the “French Embassy.” Fortunately, the colonel has
schooled himself into _imagining_ a house is warm, whatever the
temperature; and I found him very comfortably installed, with plenty of
fresh air and a fine open view. Within, however, there were, except in
the bureau, no rugs or carpets on the bare boards.
To secure the luxury of a European wash, I decided to spend the night in
the station, where the young secretary gladly gave up his room to me,
making a bedroom of the bureau for himself and the colonel’s
aide-de-camp, Captain Hikmet Bey, after we had all enjoyed a very
appetising little meal.
The “Catholic” servant, however, was frankly annoyed at having to wait
on an Englishwoman—“that hateful intriguing race that killed my
husband!” He was killed, as a matter of fact, by the Greeks, but we are,
not unnaturally, held responsible, and once more I realised how little
“brotherhood” there exists between Christians. I confess it is always
with an effort that I remember Armenians _are_ Christians. In the end,
however, Marie decided that I was not really English, and we became the
best of friends. When I left Angora she shed many tears, kissing my
hand, placing it against her forehead in the picturesque custom of her
race, and begging me to come back soon.
When I handed her my rubber hot-bottle, she apparently supposed I did
not care to use the jug which already stood on the table, and filled it
with _cold_ water! When she understood that the water must be hot, she
brought it back to me to wait and watch what I would do with it. The
idea of putting it in my bed made her laugh heartily; and then she
decided to sit down and see whatever would happen next!
But I was tired, and, with none to interpret, began to wonder how I
could send her away. My phrase-book, as usual, did not provide the clue,
so I merely pointed to the door, saying _kapou_ (a door), which luckily
had the desired effect. But she was back again as soon as she dared in
the morning, to enjoy more laughter at the sight of the hot-bottle by my
side.
The principal road from the station to “Holy Angora” is wide enough for
three or four carts to pass.
Here are two-horse carriages, their primitive harness decorated with
turquoise beads, driven by picturesque, shabby Arabaje (_i.e._,
coachmen) in turbans of many colours. Also the yaili, so called from
their springs, and the famous Anatolian log-carriages, drawn by
bullocks. By the _side_ of the road, sunk in the snow or mud, are the
heavy carts drawn by buffaloes and driven by women, who wear the large,
baggy, Anatolian trousers, and conceal their hair beneath a scarf. Their
clothes, poor souls, are so nearly covered with patches that some of
them seem “all patch.” The men all wear kalpaks, and we see the peasants
(men and women) riding their laden donkeys or trudging along beside
beasts as patient as themselves. They look as though they had walked
straight out of the Bible.
The main road passes the Grand National Assembly on the way to the few
shops. The restaurants make a fair show of Turkish delicacies, like your
ekmek-kadaïf, and kébab. We pass two hans (_i.e._, inns) as primitive in
comfort as appearance, built of mud in which large holes can be seen,
and full of danger to the unwary on their rickety staircases. The
“commercials” in their yailis, on camels or donkeys, however, can find
no other or better accommodation. There are pictures of Ghazi Pasha all
over the town, and in one or two bookshops you can also buy his
principal colleagues, patriotic postcards, and other “Nationalist”
pictures in gaudy colours.
At quaint little booths in the market-place we find a tempting array of
fruit, vegetables, and meat, bread and cheese, raisins, nuts, and boots!
And, finally, we reach a few dwelling-houses of wood, stone, or mud that
do not seem to have been built on any plan, and now look more irregular
than ever because of the huge “gap” on the hillside caused, of course,
by the usual fire!
[Illustration:
The Market-place at Angora.
]
The weatherbeaten mud and thatch dwellings are whitewashed inside, and
have plain wooden doors with handsome knockers and quaint, huge locks.
They are mostly heated by mangals of burning charcoal that give out
poisonous fumes. However, the wood-stoves are not much better, as they
quickly produce an intense heat and then die down as quickly, besides
the danger of setting the whole place on fire.
It is difficult to find one’s way in Angora, but the coachmen are
wonderful. They “take” anything in their headlong course, so that one is
constantly jolted out of one’s seat as the carriages swing from angle to
angle, up and down the steep slopes. To start from the Ottoman Bank on a
wet day requires a double dose of fatalism.
[Illustration:
“The carriages swing from angle to angle.”
]
Ismet Pasha was much amused when I told him that I always said my
prayers before starting out for a drive, and uttered some “holy
ejaculation” every five minutes of the way. Even a handsome car like M.
Kemal Pasha’s can be seen dancing about like Shakespeare’s elf—“over
hill, over dale, through bush, through briar!” A chauffeur who can pilot
you through Angora could negotiate any country under the sun.
It was as well, perhaps, that my host, Feszi Bey, had arranged for me to
be driven to his house under the cover of darkness, when pitfalls were
not so obvious. He is Minister of Public Works, and was at the moment
attending the debate on the dethronement of the Sultan. As none of his
family speak French, Osman Noury Bey, of the Ottoman Bank, had been
instructed to act as my escort, and we found them all in the
sitting-room, with its lattice windows at each end, round as large a
fire as it was safe to have. The heat was almost overpowering after our
brisk drive in the night air.
Osman Noury Bey was obliged to leave me on the threshold, as he could
not enter the women’s apartments. While the _harīm_ and sex-separation
are not now rigidly enforced by the most educated Turks, they have not
by any means yet disappeared. I found that the whole “woman” question
was really on much the same footing in Anatolia as in other countries;
that is, “liberty” varies with education, upbringing, and surroundings.
In this house the women were closely veiled and dependent upon their own
sex for all their pleasures and companionships. Osman Bey himself is
thoroughly liberal-minded and would have allowed his wife full freedom,
provided only her hair was covered, but she goes out very little and
clearly prefers the old ways.
On the other hand, the wife of Djavid Bey, ex-Minister of Finance, goes
to private dances; while Halidé Hanoum goes everywhere and has mixed
freely with men for many years. Yet I, a woman, have never seen her hair
unveiled.
While we were waiting for my host’s return, I did my best to “make
conversation” by signs and gestures, and was really surprised at my
success. You can convey far more than one would suppose when you
seriously endeavour to _make_ your company understand. I had my book,
too, of “conversations in Turkish,” and so managed to remark: “The house
is large—the fire is warm—I like a warm fire.” Had I depended upon the
women in Turkey, I might soon have learned something of their language.
Our host arrives, and he is kindness and courtesy itself.
At about half-past nine, his Excellency asked me when I would like to
dine.
“Whenever you are ready,” I replied.
“Oh, no,” was the courteous reply, “it is when _you_ are ready. _Vous
maître maison, moi votre service._” Too charming a thought for one to
examine the accuracy of the language!
He was always amused to see me “hunting” in the dictionary; and as I
could _never_ get used to “beginning at the end and reading backwards,”
my most painstaking researches often produced strange results.
Like most of the Nationalist ministers, Feszi Bey is a man of about
forty, tall, well-built, dark, with large dark eyes. He is one of the
richest men in Asia Minor, owning about eighteen villages in Diarbékir,
and is immensely proud of his sons. His house in Constantinople was
“requisitioned” for English officers and left almost in ruins; but he
has large estates and many houses in his native land. Here, in Angora,
he was paying what seemed to be a heavy rent for somewhere to live,
considering the scanty furniture and lack of comforts in this house.
The ground-floor was occupied by kitchens and another room which the
merciful man had given up to his horses, leaving his carriage outside in
the rain and snow. Though not in any way like a stable, the animals were
clearly well-cared-for here. A very steep wooden staircase, certainly
_not_ built for ladies’ high heels, leads to a central room—almost a
“lounge”—which opens into four others. It was dimly lit by candles, a
survival from war-days when petrol was worth its weight in
gold—literally two hundred francs a litre.
Feszi Bey has been in Angora ever since the movement began, and has
acquired that striking expression of a set, firm resolve which I notice
on the faces of all his colleagues. I asked him whether he did not
“sometimes tire of living in this bare and rough Asiatic fortress, so
far from all means of culture or distraction.”
“We have our work,” he replied; “too absorbing and too important to
leave us time for complaint. We do not even ‘miss’ our comforts, or need
more than an hour or two’s sleep. There is so much to plan for our new
country, the day, and most of the night, are not long enough.”
Here one naturally feels far more in “New Turkey” than at Smyrna; the
impression grows on one day by day. At Lausanne I tried to make them
understand that they were still busying themselves over a Turkey that is
dead.... “You can’t talk to these people as you were accustomed to speak
under the Sultans, they would not understand you.”
They only smiled at a woman carried away by her emotions. But they were
wrong; this is no question of sex. The very ramparts, clear-cut in the
distance like gigantic razor-blades, the very remains of the Roman, even
the Seldjoucide and Osman, civilisations which halted among these hills,
will bear witness to the birth of a new nation!
As I gaze out over the mountain-tomb of Timourlin a voice seems to cut
through the chill air: “Here is a glory that will not perish. Here,
where the civilisations of the world’s childhood have flourished; here,
on the ruins of the great Empire of the Ancients; here beginneth a new
Turkey, the democrat of democracies!”
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