MUSTAPHA KEMAL PASHA—THE MAN WHO IS MASTER OF HIS FATE
MY eye fell on the portrait of a handsome Turkish lady, which was
hanging over the Pasha’s writing-desk.
“What a lovely face!” I exclaimed.
“My mother,” said the Pasha, with obvious pride.
“Would it be very indiscreet,” said I, “to ask if I might have the great
pleasure of seeing her?”
“She is very ill. The doctors are with her day and night. Alas, I fear
she can never recover.”
We afterwards went up the staircase to the invalid’s apartments. To my
surprise, we found her seated on a wide divan, supported by cushions. It
was difficult at first to believe that she was so near the end.
“Alas!” said Mustapha Kemal, “her suffering has come through me. She is
paying back now the tears and anguish she spent for me in exile.” There
was sorrow in his voice, too heart-broken for many words.
“Now you can take part in his victory,” I said. “How proud you must be
of your son. His is a wonderful story. I am proud only to have spoken
with him and seen his work.”
She thanked me with great feeling, and said she believed “God had sent
her this son to save the Fatherland—but my son is always kind to me.”
Whilst giving me a beautiful silk handkerchief, scented with her
favourite perfume, she asked whether she had not seen me before, ten
years ago, in Constantinople.
“She has a marvellous memory,” the Pasha murmured.
In a few days there were to be no more opportunities for any of us to
see this dear lady!
When, later, in Constantinople, I ventured upon some allusion to the
great devotion he always evinced to his mother, a Turk said: “That is
only natural—Oriental, if you will. The man whose hands are steeped in
blood, whose soul is black with crime, yet bows in respect to his
mother. You might as well be surprised that the sun shines.”
* * * * *
The story of M. Kemal’s youth and of his brilliant career is, of course,
well known in Anatolia. He was born in Salonica in 1880, and there are
legends that many who saw the boy, “fair as the corn,” at his games,
would say: “Look well at that little fellow. He will one day be the
saviour of his country.”
St. Jeanne d’Arc’s “Life,” you remember, begins with a description of
the countryside on the night of her birth—“all the animals seemed
strangely excited. There was a chorus of approval from the chickens, the
geese, and the pigs.” “Very possibly,” as a friend once commented on
this passage, “it all happened again on the night each of us was born,
but no one noticed it.”
So I will speak only of facts. A year ago, how few had even heard his
name! How often the Unknown Personality has appeared, just when hope
seemed dead, to save his country!
M. Kemal’s father died when he was quite a child, though already
attending the school of Chemsi Effendi. Then, for a few years, his
mother took him to stay with an uncle in the country, and life became
one glorious game in the sunny fields, shooting at rooks, stealing
Nature’s secrets, and flourishing on all the delights of being naughty
with no one to interfere.
Although his mother seems to have felt, however, that young minds cannot
safely be left long undisciplined, and, therefore, brought him back to
school at Salonica, the experiment did not prove a success. Like other
unusual boys, he was always in hot water and, in the end, was allowed to
come home and play at soldiers.
It was Edison’s unsympathetic schoolmistress who told _his_ mother:
“This boy’s brain is addled, we can do nothing with him.” He had given
one of his companions a seidlitz powder to find out whether the gas
would lift up his patient into the air! Mrs. Edison was wise enough to
take the boy’s education into her own hands, proving herself “the
loveliest and most wonderful teacher on God’s earth,” as he afterwards
declared.
As the Pasha’s mother did not approve of soldiering, the boy simply took
himself off to a military college, passed the examinations with
distinction, and then proudly confronted her with all his certificates!
He was both hard-working and intelligent, devoted to French and
mathematics.
But even as a schoolboy his country’s suffering must have eaten into his
ardent imagination. I was told that he would spend hours of recreation
in making speeches and organising a committee, to protest against the
tyranny of Abdul Hamid. Already he felt that an army was not enough to
save his country, and persuaded some of his schoolfellows to study
politics, sowing the seed of all he has since given to the world.
From the beginning he determined, above all, to make himself master of
every detail concerning the French Revolution; to understand, by
understanding “the people,” why it happened and how it happened, what
mistakes were made, the real ideals that inspired its passion of
sacrifice, and the permanent gains it brought to France and to mankind.
Long after all his companions were fast asleep, the young Mustapha dived
into every possible book he could lay hands on, to clear up this
fascinating subject. Next morning he would hold forth to all and sundry
upon his discoveries, and finally issued a paper with exemplary
regularity, which was widely circulated in manuscript.
Meanwhile military studies had not been neglected; He was promoted Staff
Captain, and—through under-hand channels—“recommended” to the notice of
Abdul Hamid, who promptly exiled him to Syria.
In Damascus, Beyrout, and Jaffa, his more revolutionary plans matured.
At last the Constitution was proclaimed, and he was able to join his
mother in Salonica!—not yet, however, for the quiet of a restored home
life.
At the time when the troops marched to deliver Constantinople from the
reactionaries, he was appointed Chief of Staff to Mahmoud Chefket Pasha.
During the Tripolitain War he was first at Syrenaique, and afterwards at
Benghazi.
When the Great War broke out, he was military attaché at Sofia, but was
immediately despatched to the command of a Division in the Dardanelles,
and, when this had been formed and organised, marched to Gallipoli. It
was he who defeated the English forces, not only in Gallipoli, but at
Anafarta.
After we had been driven out of the Dardanelles, he went to the Caucasus
in command of the 15th Army Corps, and recovered Bitlis and Mouche from
the Russians. For a time he led the 6th Army Corps, under the German
General Falkenhayn; but nothing could reconcile him to his chief’s
methods and the reckless loss of life they involved. He therefore
resigned and went back to Constantinople.
After accompanying the present Khalif on a visit to Hindenberg and
Ludendorff, he tells me that, when he thus first clearly saw into the
real issue of the war; he also saw, even more clearly, the need for
making his own plans in Turkey.
He was in Syria when the Armistice was signed; and returning with high
hopes to Constantinople, sank broken-hearted before the treachery of
Mudros! But not for long.
Never the man to nurse despair, he quickly rose again to his country’s
call. Offered the post of Inspector of the East (that is, High
Functionary of the Eastern Villayets), he accepted at once, and hurried
into Anatolia to prepare for resistance.
From the moment he stepped out at Samsoun, _the movement began_.
What shall we say of the “Man at the Helm—the Hero and the Genius?” Were
his “Destinies,” indeed, “written on the tablets of heaven”; or may he
not rather claim:
“I am Master of my Fate
I am Captain of my Soul”
* * * * *
Every detail of the work had to be built up, as it were, stone by stone,
entirely afresh—an army to be found anywhere and everywhere from
nothing. Yet it was trained and organised to become, what Colonel Mougin
tells me, is “the best-disciplined and best-officered army in the
world.”
Perhaps the Battle of the Sakharia, lasting fifteen days without
interruption, may be quoted as the Great Victory. It was certainly one
of the battles of this century. When one of the majors asked for
instructions about “the line provided for retreat,” he was told: “There
will be no retreat. Advance, or die in your trenches!”
On the anniversary of the Battle of the In-Enus, Ismet Pasha told me a
little about his victory, and what it meant. What victory _must_ mean
when you have nothing with which to conquer.
Already the military experts have written pages about the advance and
the victory. One day, we hope, “The Pasha” will give us his own version.
How, again, shall we tell the endurance of the people, suffering through
long years in silence and alone? To us who could but look on them,
pitying and admiring from a distance, it seemed as if someone _must_ get
through somehow to offer the hand of friendship and give, at least,
heartfelt sympathy. I tried, but it could not be done. Even now, I
cannot say all it has cost me to reach Angora!
Mustapha Kemal must put on record “The Birth of a Nation”; and from
Halidé Hanoum we want the thousand and one pictures of the agony of
simple folk—desolate village homes, women who weep _and_ work, the
little ones crying, “What is it, mother?”; all that war means to men,
all that men can endure for liberty and the right.
“What does it matter,” she has written, “though the world call us
pariah? We will die with honour. What does it matter if food be denied
us by all our neighbours? Our own soil will keep us alive, sheltered in
sackcloth!”
At Lausanne the patriot-passion is taunted for its arrogance. It is
forgotten that self-made nations, like men, if made with honour, have
certain rights and duties, which the most illustrious and ancient
lineage cannot bestow. Moreover, we carry with ease what has come down
to us through the centuries; what we have suffered and fought for, we
grasp, crying maybe somewhat loudly: “Hands off!” To be in Turkey, and
to learn of the heroism of her people, is to understand her moderation.
* * * * *
I was naturally keenly interested in the Pasha’s views on women; I have
been still more interested to hear that, since I was at Angora, he has
put his theories into practice.
I have never spoken in England or the United States without having to
answer the most absurd questions on life in a harem. This time, in
London, the old nonsense was trotted out, and my replies either invented
or distorted.
I was interviewed during our own Suffrage agitation, and expressed my
conviction that “women _must_ either have full liberty to earn their
livelihoods in any profession, _or_ be sheltered and protected as
Turkish women are sheltered and protected.” Next morning a large poster
appeared with the legend, _under my portrait_, “English writer urges
polygamy!”
The paper inserted my prompt denial, but, of course, that never was read
by thousands who had swallowed the poster. A Glasgow paper, indeed, was
considerate enough to remark that, “knowing my people were
Presbyterians, the kindest interpretation was—insanity!”
American pressmen were particularly furious with me for asserting that
polygamy does not exist in Turkey, and that no Turkish women would put
up with the European system of “establishments.” When they persisted
that “Turks had more than one wife,” I asked, “why many men, who lacked
the means or courage to ever marry, yet supposed the men of the East
could each have four?”
In my judgment, “Progress for Women” has _begun_ on far sounder lines in
Turkey than elsewhere. The occasion has come to help them, and I believe
they are ready to meet it. There is to-day so much to be done for their
country that few, surely, will hesitate to come forward and stand beside
the men in the great work. Temptations to rivalry or competition
scarcely exist.
Ten years ago, that eloquent and graceful speaker, Hamdoullah Soubhi,
was urging the women to freedom, bidding them cast off their veils and
help to govern the country. To-day it is Mustapha Kemal himself who, in
season and out of season, is calling on them to break for ever with the
harem, and learn to be helpmates to their husbands.
I have said and written, over and over again, that women should not, and
need not, compete with men. That is not the real road to freedom.
Liberty dwelleth among comrades, and shuns a rival.
“This time next year,” said Mustapha Kemal, “woman must be free. She
must uncover her face and mix with men.”
“How will the men like it?” I asked.
“It matters little what they like or dislike. Freedom must come.”
He has no more patience with tradition in men’s dress. “When summer
comes and our kalpaks are too hot, we shall wear hats with ‘brims,’ to
protect us from the sun. The time is past for ‘dress’ to reveal the
‘race’. We should dress for comfort.”
Hamid Bey and other delegates at Lausanne are of the same opinion. They
say the old conventional way of dressing “stamps the Turk in Europe as a
member of an inferior race.”
* * * * *
Taking my courage in both hands, I ventured to mention the fear his
friends had expressed to me, of his marrying a princess.
“That will never happen,” he replied. “I have already chosen an educated
woman of my own people, with character enough to be ‘equal partner’ in
all my work. There can be no happiness in union for only _half_ one’s
character and one’s life. But I stand for democracy, and was never
attracted by rank.”
Everyone now is talking of Mustapha Kemal’s future wife. The ring was
bought for him at Lausanne by the delegates, who were as excited about
the business as any school-children. His neighbours, sweet little Mme.
Ruchène Echref and her talented husband are beside themselves with
delighted anticipation of having so charming a _châtelaine_ at
Tchan-Kaya.
Mme. Ruchène told me that the Pasha was staying with his future
father-in-law during the Moudania Conference, and that Latifée Hanoum
proved herself most helpful over all his despatches, as she speaks and
writes excellent English and French.
The wife to be could have no better sponsor than Mme. Echref! She and
her husband, like Adnan Bey and Halidé Hanoum, gave up everything to
follow the Pasha. They would not, however, allow me ever to speak of
their sacrifices, or tell the tale of their many tragic sufferings in
all parts of Turkey. Now, indeed, their dear little two-roomed cabin, so
tastefully furnished with its beautiful pictures, may well stand for
“love in a cottage.” She does a great deal of Red Crescent work among
the women who are still so active in helping the refugees of Anatolia.
One only wishes that the other social reforms, splendidly started in
Constantinople, had not been so long interrupted. But like education,
and all other real progress, they cannot survive long wars. What
criminal waste that means for mankind!
I have talked with many Turkish brides, received many confidences, and
the whole question of marriage in Turkey has always interested me
immensely.
The first Turkish bride I ever met, long years ago, had never seen her
husband before marriage, and detested him from the first. “There is
nothing the matter with him,” she admitted, “_except_ that I don’t like
him.” Ultimately she managed to escape, married a man of her own choice,
and was twenty times more unhappy.
Another bride told me that, as a great favour, she was allowed to see
her future husband, and has regretted it ever since. “The dreadful
imprudence seems to have robbed life of all its romance!”
Yet one more confession! “I peeped through the lattice-window to look at
him as he walked past. Quite an uninteresting little man, but he was ‘my
fate’ and I might have ‘been given’ something worse.” But, at her
wedding, I found a tall and handsome bridegroom. “What does this mean?”
I asked. “What has happened?” And she answered quite calmly: “I must
have looked out at the wrong man.”
* * * * *
Tewfik Rushdi Bey declares that it is “easy divorce” in Turkey which
makes their marriages so happy _and_ lasting. I gladly pass on the
paradox to all English advocates for “marriage reform”; only bidding
them remember that Turkish husbands accept big risks at the start. They
never hesitate about trusting their mothers to “pick a winner in life’s
handicap”; and, since young Western people, one and all, prefer their
own way to their parents’, all the “wisdom of the East” may leave them
cold.
* * * * *
European bridegrooms must always experience a sense of being “outsiders”
at their own weddings; but at least we expect them to be there! In
Turkey, the signatures of bride and bridegroom are not affixed to the
contract in each other’s presence, and often not even on the same day.
It is scarcely necessary to add that the guests belong to the bride’s
party, and are entertained at _her_ house. To us it certainly is strange
to hear the solemn questions addressed to the bride by the Imam that
pledge her life to an “absentee” partner, whom she has never set eyes
on. I can still remember a beautiful wedding-dress of white satin
brocade, embroidered with silver stars, over which sparkled a large
diadem of diamonds. All brides, too, wear a shower of silver threads
round the neck, from which they pull out threads to give their friends
for “good luck.”
“Good luck” at a wedding naturally means a good husband, and from the
number of threads I have received, there should be at least fifty
“eligible partners” somewhere in waiting for me.
We, in our turn, wish happiness to the bride on her bridal throne, as we
pass before her in solemn procession. Last of all comes the feast, for
women only, after which the happy couple are, at last, “introduced.”
At this charming and strange ceremony I also witnessed a fine example of
true democracy as practised in the East. Among the guests in their
elaborate ball-dresses, trimmed with orange blossom, I noticed the Grand
Vizier’s wife; and then, catching sight of a very differently attired
group of women, wearing faded and worn tcharchaffs and feradjés, I
realised that the “bath-women” of the family had come uninvited to the
feast! And the door of the harem was wide open, that _all_ might enter
in to see the presents, admire the dresses, and all the other delightful
feminine intimacies of such an occasion.
As a matter of fact, I was told by Zeyneb, _any_ woman can go to a
Turkish wedding without having been invited. “_You_, in England, only
ask your intimate friends, and yet you have to employ detectives to
watch the presents.”
When my attendant, Cadem Haïr (whose colour led me to call her Miss
Chocolate) became engaged to a coffee-coloured railway official, she was
treated like one of the family by the Pasha’s household. Fatma and I
bought her trousseau, we arranged for her to be photographed, and
secured a Kara Kheuz (or Punch and Judy show) for the wedding
festivities.
So many confidences, so many romances and love-stories inside the
Imperial harem, and outside! They would fill a volume.
I have never met an “old maid” in Turkey, and I doubt whether one could
be found. I well remember the distress and anxieties of a certain matron
whose daughter was still unmarried at twenty-eight. The girl had
resolutely refused all offers, and her poor mother could only suppose
she had been bewitched. Then one day _he_ appeared, and that story had a
happy ending.
Whether the reforms Mustapha Kemal is so determined to promote will
substantially diminish the number of early marriages, one cannot, of
course, foresee. At present, fortunately, the most brilliant, practical,
and advanced Turkish women have found _their own_ sphere, and do not
enter into open competition with men. If they are tempted to follow our
Western feminists, to steal, not only men’s prestige, but their bread
and butter, domestic chaos and anarchy may spread to the East.
For the moment, one does not expect advance beyond “The Pasha’s” own
striking example. He has not only chosen his own bride, but dispensed
with the Imam—a parallel to the first Englishman who dared to marry in a
registry office!
I always said this man would scatter many _coupés d’état_, once peace
was signed; but he has not waited for the signature!
The originality of his gifts to the bride recalls the Prophet of Islam.
Mahomet gave his daughter a Koran, a prayer-carpet, and a coffee-mill;
Mustapha Kemal has given his wife-to-be General Trécoupis’ revolver and
an Arab horse! She is an excellent rider, sitting astride, with the veil
only confining her hair.
I much regret that I was never able to find an opportunity of meeting
this lady, partly because she was educated at Chislehurst, almost next
door to my own school—Rochester.
Inevitably the Pasha’s liberal attitude towards marriage has been
criticised, and described as “in direct opposition to the principles of
Islam.” He, however, will not admit the charge.
It is true that, at the very door of Europe, women have been content to
live through the centuries in a comfortable material security, that
means being cut out of all the realities of life, and all the serious
joys or sorrows of existence. It is not unnatural that isolation should
have kept them down so long.
But the harem was _not_ invented by the Turks, and has nothing in common
with the nomad existence of the Great Preacher of the Deserts. Polygamy
and the harem were first introduced when the Turks entered Byzantium as
conquerors. They served, in those troublous times, as the best means
available for the protection of women, and proved a fine school of
instruction for Georgian Circassian slaves.
It is false to say that Eastern women have blamed their religion for the
evils, so many now recognise, of seclusion. The most ignorant are quite
familiar with the great names of women who have been the glory of Islam.
Mahomet’s own daughter, the “Lady of Paradise,” spoke to large audiences
of dusky-skinned Arabs, her face unveiled. Neither did Zeyneb, the
famous and beautiful professor at the University of Bagdad, wear the
veil. Khadidja sang in public, her own beautiful songs, still known and
admired all over the East. Rhadyah, one of the first great travellers
among these lands, was also an eloquent lecturer, applauded by the most
learned men of Islam.
Therefore are not the women themselves to blame for their prolonged
isolation? or was it the régime of Abdul Hamed?
Mustapha Kemal has not only offered his wife the privileges Mahomet
accorded to his daughter, but he has swept from the path of Islam the
retrograde heresies that Byzantium grafted on to the Faith.
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