LAST DAYS IN ANGORA: EXCURSIONS, CONVERSATIONS, PICNICS—HAÏDAR BEY’S
PARTY
ANGORA, certainly, carries one back to the centuries before Christ;
although we now realise that life was by no means without its luxury in
those bygone days. As the houses of Pompeii were warmed by hot air
behind the walls, and the baths were not only hygienic but luxurious, it
would puzzle one to find what now remains in Angora from the comfortable
period of Augustus. There is also a prehistoric atmosphere about Smyrna,
or as it was once wittily expressed: “Since its deliverance from Greeks
and Armenians, it has the charm of Sodom and Gomorrah after the fire.”
But every day I am more at a loss to imagine where the thirty thousand
inhabitants of Angora are living to-day. I have seen some of them in
their charmingly improvised houses, made homelike by the marvellous
carpets of the East; but, as one always goes back to one’s first love, I
give up the problem, and return to talk with the “élite” at the
Assembly.
One day I found the Director of the Angora Press, Aga Aglou Ahmed Bey,
in his tasteful little ante-room, and learnt that he, too, found it hard
to forgive the recent policy of Great Britain. He repeated, also, the
note of despair I hear so often: “Whatever we do is wrong.”
“Yet,” he added, “had our movement originated in America, we should have
had the whole world at our feet. All growing nations have been allowed
to separate Church and State. We have, indeed, troubles within and
without, but they have only strengthened the spirit of Nationalism,
which the Pasha himself could not now destroy.
“Alas, poor Turkey! Abdul Hamid disposed of Turks with amazing
dexterity: he lost them, killed them, or forgot them; and who cared?
They were not Christians!
“Look what it cost us to depose the ‘Red’ Sultan, and then we had the
‘Black’ Sultan. When we got rid of him, Europe was not pleased. See how
the English are defending him; though one of your charming countrymen
told me they would not give him ‘house-room’ in your own country.”
I suggested, and Halidé Hanoum agreed, we could not refuse to find a
safe home for our vassal; although, certainly, his visit to Mecca could
not be justified by our refusal to go on paying his board in Malta.
Ahmed Bey expressed his enthusiasm for Lord Curzon’s books on the East.
As a young student, he told me, he had written glowing appreciations of
this brilliant statesman, in whom all the Moslems had once put their
trust. From Malta, he wrote to Lord Curzon: “One of your greatest
admirers, who has often expressed his eulogies in public, is now in
prison, a prisoner of peace, taken out of his bed....”
The names of Calthorpe and Milne will go down through the history of
Turkey; but not to the credit of England.
Here is the charming message sent to me by Aga Aglou Ahmed Bey, Director
of the Press of Angora:—
“I am, indeed, sorry that illness prevents my coming to tell you
personally what your visit means to us, and the feelings of gratitude
and respect that you inspire in the hearts of all the Turks by your
_courage_ and _love of the truth_....”
I was particularly glad to hear that although, like most of his
compatriots, Ahmed Bey holds that all propaganda is foreign to the
character of the Turks, he has determined to open a “Bureau of
Information” as soon as Peace is signed. I cannot doubt that this will
be a great benefit to all Islam.
“_My_ propaganda,” I told him, “would be inspired by the determination
to blazon abroad the marvellous kindness of all your race. Few people
have any idea how hospitable and generous the Turks have been.”
“Dear Mademoiselle,” he replied, “you are right. We have not the
sky-scrapers of New York; but we have big hearts. Yet we have given you
so little comfort....”
“You have given me your best, and I appreciate it. Hygiene and luxury
are not everything; though I have a pet theory of my own as to the
holding of hands between East and West in the realm of hygiene: ‘First,
I wash myself _à la West_, or, as you call it, in dirty water; then I
perfect the ceremony _à la East_, that is, in running water. On the
other hand, for a bath, I like to start with the Turkish and end with
the English. You see I am already half-Oriental.’”
Though rather exceptionally sympathetic and broad-minded, I gathered
from the Director that he, and others, were not quite so enthusiastic
about the French, as they, certainly, had been quite recently. Much was
expected of France at Lausanne, and they were disappointed in
proportion.
* * * * *
The _Athenaeum_ published a strange comment on my last book about
Turkey, from a writer who claimed to know the East: “When a race becomes
disciplined and energetic, the number of blonde women becomes greater!”
I should not myself call many Turkish men I met blonde; but I have a
certain impression of noticing a number of surprisingly fair men in
Angora; and, maybe, the energy of the Nationalists is thus evidenced in
the lighter colouring of their hair. If there be even a grain of truth
in the theory, it seems a pity that women of all nations should resort
to peroxide and henna, when a little hard work would have a better, and
more lasting, effect.
* * * * *
To-day, one feels the Grand National Assembly has achieved success, and
is permanently established. This sense of security is, no doubt, partly
derived from remembering what earlier parliaments, with scarcely less
loyal enthusiasm, attempted, and failed to achieve. I remember my first
visit to Adbul Hamid’s Parliament, and the big hopes by which we were
all then inspired. It had been no easy matter to overthrow that hideous
tyrant, and we have no reason to blame that Government for not realising
our full expectations. Other governments in other countries have failed
again and again on their road to ultimate success. On that opening day,
too, I remember seeing, with pity and respect, a pale and lonely figure,
seated silent among the general rejoicings, unnoticed and forgotten. It
was the son of the great Midhat, who had established a still earlier
parliament. All honour to the pioneers.
* * * * *
On another occasion Djellal Noury Bey, deputy for Gallipoli and editor
of the Constantinople _Illeri_ (or “Forwards”), gave me some further
impressions of the “Pasha” and of many interesting Anatolian problems.
However closely the leaders agree on general principles, it is always
helpful to compare as many individual points of view as one can obtain.
Djellal Noury has been to England and the States, and speaks perfect
English and French. We have mutual friends in London.
I asked whether I might go over the National Pact with him, clause by
clause; as although, or rather because, I am so keen a friend to
Nationalism, I want to be _sure_ whether there are any points in their
scheme, or their aims and attitude, that I _do_ find fault with, or
should like to criticise.
He seemed only too delighted that anyone should care so much for a full
discussion of their important work, and put everything before me as
clearly and thoroughly as I could possibly wish.
But I could find nothing unreasonable in a single clause, if the Turkish
nation is to achieve _real_ nationality.
As business men, for example, can the foreigners justly wish to maintain
exemption from taxes? As Djellal Noury explained it: “The European and
the Turk buy goods, say at five francs. The European pays no taxes and
can sell for six francs. As the Turk pays a tax, he has to charge seven
francs, and, being cut out in price, is naturally left with a large
stock in hand. These are conditions which, obviously, cannot be
maintained. Capitulations have strangled the commerce of the country and
its progress.
“It may happen that one Power takes out a Concession for the railways,
but cannot, or will not, fulfil ifs contract. We have to go without
railways. We cannot go elsewhere when a Concession has been granted.”
I complimented Djellal Noury upon the excellence of his French. “I used
to edit a French paper,” he replied, as he looked round the ante-room in
search of anyone to whom I might especially like to be introduced. For
my part, my attention had just been caught by one of the hodjas.
“These people do not think as we do,” he said, catching the direction of
my glance.
“Then you are anti-Islam?”
“Not at all; I am strongly _pro_-Islam. The broad-minded dogmas of our
religion can meet all modern requirements, moral or spiritual. But the
Koran is not properly interpreted by the hodjas. The will of the people
is our religion; service is worship!”
I remember a story of Mahomet I heard in Turkey. “The prophet was one
day walking with his disciples, and passed a group of workmen on the
river’s bank who did not stop their task, even to salute him. When his
disciples inquired whether these men should not be called to order, he
replied: ‘Work and service are the greatest homage that the faithful can
pay to their prophet.’”
I had already conceived the idea that Nationalism is a religion. One
sees the National Pact beside the bedside, as we have our prayer-books.
Colonel Tewfik has a copy, bound like a small almanac, in his waistcoat
pocket. The principles of Angora are their “Holy Gospel.” To be a
Nationalist is to stand for your country’s most vital interests.
We spoke of the Press—Turkish as well as British. The whole Turkish
Press stands for Nationalism, irrespective of any opposed local opinions
or interests. With us, the fine independence of other days has
departed—one hopes not for ever. In the hands of a few party-peers one
could, perhaps, expect nothing better. Were it not anti-Islam, one would
name the _Manchester Guardian_ as the most honest newspaper to-day.
Djellal Noury had given up so many afternoons to explaining to me the
whole policy of Nationalism, that I was grieved to hear of his having
called to see me one afternoon when a party had been arranged for me by
the colonel to join one of their shooting expeditions. I wish he could
have been persuaded to join us.
A special carriage and two of the finest horses in Angora had been
requisitioned for the occasion; and though the colonel was prevented, at
the last moment, from being with us, we made up four guns, and every man
had two rows of cartridges round his waist.
I had visions of our coming Sunday lunch; but, alas! it was bitterly
cold (in spite of rugs and shawls) on these lovely and picturesque
roads, white with frost; and when we had waited a whole afternoon for
the shooters to shoot, someone at last bagged a magpie.
Passing a flock of geese, by which the old woman of a tiny roadside farm
was standing sentinel, I asked one of the party to hand me a gun with
which to shoot one of the geese by mistake. I remembered in time,
however, that the only time I had ever aimed at a rabbit, I killed a
fox; and I was afraid that by aiming at the goose I should probably
shoot the lady.
So they toiled on for another hour with no better result, and we began
to hesitate about facing the colonel and the director of the Ottoman
Bank, where we had all been invited to Sunday lunch. But on the way back
we were lucky enough to buy a fine, plump hare from two peasant women we
passed on the road; and the colonel was boldly informed that it had
fallen to Osman Noury. “Madame Noury must cook him,” cried the colonel,
with a laugh that struck one as rather suspicious. The colonel supplied
champagne; Mme. Noury superintended the hare and the pilaw; Boghetti
brought some fruit; Oeillet was responsible for the cigarettes.
When behold, to the manifest discomfort of Osman Noury, the colonel
began asking awkward questions about the “where’s and when’s.” “Be
careful,” I said, “the colonel is going to wire to his Government about
it.” When the laughter subsided, Osman Noury blushingly explained that
it had cost him two Turkish pounds! I am sure neither the fact nor the
confession diminished our enjoyment of the merry feast.
I have been very ill to-day, on the point of slipping out of this world
altogether. Not realising the danger of close proximity to a mangal, I
carried the precious warmth into my bedroom, to feast on its exquisite
purple flames, which I just remember comparing to a sunset. Fortunately,
my faithful maid was in the room when I lost consciousness, and I was
carried out of the poisonous air.
The colonel told me afterwards that before they knew whether I should
recover, he was possessed of a horrible panic that he could never
persuade his Government I had died by accident.... Everyone will say
“the Turks poisoned you and the Frenchman let them do it.” Well, I am
still here, and the papers have lost an excellent opportunity for lying
copy. M. Louis Steeg declares: “You surely will never die!”
* * * * *
The Pasha has graciously lent me his car for a visit to Halidé Hanoum.
It is a pretty little machine, lined with blue velvet, which hops and
bumps and plunges along the roads like a kangaroo, swimming across the
river for more miles of twisting acrobatics. I have always admired the
carriage-drivers: before (or rather behind) M. Kemal’s chauffeur I am
dumb. But, apparently, the cars “don’t mind”!
I was imprudent enough to dismiss my conductor at the nearest point to
my host’s house, which even he could not reach, and walked on to find
the servants had all disappeared, no doubt to the Mosque, and the family
were not at home! Being in Turkey I did not hesitate to step down the
road and knock at the first door I came to, which was of plain deal,
with the usual huge lock (quite a foot long) and picturesque knocker. A
thin-faced woman appeared to welcome me, and, without thinking, I fell
back on my stock greeting: “Mustapha Kemal Pasha, _Chok Guzel_!”
Accepting my muddy boots without demur, she smilingly led me into her
little two-roomed cabin: on one side, the sleeping-room with its bed and
well-cushioned divan; on the other, her simple kitchen. When she had
tucked me up on the Divan, and given me coffee and cigarettes, I did my
best at conversation, and by friendly signs tried to convey my
gratitude. “England is a big country ... M. Kemal’s victory splendid ...
cold weather outside,” my eyes and hands said.
If she did not exactly understand what was in my mind, she was polite
enough to seem thoroughly interested. I sat on till I could hear the
servants arriving at my host’s house, and with another supply of coffee,
she smiled me farewell, without the slightest appearance of having
resented my lengthy intrusion. They are hospitable in Anatolia!
* * * * *
Another person I met with pleasure at the Assembly was Hamdoullah Soubhi
Bey. He is a distinguished writer and orator of about thirty-five, whose
white hair offers a striking contrast to the alert youthfulness of his
face and expression. He has spoken “cultured” French from the cradle;
as, indeed, so many women of the upper classes know that language far
better than Turkish. Zeyneb uses French in writing to Halidé Hanoum,
being, no doubt, unwilling to trust her Turkish to so brilliant a
writer.
It must have been Hamdoullah Soubhi whom I heard, about ten years ago,
plead so eloquently for the abolition of the harem. When he showed us
what polygamy so often _meant_ to the children, few of his large
audience could keep back their tears. The colonel had introduced him,
and said that he had been the Minister of Education. “Why did he give up
the post?” I asked. “Ah, _pourquoi_!” shrugged my friend, “it is a
delight to talk with him. You, who love French, will indeed enjoy the
exquisite language in which he clothes his thoughtful opinions. Such men
are an ornament to any parliament.”
Hamdoullah Soubhi does not seem to feel so leniently towards the Greeks
as M. Kemal, and is less optimistic about their return. It had been
supposed, he told me, that the marked differences between the two races
would balance each other; but it has not proved so, and, in his
judgment, they would always clash. “Our Anatolians, so long neglected
and forgotten, are as they were three thousand years ago: honourable,
firmly resisting all tempest, faithful to the traditions of their race,
loyal to their chosen leader in the hour of danger.”
I told him it should be a lesson for us in Europe, to find a map of Asia
Minor in all the humble homes; while my host, the Minister of Public
Works, always brings _his_ map on to our breakfast table, to familiarise
me with all the geography of these wide lands. We are now studying
Diarbékir and Kurdistan, not only the wonderful old towns, but the
character of their cultured inhabitants. No wonder our Lausanne
delegates have so affronted Turkey by their lofty allusions to the
“illiterate” Kurd!
“How can our younger civilisations, however advanced in science and
commerce, ever have been so self-satisfied as to suppose that we could
keep down such people for ever?”
“Our forty millions,” answered Hamdoullah Soubhi, “will not be so easily
suppressed. Remember, our language is spoken beyond the borders of
China, and our civilisation can be traced all over the world.”
When I afterwards met Hamdoullah Soubhi, in a little restaurant
adjoining the Assembly buildings, he was accompanied by a brother of the
late Djémal Pasha. I was glad of the opportunity to tell him that,
“whatever the political mistakes of their former leader, I felt that the
Turks had lost a great man.”
* * * * *
The proprietor of this little restaurant is also a professor. He
determined that, while cooks, and indeed all servants, were almost
impossible to obtain, the deputies should suffer no inconvenience. Now
they all either drop in at the professor’s, or ask him to send them a
snack to one of the rooms of the Assembly. The ready courtesy with which
he offered to contrive a meal _à l’anglaise_, for my special benefit,
clearly showed he is always willing to do his best.
H. Soubhi Bey’s tastes are very simple, and he detests show or bluff.
“We discard superstitions, alike in life and religion,” he said; “only
the solid foundations of truth can resist the storm. Our National Pact,
like our faith, is solid, positive, and true.”
* * * * *
On one occasion I met Haïdar Bey, _député_ for Vannes, the colonel’s
adviser on rugs and carpets, whom he calls “the old brigand.” He told
me, however, “the fellow was not dangerous;” and I surprised him by
declaring that I had fallen in love, at the age of eight, with Hadji
Stavros, Edmund About’s “King of the Mountains,” and, in consequence,
was perfectly at home with brigands.
HAÏDAR Bey does not carry the chaplet, which so many Orientals are
always counting, in order to check the temptation to smoke, but I
noticed he was clenching a piece of wax. “He’s training his muscles,”
laughed the colonel. “Brigands, you know, have to keep themselves very
fit!”
He seemed to me, as a matter of fact, to have suffered more, physically,
from the allied occupation than anyone else I met, except Essad Pasha,
the celebrated oculist, obviously destined for constant pain to the end
of his days.
HAÏDAR Bey had sworn he would never again speak to an Englishman on
account of our officers’ treatment of his mother. I could only assure
him, with all the earnestness at my command, that the people of England
abominated every form of personal cruelty; and that one day, when the
facts were known, we should officially apologise, as I now privately
expressed my horror and shame.
His response was characteristic of these generous people! He arranged
for me a really charming little supper-party; making graceful allusions
to England as she was before the war; and as, since my visit, he had
decided to think of her ... “I will only remember the occupation as a
hideous nightmare!”
I could sincerely say I had enjoyed every minute of the evening, from
the Circassian chicken specially prepared for me, to the Oriental music
and Abdul Hamid’s own cigarettes.
Our host himself had graciously come for us an hour before the appointed
time; a prudent gallantry, to ensure the arrival of his guests in the
crowded quarter described as “near the pump, which is perhaps near the
Mosque”! with neither street-name nor number to assist the traveller.
Aided by sticks and lanterns, we accordingly prepared to face the
dangers of the way. It was impossible to hear oneself speak in the
biting wind; and our host, with his “lantern under thy feet,” as the
Bible calls it, was fully occupied in guiding us away from big stones
and wide holes.
We were glad to reach his dimly-lighted room; over-heated, indeed, to
Western ideas; and sink into the cushioned divans covered with his
priceless rugs. The _mézé_, or meal of hors d’œuvres, was served the
moment we arrived, with dainty dishes of fruit, cheese and olives.
The choirmaster of the Christian church had been specially invited to
bring his band for our benefit. I found that, like so many of the
Christians, even the priests, he had scarcely any Armenian. Indeed, they
all wear the fez and speak of “our” country, “our” victories, and “our”
ghazi Pasha! It was in a Christian church that I once heard the
following prayer: “May the all powerful God bless our beloved nation
Turkey, and all the heroic sons and children of this nation to which we
are so proud to belong. Give grace and health to our commander, Mustapha
Kemal Pasha the ghazi, and to all the Ministers of the National
Assembly, and all those who have sacrificed their life and comfort for
our welfare.” The priest assured me that no one had “asked” him to offer
up any such prayer, which was the spontaneous expression of his own
feelings!
All Armenians consider themselves “at home” in Turkey; as the Welsh are
“at home” in England. About the same proportion know the language, the
national songs, history and literature, as we find in Wales. The priest
preaches in Turkish because he desires the congregation to understand
him; though, if he knows Armenian, part of the Mass is said in that
language, for the sake of sentiment.
In these days, of course, the races have been provoked to mutual
jealousies and suspicions. I overheard greetings that certainly
_sounded_ like the happy reunion of long-parted friends, and were,
indeed, accompanied by all the outward and visible signs of affection,
which the dignity of the European must always suppress.
“We have missed you,” cried the affectionate Turk; “life is not what it
used to be. None of us can take your place.”
And the Armenian replied at once: “It was cruel to turn us against you.
Those horrible English—that Lloyd George!”
They spoke of the happy days when the Armenians took care of Turkish
children, whose parents had gone on pilgrimage to Mecca. Now they have
come back the best of friends; and I believe, as they do, that not even
the English could ever separate them again.
One of the guests, the Italian director of the Ottoman Bank, was very
anxious that Colonel Mougin and I should not miss these signs of a
permanent reconciliation. “You see,” he said, “it is only the Turks
themselves who can protect ‘minorities.’ It is easy enough for any
Armenian to get on with them. The supposed antipathies are made in the
States.”
The Governor-General of the Ottoman Bank, M. Louis Steeg, also begged me
to do all in my power to stop this useless propaganda. The Armenians are
begging to be ‘left alone.’”
It is manifest again that Mustapha Kemal includes Christian minorities
in the “New Turkey” he has determined to save from veils, harems, and
lattices; the crumbling remains of Byzantium, anti-progressive Hodjas,
and the Byzantian Patriarch imposed on Constantinople!
Certainly these Christian musicians gave us only Turkish music and
songs: love songs, military airs, the Moslem ‘Hymn of Independence’
(known to every child in the land), Anatolian folk-songs, and, most
interesting and incomprehensible of all, the weird, piping solo that
accompanies the dancing dervishes, a combination of sacred mystery,
sentiment and melancholy.
Unfortunately, no European can expect to enter fully into Turkish music
without a good deal of study.
* * * * *
And yet, deeply as I feel the charm of Eastern landscapes, the glorious
sunsets or brilliant sunshine revealing white minarets against the black
cypress, I still hold dearer memories of the old talks with my Turkish
sister, beside the roseate mangal, as she revealed to me the fascinating
mysteries of the life of the sons and daughters of her land.
It is the same to-day in the more strenuous and, in some respects, more
Western atmosphere of the proud National Assembly. Even if I have done
but little to convey the admiration their splendid resistance demands,
which I so strongly feel, the effort to understand has brought me the
greatest pleasure. And whether or not I have earned, or merited, the
joy, none can take it from me.
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