A FEW DAYS IN BROUSSA—THE TRUE ISLAM ATMOSPHERE
THE Governor who, once more, “comes from Malta,” has detailed a police
officer to look after me during the five-days’ visit unexpectedly
imposed upon us, since there is no boat leaving before then. My journey
from Angora to Constantinople will, therefore, occupy ten days instead
of the regulation two or three.
We start out the first thing in the morning and do not return till dusk.
I have never visited so many mosques, and their colouring seems even
more exquisite than I have found it elsewhere.
Naturally, however, we first went to pay our respects to the Governor,
who promised to give me certain special information next day. His konak,
however, happened to catch fire soon after we left, and in less than an
hour it was reduced to cinders. There was, fortunately, little wind,
though, as we watched the flames from our hotel, one could feel no
security that it might not spread all over the town and render us, too,
homeless.
It was, as it happens, a brigand, descending by chance from the
mountains, who had saved the whole town from destruction when the Greeks
left it in flames, after demolishing their church and setting fire to
their houses. Fifteen surrounding villages were, actually, burnt to the
ground. The French proprietress of the hotel told me the town was not
ravaged by Ottoman Greeks, but by the Hellenes. Their own Greeks cried
bitterly at being compelled to leave, but were terrified into flight,
many of them dying at Moudania or on the road.
I heard an amusing story from my Dutch friend in Smyrna which
illustrates in what “great respect” the Turkish army has always been
held by Greeks. One of their officers, reconnoitring on the hillside,
was seen to run back to his men, shouting: “They are coming! They are
coming! There are fezes everywhere!” He had caught sight of a field of
poppies!
Madame herself is “desolated” by the departure of her Greek servants,
and puts no real reliance on the Jews by whom she has been obliged to
replace them. Although getting on in years, she is eighty-six, she never
dare go to bed before any of her guests, lest someone should ring and
obtain no answer. I enjoyed examining, in her visiting book, the
signatures and humorous comments of English prisoners, who were with her
during hostilities.
Everywhere the Jews are stirring themselves, in and out of their
quarters, eager to take on anything abandoned by the Greeks, as
shoemakers, plumbers, tradesmen, and labourers of all kinds. Nowhere
else, I imagine, could one hear them boasting “I am an Israelite.” Our
guests include many Jews, and they are quickly finding their way more
than ever into the good graces of the Turks.
I hope they will soon organise the splendid “bathing” one could enjoy at
Broussa if only some comfortable rest-place were set up for recovery
from the bracing effects of such strong waters. Surely the Baths of
Broussa might be promoted into a gold mine!
I wonder if the town is really as old as Angora? In parts it is more
dilapidated, as one can see from walking about its deserted streets, so
sorely in need of repair, and glancing up at the broken windows on every
side. Nevertheless I, personally, delight in the delicate charm of this
famous Asiatic city, free from a “Levantine” population and the relics
of Byzantium that rather spoil Constantinople.
* * * * *
The celebrated silk factories are not, of course, so picturesque; and
the depressing mixture of steam heat, and smell is certainly calculated
to make one long for the very latest kind of progressive machinery to
replace such unhealthy “human” labour. Here, again, we find Jews and the
so-called “Catholics,” have replaced the Greeks; and the proprietors
(who are so often Jews) only complain that there are not more hands
available.
This means, of course, not enough competition; and wages have risen from
thirty to sixty piastres a day. For this reason they miss the Greeks and
Armenians, although the new men are equally good workers.
“We have also to employ Turkish women,” they say.
“Are they good?”
“No, very bad. They _can_ work, but have never done so, and have no
experience. Yet we must pay sixty piastres for their unskilled labour.”
“Then you are running the factories at a loss, with these high wages?” I
asked.
“Oh, no! We ‘make up’ for that by paying the peasants half their old
price for the raw silk.”
“Do they complain?”
“No. We tell them that times are bad; which they understand, and
accept.”
It is an excellent example of the ease with which almost anyone can make
his profit out of the Turk. He is satisfied with so little, and seldom,
or never, protests. For years Greeks and Armenians have filled their
pockets at his expense. Now we have driven them out of their homes and
Jews are quickly filling their place. No wonder they turn on their
Christian “protectors,” and resent our “interference.” To them money is
the breath of life, and money is more easily made in Turkey than
anywhere else in the world.
Whatever prosperity these districts have managed to retain largely
depends on the silk-making and the tobacco factories. All the Europeans
are, naturally, against any attempts to abolish capitulations. “They are
not likely to leave us,” say the Turks, “where else would they be
granted ‘capitulations’?”
The bazaar at Broussa has lost none of its Eastern charm, but prices
have gone up by leaps and bounds since I was here ten years ago. They
will, probably, soon rise still higher when hand-embroidery dies out
before the machine-made imitations.
The Central Mosque has been rather disfigured by the over-zealous
multiplication of mural texts; but the beautiful fountain preserves the
most marked characteristic of all mosques, on which their “appeal” so
largely depends. It also contains some very fine specimens of the
curious old clocks, which only show Turkish hours.
In the courtyard there are more fountains and many pigeons, and the
public letter-writer. Just now he is hard at work for a profitable
customer who, one might think, surely knew how to conduct his own
correspondence. From my experience as an amateur, doing my best for the
_Poilus_, I should never imagine that letter-writing could be an easy
profession.
How well I remember the poor boy (a particularly serious “case”) who
asked me to “tell Jeanne” that ... “he was well and happy and enjoying
himself. But that some friends had written and told him she had not been
faithful, and ‘he didn’t care.’ All the girls were running after him,
and the grand ladies, too. He hadn’t any time to think about _her_.”
He afterwards gave me careful instructions about a P.S. “But I do think
of her sometimes.” In another few minutes it was, “I often think of
her.” And, finally, “you can tell her that I forgive her, and love her
as much as ever.”
* * * * *
Every corner of Broussa reveals the true “Islam” atmosphere; whether you
look down on it from the surrounding heights, or wander along its quaint
streets and alleys. Everywhere you see latticed windows, mosques, and
dervishes’ Tekké. It stands on a wide stretch of marshland, seemingly
going on for ever, with its countless rows of skeleton-poplars, that
stand out in the blue-grey mist like ghostly sentinels.
I decided there could be no better opportunity to indulge in an
adventure I had often contemplated: climb up the highest of all the
minarets to reach “the top of the top!” The narrow and winding staircase
was sadly in need of repair; but at the long last I found myself on the
tiny balcony from which the muezzin daily summons “the faithful” to
prayer.
“Do you think I might sing?” I asked. “It would be interesting to know
how far the voice carries at this height.”
“As you please,” he answered; but as it was clear that he was decidedly
embarrassed, if not shocked, I contented myself with quietly humming
_Gloria in Excelsis_. When I told him the words—“On earth peace, to men
of goodwill,” he answered, reverently, “_Inch Allah_.”
“You see,” I explained, “the muezzin calls the faithful to prayer, I
call them to peace.”
* * * * *
As, perhaps, I ought to have foreseen, it proved a far more difficult
business to get _down_ those steps than it had been to climb _up_.
Somehow the walls seemed closing in upon me, and the mere idea of
starting upon the descent brought on a fit of unmanageable giddiness. My
guide promptly offered to carry me, but I did not believe it could be
done; and, in any case, I should not wish him to make the attempt. When
I have plucked up courage to trust my own feet, they are constantly
slipping over the worn stones, and often we find three or four missing
altogether; still it would not be possible to jump.
“I am only just in front of you,” said my guide, “if you fall, you will
fall on me.”
I _ought_ to have been thoroughly ashamed of myself, but I could only
say, “You must let me manage my own way and slide down as best I can.”
I am perfectly comfortable in an aeroplane at an altitude of 10,000
feet; and to this day I have never been able to understand why that
minaret made me so giddy.
We visited the tombs of Osman and many of the other Sultans buried in
Broussa, the ancient capital of Turkey. The idea of the continual
watching of the tomb, and, indeed, the whole attitude of Islam towards
death, is full of beauty. One does not wish to believe that the Greeks
marched up to this Holy Place with drawn swords, cursing the founder of
the Osman Dynasty.
We also drove to the famous Green Mosque, immortalised by Pierre Loti.
The actual colour of this fine building is a most wonderful turquoise
blue; but, like those jewels, it may, indeed, one day grow green with
age. Here Pierre Loti used to write his books, reclining on the
magnificent carpets, of which the quality and beauty have defied time
itself. On one side stands the large door (replacing the altar) of
exquisitely blended green porcelain and delicate gold lettering; on the
other, the cool and sparkling fountain. All day long he worked in this
hallowed atmosphere; where the invisible mouths of the fountain send out
a gorgeous mass of rainbow-hued spray into the sun’s white rays.
The guardian of the mosque, who used to serve coffee and bring Loti’s
narghili and arrange the cushions, has been laid to rest near by; and
now Loti’s long life is drawing to its close. His best work was done in
the mosque at Broussa, as his countless admirers should not forget—the
shrine of one of Turkey’s truest friends.
Here, in the East, all may enter God’s House; and it is here that every
day, all day long, you see (as, indeed, you may in France) men and women
of every sort and condition, unburdening their hearts of joys or
sorrows, some carrying a homely parcel, a loaf of bread, or their goods
to market; others carrying their little children. No doubt, the
mosque—or the church—offers warmth and shelter; but its quiet solemnity
must turn our thoughts from all the pettiness of existence, the false
pride, and the ugly sin. Nor do those who are, as it were, so thoroughly
“at home” in God’s House, pray with any less earnestness or sincerity.
What a contrast to the cathedral at Geneva I visited with a French
ex-Ambassadress. We had to send for the caretaker, who _unlocked_ the
door for us and _locked it up again_ as we left. Yet this was once a
church; holy men had dedicated their genius to make it beautiful,
because it was the House of God. It is not God’s House now; only a
building where men meet and speak. “Have we, indeed, lost faith in
anything,” said my companion, as the door was closed behind us “which of
us would God Himself lock out? Are there none left who would pray to
Him? To what vain and untrusting materialism will mankind yet lower
drift?”
One morning, unable to hold in the interest awakened by a handsome,
young Turkish woman with veiled hair, who was sitting near me in the
hotel, I, at last, ventured to ask her if she would “excuse my staring,”
but “she so much reminds me” of an old friend, Dr. Nihat Réchad.
“He is my brother,” she replied in excellent English, obviously
delighted. It appears she had lost touch with him for many years; only
knowing that he had been in prison and escaped to join Mustapha Kemal.
Now she hoped he must be coming into his own again.
I was glad to tell her how greatly we appreciated Dr. Réchad in London.
Our acquaintance brought me many new pleasures in Broussa, in addition
to her own delightful society and her most friendly baby. She introduced
me to many of the nicest people in the hotel, and arranged for us to
visit the admirable hospitals of Dr. Nazoum, head of the Army Medical
Service, who was a friend of her husband’s.
There were two Turkish gentlemen, however (General Kemallidine Pasha and
Nourredine Pasha), whom I had been warned _not to see_, because they
were “such bears and hated England”; naturally, having thus had my
combative curiosity excited, I eagerly sought for introductions to them.
And I could not admit the justice of their condemnation.
General Kemallidine Pasha is about thirty-five, with an honest, open
face and merry eyes, that strongly reminded me of my brother; who—though
not wounded _eighteen times_ like the Pasha—has been so frequently sewn
up as to present to the world, so I tell him, no more than a figure of
“threads and patches.” He apologised for offering his left hand,
obviously pleased when I said, “it did not matter which of a hero’s
hands one is privileged to shake.” When I said that I was sorry to hear
he disliked my country, he gave the only explanation I ever obtained
from a Turk: “It is because I once loved her so well!”
And for that I have only one answer, provided for me by Mr. D——, who was
in Constantinople all through the war, and is convinced that the English
were, throughout, entirely misled by Greek and Armenian dragomen. He,
himself, would never trust these men to translate any newspaper article
for him. “Their work may be, and frequently is, quite correct, but they
are clever enough to impart an entirely different _meaning_ from one
language to the other; for example, with the word “iltehoc,” how can
that word be translated with all its shades of meaning?
“The most dangerous Englishmen,” he said, “were irresponsible young
colonels of twenty-five, the familiar “temporary gentlemen,” whose
sudden access to power and responsibility has, on other occasions, led
Great Britain into adventures she cannot, afterwards, disown. One must
regret, but can scarcely in fairness condemn, some of these brave boys
from the “edge of beyond” in Canada or Australia, who, of course, are
absolutely ignorant of Moslem customs, and, by training, rather
aggressively impatient of the slow ways of old England herself.
There were Turks of a very inferior type to be found to help them, as it
would be dishonest to deny. Those who made themselves _personna grata_
to the Allies, and enemies to the Nationalists, because they would sink
to any calumny or blackmail to secure a “job,” or to keep one.
It is, indeed, high testimony to the personality of General Harington
that, despite all the crimes committed “in his name,” General
Kemallidine, Ismet Pasha and Nourredine Pasha are unanimous in their
high tribute.
Our empire is built on confidence in the “Man on the Spot.” It has given
us our unrivalled position and a reputation for justice and generosity
none can rival. But, with the wrong men, it may have most disastrous
results; and, in Turkey, we still want to know _who sent Turkey’s élite
to Malta_?
Kemallidine Pasha gallantly summed up his acceptance of my
explanations.... “Now I see the difference between an English lady and
an English ‘temporary gentleman’!”
* * * * *
Dr. Nazoum has taken us to his office and showed us his delightful
sketches. He also removed some ordinary picture postcards from their
frame to show us his wife’s picture hidden behind them.... “Twelve years
of a life that might have been given to one’s family stolen from me for
the rough and wandering life of war. Only a photograph. That is my
married life.”
* * * * *
We also visited Nourredine Pasha’s father-in-law, a dervish living in a
Tekké, and revived all my enthusiasm for their wonderful dancing to the
weird piping flute; although these dervishes are, I believe,
“contemplative.”
I was invited, when at the Assembly, by the Grand Tchelebi to visit
Konia, the chief city of the dancing dervishes, and was much tempted to
accept. I have never fully _understood_ the “mystic dancing,” derived,
as I was told, from our Psalmist’s command to “praise the Lord with
dance and song”; but no one could fail to recognise the fascination of
the weird rhythm to which the outspread skirts move with a haunting
grace that is all their own; like gigantic mauve and brown poppies over
the polished oak floor.
* * * * *
We were unfortunately too late to see much of Nourredine Pasha—the
General was starting on his Inspection. My guide had been too polite to
tell me my watch was slow. The General, however, found time to entrust
me with greetings to General Harington, and to express more hopeful
confidence in the future relations of our two countries. I am certainly
glad I did not accept anyone else’s judgment of this kind and
distinguished man. He is, however, a good ten years older than the other
generals of the Pasha’s new army whom I have met. I am now quite
accustomed to statesmen and generals of forty.
I think I must really have seen _everything_ in Broussa, including the
burnt hamlets of the countryside. I remember a school-house in this
district, where the master had been paid in corn, and in which four
generations of women, who gave us sweet goat’s milk, were now all living
in one room, tastefully arranged with cushions. They had been swept off
the face of the earth with the village in which they dwelt, by the
Greeks.
But I must not forget the hospital, full of poor women—victims of the
Greeks. If there _were_ such sights at the French Front, I mercifully
escaped seeing them; and here, for the first time, I realised what some
of my sisters have had to endure since the spirit of war has come over
us. Greek hatchets had been at work on Mme. Roufy Bey’s patients; and,
whether in face or hip, back or leg, too many of these terrible wounds
were festering, because it had been impossible to attend to them in
time.
I remember the mother who once answered her little girl’s natural
questions by telling her: “You just grew on my heart.” “How lovely,”
cried the child, “is that why mothers all carry the babies so near their
hearts?” “Yes, it is where we keep them.” Here was a poor Turkish mother
whose little one had been shot as it lay in her arms!
Through this devastated area, and having seen the utter destitution of
these people, I should have expected to find far greater bitterness
towards the Greeks. But they are well treated in all the prison-camps,
and never handled with brutality as they work on the roads. Yet they
look rough and desperate, showing none of the resignation with which the
Turk faces captivity, however ragged and tattered. These Greeks even
seem afraid if a Christian woman speaks to them, although they own that
their alarm does not come from either a guilty conscience or from terror
of their enemies, but only reveals the broken spirit of men betrayed and
alone. I feel, however, that to be always surrounded by the useless and
horrible devastation you have yourself inflicted, must unnerve the most
callous of human beings.
* * * * *
At about six o’clock on our last morning, an officer arrives to conduct
us to the station. The train starts at 7-30, reaching Moudania at nine
o’clock, where the boat _may_ leave at 9-30, or any time it likes. It is
a short and uneventful train journey, only relieved by a brisk trade in
tea at our two stopping-places.
We find a high wind and rough seas at Moudania, and the boat has not yet
_arrived_! There is plenty of time to drive to a unit of headquarters,
where the officer’s mother (whom he had “smuggled” through from
Constantinople) gives me coffee and cigarettes beside a welcome fire. We
pass the historic house in which Peace was signed; one of the many
examples in Anatolia of great achievements from small beginnings.
Moudania is, on the whole, more depressing than any of the miserable
towns I have been over; and the officer is, certainly, to be
congratulated on having secured the company of his mother.
It was about half-past six in the evening when we were summoned to
embark; and there was no sign of the “special cabin” that had been
promised me in this little cockle-shell of a boat, on which passengers,
nevertheless, are divided according to class. For my part, I chose to
travel second, as there was far more air; and, as we opened the door,
the “poultry yard” gave us a hearty welcome! The women had taken their
chickens and rabbits into their berths; the floor was strewn with corn
and lettuce-leaves! As I disliked sharing my bed with poultry, I should
be happier in the cold outside.
However, the first officer graciously gives up his cabin. It is tiny, by
no means immaculate, and papered with cheerful postcards. But, in the
place of honour, Queen of Beauty among the ladies of the Levant, hangs
Gladys Cooper! I have never so much admired that lovely actress as when
now she seemed smiling down at my mighty efforts to sleep in this
tiniest of bunks that had been built for someone of half my length and
width.
The little tub ultimately started at midnight, dancing over the waves to
Constantinople, where Turkish passports are no protection, and I must
now learn to depend on my credentials from England.
* * * * *
What is going to happen to me? Very possibly my passport will be taken
from me, or endorsed with the grim words “not to return to England.”
My mission, indeed, was harmless, if not sanctioned. I have, honestly,
endeavoured to see that England may be “a little better” understood by
the Nationalists in Anatolia. But in fighting Prussianism, we have been
slightly infected by that disease. It has crept into our legislation and
our administration. In free England, Cæsar reigns. We can say, as the
Turks say, “We have _Prussia_ to thank for our distress.”
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