CONSTANTINOPLE NO LONGER THE CAPITAL—THE HEART AND SPIRIT OF TURKEY ARE
IN ANGORA
AS our little cockle-shell reaches the busy quay at Constantinople, the
veiled women collect their animals and carry them through the Custom
house. I am the only Britisher, yet the tall, well-built official
rapidly scans my passport and signs it without moving a muscle, or
showing the faintest surprise at my arrival by _that boat_, not even
opening his lips in reply to my good-morning. Is this army etiquette?
His kind face has been taught not to unbend. It seems a foolish way of
encouraging foreigners to understand us. “You are not English,” everyone
declares, “dear lady, you have too much heart to be English.”
“We English have hearts,” is my reply, “but, for some reason, we must
pretend we have none.”
Someone wearing a fez, perhaps a Moslem, insists on taking me to the
hotel, though I assure him that I am quite capable of carrying my little
bag, and a few rugs over my arm. But he has seen Fethi Bey’s letter, and
nothing, clearly, will prevent him from mounting beside the driver and
burdening himself with my belongings.
At Tokatlians’ Hotel, however, the Armenian porter handed him the truly
magnificent tip of two Turkish pounds. He assured me that others pay
double that sum for the little trip from the boat to the hotel!
I see, at once, that there is a difference between Angora and
Constantinople. In Anatolia no one would dream of thrusting his services
upon his country’s friend, or of accepting a two pound tip for so short
a ride. My Angora host’s servants could not even be induced to accept a
tip when I left. At Angora there was none of the Levantine haggling over
the price of a cab. In Constantinople I decided always to leave such
matters to the porter, who was a kindly man and did his best.
Nevertheless, I should seriously advise the Nationalists, when they are
back here, to fix a tariff for luggage and cabs, as the traveller is now
intolerably imposed on.
There is compensation, of course, in the return to Western comforts, if
not luxuries; above all, of the hot bath. I have already taken three;
and they tell me that, if I still don’t feel clean, it is only because
the water is always brown. One can, further, obtain the services of a
manicurist, a hairdresser, and a chiropodist, all worthy men; and how I
enjoy these hot-house sitting-rooms, and sheets like satin on the bed! A
touch of fever and full permission to stay tired, are quite enough to
make me perfectly content with my one “weary” hat—until my luggage
condescends to get _un_-lost.
* * * * *
General Harington invited me to the Harbié (British Headquarters);
chiefly, no doubt, to hear about the big men I have seen in Angora.
There are few Englishmen more keenly interested than he in the
personalities of the Nationalist leaders, particularly, of course, “the
Pasha.” He speaks affectionately of “that nice, honest, fine soldier,”
Ismet Pasha; and describes Refet Pasha as “a very clever man, one from
whom I have never had an unkind or discourteous word. We are the best of
friends.”
I asked him whether “he was _altogether_ in sympathy with the Turks.”
“You must remember,” he answered, “that I was with General Wilson. No
one could have had a finer chief; and no man, I dare to say, could have
followed more closely in his chief’s footsteps than I.”
“Could not our troops be withdrawn, while such an act might still seem
_le beau geste_?”
“We ought never to have been here,” he replied.
“It hurts my national pride to see you fine men doing police work.”
I told him all I had learned about “the Pasha’s” opinion of the
situation, and asked him when he intended to retire.
“As soon as I feel really confident that Peace will be ratified.”
“And Lausanne?”
“We shall have storms, but the result must be peace.”
“When?”
“As soon as we dare hope....”
I congratulated him on the rôle he had played at Moudania.
“I am glad,” he said, “to have rendered service to my country.”
“Can you see any motive for this disastrous policy in Constantinople?”
“I can only suppose that, for some reason, Mr. Lloyd George simply
refused to listen to the advice of everyone who knew Turkey, in favour
of friends entirely ignorant of the whole subject. I am almost disposed
to think he did not even consult his own Foreign Minister.”
“Why did you not go to Lausanne?” I asked.
“Well, I was not invited. Lord Curzon and Ismet Pasha appear to
understand each other; and they have clever experts at the Conference.”
“Do you not feel, however, that a “prejudiced” expert may do even more
harm than the Premier’s ‘men,’ who knew nothing?”
“If you can prove they are prejudiced, yes.”
“In my view, when the Turks mistrust them, it is enough.”
“That, surely, is not for me to say.”
I much fear it was “mistaken” modesty, which led General Harington to
think that his presence would “make no difference” at Lausanne.
* * * * *
On the other hand, his praise of Refet Pasha is well-deserved. It would,
indeed, require an exceedingly smart diplomatist to get over a man no
one can bluff, for all his courtesy and kindness. The “wonderful little
general” is always busy, but never _too_ busy to see the friends of his
country, who all delight in his wit.
“There is nothing he would not dare,” said Colonel Mougin. “I can
imagine him smoking a cigarette on the edge of Vesuvius! With a mere
handful of men he held his own against regiments of Allies all along the
line.”
When I first met Refet Pasha we spoke of Colonel Mougin, with whom he
had been photographed. I told him that I had been fighting the colonel
ever since we met.
“Fighting with that charming man?” he exclaimed.
“The charm of friendship is to fight in peace,” I replied, “or _Discuter
sans disputer_, as the French say.”
He laughed heartily, and then spoke with the deepest respect of General
Harington.
“You have yourself given me an example,” said I. “‘Love your enemies’,
as it is written.”
Colonel Mougin used to say that Refet Pasha had the glorious spirit of a
pioneer, and that his country made good use of the quality. When he had
cut his way through the wilderness of Anatolia, they sent him to take
possession of Constantinople, though the Allies were still there! At the
same time, he was to prepare the way for the axe that was once more to
chop with severity, speaking metaphorically, of course, in the departure
of the Sultan. When the Government machine at Constantinople was running
smoothly, he was sent off to tackle Thrace!
Refet Pasha spoke warmly of Colonel and Mrs. Samson, not forgetting
their charming little girl.
“He rendered great service to Turkey during the Siege of Adrianople. He
likes the Turks.”
“Like all British _gentlemen_,” I interposed, to his amusement.
[Illustration:
GENERAL REFET PASHA AND COLONEL MOUGIN IN CONSTANTINOPLE.
p. 288
]
“Enemies, or not enemies,” he said, “in spite of all the terrible things
your compatriots have done, they are fine and intelligent men. I
ventured to say to them: ‘Perhaps, by bringing every man you can obtain
from the four corners of the earth, you may crush our forces, but
_never_ our spirit. And remember, in crushing us you will mutilate
yourselves for ever!’ General Harington knows that. He perfectly
understands.”
The General spoke of his twenty-eight years’ service: the terrible
hardship of these last years, when they had to fight, not only the enemy
without, but those Turks who had thrown in their lot with the Allies.
“They say,” he went on, “soldiers love war. It is not true. They hate
it, because they know what it means. Politicians want war and make war;
we only have to obey.”
He has a very high opinion of the present Khalif, whom I myself met ten
years ago, in the days of Mahmoud II.
“Everybody has the greatest respect for him,” he went on, “and rightly;
a fine gentleman and a great artist.”
“How does he like not being a Sultan?”
“He is the Khalif,” he replied. “In his place, however, I might prefer
the lesser honour and the smaller responsibilities.”
“Do you approve of my going to Lausanne?” I asked.
“You have worked hard, and honestly, at studying the country and striven
very sincerely to understand my people. It will be well for your
delegates to be told the truth. Nevertheless, Lord Curzon himself knows
the subject inside out. He has made up his mind, and knows exactly what
he intends to do. Above all, he thoroughly understands what effect his
policy will produce.”
I believe every word. This time the Prime Minister will have nothing to
say; Lord Curzon has _full powers_. His responsibilities are heavy
indeed. With the terrible heritage of “ugly debts” incurred in the name
of England, of which he will personally be held guilty for years to
come! For him, the _right_ way is not the _easy_ way.
* * * * *
The British officials of Constantinople have been most kind to me; as
the only Englishwoman who knows the story of Angora, and has been near
to the “heart” of the Turks; they hope I shall go to Lausanne.
But who will listen? From the beginning of time, has an Englishman ever
asked a woman for her opinion, or listened to her if she expressed one,
even after being consulted! Often, of course, a personality like Lady
Hamilton’s, may exert great influence; but men do not come to us for
information or advice on policy however much we may know, however deeply
and clearly we may think. I am still uncertain of how much our women may
ever be allowed to effect in politics and diplomacy.
I once heard a story from a witty Frenchman, which “hits off” our _men_
to a miracle! Their stubborn tenacity, which has never _conceded_ an
inch to women that was not dragged out of them by main force! A
celebrated French Minister once came to London in hopes of securing a
certain concession. When he had spent an hour explaining his case, our
great personages briefly replied: “You might as well have asked us for a
part of Hyde Park!” He tried again, for another hour, with precisely the
same result. His reasons, any mutual advantages that might, or might
not, accrue, were absolutely ignored. They only answered, “You might as
well have asked us for Hyde Park!”
At Lausanne, unfortunately, there is every reason to fear that the
English and the Turks are _both_ adopting the method of not listening.
It works, of course (so far as getting your own way), if _one_ party is
firmly in possession; but when the claim to control is in dispute, and
neither can be induced to yield, one _must_ feel that a little
conciliation might be prudent.
* * * * *
Thinking it most unlikely that I shall have another opportunity of
talking so freely to any British officials, I have spoken with great
frankness of what has been in my heart for years, but what I now see can
never be changed.
Lord Curzon spoke courteously of my self-imposed mission “to serve my
country abroad,” but England will never entrust such tasks to women, or
even lend them any _official_ sanction.
This, then, is my swan song of the work which I have proved that a woman
_can_ do. Before leaving the stage, I may say what I think.
“If you suppose that we are going to let any Tom, Dick or Harry run our
Embassies, as they do in America, you are very much mistaken.” I was
once “officially” informed: “We may be accused of being socially
exclusive, but everyone knows to which Embassy they should appeal when
anything _has to be done_.”
“That does not touch my complaint,” I answered. “I shall continue to
resent the fact that _we_ are not allowed the same footing as women in
other countries. We have at last secured the vote, and, theoretically,
the right of entry to all professions; but, proud as we are of Lady
Astor and Mrs. Wintringham, their presence in Parliament has, rather
unfortunately, produced an impression of far more ‘freedom’ and
‘equality’ than we have actually achieved. Some are indeed safely on the
heights, but most women have not yet even planted their feet on the
lowest rung of the ladder.
“Everyone knows that the Englishman is chivalrous to women, and is their
surest anchor in distress. He will willingly die for them, but he
maintains his rooted objection to being asked to help them to live.
“The French Government sent a _woman_ to Angora with the fullest
official backing in finance and prestige. Their Ambassador provided a
plan for her journey, and has made public acknowledgment of her service
to France.”
“We do not require women for this work,” was the dogmatic reply; which
also, of course, ignored the _principle_ involved in such official
rigidity.
But with the unfailing courtesy which the best Englishman never denies
to the women whose “interference” he most resents, “I hope you made our
position clear to your friends the Turks. Those who serve our Government
have always done so of their own free-will. _That is why we are served
so well!_”
* * * * *
I approached this question from another angle at Lausanne. As I have
already pointed out, and illustrated from experience in an earlier
chapter, it is most advisable, if not essential, that the Ambassador,
like other great “Personages,” should employ agents to “try out” the
petty “first steps” of any change in policy.
I was told by way of reply, that “the first qualification for ‘entering
diplomacy’ is to be twenty-one!” This, of course, excludes a woman over
thirty; a fact that may serve for answer to many bitter attacks upon my
“Disadvantage of Being a Woman.” A man of threescore is seldom
considered too old for diplomacy; a woman of thirty-five is fourteen
years beyond the limit.
“What would you do with the old men?” I was asked.
“Teach them golf,” was my prompt retort.
* * * * *
At the Front in a French uniform, speaking French to my own compatriots,
I was always unwilling to confess my nationality. So long as they
thought I was French, they forgot the lady, and made a friend of the
woman! Shedding their “own” uniform, as it were, they “let go” in homage
and devotion; giving, being, and appealing for _themselves_. But the
moment it came out that I was English, the open oyster closed down and
hid its pearl. From these spruce, upright, and tightly-buttoned uniforms
I could never get through the politeness.
As an interpreter in the Guards once explained it: “When one of your
Generals asks me to buy him a _Vie Parisienne_, he never forgets to add,
‘but don’t give it to me in front of my officers.’” It must be the same
with women. The Englishman will allow a _French_ woman to “have a peep”
at his soul. To his compatriot he offers his dignity and his
prestige—which are no better than a bag of bones!
What I have always known, has been brought home more forcibly than ever
during this trip. In matrimony, at his office, and in the home, the
Englishman must be master. We can, if we must, accept a _good_ master.
Who will help us against the _bad_? Do the _Laws_ of England?
It sometimes seems indiscreet for an Englishwoman to visit the British
Embassies in foreign capitals, but I rarely omit to call on the French;
and there are, of course, certain advantages, under some circumstances,
in a twin-nationality. I have been invited to their Christmas lunch by
General and Madame Pellé.
Mr. Neville Henderson, the British _chargé d’affaires_ at
Constantinople, though certainly not pro-Turk, does not hesitate to
criticise the Greeks. An ideal sense of balance for a diplomat.
The Turks like Mr. Henderson; and when I remarked on the apparent
anomaly that “one can be popular in Turkey without being pro-Turk,” I
was met by the astounding retort that “he succeeds because he knows how
to talk”—a strong argument against “silent” diplomacy!
I can only hope that he may long remain at his post. Although he may not
like to hear his beloved Foreign Office called a “mausoleum,” or the
burial-ground for twentieth-century ideals. Of him, one can repeat what
a Cabinet Minister once said of France: that “he is one of the few ready
to give a criminal, or a genius, _his chance_.” Though not an enthusiast
for any “Asiatic Revival,” he will accept the inevitable, and cheer the
winner. May he stay at his post _at least_ till danger is past.
* * * * *
I have just made my first, and I hope my last, stay in Pera. The
sister-in-law of my little Turkish sister is dying, so I cannot accept
her hospitality, though she has begged me to come to her.
What a terrible warning one can take from Pera! I had not realised the
danger of losing oneself in the ambition to be truly cosmopolitan. These
people belong to all nations and have the souls of none. Their faces
have only one common feature—the lack of the spirit behind all racial
types, the entire absence of any ideal. In Anatolia I found two forms of
inborn honour: the “nationalist” and the “primitive peasant.” In Pera I
stepped from Tokatlian’s Hotel to the Embassy with the feeling that
someone is going to stab me in the back.
* * * * *
This is the fourth Christmas I have spent in Turkey. On the first
occasion the Germans invited me to their Christmas Tree; outside some
Armenians sang their exquisite native carols; which, like their
folk-songs, make one wish their characters were equally fine. The
concert, however, was interrupted by the master-scavengers of
Constantinople, the innumerable dogs, against whose furious barking the
Christians at first bravely held on. But the “enemy” trotted away to
collect his forces from every quarter of the city and, in the end, I won
a wager for the dogs _versus_ the Christians. Our entertainers went
home, amidst a never-to-be-forgotten chorus of canine howling.
In Constantinople the dogs certainly had their own nationality. Divided
against each other by street feuds, the biggest troop coming from the
“station beat,” where cans of rubbish are emptied from the Orient
express, they yet _united_ to drive out the “alien” Christians from the
fatherland of “Dogdom!”
And so it is with the Moslems. If Albania and Syria have left their
fatherland, it is not wise for a foreigner to utter a word against
Turkey in their presence.
Mustapha Kemal Pasha will find no difficulty about proving his
confidence in Nationalism. “If Europe deny us justice, we shall obtain
justice from Asia The brotherhood of Islam stands solidly for us.”
* * * * *
This Christmas, after a pleasant dinner at the hotel with Mr. D——, I
asked him to take me to church. “Can you hold on to Faith after what you
have seen?” he asks.
“I have sometimes nearly lost hold. But when I realise that ‘war’ has
taken away everything else from us, I just _hang on_, hard.”
So I go to church alone, leaving the hideous jazz-band and the noisy
dancers; who drink and step out like kangaroos by way of enjoyment!
The eternal beauty of the midnight Mass carries one right away from the
dreadful tragedy of life, handing us, too, spiritual food for the
heart’s strengthening. On the way home I was humming the Christmas hymn,
“Come and Adore Him,” when a clash of discord struck at me from the
approaching hotel-mob; for _their_ part, humming “_j’en ai marre_” (“I
am fed up”) the most contagious refrain ever uttered.
I, very unreasonably, poured out my wrath on Mr. D—— next morning. “Is
it impossible to make them realise what their song _means_? Nero fiddled
while Rome was burning; they are dancing to the tune of a poor woman’s
broken heart. Someone will soon find a gay air for “the Song of the
Shirt,” and men will be hopping and braying to it.”
* * * * *
At last I am, fortunately, able to drive quietly away from Pera. “You
haven’t changed a bit, you always disliked Pera,” my little Turkish
sister had said. “I remember that when we used to go to the Ottoman Bank
to fetch your letters you would have the horses whipped up so as to ride
to Pera and back as quickly as possible.”
Again I am gazing upon the “Sublime Porte.” It is still “sublime” and
the sunset has not changed. Yet no longer can it command my love; and
woman does not reason!
The old buildings are as magnificent as ever; the sun is still sparkling
on the gold; the picturesque beggars are still there; the blue sky, the
Bosphorus, and the cypress trees!
Only the heart and spirit of Turkey have gone to Angora. This is no
longer the Turkey of the Turks; and so I am a stranger here, and there
are no friendly faces of the Anatolians to give me greeting.
* * * * *
Along the road the same houses are tumbling down, at exactly the same
stage of decrepitude. “Nothing has changed, my child,” I say, “except my
heart.”
As we pass the old Tekké, however, I miss the kindly face that used to
smile on me from behind the green grilled window; and we laugh over the
curious souvenirs I managed to obtain from that holy man.
I was walking with Colonel Z., ten years ago, the first day I noticed
him at the window; the big, lovely, dark eyes; the green swathed turban;
the Persian robe; and on his face the look of the “peace that passeth
understanding.” He must be the “Sower that went forth to sow,” I said,
“please take me in to him.”
“But I cannot,” said the colonel; and so, before he realised what I was
doing, I just walked in myself and told the holy man that “I had come to
look at his ‘beautiful face.’” After that I paid him many visits,
sharing his coffee, making signs to the women, and watching his strange
worship, that had not even any accompaniment of the piping flute.
He told me that no Christian had ever before been admitted into the
Tekké.
“Do you consider me a heathen?” I asked.
“No, we are all children of God. How can one of His children be a
heathen?”
* * * * *
“What has become of the old man?” I asked my Turkish sister.
“They ordered his son—you remember that fine lad—to say _Vive la Grèce,
Vive Venizelos_, and when he refused, they shot him.”
“But what of the old man?”
“It broke his heart. One day he just fell asleep and did not wake
again.”
The harem door is still open. The little daughter, now thirteen, still
calls me Tezajim (dear Aunt), and we find seats on the marble veranda to
wait for the sun to set over the shores of the Marmora.
“How often I think of you,” murmured my little sister, “trying and
trying, day after day, to paint our sunset.” And when I repeated that to
the late Sir Alfred East he laughed heartily, saying, “Dear child,
Turner could not have done it?”
* * * * *
And who has taken the place of my attendant, Miss Chocolate? The slim
figure of a coal-black negress appears to answer my question, robed in
brown velvet, with a brown velvet toque. I must call her Miss Ink,
though her name is Mary.
I lunch with my Turkish sister as often as the poor sick woman can spare
her, and she is generous. Yet eighteen of her friends are there already.
This time my friend wears a fur coat and a black veil with lace over it.
“Fancy calling _that_ a veil, I teased her. Yet I can count the steps
taken in the progress of Turkish women by our lunches. The first time I
came to Turkey, you wanted to go up in a lift, and though your father
said neither ‘yea’ nor ‘nay,’ you did not go. The second time you often
used the lift. The third time, we lunched at Tokatlian’s restaurant,
‘for ladies only.’ Now you lunch unveiled (I don’t call _that_ a veil)
in a _mixed_ restaurant.
“And yet, now you have won the privilege for which you have been waiting
so many years, you prefer to lunch ‘with the ladies.’ How like a woman!”
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