CHAPTER XXVI
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.