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?