AFTER-WORDS

It was Christmas 1913. The Balkan War was over, and Young Turkey had begun with a patriotism born of humiliation to save what remained of the poor mutilated Fatherland. (I have described my impressions of Turkish life during this period.)

At the head of affairs were men who could accept responsibility. Seeds of progress were being sown amongst the ruins. The leaders, who had learnt their lesson from bitter experience and had accomplished so much against terrible odds, could they not now steer the ship of State into the calm waters of prosperity?

Talaat-Djavid and Djémal knew what they wanted. Though confronted with international and internal problems, difficulties of race and religion and financial chaos, yet they kept their heads, and then they made one fatal mistake—that mistake was Enver Pasha.

Only a year ago Enver was neither Pasha nor the Sultan’s son-in-law nor Minister of War. He was lying seriously ill at the German hospital at Constantinople, and only his great determination to serve his country pulled him successfully through three terrible operations. He had been fighting in spite of appendicitis, and in spite of all kinds of internal complications and bullet wounds. He was brought almost dead from the battlefield—even German surgery had given him up—and yet he would not die. Enver struck one as a picturesque personage. His energy and determination were such new features in Turkish civilization. A fearless and reckless soldier, tall, handsome, a patriot certainly, unintelligent but sincere, hated and loved in so many harems, his picture was to be found draped in the Turkish flag: he was the best selling of picture postcards.

Accompanied by Enver’s great friend and master, Djémal Pasha, I went to visit the Turkish hero in the German hospital. It was then I discovered what Djémal afterwards owned was true, that Enver was totally lacking in initiative and imagination, and that he could only command when he himself was commanded, but no one better than he could obey. “And the revolution of 1908?” I asked. “How splendidly he carried out his orders!” I was told. “He’s a magnificent fellow, and such a man is indispensable to our cause.”

Although weak, Enver discussed many political questions with us, but in everything he agreed with his friend Djémal Pasha, whose sympathies were entirely Franco-British, because, as he explained, and rightly so, Britain and France were the two countries who had no interest to work for Turkey’s destruction. Djémal detested Germany even more than he detested Russia. He loved England, but more than England he loved France and everything French, and French culture and thought, and he once added, “French money.” Djémal’s policy was to allow Turkey to be under the greatest obligations to England and France. If only England and France would come forward and do this and that for us, if France would offer us education, if England, as the ruler of our co-religionists, would come nearer to us, where then would be German influence?

The German Mission had just then arrived in Constantinople. My Turkish women friends were much distressed, considering it a humiliation to see their capital thus invaded by Teutons. Indeed, they requested me, in their name, to ask the Government whether the Mission could not be removed to Adrianople. Djémal could not understand the women’s anxiety about Germany. “We have begun with German methods and we must go on,” said he; “but the German mission has no political meaning....” Djémal was always sincere. His god was power. He wanted power above everything.

And so Enver, as a useful instrument of his colleagues, and particularly Djémal, was appointed Minister of War. As their obedient servant in his own reckless manner, he was to obey their orders; he was to sweep out from the War Office old worn-out servants; to make other drastic changes his friends found indispensable; but his rôle was distinctly to obey, not to command. He fulfilled his mission; he did obey, but he changed masters—he gave himself up body and soul, not to his colleagues, but to the German Kaiser.

When Enver so emphatically denied to me the Germanophilism of which he was accused, no doubt he was sincere. He was like a man in love. He, as a soldier of an army suffering from lack of discipline, could not help admiring the German organisation. Their arrogance also appealed to him, and although, as a democrat and a man of the people, he tried to persuade himself to the contrary, he was flattered by the Emperor William’s attention. In Berlin, when military attaché, they, the Germans, made a god of Enver; he left his heart in Germany, too, it is said. He may have tried to escape from this German influence; he simply could not: it was his destiny. He who loved to obey found his master at Potsdam and his master’s representatives at Constantinople—the Ambassador, Baron von Wangenheim, and General Liman von Sanders, head of the German Mission. They took possession of him; he was powerless; as powerless as his ex-master, Djémal, to take a firm stand once more for Franco-British influence.

It was Christmas Eve a year ago. The Turkish heir to the throne invited me tout à fait sans cérémonie to his palace to coffee and to talk to him about my country. Although he could perfectly understand French, he could not speak it; consequently Djémal Pasha was good enough to act as interpreter.

The Prince’s knowledge of everything connected with my country was a pleasant surprise. He admired and loved England. “Whatever political mistakes we may say England has made, however unjustly we may think she has treated us,” said the Prince, “England is still our model. She’s a clean, honour-loving nation, a nation of gentlemen.” These sentiments were shared by the Grand Vizier.

The Prince was not as enthusiastic about France as Djémal Pasha. France to him meant Paris, and Paris was a danger to Young Turkey. “Let our men go to France afterwards, but let them first be sobered down in England,” said he. “French learning may be fine, but England gives a young man character.... English women make their sons men. We want Turks to be men.” To our statesmen the Prince paid tribute; also to our Court, our literature, and our architecture. “It is all aristocratic and solid,” were his words....

The Turkish heir to the throne considered German influence something that did not even come within the range of discussion. “Germany,” said he, “is forty years old; she has yet to be tried.” Then he added, “Britain has shed her blood for us—that we can never forget.”

Such is the opinion of the future Sultan of Turkey about Britain—now Turkey’s enemy—and indeed, he meant every word he said.

And in the harems—does Germany even count? Right in the heart of Asia Minor, they have heard of British honour, but who has heard of Germany? and the name of Britain rests on a prestige which has stood the test of time. That “all right” verdict which was given to the English governess—that acceptance of the British word without contract—are facts which count.

An ill-advised Government can lead its country to destruction, but the mighty Kaiser himself cannot crush out this admiration born in the Turks for England.

It is true England and France have never considered Turkey worth while, as Germany has done. I said so to a British official. “We cannot send out retrievers, as Baron Marschall does,” he answered. “We can only offer a straightforward friendship. If the Turks cannot accept that....”

Yet Germany did send her finest diplomatists to Constantinople, and also her picked officers; the Kaiser himself paid court to the Sultan, and on his Eastern tour saw that Moslem feelings and customs were in every way considered. He gave presents of great value to both the Sultan and his Grand Vizier. Kiamil Pasha in his Konak has books of priceless value given to him by the Kaiser, and yet evidently it was of little value, for the veteran statesman of Turkey turned always to England for sympathy. England was the country who could put everything right, and one of his greatest sorrows was that England had not come to Turkey’s assistance in her hour of need.

And Turkey’s quarrel in this case was certainly not with Britain. She was still smarting under what she felt the injustice of giving Mitylene and Chios to Greece. Day and night she was waiting for an opportunity to get back her islands, and day and night she was in terror lest Greece should strike before her Dreadnoughts—ordered in England—were ready. Hakky Pasha, the ex-Grand Vizier of Turkey in London, telegraphed and advised that in spite of Germany’s offer of assistance against Greece, Turkey must remain neutral, and to attack Greece even during the present war classed her at once as anti-British. But it was not what any reasonable statesman wanted, it was what Germany wanted. Turkey was clamouring for war with Greece; instead of this she found that Germany in her name had bombarded an open Russian port! Germany promised her Mitylene and Chios and even Cyprus. She staked her whole fortune on German victory and German honour—and Germany promised to free her from European interference. Now, it is not difficult to calculate what Turkey has gained from the speculation.

It is hard to make out a good case for Turkey, but however bitter one may feel against the foolish Enver and the Young Turkish Government, the Turkish people are not to blame. A friend writing from Turkey tells me Germany left no stone unturned to lead the Government into difficulties. In Anatolia, she spread the false report that the Moslems in the Caucasus were being ill treated by the Russians! Baron von Wangenheim took possession of the press. Enver Pasha, led by Baron von Wangenheim, made short work of those who under the eyes of their new masters declared they had put up too long with this “mad Government.” Djémal Pasha’s orders that the Goeben and Breslau should be disarmed were totally disregarded; the German Admiral Suchon was master of the situation, and refused to take on board the Turkish sailors sent by Djémal. Turkey ceased to exist.

The rest of the story is known: the touching “Good-bye” which passed between the British and French Ambassadors and the Grand Vizier, the arrival of three million marks which was Germany’s first instalment of a river of gold she had promised to her faithful Enver. Then a time of waiting and the second instalment of gold—German paper!!! Turkey is now quite aware of the treachery of Germany. But it is too late.

“There is no happiness and no salvation for the Turk,” a dear friend writes me. “However much we try, whatever sacrifices we make, our lot has always been, and always will be, to be sacrificed to the ambitions of the European Powers. Once more Turkey has fulfilled her destiny....”

It was Christmas only a year ago. The land of Islam was wrapped in a mantle of snow. To the quiet harem came Turkish friends from far and near, and together we celebrated the birth of the Saviour of the World. It was a beautifully pathetic Christmas, one of the most interesting and wonderful I ever spent.

The celebration of Christmas in a Moslem home! As a little girl, I longed and dreamed of the day when I should be privileged to tell the Moslems the great and real meaning of Christmas.... And that day had come.

We had a Christmas tree, we played at snapdragon and hunt the slipper and musical chairs. We sang “Auld lang syne,” and to me it was the beginning of a great understanding—a great wide brotherhood—and we promised to spend this Christmas together in the same real Christmas manner....

And that was Christmas a year ago. Could I ever have dreamed where I would be this year? I, who had a year ago explained the beautiful real meaning of Christmas, am here in a French hospital with English nurses helping to repair the ills that Christian nations have done to one another!

What a glorious example for the Moslem peoples! The hideousness of the Christian’s warfare! Is there anything the East can now learn from the West?

There are Christmas trees in all the hospital wards. The English nurses have dressed them ... the bare walls are transformed into a fairyland of ivy and candles and real good Christmas decorations. There are cakes and sweets and fruits and British plum pudding....

Luncheon has ended. These splendid English nurses, who have responded to the French appeal to come and help, ask me for a toast.

“There is only one toast for all thinking humanity,” I reply, and the nurses understand.

The German prisoners are washing up the dishes on which we have eaten our British plum pudding. Poor pathetic souls! Let us distinguish between the criminal and his crime....

And this is the Christmas I promised to spend in Turkey—the land where I have spent so many happy days of my life. And this is the result of the world-famed Teuton Kultur.

Beside the crimes of Louvain and Rheims and the poor shivering and hungry refugees who were first wrecked at Havre and then brought on penniless and homeless here to Bordeaux, and all the other crimes for which Germany must answer, I place the betrayal of Turkey. To deliberately lead to destruction a people who made so brave a stand for regeneration, whose patriotism I have so inadequately described, if this is all that civilization can produce—if this is how we illustrate the lessons we have learnt from Bethlehem to Gethsemane—how can we any longer preach that wonderful gospel of peace and goodwill amongst men?

My companions urge this is the darkness before dawn. Behind the clouds and battle smoke the sun is shining. Cruel platitudes in a hospital of eleven hundred wounded soldiers. And when the war is over? Alas, the unending sadness of my surroundings has killed for a while any hope of happiness.

Hospital Militaire de Talence, Bordeaux, Christmas 1914.

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