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MALTA: THE NAME I WAS TO HEAR THROUGHOUT ANATOLIA

Our first stopping-place was Malta, the name I was destined to hear from one end of Anatolia to the other.

Was it not of Malta that Angora was born; and since “the trouble” in the East, Malta has been turned into a universal dumping-ground for officers’ wives and refugees. Whenever M. Kemal Pasha lifts his little finger, or Rauf Bey opens his mouth, the women and children are bundled off to Malta. They return, indeed, on any excuse, at the first opportunity (as why should they not?), until a panic-stricken Government again sends them to exile. One lady with us had done the trip in this way four times!

Constantinople, without our women, makes one wonder if it were so wise as it appears, thus to play for safety! After all, cannot the Englishwoman endure what the Russian, Greek and Armenian are left to put up with? If the husband is in danger, should not his wife be with him? “We want to ‘protect’ our women,” I had been told, and there is no finer ideal than chivalry. But, after Constantinople, I would suggest that we women also “want to protect our men!”

Softening, perhaps, the frankness for which my “French” education has been so often held responsible, I would only say: “There are alluring distractions!”

And in marriage I pin my faith upon the Italian proverb: “Keep to the women and cows of your own country.”

The utter destitution of so many members of the old Russian aristocracy, has not deprived its women of their temperamental charm. It has provided them with an occasion (genuine enough, God knows) for tears no British youth can resist, unmoved as he will remain under the fiercest shell-fire.

Yet one Englishman told me his Russian wife had taken every penny he possessed, and vanished—he knew not where. Another “fears it is only a matter of time. His ‘noble’ wife cannot be expected to put up with Clapham, and when something better turns up, he will be discarded.” One married “a sweet, soft voice” out of sheer loneliness; and another, foolish and rich, clothed in priceless ermine the lady he met “at a bar!” There is no need to dwell on other, less honourable, “consequences” of such “casual” meetings.

At every corner in Constantinople the “bar” invites the busy and the brave to cocktails or a whisky, an example we have given the “despised” Turk, who had the wisdom to make Angora “dry.” Here, too, is the best of chances for pro-Greek propaganda, as our men meet no “Turkish” women, who are “really” safe in the bosom of their families. One is tempted, almost, to hope that for them the day of “freedom” may be postponed.

Facing this ugly side of what an “Army of Occupation” must always entail, does the Englishwoman who absolutely refused to “leave” need to stand on her defence? “Vanity Fair,” moreover, may serve to remind us that there were English women near Waterloo; and do our present generation require such careful wrapping in cotton-wool, while they are, nevertheless, too often left unprotected in the drab, hum-drum life of a modern “business” world.

It is remarkable, again, to reflect that every Turk one meets, who really “counts for something” in Angora, is a “Malta” man. If M. Kemal Pasha believed in decorations, surely a special medal would have been devised for those who had “visited” Malta.

As a prison, it is agreeable enough, though the climate strikes one as enervating. The sun shines, even brightly, for the greater part of the year, and sunshine softens the captive’s lot! Had I never visited the island I should have soon learnt to know “the sights,” for in so many homes of Angora, Maltese picture postcards are displayed, almost like holy relics: Valetta, the “Chapel of Bones” (a barbaric idea), the Mahommedan cemetery, the cathedral, and the landing-stage. Everywhere, too, are the fair ladies of Malta, whose head-dresses closely resemble the Turkish tcharchaff.

The Angelus had sounded as I first entered the cathedral, to find myself amidst long rows of black-veiled women, reverently kneeling on the cold inlaid-marble floor, their heads bent in prayer, their fingers counting the beads as they recited their rosaries. The native type is dark-skinned, almost Mongolian, but they all speak English. For are they not British subjects, paid in British money, and entitled to our protection? There was talk, indeed, of extending the cover of “Nationalism” to them also; but, personally, I still felt everywhere, and all the time, that calming atmosphere of order, happiness, and prosperity that is brought by the British flag.

How is it, then, that we have so consistently failed to quiet the Turkish storms? Of course, every one of the “powers” has been involved, each playing for its own hand, striving to end or prolong the war in its own interests.

It is well known that the Turk himself has above all committed one crime—he has kept Constantinople!

Bent on a policy of peace (!) we undertook to disarm Turkey; but the mission despatched to Anatolia for this purpose could, or would, not accomplish its task. Then in May, 1919, despite the Mudros Armistice, we allowed the Greeks to occupy Smyrna! In March of the following year, came the English coup d’état!

The highest personalities—generals, important officials, anyone suspected of sympathy with the Nationalists—were arrested, placed in the hold of a man-of-war, for internment at Malta. All were taken on mere suspicion, thrust into prison without trial!

Yet the naïveté of the whole proceeding is almost more puzzling than its high-handed injustice! These dangerous men (!), supposed to be plotting against Great Britain, are all huddled together, and left to their own devices, for two years—and then released! Were we afraid? Did we repent? Will Government never pursue one policy to its logical conclusion?

I could but “wonder about” these things as I knelt in prayer. Clouds of incense have filled the cathedral, the Blessed Sacrament is safely returned to the tabernacle, the huge candles are extinguished, and the veiled ladies are reverently leaving the dimly-lighted church. Cannot faith bring peace?

“There must be peace.” I, who have faith in the spoken word, will declare it, everywhere and all the time, and will count him traitor who utters a word to the contrary. But I will tell them in Angora that “I am sorry for” Malta!

Fethi Bey, Minister of the Interior, carries his comfortable Turkish philosophy to the last extreme. Whatever happens, he will say that “It might have been worse.” In Malta, he acknowledged that he would have preferred greater comfort, but, then, “he might have been much more uncomfortable!” In any case, he seized upon the chance to learn English, and learnt it remarkably well. It is best, he believes, to understand an enemy; and, to that end, you must learn his language. Of Mr. Lloyd George, he declared that “Turkey owes him a debt of gratitude we can never repay.... But for the occupation of Smyrna, and the Malta coup d’état, there would have been no Nationalists. But for your Prime Minister we might all of us have been vassals. Indeed, we owe him a great deal.”

When I asked him what to expect in Angora, he warned me that “I must not look for the luxuries of the Savoy.”

“Well, I can leave our jazz bands without one pang,” I replied.

“But you may find worse things in Angora than Jazz bands.”

Men like Fethi Bey, ready to meet all emergencies without complaint, make the right material to face the problem of Reconstruction, in a country ruined from end to end; and what a comfort it is to meet a man without a grievance!

When I attempted to sympathise with him for having to ride, because no motor could take these snow-blocked roads, he declared that “exercise would do him good.” When his horse stumbled, “it might have been worse.”

Yet, on my account, he apologised again and again for the condition of Angora; and I could only compare his humorous comparison with the Savoy, to Dr. Réchad’s strange attempt at consolation: “You certainly won’t need any evening dresses.”

It is, no doubt, the gift for always making the best of a bad bargain, that works for peace in the Turkish home. Your husband is not perfect, but “he might be worse”; the food is bad, but there might not be any; if the rooms are not clean, “we have known dirtier.” It is an “accommodating” point of view!

There is a story by Nasreddin Hodja, the great Turkish wit, which happily illustrates this racial characteristic. The Anatolian lived in constant terror of a vociferous wife, though no doubt he often reflected that there were worse women in the world. One day, however, someone told him that she had fallen into the river, and was being carried away by the tide. “Don’t worry,” said he, with a stoic’s calm, “she will go against it. She always does.”

On another occasion, this man of wit had carried a basket of figs to the lame Timur, on an official visit of respect. Timur amused himself by throwing the fruit in the Hodja’s face; but at each blow he cried out: “Allah is Great.” When asked why he so often praised God, he answered: “My wife wanted me to bring you apples.” Since Timur was privileged, if it pleased him, to strike the guest, he “thanked God” that he had chosen the smaller and lighter fruit.

As for my own mission in Malta, I had really come to buy a British flag!, as Messrs. Cook’s manager at Naples had supplied “everything” but just that.

For years I have never travelled without a Union Jack. The idea of undertaking so long and dangerous a journey without it, filled me with strange foreboding. Everywhere on the Front I had my “flag.” In a state of coma at the military hospital, the nuns were in great distress because I had expressed a wish to be buried in the flag, which, being under my pillow, was nowhere to be found! Naturally, in Paris I had foreseen my need. But the registered trunk, booked to Rome, had fallen on evil days, and there will be no luck for the “thief,” who is probably polishing his boots with my sacred relic!

At first, I seemed unable to escape the lace-makers of Malta; and when, following the direction of a naval officer, I found myself at last in a real “Harrod’s Store,” my luck, also, was still out. At the Army and Navy, the managing director declared they had “no sale for Union Jacks.”... Each man possessed his own. He dared not sell me the firm’s flag, for an order to hoist it might be given at any moment; and, if he failed to obey, he would very likely be driven out of the island!

As a last resource, I drove to a man said to have “flags for hire.” By this time I was too frenzied with disappointment to conceal my eagerness, and they promised me one for £7! Luckily enough, excitement prompted me to unfurl my treasure then and there, to find myself gazing, in mute astonishment, upon the Stars and Stripes! “Isn’t it the same thing?” cried the impostor, as I flung myself out of the shop.

But time and tide wait for no woman, and I must silence my superstitions, to join the Pierre Loti once more. Taking a last look on the fortifications of Malta, my thoughts turned to the imprisoned Turks, and my heart was filled with shame.

One day, perhaps, the Turks may hold Malta sacred, for assuredly the cream of her people were gathered there. One might almost have thought that such men as Prince Said Halim (late Grand Vizier), Rauf Bey, Fethi Bey, Hussein Djahid, and my admirable Angora guide,) Vely-Nedjdat, had been carefully selected to keep each other company.

Mrs. Stan-Harding once said of her eight and a half months in a Soviet prison: “At least I had this advantage, I met the best people in Russia.” As her hearers seemed puzzled by such a statement, she added, “They were all, naturally, in prison!”

I must tell them, in Angora, that England, at least, has always honestly tried to put right her own wrong-doings, and one day (may it be soon!) she will “redeem” herself to them also.

Mr. H. G. Wells somewhere describes the strange, great love we often feel for those we have deeply wronged—the wife, the friend, the enemy. May it not, at the long last, be so “after the war?”

Who knows if, indeed, this be not the dark hour before the dawn, of our nation’s friendships—with those we have been led to hate?