CHAPTER XX
MUSTAPHA KEMAL PASHA—THE MAN WHO IS MASTER OF HIS FATE
My eye fell on the portrait of a handsome Turkish
lady, which was hanging over the Pasha's writing-desk.
"What a lovely face!" I exclaimed.
"My mother," said the Pasha, with obvious pride.
"Would it be very indiscreet," said I, "to ask if I might have the great pleasure of seeing her?"
"She is very ill. The doctors are with her day and night. Alas, I fear she can never recover."
We afterwards went up the staircase to the invalid's apartments. To my surprise, we found her seated on a wide divan, supported by cushions. It was difficult at first to believe that she was so near the end.
"Alas!" said Mustapha Kemal, "her suffering has come through me. She is paying back now the tears and anguish she spent for me in exile." There was sorrow in his voice, too heart-broken for many words.
"Now you can take part in his victory," I said. "How proud you must be of your son. His is a wonderful story. I am proud only to have spoken with him and seen his work."
She thanked me with great feeling, and said she believed "God had sent her this son to save the Fatherland—but my son is always kind to me."
Whilst giving me a beautiful silk handkerchief, scented with her favourite perfume, she asked whether she had not seen me before, ten years ago, in Constantinople.
"She has a marvellous memory," the Pasha murmured.
