GWALIOR
We left Agra for Gwalior on the 2nd of January. Departing from Agra
Road about 11 in the morning we arrived at Gwalior between 3 and 4
o’clock in the afternoon. We hoped to meet an Indian friend here, who
was a doctor in the suite of the Maharajah, and whom we had known in
London when he was studying for his degree. He was, however, absent
at Calcutta, so we had to shift for ourselves. There was, however, an
excellent guest-house built by the Maharajah for the use of visitors
to Gwalior, not far from the station, where we found comfortable
quarters, very superior to most of the hotels we had had experience
of. The building itself was a charming pavilion in the Mogul style,
with domes, arcades, and pierced stone work balconies, and elaborately
carved doorways, the material of which it was built being a sort of
yellow sandstone. We were allotted a spacious room opening on to a
pleasant terrace and connected with balconies which extended entirely
around the house, and from here we could see the famous Rock of Gwalior
with its fort and Temples and the old palace of Man Mandir conspicuous
at its further end. There was a large central hall or living room, and
in this was a blazing fire which shed its cheery light and welcome
warmth. There was a good piano and English furniture. There was a sort
of clerestory high in the lofty wall, but no direct light, so that in
the daytime this room was in comparative gloom, by no means ungrateful
after the glare of the sun. The dining-room was fully lighted and
opened on to a portico. In front of the building was a garden with a
rather burnt up piece of lawn encircled by a carriage drive.
We found a singular silent and reserved company of Anglo-Indians at
dinner—a lady and three gentleman—only one of the latter manifesting
the slightest interest in us. No one appeared at breakfast the
following morning but an English governess and a child she was in
charge of.
[Illustration: TO GWALIOR FORT BY PALANQUIN]
We started in a carriage to drive to the fort, stopping on the way
to see the tomb of Mohammed Ghaus, the dome of which is visible
from the guest-house. It is a noble tomb of yellow sandstone, with
fine screen-work. It dates from the early part of Akbar’s reign. We
crossed a river by a bridge and entered a decayed-looking native town,
passing up a straggling street of low houses to the first gate of the
fortress. There we might have hired an elephant to take us up the
steep road to the fort, but the elephant had been already bespoke by
a party of British officers. A palanquin (or jhampan) was produced,
however, in which my wife seated herself and was carried up the hill
by four bearers, four more accompanying them as relays. As for me
I preferred to walk up, and our Moonsawmy went with us. We passed
through several gateways. The Hindu carvings of one called the Ganesha
Gate had been defaced by the Mohammedans. Soon the towers of the old
palace of Man Mandir rose in view near the summit, each crowned with a
circular cupola. It is a striking building of remarkable character in
reddish-yellow sandstone, faced in parts by turquoise blue and yellow
tiles, courses of these tiles running across the façade. The angle
tower and some of the tile-work at the top had been restored. There
was a frieze of geese in yellow on a turquoise-blue ground, the birds
in profile, each showing an expanded wing and set close together. The
design resembled the carved figures of birds often seen on the Jain
temples. The architecture here being Hindu, was much more massive than
the Mogul work hitherto seen, and showed much variety and invention
in the carved corbels and brackets in the interior. I made a note of
a peacock bracket in which the tail is effectively treated, the bird
being considerably formalised in adapting it to its architectural
purpose. There was another of a fantastic elephant. Elephant heads with
their uplifted trunks, by the way, were carved as brackets to support
the balconies at the Guest House, where also I noted that the detail
of some of the carved work of the door heads at the old palace had
been reproduced. The doorways were rather low and small, and the whole
building had more the character of a castle than a palace. On the flat
table land on the summit of the rock there were several Jain temples,
masses of carving within and without. The Sas Bahu is the principal
Jain temple, and there is also a Hindu temple on the rock—near the
farther end from Man Mandir—the Teli-ka Mandir. This stands in a
graveyard, full of carved fragments and upright stones. The elephant
bearing the party of British officers passed us as we were exploring
the temples. There are some ugly barracks, which are very much out
of keeping with the historic architecture of the Rock. The old fort
has stood many a siege. Caine calls it “the cockpit of Central India,”
and “it has been stormed or starved into submission a dozen times at
least.” It seems to have been originally fortified in 773 A.D., and
at various periods since to have alternately fallen into the hands of
Hindu or Mussulman, as now one and now the other prevailed. Akbar the
Great took it in 1556, and we find the East India Company in possession
in 1780, who took it from Sindhia and gave it to the Rana of Gohad.
Then Sindhia retook it, and so it has remained with the Sindhias (to
which family the present Maharajah belongs) practically ever since. The
Rock has always been well supplied with water and has many tanks.
We had a commanding prospect of the country, stretching in a vast plain
for miles around. We could see the Maharajah’s palace amidst its parks
and gardens—a white building among the green foliage, and nearer the
foot of the Rock the new town of Gwalior, called Lashkar. We descended
on the farther (northern) side of the rock by a winding road, and from
here we saw some huge carved figures cut in the face of the sandstone
cliffs in bold relief. Most of these are said to represent Adinath,
the first Jain pontiff, but there is a seated figure of Nemnath, the
twenty-second pontiff. Each bear their symbols, that of the first
being a bull and of the second a shell. There are life-size as well as
small figures cut on the lower parts of the cliff. The effect of these
strange carvings is very weird. They have an impersonal and unrelated
look, and give one the impression of being more ancient than they
really are; but they only date from A.D. 1441 to 1474.
We found our carriage waiting for us at the foot of the hill, having
driven round the Rock from the old town, and we got back to the Guest
House about noon.
In the late afternoon we drove to the Maharajah’s palace, and
presenting our cards, were shown over the rooms by a very polite
English officer. The building is in a sort of late Italian Renaissance
style, all white outside, with a great display of pilasters and
columned porticoes. We entered a vast durbar hall in white and gold,
with modern French-looking furniture with curly legs upholstered in
green. There were many photographs of recent English Governor-Generals
on the walls, as well as indifferent full-length, life-sized portraits
in oil of the late Maharajah. The best of these was said to have been
painted by one Scott—a landscape painter (!). In one of the smaller
rooms there was an English water-colour drawing of Sussex Downs by
A. F. Grace (whom I remember at Heatherly’s in student days), and
several photographic official groups of the usual type, in which the
Maharajah is seated by the Prince of Wales, surrounded by rows of
officials and notabilities, all with “eyes front.” We wrote our names
in the visitors’ book, and then drove through the grounds, which
are very extensive. In one part lions are kept—apparently in a most
insecure way, as they not unfrequently escape and ravage the country
round. In fact, this had quite recently happened, and natives had been
killed by them. A very taciturn gentleman at the Guest House had been
pointed out to us by the more genial of our fellow-countrymen there as
the official who had been sent by the Maharajah to fetch the wandering
lions back, and he had been over a distance of about three hundred
miles before he succeeded in “rounding them up.” He did not tell us,
however, how it was done, though he had a look as of one who “could
a tale unfold”—not to speak of a lion’s tail! When we saw the place
where these lions were kept we were not surprised that they should have
been able to escape if they had a mind to. We looked down on them as
they were gnawing some bones. They were loose in a sort of open court,
overgrown with grass, and enclosed within four plastered walls which
any cat could have scaled, no palisading or iron railing at the top.
There were five lions and one lioness visible. The remains of their
repast of meat was pounced on by kites and crows with much clamour.
We next saw the Maharajah’s elephants, and passed down a long line of
them, chained by the fore-legs, down one side of an open courtyard,
all eating what looked like the stalks of Indian corn. There were
about thirty elephants here. One of them was handsomely painted on the
forehead in a similar way to the state elephant we saw at Jaipur, but
none of them had quite such big tusks. Returning through the gardens,
we passed the older palace; also a white building, but in the Mogul
style, with many domes and minarets, and facing a large tank with
marble steps.
Our party at the Guest House was increased at dinner by two very
pleasant American ladies, who, owing to their powers of conversation,
caused the very reserved Anglo-Indians to melt a little and show some
signs of human interest, especially when one of the ladies related her
thrilling experiences during the San Francisco earthquake.
The next morning we visited the newer city of Gwalior, which we had
seen from the fort. The streets were fairly wide, and some had varied
and picturesque fronts in plaster-work. We were driven to the gate of
a big and rather new Hindu temple, spoiled by the insertion of crude
pieces of coloured glass, of the commonest European make, in the
fan-lights of the doors on each side. A sacred bull of black marble and
a snake fetish were the most interesting things there.
In the same court was an older temple raised on a flight of steps. To
approach this, one’s shoes had to be taken off, and from the door only
a peep was allowed into the dark interior, which, as far as I could see
was painted all over with figures of deities and emblems in a barbaric
way in coarse and crude colours. The thing to look at, it appeared, was
a portrait of the late Maharajah in his jewels, on what we should call
the high altar, which was suddenly illuminated by artificial light by
one of the native attendants.
Zebu cows were wandering freely about in the court of the temple, and
here for a wonder no fees were taken.
[Illustration: IN THE BAZAAR, GWALIOR]
We went into the new market, which had been opened by the Prince
of Wales on his visit the previous year. It was not, however,
very busy, and many of the stalls were empty. It seemed of doubtful
advantage to the natives, who preferred to do business in the bazaars.
There appeared to be a good supply of fresh vegetables, but very few
buyers. The most interesting stalls were those of the bead sellers.
There were beads of every variety of colour and size. The stalls were
about the height of ordinary shop-counters, and on these platforms,
which extended without divisions along the centre and sides of the
market hall, the native traders squatted with their wares in front of
them, women as well as men. Some of them were engaged in stringing
the beads, and one man was plaiting a cord, the strands of which were
fixed to a hook fixed on an upright stick supported on a stand. He
used his toes like fingers to hold out and divide the strands as he
worked. With the assistance of our bearer we made some purchases, and
again later in the bazaar, when, as the carriage was stopped, I made a
sketch of the scene in front of us, but under difficulties, as we were
immediately surrounded on all sides by an eager concourse of swarthy,
interested spectators, who refused to budge in spite of the rather mild
remonstrances or commands of a native policeman, who, I imagine, used
the Hindu equivalent for “Pass along” or “Move on,” but they didn’t.
Under this “crowd of witnesses” I endeavoured to complete my sketch,
and then we moved on.
Extending our drive on the Morar Road, we passed the camp of the
Maharajah’s soldiers in waiting for the Amir’s coming, as after the
Agra reception was over he was to pay a visit to the palace at Gwalior
for tiger-shooting. We enjoyed a quiet life at Gwalior, and I was able
to make several drawings unhindered by too curious crowds. The Guest
House was one of the quietest places imaginable, although visitors came
and went and even motor-cars were seen. There was something almost
mysterious in the way guests would appear and disappear—at table one
day and vanished the next; covers would be laid too for guests who
never appeared.
Tents which were pitched on the ground outside the Guest House for
other unseen visitors would be clean gone as we looked out in the
morning. Everything seemed so transitory; even a native boy, when I
wanted to make a drawing of him, was nowhere to be found, and I had to
make the best of it with an unwilling and quite inferior substitute,
who had no idea of keeping still, and even ended the seance by
squatting on the ground with his back to one!
It struck me that the natives do not like being drawn or painted, as a
rule, to judge by the various attempts one made to secure models. The
one wanted always disappeared when the time came, and another, but not
a better and without the same characteristics, offered.
The little palm squirrels were very numerous here, and would scamper
about the terraces and balconies of the Guest House, and even chase
each other into our rooms, or come up for the crumbs we scattered,
sitting up on their haunches to nibble at them, held in their fore-paws
in true squirrel fashion. Equally familiar were the sparrows which
flew in and out, unmolested and fearless, even perching sometimes on
the breakfast table. The crows too would congregate on the balcony
rails if any feeding was going on, frequently joining us at afternoon
tea, at a respectful distance, though within short range of the
scattered crumbs.
[Illustration: CALLERS AT THE GUEST HOUSE, GWALIOR]
We witnessed several very lovely sunsets over the Rock of Gwalior, a
type of frequent occurrence being an arrangement of long, low stratus
clouds, brilliantly illuminated on their under edges as the sun sank
below the horizon, the light deepening from orange into crimson.
Another type consisted of golden fleeces of high cirrus clouds,
rippling out over spaces of turquoise.
We paid another visit to the old town of Gwalior and climbed the hill
as far as the third gate, where I made a sketch showing the towers of
the Man Mandir Palace through the arch.
From a terrace extending along the hill near this gate there is a fine
panoramic view, the old town lying below, partly ruined and deserted, a
mass of crumbling walls and complicated roof plans mingled with trees
and gardens.
The first gate at the foot of the hill, where is the guard-house, is
interesting as showing the inlaid enamelled tile-work which decorates
it partially. Deep turquoise is the prevailing colour, and it is used
for the field or background of the designs, and is inlaid in pieces cut
to fit the interstices of the pattern in the yellow sandstone. In a
frieze of geese in close formal procession, the birds were cut in sunk
relief, and the spaces between were filled with turquoise pieces. The
tile decoration on the Man Mandir Palace has been done in the same way,
yellow and green tiles being also used.
We drove through the bazaar of the old town, a queer, half-ruined, and
ragged place, but exceedingly picturesque, the natives squatting on
their stalls, presiding over curious preparations of food and other
wares, with chatting, many-coloured groups crowding around. Some of
the people would look curiously at us, some would salaam, some were
indifferent, others were derisive or sullen.
[Illustration: APPROACH TO THE PALACE OF MAN MANDIR, GWALIOR]
There was rather an important-looking mosque with minarets in the
town, but many of the houses were roofless and deserted.
In crossing the bridge over the river we noted the people washing
clothes, and a pretty pattern of colour was formed when the stuffs
were spread out over the sandbanks to dry. Here, in central India,
we were able to see more of the everyday life of the people, and had
more opportunities of quiet observation of country life than usual.
The peasants did not seem to have the curiosity of the natives in the
towns, when one sat down to make a drawing, but they went on their
way, bearing their burdens, or driving ox-carts, or herds of goats, or
buffalo cows, or asses.
It was quite a change to get a grey cloudy effect which occurred one
morning when I had found an interesting subject by the river side. On
the way thither we passed a village burning-place, strewn with heaps
of ashes where the dead had been burned. The river had shrunk to a
small, shallow stream, and at the spot where I sat was crossed by
stepping-stones, over which groups of natives constantly passed to and
fro. Cattle and ox-carts splashed through a shallow ford at intervals,
and higher up natives bathed their brown bodies in the water. We were
on the outskirts of the old town of Gwalior, and could see above on the
rock the dark shapes of the Jain temples looming up against the sky,
while around us were domes of cenotaphs, fragments of tombs, and broken
walls, overshadowed by groups of fine banyan trees and mangoes. At an
old draw-well near by groups of native women were continually coming
and going, bearing their water-jars on their heads, their draperies
forming delightful schemes of colour.
A dark thin Hindu in a white turban and waist-cloth was ploughing up
his small patch of land near the river for potatoes, which members of
his family working with him were preparing to sow. There were several
sons—youths—two women, and some small children, all working on the land.
I made a note of the plough, a very primitive implement, having a
single shaft fixed at a right angle to the share, with a cross-handle
at the top. This the ploughman held with one hand—his left—guiding the
plough, while with his right he drove a small pair of zebus under a
yoke, who dragged it along. The share was a wedge-shaped piece of wood,
tipped with iron at the point and along its edge.
Moonsawmy talked to the man while I made my notes, and he told me
afterwards that the ploughman never managed to earn as much as 200
rupees in the year, though he and his family—I suppose about ten or a
dozen all told—were constantly at work. His patch of land being near
the river, one would have thought favourable for raising crops; but it
appeared the river not infrequently was completely dry, and they were
hard put to it for water for the soil. The income of the whole family
worked out at about thirteen pounds a year at the most, which, taking
into consideration that it had to be the support of about a dozen
people, seemed narrow enough, and one could easily understand that the
slightest failure of the crops would mean something like famine.
This state of things bears out the estimates of the average income of
the Indian ryot, calculated by the late William Digby, C.I.E., after
long residence and experience in India, the results of whose study of
the question are given in detail, from undisputed authorities, in his
striking work, “Prosperous British India,” in which is accumulated an
appalling mass of evidence, all pointing to the conclusion that for
famine should very largely be read _poverty_, which is also the root
cause of bubonic plague. The railways, of course, might convey corn to
the starving districts, but where the people have no money to pay for
it they must starve all the same, Government relief-works being the
only alternative; but this sort of relief must often be too late for
poor creatures reduced by hunger and too weak to work.
The ordinary unprejudiced observer is naturally inclined to ask, Why
this desperate poverty in an industrious population, supposed to be
under beneficent British rule and administration? The answer must
be sought in the fact that thirty millions and upwards are annually
extracted from the country without any equivalent return, and this must
necessarily mean a heavy burden of taxation on the chief sources of
wealth, land and labour.
One of the greatest principles of our Constitution of which our
public men are never tired of boasting is, “No taxation without
representation,” or, “Taxation and representation must go hand in
hand.” This principle is, however, entirely ignored in India, where
British rule is as autocratic as that of Russia. Is it surprising in
these circumstances that there should be “unrest”?
The educated Hindu or Mohammedan—the many who come to England and are
trained in English Universities, or read for the Bar, or study for
their degrees in medicine, feel that there is no part or lot for them
in the administration of the affairs of their own country except in a
very subordinate way. I understand that the highest Government post a
native can attain to is the office of assistant-commissioner.
Time was when, after the great upheaval of the Mutiny—which was really
an attempt to regain possession of the reins of government by the
native princes of Oude, the principle of native representation under
British administration was advocated by leading English politicians.
Nothing, however, came of it, and the policy of the India Office has
remained unchanged through all the changes of party government, there
being no difference in this matter between Liberals and Conservatives.
A Liberal like Mr John Morley, when in office as Indian Secretary,
promptly orders the arrest and deportation without trial of Indian
agitators under an old law of the East India Company which has never
been ratified by the English Parliament.
Mr Laipat Rai, however, appears to be a self-sacrificing and devoted
advocate of the cause of his people, and as editor certainly cannot
have written so strongly against the English Government as Mr H. M.
Hyndman, who has for years past denounced the conduct of the India
Office, while challenging attention to and redress of the system under
which the people of India are impoverished.
The attenuated ploughman who has been the occasion of these remarks was
a typical figure. Looking on such figures, able only to secure a bare
subsistence, so common throughout India, one cannot but feel that all
the magnificence and luxury of the Maharajahs, as well as the heavy
burden of the cost of the British Government, is maintained by the
sweat of the brows and the ceaseless toil of such as these.