Act III., the age limit did not affect us.

Produced by MFR and the Online Distributed Proofreading

Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from

images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

Transcriber’s Note: Names in this text are sometimes spelt

inconsistently e.g. Profullo/Profulla (presumably due to different

transliterations).

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN INDIAN PRINCESS

[Illustration:

_Lafayette._] [_Frontispiece._

SUNITY DEVEE, MAHARANI OF COOCH BEHAR, 1921.]

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY

OF AN

INDIAN PRINCESS

BY SUNITY DEVEE, MAHARANI OF

COOCH BEHAR

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

LONDON

JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.

1921

_All rights reserved_

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. MY CHILDHOOD 1

II. MY FAMILY 20

III. FESTIVALS AND FESTIVAL DAYS 33

IV. MY ROMANCE 42

V. MY MARRIAGE 54

VI. EARLY MARRIED DAYS 68

VII. LIFE AT COOCH BEHAR 89

VIII. MY FIRST VISIT TO ENGLAND 103

IX. ENGLISH SOCIETY 123

X. HAPPY DAYS IN INDIA 141

XI. EDUCATION OF THE BOYS 158

XII. SAD DAYS 182

XIII. ANOTHER BLOW 199

XIV. VICEROYS I HAVE KNOWN 215

XV. LATER YEARS 228

INDEX 243

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

SUNITY DEVEE, MAHARANI OF COOCH BEHAR _Frontispiece_

MY HUSBAND _Facing page_ 54

“RAJEY” 90

MAHARANI SUNITY DEVEE, 1887 110

FAMILY GROUP AT WOODLANDS 140

MY THREE YOUNGER SONS 156

“RAJEY” AS MAHARAJAH 198

MAHARANI SUNITY DEVEE 214

WOODLANDS 220

THE MAHARANI AND HER GRANDDAUGHTER 239

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN INDIAN PRINCESS

CHAPTER I

MY CHILDHOOD

I was born in 1864 at the old house known as “Sen’s House” which my

great-grandfather built at Coolootola, a part of Calcutta where many of

our family lived. My birth was always remembered in connection with a

storm which occurred when I was six days old, a most important time to a

Hindu baby, for then the Creator is supposed to visit the home, and write

upon its forehead the little one’s fate. Perhaps people will think the

stormy weather in the beginning signified a stormy future for me.

No girl could have been more fortunate in her parents than I. My father,

the great Keshub Chunder Sen, is considered one of the most remarkable

men India has ever produced, and my dear mother belonged to the best type

of Hindu woman. Gentle, loving, and self-denying, her whole life was

beautiful in its goodness and its simplicity.

The story of a great religious movement is not one which can be told at

length in a book of memories. The religion for which my father suffered

and which will be for ever connected with his name is the Brahmo or

Religion of the New Dispensation, a religion of tolerance and charity. To

quote my father’s words, “The New Dispensation in India neither shuts out

God’s light from the rest of the world, nor does it run counter to any

of those marvellous dispensations of His mercy which were made manifest

in ancient times. It simply shows a new interpretation of His eternal

goodness, an Indian version and application of His universal love.”

My readers do not perhaps quite know the meaning of Brahmo. A Brahmo is

a person who believes in Brahmoe (One God). There is a Hindu god called

Brahmuna, with four heads—Brahmoe is not that god. Some Western people

may think Brahmins are the same as Brahmos. Once I remember an English

lady saying to me: “I met some Brahmo ladies.…” I asked, “How did you

know they were Brahmos?” “Because they wore lace on their heads.” Others

have an idea that all advanced Indian ladies must be Brahmos.

If my readers by some good fortune have read ancient Indian history they

will know what the real Indian religion was. There was one God and no

belief in caste, in fact there was no such thing as caste. Caste meant

a different thing in those days. It referred to character and life. A

Brahmin lived a pure and holy life, and preached religion. Next to

the Brahmins were the Katnyas; they were rulers, fighting people; they

guarded their families, states, and countries. Then came the Sudhras, who

served the others. But now there are hundreds of different castes, which

makes people rather narrow-minded, for if one believes in caste one can

never believe in universal brotherhood.

From the days of his youth my father was earnest and devout. He must

have gone through much trouble of mind before he decided to fly in the

face of family tradition and take a step which meant partial separation

from his nearest and dearest. My mother was a member of a strict Hindu

family, and their marriage had been solemnised with Hindu rites; but

she did not fail him in the hour of trial. I have often heard my mother

talk of the difficulties of those days, before she left Coolootola

with my father. When he announced his approaching conversion, the “Sen

House” was plunged into a state of agitation, and my mother was by turns

entreated and threatened by angry and dismayed relatives. “Do not go

against our customs,” urged the purdah ladies. “You are one of us. Your

place is here. You must not renounce your caste. Imagine the results

of such a dreadful sin.” When thus reproached, the young girl dreaded

the horrors of the unknown. It may be that she wavered; but if so, it

was not for long; and it was arranged that she should go with my father

to be converted by the Maharshi D. Tagore. On the day fixed for their

departure a note came. My father had written simply, “I am waiting.”

Then my mother knew she must decide her future for good and all. All

the relations were screaming, crying, and threatening my mother, saying

that she would bring disgrace on the family by leaving the house, and

thus losing her caste. But it did not hinder her, because of those three

simple words—“I am waiting”—the call of Love. When she realised their

meaning, she threw off the fetters of the past and went forth to meet

her destiny. There was a round staircase used by the purdah ladies where

she knew my father awaited her. The trembling girl hurriedly traversed

corridors and verandahs until she reached it. Fearfully she descended

the dark steps, her heart beating with fright, until at last she saw my

father. He said quietly: “I want you to realise your position fully.

If you come with me, you give up caste, rank, money, and jewels. The

relations who love you will become estranged from you. The bread of

bitterness will be your portion. You will lose all except me. Am I worth

the sacrifice?”

My mother had had a most beautiful and wonderful vision, which is too

sacred for me to relate. This gave her strength and courage, she did not

hesitate but descended the steps and joined my father. It was a moment

too wonderful for words. They looked into each other’s eyes. He read

perfect faith and courage in hers. She saw in his a love which gave her

confidence to face the future. They passed down the corridor and found

themselves in the first courtyard opposite the great entrance, where the

durwans (gatekeepers) were standing on guard.

Twice my father ordered the durwans to open the door, but they did not

move. It was very still in the courtyard. My mother was frightened.

This was a strange adventure, and hitherto she had hardly seen a man

except her husband. A trembling, slim girl, she stood near my father

with her head-dress pulled quite low. Across the door there was a huge

iron bar, which was too heavy for one man to lift. My father, seeing

that the durwans would not open the door, went to lift the bar and did

so quite easily. Then a voice was heard speaking from the upper floor.

It was my father’s eldest brother. He had watched all that had happened,

and, seeing that my parents were determined, he decided to let them go.

“Let them pass, and open the gate,” he called out to the durwans. The

wondering durwans threw open the door, and my parents passed from the

shadows into the sunlight.

My father took my mother to the beautiful house of Maharshi Debendra

Nath Tagore. The household were all waiting to welcome them, though they

had great doubts whether my father would be able to bring my mother away

from such a strict Hindu family. The Maharshi introduced my mother to

his daughters as if she had been his own child. Although a rich man’s

daughter-in-law and a rich youth’s wife, my mother was wearing a simple

sari with hardly any jewels. She always spoke of the great kindness and

affection she received from this family, and she deeply revered the old

Maharshi. We have always felt that there is a great bond between our two

families.

My parents remained away for some time during which my father’s formal

conversion took place. After some months my grandmother and uncle begged

him to return, and gave him a small house near the big house. There my

parents lived until my father fell seriously ill, and his eldest brother

declared that, in spite of all difficulties, he must come back to the old

home. He came back, and after long suffering and much careful nursing

grew well again. My dear old grandmother and all my aunts and uncles were

very glad to have my father and mother back among them. A few months

later my eldest brother was born, and the Maharshi Debendra Nath Tagore

gave him the name Karuna.

The new arrangement was not without its trials. Our branch of the family

had lost caste, and we underwent all kinds of vexations in consequence.

One great trouble was with the servants. No Hindu would wait upon us, and

a procession of cooks who objected to “Christians” (any one who was not

a Hindu in those days was called a Christian) came and went. My father’s

happy nature enabled him, however, to rise above such discomforts, and,

as he was cheerfully seconded by my mother, caste soon had no terrors for

us.

Our days were full of interest, and some of my earliest recollections are

connected with the female education movement which my father started.

There was an establishment called the Asram where his followers from all

different classes lived in happy disregard of caste and class. This house

was quite close to Coolootola, and there I spent many happy days with my

sister-in-law, then Miss Kastogir, the ideal of my girlhood.

I remember another delightful house which a friend lent to my father

for his people. It was a beautiful place with two big buildings in its

grounds. In these houses the Asram people came and lived for months,

and we stayed there too. I have the happiest memories of this Belghuria

garden-house; it always seemed to me a Paradise on earth. I was a little

girl when I first went there, but I never smell a rose without recalling

the vanished perfume of the roses in that wonderful garden. There were

roses everywhere. They scattered my path with scented softness, and

turned their flushed or sweetly pale faces to meet my wondering eyes.

Roses of youth … the fairest. Are any others ever so treasured?

We were not allowed to pluck the fruit or flowers in the Belghuria

garden, and I remember seeing cards in my father’s clear handwriting

fixed on the trees, which forbade us to hurt the growing loveliness.

My father had indeed a striking personality: tall and broad-shouldered,

he gave one the impression of great strength. I always thought of him

as an immortal; his eyes were “homes of silent prayer.” Lord Dufferin

once remarked to me: “I did not know you were Mr. Sen’s daughter. I’ve

travelled far and seen many handsome men, but never one so handsome.”

Sir A. A. Chowdhuri’s father once said: “Mr. Keshub is no ordinary man,

as you can tell by the perfect shape of his feet and the pink sole.” And

my dear husband often said, “A sculptor would give anything to have your

father’s foot as a model.” The expression of his face, people said, was

like that of Buddha, calm and quiet. His voice was gentle, yet clear,

and even by a large crowd every word could be distinctly heard. He had

wavy hair and wonderfully white even teeth, and there was always a smile

on his face. My father was quite indifferent to caste, although the

Brahmo creed as first practised by Maharshi Debendra Nath Tagore and his

followers included it, and this caused a split between my father and his

old friend. They disagreed on this point, and finally my father left the

Maharshi Tagore, first because of the question of caste, and secondly,

because of the Maharshi’s jealousy of my father’s influence with his

followers. I remember hearing people talk of the powerful influence

of my father’s teachings. Even men with large families gave up their

occupations to follow him. They looked upon him as almost a divinity,

and I myself believe he was gifted with extraordinary powers, as the

following strange incident seems to prove.

In a house at Monghyr, a few hours’ journey from Calcutta, my father

lived at one time with his followers. One morning, after the usual

service was over, a gentleman who had been present waited hoping my

father would say he need not go to the office that day. As my father,

however, said nothing he left looking very sad. After some time my father

said to his followers: “You did not want Mr. ⸺ to go?”

“No, we hoped you would let him stay,” was the reply.

“Do you want him to come back?”

“Well, he’s about a mile away; how can any one overtake him?”

My father smiled and asked for a khole (a sort of drum), and struck it

gently, calling the gentleman by name as he did so. It seems incredible,

but is nevertheless true, that the person thus summoned heard the call as

he stood under a tree by the roadside. “I hear him,” he cried, “I am to

return,” and to the great surprise of all he did return, and related how

he had heard his name called.

My father used to tell us stories from the Bible and other sacred books,

and I remember how much impressed we were with the story of the Ten

Virgins. He described it so well that we could see the whole thing, and I

remarked: “_We_ must be careful not to run out of oil or to fall asleep

when the bridegroom is coming.” He also told us many other stories, and

one was a particular favourite.

There was once a rich Maharajah who was very fond of mottoes and sayings,

and always rewarded handsomely any person who brought him a new one.

In a village near his palace lived four Brahmin brothers who were so poor

they often could not get their daily meal. One day they said to each

other: “Our Maharajah is generous, he richly rewards those who bring him

words of wisdom. Let us try and make some.” These Brahmin brothers were

not only poor but stupid, and could think of nothing. Although by the

next day they were not ready for the visit, they made up their minds to

go and see what they could do. On the way the eldest brother suddenly

stopped saying: “I have got it, I have got it. I am sure I shall receive

a handsome present.” The other three were very much excited and eagerly

asked what it was. “I saw a rat,” he said, “and I thought: ‘Silently

he picks a hole in the wall.’” The brothers thought this splendid and

looked forward to a great reward. A little further on the second brother

stopped, saying: “I have got one too.” “What is it?” they asked. “Bump,

bump, bump, he jumps.” “How did you think of it?” they asked. “Did you

not see a frog jumping from one side of the road to the other?” After a

while the third brother shouted: “Mine is the best.” “What is yours?”

they asked excitedly. “Hither and thither he looks.” “What does that

mean?” they inquired. “Did you not see a squirrel on the branch looking

here, there, and everywhere?” When the palace came in sight the youngest

brother was in tears; he could think of nothing. “You will all receive

your presents,” he said, “I must wait without for you.” But when they

arrived at the door and the kobal took their message to the Maharajah

the youngest brother’s face beamed and he followed the others into the

ruler’s presence.

Each had written his saying upon a piece of paper and it was placed

upon a tray. After a while the Maharajah said, “It grows late. Return

for your rewards to-morrow, when I shall have read your papers,” and

the brothers, bowing, retired. Towards midnight the Maharajah awoke and

bethought himself of the papers brought by the four poor brothers, and

of his promise to read them. He rose from his bed and went towards the

window, that looked out upon the terrace of the palace, with the papers

in his hand. Now it chanced that just at that moment the kobal (page-boy)

was under the window trying to make a hole through the wall through

which to enter and murder the Maharajah. Suddenly he heard the voice of

the Maharajah. “Silently he picks a hole in the wall.” Terrified the

kobal left the hole and hopped across the terrace. “Bump, bump, bump,

he jumps,” the Maharajah continued. The kobal stopped, looking this way

and that in his panic. “Hither and thither he looks,” the voice went on.

The trembling kobal tiptoed away, but the voice reading the youngest

brother’s paper followed him: “The kobal walks on the marble, thud,

thud, thud.” Convinced now that the Maharajah could see him and knew

everything, the wretched kobal fled. Next morning he went to one of the

officers of the palace, and falling at his feet confessed his intended

crime and told how the Maharajah had seen all he did. The officer at once

went to the Maharajah and told him the whole story. When the four poor

brothers arrived soon after at the palace they were amazed to receive as

a reward for their sayings, thousands and thousands of rupees, while the

youngest was given a house and provision for life, the Maharajah saying

he would ever be grateful to him for having saved his life.

Coolootola was the starting point for many of our religious excursions.

We always delighted in these journeys, as they meant “seeing things.” One

of the missionaries, Kaka Babu, who had charge of the money and arranged

all the details of our everyday life, took care of my eldest brother and

me. We travelled sometimes by train, and sometimes in a box-like horse

carriage, which was rather uncomfortable, yet I have gone from Agra to

Jaipur in it.

A certain visit we made to Etawah interested us very much. The house

intended for our use was not ready, and we were obliged to spend the

night in an old place which had once been a public building. My mother

could not sleep, for she had a feeling of horror although there seemed

at first nothing to alarm her. But before long she beheld a most awful

vision, which lasted the rest of the night. She saw in the huge hall

soldiers in red uniforms and Indians struggling together; great pools of

blood were on the floor, and women and children were weeping. At first

my mother thought it was only a dream; but when she opened her eyes she

saw it as vividly as when they were closed, and terrified she longed for

the dawn. At daybreak she told my father of the vision. He was surprised,

as were his followers; for years before during the Mutiny a massacre had

actually taken place in the hall. My father had not told my mother lest

she should be nervous; when she heard the story my mother insisted on

moving into another house, and we left then and there.

I remember a journey to Jubbalpore when I first realised the devotion of

Indian wives to their husbands. We drove to a little house built upon a

rock among the hills, about which there was this story:

“In bygone times a certain Maharajah was going to fight the Mohammedans,

and his wife, who loved him, wished to accompany him.

“It is impossible,” he said. “How can you go with me?” “I will not remain

alone in the palace,” she answered firmly. “But I am going to fight.” “No

matter, my place is by your side.” “You cannot come with me.”

The loving Maharani then said to her husband: “I came to this palace as

your wife, your Maharani. I shall not remain in the palace without you,

my lord, my husband, my Maharajah, not even for an hour. If I am not

allowed to go to the battlefield with you, I, your Maharani, will leave

the palace and go wherever you like to send me. If it is your fate to

return victorious, I shall return as your Maharani to the palace.”

The husband, although a commander and a ruler, spoke to her very gently

in a voice full of love and sympathy: “My beautiful little wife, where

will you go? How can I leave you in discomfort? You are my Maharani and

do not know the hardships of the world.”

“Oh,” she said, “my lord, do you think that I would be happy without you

in this place of luxury and wealth? No, my lord, let me go. You and I

will leave the palace together. You are going to fight for your country,

my brave and handsome young husband, and I, your little wife, will be

thinking of you and your love wherever I may be.”

The story goes that the Maharajah granted his wife’s request, and had

this little house built in one night on a single piece of rock among

the hills. There she anxiously awaited news of him. Alas! the enemy was

victorious and the Maharajah killed. Never would he return and take her

from that place of waiting, back to the palace where they had lived and

loved.

Then came the supreme act of devotion, the willing sacrifice. The widowed

Maharani offered herself, to the flames upon a funeral pyre near the

house on the rock, and I remember that, as darkness fell in that lonely

spot, I felt as if I were living in another world. My childish heart

vaguely wondered what that love could be which made people careless of

life. The future was then mercifully as obscure as the evening shadows.

I was to know later that the agony of the fire is nothing compared with

the fierce flames of aching remembrance. The pang of death is happiness

compared with the weary time of waiting to rejoin the beloved husband who

has gone before. The little house is still standing.

The childhood of an Indian girl of years ago may have some interest now,

and I must say that I do not admire the modern upbringing of children.

Our old system had many defects, but it had also many advantages, chiefly

the ideas of simplicity and duty which were primarily inculcated in the

little ones. Religion was never uninteresting to us and lessons were a

pleasure. I was the second of ten children, and named after Sunity, the

mother of Dhruba. I got up early and by nine o’clock my eldest brother,

“Dada,” and I were ready for school. I went to Bethune College and he to

a boys’ school. We came back at four. I had a second bath. My hair was

arranged and I had a meal of fruit and sweets. Then came the glorious

hour of fun and freedom when the innumerable children of “Sen’s House”

played together.

My mother always helped Dada and me prepare our lessons in both English

and Bengali, and we always prayed with her in a small room next to our

bedroom. There we were taught little mottoes: “Always speak the truth,”

“Respect and obey your parents.” Once I had a very high fever and my

mother told me not to go to school, but I loved my school, and when my

mother had gone to the service I had my bath quietly and dressed, and

went off in the school bus. After a short time I shivered so much that

Miss Hemming, one of the teachers of whom I was very fond, put me on a

couch, covered me up well, and when I felt a little better sent me home.

How often I felt and still feel that I suffered because I disobeyed my

dear mother.

Looking back on those days of childhood I have vivid memories of their

happiness. The great house seemed an enchanted palace. It is difficult

to convey to English readers a real idea of the fascination of its

cool, silent interior with the six courtyards, and the deep wells

which supplied drinking and bathing water. In the zenana part of the

establishment where the strict purdah ladies lived, the rooms ran round

one of these courtyards, and the ladies were never allowed to walk

outside it. When they went into town, the “palkis” came right inside to

fetch them. I remember wonderful games of hide-and-seek which we children

played about the courtyards and the old house. I was too young then to

understand what “conscience’ sake” meant.

The whole of the domestic arrangements at Coolootola were on patriarchal

lines, and strange to relate, family quarrels were rare, although there

was a very large number of women living together under the same roof.

When I say that our household included fifty relations, some idea of the

size of the establishment will be arrived at.

As I grew older I began to feel that I was rather an outsider in the

festivities which the other girls enjoyed, and I discovered this was due

to my loss of caste, but, as every one at Coolootola was very fond of me,

I soon threw aside my real or imaginary troubles. I used to ran about the

zenana, and admire my pretty cousins, who seemed to pass their time doing

woolwork slippers for their husbands. They never liked people to know

this, and the wools and canvas were hurriedly hidden when any one came

in. The mothers looked after the housekeeping and played cards in their

leisure time. I remember one aunt who was famous for her card parties.

My grandmother, who was very handsome, was the head of the house. She

exacted and received the utmost deference from her daughters-in-law, who

never dared to speak to their husbands in her presence. She had a warm

corner in her heart for me. I was never afraid of her, although I used to

wonder whether I should be like the other ladies when I grew up.

My grandmother Thakoorma was a grand cook. Although she was a rich man’s

daughter-in-law, my grandmother cooked and did the household work as if

she were in a poor house. She and her sister-in-law used at one time

to hide their brooms under their beds, each meaning to try and get up

earlier than the other to clean the room; such was their delight in their

housework.

The afternoon was the most delightful time of the day, for then we

bathed, dressed our hair, and arrayed ourselves in dainty muslin saris

preparatory to going on the roof. I loved that hour, and the memory of

it often comes back to me. I close my eyes and dream I am a child again

sitting in the midst of that happy group, and can almost feel the welcome

breeze once more fanning my face. As we sat and told stories we sometimes

caught glimpses of a splash of colour on the roof of distant houses and

knew that other girls were also enjoying the cool of the day.

I used always to associate perfume and soap with my married cousins; in

fact, I believed that some people married on purpose to get unlimited

supplies of soap and scent. “You won’t get married, Sunity,” the cousins

would laugh. “Oh yes, I will,” I would reply. “Then I shall have lovely

perfumes, and as much soap as I want.”

The young wives were never allowed to see their husbands during the day;

but often when I played in the front courtyard I heard my name called

softly and would be asked to convey love-letters between the temporarily

separated couples, who found time long without each other in the first

days of wedlock.

I also remember the open air operas (jatras) which were performed in the

field close to the house. The advent of the players was always the signal

for my father’s youngest brother to nail down the shutters on that side

of the house if he thought the acting of the jatras not quite proper for

the ladies to hear.

One of our customs is for young girls to make vows as they worship before

symbolic figures made of flour, or painted on the ground. “May I have

a good husband,” prays one. “May I be rich,” sighs her worldly-minded

sister. Marriage and wealth are as important in the East as in Mayfair.

My vows, ordered by my father, were planned on different lines, and

usually excited pity or amusement. I promised to give money to the poor,

never to tell a lie, to feed animals and birds, and to give people cool

beverages during the hot weather.

Oh happy days: I can still smell the incense which burnt before the idol

at twilight when the elder ladies made their devotions. From across the

gulf of time I can hear the faint tinkle of the bells, and the peace of

the past pervades my soul. It was a heavenly feeling when Arati (evening

prayer) time came and the elderly ladies, among whom the most prominent

figure was that of my dear old grandmother, bowed themselves in homage to

their god in the sanctuary. The conch shells and the bells sounded, the

flowers and the incense gave out their delicious perfume, and family life

seemed to me heavenly and pure.

CHAPTER II

MY FAMILY

The Asram near Coolootola consisted of two houses joined together, and

there we lived for a time with many of my father’s followers as one big

united family (a thing hitherto unheard of in India), addressing each

other as sisters and aunts, uncles and brothers. My father held a service

in the hall every morning. His motto was “Faith, Love, and Purity,” and

upon this he always acted. His life was a pilgrimage of extraordinary

faith which made him trust in the infinite mercy of God even in the

darkest hour, of love which enabled him to view the failings of others

with perfect charity and compassion, and purity which kept the lustre of

his private life undimmed to the last.

My father formed a Normal School for our girls, called the Native Ladies’

Normal School. This school was at one time the only institution of the

kind in India. To-day there are hundreds of colleges and schools all over

India for Indian girls and women. My father fought for female education.

How keenly he was opposed by the leading men at the time! Curiously

enough, some of the men who spoke most strongly against female education

were the first to bring their wives out of purdah; indeed, to my idea,

they are now too English. Later on my father established a college in

Calcutta named after her late Majesty Queen Victoria. This college will

always be associated with the name of Keshub Chunder Sen. He did not

believe in the importance of university degrees; he maintained that for

a woman to be a good wife and a good mother is far better than to be

able to write M.A. or B.A. after her name. Therefore, only things likely

to be useful to them were taught to the girls who attended the Victoria

College. Zenana ladies also came to the lectures, and the good work

flourished. I always remember the name of Miss Pigot in connection with

the educational movement in India. She was the head of an institution

close to where we lived. One of the objects of this institution was to

train Christian Indian girls to visit Hindu houses and give lessons to

the women who wished to improve their education. Miss Pigot also took

charge of Hindu ladies while their husbands were in England. She always

showed the greatest interest in our family, and called my grandmother

“Mother.”

Miss Pigot is still alive; I am very fond of the dear old lady, she has

been a true friend to us all.

Sadhankanan was the name of the country house belonging to my father,

not far from Calcutta, in which we lived later on. The house itself was

small, but the grounds were charming with their beautiful trees, flowers,

and fruit. There we lived an open-air life among the flowers by which

the air seemed always perfumed. I remember a curious thing happening

there which filled me with fresh admiration for my father and helped

to make me think he was more than human. The gardens at Sadhankanan

were full of snakes. As I stood by a hedge of pineapple trees one day,

I suddenly saw a frog hopping at a tremendous pace in the direction of

the praying-ground where my father and his followers were engaged in

their devotions; it was chased by a snake. The frog jumped straight on

to my father’s knees, and the pursuer, stopping bewildered in front

of his quarry, swayed to and fro for a moment with his hood ominously

raised, then turned and glided away, greatly to my relief, whereupon the

frog jumped down from his sanctuary. “How wonderful he is!” I thought,

“the weakest thing would be safe with him,” and indeed no creature ever

appealed to my father’s pity in vain.

My mother loved Sadhankanan, and I remember how pretty she used to look

among those beautiful surroundings. She was small, with tiny hands and

feet and a wealth of dark hair, and she had a lovely voice which was

heard to the best advantage in our hymns and Bengali songs. Mother’s

gentle influence kept us very much together. She was a woman of strong

convictions, and would never countenance anything which her conscience

told her was wrong. She was a charming story-teller, and would often tell

us fairy tales when we were in bed. We loved these stories and never

wearied of listening to them; some of them I have collected together in a

little volume, and one I will include here.

A Maharajah had two wives, and he loved the second far more than

the first. Yet the first wife was lovely, gentle, unselfish, and

kind-hearted, and the second was just the reverse; she was haughty, vain,

ill-tempered, and very jealous of the first wife. The first wife had a

baby boy, the heir, to whom the Maharajah was very devoted, and much to

the annoyance of the second wife he often played with the baby, who was

just beginning to crawl. One day, while he was playing with the child,

he sang to him over and over again: “I love this face with its toothless

smile,” and the second wife hearing, could not get the expression out of

her head, “toothless smile.” The next time the Maharajah came to see the

second wife he found her crawling on the floor, and thought she had gone

mad. He asked her what she was doing, and when she opened her mouth to

answer he saw, to his horror and disgust, that she had no teeth. “What

have you done to yourself?” he asked angrily. She answered him with a

hideous smile, “Did you not say to your baby that you loved the face

with a toothless smile?” With a furious look he said, “Begone, you are

no longer my wife. Your insane jealousy banishes you for ever from the

palace;” and weeping and lamenting, she was turned away.

My mother lived for my father and his beliefs. The world never troubled

her. “You cannot impede my work, for it is God’s work,” were the words

which formed the keynote of my father’s steadfast faith, and my mother

accepted it with perfect conviction. She never seemed distressed by her

loss of caste, although she was left out of many a family gathering in

consequence. I think my mother, however, sometimes pitied us, for we

shared her fate when festivities took place in the old house, and she

then made much of us in her gentle way. But we led our lives secure in

the belief that the religion practised by my father was the highest. His

life and his teachings were so beautiful that it was impossible not to

try and live up to his ideals, and his yoke was so light that we never

felt it.

In the days of my youth, as well as at the present time, I found the

greatest consolation in religion. Not the fierce fanaticism which

scourges the trembling soul, not the appeal of beautiful music and

gorgeous vestments which attract the eye and drug the heart, but the

simple and direct appeal to God as a father and a friend, the close and

perfect understanding between the Creator and His creature.

We children loved the religious services, and the remembrance of my

father’s face as he prayed often comes back to me. I have another vivid

memory of those days: sometimes, long before the servants were awake, a

beautiful voice filled the dawn with melody. It was one of my father’s

missionaries who, alone upon the roof, sang the praise of God in that

sweet and silent hour. I can hear the echo of his song even now. We

children used to think that we were very near to heaven then, and we

secretly imagined that the singer was an angel visitant.

We were kept quite apart from the world, and light talk and unkind gossip

were things unknown to us. Some of my readers may think that I must have

led a dull kind of life. Possibly I did in the eyes of the world, but it

was happiness to me. As for clothes, we were content with our ordinary

muslin saris, and did not see the beauty of foreign goods.

We are very hospitable in the East. In our home, if unexpected guests

arrived, mother would say to us girls, if we were at home in the

holidays, “Go and take what is wanted out of the store.” One would cut

the vegetables, and dear mother would cook, and within a short time quite

a good meal would be prepared. There is such a nice word used in the

Indian housekeeping world, “bart-auta,” which means “end to an increase”;

we never say: “there is none,” or “it is finished.” The stores should

never be empty, but the new supplies come in before the old are finished.

I was always very much attached to my eldest brother, Karuna. I called

him “Dada” (elder brother); he and I were great friends. I remember that

once a fine idea struck him. “Let’s make soap,” he said; “everybody uses

soap, and there is a lot of money in it. Sunity, we will become very

rich.”

My youngest uncle (my mother’s brother) was asked to be a partner in the

scheme, and we collected quantities of lime, oil, and essences wherewith

we thought to produce the ideal cleanser. These we heaped anyhow into

a frying-pan and began to heat them up. But to our dismay we found

something was wrong. The smoke and flames nearly blinded us, and we were

forced to retreat and let the horrid mess burn itself out.

Coolootola was our playground, and I think if the walls could have spoken

to us they might have related some very strange stories of the old doings

at “Sen’s House.” I always felt the rooms had histories, and I remember a

certain staircase which report said was haunted, and which was the scene

of two uncanny happenings when I was a child. Once when my cousins were

playing hide-and-seek, one of them seemed to be held back by some unseen

force as he ran down the staircase. When at last he managed to shake off

the terror which possessed him, he fainted.

I was equally frightened at the same place, but in a different way. My

father always cooked his own breakfast, and it was a great privilege to

me in my holidays to be allowed to help him. One day he had finished his

breakfast, and I was bringing away the curry which was left, and walking

very carefully down the staircase, my thoughts set on the dish I was

holding, when suddenly I had the impression that a whole army of cats was

after me. I looked back. There was nothing to be seen. I went on, and

again the feeling of being stealthily followed came over me; I felt I

was in the midst of furry, wicked-eyed creatures, and almost heard their

velvety paddings around me. I was suffocated with the presence of cats,

and dreaded the spring which I felt every moment they would make. Shaking

with terror, I kept myself from dropping the dish only by a great effort.

Once when we were playing, my sister Bino and I were left on the roof. I

was like a boy, and ran and jumped, and I said to Bino, “I shall run down

the stairs much faster than you can, and you will be left alone in the

middle of the haunted staircase.” Poor Bino looked alarmed, she was slim

and delicate; she began to run, but long before she reached the terrace

I got there and closed the door, expecting her to cry or try to push the

door, but nothing happened, and I got so frightened I flung open the

door. There was no Bino to be found. I had a fright. I ran up and down

the stairs several times and searched the enormous roof above, but could

not find her. I felt something must have happened to Bino, as “the ghost

lives in the staircase.” I cried a great deal, and then walked slowly

down to the bedroom verandah feeling miserable and most ashamed of

myself. There I found Bino looking quite happy, and instead of scolding

me she said in her sweet way, “I went downstairs when I found the door

closed.” It was a greater punishment than if she had scolded me.

My brothers and sisters have all followed my father’s teachings

throughout their lives. I am sure there is not one of that happy band

of children who played about “Sen’s House” who has not found the

greatest comfort and support from our upbringing. My eldest brother, in

particular, was very religious, and carried on my father’s work, helped

by his wife, who copied many of my father’s prayers and taught in the

Victoria College when it needed teachers.

My second brother, Nirmal, is a most amiable and easy-going man. He is

now in the India Office in London and works hard for the welfare of

Indian students in London, a subject upon which he has very decided

ideas. He is very popular, always ready to help others, and is very happy

in his home life. He married a Miss Luddhi.

My third brother, Profullo, was wonderfully gifted. He was a most

affectionate little friend to me when I was a bride in the big house in

Calcutta, and was almost always with me. On several occasions when I went

to England with my children, and my dear husband could not go, Profullo

went instead and managed everything. He was my children’s favourite

uncle.

A wonderful thing happened to Profullo when he was a few weeks old. He

fell ill, and the doctors gave him up; at the time my father was away

at Belghuria garden-house, and the sad news had to be sent to him. When

at length my father arrived every one was weeping, thinking the boy was

gone. My father entered the room with a lovely rose in his hand, and

they all saw what a wonderful expression there was upon his face. Father

touched Profullo’s face with the flower, and the boy opened his eyes and

said, “Father, have you come?” and from that day he rapidly recovered.

Profullo had several pet names, Pepery, Peter, and Pip and Peroo.

He married an English girl. He was always a devoted follower of my

father’s.

My husband used to say that my father’s great gifts and devoutness were

inherited by my fourth brother, Saral. Every one thought he would become

a missionary. When he was a small boy, he always said he would carry on

my father’s work. He is unselfish, most kind-hearted and simple minded.

His pet name is Bhopal.

My youngest brother’s name is Subrata, and his pet name is Bhajan. He was

my eldest son’s best friend: the boy was devoted to him and asked for him

till the end. Subrata is now a doctor, yet we still regard him as our

baby brother, and I do not think he will ever grow up; he behaves like

a baby. He married a pretty French girl and did well during the War,

although I am sorry to say he did not obtain a permanent post.

My sisters are the dearest of women. The second, Savitri, is quiet and

retiring, with many good qualities. Her pet name is Bino. She is a tall,

handsome girl, the best of wives, and a very good mother. She married a

cousin of my husband’s, and it has been a great happiness and comfort

to me to have her with me all these years in Cooch Behar, where we have

worked hand in hand.

My third sister, Sucharu, is most unselfish, and her experiences have

made her more than usually sympathetic with the sorrows of others. She

was engaged when quite a girl to the Maharajah of Mourbhanj, but his

family came between them and he married a Hindu girl.

My sister suffered for several years, as it is an unknown thing for an

Indian girl to be an “old maid,” and we were disappointed, annoyed, and

distressed that such trouble had befallen her. But my sister loved the

Maharajah just the same all through, and never said an unkind word. “It

is my fate, don’t blame him,” she said.

We tried to persuade her to marry, but nothing would induce her to forget

her lover. Fourteen years passed, during which she was an angel in our

house. Then she found her long-delayed happiness. The Maharajah’s wife

died, and he came back to ask my sister to marry him. The marriage took

place in Calcutta, and for some time the Maharajah and my sister led

the happiest of lives. But Fate, mysterious Fate, ordained that Death,

which had given them happiness, should destroy it. The Maharajah was

accidentally shot at a shooting party, and my sister’s life was darkened

for ever.

She lives for her children and for her stepsons. Some English ladies once

said to me that they had no idea the Maharajah had any children by his

first marriage, as the whole family seemed so united and devoted to the

Maharani.

My fourth sister, Monica, who is very handsome, prayed that luxury might

never come into her life for fear the world should make her forget

God. We call her Moni; she has the most happy, contented disposition

imaginable. No one has ever heard her utter an unkind word. She takes

everything as it comes, quietly and without complaint, and thinks herself

the happiest woman in the world. Her faith in God is wonderful. She

married a Professor in the Education Department, a very clever man, whose

name is Sadhu Mahalanobis.

Sujata, the youngest, has always made sunshine in our midst. She is as

sweet as some lovely flower, and I think her one idea is to give every

one as much pleasure as she can. She was so pretty that when our present

King as Prince of Wales lunched with us he asked, “Who is that very

pretty girl in the sari?” Sujata married a Mr. Sen, brother of my fourth

sister-in-law.

How happy we were! I think that Providence always gives us compensations

for our sorrows. There are some hours the glory of which triumphs over

the darkness which later clouds our lives: some loved voices whose sweet

remembrance deadens the sound of unkind tongues: some faces that in our

memory have always a loving smile.

I am happy and proud to say that my brothers and sisters have always been

most kind and loving to me.

I was not considered a pretty child, but I remember that a great-uncle

once said to my mother: “This little girl, Sunity, will be somebody

one day, for I see a lotus in her eyes.” “I shall have a handsome

son-in-law,” my mother laughingly replied, and I was greatly amused. When

I was twelve I thought I would make a vow never to marry. My ambition

was to be clever, to travel a great deal, and to be a sort of nun. I

asked a school friend of mine named Kamari if she also would promise not

to marry. To my great disappointment she said: “It is too hard a vow to

take,” but added affectionately, “we will try.” Once some of the nuns

from Loretto Convent visited my father’s school, and one of them, looking

at me gently, asked: “Would you like to be a nun?” We frequently visited

this convent, and the kind nuns often came to see us. I admired and loved

those nuns.

Even now whenever I get an opportunity I go to see the Convent Sisters.

CHAPTER III

FESTIVALS AND FESTIVAL DAYS

Many of our customs are full of colour and life, but few people of the

West realise their inner and more sacred meanings. By the foreigner we

are regarded more often than not as picturesque figures with a background

of elephants, tigers and temples, and the poetry of our mythology is

missed by the globe-trotter and the official. I have heard Lakshmi the

Luck-bringer described as “odd-looking,” Kali as a “monstrosity,” and the

figure of Ganesh as “an extraordinary-looking image.” Symbolism is not

understood by those people who call our jewels “bits of glass,” and our

gold “brassy.” I wish I could make Europeans realise how proud India is

of her women, and how well they have merited her pride. Perhaps few of

my readers know any of the stories of the devotion of mothers and wives

which is shown daily in the shadow of the purdah.

“Oh, but you ladies can’t really know what love means,” once remarked a

pretty Englishwoman. This sweeping statement is about as absurd and false

as the Maharajah of musical comedy or the Anglo-Indian novel, but like

most absurdities it has been taken seriously, with the result that many

Englishwomen have no idea of the love that exists between Indian wives

and their husbands.

One of my cousins married a rich young man when she was quite a little

girl. After a few years he died leaving no child. The young widow went

back to her mother and lived the life of a poor woman in her father’s

house. She only ate one meal of vegetables at mid-day. During the cold

months a single blanket was her only covering, and in the hot weather she

slept upon a coarse mat.

She prayed for hours. She was lovely to behold and her sweetness made her

beloved by every one. Yet, from sheer devotion to her husband’s memory,

this delicately brought up girl chose to lead the life of a servant. It

was her tribute to him, the offering of herself.

The question will naturally arise as to what good resulted from this

penance, but it proved (according to her views) my cousin’s love for her

husband, and it showed that she lived up to the traditions of wifely

devotion which are taught us from our infancy.

Every province has its own marriage customs, and child marriages in

Bengal are still most picturesque, although I am sorry to say that

some of the pageantry and the tender sentiment associated with it, is

gradually disappearing. A girl is always married in the home of her

parents, and she fasts the whole day. In the evening married ladies

dress the little bride artistically in new clothes and new jewellery. The

air is sweet with perfumes. Flowers are everywhere. The murmur of many

voices rises and falls, and suddenly the conch shells are sounded by the

ladies of the house, announcing the arrival of the bridegroom.

What a supreme moment for the little bride! Her heart beats fast beneath

the stiff golden embroideries, and the new jewellery suddenly becomes

as heavy as lead. “What will he think of me?” Anxious and perplexed she

goes through the Vasan ceremony, which is performed by the ladies in

the courtyard; but she is keenly alert when she is placed on a piece of

wood and, thus seated, is carried by young relations and friends to meet

her lord and master. The procession passes round the bridegroom and the

bearers hold the bride up in front of him. A scarf is thrown over the

pair and their eyes meet for the first time.

The marriage is not concluded until the morning of the second day, when

the bridegroom takes the bride to his father’s house, and this affords an

opportunity for the hospitality the Indian delights to show. For a mile

or two the route taken by the wedding procession is sometimes sprinkled

with rose-water, and the lights flash. “It is a son who is getting

married,” says the proud father, and he remembers with satisfaction that

this home-coming has been fixed for a lucky day and a lucky hour. The

bride must also be lucky, for does she not walk gently and speak gently?

And is not her forehead of the right shape? Certainly she has not the

prominent forehead that brings bad luck.

When the bride arrives at her future home, her husband’s sisters throw

water and money under the palki, and the jewel-covered little girl is

lifted out by her mother-in-law and placed upon a large plate filled with

milk and alta (a sort of rose-coloured confection), upon which she stands

until the marriage ceremony is over. Then the newly-married couple sit

upon a new cloth and receive presents and blessings from the bridegroom’s

friends and relations.

“May you speak like honey,” whispers a maiden as she touches the pretty

lips of the bride with honey. “May you hear sweetness like honey,” she

continues, as she drops honey into the small ears. Then the bridegroom’s

mother comes forward, gives the bride a pair of bangles and lifts the

head-dress which hides her face. As she does this the guests have an

opportunity of seeing the blushing little face, and begin to praise her

looks, the mother-in-law meanwhile saying, “This is my Lakshmi” (goddess

of luck).

On the third day gifts arrive from the bride’s father: gifts of jewels,

dresses, sweets, scents, soaps—sometimes to the number of five hundred

or a thousand. Porters bring them in and the bride and bridegroom change

into the new robes. This ceremony is called the Feast of Merriment, for

everyone is gay. On the third evening there is another ceremony called

the “Fullsaya” (flower ceremony), when the bride is adorned with flowers

and the rooms are filled with them. The meaning of this is: Nature with

flowers comes to bless the newly united couple.

We thought more of New Year’s Day than Christmas Day, probably because

that was my father’s custom. On New Year’s Day we gave each other

presents, had dinner parties and sent sweets, fruits, and vegetables to

friends. Since we lost my father we have regarded New Year’s Day as of

more importance than ever, because it is the day on which he opened the

Sanctuary at Lily Cottage and preached there his last sermon.

We have a festival which is sometimes held in February, sometimes in

March, according to the moon, called “Hooly.” It was founded in honour of

the Hindu god Krishna, and is one of the most enjoyable days in a Hindu

household. Buckets and huge tumblers are filled with rose-water which is

coloured with red powder. Then the ladies in all the different courtyards

load syringes with the red liquid and, singing and dancing, maid and

mistress, old and young, relations and friends, squirt each other amid

screams of delight. Afterwards presents of garments are made all round,

for the old saris are stained with red. The servants who cannot play put

a little red powder on their master’s and mistress’s feet. This festival

is known as the Merry Festival.

In India, religious festival days are chiefly distinguished by their

entertainments. My readers will perhaps be surprised at this, but it is

true. On festival days banana trees are placed on each side of the house

door, and, at the foot of the trees, large earthern pitchers filled

with water, and a big cocoa-nut. These are the lucky signs denoting an

auspicious occasion. A band plays during the whole of the festival. Every

one’s house is open to rich and poor. Every one receives presents, often

very valuable, and no one is too poor to receive something.

Some years ago a poor Brahmin wanted to have _durga puja_; he was so

poor that he had to beg from door to door in order to get a little money

to buy the _puja_ articles and to entertain at breakfast and dinner the

people who came to see the goddess. This time he could only obtain very

little money, but still he invited a small number of guests and when they

arrived they were surprised to find the goddess not properly dressed.

“How is it,” they asked severely, “that the goddess is left like this?”

The poor Brahmin said: “I am a poor son of my Mother, and my Mother knows

it; I haven’t money with which to dress her. The little I had I used to

entertain my guests; if I had had more I would have invited more guests.”

There is another festival in India called “Bhaikota,” which is held in

the autumn, in October or November, and is in honour of brothers. Early

in the morning sisters bathe, put on new saris and wait for their

brothers. When the brothers are seated, their sisters take small cups

of sandalwood paste and with their little fingers put small paste marks

on the foreheads of their brothers, saying, “As I put this mark on my

brother’s forehead may there be no thorns at the door of Death. As

Death is deathless, may my brother be deathless.” When the sisters say

these words the conch shells are blown, and they give presents to their

brothers, and to their cousins, generally of clothes. This ceremony is

to show what a heavenly relationship there is between a brother and a

sister. The younger sister touches the feet of the elder brother, and the

elder sister puts her hands on the younger brother and blesses him.

“Jamai Tashti” is the name of a ceremony for sons-in-law. The wife’s

parents invite their sons-in-law to their house and the mother-in-law,

in a long head-dress, brings presents and puts them in front of

the sons-in-law. It is a great day for the younger brothers- and

sisters-in-law, they are full of tricks.

I remember once, with some of my girl friends, playing tricks on our

cousins-in-law. We made a dish of straw and prepared betel-leaf with all

sorts of rubbish, such as peelings of nuts, etc., and the cousins had to

eat it, as if they give in or say anything it means that they lose and

others gain.

Between April and May there is a great festival, called “Poonyah” (the

Day of Good Luck). On this day the Maharajah sits on the throne, and all

the high officials, the jemindars and the heads of the districts come. It

is a grand sight; the Maharajah in his gold-embroidered robes, and all

the men in their State garments. The Dewan of the State sits opposite the

Maharajah and on either side of him, covered with cloth, are two pitchers

in which the money is put. In front are lights in little earthern

vessels. After the Maharajah has taken his seat all the landlords and

officials present their tribute in little bundles, which are handed to

the Dewan, who puts them into the pots. Music is played the whole time

outside. Then the personal staff offer His Highness attar, and flowers

and betel-leaf, in golden vessels, making the same offering afterwards to

the princes and to the Maharajah’s wife and mother, after which the same

offerings are made in silver vessels to the officials and landlords. My

husband was, I think, the only Maharajah who never had nautch girls or

actresses at his Court, and the ladies of the palace always sat in the

balcony screened off. After the ceremony was over we had musical parties,

or open-air theatricals known as jatras, but there were no actresses in

them.

Later on, when my husband had this festival, my four handsome sons, three

in their Indian costumes and Rajey in the Royal Yeomanry uniform, looked

fine. After the official tributes had been offered the four boys went up

the steps of the throne on which their father was seated and with bent

heads paid their homage, and my husband put his hand on each son’s head

in turn and blessed him. Some English people who were present on one of

these occasions said they had never seen anything so attractive and so

touching.

CHAPTER IV

MY ROMANCE

My happy home life continued undisturbed until I was thirteen. Indian

girls of that age are more advanced than their Western sisters, but I was

still very much a child, thanks to my parents.

My father’s name is for ever associated with the Civil Marriage Act, as

it was entirely owing to his exertions that the Government passed this

wise measure fixing the marriageable age of men and girls at eighteen and

fourteen respectively.

The fairy prince in my romance was the young Nripendra Narayan Bhup

Bahadur, Maharajah of Cooch Behar, who had been a ward of the Government

since his infancy, and carefully educated to be a model ruler. Colonel

Haughton wrote: “Ever since I have become Commissioner for Cooch Behar,

the honour of the young Maharajah, his future happiness, and the welfare

of the State have been my anxious care.”

This Indian prince’s family records show that he was descended from

one of the oldest ruling families in the country. According to popular

tradition his race had been founded by the love of a god and a maiden,

and through successive ages strife and love have been associated with

the dynasty of Cooch Behar, whose chiefs are always great rulers, great

lovers, and great fighters.

The first wish of the Government was to prevent any palace interference

with the baby Maharajah’s upbringing. When his father, the late

Maharajah, was a ward of the Government, the Maharanis had been very

hostile to the idea of a foreign education, and similar opposition was

what the Government now wanted to avoid. Therefore, for this and other

private reasons which can easily be understood when it is remembered that

the late Maharajah left many wives, the Maharajah was removed, when he

was five years old, to the Wards’ institution at Benares, near which the

members of the Cooch Behar Raj family lived in several houses known as

the Cooch Behar Palace.

When he was eleven, the Government removed him from Benares to Patna,

where he became a student at Government College, and Colonel Haughton’s

anxious instructions to Babu Kasi Kanto Mukerji, who was in charge of the

boy, were “to watch over his conduct and the management of the household:

to see that strangers and unauthorised persons have no access to them:

and generally to discharge such duties with regard to him as a good

parent is bound to do.”

In 1872 Mr. St. John Kneller became his tutor and guardian. The

Maharajah remained in Patna for five years, during which time he and Mr.

Kneller visited the North-Western Provinces, Oudh, and the Punjab, and

in 1877 the Maharajah attended the Durbar at Delhi, when the Queen was

proclaimed Empress of India. The Viceroy, the late Lord Lytton, received

the young ruler most cordially, and presented him with the Kaisar-i-Hind

medal. Now for the first time the Maharajah was saluted with thirteen

guns, and had a European guard of honour to attend him.

So far the experiment of training the ideal ruler for the ideal state

had succeeded beyond the highest expectations of the Government. The

Maharajah had become a clever young man and a keen sportsman and, as Mr.

Dalton remarked at the Chaurakaran ceremony at Cooch Behar in 1876, “His

Highness is fond of his native soil and the people, and enjoys himself

thoroughly, taking an interest in everything.”

But now arose the question of the future. To ensure final success for the

Government’s scheme, it was necessary that the young ruler should marry

an equally advanced girl, who would second him in his (and incidentally

the Government’s) efforts for Cooch Behar.

The difficult problem then arose as to whether an educated wife would

agree to the polygamy hitherto customary with Maharajahs, and to adopt

the many old-fashioned ideas and ways of a Hindu Court. The Government

was keenly alive to the fact that marriage might make or mar their

experiment, and they were determined to do all they could to prevent

failure.

But as it is a principle of the British not to interfere with the

marriage question in India, it was necessary for them to be very discreet

in their plans, which required great tact to carry out with success.

Mr. Jadab Chandra Chuckerbutty, the Magistrate of Cooch Behar, was

deputed to make confidential investigations and find if possible the

enlightened girl whom the Government could approve as the Maharani of

Cooch Behar. He carried out his mission with discretion; but none of the

girls whom he found came up to the required standard.

It was absolutely necessary for the question of the Maharajah’s marriage

to be settled without further delay, as his visit to England was in

contemplation. This journey was a very sore point with the Palace ladies,

and Sir Richard Temple, then the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal, had

discussed it rather heatedly.

“During my interview with the Rajah’s mother and grandmother,” wrote Sir

Richard, “these ladies expressed anxiety regarding the Rajah’s visiting

England, which they deprecated on the grounds that after seeing Europe

he would never care for such a place as Cooch Behar nor for such quiet,

homely people as his relatives. I explained that it had not been decided

whether the Rajah should visit England; but that, if he did, it would

only be for a short time, enough indeed to enlarge and strengthen his

mind, but not enough to make him forget his home and kindred; and that,

while giving him the benefit of an English education, we should take

every pains to train and prepare him for the duties he would hereafter

have to discharge as the head of a Hindu State.”

These arguments somewhat pacified the ladies, but they maintained that

only as a married man could the Maharajah go away from India with any

degree of security. At that time they had not realised that the hope of

the Government was that the Maharajah would take one wife only when the

time for his marriage came.

The party from Cooch Behar in search of a bride at last arrived at

Calcutta, and Mr. Chuckerbutty went direct to Prosonna Babu, one of my

father’s missionaries, for advice and help. After several interviews and

discussions Jadab Babu spoke of me. But Mr. Chuckerbutty said: “It is too

much to expect that the Minister’s daughter will be our Maharani;” still

they thought they would try.

When the marriage was first suggested my father was very surprised. He

never gave a thought to worldly or family affairs; his mind was too full

of his religious work; and he refused the offer. But the Government and

the representatives of the State would not be discouraged. They continued

writing to my father, interviewing him, and sending messages urging

that the marriage of the young Prince and myself was most desirable.

My father repeatedly refused. In one of his letters he said that I was

neither very pretty nor highly educated, and therefore I was not a

suitable bride for the young Maharajah.

This unexpected opposition was a set-back to the plans of the Government,

and they determined it must be overcome at any cost. Those in authority

were clever enough to understand that they must discover my father’s weak

point and work upon it, as it was evident the worldly advantages of the

match made no appeal to him.

The messenger went backwards and forwards several times, for Jadab Babu

and others would not hear of any refusal. My father with a troubled mind

prayed and prayed until at last he obtained light from above and realised

that the marriage would be for the spiritual good of the country. Thus

he became in the end persuaded that such a union was a Divine command,

and if he allowed me to marry this young ruler he would be fulfilling the

will of God.

Of course the matter was not mentioned to me, but one day my second

sister Bino remarked confidentially: “Father and mother are talking about

marriage, aren’t they?” “Oh no,” I answered; “it’s nothing particular,

probably one of the young missionaries is going to be married.” “Well,

let me tell you, it’s no missionary, but some one far more important.”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” I said, and I thought no more of it.

Later one of the missionaries remarked with meaning in his voice: “You

will be surprised in a day or two, Sunity. Some very important people are

coming to see the school.”

“So much the better,” I assured him, “for now you have told me I can

study hard and tell the others to do the same.”

The day before the officials arrived from Cooch Behar, I fell ill with

fever. After a restless night, I awoke to find my father and mother

standing by my bedside.

They looked at each other. “Have you told Sunity?” asked my father.

“No,” replied mother, “it is better you should.”

“Listen, Sunity,” said my father. “Has Prosonna Babu mentioned some

visitors who are expected to-day?”

“Yes, he said that some Englishmen are coming to see the school; and,

father,” I faltered, “I can’t get up.”

“Sunity,” answered my father in that loving voice which always made us

children thrill with affection, “it is not the school. These gentlemen

are coming to see you.”

“To see me!” I cried. “Why?” “Sunity,” said my father in a gentle voice,

“these people are coming to see you, and if we all agree, perhaps some

day you will marry a handsome young Maharajah.”

I hid my face in my pillow. I could not speak. Marriage was to me an

undiscussed subject. I had never considered it. I felt so shy I became

quite red in the face.

After a few hours I was told to get ready. Mother gave me some lovely

jewels which looked beautiful on my mauve and gold sari. My hair was

dressed. We drove over to dear Miss Pigot’s school-house, where I usually

had lessons. I was very nervous, and through fear and ague combined I

trembled like a leaf.

I rested a little while on the verandah. While I was there I was given a

strong dose of quinine. I shall never forget the unpleasant taste of that

special draught.

Then I was taken to the drawing-room, where Mr. Dalton and the Bengali

officials awaited me. Mr. Dalton looked kind but critical.

“Won’t you play to me?” he asked.

I obediently seated myself at the piano and played a simple piece of

music. Mr. Dalton watched me up to the piano and back to my seat and as

I talked to him; and wrote a full description to the young Maharajah

afterwards. “Very nice,” he said, in such a charming way that I did not

think he was examining me. He seemed favourably impressed, and so it

proved, for in one of his letters to my father he wrote: “I thought your

daughter a very charming young lady, and in every way a suitable bride

for the Maharajah.”

Letters passed and repassed between Cooch Behar and Calcutta, but nothing

was settled until the 27th of January, 1878, when Mr. Dalton wrote as

follows:—

“MY DEAR SIR,

“The Lieutenant-Governor has at last decided that the Rajah is

to go to England in March, and, looking to the desirability of

perfecting his bride’s education, it is better that he should

be married before he starts. Mr. Eden at first saw difficulties

in the way of a match with your family, but our arguments in

favour of the proposal have at length found weight with him,

and he has given his consent.

“The Rajah has expressed his distaste to being married at all,

as I told you in a previous letter, principally because he was

averse to being worried about the matter, and partly because he

knew that he was not to be permitted to live with his wife at

once and wished to remain single until of an age to do so. But

he has come to see that an educated bride is not to be procured

at all, and is now eager for the alliance with your daughter,

the idea of which was always pleasant to him, provided he

could secure his mother’s consent. This consent I have at

length secured with great difficulty, on terms which Babu Jadab

Chandra Chuckerbutty will explain to you, and which I hope you

will agree to.

“I know it will seem difficult to you to arrange for a wedding

on the 6th of March, and also that the idea of marrying your

daughter before she has completed her fourteenth year is

repugnant to you. But consider the circumstances, and that

in fact the marriage will not be a marriage in the ordinary

acceptance of the term but a solemn betrothal, the Rajah

proceeding to Europe immediately after the ceremony.

“I have read through your memo. There are some paragraphs which

I think we can hardly consent to in their entirety, but by a

little concession on both sides, I have no doubt that, if you

are really well disposed to this marriage, we may come to an

agreement which will suit both parties.

“One of the Rani’s conditions is that one of your relatives,

not yourself, should give away the bride.

“The objection to you is principally based on the fact that you

have been to England. I imagine that, as you will be actually

present (or may be, if you like), it will not make any great

difference to you should a brother or uncle actually repeat the

formula. This is a condition on which great stress is laid, and

I hope you will not arrest negotiations _in limine_ by refusing

to accede to it. Remember that we on our side have had great

difficulties to smooth away, and that we have already conceded

almost all that we have the power of conceding.

“Remember, also, that if you care about this alliance, it is a

question of now or never, for nothing short of the urgency of

the case (the Rajah going to England in March and the Ranis in

despair at the idea of his going unmarried) would have brought

Mr. Eden to change his mind, a thing he rarely does.

“With my regards to yourself, etc.”

Observe how in this letter Government smoothed away all my father’s

objections. The marriage was to be merely a “solemn betrothal,” and _hey

presto!_ the age difficulty vanished. Concessions were certain so far as

his religious scruples were concerned, but the words “now or never” throw

a curious side-light upon the Government policy. The Cooch Behar-Sen

alliance was necessary to them, and my father was to be finally “rushed”

into giving his consent. That such was the case is shown by the following

telegram from the Dewan to Babu Chuckerbutty:—

“Deputy Commissioner says can’t wait too long even if matter

not published. Must have private assurances of Keshub Babu’s

consent without delay. Remember preparations. 27-1-78.”

Then the delight of Babu Chuckerbutty found expression in this letter to

Prosonna Babu:—

“MY DEAR PROSONNA BABU,

“Such has been the pleasure of God! and I am amongst you to

re-open the question of marriage.

“Mountains and oceans stood as barriers before us, but thanks

to the great Remover of all difficulties, we have managed to

get over them all.

“Should we not see in all this, the hand of Him who dispenseth

of everything human? We have all done all we could: it now

rests finally with you as to the remainder. I have just now

arrived here. I left Cooch Behar at midnight day before

yesterday, and have come in at once. My present address is 6,

Bhobani Dutt Lane, and my man will lead you to my house. I hope

that our Maharajah is here.

“Yours, etc.,

“JADAB CHUNDER CHUCKERBUTTY.”

The Maharajah wrote to my father as follows:—

“MY DEAR SIR,

“I have been asked to let you know what my honest opinion is on

the subject of polygamy.

“In reply I beg to inform you that it has always been my

opinion that no man should take more than one wife, and I can

assure you that I hold that opinion still.

“I give below a statement of my religious views and opinions. I

believe in one true God and I am in heart a Theist.

“Yours truly,

“NRIPENDRA NARAYAN BHUP.”

CHAPTER V

MY MARRIAGE

By this time I had become accustomed to talk of my marriage. Often I

wondered with mingled fear and pleasure what sort of future was before

me. At last a day came when I was to see the Maharajah. As my sister and

I waited in my father’s room I remember she said: “He is very handsome,

so I’ve been told, and very, very clever.”

When the Maharajah arrived we were called into the drawing-room. I was

extremely nervous. It had been trying enough to face Mr. Dalton, but I

felt more nervous now that the really critical moment had come.

[Illustration: MY HUSBAND.

Nripendra Narayan Bhup Bahadur, Maharajah of Cooch Behar, 1887.]

We sat round a big table in the drawing-room. Mr. Kneller came with the

Maharajah. They both talked to us for a time. I was so shy I did not

know which was the Maharajah and which Mr. Kneller. Presently a man most

gorgeously dressed came into the room. He brought something which was

placed on the table. After a few minutes my father said: “Sunity, this is

a present from the Maharajah to you.” I looked up, and as I did so I met

the Maharajah’s eyes fixed on me full of love, and I blushed. From that

moment my future husband and I loved each other. He was so handsome and

so charming. He told me afterwards that he had brought the present in his

carriage, but wished to see me first, and if he liked me he would offer

it, and it would be a token of his love.

We met several times later, but always in the presence of others. Yet I

knew the Maharajah loved me.

Notwithstanding our hopes that everything would go smoothly with the

preparations, there were constant worries concerning the religious rites.

After some weeks, when many messages had passed between the Government,

the State, and my father, my sister told me that there was a hitch

about the marriage because the State people would not hear of a Brahmo

alliance. I answered, “One thing is certain, I shall not change my

religion. Yet, Bino, I love the Maharajah and will marry no one else.”

More correspondence followed, and at last the priests from Cooch Behar

came to our house, and promised my father that the marriage should be

arranged as he wished. This was the one thing needful. My father had

come to have an affection for the Maharajah. Indeed, the whole of our

family had fallen captive to the Maharajah’s charm and kindness. He, on

his part, clearly liked them all, and had a deep respect and admiration

for my father. How well I remember the delightful ceremony of “Jurini”

which took place when my marriage was at last settled. On this occasion

my fiancé sent saris to all my relations, gave me the most beautiful

presents, and distributed more than a hundred plates of sweetmeats, etc.,

to the household. It was a perfect day, one of those on which it is

pleasant to look back and forget in its happy memory the sad events of

life.

But the clouds of hostile criticism had been gathering, and at last the

storm broke. For some time questions had been asked as to my father’s

motives in allowing me to be married before the age stipulated in the Act

which he had done so much to have passed. My marriage preliminaries were

really a stormy time in my life, fulfilling the storm omens at my birth.

It is too serious and too long a story to write in this book, but just a

few lines may give my readers an idea of what my father had to go through

in connection with my betrothal. People who did not have full faith in

him and in his doctrines raised unheard-of questions; but the Government

was determined on the marriage.

My father could have published the correspondence. He could have

explained the situation, but serene in the integrity of his motives,

and in his faith in God, he was undismayed by the attacks which were

made upon him. His only response was: “I became a Brahmo when I heard

the Divine call, and I have given consent to this marriage by the same

Divine command. I obey God, not man.”

As Miss Pigot wrote almost prophetically: “The generation that were the

actors have nearly all passed away, and time will have mellowed these

events to the aged survivors. But the new generation, viewing the past

in the light of history, will not refuse the crown of martyrdom to the

sufferings of Keshub Chunder Sen. It is in the course of human events

that by some tragic incident the truest and best men are brought to the

slaughter.”

Having achieved their end and obtained my father’s consent to the

marriage, it might have been assumed that the Government would have

strictly observed their part of the bargain. They had promised to

concede everything, and as it was the spiritual side of the ceremony

that troubled my father, I think Mr. Dalton ought to have spared him any

further worry.

There was one person who was very subtle in his opposition and more

powerful than any English official. This was the Dewan, the late Calica

Das Dutt, Prime Minister. He was not in favour of the marriage, because

he thought he had been ignored. He was an influential follower of my

father’s, and yet all the correspondence relating to the marriage

went through Jadab Babu, who was only a junior officer. His quiet

interference is shown in the following letter written by Mr. Dalton to

Mr. Chuckerbutty:—

“MY DEAR JADAB BABU,

“The Dewan tells me that he has already written to you

regarding my wire as to the extent of Babu Keshub Ghunder

Sen’s party coming to Cooch Behar for the wedding. Of course,

my object is to avoid any unnecessary display of Brahmoism.

In marrying a Brahmo girl the Rajah makes a great concession

to enlightened ideas, but it is most desirable that this

connection should be softened as much as possible in the eyes

of his relatives, at Cooch Behar and elsewhere, who are still

wedded to the old superstitions, and who would look with horror

upon any departure from the old Hindu formula.

“I wish therefore to dissuade Babu Keshub Chunder Sen from

bringing with him any of those who might be called his

followers, apart from such as are his immediate relatives. In

fact, we cannot permit any Brahmo demonstration whatever, and

those who come must bear in mind that a single speech in any

way whatever relating to Theism _versus_ Idolatry will not be

permitted.

“So far as possible, not only Hindu customs, but also the ideas

and even the prejudices which arise from these customs must be

respected: for instance, I disapprove altogether of the idea

of bridesmaids, an idea at once novel and repulsive to strict

and bigoted Hinduism. The maiden attendants of the bride should

remain in the background and on no account be put prominently

forward except when universal custom allows. Also I would

suggest that it is quite unnecessary and undesirable that a

large company of ladies should accompany the party. I fail to

see what good their presence can do.

“I think the ladies should be limited to Keshub Babu’s

immediate family and one or two intimate friends, and as

regards the male guests, please remember that the amount of

distinction shown to them here will depend entirely as to their

social status in Calcutta, and that only such as are entitled

to be admitted and given a seat at the Lieutenant-Governor’s

Durbars will be considered here.

“Babu Keshub Chunder Sen is too sensible a man not to

understand my reasons for all this. Though, of course, I cannot

expect him to look at the matter from my point of view.

“It is possible that he may look upon this marriage as the

inauguration of a new era in the history of social and

religious progress. But in Cooch Behar, at all events, he must

wait for the fructification of his work until the Rajah attains

his majority.

“Any of the well known and respected members of the Brahmo

community who are Babu Keshub Chunder Sen’s personal friends,

and who would like to come, we will receive with great

pleasure, and also any of similar rank and position whom he

may wish to bring outside of the Brahmo community. I hold you

responsible that a list of the intended party is submitted to

me at an early date, to enable me to provide for a special

train, etc.; and such list should contain information as to

the social status of those composing it.

“You should telegraph to me the number of 1st, 2nd, and 3rd

class passengers who will make up the party. It seems to me

that there can scarcely be more than twenty, or thirty at the

outside, first-class passengers. I have consulted with the

Commissioner on this subject, and he agreed altogether with my

views.

“Yours sincerely,

“GODFREY T. DALTON.”

The final arrangements for our journey to Cooch Behar were left in the

hands of Babu Chuckerbutty, and at last everything seemed settled, and

we left Calcutta on the 25th February, 1878. We were quite a large

party, consisting of my father, mother, grandmother, father’s sister,

his younger brother, his special followers, two ladies (wives of

missionaries), some relations, and a girl friend of mine.

I was naturally very excited, for this more or less State journey was

very different from the journeys to which I had been accustomed. It

seemed ages before we reached Cooch Behar, by which time the discomforts

of the journey had reduced our spirits to zero. I remember how dark the

night seemed. We were directed to the house which had been prepared

for us, and all of us were delighted to be in a house again. It was

comfortably furnished.

Soon after my arrival I asked my sister when I should see the Maharajah,

but to my great disappointment I was told that I was not to see him until

my wedding-day. The interval was taken up with elaborate ceremonies.

The Dewan and the State officials came to see me. Seated on a carpet, I

received them and accepted the coin which tradition demanded they should

give, and thanked each by bowing. As I never lifted my eyes, I could not

distinguish one from another.

The day before the wedding the Dewan and a few Raj pandits came to see

my father and talked over the ceremony. They told him that parts of it

would be according to the old Hindu rites. To this my father refused to

consent. All these difficulties have been described and explained in

books written by missionaries of my father, and I need not repeat them

here.

The town was beautifully illuminated and decorated. I felt very nervous,

though very happy at the thought of seeing my betrothed. When the time

drew near, I was sad at the thought of leaving the home that had been

such a happy one.

To our great surprise the time appointed for my departure passed,

and there was no sign of my going away. Then we heard that the State

officials were still discussing the question whether we should be married

before the Maharajah left for England or after his return.

After a long delay I was told to get ready. They dressed me in a

pretty sari and I was soon ready to go. My sister Bino and I went in

one palki, and my grandmother followed in another. A grand escort from

the palace came to fetch me. The time to say good-bye had now come. I

touched my father’s and mother’s feet, and said good-bye to the others.

I realised that I was bidding farewell to my childhood, and that I stood

on the threshold of a new life quite different from anything I had ever

imagined. The thought frightened me, and I broke into loud sobs.

As in a dream I heard my father’s beautiful voice comforting me. His

tender words fell like balm on my aching heart. He whispered one short

sentence which gave me strength for my ordeal.

I dried my tears. Then, accompanied by my sister and followed by my

grandmother, I went to my future home. Never shall I forget that journey

through the crowded streets. I could hear the outcry which greeted our

palkis. The torches flashed with a weird effect. At last the palkis

stopped in the courtyard of the zenana part of the Cooch Behar palace.

I found myself in the midst of a great crowd of women. I stood, the

observed of all, and listened to the various comments on my appearance. I

was outwardly calm, but in reality I was a very scared miserable little

girl. Then a lady came forward bearing lights and flowers. It was the

Maharajah’s mother, and she was performing Varan, or welcoming the bride.

After the Varan the crowd of women made way for us and we were taken

to a reception-room. I was nervous and tired and longing for a rest,

when suddenly I heard a gentle whistle outside. It was the Maharajah!

I knew his whistle well, for I had often heard it at Lily Cottage. I

felt at once that I was not forgotten, that in the darkness there was a

cheery companion who loved me and wanted my love. I would have answered

back in sheer joy, but could not. My sister and I were soon in bed. She

immediately fell into the healthy sleep of tired youth, but I was too

fatigued and nervous, with a thousand and one thoughts worrying me, to be

able to sleep.

The next morning we were up early. It was my wedding day, and I had to go

through a good deal before the ceremony. After my bath, my grandmother

was told that a Hindu priest wished to recite the usual prayers. When

we came out on the verandah, we saw the Brahmin waiting surrounded by

relations of the Maharajah. Some one put a gold coin into my hand which I

was requested to give to the priest of the Raj family.

My grandmother interposed. “No, no,” she said, “our girls don’t do this.”

“What nonsense!” replied the Maharajah’s grandmother. “Why! it means

nothing.”

But we were firm, and I placed the coin on the floor. This was only one

of the petty annoyances which occurred during the day.

In the evening of the marriage the Maharajah’s mother came and spoke to

my mother most harshly. One of her remarks I still remember: “Do you mean

to say you love your daughter? How can you when you do not wish her to

marry a Maharajah? If she does not marry my son according to Hindu rites,

she will not be the Maharani.”

My mother answered gently but very firmly: “I shall be sorry if my

daughter does not marry your son, and I shall take her away from Cooch

Behar; but my daughter shall never marry any one according to Hindu

rites.” This made the Maharajah’s mother furious.

While these disputes and discussions were going on in the palace, my dear

father must have suffered a great deal silently in his house. There was

much hot argument. Both sides were obstinate. Telegrams were dispatched

to Government. Cooch Behar waited. Sunset came. It was the auspicious

hour fixed for the marriage, but no word went forth that it was to take

place.

Gradually silence reigned. The music and the sound of the conch shells

ceased. The voice of the crowd was hushed. All of a sudden everything

stopped. The musicians left the platforms and the town became perfectly

quiet; the illuminations were extinguished one by one.

Then the unexpected happened, and the Gordian knot of caste and creed

was suddenly cut. The news of the final dispute had been conveyed to the

Maharajah. When he realised that the religious obstacles might prove

insurmountable he became so strangely quiet and serious that his people

felt rather nervous and wondered what their young master would do. He

took very strong measures.

Looking at those near him, with determination in every line of his set

young face, the Maharajah, said: “Now give good heed to my words. I am

going to bed. If I am to marry this girl, wake me up. Otherwise have my

horse in readiness, for I shall ride away from Cooch Behar for good and

all to-morrow morning. If I cannot marry this girl, I will marry no one.”

A great hush fell on those who heard, and there was general

consternation. Never before had Nripendra Narayan Bhup so asserted

himself. His councillors saw that their ruler intended to have his own

way.

It was now midnight. My father was alone in his quiet house, as one and

all had left for the palace. His soul was far beyond all earthly things,

for he communed with the God who had never forsaken him. I believe that

in that solemn hour he found the peace so healing to his soul.

Suddenly the sound of carriage wheels broke the stillness of the night.

Steps hurried up the stairs. The door was flung open, and Mr. Dalton,

pale and breathless, stood before my father.

“Mr. Sen,” he cried, “the wedding must and shall take place to-night. The

service shall be exactly as you wish. I’ll be there to see that it is

not interfered with. Come quickly. We’ve not a moment to lose. There is

another auspicious hour at 3 a.m. Let it be then.”

As he spoke he handed my father a written agreement confirming his words,

and told him that the Lieutenant-Governor had telegraphed: “Let the

marriage be performed according to the rites as settled in Calcutta.”

Mr. Dalton almost dragged my father to the waiting carriage, and followed

by some of our friends they made their way with difficulty through the

crowded streets.

Then as in a fairy tale the scene changed. The stillness was broken

by music. The darkness was flooded with light. The whole town was

illuminated in an instant; the band played, the conch shells sounded,

fireworks were sent up. All was joyous and brilliant.

Our wedding was celebrated in an enormous tent: the crowd remarked that

I looked very nice in a pale blue sari with raised gold flowers worked

upon it and a bright red satin veil with masses of gold, the creation of

a French dressmaker. But I felt very nervous when, seated on a piece of

wood, I was carried between lines of soldiers, the Maharajah following

close behind.

He was like a wonderful picture, one mass of gold from head to foot, and

the shimmering fabric seemed moulded to his fine figure. I went through

the ceremony with perfect confidence. The service was performed by the

Rev. Gour Govind Roy, who was one of the staunchest missionaries of our

Church, and all the Maharajah’s Hindu priests were also present.

It was lovely to think that we belonged to each other from that day,

and I was so happy. Certainly never did any girl possess a more perfect

husband than the Maharajah. He was so full of tender thought, and he

planned most exciting surprises in the shape of lovely gifts for me.

But the next few days were very trying. The palace ladies used to

threaten and scold me by turns. “You must become a Hindu,” was their

incessant, wearying refrain, and I was heartily glad when the time came

for me to return to Calcutta.

My husband had already gone to Darjeeling with Mr. Dalton, to interview

the Commissioner before his departure for England.

We left Cooch Behar without regret. Great was my joy and surprise to find

that the Maharajah had arranged to join our train and travel part of the

way with us. Soon after our arrival in Calcutta he left for England, and

I fell to wondering whether the past few weeks had been a dream or not.

CHAPTER VI

EARLY MARRIED DAYS

After we returned from Cooch Behar I found (although I understood little

about such serious matters then) that most of my father’s followers had

raised objections to my marriage. But I believed that nothing could hurt

my father and that no one could do him harm.

These people continually attacked him and plotted to undermine his

authority. The fire of discontent and disloyalty which they kindled

blazed fiercely and dazzled the eyes of the unfaithful. Some of them

even went so far as to threaten to kill him. All those who had feeble

faith left our Church, one after another. Even this did not satisfy

the malcontents, and they built a church of their own which is known

as Sadharan-Somaj. One of their members, who is now dead, published a

book called “The History of the Brahmo-Somaj.” I do not wish to discuss

the subject, but I may say this book plainly shows that not only the

man who wrote it was in the wrong, but all the members of his Church.

They are all responsible for preaching untruths. I have learned from

my babyhood that truth conquers untruth. Yet it is sad to think that

educated and enlightened men should allow such books to be published. I

am waiting for some dutiful son of the Church of the New Dispensation

to write the true history of the Brahmo-Somaj. I hope that the members

of the Sadharan-Somaj do not think we do not believe in our doctrine of

Universal Love. If they would accept the truth of the New Dispensation

they would find us waiting to welcome and love them as brothers and

sisters. It is sad that followers should work against their leader, their

preacher, their minister, and persist in making the gulf wider every day.

Many of my father’s followers insisted that my marriage had been a Hindu

ceremony. Yet it was not an idolatrous one, and I often wonder why the

Government never publicly defended my father and declared the truth.

For the Government was most anxious for the Maharajah to marry me, and

could easily have made the case clear to the public. They also might have

spoken for my father, as they knew that he was the leader of the Brahmos.

However, the marriage was now an accomplished fact, I was Maharani of

Cooch Behar, and it was left for me to prove the success or failure of

the first Indian marriage which had defied traditional custom.

The public are still uncertain by what rites we were married. The

Brahmo Act that my father wished the Government to pass was not agreed

to by other Brahmos, such as Maharshi Debendra Nath Tagore, and others.

Although the Tagores called themselves Brahmos, they wanted their

marriage ceremony to be known as Hindu marriage (non-idolatrous). As they

opposed it, the Act was not passed, but instead of it Act III. of 1872,

in which one of the many things mentioned was that the bride was not to

be under fourteen or the bridegroom under eighteen years of age. But the

Brahmo Marriage Bill, as worded by my father and from which the following

extract is taken, will remove all misunderstandings:—

“I, A.B., am a native of British India. I do not profess the Christian

religion, and I object to be married in accordance with the rites of the

Hindu, Muhammedan, Buddhist, Parsi or Jewish religion.”

It sounds too dreadful to have to say “No” to all religions. One and all,

I believe, resent it, but there is no other law for a Brahmo marriage.

The Maharajah could not be married under this Act as he had his own law

in his State, besides he was an independent ruler and a British marriage

was of no value in Cooch Behar. Our marriage was recognised by the

Government and the State as a Hindu marriage. The Maharajah himself was a

Brahmo, but he was the ruler of a Hindu Raj. As we were not married under

Act III., the age limit did not affect us.

The following letter, which my father wrote to Miss Cobbe, puts the

position clearly.

“Lily Cottage,

“78, Upper Circular Road,

“Calcutta.

“29th April, 1878.

“MY DEAR FRIEND,

“Your kind letter has given me great relief, for which I

thank you most sincerely. In the midst of my present trials

and difficulties it is truly a Godsend. My antagonists have

impeached my character, showered upon me abusive epithets of

all kinds, and represented me before the public as one who, for

fame and wealth and worldly advantages, has unhesitatingly sold

his conscience and his daughter! This is indeed the substance

of the charges preferred against me, and an insinuation to this

effect is to be found, I am told, in the so-called protest.

If my conscience acquits me, none can convict me. Of this I

am sure, that I never sought a Rajah. I never coveted filthy

lucre. As a private man I should not probably have acted as

I have done. I was acting all along as a public man, and one

course only was open to me. The British Government sought me

and my daughter; a Christian Government that knew me thoroughly

to be a Brahmo leader, proposed the alliance, and the weighty

interests of a State were pressed upon me with a view to induce

me to accept the proposal and make the needful concessions.

I found such arguments as these placed before me: ‘Here is

the Cooch Behar State, a den of ignorance and superstition,

with a corrupt Court given to dissipation, polygamy, intrigue,

and oppression. The young Rajah has been saved by the British

Government acting as his guardian. The women of the Raj family

have been mostly removed to Benares, and others will follow.

The administration of the affairs of the State has greatly

improved in all departments, education, police, revenue,

health, etc., under the management of competent officers

appointed by the British Government. The new palace will be

erected at a cost of about Rs.8,000,000. Not a vestige will

remain of the old _régime_, and the ground will have been

thoroughly cleared for political and social improvements

when the young Rajah will be formally installed and begin to

govern his immense territory. It is desirable, it is of the

utmost importance, that he should have an accomplished wife.

Should he marry a girl of seven or eight in the old style,

the effects of the education he has hitherto received will be

neutralised, and he will surely go back into the evil ways from

which he has been saved. A good and enlightened wife, capable

of exercising always a healthy influence on the Rajah, is the

“one thing needful” in the Cooch Behar State.’ The Government,

in presenting these views before me, seemed to ask me whether

I would give my daughter in marriage to the Maharajah and thus

help forward the good work so gloriously begun in the State

by our benevolent rulers in the interests of millions of the

subject population. I could not hesitate, but said at once,

under the dictates of conscience, ‘Yes.’ You have justly said

that a grave responsibility would have rested upon me, had I

refused the overtures of the Government. In fact, I wonder how

you have so clearly realised the position and grasped the real

secret of the whole affair. I have acted as a public man under

the imperative call of public duty. All other considerations

were subordinated to this sacred duty. All other considerations

were subordinated to this sacred call, this Divine injunction.

I saw, I felt that the Lord had Himself brought before me in

the strange ways characteristic of His Providence, the young

Maharajah of Cooch Behar for alliance with my daughter. Could

I say No? My conscience bade me obey. And there I was, an

enchained victim before a strange overpowering dispensation of

the living providence of God. I did not calculate consequences,

though most beneficial results I could not fail to foresee. I

did not go through elaborate logical processes of thought. I

did not refer to others for advice, though I saw clearly that

the contemplated step involved risks and hazards of a serious

character, as the Rajah was an independent chief and might

fall back upon the evil customs prevalent in his territory. I

trusted, I hoped with all my heart that the Lord would do what

was best for me, my daughter, and my country. Duty was mine;

future consequences lay in the hands of God. So I acceded to

the main proposal of the Government, and negotiations went on

between myself and the deputy Commissioners. It was at first

proposed that the Rajah should marry under the Marriage Act,

and the Government made no objection. I was assured that the

Rajah had no faith in Hinduism, but a public renunciation of

the Hindu faith was objected to on political grounds. Mr.

Dalton wrote to me: ‘As a fact, he does not believe in it

(Hindu religion), but profession and faith are two different

things.’ He added, ‘These are difficulties, but I think they

may be got over, and when you reflect on the benefits to the

cause of enlightenment which may result from this marriage, I

feel sure you will smooth our way as far as you can, even to

the extent of conceding somewhat to Cooch Behar’s superstition.

The greatest difficulty I see in the way is the public

declaration to be made in Cooch Behar by the Rajah that he does

not profess Hinduism. If that can be dispensed with, I think

other difficulties may be got over. You must remember that Act

III. of 1872 does not apply to Cooch Behar, and that there will

be nothing illegal in leaving out this part of the programme.’

(Deputy Commissioner’s letter, dated Calcutta, 24th September,

1877.) Touching the match itself and the question of rites the

following occurs in the same letter: ‘The Commissioner, Lord

Ulick Brown, has written to me expressing his warm approval of

the proposed engagement and asking me to obtain from you in

writing “what you require,” that is to say, to state in writing

the points in which the celebration of the marriage must differ

from the Hindu ceremony.’”

After my return I resumed my life at Lily Cottage like an unmarried girl,

and was not sorry to forget the strenuous days at Cooch Behar. Our home

was very peaceful, and as it was half an hour’s drive from the town we

were right out of the city. Lily Cottage is not isolated now. Houses

have sprung up all round it and not many traces of the surroundings of

my girlhood remain. It is a large house, with a sanctuary, bedrooms, and

drawing-room on the upper story; below is the room that was used by the

missionaries, and the dining- and guest-rooms. The grounds were very

pretty, and I especially remember the little hut outside where father

and the missionaries cooked on Sundays. I used to get up quite early,

and take my bath, for I attended to our prayer-room, and it is a strict

Brahmo rule that this quiet sanctuary may be arranged only by those whose

body and dress are clean. My father plucked flowers from the garden and

brought them to the prayer-room every morning, and the service there

usually lasted until about half-past twelve. After that I breakfasted and

then began my daily lessons.

In India we offer betel leaf if any guest comes, as English people do

cigarettes. Our cooks are high-caste, and they have to bathe before they

enter the kitchen. One maid goes to the market to buy vegetables, fish,

and fruit every morning, other maids have to clean the brass plates,

etc., early in the morning; after this they must bathe before they enter

any of the rooms in the house. The sanctuary at Lily Cottage is very

large; the floor is of marble; and when I went away my mother and sisters

used to arrange the flowers. It was wonderful the designs mother made,

sometimes from the stars she had seen the evening before. After prayers

the children had their breakfast, and then the gentlemen, and then the

ladies. Our chief food in India is milk; very little meat is eaten, but

plenty of vegetables and fruits in their seasons.

The Government had, according to their ideas, discovered for the ideal

wife the ideal governess, a lady of good family, Miss S⸺, a society

woman to her finger-tips, but useless except as a teacher of _les

convenances_. I wanted to learn everything possible about the history of

other nations, and I was anxious to acquire a good general knowledge of

languages. German was the only foreign language which my governess seemed

to think necessary for a Maharani; but, as her German was dominated by

a strong Scottish accent, I doubted its conversational value. It was an

unfortunate experience. No doubt the lady meant well, and regarded me

as an uninteresting pupil. But she frightened and repelled me with her

trying temper, until I became quite cowed, and my education suffered in

consequence. Mrs. White taught me painting, and my sister-in-law taught

me Bengali. She was very clever, and the only language I know well is

Bengali, thanks to her kind help.

I corresponded frequently with my husband in England; his letters were

full of cheery accounts of his visit, and his wish to see me again. He

returned to India in February, 1879, and every one was delighted to

see how he had profited by his travels. The same year he joined the

Presidency College in Calcutta, and lived in a house in Theatre Road.

My husband’s stay in Calcutta was a time of great happiness for me. He

often came to Lily Cottage, where it was decided I should live until

he was eighteen, and I was sixteen. He was very fond of my mother, and

often teased her about the keys which, according to the Bengali custom,

she carried in a knot in her sari. His great delight was to steal these

keys and then enjoy her distress when she discovered her loss. “I can’t

understand why Englishmen hate their mothers-in-law,” he said to the

English ladies of his acquaintance, “mine is the sweetest imaginable, and

I love her as my mother.”

The Maharajah and I went to our church regularly every Sunday morning,

wet or fine, winter or summer. He respected the missionaries and treated

my brothers and sisters as if they were his own, in fact he loved and was

beloved by one and all.

The Maharajah was full of praise of England, and there never lived a more

loyal subject than he. Indeed, in most ways he was as Western in his

ideas as people had anticipated. But he was entirely Indian at heart. The

magic of the East held him. The “Land of the Lotus” was his own beloved

country. His upbringing never eradicated the strong claims of blood.

When I was sixteen and the Maharajah eighteen it was decided that our

“real” marriage should take place in my own dear home. In quiet ways

we had gathered the fragrant flowers of friendship’s garden, and there

we had seen the roses of love which were blooming for us. Our future

lay rich and glowing before us, and our happiness was perfect. We were

married in the Church of the New Dispensation. How well I remember

my wedding morn! As I write I glance at a modest ring, turquoise and

diamonds, which never leaves my finger. It was my husband’s gift to me

on that exquisite day, and I prize it more than all the lovely jewels he

delighted to give me.

Every one rejoiced that day. We were like one united family, and I knew

that all the good wishes and kind words came straight from the hearts of

those present. We started on our new life under the happiest auspices.

We left Calcutta by special train in the afternoon for Burdwan, where we

were to spend our honeymoon. Our saloon was beautifully decorated with

flowers, and a party of friends and relations came to see us off. Just

before the train started I pressed my face against my father’s arm and

had a good fit of sobbing. I knew I was really leaving my childhood’s

home that day. But when I found myself alone in the train with my husband

a heavenly happiness came over me. We were alone together! We two, who

loved each other, and I shall never forget a Bengali song he sang to me

that day: “He who has not undergone suffering cannot know love.”

At Burdwan we were received in state, and I was treated like a strict

purdah lady. The railway station and its approaches were covered in

like a huge tent so that no outsiders could catch a glimpse of me, and

directly the train stopped a bevy of maidens escorted me to a state

carriage. When I was safely on the way to the palace, the draperies were

withdrawn and my husband exchanged greetings with the officials who had

assembled to offer him their congratulations.

The palace at Burdwan is a splendid building, and our rooms were on a

terrace which overlooked the lake. Everything was as romantic as a young

girl’s heart could desire. But early next morning I was awakened by a

dull roar which seemed almost to issue from our rooms. I could hardly

believe I was awake until the roar was repeated, and then in an agony of

fear I called to my husband: “Oh, do see what is the matter. I believe

a tiger is trying to get in.” Another roar made me quiver. My husband

laughed immensely while he explained that the Maharajah of Burdwan’s most

cherished possession was a zoological garden which was quite close to our

apartments. That was my first tiger experience. I had plenty afterwards

at Cooch Behar, and learned that the roar of the tiger in captivity is

feeble compared with the majesty of his voice in the jungle where he is

king.

One day during our stay at Burdwan I visited the Maharanis, who lived in

an old palace. The Dowager Maharani welcomed me cordially and, instead

of bestowing the customary present, she filled my hands with sovereigns

until I could hold no more. She was a sweet old lady, this Maharani who

had given up everything luxurious when she became a widow. She worshipped

her late husband’s slippers, which she placed before his chair, just

as though he were alive and sitting there. I liked the Raj-Kumari, the

daughter of the late Maharajah. All the palace ladies were good-looking,

and I was struck by the large number of pretty faces.

My honeymoon was a very happy one, but after a few days in Burdwan we

returned to Calcutta, and I began to realise the responsibilities of my

position as the wife of the Maharajah of Cooch Behar. At first I was

not allowed to meet Indian gentlemen, not even my husband’s cousins.

When English visitors came, I remember one of these cousins throwing

their cards through the shutters of my door. Readers may wonder why the

Maharajah minded my seeing Indian gentlemen. The good reason was that

there were very few Bengali ladies out of purdah in those days, and my

husband strongly objected to my meeting men who did not bring out their

own wives. Though he was only two years older than me, he was a very

strict husband, and I always respected him as if he had been years older;

he was my hero and ideal husband, and whatever he said I thought was

right. He was very particular about my dress. A lady once remarked: “It

is a pity the Maharani doesn’t wear her lovely pearls next her skin.”

“She is not allowed,” the Maharajah answered with a quiet smile.

“Not allowed!” exclaimed the lady, in great surprise. “You surely do not

disapprove?”

“Yes, I disapprove.”

“But why, Your Highness?”

“Well, simply and solely because I prefer _my_ wife to do what I like. I

don’t care a bit what other women do.”

I don’t believe outsiders ever realised how absolutely Indian the

Maharajah was at heart, and he had the strictest ideas about my

conforming to his ideals. He did not like loud laughter or loud talking.

I was not allowed to ride, dance, or play tennis. In later years, when

my girls did all these things, he was often asked why he allowed his

daughters such privileges.

“I allow Girlie, Pretty, and Baby to be ‘outdoor’ girls, because I do

not know what sort of men they may marry, and if their husbands like

these things they will not be found lacking,” was his reply.

As I was a Bengali girl and had come from Calcutta, where all my people

were, and my husband wished to have a place near, Woodlands was bought

and beautifully furnished. I was delighted with my little sitting-room,

which was so charmingly decorated in pale pink and blue that it looked

like a picture. I still remember some books I had on one table, on

cooking, gardening, etc.

There we spent our early married days. Although my husband liked English

food, and lived like an Englishman, I was faithful to the Indian cookery

with which I was familiar. The hours passed all too swiftly. We began

to entertain. I gave two enjoyable dances and believe I was quite a

successful hostess.

The Maharajah took great pride in me. “Never forget whose daughter you

are,” he would say to me, and this appreciation of my dear father touched

me very much. Any good I may have done in my life is entirely due to his

influence.

In the summer of 1881 I knew I might look forward to the crowning glory

of our happiness, for I was expecting to become a mother. Girl though I

was, I realised how important a part this child might play in my life at

Cooch Behar. For many generations no heir had been born to the ruler’s

chief wife. The succession had always been through the son of a wife

of lower rank. I knew therefore that, if I ever had a son, much of the

ill-feeling of my husband’s relations towards me would disappear.

A strange thing happened that year, when I was staying up in the hills at

Mussoorie. My Indian maid came to me all excitement one morning, saying:

“Maharani sahib, there is a fortune-teller outside who wants to see your

hand.” “Tell him to go away,” I said. But the man refused to leave. “Let

Her Highness but pick out one grain of rice and send it to me,” he urged.

So I picked out a grain and sent it to him. I was surprised when the maid

returned with the message: “Her Highness will have a son, and he will

rule the country.” My father also had a premonition about the expected

baby. A few weeks before the child arrived, there was a ceremony, and

while at prayers, my father said: “A Sebak (a devotee) is coming from

God.” At times the gift of prophecy is given to men like my father.

In the early morning of the 11th April, 1882, my first son was born at

Woodlands. Late at night on the 10th a pandit had read the “Gita,” and

my relations who were present cried as if I were already dead and gone,

as I suffered greatly, and for a couple of hours they did not know if I

should survive the birth. But when the baby made his appearance every one

exclaimed that his arrival was favoured by the lucky stars then in the

ascendant, and still greater was the joy when it was known that the tiny

new-comer possessed the “tika” (a prominence on the forehead), which is

said to be bestowed only on very powerful rulers.

My father was alone in his room deep in prayer when Mazdidi, my cousin,

told him that a prince was born to Cooch Behar. The usual ceremonies

took place, and money and sweets were lavishly distributed. But the

supreme moment for me was when my husband came into my room and sat by my

bedside. “Darling wife,” he whispered, “we have a little boy.” I looked

at him and, though we spoke little, we were so happy. Our thoughts were

full of our reward, for our little son was sent by Heaven in recompense

for all that we had suffered.

Ah! my darling! My Rajey beloved! you are as near to my heart now in

your peaceful paradise as you were on that April morning. You were the

fruition of a great love and a perfect faith, but God decreed that your

life should be as mutable as your birth month. He bestowed on you all

that the world most values. He gave you a beautiful body and a beautiful

mind. Yet your days were as a “tale that is told,” and the only earthly

remains of your beauty and greatness are a few ashes in the rose garden

at Cooch Behar.

My father named this child of promise Raj Rajendra (King of kings), but

he was always called Rajey. His birth was celebrated with great public

rejoicings both at Calcutta and Cooch Behar. On the seventeenth day after

the birth, we gave an evening party, when presents were bestowed on the

lucky baby, and the whole of Woodlands was illuminated. On another day

was the children’s festival, when all sorts of pretty things were given

to the little visitors, and, in fact, for some time we lived in a perfect

whirl of excitement and congratulations.

“Rajey,” as we called him, was a perfectly behaved baby, who hardly ever

cried, and who was so fair that he was nick-named “the English baby.” My

husband allowed me to nurse him myself, a privilege not often permitted

to Royal mothers.

Every one adored Rajey. Dear old Father Lafont, one of the Jesuit Fathers

in Calcutta, always alluded to him as “my boy.” We went to Cooch Behar

for the naming ceremony, and when I arrived there I found, as I had

anticipated, that public feeling had completely changed, and I, as the

mother of a Prince, was popular, both in palace and State. There were

many palace rules to be followed in regard to the heir; one was that the

milk had to be well guarded, and when the cow was milked sentries stood

all round her. Some of my happiest days were spent at Simla, and Rajey

used often to go and see my father, who had a house there. My youngest

brother was only six months older than my boy, so the children were more

like playmates than uncle and nephew. Rajey had the simplest upbringing.

His rank was never put forward, for it was my husband’s wish that his

son should be brought up as simply as possible.

On the 31st October, 1883, the Maharajah completed his 21st year, and

was installed as reigning ruler on the 8th of November by Sir Rivers

Thomson, the Lieutenant-Governor, who made over to him the reins of

government. Rajey and his father looked splendid together, and every one

congratulated me on having such a handsome husband and such a beautiful

son. After a few days in Cooch Behar we returned to Calcutta.

My father had been ailing for a few months; but we little thought that

the end of his journey in this world was so near. He had a fine figure,

but was much reduced by December, 1883. Still we did not think it

possible he would leave us. Nothing I could write would give my readers

an idea of how happy our childhood had been. Our home had been for us

an abode of “sweetness and light”; and now it was to be shattered by

sorrow. To all families such grief must come. To ours, always so united,

the shadow of death seemed unthinkable. Yet my father’s call had come.

On the 1st of January, 1884, early in the morning he expressed a wish

to consecrate the new sanctuary in the grounds of Lily Cottage. His

physicians and all his relations and followers tried to dissuade him,

but he would not listen to them. Though exhausted and very ill, he

was carried down to the sanctuary, where he offered his last and most

impressive prayers.

On the following Tuesday, the 18th January, just before 10 a.m. my father

breathed his last. No one who witnessed it will ever forget the scene at

Lily Cottage that morning. The house, the compound, the roads were full

of people. The weeping of my mother and grandmother was heartrending. In

the first bitterness of my grief I felt that I could never know happiness

again. My father’s missionaries and followers were like sheep without

a shepherd. With him the brightness and joy of our days were gone. My

mother gave up everything in the way of comfort. She wore coarse saris,

discarded her soft bed and slept on a hard, wooden bedstead. Only the

cheapest things were to be seen in her room. But many will have read

about this in the Dowager Lady Dufferin’s book. Her Excellency was a kind

friend to my mother.

My father’s ashes rest in a mausoleum built in front of the new

sanctuary. The ashes of my mother’s body are near his, and close to them

the ashes of my brother, his wife and their baby boy, and next to them my

third brother, Profulla. It is a peaceful spot, this tomb-house in the

garden, and these words of my father are inscribed on his mausoleum:

“Long since has this little bird ‘I’ soared away from the

Sanctuary, I know not where, never to return again.

Peace! Peace! Peace!”

After we lost my father we heard the most wonderful singing in the hush

of the hour before twilight; and we could hardly believe that the

rapturous melody which thrilled our souls and seemed to bring heaven

quite near to us could come from the throat of a bird.

Another strange thing happened after the tombstone had been placed

over my father’s grave. One day my mother noticed that a tiny plant

was growing between the crevices in the ground, and she allowed it to

remain. Gradually this plant became a flowering tree, with rich clusters

of bloom. There it blossomed season after season; but when my mother’s

gravestone was being placed, the tree was cut down by a mistake of the

masons, and it never grew again. I often think of that wonderful growth.

It seemed like a bright message of hope from him whose departure had cast

so deep a shadow on all our lives.