SAD DAYS
Life went on very much as usual year after year. My children, my duties,
and my social interests filled up most of my time. In 1906 I went to
England with Jit, Pretty, and Baby, and Rajey joined us later. We lived
near Englefield Green at Park Close, where there was a luxurious Roman
bath. One day after luncheon I had washed my hair and was sitting
drying it when the children came running up: H.R.H. the late Duchess of
Connaught and her daughter were in the drawing-room. It was just like her
gracious dear self to pay so delightful a surprise visit. I twisted up my
hair and ran down and expressed my delight and thanked the Duchess. It
was wonderful how she had remembered me and found my address. This kind
action perhaps was little to her but it meant much to me.
Our life was peaceful and untroubled, and I was glad to have my children
with me. The two girls were growing exceedingly pretty, and I was proud
of the admiration they received. I have often been playfully accused of
over-indulging my girls, but I was so proud of them that I loved to see
them wearing pretty things. Pretty was like a gorgeous damask rose just
unfolding to loveliness, but perfectly simple and sweet. Once in Calcutta
she was telephoning to Lord Bury, one of the A.D.C.’s, who asked who she
was. Pretty said: “Don’t you know me? I am Pretty.” Lord Bury, whose
manners are just what an A.D.C.’s should be, said: “Are you?” One evening
at Lily Cottage there was a “jatra.” I left Pretty on the terrace, and my
sister Bino said to me: “That daughter of yours is beautiful; she looks
as if a fairy had dropped her from heaven.” Pretty is musical and loving;
her weakness is she can never say “no.” When she has a grand wardrobe, if
any one comes and admires anything, she feels she must make a present of
it to her. If she goes to buy a dress, perhaps the dress is unbecoming to
her, yet she buys it because the dressmaker wishes her to have it. She
keeps her room beautifully tidy, but as far as her dresses go I do not
think any girl can be more careless. Once in Simla, when we were there
for a few weeks, Lady Minto asked us to a dinner and dance. Pretty was
expecting a new dress that evening; as it did not turn up, I told her
to put on one of her old ones. She was disappointed but obeyed me. Lady
Minto kindly sent her brougham to drive us to Government House, and when
we went in to the brilliantly lighted drawing-room an A.D.C. whom we knew
very well asked Pretty if she had not any other dress; it looked so old
and untidy.
During this second visit to England I was invited to a family luncheon at
Marlborough House, at which I was the only guest. It was a happy simple
meal. Some of the Royal children were at table, and I remember a dear
little boy who played with a book on the floor and ran up to his father
now and then to show him a picture. The baby came in with the sweets,
and the Princess and I talked about our children to our hearts’ content.
I shall always remember that happy scene of Royal home life: the Prince
of Wales all kindness, the Princess, the ideal young matron, handsome
in her fair healthy style, and happy in the possession of her beautiful
children. I only wish my country-women could have seen that picture of
happy home life, it would have impressed them deeply. We talked about
India and the Indians, and H.R.H. told me she liked everything Indian.
The Prince and Princess of Wales visited India in 1905. During their
visit my husband met with an accident at polo, and His Royal Highness
sent frequently to ask how he was.
The Princess went to a zenana party at Belvedere, which was attended by
ladies of the highest rank. Every one was charmed with their future Queen
and she presented us with medals in commemoration of her visit.
Their Royal Highnesses graciously honoured us with their company at
luncheon. We had only a few friends present, among them Sir Patrick
Playfair, who told me afterwards that the Prince of Wales said they had
enjoyed their lunch.
In honour of their visit there was an enormous Indian reception, at
which my daughter Baby, looking very pretty and graceful, presented
a bouquet: and at the laying of the Foundation Stone of the Victoria
Institute both Sir Louis Dane’s daughter and Baby presented bouquets
to Their Royal Highnesses. I remember an old English gentleman saying
afterwards to me: “What a beautiful little girl your Baby is, and how
beautifully she made her curtsy! I shall have to wait until she grows up
and marry her.”
The Cadet Corps was, of course, well to the front on the occasion of
Their Royal Highnesses’ visit, and I must say that for the first time I
was glad it was so ornamental. My boys looked very handsome on horseback
in their white achkans, blue belts, and turbans of white, blue, and gold.
The Maharajah, who was in the prime of life, now suddenly lost his
splendid health. He had become very thin, and began to look ill, which
alarmed us very much, and we decided to go to England and consult the
best specialists. In May, 1910, when we arrived in Bombay, the papers
were full of startling rumours about the health of King Edward; we
already knew from private sources that His Majesty was ill. Just as
we were going on board the steamer the news arrived that our beloved
Sovereign was dead. We were filled with dismay and sorrow, and I feared
the effect the blow would have upon my dear husband in his weak state.
The Maharajah had been so specially honoured with the late King’s
friendship that he lamented his Sovereign more as a beloved friend than
as a great King.
The harbour at Bombay looked most solemn and funereal with the flags
all half-mast high, and as I said farewell to those left behind I felt
terribly sad. The voyage was most gloomy, and I remember that every one
discussed the fateful Halley’s comet which it was supposed might destroy
the earth about the time we should be approaching the coast of Italy. I,
woman-like, was nervous at the prospect when I heard it so definitely
announced. “My goodness!” I gasped, “we shall all be burnt to death.” The
Maharajah turned to me with his loving smile: “What does it matter, my
dear? I’ll hold your little hand and we’ll die together.”
As we neared the end of the voyage, we discovered we should not be in
time to attend our Emperor’s funeral. The Maharajah felt this very much,
as he had been most anxious to be present and pay his last tribute
of respect to his beloved Sovereign. When we reached London how sad
everything was; although the funeral was over the shadow of loss was
still there. The sight of a nation’s grief is overpowering, especially
when, as in this case, it is truly sincere.
We stayed at the Hotel Cecil, and my husband received an unofficial
intimation that he might go to Windsor and see the last resting-place
of the late King. I cannot be thankful enough for the kind thought or
sufficiently grateful that we were allowed to pay this last tribute
of respect to our friend and Sovereign. My husband and I, my brother
Profulla, and one of the A.D.C.s went by motor. It was a sad journey. As
I saw the grey towers of Windsor Castle my mind went back to that bright
day, years ago, when I paid my first visit there. Time brings changes,
and I realised it then. We were received by a dignitary of the Church,
whose name escapes my memory, and he led the way to the Royal vault under
St. George’s Chapel. We descended a flight of stone steps. A door was
thrown open and we entered. King Edward’s coffin was lying on a raised
stone slab in the middle of the vault. A prie-dieu stood near it. I
knelt down and burying my face in my hands offered up a fervent prayer.
My husband knelt too, and as he prayed he wept. It was touching to see
the big man grieving for his King. We placed on the coffin the wreath of
orchids we had brought with us. I had written a few words in Bengali on
the card attached to it, which translated were:
“With tears of sorrow we present you this, our so Beloved
Peacemaker. Your work is accomplished.”
The journey back to town was sad. We hardly spoke, for our thoughts were
of our dear King in his last resting-place; never again should we see him.
A few weeks later, I received a message that Queen Alexandra wished to
see me at Buckingham Palace. The late Lady Suffield welcomed me, and
after a few minutes the Queen entered the room.
She was in deepest black, and I thought she looked more _spirituelle_ and
lovelier than ever in her mourning. The Queen kissed me and told me to
come and sit near her. I felt I could have fallen at her feet and wept
as I listened to her simple sad words about her great sorrow and her
love for her husband. There was no bitter rebellion against Fate in the
Queen’s words, but resignation, hope and perfect faith.
“I hardly realise even now that the King is gone, never to come back
again,” Her Majesty said to me, her large eyes full of tears. “At first
I felt as though any moment he might come into the room.” I could not
speak for tears. “I want you to accept this souvenir from me,” and, as
she spoke, the Queen handed me a brooch with the entwined cypher, A. and
E. “Keep it in memory of our friendship.” Her Majesty also gave me a ruby
scarf pin which had belonged to the late King and his cigarette case
for my dear husband. “He was so fond of the Maharajah, and I hope your
husband will wear the pin, the King often wore it,” Her Majesty told me.
I am sure Queen Alexandra would be pleased if she knew how much she is
beloved by the women of India. I often speak to our ladies about her.
We lost no time in consulting specialists about the Maharajah’s health.
Dr. Beasley Thorne advised a course of Nauheim treatment in a private
nursing home. Luckily the Home in Inverness Terrace was not one of the
abodes where sufferers experience discomfort as well as illness. The
only complaint my husband made was that he felt lonely. He wrote me
that unless I went and stayed with him he would not finish his course of
treatment, nor remain in the Home. So I went and stayed there until the
treatment was finished.
Dr. Beasley Thorne was like a father to my husband. Even when in great
pain my husband’s face brightened when he saw the doctor. The Maharajah
had perfect faith in this kind man, who was with him till the last. After
the treatment the Maharajah went to Whitby, but he had misgivings. “I
don’t feel really better, although the doctors say I am,” he wrote.
Troubles followed us in rapid succession. Baby had to undergo an
operation, I lost a very faithful Indian servant, and in October my
husband developed pneumonia. We were then living at 28, Grosvenor Street,
but afterwards we moved into 2, Porchester Gate. Rajey had arrived in
England, and his state of health worried me to distraction. I seemed
beset with difficulties and dangers, and did not know what to do for the
best.
In February, 1911, I took a small house, 6, Lancaster Gate, where I was
ill. As soon as I was able to move I returned to Porchester Gate. Pretty
was ill; in fact, it seemed to me that thick clouds were hanging over me
and made my path very hard to travel. How difficult it is to smile when
one’s heart is breaking!
My husband was ill during the Coronation festivities and I did not at
all want to go out to parties, but he would not bear of my staying away
and had beautiful dresses made for me. It was so hard to have to attend
grand State parties when I longed to be at home with him. On the day I
went to the Abbey I took my Jit with me, and as my husband was ill both
he and I hoped that little Jit would be given a seat near me. Instead of
this he was put right away somewhere and I had to sit with all the other
Maharajahs. Although this was a great honour, my heart was sad and I
longed to have the boy with me.
My husband rallied a little about this time and we went to Court, but
his altered appearance excited every one’s sympathy. Shortly afterwards
pneumonia again set in and he was dangerously ill.
As the Maharajah’s medical advisers were of opinion that change of air
might work wonders, we decided to go to Bexhill, where we rented a little
bungalow facing the sea. The day we left London was marked by an ominous
accident. As I waited on the landing, I heard a sudden fall. I rushed up
the stairs and found my husband sitting on a stair, he had been coming
down when he slipped, missing about five steps. There was a great mirror
at the end of the stairs. Had he gone through, the accident might have
been a fatal one. “An omen, an omen,” said our Indian servants to me.
“Why do you take His Highness to-day? it is an unlucky day.” It can
easily be understood what a shock I received from this mishap. When we
first went to Bexhill we were in great hopes that the change would do my
husband good. We went for one motor drive, but after that he looked worse
and did not care to leave his room. A new doctor was recommended by Dr.
Beasley Thorne, a Dr. Adamson, whom my husband appointed civil surgeon of
Cooch Behar. He was with us in the bungalow. I was frightened to see how
sure my husband felt he would never get well. He was quite prepared to
go, and his world seemed rapidly fading away from him. “Let us be happy
together. My journey is almost at an end. Why do you fear death?” were
remarks he often made at Bexhill.
As I saw him getting more and more ill I spoke to Dr. Thorne and sent a
cablegram for my eldest girl and youngest boy to come.
It was a gentle journey towards the Unknown, and the traveller, who had
to pass alone, was the least concerned. After hours of pain, my husband’s
greeting to my brother was: “Hallo, Nirmal, I don’t feel very bright
to-day.” At the answer: “Yes, sir, it’s been a brave fight,” my husband’s
face lit up; he loved to feel the victory lay with him.
Neither my children nor those with me realised my agony. They were losing
a father and a friend, but I was losing all that made the crown and glory
of life, the love of my girlhood, the beloved husband. They understood
nothing of this, but he did. I saw it when he looked at me, I felt it as
his hand clasped mine, but I knew he wished me to be brave and not hinder
his passing.
My sister’s son-in-law, Dr. Banerjee, was our family doctor. My husband
was very fond of him, and he nursed the Maharajah all through his
illness. His wife, my niece, had often cooked curries at Porchester Gate,
which my husband had greatly enjoyed.
My boys and my brother Saral and the staff nursed my husband day and
night, but it was of no avail. My youngest brother, who had just taken
his medical degree, and of whom my husband was very fond, also nursed
him. This pleased my dear husband.
One night he was very ill, and I said to my nephew, who was attending
him: “You are the one who must save him,” and he did give the Maharajah
something which kept him for a fortnight or more. Another night the
Maharajah talked so affectionately to Jit that the boy left the room
and had a good cry outside. On another occasion I went in and found my
husband with Rajey on one side and Dr. Beasley Thorne on the other.
Looking at me, he said: “I am most happy, and want nothing more.” He used
to listen for my footstep, and though in great pain and sickness his face
always beamed when I came into the room, but he could not bear to see
tears in my eyes. My children always said: “Mother, you must not shed
any tears before father.” It was very hard always to wear a smile when
all I longed to do was to fall on the floor and weep, but I had to look
cheerful and talk brightly.
He liked having my sister Sucharu near him, and when no one else could
persuade him Baby would make him drink barley water or take his food.
Once on seeing his father in pain, Rajey cried and said: “I shall not
come again, it is too painful to see father in such agony.” Perhaps these
young people realised then what the loss of their father would mean to
them, for his influence had dominated them when my affection had made me
weak, and I think he understood them better than I did.
The last words that the Maharajah wrote were on a slip of paper. They
were only two words: “Saral … household.” Most likely he wished this
brother to be always with us. Saral’s wife was very good to me.
We had a very good male nurse, Francis. I shall ever be grateful for
all his devotion to my husband. My eldest girl and my youngest boy, my
brother, and the late Dewan P. Ghose, who was personal assistant to the
Maharajah, arrived in Bexhill about a fortnight before the end. This
Dewan had been his personal assistant for years.
There was a big picture of my father in my husband’s bedroom at Bexhill,
and looking at this one day my husband said: “I am a real follower of
his.” Just a few days before he passed away he said to me: “Sunity, what
are your plans?” I said: “My plans are your plans. When you are better
we shall return home.” Gently he answered: “I know my plans and I would
like you to make your plans.” At this answer my heart sank. Once he
sent for the boys and spoke to them, saying his journey was finished,
and told them what he wished them to do. He looked round with such
loving eyes just before he breathed his last at all his children, his
brother-in-law, and staff; held my hands, calling me “poor girl”; and
after saying a prayer, with a smile he quietly passed away. There was no
mark of suffering on his face. Suddenly the notes of “The Dead March” of
the Rifle Brigade sounded close by. It was in the evening of the 18th
September, 1911, at seven, and the band had been playing, but when the
news reached them they ended with that sad tune.
I cannot remember much except the agony through which I passed. I heard
as one in a dream that messages of condolence had been received from
Queen Alexandra, King George and Queen Mary, and hosts of our friends
in England and India. But I was overwhelmed with grief. In spirit I
was trying to overtake my beloved upon his lonely journey. Naught else
troubled me.
I saw my husband lying in his coffin, and I bade him my last farewell
alone, before he was taken to London.
Profulla said the Maharajah’s funeral ought to be military, as he was a
Colonel, and not that of a Maharajah. He sent a message to the Government
and His Majesty ordered a grand military funeral. The Coldstream Guards
played the “Dead March” and the “Last Post,” and both at Bexhill and in
London, from Victoria Station to Golders’ Green Crematorium, people came
in throngs. Even the relations in India said H.H. could not have had a
grander or more impressive funeral. His Majesty was most gracious, and
for this kind act of his, one and all in Cooch Behar, family, friends,
and subjects, will be for ever grateful. The many flowers received with
the sympathy of friends, for which I regret to say it was impossible to
thank every one individually, were greatly appreciated by me in my hour
of darkness.
I remained with my grief at Bexhill, and the duty of committing his
father’s body to the flames fell upon Rajey. He walked to the head of the
coffin as it rested in the Crematorium and mastering his emotion with a
great effort, raised his hand: “In the name of God, Almighty Father, I
commit these last remains of my beloved father to Your keeping. That in
him which is immortal will always live, the mortal dies and perishes in
the flames. God, keep and bless him in Your holy care.”
The Rev. P. Sen conducted the last service, which I heard was most
impressive; and some of my English friends told me afterwards they had
never witnessed such a solemn and touching ceremony.
When the sad news of our great loss reached Cooch Behar a procession was
ordered in which officials and relatives walked barefooted to honour
the memory of the ruler. The State elephant, of which he had been so
fond, accompanied the mourners, and all the while tears rolled down the
animal’s cheeks, just as if he knew the beloved voice was hushed for
ever. The dumb beast’s sorrow touched all those who witnessed it, and I
always like to think that elephant by some wonderful instinct shared our
grief.
We left for India after a fortnight had elapsed, and what can I write
about the saddest of all our home-comings? There is nothing more
melancholy than the places which our loved ones have deserted and which
cry aloud in their desolation.
We had been so happy, I felt that even in Paradise no one could be
happier, and I had dreaded the thought of death. But timely or untimely
Death had come, and he did not heed the anguish of my heart, he did not
hear my cry, nor see my tears; he carried away my dear one and left me
behind; my happy days were gone, the future was dark and gloomy, the path
of life’s journey was thorny and hard. My children were still young, not
one of my sons was married, and they clung to me, afraid now that they
had lost their father they might lose their mother too. Almost every
minute they came into my room to see if I were alive. On my birthday they
gave me beautiful flowers, and I sat alone with them, perhaps longer
than the children liked, for suddenly Rajey came and called me: “Mother,
mother, are you there?”
Life was a blank, the world seemed empty, I felt as if I had no right to
be here, as if there was nothing left for me to do. My life, my light,
my strength, everything was gone. How could I live without him? Hand in
hand we had worked, we had travelled, and now I was left alone with my
children. They were loving and dutiful indeed. When I took off my bangles
and they saw me in widow’s dress they cried: “Mother, will you never wear
bracelets again; will you never wear these beautiful ear-rings?” “Yes,” I
said, “I will when I meet your father in the next world.” The boys missed
their father more than I can say; he had been more like a brother than a
father to them. He had played with them, sung with them, helped them as a
friend, and been devoted to them.
Widowhood in India is different from what it is in the West; it is a
far harder life. Caste, religion, and custom make it very hard and sad
for the widow, whether she be old or young. If a widow laughs loudly
or dresses in a way that could possibly be called gay, cruel remarks
are made on all sides, and if a Hindu widow gets at all a bad name
she suffers greatly at the hands of both her own people and her late
husband’s. But in spite of all this her undying love for her dead husband
brings her closer to the unknown world every hour and every day; through
suffering and darkness she knows she is drawing closer to her beloved.
My husband made my life like bright sunshine; there were no clouds, no
storms, and for the many dear friends I made in the West I shall ever
be grateful to him. His trust, his love, his admiration for me were
without compare. When I lost him I felt that I had lost all. Women of
all nations and all countries envied me once, but now I feel that I shall
have to travel alone for the last part of my journey. Once so high I held
my head, but now the blow of widowhood has bent it low.
For a few years I felt I ought not to appear before any one or do
anything, but my darling children would not have it so.
[Illustration: _Photo Th. Paar._
“RAJEY.”
Raj Rajendra, Narayan Bhup Bahadur, Maharajah of Cooch Behar, 1912.]