ANOTHER BLOW
A few days after my husband had passed away news of Rajey’s succession
to the Gadi of Cooch Behar arrived from the Government of India. I was
seated on the landing at the Porchester Gate house when my boy came
downstairs, knelt by me, clasped his hands on my knee and sobbed. Perhaps
he felt his father’s loss most at that moment. We had a service in the
evening, conducted by my cousin, the Rev. P. L. Sen, at which Rajey’s
short prayer was most impressive.
He had all his father’s effects sealed and brought over to Cooch Behar,
and he carried out his father’s “will” to the letter.
When Rajey came out to India one of his younger aunts said to him: “You
have succeeded your father and you will be like him.”
“Like him,” was the quick reply, “that is impossible, I can never dare
hope to be like my father.”
Rajey’s attitude towards me in my widowhood was one of absolute devotion.
He referred to me in everything, although he treated me like a child
and took great care of me. He would not allow any alterations to be made
in his father’s household, and he always answered when he was taxed with
keeping too large a staff, “I cannot dismiss any of them, they were with
my father.”
His budget was kept unchanged, as he often said he would not live to be
thirty-two years of age. I tried all I could to laugh him out of this
strange idea, but it was to no purpose. Rajey’s belief was founded on
his horoscope, which ceased to say anything after thirty-two years.
Several fortune-tellers told him the same thing, that he had not a long
life written on his hand. I asked a woman palmist to read Rajey’s hand
and tell me when he would get married. She said: “He has no marriage
line on his hand.” At Dehra Dun a fortune-teller said the same thing,
and an English clairvoyant also foretold his fate at a garden party at
Calcutta. I do not think my son allowed his mind to be influenced by
these predictions. His melancholy presentiment was due to his ill-health,
for I know that he suffered more than he allowed any one to guess.
From the moment of his accession Rajey tried to do his best for Cooch
Behar. One of his first acts was to intimate that the Dewan’s services
were no longer required. “He was never a true friend to my father,” was
his only comment when the overjoyed natives of Cooch Behar called down
blessings on his head for this display of authority.
Rajey also showed the priests that he possessed decided opinions and
meant to retain these opinions even in the face of custom and tradition.
Before the installation of a Maharajah, it was usual for the priests to
perform a Hindu ceremony known as the _Abhishek_. Rajey declared the
_Abhishek_ should not take place. “I do not recognise caste,” he said.
“But it must be done,” declared the State officials. “Who comes next to
the priest in my household?” he asked. “Your mother,” was the reply.
“Then my mother shall act as my priest,” he answered. I did the priest’s
work, for my son would not hear of any one else assisting him.
There was a complete religious ceremony according to the tenets of the
New Dispensation at the Installation, and I shall never forget how
splendidly Rajey behaved at his Durbar when the Revenue was brought in,
and he was acclaimed Maharajah by his subjects. As he sat on his throne,
he received symbolic offerings of betel leaf, attar, and flowers. “Take
them to my mother,” he commanded, and two A.D.C.s brought to me my son’s
tribute.
At the auspicious hour I was waiting on the balcony with other zenana
ladies to see the State procession pass. The elephants were in their
gala trappings. The strains of our National Anthem fell on my ears. The
troops were in brave array. Suddenly a tall young figure, gorgeous in
Raj costume, fell at my feet and paid me homage. It was Rajey! He had
actually thought of me in the supreme moment of his life. The grandeur
and pageantry were all forgotten. I was the mother whom he delighted to
honour, that was the one idea in his mind.
At his second Durbar, while he was dressing, he suddenly looked very
grave and said: “This is my last Durbar,” and so it proved to be.
I like to recall how my son respected my prejudices. Once, when my
husband ruled, I heard that there was a vulgar show at one of the Hindu
festivals. I spoke to the Maharajah about it, and he gave orders it
should be stopped. Years after Rajey found that the show was again going
on, and he was very indignant. I heard that he expressed a wish that “Her
Highness’s orders should be carried out.”
Rajey had no favourites and always sought to do justice. Quiet and
dignified, he spoke little and gave few commands, yet all his subjects
had the deepest respect for him and tried to avoid his displeasure.
Though he was particular about Court pageantry and dress yet his tastes
were simple. How thoughtful he was, how loving, how devoted, and yet
there was always something sad about him. He seemed more like a prince
out of some old legend than a modern young ruler.
Once I was rather annoyed with an Englishman, and remarked to Rajey: “I
don’t think I can ever forgive him; he is really unpardonable.” Rajey
looked quite sad, and said: “Oh, mother, I am sure you don’t mean it,
you don’t think it impossible to forgive any one.”
I was never relegated to the position of Dowager, but kept up the same
state as I had done during his father’s lifetime. Rajey was influenced
by the advice of Lord Carmichael, who had always been our best friend.
“He is a godsend,” declared Rajey, and I certainly can never be grateful
enough for the help and sympathy which Lord Carmichael always gave to me
and mine.
I felt disappointed that Rajey was not given a decoration at the Durbar.
Both he and my brother-in-law, the late Maharajah of Mourbhanj, were
omitted, which I think was surprising as Rajey was the first ruler in
Bengal, and my brother-in-law was the first territorial ruler in Orissa.
If it had not been for the latter there would have been no pageant at
the show in Calcutta, and it was the pageant which made the show such a
success. Their Majesties said it was the best show in Bengal. And Rajey
deserved recognition if ever any young ruler did; if the Government had
troubled to look into the management of our State they would have found
no flaw in its administration. How can young rulers be expected to have
any heart to work if their efforts do not meet with encouragement?
Pretty’s wedding lightened a little of our sadness at this time. My
second girl was engaged to Lionel Mander, a young Englishman who appeared
devoted to her. She was just like an English girl, although at home she
lived as an Indian Princess. I gave my consent to the marriage, as I had
long ago determined to let each of my girls marry the man she loved, and
I quite realised that, owing to caste and creed, there would be many
difficulties in the way of marriage with any of our princes.
Rajey still seemed very ill and I felt very anxious about him. He seldom
complained, but the change in him was painfully apparent. I sometimes
begged him to marry, but his answer was always: “No,” and once he added:
“I have no marriage line on my hand.” “What nonsense, darling!” I said.
He smiled: “Where shall I put my wife?” “My rooms are quite wasted,
Rajey,” I answered. He replied: “Mother, your rooms will never be given
to another woman while I live. They are always yours, and if ever I
marry, I’ll build a new palace. Your rooms shall never be taken away.”
Rajey went down to Calcutta for a Masonic meeting, but developed ptomaine
poisoning and became dreadfully ill. I begged the doctor in attendance to
have a consultation, but was told: “Oh, he’ll be all right.”
I sent for Colonel Browne, but as Rajey had his family doctor (an
Englishman) with him, Colonel Browne could say little except that Rajey
had better stay in Calcutta as he was too weak to travel. The family
doctor, however, insisted on Rajey going to Cooch Behar. Though ill and
weak, he started on the trying journey. I was very worried about him,
and following him after a couple of days was told that my darling Rajey
was anxiously waiting to hear of my arrival. The poor A.D.C. did not know
for certain if I had left Calcutta and kept on sending messages to the
stations asking if I were coming.
The lives of rulers are in the hands of the doctors appointed by the
State. As Rajey was getting more and more ill every day, Jit and Victor
in despair besought Colonel Browne to see into things, as they declared
their brother’s life was in danger. It is strange that the doctors did
not think it necessary to have a consultation, but Jit insisted on it,
saying: “He is my brother and I shall have doctors from Calcutta.” Rajey
rallied and was able to entertain Lord and Lady Carmichael at our shoot
in April. They thought Rajey seemed in better health and spirits. After
our friends had left, Rajey asked what were my plans for the summer. “You
are going to England,” I said, “let me come with you.” That pleased him.
I went down to Calcutta a few days before he did. His officers told me
that the day he left Cooch Behar the expression on his face was solemn,
yet not sad, and that when the National Anthem was played at the station,
he stood with clasped hands and eyes bent down. Perhaps he heard the call
from above in the music.
Rajey and I, accompanied by his personal staff, arrived in England on the
1st June, 1913. It was a cold morning, and Rajey looked very pale as he
entered the special train at Dover, where we were met by my son-in-law,
Mr. Ghosal. At the station we found my three girls and a few friends. All
thought that Rajey was looking very ill, although they did not say so at
the time.
Rajey went to the Curzon Hotel with his staff and I to the Cadogan Hotel,
where I stayed with Girlie and Baby for a few weeks. I went to see Rajey
almost every day. I was much distressed to find him on the ground floor,
and near the telephone, which rang from morning to night. I seldom
got news of him. I do not know whom to blame for this, but it made me
miserable at the time.
I suppose Rajey was taken to the Derby to brighten him up. It was a cold
day and raining. The servants were so careless as to forget to take a
great-coat or any wraps, and there he caught a chill and high fever set
in. My third brother, who was Rajey’s secretary, was anxious to take him
away to 3, Palace Court. He was removed there, and the change made him a
little better. It was a nice house and Rajey was very pleased with his
rooms; but the noise was too trying, as the traffic was constant. To the
disappointment of all, Rajey’s health did not improve.
Dr. Risien-Russell, who had been called in, begged Rajey to go to a
nursing home; he was wonderfully kind to my boy, and Rajey went to a
nursing home, where he stayed for a fortnight.
I spoke to him about taking a country house. “My days are numbered,” he
answered. “I know my time has come. Do you remember, mother dear, how all
the fortune-tellers have said I shall not live to be thirty-two?”
Rajey returned to 3, Palace Court from Ascot. This was the beginning of
the end. Something in his face forbade me to hope, but I tried to be
brave and not let him know how much I suffered. He often had pain which
the worn-out frame could hardly endure, and the noise of the traffic
prevented much rest when the paroxysms had passed.
He was getting thinner and thinner, and I felt that the case was getting
more serious. Still I could not give up hope. One day when he was very
ill and could hardly walk, my younger brother helped him to sit down;
Rajey put his hand on his head and said: “God bless you, you are a good
boy.” Another evening when he was very weak, and they feared that he was
sinking, he called this brother of mine. “Bodey, sit down by me; I shall
soon be starting on the last long journey.”
He sometimes said: “Why does any one fear to die? I am not a bit afraid
to go.” My Rajey was quite ready for the long journey to the unknown
country, where he was going to meet the father he loved so dearly. Once I
asked him: “Rajey, don’t you wish to live?” He answered: “Mother, I don’t
wish to die, but if my call has come, if God has sent for me, I shall go,
and if I am to go, don’t say it is an untimely death. I may be young,
but if God sends for me you must believe, mother, that it is a timely
death.” Another day he said: “I have only one wish, but I don’t know
whether it will be fulfilled; if only I could die in Cooch Behar.”
All sorts of kind messages were sent by our many friends. “Rajey is to
live and take care of you,” Lady Minto told me.
On the 14th August Rajey was removed to Cromer. It was the end of his
sad pilgrimage. As he was lifted out of bed he remarked to his head
chauffeur: “Davison, you’re taking me away to die.” I hid myself in my
misery, and as I looked from an upper window I saw Rajey put into the
ambulance. I had been asked to go, but I could not as my eyes were too
red and I could not hide my feelings. I followed him to Cromer and stayed
at the hotel. I used to go to Rajey’s house, which was nice and clean and
had a pretty little garden. To my eyes Rajey did not look any better, but
the doctors thought he was getting on nicely. He had nurses who were good
to him, and I shall always be grateful to them.
Just before this Jit had come over from India, as he was going to marry
the daughter of the first Hindu Maharajah, the Gaikwar of Baroda. They
had been fond of each other for some years, but the Princess’s parents
were against the marriage because we were Brahmos and they were Hindus.
The Princess came with her parents over to Europe, and Jit followed. It
was a most romantic story, as the young couple had seen very little of
each other. Yet their love was so strong and true that they promised each
other they would marry no one else.
On the 26th August Jit and Indira were married. The ceremonies, civil and
religious, took place at the Buckingham Palace Hotel and the Registrar’s
office. I could not help acknowledging the truth of my father’s words
that the hand of God is always manifest. In this seemingly impossible
union, beset throughout with opposition, I again saw the triumph of
the New Dispensation, for my daughter-in-law gave up riches and caste
to follow her husband, for love of him. Indira is very clever and very
pretty. She knows several languages and has travelled a great deal; for
years I had been wanting her to be my daughter-in-law, and I was as fond
of her as of my own daughters.
I motored down to Cromer with a friend of mine, Miss Scott, and on our
return, the doctor who was attending Rajey gave me hopeful news. He said
Rajey was enjoying his food, and in three weeks’ time would be out and
about. He assured me that we could return to India at the end of October.
He even added: “I don’t see why His Highness should not play polo again.”
On Friday I went to tea with Lady Carmichael’s brother, and after dinner
I went back again to ask how Rajey was. The doctor said he had a little
pain but not much, and he hoped he would be better the next morning.
Unfortunately Dr. Russell had to go to London for a few days. Rajey loved
him as a friend and had great faith in him.
Very early on Saturday morning a note came from the doctor asking me to
go over at once. Over my nightgown I tied on a sari and put over all a
thick coat, and in my slippers walked from the hotel to the house with
Miss Scott, who was an angel to me that day, and stayed with me in those
hours of anguish. I don’t remember how, but I managed to get to the door
of the house. In the hall, where I met the doctor, I fell. They helped me
into the drawing-room and gave me some tea which I could not drink. The
doctor asked me if I could be brave and quiet as my son wanted to see me.
When Rajey felt the pain, the only thing he had said was: “Nurse, I am
in great pain, I want my mother.” I kept back my tears and followed the
doctor upstairs to the room where Rajey was lying. Never shall I forget
my anguish when I looked at him. His lovely eyes were unchanged, but his
voice was very faint. “Mother,” he whispered, as I bent over him, “I am
sinking … I know it.”
I too knew it, and oh! how bitter was the knowledge! “Darling, darling,”
I said, hardly able to speak. He clasped me in his arms, and his face was
close to mine. “Raj Rajendra … you know, mother … even the King of kings
must die.” The long morning passed. I was with him the whole time. Once
he said: “I’m leaving you behind, mother.” He asked me about Jit and his
wife, and also if his youngest uncle were there.
Dr. Risien Russell and my daughter arrived late in the morning. Rajey was
pleased to see the doctor, and when he saw my youngest brother he caught
hold of his hand tight as if it were the last grip of his friendship. I
felt that if Dr. Russell had not been there, I should have had no friend
in my great trouble. He was a godsend to me.
On Sunday, at midnight, surrounded by those who were near and dear to
him, Rajey breathed his last. Thirty-one years ago this boy had brought
me every possible happiness. Now the world is dark and gloomy, and I do
not know how I shall travel the last part of my journey, so heavy-laden
am I with my grief. Rajey was not an ordinary son to me. His birth had
made every difference in my life. The Cooch Beharis would never have been
so friendly towards me had it not been for my Rajey’s coming; neither
could I have had so happy a home had Rajey not arrived. God gave him to
me and God has taken him away. He was the most precious gift I had; but
I know, I believe that I shall meet him again in the Land of Everlasting
Happiness. These pangs of my heart will cease when I am called to be with
my two precious ones.
Rajey was dressed in his chupkan and a sacred coloured shawl was thrown
over him. Wreaths of flowers were sent by kind friends, and his room
looked no longer like a mourning room but like a paradise.
My Rajey had put on the garment of immortality. His painful journey was
ended, and in the heaven whither his spirit had flown, he had already
been welcomed by his father, and together they await me there.
But what remained for me? I had to suffer the long days and the misery
of the hours when sleep forsook me and grief kept a watch by my pillow.
I had to live and think that to live is sometimes the worst torture that
can be inflicted on mankind. How often have I proved to myself the truth
of those lines:
“’Tis hard to smile when one would weep,
To speak when one would silent be:
To wake when one would wish to sleep,
And wake in agony.”
Now was repeated the sad ceremonial of two years ago, when my husband’s
body was committed to the flames. Only two years and the Ideal Ruler and
the Child of Promise had both vanished from our eyes. Surely we shall
never understand the workings of Divine Providence. All that our sad
souls can do is to trust in the infinite wisdom of God.
The blank his loss has left in my life will always be there, but he must
have gone to do a greater work, and the thought of this is the only thing
that gives me comfort.
Countless were the telegrams and letters of sympathy I received, and the
kindness of all my friends touched me very much. The late Duchess of
Connaught sent word from Bagshot: “We all deeply sympathise with you in
your great loss. We look back with pleasure to the time when Rajey used
to stay with us.”
We sent the ashes of our beloved back to Cooch Behar, and they rest
beside those of his father in the marble mausoleum which has been built
in the rose garden. This old garden is a peaceful spot. Long ago the
Maharajah learned his lessons in the ruined summer-house which still
stands on the borders of the lake, where in bygone times the Maharanis
used to bathe, and many legends are connected with the place. The scented
stillness is now unbroken save for the music of the birds, and the
mournful whisperings of the trees when the wind speaks to them of the
sleepers.
This rose garden is walled in on three sides, and from it can be seen
the snow hills far away. There are masses of roses and lilies, and it is
impossible to describe the fragrance of the flowers. Rajey and his father
are surrounded by Peace. Prayers are offered there every evening, and
sometimes the boys go there alone in the moonlight.
My love is so strong that I think Death has opened the door of Eternity
a little way for me, and my dear ones are nearer to me than ever. Long
ago I saw the roses of youth blooming at Belghuria. Later, the crimson
flowers of love were mine, but the sweetest of all flowers to me are
those of remembrance, which shed their petals year after year over the
ashes of my dear ones who wait for me on the radiant shore.
“Take them, O Grave! and let them be
Folded upon thy narrow shelves,
As garments of the soul laid by,
And precious only to ourselves.
“Take them, O great Eternity!
Our little life is but a gust
That bends the branches of thy tree
And trails its blossoms in the dust.”
[Illustration: _Photo: Lafayette._
MAHARANI SUNITY DEVEE.]