XIV.

_Among the Houyhnhnmns._

Jodhpur differs from the other States of Rajputana in that its Royalty

are peculiarly accessible to an inquiring public. There are wanderers,

the desire of whose life it is “to see Nabobs,” which is the

Globe-trotter’s title for any one in unusually clean clothes, or an Oudh

Taluqdar in gala dress. Men asked in Jodhpur whether the Englishman

would like to see His Highness. The Englishman had a great desire to do

so, if His Highness would be in no way inconvenienced. Then they

scoffed:--“Oh, he won’t _durbar_ you, you needn’t flatter yourself. If

he’s in the humour he’ll receive you like an English country-gentleman.”

How in the world could the owner of such a place as Jodhpur Palace be in

any way like an English country-gentleman? The Englishman had not long

to wait in doubt. His Highness intimated his readiness to see the

Englishman between eight and nine in the morning at the Raika-Bagh. The

Raika-Bagh is not a Palace, for the lower storey and all the detached

buildings round it are filled with horses. Nor can it in any way be

called a stable, because the upper storey contains sumptuous apartments

full of all manner of valuables both of the East and the West. Nor is it

in any sense a pleasure-garden, for it stands on soft white sand, close

to a multitude of litter and sand training tracks, and is devoid of

trees for the most part. Therefore the Raika-Bagh is simply the

Raika-Bagh and nothing else. It is now the chosen residence of the

Maharaja who loves to live among his four hundred or more horses. All

Jodhpur is horse-mad by the way, and it behoves anyone who wishes to be

anyone, to keep his own race-course. The Englishman went to the

Raika-Bagh, which stands half a mile or so from the city, and passing

through a long room filled with saddles by the dozen, bridles by the

score, and bits by the hundred, was aware of a very small and lively

little cherub on the roof of a garden-house. He was carefully muffled,

for the morning was chill. “Good morning,” he cried cheerfully in

English, waving a mittened hand. “Are you going to see my faver and the

horses?” It was the Maharaj Kanwar, the Crown Prince, the apple of the

Maharaja’s eye, and one of the quaintest little bodies that ever set an

Englishman disrespectfully laughing. He studies English daily with one

of the English officials of the State, and stands a very good chance of

being thoroughly spoiled, for he is a general pet. Also, as befits his

dignity, he has his own carriage or carriages, his own twelve-hand

stable, his own house and retinue, and everything handsome about him.

A few steps further on, in a little enclosure in front of a small

two-storeyed white bungalow, sat His Highness the Maharaja, deep in

discussion with the State Engineer. He wore an English ulster, and

within ten paces of him was the first of a long range of stalls. There

was an informality of procedure about Jodhpur which, after the strained

etiquette of other States, was very refreshing. The State Engineer, who

has a growing line to attend to, cantered away, and His Highness after a

few introductory words, knowing what the Englishman would be after,

said:--“Come along, and look at the horses.” Other formality there was

absolutely none. Even the indispensable knot of hangers-on stood at a

distance, and behind a paling, in this most rustic country residence. A

well-bred fox-terrier took command of the proceedings, after the manner

of dogs all the world over, and the Maharaja led to the horse-boxes. But

a man turned up, bending under the weight of much bacon. “Oh! here’s

the pig I shot for Udaipur last night. You see that is the best piece.

It’s pickled, and that’s what makes it yellow to look at.” He patted the

great side that was held up. “There will be a camel sowar to meet it

half way to Udaipur; and I hope Udaipur will be pleased with it. It was

a very big pig.” “And where did you shoot it, Maharaja Sahib?” “Here,”

said His Highness, smiting himself high up under the armpit. “Where else

would you have it?” Certainly this descendant of Raja Maun was more like

an English country-gentleman than the Englishman in his ignorance had

deemed possible. He led on from horse-box to horse-box, the terrier at

his heels, pointing out each horse of note; and Jodhpur has many.

“There’s _Raja_, twice winner of the Civil Service Cup.” The Englishman

looked reverently, and _Raja_ rewarded his curiosity with a vicious

snap, for he was being dressed over, and his temper was out of joint.

Close to him stood _Autocrat_, the grey with the nutmeg marks on the

off-shoulder, a picture of a horse, also disturbed in his mind. Next to

him was a chestnut Arab, a hopeless cripple, for one of his knees had

been smashed and the leg was doubled up under him. It was _Turquoise_,

who, six or eight years ago, rewarded good feeding by getting away from

his _sais_, falling down and ruining himself, but who, none the less,

has lived an honoured pensioner on the Maharaja’s bounty ever since. No

horses are shot in the Jodhpur stables, and when one dies--they have

lost not more than twenty-five in six years--his funeral is an event. He

is wrapped in a white sheet which is strewn with flowers, and, amid the

weeping of the _saises_, is borne away to the burial ground.

After doing the honours for nearly half an hour the Maharaja departed,

and as the Englishman had not seen more than forty horses, he felt

justified in demanding more. And he got them. _Eclipse_ and _Young

Revenge_ were out down-country, but _Sherwood_, at the stud, _Shere

Ali_, _Conqueror_, _Tynedale_, _Sherwood II._, a maiden of Abdul

Rahman’s, and many others of note, were in, and were brought out. Among

the veterans, a wrathful, rampant, red horse still, came _Brian Boru_,

whose name has been written large in the chronicles of the Indian turf,

jerking his _sais_ across the road. His near fore is altogether gone,

but as a pensioner he condescends to go in harness, and is then said to

be a “handful.” He certainly looks it.

At the two hundred and fifty-seventh horse, and perhaps the twentieth

block of stables, the Englishman’s brain began to reel, and he demanded

rest and information on a certain point. He had gone into some fifty

stalls, and looked into all the rest, and in the looking had searchingly

sniffed. But, as truly as he was then standing far below _Brian Boru’s_

bony withers, never the ghost of a stench had polluted the keen morning

air. This City of the Houyhnhnmns was specklessly clean--cleaner than

any stable, racing or private, that he had been into. How was it done?

The pure white sand accounted for a good deal, and the rest was

explained by one of the Masters of Horse:--“Each horse has one _sais_ at

least--old _Ringwood_ he had four--and we make ’em work. If we didn’t

we’d be mucked up to the horses’ bellies in no time. Everything is

cleaned off at once; and whenever the sand’s tainted it’s renewed.

There’s quite enough sand you see hereabouts. Of course we can’t keep

their coats so good as in other stables, by reason of the rolling; but

we can keep ’em pretty clean.”

To the eye of one who knew less than nothing about horse-flesh, this

immaculate purity was very striking, and quite as impressive was the

condition of the horses, which was English--quite English. Naturally,

none of them were in any sort of training beyond daily exercise, but

they were fit and in such thoroughly good fettle. Many of them were out

on the various tracks, and many were coming in. Roughly, two hundred go

out of a morning, and it is to be feared, learn from the heavy going of

the Jodhpur courses, how to hang in their stride. This is a matter for

those who know, but it struck the Englishman that a good deal of the

unsatisfactory performances of the Jodhpur stables might be accounted

for by their having lost the clean stride on the sand, and having

to pick it up gradually on the less holding down-country

courses--unfortunately when they were _not_ doing training gallops, but

the real thing. This small theory is given for instant contradiction by

those who understand.

It was pleasant to sit down and watch the rush of the horses through the

great opening--gates are not affected--going on to the country-side

where they take the air. Here a boisterous, unschooled Arab shot out

across the road and cried “Ha! Ha!” in the scriptural manner, before

trying to rid himself of the grinning black imp on his back. Behind him

a Cabuli--surely all Cabulis must have been born with Pelhams in their

mouths--bored sulkily across the road, or threw himself across the path

of a tall, mild-eyed Kurnal-bred youngster, whose cocked ears and

swinging head showed that, though he was so sedate, he was thoroughly

taking in his surroundings, and would very much like to know if there

were anybody better than himself on the course that morning. Impetuous

as a school-boy and irresponsible as a monkey, one of the Prince’s polo

ponies, not above racing in his own set, would answer the query by

rioting past the pupil of Parrott, the monogram on his body-cloth

flapping free in the wind, and his head and hogged tail in the elements

as Uncle Remus hath it. The youngster would swing himself round, and

polka-mazurka for a few paces, till his attention would be caught by

some dainty Child of the Desert, fresh from the Bombay stables, sweating

at every sound, backing and filling like a rudderless ship. Then,

thanking his stars that he was wiser than some people, number 177 would

lob on to the track and settle down to his spin like the gentleman he

was. Elsewhere, the eye fell upon a cloud of nameless ones, purchases

from Abdul Rahman, whose worth will be proved next hot weather, when

they are seriously taken in hand--skirmishing over the face of the land

and enjoying themselves immensely. High above everything else, like a

collier among barges, screaming shrilly, a black, flamboyant Marwari

stallion with a crest like the crest of a barb, barrel-bellied,

goose-rumped and river-maned, pranced through the press, while the

slow-pacing waler carriage-horses eyed him with deep disfavour, and the

Maharaj Kanwar’s tiny mount capered under his pink, roman nose, kicking

up as much dust as the _Foxhall_ colt who had got on to a lovely patch

of sand and was dancing a saraband in it. In and out of the tangle,

going down to or coming back from the courses, ran, shuffled, rocketed,

plunged, sulked or stampeded countless horses of all kinds, shapes and

descriptions--so that the eye at last failed to see what they were, and

only retained a general impression of a whirl of bays, greys, iron

greys, and chestnuts with white stockings, some as good as could be

desired, others average, but not one distinctly bad.

“We have no downright bad ’uns in this stable. What’s the use?” said the

Master of Horse calmly. “They are all good beasts and, one with another,

must cost more than a thousand each. This year’s new ones bought from

Bombay and the pick of our own studs, are a hundred strong about. May be

more. Yes, they look all right enough; but you can never know what they

are going to turn out. Live-stock is very uncertain.” “And how are the

stables managed: how do you make room for the fresh stock?” “Something

this way. Here are all the new ones and Parrott’s lot, and the English

colts that Maharaja Pertab Singh brought out with him from Home.

_Winterlake_ out o’ _Queen’s Consort_, that chestnut with the two white

stockings you’re looking at now. Well, next hot weather we shall see

what they’re made of and which is who. There’s so many that the trainer

hardly knows ’em one from another till they begin to be a good deal

forward. Those that haven’t got the pace, or that the Maharaja don’t

fancy, they’re taken out and sold for what they’ll bring. The man who

takes the horses out has a good job of it. He comes back and says:--‘I

sold such and such for so much, and here’s the money!’ That’s all. Well,

our rejections are worth having. They have taken prizes at the Poona

Horse Show. See for yourself. Is there one of those there that you

wouldn’t be glad to take for a hack, and look well after too? Only

they’re no use to us, and so out they go by the score. We’ve got sixty

riding-boys, perhaps more, and they’ve got their work cut out to keep

them all going. What you’ve seen are only the stables. We’ve got one

stud at Bellara, eighty miles out, and they come in sometimes in droves

of three and four hundred from the stud. They raise Marwaris there too,

but that’s entirely under native management. We’ve got nothing to do

with that. The natives reckon a Marwari the best country-bred you can

lay hands on; and some of them are beauties! Crests on ’em like the top

of a wave. Well there’s that stud, and another stud and, reckoning one

with another, I should say the Maharaja has nearer twelve hundred than a

thousand horses of his own. For this place here, two wagon-loads of

grass come in every day from Marwar Junction. Lord knows how many

saddles and bridles we’ve got. I never counted. I suppose we’ve about

forty carriages, not counting the ones that get shabby and are stacked

in places in the city, as I suppose you’ve seen. We take ’em out in the

morning, a regular string all together, brakes and all; but the

prettiest turn-out we ever turned out was Lady Dufferin’s pony

four-in-hand. Walers--thirteen-two the wheelers I think, and

thirteen-one the leaders. They took prizes at Poona. That _was_ a pretty

turn-out. The prettiest in India. Lady Dufferin, she drove it when the

Viceroy was down here last year. There are bicycles and tricycles in the

carriage department too. I don’t know how many, but when the Viceroy’s

camp was held, there was about one a-piece for the gentlemen, with

remounts. They’re somewhere about the place now, if you want to see

them. How do we manage to keep the horses so quiet? You’ll find some o’

the youngsters play the goat a good deal when they come out o’ stable,

but, as you say, there’s no vice generally. It’s this way. We don’t

allow any curry-combs. If we did, the _saises_ would be wearing out

their brushes on the combs. It’s all elbow grease here. They’ve got to

go over the horses with their hands. They must handle ’em, and a native

he’s afraid of a horse. Now an English groom, when the horse is doing

the fool, clips him over the head with a curry-comb, or punches him in

the belly; and that hurts the horse’s feelings. A native, he just stands

back till the trouble is over. He _must_ handle the horse or he’d get

into trouble for not dressing him, so it comes to all handling and no

licking, and that’s why you won’t get hold of a really vicious brute in

these stables. Old _Ringwood_ he had four _saises_, and he wanted ’em

every one, but the other horses haven’t more than one _sais_ a-piece.

The Maharaja he keeps fourteen or fifteen horses for his own riding. Not

that he cares to ride now, but he likes to have his horses; and no one

else can touch ’em. Then there’s the horse that he mounts his visitors

on, when they come for pig-sticking and such like, and then there’s a

lot of horses that go to Maharaja Pertab Singh’s new cavalry regiment.

So you see a horse can go through all three degrees sometimes before he

gets sold, and be a good horse at the end of it. And I think that’s

about all!”

A cloud of youngsters, sweating freely and ready for any mischief, shot

past on their way to breakfast, and the conversation ended in a cloud of

sand and the drumming of hurrying hooves.

In the Raika-Bagh are more racing cups than this memory holds the names

of. Chiefest of all was the Delhi Assemblage Cup--the Imperial Vase, of

solid gold, won by _Crown Prince_. The other pieces of plate were not so

imposing. But of all the Crown Jewels, the most valuable appeared at the

end of the inspection. It was the small Maharaj Kanwar lolling in state

in a huge barouche--his toes were at least two feet off the floor--that

was taking him from his morning drive. “Have you seen _my_ horses?” said

the Maharaj Kanwar. The four twelve-hand ponies had been duly looked

over, and the future ruler of Jodhpur departed satisfied.