[1]Now Sir Walter Durnford, Provost of King’s College, Cambridge.
[1]Now Sir Walter Durnford, Provost of King’s College, Cambridge.
[1]Now Sir Walter Durnford, Provost of King’s College, Cambridge.
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 justunfolding 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, atwhich 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 enormousIndian 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’sfriendship 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 allowedto 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.”
“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 morespirituelleand 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 complaintmy 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 festivitiesand 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 Bexhillwe 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 wouldmake 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 hisjourney 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’ GreenCrematorium, 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 washushed 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 livewithout 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 lostall. 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.
Photo Th. Paar.“RAJEY.”Raj Rajendra, Narayan Bhup Bahadur, Maharajah of Cooch Behar, 1912.
Photo Th. Paar.
“RAJEY.”
Raj Rajendra, Narayan Bhup Bahadur, Maharajah of Cooch Behar, 1912.
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 mein 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 theAbhishek. Rajey declared theAbhishekshould 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 thesupreme 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, Iam 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 athome 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 abouthim, 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 heentered 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 ifGod 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 betterthe 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 roomlooked 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.”
“’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.”
“’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.”
“’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.