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transliterations).

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN INDIAN PRINCESS

    _Lafayette._]       [_Frontispiece._

SUNITY DEVEE, MAHARANI OF COOCH BEHAR, 1921.]

                            THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
                                  OF AN
                             INDIAN PRINCESS

                      BY SUNITY DEVEE, MAHARANI OF
                               COOCH BEHAR

                           WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

                                 LONDON
                    JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
                                  1921

                          _All rights reserved_

CONTENTS

    CHAPTER                                           PAGE

       I. MY CHILDHOOD                                   1

      II. MY FAMILY                                     20

     III. FESTIVALS AND FESTIVAL DAYS                   33

      IV. MY ROMANCE                                    42

       V. MY MARRIAGE                                   54

      VI. EARLY MARRIED DAYS                            68

     VII. LIFE AT COOCH BEHAR                           89

    VIII. MY FIRST VISIT TO ENGLAND                    103

      IX. ENGLISH SOCIETY                              123

       X. HAPPY DAYS IN INDIA                          141

      XI. EDUCATION OF THE BOYS                        158

     XII. SAD DAYS                                     182

    XIII. ANOTHER BLOW                                 199

     XIV. VICEROYS I HAVE KNOWN                        215

      XV. LATER YEARS                                  228

          INDEX                                        243

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

    SUNITY DEVEE, MAHARANI OF COOCH BEHAR    _Frontispiece_

    MY HUSBAND                            _Facing page_ 54

    “RAJEY”                                             90

    MAHARANI SUNITY DEVEE, 1887                        110

    FAMILY GROUP AT WOODLANDS                          140

    MY THREE YOUNGER SONS                              156

    “RAJEY” AS MAHARAJAH                               198

    MAHARANI SUNITY DEVEE                              214

    WOODLANDS                                          220

    THE MAHARANI AND HER GRANDDAUGHTER                 239

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN INDIAN PRINCESS

CHAPTER I

MY CHILDHOOD

I was born in 1864 at the old house known as “Sen’s House” which my
great-grandfather built at Coolootola, a part of Calcutta where many of
our family lived. My birth was always remembered in connection with a
storm which occurred when I was six days old, a most important time to a
Hindu baby, for then the Creator is supposed to visit the home, and write
upon its forehead the little one’s fate. Perhaps people will think the
stormy weather in the beginning signified a stormy future for me.

No girl could have been more fortunate in her parents than I. My father,
the great Keshub Chunder Sen, is considered one of the most remarkable
men India has ever produced, and my dear mother belonged to the best type
of Hindu woman. Gentle, loving, and self-denying, her whole life was
beautiful in its goodness and its simplicity.

The story of a great religious movement is not one which can be told at
length in a book of memories. The religion for which my father suffered
and which will be for ever connected with his name is the Brahmo or
Religion of the New Dispensation, a religion of tolerance and charity. To
quote my father’s words, “The New Dispensation in India neither shuts out
God’s light from the rest of the world, nor does it run counter to any
of those marvellous dispensations of His mercy which were made manifest
in ancient times. It simply shows a new interpretation of His eternal
goodness, an Indian version and application of His universal love.”

My readers do not perhaps quite know the meaning of Brahmo. A Brahmo is
a person who believes in Brahmoe (One God). There is a Hindu god called
Brahmuna, with four heads—Brahmoe is not that god. Some Western people
may think Brahmins are the same as Brahmos. Once I remember an English
lady saying to me: “I met some Brahmo ladies.…” I asked, “How did you
know they were Brahmos?” “Because they wore lace on their heads.” Others
have an idea that all advanced Indian ladies must be Brahmos.

If my readers by some good fortune have read ancient Indian history they
will know what the real Indian religion was. There was one God and no
belief in caste, in fact there was no such thing as caste. Caste meant
a different thing in those days. It referred to character and life. A
Brahmin lived a pure and holy life, and preached religion. Next to
the Brahmins were the Katnyas; they were rulers, fighting people; they
guarded their families, states, and countries. Then came the Sudhras, who
served the others. But now there are hundreds of different castes, which
makes people rather narrow-minded, for if one believes in caste one can
never believe in universal brotherhood.

From the days of his youth my father was earnest and devout. He must
have gone through much trouble of mind before he decided to fly in the
face of family tradition and take a step which meant partial separation
from his nearest and dearest. My mother was a member of a strict Hindu
family, and their marriage had been solemnised with Hindu rites; but
she did not fail him in the hour of trial. I have often heard my mother
talk of the difficulties of those days, before she left Coolootola
with my father. When he announced his approaching conversion, the “Sen
House” was plunged into a state of agitation, and my mother was by turns
entreated and threatened by angry and dismayed relatives. “Do not go
against our customs,” urged the purdah ladies. “You are one of us. Your
place is here. You must not renounce your caste. Imagine the results
of such a dreadful sin.” When thus reproached, the young girl dreaded
the horrors of the unknown. It may be that she wavered; but if so, it
was not for long; and it was arranged that she should go with my father
to be converted by the Maharshi D. Tagore. On the day fixed for their
departure a note came. My father had written simply, “I am waiting.”
Then my mother knew she must decide her future for good and all. All
the relations were screaming, crying, and threatening my mother, saying
that she would bring disgrace on the family by leaving the house, and
thus losing her caste. But it did not hinder her, because of those three
simple words—“I am waiting”—the call of Love. When she realised their
meaning, she threw off the fetters of the past and went forth to meet
her destiny. There was a round staircase used by the purdah ladies where
she knew my father awaited her. The trembling girl hurriedly traversed
corridors and verandahs until she reached it. Fearfully she descended
the dark steps, her heart beating with fright, until at last she saw my
father. He said quietly: “I want you to realise your position fully.
If you come with me, you give up caste, rank, money, and jewels. The
relations who love you will become estranged from you. The bread of
bitterness will be your portion. You will lose all except me. Am I worth
the sacrifice?”

My mother had had a most beautiful and wonderful vision, which is too
sacred for me to relate. This gave her strength and courage, she did not
hesitate but descended the steps and joined my father. It was a moment
too wonderful for words. They looked into each other’s eyes. He read
perfect faith and courage in hers. She saw in his a love which gave her
confidence to face the future. They passed down the corridor and found
themselves in the first courtyard opposite the great entrance, where the
durwans (gatekeepers) were standing on guard.

Twice my father ordered the durwans to open the door, but they did not
move. It was very still in the courtyard. My mother was frightened.
This was a strange adventure, and hitherto she had hardly seen a man
except her husband. A trembling, slim girl, she stood near my father
with her head-dress pulled quite low. Across the door there was a huge
iron bar, which was too heavy for one man to lift. My father, seeing
that the durwans would not open the door, went to lift the bar and did
so quite easily. Then a voice was heard speaking from the upper floor.
It was my father’s eldest brother. He had watched all that had happened,
and, seeing that my parents were determined, he decided to let them go.
“Let them pass, and open the gate,” he called out to the durwans. The
wondering durwans threw open the door, and my parents passed from the
shadows into the sunlight.

My father took my mother to the beautiful house of Maharshi Debendra
Nath Tagore. The household were all waiting to welcome them, though they
had great doubts whether my father would be able to bring my mother away
from such a strict Hindu family. The Maharshi introduced my mother to
his daughters as if she had been his own child. Although a rich man’s
daughter-in-law and a rich youth’s wife, my mother was wearing a simple
sari with hardly any jewels. She always spoke of the great kindness and
affection she received from this family, and she deeply revered the old
Maharshi. We have always felt that there is a great bond between our two
families.

My parents remained away for some time during which my father’s formal
conversion took place. After some months my grandmother and uncle begged
him to return, and gave him a small house near the big house. There my
parents lived until my father fell seriously ill, and his eldest brother
declared that, in spite of all difficulties, he must come back to the old
home. He came back, and after long suffering and much careful nursing
grew well again. My dear old grandmother and all my aunts and uncles were
very glad to have my father and mother back among them. A few months
later my eldest brother was born, and the Maharshi Debendra Nath Tagore
gave him the name Karuna.

The new arrangement was not without its trials. Our branch of the family
had lost caste, and we underwent all kinds of vexations in consequence.
One great trouble was with the servants. No Hindu would wait upon us, and
a procession of cooks who objected to “Christians” (any one who was not
a Hindu in those days was called a Christian) came and went. My father’s
happy nature enabled him, however, to rise above such discomforts, and,
as he was cheerfully seconded by my mother, caste soon had no terrors for
us.

Our days were full of interest, and some of my earliest recollections are
connected with the female education movement which my father started.
There was an establishment called the Asram where his followers from all
different classes lived in happy disregard of caste and class. This house
was quite close to Coolootola, and there I spent many happy days with my
sister-in-law, then Miss Kastogir, the ideal of my girlhood.

I remember another delightful house which a friend lent to my father
for his people. It was a beautiful place with two big buildings in its
grounds. In these houses the Asram people came and lived for months,
and we stayed there too. I have the happiest memories of this Belghuria
garden-house; it always seemed to me a Paradise on earth. I was a little
girl when I first went there, but I never smell a rose without recalling
the vanished perfume of the roses in that wonderful garden. There were
roses everywhere. They scattered my path with scented softness, and
turned their flushed or sweetly pale faces to meet my wondering eyes.
Roses of youth … the fairest. Are any others ever so treasured?

We were not allowed to pluck the fruit or flowers in the Belghuria
garden, and I remember seeing cards in my father’s clear handwriting
fixed on the trees, which forbade us to hurt the growing loveliness.

My father had indeed a striking personality: tall and broad-shouldered,
he gave one the impression of great strength. I always thought of him
as an immortal; his eyes were “homes of silent prayer.” Lord Dufferin
once remarked to me: “I did not know you were Mr. Sen’s daughter. I’ve
travelled far and seen many handsome men, but never one so handsome.”
Sir A. A. Chowdhuri’s father once said: “Mr. Keshub is no ordinary man,
as you can tell by the perfect shape of his feet and the pink sole.” And
my dear husband often said, “A sculptor would give anything to have your
father’s foot as a model.” The expression of his face, people said, was
like that of Buddha, calm and quiet. His voice was gentle, yet clear,
and even by a large crowd every word could be distinctly heard. He had
wavy hair and wonderfully white even teeth, and there was always a smile
on his face. My father was quite indifferent to caste, although the
Brahmo creed as first practised by Maharshi Debendra Nath Tagore and his
followers included it, and this caused a split between my father and his
old friend. They disagreed on this point, and finally my father left the
Maharshi Tagore, first because of the question of caste, and secondly,
because of the Maharshi’s jealousy of my father’s influence with his
followers. I remember hearing people talk of the powerful influence
of my father’s teachings. Even men with large families gave up their
occupations to follow him. They looked upon him as almost a divinity,
and I myself believe he was gifted with extraordinary powers, as the
following strange incident seems to prove.

In a house at Monghyr, a few hours’ journey from Calcutta, my father
lived at one time with his followers. One morning, after the usual
service was over, a gentleman who had been present waited hoping my
father would say he need not go to the office that day. As my father,
however, said nothing he left looking very sad. After some time my father
said to his followers: “You did not want Mr. ⸺ to go?”

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

“Do you want him to come back?”

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

My father smiled and asked for a khole (a sort of drum), and struck it
gently, calling the gentleman by name as he did so. It seems incredible,
but is nevertheless true, that the person thus summoned heard the call as
he stood under a tree by the roadside. “I hear him,” he cried, “I am to
return,” and to the great surprise of all he did return, and related how
he had heard his name called.

My father used to tell us stories from the Bible and other sacred books,
and I remember how much impressed we were with the story of the Ten
Virgins. He described it so well that we could see the whole thing, and I
remarked: “_We_ must be careful not to run out of oil or to fall asleep
when the bridegroom is coming.” He also told us many other stories, and
one was a particular favourite.

There was once a rich Maharajah who was very fond of mottoes and sayings,
and always rewarded handsomely any person who brought him a new one.

In a village near his palace lived four Brahmin brothers who were so poor
they often could not get their daily meal. One day they said to each
other: “Our Maharajah is generous, he richly rewards those who bring him
words of wisdom. Let us try and make some.” These Brahmin brothers were
not only poor but stupid, and could think of nothing. Although by the
next day they were not ready for the visit, they made up their minds to
go and see what they could do. On the way the eldest brother suddenly
stopped saying: “I have got it, I have got it. I am sure I shall receive
a handsome present.” The other three were very much excited and eagerly
asked what it was. “I saw a rat,” he said, “and I thought: ‘Silently
he picks a hole in the wall.’” The brothers thought this splendid and
looked forward to a great reward. A little further on the second brother
stopped, saying: “I have got one too.” “What is it?” they asked. “Bump,
bump, bump, he jumps.” “How did you think of it?” they asked. “Did you
not see a frog jumping from one side of the road to the other?” After a
while the third brother shouted: “Mine is the best.” “What is yours?”
they asked excitedly. “Hither and thither he looks.” “What does that
mean?” they inquired. “Did you not see a squirrel on the branch looking
here, there, and everywhere?” When the palace came in sight the youngest
brother was in tears; he could think of nothing. “You will all receive
your presents,” he said, “I must wait without for you.” But when they
arrived at the door and the kobal took their message to the Maharajah
the youngest brother’s face beamed and he followed the others into the
ruler’s presence.

Each had written his saying upon a piece of paper and it was placed
upon a tray. After a while the Maharajah said, “It grows late. Return
for your rewards to-morrow, when I shall have read your papers,” and
the brothers, bowing, retired. Towards midnight the Maharajah awoke and
bethought himself of the papers brought by the four poor brothers, and
of his promise to read them. He rose from his bed and went towards the
window, that looked out upon the terrace of the palace, with the papers
in his hand. Now it chanced that just at that moment the kobal (page-boy)
was under the window trying to make a hole through the wall through
which to enter and murder the Maharajah. Suddenly he heard the voice of
the Maharajah. “Silently he picks a hole in the wall.” Terrified the
kobal left the hole and hopped across the terrace. “Bump, bump, bump,
he jumps,” the Maharajah continued. The kobal stopped, looking this way
and that in his panic. “Hither and thither he looks,” the voice went on.
The trembling kobal tiptoed away, but the voice reading the youngest
brother’s paper followed him: “The kobal walks on the marble, thud,
thud, thud.” Convinced now that the Maharajah could see him and knew
everything, the wretched kobal fled. Next morning he went to one of the
officers of the palace, and falling at his feet confessed his intended
crime and told how the Maharajah had seen all he did. The officer at once
went to the Maharajah and told him the whole story. When the four poor
brothers arrived soon after at the palace they were amazed to receive as
a reward for their sayings, thousands and thousands of rupees, while the
youngest was given a house and provision for life, the Maharajah saying
he would ever be grateful to him for having saved his life.

Coolootola was the starting point for many of our religious excursions.
We always delighted in these journeys, as they meant “seeing things.” One
of the missionaries, Kaka Babu, who had charge of the money and arranged
all the details of our everyday life, took care of my eldest brother and
me. We travelled sometimes by train, and sometimes in a box-like horse
carriage, which was rather uncomfortable, yet I have gone from Agra to
Jaipur in it.

A certain visit we made to Etawah interested us very much. The house
intended for our use was not ready, and we were obliged to spend the
night in an old place which had once been a public building. My mother
could not sleep, for she had a feeling of horror although there seemed
at first nothing to alarm her. But before long she beheld a most awful
vision, which lasted the rest of the night. She saw in the huge hall
soldiers in red uniforms and Indians struggling together; great pools of
blood were on the floor, and women and children were weeping. At first
my mother thought it was only a dream; but when she opened her eyes she
saw it as vividly as when they were closed, and terrified she longed for
the dawn. At daybreak she told my father of the vision. He was surprised,
as were his followers; for years before during the Mutiny a massacre had
actually taken place in the hall. My father had not told my mother lest
she should be nervous; when she heard the story my mother insisted on
moving into another house, and we left then and there.

I remember a journey to Jubbalpore when I first realised the devotion of
Indian wives to their husbands. We drove to a little house built upon a
rock among the hills, about which there was this story:

“In bygone times a certain Maharajah was going to fight the Mohammedans,
and his wife, who loved him, wished to accompany him.

“It is impossible,” he said. “How can you go with me?” “I will not remain
alone in the palace,” she answered firmly. “But I am going to fight.” “No
matter, my place is by your side.” “You cannot come with me.”

The loving Maharani then said to her husband: “I came to this palace as
your wife, your Maharani. I shall not remain in the palace without you,
my lord, my husband, my Maharajah, not even for an hour. If I am not
allowed to go to the battlefield with you, I, your Maharani, will leave
the palace and go wherever you like to send me. If it is your fate to
return victorious, I shall return as your Maharani to the palace.”

The husband, although a commander and a ruler, spoke to her very gently
in a voice full of love and sympathy: “My beautiful little wife, where
will you go? How can I leave you in discomfort? You are my Maharani and
do not know the hardships of the world.”

“Oh,” she said, “my lord, do you think that I would be happy without you
in this place of luxury and wealth? No, my lord, let me go. You and I
will leave the palace together. You are going to fight for your country,
my brave and handsome young husband, and I, your little wife, will be
thinking of you and your love wherever I may be.”

The story goes that the Maharajah granted his wife’s request, and had
this little house built in one night on a single piece of rock among
the hills. There she anxiously awaited news of him. Alas! the enemy was
victorious and the Maharajah killed. Never would he return and take her
from that place of waiting, back to the palace where they had lived and
loved.

Then came the supreme act of devotion, the willing sacrifice. The widowed
Maharani offered herself, to the flames upon a funeral pyre near the
house on the rock, and I remember that, as darkness fell in that lonely
spot, I felt as if I were living in another world. My childish heart
vaguely wondered what that love could be which made people careless of
life. The future was then mercifully as obscure as the evening shadows.
I was to know later that the agony of the fire is nothing compared with
the fierce flames of aching remembrance. The pang of death is happiness
compared with the weary time of waiting to rejoin the beloved husband who
has gone before. The little house is still standing.

The childhood of an Indian girl of years ago may have some interest now,
and I must say that I do not admire the modern upbringing of children.
Our old system had many defects, but it had also many advantages, chiefly
the ideas of simplicity and duty which were primarily inculcated in the
little ones. Religion was never uninteresting to us and lessons were a
pleasure. I was the second of ten children, and named after Sunity, the
mother of Dhruba. I got up early and by nine o’clock my eldest brother,
“Dada,” and I were ready for school. I went to Bethune College and he to
a boys’ school. We came back at four. I had a second bath. My hair was
arranged and I had a meal of fruit and sweets. Then came the glorious
hour of fun and freedom when the innumerable children of “Sen’s House”
played together.

My mother always helped Dada and me prepare our lessons in both English
and Bengali, and we always prayed with her in a small room next to our
bedroom. There we were taught little mottoes: “Always speak the truth,”
“Respect and obey your parents.” Once I had a very high fever and my
mother told me not to go to school, but I loved my school, and when my
mother had gone to the service I had my bath quietly and dressed, and
went off in the school bus. After a short time I shivered so much that
Miss Hemming, one of the teachers of whom I was very fond, put me on a
couch, covered me up well, and when I felt a little better sent me home.
How often I felt and still feel that I suffered because I disobeyed my
dear mother.

Looking back on those days of childhood I have vivid memories of their
happiness. The great house seemed an enchanted palace. It is difficult
to convey to English readers a real idea of the fascination of its
cool, silent interior with the six courtyards, and the deep wells
which supplied drinking and bathing water. In the zenana part of the
establishment where the strict purdah ladies lived, the rooms ran round
one of these courtyards, and the ladies were never allowed to walk
outside it. When they went into town, the “palkis” came right inside to
fetch them. I remember wonderful games of hide-and-seek which we children
played about the courtyards and the old house. I was too young then to
understand what “conscience’ sake” meant.

The whole of the domestic arrangements at Coolootola were on patriarchal
lines, and strange to relate, family quarrels were rare, although there
was a very large number of women living together under the same roof.
When I say that our household included fifty relations, some idea of the
size of the establishment will be arrived at.

As I grew older I began to feel that I was rather an outsider in the
festivities which the other girls enjoyed, and I discovered this was due
to my loss of caste, but, as every one at Coolootola was very fond of me,
I soon threw aside my real or imaginary troubles. I used to ran about the
zenana, and admire my pretty cousins, who seemed to pass their time doing
woolwork slippers for their husbands. They never liked people to know
this, and the wools and canvas were hurriedly hidden when any one came
in. The mothers looked after the housekeeping and played cards in their
leisure time. I remember one aunt who was famous for her card parties.

My grandmother, who was very handsome, was the head of the house. She
exacted and received the utmost deference from her daughters-in-law, who
never dared to speak to their husbands in her presence. She had a warm
corner in her heart for me. I was never afraid of her, although I used to
wonder whether I should be like the other ladies when I grew up.

My grandmother Thakoorma was a grand cook. Although she was a rich man’s
daughter-in-law, my grandmother cooked and did the household work as if
she were in a poor house. She and her sister-in-law used at one time
to hide their brooms under their beds, each meaning to try and get up
earlier than the other to clean the room; such was their delight in their
housework.

The afternoon was the most delightful time of the day, for then we
bathed, dressed our hair, and arrayed ourselves in dainty muslin saris
preparatory to going on the roof. I loved that hour, and the memory of
it often comes back to me. I close my eyes and dream I am a child again
sitting in the midst of that happy group, and can almost feel the welcome
breeze once more fanning my face. As we sat and told stories we sometimes
caught glimpses of a splash of colour on the roof of distant houses and
knew that other girls were also enjoying the cool of the day.

I used always to associate perfume and soap with my married cousins; in
fact, I believed that some people married on purpose to get unlimited
supplies of soap and scent. “You won’t get married, Sunity,” the cousins
would laugh. “Oh yes, I will,” I would reply. “Then I shall have lovely
perfumes, and as much soap as I want.”

The young wives were never allowed to see their husbands during the day;
but often when I played in the front courtyard I heard my name called
softly and would be asked to convey love-letters between the temporarily
separated couples, who found time long without each other in the first
days of wedlock.

I also remember the open air operas (jatras) which were performed in the
field close to the house. The advent of the players was always the signal
for my father’s youngest brother to nail down the shutters on that side
of the house if he thought the acting of the jatras not quite proper for
the ladies to hear.

One of our customs is for young girls to make vows as they worship before
symbolic figures made of flour, or painted on the ground. “May I have
a good husband,” prays one. “May I be rich,” sighs her worldly-minded
sister. Marriage and wealth are as important in the East as in Mayfair.
My vows, ordered by my father, were planned on different lines, and
usually excited pity or amusement. I promised to give money to the poor,
never to tell a lie, to feed animals and birds, and to give people cool
beverages during the hot weather.

Oh happy days: I can still smell the incense which burnt before the idol
at twilight when the elder ladies made their devotions. From across the
gulf of time I can hear the faint tinkle of the bells, and the peace of
the past pervades my soul. It was a heavenly feeling when Arati (evening
prayer) time came and the elderly ladies, among whom the most prominent
figure was that of my dear old grandmother, bowed themselves in homage to
their god in the sanctuary. The conch shells and the bells sounded, the
flowers and the incense gave out their delicious perfume, and family life
seemed to me heavenly and pure.

CHAPTER II

MY FAMILY

The Asram near Coolootola consisted of two houses joined together, and
there we lived for a time with many of my father’s followers as one big
united family (a thing hitherto unheard of in India), addressing each
other as sisters and aunts, uncles and brothers. My father held a service
in the hall every morning. His motto was “Faith, Love, and Purity,” and
upon this he always acted. His life was a pilgrimage of extraordinary
faith which made him trust in the infinite mercy of God even in the
darkest hour, of love which enabled him to view the failings of others
with perfect charity and compassion, and purity which kept the lustre of
his private life undimmed to the last.

My father formed a Normal School for our girls, called the Native Ladies’
Normal School. This school was at one time the only institution of the
kind in India. To-day there are hundreds of colleges and schools all over
India for Indian girls and women. My father fought for female education.
How keenly he was opposed by the leading men at the time! Curiously
enough, some of the men who spoke most strongly against female education
were the first to bring their wives out of purdah; indeed, to my idea,
they are now too English. Later on my father established a college in
Calcutta named after her late Majesty Queen Victoria. This college will
always be associated with the name of Keshub Chunder Sen. He did not
believe in the importance of university degrees; he maintained that for
a woman to be a good wife and a good mother is far better than to be
able to write M.A. or B.A. after her name. Therefore, only things likely
to be useful to them were taught to the girls who attended the Victoria
College. Zenana ladies also came to the lectures, and the good work
flourished. I always remember the name of Miss Pigot in connection with
the educational movement in India. She was the head of an institution
close to where we lived. One of the objects of this institution was to
train Christian Indian girls to visit Hindu houses and give lessons to
the women who wished to improve their education. Miss Pigot also took
charge of Hindu ladies while their husbands were in England. She always
showed the greatest interest in our family, and called my grandmother
“Mother.”

Miss Pigot is still alive; I am very fond of the dear old lady, she has
been a true friend to us all.

Sadhankanan was the name of the country house belonging to my father,
not far from Calcutta, in which we lived later on. The house itself was
small, but the grounds were charming with their beautiful trees, flowers,
and fruit. There we lived an open-air life among the flowers by which
the air seemed always perfumed. I remember a curious thing happening
there which filled me with fresh admiration for my father and helped
to make me think he was more than human. The gardens at Sadhankanan
were full of snakes. As I stood by a hedge of pineapple trees one day,
I suddenly saw a frog hopping at a tremendous pace in the direction of
the praying-ground where my father and his followers were engaged in
their devotions; it was chased by a snake. The frog jumped straight on
to my father’s knees, and the pursuer, stopping bewildered in front
of his quarry, swayed to and fro for a moment with his hood ominously
raised, then turned and glided away, greatly to my relief, whereupon the
frog jumped down from his sanctuary. “How wonderful he is!” I thought,
“the weakest thing would be safe with him,” and indeed no creature ever
appealed to my father’s pity in vain.

My mother loved Sadhankanan, and I remember how pretty she used to look
among those beautiful surroundings. She was small, with tiny hands and
feet and a wealth of dark hair, and she had a lovely voice which was
heard to the best advantage in our hymns and Bengali songs. Mother’s
gentle influence kept us very much together. She was a woman of strong
convictions, and would never countenance anything which her conscience
told her was wrong. She was a charming story-teller, and would often tell
us fairy tales when we were in bed. We loved these stories and never
wearied of listening to them; some of them I have collected together in a
little volume, and one I will include here.

A Maharajah had two wives, and he loved the second far more than
the first. Yet the first wife was lovely, gentle, unselfish, and
kind-hearted, and the second was just the reverse; she was haughty, vain,
ill-tempered, and very jealous of the first wife. The first wife had a
baby boy, the heir, to whom the Maharajah was very devoted, and much to
the annoyance of the second wife he often played with the baby, who was
just beginning to crawl. One day, while he was playing with the child,
he sang to him over and over again: “I love this face with its toothless
smile,” and the second wife hearing, could not get the expression out of
her head, “toothless smile.” The next time the Maharajah came to see the
second wife he found her crawling on the floor, and thought she had gone
mad. He asked her what she was doing, and when she opened her mouth to
answer he saw, to his horror and disgust, that she had no teeth. “What
have you done to yourself?” he asked angrily. She answered him with a
hideous smile, “Did you not say to your baby that you loved the face
with a toothless smile?” With a furious look he said, “Begone, you are
no longer my wife. Your insane jealousy banishes you for ever from the
palace;” and weeping and lamenting, she was turned away.

My mother lived for my father and his beliefs. The world never troubled
her. “You cannot impede my work, for it is God’s work,” were the words
which formed the keynote of my father’s steadfast faith, and my mother
accepted it with perfect conviction. She never seemed distressed by her
loss of caste, although she was left out of many a family gathering in
consequence. I think my mother, however, sometimes pitied us, for we
shared her fate when festivities took place in the old house, and she
then made much of us in her gentle way. But we led our lives secure in
the belief that the religion practised by my father was the highest. His
life and his teachings were so beautiful that it was impossible not to
try and live up to his ideals, and his yoke was so light that we never
felt it.

In the days of my youth, as well as at the present time, I found the
greatest consolation in religion. Not the fierce fanaticism which
scourges the trembling soul, not the appeal of beautiful music and
gorgeous vestments which attract the eye and drug the heart, but the
simple and direct appeal to God as a father and a friend, the close and
perfect understanding between the Creator and His creature.

We children loved the religious services, and the remembrance of my
father’s face as he prayed often comes back to me. I have another vivid
memory of those days: sometimes, long before the servants were awake, a
beautiful voice filled the dawn with melody. It was one of my father’s
missionaries who, alone upon the roof, sang the praise of God in that
sweet and silent hour. I can hear the echo of his song even now. We
children used to think that we were very near to heaven then, and we
secretly imagined that the singer was an angel visitant.

We were kept quite apart from the world, and light talk and unkind gossip
were things unknown to us. Some of my readers may think that I must have
led a dull kind of life. Possibly I did in the eyes of the world, but it
was happiness to me. As for clothes, we were content with our ordinary
muslin saris, and did not see the beauty of foreign goods.

We are very hospitable in the East. In our home, if unexpected guests
arrived, mother would say to us girls, if we were at home in the
holidays, “Go and take what is wanted out of the store.” One would cut
the vegetables, and dear mother would cook, and within a short time quite
a good meal would be prepared. There is such a nice word used in the
Indian housekeeping world, “bart-auta,” which means “end to an increase”;
we never say: “there is none,” or “it is finished.” The stores should
never be empty, but the new supplies come in before the old are finished.

I was always very much attached to my eldest brother, Karuna. I called
him “Dada” (elder brother); he and I were great friends. I remember that
once a fine idea struck him. “Let’s make soap,” he said; “everybody uses
soap, and there is a lot of money in it. Sunity, we will become very
rich.”

My youngest uncle (my mother’s brother) was asked to be a partner in the
scheme, and we collected quantities of lime, oil, and essences wherewith
we thought to produce the ideal cleanser. These we heaped anyhow into
a frying-pan and began to heat them up. But to our dismay we found
something was wrong. The smoke and flames nearly blinded us, and we were
forced to retreat and let the horrid mess burn itself out.

Coolootola was our playground, and I think if the walls could have spoken
to us they might have related some very strange stories of the old doings
at “Sen’s House.” I always felt the rooms had histories, and I remember a
certain staircase which report said was haunted, and which was the scene
of two uncanny happenings when I was a child. Once when my cousins were
playing hide-and-seek, one of them seemed to be held back by some unseen
force as he ran down the staircase. When at last he managed to shake off
the terror which possessed him, he fainted.

I was equally frightened at the same place, but in a different way. My
father always cooked his own breakfast, and it was a great privilege to
me in my holidays to be allowed to help him. One day he had finished his
breakfast, and I was bringing away the curry which was left, and walking
very carefully down the staircase, my thoughts set on the dish I was
holding, when suddenly I had the impression that a whole army of cats was
after me. I looked back. There was nothing to be seen. I went on, and
again the feeling of being stealthily followed came over me; I felt I
was in the midst of furry, wicked-eyed creatures, and almost heard their
velvety paddings around me. I was suffocated with the presence of cats,
and dreaded the spring which I felt every moment they would make. Shaking
with terror, I kept myself from dropping the dish only by a great effort.

Once when we were playing, my sister Bino and I were left on the roof. I
was like a boy, and ran and jumped, and I said to Bino, “I shall run down
the stairs much faster than you can, and you will be left alone in the
middle of the haunted staircase.” Poor Bino looked alarmed, she was slim
and delicate; she began to run, but long before she reached the terrace
I got there and closed the door, expecting her to cry or try to push the
door, but nothing happened, and I got so frightened I flung open the
door. There was no Bino to be found. I had a fright. I ran up and down
the stairs several times and searched the enormous roof above, but could
not find her. I felt something must have happened to Bino, as “the ghost
lives in the staircase.” I cried a great deal, and then walked slowly
down to the bedroom verandah feeling miserable and most ashamed of
myself. There I found Bino looking quite happy, and instead of scolding
me she said in her sweet way, “I went downstairs when I found the door
closed.” It was a greater punishment than if she had scolded me.

My brothers and sisters have all followed my father’s teachings
throughout their lives. I am sure there is not one of that happy band
of children who played about “Sen’s House” who has not found the
greatest comfort and support from our upbringing. My eldest brother, in
particular, was very religious, and carried on my father’s work, helped
by his wife, who copied many of my father’s prayers and taught in the
Victoria College when it needed teachers.

My second brother, Nirmal, is a most amiable and easy-going man. He is
now in the India Office in London and works hard for the welfare of
Indian students in London, a subject upon which he has very decided
ideas. He is very popular, always ready to help others, and is very happy
in his home life. He married a Miss Luddhi.

My third brother, Profullo, was wonderfully gifted. He was a most
affectionate little friend to me when I was a bride in the big house in
Calcutta, and was almost always with me. On several occasions when I went
to England with my children, and my dear husband could not go, Profullo
went instead and managed everything. He was my children’s favourite
uncle.

A wonderful thing happened to Profullo when he was a few weeks old. He
fell ill, and the doctors gave him up; at the time my father was away
at Belghuria garden-house, and the sad news had to be sent to him. When
at length my father arrived every one was weeping, thinking the boy was
gone. My father entered the room with a lovely rose in his hand, and
they all saw what a wonderful expression there was upon his face. Father
touched Profullo’s face with the flower, and the boy opened his eyes and
said, “Father, have you come?” and from that day he rapidly recovered.
Profullo had several pet names, Pepery, Peter, and Pip and Peroo.

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

My husband used to say that my father’s great gifts and devoutness were
inherited by my fourth brother, Saral. Every one thought he would become
a missionary. When he was a small boy, he always said he would carry on
my father’s work. He is unselfish, most kind-hearted and simple minded.
His pet name is Bhopal.

My youngest brother’s name is Subrata, and his pet name is Bhajan. He was
my eldest son’s best friend: the boy was devoted to him and asked for him
till the end. Subrata is now a doctor, yet we still regard him as our
baby brother, and I do not think he will ever grow up; he behaves like
a baby. He married a pretty French girl and did well during the War,
although I am sorry to say he did not obtain a permanent post.

My sisters are the dearest of women. The second, Savitri, is quiet and
retiring, with many good qualities. Her pet name is Bino. She is a tall,
handsome girl, the best of wives, and a very good mother. She married a
cousin of my husband’s, and it has been a great happiness and comfort
to me to have her with me all these years in Cooch Behar, where we have
worked hand in hand.

My third sister, Sucharu, is most unselfish, and her experiences have
made her more than usually sympathetic with the sorrows of others. She
was engaged when quite a girl to the Maharajah of Mourbhanj, but his
family came between them and he married a Hindu girl.

My sister suffered for several years, as it is an unknown thing for an
Indian girl to be an “old maid,” and we were disappointed, annoyed, and
distressed that such trouble had befallen her. But my sister loved the
Maharajah just the same all through, and never said an unkind word. “It
is my fate, don’t blame him,” she said.

We tried to persuade her to marry, but nothing would induce her to forget
her lover. Fourteen years passed, during which she was an angel in our
house. Then she found her long-delayed happiness. The Maharajah’s wife
died, and he came back to ask my sister to marry him. The marriage took
place in Calcutta, and for some time the Maharajah and my sister led
the happiest of lives. But Fate, mysterious Fate, ordained that Death,
which had given them happiness, should destroy it. The Maharajah was
accidentally shot at a shooting party, and my sister’s life was darkened
for ever.

She lives for her children and for her stepsons. Some English ladies once
said to me that they had no idea the Maharajah had any children by his
first marriage, as the whole family seemed so united and devoted to the
Maharani.

My fourth sister, Monica, who is very handsome, prayed that luxury might
never come into her life for fear the world should make her forget
God. We call her Moni; she has the most happy, contented disposition
imaginable. No one has ever heard her utter an unkind word. She takes
everything as it comes, quietly and without complaint, and thinks herself
the happiest woman in the world. Her faith in God is wonderful. She
married a Professor in the Education Department, a very clever man, whose
name is Sadhu Mahalanobis.

Sujata, the youngest, has always made sunshine in our midst. She is as
sweet as some lovely flower, and I think her one idea is to give every
one as much pleasure as she can. She was so pretty that when our present
King as Prince of Wales lunched with us he asked, “Who is that very
pretty girl in the sari?” Sujata married a Mr. Sen, brother of my fourth
sister-in-law.

How happy we were! I think that Providence always gives us compensations
for our sorrows. There are some hours the glory of which triumphs over
the darkness which later clouds our lives: some loved voices whose sweet
remembrance deadens the sound of unkind tongues: some faces that in our
memory have always a loving smile.

I am happy and proud to say that my brothers and sisters have always been
most kind and loving to me.

I was not considered a pretty child, but I remember that a great-uncle
once said to my mother: “This little girl, Sunity, will be somebody
one day, for I see a lotus in her eyes.” “I shall have a handsome
son-in-law,” my mother laughingly replied, and I was greatly amused. When
I was twelve I thought I would make a vow never to marry. My ambition
was to be clever, to travel a great deal, and to be a sort of nun. I
asked a school friend of mine named Kamari if she also would promise not
to marry. To my great disappointment she said: “It is too hard a vow to
take,” but added affectionately, “we will try.” Once some of the nuns
from Loretto Convent visited my father’s school, and one of them, looking
at me gently, asked: “Would you like to be a nun?” We frequently visited
this convent, and the kind nuns often came to see us. I admired and loved
those nuns.

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

FESTIVALS AND FESTIVAL DAYS

Many of our customs are full of colour and life, but few people of the
West realise their inner and more sacred meanings. By the foreigner we
are regarded more often than not as picturesque figures with a background
of elephants, tigers and temples, and the poetry of our mythology is
missed by the globe-trotter and the official. I have heard Lakshmi the
Luck-bringer described as “odd-looking,” Kali as a “monstrosity,” and the
figure of Ganesh as “an extraordinary-looking image.” Symbolism is not
understood by those people who call our jewels “bits of glass,” and our
gold “brassy.” I wish I could make Europeans realise how proud India is
of her women, and how well they have merited her pride. Perhaps few of
my readers know any of the stories of the devotion of mothers and wives
which is shown daily in the shadow of the purdah.

“Oh, but you ladies can’t really know what love means,” once remarked a
pretty Englishwoman. This sweeping statement is about as absurd and false
as the Maharajah of musical comedy or the Anglo-Indian novel, but like
most absurdities it has been taken seriously, with the result that many
Englishwomen have no idea of the love that exists between Indian wives
and their husbands.

One of my cousins married a rich young man when she was quite a little
girl. After a few years he died leaving no child. The young widow went
back to her mother and lived the life of a poor woman in her father’s
house. She only ate one meal of vegetables at mid-day. During the cold
months a single blanket was her only covering, and in the hot weather she
slept upon a coarse mat.

She prayed for hours. She was lovely to behold and her sweetness made her
beloved by every one. Yet, from sheer devotion to her husband’s memory,
this delicately brought up girl chose to lead the life of a servant. It
was her tribute to him, the offering of herself.

The question will naturally arise as to what good resulted from this
penance, but it proved (according to her views) my cousin’s love for her
husband, and it showed that she lived up to the traditions of wifely
devotion which are taught us from our infancy.

Every province has its own marriage customs, and child marriages in
Bengal are still most picturesque, although I am sorry to say that
some of the pageantry and the tender sentiment associated with it, is
gradually disappearing. A girl is always married in the home of her
parents, and she fasts the whole day. In the evening married ladies
dress the little bride artistically in new clothes and new jewellery. The
air is sweet with perfumes. Flowers are everywhere. The murmur of many
voices rises and falls, and suddenly the conch shells are sounded by the
ladies of the house, announcing the arrival of the bridegroom.

What a supreme moment for the little bride! Her heart beats fast beneath
the stiff golden embroideries, and the new jewellery suddenly becomes
as heavy as lead. “What will he think of me?” Anxious and perplexed she
goes through the Vasan ceremony, which is performed by the ladies in
the courtyard; but she is keenly alert when she is placed on a piece of
wood and, thus seated, is carried by young relations and friends to meet
her lord and master. The procession passes round the bridegroom and the
bearers hold the bride up in front of him. A scarf is thrown over the
pair and their eyes meet for the first time.

The marriage is not concluded until the morning of the second day, when
the bridegroom takes the bride to his father’s house, and this affords an
opportunity for the hospitality the Indian delights to show. For a mile
or two the route taken by the wedding procession is sometimes sprinkled
with rose-water, and the lights flash. “It is a son who is getting
married,” says the proud father, and he remembers with satisfaction that
this home-coming has been fixed for a lucky day and a lucky hour. The
bride must also be lucky, for does she not walk gently and speak gently?
And is not her forehead of the right shape? Certainly she has not the
prominent forehead that brings bad luck.

When the bride arrives at her future home, her husband’s sisters throw
water and money under the palki, and the jewel-covered little girl is
lifted out by her mother-in-law and placed upon a large plate filled with
milk and alta (a sort of rose-coloured confection), upon which she stands
until the marriage ceremony is over. Then the newly-married couple sit
upon a new cloth and receive presents and blessings from the bridegroom’s
friends and relations.

“May you speak like honey,” whispers a maiden as she touches the pretty
lips of the bride with honey. “May you hear sweetness like honey,” she
continues, as she drops honey into the small ears. Then the bridegroom’s
mother comes forward, gives the bride a pair of bangles and lifts the
head-dress which hides her face. As she does this the guests have an
opportunity of seeing the blushing little face, and begin to praise her
looks, the mother-in-law meanwhile saying, “This is my Lakshmi” (goddess
of luck).

On the third day gifts arrive from the bride’s father: gifts of jewels,
dresses, sweets, scents, soaps—sometimes to the number of five hundred
or a thousand. Porters bring them in and the bride and bridegroom change
into the new robes. This ceremony is called the Feast of Merriment, for
everyone is gay. On the third evening there is another ceremony called
the “Fullsaya” (flower ceremony), when the bride is adorned with flowers
and the rooms are filled with them. The meaning of this is: Nature with
flowers comes to bless the newly united couple.

We thought more of New Year’s Day than Christmas Day, probably because
that was my father’s custom. On New Year’s Day we gave each other
presents, had dinner parties and sent sweets, fruits, and vegetables to
friends. Since we lost my father we have regarded New Year’s Day as of
more importance than ever, because it is the day on which he opened the
Sanctuary at Lily Cottage and preached there his last sermon.

We have a festival which is sometimes held in February, sometimes in
March, according to the moon, called “Hooly.” It was founded in honour of
the Hindu god Krishna, and is one of the most enjoyable days in a Hindu
household. Buckets and huge tumblers are filled with rose-water which is
coloured with red powder. Then the ladies in all the different courtyards
load syringes with the red liquid and, singing and dancing, maid and
mistress, old and young, relations and friends, squirt each other amid
screams of delight. Afterwards presents of garments are made all round,
for the old saris are stained with red. The servants who cannot play put
a little red powder on their master’s and mistress’s feet. This festival
is known as the Merry Festival.

In India, religious festival days are chiefly distinguished by their
entertainments. My readers will perhaps be surprised at this, but it is
true. On festival days banana trees are placed on each side of the house
door, and, at the foot of the trees, large earthern pitchers filled
with water, and a big cocoa-nut. These are the lucky signs denoting an
auspicious occasion. A band plays during the whole of the festival. Every
one’s house is open to rich and poor. Every one receives presents, often
very valuable, and no one is too poor to receive something.

Some years ago a poor Brahmin wanted to have _durga puja_; he was so
poor that he had to beg from door to door in order to get a little money
to buy the _puja_ articles and to entertain at breakfast and dinner the
people who came to see the goddess. This time he could only obtain very
little money, but still he invited a small number of guests and when they
arrived they were surprised to find the goddess not properly dressed.
“How is it,” they asked severely, “that the goddess is left like this?”
The poor Brahmin said: “I am a poor son of my Mother, and my Mother knows
it; I haven’t money with which to dress her. The little I had I used to
entertain my guests; if I had had more I would have invited more guests.”

There is another festival in India called “Bhaikota,” which is held in
the autumn, in October or November, and is in honour of brothers. Early
in the morning sisters bathe, put on new saris and wait for their
brothers. When the brothers are seated, their sisters take small cups
of sandalwood paste and with their little fingers put small paste marks
on the foreheads of their brothers, saying, “As I put this mark on my
brother’s forehead may there be no thorns at the door of Death. As
Death is deathless, may my brother be deathless.” When the sisters say
these words the conch shells are blown, and they give presents to their
brothers, and to their cousins, generally of clothes. This ceremony is
to show what a heavenly relationship there is between a brother and a
sister. The younger sister touches the feet of the elder brother, and the
elder sister puts her hands on the younger brother and blesses him.

“Jamai Tashti” is the name of a ceremony for sons-in-law. The wife’s
parents invite their sons-in-law to their house and the mother-in-law,
in a long head-dress, brings presents and puts them in front of
the sons-in-law. It is a great day for the younger brothers- and
sisters-in-law, they are full of tricks.

I remember once, with some of my girl friends, playing tricks on our
cousins-in-law. We made a dish of straw and prepared betel-leaf with all
sorts of rubbish, such as peelings of nuts, etc., and the cousins had to
eat it, as if they give in or say anything it means that they lose and
others gain.

Between April and May there is a great festival, called “Poonyah” (the
Day of Good Luck). On this day the Maharajah sits on the throne, and all
the high officials, the jemindars and the heads of the districts come. It
is a grand sight; the Maharajah in his gold-embroidered robes, and all
the men in their State garments. The Dewan of the State sits opposite the
Maharajah and on either side of him, covered with cloth, are two pitchers
in which the money is put. In front are lights in little earthern
vessels. After the Maharajah has taken his seat all the landlords and
officials present their tribute in little bundles, which are handed to
the Dewan, who puts them into the pots. Music is played the whole time
outside. Then the personal staff offer His Highness attar, and flowers
and betel-leaf, in golden vessels, making the same offering afterwards to
the princes and to the Maharajah’s wife and mother, after which the same
offerings are made in silver vessels to the officials and landlords. My
husband was, I think, the only Maharajah who never had nautch girls or
actresses at his Court, and the ladies of the palace always sat in the
balcony screened off. After the ceremony was over we had musical parties,
or open-air theatricals known as jatras, but there were no actresses in
them.

Later on, when my husband had this festival, my four handsome sons, three
in their Indian costumes and Rajey in the Royal Yeomanry uniform, looked
fine. After the official tributes had been offered the four boys went up
the steps of the throne on which their father was seated and with bent
heads paid their homage, and my husband put his hand on each son’s head
in turn and blessed him. Some English people who were present on one of
these occasions said they had never seen anything so attractive and so
touching.

CHAPTER IV

MY ROMANCE

My happy home life continued undisturbed until I was thirteen. Indian
girls of that age are more advanced than their Western sisters, but I was
still very much a child, thanks to my parents.

My father’s name is for ever associated with the Civil Marriage Act, as
it was entirely owing to his exertions that the Government passed this
wise measure fixing the marriageable age of men and girls at eighteen and
fourteen respectively.

The fairy prince in my romance was the young Nripendra Narayan Bhup
Bahadur, Maharajah of Cooch Behar, who had been a ward of the Government
since his infancy, and carefully educated to be a model ruler. Colonel
Haughton wrote: “Ever since I have become Commissioner for Cooch Behar,
the honour of the young Maharajah, his future happiness, and the welfare
of the State have been my anxious care.”

This Indian prince’s family records show that he was descended from
one of the oldest ruling families in the country. According to popular
tradition his race had been founded by the love of a god and a maiden,
and through successive ages strife and love have been associated with
the dynasty of Cooch Behar, whose chiefs are always great rulers, great
lovers, and great fighters.

The first wish of the Government was to prevent any palace interference
with the baby Maharajah’s upbringing. When his father, the late
Maharajah, was a ward of the Government, the Maharanis had been very
hostile to the idea of a foreign education, and similar opposition was
what the Government now wanted to avoid. Therefore, for this and other
private reasons which can easily be understood when it is remembered that
the late Maharajah left many wives, the Maharajah was removed, when he
was five years old, to the Wards’ institution at Benares, near which the
members of the Cooch Behar Raj family lived in several houses known as
the Cooch Behar Palace.

When he was eleven, the Government removed him from Benares to Patna,
where he became a student at Government College, and Colonel Haughton’s
anxious instructions to Babu Kasi Kanto Mukerji, who was in charge of the
boy, were “to watch over his conduct and the management of the household:
to see that strangers and unauthorised persons have no access to them:
and generally to discharge such duties with regard to him as a good
parent is bound to do.”

In 1872 Mr. St. John Kneller became his tutor and guardian. The
Maharajah remained in Patna for five years, during which time he and Mr.
Kneller visited the North-Western Provinces, Oudh, and the Punjab, and
in 1877 the Maharajah attended the Durbar at Delhi, when the Queen was
proclaimed Empress of India. The Viceroy, the late Lord Lytton, received
the young ruler most cordially, and presented him with the Kaisar-i-Hind
medal. Now for the first time the Maharajah was saluted with thirteen
guns, and had a European guard of honour to attend him.

So far the experiment of training the ideal ruler for the ideal state
had succeeded beyond the highest expectations of the Government. The
Maharajah had become a clever young man and a keen sportsman and, as Mr.
Dalton remarked at the Chaurakaran ceremony at Cooch Behar in 1876, “His
Highness is fond of his native soil and the people, and enjoys himself
thoroughly, taking an interest in everything.”

But now arose the question of the future. To ensure final success for the
Government’s scheme, it was necessary that the young ruler should marry
an equally advanced girl, who would second him in his (and incidentally
the Government’s) efforts for Cooch Behar.

The difficult problem then arose as to whether an educated wife would
agree to the polygamy hitherto customary with Maharajahs, and to adopt
the many old-fashioned ideas and ways of a Hindu Court. The Government
was keenly alive to the fact that marriage might make or mar their
experiment, and they were determined to do all they could to prevent
failure.

But as it is a principle of the British not to interfere with the
marriage question in India, it was necessary for them to be very discreet
in their plans, which required great tact to carry out with success.

Mr. Jadab Chandra Chuckerbutty, the Magistrate of Cooch Behar, was
deputed to make confidential investigations and find if possible the
enlightened girl whom the Government could approve as the Maharani of
Cooch Behar. He carried out his mission with discretion; but none of the
girls whom he found came up to the required standard.

It was absolutely necessary for the question of the Maharajah’s marriage
to be settled without further delay, as his visit to England was in
contemplation. This journey was a very sore point with the Palace ladies,
and Sir Richard Temple, then the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal, had
discussed it rather heatedly.

“During my interview with the Rajah’s mother and grandmother,” wrote Sir
Richard, “these ladies expressed anxiety regarding the Rajah’s visiting
England, which they deprecated on the grounds that after seeing Europe
he would never care for such a place as Cooch Behar nor for such quiet,
homely people as his relatives. I explained that it had not been decided
whether the Rajah should visit England; but that, if he did, it would
only be for a short time, enough indeed to enlarge and strengthen his
mind, but not enough to make him forget his home and kindred; and that,
while giving him the benefit of an English education, we should take
every pains to train and prepare him for the duties he would hereafter
have to discharge as the head of a Hindu State.”

These arguments somewhat pacified the ladies, but they maintained that
only as a married man could the Maharajah go away from India with any
degree of security. At that time they had not realised that the hope of
the Government was that the Maharajah would take one wife only when the
time for his marriage came.

The party from Cooch Behar in search of a bride at last arrived at
Calcutta, and Mr. Chuckerbutty went direct to Prosonna Babu, one of my
father’s missionaries, for advice and help. After several interviews and
discussions Jadab Babu spoke of me. But Mr. Chuckerbutty said: “It is too
much to expect that the Minister’s daughter will be our Maharani;” still
they thought they would try.

When the marriage was first suggested my father was very surprised. He
never gave a thought to worldly or family affairs; his mind was too full
of his religious work; and he refused the offer. But the Government and
the representatives of the State would not be discouraged. They continued
writing to my father, interviewing him, and sending messages urging
that the marriage of the young Prince and myself was most desirable.
My father repeatedly refused. In one of his letters he said that I was
neither very pretty nor highly educated, and therefore I was not a
suitable bride for the young Maharajah.

This unexpected opposition was a set-back to the plans of the Government,
and they determined it must be overcome at any cost. Those in authority
were clever enough to understand that they must discover my father’s weak
point and work upon it, as it was evident the worldly advantages of the
match made no appeal to him.

The messenger went backwards and forwards several times, for Jadab Babu
and others would not hear of any refusal. My father with a troubled mind
prayed and prayed until at last he obtained light from above and realised
that the marriage would be for the spiritual good of the country. Thus
he became in the end persuaded that such a union was a Divine command,
and if he allowed me to marry this young ruler he would be fulfilling the
will of God.

Of course the matter was not mentioned to me, but one day my second
sister Bino remarked confidentially: “Father and mother are talking about
marriage, aren’t they?” “Oh no,” I answered; “it’s nothing particular,
probably one of the young missionaries is going to be married.” “Well,
let me tell you, it’s no missionary, but some one far more important.”
“It doesn’t matter to me,” I said, and I thought no more of it.

Later one of the missionaries remarked with meaning in his voice: “You
will be surprised in a day or two, Sunity. Some very important people are
coming to see the school.”

“So much the better,” I assured him, “for now you have told me I can
study hard and tell the others to do the same.”

The day before the officials arrived from Cooch Behar, I fell ill with
fever. After a restless night, I awoke to find my father and mother
standing by my bedside.

They looked at each other. “Have you told Sunity?” asked my father.

“No,” replied mother, “it is better you should.”

“Listen, Sunity,” said my father. “Has Prosonna Babu mentioned some
visitors who are expected to-day?”

“Yes, he said that some Englishmen are coming to see the school; and,
father,” I faltered, “I can’t get up.”

“Sunity,” answered my father in that loving voice which always made us
children thrill with affection, “it is not the school. These gentlemen
are coming to see you.”

“To see me!” I cried. “Why?” “Sunity,” said my father in a gentle voice,
“these people are coming to see you, and if we all agree, perhaps some
day you will marry a handsome young Maharajah.”

I hid my face in my pillow. I could not speak. Marriage was to me an
undiscussed subject. I had never considered it. I felt so shy I became
quite red in the face.

After a few hours I was told to get ready. Mother gave me some lovely
jewels which looked beautiful on my mauve and gold sari. My hair was
dressed. We drove over to dear Miss Pigot’s school-house, where I usually
had lessons. I was very nervous, and through fear and ague combined I
trembled like a leaf.

I rested a little while on the verandah. While I was there I was given a
strong dose of quinine. I shall never forget the unpleasant taste of that
special draught.

Then I was taken to the drawing-room, where Mr. Dalton and the Bengali
officials awaited me. Mr. Dalton looked kind but critical.

“Won’t you play to me?” he asked.

I obediently seated myself at the piano and played a simple piece of
music. Mr. Dalton watched me up to the piano and back to my seat and as
I talked to him; and wrote a full description to the young Maharajah
afterwards. “Very nice,” he said, in such a charming way that I did not
think he was examining me. He seemed favourably impressed, and so it
proved, for in one of his letters to my father he wrote: “I thought your
daughter a very charming young lady, and in every way a suitable bride
for the Maharajah.”

Letters passed and repassed between Cooch Behar and Calcutta, but nothing
was settled until the 27th of January, 1878, when Mr. Dalton wrote as
follows:—

    “MY DEAR SIR,

    “The Lieutenant-Governor has at last decided that the Rajah is
    to go to England in March, and, looking to the desirability of
    perfecting his bride’s education, it is better that he should
    be married before he starts. Mr. Eden at first saw difficulties
    in the way of a match with your family, but our arguments in
    favour of the proposal have at length found weight with him,
    and he has given his consent.

    “The Rajah has expressed his distaste to being married at all,
    as I told you in a previous letter, principally because he was
    averse to being worried about the matter, and partly because he
    knew that he was not to be permitted to live with his wife at
    once and wished to remain single until of an age to do so. But
    he has come to see that an educated bride is not to be procured
    at all, and is now eager for the alliance with your daughter,
    the idea of which was always pleasant to him, provided he
    could secure his mother’s consent. This consent I have at
    length secured with great difficulty, on terms which Babu Jadab
    Chandra Chuckerbutty will explain to you, and which I hope you
    will agree to.

    “I know it will seem difficult to you to arrange for a wedding
    on the 6th of March, and also that the idea of marrying your
    daughter before she has completed her fourteenth year is
    repugnant to you. But consider the circumstances, and that
    in fact the marriage will not be a marriage in the ordinary
    acceptance of the term but a solemn betrothal, the Rajah
    proceeding to Europe immediately after the ceremony.

    “I have read through your memo. There are some paragraphs which
    I think we can hardly consent to in their entirety, but by a
    little concession on both sides, I have no doubt that, if you
    are really well disposed to this marriage, we may come to an
    agreement which will suit both parties.

    “One of the Rani’s conditions is that one of your relatives,
    not yourself, should give away the bride.

    “The objection to you is principally based on the fact that you
    have been to England. I imagine that, as you will be actually
    present (or may be, if you like), it will not make any great
    difference to you should a brother or uncle actually repeat the
    formula. This is a condition on which great stress is laid, and
    I hope you will not arrest negotiations _in limine_ by refusing
    to accede to it. Remember that we on our side have had great
    difficulties to smooth away, and that we have already conceded
    almost all that we have the power of conceding.

    “Remember, also, that if you care about this alliance, it is a
    question of now or never, for nothing short of the urgency of
    the case (the Rajah going to England in March and the Ranis in
    despair at the idea of his going unmarried) would have brought
    Mr. Eden to change his mind, a thing he rarely does.

                   “With my regards to yourself, etc.”

Observe how in this letter Government smoothed away all my father’s
objections. The marriage was to be merely a “solemn betrothal,” and _hey
presto!_ the age difficulty vanished. Concessions were certain so far as
his religious scruples were concerned, but the words “now or never” throw
a curious side-light upon the Government policy. The Cooch Behar-Sen
alliance was necessary to them, and my father was to be finally “rushed”
into giving his consent. That such was the case is shown by the following
telegram from the Dewan to Babu Chuckerbutty:—

    “Deputy Commissioner says can’t wait too long even if matter
    not published. Must have private assurances of Keshub Babu’s
    consent without delay. Remember preparations. 27-1-78.”

Then the delight of Babu Chuckerbutty found expression in this letter to
Prosonna Babu:—

    “MY DEAR PROSONNA BABU,

    “Such has been the pleasure of God! and I am amongst you to
    re-open the question of marriage.

    “Mountains and oceans stood as barriers before us, but thanks
    to the great Remover of all difficulties, we have managed to
    get over them all.

    “Should we not see in all this, the hand of Him who dispenseth
    of everything human? We have all done all we could: it now
    rests finally with you as to the remainder. I have just now
    arrived here. I left Cooch Behar at midnight day before
    yesterday, and have come in at once. My present address is 6,
    Bhobani Dutt Lane, and my man will lead you to my house. I hope
    that our Maharajah is here.

                              “Yours, etc.,

                                      “JADAB CHUNDER CHUCKERBUTTY.”

The Maharajah wrote to my father as follows:—

    “MY DEAR SIR,

    “I have been asked to let you know what my honest opinion is on
    the subject of polygamy.

    “In reply I beg to inform you that it has always been my
    opinion that no man should take more than one wife, and I can
    assure you that I hold that opinion still.

    “I give below a statement of my religious views and opinions. I
    believe in one true God and I am in heart a Theist.

                              “Yours truly,

                                          “NRIPENDRA NARAYAN BHUP.”

CHAPTER V

MY MARRIAGE

By this time I had become accustomed to talk of my marriage. Often I
wondered with mingled fear and pleasure what sort of future was before
me. At last a day came when I was to see the Maharajah. As my sister and
I waited in my father’s room I remember she said: “He is very handsome,
so I’ve been told, and very, very clever.”

When the Maharajah arrived we were called into the drawing-room. I was
extremely nervous. It had been trying enough to face Mr. Dalton, but I
felt more nervous now that the really critical moment had come.

[Illustration: MY HUSBAND.

Nripendra Narayan Bhup Bahadur, Maharajah of Cooch Behar, 1887.]

We sat round a big table in the drawing-room. Mr. Kneller came with the
Maharajah. They both talked to us for a time. I was so shy I did not
know which was the Maharajah and which Mr. Kneller. Presently a man most
gorgeously dressed came into the room. He brought something which was
placed on the table. After a few minutes my father said: “Sunity, this is
a present from the Maharajah to you.” I looked up, and as I did so I met
the Maharajah’s eyes fixed on me full of love, and I blushed. From that
moment my future husband and I loved each other. He was so handsome and
so charming. He told me afterwards that he had brought the present in his
carriage, but wished to see me first, and if he liked me he would offer
it, and it would be a token of his love.

We met several times later, but always in the presence of others. Yet I
knew the Maharajah loved me.

Notwithstanding our hopes that everything would go smoothly with the
preparations, there were constant worries concerning the religious rites.
After some weeks, when many messages had passed between the Government,
the State, and my father, my sister told me that there was a hitch
about the marriage because the State people would not hear of a Brahmo
alliance. I answered, “One thing is certain, I shall not change my
religion. Yet, Bino, I love the Maharajah and will marry no one else.”

More correspondence followed, and at last the priests from Cooch Behar
came to our house, and promised my father that the marriage should be
arranged as he wished. This was the one thing needful. My father had
come to have an affection for the Maharajah. Indeed, the whole of our
family had fallen captive to the Maharajah’s charm and kindness. He, on
his part, clearly liked them all, and had a deep respect and admiration
for my father. How well I remember the delightful ceremony of “Jurini”
which took place when my marriage was at last settled. On this occasion
my fiancé sent saris to all my relations, gave me the most beautiful
presents, and distributed more than a hundred plates of sweetmeats, etc.,
to the household. It was a perfect day, one of those on which it is
pleasant to look back and forget in its happy memory the sad events of
life.

But the clouds of hostile criticism had been gathering, and at last the
storm broke. For some time questions had been asked as to my father’s
motives in allowing me to be married before the age stipulated in the Act
which he had done so much to have passed. My marriage preliminaries were
really a stormy time in my life, fulfilling the storm omens at my birth.
It is too serious and too long a story to write in this book, but just a
few lines may give my readers an idea of what my father had to go through
in connection with my betrothal. People who did not have full faith in
him and in his doctrines raised unheard-of questions; but the Government
was determined on the marriage.

My father could have published the correspondence. He could have
explained the situation, but serene in the integrity of his motives,
and in his faith in God, he was undismayed by the attacks which were
made upon him. His only response was: “I became a Brahmo when I heard
the Divine call, and I have given consent to this marriage by the same
Divine command. I obey God, not man.”

As Miss Pigot wrote almost prophetically: “The generation that were the
actors have nearly all passed away, and time will have mellowed these
events to the aged survivors. But the new generation, viewing the past
in the light of history, will not refuse the crown of martyrdom to the
sufferings of Keshub Chunder Sen. It is in the course of human events
that by some tragic incident the truest and best men are brought to the
slaughter.”

Having achieved their end and obtained my father’s consent to the
marriage, it might have been assumed that the Government would have
strictly observed their part of the bargain. They had promised to
concede everything, and as it was the spiritual side of the ceremony
that troubled my father, I think Mr. Dalton ought to have spared him any
further worry.

There was one person who was very subtle in his opposition and more
powerful than any English official. This was the Dewan, the late Calica
Das Dutt, Prime Minister. He was not in favour of the marriage, because
he thought he had been ignored. He was an influential follower of my
father’s, and yet all the correspondence relating to the marriage
went through Jadab Babu, who was only a junior officer. His quiet
interference is shown in the following letter written by Mr. Dalton to
Mr. Chuckerbutty:—

    “MY DEAR JADAB BABU,

    “The Dewan tells me that he has already written to you
    regarding my wire as to the extent of Babu Keshub Ghunder
    Sen’s party coming to Cooch Behar for the wedding. Of course,
    my object is to avoid any unnecessary display of Brahmoism.
    In marrying a Brahmo girl the Rajah makes a great concession
    to enlightened ideas, but it is most desirable that this
    connection should be softened as much as possible in the eyes
    of his relatives, at Cooch Behar and elsewhere, who are still
    wedded to the old superstitions, and who would look with horror
    upon any departure from the old Hindu formula.

    “I wish therefore to dissuade Babu Keshub Chunder Sen from
    bringing with him any of those who might be called his
    followers, apart from such as are his immediate relatives. In
    fact, we cannot permit any Brahmo demonstration whatever, and
    those who come must bear in mind that a single speech in any
    way whatever relating to Theism _versus_ Idolatry will not be
    permitted.

    “So far as possible, not only Hindu customs, but also the ideas
    and even the prejudices which arise from these customs must be
    respected: for instance, I disapprove altogether of the idea
    of bridesmaids, an idea at once novel and repulsive to strict
    and bigoted Hinduism. The maiden attendants of the bride should
    remain in the background and on no account be put prominently
    forward except when universal custom allows. Also I would
    suggest that it is quite unnecessary and undesirable that a
    large company of ladies should accompany the party. I fail to
    see what good their presence can do.

    “I think the ladies should be limited to Keshub Babu’s
    immediate family and one or two intimate friends, and as
    regards the male guests, please remember that the amount of
    distinction shown to them here will depend entirely as to their
    social status in Calcutta, and that only such as are entitled
    to be admitted and given a seat at the Lieutenant-Governor’s
    Durbars will be considered here.

    “Babu Keshub Chunder Sen is too sensible a man not to
    understand my reasons for all this. Though, of course, I cannot
    expect him to look at the matter from my point of view.

    “It is possible that he may look upon this marriage as the
    inauguration of a new era in the history of social and
    religious progress. But in Cooch Behar, at all events, he must
    wait for the fructification of his work until the Rajah attains
    his majority.

    “Any of the well known and respected members of the Brahmo
    community who are Babu Keshub Chunder Sen’s personal friends,
    and who would like to come, we will receive with great
    pleasure, and also any of similar rank and position whom he
    may wish to bring outside of the Brahmo community. I hold you
    responsible that a list of the intended party is submitted to
    me at an early date, to enable me to provide for a special
    train, etc.; and such list should contain information as to
    the social status of those composing it.

    “You should telegraph to me the number of 1st, 2nd, and 3rd
    class passengers who will make up the party. It seems to me
    that there can scarcely be more than twenty, or thirty at the
    outside, first-class passengers. I have consulted with the
    Commissioner on this subject, and he agreed altogether with my
    views.

                            “Yours sincerely,

                                               “GODFREY T. DALTON.”

The final arrangements for our journey to Cooch Behar were left in the
hands of Babu Chuckerbutty, and at last everything seemed settled, and
we left Calcutta on the 25th February, 1878. We were quite a large
party, consisting of my father, mother, grandmother, father’s sister,
his younger brother, his special followers, two ladies (wives of
missionaries), some relations, and a girl friend of mine.

I was naturally very excited, for this more or less State journey was
very different from the journeys to which I had been accustomed. It
seemed ages before we reached Cooch Behar, by which time the discomforts
of the journey had reduced our spirits to zero. I remember how dark the
night seemed. We were directed to the house which had been prepared
for us, and all of us were delighted to be in a house again. It was
comfortably furnished.

Soon after my arrival I asked my sister when I should see the Maharajah,
but to my great disappointment I was told that I was not to see him until
my wedding-day. The interval was taken up with elaborate ceremonies.

The Dewan and the State officials came to see me. Seated on a carpet, I
received them and accepted the coin which tradition demanded they should
give, and thanked each by bowing. As I never lifted my eyes, I could not
distinguish one from another.

The day before the wedding the Dewan and a few Raj pandits came to see
my father and talked over the ceremony. They told him that parts of it
would be according to the old Hindu rites. To this my father refused to
consent. All these difficulties have been described and explained in
books written by missionaries of my father, and I need not repeat them
here.

The town was beautifully illuminated and decorated. I felt very nervous,
though very happy at the thought of seeing my betrothed. When the time
drew near, I was sad at the thought of leaving the home that had been
such a happy one.

To our great surprise the time appointed for my departure passed,
and there was no sign of my going away. Then we heard that the State
officials were still discussing the question whether we should be married
before the Maharajah left for England or after his return.

After a long delay I was told to get ready. They dressed me in a
pretty sari and I was soon ready to go. My sister Bino and I went in
one palki, and my grandmother followed in another. A grand escort from
the palace came to fetch me. The time to say good-bye had now come. I
touched my father’s and mother’s feet, and said good-bye to the others.
I realised that I was bidding farewell to my childhood, and that I stood
on the threshold of a new life quite different from anything I had ever
imagined. The thought frightened me, and I broke into loud sobs.

As in a dream I heard my father’s beautiful voice comforting me. His
tender words fell like balm on my aching heart. He whispered one short
sentence which gave me strength for my ordeal.

I dried my tears. Then, accompanied by my sister and followed by my
grandmother, I went to my future home. Never shall I forget that journey
through the crowded streets. I could hear the outcry which greeted our
palkis. The torches flashed with a weird effect. At last the palkis
stopped in the courtyard of the zenana part of the Cooch Behar palace.

I found myself in the midst of a great crowd of women. I stood, the
observed of all, and listened to the various comments on my appearance. I
was outwardly calm, but in reality I was a very scared miserable little
girl. Then a lady came forward bearing lights and flowers. It was the
Maharajah’s mother, and she was performing Varan, or welcoming the bride.

After the Varan the crowd of women made way for us and we were taken
to a reception-room. I was nervous and tired and longing for a rest,
when suddenly I heard a gentle whistle outside. It was the Maharajah!
I knew his whistle well, for I had often heard it at Lily Cottage. I
felt at once that I was not forgotten, that in the darkness there was a
cheery companion who loved me and wanted my love. I would have answered
back in sheer joy, but could not. My sister and I were soon in bed. She
immediately fell into the healthy sleep of tired youth, but I was too
fatigued and nervous, with a thousand and one thoughts worrying me, to be
able to sleep.

The next morning we were up early. It was my wedding day, and I had to go
through a good deal before the ceremony. After my bath, my grandmother
was told that a Hindu priest wished to recite the usual prayers. When
we came out on the verandah, we saw the Brahmin waiting surrounded by
relations of the Maharajah. Some one put a gold coin into my hand which I
was requested to give to the priest of the Raj family.

My grandmother interposed. “No, no,” she said, “our girls don’t do this.”

“What nonsense!” replied the Maharajah’s grandmother. “Why! it means
nothing.”

But we were firm, and I placed the coin on the floor. This was only one
of the petty annoyances which occurred during the day.

In the evening of the marriage the Maharajah’s mother came and spoke to
my mother most harshly. One of her remarks I still remember: “Do you mean
to say you love your daughter? How can you when you do not wish her to
marry a Maharajah? If she does not marry my son according to Hindu rites,
she will not be the Maharani.”

My mother answered gently but very firmly: “I shall be sorry if my
daughter does not marry your son, and I shall take her away from Cooch
Behar; but my daughter shall never marry any one according to Hindu
rites.” This made the Maharajah’s mother furious.

While these disputes and discussions were going on in the palace, my dear
father must have suffered a great deal silently in his house. There was
much hot argument. Both sides were obstinate. Telegrams were dispatched
to Government. Cooch Behar waited. Sunset came. It was the auspicious
hour fixed for the marriage, but no word went forth that it was to take
place.

Gradually silence reigned. The music and the sound of the conch shells
ceased. The voice of the crowd was hushed. All of a sudden everything
stopped. The musicians left the platforms and the town became perfectly
quiet; the illuminations were extinguished one by one.

Then the unexpected happened, and the Gordian knot of caste and creed
was suddenly cut. The news of the final dispute had been conveyed to the
Maharajah. When he realised that the religious obstacles might prove
insurmountable he became so strangely quiet and serious that his people
felt rather nervous and wondered what their young master would do. He
took very strong measures.

Looking at those near him, with determination in every line of his set
young face, the Maharajah, said: “Now give good heed to my words. I am
going to bed. If I am to marry this girl, wake me up. Otherwise have my
horse in readiness, for I shall ride away from Cooch Behar for good and
all to-morrow morning. If I cannot marry this girl, I will marry no one.”

A great hush fell on those who heard, and there was general
consternation. Never before had Nripendra Narayan Bhup so asserted
himself. His councillors saw that their ruler intended to have his own
way.

It was now midnight. My father was alone in his quiet house, as one and
all had left for the palace. His soul was far beyond all earthly things,
for he communed with the God who had never forsaken him. I believe that
in that solemn hour he found the peace so healing to his soul.

Suddenly the sound of carriage wheels broke the stillness of the night.
Steps hurried up the stairs. The door was flung open, and Mr. Dalton,
pale and breathless, stood before my father.

“Mr. Sen,” he cried, “the wedding must and shall take place to-night. The
service shall be exactly as you wish. I’ll be there to see that it is
not interfered with. Come quickly. We’ve not a moment to lose. There is
another auspicious hour at 3 a.m. Let it be then.”

As he spoke he handed my father a written agreement confirming his words,
and told him that the Lieutenant-Governor had telegraphed: “Let the
marriage be performed according to the rites as settled in Calcutta.”

Mr. Dalton almost dragged my father to the waiting carriage, and followed
by some of our friends they made their way with difficulty through the
crowded streets.

Then as in a fairy tale the scene changed. The stillness was broken
by music. The darkness was flooded with light. The whole town was
illuminated in an instant; the band played, the conch shells sounded,
fireworks were sent up. All was joyous and brilliant.

Our wedding was celebrated in an enormous tent: the crowd remarked that
I looked very nice in a pale blue sari with raised gold flowers worked
upon it and a bright red satin veil with masses of gold, the creation of
a French dressmaker. But I felt very nervous when, seated on a piece of
wood, I was carried between lines of soldiers, the Maharajah following
close behind.

He was like a wonderful picture, one mass of gold from head to foot, and
the shimmering fabric seemed moulded to his fine figure. I went through
the ceremony with perfect confidence. The service was performed by the
Rev. Gour Govind Roy, who was one of the staunchest missionaries of our
Church, and all the Maharajah’s Hindu priests were also present.

It was lovely to think that we belonged to each other from that day,
and I was so happy. Certainly never did any girl possess a more perfect
husband than the Maharajah. He was so full of tender thought, and he
planned most exciting surprises in the shape of lovely gifts for me.

But the next few days were very trying. The palace ladies used to
threaten and scold me by turns. “You must become a Hindu,” was their
incessant, wearying refrain, and I was heartily glad when the time came
for me to return to Calcutta.

My husband had already gone to Darjeeling with Mr. Dalton, to interview
the Commissioner before his departure for England.

We left Cooch Behar without regret. Great was my joy and surprise to find
that the Maharajah had arranged to join our train and travel part of the
way with us. Soon after our arrival in Calcutta he left for England, and
I fell to wondering whether the past few weeks had been a dream or not.

CHAPTER VI

EARLY MARRIED DAYS

After we returned from Cooch Behar I found (although I understood little
about such serious matters then) that most of my father’s followers had
raised objections to my marriage. But I believed that nothing could hurt
my father and that no one could do him harm.

These people continually attacked him and plotted to undermine his
authority. The fire of discontent and disloyalty which they kindled
blazed fiercely and dazzled the eyes of the unfaithful. Some of them
even went so far as to threaten to kill him. All those who had feeble
faith left our Church, one after another. Even this did not satisfy
the malcontents, and they built a church of their own which is known
as Sadharan-Somaj. One of their members, who is now dead, published a
book called “The History of the Brahmo-Somaj.” I do not wish to discuss
the subject, but I may say this book plainly shows that not only the
man who wrote it was in the wrong, but all the members of his Church.
They are all responsible for preaching untruths. I have learned from
my babyhood that truth conquers untruth. Yet it is sad to think that
educated and enlightened men should allow such books to be published. I
am waiting for some dutiful son of the Church of the New Dispensation
to write the true history of the Brahmo-Somaj. I hope that the members
of the Sadharan-Somaj do not think we do not believe in our doctrine of
Universal Love. If they would accept the truth of the New Dispensation
they would find us waiting to welcome and love them as brothers and
sisters. It is sad that followers should work against their leader, their
preacher, their minister, and persist in making the gulf wider every day.

Many of my father’s followers insisted that my marriage had been a Hindu
ceremony. Yet it was not an idolatrous one, and I often wonder why the
Government never publicly defended my father and declared the truth.
For the Government was most anxious for the Maharajah to marry me, and
could easily have made the case clear to the public. They also might have
spoken for my father, as they knew that he was the leader of the Brahmos.
However, the marriage was now an accomplished fact, I was Maharani of
Cooch Behar, and it was left for me to prove the success or failure of
the first Indian marriage which had defied traditional custom.

The public are still uncertain by what rites we were married. The
Brahmo Act that my father wished the Government to pass was not agreed
to by other Brahmos, such as Maharshi Debendra Nath Tagore, and others.
Although the Tagores called themselves Brahmos, they wanted their
marriage ceremony to be known as Hindu marriage (non-idolatrous). As they
opposed it, the Act was not passed, but instead of it Act III. of 1872,
in which one of the many things mentioned was that the bride was not to
be under fourteen or the bridegroom under eighteen years of age. But the
Brahmo Marriage Bill, as worded by my father and from which the following
extract is taken, will remove all misunderstandings:—

“I, A.B., am a native of British India. I do not profess the Christian
religion, and I object to be married in accordance with the rites of the
Hindu, Muhammedan, Buddhist, Parsi or Jewish religion.”

It sounds too dreadful to have to say “No” to all religions. One and all,
I believe, resent it, but there is no other law for a Brahmo marriage.

The Maharajah could not be married under this Act as he had his own law
in his State, besides he was an independent ruler and a British marriage
was of no value in Cooch Behar. Our marriage was recognised by the
Government and the State as a Hindu marriage. The Maharajah himself was a
Brahmo, but he was the ruler of a Hindu Raj. As we were not married under
Act III., the age limit did not affect us.

The following letter, which my father wrote to Miss Cobbe, puts the
position clearly.

                                       “Lily Cottage,
                                          “78, Upper Circular Road,
                                              “Calcutta.
                                                 “29th April, 1878.

    “MY DEAR FRIEND,

    “Your kind letter has given me great relief, for which I
    thank you most sincerely. In the midst of my present trials
    and difficulties it is truly a Godsend. My antagonists have
    impeached my character, showered upon me abusive epithets of
    all kinds, and represented me before the public as one who, for
    fame and wealth and worldly advantages, has unhesitatingly sold
    his conscience and his daughter! This is indeed the substance
    of the charges preferred against me, and an insinuation to this
    effect is to be found, I am told, in the so-called protest.
    If my conscience acquits me, none can convict me. Of this I
    am sure, that I never sought a Rajah. I never coveted filthy
    lucre. As a private man I should not probably have acted as
    I have done. I was acting all along as a public man, and one
    course only was open to me. The British Government sought me
    and my daughter; a Christian Government that knew me thoroughly
    to be a Brahmo leader, proposed the alliance, and the weighty
    interests of a State were pressed upon me with a view to induce
    me to accept the proposal and make the needful concessions.
    I found such arguments as these placed before me: ‘Here is
    the Cooch Behar State, a den of ignorance and superstition,
    with a corrupt Court given to dissipation, polygamy, intrigue,
    and oppression. The young Rajah has been saved by the British
    Government acting as his guardian. The women of the Raj family
    have been mostly removed to Benares, and others will follow.
    The administration of the affairs of the State has greatly
    improved in all departments, education, police, revenue,
    health, etc., under the management of competent officers
    appointed by the British Government. The new palace will be
    erected at a cost of about Rs.8,000,000. Not a vestige will
    remain of the old _régime_, and the ground will have been
    thoroughly cleared for political and social improvements
    when the young Rajah will be formally installed and begin to
    govern his immense territory. It is desirable, it is of the
    utmost importance, that he should have an accomplished wife.
    Should he marry a girl of seven or eight in the old style,
    the effects of the education he has hitherto received will be
    neutralised, and he will surely go back into the evil ways from
    which he has been saved. A good and enlightened wife, capable
    of exercising always a healthy influence on the Rajah, is the
    “one thing needful” in the Cooch Behar State.’ The Government,
    in presenting these views before me, seemed to ask me whether
    I would give my daughter in marriage to the Maharajah and thus
    help forward the good work so gloriously begun in the State
    by our benevolent rulers in the interests of millions of the
    subject population. I could not hesitate, but said at once,
    under the dictates of conscience, ‘Yes.’ You have justly said
    that a grave responsibility would have rested upon me, had I
    refused the overtures of the Government. In fact, I wonder how
    you have so clearly realised the position and grasped the real
    secret of the whole affair. I have acted as a public man under
    the imperative call of public duty. All other considerations
    were subordinated to this sacred duty. All other considerations
    were subordinated to this sacred call, this Divine injunction.
    I saw, I felt that the Lord had Himself brought before me in
    the strange ways characteristic of His Providence, the young
    Maharajah of Cooch Behar for alliance with my daughter. Could
    I say No? My conscience bade me obey. And there I was, an
    enchained victim before a strange overpowering dispensation of
    the living providence of God. I did not calculate consequences,
    though most beneficial results I could not fail to foresee. I
    did not go through elaborate logical processes of thought. I
    did not refer to others for advice, though I saw clearly that
    the contemplated step involved risks and hazards of a serious
    character, as the Rajah was an independent chief and might
    fall back upon the evil customs prevalent in his territory. I
    trusted, I hoped with all my heart that the Lord would do what
    was best for me, my daughter, and my country. Duty was mine;
    future consequences lay in the hands of God. So I acceded to
    the main proposal of the Government, and negotiations went on
    between myself and the deputy Commissioners. It was at first
    proposed that the Rajah should marry under the Marriage Act,
    and the Government made no objection. I was assured that the
    Rajah had no faith in Hinduism, but a public renunciation of
    the Hindu faith was objected to on political grounds. Mr.
    Dalton wrote to me: ‘As a fact, he does not believe in it
    (Hindu religion), but profession and faith are two different
    things.’ He added, ‘These are difficulties, but I think they
    may be got over, and when you reflect on the benefits to the
    cause of enlightenment which may result from this marriage, I
    feel sure you will smooth our way as far as you can, even to
    the extent of conceding somewhat to Cooch Behar’s superstition.
    The greatest difficulty I see in the way is the public
    declaration to be made in Cooch Behar by the Rajah that he does
    not profess Hinduism. If that can be dispensed with, I think
    other difficulties may be got over. You must remember that Act
    III. of 1872 does not apply to Cooch Behar, and that there will
    be nothing illegal in leaving out this part of the programme.’
    (Deputy Commissioner’s letter, dated Calcutta, 24th September,
    1877.) Touching the match itself and the question of rites the
    following occurs in the same letter: ‘The Commissioner, Lord
    Ulick Brown, has written to me expressing his warm approval of
    the proposed engagement and asking me to obtain from you in
    writing “what you require,” that is to say, to state in writing
    the points in which the celebration of the marriage must differ
    from the Hindu ceremony.’”

After my return I resumed my life at Lily Cottage like an unmarried girl,
and was not sorry to forget the strenuous days at Cooch Behar. Our home
was very peaceful, and as it was half an hour’s drive from the town we
were right out of the city. Lily Cottage is not isolated now. Houses
have sprung up all round it and not many traces of the surroundings of
my girlhood remain. It is a large house, with a sanctuary, bedrooms, and
drawing-room on the upper story; below is the room that was used by the
missionaries, and the dining- and guest-rooms. The grounds were very
pretty, and I especially remember the little hut outside where father
and the missionaries cooked on Sundays. I used to get up quite early,
and take my bath, for I attended to our prayer-room, and it is a strict
Brahmo rule that this quiet sanctuary may be arranged only by those whose
body and dress are clean. My father plucked flowers from the garden and
brought them to the prayer-room every morning, and the service there
usually lasted until about half-past twelve. After that I breakfasted and
then began my daily lessons.

In India we offer betel leaf if any guest comes, as English people do
cigarettes. Our cooks are high-caste, and they have to bathe before they
enter the kitchen. One maid goes to the market to buy vegetables, fish,
and fruit every morning, other maids have to clean the brass plates,
etc., early in the morning; after this they must bathe before they enter
any of the rooms in the house. The sanctuary at Lily Cottage is very
large; the floor is of marble; and when I went away my mother and sisters
used to arrange the flowers. It was wonderful the designs mother made,
sometimes from the stars she had seen the evening before. After prayers
the children had their breakfast, and then the gentlemen, and then the
ladies. Our chief food in India is milk; very little meat is eaten, but
plenty of vegetables and fruits in their seasons.

The Government had, according to their ideas, discovered for the ideal
wife the ideal governess, a lady of good family, Miss S⸺, a society
woman to her finger-tips, but useless except as a teacher of _les
convenances_. I wanted to learn everything possible about the history of
other nations, and I was anxious to acquire a good general knowledge of
languages. German was the only foreign language which my governess seemed
to think necessary for a Maharani; but, as her German was dominated by
a strong Scottish accent, I doubted its conversational value. It was an
unfortunate experience. No doubt the lady meant well, and regarded me
as an uninteresting pupil. But she frightened and repelled me with her
trying temper, until I became quite cowed, and my education suffered in
consequence. Mrs. White taught me painting, and my sister-in-law taught
me Bengali. She was very clever, and the only language I know well is
Bengali, thanks to her kind help.

I corresponded frequently with my husband in England; his letters were
full of cheery accounts of his visit, and his wish to see me again. He
returned to India in February, 1879, and every one was delighted to
see how he had profited by his travels. The same year he joined the
Presidency College in Calcutta, and lived in a house in Theatre Road.
My husband’s stay in Calcutta was a time of great happiness for me. He
often came to Lily Cottage, where it was decided I should live until
he was eighteen, and I was sixteen. He was very fond of my mother, and
often teased her about the keys which, according to the Bengali custom,
she carried in a knot in her sari. His great delight was to steal these
keys and then enjoy her distress when she discovered her loss. “I can’t
understand why Englishmen hate their mothers-in-law,” he said to the
English ladies of his acquaintance, “mine is the sweetest imaginable, and
I love her as my mother.”

The Maharajah and I went to our church regularly every Sunday morning,
wet or fine, winter or summer. He respected the missionaries and treated
my brothers and sisters as if they were his own, in fact he loved and was
beloved by one and all.

The Maharajah was full of praise of England, and there never lived a more
loyal subject than he. Indeed, in most ways he was as Western in his
ideas as people had anticipated. But he was entirely Indian at heart. The
magic of the East held him. The “Land of the Lotus” was his own beloved
country. His upbringing never eradicated the strong claims of blood.

When I was sixteen and the Maharajah eighteen it was decided that our
“real” marriage should take place in my own dear home. In quiet ways
we had gathered the fragrant flowers of friendship’s garden, and there
we had seen the roses of love which were blooming for us. Our future
lay rich and glowing before us, and our happiness was perfect. We were
married in the Church of the New Dispensation. How well I remember
my wedding morn! As I write I glance at a modest ring, turquoise and
diamonds, which never leaves my finger. It was my husband’s gift to me
on that exquisite day, and I prize it more than all the lovely jewels he
delighted to give me.

Every one rejoiced that day. We were like one united family, and I knew
that all the good wishes and kind words came straight from the hearts of
those present. We started on our new life under the happiest auspices.
We left Calcutta by special train in the afternoon for Burdwan, where we
were to spend our honeymoon. Our saloon was beautifully decorated with
flowers, and a party of friends and relations came to see us off. Just
before the train started I pressed my face against my father’s arm and
had a good fit of sobbing. I knew I was really leaving my childhood’s
home that day. But when I found myself alone in the train with my husband
a heavenly happiness came over me. We were alone together! We two, who
loved each other, and I shall never forget a Bengali song he sang to me
that day: “He who has not undergone suffering cannot know love.”

At Burdwan we were received in state, and I was treated like a strict
purdah lady. The railway station and its approaches were covered in
like a huge tent so that no outsiders could catch a glimpse of me, and
directly the train stopped a bevy of maidens escorted me to a state
carriage. When I was safely on the way to the palace, the draperies were
withdrawn and my husband exchanged greetings with the officials who had
assembled to offer him their congratulations.

The palace at Burdwan is a splendid building, and our rooms were on a
terrace which overlooked the lake. Everything was as romantic as a young
girl’s heart could desire. But early next morning I was awakened by a
dull roar which seemed almost to issue from our rooms. I could hardly
believe I was awake until the roar was repeated, and then in an agony of
fear I called to my husband: “Oh, do see what is the matter. I believe
a tiger is trying to get in.” Another roar made me quiver. My husband
laughed immensely while he explained that the Maharajah of Burdwan’s most
cherished possession was a zoological garden which was quite close to our
apartments. That was my first tiger experience. I had plenty afterwards
at Cooch Behar, and learned that the roar of the tiger in captivity is
feeble compared with the majesty of his voice in the jungle where he is
king.

One day during our stay at Burdwan I visited the Maharanis, who lived in
an old palace. The Dowager Maharani welcomed me cordially and, instead
of bestowing the customary present, she filled my hands with sovereigns
until I could hold no more. She was a sweet old lady, this Maharani who
had given up everything luxurious when she became a widow. She worshipped
her late husband’s slippers, which she placed before his chair, just
as though he were alive and sitting there. I liked the Raj-Kumari, the
daughter of the late Maharajah. All the palace ladies were good-looking,
and I was struck by the large number of pretty faces.

My honeymoon was a very happy one, but after a few days in Burdwan we
returned to Calcutta, and I began to realise the responsibilities of my
position as the wife of the Maharajah of Cooch Behar. At first I was
not allowed to meet Indian gentlemen, not even my husband’s cousins.
When English visitors came, I remember one of these cousins throwing
their cards through the shutters of my door. Readers may wonder why the
Maharajah minded my seeing Indian gentlemen. The good reason was that
there were very few Bengali ladies out of purdah in those days, and my
husband strongly objected to my meeting men who did not bring out their
own wives. Though he was only two years older than me, he was a very
strict husband, and I always respected him as if he had been years older;
he was my hero and ideal husband, and whatever he said I thought was
right. He was very particular about my dress. A lady once remarked: “It
is a pity the Maharani doesn’t wear her lovely pearls next her skin.”

“She is not allowed,” the Maharajah answered with a quiet smile.

“Not allowed!” exclaimed the lady, in great surprise. “You surely do not
disapprove?”

“Yes, I disapprove.”

“But why, Your Highness?”

“Well, simply and solely because I prefer _my_ wife to do what I like. I
don’t care a bit what other women do.”

I don’t believe outsiders ever realised how absolutely Indian the
Maharajah was at heart, and he had the strictest ideas about my
conforming to his ideals. He did not like loud laughter or loud talking.
I was not allowed to ride, dance, or play tennis. In later years, when
my girls did all these things, he was often asked why he allowed his
daughters such privileges.

“I allow Girlie, Pretty, and Baby to be ‘outdoor’ girls, because I do
not know what sort of men they may marry, and if their husbands like
these things they will not be found lacking,” was his reply.

As I was a Bengali girl and had come from Calcutta, where all my people
were, and my husband wished to have a place near, Woodlands was bought
and beautifully furnished. I was delighted with my little sitting-room,
which was so charmingly decorated in pale pink and blue that it looked
like a picture. I still remember some books I had on one table, on
cooking, gardening, etc.

There we spent our early married days. Although my husband liked English
food, and lived like an Englishman, I was faithful to the Indian cookery
with which I was familiar. The hours passed all too swiftly. We began
to entertain. I gave two enjoyable dances and believe I was quite a
successful hostess.

The Maharajah took great pride in me. “Never forget whose daughter you
are,” he would say to me, and this appreciation of my dear father touched
me very much. Any good I may have done in my life is entirely due to his
influence.

In the summer of 1881 I knew I might look forward to the crowning glory
of our happiness, for I was expecting to become a mother. Girl though I
was, I realised how important a part this child might play in my life at
Cooch Behar. For many generations no heir had been born to the ruler’s
chief wife. The succession had always been through the son of a wife
of lower rank. I knew therefore that, if I ever had a son, much of the
ill-feeling of my husband’s relations towards me would disappear.

A strange thing happened that year, when I was staying up in the hills at
Mussoorie. My Indian maid came to me all excitement one morning, saying:
“Maharani sahib, there is a fortune-teller outside who wants to see your
hand.” “Tell him to go away,” I said. But the man refused to leave. “Let
Her Highness but pick out one grain of rice and send it to me,” he urged.
So I picked out a grain and sent it to him. I was surprised when the maid
returned with the message: “Her Highness will have a son, and he will
rule the country.” My father also had a premonition about the expected
baby. A few weeks before the child arrived, there was a ceremony, and
while at prayers, my father said: “A Sebak (a devotee) is coming from
God.” At times the gift of prophecy is given to men like my father.

In the early morning of the 11th April, 1882, my first son was born at
Woodlands. Late at night on the 10th a pandit had read the “Gita,” and
my relations who were present cried as if I were already dead and gone,
as I suffered greatly, and for a couple of hours they did not know if I
should survive the birth. But when the baby made his appearance every one
exclaimed that his arrival was favoured by the lucky stars then in the
ascendant, and still greater was the joy when it was known that the tiny
new-comer possessed the “tika” (a prominence on the forehead), which is
said to be bestowed only on very powerful rulers.

My father was alone in his room deep in prayer when Mazdidi, my cousin,
told him that a prince was born to Cooch Behar. The usual ceremonies
took place, and money and sweets were lavishly distributed. But the
supreme moment for me was when my husband came into my room and sat by my
bedside. “Darling wife,” he whispered, “we have a little boy.” I looked
at him and, though we spoke little, we were so happy. Our thoughts were
full of our reward, for our little son was sent by Heaven in recompense
for all that we had suffered.

Ah! my darling! My Rajey beloved! you are as near to my heart now in
your peaceful paradise as you were on that April morning. You were the
fruition of a great love and a perfect faith, but God decreed that your
life should be as mutable as your birth month. He bestowed on you all
that the world most values. He gave you a beautiful body and a beautiful
mind. Yet your days were as a “tale that is told,” and the only earthly
remains of your beauty and greatness are a few ashes in the rose garden
at Cooch Behar.

My father named this child of promise Raj Rajendra (King of kings), but
he was always called Rajey. His birth was celebrated with great public
rejoicings both at Calcutta and Cooch Behar. On the seventeenth day after
the birth, we gave an evening party, when presents were bestowed on the
lucky baby, and the whole of Woodlands was illuminated. On another day
was the children’s festival, when all sorts of pretty things were given
to the little visitors, and, in fact, for some time we lived in a perfect
whirl of excitement and congratulations.

“Rajey,” as we called him, was a perfectly behaved baby, who hardly ever
cried, and who was so fair that he was nick-named “the English baby.” My
husband allowed me to nurse him myself, a privilege not often permitted
to Royal mothers.

Every one adored Rajey. Dear old Father Lafont, one of the Jesuit Fathers
in Calcutta, always alluded to him as “my boy.” We went to Cooch Behar
for the naming ceremony, and when I arrived there I found, as I had
anticipated, that public feeling had completely changed, and I, as the
mother of a Prince, was popular, both in palace and State. There were
many palace rules to be followed in regard to the heir; one was that the
milk had to be well guarded, and when the cow was milked sentries stood
all round her. Some of my happiest days were spent at Simla, and Rajey
used often to go and see my father, who had a house there. My youngest
brother was only six months older than my boy, so the children were more
like playmates than uncle and nephew. Rajey had the simplest upbringing.
His rank was never put forward, for it was my husband’s wish that his
son should be brought up as simply as possible.

On the 31st October, 1883, the Maharajah completed his 21st year, and
was installed as reigning ruler on the 8th of November by Sir Rivers
Thomson, the Lieutenant-Governor, who made over to him the reins of
government. Rajey and his father looked splendid together, and every one
congratulated me on having such a handsome husband and such a beautiful
son. After a few days in Cooch Behar we returned to Calcutta.

My father had been ailing for a few months; but we little thought that
the end of his journey in this world was so near. He had a fine figure,
but was much reduced by December, 1883. Still we did not think it
possible he would leave us. Nothing I could write would give my readers
an idea of how happy our childhood had been. Our home had been for us
an abode of “sweetness and light”; and now it was to be shattered by
sorrow. To all families such grief must come. To ours, always so united,
the shadow of death seemed unthinkable. Yet my father’s call had come.
On the 1st of January, 1884, early in the morning he expressed a wish
to consecrate the new sanctuary in the grounds of Lily Cottage. His
physicians and all his relations and followers tried to dissuade him,
but he would not listen to them. Though exhausted and very ill, he
was carried down to the sanctuary, where he offered his last and most
impressive prayers.

On the following Tuesday, the 18th January, just before 10 a.m. my father
breathed his last. No one who witnessed it will ever forget the scene at
Lily Cottage that morning. The house, the compound, the roads were full
of people. The weeping of my mother and grandmother was heartrending. In
the first bitterness of my grief I felt that I could never know happiness
again. My father’s missionaries and followers were like sheep without
a shepherd. With him the brightness and joy of our days were gone. My
mother gave up everything in the way of comfort. She wore coarse saris,
discarded her soft bed and slept on a hard, wooden bedstead. Only the
cheapest things were to be seen in her room. But many will have read
about this in the Dowager Lady Dufferin’s book. Her Excellency was a kind
friend to my mother.

My father’s ashes rest in a mausoleum built in front of the new
sanctuary. The ashes of my mother’s body are near his, and close to them
the ashes of my brother, his wife and their baby boy, and next to them my
third brother, Profulla. It is a peaceful spot, this tomb-house in the
garden, and these words of my father are inscribed on his mausoleum:

    “Long since has this little bird ‘I’ soared away from the
    Sanctuary, I know not where, never to return again.

               Peace!      Peace!      Peace!”

After we lost my father we heard the most wonderful singing in the hush
of the hour before twilight; and we could hardly believe that the
rapturous melody which thrilled our souls and seemed to bring heaven
quite near to us could come from the throat of a bird.

Another strange thing happened after the tombstone had been placed
over my father’s grave. One day my mother noticed that a tiny plant
was growing between the crevices in the ground, and she allowed it to
remain. Gradually this plant became a flowering tree, with rich clusters
of bloom. There it blossomed season after season; but when my mother’s
gravestone was being placed, the tree was cut down by a mistake of the
masons, and it never grew again. I often think of that wonderful growth.
It seemed like a bright message of hope from him whose departure had cast
so deep a shadow on all our lives.

CHAPTER VII

LIFE AT COOCH BEHAR

Eight days after I lost my father I held a little daughter in my arms,
and I wondered whether the innocent soul which had come into my keeping
straight from God had met my father’s noble spirit on its upward flight.

Into that house of mourning her birth brought some consolation. We
named her Sukriti (Good deeds), but we always call her Girlie. She is
fascinating rather than lovely.

When Rajey was four years old, as no other son had been born to us, the
Maharajah’s people were most anxious for him to marry again, for they
said if anything happened to the child and the Maharajah also died, the
throne would have to go to another branch of the family. The old Maharani
and the late Calica Das Duth planned out very carefully that it was most
necessary for my husband to marry again. The Maharajah never mentioned
the matter to me, but to the doctor he said when Rajey once had an attack
of false croup: “Durga Das, I shall always be over-anxious about Rajey’s
health until another son is born.” So it was a day of great rejoicing
when my second son Jitendra, whom we called Jit, was born, 20th December,
1886.

I was greatly delighted when I went to live at Cooch Behar to find there
a fine church of the New Dispensation and a girls’ school named after me.

But there was much room for improvement in the country, although
Government had well prepared the way for us. It remained for my husband
to be a ruler in the highest sense of the word, and for me to win the
hearts of our people as a woman, a wife, and a mother. The more I saw
of Cooch Behar the more I liked it. The old tales say that the god Siva
chose it as his earthly home on account of its luxuriant loveliness.

Many legends have gathered round Cooch Behar, mostly of the time when it
formed part of the kingdom of Kamrupa, and when many of the temples and
palaces were built.

[Illustration: _Photo: Johnston & Hoffmann, Calcutta._

“RAJEY.”]

Among the stories is that of a Maharajah of Cooch Behar who had a number
of wives, one of whom was a very pretty girl; she was the favourite wife
and the others were very jealous of her. The Prime Minister had a very
handsome son, who when walking one day in the palace gardens, looked up
and caught sight of her beautiful eyes looking out of a window of the
palace. He gazed at the lovely face, and the girl, who had never seen any
man except her husband, stared back at him. The young man thought he had
never seen any one so beautiful, and in the days that followed he often
came to the garden. Unfortunately, some of the ladies of the palace saw
him looking at the little Maharani in the window. It did not take long
for the Maharajah to learn this, and he promised the wife who told him a
handsome present if she had spoken the truth.

One day when the romantic pair were thus engaged in gazing at each other
from a distance, the Maharajah saw them. Naturally, though unjustly, he
suspected his wife’s fidelity. He sent a message to the Prime Minister
commanding him to dine at the palace that evening. The Dewan, as he
believed, greatly honoured, accepted the invitation.

After dinner the Maharajah said: “I have a present for you to take home.”
When he reached his house, the Prime Minister told his wife to open the
parcel. Directly afterwards he heard a terrible scream, and, rushing into
his wife’s room, found her on the floor unconscious, with a half-open
parcel which contained the head of his son. The Dewan guessed at once
what had happened. Without a word he left his house just as he was, and
started for Delhi, the capital of the Moghul Empire. Arrived there, he
begged an audience, and when admitted to the presence of the Emperor he
told him that Cooch Behar was one of the richest districts in India and
suggested he should try to conquer it. The Emperor made several attacks
on Cooch Behar; but the fort was so strong that each time his army was
driven back from the place now known as Moghulhat.

This story is only one of the many I have heard. Their trend is always
the same. The members of my husband’s ancient race have been brave
soldiers, generous alike to friend and foe, and passionate lovers, and
they have sought afar for their wives.

I have often thought how uncharitable the general public are about the
failings of those in high places. Without knowing them well, without
knowing their inner lives, the public have an unjust habit of writing and
speaking unkindly of rulers and princes. Often the public will compare
their own lives with the lives of their princes—a commoner’s with a
ruler’s life! God has chosen one man to be a ruler and others to be his
subjects. It is unfair to judge hastily without knowing the divine object
of each life; people who rashly judge often do grave injustice to those
who have been called to a high station.

When I first came to Cooch Behar we lived in the old palace, which was
like a town. Hundreds of ladies occupied the various houses of which it
was composed: the late Maharajah’s wives, his mother and grandmother, and