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.