Rajey, who was seriously injured internally, had such a wonderful constitution that he looked neither ill nor sad, although he was in the hot sun for hours at the Durbar. It was a magnificent sight, and I shall never forget the display of jewels worn by our Princes. There were emeralds of a wonderful deep green, priceless pearls, rubies like blood, and diamonds dazzling in their brightness; in fact there were jewels everywhere, even the elephants were decorated with them. I saw a Maharajah whose gold fan was fringed with beautiful pearls. I shall never forget the elephant procession; it would have been a perfectly joyful occasion but for a misfortune. Mrs. H. M⸺ was staying with me in our camp at the time, and as I had not received a card the Maharajah did not wish me to go. Mrs. M⸺, on hearing this, said she would make it all right for me, she was certain to be able to get a card from Sir H. Barnes, who was an old friend of hers, and I must go. When the morning came, however, there was still no card and I said I would not go, but Mrs. M⸺ pressed me hard; she was bent upon my going, and against the Maharajah’s wishes I set out with her. The result was that in the end we made quite a sensation among the crowd. My coachman was directed by Mrs. M⸺, and we drove on and on and turned from one road to another and often drove back, as after a time on certain roads no carriage was allowed to pass. Mrs. M⸺ stopped the carriage dozens of times to ask the mounted policemen where Sir H. Barnes was, but no one gave her satisfactory answers; we went past the same places over and over again. Many of my friends, relations, and acquaintances saw me and wondered what had happened. It got late and the policemen said we must alight as carriages were no longer allowed to be there. Several times I told Mrs. M⸺ I wished to return to camp, but she would not hear of it. We went near the Masjid—the place where English ladies gathered to see the procession. Mrs. M⸺ wanted me to wait till she found Sir H. Barnes. The sun was hot, and I felt frightfully insulted and hurt. Some people who were there asked me to go up the steps, which I did. When I got inside I tried to smile, but I felt more like crying. I met some of the Viceroy’s A.D.C.s and told them that I had gone there without a card and felt nervous. Instead of offering me a chair or saying something to ease my mind they walked away. Thus that most enjoyable sight, the elephant procession, is stamped on my mind as “a sad experience.”
Lady Curzon looked very handsome in her splendid dress. The cheers with which Their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of Connaught were greeted can never be forgotten. Lord Curzon made a grand speech, really I felt that I could scarcely tire of listening to him, he is such an eloquent speaker.
In 1904 Rajey was taken ill. Our own doctor diagnosed the complaint as remittant malaria, a complaint of which I had not heard. He became rapidly worse, and in despair I wrote to my husband, who was in Darjeeling, and told him that I thought Rajey ought to have the best advice in Calcutta. When consulted, the Calcutta physicians declared that the opinion of a London specialist was necessary, as Rajey’s heart was affected. He was ordered to England at once, but needless to say he was not allowed to go until he had received leave from the Cadet Corps. It was monsoon time and my poor boy went alone. Afterwards I found out to my intense annoyance that our Superintendent had written privately to the Calcutta doctors, asking if the Maharaj-Kumar were actually ill, or merely gone to England to enjoy himself. The doctors were furious at this, and did not mind telling the Superintendent so. One of them said: “Does he think I’m open to a bribe?” This trivial incident shows what used to happen when our personal affairs were in question, but I am happy to say this state of things is gradually being changed. My darling son was not allowed to go in search of health without being exposed to the insult of suspicion, and mud thrown in this manner sticks. It is impossible not to feel some bitterness over the many cruel rumours which are entirely without foundation. Let a ruler or prince have but the slightest failing, it is instantly magnified fourfold and discussed unmercifully, without a single attempt to counterbalance it by any remembrance of the victim’s better qualities.
I have been obliged to sit and listen to falsehoods about princes who were our friends which almost took my breath away, as I realised their cruelty and injustice. I remember one Maharajah in particular who was a very kind man, very “English” and very sporting. He knew us well, and I remember my husband telling me how this Maharajah once saved the honour of an officer. The latter had had a bad day at the races and was thousands of rupees in debt. He was a hard-up, smart Army man, and could not lay his hand on such an amount. What was he to do? The honour of a British officer was at stake. Suddenly he remembered the Prince and sent a despairing message telling him of his plight. The kind Prince paid the debt of honour without a moment’s hesitation. When the Prince died later people spoke of him most unkindly and hailed his death as the best thing that could have happened to him.
I always think of that poor Prince in connection with a certain old Sudan legend:
A little village far away in the jungle was smitten with cholera, and the panic-stricken people wanted to put the great stone image of their god into the Ganges until the plague was over. One of the villagers dreamt that the god appeared and told him that his image could only be moved by a man who was pure in heart and loved God. The villager related his dream to the priests, and orders were issued that the people should assemble on the morrow and try to find a man who could carry out the instructions of the god. All tried, the so-called best men, the holy, the strongest, the bravest. But to no avail! The stone image smiled its inscrutable smile in the scented gloom of the temple, and the priests were in despair. At last a thick voice broke the stillness, and the villagers saw a man, whom they all knew to be a hopeless drunkard, come reeling unsteadily into the sacred precincts of the temple. “What’s all this I hear about the dream?” he demanded, propping himself up against a worshipper’s unwilling shoulder. “I tell you it is quite true. The great god knows who loves him and who loves him not. There’s none here who loves him better than I do. So mine shall be the hands to give him to the care of Mother Ganges.” He swayed towards the huge image as he spoke, and the horrified crowd thought that some dreadful punishment would fall upon him for such sacrilege.
The drunkard approached slowly; for an instant he pressed his drink-swollen face against the marigold-wreathed breast of the image; then clasping it in his arms, he lifted the idol from its recess as if it were light as a feather, and carried it forth to the bank of the river.
The awe-stricken throng were speechless with amazement that a poor drunkard should be chosen to show them how, under the cloak of failings and frailties, there existed a heart which remained pure, and wherein was to be found “the invisible kingdom of God,” which is all truth and all love.
[1] Now Sir Walter Durnford, Provost of King’s College, Cambridge.