We went into the new market, which had been opened by the Prince of Wales on his visit the previous year. It was not, however, very busy, and many of the stalls were empty. It seemed of doubtful advantage to the natives, who preferred to do business in the bazaars. There appeared to be a good supply of fresh vegetables, but very few buyers. The most interesting stalls were those of the bead sellers. There were beads of every variety of colour and size. The stalls were about the height of ordinary shop-counters, and on these platforms, which extended without divisions along the centre and sides of the market hall, the native traders squatted with their wares in front of them, women as well as men. Some of them were engaged in stringing the beads, and one man was plaiting a cord, the strands of which were fixed to a hook fixed on an upright stick supported on a stand. He used his toes like fingers to hold out and divide the strands as he worked. With the assistance of our bearer we made some purchases, and again later in the bazaar, when, as the carriage was stopped, I made a sketch of the scene in front of us, but under difficulties, as we were immediately surrounded on all sides by an eager concourse of swarthy, interested spectators, who refused to budge in spite of the rather mild remonstrances or commands of a native policeman, who, I imagine, used the Hindu equivalent for “Pass along” or “Move on,” but they didn’t. Under this “crowd of witnesses” I endeavoured to complete my sketch, and then we moved on.
Extending our drive on the Morar Road, we passed the camp of the Maharajah’s soldiers in waiting for the Amir’s coming, as after the Agra reception was over he was to pay a visit to the palace at Gwalior for tiger-shooting. We enjoyed a quiet life at Gwalior, and I was able to make several drawings unhindered by too curious crowds. The Guest House was one of the quietest places imaginable, although visitors came and went and even motor-cars were seen. There was something almost mysterious in the way guests would appear and disappear—at table one day and vanished the next; covers would be laid too for guests who never appeared.
Tents which were pitched on the ground outside the Guest House for other unseen visitors would be clean gone as we looked out in the morning. Everything seemed so transitory; even a native boy, when I wanted to make a drawing of him, was nowhere to be found, and I had to make the best of it with an unwilling and quite inferior substitute, who had no idea of keeping still, and even ended the seance by squatting on the ground with his back to one!
It struck me that the natives do not like being drawn or painted, as a rule, to judge by the various attempts one made to secure models. The one wanted always disappeared when the time came, and another, but not a better and without the same characteristics, offered.
The little palm squirrels were very numerous here, and would scamper about the terraces and balconies of the Guest House, and even chase each other into our rooms, or come up for the crumbs we scattered, sitting up on their haunches to nibble at them, held in their fore-paws in true squirrel fashion. Equally familiar were the sparrows which flew in and out, unmolested and fearless, even perching sometimes on the breakfast table. The crows too would congregate on the balcony rails if any feeding was going on, frequently joining us at afternoon tea, at a respectful distance, though within short range of the scattered crumbs.
CALLERS AT THE GUEST HOUSE, GWALIOR
We witnessed several very lovely sunsets over the Rock of Gwalior, a type of frequent occurrence being an arrangement of long, low stratus clouds, brilliantly illuminated on their under edges as the sun sank below the horizon, the light deepening from orange into crimson. Another type consisted of golden fleeces of high cirrus clouds, rippling out over spaces of turquoise.
We paid another visit to the old town of Gwalior and climbed the hill as far as the third gate, where I made a sketch showing the towers of the Man Mandir Palace through the arch.
From a terrace extending along the hill near this gate there is a fine panoramic view, the old town lying below, partly ruined and deserted, a mass of crumbling walls and complicated roof plans mingled with trees and gardens.