Transcriber’s Note: Names in this text are sometimes spelt inconsistently e.g. Profullo/Profulla (presumably due to different 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

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

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.

CHAPTER III
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.

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.