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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I disapprove.”

“But why, Your Highness?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace! Peace! Peace!”