Rajey’s education was at first entrusted to governesses, but in Lord Lansdowne’s time, when he was about eleven, we had to settle where he should go to school. There is a college in Rajputana, founded by Lord Mayo and known as Mayo College, where only the Rajput and up-country Princes were educated; no Bengal Prince had the privilege of going there, whether the Maharajahs in that part did not wish it or whether there was any caste prejudice I cannot say. However, Lord Lansdowne kindly arranged that Rajey should be sent there, and Colonel William Lock, the principal, gave my son a cordial welcome.

Mr. B. Ghose was appointed Rajey’s private tutor. Oh, how I felt that first parting! I knew that Rajey must be trained for the duties of his position, yet I dreaded giving him over to others. As I bade him farewell at the Calcutta railway station, I was amazed to see how “grown-up” he had suddenly become. He was self-possessed and quiet, yet how loving. As I kissed him, trying to be calm and cheerful, I felt the child was taking his first real step in life. I see him now, the dear face, the loving eyes. There was such perfect understanding between us that a look was sufficient to tell me of what Rajey was thinking, and it is the mother’s triumph over death that the love between us still exists and that he is nearer than ever to me now.

I heard that on the night of his arrival Rajey felt the cold exceedingly and was quite ill. “Won’t you go to bed?” asked Mr. Sen, the late Dewan who went with him. “No … no …,” replied the child firmly, “it might hurt Colonel Lock’s feelings.” Rajey was so considerate. He never liked to inflict pain upon any one.

Rajey was very popular at Mayo College. He studied well, and entered into all kinds of sports with zest. His hobby was engines and engineering. He was wonderfully clever in anything connected with mechanics; he used to say: “When I am grown up, I will be an engine-driver. I will get Rs.20 pay and I will give Rs.18 to Hookmi (a favourite servant) because he is so much older than I, and I will keep Rs.2 for myself.” He was also very fond of playing at fighting and building forts. He built one in our Calcutta Palace garden and another in the Cooch Behar Palace garden which still exists.

In 1894, Rajey was removed from Mayo College, and I knew I had to face a longer separation from my first-born. It was very difficult at the time of my son’s education to know how the young Kumars and future rulers of India were to be trained and where. Some said an English education would not be good for these boys. Others said everybody under the British Empire should learn English and be educated in England if possible, as it fitted them for work of any sort in life. There was much discussion on the subject. The Maharajah decided on education in England, because he had great faith in the discipline of the great English public schools.

When I heard that it was decided Rajey should go to England to complete his education, I thought I would speak about it to the Lieutenant-Governor Sir Charles Elliott. I opened my heart to him and said that it was not right to take young Raj-Kumars away from their country and people. “I believe in home influence. I do not like the idea of Rajey’s going such a great distance away from all of us; and he such a homely boy.”

But Sir Charles Elliott told me: “There is no college in India like an English public school; it will do your son good, and you will not regret having sent him.” I told him: “It will be very hard for the boy when he returns from England to be content with the people of Cooch Behar, who are so backward.” And I also said: “How can you expect the boy to keep well in the Cooch Behar climate after being out of it for so many years? It may not agree with him when he comes back.”

Somehow nobody took much notice of my remarks and suggestions. But strangely enough when Lord Curzon was Viceroy I heard remarks made by him “that the Cooch Behar boys were too English, and it was hard on them to have been sent away from Cooch Behar when they were so young.”

It was disappointing that such a remark should have come from a clever Viceroy like Lord Curzon. If he had made inquiries he would have found it was from a Lieutenant-Governor that the advice had come.

I have often thought what a pity it is we have no Indian Eton, where our boys could be educated without being cut off from their home life. For our boys love their homes and can have no home-life in England. Many Indian mothers have a horror of an English education and think that ruin is bound to overtake their children once they set foot in London.

I am of opinion that my people do not require a Western education. People seem to forget that thousands of years ago India produced astronomers, poets, and sages, when most of the European races of to-day were cave-dwellers. I feel hurt when I hear or read remarks about the bad taste we are supposed to display in our rush after English ideas. Boys who are educated in England do not always get the chance of seeing the right and bright side of English Society, and perhaps get married to girls who are not of their class. I do not blame either the Indian students or the Government for the troubles that have arisen, but as a mother I beg of the English people to go thoroughly into the whole matter before they judge the students.

Rajey was, I think, the first Maharajah’s son to receive an English education. “I want my sons to be brought up just as ordinary boys, not as Indian Princes,” was my husband’s often-repeated wish, and I think he imagined that England would do the best for them. In May, 1894, Rajey and his father left India and I did not see my son again for nearly four years. On their arrival in England, the boy was sent to Mr. Carter’s Preparatory School at Farnborough.

If Rajey was home-sick he did not say so, and I was happy to know that he made some very nice friends, amongst them Prince Arthur of Connaught. The Duke and Duchess were most kind to the little exile, and often invited him to spend his holidays with their Royal Highnesses at Bagshot. From there Rajey wrote: “I have a room to myself, a table of my own, a penknife, a pen and pencil on the table.” I shall always be indebted to them for their kindness.

Rajey entered Eton in 1897, and was in Mr. Durnford’s[1] house. He became very popular with the boys. An old Etonian told me that my son possessed the most beautiful character, and that “no boy was ever more beloved than Rajey.”

From the age of twelve till he was sixteen my son was separated from me. I think it was most unkind the way in which the State officials prevented me from going to England to be with my boy. Every time the question was raised, they made the excuse of money difficulties, which I know for certain did not exist. I beg of all Maharani mothers in India that, if ever they are confronted with the same trouble, they will be firm, uphold their own judgment, and not allow the officials to interfere with their home-life. It is cruel to part the heirs when they are so young from their mothers. Now I think it was perhaps a waste of time to educate a ruler’s heir in England. The Maharajah did what he and the Government thought best at the time by sending our boys to England for a thorough English education, but afterwards the boys felt their lack of knowledge of the Indian languages very much. They returned home knowing Greek and French, but they did not know Sanscrit or Urdu and found it difficult to speak freely and fluently in the Cooch Behar language. I think there should be Sanscrit teachers in England as well as teachers of Urdu and Bengali; Sanscrit is the most ancient language, and with a knowledge of it one can read and learn much that is most helpful. The heir to a State should have a more general education than the other sons; he should have some knowledge of law, engineering, accountancy, and agriculture, otherwise he cannot improve his State nor help the officials. The education of a Maharajah’s younger sons, too, is a difficulty. A Maharajah is not allowed to buy any lands in British districts. I do not know what the reason of this is, but I think I once heard that if the sons of a ruler or his servants commit any crime they cannot be tried by British law because of the Maharajah’s own laws, which may account for it. This comes very hard on the younger sons; they can never make themselves rich nor independent. They have to live on their father’s estate on whatever allowance the heir is pleased to give them after their father’s death. I do not see why a Maharajah’s younger sons cannot buy lands in British districts and be independent.

We lost our dear mother in 1898, and I do not think she was sorry to go. The time of separation from my father had been a period of continual sorrow to her, and Death was a friend who re-united them. Her beautiful face wore a smile and she looked like one asleep dreaming of happiness. We could not wish her back again, although our hearts were aching at her loss.

After my mother had passed away my unmarried sisters lived with my brother Saral at Lily Cottage. Saral said: “Unless my sisters marry I shall remain single, and I shall not accept any post that will take me away from them.” Although he was younger than my third sister he took care of them like a guardian. He simply lived for his sisters and they one and all adored him. Eventually he married a Miss Sen of Rangoon and built a little house in the grounds of Lily Cottage. This brother of mine nursed my husband in his last illness, for which I shall ever be grateful to him.

The question of Girlie’s marriage came up in 1899, and we realised for the first time what difficulties might arise over it. No Maharajah except my husband was a professed Brahmo, and as our rulers have more than one wife, it was impossible to find a husband of her own rank for our daughter. But Mr. Jyotsna Ghosal, of the I.C.S., a member of one of our best Bengali families and a grandson of Maharshi Tagore, proposed for her and was accepted.

As Jyotsna is a civilian, he could not get leave long enough to go to Cooch Behar, so, to the great disappointment of the State people, the wedding had to be at Woodlands, our Calcutta house. Invitations for the wedding were sent to a great number of English officials and friends, and the ceremony took place on the 29th November, 1899, in an enormous tent in the grounds of Woodlands, and three of our missionaries married the young couple. Girlie wore a red and gold sari and was literally covered in jewels from head to foot. She was nearly sixteen, a lovely young girl with the sweetest disposition; the bridesmaids wore white and gold, and my husband and the boys looked splendid in their national costumes.

Jyotsna looked very nice in eau-de-nil Benares silk, and every one remarked how picturesque Girlie looked, and what a happy future seemed in store for her. Cooch Behar was illuminated in honour of the wedding; prisoners were released; life pensions were granted, and remissions of revenue. In the tent there were thousands of seats and hundreds of our English friends sat there, while on the raised platforms the bride and bridegroom, the three missionaries, the Maharajah, and the boys were seated. Girlie had numerous wedding presents; hundreds of beautiful saris, English and Indian silver sets for dinner, tea, and toilet, and lovely jewels from the Maharajah and friends. After the wedding was over about eight hundred guests had dinner together, even the drivers of the carriages each and all had dinner given to them in an earthenware pot tied up with muslin, and next day Girlie went to her father-in-law’s house. The parting was sad, but she was so young and pretty we all expected her to be happy in her new home. On the third evening was the flower ceremony and we sent presents, carried by about five hundred men. Girlie’s mother-in-law had been one of the most beautiful girls in India; she is very clever and is one of the younger daughters of the Maharshi Tagore and sister to Sir Rabindra Nath Tagore. Girlie has two sisters-in-law, but Jyotsna is the only son and adored by his parents. They welcomed Girlie with great rejoicings and all her new relations are very proud of her. We knew Jyotsna to be absolutely trustworthy, and after twenty-two years I can still say that I could not wish for a better son-in-law.

In 1900 Rajey was at Oxford, and the younger boys at Eton and Farnborough. All my boys, while in England, made numerous friends. Had it not been for the kindness of these friends, I should have been more unhappy and anxious about my boys being so far away from their home. Rajey was much admired, and had he not been so reserved in character he might have been quite spoiled.

Those who knew them at the Preparatory School and Eton have been their best friends. I can never express my gratitude to some of these friends. Long before I had the pleasure of knowing any of them, they used to ask my Rajey to go and spend the holidays with them. Mrs. Nicholas Wood is one of these friends, she has been kind to all my boys. Jit once said: “She is my adopted mother.”

Lady Amir Ali, whose husband was a judge out here, asked Rajey once to come from Eton to lunch with her in London. Rajey had leave to go, dressed himself nicely, and came up to town; but when he arrived in the street, he found he had forgotten the number. He walked up and down the street several times, stopped at several houses, but in vain, and had to return to Eton, disappointed and hungry.

After a short time at Oxford Rajey returned to India; he was growing up and the Maharajah was anxious to have his son with him, to help in administrative work and to take a prominent position in the State. It was a splendid idea. It would have brought father and son together in close comradeship with a common interest, and Rajey could have assumed a definite position in Cooch Behar. To my great disappointment, I found that the Viceroy wished Rajey to join the Cadet Corps. This Cadet Corps was started by Lord Curzon; no commissions, no prospects, and no position were attached to it; it could not even be called the Army. The Maharajahs’ sons lived in some ordinary buildings like a barrack. One day Rajey, who had been thus forced to join, was out walking when he passed the General and the Commanding Officer. Afterwards the C.O. was much annoyed with him because he had not made a proper salute to the General. Rajey answered: “But, sir, I could not make a military salute because the General was not in uniform.” The C.O. was, I believe, in a rage, but he was wrong and my son was right; evidently the C.O. did not know the Army regulations. Later, Jit and Victor followed Rajey into this corps.

Most unwise remarks were made by the Dewan and Superintendent about Rajey learning administrative work. The Dewan said bluntly that there was nothing for the Maharaj Kumar to learn. The Superintendent told me the Viceroy wished Rajey to devote himself to the Cadet Corps until he was twenty-six years of age, and then he might return to the State. I was amazed and could not understand why the heir should be made to stay away from his State and parents so long! But the State people seemed to know more about it. They thought: “The Maharaj Kumar is too clever to be with his father, who is surrounded with such officials as we.” One day a major remarked to me: “Well, Maharani, you’ve sent Rajey into the Cadet Corps. What will he learn? Nothing. You might as well send me.” This outspoken comment was the opinion of many.

I wonder why no Viceroy of India has ever given any of our young Princes a place on his staff. It would appeal tremendously to our people and prove that the much-discussed English training meets with its reward. Our Princes mix on terms of equality with Englishmen at the public schools and universities. Yet, in their own land, they are denied positions of honour!

Queen Victoria was loved by the Indians more than people in England have any idea of, and we often expressed the belief that our happiness was due to the reign of a Queen. She was known, and will ever be known, as the “Good Queen.” Indian women appreciated the fact that she was a good wife, a good mother, and a good woman all round. When the news of her illness came every one spoke of it with grief. “What shall we do if anything happens to Queen Victoria?” Although they never had the honour of seeing their Queen, all Indian women admired and respected our late Empress, and I well remember when the news came and the guns were fired, how all the ladies said: “We have lost our Mother.” How I wished I had seen her once more! My dear friend, Miss Minnie Cochrane, told me that Her Majesty had several times expressed a wish to see me again, and my great regret is that I did not have the honour and pleasure of showing my Victor to his godmother. When I came over in 1902 I went to see her mausoleum at Frognal, and I wrote a few lines in Bengali, tied them to a wreath, and presented it. I had brought the children with me on this visit, and first of all rented Moor Hall, a country house between Battle and Bexhill; but the place disagreed with us, and the slow train service completed our disenchantment. We came up to town, and in the winter I went to Switzerland with the girls. We stayed at Territet and Villeneuve. The latter I thought was pretty, and some of the old villages were rather like India with their brick buildings and stone steps; but no scenery in Europe ever appeals to me like that of my own country.

As the Maharajah was coming over shortly for King Edward’s Coronation, we returned to London vi Paris, and I rented Ditton Park, a lovely place between Slough and Datchet. The King had given a house in Lancaster Gate to my husband as his guest and aide-de-camp. That summer is one of my happiest recollections. The children were all growing up. Two of the boys were at Eton, and the youngest at Farnborough. Rajey was the dearest companion, and most devoted son that ever gladdened a mother’s heart. What more had I to wish for?

I remember a wonderful toy railway, lines, tunnels, hills, and everything in miniature, which the boys constructed in the park, and I opened this “Ditton Park Route” with great ceremony. Then came the mania for cricket, when every one played most of the day, and a cart conveyed lunch to the teams. The boys’ friends often came from Eton without leave on Sundays—luckily they were not expelled—and revelled in curry teas. It was all light-hearted merriment and one perpetual romp. They had to fly back to college; sometimes it got late and my third brother had to drive them back, and they always sang: “Good-bye, Sally, I must leave you.” How happy Jit and Victor were! How I had struggled to avoid parting with the boys when they first went to school, but seeing them so happy with so many nice little friends my heart bowed down with gratitude that they should be Eton boys. Even now when they meet their Eton friends they speak happily of their college days. My poor darling little Hitty was the one who most wished to stay at home; not that he was unhappy at school, but he loved being with me. When he came home for the week-ends, every time I saw him off in the train big tears would roll down his cheeks and make my heart ache till I saw him again. And now he has gone and left me to weep over those days of my happy past.

When news came that, owing to the King’s illness, there would be no Coronation, London wore a most miserable aspect; I don’t think I have ever seen anything to equal it. But when our beloved Monarch rallied and recovered, the sad time of doubt and danger through which the nation had passed, was quickly forgotten.

When I was having my hair dressed to attend the Coronation ceremonies the attendant said to me: “Perhaps some day the Kaiser will be King of England.” I asked her why, and she said: “Because he is the son of the Queen’s eldest child, and ought to be the heir.” I could not help laughing at the idea, and said: “England can’t be Germany; it will always be England.”

I went to the Coronation with Rajey, who had a very unsuitable seat among the tradespeople, owing to some regrettable oversight. He looked beautiful in white with many jewels. My husband rode in the procession as one of King Edward’s A.D.C.’s. We were invited to the party at the Foreign Office, and Rajey was in attendance on the present King, and wore British uniform. His complexion was fair, and I remember some of my lady friends in the gallery did not at first recognise him. He had recently been appointed to a commission in the Westminster Dragoons.

I stood between Princess Frederica of Hanover and Princess Henry of Pless, and people remarked on the contrast between us, as Princess Frederica had the loveliest grey hair and Princess Henry of Pless beautiful fair hair, and my locks were raven black. I heard that my tiara was voted the prettiest there.

The review held at Buckingham Palace was a wonderful sight. Three times a message was sent that I should take a position near Her Majesty. I hesitated, thinking there must be some mistake. As we waited on the terrace, the King came up and shook hands with me, and Queen Alexandra asked me to follow her to the tent in the grounds. When we entered I was directed to sit near His Majesty, and felt most nervous all the time. I was thinking somebody had made a mistake when they put me in that seat of honour.

After the presentation of medals to the troops, His Majesty rose and handed me something, saying a few words as graciously as he alone knew how to speak. The “something” was the Coronation Medal, and as I was the only lady to whom one was given, I was touched and very much overcome, as I curtsied and expressed my gratitude. I remember how amused the Prince of Wales (now our King) was when the colour came off the red-covered boxes of Coronation Medals which he was giving away. At the finish his white gloves were stained vivid crimson, and he and the Grand Duke of Hesse regarded the effect of the faulty dye as a huge joke.

The Court was gorgeous. I had a handsome dress made by a French milliner for the occasion. The heavy gold embroidery was unique; it was very like the Delhi embroidery and was much admired. I believe I looked rather nice, as an old friend said: “The Maharani looked her best.” The Princess of Wales, our present Queen, liked the dress very much, and thought it was a piece of Indian work. Both Their Majesties spoke graciously to me when I made my deep curtsies. A message was sent from Lady Lansdowne, who was next the King, that Their Majesties wished me to stand in the front line so that I might have a good view of the ladies passing. I was most grateful and impressed by the kind thought of Their Majesties. I often wondered how their royal minds remembered so many little things.

At the grand State Ball after King Edward’s Coronation one of the ladies, very handsomely dressed, had forgotten to fasten her waistband; I felt most uncomfortable seeing this, and longed to tell her but did not like to. Her appearance was magnificent, but to my mind quite spoiled by the two strips of ribbon with hooks hanging down.

We lunched with Their Royal Highnesses, the Connaughts. It was one of the most enjoyable parties to which I have been asked.

I went to a party at Lady Warwick’s and stayed the night, and I found her as clever as she is handsome and a most charming hostess.

We went to one review, at which we had seats somewhere right away. I was touched when some of the Princes saluted me in the distance. It pleased my Rajey. I also went to the Duke of Westminster’s dance.

Shortly after, a polo team was to go from England to Trouville. My husband could not get away from his duties as the King’s A.D.C. and Rajey was to play for his father in the team. I am not usually superstitious, but I had misgivings about this journey. The morning Rajey was leaving for Trouville it was cold and foggy. When he came to say good-bye I told him that perhaps the crossing would be very rough and unsafe. He only laughed. Within a short time after he had started I heard his voice on the stairs, and he came in and said: “Mother, I just missed the train.” Then I exclaimed: “Oh, darling, don’t go; your missing the train shows you are not to go to-day.” But he would not listen to this. He started by a later train. And that day’s dark fog brought him ill luck and from that trip his health was never the same.

One day, when I was walking in the garden at Ditton, I received a telegram from a friend who was at Trouville that Rajey was “getting better.” Why! I did not even know that Rajey was ill. What did the telegram mean? Then my husband broke the alarming news that my son had had a dreadful fall at polo, but luckily the pony stood still and he had escaped worse injury.

I shall always be grateful to our kind friends, the Hays, for all they did for my Rajey while he was at Trouville.

The French doctors’ treatment has always been incomprehensible to me. For days during Rajey’s period of unconsciousness they kept him on nothing but champagne. When he was able to be moved, my son was brought to London, and the specialists whom we consulted gave their opinion that he had not sustained any injury to his head, but my husband was not satisfied and felt something was wrong.

We went to Lowther Castle to stay with Lord and Lady Lonsdale. It is a fine castle with very pretty gardens. I admired the rock gardens. One thing I saw there which I shall never forget and I am grateful to Lord Lonsdale for having shown it to me, and that is the blue lotus. It blooms in the evening and closes in the day. It is an extraordinary thing that in the Hindu mythology it is written that when Ram Chandra went to Ceylon he worshipped his goddess with the blue lotus, and since then it has never been seen or heard of in India. When I told my people in India that I had seen the blue lotus they were so interested and begged me to try and bring it to them. Lord Lonsdale said he got it from America, and promised to send me a plant, but it has not yet come. Rajey, who was with us, was too ill to enjoy the visit, and our friends declared that his proper place was a darkened room and a rest cure.

After a stay of a few weeks I had to return to India for the arrival of my first grandchild, and to make preparations to take part in the great Durbar at Delhi. When I arrived in Calcutta I found Girlie suffering from a very high fever; Woodlands looked like a nursing home; nurses and doctors were everywhere, and it was a depressing atmosphere. I watched my child, and instead of getting better she grew worse. One day, I do not know what made me think of it, but I suddenly determined to take my child away to the hills. It was very cold, and the doctors were horrified at my suggestion, but I took Girlie, first to Kurseong, which is not so high, and afterwards to Darjeeling, which was quite deserted, and I am thankful to say within a few days she got better.

I now began to think about the Durbar. I heard that all the Maharanis present were to be in purdah, and I decided to follow their example, but my husband told me, unless I was given my rightful position by his side, he would not take me.

Rajey, who was seriously injured internally, had such a wonderful constitution that he looked neither ill nor sad, although he was in the hot sun for hours at the Durbar. It was a magnificent sight, and I shall never forget the display of jewels worn by our Princes. There were emeralds of a wonderful deep green, priceless pearls, rubies like blood, and diamonds dazzling in their brightness; in fact there were jewels everywhere, even the elephants were decorated with them. I saw a Maharajah whose gold fan was fringed with beautiful pearls. I shall never forget the elephant procession; it would have been a perfectly joyful occasion but for a misfortune. Mrs. H. M? was staying with me in our camp at the time, and as I had not received a card the Maharajah did not wish me to go. Mrs. M?, on hearing this, said she would make it all right for me, she was certain to be able to get a card from Sir H. Barnes, who was an old friend of hers, and I must go. When the morning came, however, there was still no card and I said I would not go, but Mrs. M? pressed me hard; she was bent upon my going, and against the Maharajah’s wishes I set out with her. The result was that in the end we made quite a sensation among the crowd. My coachman was directed by Mrs. M?, and we drove on and on and turned from one road to another and often drove back, as after a time on certain roads no carriage was allowed to pass. Mrs. M? stopped the carriage dozens of times to ask the mounted policemen where Sir H. Barnes was, but no one gave her satisfactory answers; we went past the same places over and over again. Many of my friends, relations, and acquaintances saw me and wondered what had happened. It got late and the policemen said we must alight as carriages were no longer allowed to be there. Several times I told Mrs. M? I wished to return to camp, but she would not hear of it. We went near the Masjid—the place where English ladies gathered to see the procession. Mrs. M? wanted me to wait till she found Sir H. Barnes. The sun was hot, and I felt frightfully insulted and hurt. Some people who were there asked me to go up the steps, which I did. When I got inside I tried to smile, but I felt more like crying. I met some of the Viceroy’s A.D.C.s and told them that I had gone there without a card and felt nervous. Instead of offering me a chair or saying something to ease my mind they walked away. Thus that most enjoyable sight, the elephant procession, is stamped on my mind as “a sad experience.”

Lady Curzon looked very handsome in her splendid dress. The cheers with which Their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of Connaught were greeted can never be forgotten. Lord Curzon made a grand speech, really I felt that I could scarcely tire of listening to him, he is such an eloquent speaker.

In 1904 Rajey was taken ill. Our own doctor diagnosed the complaint as remittant malaria, a complaint of which I had not heard. He became rapidly worse, and in despair I wrote to my husband, who was in Darjeeling, and told him that I thought Rajey ought to have the best advice in Calcutta. When consulted, the Calcutta physicians declared that the opinion of a London specialist was necessary, as Rajey’s heart was affected. He was ordered to England at once, but needless to say he was not allowed to go until he had received leave from the Cadet Corps. It was monsoon time and my poor boy went alone. Afterwards I found out to my intense annoyance that our Superintendent had written privately to the Calcutta doctors, asking if the Maharaj-Kumar were actually ill, or merely gone to England to enjoy himself. The doctors were furious at this, and did not mind telling the Superintendent so. One of them said: “Does he think I’m open to a bribe?” This trivial incident shows what used to happen when our personal affairs were in question, but I am happy to say this state of things is gradually being changed. My darling son was not allowed to go in search of health without being exposed to the insult of suspicion, and mud thrown in this manner sticks. It is impossible not to feel some bitterness over the many cruel rumours which are entirely without foundation. Let a ruler or prince have but the slightest failing, it is instantly magnified fourfold and discussed unmercifully, without a single attempt to counterbalance it by any remembrance of the victim’s better qualities.

I have been obliged to sit and listen to falsehoods about princes who were our friends which almost took my breath away, as I realised their cruelty and injustice. I remember one Maharajah in particular who was a very kind man, very “English” and very sporting. He knew us well, and I remember my husband telling me how this Maharajah once saved the honour of an officer. The latter had had a bad day at the races and was thousands of rupees in debt. He was a hard-up, smart Army man, and could not lay his hand on such an amount. What was he to do? The honour of a British officer was at stake. Suddenly he remembered the Prince and sent a despairing message telling him of his plight. The kind Prince paid the debt of honour without a moment’s hesitation. When the Prince died later people spoke of him most unkindly and hailed his death as the best thing that could have happened to him.

I always think of that poor Prince in connection with a certain old Sudan legend:

A little village far away in the jungle was smitten with cholera, and the panic-stricken people wanted to put the great stone image of their god into the Ganges until the plague was over. One of the villagers dreamt that the god appeared and told him that his image could only be moved by a man who was pure in heart and loved God. The villager related his dream to the priests, and orders were issued that the people should assemble on the morrow and try to find a man who could carry out the instructions of the god. All tried, the so-called best men, the holy, the strongest, the bravest. But to no avail! The stone image smiled its inscrutable smile in the scented gloom of the temple, and the priests were in despair. At last a thick voice broke the stillness, and the villagers saw a man, whom they all knew to be a hopeless drunkard, come reeling unsteadily into the sacred precincts of the temple. “What’s all this I hear about the dream?” he demanded, propping himself up against a worshipper’s unwilling shoulder. “I tell you it is quite true. The great god knows who loves him and who loves him not. There’s none here who loves him better than I do. So mine shall be the hands to give him to the care of Mother Ganges.” He swayed towards the huge image as he spoke, and the horrified crowd thought that some dreadful punishment would fall upon him for such sacrilege.

The drunkard approached slowly; for an instant he pressed his drink-swollen face against the marigold-wreathed breast of the image; then clasping it in his arms, he lifted the idol from its recess as if it were light as a feather, and carried it forth to the bank of the river.

The awe-stricken throng were speechless with amazement that a poor drunkard should be chosen to show them how, under the cloak of failings and frailties, there existed a heart which remained pure, and wherein was to be found “the invisible kingdom of God,” which is all truth and all love.

[1] Now Sir Walter Durnford, Provost of King’s College, Cambridge.