PART 1
DECEMBER 28TH
Chhokrapur has no railway station. The nearest is at Dipra thirty-five miles away, and there the Maharajah’s car was awaiting me. It was manned by a very fat chauffeur and a small boy. With me was a black-bearded Mohammedan, servant to His Highness, who had met me at an earlier stage in my journey with a letter of instructions.
We drove off, passing about midway through Rajgarh, the nearest British Cantonment to Chhokrapur, and residence of the Political Agent.
A sudden turn from the main road, which seemed to skirt the town, brought us through white gates up a long red-gravel drive on to this small conical hill. The hill is flattened at the top to form a plateau, and is appended, like the full stop in an exclamation mark, to a long rocky ridge which rises in a gradual incline to the south. There are two houses on the plateau, one big and one small, and I was set down in front of the latter. This was to be my abode for some months, so as soon as I arrived I made a tour of inspection. It did not take long. I found an oblong, one-storied building, with thick walls whitewashed inside and out. There were two communicating rooms, two verandahs, one in front and the other behind, and an outhouse bathroom in a corner of the back porch, from which stone steps led down to a small walled courtyard at the foot of the stony ridge. There were no windows, but five doorways, one from each room to each verandah, and one between the two rooms. The house was simply furnished. Canvas carpets, striped blue and red, covered both the floors, and across the thresholds of the open doorways long linen curtains of a rose pattern floated in the breeze. A round table and three chairs completed the sitting-room; in the other was a gigantic iron bedstead and a small table with a mirror on it. The outhouse contained a bath-tub on a wooden platform, some large earthenware water-vessels, a po, a close-stool, and a wash-stand. The washstand contained a little water and a drowned mouse.
When I had inspected my house I returned through the bedroom to my sitting-room and found the Mohammedan, the chauffeur, and the boy facing me in a grave semicircle behind my luggage, apparently awaiting further instructions.
I glanced at them nervously. They all salaamed with one movement and became erect again. I had already tried English on them and failed; so now I gave a “That’ll do” nod which was also without effect. Feeling quite at a loss I sat down at the table and opened my notebook to write, hoping that they would eventually fade away for lack of attention; but when I looked up again they were still there, gravely watching me, and they began at once to talk and make signals, at first separately and then together.
“Maharajah Sahib,” I said hopefully.
They nodded agreeably.
Through the open doorway I could see the other house about one hundred and fifty yards away—a massive, square, white building, on the farther side of the plateau.
“Palace Maharajah Sahib?” I asked, pointing to it.
They all nodded agreeably again. Then appeared an imposing figure, very old, with a patriarchal gray beard and a network of wrinkles on his handsome brown face. He was barefoot, and clad in airy white draperies, and a bunch of keys dangling from his waist identified him among the Apostles.
He, too, seemed to have something urgent to impart, but was also unable to speak English. After considerable cogitation, however, he produced the word “Ticket”; I played a visiting-card, and with exclamations of satisfaction St. Peter departed with it, followed by the chauffeur and the boy.
I had already noticed, in the mirror in the bedroom, that my face was spectral with dust, so I introduced the Mohammedan to the drowned mouse, and conveyed by gesture that besides some clean water I would like a cup of tea, for it was now about four o’clock. He went off on these errands, and while I was rolling up my shirt sleeves, an ancient man with bare, skinny legs and a straggling beard crept slowly and soundlessly in, carrying what looked at first like bagpipes, but turned out to be a swollen dripping goatskin of water slung under one arm. The weight of his burden bowed him down, and he did not raise his eyes to me in passing, but sketched a salaam with an unsteady, wandering hand. He looked very like a goat himself. Left to myself, I began to wonder what my first meeting with the Maharajah would be like. I had heard that he possessed a pronounced sense of the theater, and used to send on ahead of him, to herald his approach, a naked warrior armed with a spear. Something as melodramatic, I hoped, was in store for me; but even as I speculated and slung water over my face and neck, I heard a pattering behind me, and perceived, through soapsuds, St. Peter hurriedly returning.
“Maharajah Sahib! Maharajah Sahib!” he whispered excitedly, pointing behind him to my sitting-room.
This was very upsetting. I had spent several months in corresponding and arranging this meeting with His Highness; I had traveled over six thousand miles to accomplish it; he might at least have managed better than to catch me in this state of unreadiness. He wasn’t playing up.
“Ask him wait,” I said, with economy of words and effect; and hurrying into the bedroom, I had just time to dry my face and restore my collar and tie when a shadow fell across the threshold of the sitting-room, and a stout Indian of unpleasing aspect, in a black frock-coat, entered and drew aside the curtains for His Highness to pass.
I had been given a detailed description of the Maharajah, but found myself unprepared nevertheless for the curious figure which now hobbled into the room. His face with its bridgeless nose, sunken lips, prominent chin and protuberant brown eyes, over which a faint bluish film had formed, bore a strong resemblance to a pekingese dog; halfway down the collapsed bridge of his nose, from the center of his forehead, trickled some spots of yellow paint; a diamond shone in the lobe of each ear, and from beneath the front of his little round hat, which was made of green velvet and gold brocade, a wisp of dark gray hair upcurled. He was small and very slight, and his stiff-jointed body was neatly sheathed in a long-skirted coat of violet and gray tweed with a high military collar of gray velveteen and cuffs of the same material; his trousers were of white cotton, wrinkling tightly down the lower half of his leg, but expanding above the knee; his socks were bright purple, and upon his long thin feet he wore a pair of patent-leather dancing-pumps. I took in these details slowly.
“His Highness the Maharajah Sahib!” announced the stout person pompously.
Carrying my coat with me, I hastened forward and shook hands, apologizing for my condition; but he took no notice of this.
“But you are so early!” he said. “I did not expect you for another hour, for I intended to come part of the way to meet you; but just as I was thinking of starting they brought me your card!”
He seemed quite vexed about it, and, turning to his companion, uttered some brief remarks in Hindi which caused the other to pass a nervous hand over his jaw and mouth; but immediately he returned to me with—
“Welcome to India!”
—and introduced his companion as Mr. Babaji Rao, his private secretary.
I placed a chair for him, and, leaning on his stick, he hobbled round the table and sat down.
“Have you had your tea?” he asked. I said I had ordered it, and he told his Secretary to hurry it up; but at that moment it arrived, borne by a tall, handsome waiter in a long, blue uniform coat with a sash round his waist.
He shuffled off his shoes outside the door, and entered with bare feet.
“Won’t you join me?” I asked His Highness, for there was only one cup; “or have you had your tea already?”
This amused them both, and the Maharajah explained that, although it was all very silly and nothing to do with him, Hindoos were not permitted to eat with Europeans. I apologized for my blunder; but he waved it aside with a small jeweled hand, saying that, as a matter of fact, he didn’t conform strictly to the rule, and sometimes took a cup of tea with his guests, but that he didn’t feel inclined for one just now.
“Now take your tea,” he said, “and I will keep my questions for when you have finished.”
So, rather self-consciously, I chewed
leathery buttered toast, while they sat and watched me and exchanged remarks in Hindi—His Highness smoking a cigarette with a purple tip; Babaji Rao with his legs wide apart, his elbows out, and his hands planted firmly upon his knees. He was not much better to look at than his master, I thought. Smallpox had ravaged his face; a ragged mustache drooped untidily over his big, loose mouth, and behind large spectacles his small brown eyes seemed evasive and sly. His costume was much the same as the Maharajah’s, but dingy and of coarse material; he wore neither socks nor collar, and a brass stud shone beneath his unshaven chin. When he took off his round black hat I saw that the top of his head was bald, and that the thick untidy fringe round the sides and back was turning gray.
His Highness did not manage however to keep all his questions for when I had finished.
“How do you say your name?” he asked.
I told him, and he repeated it after me until he got it right, and then glanced at his secretary as much as to say, “Remember that.”
“Do you like this?” He indicated the walls. “Is it comfortable? If there is anything you want you must tell Babaji Rao. I thought you would like to stay here instead of in the Guest House with my other guests.”
“Is that the Guest House?” I asked, looking at the square building outside. “I thought it was your Palace.”
“No, no, no,” he said, subsiding into wheezy laughter, and I was astonished to see that his tongue was bright orange—almost the color of nasturtium.
I put the last piece of toast into my mouth, and no sooner had I done so than he asked—
“Have you finished your tea?”
—and called the waiter to clear it away before I could maneuver the toast into a position that would enable me to reply.
Then began a very bewildering examination of my history. It jumped from one thing to another without pause, and was too long and confusing to reproduce.
How old was I? So old? He had been under the impression that I was only twenty-two. Did I come from London? Of whom did my family consist? Could I speak Latin and Greek? Did I know Rider Haggard? Had I read his books? Was I religious? Did I believe that the tragedy of Jesus Christ was the greatest tragedy that had ever happened? Was I a pragmatist? Had I read Hall Caine? Had I read Darwin, Huxley, and Marie Corelli? . . .
His Highness seemed very disappointed. I didn’t know what “Pragmatism” meant, and had read practically none of the authors he named. I must read them at once, he said, for they were all very good authors indeed, and he wished me to explain them to him. He had them all in his library in the Palace; I must get them out and read them. He was practically toothless, I noticed, and his brown lips sank in and blew out tremulously as he mumbled his questions.
“Have you read Spencer’s First Principles, and Problems of Life and Mind by Lewes?” he asked.
“No, Maharajah Sahib, I’m afraid I haven’t.”
His face took on a very grave expression.
“But you must do so. It is very important. You must do so at once. It is the first thing I wish you to do.”
“Very well, Maharajah Sahib.”
“Babaji Rao will give them to you. You must give them to him to-night, Babaji Rao. Lewes refutes Spencer. Spencer says . . . What does he say, Babaji Rao? Explain it.”
The Secretary cleared his throat, and passed a nervous hand over his bald head.
“Spencer says that there is a reality behind appearances, and Lewes . . .”
“Is there a God or is there no God?” rapped out His Highness impatiently. “That is the question. That is what I want to know. Spencer says there is a God, Lewes says no. So you must read them, Mr. Ackerley, and tell me which of them is right.”
He got up to go. I felt I had not made at all a good impression and that he was disappointed in me. Before leaving he asked me about the expenses I had incurred during my journey, and told me to give an account of them to the Secretary, for he wished to refund them at once.
When he reached the doorway he turned:
“At last we are face to face!” he said, and then shuffled out, very stiffly, on splayed feet, to his car.
DECEMBER 29TH
The “other guests”—who are living in the large Guest House —are five persons and two dogs. The five persons are Captain Montgomery, I. M. S., and his wife; Major Pomby of the Gunners; a naval Commander on leave from his ship in the Persian Gulf, and Miss Gibbins. All of them, with the exception of the Commander, are from Shikaripur, the chief military station in the Province. The two dogs are Titus and Lulu.
They were all just returning from a jackal-hunt yesterday evening when Babaji Rao took me over; I felt I did not like any of them very much—though the men seemed kinder and were certainly quieter than the women—and I rather resented their presence here.
Perhaps they resented mine; at any rate after giving me the most perfunctory welcome, they paid practically no further attention to me, and by the time we were all dressed and sitting down to dinner I felt quite excluded from their society. I sat stolidly among them and took in my surroundings—the spacious and enormously high rooms of the Guest House, furnished with carpets, rugs, easy-chairs, and pictures of Queen Mary and the Prince of Wales. The conversation, which was chiefly between the two women, who talked very loudly in an easy, smart manner, was frequently amusing; but they employed so many Anglo-Indian words that I found it rather difficult to follow.
“I suppose you think we’re all crazy?” Mrs. Montgomery asked.
“A little incomprehensible,” I said.
An incident had occurred while they were out riding, and Mrs. Montgomery related it with indignation.
“Vera (Miss Gibbins) had to dismount to pick up a glove she’d dropped, and had difficulty in mounting again. There was a cultivator standing close by, doing absolutely nothing to help—just looking on—so I called out, ‘Boy! Come and hold this lady’s horse!’ And what d’you think he said? ‘I’m not your slave, miss.’ Would you believe it? Dirty brute! ‘Come here at once and do what you’re told!’ I shouted. ‘Then I come,’ he said, as impudent as you please. But Vera was trembling with rage by that time, and wouldn’t let him touch her horse. I never heard such damned cheek!”
The two dogs wandered round the table begging, and the Commander said that when he and Miss Gibbins had gone for a walk before breakfast she had hit a pie-dog with a stone.
“Yes, wasn’t it awful?” cried Miss Gibbins. “And I never do hit anything. I picked up a stone, and with unerring precision hit the wretched animal in the stomach. I was surprised!”
Mrs. Montgomery laughed.
“And I remember throwing a stone at a septic little boy,” she said, “and it hit a Tommy instead—a huge rock struck him on the chest! And all he said was ‘That’s all right, miss. Don’t you take on!’”
“Titus and Lulu had a fight in my bedroom this morning,” remarked Miss Gibbins. “It was Lulu’s fault. She gave Titus such an ugly look and made a grab at him as I hauled him rapidly on to the bed, and if he hadn’t been an expert in giving corkscrew twists to his idiot tail he would never have evaded her clutches! Then I gave Lulu a good swift kick through the door, and she rose about six feet in the air, and disappeared in a cloud of dust and small stones.”
This caused general amusement.
“Do you remember Maggie?” she asked Mrs. Montgomery. “She was a toy dog about this size—ever so small. We called her ‘The Dustbin Queen.’ She used to get into enormously high dustbins—Heaven knows how she did it—and gorge on garbage until her brain was inflamed with meat. Once she stayed in a dustbin for forty-eight hours.”
I found this kind of conversation so remarkable that I began to note it down on the backs of envelopes under cover of the table.
Babaji Rao took me and the two women down to see the Dewan’s garden this morning. It is on the outskirts of the town and is called the garden of Dilkhusha or Heart’s Ease. The Dewan, or Prime Minister, himself accompanied us. He is an enormously fat man, with smal
l well-shaped hands, with which he frequently gesticulated. He was very voluble and excitable, and his voice, which even normally was surprisingly high for his age and bulk, rose often to a shrill cry. His features, too, were strangely small and refined in the midst of his heavy cheeks and jowls, and his color was much paler than Babaji Rao’s or the Maharajah’s. It was a large and pretty garden, and he showed us a fine banyan tree, which, he said, lives for ever, each branch thrusting down a new root into the earth. Before we left, his gardener brought garlands of jasmine and marigold which the Dewan hung round our necks.
We all drove to Mahua this afternoon, a village about ten miles away, where the Maharajah has another palace. It is empty, and is never used by His Highness, I am told, except to entertain his guests to tea; but it is much more beautiful in itself and in its setting than the rather dingy stuccoed palace he inhabits here. The garden was luxuriant, but carefully kept, and monkeys could be seen hopping about on the walls, behind the purple shrubs and the heavy foliage of banana-trees, or peering anxiously round the ornamentation of the roof. Passing through the courtyard where a guard was stationed, and mounting a long flight of stone steps, we reached, through a narrow walled passage, a beautiful arcaded upper court of red gravel; on to it the reception room opened in its whole length front of us, its roof supported on slender columns. It was gaily carpeted, and a long table was already spread with tea, cakes, sweets, and fruit. We passed through this room on to the quayside of a lovely reservoir, a great clear lake stretching away for half a mile or more, and locked by rocky hills with wooded slopes. There were two ancient royal tombs among the trees upon the farther borders of the lake. Just in front of us on the quayside, where the water was rimmed with steps and two dinghies lay moored, a carpet had been spread and set with chairs and a table; and there sat His Highness in the shade of a peepal tree. After we had had tea, the women, the Commander, and
Major Pomby went out in one of the dinghies, which had been fitted with an engine; and Captain Montgomery and I were left with His Highness. We discussed books in a desultory fashion—Sir Philip Gibbs, Hall Caine, Meredith, Marie Corelli; and His Highness said he was very anxious that I should read The Eternal City, but it was unaccountably missing from the library, and Babaji Rao, who was searching everywhere for it, had not yet found it.
Hindoo Holiday Page 2
