“A very bad boy!” I warmly agreed.
He did not appear to have anything more to say, and for some moments we rolled slowly along the empty road in silence. Then it seemed to me that in justice to Sharma I should explain what had actually taken place.
“I asked for a kiss,” I said, “and he refused. That’s all that happened. I didn’t lay a finger on him.”
“But you must not do such things, Mr. Ackerley,” remarked His Highness, without the smallest change of tone.
“But good Lord!” I exclaimed. “I must kiss somebody.”
His small body began to shake, and he hid his face in his sleeve.
“I suppose this explains why he didn’t come for a ride with me this morning?” I asked, after a pause.
“Did he say he would come?” He inquired huskily, looking very grave.
“Yes, he did. However, if he comes to-morrow I will forget that he didn’t come to-day.”
“I will tell him he must come.”
“Tell him he may come,” I said.
JANUARY 20TH
Early this afternoon I received a visit from His Highness and Babaji Rao. The latter, who has never in my short experience achieved tidiness, looked particularly disheveled and careworn. He was carrying a sheaf of papers in his hand.
“We have come to you for help, Mr. Ackerley,” said His Highness; and then to Babaji Rao, abruptly, “Tell him what it is.”
Babaji Rao was obviously very nervous; he kept clearing his throat and smoothing the top of his head; but he explained, in his halting manner, that “His Highness the Maharajah Sahib” was not yet satisfied with any of the attempts made to compose that difficult letter to the A.G.G., and my services were again required—
“Give them to him! Give them to him!” interrupted the King, so curtly that Babaji Rao spilt most of the papers on the floor. They were collected and handed to me, and I found about half a dozen letters to the A.G.G., all unfinished, in His Highness’s and the Secretary’s hand. My own letter was included, and separate from these was the King’s latest attempt to combine them all and, at the same time, to express gratitude for the recent introduction to Mr. Bramble, the architect. This also, it appeared, he had been unable to finish, and Babaji Rao’s suggestions had been worse than useless.
“You are to read them all,” His Highness said to me, “and put everything I want to say into one letter, in the best English. Can you do this? Can you do this—miracle?”
I said I could.
“He cannot do it,” he remarked bitterly, pointing to Babaji Rao, who cleared his throat again; “he cannot do anything. How long do you require? Ten minutes?”
“Would an hour be too long?” I asked.
“No, that will do. When you have finished, give it to Babaji Rao, and he will bring it to me in the Guest House. Take my letter as your model.”
I had already glanced through it, and noticed that he had retained much of my own letter, but that all the “Your Honors” which I had cut out had been restored, while the compliments heaped on Mr. Bramble were excessive; he was even alluded to as “a gem among men.”
“You seem to have changed your opinion of Mr. Bramble, Maharajah Sahib,” I said gravely. “You told me once you thought he was an awful bore.”
“But the A.G.G. will like it,” explained His Highness with irritation. “They are very great friends.”
Then he hobbled out, followed by the Secretary, who drew aside the curtain to let him pass. As they retired towards the Guest House I heard the King’s voice uttering brief remarks in Hindi which did not sound at all amiable.
Babaji Rao’s voice I did not hear at all; but he soon returned, and keeping his face averted, but casting at me every now and then timid, furtive glances, he shuffled off his shoes.
“Shall I disturb you?” he asked.
“No, my dear man, of course not.”
“I do not think I can be of any help, but ask me if you get into difficulties. May I rest on your sofa for a moment?”
“Yes, do.”
He spread himself out, and began to polish his glasses; his feet, encased in mustard-colored socks, pointing at the ceiling. He is a very loyal subject and servant, and would not have wished me, even implicitly, to show a sympathy for him which would seem to reflect unfavorably upon the King.
I forget the exact letter I wrote for His Highness, but it was based on his own style and ran more or less as follows:
DEAR SIR,—I feel that I cannot thank you sufficiently for having introduced Mr. Bramble to me; I have seldom met so charming and courteous a man, and it was a great pleasure to have his company and see his very interesting designs. He has promised to send me a statement of the details, together with the estimated cost, of the Greek Villa which I contemplate having built. We shall then have to consider to what extent the State will be able to support the scheme. The site which he has selected at Garha is ideal, and if the building is raised I am sure, from what I have seen of Mr. Bramble’s designs, that it will be a beautiful addition to the State. I was very disappointed that he could not prolong his stay, but hope that our connection may continue. I shall be very happy to have the photograph you promise me, and so that I may also possess one of your family, may I send a photographer myself to take it? For the message contained in your letter I am very grateful indeed, and am confident in your assurances for the future, remembering your unfailing generosity and kindness to me in the past. If there is anything in the papers which my Dewan has submitted to you which you could wish to have explained, I shall be pleased to send him personally to you at any time that suits your convenience. With kindest regards to yourself, Lady S.—and the children, etc.”
When I had finished this I gave it to Babaji Rao and accompanied him to the Guest House. We found His Highness talking to Mrs. Murphy, a stout, good-natured Irishwoman, wife to one of the medical officers of Shikaripur. She was telling him that one of her children was sick, and I heard him say with deep concern:
“Why did you not tell me? I will send up a magician to him.”
“Whatever for?” asked Mrs. Murphy.
“He will cut—”
“Oh no, please; there’s nothing like that!”
“No, no; he will cut something out of paper, and all the badness will fly away.”
His Highness read my letter and professed himself satisfied with it. In the evening one of his messengers arrived bringing his version of it, addressed and stamped but unsealed, with a short note asking if it would do. Up to the asterisk in my own letter he seemed to have followed me closely, but thence onward it proceeded as follows:
“. . . For the kind message contained in your letter of the 6th inst. I am very grateful indeed, and feel confident in Your Honor’s assurances for the future, remembering Your Honor’s unfailing generosity and kindness to me in the past. . . . Indeed it will be a great pleasure to have the photograph of yourself which you promise to send. . . . For that, if you do not mind, I would like to send the photographer whose address you so kindly sent me the other day. I have written to him about that, and if he agrees to go there you will kindly have a photograph of yourself (in standing posture) and a family group from him.
He will then prepare the copies and send one set to me and the other to you. . . . I hope this will meet with Your Honor’s assent. As my long-cherished desire of addressing Mrs. S.—as Lady S.—has been fulfilled by the Almighty, I would now like to open correspondence with her direct. Hope you will allow me to do so. . . .”
I wrote a note to him saying that I did not think it could be improved upon.
JANUARY 21ST
Mrs. Bristow and Mrs. Murphy are to go to-morrow, so this afternoon His Highness gave them a farewell tea-party at Mahua Palace. The Political Agent was also to be invited; His Highness was going into Rajgarh to bring him back, and Mahua being on the way, he took Mrs. Murphy with him in his car and left me to escort Mrs. Bristow in another. Shall I record the conversation of Mrs. Bristow as we drove through th
e cool scented air? It hasn’t anything to do with India—but then it seldom had; perhaps that is a good reason for recording it. It doesn’t much matter which of her remarks we start off with. Let us take this one:
“What nice hands you’ve got; too nice for a man. I hate effeminacy in a man.”
“Yes, they are nice hands,” I said, looking at them. They were quite clean and I had given up biting their nails. I was genuinely pleased with them.
“Of course you’re frightfully conceited,” she observed. “That’s such a pity. I hate conceit in a man.”
“Do you mean about my hands?”
“Oh no, lots of things. I’ve been watching you. I rather hate you.”
I did not say anything; there seemed nothing to say, and it was perhaps lucky that I didn’t, for shortly afterwards she said:
“I love you now. You don’t mind me saying so, do you? I always make a point of telling people if I change my opinion of them. I think it’s only fair.”
“But why have you changed your opinion?” I asked.
“I’ve been observing you. Yes, I love you now. You’re a dear. So you must like me too—do you?”
“Yes, rather!” I said enthusiastically. But perhaps I overdid it.
“Well, anyway, you’ve done me good—not making love to me. Every other man I’ve ever met has. But I’m not conceited. I’m not, am I? I’m nice really, as you’d find out if you knew me better. You don’t know me very well, do you?”
“Very well enough,” I couldn’t help saying.
“You’re the rudest man I ever met!” she exclaimed. “Bar none!”
Conversation languished after this; then she began again.
“Of course, you’re beyond me. I don’t understand you. I’m rather frightened of you. You’re always silent and sort of deep. I love superficial people. I hate silent people. I’m one of those awful people who are always frightfully cheerful when others are gloomy. . . . Tell me—you needn’t be afraid of telling me things—have you ever been bowled over by a woman?”
“No, never,” I answered, watching a flock of green parrots dart overhead.
“You will! Just you wait!”
When we arrived at Mahua I was called by His Highness, and we had a short walk on the terrace before he continued his drive to Rajgarh.
“Did the barber’s son ride with you yesterday morning?” he asked.
“Sharma? No, I haven’t seen him for days. Did you tell him to?”
“Yes, I told him to. I said, ‘You must go and ride with the Sahib when he calls you.’ He did not come?”
“No, he did not come.”
“He is very disobedient. I told him also to come in the morning to massage my legs. They get very stiff. But he did not come.”
“He’s a naughty boy!” I said, smiling.
“He is a rogue!” said His Highness emphatically. “What is a rogue?”
I explained.
“He is a great nuisance,” he murmured dimly.
Mrs. Bristow came up to us shortly after this, and His Highness greeted her with enthusiasm, and asked her where she had bought her hat. It was black and rather of the chapeau bras type, but higher in the crown.
“Do you like it, Maharajah Sahib?” she asked.
“Oo, I like, I like!” he said, staring at it childishly.
“Where did you get it? I want one like it for myself.”
She laughed, and said it was a Paris model but that she could not remember where she had got it; but he was not amused, and turned a very serious face to me.
“You must get me such a hat, Mr. Ackerley,” he said.
“You must write to Paris for it. Do not forget. I must have it.”
I said I would discuss the matter with Mrs. Bristow, and satisfied with that, he got back into his car and drove off to Rajgarh to fetch the Political Agent. But he returned late, alone and melancholy.
I was sent for, and found him huddled up in a corner of the car looking rather wretched. He didn’t speak, but with his hand indicated the seat beside him. I got in, and we drove back to Chhokrapur.
For some time he was silent; then he cried out:
“What is criticism? What should we say to it? Should we allow it?”
Then it all came out. He had spoken about his darling project, the Greek Villa, to the Political Agent; but his enthusiasm had been met with coldness and even with cruelty. What childish scheme was this? the Political Agent had demanded. It was sheer waste of money. His Highness was an old man, and if he lived to see the building finished he could not be expected long to survive its completion. And what earthly use would such an edifice be to his son, or to any one else, for that matter? Instead of wasting money over Greek Villas he would do well to apply it to something useful and necessary—such as road-mending, for example. That was, more or less, the Political Agent’s criticism, and no doubt it was sound enough, but its harshness seemed inexcusable. I said something of the kind—rather inconsiderately, for the least approval of Political Agents, never very wise, was at that moment obviously ill-timed, and His Highness relapsed into moody silence. In front of us, going in the same direction, was a slow procession of bullock-wagons. These and buffalo-carts are, except for pedestrians, about the only traffic one meets with; but they are frequent, and usually occupy the crown of the road. The chauffeur sounds his horn on sight, and the wagons stagger, unsystematically, to right and left and come to a halt, while the drivers clamber hastily down, and taking hold of their agitated beasts by the horns, hang on to their heads, and try at the same time to perform a salaam. For, owing no doubt to the infrequency of motor-cars in these parts, the bullocks are terrified of them; they stand rigidly tense until the car is actually passing, and then make a convulsive movement towards the jungle, which their owners, clinging to their heads, can hardly restrain.
Honk! said our car, as we sighted them.
“Are you still troubled?” I asked the King gently.
“To-day I am very pessimist.”
Indeed I had failed him, and he did not any longer want my company.
“Jao! Jao!” (Get on! Get on!) he muttered, and the car, suddenly accelerated, bounced, and then flew over the dusty road. Honk-Honk! Honk-Honk! it said, and the panicstricken bullocks, as we burst into their midst, stampeded to right and left before their owners could control them, and overturned their loaded wagons in the ditches on either side of the road. I clung to the strap beside me; but His Highness lay back in his corner and beheld with a bilious eye these minor disasters, which were soon left behind us in a thick cloud of dust.
“What do you do next Sunday, Mr. Ackerley?” asked Abdul during our lesson this evening.
“I don’t know,” I answered cautiously.
“Have you seen the big tank at Rajgarh?”
“No, I don’t think I have.”
“But you should. It is very beautiful. I will take you and explain everything in Hindi. You will learn to speak very well in this way. Sunday is a Holy Day for me, so I shall be able to accompany you.”
I wondered what he was after now. Perhaps he had some business in Rajgarh, or was it just his vanity, for I knew he liked being seen with me in public, and became, on such occasions, very self-important and haughty, walking stiffly beside me, his umbrella beneath his arm, and greeting his friends with dignity. But I did not say anything, and soon he continued:
“You could get His Highness to lend you one of the cars for the day. It is easy for you; he will give it at once because you are the Sahib. There are one, two, three, four cars—and you must ask for the Daimler because it is the best. He cannot refuse you.”
“I usually ask Babaji Rao when I want a car,” I said.
“Then you will ask him. That is perhaps better. But do not say I asked, or he will be angry with me. You understand?”
“Perfectly,” I said.
“Then what will you say?”
“I shall say,” I answered, knitting my brows—“I shall say, ‘Abdul wants to know if
you will lend me a car on Sunday to take him to Rajgarh where he has some private business to transact.’”
Abdul was quivering with anxiety by the time I had finished. “No, no!” he cried, holding his hands before him as though warding off some unseen danger; “you must not! You must not really! He will be very angry with me. Listen; I will tell you what to say. Hear me. ‘How many tanks are there about here, Mr. Babaji Rao?’ He will then number them. Then you will say, ‘Which is the largest? I should like to see it.’ He will then name the Rajgarh tank, and you will say, ‘I will go and see it on Sunday. Please let me have a car. The Daimler. And I think I will take my tutor Abdul with me.’ In this way. You understand? Am I clear?”
“Perfectly,” I said gravely.
“Then how will you say?”
“Let me see,” I said, “how did it go? ‘My tutor Abdul wants to know . . .’”
“No, no! no, no! that is not the way I told you!” cried Abdul in great agitation; then he perceived that he was being mocked, and drawing in his chin, he twisted his hands together in his lap, and smiled self-consciously down his nose.
JANUARY 23RD
Sharma appears to have recovered from his ill humor. He walked into the Palace this morning, His Highness tells me, in the sunniest of moods.
“How are you to-day?” asked the King, looking at him suspiciously.
“I am very well.”
“Are you going to be obedient to me?”
“Of course. Am I not always obedient?”
His Highness passed this over with the silence it deserved.
“And will you take my gifts?”
“Of course. Are we not your beggars?”
“And will you go and ride with the Sahib when he asks you?”
“Yes, I will gladly go.”
His Highness clapped his hands together, as much as to say to me “What do you think of that?”
“Yesterday,” he said, “he was like one in a dream; but today—I do not know.”
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