An American Girl in India/Chapter 14
CHAPTER XIV
AN AMERICAN VICEREINE
Next day the real show began. The State Entry, which was to eclipse any entry ever previously made into Delhi, even in the far-off days of its Imperial greatness, was to be the beginning of things. There was a spirit of suppressed excitement in the air. Even before the dawn one felt that the whole of the vast encampment was astir. It was the first of the wonderfully organised and much-rehearsed events that were to fill the following days. Its success or failure would be an augury for those to come.
The streets of Delhi that morning were a sight one is hardly likely ever to see again. They were a moving mass of brilliant colour, a glorious jumble of the old-world east and the modern fashionable west—an east and west that it seemed impossible should ever meet save as they were meeting to-day, like the moving parts of a kaleidoscope passing and repassing, but never merging, always divided and apart.
The Jumma Musjid is just magnificent. As we drove up the long road that faced it, its three swelling domes and lofty minarets looked down upon us, the very embodiment of the Imperial Delhi of the past. Time-worn, grey with the storms of centuries, it seemed as if it gazed out over the scene of to-day unseeing, wrapt in the memory of the past, and past days of triumph, before the infidel came to deprive it of its place as the cathedral temple of an Imperial race. And as one looked, it carried one back with it into the past. One saw dimly, as in a vision, something of what those grey walls had seen, and a kind of awe and veneration stole upon one as in the presence of great and honoured age.
We were there at last, high up among the domes and minarets, looking down on the wonderful panorama that lay stretched out before our eyes. Away against the sky ran the long line of the Fort, the old red walls of Shah Jehan's Palace a fitting background for the scene below. Lined by smart troops, the centre of the road was gradually clearing. The last arrivals were hurrying to their places. All along one side of the road were covered stands for the spectators whom the Jumma Musjid could not accommodate, filled with the rank and fashion of the west. Opposite, row on row, sat youths from the native schools in Delhi, representative of the youth of India—a lot of healthy, laughing, nut-brown boys strung to wonder and excitement by the doings of the day, each group, distinguished by the different colours of the turbans worn, adding their brightness to the brilliant scene. Away across the Champs de Mars stood a huge company of elephants clad in all the gorgeous trappings that even the eye of an Eastern could devise—one hundred and sixty-six of them, waiting to salute the Viceroy and fall in behind the procession to bring the magnificent pageant to a fitting close.
Behind us lay the huge courtyard with its majestic porches and graceful arcades, which but a few days before had been crowded with a vast throng of worshippers among the faithful, celebrating their great festival on the last Friday of Ramazan.
How different a scene from that of to-day. India is a land of contrasts, but at Delhi it seemed as if they had collected them all and dumped them down together before one's eyes. Up that same road down which we looked, had come the Emperor Aurungzebe to worship in that same courtyard behind us at the Friday service. To-day we waited for the coming of a Viceroy of an English Emperor, who had succeeded to a greater than Aurungzebe's throne, yet to whom it would probably never be given to enter personally upon his great inheritance in the Imperial city of Hindustan.
The time of waiting went quickly by. Both within and without the Jumma Musjid there was so much to be seen. Close by us, watching everything with his quick, keen gaze, was the dear little Japanese Envoy, General Baron Yasukata Oku. Not far off was my Duchess of the Arethusa, and ever and anon amongst the crowd one caught a glimpse of a familiar face. But, of course, even here, where every prospect pleased, there was one vile man, or rather it happened to be a woman. That woman made me feel absolutely murderous. She roused all my most prehistoric barbaric instincts, and I wanted to throw her down like they did Jezebel of old. That may sound strong, but you would not have said it was a bit too strong if you had heard that woman. Why is it that a foolish woman cannot keep her mouth shut? If you do happen to have had the bad luck to be born a fool, I should have thought the only thing to do would have been to keep quiet about it. Lots of people are fools, but they are just wise enough to know it and hush it up, and so they get along all right and nobody ever discovers that they really are fools. But, unfortunately, the majority of fools never discover that they are fools, and so they talk and give themselves away. That woman in the Jumma Musjid was a fool and one of the worst type. She thought herself clever. She was with an unhappy man, who was evidently ashamed of her but had not the courage to shut her up. Perhaps he was her husband, which would explain it. She was sitting just behind, so it was impossible for us to escape from her inanities.
'Oh look, Decky dear, isn't he sweet?' she lisped ecstatically, leaning over the back of Berengaria's chair. 'Is he a Sikh or a Nepalese?'
'Who do you mean?' asked 'Decky dear' wearily—at least I think it was 'Decky' she called him. It sounded like that, and she probably thought it clever.
'Oh, Decky, how can you be so stupid? As if there was anyone else to look at when he was by. That man in blue and red with the big black beard. Oh, Decky, he is sweet, isn't he? Do you think he's a Sikh or a Nepalese?'
'Certainly not Nepalese,' grunted 'Decky.'
'Oh, then he's a Sikh. I know he's a Sikh. But I thought Sikhs always wore green turbans. And a Sikh doesn't smoke, does he? Oh, I wish you were a Sikh, Decky.'
'Decky' said nothing, but I guess he squirmed. Everybody anywhere near round heard that she wished he were a Sikh, and it couldn't have been just pleasant.
For a moment there was a pause while the fool-woman scanned the landscape with her field-glasses. Then a gun boomed out and she began again.
'Oh, there are the guns, Decky. Somebody must be coming. Oh, Decky, don't the guns always make you feel ready for anything? I do wish you were a soldier, Decky. I am sure I should have been if I had been a man.'
I devoutly wished she had been a man. She might have been a fool even then, but a fool-man is better than a fool-woman any day. A man is so dreadfully afraid of ridicule that he never dare let himself go like a woman does.
'And the national anthem. Oh, Decky, I just love it. It makes me feel so loyal every time I hear it. Even when it's only played for one of the minor royalties I feel all prickly just the same.'
But I will not describe any more of her inanities. I thanked heaven that she was not an American, but I devoutly wished that for half a day—no more—I might have been her husband.
Far away across the Champs de Mars from behind the fort had come at last the guns announcing that the Viceroy had arrived at Delhi. Hardly had the salute died away than the booming of the cannon came again for the arrival of the Duke of Connaught.
A sudden hush of expectation fell upon all the crowd. All eyes were turned towards the ramparts of the Fort across the Champs de Mars beyond the group of elephants, where, away on the far left the great procession must at last emerge. Slowly, almost imperceptibly it came, the first advancing line of cavalry sweeping onwards like some dazzling serpent in the glorious midday sun. Yet another salute, and the flag over the Fort fluttered into place. The Viceroy had arrived opposite the Lahore Gate, and a quiver of excitement passed through the vast crowds as the long period of expectation drew near its close. And then at last the procession wheeled into the long straight Khas Road, down which we faced from our vantage-point on the terrace of the Jumma Musjid.
It was a never-to-be-forgotten sight. Riding first, alone, came one officer; then, behind him, smart and finished, as only British cavalry can be, came the Dragoon Guards. I forgave all the guardsmen I had ever met their swagger as I watched those perfect ranks march by. Who wouldn't swagger to be in authority over such men as they? To see them turn and wheel and march obedient to one's slightest word—to know that they would follow one, faithful even unto death—who wouldn't swagger strong in the knowledge of such loyalty as this? I have respected every guardsman I have ever met since. Then came the Royal Horse Artillery, no less inspiring, and great favourites with the crowd. More Dragoons and officers, and then—the Herald. Suddenly one was back in mediæval Europe. It was again the days of chivalry, of joust and tourney. The Herald, a blaze of red and blue and gold, with gorgeous tabard emblazoned with the arms of England, was riding, mace in hand, into the lists, his magnificent black charger pacing proudly, as if he knew full well that he was the cynosure of every eye. A moment and the splendid figure had passed by, and one's eye was riveted by the trumpeters—six native and six British—in coats of crimson velvet, lettered with the royal and imperial monogram on front and back. Hanging from the silver trumpets and the drums were banderoles, ablaze with the royal arms—the last touch of magnificence. Slowly they moved by, like some dream picture of the Middle Ages. In a flash one was back again amidst the pomp and glory of the India of to-day, as the Viceroy's bodyguard passed by—that splendid corps in gold and scarlet—the best mounted troops in all the East. And then, again, more splendid still, the Imperial Cadet Corps. Even then one felt that one had no adjective left to describe them, and the marvellous procession had but just begun. The ever-changing blaze of colour and magnificence literally smote one and made one dumb. Even Berengaria had lost the power of speech. All one's senses seemed to be merged into the sense of sight. One's only thought was to see, to miss nothing of this wonderful pageant that would live in history for all time, and that was so quickly passing by.
Was there any figure in the whole procession prouder and more splendid than Sir Pertab Singh's? Sitting his black charger superbly, with all the highborn arrogance of the East, he rode at the head of his corps—the very flower of the youth of Imperial India, the princes and scions of the noblest families throughout the land. Their cream-white uniform, spotless, embroidered in gold, lit up by the perfect turquoise-blue of collar, cuffs, and cummerbund, wanted no better setting than their splendid black chargers with the famous snow leopard-skins that they carried so proudly. Triple chains of gold bound the inspiring motto of the corps 'For the King,' to their blue turbans, above which their golden aigrettes waved and nodded. Surely, in all the East, no prouder corps ever took service for any king. They seemed to sum up in one glittering array the pride of Hindusta—these proud scions of a noble race, beside whose pedigrees the longest and most honourable genealogy among the onlookers from the west was but a thing of yesterday. Truly, none but the first among Englishmen should be sent to govern such men as these.
They passed, and behind them, lo, another and a greater wonder. In one long massive line came the great feature of the day—the elephant procession. First, two and two, the elephants bearing the Viceroy's staff, six of them, huge beasts surrounded by chobdars, who marched solemnly, maces in hand, on every side of them. But they needed none such to control them. Passively, submissively, they lumbered on, solemn with all the dignity of the East, typical of the huge forces that had bowed themselves at last to the law and order of the conqueror whose triumph they had come to celebrate to-day.
And then, on Lachman Prasad, the magnificent state elephant of the Maharajah of Benares, came the Viceroy and Vicereine—the very centre and moving force of the whole procession—the two figures round whom all the others were but those who went before and those who came after, and who had come to do them homage in the King-Emperor's name. And she was an American. I guess there was no American heart among all the crowd that did not beat the quicker as Lachman Prasad came slowly on, bringing that one of us of whom we are most proud, that one from our country in the West who has risen to a position far beyond that of any other of her daughters. It was a magnificent sight as Lachman Prasad paced solemnly by. The howdah, the same used by Lord Lytton in 1877, was of burnished silver, that flashed in the sunlight like a mirror, the royal arms resplendent on the side panels, with the crowned figures of Wisdom and Plenty in front. Overhead, a huge umbrella of silk and gold was fixed above the crimson velvet seats. Sweeping to the ground, and almost covering the huge expanse of Lachman Prasad, was a veritable cloth of gold. The Viceroy looked down well pleased, as indeed he might on this great pageant which, in spite of all the criticism, he had brought to such successful issue. As for the Vicereine, words just fail me to say. I said when I set out that I wouldn't gush, but I believe I did make a few exceptions. Anyway, you must forgive an American for going a bit mad with pride when she sees one of her fellow country-women riding into Delhi on an elephant as Vicereine, preceding even the brother of the King. And such a Vicereine! That was something for an American to have done. We are a republican people, but we have not quite forgotten that we sprang from a kingdom, and perhaps it is just because we are new that we cherish such a secret affection for the old.
Following the Viceroy came another magnificent state elephant carrying the Duke and Duchess of Connaught, and about their welcome and popularity there was no possible manner of doubt whatever. The natives were frightfully keen to see the King-Emperor's brother, and none who saw could have been disappointed with the genial kindly man who acknowledged so graciously the plaudits of the crowd. They say a native crowd never cheers. That may be true. But if they don't know what a good ringing British cheer is, their spontaneous exclamations of delight as the King's brother passed by were no less unmistakable. It seemed like one long audible indrawing of the breath, a full deep sound fraught with tremulous excitement, that surged through the crowd and passed along the lines like some mighty wave that, gathering from a low and distant murmur into a roar of sound, breaks and ebbs back to gain fresh strength to break and break again.
Behind came the ruling chiefs, all glorious in apparel, as if they had just walked straight out of the Song of Solomon. Two and two they passed by on their elephants, the great chiefs of Hyderabad and Mysore heading the procession. Every conceivable colour was there. Even the elephants bore quaint figures and symbols painted in fantastic guise on their rough black heads and trunks. As for the jewels, they were enough to drive the wealthiest woman of the West green with envy. And the way those princes carried themselves! That, too, might be envied by the men of the West. This to them was no mere show and pageant. They in their pride had come from afar to escort the representative of their King-Emperor, and to pay him homage. It was right that it should be fittingly done. The Oriental takes even his pleasure solemnly, and this was an occasion in which all the dignity and pride of every day life found its epitome. The Nizam of Hyderabad, clad in sober black, but with a glorious diamond aigrette glittering in his yellow turban, was the very embodiment of stateliness. The young Maharajah of Mysore, who rode beside him, was resplendent in gold brocade, diamonds in his turban, and a superb necklace of big pearls and ruby pendant. After that I lost count. Each one seemed more magnificent than the last—a glory of silk and satin and velvet, of gold and silver, of diamonds and emeralds and pearls and rubies—a veritable glittering dream of the fabled wealth of Ind. One grew confused and bewildered with it all; one's brain refused to follow and take in all that the dazzled eyes rested upon. The glorious blue of the Eastern sky, the dark red line of the Fort for far-off background, the strange, many-coloured crowd, swayed by excitement such as had not been in Delhi for more than a generation, the slowly-pacing line of majestic elephants carrying their gorgeous burdens, all made up a bewildering picture that even one's imagination could scarcely have conceived. Here at least was nothing of the West, nothing of the twentieth century. Just such men as these, clothed as they were, riding with the same superb arrogance, it might be in the very same howdahs, might have graced the triumph of the greatest of the Moghul Emperors. Nothing was changed. Here was a pageant to delight the heart of a lover of the past.
Then again the scene changed. The great chiefs had passed, ending up with the dear little Shan chiefs with their wonderful pagoda hats, and one of them with the charming little princess Tip Atila, his sister, sitting by his side. The gorgeous feast of Oriental colour was over, and straightway one was back in the West again—the land of ugly headgear and frock coats. The Grand Duke of Hesse, who looked to be thoroughly enjoying himself all through the festivities, came by in a carriage and four, followed by Governors, Lieutenant-Governors, and a host of other officials, Lord Kitchener riding his famous charger Democrat in the midst of them. Then back with a jump to the East again—a crowd of wild Baluchi and North-west frontier chiefs, more Bengal lancers, and finally the motley crowd of retinue elephants which had been waiting on the Champs de Mars until all the rest of the procession had passed by. They were picturesque and quaint beyond description, loaded, one would think, with everything in the way of decoration that their owners possessed piled on pell-mell—a medley of magnificence.
It was over at last, and one went away bewildered, half-wondering if it were not all a dream, some mirage of the East that one had seen under a magician's wand. Even Berengaria still sat silent, seemingly plunged in thought.
'It was wonderful,' was all she said as we drove home. 'I just want to go away quietly and try to realise it.'
'It was wonderful to think how well the elephants behaved,' said the practical John. 'If they had taken it into their heads to stampede one's imagination reels at what might have happened.'
'Only to think,' said Berengaria, looking at me solemnly as we reached home, 'only to think that it was an American from Chicago who rode at the head of all that!'