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{{Style P-Title|Letter XXX<ref>''Russian Herald'', November 1885, vol. 180, pp. 270-304. The beginning of this letter was published also in supplement to this magazine in August, 1883. From this letter the Second series begins with the additional subtitle: “Letters to the Motherland”.</ref>}}

{{Style P-Title|Letter XXX<ref>''Russian Herald'', November 1885, vol. 180, pp. 270-304. The beginning of this letter was published also in supplement to this magazine in August, 1883. From this letter the Second series begins with the additional subtitle: “Letters to the Motherland”.</ref>}}

A small possession, once a kingdom with kings and queens, Bhurtpore is famous only for its Semiramides' gardens, its Deeg. His Raja is extremely proud of his independence in front of the less happy brothers, the Rajas of other possessions of Rajputana, forgetting that he owes his independence to the completely closed geographical position of his territory. In Bhurtpore there is neither a president, nor even any English official, for the simple reason that, bound as if in a vise between Agra, Jaipur and Alvur, this small state is like a prisoner surrounded by so many soldiers that for an extra sentry there would be no place but on the shoulders or head of the prisoner. Despite this situation, the population, that is, the upper classes (kshatriyas, the warrior caste), with pride worthy of the Spanish hidalgo, despise the Marathas and even the Rajputs, whom are now no longer feared. Brought to ruin by the English, they are content with little and live in their “Kingdom of Peacocks” (so named because there are up to 6,000 sacred peacocks in one Bharat valley) carefree and even happily. Once energetic and militant people, they plunged into a state of hibernation and literally spend their whole lives in religious festivals and sacrifices to the gods since 1826, when Lord Sleigh ravaged their capital, taking it by storm. Bhurtpore is home of bards and sacred chanting, where the valiant exploits of gods and mortals are glorified from morning till night. Therefore, out of seven hundred thousand inhabitants, in an area of some 77 miles [123.92 km] in length and 50 [80.47 km] in width, there are four hundred thousand ''brahmins'', doing absolutely nothing, and three hundred thousand people spending their whole life taking water from Deeg lakes and carrying it on their shoulders for irrigation of 1978 square miles [5123 sq km]. Apart from these lakes, which occupy only a few miles, there is not a drop of water in the entire possession.

A small possession, once a kingdom with kings and queens, Bhurtpore is famous only for its Semiramides' gardens, its Deeg. His Raja is extremely proud of his independence in front of the less happy brothers, the Rajas of other possessions of Rajputana, forgetting that he owes his independence to the completely closed geographical position of his territory. In Bhurtpore there is neither a resident, nor even any English official, for the simple reason that, bound as if in a vise between Agra, Jaipur and Alvur, this small state is like a prisoner surrounded by so many soldiers that for an extra sentry there would be no place but on the shoulders or head of the prisoner. Despite this situation, the population, that is, the upper classes (kshatriyas, the warrior caste), of which there are more than the lowest, with pride worthy of the Spanish hidalgo, despise the Marathas and even the Rajputs, whom are now no longer feared. Brought to ruin by the English, they are content with little and live in their “Kingdom of Peacocks” (so named because there are up to 6,000 sacred peacocks in one Bharat valley) carefree and even happily. Once energetic and militant people, they plunged into a state of hibernation and literally spend their whole lives in religious festivals and sacrifices to the gods since 1826, when Lord Sleigh ravaged their capital, taking it by storm. Bhurtpore is home of bards and sacred chanting, where the valiant exploits of gods and mortals are glorified from morning till night. Therefore, out of seven hundred thousand inhabitants, in an area of some 77 miles [123.92 km] in length and 50 [80.47 km] in width, there are four hundred thousand ''brahmins'', doing absolutely nothing, and three hundred thousand people spending their whole life taking water from Deeg lakes and carrying it on their shoulders for irrigation of 1978 square miles [5123 sq km]. Apart from these lakes, which occupy only a few miles, there is not a drop of water in the entire possession.

Raja and 99% of the total population are the Jats. This tribe, which once made up the vast majority of the population of Rajasthan, is the “aborigines of the scorching plains” that spread along the Indus and its tributaries. Todd assures and proves,<ref>See ''Journal Asiatique'' [Asiatic Journal], May, 1827.</ref> in his own way, that the Jats are of the same clan and tribe with the Geats, Massagetae and Utes of Jutland, and as a result also with the Anglo-Saxon conquerors of England. He even finds between the fair-headed Jutland man, his red-haired cousin John Bull, and the black, as the ace of spades, Jat, “a very strong family resemblance” in the lower jaw (''sic'') and probably in the ears. There is nothing intricate here. Under the despotic orders of “philologists,” “ethnologists” and “anthropologists,” our poor mother nature can only remain silent.

Raja and 99% of the total population are the Jats. This tribe, which once made up the vast majority of the population of Rajasthan, is the “aborigines of the scorching plains” that spread along the Indus and its tributaries. Todd assures and proves,<ref>See ''Journal Asiatique'' [Asiatic Journal], May, 1827.</ref> in his own way, that the Jats are of the same clan and tribe with the Geats, Massagetae and Utes of Jutland, and as a result also with the Anglo-Saxon conquerors of England. He even finds between the fair-headed Jutland man, his red-haired cousin John Bull, and the black, as the ace of spades, Jat, “a very strong family resemblance” in the lower jaw (''sic'') and probably in the ears. There is nothing intricate here. Under the despotic orders of “philologists,” “ethnologists” and “anthropologists,” our poor mother nature can only remain silent.

One thing is true: the Jats are one of the most ancient peoples of India, and although the “aborigines” for the Rajputs who came later, they are not aborigines, but also newcomers for the real aborigines, tribes scattered throughout India, hiding in inaccessible mountain gorges, in forests and jungles. Their legends (like history itself, or rather those tattered pages that are now circulating among us under the name of history) point to the Jats as a tribe whose foremost colonies came to India beyond the Himalayas, probably beyond the Oxus (now the Amu-Darya), even before the time of Cyrus. In the IV century, history finds the Jat kingdom in the Punjab, but does not indicate the era of its foundation and does not give any information about the first appearance of the Jats. Todd also wants to prove their identity with the Asians of the Oxus, the tribe that overthrew the Greek Empire in Bactria. These Asians are the tribe, a branch of which, having burst into northern Europe, settled, by the way, in Jutland. Of all the tribes living now in India, whom they want to impose the Scythians as their progenitors, the Jats are the most suitable for the hypothesis. They have the appearance of the Scythians, as we find it described by Herodotus, as if imprinted on them. Squat, thickset, hairy, with strongly developed muscles, the Jats fit this description as much as the tall, slender Rajputs and Bhili do not. It is enough to look at the purely Greek profiles of the Rajputs to make sure that it is impossible for them to originate from the Scythians. This is as absurd as throwing the Punjabi Sikhs, eagle-nosed colossi with a purely European type of face, into a common “Scythian pit,” just because before they were converted to monotheism they sacrificed horses. The Sikhs and Rajputs, according to the general opinion of Orientalists, have one of the most beautiful types of the human race.

One thing is true: the Jats are one of the most ancient peoples of India, and although the “aborigines” for the Rajputs who came later, they are not aborigines, but also newcomers for the real aborigines, tribes scattered throughout India, hiding in inaccessible mountain gorges, in forests and jungles. Their legends (like history itself, or rather those tattered pages that are now circulating among us under the name of history) point to the Jats as a tribe whose foremost colonies came to India beyond the Himalayas, probably beyond the Oxus (now the Amu-Darya), even before the time of Cyrus. In the IV century, history finds the Jat kingdom in the Punjab, but does not indicate the era of its foundation and does not give any information about the first appearance of the Jats. Todd also wants to prove their identity with the Asians of the Oxus, the tribe that overthrew the Greek Empire in Bactria. These Asians are the tribe, a branch of which, having burst into northern Europe, settled, by the way, in Jutland. Of all the tribes living now in India, whom they want to impose the Scythians as their progenitors, the Jats are the most suitable for the hypothesis. They have the appearance of the Scythians, as we find it described by Herodotus, as if imprinted on them. Squat, thickset, hairy, with strongly developed muscles, the Jats fit this description as much as the tall, slender Rajputs and Bhili do not. It is enough to look at the purely Greek profiles of the Rajputs to make sure that it is impossible for them to originate from the Scythians. This is as absurd as throwing the Punjabi Sikhs, eagle-nosed colossi with a purely European type of face, into a common “Scythian pit,” just because before they were converted to monotheism they sacrificed horses. The Sikhs and Rajputs, according to the general opinion of Orientalists, have one of the most beautiful types of the human race.

The pure Rajputs scattered throughout a huge part of Rajasthan under the “beneficent rule of England” (a stereotypical expression), and their thakurs and zemindars enjoy the same rights, or, perhaps it will be more correct, they do not equally enjoy any rights, except for the rights of an ordinary landowner and master in their own estates. But between the Rajput Thakuras and Jat ones, popular opinion, rarely mistaken, created an impenetrable abyss. The Jut Thakur is a feudal baron who robs at night. The Rajput Thakur is a knight, ''un chevalier sans peur ni reproche<ref>A knight without fear or reproach (Fr.). – Ed.</ref>'' in the full sense of the word. To quiet the former and thus gain loyal allies for themselves, the government, although it forbade the daytime robberies ''de jure'', allowed them ''de facto'', permitting the robbers, like the Bedouin sheikhs in Palestine and Syria, to collect contribution from the visiting caravans and travelers, as if guaranteeing the latter complete safety from the Bhils. But the Rajput Thakurs did not accept any of the favors offered to them. Owning and controlling almost autocratically a handful of their subjects, they hardly leave the borders of their villages and even often the castle. Proud and indomitable, now made impossible to fight with each other, they seem to have submitted to their fate, but they only communicate with the Rajas, to whom, as vassals, they are obliged to pay tribute in people and money. With the English, they have almost no direct relations, and have business, if necessary, through the ministers of their suzerain, the Maharaja.

The pure Rajputs and Jats scattered throughout a huge part of Rajasthan under the “beneficent rule of England” (a stereotypical expression), and their thakurs and zemindars enjoy the same rights, or, perhaps it will be more correct, they do not equally enjoy any rights, except for the rights of an ordinary landowner and master in their own estates. But between the Rajput Thakuras and Jat ones, popular opinion, rarely mistaken, created an impenetrable abyss. The Jut Thakur is a feudal baron who robs at night. The Rajput Thakur is a knight, ''un chevalier sans peur ni reproche<ref>A knight without fear or reproach (Fr.). – Ed.</ref>'' in the full sense of the word. To quiet the former and thus gain loyal allies for themselves, the government, although it forbade the daytime robberies ''de jure'', allowed them ''de facto'', permitting the robbers, like the Bedouin sheikhs in Palestine and Syria, to collect contribution from the visiting caravans and travelers, as if guaranteeing the latter complete safety from the Bhils. But the Rajput Thakurs did not accept any of the favors offered to them. Owning and controlling almost autocratically a handful of their subjects, they hardly leave the borders of their villages and even often the castle. Proud and indomitable, now made impossible to fight with each other, they seem to have submitted to their fate, but they only communicate with the Rajas, to whom, as vassals, they are obliged to pay tribute in people and money. With the English, they have almost no direct relations, and have business, if necessary, through the ministers of their suzerain, the Maharaja.

As elsewhere, the conquerors of the “superior race” appeared here as Cains in relation to the innocent Abels. They shuffled India like a deck of cards. It is a pity to look at this once flourishing corner of Bharatra<ref>Or ''Bharata'', the name of India, derived from the name of the legendary ancient Indian king Bharata. – Ed.</ref> under the Rajput and even under the Muslim kings, now Bhurtpore, lying in the dust of age-old palaces and temples, like a charred piece of moldy rusk. At the beginning of this [19th] century, magnificent aqueducts from the inexhaustible Deeg lakes cut across the country, and Bhurtpore was considered one of the main granaries of India. The country blossomed and turned green all year round. But in 1825 the troops of the insatiable East India Company appeared under the leadership of Lords Sleigh and Combermere. The city was built on lowlands and the water of the huge, now non-existent and buried lake ''Moti-djil'' (Pearl Lake), being at a higher level, could, at will and at any time, be released into the fortification ditches and flood them, and the city became impregnable. Since 1805, the English tried four times to take Bhurtpore by attack, and each time they were repelled with a huge loss. In the course of twenty years, all the military tricks that the humane British were so keen on were put into operation in order to take possession of the Peacock Kingdom with its salt lakes and fisheries, giving about 170,000 pounds of annual income; but they succeeded only in 1826. According to the stories of the Diwan and especially the old under-tutor of the Rajah, the responsibility for the pogrom of the city lies with the conscience of God Krishna, his patron. During the first siege, native soldiers serving in the English ranks swore that they saw Krishna in the air over the city, “dressed in a yellow ascetic dress and armed with his special armor: a bow, a mace, a conch shell and a sacred trumpet,” and as a result they fled. But in 1826, the deity blundered ... The superstition of the Jats can only be compared with the superstition of the Dravids of southern India; this is some kind of magical, enchanted world. Spending a few days with the Jats is like reading fairy tales day and night ... At every step there is a temple with its own special legend, into the foreground of which knights and gods with goddesses who always play the roles of good and evil sorceresses are brought, like in Perrault's tales,<ref>[https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Perrault Charles Perrault] (1628-1703) was a French poet and art theorist, nowadays, however, known mainly for his expositions of folk tales. – Ed.</ref> where virtue always triumphs, and vice is always punished...

As elsewhere, the conquerors of the “superior race” appeared here as Cains in relation to the innocent Abels. They shuffled India like a deck of cards. It is a pity to look at this once flourishing corner of Bharatra<ref>Or ''Bharata'', the name of India, derived from the name of the legendary ancient Indian king Bharata. – Ed.</ref> under the Rajput and even under the Muslim kings, now Bhurtpore, lying in the dust of age-old palaces and temples, like a charred piece of moldy rusk. At the beginning of this [19th] century, magnificent aqueducts from the inexhaustible Deeg lakes cut across the country, and Bhurtpore was considered one of the main granaries of India. The country blossomed and turned green all year round. But in 1825 the troops of the insatiable East India Company appeared under the leadership of Lords Sleigh and Combermere. The city was built on lowlands and the water of the huge, now non-existent and buried lake ''Moti-djil'' (Pearl Lake), being at a higher level, could, at will and at any time, be released into the fortification ditches and flood them, and the city became impregnable. Since 1805, the English tried four times to take Bhurtpore by attack, and each time they were repelled with a huge loss. In the course of twenty years, all the military tricks that the humane British were so keen on were put into operation in order to take possession of the Peacock Kingdom with its salt lakes and fisheries, giving about 170,000 pounds of annual income; but they succeeded only in 1826. According to the stories of the Diwan and especially the old under-tutor of the Rajah, the responsibility for the pogrom of the city lies with the conscience of God Krishna, his patron. During the first siege, native soldiers serving in the English ranks swore that they saw Krishna in the air over the city, “dressed in a yellow ascetic dress and armed with his special armor: a bow, a mace, a conch shell and a sacred trumpet,” and as a result they fled. But in 1826, the deity blundered ... The superstition of the Jats can only be compared with the superstition of the Dravids of southern India; this is some kind of magical, enchanted world. Spending a few days with the Jats is like reading fairy tales day and night ... At every step there is a temple with its own special legend, into the foreground of which knights and gods with goddesses who always play the roles of good and evil sorceresses are brought, like in Perrault's tales,<ref>[https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Perrault Charles Perrault] (1628-1703) was a French poet and art theorist, nowadays, however, known mainly for his expositions of folk tales. – Ed.</ref> where virtue always triumphs, and vice is always punished...

“Instead of crying, the god would be better not to make a mistake and immediately break necks of the entire detachment,” the Babu said through clenched teeth.

“Instead of crying, the god would be better not to make a mistake and immediately break necks of the entire detachment,” the Babu said through clenched teeth.

The Southern Rajput, who was riding beside the carriage, only looked up at the Babu. His pitch-black eyes expressed mute reproach.

The young Rajput, who was riding beside the carriage, only looked up at the Babu. His pitch-black eyes expressed mute reproach.

“You are Bengali and ... probably a ''nastika'',<ref>''Nastika'' is an atheist.</ref> aren’t you?” he cut him off.

“You are Bengali and ... probably a ''nastika'',<ref>''Nastika'' is an atheist.</ref> aren’t you?” he cut him off.

The building is huge, like all the palaces of the Rajahs, but gloomy, sooty, with walls covered with mold, with an endless row of galleries, verandas, towers and turrets, stairs and corridors. Inside, endless rows of rooms of unknown purpose, but from the first to the last, from the durbar “throne” room to the smallest closet under the roof, each resembled the storeroom of a seller of old furniture. Everywhere the floors are without carpets, made of stone, but very uneven, not swept, probably since the day of the Rajah's departure, as each step raised clouds of dust, making us sneeze and cough. The rooms are cluttered with half-broken rubbish, rows of armchairs and sofas, once gilded, but now shabby, of all sorts and epochs, upholstered with precious but faded damask; on the walls there are cheap German cuckoo clocks (we counted about eight of them in one room!), pictures with the mechanism of moving boats and music next to huge, from ceiling to floor, numerous mirrors; in the library decorated with precious crystal and magnificent rosewood carvings you can find six, seven volumes of sixpence odd novels by James, and everywhere, as if for sale, women's dressing tables, the surface of which, due to years of dampness, represented geographical maps, distorting our reflections, as if making face at us: – that's what we have found in the palace of an independent rajah!

The building is huge, like all the palaces of the Rajahs, but gloomy, sooty, with walls covered with mold, with an endless row of galleries, verandas, towers and turrets, stairs and corridors. Inside, endless rows of rooms of unknown purpose, but from the first to the last, from the durbar “throne” room to the smallest closet under the roof, each resembled the storeroom of a seller of old furniture. Everywhere the floors are without carpets, made of stone, but very uneven, not swept, probably since the day of the Rajah's departure, as each step raised clouds of dust, making us sneeze and cough. The rooms are cluttered with half-broken rubbish, rows of armchairs and sofas, once gilded, but now shabby, of all sorts and epochs, upholstered with precious but faded damask; on the walls there are cheap German cuckoo clocks (we counted about eight of them in one room!), pictures with the mechanism of moving boats and music next to huge, from ceiling to floor, numerous mirrors; in the library decorated with precious crystal and magnificent rosewood carvings you can find six, seven volumes of sixpence odd novels by James, and everywhere, as if for sale, women's dressing tables, the surface of which, due to years of dampness, represented geographical maps, distorting our reflections, as if making face at us: – that's what we have found in the palace of an independent rajah!

Noticing, probably, the absence of any delight on our frank faces, a bearded Jat who met us on the porch and intended to show us the royal chambers, wanting to make us, probably, change our minds about the splendor of the palace, took us into some secret, corner room, visited, as he told us very confidentially, by all the English ''bar-sahibs'' (great gentlemen) and highly praised by them. This room, which he ordered the under-tutor to unlock with some special key, also with a secret and in addition with music, turned out to be hung with paintings in the French taste of the most impermissible content. The colonel restrained his urge to curse the Jat, and Narayan, barely glancing, rushed out of the room, relieving his chaste heart with a whole stream of words that we did not understand, but which apparently made a depressing impression on the bearded confidant. He was very confused and hastened to lock the “secret” room, muttering something like an apology. We only realized one thing: all the ''firinghee'' “bar-sahibs” and even the “ma’am-sahibs,” their ladies, visited this ''European'' “museum” and always laughed very merrily. As a result of such a defeat, however, the bearded man hastened to retreat, leaving us in the care of the old under-tutor of the rajah.

Noticing, probably, the absence of any delight on our frank faces, a bearded Jat who met us on the porch and intended to show us the royal chambers, wanting to make us, probably, change our minds about the splendor of the palace, took us into some secret, corner room, visited, as he told us very confidentially, by all the English ''bara-sahibs'' (great gentlemen) and highly praised by them. This room, which he ordered the under-tutor to unlock with some special key, also with a secret and in addition with music, turned out to be hung with paintings in the French taste of the most impermissible content. The colonel restrained his urge to curse the Jat, and Narayan, barely glancing, rushed out of the room, relieving his chaste heart with a whole stream of words that we did not understand, but which apparently made a depressing impression on the bearded confidant. He was very confused and hastened to lock the “secret” room, muttering something like an apology. We only realized one thing: all the ''firinghee'' “bar-sahibs” and even the “ma’am-sahibs,” their ladies, visited this ''European'' “museum” and always laughed very merrily. As a result of such a defeat, however, the bearded man hastened to retreat, leaving us in the care of the old under-tutor of the rajah.

Everywhere there is the same dirt, dust, bad taste, desolation and dilapidation. The maharaja himself does not live in his “royal” chambers. They are meant to delight visiting white barbarians. He himself had settled for a long time in a ''zenana'', in a mansion, with half a dozen wives. Unfortunately, in India, the example of the virtue to subjects is not set by the rajas or princes. Except for the latter, the natives, from the highest Brahmin to the last ''coolie'', are strict monogamists, but their masters, the maharajas, all adhere to polygamy. These potentates, so to speak, were born and live outside the caste, for most of them never had a caste. The grandfather of the Maharaja Holkar of Indore was born a simple shepherd; the ''gwalior'' of the Scindia family is the great-grandson of a footman. His great-grandfather Ranoji, the first Scindia, served as a trusted servant in 1714 of a Peshwa who took him from the family of common peasants, and in 1782 Ranoji's bastard son, Scindia, became the Maharaja of Gwalior. The Gaikwars of Baroda, as their very name means, were cow drovers a hundred years ago; and the present young Gaikwar, elected by the government to expel the unfortunate Malhar Rao,<ref>He died in exile in 1882 in Madras.</ref> accused (and completely unjustly) of trying to poison Colonel Feir, a political resident, is the son of a simple coolie, a distant relative of Malhar Rao, etc. Some Muslim rajas, if you believe them, all come from Fatimah, the daughter of the Prophet, and their female lineage from the Mohammed mare (sic), although the way of evolution from the latter is not entirely clear. But the maharana of Udaipur, the ruler of Mewar in Rajasthan, without exaggeration and not at all for it sounds good, comes almost from Adam. In any case, the genealogy of this royal house was declared by the English government to be absolutely correct and legal; and this genealogy points to Iksvaku, the son of Manu, the great mythical legislator of Ariyavarta, as the ancestor of these maharanas. Ikshvaku was born 2225 years BC.<ref>See Asiatic Researches, “Vanshavali is a family tree of the Suryavansa family (descendants of the Sun) from the Rajasthan tribe.”</ref> You can bet that there is no older genealogy in all of Europe. The Suryavansas, the descendants of the Sun, have the inalienable rights to despise the most ancient English surnames, relying on their own recognized genealogy. In due time, we will talk in more detail about these proud remains of the past and irrevocable greatness!

Everywhere there is the same dirt, dust, bad taste, desolation and dilapidation. The maharaja himself does not live in his “royal” chambers. They are meant to delight visiting white barbarians. He himself had settled for a long time in a ''zenana'', in a mansion, with half a dozen wives. Unfortunately, in India, the example of the virtue to subjects is not set by the rajas or princes. Except for the latter, the natives, from the highest Brahmin to the last ''coolie'', are strict monogamists, but their masters, the maharajas, all adhere to polygamy. These potentates, so to speak, were born and live outside the caste, for most of them never had a caste. The grandfather of the Maharaja Holkar of Indore was born a simple shepherd; the ''gwalior'' of the Scindia family is the great-grandson of a footman. His great-grandfather Ranoji, the first Scindia, served as a trusted servant in 1714 of a Peshwa who took him from the family of common peasants, and in 1782 Ranoji's bastard son, Scindia, became the Maharaja of Gwalior. The Gaikwars of Baroda, as their very name means, were cow drovers a hundred years ago; and the present young Gaikwar, elected by the government to expel the unfortunate Malhar Rao,<ref>He died in exile in 1882 in Madras.</ref> accused (and completely unjustly) of trying to poison Colonel Feir, a political resident, is the son of a simple coolie, a distant relative of Malhar Rao, etc. Some Muslim rajas, if you believe them, all come from Fatimah, the daughter of the Prophet, and their female lineage from the Mohammed mare (sic), although the way of evolution from the latter is not entirely clear. But the maharana of Udaipur, the ruler of Mewar in Rajasthan, without exaggeration and not at all for it sounds good, comes almost from Adam. In any case, the genealogy of this royal house was declared by the English government to be absolutely correct and legal; and this genealogy points to Iksvaku, the son of Manu, the great mythical legislator of Ariyavarta, as the ancestor of these maharanas. Ikshvaku was born 2225 years BC.<ref>See Asiatic Researches, “Vanshavali is a family tree of the Suryavansa family (descendants of the Sun) from the Rajasthan tribe.”</ref> You can bet that there is no older genealogy in all of Europe. The Suryavansas, the descendants of the Sun, have the inalienable rights to despise the most ancient English surnames, relying on their own recognized genealogy. In due time, we will talk in more detail about these proud remains of the past and irrevocable greatness!

Among other historical information, we learned that the current rajah, presented by the English as the real, legitimate heir to the throne, is a usurper in the eyes of his subjects, although he is not guilty of this crime, but the government. In 1825, upon the death of Buldeo Singh, the ''raj'' was legally required to pass to his cousin, Durjun Sal. He had a huge party and the laws of Manu on his side. But the East India Company had soldiers with guns and the right of the most cunning, if not the strongest. In addition, both now and then, John Bull insisted on his right to be the world protector of the weak and innocent and, under the pretext of a protectorate, to swallow the weak and innocent along with his kingdom. Uninvited guardians appeared here too. Their policy is to allow only those rajas who have been brought up by themselves to take possession, according to Metternich's wise mode in relation to Napoleon II, the ill-fated imperial prince. Like the Duke of Reichstadt, all these Indian rajahs perish ''a la'' [as] Marquis de Sade, thanks to their English tutors, who, from the very first day, lead them unnoticed on the path of early death from debauchery and drunkenness.<ref>The young rajah of Cooch Behar, whom I meet every summer in Simla, in Darjeeling and in the Missur hills, has now become a purebred Englishman; he drinks champagne in barrels, presents all ''belles de la saison'' [beauties of the season (Fr.)] – “ma'am-sahib” and missi-bibi – who do him a great honour to waltz with him – with precious bracelets, necklaces and brooches and waste money for sports and revelries, doing all this not only with the consent, but with the approval of his tutor Colonel X not retreating a step from him... And he is not yet twenty years old! Even young girls are not ashamed to accept expensive gifts from him. It is clear what the ruler of the Cooch Behar Raj will be like. And if he breaks his neck or If he gets falling-down drunk all is blue, the complacent fathers-rulers, will immediately, under the pretext that they are legal guardians, first take all control into their own hands, and then slowly annex his princely state. Snug as bugs in a rug, and decency was observed.</ref>

Among other historical information, we learned that the current rajah, presented by the English as the real, legitimate heir to the throne, is a usurper in the eyes of his subjects, although he is not guilty of this crime, but the government. In 1825, upon the death of Buldeo Singh, the ''raj'' was legally required to pass to his cousin, Durjun Sal. He had a huge party and the laws of Manu on his side. But the East India Company had soldiers with guns and the right of the most cunning, if not the strongest. In addition, both now and then, John Bull insisted on his right to be the world protector of the weak and innocent and, under the pretext of a protectorate, to swallow the weak and innocent along with his kingdom. Uninvited guardians appeared here too. Their policy is to allow only those rajas who have been brought up by themselves to take possession, according to Metternich's wise mode in relation to Napoleon II, the ill-fated imperial prince. Like the Duke of Reichstadt, all these Indian rajahs perish ''a la'' [as] Marquis de Sade, thanks to their English tutors, who, from the very first day, lead them unnoticed on the path of early death from debauchery and drunkenness.<ref>The young rajah of Cooch Behar, whom I meet every summer in Simla, in Darjeeling and in the Missur hills, has now become a purebred Englishman; he drinks champagne in barrels, presents all ''belles de la saison'' [beauties of the season (Fr.)] – “ma'am-sahib” and missi-bibi – who do him a great honour to waltz with him – with precious bracelets, necklaces and brooches and waste money for sports and revelries, doing all this not only with the consent, but with the approval of his tutor Colonel X not retreating a step from him... And he is not yet twenty years old! Even young girls are not ashamed to accept expensive gifts from him. It is clear what the ruler of the Cooch Behar Raj will be like. And if he breaks his neck or If he gets falling-down drunk all is blue, the complacent fathers-rulers, will immediately, under the pretext that they are legal guardians, first take all control into their own hands, and then slowly annex his princely state. Snug as bugs in a rug, and decency was observed.</ref>

So, in spite of the fact that Durjun Sal was already sitting on the throne at the choice of the people, there appeared in 1826 an army of 20,000 people with 122 guns. The army was repulsed with great damage, as they say, “by the god Krishna himself and the sacred peacocks of Sarasvati,” of whom twenty thousand descended on the army, and the peacocks, sitting on the heads of the soldiers, began desperately pecking out their eyes. The English failed then to take the city by storm. But they returned a month later and (I am translating from the words of the Bhurtpore chronicle), “taking advantage of Krishna’s doing ''topas<ref>Religious meditation prescribed to all gods, as well as to people: self-absorption into Brahma, who sits in every mortal's heart.</ref>'' at that time,” but most likely due to the speed of action, the army, as already mentioned above, cut the road to the Rajah's engineers to the saving water of the pond, and then cut also innocent inhabitants, according to the storytellers, up to 9000. After that, having caught the raja Durjun Sal who was running away with his wives and two sons, the English sent the unfortunate prince to Benares for eternal life. The raja died in 1851, his descendants began to die out little by little, which suited the government fine.

So, in spite of the fact that Durjun Sal was already sitting on the throne at the choice of the people, there appeared in 1826 an army of 20,000 people with 122 guns, without any reason, to save a minor illegitimate prince. The army was repulsed with great damage, as they say, “by the god Krishna himself and the sacred peacocks of Sarasvati,” of whom twenty thousand descended on the army, and the peacocks, sitting on the heads of the soldiers, began desperately pecking out their eyes. The English failed then to take the city by storm. But they returned a month later and (I am translating from the words of the Bhurtpore chronicle), “taking advantage of Krishna’s doing ''topas<ref>Religious meditation prescribed to all gods, as well as to people: self-absorption into Brahma, who sits in every mortal's heart.</ref>'' at that time,” but most likely due to the speed of action, the army, as already mentioned above, cut the road to the Rajah's engineers to the saving water of the pond, and then cut also innocent inhabitants, according to the storytellers, up to 9000. After that, having caught the raja Durjun Sal who was running away with his wives and two sons, the English sent the unfortunate prince to Benares for eternal life, generously allocating 50 pounds sterling (500 rupees) per month for his expenses. The Rajah died in 1851, leaving two sons and countless grandchildren. The meager pension was divided between the sons and the maharani-mother. The descendants of Buldeo Sing began to die out little by little, which suited the government fine.

And now I allow myself a brief digression and run ahead for a minute for clarity of the story.

And now I allow myself a brief digression and run ahead for a minute for clarity of the story.

Rao Krishna turned out to be a very educated and handsome young man. In addition to this, we immediately remembered then that he was the hero of a very mysterious, albeit highly improbable, story told to us in Bhurtpore by our two visitors, which story I am now narrating.

Rao Krishna turned out to be a very educated and handsome young man. In addition to this, we immediately remembered then that he was the hero of a very mysterious, albeit highly improbable, story told to us in Bhurtpore by our two visitors, which story I am now narrating.

His father, the son of the exiled rajah, already starving, learned photography and made a living by taking pictures of pilgrims who came to the sacred shores of the Ganges, and views of various temples and pagodas. Religious to the point of fanaticism, he went one fine evening – on the day of the eclipse of the moon, the greatest holiday among the Hindus – to the temple of his patron Krishna. Despite the oversight of Vishnu's ''avatar'' regarding the capital of his father's former kingdom, he did not stop offering sacrifices to him whenever he could. That evening a pocket of the ill-fated son of the maharaja was empty and so was his stomach. Fingering the rosary, squatting in front of the idol, he fell asleep out of grief. The young god appeared to him in a dream and, pointing to a leafy tree in the garden of the shack occupied by the raja, said to him: “Dig under this tree at every full moon night and, as long as you remain faithful to me, you will find monthly 1000 silver rupees on the southern side of it.” Waking up and remembering that it was just the full moon night, the prince-photographer went home and began to dig with a spade. Krishna kept his word and one thousand rupees were found. Then, in a fit of gratitude, the prince made a vow to go every year with his son to worship God in a famous temple near Hardwar. At the next full moon night, the same result: one thousand rupees under the tree. His only son, Rao Krishna (a name added to his former names by his father, in gratitude to his divine patron), was then only eight or nine years old. Every month the god Krishna put a bag of rupees under the tree, and every year father and son went barefoot to a distant temple, with a staff in hand and in full costume of Indian ascetics, that is, in the light and primitive attire of Adam.

His father, the son of the exiled rajah, already completely starving (the pension was finally stopped, taking advantage of the uprising of 1857), learned photography and made a living by taking pictures of pilgrims who came to the sacred shores of the Ganges, and views of various temples and pagodas. He had no money to pay for the education of his only son, and the government refused to help. Religious to the point of fanaticism, he went one fine evening – on the day of the eclipse of the moon, the greatest holiday among the Hindus – to the temple of his patron Krishna. Despite the oversight of Vishnu's ''avatar'' regarding the capital of his father's former kingdom, he did not stop offering sacrifices to him whenever he could. That evening a pocket of the ill-fated son of the maharaja was empty and so was his stomach. Fingering the rosary, squatting in front of the idol, he fell asleep out of grief. Some learned materialist and physiologist expressed the opinion that dreams come to the mortals only because of a tightly stuffed stomach; but this time there was an exception in favor of the starving:  the young god appeared to him in a dream and, pointing to a leafy tree in the garden of the shack occupied by the raja, said to him: “Dig under this tree at every full moon night and, as long as you remain faithful to me, you will find monthly 1000 silver rupees on the southern side of it.” Waking up and remembering that it was just the full moon night, the prince-photographer went home and began to dig with a spade. Krishna kept his word and one thousand rupees were found. Then, in a fit of gratitude, the prince made a vow to go every year with his son to worship God in a famous temple near Hardwar. At the next full moon night, the same result: one thousand rupees under the tree. His only son, Rao Krishna (a name added to his former names by his father, in gratitude to his divine patron), was then only eight or nine years old. Every month the god Krishna put a bag of rupees under the tree, and every year father and son went barefoot to a distant temple, with a staff in hand and in full costume of Indian ascetics, that is, in the light and primitive attire of Adam.

Now I ask the reader to get ready for the aforementioned incredible story. Despite all the implausibility, among the two hundred and fifty million indigenous people of India, such stories are very common and for the natives they have nothing incredible in them.

Now I ask the reader to get ready for the aforementioned incredible story. Despite all the implausibility, among the two hundred and fifty million indigenous people of India, such stories are very common and for the natives they have nothing incredible in them.

“Has really no one lost?” argued we with the narrators. “The boy retained the body alone, or, rather, the decrepit old man acquired a new one ... but after all, Rao Krishna has probably lost his spiritual personality, the individuality of the immortal soul!”

“Has really no one lost?” argued we with the narrators. “The boy retained the body alone, or, rather, the decrepit old man acquired a new one ... but after all, Rao Krishna has probably lost his spiritual personality, the individuality of the immortal soul!”

“A very erroneous reasoning,” the Vedantists answered us then, as well as later. Belief in the individuality of our spirit and its own personality is the most powerful of all delusions and the most dangerous one. This, in our opinion, is a terrible ''heresy''. The immortal spirit is no different from the Universal Spirit...

“A very erroneous reasoning,” the Vedantists answered us then, as well as later. Belief in the individuality of our spirit and its own personality is the most powerful of all delusions and the most dangerous one. This, in our opinion, is a terrible ''heresy''. The immortal spirit in man is no different from the Universal Spirit...

“So do you think that Parabrahma is in me too?” I ask them.

“So do you think that Parabrahma is in me too?” I ask them.

“Not in you, but, so to speak, you have eternal being in it, and your spirit (''atman'') is no different from the spirit of another person ... And the soul, that is, the seat of your personal, inherent mind, is of course, yours...”

“Not it in you, but, so to speak, you have eternal being in it, and your spirit (''atman'') is no different from the spirit of another person ... And the soul, that is, the seat of your personal, inherent mind, is of course, yours...”

“Thank you even for that ... So is it all the same?”

“Thank you even for that ... So is it all the same?”

So the Hindu Theosophists taught us, confirming the story told to us. However, this is the teaching of Vedantists alone, followers of Shankaracharya, the greatest adept and ''yogi'' of southern India. Dvaitas, Visishtadvaitas and Brahmos<ref>''Brahmos'' are followers of the teachings of [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brahmoism Brahmoism], developed and disseminated by the Brahmo Samaj organization, founded in 1828. – Ed.</ref> reject it and believe in the divine person, ''Ishvara'', separating it from the human soul.

So the Hindu Theosophists taught us, confirming the story told to us. However, this is the teaching of Vedantists alone, followers of Shankaracharya, the greatest adept and ''yogi'' of southern India. Dvaitas, Visishtadvaitas and Brahmos<ref>''Brahmos'' are followers of the teachings of [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brahmoism Brahmoism], developed and disseminated by the Brahmo Samaj organization, founded in 1828. – Ed.</ref> reject it and believe in the divine person, ''Ishvara'', separating it from the human soul.

In those days of our first journey, we reacted to this story with great doubt and this greatly upset our friends.

In those days of our first journey, we were not yet familiar with this doctrine, nor with the incident, nor even with its hero, who is the first to reject its truth, although it is good to remember his imaginary death. Therefore, we treated the story with great doubt and this upset our friends very much.

“But this is freethinking,” they reproached us in chorus. “After all, such ''facts'' are known throughout India, and there were many, many such ''historically'' famous incidents. The great Shankaracharya himself, the interpreter of Vedanta, moved several times during his lifetime into the bodies of rajas in order to correct their injustices and help the people. Remember his controversy with the goddess Saraswati.

“But this is freethinking,” they reproached us in chorus. “After all, such ''facts'' are known throughout India, and there were many, many such ''historically'' famous incidents. The great Shankaracharya himself, the interpreter of Vedanta, moved several times during his lifetime into the bodies of rajas in order to correct their injustices and help the people. Remember his controversy with the goddess Saraswati.

And to assure us of the fairness of the incident, they repeated to us the following from the life of the great ''acharya'' (teacher). In Madhana (VIII, 34) there is a story about how he outwitted Sarasvati, the goddess of the secret sciences and wisdom. In the form of a mere mortal, the goddess somehow joined a learned dispute with Shankaracharya. She wanted to prove to him that there are things in the world that even he does not know about. Having received satisfactory answers to questions on all kinds of branches of knowledge, Sarasvati suddenly baffled him, demanding from him a definition of the ''science of love'', about which Sankaracharya, as an ascetic and yogi since the age of eight, of course, could not know anything. Then, in order not to be ashamed in front of the witnesses, Shankaracharya asked for a delay of one month. The goddess, confident that not a single ''sannyasi'', destined to celibacy and chastity, would be able to answer her question, agreed and triumphed in advance. But the great commentator of the ''Upanishads<ref>The Upanishads, the third division of the Vedas, are also called ''rahasya'' or mystical teaching. One must have a key to the secret code in order to fully understand these metaphysical concepts of the human mind. As Professor Monier-Williams rightly noted, the Upanishads are the only religious school worthy of the wise thinkers of India. These are the sacred books of all educated natives. The Upanishads interpreted by Shankaracharya are the cornerstone of the Vedanta (that is, “the completion or ''end'' of all earthly science”).</ref>'' called for the help of the ''jnana-khanda''. This ''khanda'' is a secret science or correct understanding of the ''Vedas'', something accessible only to a very few chosen ones (''raja-yogis''), while ''karma-khanda'' is the teaching of the ''Vedas'', which is left to the ignorant majority, unable to perceive the truth beyond external ritualism and gross worship of form and the dead letter. ... And with the help of the ''khanda'', Shankaracharya won the case. He immediately went with his disciples to the east of Amritapuri, where the Raja Amarak had just died, and, mingling with the crowd of his grieving courtiers, ventured on the very practical step in this situation. One had only to look at the handsome body of the deceased and at the despair of his 99 wives, in order to come to the conviction that the raja was a master in the ''science of love''. Having entrusted his disciples to look after his temporarily abandoned body, Shankaracharya (or rather his soul) slipped out of the “scabbard”<ref>''Kosha'' (scabbard) is the term used by the Vedantists when they speak of the body.</ref> and moved into the lifeless ''scabbard'' of the raja. The illusion of resurrection was complete. In one month, Shankara Raja studied the “science of love” perfectly and not only studied, but he himself wrote an excellent treatise in two parts. In the first, love is described by him in the most vivid colours and the attractiveness of this illusion is sung in ''shlokas'' (verses) that are just as ardent as those of scientists; in the second part all the arguments, all the brilliant sophistry of the first one – all this is crushed, crushed to dust by the author himself. He destroys the arguments of his first part and points to the bitter fruits generated by the attractive colour of the insidious “tree of love” ... Under the wise guidance of raja Shankara, in the “scabbard” of raja Amaraki, the people were blissful; and the cunning brahmins, familiar with the ''jnana-khanda'', suspecting the truth and wanting to take advantage at all costs and as much as possible of the control of such a sage, went to the trick. In order to prevent the return to the own body of the one who took possession of the body of the deceased, apparently resurrected king, they issued a secret decree commanding to proceed immediately to the ''burning of every dead body on their land''. Thus, acting secretly from the king, they hoped that the body of an unknown adept, a raja-yogi, who so opportunely settled in the corpse of their former handsome but stupid raja, would also perish. Shankaracharya's “scabbard,” although under the faithful protection of his disciples, was found and the left body was thrown onto a prepared pile. Thanks to the ''Yoga-Vidya'', however, Shankaracharya immediately felt that something was wrong with his legal “scabbard” and immediately was enlightened that they wanted to forcibly keep him in the body of the Raja. Then he immediately slipped out of the ''kosha'' that did not belong to him and, leaving the empty shell of the raja this time to its inevitable fate, he returned to his own body, which he found already surrounded by flames. It did not burn out only thanks to the chain mail surrounding it, so to speak, made of non-combustible, although ''invisible'' material. Returning to Benares, he amazed even the goddess of secret wisdom Saraswati with his deep knowledge of the “science of love.” She declared herself defeated and recognized Sankaracharya as the greatest ''rishi'' (sage and saint).

And to assure us of the fairness of the incident, they repeated to us the following from the life of the great ''acharya'' (teacher). In Madhana (VIII, 34) there is a story about how he outwitted Sarasvati, the goddess of the secret sciences and wisdom. In the form of a mere mortal, the goddess somehow joined a learned dispute with Shankaracharya. She wanted to prove to him that there are things in the world that even he does not know about. Having received satisfactory answers to questions on all kinds of branches of knowledge, Sarasvati suddenly baffled him, demanding from him a definition of the ''science of love'', about which Sankaracharya, as an ascetic and yogi since the age of eight, of course, could not know anything. Then, in order not to be ashamed in front of the witnesses, Shankaracharya asked for a delay of one month. The goddess, confident that not a single ''sannyasi'', destined to celibacy and chastity, would be able to answer her question, agreed and triumphed in advance. But the great commentator of the ''Upanishads<ref>The Upanishads, the third division of the Vedas, are also called ''rahasya'' or mystical teaching. One must have a key to the secret code in order to fully understand these metaphysical concepts of the human mind. As Professor Monier-Williams rightly noted, the Upanishads are the only religious school worthy of the wise thinkers of India. These are the sacred books of all educated natives. The Upanishads interpreted by Shankaracharya are the cornerstone of the Vedanta (that is, “the completion or ''end'' of all earthly science”).</ref>'' called for the help of the ''jnana-khanda''. This ''khanda'' is a secret science or correct understanding of the ''Vedas'', something accessible only to a very few chosen ones (''raja-yogis''), while ''karma-khanda'' is the teaching of the ''Vedas'', which is left to the ignorant majority, unable to perceive the truth beyond external ritualism and gross worship of form and the dead letter. ... And with the help of the ''khanda'', Shankaracharya won the case. He immediately went with his disciples to the east of Amritapuri, where the Raja Amarak had just died, and, mingling with the crowd of his grieving courtiers, ventured on the very practical step in this situation. One had only to look at the handsome body of the deceased and at the despair of his 99 wives, in order to come to the conviction that the raja was a master in the ''science of love''. Having entrusted his disciples to look after his temporarily abandoned body, Shankaracharya (or rather his soul) slipped out of the “scabbard”<ref>''Kosha'' (scabbard) is the term used by the Vedantists when they speak of the body.</ref> and moved into the lifeless ''scabbard'' of the raja. The illusion of resurrection was complete. In one month, Shankara Raja studied the “science of love” perfectly and not only studied, but he himself wrote an excellent treatise in two parts. In the first, love is described by him in the most vivid colours and the attractiveness of this illusion is sung in ''shlokas'' (verses) that are just as ardent as those of scientists; in the second part all the arguments, all the brilliant sophistry of the first one – all this is crushed, crushed to dust by the author himself. He destroys the arguments of his first part and points to the bitter fruits generated by the attractive colour of the insidious “tree of love” ... Under the wise guidance of raja Shankara, in the “scabbard” of raja Amaraki, the people were blissful; and the cunning brahmins, familiar with the ''jnana-khanda'', suspecting the truth and wanting to take advantage at all costs and as much as possible of the control of such a sage, went to the trick. In order to prevent the return to the own body of the one who took possession of the body of the deceased, apparently resurrected king, they issued a secret decree commanding to proceed immediately to the ''burning of every dead body on their land''. Thus, acting secretly from the king, they hoped that the body of an unknown adept, a raja-yogi, who so opportunely settled in the corpse of their former handsome but stupid raja, would also perish. Shankaracharya's “scabbard,” although under the faithful protection of his disciples, was found and the left body was thrown onto a prepared pile. Thanks to the ''Yoga-Vidya'', however, Shankaracharya immediately felt that something was wrong with his legal “scabbard” and immediately was enlightened that they wanted to forcibly keep him in the body of the Raja. Then he immediately slipped out of the ''kosha'' that did not belong to him and, leaving the empty shell of the raja this time to its inevitable fate, he returned to his own body, which he found already surrounded by flames. It did not burn out only thanks to the chain mail surrounding it, so to speak, made of non-combustible, although ''invisible'' material. Returning to Benares, he amazed even the goddess of secret wisdom Saraswati with his deep knowledge of the “science of love.” She declared herself defeated and recognized Sankaracharya as the greatest ''rishi'' (sage and saint).

It is clear that if the most sacred Shastras and Puranas (ancient legends) for the Hindus, and even the Upanishads, considered by the brahmins as divine revelations, are full of such stories about the moving of the soul from one body to another, then it would be unfair to mock the Hindus. For them, belief in such miracles is natural and sacred, and I cited this episode from the life of Shankaracharya, recognized by Orientalists as one of the most remarkable philosophers of India as an example justifying the natives’ belief in what we regard as a stupid superstition. The religious feelings of the Hindu and the Rajput are offended here at every step. Their sacred ''peepal trees'', the refuge of pure spirits, fall daily under the ax of an English planter; and at the peacock, a bird dedicated to Krishna, they shoot with the same indifferent carelessness under the very nose of a native, as if it were a crow. The English do not understand, and do not want to understand that every such blow of an ax and every such bullet resonate in the heart of a pious Hindu, expanding with each passing hour more and more that abyss of hatred in the soul of a defenseless native, which the English themselves dug with their own hands. To what extent the English are aware of this, it is easy to see from their own confession.

It is clear that if the most sacred Shastras and Puranas (ancient legends) for the Hindus, and even the Upanishads, considered by the brahmins as divine revelations, are full of such stories about the moving of the soul from one body to another, then it would be unfair to mock the Hindus. For them, belief in such miracles is natural and sacred, and I cited this episode from the life of Shankaracharya, recognized by Orientalists as one of the most remarkable philosophers of India as an example justifying the natives’ belief in what ''we'' regard as a stupid superstition. The religious feelings of the Hindu and the Rajput are offended here at every step. Their sacred ''peepal trees'', the refuge of pure spirits, fall daily under the ax of an English planter; and at the peacock, a bird dedicated to Krishna, they shoot with the same indifferent carelessness under the very nose of a native, as if it were a crow. The English do not understand, and do not want to understand that every such blow of an ax and every such bullet resonate in the heart of a pious Hindu, expanding with each passing hour more and more that abyss of hatred in the soul of a defenseless native, which the English themselves dug with their own hands. To what extent the English are aware of this, it is easy to see from their own confession.

{{Style P-Quote|“It is unreasonable and unworthy of a philosopher and even just of an honest person,” says colonel Tod, “to treat popular beliefs of such deep antiquity with contempt.  

{{Style P-Quote|“It is unreasonable and unworthy of a philosopher and even just of an honest person,” says colonel Tod, “to treat popular beliefs of such deep antiquity with contempt.  

My venerable president let out a kind of faint hum and jabbed with the finger of his left hand at the inscription written in gold in the Urdu language; unfamiliar with the squiggles of this dialect, I understood absolutely nothing.

My venerable president let out a kind of faint hum and jabbed with the finger of his left hand at the inscription written in gold in the Urdu language; unfamiliar with the squiggles of this dialect, I understood absolutely nothing.

“What is written here?.. Can you tell me?”

“What is written here?.. Tell!”

Instead of a direct answer, he whispered in a weak voice:

Instead of a direct answer, he whispered in a weak voice:

We looked, and I confess that such a surprise took my breath away and made my blood run cold ... The picture shook violently in Narayan's hands.

We looked, and I confess that such a surprise took my breath away and made my blood run cold ... The picture shook violently in Narayan's hands.

Before our eyes, among 70 or 80 figures of court Muslims and Brahmins, at the throne of the Padishah there was undoubtedly the image of Thakur Gulab Singh!.. Indeed, according to the colonel, is there really another in the whole world who is similar to him – it was ''him''! It was a portrait of his double, if not he himself. Not to mention the fact that the figure of enormous height raised above the rest being head and shoulders above them, this was the only figure in the picture, completely free from the servile posture of all the other courtiers. The English officer barely moved out from under the elbows of the magnificent mustachioed serdars, and the painter's hatred pushed him completely into the background. One figure in whom we all at once recognized as Gulab Singh, towering high above the crowd, was striking eyes with its proud posture. Even the posture was his, peculiar to him alone: he stood with his arms folded on his chest calmly looking over the heads of the courtiers into space. Only the suit was different. A Rajput turban with a plume of feathers, steel gloves to the elbows, a kind of armour, several daggers at the belt, and a shield of transparent rhinoceros skin at the feet ... Long, wavy hair, beard, face left no doubt that it was him, our mysterious and inexplicable patron ...

Before our eyes, among 70 or 80 figures of court Muslims and Brahmins, at the throne of the Padishah there was undoubtedly the image of Thakur Gulab Singh!.. Indeed, according to the colonel, is there really another in the whole world who is similar to him – it was ''him''! It was a portrait of his double, if not he himself. Not to mention the fact that the figure of enormous height raised above the rest being head and shoulders above them, this was the only figure in the picture, completely free from the servile posture of all the other courtiers. The English officer barely moved out from under the elbows of the magnificent mustachioed serdars, and the painter's hatred pushed him completely into the background. One figure in whom we all at once recognized as Gulab Singh, towering high above the crowd, was striking eyes with its proud posture. Even the posture was his, peculiar to him alone: he stood with his arms folded on his chest calmly looking over the heads of the courtiers into space. Only the suit was different. A Rajput turban with a plume of feathers, steel gloves to the elbows, a kind of armour, several daggers at the belt, and a shield of transparent rhinoceros skin at the feet ... But long, wavy hair, beard, face, height left no doubt that it was him, our mysterious and inexplicable patron ...

“Why, this is impossible, it is incomprehensible!..” still very embarrassed the colonel broke the silence at last. “Well, can you understand anything?.. The man does not seem to be forty years old, and his portrait appears in a picture painted a hundred years ago!”

“Why, this is impossible, it is incomprehensible!..” still very embarrassed the colonel broke the silence at last. “Well, can you understand anything?.. The man does not seem to be forty years old, and his portrait appears in a picture painted a hundred years ago!”

I went into my room and pulled down the ''parda'' (curtain). After a few minutes, everything fell silent in the next room, and after a quarter of an hour, the familiar snoring with a whistle began to be heard.

I went into my room and pulled down the ''parda'' (curtain). After a few minutes, everything fell silent in the next room, and after a quarter of an hour, the familiar snoring with a whistle began to be heard.

...

. . . . . . .  

What is it, a vision, reality, or just a fantasy, a dream?.. The stuffiness is terrible, and I cannot sleep. A huge ''punkah<ref>In every bedroom in India, a board with a wide, thick frill is stretched above the bed and across the room, and opposite the bed is a hole in the wall through which the ropes that set the ''punkah'' in motion are stretched. Coolies shake it all night. Otherwise, every European must suffocate.</ref>'' swaying by two coolies on the veranda, instead of coolness, is bringing only unbearable heat. It’s like hot air from the oven blowing into my face! I’m not asleep, that’s true. There is my ''āya'' (maid), curled up in a ball like a black cat, sleeping on the mat at the foot of the bed... Here is my ''topee'', lying on the floor, rolled back and forth by swaying punkah... No, I am not asleep... So what is it, why does it seem to me that I am beginning to see through the thick mat of the door and distinguish in the dark; all the objects, furniture, sleeping Narayan or at least lying across the doors and even a durbar picture left by the colonel on the table?.. In the next dining room, it is getting brighter, as if it is being illuminated by a full moon floating out from behind black clouds. Who is that?.. Is it really Thakur?.. But he is in Deeg! Well, he is quietly and inaudibly approaching the sleeping Narayan and touching his shoulder. Narayan is jumping up, and I see him prostrating in front of the ''maha-sahib'', touching with his folded palms the Thakur’s feet... The Thakur is reaching out his hand to the picture, and, blushing with millions like electric sparks, it is instantly disappearing from my eyes ... Everything is getting confused, vague, and I open my eyes only in the morning, to the call of my ''āya'', who quietly and with endless ''salams'' is waking me up, saying that the carriage is ready and the ''colonel-sahib'' has been already waiting for me.

What is it, a vision, reality, or just a fantasy, a dream?.. The stuffiness is terrible, and I cannot sleep. A huge ''punkah<ref>In every bedroom in India, a board with a wide, thick frill is stretched above the bed and across the room, and opposite the bed is a hole in the wall through which the ropes that set the ''punkah'' in motion are stretched. Coolies shake it all night. Otherwise, every European must suffocate.</ref>'' swaying by two coolies on the veranda, instead of coolness, is bringing only unbearable heat. It’s like hot air from the oven blowing into my face! I’m not asleep, that’s true. There is my ''āya'' (maid), curled up in a ball like a black cat, sleeping on the mat at the foot of the bed... Here is my ''topee'', lying on the floor, rolled back and forth by swaying punkah... No, I am not asleep... So what is it, why does it seem to me that I am beginning to see through the thick mat of the door and distinguish in the dark; all the objects, furniture, sleeping Narayan or at least lying across the doors and even a durbar picture left by the colonel on the table?.. In the next dining room, it is getting brighter, as if it is being illuminated by a full moon floating out from behind black clouds. Who is that?.. Is it really Thakur?.. But he is in Deeg! Well, he is quietly and inaudibly approaching the sleeping Narayan and touching his shoulder. Narayan is jumping up, and I see him prostrating in front of the ''maha-sahib'', touching with his folded palms the Thakur’s feet... The Thakur is reaching out his hand to the picture, and, blushing with millions like electric sparks, it is instantly disappearing from my eyes ... Everything is getting confused, vague, and I open my eyes only in the morning, to the call of my ''āya'', who quietly and with endless ''salams'' is waking me up, saying that the carriage is ready and the ''colonel-sahib'' has been already waiting for me.