The Barber of Lucknow

George Harris DeRussett

Extracted from the original by Rosie Llewellyn-Jones

It is now generally accepted that a significant cause of the 1857 uprising in India (known also as the Mutiny), was the
annexation by the East India Company of the Kingdom of Awadh (Oudh). Many of the men who mutinied in the Company's
Bengal Army came from Awadh and the assumption of power in their homeland, in 1856, was too outrageous for them to
overlook. (The story of the greased cartridges is true, but was simply the fuse that lit the powder keg.) On his way to exile in
Calcutta, the last King (or Nawab) of Awadh, Wajid Ali Shah, spent three weeks in Cawnpore, where his dignified bearing won
him sympathy from the townspeople, especially after the Company arrested his personal servants on their arrival in British
territory.' It is perhaps no coincidence that the worst massacre of Britons during the Mutiny occurred in Cawnpore the
following year.
But the annexation was not a sudden Imperial whim. There had long been threats from Calcutta that the Company would
move in, if the hedonistic Nawabs did not reform firstly themselves and secondly their kingdom. In 1831 Lord William
Bentinck, the Governor General, visited the capital, Lucknow, and issued a warning that unless ‘the existing disorder and
misrule’ was remedied ‘it would then become the bounden duty of the British Government to assume direct management of
the Oudh Dominions’. Promises of better behaviour were made by the Nawab of the time, Nasir-ud-din Haider, but there
was no subsequent improvement. In fact, if anything, things seemed to get worse.
Twenty-five years later James Outram, the newly appointed British Resident to the Court, painted the same picture and
added ‘the lamentable condition of this kingdom has been caused by the very culpable apathy and gross misrule of the
Sovereign and his Durbar’. When Outram's report reached the Governor General, Lord Dalhousie (known for his aggressive
forward policy), it seemed likely that Awadh, too, would become part of the Company's possessions.
As rumours of the proposed takeover spread, and arguments for and against were aired, a short book was published entitled
The Private Life of an Eastern King, by William Knighton, Professor of History and Logic at the Hindu College, Calcutta. The
author had met an Englishman who had worked at the Lucknow Court, as librarian, for Nasir-ud-din Haider in the mid 1830s.
Dismissed by the Nawab, Edward Cropley had become an indigo planter, but a bad season in 1840 had left him almost
bankrupt. He was still full of bile about his dismissal, and attributed it to another Englishman at Court, George Harris
Derusett, known as the Barber of Lucknow. Derusett, claimed Cropley, was the real power behind the throne, the intimate
companion of the King, not only his barber, but his food taster, his wine-supplier, his companion in bawdy palace evenings —
in short ‘the king's agent in all his evil practices’. His baneful influence was the theme of Knighton’s book, based on Cropley’s
sour reminiscences.
If doubts were voiced by those opposed to annexation, then Knighton's book was the perfect answer. It was widely read (and
reprinted within months), for it told people what they wanted to believe. It opened a window into the mysterious world of
the Lucknow palace and the harem. It was praised by the influential Calcutta Review, which added a strong plea for
annexation. Knighton showed that even as Nasir-ud-din Haider was promising reform to Bentinck, he was continuing his
giddy round of pleasure and debauchery, orchestrated by the Barber. Why should the Company imagine that his cousin,
Wajid Ali Shah, would behave any better?
Nasir-ud-din had admitted quite frankly that he loved the English, literally, by taking an English woman into his harem and by
appearing frequently in English dress, surrounded by English companions. But in Company eyes the King's attachments were
to the wrong kind of Englishman. There were bound to be scoundrels, of course, attracted to the rich Court and out to make
as much money as they could in the shortest possible time. (The fact that many of the Company’s own men had the same
objective has not gone unremarked.)
The Barber, however, quickly became notorious. His ill fame and rumours of his immense influence at Court spread beyond
Awadh and he was satirized by the Press. J. Low, the British Resident, reported as a painful duty that at palace suppers,
guests have several times seen His Majesty dancing Country dances as the partner of Mr Derusett! The latter dressed after
some grotesque masquerade fashion, and His Majesty attired in the dress of a European Lady!! ‘There, were, Low hinted
darkly, still more gross, indeed most shocking indecencies. Early in 1837 the Asiatic Journal reported “The barber, Derusett,
has retired from the service of the King taking with him his Majesty's deep regret, and several lacs of rupees. The rest of the
reptile tribe, the jeweller, the coachman etc. will migrate when they have nothing left to consume.” Derusett disappeared, a
mythic figure, but he had played his part. The justification for annexation, if the British had needed one, was now clear.
No-one ever attempted to put Derusett's side of the story, though there was an odd little postscript in 1857, when he met
the Magistrate of Fatehpur, Mr Sherer, and declared that [Knighton’s] book was a pure romance, but he [Derusett] was too
interested a party to be received as an impartial critic.
Early in 1994 I learnt that relatives of George Harris Derusett were living in England and Canada, with some precious family
possessions, including the Barber’s Cash Book for the crucial years of 1835/6, when he was at the height of his power. “There
was also an exquisite Court suit of canary yellow silk, brocaded with silver work, made for his young son. Suddenly George
stepped out of the pages of history and became a real person, a man who had returned to England with a fortune acquired in
Lucknow, who speculated unwisely in a distillery and the new railway companies, and who was declared bankrupt in 1854. A
flattering contemporary oil-painting of him exists, with his second family, in which he is playing an accordion. His ginger curls
frame a well-rounded, shrewd face, and he wears a waistcoat of Indian fabric over his ample stomach." One photograph
exists, taken in the early 1850s, showing a plump, tired looking man, still fashionably dressed, but with a mournful
expression, perhaps due to illness or drink.
The Cash Book, which was generously loaned to me, noted every anna disbursed by Derusett, and every rupee received. It
showed that Knighton had not exaggerated the extent of his influence at Court, even if his interpretation was open to
question. There was also, tucked into the book, a pencil-written refutation by Derusett of Knighton’s story. ‘I have most
carefully perused this book' he wrote, ‘and most solemnly declare that the principle [sic] part of the scenes described never
did take place, and those scenes described of a minor character are grossly exaggerated [sic] and moreover had the scenes
described actually have occurred the author from shear debility alone could never have witnessed them.’
Had this rebuttal been made in 1855, as soon as Knighton's book came out, and had Derusett been able to win over public
opinion, the annexation debate may have taken a different turn. The Lucknow Court, shown in a more rational light, could
have looked a little less like Sodom and Gomorrah (to which it had once been compared), and a lot more like a potential
market for British goods. Trade might have preceded the flag in this case. Even if the catastrophic decision to move into
Awadh had been merely delayed by a few months. I believe Derusett’s voice deserves to be heard, a century and a half later.
By the time he arrived in Calcutta in the late 1820s, George Harris was a trained hairdresser, who, like many coiffeurs, felt a
French name would suit him better, and he became Derusett. Business was not good and he was reported as ‘a Barber and
Hair dresser who was glad to cut any person’s hair for one Rupee'. He travelled up country to Lucknow, probably in the
winter of 1830/31 to look for any sort of employment that he could obtain. Dr. Stevenson, the Company doctor, who was
there during this period, said George happened one day to cut the Resident's hair — that the King heard of this, and
immediately asked the Resident whether Mr Derusett was an expert hair dresser and that upon being told that he was so,
HM [His Majesty] immediately applied to have him in his own service.
By July 1831, George was already a favourite with the King, and successfully solicited a job at Court for his brother William,
also a hairdresser. Both men are listed as Attendants to the King in Company records, on the official salary of Rs 300 per
month, although their pre-requisites were many times more. After William's premature death in January 1834, George lived
in the Dilaram Kothi, an English-style house on the north bank of the Gomti, but exactly opposite the King’s palace of Farhat
Baksh, and joined to it by a bridge of boats.
George was in charge of all His Majesty’s pleasure Boats, Budjerows, pinnaces etc. all most beautifully fitted up some with
richly coloured silken sails etc. all the Bridges crossing the River. During the winter of 1835 he supervised the fitting up of a
second-hand pinnace, re-named ‘Sultan of Oude’ and grander than anything ever seen before on the waters of the Gomti.
The King ordered me to convert her into a three masted vessel, and to give her as much the appearance of a ship, (sails and
all) as possible, to have 16 or 18 Guns, to spare no expense in fitting her up in the handsomest manner . . .' The Cash Book
records expenditure for lengths of orange coloured velvet. 78 feet of teak for the deck and Shower Bath, mahogany for the
window sashes, and a ship's rig complete with mast, sail and 6 oars. Also included were 4 dozen bottles of brandy and a pair
of decanters, for the King was determined to be as English as possible. A splendid awning with a gold fringe shaded the
throne, itself embroidered with 104 tolas of gold thread.
Another appointment was that of Master of the Royal Robes (European). On first examining the Poshawk-khana or
Wardrobe, it was found that several of the King's coats had been sporting, unwittingly, the crested gilt buttons of the East
India Company, “I soon altered this state of things”, George wrote. Following instructions provided by Mr Nuthall, a Calcutta
tailor, the King was carefully measured (by George) and European jackets and breeches made. His Majesty was so delighted
with his new style of dress that he would not allow any person else to measure him. Expenditure for the tailor’s shop
included Embroidery Bows and Buttons for a figured silk coat and a pair ditto Breeches for H.M. — Rs 11.14; a Blue Velvet
Robe Contg 4019 [tolas] of Gold — Rs 2.511.14 and 22 Large Splendid Gold Tassels for two Embroidery Coronation Robes 909
tolas. There are entries for Steel Wire and Silk for repairing H.M. Crowns — Rs 2, and a bulk purchase of 15 pairs of leather
shoes at Rs 75.
A rare picture of domestic life inside the palace emerges, where George was employed as Superintendent. The public rooms
were clearly English in appearance, with their chintz tablecloths and chintz furnishings (provided by George). Because the
King was fearful of being poisoned by supporters of a putative heir (a fear which was fully justified), George superintended
the kitchen, checking and sealing with wax the bottles of wine, champagne and spirits sent up from Calcutta. He oversaw the
King's French chef, Francis Ribeaut, and bought provisions in bulk.
Like other employees, George had to lay out his own money for goods wanted by the King, and to pay the wages of the
tailors, carpenters, ship-fitters, and gardeners. He presented his monthly bills to the King, which were reimbursed from the
Treasury. (The actual bills were long scrolls of paper, joined as necessary, and rolled up like maps.) Knighton mentions one of
George's bills which, when unrolled, measured four and a half feet long, and totalled Rs. 90,000 (£9,000). It was the
difference between the actual cost of goods and the bills submitted that gave George his profit. “Mr Derusett”, reported the
Resident, “is going on accumulating immense sums of money (he has already several lacs of rupees) by taking advantage of
the King's habits, to obtain from His Majesty, when in a state of inebriety, orders for payment of [his] accounts.” Punctilious
in recording his outgoings, George was less specific about money received. £1,400 arrived in January 1836, but someone has
cut out with sharp scissors the name of the sender. Bags of rupees arrived frequently, carried by five bearers, whom George
tipped, but again, their provenance is unknown. Sensibly, George put some of his money into East India Company Bonds,
payable in England, a transaction that went through the British Residency without query, despite the Resident's criticisms.
By the time of his departure from Lucknow, just after Christmas 1836, George was in charge of the King's boats and bridges,
his stables, known as the Horse Establishment, his Wardrobe, his Kitchen and Cellar, his Palace, his gardens, his Crowns, and
his elaborate camping tours in Awadh. “I secured the best available talent to superintend the various appointments of which
I had charge one appointment led to another and by dint of application & tact, I succeeded in all”, he wrote. So why did he
suddenly leave, officially to execute some commissions for the King, although privately he told friends he had a ‘problem
with his mouth’ and needed to consult a dentist in Calcutta?
Writing to the Governor General in February 1837, Low said George had seen 'some symptoms of his power being on the
decline and that he himself solicited the mission to Calcutta, with the Secret View of safely carrying off his fortune and with
the settled plan of not returning at all.’ The Nawab later wrote, in a face-saving letter, that he had ‘discharged Derusett’. The
uninhibited Agra Ukhbar reported that George had already sent down to Calcutta ‘all his women, horses, jewels and
furniture’ six months earlier, foreseeing that the time for a speedy exit would come.
George was back in England by the summer of 1837 with a sum estimated at £90,000. He was certainly no better nor worse
than many other Englishmen who exploited Awadh, including the Residents and Warren Hastings himself. Indeed, his haul
was modest, compared to that of earlier Company officers. But it was George's bad luck that he fell out with Edward Cropley,
who related the story to William Knighton at an opportune moment twenty years later. Only six months after George's flight,
Nasir-ud-din Haider died suddenly, aged 35. He was generally thought to have been poisoned by one of his father's wives.
Undoubted rogue though he was, George had looked after the King well, if extravagantly, and had proved a surprisingly able
manager of the royal estates for a man who had started life as a humble barber.