By the 1840s, the Punjab remained the only kingdom in India to have escaped British influence. It was also the wealthiest. And so, in 1846, with the signing of the Treaty of Lahore, a stealthy but ruthless campaign by its colonial oppressors to annex the territory began. Three years later, its 10-year-old ruler, Maharaja Duleep Singh, was ushered into the Mirrored Hall inside the great fort of Lahore and, in a public ceremony, made to relinquish vast swathes of his inheritance in a formal Act of Submission to the East India Company. He was also forced to hand over to the British monarch, Queen Victoria, his most priceless possession – and the greatest treasure of the subcontinent: the celebrated Koh-i-Noor diamond, also known as The Mountain of Light. On April 6, 1850, it began the hazardous, two-month voyage from Bombay to Plymouth aboard HMS Medea.
As subdued as she had seemed in her journal upon receiving the Mountain of Light, Victoria was ebullient on the day the Koh-i-Noor, and other treasures, were to be revealed to the world: May 1, 1851, was to mark the most anticipated event in her reign. The queen, like the rest of her subjects, was beside herself with excitement at the mere thought of it: "This day is one of the greatest and most glorious of our lives … it is a day which makes my heart swell with thankfulness."
Though the recent loss of her great confidant and the former prime minister Sir Robert Peel had been felt keenly by both Queen Victoria and her husband Prince Albert, an ambitious project had dragged them from their sadness. The Great Exhibition, or to give it its full title, The Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations, was to be the greatest show on earth, and it was to take place in London, the heart of Victoria's empire.
It had helped that Peel himself had been a champion of The Great Exhibition. He had devoted months of his time and expertise to the event, and Victoria and Albert were determined that his efforts should not have been in vain. The exhibition was to be a showcase for the very best examples of culture, industry and beauty. Albert had been instrumental at every stage, coaxing and cajoling his way through British bureaucracy to bring the project from the page to Hyde Park.
The royal couple hoped that the exhibition's success might increase Albert's popularity. Victoria's subjects still deemed him to be beneath her, a minor royal from Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, an impoverished and undistinguished state, barely larger than a small English county. The exhibition was his chance to show the country what he was really made of.
The venue was the Crystal Palace, a vast edifice of glass and metal, specially constructed for the occasion. The complex, situated in one of London's largest green spaces, Hyde Park, was vast. Some 563 metres long and 124 metres wide, it covered almost eight hectares of land. Some 13,000 objects and curiosities had been shipped from around the world and placed in tastefully curated galleries under its immense roof. The promise of one particular exhibit, however, eclipsed all other press coverage in the run-up to the opening. The Great Exhibition would provide Britons with their first chance to see the Koh-i-Noor diamond for themselves. The jewel was to be the star attraction, and its image and name were used liberally in the newspapers to drum up interest. Six million people, one-third of Great Britain's population, were expected to attend the exhibition between May 1 and October 11, 1851.
On the day the exhibition opened its doors, The Times, usually a sober and weighty newspaper, became positively giddy: "Never before was so vast a multitude gathered together within the memory of man. The struggles of great nations in battle, the levies of whole races, never called forth such an army as thronged the streets of London … The blazing arch of lucid glass with the hot sun flaming on its polished ribs and sides shone like the Koh-i-Noor itself."
The Crystal Palace in London, specially constructed for The Great Exhibition. Photo: Hulton Archive
The sun had not even risen when the British public began to converge on Crystal Palace. By breakfast, there was hardly space to move on the streets surrounding Hyde Park. Many in the waiting crowd made straight for the Koh-i-Noor, sitting on a bolt of rich red velvet inside a gilded iron cage. Policemen, charged with keeping the crowds at bay, were almost lifted off their feet by the surge.
But by the close of the first day, it became clear that something was very wrong with the Koh-i-Noor. Visitors who had managed to get near the exhibit left grumbling. The Illustrated London News, which had been one of the more excitable publications in the run-up to the event, expressed the disappointment of many: "A diamond is generally colourless, and the finest are quite free from any speck or flaw of any kind, resembling a drop of the purest water. The Koh-i-Noor is not cut in the best form for exhibiting its purity and lustre, and will therefore disappoint many, if not all, of those who so anxiously press forward to see it."
The Koh-i-Noor had appeared dull in its captivity, and the bad publicity it was generating threatened to take the gleam off Prince Albert's finest moment. In a matter of days, he ordered gas lamps to be placed around the gem to help it shine for the visitors, but these failed to make much difference. Before long, visitors began turning their backs on the Koh-i-Noor, avoiding the exhibit altogether.
Disappointed and determined to change their minds, Prince Albert ordered work to begin on a new display setting. While visitors squeezed past, men worked behind screens, creating a lattice of gas lamps and angled mirrors around the cage. Though such efforts helped, praise for the Koh-i-Noor remained lukewarm. More tinkering was needed.
Outside the heavily guarded Haymarket workshop, a steady trickle of onlookers waited, like a crowd of concerned relatives outside an operating theatre.
On June 14, a dramatic new display was revealed to the public, one which Prince Albert was sure would save its reputation. To signify its importance, Queen Victoria, Prince Albert and their two eldest sons attended the reunveiling of the freshened-up exhibit. A wooden cabin now surrounded the diamond, blocking out all the natural light that streamed through the glass roof and windows of the Crystal Palace. This enabled the gas lamps and mirrors to do their work more efficiently. The original bolt of deep-red cloth which had been arranged beneath the diamond was now substituted with more vibrantly coloured velvet.
The Koh-I-Noor at the Great Exhibition in 1951. Photo: Historical
Reporters bickered over its unusual shade, describing it as anything from shocking pink to imperial violet. No other exhibit had received so much attention from the organisers, and early press coverage suggested their efforts hadn't been in vain: "One of the most extraordinary metamorphosis [sic] is the change that has come over the Koh-i-Noor diamond. The doubts that have been thrown upon its value and authenticity and the difficulty of fully appreciating its brilliancy in the broad glare of day, have led to the enveloping of the cage and its contents in massive folds of crimson drapery, and showing its splendour by artificial light. The diamond has stood the test wonderfully, and has fully redeemed its character."
The reconfigured display made the diamond tantalisingly difficult to get to: "You pass in singly – the cage, with the exception of about an eighth of its circumference, is enveloped in pink bolts of cloth; half a dozen jets of gas are arranged behind it, and the light from these is again reflected by more than a dozen small mirrors upon the diamond."
The difficulty of access restored some of the lost mystery to the diamond. Newspapers also polished archive copy, reminding readers of the gem's exotic provenance and potent symbolism. The display and the diamond's mount became a metaphor for British supremacy.
The security for the Koh-i-Noor was substantial and carried the name of Chubb. Since his 1817 "detector lock", Jeremiah Chubb had gained a reputation for making unbreakable locks. His Koh-i-Noor safe was seen as his best work to date: "One of the peculiarities of Mr Chubb's wonderful safe is said to be that the moment the surrounding glass shade is touched, the diamond, like a sensitive plant, shrinks from the too near approach of a profane hand, and descends into its adamantine fastness," reported London's Evening Standard. In reality, the diamond would not so much withdraw like a sensitive plant, but instead plop through a small trap door into a thick walled safe if anyone attempted to reach for it.
Although the celebrated changes drew fresh crowds, enthusiasm quickly evaporated, thanks to the unbearable temperatures inside the cabin. Gas lamps, mirrors and heavy fabric turned the display into a sauna, causing visitors to swoon after only a few minutes. The press began to blame the Koh-i-Noor for being difficult, as if it were some kind of contrary and disappointing child: "There appears to be something impracticable about the gem, for the more it is lighted up, the less it is disposed to display its splendour," noted the Standard.
In October, The Great Exhibition ended; the Koh-i-Noor was finally liberated from its iron cage and the withering estimation of the public. Spared any further public humiliation, the diamond was taken back to the vaults.
The Koh-i-Noor, before re-cutting. Photo: Hulton Archive
In Calcutta, James Andrew Braun-Ramsay, the Earl of Dalhousie and Governor-General of India, had been following the Koh-i-Noor's debut with a mixture of disappointment and irritation. He had always described the gem in superlatives, and now stood accused of exaggeration as well as arrogance. He joined the choir of criticism, reproaching the diamond itself for its failed public debut: "[It] is badly cut: it is rose- not brilliant-cut, and of course won't sparkle like the latter." Though Dalhousie did not dare name him, he also seemed to blame Prince Albert for the diamond's humiliation: "It should not have been shown in a huge space. In the Toshakhana [a Lahore treasure house owned by the East India Company where the diamond was held after its acquisition by the British], Dr John Login [a company official] used to show it on a table covered with black velvet cloth, the diamond alone, appearing through a hole in the cloth, and relieved by the dark colour all around."
Albert, too, became preoccupied with the diamond's failure, and decided to do something about it. Summoning scientists and jewellers, he demanded to know what could be done to improve its appearance.
The eminent physicist David Brewster was one of the most noteworthy men to be consulted on the matter. Known as the father of modern experimental optics, Brewster had invented the kaleidoscope and had pushed at the boundaries of mineral analysis and the physics of light polarisation. After studying the Koh-i-Noor closely, Brewster came up with a damning verdict. The diamond was flawed at its very heart. Yellow flecks ran through a plane at its centre, one of which was large and marred its ability to refract light. If it had to be cut, the risk of destroying it in the process was high. At the very least, the diamond would lose a great deal of its mass if the flaws were to be dealt with adequately.
This was not the answer Prince Albert had wanted to hear, so he sent his expert's analysis to Messrs Garrard of London, jewellers to the queen, hoping for a more encouraging assessment. The Garrard family summoned the finest diamond-cutters in the world to give their opinion. Dutch craftsmen working for Mozes Coster, Holland's largest and most famous firm of diamond merchants, studied the scientific data and confirmed Brewster's opinion about its flaws. Unlike the scientist, however, they were sure they could cut the Koh-i-Noor. Not only would they make it glitter, they assured the prince, they would also preserve the diamond's majestic size. The royal couple ordered work on the Koh-i-Noor to begin.
Re-cutting the Koh-I-Noor diamond in 1852. Photo: Universal History Archive
A specially designed workshop was constructed at 25 Haymarket, in London's Piccadilly. Garrard hired Coster's two best diamond-cutters, Levie Benjamin Voorzanger and Herman Feder, who travelled from Amsterdam to England. The men were provided with a steam engine, designed by Maudslay, Sons and Field, a firm of respected British marine engineers. The engine powered fast-spinning grinders, vital precision-cutting tools used by the Dutch team.
As engineers prepared for the cutting, under the supervision of the queen's mineralogist, James Tennant, the Koh-i-Noor and its failings made their way into the headlines again: "The precious stone, which was the cynosure of the world's exhibition of 1851, attracted from the multitudes who last year gazed upon it, disappointment at the somewhat dim radiance of its lustre … [and failed to fulfil] the expectations entertained from the highflown descriptions which have given the Mountain of Light a title many beholders held to be a misnomer."
Though there was little to see outside the heavily guarded Haymarket workshop, a steady trickle of onlookers started to arrive by the first week of July. Content merely to listen to the banging and whirring going on inside, they waited, like a crowd of concerned relatives outside an operating theatre. Finally, after weeks of anticipation, on July 16, 1852, the "patient" was brought forth from the Tower of London and presented to the Dutch craftsmen.
Though the sight of the Koh-i-Noor's full military escort was impressive enough, spectators refused to leave even after the diamond had disappeared behind the gates of the workshop. Rumours, fanned by the British press, had taken hold of the crowd. If they waited long enough, they were sure to be rewarded.
According to reports, the "Iron Duke", no less than Wellington himself, hero of Waterloo and scourge of Napoleon, would inaugurate the cutting process. Some reports even suggested that his own battle-calloused hands would cut the Koh-i-Noor. The chance of seeing two legends meet, one diamond and one iron, was irresistible. The crowd did not have long to wait. On July 17, the 83-year-old Wellington arrived on horseback to loud cheers. Adulation always caused the duke to feel uncomfortable, and he made his way stiffly through the guarded doors of the workshop with barely a nod to his admirers.
Thanks to his distinctive profile, the duke was affectionately referred to as "Old Nosey", and people sang songs about his exploits in public houses up and down the realm. Small boys, rich and poor, played out his 1815 victory at Waterloo with tin soldiers. Though 37 years had passed since he had vanquished Napoleon, that victory remained vivid to patriotic Britons. Most would have been baffled by the great warrior's interest in a piece of jewellery.
To Wellington, however, the Koh-i-Noor was so much more. The diamond was India, and India had been the making of him.
In May 1796, when a young Arthur Wellesley's 33rd Regiment arrived in Calcutta, the British had been embroiled in a vicious struggle against the sultan of Mysore for more than three decades. Seringapatam, a town 14 kilometres from Mysore, was the centre of hostilities. In August 1798, with Wellesley leading from the front, the 33rd fought valiantly, forcing Tipu Sultan's army into retreat. The following year, Wellesley was ordered to take part in a final push on Seringapatam. Under the command of General George Harris, a combined force of 50,000 native and British soldiers, including Wellesley and his regiment, pounded the fortress town. During subsequent fighting in the citadel, Tipu Sultan was killed.
Wellesley went on to distinguish himself further in India, serving, in due course, as the governor of Mysore. The recognition he received here put him in the front line of battle against Napoleon's army years later. His success against the French gave him the title of Duke of Wellington. Without India, he might never have had the chance to shine – and awareness of his debt to India perhaps added to his fascination with its most infamous diamond.
The idea, though, that he might have some part in the reshaping of the gem seemed fanciful. The Dutch jewellers spent weeks trying to come up with a way for the octogenarian to cut the first facet without wrecking the diamond. In the end, they embedded the entire Koh-i-Noor in lead, "with the exception of one small salient angle intended to be first submitted to the cutting operation", noted contemporary essayist John Wilson Croker.
"His Grace placed the gem upon the scaife – a horizontal wheel revolving with almost incalculable velocity – whereby the exposed angle was removed by friction and the first facet of the new cutting was effected," reported the Morning Chronicle. Having performed his duty, the duke walked out of the workshop, remounted his ageing white horse and rode away, barely acknowledging the near-hysteria outside.
Inaugural cut complete, the Dutch masters were allowed to continue with their work. The crowds dwindled and eventually disappeared, and infrequent updates about the Koh-i-Noor made it to the back pages of the papers. The Iron Duke himself never lived to see the completed Koh-i-Noor. On September 14, 1852, eight weeks and four days after he had cut its face, he suffered a fatal stroke, and died a day later.
The diamond was finished days after Wellington's death. The bill for the recutting came to £8000 – the equivalent of more than $1.6 million in today's money. Despite all the assurances from Coster and Garrard, the Koh-i-Noor did not retain its size. Instead, what was left was unrecognisable. The cut had practically halved the Koh-i-Noor's 190.3 metric carats to 93 metric carats. It now sparkled brilliantly, but could lie meekly in the palm of a hand. News of the reduction left Prince Albert devastated and he braced himself for savage criticism from the press and public.
In the event, however, and perhaps because the diamond had been so poorly received in its original form, Prince Albert got off lightly. All but a few newspapers praised the new and improved Koh-i-Noor. It was flatter than its original egg shape, cut into what jewellers called an "oval stellar brilliant". Traditionally such diamonds were given 33 facets on top in "the table" of the gem, and 25 facets below, "in the pavilion". However, the cutters had given the Koh-i-Noor perfect symmetry with 33 facets both on top and underneath. In the pale light of the English sun, the Koh-i-Noor had at last learnt to shine.
As news of its beauty spread, for the first time since its arrival in Britain the diamond seemed to have been cut free of its bad luck. Instead of the curse being mentioned in the same breath as the diamond, the name Koh-i-Noor began to be associated with good fortune. Ships were christened Koh-i-Noor. Newspaper advertisements encouraged students to buy "Kohinoor lead pencils" for their exams. In May 1853, the Cheshire Stakes, a popular and lucrative fixture in the flat-racing calendar, was won by a horse called Koh-i-Noor. Fictional works like Wilkie Collins's The Moonstone, where a cursed Indian diamond is given to an innocent English girl who is, as a result, then pursued by angry Hindu priests, and Benjamin Disraeli's Lothair, where the plot follows a bag of uncut diamonds once belonging to an Indian maharaja, became hugely successful.
The diamond was now a celebrity in its own right, and had been set free of its foreignness. It was a British jewel for a British queen. Few thought about the grieving maharajah, Duleep Singh, who had once owned it. If they did, they would have known that Singh had also been "recut". He had, by now, been in the care of the Logins for three years and was becoming more Anglicised by the day. In time, he cut his long hair and, in March 1853, converted to Christianity. From afar, Queen Victoria rejoiced at the salvation of his soul.
The crown for Queen Elizabeth, consort of King George VI, to wear at the 1937 Coronation, featuring the Koh-i-Noor diamond, set in the front middle cross-pattee. Photo: Illustrated London News Ltd/Mar
JEWEL IN THE CROWN
Unambiguous early references to the Koh-i-Noor are almost suspiciously thin on the ground. Persian historian Muhammad Kazim Marvi makes what seems to be the first, extant, named reference to the stone in his 1740s history of the Persian warlord Nadir Shah's invasion of India in 1739. According to Marvi, the Koh-i-Noor was then attached to the head of one of the peacocks on emperor Shah Jahan's Peacock Throne – alleged to be the most spectacular jewelled object ever made – in Delhi's Red Fort.
Only when the gem went into exile – looted from Delhi by the Persian warlord Nader Shah in 1739, taken to Iran and then Afghanistan – did it became notorious. Today, tourists who see it in the Tower of London in the crown of Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother (above) are often surprised by its small size, especially when compared to the two much larger Cullinan diamonds kept in the same showcase beside it. At present, the Koh-i-Noor is only the 90th-biggest diamond in the world. – William Dalrymple
Edited extract from Koh-i-Noor: The History of the World's Most Infamous Diamond, by William Dalrymple and Anita Anand (Bloomsbury, $25).