Anna and the King of Siam

by Margaret Landon

  At once the whole congregation raised themselves on their knees and all together prostrated themselves three times profoundly. With heads still bowed, palms folded and eyes closed, they delivered the responses, much in the manner of the English liturgy, first the priest, then the people, and finally all together. There was no singing, and no standing up and sitting down. There was no changing of robes or places, no turning the face to the altar, or north, south, east, or west. People and clergy knelt still, with hands folded straight before them, and eyes strictly closed. Anna lost some of the responses in the simultaneous repetition, and when the exhortation began she could follow it only imperfectly. She did understand enough to know that the priest was urging his listeners to practice principles of charity. Chao Khun Sa was an eloquent speaker, one of the new school that prepared sermons on vital subjects and was not content to mumble old homilies from memory.

  While he talked the Amazonian guards lounged in the porches and vestibules of the temple. The reverent attention of the worshipers did not reach to them. They were engrossed in amusing themselves. Some were gambling, some flirting with the custodians of the temple. It was another of the endless contrasts in Siamese life that puzzled and interested Anna. Her mind wandered from the sermon to the preacher. With his unwillingness to have her look on his face, she could not help but compare fleetingly the antics of a young priest named Maha Rot. She had noticed the rich diapason of his voice during a service, and had commented on it to the King. His Majesty had passed on her praise to the priest, a hulking young man, who was chanting the responses with a deep and musical rhythm. When the King turned away, the priest had winked at Anna mischievously from behind his fan. She had been amazed, but was even more so when he called on her a few days later.

  It happened that Annie Elliot, the young dressmaker who had helped with the court dresses for the harem ladies on the occasion of their reception of Lord John Hay, was sewing for her that afternoon. The priest had fallen in love on the spot with the pretty English girl. The next day he brought her a rose plant in bloom in a costly Chinese vase. When Anna teased him by asking whether he thought Miss Elliot prettier than the Siamese women he knew, he answered, “Oh, yes! Our women are yellow, but she is red and white and blue and every color!”

  In spite of the fact that such open admiration of a woman was contrary to the rules of his order, he was shocked when Annie Elliot jumped up and rushed over to shake hands with him to show her appreciation of the gift. He drew back quickly. The spirit of the rule he could break, but not the letter. When he saw that she was offended, he tried to find a solution compatible with his scruples. First he extended his old Chinese umbrella to her and suggested that she shake it. When she refused, he covered his hand with a dirty handkerchief and offered that, only to be refused again. Finally in desperation he suggested that she go behind a pillar where no one could see him and then he would be willing to shake her hand. He could not understand her even more emphatic refusal. The incident had ended with a proposal of marriage by the priest, who said that he would be willing to leave the priesthood for such a “blue-eyed-lotus beauty.” When he was rejected, he had calmly asked for his gifts back and gone his way.

  There was none of this casuistry in Chao Khun Sa, Anna knew. He had entered the priesthood as a young boy and stayed in it until he attained high rank. Then he had left it for six years. The ladies of the harem had whispered to Anna that he had re-entered it only because of a bitter disappointment. They said that Chao Khun Sa and the young girl who became queen consort had been very much in love, but that her family did not approve of the match. When she was presented to the King, Chao Khun Sa had entered the priesthood again. Anna looked at the quiet scholarly man preaching from the gilded chair at the front of the temple. He was speaking in a calm but forceful voice and the women all around her were listening intently. He had earned the profound respect of everyone in the city and the Palace for the probity of his life.

  Anna wondered as she looked at him sitting cross-legged with the fan before his face whether the old romantic tale were indeed true. If so, it had not separated him from the King. His Majesty was even then building a new temple to be called “Wat Rachapradit Sathit Maha Simaram,” which meant, “The Temple Erected by the King.” The abbot was to be transferred to it as soon as it was complete so that he could come to the King on short notice. The location that the King had selected was close to the Palace itself, on the eastern side, not far from Anna’s house, in what had been an old coffee garden. Anna had attended some of the ceremonies. She was to remember them long after for what had seemed at the time a trivial event.

  The laying of the foundation had been the occasion of unusual festivities—theatrical performances, a carnival of dancing, mass at every corner-stone, banquets to priests, and distribution of clothing, food, and money to the poor. The King had presided morning and evening under a silken canopy. The favorites of the harem had also been present in specially erected tents, where they could witness the shows and participate in the fun with which the work of merit-making went on.

  After the corner-stones had been consecrated by the pouring on of oil and water, seven tall lamps were lighted to burn above them seven days and nights. Seventy priests in groups of seven, forming a perfect circle, prayed holding in their hands the mystic web of seven threads. Pretty girls had brought offerings of grain and wine, honey and flowers to place on the consecrated stones. After that pottery of all kinds had been brought—vases, cups, bowls, ewers, goblets, and urns. These were flung into the foundations and then pounded to bits by the girls, while other people brought similar donations. It was a gala occasion. Musical instruments and the voices of the court singers kept time to the measured crash of the wooden clubs. The King tossed coins and ingots of gold and silver into the foundation.

  To the obbligato of the priest’s ringing voice Anna’s mind recalled the scene. She and the King had been discussing the new French Consul, who had arrived on April 8. Monsieur G. Aubaret was hot-tempered, overbearing, haughty. He had been a commandant in the French Navy and he had carried his quarter-deck manner with him into diplomatic life. On this afternoon the King, whose fear and hatred of the French had been stirred to the boiling point by the new consul, was raving about the rudeness of M. Aubaret, the cupidity of the French who were gobbling up his eastern territories, the apathy of the English who should have intervened, and the fatuity of all geographers in calling the form of government in Siam an “absolute monarchy.”

  “Am I an absolute monarch? For I have no power over French. Siam is like a mouse before an elephant! Am I an absolute monarch then? What shall you consider me?”

  Since Anna considered him a particularly absolute and despotic king, she held her peace. And he did not wait for an answer. “I have no power,” he scolded. “I am not absolute! If I point the end of my walking-stick at a man, whom being my enemy, I wish to die, he does not die, but lives on, in spite of my ‘absolute’ will to the contrary. What does geographies mean? How can I be an absolute monarchy?” And he reproached the fate that made him powerless to point the end of his walking-stick at M. Aubaret with absolute power, while he vacantly flung gold and silver among the girls who were preparing the foundation of the temple.

  Anna chuckled soundlessly at the memory of the King’s regretful expression. But the trivial event which took place next held no laughter for her. The King’s manner had suddenly changed. Anna saw that he had forgotten the French Consul and the imbecilities of geographers. He was looking at one of the girls. She was very pretty with a fresh and unusual beauty, and a piquant expression. She was having a good time pounding up the urns and vases and dishes. The instant she realized that she had attracted the notice of the King, she sank down and hid her face in the earth, disregarding the falling pottery. Anna watched the King sharply, but he merely inquired her name, which was Tuptim, and the name of her parents and turned away.

  The service at Wat Phra Kaeo was over. Anna gathered her straying thoughts and p
repared to go back with Lady Talap to the harem.

  “Did you understand the reverend abbot’s sermon, Mem cha?” she asked.

  “Some of it,” Anna said, “enough to know that he was urging all of you to practice charity.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Lady Talap agreed, gratified. “And next week, Mem, I shall do what the good priest says. I am having a special ceremony in my home, which I have every year on the occasion of the Wisakha Bucha. You must come and see it, so do not forget!”

  A number of well-dressed slaves came for Anna on Saturday the twenty-first of May. The year before, the celebration of the Birth, Enlightenment, and Death of the Buddha had brought Anna the deeply moving encounter with L’Ore. She was thinking of this as she walked through the cool morning air to the home of Lady Talap. Her residence was in the most aristocratic suburb of the Inside. It was a brick building with a low wall running around it, which enclosed some acres of ground, divided between the gardens and the residences of her numerous slaves and attendants. Anna was the first guest to pass between the two brick and mortar lions that guarded the entrance.

  Lady Talap, looking sixteen instead of twenty-six, stood in the entrance hall dressed in white silk. Her sons stood one on either side of her, Prince Thawi Thawanya Lap who was eight, and Prince Kap Kanaka Ratana who was six. After Anna had been received she took her place at the inner end of the antechamber which gave access to the residence proper. Lady Talap stood beside a small marble fountain. All around it were huge Chinese vases containing plants covered with flowers, and between them were silver water-jars, each large enough to hold two people, and each containing a great silver dipper. Thirty young slave girls were filling them with water drawn from a well in the garden.

  The hall was furnished with striped floor-matting, and with cushioned seats for a hundred guests. In the garden opposite the doors of the hall was a circular thatched roof supported on a mast, like a tent with a center pole, the theater erected for the occasion. In one part was an elevated stage for marionettes. Both stages were gracefully decorated.

  Fifty or more women porters came from an inner court as Anna watched, carrying on their heads massive silver dishes of sweetmeats and choice food, which they placed along the hall. They were followed by girls in white who arranged flowers in gold vases beside each seat. When this was done they took their places behind their mistress. They were girls of good family, some relatives, some not, who were entrusted to her as maids-in-waiting. Anna, mystified, watched the preparations with growing interest, wondering who the guests were to be. It was just seven o’clock, but the women of this household had evidently been up for hours. The grounds and house were immaculate. The vases of roses were reflected in the sides of the silver jars. Everything was ready.

  The gate was thrown open and into the fairy-like scene of flowers and sunshine and fragrance the guests were ushered, one by one. A hundred decrepit and unsightly beggar-women! They were covered with filth and rags and the vilest uncleanliness. Lady Talap advanced to meet her guests with courtesy and a delicate graciousness that was charming for its lack of any appearance of being patronizing. She led them to seats on the low stools beside the fountain. Then with her maids-in-waiting she removed their tatters and began to wash them with sweet-smelling soap, and water from the silver jars. Their hair was washed and dried and combed, parted and arranged with flowers. They were dressed in new white clothes.

  Then they were seated on the cushions before the silver trays. Lady Talap and her maids knelt and served them with food that had been prepared for them. After breakfast the music struck up and the actors and puppets appeared on the stages. The royal female bands were assembled for the occasion and relieved each other in succession. The acting was interspersed with plaintive songs.

  Anna had liked Siamese music from the start. She thought she traced a similarity in the scale used to that of the Welsh songs of her childhood. She felt that the words showed poetic genius and pleasing measure. There were no harsh, disagreeable sounds, and no abrupt transitions. The movement of both music and words was soft, lively, and harmonious. This morning the musicians seemed to outdo themselves for their strange audience.

  After several hours the curtain dropped on the last act. The cadence of the voices and instruments died away, and a loud buzz of pleasure broke from the old women. As they prepared to go Lady Talap gave each a present of money. Anna’s last glimpse of the crones was as they jostled each other happily on their way out of the gate.

  Anna arose to go also. Lady Talap took her two hands and said, “This I do every year as a symbol of my love and obedience to my teacher, the Buddha.”

  28

  THE AFFAIR OF THE GAMBLING CONCUBINE

  The screams were horrible, not quite human and yet not animal. Anna and Boy, who were walking toward the river, looked quickly around. Behind them came two stout men dragging Nai Lek, Master Little, the Palace dwarf. His hands were chained and there was a rope around his neck. At every unwilling step he howled in protest.

  Anna paused and waited for the men to catch up with her. The dwarf was half nude, and his face was contorted into a hideous mask. He chattered like a monkey, then, lifting his head, bayed out his anguish in long crescendo wails in which the animal sound obliterated the human. As the men approached her Anna had to raise her own voice to be heard at all.

  “What’s the matter with Nai Lek?” she asked them.

  They stopped and the yowling stopped. Nai Lek blinked his eyes at Anna and twisted his face into a grimace.

  “He’s always doing something he shouldn’t,” one of the men answered. “He stones the dogs and frightens the children and chases the calves and worries the kittens. We’ve driven him away from the stables a hundred times, but we can’t keep him out. Now he has cut off the beautiful long tail of the King’s favorite mare, so we’re going to hang him and be done with his tricks.”

  At this a yell broke from the dwarf. He threw himself on the ground and struggled so violently with the rope around his neck that it looked as if he might strangle himself and save his captors the trouble.

  Anna spoke quietly to the men. “You know that you can’t do that without the King’s permission. And if you keep on tormenting him like this I’ll go right now and complain to the King.”

  As soon as he heard Anna’s promise Nai Lek gave a bound and stood erect. He grinned at her with a wide senseless gaze, and shook his huge fists, bound together as they were, at his captors.

  “Well,” one of the men said abashed, “what we’re really going to do is take him to prison and lodge our complaint with the judge.”

  So instead of going for the sail on the river that she had planned, Anna and Louis followed the men and the dwarf. As they emerged from the covered way in which they had met and entered the great square, every person far and near ran toward them to see what was happening to the dwarf. They were followed by a motley crowd to the long low building of the prison where he was cast, howling and screaming, and grinding his wolf-like teeth with rage.

  As Anna stood, half in pity, half in repugnance, the strange little figure appeared at a grated window. Tears rolled down his soiled, grimy face. He wailed, “Let me out! Let me out!” Boys in the crowd picked up bits of clay and pelted him, and others snatched sticks and tried to poke the ugly head away from the window, jeering and mocking him as he continued to cry, “Let me out! Let me out!”

  Anna hurried to the jailer and complained, and the mocking crowds were dispersed. Night came with the swiftness of the tropics, but she stood for some time in the darkness by the window trying to quiet the dwarf, who screamed and shook the gratings of his prison cell. She moved up closer and said loudly: “Don’t cry any more. I’ll tell the King what has happened to you and he will let you out. Now go to sleep quietly, and you’ll be out tomorrow!”

  The words seemed to enter the dim intelligence and the screams ceased. As Anna turned away to start home the dwarf put out his huge hand and grasped hers, blubbering like a lo
athsome sort of child, as in fact he was, for he was not more than fourteen years old. He put her hand close to his heart, then raised it to his nose and smelled it, saying, “Hom, hom, hom!” (Fragrant, fragrant!)

  Early the next morning Anna went by the prison on her way to the King’s study. Nai Lek was at the same window peering out, and the moment he saw her he began to howl. The jailer told her that he had screamed throughout the night and had refused food. Anna tried to comfort him by pointing to the Palace and telling him that she was on her way there and that he must be patient. But it seemed in vain.

  She was disappointed to find that the King was occupied elsewhere for the day, and that no one would interfere to set Nai Lek free. When she was ready to return home she did not have the courage to pass near the prison for fear her failure to keep her promise would upset Nai Lek. She sent her servant to inquire about him instead, and learned that the dwarf continued to cry, “Let me out!” and to shake the prison bars, and that he would eat nothing.

  On the second morning Anna was able to see the King. She told him that Nai Lek had cut off Mae Duna’s tail, and added, “now he is in prison for it.” The King went off into gales of laughter at this latest prank of his favorite, which was only increased when Anna said that the stablemen were furious and were complaining to the judge. “Poor Nai Lek just stands at the window and howls,” she said. “He can’t understand why he is in prison, and he won’t eat. He hasn’t taken a bite of food and I’m afraid he’ll starve before he ever comes to trial.”