Anna and the King of Siam

by Margaret Landon

  She pulled Anna after her into the toppling fortress. They passed through a large room that had once been painted vermilion, but was discolored where the rain had beaten in. The walls were hung with rusty Indian armor of an antique style—shields, banners, spears, swords, bows and arrows, lances. They were so immense that Anna thought they must have been wielded by the Yak of the Ramayana long before the epoch of the present race. It was like something out of a fantastic dream. Passing from the hall they entered a smaller room, the walls of which had been painted with gigantic flowers, birds, and animals. The crocodile was the most conspicuous. This room contained a bed of state that looked like the workmanship of Bombay craftsmen. It reached to the ceiling and had a curtain of flowered kincob. The glimmering light and the reflections from the dark green water of the moat shifted across the walls in waves of iridescence that increased the feeling of unreality which gripped Anna. First one and then another of the mammoth flowers or birds or animals on the wall would be caught for a second in, the rolling illumination.

  One of the three dark young men sitting in the room stood up and came to greet Anna. She recognized him at once from his likeness to Princess Sunatda. “Welcome, brave friend, welcome!” he said bowing gracefully. With an excitement he could not quite control he inquired whether Anna had seen his sister.

  “Yes, I saw her just a few days ago. She has been moved into an upstairs cell with a window, and her two maids-in-waiting are with her.” As Anna began to speak Mae Pia drew near to listen, intense anxiety in her face. “She has been ill, but I think that she will be better now that she has heard from you. And she is to be permitted an occasional airing in the Palace gardens.” They pressed Anna for every detail of her visit, and when she produced the blue silk envelope they were inexpressibly delighted.

  As the prince read the letter to himself the others watched him apprehensively. When he had finished he read it aloud. “Mae Pia” were the only words that Anna understood, but she saw two big drops fall from the eyes of the prince on the blotted yellow paper, and his voice died away in a whisper as he concluded his reading and sat down again. The whole party was silent, each absorbed in his own thoughts, for what seemed like an hour. The prince sat with his eyes on the ceiling as if in prayer. Mae Pia crept to his side and kept her eyes fixed on his face. It was a weak face, impetuous and vacillating, deeply troubled now. It made a striking contrast to Mae Pia’s, which was strong with an unshakable determination. There are times when one almost knows what is passing through the minds of other people, Anna thought. In the silent room ripples of green light shifted along the wall while an argument took place, although not a word was spoken. The prince’s position made the final decision his, and he was afraid. But Mae Pia was not! She knelt beside him, willing him to agree to something that had been discussed so many times that it did not need to be framed in speech again. The force of her spirit stirred the prince uneasily. Anna knew how powerful that spirit was. She had felt its impact on herself. She watched Mae Pia with admiration. What a woman she was!

  It was time for Anna to go. She had expected to be asked to carry a reply to the princess, but nothing had been written. The prince begged Anna to take something from him by way of compensation. She declined. He asked her to see his sister again, if it were possible, and tell her about the trip to Paklat. He sent also a message of love, comfort, and hope, but no letter.

  Mae Pia conducted Anna to the governor’s residence. She thanked Anna again and again for delivering the red velvet letter and bringing the reply. “Tell the princess to keep up her courage,” she pleaded. “I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do next, but something is going to be done to save her, even if I die for it. Tell her that!”

  “Oh, Mae Pia,” Anna objected, “be careful! You mustn’t do anything rash. It would be better to wait patiently a while longer and see how things come out.”

  Mae Pia shook her head. “No, I’m going to do something. Soon, I hope. But sooner or later, anyway. Tell her that!”

  “But, Mae Pia, she’s in the prison. Even if you could get into the Palace, you couldn’t get into the prison.”

  The slave only smiled.

  The day that had begun brightly was now overcast. The tide had turned and was running toward Bangkok. M. Lamache would be impatient to start the trip back. Anna could wait to argue no longer, and besides it seemed futile. Mae Pia would make her attempt, whatever it was, unless the prince forbade it. If diplomacy and bribery failed, the slave would try one desperate gamble to free her mistress. It could only fail, Anna thought sadly.

  She looked back once at Mae Pia standing in the long corridor of the governor’s palace with her hands folded and raised high above her head in salutation. “She’s magnificent!” Anna thought, and tears brimmed her eyes, for she did not expect to see the slave alive again.

  38

  THE PRINCESS OF CHIENGMAI

  Anna had little difficulty in arranging another interview with the princess through Lady Thiang. Apparently no harm had come from the first one, and if the King had learned of it through his omnipresent spies he had made no objection. The princess was still in the same cell, but she looked much stronger and happier.

  “Did you see my brother and Mae Pia?” she asked excitedly as soon as the Amazon had withdrawn.

  “Yes, I did. And they were very glad to have news of you. They are still at Paklat, and they send you their love.” Then she told the princess and her serving women all that had happened on her visit down river. They talked it over with great animation in their own language, and the princess asked Anna a number of questions. When Anna told her of Mae Pia’s promise to try to rescue her, she shook her head. “No, that’s impossible!” she murmured, and for a moment she drooped again. But with a quick return of her high spirits she began to tell Anna about Chiengmai and herself.

  “It takes six weeks up the river by boat against the current to reach the city, although one can come down in a month at some seasons. Chiengmai is tributary to Siam now, but there was a time when my ancestors were the sovereigns of all the land lying between Burma and China and Siam. Chiengmai was a great kingdom in those days. It was King Phra Chao Othong Karmatha, after whom my brother was named, who founded the city many centuries ago. He built the great waterworks that still brings water to the people from the mountains.

  “My brother and I are the only children of Prince Sarawong, the brother of the present King of Chiengmai. My mother died when I was born and Mae Pia’s mother brought me up. So Mae Pia and I are sisters of the flesh, as well as of the spirit. My brother is seven years older than I. He is fond of all kinds of pleasure and sport, but he loves glory and honor and independence more. It makes him angry and humiliated whenever he remembers that our house has to pay homage to the King of Siam, whose grandfather, after all, was only a general. But we are no longer independent, and so every three years we are required to send down gold and silver trees as our homage of fealty.

  “Three years ago my uncle did not come himself with the trees, but sent my brother instead. That was when my brother became friendly with the Second King of Siam. The Second King had been on good terms with our house for a long time, but my brother did not know him intimately before. They were both very fond of hunting, and while my brother was in Bangkok they became close friends.

  “Buddha forbid that I should disparage the First King, but everyone who knew them both will tell you that the younger brother was much superior in every way,” the princess continued proudly. “Soon after this the Second King came to our home on a visit, and went with my brother on many hunting expeditions. I wish I could describe to you my first meeting with the King. But there are no words for it. I had heard about him for years, and I loved him from the minute I saw him. If I could learn the language of the angels perhaps there would be adjectives in it to fit him. There is none good enough in any language I know.

  “When he left us and returned to his palace at Saraburi, I had lost the key to existence. My brother s
eemed to understand what was wrong with me, and unknown to me he sent Mae Pia to Ban Sita to get employment in the prince’s palace and try to learn whether he had the same feeling for me that I had for him. Mae Pia’s mother went with her, and when they got to the palace they managed to get into the harem on the pretext of visiting some of their friends, for there were many Lao in the prince’s entourage. While they were there Mae Pia took out her silver flute and began to play. Have you ever heard her play? No? She is the best musician in our country, and can perform on ten different kinds of instruments. And sing! You have never heard anything so exquisite as her music. Everyone gathered around to hear her and she charmed them all. Khun Klip happened to pass and she was enchanted, too, so she purchased Mae Pia from her mother for the prince’s orchestra.

  “In a few days Mae Pia was taken to perform before the prince. He was delighted with her wonderful skill. He was ill and confined to the palace, and he grew so fond of Mae Pia’s singing and playing that he kept her beside him all the time where she could entertain him when he was too wretched for anything else. Then one day when she saw that she had been unusually fortunate in soothing the prince with her melodies, she asked him if she could sing him a song that she had written herself, which she had set to his favorite air, The Lament of the Heart. The prince was surprised by her boldness, as he told me afterward, for who was she but a simple country girl? Or so he supposed. What could she know about poetic compositions? He was afraid that his courtiers would laugh at her effort, but he smiled and gave her permission to sing. ‘And then,’ to use his own words, ‘she sang her wonderful song about you, my beloved, with such power, and with such a blending of the melodic theme and the eloquence of the heart’s longing that it lingers with me still as a memory out of paradise. When she was through I snatched the lute from her hand, and poured out the burden of my love for you, Sunatda, in wild and imperfect measures.’

  “By the time Mae Pia had been gone three months I had become disconsolate. And then one day she returned home with letters and presents from the prince, and a month afterward I set out for Ban Sita, a bride, and such a happy one, Mem cha! When we came close to Ban Sita my brother went on ahead to announce my arrival to the prince.…” She stopped talking suddenly and burst into passionate tears. Anna sat perfectly still, afraid that anything she said might stop the flow of the princess’ narrative. After a little while she resumed. “And so we were married privately. We had a few months of happiness. Then he became seriously ill. He wanted me to return to my father because he was afraid that if he died I might fall into the hands of his brother, but I couldn’t leave him. When he was brought to Bangkok I came with him.

  “His last words to me were, ‘Farewell, my beautiful Sunatda. You have been the light of the setting sun to me. The glory of your love has dispersed the dark clouds that overshadowed my life and the memory of your face will be bright before my fading eyes to the end.’

  “A short time after my husband’s death I found myself a prisoner in his palace. Then in a little while I was brought here to this Palace. I was appointed a residence suitable for a queen. The King waited on me there. He ignored the deep love I had for my husband and the sorrow of my bereavement and offered me his royal hand in marriage. Well, I rejected his cruel offer openly and proudly. And so I am a prisoner here, as you can see, and will probably remain one as long as I live.”

  She ceased speaking. Anna moved at last on the uncomfortable bench, stretching the cramped muscles of her back. One of the guard entered to say it was time to lock the prison doors. Anna rose to go. The princess sat with her lips pressed firmly together, her nostrils quivering. Her head was bowed with fresh grief, as if she were living again the bitterness of her loss and humiliation. She motioned her adieu, but did not turn.

  Anna saw her occasionally after that, sitting in one of the Palace gardens under the watchful eye of the Amazons. She was always self-absorbed and withdrawn, but Anna thought that there was a difference about her, as if she had found new strength to live at least a little while longer.

  By October the King seemed entirely well. On the twenty-sixth Prince Chulalongkorn was to leave the novitiate and return to the Palace. It had been decided that Anna was to teach him evenings from seven to ten in his new home, since he would no longer be a pupil in the temple schoolroom. The King was busy with final preparations for sending a display of Siamese art and craftsmanship to the Paris Exhibition. M. Daniel Windsor, a French merchant, and several Siamese nobles were to accompany it from Bangkok early in November. It was the first time that Siam had participated in anything of the sort. M. Aubaret was still pressing for a repeal of the fourth article of the 1865 treaty, but the King was refusing to commit himself to more than his promise to send an embassy to Paris.

  On the last day of October the whole court, with the most favored of the royal family, and Anna and Louis, set out for Petchaburi. The city was about ninety miles southwest of Bangkok on a river of the same name. The countryside around it was much more picturesque than that of Bangkok. Ranges of low mountains ran from north to south in folds back to the horizon, and on the slopes and in the valleys were forests of magnificent trees. Between the mountains and the Gulf of Siam lay a plain like a patchwork quilt, with squares of rice land stitched around by betel and sugar palms to make a pattern in varying shades of green and yellow and golden brown. The King had had the ramshackle buildings on the main street of the town removed. The street was now a wide avenue lined for half a mile with brick stores like those at Singapore.

  On the Royal Mountain near the town he had had an elaborate palace built. Five hundred slaves had been working on it for ten years and improvements were still being made. There were temples and prachedis on the peaks of several adjoining mountains. All over these slopes workmen were laying out gardens. In the center of several of them stone vases, Egyptian in form, had been carved from the natural rock. They were kept filled with flowers. Attached to the palace was a schoolhouse, a residence for the teacher, and a private chapel for the women. But there was no distinct women’s city as in Bangkok. Those of the harem who accompanied the King on his annual visits had rooms in the western wing of the palace, which was separated from the rest by a wall and guarded by Amazons.

  Prince Chulalongkorn, Anna, and Louis loved to wander over the mountainside, along the ravines and through the forests, gathering wild flowers and visiting the hot springs, the caves and grottoes. The latter were very beautiful. Stalactites like carved pillars and the wonderful colors of the roofs and walls made them seem like temples. One was, in fact, used as a temple. The others had been left as they were except that steps had been cut into them so they could be entered easily. Farther down the mountain was a small lake with a smooth silvery surface. From the palace there were many paths through groves of dark green trees, opening upon wide terraces which commanded views of the countryside or the fertile valley through which wound the thread of the river.

  The whole court spent a happy two weeks. Anna taught her school mornings, and spent the afternoons exploring with the prince and Louis. She had enjoyed no place in Siam so much. Life was relaxed and simple, the air cooler and cleaner than that of Bangkok. She was glad when the King decided they would stay two weeks more. As Anna went to bed that night she chanted happily to herself:

  Genii in the air,

  And spirits in the evening breeze,

  And gentle ghosts with eyes as fair,

  As starbeams through the twilight trees.

  It was three o’clock in the morning when she was awakened by the sound of tocsins and gongs. Trumpets blared over the distant hills, re-echoing from the rocks like the wail of demons. Lights were on in the royal palace. Torch-bearing phantoms issued from dark doorways and wove among the trees. Sedans and shadowy horsemen were picking their way along the paths.

  The torch-bearers turned out to be Amazons sent to arouse everyone. The court would return to Bangkok within the hour.

  “Why?” Anna asked, deeply disappoint
ed. “The King told me just today that we were staying another fortnight.” But the Amazons refused all explanation. “You have one hour to get ready,” was all they said. “His Majesty has ordered everyone to return to Bangkok tonight.”

  No explanation was given all the way back, even on shipboard. His Majesty had ordered it, that was enough. Three days later Anna found herself settled again in her home in Bangkok, thinking wistfully of the pleasant mountain top at Petchaburi with its fresh air and lovely view.

  The next morning Anna and Louis set out once more to resume their school routine. As they walked toward the gate they saw clusters of people reading with absorbed interest huge placards written in Siamese, Pali, Cambodian, Burmese, and Peguan, posted along the Palace walls. Anna could read the printed Pali and Siamese, but these proclamations were written in an elaborate orthography that baffled her. She asked several people what the proclamations said, but their fear of even mentioning royalty was so great that none of them would answer. They shook their heads and backed off from her in alarm. She went on to the school, only to find the same mysterious announcements, running zigzag over all the walls up and down the narrow streets and lanes.

  No one would tell her what they meant. The women whom she asked looked at her strangely and moved away in haste. She began to wonder if she herself were in some way connected with the proclamations. She seemed to be on good terms with the King. Still, she was treasonably disposed toward slavery and polygamy, and had been from the beginning. No, it could hardly be that.

  The schoolroom was deserted. After an hour’s wait it was obvious that the royal children were not coming for classes. Anna hurried off to find Lady Thiang. But she was even more mysterious than the hieroglyphics on the walls. She looked at Anna curiously, shaking her head solemnly. Then she felt Anna all over carefully, as if to reassure herself that the Englishwoman was flesh and bones like herself. “Mem cha,” she asked gravely, “have you ever practiced sorcery or witchcraft?”