This trip was where movies were needed. Jim was of course written up in Time—he has revolutionized or rather created a silk industry here—it is a fabulous story. (The full story of Thompson’s career, and strange disappearance in 1967 is told in The Legendary American, by William Warren.) The compound is located right behind one of the “modern” streets—as is all of Bangkok really—the modern thoroughfares are undistinguished, characterless. Smack behind it, one comes to the canal, wooden house after house built on teak poles, catwalks between—water beginning to rise over these. Boat-woman in huge coolie hat rowed us across. The houses, shanty-like at first to the West eye, are actually made of water-resistant teak (as are all the beautiful highly polished floors in the villas), here gray and waterlogged, but sturdy, often carved and fretted very prettily. Weavers have actually grown rich—run to lino and awful middle-class furniture, etc.—inside their houses the looms, naked babies, women crouching, vendors going up and down with huge communal vats of food—children swimming off the door-step—washlines strung along the catwalks. An incredible and wonderful mélange. And an absolute melt of heat of course.
We went thru, Jim talking to the weavers thru his S. foreman—silks in all warps and woofs, princely all the way. Then went to see house J. is building right on canal—Prince of the weavers he. An extraordinary life. He is lonely, divorced, and I think, looking for a lady—very nice—a bit of a name-dropper. (Barbara Hutton had come here in high heels—he was glad I hadn’t.) Was nice to be coupled with B. Hutton—or was it? Anyway we got on, might even have got on better—what an opportunity I have let slide—Queen of the weavers, life on the Silken Canal! His house will be beautiful. Presented me with a really gorgeous—no other word, silk stole in the reds and oranges I particularly admire. Left after one last house, presided over by betel-chewing old beldame who had just thrown her daughter-in-law out. Most of weavers Moslems—daughter-in-law was Buddhist. A son or a nephew studying in U.S.—at Johns Hopkins! When we meet foreign students in the U.S.—how can we possibly understand the gap that lies between? Mary says she has a Siamese friend, educated Radcliffe, a princess, whose mother is a betal-stained crone. Understand one gets quite a charge out of betel—wd try. But am told it comes in a kind of gum which is handled in the bazaar covered with flies, etc. The mouth of a habitué is a terrible sight.
Back to hotel, where I had to walk thru lobby literally wringing out dress which clung to me like a bathing suit—dunked everything, including hair—one washes it here every two days—or at least I do, since its thickness increases so with heat that I cdn’t be dinner-tidy otherwise. Surprised to find that it was only 10:30 A.M.—we had started at 8. In afternoon, M. and I went to Sports Club—it is, as I said, absolute Maugham. Magnificent pool, louvered-shuttered clubhouse, very swish and white with a glittering bar—roofs of Chulalongkorn Univ. in background—very gay with henna tiles, ending in white snakepoints. Rather nice and breezy—M. said they lived here during dry season as much as possible.
Pleasant enough—I shd think one cd make a highly tolerable life for oneself here as long as one was not doing too much brainwork—the climate is pretty de-energizing for that—one needs a lot of sleep, etc. But for pleasure, company, social gaiety, I shd think a woman ought to find it fine—what J. is crabbing about can’t see—this is just the sort of place where she and R. cd devote hours to her and to “life together” as she had told C. that R wanted to do for her. Not the place to devote oneself to work in an art—but she didn’t want a man like that anyway. Well, n’importe. (But reading over what C. said her letter contained, I am rather sure that she may even harbor ideas of joining him—if asked—in Iran—her fantasy will easily extend there. After all it is on this side of the world—what easier?) And since instinct has called the turn on what she will do so far, I shall try to make things quietly clear tomorrow.
In evening had dinner with the Piersons, the Asia Foundation head—dinner for me. Beautiful house, formerly occupied by Noel Busch and wife, (Jesus—the “boy” just walked in no by-your-leave, to take breakfast tray—and me at a typewriter in bra and nothing else)—whom Sanfords miss much. (Mary Busch unique, knew more Thais in different and opposing parties, political and social, than any other Amer. woman ever has—Prince and Pr. Chumpat, who are very anti-Amer and cranky in one way or tother, gave her a farewell party the like of which Bangkok had never seen.)
I sat next to Mr. Bruce, delightful Br. Council man—a Scot—we twitted each other in the Br. way and had a wonderful time. Then he rose to make a toast to me with the wine—asked me—“What is your other name?”—I quavered “Harnack”—and he thereupon toasted Miss Calisher—Mrs. Harnack—and a toast to the absent Mr. Harnack. He had already heard I was going to Iran. Criminy. What if the R.’s had been there—a Somerset M. situation indeed—but they weren’t. Forgot to say that on Monday, after Prem broadcast, when had been interviewed by Eliz. Ortiz, beautiful Britisher married to U.N. rep here, I asked her to leave out names of husbands, children, etc.—she very tactful about same, but did ask to say that I was going to Iran to join husband.
Today, Thurs go to lunch at Mary’s—some Siamese women to be there. Not air conditioned, I am told—so shall have to wear cool black, but all right since it is here. Siamese do not like one to wear black to their homes—ill omen—so I can only wear it where hosts are Western. Nobody briefed me on this!
Saturday, Oct. 17, ’58
The luncheon Thursday had that familiar aspect of ladies luncheons all over world. As Mary said later—“We none of us want to give them or attend them—everyone knows it—but there we are.” Something dull and a trifle wrong about ladies sitting down to glittering table, many courses—we had champagne to toast the “departing”—Rachel McCarthy, very nice gal who goes on to Taipeh—had lived yrs in Hongkong, which she adored and hated leaving, now sorry to leave here. She’s a very tall, handsome girl who Mary said loves clothes—the “Mme Recamier” of Bangkok, said M. introducing her. We got on very well, also Mrs. Rims, a white-haired beauty of about 30—in fact there are either a great many pleasant and attractive women here, or else, what’s more likely, Mary’s friends are particularly so. Rachel’s husband is departing head of USIS. Later that afternoon we went to the embassy for a reception for them and the incoming Garnishes.
Embassy not air conditioned; had been warned it was black-tie—had one gimlet and sprouted sweat like a fountain—had to mop me with gloves. If here wd have dresses made like bathing suits with skirts—no straps, etc. Very dull business, such receptions; talked to a great many people, fended off the compliments that are a part of dip. life. I know that I am apparently a success with what little the Thai have seen of me—Cecil has told me and several others—it’s funny actually. They don’t care a hoot about my “intellect”—but they approve looks, manner, and curiously enough my voice, which they keep commenting on—maybe have been subjected to too many dames from Chicago. But it wd certainly be ruinous to the character—what little I have left of it, to go on with this tour. Only the book will cure.
Yesterday, Friday, continued the waking at dawn, which makes it very hard to stay awake for all the social dos in evening; went swimming in pool. Latter is one of loveliest I have ever seen—free form, rather like my blue Italian earrings, paving has grass interstices all around, little bridge over a stream at one end, whole pool marble—rimmed and fringed with rosebushes,—lovely to come up from water to hang on and meet a velvety dark red rose, or a yellow-monk-colored one, as you open your eyes. Has the typical Thai posts, like flagpoles with crowns on them—four on the right-hand side from my window—on the other a kind of pagoda-niche with the gay Thai roofline.
As I swam I found myself liking the life better and better—sybaritic me. Hope an attack of dengue (break-bone fever) won’t arrive to change my mind. But I am beginning to catch the special flavor of the place, feel friendly toward it—as in Manila. One nice thing—no real poverty here—to be a privileged foreigner is far easier than in
a place like Italy for instance. The missionaries don’t make much headway here, tho they work hard—one of the maids here is a Christian, she told me—I imagine these are fairly declassée. Have met several young Thai Princesses, Momrajahwong class, who divorced their prince-husbands. This is “not done”—one does not divorce anybody in the Royal family and keep class. These declassée ladies have found a simple solution—marry white men, who are of course slightly declassé to begin with, in Thai eyes. Quite well-placed young men, sometimes. Foreign service etc.
Mary came—went to dressmaker’s for fitting on white dress. Handwork lovely—Dress wd be in the $100 or more class at least at home—abt $10 each for material and sewing, here. Since was to go to the R.’s in afternoon, found myself again irritable, wondering why J. was not happy here—this country built for personal pleasure. But I know really. One wd have to really love the man one was with, feel close, in order to trail happily through all the gay detail of living here. Deadsea fruit without it.
Returned, had much too much lunch—Muslim-style curry—fascinating (for once, not always). R. called, asked whether I had transportation, said interpreter was not necessary, had Sanford got one?, wanted to know what time we were coming, etc. I had asked students to arrive at 4. Didn’t know exactly why he called me, instead of Cecil. Over phone his voice is very tentative, pauses, next door to a stutter or stammer, but not quite. General impression of indecision, pleasant enough—but just not a very firm personality.
Cecil came for me—very glad he was to go with. He said he wanted to see what went on—thought it might be rather a futile afternoon; he wd stop things and get me out of there if “things went on too long.” (We were to go to a play in the evening; command-performance, King and Queen to be there, so again black tie.)
I had told Mary some of the situation—that J. had been Curt’s wife and did not know about C. and me now. Also told her she was at liberty to tell Cecil—I never think it is fair to ask a wife to keep anything from husband—also impossible. Disliked not revealing that C. and I were not yet married,—since they are honorable, and wd certainly understand—but cd not put further burden on them. Cd not tell whether Cecil knew, as we drove off. But he was certainly a rock to have along. A fine man—works like a drover at his job, too.
The R.’s live very near the Sanfords. Very charming, adequate villa with exceedingly pleasant garden, lawn, shrubs, tucked away down typical walled road. R., J., and baby in carriage with baby-amah (native nurse) grouped in doorway as we arrived. Had feeling that she had “arranged a family group,” and that she was constantly posing in one way or another, during afternoon. Felt that this was always so—she is busy “creating an impression” and goes about it in a very poised way. But one is conscious of the poise—think I wd have been even if I were total stranger. She was discreetly but firmly “behind” everything—rand not too far behind either. We had no sooner got into living room than she “suggested” to R. that it wd be better if we had students move to terrace, we followed, she had a chair planted in a circle and “guided” me into it, saying “Chair of honor for you is ready.” She was the “hostess,” and R. followed amiably, altho it should have been his show. About 6 students, only two who spoke fair English, one, who works for StanVac and edits the house organ, had been in U.S. for yrs, spoke very well—this the “interpreter.” Conversation mostly with him.
When she has arranged us, J. comes and sits right behind my right shoulder-blade and places baby in carriage beside her.
I began to feel like Gulliver, as the Lilliputians wove their strings. Use of baby interested me—since everyone has an amah here, J. was not in position of Amer. wife who has to have baby with her—felt again that she was “posing” as charming mother-and-child. Baby very blond and blue-eyed with knitted brows—looks like R. even more than like J.—not a trace of Curt that I cd see. If one cd determine paternity for sure by looks, then one cd say almost unequivocally that baby is not C.’s. I put on glasses for sure. No, it was as I had always thought—she must have good reason to know that child is R.’s, and indeed had never averred otherwise. So that at least I can tell him.
Then R. chilled my blood by saying that since students were Journalism, he had had idea that they cd interview me—like a real interview, me, my life, my writing, etc. I had the presence to say “Oh, let’s keep it to me as a writer.”
Young man on my very near left said—beginning valiantly “Is Miss Calisher your pen name?” I said, Oh no, it was my real name—that writers had about given up 19th-century practice of nom-de-plume. Cd see questions about home and husbands looming, but managed to turn question on to writing, and there we stayed.
Interpreter-guy had done a thesis in States on Confucius—so luckily questions became very metaphysical. R. said almost nothing. Cecil helped valiantly too. R. is strange, indecisive manner, but observant, one must think, underneath. J. had drinks and cakes brought, then moved herself and baby facing me, and scrutinized me. Later the conversation took a turn as to whether writers shd stay in Universities and get Ph.D.s—with a great swoosh I launched into C.-and-my favorite diatribes on this. Said it produced writers who ended up writing about writers who were writing novels in universities—like a succession of mirrors reflecting one another—everybody laughed. And here J. made her only contribution; saying indignantly “But what about support. How are they going to support themselves!” My inner comment—she meant, “How are they going to support ME!”
Answered J. by saying that the problem, of support, had to be solved individually—I had taught for a year for economic reasons—idea was not to go on doing it regularly, or rather not to fool yourself that could be a prof. and a writer too. Question of Perm Warren and A. Tate brought up. Said that they had professorial position because of being writers—and that they didn’t rate with the real ones anyway—Warren vs. Hemingway and Faulkner for instance. Mentioned Trilling’s “Of This Time” as the only real story by a prof.
J. continued to scrutinize me. Am pretty sure now that some news of C. and me had trickled over here. I finally ended converse on this topic by saying that writer’s lives had problems, just like anybody’s—personally I wd feel it better for a writer to dig ditches to support his family rather than study for Ph.D.—of course there was a hazard here too—a tractor might fall on him. Cd see J’s attitude, so often indicated by C—she feels that one ought to be able to “square away” every “problem” by pre-intellectual consideration of the “pamphlet” covering same. I know, as C. knows, that life is too slippery and evasive for this; pursues its own tragicomical path, and can never be “squared away” in this fashion. As my father used to quote—“a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”
Anyway, Cecil finally brought rather fruitless discourse to end—we rose to go. J. got him off in corner, seemed not to want to let him go. (Mary had told me that she had remembered why she avoided J.—evening they first met, M. & C had rose to go, having a pressing engagement at embassy and having clearly said so, but J. continued to talk to C. and keep on stringing things out; they cd not get away, were late and annoyed.) Meanwhile R. talked to me—asked me where next stop was—I said Teheran, and that I was looking forward to cool weather. Was I going home then? Etc.
So at last I took the plunge, and said no, I was going to stay in Iran six months or so—and I suddenly had a feeling he knew about C. and was waiting. So I said I had been meaning to tell his wife, C. and I were married you know, and were going to be there.
R. said “Oh, I thought C. was going to be in Tabriz. Teheran is dry and dusty isn’t it? But we have been looking up Tabriz on the map—it seems higher.”
Replied that it was in mountains 4,000 feet up—I looked forward to, as like cold weather, etc. Asked if R. had ever been to Iran—he said no, asked if C. had found a house?
I said yes—we were going to write there, as C. reported teaching wd not be too arduous for him—C. had finished his book.
R. asked if he had submitted—I said he had
left with agent before departing. R. at no time evinced any surprise when I told him abt C.—since I do not know him cd not tell whether this was his regular, noncommittal manner or not—but hardly think so. To be that controlled, when a woman tells you she is so connected with your former friend, your wife’s former husband, and in view of parlous history shared by all—is hardly credible. Felt that Triems or Springers or somebody must have hinted, and that it was indeed a good thing I had calmly stated what I had—whether or not they believe. (Getting ahead of my reportage.) I mentioned that C. and I were exchanging journals—in order not to have too big a backlog, mails being bad on a tour like this.
He said—“Yes, we have not heard for over two months.”
I said, “You mean, from Stateside, family etc?”
He said, “No, I mean from Curt,” and again said they’d been looking up Tabriz.
I did not have heart to tell him that C. had asked J. not to write, but she had. It is apparent that C.’s letter to J., terminating correspondence, never was seen by R. I remembered how annoyed J. was before, when C. wrote his letter to R. saying he was really through. She wants all to be under her control, to manipulate as necessary. Ordinarily I wd feel that I was being paranoiac about this—how can one suspect that baby-face air of normal American wife, of such undercurrents? But there it is—as it comes out, piece by piece.
So we were off, the group again at the door. J. took baby from amah and followed us to car with it—leaned in and asked me, of all things, was I well provided with mosquito lotion. I said yes, Sanfords had long since indoctrinated me, etc. At last she let Cecil, already in car with me, drive on.
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