The tower chamber was the favorite sitting room of the young Leonowens. It was simply furnished, a table, a few chairs—mostly of cane—a couple of sofas and a Persian carpet, with gauze netting on every door and window to keep out the gnats, flies, and mosquitoes. The rest of the house was furnished with the same moderation. There were no curtains, no blinds, no carpets. The floors and the walls were painted in subdued half-tints.
To keep this unpretentious household there was an army of servants, none of whom would do a duty not his own. The khansamah, or Hindu butler, was supposed to keep all the servants in order, but he invariably started revolution in the camp if the Mem sahib wanted anything done her way instead of his. There was a cook who got drunk whenever guests were coming to dinner and a cook’s mate who was inclined to be musical just when the master and mistress had retired. There was a lamplighter who asked three times in the course of as many months to go and bury his mother. There was an ayah, or lady’s maid; a dhobi, or washerman; a bheesti, who filled the tubs in the bathroom with water, and did nothing else; a jharu-wala, who came each morning and swept the house and grounds, and then disappeared until the next morning; a coachman, a groom, and a tailor. Anna wished she could dispense with some of them; but whenever she suggested it dastur, custom, was thrown in her face and the whole group combined to force her to keep them all.
In addition to the servants there was a teacher or pundit, named Govind, who came morning and evening to teach Sanskrit and Hindustani.
Major Leonowens’ work involved a good deal of travel, and the young couple visited the cities of India one after another. When they were not traveling they were studying or seeing the endless sights of Bombay itself. There was much to see and learn. It was a full life.
Once they went to have their horoscopes read by a famous old Fire-priest and astrologer. It had been hard to arrange. They had finally managed it through a Parsee friend of their nearest English neighbor. The old priest would not receive strangers until his coreligionist intervened.
They started out about six o’clock in the evening, and after a long drive through the Parsee district their carriage drew up before a high, dilapidated wooden building. The balcony projected into the street, supported by rickety wooden pillars, under which there was a small garden of herbs. Their English neighbor, who had often visited the house, led them through the garden and up a flight of wooden steps into a corridor. He tapped at a very old door, slightly ajar, and a feeble voice told them to enter. In another moment they were standing before the Fire-priest. He did not move or speak, or even turn his eyes upon them.
An aged Ethiopian servant indicated that they were to be seated on some cushions near by until his master had finished his evening prayers. They took their seats silently and looked on. In the center of the shabby room was a three-legged stand, and on it a round earthen lamp filled with coconut oil containing depressions at the sides for wicks, of which there were seven burning. Before it stood the Fire-priest, his dress a long, dingy robe which flowed down to his emaciated feet. As his lips moved in prayer, his thin fingers passed over and over a sacred thread, mystic emblem of his faith. The reflection of some inner light made his pallid features luminescent. The watchers were less conscious of the fact that he was incredibly old than of the serene and beautiful expression of peace on his face.
The floor was of planks roughly hewn and rudely put together. A number of old parchments were piled up on one side; pots, earthen lamps, vases, flowers, shawls, carpets, bedding, and embroidered silk cushions lay in seeming confusion on the floor. The Ethiopian attendant, who looked almost as old as his master, grinned at the white strangers from his corner, showing plainly that he had lost nearly all his teeth.
When his prayers were over the Fire-priest put off his long robe and dark conical hat, and put on a gray coat and skull cap, which revealed a few locks of scanty gray hair. He then turned to the Englishman, took both his hands kindly, and saluted him by raising them to his forehead three times. He did the same to the younger people, and then sat down to talk with them.
After an hour they ventured to ask him to read their horoscopes. He rose at once, as if pleased by their request, and led the way with alacrity through a passage and up an old wooden staircase to a small chamber. It was open to the sky by a curious contrivance, a sort of trapdoor, which could be let down in rainy weather. There was a bench in one corner. In the middle of the room stood a circular table, which revolved on a pivot, painted with curious hieroglyphics, and beside it a three-legged stool.
As soon as they had taken their seats on the bench the priest drew out from under the table a board, checkered black and red, and a piece of chalk. He took a dim horn lantern from a niche in the wall and set it on the table. This done, he turned to Anna and questioned her closely in Hindustani about the day, year, hour, and moment of her birth. All such questions as she had power to answer he put down in what seemed to be signs and figures in one of the squares on his peculiar black and red board.
This was the work of some time, for every now and then he seemed doubtful, rubbing out and replacing the signs and figures in new squares. When he had scrawled on the board to his satisfaction he began to compare it with the hieroglyphics on his revolving table, deciphering and studying the stars on each of his tablets with the utmost care. He then turned up his wan face and began to gaze alternately at the bit of sky seen through the open trapdoor and at the hieroglyphics on his table. The stars presiding at Anna’s birth were evidently unpropitious. He foretold for her many deaths among relatives and friends, long and hard separations by seas and oceans from loved ones. But he softened his prophecy by predicting a long life, a happy old age, and a numerous progeny of grand- and great-grandchildren.
He then foretold her husband’s future, which was even less propitious, since the shadow of one of the great planets crossed his path in middle life. The old priest shook his head. “But if you survive that,” he concluded, “you will live to old age in happiness and prosperity with your grandchildren around you.”
It was not what the old astrologer said that impressed the English couple so much as his perfect faith in his own rendering of the position of the stars and their implacable meaning. The floating locks of gray hair, the serious brow, the deep, contemplative look on his face, were all very striking. His head seemed full of the mystery of the stars while his heart revolved the secret destiny of human lives.
As they drove away into the warm night they were all silent, each one following his own train of thought, a little amused, a little tolerant, and yet more than half impressed. They could not guess that within a few short years all that the old man had prophesied would begin to come to pass.
4
A KING’S LETTER
It was life, not death, that engrossed Leon and Anna. When they were expecting their first child they decided that Anna should go to be with her mother in Poona. Leon made the trip with her but could not stay until the child was born. Before her eighteenth birthday he was writing excitedly:
My own darling, my beloved Annie,
I have just received Dr. Nohoe’s letter informing me of your safe delivery of a little girl. With what anxiety have I, ever since I left Poona, looked for this intelligence, and oh, my darling, my beloved Annie, what feelings of delight and deep gratitude to God did I experience when I learned that our long and ardently expected baby had come home, and that you both are doing well. The consciousness of your deep love for me and my own affection for you always afforded me delightful employment for my thoughts, and it only wanted this intelligence to complete my happiness. I trust, my love, that you did not suffer much, and that you are now all right. Be careful of yourself and our darling baby. How I long to see you, dearest, to press you in my arms once again and to imprint my first kiss on the virgin brow of my child.
We thought we should have a boy. We shall, however, be none the less happy or love our child the less that it is a girl.… You say, truly, my beloved, that we must never part
again. In the future whatever either of us may have to endure, it will be together, when we can support and comfort each other.…
Your own devoted and ever affectionate husband,
Leon.
A few days later he wrote again to say:
You often expressed a wish to have a black satin dress on your twentieth birthday, and I made up my mind long since to get you one. I have been enquiring of late but could not come across a good satin. Today I met with one which I send you. There was only twenty-one and a half or three-quarters yards in the piece, which will perhaps be enough. I send the parcel by Bharyz today and trust that you will like it. Accept my love as a gift from your own Leon and I only regret that I cannot on your birthday clasp you to my heart and wish what I do ever and always, all the happiness that this world can afford.
Again, he wrote:
I have just now returned from a wedding party. Miss Howell was this morning married to Mr. Henderson & I sincerely hope she will be happy. She was very sorry you were not in Bombay to be present at her wedding & desired me to convey to you her kindest regards.
During the breakfast although I talked and made the most fun at table I was very anxious to get away to read your expected and wished for letter. How little did any of them think as pun and story rolled from me making all laugh that I had not a thought or feeling in common with any one of them, that my thoughts were far away, with you, beloved of my heart, and of you. The more I know of these people of Bombay the greater my contempt for them. They are a dull, stupid, inert race without a sentiment above the commonest occurrences of everyday life, and unable as higher and purer minds are to extract a holier feeling out of those mere daily occurrences to which others are able to add such charm.
I never contrast you with others, my beloved, because it would be absurd. My love is yours, is fixed unalterably on you, and I never for a moment think how I could associate with such people in the intimate relations of domestic life, because it would be impossible. But I often feel when I look around and form an estimate of the actual worth of those I meet with that, had I not known you, I never would have married. You, darling, are after my own heart. You realize all my earliest and brightest dreams of what I would wish my wife to be. As I peruse your dear letter of Sunday night how full of happiness I feel. Yes, darling, the days are long and the times hang heavy to us, loving ardently and passionately as we do, and longing to fly to each other’s arms. O my beloved, my own sweet wife, brightest and dearest treasure of my heart, how I long to hold you to my heart, to drink the bliss, the highest bliss from your dear lips, to realize the highest, the most exalted and passionate delight in your arms. How inadequate are all the expressions of fondness and affection I can command to describe my love, my devotion for you, darling. As I write I lack words to tell you how I love you. I worship and adore you, my own darling, and my very feelings of the fondest love and adoration are to me happiness because I know how worthy, more than worthy, you are of that love and adoration.…
I hope to go for you by the end of this month. Have your dress made up to receive me in it. I cannot, dearest, tell you how ardently I long to see your dear face, to have my cherished wife again by my side. Kiss our dear Pussy for me. God bless you both forever, prays your fond and devoted husband
Leon.
But Death was not to be cheated. Within a few short months it had claimed their “dear little Pussy,” and Anna’s mother, too. The double blow prostrated Anna completely. The doctor told Leon gravely that she probably would not live unless she had a change of climate. Anna lay white and still and pathetically weak. Officialdom, as always, moved with its slow unwieldiness. Months passed, and by the time leave was granted, Anna’s healthy young body had asserted itself again.
They took passage on a sailing vessel, the Alibi, for England. The leisurely trip of several months would restore her health completely, they thought. But the Alibi went on the rocks before they reached the Cape of Good Hope. They were rescued by another sailing vessel and taken to New South Wales.
By that time Leon and Anna were expecting their second child. They decided to wait in Australia until after the child was born, since Anna was still not strong. The little boy, when he came, lived only a few hours. His death brought about a relapse, and Anna grew so desperately ill that she no longer cared whether she lived or died. Leon engaged passage on the next steamer for England and watched over her during the long trip with untiring devotion. By the end of 1853 they were settled in London.
Two children were born during the three years of their London stay—Avis Annie Crawford Connybeare on October 25, 1854, and exactly a year later to the day, Louis Thomas Gunnis. Whether on account of a more favorable climate or better medical care, these two children throve. Their young mother took them into the park herself for their airings, an unheard-of thing for an officer’s wife, but she walked happily about among the “nannies” oblivious of a fashion that did not please her. She was glowing again with good health and happiness, and prettier than ever. The English climate had brought color back to her face, and her brown hair curled sweetly around it.
She was delighted and amused when one afternoon with Avis on her hand and Louis in his pram a dashing young man loitered close to her and contrived to open a conversation. She did not tell him who she was but met him with equal gaiety and frankness, secretly delighted at the thought of his confusion should he ever happen to meet her at a dinner table. Finally, when she was preparing to go home, he asked when he might see her again, to which she demurely replied, “My mistress does not allow gentlemen callers.”
“Then when will you walk with me again?”
“Neither will my mistress permit me to walk with you again.” And with a little swish of her crinoline she hurried off lest he see the smile she could no longer suppress, bending her head in the bonnet lined with lace ruffles to look at the babies in the pram.
In 1856 Leon was ordered to Singapore. There the family was living when, in the spring of 1857, the Indian Mutiny broke out at Meerut. Every newspaper that arrived from Calcutta brought them distressing news. Officers with whom Leon had served were being killed in the fighting. They found on the lists of those who had been massacred the names of their friends—men, women, and children—and the names of several of Anna’s relatives. Anna was torn by these losses and harrowed by the persistent thought that since the British had taken India by force the Indians could not be blamed for trying to recover it by the same means. How could anyone justify the cruelty of British commanders who had stamped out the mutiny of 1764 by blowing sepoys from guns and who had ordered British artillery to annihilate an Indian regiment in 1824 because it refused to invade Burma? How could anyone justify the annexation of Oudh?
The lands of Oudh were rich and prosperous. Lord Dalhousie accused the King of Oudh of encouraging religious feuds. Yet it was common knowledge that the inflammatory papers circulated in Oudh had been printed in Calcutta, the seat of the English government. Lord Dalhousie further accused the king of misgovernment and of oppressing his people. But after all, who had made him judge of such things? Now Oudh and other territories taken on such slim pretexts were costing innocent lives.
When the Mutiny subsided and Queen Victoria signed the Act transferring India to the Crown, Anna had lost not only friends and relatives, but also her fortune. As one after another of the banks failed all over India she found herself penniless. Her little family was suddenly dependent on Leon’s salary, which had never been large.
Hardly a year later misfortune struck again. Leon and some of his brother officers had organized a tiger hunt. It was the hot season and Anna had begged him not to go, but he was fond of hunting and the preparations for the hunt were all made. Beaters had been engaged and provisions assembled. He teased Anna by saying that she would make a house pet of him, and promised to be back by the next night.
The tiger led the men a long chase. It was nearly noon before they bagged it. To keep his promise Leon would have to ride through
the heat of the day. The other officers urged him to wait until evening, but he laughed at them. What after all was a little sun to a man accustomed to it? He reached home at the appointed hour and dropped unconscious at his wife’s feet.
All night long she knelt beside him praying. Even after the doctor told her that the end had come she continued to pray that he might be restored to her. But when morning dawned and there was no change, she knew at last that he was dead.
People did what they could. His brother officers in Singapore raffled his ponies and tack and gave her the proceeds. They had two of the tiger’s claws mounted in gold for a brooch.
For a while it seemed as if her reason would go under with the strain of grief. “It is too much! Too much! Too much!” she thought. Her father, her mother, her two babies, her friends, her relatives, her fortune, her husband. Why try to live at all if life was so cruel? Her stepfather had gained possession of the old homestead in Carnarvon. She had nothing left. No, that was not true—there was Avis and there was Louis, five and four. Faithful Miriam Beebe and Moonshee had looked after them during the terrible days when Anna was prostrated with sorrow. But who was there if she should die or go insane? For the sake of Leon’s children she must try to rally herself.
She had never expected to have to earn her living. Fortunately she had a good education. Encouraged by her friends, she opened a school for officers’ children, and tried listlessly to resume normal life.
Everyone was kind. Her next-door neighbor was an American, Francis D. Cobb, from Boston. He had come to Singapore on the advice of his doctor because he had lost one lung from tuberculosis. Miraculously he grew stronger. He was associated with an older man in the exporting business. While Leon was alive Mr. Cobb had become friendly with the young couple and had loaned them a copy of Emerson’s Essays. Anna found that she could lean on him in the months following her husband’s death. He often came in during the evening with a new book from the States. He introduced her to the works of Longfellow and Whittier and Hawthorne and Harriet Beecher Stowe. He talked of William Lloyd Garrison and the rising storm of anti-slavery feeling. He told her about Abraham Lincoln, that strange, gaunt man from Illinois on whom he pinned his faith. Almost in spite of herself she grew interested in the cause of abolition.
Anna and the King of Siam Page 3
