Anna and the King of Siam

by Margaret Landon

  The Honorable Miss McCausland was in full evening dress of the very latest fashion with low neck and short sleeves. The other ladies looked dowdy beside her, the more so because her arms and neck were dazzlingly white and of exquisite proportions. Anna introduced her to a few of the guests and then started the movement toward the dining hall, hoping fervently that the napkins had arrived. When all the guests were assembled about the table and ready to sit down the King himself entered with a bottle of rose-water in each hand to sprinkle them, as was the pleasant Siamese custom. He was smiling affably as he came in holding the bottles.

  Then he stopped suddenly. He had known that Sir Richard was bringing his sister with him, but he had not yet seen her. The unexpected vision of the beautiful Irish girl dumbfounded him. The few white women in Bangkok had long since lost all bloom and acquired the pallor of people who live many years in the tropics. But Miss McCausland, newly arrived from England, bloomed like a rose fresh from a country garden. Everyone in the room was discreetly enjoying her charm. The King, however, seemed completely overwhelmed. He stopped short with his mouth slightly ajar. When he could move, he said to her, “Wherefore have you decorated yourself more than all the rest? Shall it be for my observation?”

  Miss McCausland blushed a deep crimson, and was at a loss to know what to answer. But the King, unconscious that he was breaking the rules of English etiquette, trotted round and round the embarrassed girl, chuckling and ejaculating, “She is very fine! She is very fine indeed!” Suddenly he halted his circling promenade and asked, “Are you an anecdote?”

  The girl’s embarrassed eyes took on an expression of alarm. Anna, who had started for her own place at the foot of the table, turned and hurried back. Miss McCausland threw her a beseeching look. Anna was afraid that she knew all too well what was going on in the King’s mind. If she were right, she must intervene quickly, not only for Miss McCausland’s sake but for the King’s. Nothing but trouble would come from a public rebuff such as Sir Richard might feel obliged to administer to his old friend.

  After the death of the Fa-ying, Anna herself had been showered with the King’s attentions. The underlying antagonism that had existed between them from the second meeting when she had refused to live within the harem walls had been dissolved in a warm tide of favor. It had begun with the conferring of her title and ended only recently with the gift of a valuable diamond ring. She had been wary of accepting even the title, and troubled by the stream of gifts. She had been afraid of being placed in a false position, sensing uneasily a current whose direction she could not determine. An increase in salary would not have affected her in this way, but it was not offered. And because it was the King’s custom to bestow favors generously on those with whom he was pleased, she was reluctant to disrupt the new and pleasant atmosphere by any seeming discourtesy. So she had accepted even the ring.

  There had been something a little odd in the King’s manner when he gave it to her, but although she puzzled about it the rest of the day she could not define it. Then the next mail had brought a letter to the King from a Frenchwoman suggesting that she would be happy to become a member of his harem. During the period that Anna was to serve as the King’s secretary she was to handle not less than twenty of these genuine offers from French demoiselles. The letters usually enclosed pictures of very pretty girls and were more enterprising than any other “proposals” that she had to translate. His Majesty rejected them all emphatically. He entertained a lively horror of being beguiled into fathering a Franco-Siamese heir to the throne.

  On this particular occasion Anna handed him the letter with a little laugh. He read it and returned it to her.

  “No, no,” he said hurriedly, “write her and say ‘No.’” Then he gave Anna again the curious look that he had given her with the ring. It was a long look, speculative, and a little more. “If she were English.… But no, no, not a Frenchwoman.…” He hesitated, looking at Anna meaningfully. Then he seemed to change his mind and turned away without saying more. And in that instant she knew what the diamond ring had been intended to say. She remembered with sudden clarity the enormous sums offered year after year through solicitors at Bangkok and Singapore for an English girl of good family. And here she was herself, not a girl, since she was twenty-eight, but English, and of good family, and so useful!

  The next day she had quietly returned the diamond ring. “Your Majesty,” she explained, “I hesitated to accept so valuable a present, and now that I have had a week to think it over I have decided that I shouldn’t have taken it in the first place. Of course, any time that you feel my services deserve an increase in salary—well, I should be very grateful for that instead.” The King had accepted the ring without a word. They had looked at each other, both faces masked by outward formality, but with perfect understanding. And from that day on Anna found herself again on the old basis with her employer.

  All this flashed through her mind in the few seconds it took her to reach Miss McCausland. The King never gave up easily. Here was a beautiful girl fresh from England, and furthermore the sister of a friend! Anna felt that she must interpose herself between the impulsiveness of the King, who might not realize how preposterous it would seem to a man like Sir Richard that his sister be invited to join a harem, and the amused derision of the guests who were watching the drama with too much avidity to please Anna. But before she could come to the rescue the King continued, “I mean are you an unmarried woman?”

  “Your Majesty,” said Anna, taking the situation firmly in hand, “an anecdote and an unmarried woman are not the same thing in English. In fact, the two words mean surprisingly different things.”

  The King looked extremely annoyed. “No they don’t!” he retorted. “An anecdote is something that is not yet told, and an unmarried woman is something that is not yet given forth, and they are the same! There is no difference, I say!” He cast Anna a baleful look designed to put her in her place, but she refused to see it.

  Then, as if to settle the argument, he took his two bottles of rose-water and with a swift motion deluged the pretty girl before him from top to toe—hair, shoulders, gorgeous dress—with the entire contents of both bottles. “There!” he said with satisfaction. “Now sit down, everyone!” And smiling triumphantly he turned away to someone else.

  Anna did what little there was to do for Miss McCausland, who was close to tears. Sir Robert Schomburgk seated her gallantly at his right. “Well, Miss McCausland,” he said, “now you know what an anecdote is. And I have an idea that your friends in England will enjoy this one even if you didn’t.” She smiled a little tremulously, and the alarm faded from her eyes.

  Anna thought, as she hurried down to her place, that the dinner had begun like a nightmare. Bangkok would rock for days with descriptions of Miss McCausland’s unexpected shower bath of rose-water. Someone would probably write a letter to the Singapore papers, perhaps even to the London papers, and the King would be furious. Still, the faces of the guests seemed to indicate that at least they were highly diverted. The napkins had not arrived either!

  Before the guests had finished chuckling discreetly over the plight of Miss McCausland, the King’s dwarf appeared with the obvious intent of entertaining them. Anna’s heart sank again. She had not been told that Nai Lek (Master Little) was to be a part of the program or she would have objected vigorously that he would be abhorrent to many of the diners.

  Anna had seen the dwarf for the first time a year before in a procession. She had observed what looked like an ostrich riding a horse. It was full-feathered, with a long neck, curious head and beak, and enormous tail and wings, which kept flapping up and down. The more she looked and asked and wondered the more the people near her had screamed and shouted and clapped their hands with delight at her bewilderment.

  Since she and Boy had been mounted also, she rode close to examine the extraordinary bird. But the mystery remained. The creature had the head, body, wings, and tail of a huge ostrich. Anna had never seen wilder eyes or
a more idiotic grin. The creature’s hands and feet were as large as a man’s. Before she could analyze the oddity the procession ended, and she and Boy had had to turn their ponies over to the grooms in attendance, and take their places beside the royal children in the King’s pavilion to watch the fête.

  A roar of laughter from the crowd brought them to the front again to see what was going on below. There was the half-human, half-bird monster performing grotesque somersaults. Every new leap, every turn of the bird’s head over its human heels brought explosions of merriment from the crowd. Now the ostrich stood on its tail, now on its hard beak, fluttering its wings and two short dumpy legs in the air. Now it thrust its arms out of sight, and its two short legs into the ostrich legs that were dangling on its breast, and was transformed wholly into a bird, except for those two dark human eyes.

  Twice streams of blood issued from the nose and mouth, but this seemed to disturb no one, and least of all the ostrich. Apparently the joy of making the King and royal family laugh until tears ran down their cheeks more than compensated for the bleeding nose and battered teeth. When all the antics were finished the King threw the bird a sack of money. Two men came out leading his horse and lifted him once more astride the beast. The ostrich raised his beak three times in the air, flapped his wings violently by way of saluting the King and royal family, and rode away amid cheers.

  The next day Anna found that the ostrich was in fact a dwarf, a Lao from the north, who had been born to a peasant couple some years before. The parents were sure that the child was a trick of the devil or an impersonation of the devil himself. From the beginning he had looked like a freak, and as he grew older it became apparent that he was half-witted. Some of the neighbors suggested leaving him in the woods to die. The parents would not do this, partly because he was their child, and partly because they were afraid that his spirit would return to haunt them in some more dreadful form. So they took care of him, although they were convinced that he was not a human child but a hobgoblin from some other realm.

  He was discovered by one of the King’s half-brothers on a hunting trip into the north and brought to Bangkok to be trained in athletic and gymnastic tricks. When he had learned these, he was presented to the King as a comedian and buffoon.

  Anna had been eager to see him out of costume but he was not allowed to enter the harem except on special occasions because he frightened some of the royal children. When she did see him she found him revolting in the extreme. His head was covered with woolly hair, his forehead was low and receding, his eyes were set close, like those of an ape, and were wild and rolling. From his enormous mouth two great teeth protruded. His ears were large, his chin sharp and pointed. He was only a few inches more than three feet tall, and his legs were so short that except for the immense flat feet they seemed hardly strong enough to support his huge head and square shoulders. As if to strengthen the resemblance to the ape his hands almost reached his feet. The mere sight of him was enough to ruin any appetite.

  It was this creature who now approached the beautifully appointed table and picked up a tureen of soup, which he began to juggle audaciously to the breathless amazement of the guests. Everyone stopped talking and watched. He placed it on the tip of one forefinger and whirled it over his head, but nothing spilled! Then he returned it to the table and vanished. The next instant he was back with another dish to continue his performance. Every few minutes he would reappear and the process would be repeated, to the delight of the guests and to Anna’s acute anguish. She had done everything in her power to make the dinner arrangements correct and dignified. What could she do? She was all too well aware that, if one word of ridicule or criticism reached the King after the banquet was over, it would be herself who would be blamed.

  Just then a page crept in and summoned her with the news that the napkins had arrived. She hurried out, wondering how to distribute them tactfully. In the corridor she met Prince Chulalongkorn and behind him the King bustling toward her with great speed, and in their arms bales and bales of table napkins. The King thrust those he was carrying unceremoniously into her hands and rushed back to his guests. He had remembered the original purpose of the banquet, which had been driven from his mind temporarily by the loveliness of Miss McCausland. Anna heard him exclaim dramatically, “Who can say that I am a spare man?” He cast a dark look at the group of missionaries at the foot of the table, but they were serenely unaware of their fault and missed its significance.

  Anna was struggling with the napkins. They had been brought from the warehouse just as they had arrived from Europe, in long strips of twelve. And there were no scissors to cut them apart. Finally, in despair at this new complication, Anna distributed a roll to each guest and left to each the problem of how to manage them.

  After that everything went smoothly. The food was delicious, European and Siamese dishes alike. Salads of vegetables daintily carved in the perfect likenesses of flowers came on golden platters with a tart sauce. There were ducks, roasted and boneless, delicate little cakes, and pastries of a dozen kinds. The dwarf wearied of his game and disappeared. The rest of the servants behaved extremely well.

  It had rained in the late afternoon and the fresh air that came through the high open window was scented with the spicy odor of some flower. The guests laughed and talked and seemed to enjoy themselves thoroughly, forgetting for the time being the endless quarrels that separated them. Even Miss McCausland regained her composure and began to eat.

  Once again at the end of the dinner the King made his appearance. The guests rose to drink his health. The British Consul, who had held a whispered colloquy with Anna regarding the King’s strange pronouncement, and who had thus learned the story of the occasion for the dinner, proposed the toast:

  “To His Gracious Majesty, the King of Siam, our host. It would be a sad day for the country if her King ever became a spare man.”

  A look of surprise flitted across the faces of some of the guests. Had Sir Robert, who was known as a heavy drinker, had perhaps—well, one too many?

  But the King’s smile was that of a pleased child. He looked triumphantly at the missionaries, still innocent of their fault and unaware of his displeasure. Ha! He had proved his point, he had!

  25

  A BABY IS AUCTIONED

  For a few months Anna had stood so high in the King’s favor that she had been immune from some of the vexations which made her ordinary life difficult. But the peaceful interlude after the death of the little princess was short. She had not been entirely free from annoyance even then, for the vengefulness of the interpreter, who lived next door to her, never abated. She had been robbed in July, almost surely at his instance. Now in October he upset her little household again.

  She was startled one morning soon after the dinner party to hear a great outcry in the alley that ran beside her compound. Through the uproar she caught an occasional coherent phrase indicating that Moonshee was in trouble. She rushed downstairs to see what was happening. The noise had ceased by the time she reached the gate, except for a low moaning. On the ground lay Moonshee, hardly more than half conscious. His clothes were torn and stained with blood, his turban lying beside him. There were welts on his head and one eye was badly swollen. Beebe came running, as did some of the neighbors, and between them they managed to carry the old man to his room.

  “What happened to him?” Anna asked the neighbors. “Who beat him? Did any of you see?”

  One of them explained that Moonshee had been standing by the gate when the interpreter and his servants approached on their way from the river. The interpreter had stopped and commanded the dignified Moonshee to bow. Moonshee had refused. The interpreter had then given orders to his servants to beat the old man until he prostrated himself “as is proper before one of my rank,” and they had set upon him with clubs. Moonshee moaned on his bed and asked over and over, “Am I a beast that I should grovel before these infidel princes? Am I an unbelieving dog that I should lick the dust over which they pass? O son
of Jaffur Khan, how hast thou fallen!”

  This was too much! Minor irritations could be ignored, but not this insult, Anna thought angrily. The proud old Persian was not a Siamese. She had no intention of letting anyone enforce the custom of prostration upon her household. She had rejected it for herself from the beginning and she rejected it for Moonshee and Beebe. It was not their way any more than it was hers. Old Moonshee was always courteous according to the manner of his own country, and that was enough. Besides, she hated prostration, seeing in it a mirror of slavery. Each man must grovel before his superior, while he demanded the same gesture of submission from his inferior. One American who asked a Siamese friend somewhat petulantly why the alleys and walks of Bangkok were so narrow that two could not proceed abreast, had been answered incredulously: “But you have been here a long time! You know the Siamese! Have you ever seen two Siamese of exactly equal rank? But of course not. So why should the walks be broad enough for two, since there are no two in the kingdom who could walk together? One must go ahead and one must follow. Or if they meet, one must get off the walk and prostrate himself until the other has passed.”

  As soon as Moonshee’s wounds had been washed and dressed, Anna put on her bonnet and went to the Kralahome’s palace to enter her complaint. During the eighteen months that she had been in Siam she had gone often to ask for assistance. She had come to have a genuine respect for the prime minister’s sense of justice. He was not cheerful and friendly like fat Prince Wongsa, the King’s half-brother and physician, who was the most popular Siamese in Bangkok with the European and American community. He was not suave and accomplished and genuinely kind as was the Second King. But he had great power balanced by keen intelligence. Anna had taken many cases to him, usually in someone else’s behalf, and had found him fair; never really cordial, never really concerned for the abstract principles of right and wrong, but fair. In a country still governed according to the ancient pattern that was a great deal, since the average court decision went to the person who could pay the highest bribe. Government was only nominally by law; actually it was by the will of the King and of the feudal lords. Each great noble maintained a court with judges, where his own brand of justice was dispensed. Even the nascent police force under Mr. Ames had jurisdiction only in the area of the great bazaar. Its authority did not extend to this side of the river. Anna had a choice, then, of taking Moonshee’s case to the Kralahome or of taking it to the British Consul. And so far she had been chary of appealing to the consul.