Anna and the King of Siam

by Margaret Landon

  Fr. Martin and Phya Wiset took their differences to court on August 23, 1865. They appeared before Mom Rachothai in the Royal Court of Equity, commonly called the International Court. Mom Rachothai, the judge, was a man of unexceptionable character, universally admired by both Europeans and Siamese. He had been one of the ambassadors to Queen Victoria and had written a poetic account of the trip to England that was exceedingly popular with the Siamese. He was a prince and a cousin of the King. It was a tribute to his ability as well as to his integrity that in his position of chief justice of the court which adjudicated cases between Europeans and Siamese his judgments were widely accepted as fair and impartial.

  As soon as Fr. Martin and Phya Wiset met in the courtroom they fell into a loud and angry altercation. The priest called Phya Wiset a liar and Phya Wiset replied in kind. Fr. Martin immediately hurried off to the French Consulate to make a complaint on the ground that Phya Wiset had dishonored his cloth by the use of the word liar. He insisted that not only he but his religion had been insulted.

  It was evening when the matter was laid before M. Aubaret. His quick temper flared immediately and he penned a note to the King demanding in a peremptory manner that Phya Wiset be removed from office without further investigation. He added that, if the demand were not complied with at once, he would take it as an insult to Christianity as well as to the French government, and as an infraction of the treaty. The note was committed to M. Lamache, who set out with it for the Palace.

  It was two o’clock in the morning before M. Lamache arrived at the Palace gates, having fortified himself heavily on the way. M. Aubaret had told him to present the note summarily, and as an officer commanding the King’s troops he was admitted to the penetralia. His Majesty had been feeling ill for some days, but was that night a little better. He had called some Buddhist priests for the purpose of holding special devotional services. The King was irritated by the sudden unceremonious appearance of M. Lamache in his quarters and demanded the business of the intruder, pointing out the lateness of the hour.

  M. Lamache presented the consul’s letter without apology. When the King had read it he said that he would have the matter attended to “tomorrow,” and that he would order a suitable investigation.

  “No investigation is necessary, Your Majesty,” replied M. Lamache with an impertinence born of the assurance that the French Consul could be counted on to second him. “I myself heard the offensive language that Phya Wiset used to Father Martin. M. Aubaret insists that Phya Wiset must be shown that he cannot treat a French subject in this way with impunity.”

  “Yes, yes,” said the King impatiently. “I will see to it tomorrow. You may tell M. Aubaret that I have promised to order an investigation. And now you may go.”

  But M. Lamache refused to leave. He expostulated with the King a second, third, and fourth time, demanding insolently that the nobleman be removed by the King’s order that very night. The King’s patience snapped. It had been held in check, in spite of M. Lamache’s disregard of protocol, only by his almost superstitious fear of the French, but the effrontery of M. Lamache was beyond all reason. The hour for the Buddhist ceremony had arrived and His Majesty ordered M. Lamache to withdraw.

  M. Lamache drew himself to his full height and planted his feet firmly. “I refuse to go, Your Majesty,” he retorted with deliberate impudence, “until you have granted M. Aubaret’s very reasonable request.”

  “Throw him out!” shouted the King to the guard who crouched near him. With a rush they closed in on M. Lamache and took him bodily out of the hall, out of the courtyard, through the gates, and deposited him roughly in the public road in front of the Palace.

  The Frenchman picked himself up slowly and set off to report to M. Aubaret. Angry and humiliated, he embroidered his story. He said that the King had spoken disrespectfully, not only of His Imperial Majesty’s consul, but of the Emperor himself, besides outrageously insulting a French messenger.

  The King had intended to answer M. Aubaret’s note in the morning, but when morning came he was ill again and postponed the matter. In the meantime M. Aubaret grew more and more inflamed, both by reflection on the story M. Lamache had told, and by the insult he imagined in the King’s delay. Finally, unable to contain himself longer, he wrote a second note saying that in expelling Lamache from the Palace the King of Siam had been guilty of a political misdemeanor, and had rudely disturbed the friendly relations existing between France and Siam. He accused the King of antagonism toward the French and threatened to lay the implications of the King’s attitude, with suitable recommendations, before the Emperor in six weeks, since he expected to be in Paris by that time. He added ominously that during his absence he would ask the admiral in command of the French fleet at Saigon to take measures to insure the “protection of French interests in Siam.”

  Instead of writing an answer the King sent Mom Rachothai to explain to the consul, for, as Anna wrote of this incident, “His Majesty knew how to confront the uproar of vulgarity and folly with the repose of wisdom and dignity.” It was obvious to the King that M. Lamache was misrepresenting the occurrence in the Palace, and he believed that a reasonable explanation from one of the most respected men in Bangkok would satisfy the consul.

  Mom Rachothai was a serene, quiet man of more than middle age. He went on his difficult assignment immediately. “Your Excellency,” he began courteously, “His Majesty has asked me to call and explain that you have unfortunately an erroneous idea of what happened at the Palace when M. Lamache presented your note. He is sure that as soon as you understand the circumstances you will realize that …”

  He got no further. The consul stood up with insane rage glowing in his eyes. He walked over to the dignified Siamese judge and picked up the insignia of his rank, which his seryants had placed on the table beside him as was the custom. These were all gifts from the King and were an official’s most precious possessions. They were carried behind him wherever he went by slaves specially selected for that purpose. With deliberation and malice the Frenchman threw the insignia one by one to the ground from his verandah, which was raised many feet above it. The betel-box broke into pieces in front of the Prince’s slaves who crouched waiting for their master.

  Then the consul turned to the judge, in whose face horror and incredulity were mixed. Before the Siamese could guess what the barbarian from Europe contemplated M. Aubaret’s hand shot out toward Mom Rachothai’s head. Among a people who regarded the head as sacred and untouchable the gesture itself was insulting. But M. Aubaret did not stop there. He grasped the prince by his hair and with all his strength swung the slight Siamese up and threw him down the stairs to the ground after his insignia.

  For seventy-five years this unthinkable, incredible, unendurable insult to the Siamese nation was to rankle in Siamese minds and keep alive their hatred of the French. M. Aubaret left almost immediately for France. After he had gone—everyone hoped for good—the Bangkok Recorder said:

  It is evident from what has been transpiring ever since M. Aubaret has been here that he is not the man to get along with the Siamese, and we doubt if he could get along smoothly anywhere. If he return to Siam he must return with sufficient force to make Siam virtually a French province, and himself the chief man in it.

  Most of the Europeans in Bangkok as well as many of the Siamese were convinced that this was exactly what M. Aubaret wanted to do. They could only hope that his Imperial Master was too heavily involved in Europe and Mexico to make it possible.

  30

  THE SLAVE TUPTIM

  One day in the fall of 1865 when Anna was dismissing school she heard a little prince say to another in Siamese, “Come on, let’s go hunt for Tuptim.” Tuptim! The name rang ominously in Anna’s mind. She had not thought of the girl in months, perhaps a year. The last time she had seen the young concubine she had vaguely resolved to talk to her and get better acquainted. But Tuptim had not come to the schoolroom again and the determination had died unborn.

 
“Why are you going to hunt for Tuptim?” Anna asked the little prince in surprise. “Where has she gone?”

  Before the child could answer Princess Ying Yaowalak, the oldest of the royal children, angrily seized him by the arm and hurried him away. Anna had no wish to inquire further. She had had more than enough of the troubles of the Palace, and she did not want to involve herself in another stormy contretemps with the King. Sometimes it seemed to her that their association had been one long struggle in which the incidents were mere variations on the theme of their different points of view. The King was too accustomed to sycophancy not to try to enforce at least outward submission on all those close to him. Anna was too conscious of the dignity that she regarded as the natural right of human beings not to resist the implication of his attitude both for herself and for others. No amount of familiarity and adjustment could resolve completely the latent friction between them.

  She was tired of the Palace, tired of wrongs she could not right, tired of the callousness of those around her, and the irresponsible cruelty of the King. Nevertheless, as she walked home that day she could not free herself from anxiety for Tuptim, suddenly called to remembrance by the words of the little prince. The scene at Wat Rachapradit when the King had been talking about M. Aubaret and the geographers who perversely called Siam an absolute monarchy had come back to Anna many times. In her mind’s eye she could still see Tuptim sink to her knees in the midst of the falling pottery, as if the King’s gaze were a withering blight. Well, M. Aubaret was on his way to France and there was a lull in his offensive aggressions. But Tuptim—what could have happened to her?

  Anna might have forgotten the trivial incident if it had not been for what followed. A week after the ceremonies at Wat Rachapradit she had been walking through one of the long corridors within the Palace on her way to work when she saw the girl lying on the marble pavement among the offerings placed there for the King, which he would inspect on his leisurely progress toward his breakfast hall. She lay in the midst of bales of silk, supplies of perfumed candles, boxes of spices, and the many other gifts that were always to be found there. Two women were crouching on either side of her, waiting to make the presentation.

  Anna had grown accustomed to such sights, but she was surprised at the unusual interest this girl appeared to excite in the other women of the harem. Several of them were standing nearby, whispering and talking together, expressing their admiration of her beauty in the most extravagant language. She was certainly very lovely. Those who had sent her had used all the resources of art to enhance her natural charms. Her lips were dyed a deep crimson, and her eyebrows were continued in indigo until they met on her brow. Her eyelashes were stained with kohl, the tips of her fingers and nails with henna. Enormous gold chains and rings adorned her neck and hands. No wonder the girl had been frightened that day when she saw she had attracted the attention of the King. Apparently she had foreseen what his interest would mean! She had looked so happy and free then! Anna stopped a moment in sadness, and went on.

  Among the hundreds of women of the harem who had been presented to the King in the same way Anna would hardly have given much thought to this particular girl except that first one thing and then another distinguished her. Three months or so after her presentation to the King, Anna saw her for the third time. She was standing in the same courtyard exhibiting to several other young girls like herself a pomegranate. It was the largest and finest fruit of its kind that Anna had seen and she stopped to get a closer view. The girl showed it to her happily. It was not a real fruit at all, but a casket of gold, exquisitely molded. It had been enameled to resemble the fruit and was inlaid with rubies, which looked exactly like the seeds of the pomegranate. It was made to open and shut at the touch of a small spring and was intended for a betel-box.

  “Where did you get it?” Anna asked, for it was an enormously costly trinket.

  The girl turned to Anna with a child’s smile and pointed to the lofty chamber of the King. “My name, you know, is Tuptim,” she explained. Then Anna understood the gift, for Tuptim meant “pomegranate” or “ruby,” and the little box combined the two meanings. The King had a new favorite!

  Again, weeks later, on a day when Anna went to Lady Thiang’s house to request fresh supplies of paper and ink, she came upon Tuptim weeping bitterly. The head wife was reproving her with unusual warmth. Lady Thiang paid no attention to Anna’s entrance, and this was unusual also. When she had finished her scolding she turned to Anna with a kind of despair and asked, “What shall I do with this Tuptim? Shall I whip her or starve her until she minds me?”

  “Forgive her whatever she’s done, and be good to her as you are to everyone,” Anna whispered.

  “Why should I forgive her?” Lady Thiang asked, in an offended tone, evidently thinking that Anna was making light of a serious situation. “She makes me more trouble than any girl in the Palace. Do you know what she’s been doing? Why, when she’s been told to stay upstairs with HIM, she runs away and hides in the rooms of her friends. You’ve seen her with Maprang and Simla? They’re her most intimate friends and they seem to think that it’s funny to help her, and then we older women are accused of being jealous of her and mistreating her. And we have to search all the houses of the Choms until we find her, usually sound asleep, and bring her to HIM. And the minute she comes into HIS presence she goes down on her knees and looks so innocent that HE’S enchanted, and declares that she is the most perfect and fascinating woman in the harem. But as soon as she can get away, she does it all over again, only finding some new place to hide.

  “Mem cha, I’m in despair. I honestly don’t know what to do with her. Why will she act like a child? Now she says she’s ill and can’t wait on the King. But the physicians who have examined her say that there’s nothing at all wrong with her. I don’t know what to do next. I can’t tell HIM the truth. You know what would happen to her if HE ever found out what she’s been doing. She won’t listen to my advice, or to anyone else’s, either. And I’m terribly afraid that she’ll find herself in real trouble if she doesn’t. I’ve told her that she might just as well make up her mind to bear her life here more patiently, because if she doesn’t it can get much much worse. But will she listen to me?” Lady Thiang was wringing her hands in genuine distress. Tuptim knelt before her, head hanging.

  “How old is she?” Anna inquired.

  “Oh, fifteen perhaps,” Lady Thiang answered.

  Anna looked at the girl with a new stab of pity. She did appear either ill or very unhappy. But for all her childlike appearance there was a great deal of poise about her. Tuptim’s eyes brimmed with tears and she protested passionately that she was sick at heart, and that she could not go upstairs any more. Anna was sure that Lady Thiang’s condemnation did not indicate any real anger, but rather concern, so she put her arms around the head wife and succeeded at last in obtaining permission for Tuptim to be absent from duty for a few days until she felt better. A smile of gratitude lighted the girl’s tear-stained face and she crept away.

  “She’s too unsophisticated!” Lady Thiang complained as soon as Tuptim was out of sight. “She won’t even try to get used to the life here. She says that she didn’t want to come, and she doesn’t like it. I pity her from my heart, Mem cha, but I mustn’t let her know it. She would take advantage of me and keep away from HIM altogether. And you know what would happen then. She isn’t the only girl who has been brought here against her will. Why can’t she try to like it, or at least pretend to until she gets used to it? Lots of the other women would be glad to be the favorite, goodness knows. Look at the gifts she receives! But no, not Tuptim! She mopes in her room, and cries, and avoids HIM if she can.” Lady Thiang sighed deeply. “And we head wives get the blame. She doesn’t! HE thinks that we’re jealous and intriguing and afraid of our younger rivals, and that we try to keep Tuptim away from HIM with one excuse or another so that she can’t supplant us in HIS affections, when the holy Buddha in heaven knows that there’s nothing but kindne
ss and sympathy in our hearts for her. Look how we shield her from HIM!”

  Not long after this Tuptim began to come to school. She wanted to learn to write her name in English, she said, and she came once or twice a week. Usually Maprang and Simla came with her. They were listless and idle, but she was absorbed in the lessons. She would sit on the marble floor for hours listening to the simple exercises of translating English into Siamese and Siamese into English. Anna began to hope that Tuptim might find the same outlet for her pent-up emotions that Prang had found. Prang who had been wild and restless and full of hazardous mischief was now steady, quiet and seemingly happy.