Then, too, there was her health. Since her illness the number of hours she could work had been sharply reduced. The King had reluctantly taken Dr. Campbell’s word that it was impossible for Mrs. Leonowens to continue to do all she had been required to do previously. But even the limitation on time could not protect her from the capricious temper and extravagant demands of the King. They were more difficult to endure than long hours of work.
In the late afternoon Phra Alak, the King’s private secretary, appeared with a paper. He was accompanied by a group of slaves from the Palace. On the paper were a number of accusations that she was to read, acknowledge, and sign, for him to take back to the King. She was also to admit that she was guilty of ingratitude, and atone to the King by prompt compliance with his wishes in the matter of the letter to Sir John Bowring. The accusations were many and varied:
1. She had stolen a valuable Sanskrit book from his library.
2. She had often disobeyed the King’s commands.
3. She had thwarted his wishes.
4. She had presumed to scold His Majesty for certain matters of conduct, which were not her concern.
5. She had shown him disrespect, as by standing while he was seated, thinking evil of him, slandering him, and calling him wicked.
6. She had walked over the head of His Majesty.
7. She had honored and favored the British Consul, Mr. Thomas George Knox, at the expense of the American Consul, Mr. James Madison Hood. In support of this last charge—she had written the American Consul’s name at the bottom of a royal circular, after carefully displaying her own and the British Consul’s at the top of it.
Anna read the ridiculous accusations, her anger kindling. How tenacious was the King’s memory of any slight fault! How easily he forgot faithful service! Once, long ago, before she understood palace etiquette, the King had expressed a desire for a certain book. She had remembered that it was in the room above where His Majesty had been working earlier in the day, and, supposing that she was obeying his wish, if not his command, she had hurried upstairs after it. All unthinking she had entered a room directly over the one in which the King was sitting, secured the book and come downstairs, expecting him to be pleased. But she had “walked over his head.” To her surprise the attending women were shaking in terror. With trembling lips they had assured her that if she ever committed such a breach of royal etiquette again she would be cast into a dungeon.
The other charges were equally farcical. She handed the strange document back to Phra Alak without a word.
“But you haven’t signed it,” he demurred.
“No, and I never will,” she replied curtly. “You can tell the King so.”
The slaves all dropped on their knees and begged her, in the names of their various mistresses, to yield to the King’s demand, and do what he required. She realized that they acted out of love for her, fearing the consequences to her. But she would not agree to do what she could not. Phra Alak, who was a man of resources, produced the other string to his bow. He offered Anna a substantial bribe. No doubt the money had been collected by the women of the Palace for just this contingency, since he could hardly have had so large a sum himself.
“Phra Alak,” Anna said reproachfully, “you know perfectly well that I can’t be bribed. If what the King asked me to do were right, I’d do it without money. But it’s wrong, and I won’t do it, and certainly not for money.”
It pained her to realize that the scribe, like the King, could not be convinced of her integrity. It was four and a half years since she had begun her work in the Palace. Not once in that time had money been a consideration in any of her dealings as advocate for the suffering and oppressed. Yet this man, whom she had helped so many times, thought she could be bought! What, after all, was the use of even attempting to work with people incapable of recognizing the force of principle and the impelling guidance of conscience?
Phra Alak raised his bid. When she refused again, she saw by his face that he imagined she was merely bargaining. For two hours he argued and pleaded, slowly increasing the sum he was willing to pay for her signature to the charges, and the letter to Sir John Bowring. The slaves added their frantic pleading. Finally Anna stood up to show the interview was over. It was past tea time. She had been very patient, hoping to convince Phra Alak that she could not be bought, but without success. He departed in despair, convinced that the large sum he had offered was insufficient for the cupidity of this Englishwoman. He went with his head downcast, mourning for himself because he must return unsuccessful to the King, and might expect the most unpleasant consequences to his person.
Anna was so exhausted by the long argument that she could hardly eat her dinner. The rain had not come and the atmosphere was still oppressive. Little puffs of breeze and occasional thunder held out promise of relief, but no drops fell. After dinner she sat alone in her downstairs living room unable to stop thinking about the events of the day. Here she was once more plunged into a conflict not of her own choosing, but no easier for that. Fears crowded thick about her. They were increased by an anonymous note from the Palace telling her that the King’s anger had grown by her refusal to sign the paper he had sent by Phra Alak. He had shouted to his assembled courtiers, “Will no one rid me of this woman?” Anna called her servants and had the doors locked and barred. She told them that they were to admit no Siamese, not even from the Palace, unless she ordered them to do so.
She had only once before feared for her personal safety. She had believed that as an Englishwoman she was immune from the quick death that found many of the Siamese subjects of His Majesty. She had incurred the jealousy of certain courtiers, it was true, and the enmity of much of the privileged class. If the King had actually suggested that he would be glad to have her done away with, was she being foolishly timorous? Wasn’t it possible that there was at least one of them who would send a hired assassin to carry out his sovereign’s will?
On a single previous occasion she had seen the King as angry at her as he was now. She had refused to write a letter to the Earl of Clarendon giving his objections to Mr. Knox. The King had been so violent then that she had thought he would do her physical harm. She had barred herself behind locked doors and windows for three days. Afterward she had laughed at herself, and in retrospect her fears had seemed imaginary. Yet had they been? Or had she sensed an actual peril that had passed when the King’s anger passed?
For a long while she had believed that the Kralahome would act as a brake on the King’s impetuosity. But her relations with the Kralahome had ceased to be cordial. His half-brother, the interpreter, had told her long ago that he would prejudice his brother against her. She had come to believe that he had succeeded. She no longer felt that she could depend on the Kralahome for help.
She had become aware of the change when she called with one of her “clients” to see him. A Chinese man had been murdered and robbed by a favorite slave in the household of the Kralahome’s brother, leaving his wife and children in helpless poverty. The murderer had screened himself by sharing the plunder with his master. The widow sought redress in vain. The ears of the magistrates were stopped against her by the high position of the Kralahome’s family, and she was too poor to pay her way. Still she went from one court to another, until she annoyed a judge so much that he had her eldest son seized and imprisoned on some pretext. She came to Anna in wild despair, wailing and praying for help. Anna secured the release of the son, but to protect him she had to take him into her own household and change his name. “Timothy,” Anna called him, and “Ti” he became.
The next step was to go with the woman to see the Kralahome and try to recover some of the stolen property. The premier was sitting on the floor playing chess when they arrived. Seeing Anna enter, he sent a slave for a jacket which he put on. She remembered the time when he had not thought she rated this courtesy. He paid no further attention to her, however, until he had finished his game of chess.
When she had explained her errand he
seemed vexed, but sent for his brother. They had a long talk in low tones. At the end the Kralahome frowned at the Chinese widow and warned her that if she made any more complaints to the judges he would have her flogged. Facing Anna with a grim smile he said, “Chinese too much bother. Good-by, sir.”
It was the first time Anna had ever known him to be deliberately unjust. It could mean only that his brother had prevailed and that she could no longer look to him for redress. The evening of that same day as she sat alone in her drawing room, she had heard a slight noise. Looking around, she saw to her surprise the interpreter crouching by the piano.
“How dare you come into my house unannounced?” she demanded.
“Mem,” he said, “your servants admitted me. They know from whom I come, and would not venture to refuse me. And now it is for you to know that I am here from His Excellency the Kralahome, to request you to send in your resignation at the end of this month.”
“And by what authority does he send me this message?” she had asked.
“I know not. But it were best that you obey.”
“Tell him,” she had replied, “that I shall leave Siam when I please, and that no man shall set the time for me!”
The interpreter had departed cringing and excusing himself from any share in the matter. She had not slept that night. Again and again prudence had advised her to seek safety in flight, but in the morning she had decided to stay. She would not be driven out! Her friends in the Palace had been alarmed for her security, but she had laughed at their fears. About three weeks later when the King was going up-country and had told her that she was to accompany her pupils, the Kralahome had been required to prepare a cabin for her and Louis on his yacht, the Volant. Before they left the Palace Lady Son Klin had begged her to promise that she would eat no food or take anything to drink on board the steamer.
These and other incidents raced through Anna’s mind now as she sat deep in thought. It had not been time to go then, but perhaps it was time now. She hated to leave her pupils just as she was seeing so much improvement in them. Still she could not do as the King insisted she must. It was probably better to resign and go with Louis to London, or, as some of her friends had urged, especially Francis Cobb, go to the United States and build a new life.
She was suddenly recalled to her surroundings by what at first she imagined must be an apparition or some delusion of her tired mind. She realized that for hours she had been sitting like a statue staring at an open window. She started up. A pair of black eyes were watching her through the leaves of some flowering shrubs with the fixedness of a basilisk. Anna’s first impulse was to scream for help, her second to choke down the panic that had risen in her. How timid she was becoming! If the person outside were an assassin, a knife could have reached her heart long since. Summoning all her courage she demanded, “Who’s there?”
“It’s only me, your ladyship,” said a low voice, a woman’s but not familiar. “I’ve been waiting for a long while, but your servants won’t let me see you. They say you’ve forbidden them to let any Siamese person enter.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Anna said. “I don’t want to see anyone at all this evening, not even my friends. I’m ill and tired. Now go away, and if you have business with me come back in the morning.”
“Phutho!” said the woman, still in a low tone. “I’m not a Siamese, and I don’t live in Bangkok. You wouldn’t have the heart to send me away if you knew that I’d rowed thirty miles against the tide to see you.”
Another client, Anna thought in despair. And on what a night, of all nights! She said a little impatiently: “There isn’t any use in telling me your business. I don’t even want to know what it is. Now, you simply must go! It’s not safe for you to walk about the city at this late hour.”
“But, Mem cha, please let me come in for just a minute. All I want is to say one word to you in private, just one! And then I’ll promise to go away. Won’t you let me come in?” The woman’s voice was more and more pleading, her face still in the heavy shadows.
Anna compromised. “Say what you want to tell me now, then,” she answered shortly, annoyed with herself for melting even this much. “There’s no one around who could overhear you. I’m not going to let you in, no matter what you want.”
“Phutho! Phutho!” the woman said reproachfully, as if to herself. “I wouldn’t have rowed all this long distance alone if I hadn’t heard that she was a good woman, and a brave woman, too. Of course, some people said that she was not. Still I thought I would try her. After all, what I wanted was so little! And now she says she can’t let me in! A poor fugitive and desolate slave girl like me! They said she was kind and that she had helped many people, but, no, she will not give me five minutes of her time, or listen to my request. Phutho!”
Even though Anna knew that it was a performance, and a very good one, she was touched, partly by the woman’s genuinely despairing tone, and partly by the ruse she had employed to present her case. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, whatever your trouble is,” she said kindly. “The King is angry with me and the judges know it, so I have no more influence with them.”
The woman seemed to recognize the change in tone. Anna had hardly finished speaking before the stranger had put her hands on the sill and vaulted through the open window. As she had said, she was not a Siamese. She was a Lao. Her hair was pulled back from her forehead in the style of the northern people. Her eyes were bright and intelligent. She held her head erect, although her hands were clasped in the attitude of supplication. She was unusually tall and strong, with handsome regular features and a look of character. Anna saw at once this was no ordinary person, and almost against her will felt her interest kindle. The Lao woman’s pasin was held by a wide English belt, which showed off her beautiful figure to the best advantage.
The moment she stood before Anna she began to talk with a fluency and gestures that were amazing. Anna had become so accustomed to Siamese restraint that she was bewildered by the animation with which the Lao woman spoke. Tears flowed spontaneously down her face and her voice rose and fell in passionate cadences.
The whole time she was speaking, however, she watched Anna’s face with a shrewdness which suggested that she would vary her approach if the effect were not satisfactory. Even while Anna realized this, her interest increased so rapidly that the Lao woman noticed her altered expression and came to the conclusion she had gained the entire sympathy of her listener.
“There,” said the slave, “I knew from your face that you had a kind heart in spite of your words.” She came forward with a graceful salutation and laid a thick letter in a velvet envelope at Anna’s feet. It was fastened with silk cords and sealed with English sealing wax. The writing on the outside was not in Siamese, but in some characters unknown to Anna.
The woman dropped to her knees and raised her hands in supplication. “Mem chao kha,” she said softly, “all that I ask is that you take this letter into the Palace to a woman, whose name I will tell you, if you agree.” Anna tried to say that she could not undertake so dangerous an errand, but she found herself unable to speak. The woman continued to kneel before her. She was immobile, yet there was such vehement pleading in her dark eyes that it was hard to resist the impact of her will. Her joined hands implored Anna’s help in a daring scheme, which Anna had neither the courage to undertake, nor the hardness of heart to refuse.
Why did people ask these impossible things of her? As gently as she could she told the Lao woman that it was as much as her life was worth to carry a letter to a woman in the Palace. The slave had said the woman was a prisoner. Well, that was a hundred times more difficult. Then she added: “It’s not only for my personal safety that I am afraid. It’s for my son’s also. His father is dead, and if anything happened to me there would be no one to look after him.”
As Anna spoke the woman’s features grew rigid. Her color receded until her appearance was that of a death’s head. Perspiration broke out on her forehead, and she swayed as if
she were about to faint. Anna’s resolution to be firm and sensible melted before the slave’s utter desolation. With a kind of despair at her own vulnerability she began to chafe the woman’s cold hands. “Does your letter matter so much?” she asked. But the woman was past the power of speech. She looked at Anna dumbly. With a last stab of remorse for her own weakness Anna cried, “Oh, for goodness’ sake, tell me what your trouble is, and I’ll do my best to help you.”
The effect of the promise was immediate. A look of life came into the slave’s eyes and her color slowly returned. She laid her hand on the Englishwoman’s arm, gasped and spoke hurriedly, as if she feared that Anna might change her mind. “You haven’t asked my name or who I am,” she said, “but I’ll tell you anyway. I’m sure you won’t betray me. My name is Mae Pia and my home is in Chiengmai. The name of my father is Manitho, and he is one of the most trusted councillors of Prince Sarawong, although he is a slave, too. My mother was a slave in the family of the prince when my father secured her for his wife, and I was only a month old when she was asked to nurse the baby daughter of the prince, whose own mother died when she was born. We grew up together, and that is how it happened that I became the companion and friend of my foster-sister.” She paused briefly, then abandoned her last reserve. “She is the Princess Sunatda Wismita.”
It was Anna’s turn to start. The mysterious Princess of Chiengmai! She had heard just yesterday that the Prince of Chiengmai had come to Bangkok with a retinue of twenty-five boats to pay the triennial tribute. He was earlier than expected.
Anna and the King of Siam Page 42
