Anna and the King of Siam

by Margaret Landon

  When Anna returned home to lunch she could not put the picture of the princess out of her mind, the utter friendlessness expressed in her few slight actions. She knew now the princess was alive and where she was. This reopened the question of the red velvet letter. If the message had been oral Anna would have felt that she could undertake delivering it, but a written message might be anything. She did not believe Mae Pia’s assurance that the letter was merely one of greeting and encouragement. The Prince of Chiengmai, Mae Pia herself—who could guess what reckless scheme they were plotting? Did Anna want to be their intermediary? If she carried the letter to the princess she must do it with her eyes open to the fact that she was conniving against the King. What sort of end would justify that means? Or was human need such as she had seen in the face of the princess justification enough?

  When Anna started back to school the letter was pinned in her pocket. She had decided to call on Lady Thiang, and perhaps consult with her. But how was she to broach the subject to the head wife in the presence of the women who attended her at all times?

  Anna turned in at the house with the quaint stuccoed front and the pleasant garden, her problem of seeing Lady Thiang privately still unresolved. They had been confederates in many little plots, but never in one where the stake was so large, or the person involved so important. Lady Thiang might be quite unwilling to interfere between the King and the princess. It was not difficult, however, to make an occasion for a call and then trust to intuition. Lady Thiang was expecting her tenth child and Anna often stopped by to see how she was.

  She received Anna with her usual bright smile. She put down one of her younger children, Prince Chaiyanuchit, who had been a tiny baby when Anna came to the Palace for the first time, and embraced Anna heartily. Little Chai settled himself in Anna’s lap as usual. When he was two she had begun to teach him bits of English nursery rhymes and sentences, and he always greeted her, “Mem, Mem, how do do?” or “Mem, make a bow, make a bow,” and bobbed his little head, blinking his bright eyes at her to the infinite delight of his mother and her maids.

  The women in the room gathered around Anna’s chair to listen to her English baby talk with Chai. “Baa-baa black sheep …” she began, and “Baa-baa black sheep …” Chai repeated after her. There was a roar of laughter when he followed her line by line through a little song, and then stopped her mouth with an orange. His offering! He jumped from her lap and put on her hat and cloak and strutted up and down the room saying, “How do do? How do do?” His mother snatched him up and covered him with kisses. And the women whispered, audibly to please Lady Thiang, that he was as clever as his father, and would surely come to the throne some day. In the midst of the laughter one of the physicians was announced.

  Lady Thiang retired at once to an inner room with the physician, carrying Chai in her arms and beckoning Anna to follow. There she gave Chai to Anna and lay down to be massaged. Here was the opportunity that Anna had hoped for, almost miraculously provided. But she waited a little in order to make sure whether the doctor was to be trusted.

  The women were silent for several minutes. Lady Thiang sighed and grunted a little, as the physician manipulated first one part of her body and then another. Anna waited, then suddenly realized that the women were also waiting. From their glances she saw that the physician had something to say to Lady Thiang, and that the latter had not given her the signal to proceed. She, too, seemed to be waiting—no doubt for the end of Anna’s visit. Anna pretended not to see the interplay. She bounced Chai on her lap and sang a little song to him. After a while, seeing that Anna made no move to go, Lady Thiang said to the doctor in Siamese, “Never mind, speak out. It’s perfectly all right. You don’t need to be afraid!” which of course Anna understood perfectly.

  The doctor ceased her manipulations, and after a cautious glance around the room, shook her head. “I don’t think she’ll live much longer,” she said.

  Lady Thiang sat bolt upright and clasped her hands together. “Phutho!” she exclaimed.

  “It’s impossible!” the doctor added in a low, earnest voice. “It would be better to put her to death at once than to kill her by inches the way they are doing.”

  “Great Buddha in heaven, help us!” Lady Thiang cried softly in profound agitation. “What shall I do? Can she be saved?”

  “Something will have to be done at once if at all,” the doctor replied.

  “Well, why don’t you draw up a paper and give it to Mae Ying Thahan? And be sure to say that she can’t live twenty-four hours longer unless she’s removed from that closet and allowed to have an airing every day. Poor child! Poor child!” Lady Thiang repeated. “With such a noble heart, and now to die like this. We must find some way of helping her live a little longer, until things look brighter. There must be something we can do!”

  “He’s forgotten all about her by this time,” rejoined the doctor with a sniff, preparing to go.

  Anna had been playing with Chai as if she had no concern with the conversation. After the doctor had closed the door she turned to Lady Thiang and spoke softly but directly. “Were you talking about the Princess Sunatda Wismita?”

  The head wife jumped up in alarm and looked at Anna as if she supposed the Englishwoman was endowed with supernatural power to unravel mysteries. “How did you know her name?” she demanded. “We never mentioned it.”

  Anna told her swiftly about Mae Pia’s visit and the red velvet letter. “If she’s really dying, as the doctor says, surely there’d be no harm in letting her have the letter. Couldn’t you send it to her? You spoke just now of finding some way to stimulate her interest in life until you could help her.” Lady Thiang shook her head. “Then let me take the letter to her myself!”

  Lady Thiang sat on the edge of the couch, sunk in thought. “We are all prisoners here, dear friend,” she said at last, “and we have to be careful what we do. But if you promise never to say a word on this subject to anyone, and in case of discovery to take all the blame yourself, whatever it may be, I’ll help you.”

  “Of course,” Anna said. “I promise gladly.”

  Lady Thiang looked at Anna steadily. Her black hair made her ivory face even whiter than it was. It was a broad face, not pretty, but charming, with soft, very dark eyes, and a firm pleasant mouth. “You mustn’t think that I’m just weak and selfish, Mem cha,” she said after reflecting a little, laying her hand on Anna’s as if pleading for understanding. “You are a farang, and HE hasn’t the same power over you. You can go away whenever you like. But we must stay here and suffer HIS will and pleasure, no matter what happens.”

  Anna nodded. “I know,” she said, “oh, certainly I know.”

  “Come back after sunset, and I’ll tell you whether it is safe to deliver the letter tonight.”

  When it was quite dark Anna returned to Lady Thiang’s house. The head wife hurried out to meet her before the household should see her.

  “It’s arranged, Mem cha,” she whispered in an exulting voice, “and the doctor’s report has made things much better. The princess has been moved into a good cell where there is some air from a window.” She summoned two slaves and told them to go with Anna and instruct the Amazons that Anna might visit the princess. This was a courageous thing for her to do. Anna had expected only that the Amazons would have been prepared in a roundabout way for her visit and would admit her as they had before on the payment of a small sum to each guard.

  The slaves moved rapidly and silently through the quiet streets, Anna following. At the door of the prison they said a few hurried words and melted into the night. Quickly and without ceremony Anna was conducted to a small apartment. The Amazon ushered her in, not having spoken at all, and closed the door. The room was dimly lighted by a wick burning in an earthen vessel. There was one window, heavily barred. The shutters had been thrown open and a little warm air stirred feebly. Beneath the window on wooden trestles a narrow plank had been laid and covered with a flowered mat and satin pillow. On this lay the wasted fo
rm of the Princess Sunatda.

  Her dress was that of a Lao lady of high rank. She wore a scarlet silk pasin, gold encrusted, reaching to her feet, and a flowered black silk vest. A long veil of Indian gauze was across her shoulders. Around her neck was a heavy gold chain, and on her fingers several rings, obviously of great value. Her hair was combed smoothly back from her forehead and bound in a massive knot behind. This was circled by a tiara of diamond-headed pins. She was not nearly so beautiful as the slave Mae Pia, to Anna’s way of thinking. But when the Englishwoman looked closely she caught the defiant, heroic pride that flashed from the princess’ melancholy eyes. Whether the face was beautiful or not, it was one never to be forgotten.

  At her feet were two other crude beds, and seated on them were the women who were her maids-in-waiting. Anna walked across the cell and took a seat near the group. The princess, who had been gazing at the little glimpse of sky which could be seen through the iron bars, turned to Anna. Her look was quiet and self-absorbed. She showed neither interest nor displeasure at seeing that a stranger had entered her apartment. No one said anything. Anna was at a loss how to start the conversation. She began in the conventional way by inquiring after the princess’ health.

  “I am well,” the princess said indifferently. “Pray, why have you come here?”

  “I have an important private message for you,” Anna replied.

  “Is that true?” the princess asked, looking for confirmation at the women rather than Anna.

  Anna herself answered unhesitatingly. “Yes, it is. I’ve come to you as one woman to another, because of your trouble.”

  The princess looked at her strangely as if the words made no sense. “How can that be?” she asked in a haughty tone. “You must know, madam, that women are not just women. Some are born to high station, and some are born slaves.” She pronounced the words slowly in the court language of Siam.

  Anna took no umbrage at the words. “Yes, that’s true,” she said gently. “We’re not all alike. There are many kinds of women. And I have come here because a very brave one asked me to. It wasn’t out of any idle curiosity I might have felt about you, but because I didn’t see how I could refuse Mae Pia’s request.”

  “Mae Pia? What did you say?” The princess jumped up from her bed, her whole face illuminated, and threw her arms around Anna’s neck as if they had been friends for years. She laid a hot cheek on Anna’s and whispered, “Tell me! Tell me! Did you say Mae Pia?”

  Anna drew the red velvet envelope out of her pocket and put it into the princess’ hands. Such a look of joy came into her face that it was as if a crystal chandelier had suddenly bloomed with light in a dark room. The change from despair to joy made her supremely beautiful. With nervous movements she tore open the velvet covering and pulled out the letter, leaning toward the earthen lamp to read it. There was a soft flush on her pale face in the flickering lamplight. She smiled as she finished and turned to speak to the other women in a language unknown to Anna.

  After this the three Lao talked together for a long time, the two attendants obviously urging their mistress to do something that she apparently would not consent to do. At last she threw the letter angrily away and covered her face with her hands, as if she were unable to resist their arguments but refused to hear them longer.

  The elder of the women took up the letter quietly and read its contents several times aloud to her companion. She then opened a betel-box and drew out an inkhorn, a small reed and a long roll of yellow paper. In a labored script she began a letter, now and then rubbing out words with her finger and beginning again. She seemed to go on endlessly, consulting her companion several times. The princess lay on the bed looking out of the window as before. When the letter was finished it was unsightly and so blotted that Anna wondered if anyone could decipher its message. The woman folded it carefully, and put it into a blue silk cover which she took from the betel-box. Then she stitched the bag shut and sewed a piece of paper on the outside. This she addressed in the same characters that the red velvet envelope had borne. When her work was finished she handed it to Anna with a hopeful smile.

  Only then did the princess turn and speak to Anna again. “Did Mae Pia promise you any money?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Do you want any money?”

  “No, thank you,” said Anna as haughtily as the princess herself. “But you’ll have to tell me to whom the letter is addressed because I cannot read the writing. I’ll do everything possible to see that it gets to its destination, and to be of service to you in any other way to the best of my ability.”

  The princess seemed quite overwhelmed. She got up from her bed again and embraced Anna in the most affectionate manner, thanking her again and again, and told her she would bless her continually in her thoughts. Then she asked Anna to deliver the letter into the hands of Mae Pia or her brother, Prince Othong, but to no one else.

  “Where will I find them?”

  The princess whispered her answer, evidently afraid that one of the Amazons might be eavesdropping. “They’re at the house of the Governor of Paklat, in hiding. Or they were when they sent the letter to me. If they have gone, he will know where to find them.”

  The next problem was how to get to Paklat. It was a town many miles down the river from Bangkok, not far from Paknam where the River Chow Phya emptied into the gulf. Anna had been there before. It was a picturesque village with six or seven thousand inhabitants. The most important section of the town faced a bend of the great river. A magnificent temple was gradually rising beside an ancient one so crumbled to decay that the sun poured down unchecked on the tapering crown of the huge brass Buddha, which sat undisturbed, its hands folded. As far as the eye could reach stretched groves of bananas, plantations of coconut and betel palms; gardens of mango and tamarind; banyan and box trees so old that they seemed to have weathered a thousand summers.

  Paklat had one drawback, however, a very serious one. There was an open sala in the village which had long been a rendezvous for rough seamen from the English and American vessels that traded with Bangkok. In consequence it was set down in the code of etiquette of the elite of Bangkok that Paklat was “a dreadfully improper place for a lady to visit alone.”

  It was out of the question for Anna to go there without an escort, and she didn’t want to attract attention by asking anyone to accompany her. Some chance remark from an English friend might arouse suspicion in the minds of the Siamese. She had known for a long time that she was closely watched, although she had never discovered who among her acquaintances were the spies reporting on her every move to the King.

  Luckily, one of the Frenchmen in Bangkok, M. Louis Malherbe, who had been ill, had been sent to Paklat for a change of air by Dr. Campbell of the British Consulate. Louis was very fond of Mme. Malherbe, and had written Avis the year before:

  I know a pretty lady and her name is Madame Malherbe. She cannot talk English. She calls me le beau Louis. When Mama crys and is naughty and wont do as I tell her I call her une Mauvaise Sugete.

  Unfortunately Mme. Malherbe was now in France, which made calling on her husband less easy in the tight little circle of Bangkok. But Anna could not invent a better excuse. M. Lamache, the drill master, was planning to go down the river to see M. Malherbe. His wife was going along and Anna asked permission to accompany them, pleading her desire to take Louis on a little excursion, and exhibiting polite interest in M. Malherbe, since “Louis is devoted to Madame, as you know.” It was not quite good enough, and Anna had to endure a great deal of teasing from her friends. They made themselves very gay at her expense, accusing her of having designs on the invalid, warning her facetiously that his wife would be back presently. She accepted the teasing in good grace and explained nothing.

  At five o’clock on the morning of the day M. Lamache had set, with the blue letter pinned in her pocket, she and Louis climbed into the launch with their host and hostess and set out. The trip down the river was very pleasant. They arrived at Paklat i
n time for breakfast with M. Malherbe. Anna ate quickly, rather enjoying the feeling of intrigue. It couldn’t be real, this thing she was doing. It was going too smoothly, like something out of a book. She had even been able to devise a natural reason for leaving the party. She explained that she had promised to call on Lady Son Klin’s father, the governor, and excused herself easily. She left Louis in charge of Mme. Lamache and hurried off to the governor’s house.

  He received her very kindly, inquiring for his daughter and grandson. She told him immediately the object of her visit, and learned that the prince and Mae Pia were still in hiding with him. He led her through long halls and corridors, which brought them out of the mansion to an old tower, covered with moss and black with age, surrounded by a deep moat full of stagnant water. There were only narrow loopholes for windows. From the roof two flights of steps built into the wall led down to ruined drawbridges. One was connected with the governor’s palace, and the other with a low arched gateway which opened on a canal that in turn had access to the river. It was easy to see the tower had been designed for a refuge, or at least that it was a good one. Two boats were tied on the moat at the foot of the stairs as if ready for an emergency.

  The governor left Anna standing at the low wall that skirted the moat and crossed the crumbling drawbridge. He entered the tower through an arched doorway. The door was ponderous and thick, and looked scarred and pitted as if it had already withstood more than one siege.

  In a few minutes Mae Pia came running out, crying, “Oh, Mem cha, Mem cha! I’m so glad to see you! Oh, I love you! I love you dearly for coming! Here, you must come in and see the prince himself!”