Book for Education : The Circus of Life

THE CIRCUS OF LIFE


Arkartdamkeung Rapheephat


A 1929 novel translated from the Thai by
Phongdeit Jiangphatthana-kit
Editing, postscript and revision by
Marcel Barang


Source : http://www.thaifiction.com/


First published in Thai as Lakhorn Haeng Cheewit, 1929
First published in English by Thai Modern Classics, 1994
Internet, revised edition 2006. Typeset in Bookman Old Style




Contents

1 Childhood
2 Pradit Bunyarrat
3 Lamjuan
4 Going abroad
5 A new world – Paradise
6 London and Pradit
7 A new life
8 Lady Moira Dunn and Maria Grey
9 Seven days in seventh heaven
10 Great sorrow
11 Life in London
12 The big circus
13 A performance on stage
14 A warning from an old friend
15 Gay Paris
16 Leaving for Monte Carlo
17 A wandering life
18 Going to America
19 Dream city
20 Jurai and Praphat
21 Life torn asunder
22 Farewell to America
23 Goodbye my darling
24 The end of the circus






To Somdej Chao Fa Kromphra Nakhorn Sawan Worraphinit
for his kindly patronage
and to Maria Vanzini, the beloved friend for life of the author
1

CHILDHOOD

1

Omar Khayyaám once said:
“Watch the play, the circus and then yourself
You will jeer, laugh and dance as in a dream.”
The truth of these lines has always impressed me very much. Furthermore, I feel that when he wrote them, the poet was in a state of carefree serenity, and his superior intellect made him able to perceive the very truth, dreams, joys and pains of mankind. Ah, the circus! The circus of life! The circus of the world!
Although I am only 28 years old, the curtain has already fallen on one performance in the circus of my life. I daresay without the slightest hesitation that you will be spellbound and thoroughly entertained while you watch this play, and that you will lose yourself in its bliss and sorrow. By this, I do not in any way mean to claim that I am an exceptional human being: in truth, I am just an ordinary young man, but what makes me different is the sudden and sweeping changes of fortune I have known throughout my life. Luck – that tiny light shining from some unknown direction – has guided me and turned me into an adventurer, a rogue, an inveterate gambler addicted to almost all games, and I have wandered in all sorts of places to find them, unmindful of their trifling results and lowly returns. And it was luck, too, that had me born into one of the most illustrious families in Siam. But it would not be wrong to say that I was the ugly duckling in a flock of graceful swans, because I had a rather slack and rebellious nature, unlike everyone else in the family. Luck also gave me the opportunity to study, work and travel in almost every country in the world, and to know people of all nations and of all stations in life. I was in France at a time when a severe financial crisis brought deprivation and hardship to the people, and governments kept falling. I was in England during times of labour unrest, and in the United States of America when Lindbergh was the first man to fly across the Atlantic Ocean. I had the good luck to witness the warm welcome given to this magnificent aviator, as well as the achievements of male and female pilots who followed in his wake. Among them was Ruth Elder, a flying ace endowed with charm and beauty who has since become a star in Hollywood; I not only met her but also had a chance to converse with her in Washington. Isn’t it true, dear readers? I was once a lucky man, as very few Thai young men can ever claim to be.
There is nothing worse than inequity and injustice. When they grow up, wayward children usually brood resentfully about the inequities that have been perpetually inflicted upon them since early childhood. These painful feelings condition their behaviour. They become narrow-minded and eye everything in this world with bitterness and without confidence in themselves or in others. Whose fault is it, then? Inequity and injustice have been with us since the beginning of time and are an important part of the laws of life that no one can escape.
There are other people who have also had an unfortunate childhood but who, once they have been able to see the world, prefer to laugh at inequity, injustice and the distress they and others feel. They frequently sport smirks on their faces. To them, life is worthless, cruel and laughable. These people are like that because they have grown accustomed to their own lamentations. Everything they see and experience in the world is like a medicine that dispels their nasty thoughts and opens up their tormented hearts. Though they can be heartless, they are occasionally conscious of other people’s woes and try to help as much as they can.
I used to be both of these. I was a child unfortunate to the point of weeping bitter tears, as well as one who could jeer at the world at the drop of a hat. I wonder how much you will hate the author of these lines once you have finished reading the story of his life.

2

I intend to keep you thoroughly entertained as you read this story: I will guide you to the various cities in the world that I visited, and introduce you to all the people whom I came to know, love and respect. But before getting on with the tale, I feel I must write about my childhood, which pains me very much. I have asked myself countless times why I must do so, but then I have come to realise that if Charles Dickens was able to write the story of David Copperfield’s bitter childhood for people to read the world over, it should not be impossible for me to write about my own early life.
When I recall the events of my childhood, I cannot help but laugh. I have already stated that I like to laugh at the world. You may feel that mine is a sad and pitiful tale, but to me it is only part of a big circus – the circus of life.
Grandma Phrorm, who was my nanny fifteen or sixteen years ago, was the only person in the world who knew or was in a position to know what kind of child I was. She knew me as a child whom she had raised and loved, and she shared the sorrow and joy of my young existence. She also tried to foretell my future. She always cried when she told others of her worries regarding what would await me as I grew into manhood. She wept because she loved me. But, alas, although she was good at making predictions, she turned out to be wrong about my future. She could never have imagined that I would have the opportunity to study in Europe and the United States, visit China and Japan, and bring back that wonderful medicine for the heart that roaming the world offers. Oh, if there were any way to let her know about this, I can only wonder at how happy she would be.
Grandma Phrorm was old-fashioned as were all the nannies in aristocratic families in those days. She was ugly, but her eyes – and it was only her eyes which made me realise this – expressed her readiness to give her life for me at any time. Whatever the season, she liked to wear an old loincloth and a tight, long-sleeved blouse. Constant betel chewing had turned her lips from red to charry black as if her mouth had been exposed to fire. Occasionally she rolled herself a coarse cigarette and enjoyed it to the last puff. She had one of the heartiest appetites I have ever seen.
When I was eleven years old and a naughty, brooding, vindictive little rascal, Grandma Phrorm took me to the raft of her grandson-in-law, Jek Tee, which was moored at the mouth of the Phadung Krungkasem Canal. We would sit there at our leisure, and I remember that there was a young girl named Bun Hiang who would always come to chatter with me. She was Jek Tee’s daughter, a talkative, lovable girl of about eleven or twelve. One day, as we all sat on the raft watching the rice barges and the rowing and paddling boats passing by, Bun Hiang said to me: “Look, Mr Wisoot, look at all these big Chinese boats loaded with rice: they all belong to you, and they are heading towards your rice mill, too. Doesn’t it make you feel very rich?”
I did not answer but merely stared at the boats, which were entering the canal one by one. Despite my very young age, I was given to brooding. Oh! Bun Hiang was just a girl I knew and liked well enough; if only she could have seen the turmoil caused in my heart by her very sweet words, she would certainly have apologised to me.
Some days, in the early morning, Bun Hiang would come to my father’s house at Phadung Krungkasem Canal, and we – Bun Hiang, Grandma Phrorm and I – would go out to pluck bulletwood and allamanda flowers at the fence in front of the house. When we had finished, we would help one another string them into garlands which Bun Hiang would put around her neck and take back home. Some days in the afternoon, she would take me to Jek Tee’s raft and we would play at cooking food. At such moments, the little raft was like paradise on earth for me and no other wonder of the world could compare to it. I left for Assumption School at seven in the morning every day and came back home some time after four in the afternoon. As soon as I was back, Grandma Phrorm would give me a bath and help me get dressed, and then take me to Jek Tee’s raft. And so it went on, day after day. Sometimes a week went by before I had a chance to meet my parents, but there was nothing strange about this, because a child like me did not dare to meet his parents more than was necessary. Why should we meet when there was nothing special to discuss or celebrate? I accepted my lot with a cheerful face because I already had Bun Hiang as my friend and playmate and Grandma Phrorm as my faithful supporter.
My father was a high-ranking official in the Ministry of the Interior and he often went on official trips upcountry, in neighbouring provinces such as Chantaburi, which was called Jantaboon in those days, Lopburi and Phetchaburi, as well as to various places in the North and in the South. As each trip lasted several weeks, he took all his relatives with him, with the exception of myself and Grandma Phrorm, who always remained at home. When my brothers and sisters and the servants returned, they were full of tales about what they had seen and one, and I got more than an earful. They talked so much that I, who had never been anywhere but had always been inclined to dream, could picture those places in my mind – the Palace Mountain in Phetchaburi, the Snake Mountain in Ratchaburi, the Three Hundred Peaks of Prachuab Khirikhan, the mines of Phuket Island – and could also picture what they had been doing in those places. I felt bored even though I had never gone there: just think how much more boring it would have been to listen to their conversation had I actually followed them everywhere!
My father’s house was normally frequented by merchants and government officials who either were our relatives or came to visit him on errands. Some of them were in charge of ministries, but I was never introduced to them nor was I asked to keep them company, unlike my siblings, who mixed with them freely. The company I kept was that of Bun Hiang, Grandma Phrorm and Jek Tee, and it was enough for me.

3

Although I have had many good reasons for feeling embittered, I still am proud of all that my father accomplished for the nation throughout his life. I speak from the bottom of my heart when I say that I have the greatest respect and veneration for him. I worship his intelligence and the ability he had to accurately forecast what was going to happen in our country. He was an outstanding Thai scholar: the books he wrote almost fill an entire library. One may say that Marquess Wiseit Suphalak was truly born to serve the Thai nation and the Thai people.
Along with Prince Ratchaburi Direik-rit, he helped establish the body of Thai laws. Apart from being a legal expert who had graduated overseas, he had an extensive knowledge of commercial practices and was incredibly successful in whatever venture he undertook. Even as a child, I – Wisoot Suphalak na Ayutthaya – loved and admired capable people. Though I was only one of his children and had no part in the happiness he derived from his success, I have always loved and respected my father, and not even a supernatural power could ever destroy these secure feelings. Marquess Wiseit Suphalak was a truly capable person.
Since we are talking about love, as far as I can remember (but you should understand that my memories are quite patchy), I felt that no love between husband and wife was more wonderful than the love between my father and my mother, which was smooth and everlasting, as if they were in a garden of bliss. Those who wanted to enter that heavenly garden had to come in pairs and arm in arm, and whenever they gazed up at the sky, they would see an exquisite moonlight illuminating their own love and bliss. My mother’s love for my father was the key to the success of his various endeavours. It had helped him overcome obstacles and thus bring lasting fame to the Suphalak family.
When my mother was still unattached, she was one of the most beautiful young women in Siam, and she caught the eye of countless young men of noble birth. She had an oval face, a clear complexion and bright dark eyes, and her voice was as sweet and her tongue as sharp as Nature ever endowed a woman. She received various marriage proposals, but finally her heart settled on my father as her life companion, and no one in the world would have dared to suggest she had made the wrong choice. As soon as she went to live with my father, she started to perform the various duties of a good wife to the best of her abilities, and became both a spouse and a friend. Whenever my father was sick or worried, he felt no medicine was as effective as the care and comforting words extended by Lady Yupin, his beloved wife.
Oh! Before proceeding any further, let me tell you a rather peculiar episode of my youth. You may be greatly surprised to learn that, when I was twelve or thirteen years old, I was a masseur, the best treading masseur my parents ever had. No other child nor any servant had ever been able to massage them both as well as I did, so much so that at one time I had to take on this duty and massage them almost every day. In the evening, after dinner, my brothers and sisters were free to play as they liked, but I had to massage my father on and on. This was required of me even on Sunday afternoons. As a child, I felt mildly resentful, to the point of sometimes shedding tears, as I had to do this day after day and not only did I never receive any present or reward as would my siblings, but I seldom heard any word of praise. I was good at making my parents relax because I had the right weight for treading on the aching parts of their bodies, but it required one hour and a half to two hours of treading and kneading to bring about such comfortable relief. I felt bored and was at times lazy, but it had to be done, even without any reward, and I went on with it, because such was my unfortunate lot. On occasion, I asked Grandma Phrorm what I had done in my past lives to deserve such an unjust and unequal upbringing, and whether there was a way for me to adjust my behaviour so that I would finally please my parents.
“This is your karma, and I can see no way to make things better,” Grandma Phrorm would answer. “But don’t you fret, Master Wisoot: even if no one notices your good deeds, The One Above will see them one day.”
The One Above! Well, though I was still a child, I could not help but laugh. I had become so used to the pain in my heart that I could laugh at my wretched life without feeling in the least embarrassed.
Was there Someone above this world? I asked myself. At that time, I, unlike most children, strongly believed in Buddhism. I liked to go to the temple with my grandmother and listen to the monks chanting and preaching, and I had the childish belief that the Buddha must have arranged for some god above to take care of us all. But when I heard Grandma Phrorm talking about The One Above and realised what my true feelings concerning my status in the family were, I never set foot in a temple again, and my faith, my belief, gradually faded away. Is there really Someone above?
Whenever there was a fair, whether at the Marble Temple, the Golden Mound or anywhere else, one of our servants would come down in the evening and ask all of us to go upstairs to receive some money from our father to spend at the fair. We would file up the stairs and find our father reclining on his rattan chair, reading a book. He would call each of his children to come and receive money from him, leaving me for the end every time. Once, he did not even call me, but I walked to him nonetheless to get my share.
“Wisoot, my boy,” he said, “there’s no money left; go and get some from your mother.”
I retraced my steps to the door, behind my brothers and sisters who were swaggering as they filed out of the room. O God in Heaven! Throughout the night, I strove to find ways to forget all those bitter things, but to no avail.
Because of my strong desire to attend the Marble Temple fair, I walked straight to my mother’s room, intending to tell her of my predicament, but she was in the bathroom, bathing my youngest sister. For some reason, instead of asking her for the money as I had planned, I kept my mouth shut. A big lump choked my throat and I did not dare talk – I no longer wanted to ask for anything. That night, my siblings dressed to the nines. When they saw me lying quietly on the bed, they were all surprised and asked me why I was not getting ready. I answered that I had a headache and did not feel like going. Ten minutes later, their exuberant group got into the big car parked in front of the house, and they drove out to the fair in a gale of loud laughter. Happiness!

4

A short while later, the worn-out body of Grandma Phrorm came towards me, a big chamber pot in her right hand, a rag in her left hand. As soon as she saw me crying on the bed, she realised what was the matter. She dropped the pot and rag near the bed and bent down to stroke my back.
“You didn’t get any money, did you?” she asked.
“No, Grandma Phrorm,” I answered.
“Come on now, there’s no need to cry over so little. Come with me, I’ve got six baht and I’ll take you there. Bur we won’t go inside, because the fee to get in is outrageous. Let’s go to Sampheng instead. We’ll do some nice gambling. With a rickshaw, we’ll be there in no time.”
I realised that she was trying to cheer me up. She was forcing herself to laugh, but as she was speaking I could see tears running down her wrinkled cheeks. I threw myself at her and hugged her out of the deepest love. To me, no one else existed then but my dear Grandma Phrorm!
So we agreed to go to the temple fair by rickshaw. Grandma Phrorm helped me bathe and dress, and then lifted me and sat me down on a rickshaw pulled by a Chinaman. We got off in front of Sampheng Gate, entered and walked around to look at the stalls. Like most servants then and now, Grandma Phrorm loved gambling. At first, she brought me to the fishing game. By some stroke of fortune, I won every time she allowed me to play, and I let her hold the prizes until her hands were full. Then we went to the dice stall. At first, I watched her. She rolled the dice twice, and lost each time. Then she asked me to roll the dice for her, and again, I played several rounds and won all but one. Grandma Phrorm had six baht when we left home, but more than twenty by the time we left the dice stall.
“Grandma Phrorm,” I told her, “let’s go and try other games.”
She took me to try blackjack at another stall. She explained to me broadly how to play, then let me hold the cards and call them up from the dealer while she sat next to me advising me. Throughout that night, the god of luck sided with me: whatever game I tried, I won. On the rickshaw that took us back home, Grandma Phrorm counted the money; there was more than forty baht.
“Ah, Master Wisoot!” Grandma Phrorm exclaimed. “Your life indeed isn’t all roses, but you are most lucky at gambling. If you keep at it, I’m certain you’ll end up a millionaire.”
I did not answer but only thought about my luck at gambling. Since that day, whenever I close my eyes, I see dice and cards and other evil instruments of ruin. Poor me!
For the next four nights, I beseeched my dear old nanny to take me to gamble at the Sampheng fair, and it was astonishing how my luck held all that time. I did not want to ask my parents for money. Grandma Phrorm and I earned about twenty baht from the gambling each night. I did not want to be taken by car to the temple fair with my brothers and sisters, but I was most willing to go there with Grandma Phrorm on a rickshaw. And such matters as where, why and with whom I went were of no concern to anyone else.
When the temple fair was over, I felt despondent, as there was nothing any longer to prevent me from thinking about the inequity I had had to suffer since birth. With no fair and no gambling to distract me, I again began to resent inequity and I brooded over it more and more, which made me depressed. To fight the gloom, I decided to start looking for a gambling den at the earliest opportunity. Since I was lucky in gambling, why should I stay still shouldering all these miseries?
Some servants in my house told me that Chinese and Thai coolies secretly met at the rice mill to play blackjack. I was delighted, and went to gamble there almost every day. As usual, luck was mostly on my side. At first, I gambled small stakes as I did not have much money, but the more I gambled the more I gained. The earnings and the stakes greatly multiplied and finally I became a dealer. Sometimes there were fights in the den. The police came to make arrests, but I was able to run away every time. Such a nefarious but exciting adventure, my dear readers!
I have never given Grandma Phrorm any of the money I earned from gambling. One day, I went to Jek Tee’s raft with fifty baht in my hand. I asked Jek Tee’s wife to go with me to Sampheng to buy beautiful silk trousers and I also instructed her to take Bun Hiang along. I bought her several silk skirts. Grandma Phrorm was astonished when she saw us return to the raft with several pairs of trousers and silk skirts.
“I’ve earned a lot with the cards, Grandma Phrorm,” I told her.
“How come? Where did you play?” she asked, still amazed.
“At the rice mill,” I replied casually.
“Oh dear! Please don’t go there again,” she said in alarm. “If your father finds out about it, he’s going to raise a rumpus.”
How right she was! A few days later, my father learned about the gambling at the rice mill and ordered his men to go there and investigate. Whenever I was caught gambling, he would chide me and threaten me with a thrashing. But my parents never hit us children. My punishment for gambling sometimes consisted in sitting facing a wall for two or three hours at a time and sometimes in being locked up in a dark room.
Never in the course of my life have I obtained love and equity from anyone except Grandma Phrorm. Therefore, punishment of whatever sort was not going to improve my behaviour. I became used to the chiding and punishments, and went on gambling at the fairs and at the rice mill as well!
This is but one story of my childhood. However sad it is, it is true, and truth is always sad; nevertheless, you must understand that I am not weeping as I write this.



2

Pradit Bunyarrat

1

At Theipsirin School, I had the reputation of being a cheeky, stout-hearted and rumbustious child. I liked physical exercise and rough-and-tumble activities of all kinds. I felt I had to take part in every kind of school competition, and whenever a fight erupted between students at the back of the school or near the Theipsirin monastery, I was almost always behind it or in the thick of it. Sometimes I won, sometimes I went back home bloodied, depending on luck and strength.
I was 17 years old at the time and had quite a strong physique. As I liked fun and did not mind being hurt, I was popular among students. During most of the term, I had no time for studies, and only crammed a few days before examinations took place, so that I moved to the next level with barely passing marks; I never did any better than that. At this point, I think I must explain to you why I was a brazen and lazy child at school – I had my own reasons.
As I have already stated, I was given to brooding. Every trifling event fed my mood and led me to ponder and dream and build castles in the air. The miseries I faced at home only fed that disposition. I thought and pondered so much that I felt depressed and disheartened. I felt that life was worthless. Since I knew that I was useless, why should I take care of myself just to exist in a world devoid of justice? I felt bored with everything around me. I felt bored with myself too, and often wished for someone to hate me enough to shoot me dead and thus put an end to my misery, or for someone to throw out of love or loathing a strong punch at my chin or some other vital part of my body that would be lethal enough to knock me down for ever. It would be the end of all the adversities I had encountered in the past and was still wrestling with then. Oh, my dear friends, had you known me then, I can only guess how much you would have despised the boy named Wisoot Suphalak na Ayutthaya!
Obvious injustice or inequity have dire consequences comparable to those strumpets who are eager to lure the men they contact to the deepest level of deadly sin, regardless of how many levels of sin there are. I have observed and am convinced that most women in Siam are their men’s true life companions; they have respect and confidence in them; they are sweet, honest and always love them. Even when their husbands become dissolute, they do nothing but cry quietly while awaiting the inevitable outcome. They still love their husbands and are ready to forgive them no matter how much they have to suffer from their behaviour. They are born to be taken advantage of and to endure suffering in silence. Such are the women of Siam whom I have seen, known and loved since childhood. European and American women are different. I have known and observed many of them, and I will tell you about them in due course.
When I was at school, I was narrow-minded and self-centred and it never occurred to me to assess how good or bad Theipsirin School was, nor what my stake in it was. Now that I have grown up and am governed by the rules of maturity, I have come to the conclusion that Theipsirin was the best school in the kingdom. When I think of the school at that time, I cannot help but admire its unrelenting effort to provide knowledge and happiness to its students. Selfishness among the teachers, though it did exist, was a rare thing. The students were taught to be compassionate and know how to behave whether they lost or won in competetions with other schools, so that they would be real men, gentlemen of the Thai nation. This was the important standard that Theipsirin School set for the nation. If truth be told, every school in the world should be like Theipsirin School. But as we can see these days, some schools do not conform to that simple standard, wouldn’t you agree?
My life at Theipsirin School is an essential part of this story, and by reading it you will have a true picture of my life. In an existence full of sheer darkness, Theipsirin School was the first tiny light I ever saw. Life at school and my friends there were important psychological medicines which mollified to some extent my callous behaviour and world-weary heart.

2

Pradit Bunyarrat was a good-looking boy who always dressed neatly. Though he was only 17 years old, he was tall, mature, hard-working and a good student. He kept to himself and seldom spoke to anybody, but when he did, it was usually about serious matters related to academic matters. Pradit never set foot in the gymnasium and never had a fight with anybody. He never watched nor played football. His daily routine consisted in going to school in the morning and walking to the streetcar station in order to go back home after school. He never played truant.
Pradit and I had been students in the same class for not more than two weeks, but you can easily understand that we were as different as if we had come from opposite corners of the world. One was as good as gold, the kind of well-behaved child adults are wont to praise; the other was a vindictive rascal always spoiling for a fight. I never paid any attention to the likes of Pradit. Although we were sitting only a yard apart, I was hardly aware of his existence. Pradit, on the other hand, seemed to pay a fair amount of attention to me. My mischievous and inconsiderate behaviour interested him, and he was trying to figure out why I behaved as I did. He kept track of my activities in the classroom. Whatever I did or whoever I talked to, every time I looked his way, I found him watching me, and it annoyed me on occasion. He usually kept glancing at me with a smile on his face, and I could not fathom what his attitude towards me was.
“I say, Pradit,” I said rudely when our eyes met one day. “I’ve noticed you never stop staring at me. I don’t know what you want. Or is it that you’ve never seen a human being?”
Pradit smiled gently and replied: “No, Mr Wisoot. If I like to observe you it’s because I feel you should behave somewhat better, as befits the prestige of our class and our school, and that someone should teach you a lesson.”
This was happening a few minutes before the start of the afternoon class, and there were many other students in the classroom besides us. I would never have thought that a quiet fellow like Pradit would speak to me so forcefully, let alone in the presence of others. My blood was instantly up, so I asked him angrily: “Oh yes? And what’s so special about you? What have you ever done for the school? Have you ever seen a gym in your life? Have you ever been to a football match?”
“Sure, why not?” Pradit answered without fear. “When I was at Assumption School, I often played football, but I wasn’t good enough to make the school team.”
“So that’s why they kicked you out and you came here!” I jeered.
“Listen, Mr Wisoot, you have no right to speak to me in this insulting fashion. You don’t strike me as particularly exceptional yourself. You may have lots of friends and behave like a gang leader who goes about bullying others. That’s all right with me, but don’t be mistaken: I may be a newcomer but I’m not afraid of people like you. I’m man enough not to take bullying lying down. When you claimed I was expelled from Assumption and wasn’t good enough for that school, weren’t you trying to bully me?”
“Sure, if that’s what you want,” I rejoined belligerently.
“Maybe they spoil you at home, and that would account for your mischievous behaviour,” Pradit said to me without fear. “I have seen you several times fighting with other kids behind the monastery and I feel bitterly ashamed for you.”
As I was about to reply, the teacher walked in. We all became quiet. To suppress my anger, I picked up a book and started to read, but the statement “maybe they spoil you at home” kept ringing in my ears. I felt angry and I was not sure whether what Pradit had said was true, and was not certain of what he meant. A short while later, I tore a small piece of paper on which I wrote: “Mr Pradit, if you want to end our quarrel, I think there is only one way, that we go to the monastery this evening after school.” I rolled the piece of paper and asked the student who sat beside me to pass it on to Pradit.
I watched Pradit as he took the note, read it and then turned to me with a gentle smile. He nodded in a way that meant he was not afraid.
That afternoon, after the teacher left the room, Pradit, his books in one hand and his hat in the other, walked straight to me, smiling gently as usual. “All right, Mr Wisoot, let’s go to the back of the monastery,” he said, and waited for me at my desk. I was greatly surprised because Pradit, whom we all knew as a quiet student, now turned out to be a daring and cold-blooded opponent. As soon as I stood up and walked out of the room, he followed suit and walked by my side. All the other students went after us. I was slightly fearful that the headmaster or the vice principal would suspect something, but I did not know what to do. Pradit kept walking by my side. We went out of the Yaowamarn-uthit building and walked across the lawn to the front of the Maen Naruemit building, then turned left to the entrance of the monastery. Whenever I looked back, I saw all twenty students following us in a group.

3

Our battleground was a lawn under the Bo tree at the back of a small, disused dormitory for monks. As we stood facing each other with the other students standing in a circle around us, I noticed that the smile on Prasit’s face gradually faded away and was replaced by a gleam of eager readiness for battle. We took off our shirts, dropped them on the lawn, and started to exchange blows in earnest.
At first, Pradit was losing, as I broke his guard with several hard punches, but thanks to his endurance, he fought back courageously. After a while, we were exchanging blows, fist by fist, until both of us tumbled over. Some ten minutes later, as we were hammering away at each other in a tight embrace on the lawn, a man shouted: “Stop! Stop this now!” and we felt someone trying to pull us apart. When we were finally separated, the commandeering face of the vice principal stood over us.
“You evil little devils!” he chided angrily. “If you have no consideration for me, at least think of the prestige of our school. We need solidarity among us – esprit de corps!” he emphasized in French. “We want to show that our school is as good as the others, or even better. How can that be when the two of you are fighting like this?”
Our vice principal was big and fat and had a slightly balding head. His pleasant disposition had earned him the respect of all students. Even though he spoke in anger, we still felt that he talked with our best interests at heart.
“Come on, pick up your shirts and put them on,” he ordered, pointing at the shirts lying in a heap on the lawn. “Then hurry back to school with me.”
We dusted ourselves off, put on our shirts and followed him, walking side by side, while the group of students dispersed. We reached the Maen Naruemit building, entered the hall and walked upstairs to the vice principal’s office.
He asked us to stand in front of his desk, sat down on his chair and turned to scrutinize us closely. Immediately, Pradit walked straight to him and, before I had even found my bearings, started to confess that everything was his fault.
“It was I who challenged Mr Wisoot to go to the monastery this afternoon,” he said in a clear voice. “We have had a disagreement for several days, and I feel it is my duty to confess this to you rather than let him be punished, as he did not instigate the quarrel.”
I did not know what to say or how to react. I had never met a man like Pradit in my whole life and never had I thought that there could be a man like him in this world.
“I must praise you for behaving like a gentleman,” the vice principal replied. “But I would like to know why you were unable to settle the matter in a civilised fashion. Why did you have to quarrel in such an unbecoming manner?”
“I did try, but it didn’t work,” Pradit answered. “And then today we had an argument in the classroom, so I asked Wisoot to go to the back of the monastery after school.”
“I am astonished that a placid boy like you would become so unruly. Indeed, it is hardly believable,” he said and then turned to ask me: “Is it true, Mr Wisoot, that Mr Pradit challenged you and instigated this dispute?”
At this point, I am afraid that my writing ability is not good enough to make you understand my real feelings then. A battle was going on in my mind between a most exalted feeling born of the excellent disposition so tangibly demonstrated by Pradit towards me and the feeling of spite deeply ingrained in my character since childhood. Thus, the question thrown at me by the vice principal left me at a loss for words.
“No, sir. I... I...” was all I could say, and I could think no further.
“I’ve had occasional reports about your own misbehaviour,” the vice principal said to me, “but this time, Mr Pradit has freely admitted his fault, and since you have nothing else to tell me, you may as well leave, but if you quarrel with anyone again, let it be understood that your punishment will be severe.”
I stared at him in total confusion, and remained rooted to the spot, until his glare made me realise that he wanted me to leave the room. I slowly walked out in a whirlwind of thoughts that were totally inconclusive. I went down the stairs to the floor below, first with the intention to go back home, but then I hesitated, fearing that Pradit would be punished because of me. The battle between contradictory feelings raged in my head, but the positive side eventually won. I hurried upstairs to the vice principal’s office in order to confess my guilt and save Pradit a thrashing. Unfortunately, as I was halfway up, I had to stop and stand still as I heard the loud sound of Pradit being thrashed – one, two, three, four, five, six times. All because of me! The sound then stopped. I immediately went downstairs. Tears were streaming down my face. I kept thinking about all the evil things I had done and felt utterly ashamed.
A short while later, Pradit came down. I wanted to throw myself at him and give him a hug for the goodness he had shown me that so impressed my heart. But Pradit kept walking with a poker face and paid me no heed. He walked past me without a word. I was at a loss about what to do next. I ran after him like a demented person, calling after him: “Pradit! Pradit! Stop for a moment, please.”
He stopped and waited grudgingly until I reached him. At that time, we stood at the entrance of the school.
“Why – why did you have to accuse yourself?” I asked him breathlessly.
“If not me, who else?” he retorted, smiling faintly. “I figured that if I accused myself, I’d be the only one punished, which was better than both of us getting the cane.”
He stopped talking and went through the gate. At that instant, a streetcar came and slowed down. Pradit jumped onto it and the vehicle soon sped out of sight, leaving me standing on the road in front of the school.
To think that in this world there were men such as Pradit! I kept wondering to myself all the way back home.

4

The next morning, I left for school early because I felt I really needed to talk to Pradit. I looked for him everywhere, in the library, in the refectory behind the Maen Naruemit building, around the school playground, but to no avail. As soon as I entered the classroom, I was told that he was not coming to school that day.
Throughout the morning period, I sat at my desk with great anxiety, afraid that last night’s punishment had made him sick. During the lunch break, a junior student asked me about Pradit, which made me feel even more ill at ease. Remembering what had happened between the two of us, I felt as though Pradit was the person I had wanted to meet, know and love as a life companion since the day I was born. Had I had the opportunity to know him when I was still a child, my character would not have turned out to be so bitter. I would have borne the burden of unhappiness resulting from inequity with a willing heart and sense of responsibility. All that day, I was deeply engrossed in worrying about him. There was nothing for Pradit in my heart but the feeling that I missed, respected and liked him.
After school was over, I hurriedly went to see Baron Wisut, the chief accountant, to ask him for Pradit Bunyarrat’s address. Once I had it, I got on a streetcar and got off at Thewet Bridge, in Bangkhunphrom. I then hired a sculling boat which went along the canal, crossed the river and reached the mouth of the Bang Chak canal on the Thonburi side. About a hundred metres past the canal mouth, the boat reached a small landing, where I was to alight. After I made sure from the rower that this was Lord Banluedeit Amnuay’s house, I paid him the fare, stepped on the landing and walked across a large lawn to a big Thai-style house painted in beige. I stood waiting for a while for someone to come out and greet me but no one did. The whole area was dead quiet, except for the sound of the wind blowing the leaves around the house. The house was also devoid of noise as though nobody lived in it. At last, a lovely little girl came out.
“Pradit is not at home,” she replied after being told the purpose of my visit. “His father took him to Ayutthaya this morning.”
“And when will he return?” I asked.
“Probably late tonight.”
“So he is going to school tomorrow?”
“Of course!”
I thanked her and walked back to the landing to wait for a boat. I felt much relieved that Pradit was not sick.
I met him at school the following morning. As soon as he saw me, he asked: “Mr Wisoot, did you come to see me at home last night?”
I answered with a nod, as I did not know what to say.
“I am sorry we had some business to attend to in Ayutthaya. Actually, we had a great time. My sister caught an enormous catfish.”
At first, I had thought that, on meeting him, I would be overwhelmed with shame and embarrassment, but when I heard his normal tone of voice and saw his courteous and friendly manners, that feeling was instantly dispelled.
“I went to see you at home yesterday because I had so many things to talk over with you,” I said. “Besides, when I did not see you at school, I was afraid you had fallen sick because of what happened.”
“What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” he asked.
“I think it was beastly of me to let you take the blame and punishment. As a matter of fact, I was the one who started everything,” I confessed. “I can’t sleep at all, thinking about what has happened. My mind’s made up: I’m going to see the principal and tell him the truth, that I’m guilty and a coward to boot. I think I’ll feel better if he gives me a dozen lashes.”
“What!” Pradit exclaimed in amazement. “Let bygones be bygones. Why do you have to vex yourself with something that is past? There’s no point in looking for more trouble.”
“I don’t mind, Pradit, I’m used to being beaten. Another twelve lashes to make me feel better won’t make much of a difference.”
I was fibbing: my parents never beat us children; we merely got chided or punished; and I had never been caught when I fought with other students in the monastery. My tussle with Pradit was the first time, and we were caught because we had been too noisy.
“Don’t be crazy, Mr Wisoot,” he objected. “The matter is over, so just forget about it.”
“But what about your reputation in this school?” I said. “Our supervisor will think you are an unreliable boy. Oh I can’t! I must go and see him right now.”
“Please don’t, Mr Wisoot,” he said, pulling me by the hand. “He thinks nothing of the kind about me. He knows me well. Come on, let me invite you to my home tonight. There’s something I want you to see.”
The bell rang, so we went to join the line of students and entered the classroom.


3

Lamjuan

1

As agreed, I went to Lord Banlue’s house at five o’clock that evening. As soon as the boat reached the landing, I saw Pradit who stood waiting for me, dressed in trousers of light-brown silk and a shirt of white hemp. We walked across the field, went up to the house and he took me into the waiting room, which was luxuriously appointed. On the walls fine portraits of ancestors of the Bunyarrat family hung in a row. The house was artfully decorated with old and new objects. Pradit took me to a corner of the room and pointed out some small antiques exhibited in a glass chest – a tiny Sphinx, a tome of papyrus, pyramids, pharaohs and various other Egyptian artefacts. I stood admiring these beautiful objects until I felt a hand tap me on the shoulder. It was Pradit. My love and respect for him was growing by the minute.
“Before long we shall be neighbours, you know,” he remarked, pointing through the window to a building under construction. “Your mother bought that piece of land from us to build a house, and I gather that several members of your family will stay there.”
“Eh! I know nothing about this,” I answered. “I only know that it’s being built to be rented out.”
“That’s not the case at all,” Pradit stated.
At that moment, a young woman came through the door.
“Lamjuan! Lamjuan!” Pradit called out.
“What is it, brother?” she answered as she halted in front of the door.
“Where are you going? Come in and talk to us first.”
She walked demurely towards us and stopped in front of her elder brother.
“This is Mr Wisoot,” Pradit introduced me, then turned to me and said: “And this is my little sister, Lamjuan.”
She hastened to bring her joined hands to her face and bowed. I bowed back and we stood looking at each other with curiosity.
“Tonight the moon will be full and after dinner we intend to go out in a row boat. Will you join us, Wisoot?” Pradit said invitingly.
“I’m afraid I’d be an imposition,” I objected.
“What imposition?” Miss Lamjuan answered. “We’ve already prepared food for you too. Father bought a new boat today. It’s beautiful and fast. You’ll like it if you come with us.”
I watched her with sudden interest. The refreshing sound of her voice and her modest demeanour were most praiseworthy. Lamjuan was one of the most beautiful young ladies I had ever met. She had a soft white complexion, a beautiful oval face with big eyes at once coy and sharp, and long hair rolled in a rather pretty bun. That day, I remember, she wore an ultramarine-blue crêpe de Chine silk shirt bordered with lace and a long cream-colored skirt.
“You agree then,” she prodded as I stood there smiling. “You stay with us for dinner and then we all go out in the boat.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “we will certainly have fun.”
“I say, Lamjuan,” Pradit said. “Has Father come back yet?”
“How could he be back? He came to fetch Mother and they went out together again. They certainly enjoy going out, these two, for all their years,” she declared, laughing warmly.
That night we went out on the river in the beautiful row boat. I was made to sit at the rear, Lamjuan sat in the middle and her brother in the front. I still remember that it was the fifteenth day of the waxing moon and a holy day, and the full moon shone brightly. The sky was devoid of clouds and the river was quiet. Occasionally, a steamer or a speedboat would pass by, tossing our boat in a rather amusing way.
Ah, dear readers, from what I have told you of my story so far, you will certainly agree that since I was born, that day – that night – was the happiest, the most contented of my life. It was the first time I had the opportunity to really know Pradit. The soft, sweet voice of Lamjuan in the light breeze was like exquisite music which has forever resounded in my memory.
“I understand, Mr Wisoot, that you are to come and stay with your mother in the building next to our house,” Pradit said.
“It would be nice if Mother really came here: we would go to school together and meet often,” I answered. “But do you know for sure that Mother will come?”
“What do you mean?” asked Lamjuan with obvious surprise. “Don’t you really know, Mr Wisoot?”
“I know nothing,” I said truthfully.
“Don’t you know what’s going on in your own house?” she asked, smiling mockingly but without a trace of condescension.
“I don’t really pay attention to what is happening at home.”
“It may be your duty not to tell us anything,” Lamjuan said in a slightly resentful way, “but it is all over town, you know.”
“I’m telling you the truth: I do not know anything at all,” I answered.
“Odd, isn’t it?” Pradit exclaimed.
On the boat back home, I kept thinking about what Pradit and Lamjuan had told me. My mother would go and stay at the house in Bang Chak. Would she then leave Father? Pradit and Lamjuan had talked as though they knew the story in detail. Something must have gone wrong at home, but how was it that I did not even have an inkling of it?

2

As soon as I reached home, I began to investigate. Ordinarily, I never paid much attention to the affairs of my parents and relatives. It was my habit since childhood. I tried to study and remain aloof, avoiding anyone in the house unless it was necessary.
At fourteen, I had gone to stay with my maternal grandmother in her small house, and I had lived there for three years by then. If something was happening in the main house where my parents stayed, it was either not important enough or too important for me to be told about it. Even though we shared the same compound, it was as if I and all of my relatives were living in different corners of the world.
I was happy staying with Grandmother, because she was compassionate and took care of me with all the goodness of her heart. Besides, she had been frequenting the temples for decades, had become free from earthly attachments and was observing the Buddhist precepts with saintly dedication. She had never thought of warning me about the common evils of the world because she did not know them and had no wish to learn about them.
The story of Mother leaving the house where she had lived for twenty years and moving to the house on the Thonburi side was an ordinary one, similar to so many other stories happening in the large noble families of Siam, when an ageing wife no longer able to please would simply be discarded. The husband, even though he was about the same age as his wife, was still strong, lustful and wealthy, and he would go on looking for what he had no right to enjoy but could still obtain by hurting the feelings of his aged spouse, who had been his faithful companion for decades. If a wife out of necessity had to sit and watch the behaviour of her husband, she would bleed inside drop by drop. Alas! Such is the fate of the Thai wife, the supreme woman-mother. If a wife could no longer stand this, she would run away, forsaking the wealth she had helped establish and accumulate for decades, leaving it in the sole care of the unreliable gentleman who, trading old for new, would end up with some girl with a pretty face and condemn his old wife and their children to a hand-to-mouth existence at the mercy of fate. Life! O life!
You may be beginning to wonder about what I stated earlier. The love between my parents was most precious and pure, yet it led to a bitter separation. Could such precious and pure love have lasted as long as twenty years? This would be quite exceptional in Siam. Besides, their separation in old age was totally unexpected. Even though it turned sour at the end, what other kind of love will you find in our land that is more marvellous than this?
One day, as I had just come back from school and taken a shower, a servant came to tell me that Mother wanted to see me in her bedroom. I went up trembling with dread because I already knew what she was about to tell me. I found her seated on one corner of the bed. As soon as she saw me, she smiled a little, sad smile.
“Wisoot,” she greeted me, “I do not see you very often these days. How are you spending your time?”
“I am out and about as usual, Mother,” I answered as I walked to her.
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
“So so. I am used to it.”
“I say, Wisoot,” she said, considering me carefully, “I am about to go and live in the orchard house.”
“I sort of heard about it.”
“I don’t think that anybody here wants you to stay. Would you like to go with me?”
“Yes, Mother. Aren’t some of us going with you anyway?”
“No. Only you and little Samruay. Why would the others go and stay with their mother?”
Despite her sweet smile, I could see that she spoke with bitterness and resentment.
One month later, the orchard house at Bang Chak was ready. We – Mother, my youngest sister Samruay and I – took refuge there. We helped one another arrange the house and make it as pleasant as people of our condition could afford. We were not quite sure whether we would have enough to live on. In fact, I could not help but conclude that Mother was rather poor. Were her current small income to dwindle further she would have to sell some jewellery and gold in order to make ends meet. Mother was often short, and the jewellery was disappearing by the day.
When we were in the orchard house on the Thonburi side, even though we were next to Bangkok, there was no peace and security as in the capital. Bandits were thick on the ground, and wherever one went one heard shouts of “Thieves have entered the orchard!” “Thieves have broken into the house!” “Bandits have harmed someone!” and so on.
At first, I was afraid but after a while I got used to this kind of danger. Even though danger always surrounded the orchard house, I felt a thousand times happier than when I was staying in the house in Samsen. Look at it this way: I lived next to Pradit and Lamjuan, two young people whose friendship was a gift of love, happiness and comfort bestowed without the slightest reservation.
At the end of that year, Father died. His will gave Mother, little Samruay and myself no share of the inheritance. Father had left all three of us to carry on with our hard life without any succour. As far as I was concerned, I did not feel very disappointed because this was only to be expected and I was man enough, in any case, to keep myself out of trouble. Little Samruay would grow into a beautiful woman and find a way out when she came of age. But Mother was most to be pitied. She was old and had undergone hardship for twenty long years and this was her reward! When I think about her life then, I feel that my own suffering was not even one thousandth of hers. Alas! The circus – the circus of the world! The circus of life!



3

Although I often had the opportunity to be in Lamjuan’s company, I did not have the audacity to bring myself to love her. This was so out of necessity, not because my heart was made of stone or steel. I was able to chat with her in private, travel with her once in a while and know her true disposition. There were several reasons for us to remain just friends. I was poor and had nothing to indicate that I would be able to settle down properly some day. As for Lamjuan, for all her wonderful qualities, she still could not grasp this simple truth. I did not know how she felt about me, but at the very least she must have liked me well enough to accept my love were I to impose it on her. From the day we met, I had tried to be a good person for her sake and for the sake of the world. For her as well as for my own future, I had attempted to forget the past. To force myself not to love her was part of my trying to be a good person. I felt I had no right to love her. Oh, there was no doubt in my mind that she shared with our neighbours the idea that I was a man of means. If she married me and learned the truth afterward, she would at the least feel sorry. I don’t mean to say that she would have loved me because she thought I was rich, but she happened to be an ordinary person who was bound to think like this, though she was the woman who had the purest heart I have ever known.
If I did beat the elementary rules that said “Lad and lass at close quarters must fall for each other” and “Love makes us blind and oblivious to everything in life”, it was thanks to Pradit, Lamjuan’s brother. Pradit had his own code of conduct, which he used in daily life, and he was able to pass it on to me, the friend he loved and cared for. Whatever good there is in my character I owe to him, who fostered and nurtured it in me. I have never had a more wonderful friend than Pradit.
Regarding Lamjuan, although what happened between us took place more than ten years ago, I still cannot forget her. Her life was strange. She lived in a world full of bliss, yet her heart was sad. Whatever she wanted that was available in this world was hers for the asking, but she didn’t want much. Though everyone was ready to please her and she was a good and happy child, she still had to witness the injustice and suffering of others and of the world around us. She was just past sixteen, yet looked as though life had forced her to become an adult prematurely. She had seen and felt a lot. Her father had several wives, and they all lived under the same roof. Although her mother was the lawful spouse, Lamjuan could see how she felt. She knew and understood the life and condition of everyone in the house. The grudges, the quarrels, the wrongs and, worst of all, the jealousies and rivalries she witnessed made her feel utterly disgusted with life itself. Even though these obscene goings-on did not really impinge on her daily life as she was His Excellency’s favourite daughter, she still felt bored and annoyed.
“Mr Wisoot, do you know yet why your mother had to move here?” Lamjuan asked me one day as we sat chatting on the landing in front of her house.
“Yes, I do, Miss Lamjuan,” I answered. “My mother does not have your mother’s forbearance, so she had to get away.”
“Oh, don’t say that,” she said simply. “If Mother could find a way out, do you think she would stay and force herself to watch this wickedness day after day and night after night? Mother has often told me that she would go away, that we would leave together, but it hasn’t been possible because she doesn’t have enough money and she is worried about her children, Pradit and me. She cries quite often, even now... Oh, I can’t stand men! Our present education system does not improve them in any way.”
“You have reasons enough to hate men,” I said, out of sympathy.
“If they went about it discreetly instead of being so blatant, I suppose I could put up with it,” she said in an unusually harsh voice. “I’ve never heard of people behaving like this in civilized countries. Father has many foreign friends, and they often take their children with them here. When they see Phian, Banjert or Samrit, they ask them who they are. Actually, I’m sure they already know, yet I have to tell them they are our servants, but when they see them talking to me, they immediately know the truth because my brothers are not behaving like servants.”
“Sad, isn’t it?” I said, as if talking to myself.
“Mr Wisoot,” she said softly, “I believe that one day you will marry and have children. Will you also do like this?”
“No, Lamjuan. I’ve never entertained such a thought,” I countered strongly. “I don’t believe that men who have several wives can live happily.”
“One day you will have an opportunity to go abroad, and then, you will see how foreigners behave.”
“Does this mean you don’t believe me?” I asked, signalling that I was feeling slighted. “To tell you the truth, I, for one, am totally against polygamy. I think it is barbarous. This kind of thing might have been all right twenty or thirty years ago, but these days, we should be looking at Japan instead and figuring out what it is that is making this country progress. India, on the other hand, is like Hell. The men there have turned their country into Hell. They force their women to get married at eleven or twelve. They keep harems as house decorations, thinking it is so very chic, while allowing their country to be a slave of England because of their own evil.”
“English people usually look down on the Hindus,” she added.
“That’s right, Lamjuan,” I said. “You should really count me among your supporters as far as polygamy in Siam is concerned. Do you know why the Thai seldom become business partners and don’t trust one another? It’s because, since a very tender age, they see nothing but absolutely bad examples, and when they grow up, they go for the same things. This kind of attitude is ingrained from birth.”
“Do you think that if we had a law forbidding men to have more than one wife, it would be of benefit to our children and grandchildren?” she asked.
“I’m sure of it. People from other countries who come and see our Siam in this condition must feel nauseated. I know why this is so. If our children only had good examples to see, it would certainly help them become good citizens. At least, we should make them trust other people. As you know, any family with plenty of minor wives is in no end of trouble.”
“Oh, Mr Wisoot,” she exclaimed with delight. “I would like you to go abroad to study and see all sorts of things and then bring them back as examples for Siam. Will you promise me you will never change your mind on this?”
“I do promise,” I answered with utmost confidence.
“And you will forsake personal pleasures for the sake of your opinions?”
“Definitely!”
“Do you mean you will have only one wife, so that the Thai people can follow your example?” she asked, with a sonorous and melodious voice. “And try to help future generations to be happy and self-confident because they are secure and trust others?”
“Don’t you think that if we are poor, timorous and unwilling to do what it takes to strengthen our country, it’s because we are raised to be like that?”
“Like what?”
“To see only carelessness in this matter of running multiple families. This sort of thing is terribly evil as it destroys our confidence.”
“I agree with you,” she said softly. “I’m sure that whoever is lucky enough to be your wife will have a most happy life.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get married.”
“Why not?”
“I am poor – you can’t even imagine how much so. I don’t know what my future holds. I’ve never been good at studying.”
“All right,” she said firmly. “Whether or not you do marry, I want you to always remember that you still have one of your best friends in the world, a friend who is looking forward to seeing you succeed in promoting your ideas among the Thai people.”
She gazed at me with bright, beautiful eyes, which clearly showed that she had complete confidence in me.
At that time, both of us were still young, and what we were talking about were matters for adults to ponder and discuss. We were not able to convey our opinions to each other in any clear and specific way, but we understood each other because we shared the same thoughts and feelings. From that day, we –Lamjuan and I – became close friends; but only friends, my dear readers. If we were able to keep our relationship in the confines of friendship, it was probably because we knew each other too well to love each other. She called me ‘Elder brother’, as she did Pradit. Lamjuan – my friend for life... Nothing but my friend!



4

Going abroad

1

Throughout the period of more than eighteen months that I was an intimate friend of Lamjuan and Pradit, every minute that went by brought me great happiness. We had never had the tiniest trace of mistrust in one another, and it looked as though nothing in the world could ever imperil our friendship. Everything surrounding my existence looked a thousand times more vivid than it once did, like the very difference between fresh and withered flowers, or between sky and earth. The true love that these two friends had for me was invaluable, like a doctor’s treatment bringing full recovery to a critically ill patient. That love helped me forget the past and the torments over which I had so often brooded resentfully. It seemed that it had the mysterious power to reshape and soften my crude behaviour to bring it into line with what was required of a real gentleman. All the time we were together, I often feared that if anything forced us to separate, I would be unable to keep on living. I felt that these two friends were essential parts of my life. Never had I experienced such happiness or enjoyed such a wonderful intercourse of mind and heart. I wanted the two of them to live close to me forever, and really needed their love and help with every breath I took.
My friendship with Lamjuan and Pradit taught me that true love does not stem from power, money or honour, but from the goodness of our heart. I also learned that life for some of us may be full of injustice and bitterness, but it still holds something that allows us to live in happiness. Have you ever had friends like these? Although I fully realised that wealth is not part of love, I never let Lamjuan see that I loved her more than anything in my life, more than anything in the whole wide world. Can you guess why this was so? It was our very friendship that made me forsake that opportunity time and again. I wanted the one I loved to be happy. As I was destitute and had no hope of a bright and smooth future, how could I let her see the truth in my heart? I did not want her to endure any hardship because of me. I only wanted her to be happy.
The time finally came when all three of us had to part. As the earth went on revolving, so did the cycle of happiness and sorrow. Pradit was going so far away that I could hardly entertain any hope that he would ever come back to share my world and life again. And worst of all, Lamjuan and I had to part company for the rest of our lives because we had come to the end of our companionship.
Pradit went abroad, and Lamjuan got married!
I do not think that there was in Siam nine years ago a brighter student than Pradit. The proof is that he came first for a royal scholarship that year, and first also for the railways scholarship. Thus, he prepared himself to go to England to study mechanical engineering. I heartily rejoiced over the news and felt extremely proud of my sole life companion’s superior capability. But at the same time, I felt sad in a way that is beyond words to express because we had to part for a long time, and I had no dream then of going abroad like him. I just thought that after his return, he and I would live in different worlds; our opinions would differ, as between a domestic student and a foreign graduate. Would there be any chance for us to meet and be close again as we once had been?
Finally, the day came when Pradit had to start his trip. In the early morning, Lord Banlue hired a big motor boat to convey Pradit’s personal belongings, Pradit himself and all well-wishers, which included myself, my mother and little Samruay. The boat first stopped at the Borneo store and we helped load Pradit’s belongings into the Delhi ship, which was at the landing at the time.
“Wisoot, I’ll write to you at least once a month. Don’t forget to answer me,” Pradit said as we were alone in the cabin for a short while.
“I’ll write to you twice a month, Pradit,” I replied with assurance, putting my arm around my beloved friend’s shoulders.
“During my absence,” he added wearily, “should anything happen to Lamjuan, you must take care of her for me. Do remember that.”
“I’m ready to die for her, you know that.”
Our faces beamed with happiness as we said goodbye to each other, but in our hearts – had anyone been able to see – ran endless streams of tears. A moment later, we heard the hoot signalling that the ship was about to weigh anchor. I stepped down the gangplank that stretched from the ship’s upper deck to the cement ground of the Borneo landing, and we all stood in line and waved our handkerchiefs as the ship slowly moved away. I stood between Lady Banlue and Lamjuan, and when I looked around I saw that both of them were crying. When the Delhi was out of sight, we all got back in the motor boat to return home.
“Brother Wisoot,” I heard Lamjuan calling me while I was standing at the stern alone. “I feel very pleased but I can’t help crying.”
Lamjuan came to stand beside me. The ‘Folie bleue’ eau-de-cologne she liked to use gave out its luscious fragrance. Without any kind of emotion, I took her in my arms, and she bent her head over my chest. The motor boat sped ahead.

2

After we returned from seeing Pradit off, I kept Lamjuan company for the rest of the day, trying to comfort and humour her to help her fight loneliness. When I reached home, it was time to go to bed. In my bedroom, I felt pain radiating throughout my body, because with Pradit gone, it seemed to me that every move I made – getting up, sitting down, standing or walking – I made reluctantly, as though under duress. Whenever I closed my eyes, some inner voice kept asking: “Now that Pradit is gone, what are you going to do? Are you good enough for Lamjuan?”
Indeed, my dear readers, I very much worried about Pradit’s sister. She was dejected and unhappy. She needed me as her friend, as her elder brother – nothing more than that. When Pradit was still here, Lamjuan and I could carry on our relationship as we wished, but now that he was gone, leaving both of us behind, there was no one to help me devote the most precious things in my life to Lamjuan’s present and future happiness. Could I resist the law of nature – the power of attraction sugar had for ants?
The days and the months passed by. I still battled courageously against my own feelings and the madness in my heart with strong determination, and so far I was winning.
One day, as I reached Lord Banlue’s house, I saw a young army officer conversing with Lord and Lady Banlue. Upon being introduced to him, I learned that he was First Lieutenant Kamon Jitpreedee. He had only been back from England for twelve days but had not told anyone about his return. Lord and Lady Banlue had known him since he was a child.
“I say, Kamon, do you remember Lamjuan?” His Excellency asked.
“I think so, sir, but she must have changed a lot,” Kamon answered with a slight foreign accent. “When I left, she was still a child. Where is she now?”
“She’ll come downstairs presently,” Lady Banlue replied.
Lt Kamon Jitpreedee had a slender figure and a bright face, and was about twenty-five years old. Sitting on a chair in front of Lord and Lady Banlue, he looked nervous, turning this way and that all the time as if he was trying to appraise all the items of decoration in the room. After a while, he eventually turned to me. “It seems to me that Siam hasn’t changed at all,” he asserted.
“You’ll notice the changes after a while,” Lady Banlue said. “Ah, here comes Lamjuan.”
The little lady whose name had just been mentioned was stepping into the room, a gentle smile on her face. Kamon stood up to welcome her, and invited her to sit down on the chair he had just vacated.
“Don’t trouble yourself. Please do sit there. There are plenty of seats,” Lamjuan replied, and she went to fetch a chair from a corner of the room. “So, do you still remember me?”
“If I didn’t know it was you, I would have trouble recognizing you,” he answered with a smile. “You’ve changed a lot.”
The conversation went on as among people who had not seen one another for more than eight years, with much mutual ingratiation, as you may have guessed. Kamon was fairly humorous and expressed his opinions in a forthright manner. He could not speak Thai fluently and sometimes lapsed into long bouts of English before coming to his senses and switching back to Thai. I sat behind him and took no part in the conversation. Moreover, I felt that no one paid any attention to me; no one talked to me or even looked at me. Lady Banlue looked much excited as she busied herself serving food and drinks. Lord Banlue handed Kamon one foreign cigarette after another, and listened with interest to all that the young man had to say. Lamjuan also sat listening to him with a sweet smile and she did not turn to look at me even once.
“I think it’s a pity the students in our country do not all have the opportunity to go abroad,” Kamon said, talking fast. “We should all go there and try to learn as many things as we can to apply them here and use them as examples. Foreign countries are Paradise, Your Lordship. Compared to them, our country is like Hell.”
“Have you ever thought that for those who have no chance to go abroad, our country is a fairly decent place to live in all the same?” I objected, intruding in the conversation for the first time.
Kamon turned and gave me a look of displeasure, then went on talking with Lord Banlue. “Let’s not quarrel about this, right, Your Lordship?” he said, laughing. “Frankly speaking, our country is nice enough. But I really hate mosquitoes, I hate the dust and I hate cholera. I dare not eat anything anymore. Every time I let myself be tempted, my tummy gets upset.”
“Then why don’t you come and eat here?” Lady Banlue entreated him. “I guarantee that whatever you eat you won’t get stomach ache.”
“All right. Would you mind if I ate with you today?”
“Of course not,” Lady Banlue answered with a smile. “Feel free to come here whenever you want, Kamon.”
“I feel lonely here, unlike when I was abroad. When I return from the barracks, I really don’t know where to go. Well, I’ll come here often. I like to stroll in orchards. What do you grow in yours?”
“Now it’s the fruit season, you know,” Lamjuan answered. “We have plenty of rambutan, santol, lychee and so on. You must take a walk in our orchard some day.”
“Certainly. What a splendid idea!”
A moment later, I took my leave and it seemed that nobody cared whether I left or stayed. Lady Banlue did not ask me to share their meal as she normally would. I left the room feeling giddy and rather stunned. I did not know what to think. Yet, as I walked back home, I kept thinking and thinking endlessly.
I had dinner with Mother, and at the end of the meal she asked me to take her to see a moving picture at Phatthanarkorn Cinema. I sat through the film but I don’t think I understood what the story was about. Images flickered on the screen like fleeting scenes from real life, but nothing was significant or amusing enough to hold my interest. What had happened at Lord Banlue’s house – at Lamjuan’s house – concerning First Lieutenant Kamon Jitpreedee was still very vivid in my mind. I tried to find reasons for my beloved neighbours’ amazing change of attitude towards me, but could not get to the bottom of it. I was not mature enough to fathom the ways of the world and was yet unable to thoroughly understand the twists and turns of social life.
That Lord and Lady Banlue had ignored me because Kamon had joined their company did not depress me so much, but that Lamjuan had as well left me forlorn and miserable beyond words. This was only the first day that Kamon had come to her house, and she had already changed so much. What would my status in that house become as time went by? Lamjuan – Lamjuan whom Pradit had always presented to me as a model girl! Was it really possible? Alas! The comedy of the world!
“Why are you so quiet, Wisoot?” Mother asked as we sat in the boat that took us home. I had long been close enough to Mother to love and trust her like a good son should. I told her everything that I had gone through that evening. She listened attentively and when I had finished talking she smiled softly.
“It’s a simple rule, my son,” she said. “We are poor, and nobody is going to give us the time of day.”
“Do you mean to say, Mother, that the Banlues are going to cut us off?” I asked doubtfully.
“Oh! They have tried to do so for some time,” she answered, and laughed bitterly. “Look! They have not visited us since they have known First Lieutenant Kamon would be their guest. They used to invite us to their home and asked us along to wherever they went. But now, look how they behave towards us! Why do you ask me such a question, my son? You are feeling sorry for losing Lamjuan, aren’t you?”
“No, Mother, I’m not. I’m thinking of a promise I made to Pradit,” I answered slowly. “In fact, I’ve never loved Lamjuan, or rather, I never told her my feelings about her. That’s what I’m very sorry about.”
“There are still plenty of girls for you to choose from, my dear son,” Mother answered.

3

A month later, it was widely understood that Lamjuan and First Lieutenant Kamon were promised to each other. They went out together almost every day. Kamon was the eldest son of Viscount Sathian Kamonphan, a log dealer in Chiangmai. He had a house on Prajae Jeen Road in central Bangkok. As there was only one servant in the house, Lady Banlue and her daughter made it their business to take care of it for him. The relationship between the Bunyarrat and Jitpreedee families thus grew more intimate as days went by. Kamon usually took Lady Banlue and Lamjuan to his house for the evening and saw them back home after dinner late at night. Lamjuan looked cheerful and happy.
As for the Bunyarrat family and mine, we hardly met even though our houses were next to each other. Our contacts came to an almost complete halt, and it became obvious that Lord and Lady Banlue had cut Mother and I off because we were poor and also perhaps because First Lieutenant Kamon took exception to us. As for Lamjuan, she had forgotten me completely and there was nothing to remind her of me. She had forgotten all the promises she had made to me about being my best friend till her dying day. She had forgotten that she had once entrusted me with the role Pradit used to play for her. She had forgotten everything we had ever told each other, everything that had once made me so happy.
Yet, one day, Mother and I had the surprise to see her coming to visit us, which she had not done for more than a month. I remember that it was a Monday and Lamjuan was dressed in light yellow. She was beautiful as ever, with the same fair complexion and the same gentle smile on her lips.
“Well, well! What’s the big occasion, dearest?” Mother said with some trepidation. “We thought you’d given up on us.”
“Then why didn’t you pay us a visit?” Lamjuan answered as she sat herself down on the carpet next to my mother. “I missed you so much I had to come.”
“How could we go to your house? There hardly seems to be anybody there these days,” my mother replied with a polite laugh.
“Brother Wisoot, you too have made yourself scarce for a whole month,” she said, feigning displeasure. “I think you’ve already forgotten me.”
At that point, despite my efforts to behave politely, I could not help but laugh, and I laughed so hard and so long that Lamjuan became embarrassed. She turned and stared at me with some annoyance.
“Dear Elder Brother Wisoot,” she said in very proper Thai, “I have wonderful news to tell you.”
“So have I, Lamjuan,” I assured her. “Let’s tell each other.”
“You tell me first,” she countered.
“Better let Mother tell you,” I said.
“We are selling our house tomorrow, Lamjuan,” Mother said without flinching. “We’ll go and stay in Bangkok.”
“How dreadful! Selling this house? How come? You’ve lived here less than a year!” Lamjuan exclaimed in obvious disbelief. “Why don’t you want to live close to us? Or is life too hardy on this side?”
“Nothing like that at all,” my mother answered evenly. “We were given a good price, and it’s better to sell right now at a healthy profit. Besides, I prefer to live in Bangkok.”
“Whereabouts will you stay in Bangkok?” Lamjuan asked.
“On Ratchadamri Road in the district of Phaya Thai.”
“Do you have a house there?”
“We’ve already rented one.”
“You must allow me to visit you often.”
“Anytime you want, Lamjuan. We are always glad to see you.”
“And what about your news, Lamjuan?” I interrupted. “When are you going to tell us?”
“I don’t want to anymore, I’m embarrassed,” she rejoined with lovely affectation.
“Why not? What happened?” my mother enquired immediately.
“It was Mother who asked me to tell you,” Lamjuan explained.
“Oh, I see! If it weren’t for that, I bet you wouldn’t have come here, but gone to some better place.”
“No, it’s not that. I really am embarrassed.”
“Why should you be embarrassed: we are friends, aren’t we?” Mother cajoled her.
“We, that is, Kamon and I,” she stammered, “we are to be engaged. Mother asked me to invite you and Dear Elder Brother Wisoot to help with the preparation of our engagement party at our home next Monday, and to be our guests as well of course.”
“Please accept my most sincere congratulations, Lamjuan. I wish both First Lieutenant Kamon and you a happy life. May you both live together for ever.” My mother embraced Lamjuan tightly.
“But you are about to leave this house...”
“No matter where we are or how far away, we will come and help you. I would do anything for the sake of your happiness and welfare.”
Then Mother slowly bent her head and kissed Lamjuan on both cheeks. This was the first time I had ever seen her act like this. As for Lamjuan, while her head was buried in my mother’s bosom, I saw tears streaming down her face even though she was smiling a smile of pure elation.
“Er, I must go now,” Lamjuan suddenly said. “Kamon is waiting for me.”
“Let Wisoot take you home,” Mother suggested.
“There’s no need, don’t trouble yourself,” Lamjuan answered.
I sat still, dumbfounded that Lamjuan had turned out to be the person who had cut off our relationship. Now she was to be engaged, soon she would be married, and she did not want me to be her friend or even her acquaintance any longer. Love – any kind of pure love – is sacrifice, happiness and suffering. Love is life. Since Pradit and Lamjuan had become my friends, I had enjoyed the happiness that love begets for eighteen short months only. That happiness which had showed me Paradise was now followed by suffering and sacrifice – and sacrifice I certainly could, if it was for the goodness, beauty and happiness of two friends whom I loved more than my life.
The days and months followed one another. Lamjuan celebrated her engagement! Lamjuan married First Lieutenant Kamon Jitpreedee! Pradit and I still wrote to each other once a month.



4

I had several reasons for endeavouring to find an opportunity to go abroad. All of Pradit’s letters, apart from asking for news of Lamjuan, were full of details about life abroad, specifically England and France. Pradit often compared these countries’ cultures, traditions and important events with ours. “It is essential that you understand that foreign countries are not the paradise you think and First Lieutenant Kamon claims,” one of his letters emphasized. “We have to face countless difficulties, poverty, and the loneliness we feel when we are in a strange land among people speaking a strange language. I work like a mad man. If I didn’t, I’d feel so homesick that I couldn’t stand it. But, however difficult life is for us in a foreign country, at least it helps us to become real men. The loneliness we feel when we are on our own teaches us to depend on ourselves, because we have no one else to depend on. A monthly stipend of seven pounds (some 75 baht) forces us to be frugal and thrifty. And if we don’t work, we feel despondent. All this helps us to be good men. Everything considered, Wisoot, you should seek the opportunity to come to England. Come and have a look! And we will meet each other again.”
My father had left enough money for all my brothers at the Samsen house to go and study abroad. As for myself, I was so stupid that it would have been a waste of resources to send me abroad. My brothers therefore went away and returned one after the other, while I was left with the duty of praising their good fortune.
Pradit had gone; Lamjuan had left to live with her husband and she surely did not wish for me to interfere with her happiness – and this was only natural. During the visits I still paid there on occasion, Lord Banlue’s house looked forlorn and deprived of any sense of fun since Lamjuan had left and, if truth be told, I did not care to see Lord and Lady Banlue. Thus, I had no friends left. Although I still had some acquaintances, I felt unbearably lonely.
Once we had moved to the house on Ratchadamri Road, we were often invited to meet students who had studied abroad. In their company, I felt that I was in a place in which I had no right to be, as if I was trespassing on Mars. The students saw me as a barbarian who knew nothing about the civilized and modern cultures that we should imitate. They saw me embarrassed, and spoke to me in a foreign language. Though I understood it well, I could not communicate in it as fluently as I wished.
I had finished my studies at Theipsirin School. To find work was difficult, as nobody would believe that I could do anything since I was not a foreign graduate. The salary that I was offered would not be sufficient for me to live on. Alas! Such is the dismaying status of Thai schools!
I had to go abroad! I kept asking Mother every day about the chances of doing so. When she was still wealthy, Mother had been swarmed with friends and relatives, but now that she was in dire straits, it seemed that all of them thought she was dead. Nobody paid any attention to her any longer. Nevertheless, for my sake, she set about visiting them in turn to ask for their help in sending me to study abroad. They welcomed her reluctantly and help was out of the question. Some promised to help but told us to wait. I waited for months on end, and finally they said that they could not help. So, I became hopeless again.
All that time I had to wait and dream and build castles in the air, only to encounter hopelessness and all kinds of deceit. When someone promised to help, it was only to get out of an embarrassing situation, by making us wait and hope only to end up utterly disappointed. I felt that the world in which I had to live was a bitter and cruel place, and I felt so angry with my destiny that I shed tears. They were not tears of sorrow, let me tell you, but tears of wrath!
Having lost any hope to have others help me, I had to depend on myself. I went to see my eldest brother at the house in Samsen and inquired if there was any money left for me. He said that I had twenty thousand baht, which Grandfather had bequeathed me, but that I could not dispose of that amount until I reached the age of twenty-one and I should keep it as investment capital. My brother claimed that Father had given him these instructions a few days before his death. I protested that if that amount of money was really left by Grandfather, I could not see how Father could have any authority over it. I wanted to go abroad, and that sum of money would be needed to pay for my expenses there. We argued for two or three hours before my brother finally approved, not without warning me that the twenty thousand baht would last me only a few years overseas, and that I would have nothing left to live on when I returned.
I was too determined to go abroad to worry about the final consequences. I wanted to learn the secret of other countries’ advanced development. I wanted to learn why those who returned from abroad looked so prosperous, clever and smart, and gained high salaries and prestige quicker than anyone else. I wanted to discover the celestial pool of gold in which Thai students abroad took a dip before returning home gilded from head to toe. Since I did not have enough money to take a full dip, I only asked to be able to see that golden fount – seeing it would be enough. Even if I had to die over it, it would be worth living for such a death.
That day, after talking with my brother, I left his house and walked to find a streetcar to go and see an acquaintance of mine in Bang Rak. As I got off the streetcar and was about to take a bus at a crossroad, I saw Lamjuan and her husband sitting in a big Buick sedan. She saw me before I had a chance to raise my hat to her, but turned and looked the other way, pretending that she had not seen me. Ah! She had really cut me dead, so definitely that no lingering sentiment would ever restore our intimacy in this life. Goodbye Lamjuan, my dearest, my most beloved friend! Till death do us part! As for Kamon, I think that his experience abroad had taught him to look down on those who were not lucky like him, to be arrogant and to think highly of himself. What if I had to go through the same kind of education: wouldn’t it be enough to want to only see the golden fount?
Soon, the news of my going abroad spread widely among relatives and friends. So, when the day of my departure came, many people went to see me off, which surprised me very much. Mother and I took a car from our house on Ratchadamri Road to go to the Borneo store to embark on the Kuala. As I got out of the car, I saw Lamjuan and Kamon standing with smiling faces waiting to greet us. Next to them stood Lord and Lady Banlue. All of them talked to me in a friendly way and wished me good luck. Lamjuan kept teasing and flattering me, and I was thoroughly bored of having to wear a mask in this social comedy. Although I acknowledged all the niceties and compliments with a smile, I did so reluctantly. The more I heard Lady Banlue and Lamjuan badger me with an endless flow of sugar-coated words, the more I felt disgusted. In this world, apart from my mother, nobody showed any sincerity. Would Pradit have acted in the same way as they did if he were still in Siam? I was suspicious of him and of everyone else in this world, everyone except Mother.
At the appointed time, the Kuala left the dock and slowly went down the river. Goodbye, my dear friend. Goodbye, Lamjuan.


5

A new world – Paradise

1

As the Kuala steamed across the Gulf of Siam heading straight for Penang and Singapore and I lay on a rattan chair on the deck in the soft breeze, it was the first time in my entire life that I could think of my fate and of my past existence with a clear mind devoid of any kind of resentment. I do not know what had softened my heart and prompted me to forgive everyone in the world who had ever been malicious to me. During the last few months prior to my departure, I was so weary of Siam and the Thai way of life that I felt as if I had gone mad. Living there only made me suffer and offered an ugly picture of covetousness, selfishness and injustice. I felt that Siam was not a suitable place for me to live in. Nobody needed me. The day when I would have the opportunity to escape for good would be a day of real happiness. I could find a new world, I could find Paradise everywhere except in Siam. And now I had finally left, and I was sitting and sleeping at leisure, basking in the serenity of change. Whenever I thought about Siam and the relatives and friends I held more or less dear, it was with the cheerful heart of a philosopher. I reflected that if I was born under an unlucky star, many other people were more unfortunate than I was. The inequity and injustice I had suffered continuously since childhood may have helped me realize what real life was and how to be a good citizen in the future. Being left with no share of the inheritance in Father’s will may yet strengthen my character by making me strive to earn a living through my own efforts, so that every cent in my pocket would be my proudest possession because I would have earned it by myself. Poverty is not significant, dear readers, if we are knowledgeable and broad-minded.
For the Thai students who went abroad in groups, I was the one who was fortunate because I was going on my own, free of worry like a single man out to conquer the world. At home, my brothers and sisters were already wealthy. Mother had gone to live with my eldest brother, and she received proper support from him. As for the others, there was no need to think of them. The Kuala was sailing on, and so were my thoughts and my heart.
The ship stopped at Penang Island for six hours. Viscount Wiseit, who was taking me to England, hired a car and we went sightseeing around the island. Our Malay chauffeur drove very fast and most dangerously, even though we kept telling him to slow down. Like most drivers in the Federation of Malaya, he was irredeemably addicted to speed. Within two hours we had travelled around the whole island. The road went up and down and often twisted in steep and narrow bends which our car negotiated at terrifyingly high speeds, courting disaster. Even now I still cannot remember how we finally made it back safely to the Kuala. The ship departed in the evening. About a day later, we reached Singapore, which was where we would board a large passenger ship heading for Marseille in France.
Singapore drivers drove as badly as those in Penang. During our three-day stay there, we did not feel like going anywhere by car. In the afternoon, we remained in the hotel or took a stroll in the Botanical Gardens. At night, we went to the opera house to watch Gondolia and The Mikado, composed by Gilbert & Sullivan. Singapore streets were pleasantly clean. Chinatown, the area where most Chinese resided, looked fairly interesting, but its restaurants were very noisy. The beat of chopsticks striking against bowls and plates as well as the clashing sound of cymbals reverberated thunderously.
Two days later, the French ship André-Le-Bon docked to take passengers on board. She was nothing much to look at, because she had not been built to carry passengers but to transport cargo during the war, but I was greatly excited. As soon as I embarked, I set about looking all over the ship. At the time, I knew only one word in French, “merci”, but wherever I went, stewards and sailors addressed me loudly in that language. Undaunted, I tried to communicate with them by gestures. I believe they must have thought I was Khmer or Vietnamese, but when it dawned on them that I could speak no French, they decided I must be a Chinaman. If your complexion is the same as mine, wherever you travelled, nobody, at least at the time, knew enough to assume that you were Thai, because no one had heard of Siam, even though Siam is so close to Singapore. After we got on the ship, settled down and freshened up, we heard a bell clang and a siren hoot, signalling that the ship was about to depart. Then she slid along the dock and left, and it meant the start of my voyage across the ocean – across the ocean of life.
I will not tell you about the people we met during the journey because you can guess what happened: most passengers were French, and they kept to themselves, given that I could not speak their language. There were two or three beautiful foreign women among them, and I liked to follow them to see what they were doing. Sometimes, they turned to smile and try to strike up a conversation, but when they saw that I did not understand them, they gave up. In the afternoon, they played dominoes and bridge in the lounge, and they danced every evening, except when the waves were too fierce.

2

During the trip, our ship stopped at several South Asian ports. All the things I saw there reminded me of the saying: “The even path winds down to Hell, the rocky path winds up to Heaven”. If we hold that Western countries are like Heaven, then South Asia is Hell indeed. I have yet to see a city in the world more obscene, more despicable than Colombo, Djibouti or Port Said. Whatever we did and wherever we went in these three cities, we faced all manner of pilferage, deception and cheating, sometimes to the point of extreme danger. The people we saw were not only repulsively ugly but also brutal and cruel like savage animals. When they saw travellers with decent, innocent faces, they could not wait to pounce on them.
Of the three cities, Colombo was the worst. To reach the city from our ship we had to take a small row boat which took about twenty minutes to reach the shore. The rower was a Sri Lankan coolie with a fierce mien and the body of a giant. Once we agreed on the fare, our group of four, comprising Viscount Wiseit, myself and two white passengers, sat in the boat and the dreadful Tamil started to row. About half way through the trip, the man suddenly dropped the oars and demanded double the fare or else he would capsize the boat. Realizing what was happening, the American who sat next to Viscount Wiseit drew up his pistol, pointed it at the man and compelled him to take us to shore. The ruffian could see that the American was serious, so he resumed his duty while laughing broadly in a display of big, white teeth. Hardly had we landed when we were surrounded by all kinds of villains making all sorts of requests in a deafening clamour, offering to change money or to drive for us, and they all vied loudly with one another to peddle their wares.
We – Viscount Wiseit and I – agreed to rent a car and had one of the ruffians drive it for us. After a fairly long drive, the man took us into a coconut orchard, stopped the car and demanded that we give him double the agreed fare or he would let us walk back. We had no idea where we were and had no gun to force the bastard to stick to the bargain, so we were forced to hand him the amount he wanted before we could continue our journey.
As you know, the island of Sri Lanka, which is also known as Ceylon, has a famous Buddhist temple which foreigners from all nations are wont to visit, and it was that sacred temple that the bandits used for their nefarious activities. They offered to guide us to the various places in the temple at exorbitant rates. They would steal whatever we possessed, even in our very presence. For example, if you wanted change from a banknote to pay for a guide’s service, they would say that they had the change, but when you actually handed over the note, they claimed they had to get the change from an official, and ran away, never to return.
Back to the hotel, you were cheated again by the servants, who wore white skirts and white shirts and combed their hair in buns with huge, crescent-shaped combs stuck in them. If you wanted to send a letter home from Sri Lanka and let the hotel handle it, they would tell you that though there were no stamps left they would find one for you presently; then they asked you to leave the letter with one of the properly dressed clerks, who would stick the stamp on the envelope and post it for you. If you handed them the letter as well as the money, you could be sure that both would be lost forever and your letter would end up in a wastebasket. Such was Sri Lanka, my dear readers!
From Colombo, it took six days to reach Djibouti, a little seaport under French control in the eastern part of the African continent. The city was nothing but sand and mountains, and the weather was terribly hot. We were told that Djibouti was almost as notorious as Colombo for its cheating, so we had no wish to go sightseeing there. A moment after the ship docked and while the coolies were busy unloading coal and provisions, several African children came swimming around the boat, calling out and splashing about noisily; all were skinny, with red hair which looked exactly like the fibres of dry coconut shells, and burning red eyes because they stayed in the water all day long almost every day. They shouted at us to throw coins into the water, then dived as deep as they could to catch them between their teeth and in no time popped back to the surface with the coins in their mouths. Some of them climbed on to the deck to beg for money and then went up to the very top of the ship, from which they jumped all the way into the water, head first or feet first as we requested. The ship was in Djibouti for four hours, and then steamed forth to Suez.
As soon as we left Djibouti, we were caught in a violent storm, which tossed the ship for about eight hours. There were gales with heavy rain. Fortunately, I was never seasick. In the midst of the turbulent sea, I would walk up to the deck. I occasionally met the chief mechanic as well as the person in charge of the ship, whom we called ‘Captain’, and they each complimented me over my good fortune, as this was my first sea voyage. When the storm was over, the Red Sea was quiet and the weather hot. The sun shone brightly. In whichever direction we looked, we could see large schools of fish of all sizes jumping up and down playfully near and far from the ship. The longer the ship was steaming along the Red Sea, the hotter the weather grew. At night, we could not bear sleeping in the cabins and everyone went to sleep on the deck chairs stretching in long rows all the way to the stern. I was between Viscount Wiseit and the American who had gone with us in the row boat to Colombo. We chatted until late into the night about the many things that we had seen.
“Why do you folks prefer to study in England?” he asked. “I don’t understand what makes England better than the States.”
“We, Thai students, know that the Americans are prejudiced against the colour of one’s skin, and as you can see, sir, ours is dark,” I pointed out.
“That’s true. I accept that we are quite narrow-minded over this matter, because we have no opportunity to know the peoples of the East, we don’t travel abroad very much, and most of us don’t have enough education to broaden our minds. But in any case, your complexion is not dark at all. I don’t believe anyone in the world would mistake you for a Negro or an Indian; more probably you’d be taken for a Chinese or a Japanese. If you go and study in the States, I think you’ll be as happy there as in England. Not all Americans discriminate against complexion. In Boston, San Francisco or Maine, you could find an American family to live with, and I believe that they’d like you very much,” he answered politely.
Mr William W Hutchinson described to me the goodness, beauty and progress of the United States of America until late into the night. He tried to persuade me to study there and take American education back to Siam. Americans are honest people, he added, they are straightforward and thus easy to understand. Though they have many weak points, they are not like sugar laced with poison. Going to “get” an education in the States does not mean making a superficial study of the Americans and their way of life, but studying their inner feelings, the true and pure feelings of the American people. A close study of those who practise racial discrimination would probably show that they never thought about whether they were right or wrong or whether they had any reason to actually feel as they did. If we, Thai, were able to make most Americans understand us, and let them know who we were, they would not discriminate against us for certain.
Mr Hutchinson went on talking until both of us became drowsy and fell asleep. But I had already made up my mind to study law in England, and I had only twenty thousand baht with me: how could I ever have a chance to study in the United States of America?

3

Four days later, the ship arrived at Suez in Egypt. She berthed there for three or four hours in order to pay the entrance toll to the canal that links the Red Sea and the Mediterranean. Several passengers disembarked and took a train to Cairo, the capital of Egypt, whence they would take another train to Port Said, and finally a ship to further their travel to Europe. I remember that we entered the Suez Canal at dusk as it was too hot during the day. That night, there was a cool breeze and the moon shone brightly. The ship moved slowly and we could see the desert on both banks of the canal. Though there were no trees or anything else, this empty picture of sky and sand was very beautiful. Sometimes, the soft moonlight made the desert in the distance look like a pond of glass, a clear, shimmering water pond. At about ten o’clock, we reached Port Said. As soon as the ship berthed behind the breakwater, we saw the monument to de Lesseps, the French engineer who designed and built the Suez Canal. Then we set sail in the Mediterranean Sea, making for the Greek island of Crete and then Italy.
As we neared Europe, the weather became increasingly cool and invigorating. There was not a cloud in the sky and the moon shone gloriously. The sea made the view all around us more beautiful. The passengers put on their finest garments because the days of scorching weather were over and we were getting close – close to Paradise? Every night, they enjoyed dancing, and I liked to watch them. Viscount Wiseit, who had taken several official trips abroad and liked to dance, also enjoyed himself.
Two or three days later, the ship passed the Greek island of Crete and skirted the Stromboli volcano to enter the Strait of Messina in Italy. This strait had the most beautiful scenery I have ever seen. On one side, a city clung to mountain slopes among wavy rows of different kinds of orange trees; on the other stood the Sicilian volcano and Messina, an old city with all kinds of ruined military camps and ancient buildings. After passing the Strait of Messina, the ship steamed on, heading for Marseille in France.
When I was in Siam and during my journey through various countries prior to reaching the territorial waters of Europe, I often believed, thought and dreamt that foreign countries such as England, France, Germany or Italy were paradises – paradises of beauty and wealth, devoid of all the things that make life so bitter. The new world I was going to was certainly a paradise. I was too young and not educated enough to know much about the Great War fought in Europe between 1914 and 1918, and I had no idea about all the hardships that had befallen these countries because of the war. It was not until my arrival at Marseille that reality became startlingly obvious. Marseille! Ah, Marseille!
The ship berthed at about eight in the morning. The place was full of people who had come to greet their relatives and of coolies who were busy fastening the ship’s ropes and unloading goods. Handkerchiefs were being waved and names shouted with glee and trepidation. After a while, a doctor and a few officers came on board to examine the ship. When they were satisfied that everything was all right, they allowed us to disembark.
“At which hotel will both of you stay today?” our American friend asked Viscount Wiseit. “You are catching the train to Paris tonight, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” Viscount Wiseit answered. “But we haven’t decided where to stay.”
“Come and stay with me at the Hotel de Ville,” Mr Hutchinson suggested. “It’s hardly expensive and very nice.”
“All right, sir,” we decided.
“And since you are representing your government, you may want to wire ahead to the Thai embassy in Paris asking them to pick you up at the station when you arrive.”
“Certainly.”
“Well, I’ll arrange that for you at the hotel. Let’s take a trip around Marseille. I volunteer to be your guide. If somebody knows Marseille and France, I do.”
“That sounds good. Thank you, sir,” Viscount Wiseit answered. We hired porters to take our belongings into the car, and went to the Hotel de Ville with Mr Hutchinson. Our American friend’s knowledge of French was good enough to make himself understood by the driver, so we were all set.
Though the distance from the port to the Hotel de Ville was short, the various scenes I saw on the way compelled me to ask myself in wonderment: was it true that foreign countries were paradises?
During the Great War, France and Belgium had sustained repeated wounds that were more severe than those suffered anywhere else in Europe. The war had been fought in these two countries from beginning to end, and the ashes of destruction were still there for the world to see. At the time I reached Marseille, the town was still in ruins. The streets were bumpy and full of dust and dirt. There were needy-looking people on the move everywhere, some starving, others barely able to eke out a living. Some were rogues who liked to bully passers-by whenever they had the chance. But let me stop drawing the picture of Marseille now, because I do not want you to feel as sad as I did then.
At eight o’clock that night, we took a through train to Paris.

4

It took us sixteen hours to reach Paris. At the station, a young officer from the embassy was waiting for us. The train stopped amidst whistles and the shouts of the porters and the greetings of those who had come to meet relatives. Though it was noontime, the station was dark and stuffy, and the air filled with smoke and ashes. The shrieks and clangs of trains changing tracks somewhat startled me. Then boys selling newspapers added their shouts to the clamour.
“Where will you stay here? At the Thai embassy?” our American friend asked me as we shook hands to take our leave.
“That’s right, sir. You can meet me there,” I replied.
“Do you have someone to guide you in Paris?” he kindly asked.
“I don’t know yet,” I answered.
“Well, I’ll meet you at eleven. Wait for me there.”
Then we said goodbye and parted ways. Mr La-or, an assistant to the ambassador, led us to his rented car and drove us to the embassy at 8 Rue Greuze. The embassy was closed and looked dark. The air everywhere seemed to be impure. After I had an audience with the ambassador for one hour, I began to feel dizzy as if I were going to faint. His Excellency the Ambassador – His Royal Highness Jaroon – was very kind to me. He spoke to me in a friendly manner for he used to be Father’s close friend. He said that he would be glad to help me at any time. We stayed happily at the embassy for almost a week.
At eleven the following morning, someone entered my bedroom and told me that an American was waiting to see me. I knew instantly that it was Mr Hutchinson because I had yet to know any other foreigner. Hutchinson took me to visit various places in Paris by car. We stopped to take a meal at Bocardi Restaurant on the Grands Boulevards. I felt as if I was in Paradise, happy as I had never hoped to be. I kept asking myself what kind of good deeds I had done to receive so much kindness from this foreigner. We conversed in English. At the time, my understanding was fair, but I still hesitated when I spoke. Whenever I said something wrong – and that was often – Hutchinson corrected me in a friendly way. We went on sightseeing the whole day in easy companionship.
When I went back to the embassy in the evening, I met many students chatting together in the sitting room. As they thought that I was a new student, they did not wish to talk to me. I went to bed and still kept asking myself: was it true that foreign countries were paradises?



6

London and Pradit

1

Three days before we left Paris, I wrote to Pradit Bunyarrat at 13 Langham Garden in London, asking him to meet Viscount Wiseit and myself at the station upon our arrival. When the day and time of departure came, we went to pay our respects to the ambassador and started our journey to England. We took a train at Gare du Nord, got off at Calais and took a ferry across the Channel, which was choppy and windy. About an hour and a half later, we reached Dover in England, where we took a train to London. The whole trip from Paris to London lasted about seven and a half hours.
The train arrived in London at exactly 7pm. At the station, an officer from the embassy had come to welcome Viscount Wiseit, and Pradit had come to meet me. I remember that it was a day in autumn and the weather was rather cold and damp. Because of this sort of weather, Pradit’s complexion looked unusually pale, so that I almost failed to recognize him. He rushed to me and shook my hand firmly with obvious delight, then put his arm round my shoulders and led me straight to Viscount Wiseit.
“Your Excellency, sir,” he said. “His Excellency the Ambassador has given me permission to take Wisoot home for the night. We need not have an audience with His Excellency until tomorrow morning. May I take Wisoot with me now?”
“Hum, what’s the relationship between the two of you?” Viscount Wiseit asked.
“We are like brothers, sir,” Pradit replied.
“All right then, but listen to me first: he has just arrived, so don’t do anything foolish, will you,” Viscount Wiseit teased.
“I promise, sir. Goodnight.”
As soon as we were out of the station, Pradit introduced his three Thai student friends to me. Their names were Bunchuay, Jamrat and Manee. The five of us took a dilapidated rented car to 13 Langham Garden. Bunchuay, Jamrat, Manee and Pradit shared a “flat” on the third floor of the house, which was all for rent. They had the use of two small bedrooms, a sitting-room, a kitchen and a bathroom, all with worn-out furniture and decoration, and they lived there as students do.
“Hey, Pradit, let’s take Wisoot for a meal at the Chinaman’s Hall,” Bunchuay proposed only a few minutes after we had arrived.
“You got some dough?” Manee asked. “I don’t.”
“Don’t worry,” Bunchuay answered. “Let’s share among those who do.”
“All right,” Pradit agreed, then he turned to me and said: “Wisoot, go and freshen up before we go out.”
Once we were ready, the four friends took me to Earl’s Court Station, where we went down in a “lift” to take an underground train. The train moved very fast through a tunnel and stopped at every station. At Piccadilly Circus, we changed to another train, which took us to Oxford Circus. Once out of the station, we turned right and almost immediately came to a house with a porch, where a man in a soldier-like uniform welcomed us and invited us to step inside. We went past the porch, up five steps and finally reached the place we intended to enter. We were greeted by a fairly loud mixture of dancing music, conversations and laughter.
The Oxford Chinaman’s Dancing Hall, as the Thai called it, was a huge place with a second-floor balcony bound by a balustrade. When you looked down through the balustrade, you could see the people dancing on the lower floor. The band played from the balcony. There was not much decoration, except for brightly lit lanterns, and nothing to show that this was a Chinese dancing hall, except that the owner looked Chinese, as did two or three head waiters, who stood there supervising. The place was not Chinese – and neither was the food, but then it was not western either, or in any way pleasing to the palate. I concluded that men came here only to dance with women, drink whiskey and chat at leisure.
That night, there were only a few people, because it was the end of the month and money was scarce. The customers were mostly Indians, Japanese, Chinese and other Asians, some fifteen of them in all, with only two or three Westerners. As for the women, a quick glance was enough to realize what sort they were. They sat together in a great number as usual, waiting for men to pay for their drinks or take them dancing or whatever. Some looked lively, others looked depressed. The pretty ones, who were the stars of the establishment, were invited to dance time and again, but those of lesser looks were left sitting idly by watching the lucky ones enjoying themselves.
The five of us sat at a table in the middle of the balcony and were left undisturbed by the ladies of the night. My friends took turns dancing, while I sat watching them with admiration. I was a newcomer, who could neither dance nor speak English fluently, so I had to sit back and watch. Some ladies occasionally cast inviting glances at me as they walked past our table, but when I did not return their glances, they figured that I was dead wood and walked on.

2

At eleven the following morning, Pradit took me to meet His Excellency the Ambassador. We found him engrossed in work with his secretary. He greeted and addressed me cordially though, offered to help me to the best of his ability and kindly accepted to act as my guardian. I handed him the one hundred pounds I had brought with me, and he invited Pradit and me to have dinner with him that evening.
“The important point is for you to decide which subject you want to study,” he counselled. “If you want to enter a university, I advise you to go to a public school first. Since you are a self-supporting student, you can apply to any school you like. If you wish to study law, I suggest you live with a family to improve your English first and then come back to London and enter a law school.”
He detailed the various expenses my studies would entail. I decided that I would stay with some English family in order to improve my knowledge of the language, and then return to study law in London. His Excellency said that he would take care of everything according to my wishes and would hasten to find a family for me so that I could start studying as soon as possible.
When we stepped out of the embassy, Pradit took me onto a “bus”. It was a large passenger vehicle with solid rubber tires, a cabin and an upper and a lower deck. Passengers could sit on either level, but there was no roof on the upper deck. Advertisements for movies, plays and whatever else were pasted on the sides of the bus and gave it the appearance of a toy more than anything else. Fortunately the air was invigorating that morning, slightly cold but pleasantly sunny, so we went up to the upper deck.
“Are you on holiday now?” I asked Pradit once we were seated.
“No. All four of us passed the entrance exam to the University of London, but courses won’t start before next month, so we have nothing to do but rest until then,” Pradit explained.
“Tell me about life abroad,” I said. “To tell you the truth, I’m rather scared.”
“Everything’s fine, except that we are so damn poor,” Pradit answered. “They give us seven pounds a month and, with that, we have to pay for the laundry and the bus fare and buy our own clothes and everything else. You’ll see for yourself before long. But actually it doesn’t bother me very much, because Father sends me some money every three or four months, enough to make my life less uncomfortable.”
Me: “Have you ever lived with foreigners?”
Pradit: “Do you mean staying with a family?”
Me: “That’s right.”
Pradit: “I studied English for one full year before taking the entrance exam. Staying with that family was so depressing! I was sent to live with some damned vicar. There was no one else except this old man and his wife, and he was such a zealot he almost converted me into a Christian.”
Me: “Well, you must have been good at your studies?
Pradit: “Not exactly. I was depressed. The food was awful and I never ate my fill. I had to ride on a bus for an hour to go to the cinema. I gave myself entirely to my studies because I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.”
Me: “Why can’t they find us better places than that?”
Pradit: “It depends on your luck, you see. Some are fortunate enough to live with a good family; others are unbelievably unlucky – I was one of those.”
Me: “By the way, Pradit, I’ve got several letters for you from your family. They are all in my trunk.”
Pradit: “Good. Your trunk should have arrived by the time we are home, because I’ve asked the people at the embassy to forward it to you there.”
During the bus ride, I had avoided mentioning Siam to Pradit, partly because I wanted to forget about it. Yet I was surprised that he did not ask news of anyone and did not even mention Lord and Lady Banlue or his dear sister Lamjuan.
“Pradit, I’m surprised you haven’t asked me about home, though it’s been a long time since you left,” I could not help but remark.
“Lamjuan writes to me often and I think I’m fairly well informed of what’s going on there,” he answered.
“Does she mention me in her letters?” I asked.
“She used to, but not any longer. I suppose it’s because she’s married now...” Pradit left the sentence hanging, which puzzled me.
“You don’t mean to say that something happened between Lamjuan and me since she got married, do you?” I asked in a firm voice.
“Not at all, but now that she’s married, she may want you to forget her, for the sake of your own happiness. Life is strange, you know.”
I thought for a moment and then replied: “Honestly, Pradit, I have never loved Lamjuan in any other way than as a brother or a friend. When I learned she was getting married, I was extremely glad and I looked for her everywhere to offer her my congratulations, but I never got a chance to meet her. From the very first day First Lieutenant Kamon came visiting, your family started to behave rather oddly with me.”
“I understand, Wisoot,” Pradit replied sadly, as the bus kept on speeding through the streets.

3

London is widely touted as one of the largest, most beautiful and most extraordinary cities in the world. Since the end of the Great War, no country in Europe has been as peaceful as England. And London, the capital and seat of Parliament, is the centre of the prosperity and greatness of England, a country whose power radiates in all directions. As I understood that London had the said characteristics, it was only natural for me to imagine her as wonderful as Paradise or at least as beautiful as Paris, which I had just visited. But I am sorry to say that London, in fact, is not at all like that. It is indeed a large and clean city with an exceedingly large population, but should anyone claim that London built itself as a beautiful city of universal appeal, I would strenuously protest. In terms of visual attraction, London is still far behind Paris in its artistic development. Paris has the Champs Élysées, Place de l’Étoile, Place de la Concorde, Place de la Madeleine and the Grands Boulevards. Though England has Regent Street, Piccadilly and Oxford Circus, you will not find streets or places there as beautiful as those in Paris. Monuments and sculptures at road intersections in Paris are all well proportioned, but those in London are so dowdy that it is almost impossible to figure out what they represent. The largest monument, the so-called Nelson’s Column at Trafalgar Square, is a huge stone pillar as high as the sky with the statue of Nelson on top. To see the statue, you have to raise your head and twist your neck, and in winter, fog from dawn to dusk makes it even more difficult to catch a glimpse of it, even through a field glass. I do not know what the English had in mind when they built such a sky-scraping structure. Buildings in London also look inordinately bulky and it is hard to find any beauty in them. Perhaps it is because England is an island which was constantly attacked by its enemies, and her people were too busy fighting them off to bother about the niceties of internationally accepted artistic beauty...
After about two hours on the bus, we stopped for lunch at a Chinese restaurant on the Strand at Charing Cross. The food was good and looked and tasted very much Chinese, and yet the cook, the owner and the manager were all Japanese. Thai students called the place the Charing Cross Chinaman’s Hall. The restaurant that day was full of Thai, Chinamen and other foreigners from the East. What made the place particularly attractive was that the owner had hired several beautiful waitresses to serve and entertain the guests. Apart from frequent visitors, there were plenty of regular customers who came for both lunch and dinner. The restaurant’s owner was clever, so he was rich.
After lunch, Pradit took me for a walk along the Strand and then we turned into Holborn to see the afternoon movie at the Stall Picture House. When the movie was over, it was teatime. We took the underground to Gloucester Road, and entered Lion’s Tea Shop near the embassy. Many Thai government officials sat in a group and they ordered – rather than invited – us to join them at their table. Afterwards, Pradit persuaded me to play bridge at the Langham Garden house.
There, we chatted until dusk. At the appointed time, Pradit and I got dressed for dinner with the ambassador. After dinner, His Excellency Prapharkorn Wongsawang kept us talking until late into the night.

4

Three or four days later, I had the surprise of receiving a letter from Lamjuan, and a very lengthy one it was, stretching over many pages. She enquired about Pradit’s wellbeing and mine and asked me to reply promptly and give as many details as I could about Pradit. She wrote of her new life and happiness, and gave news of Kamon. Her letter was full of flattery, as though she still presumed we were intimate friends. She hoped that when I returned, we would resume our relationship and that our friendship would grow even more intimate as days went by. She also reminded me of our discussions on monogamy.
“Oh, my dear brother Wisoot,” one part of her letter enthused, “we are enjoying ourselves so much now. Everyday, Kamon’s friends, all overseas students, come here and we are having a good time. When you return, I will drag you over to join us, and we will have great fun together, my dear brother and only dearest friend.”
Alas! Poor Lamjuan! Hadn’t she realized that she had already killed the pure love I had for her – the love of a friend, to which no other love can compare? Every sweet word she poured forth fell like water on a stone. Not a single drop could seep into my innermost feelings. She had cut me off, turned away from me and left me exposed to Kamon’s contempt when she thought that I would never get a chance to go abroad. None of this was mentioned in her letter, however. She did not utter even one word of apology. Instead, she flattered herself with all sorts of presumptions, posing as my very best friend from the moment we met unfailingly to the present day. What a shame! The circus of life! Were we to wear masks forever in front of each other?
At first, during the voyage across the sea, when I was in France and when I arrived in England, I felt at times that I could forgive her. I reasoned that she had reacted to me the way she did at someone else’s instigation. I told myself that she was like a ship drifting on the ocean without helm or rudder, her direction left to the vagaries of wind and waves. Moreover, I did not believe that Kamon was good enough for her. Kamon liked to look down on people, and it was only a matter of time before he saw some flaws in her. He then would look down on her as he looked down on all Thai who had no opportunity to go abroad. A man like him had no true love. But Lamjuan was not a rudderless ship drifting alone on the deep sea. Her letter plainly showed that everything that she had done to me she had done deliberately, without prodding from anybody. She was old enough to know her own mind, and she had never repented for what she had done. Poor me! I kept asking myself if ever there would be a day when I could forgive her.
I often brooded about how changed I would find her four or five years from now when I would go back home and meet her again. In Siam, women age quickly or at least think of themselves as old even though they may have retained some of their youth and beauty. How many children would she have? Her face might have lost the youthful radiance I had seen. She might have turned pale and gaunt with suffering and become bored with what she now called her “new life”. When the novelty had worn off, how would she be faring?
After I finished reading her letter, I looked up at Pradit, who was on his bed putting his socks on. Our eyes met. He asked me: “So, is there anything in Lamjuan’s letter?”
“Plenty,” I replied reluctantly.
“Good news?”
“Sort of.”
“I can’t stand women,’’ he suddenly said. “They bore me. I can’t find one who is constant in love – and foreign women are even worse!”
I threw Lamjuan’s letter into a drawer, and remained silent.
My dear readers, did you notice how Pradit’s behaviour had changed since he was abroad? He had turned into a boy who talked idly and jokingly. He often used slang expressions and had even changed the form of address he used with me in Thai. Yet he was happy, and enjoyed his childish behaviour!



7
A new life

1

No other chapter in the story of my life will give me more pleasure to write than this one. I write it with pride. I write it out of my love for writing. Happiness! A new life, my dear readers! The new is always better than the old, don’t you think?
I had been in London for about two weeks when His Excellency the Ambassador instructed me to go and live with an English family at Bexhill, in the south of England. His Excellency guaranteed that if I stayed with Captain Andrew, I would enjoy myself and be comfortable, because that man was not at all like the foolish vicar Pradit had lived with. I left at ten one morning and it took only two hours and a half to reach Bexhill. The train had hardly stopped when a man in a golf outfit walked straight to the window of my compartment and asked me:
“You are from the Royal Thai Embassy, aren’t you?”
“Yes sir,” I replied.
“I’m Captain Andrew. Come with me.”
I got off the train. Captain Andrew extended his enormous hand and shook mine so vigorously that it hurt. He then helped me take my petty belongings off the train.
“Let’s go over there and find your trunk,” he suggested. “All luggage is stored at the front of the train.”
We walked side by side to the front part of the train. I pointed at a large trunk in the pile of luggage and said: “There, that one is mine.”
Captain Andrew turned round and looked at me with a puzzled expression, then said: “Eh, you speak English very well.”
“Not so, sir,” I answered. “I studied a little at home and during my voyage on the ship.”
“Good,” he replied.
He ordered one of the porters to load my belongings onto a large truck, gave him his address, then took me to the front of the station, where a nice car and its driver in a neat uniform were waiting for us.
“This is our car,” Captain Andrew said.
The captain was in his fifties, tall, big and balding, with a rather dull complexion and the red and blurry eyes of a heavy drinker, but he was a good-natured man. As we sat in the car which trundled along the shore, I felt him observing me with interest.
“Do you know that I’ve never been a teacher and have never taken a student as a boarder in my life?” he said with a note of intimacy in his voice. “You are my first, and maybe the last one as well.”
“Why?” I asked.
“During the war, I happened to live in Siam for two years. I was very well treated there, and I felt that, even though your country is not as developed as we are, it’s still peaceful and happy. Thai people helped me a great deal, and I came to know many high-ranking officials, including your father. Siam made me very happy, and I wanted to do something in return, so I decided to take care of you.”
“How did you know I would be coming?”
“Well, last summer I invited your ambassador here for a week’s holiday,” he replied, and then lit a cigarette. “We talked about Siam almost every day. He told me that another student would be coming shortly, so I asked him to send that one to me.”
“Oh! How lucky I am,” I said enthusiastically.
“I’m glad you feel this way,” he answered. “We’ll try our best to give you comfort and happiness. Mrs Andrew will take good care of you. We have an eleven-year-old daughter. Her name’s Stephanie. She’s beautiful and talkative. You’ll like her when you see her.”
“Certainly, sir,” I acquiesced.

2

Bexhill-on-Sea was a calm, clean and dazzlingly beautiful place. All the time the car was moving leisurely along the coast, the air was deliciously cool and refreshing. The waves broke along the shore at regular intervals in splashes of white foam. Though it was noontime, the sunshine was not hot to the point of making us uncomfortable. We passed two or three small theatres and the Seville Restaurant and then turned into Middlesex Road. A moment later, the car stopped in front of a nice two-story house with beautiful green plants creeping along its walls. It used to be a summer residence of Queen Victoria of England, and Her Majesty kindly called this abode ‘The Queen’s Cottage’.
Immediately, a well-dressed servant opened the door to welcome us.
“Take off your coat and your hat and put them here,” Captain Andrew told me as we entered a small room at the front of the house. I took off my coat and hat and hung them. Then I stood uncertainly, not knowing what to do next.
“Elsie! Elsie!” Captain Andrew called.
“What is it, Bertie?” a voice answered from upstairs.
“Our friend is here,” the husband said. ‘‘Do come down.”
The woman who had thus been called came running down the stairs. She was of the same age as her husband, fat and big, but her face glowed with kindness. She walked straight to me and extended her hand. I respectfully lowered my head and shook her hand gently.
“It’s wrong to shake hands so softly, Mr Visutra,” Mrs Andrew admonished with a radiant smile. “You should grasp my hand vigorously to show me that you are really glad to meet me. Please do it again.”
I executed myself satisfactorily, which pleased this kind woman very much.
“Where’s Stephanie?” Captain Andrew asked.
“She’ll be down presently,” his wife answered. “Let’s go and have a chat in the sitting room.”
Both of them took me into the sitting room, which was luxuriously decorated. On the walls hung photographs of Queen Victoria and of the present King of England as well as other pictures. The furniture – upholstered chairs, mahogany table, bookshelf and so on – looked neat and clean.
“Are you feeling tired?” Mrs Andrew asked.
“Not at all, Madam. I have done nothing but sit on a train for a couple of hours,” I answered.
“We were thinking of taking you out this afternoon. We’ll drive to Eastbourne and have tea there. What do you say? We’ll take Stephanie along.”
“That is fine, Madam,” I acquiesced. “I am sure it will be great fun.”
“Eh, how come your English is so good?” Mrs Andrew exclaimed in surprise. “Why do you have to study it? Er, you spell your name ‘Visutra’ – what should we call you?”
“My name is Wisoot,” I replied.
“Is it all right then if we call you by this name?”
“Certainly, Madam.”
At that moment, we heard a knock on the door and a child calling: “Mummy, mummy, may I come in?”
“Please do, Stephanie,” Mrs Andrew answered with a sweet and gentle voice.
The door was pushed open and the little girl thus named came running into the room and stopped right in front of me.
“This is our only child, Mr Wisoot,” Mrs Andrew told me. “And this is the friend I told you about, Stephanie.”
I shook Stephanie’s hand and was stunned by the little girl’s beauty and loveliness. To speak truthfully, I felt that she was the most beautiful and lovely girl I had ever seen in my life. Stephanie was rather short for her eleven years. She had a creamy-white, oval face with sparkling blue eyes, rosy cheeks and a well-shaped mouth and nose, but her most striking feature was the curly blond hair that flowed down to her waist. As we shook hands, she stared at me with a slightly puzzled expression, because I looked odd to her: my complexion, face and manners were unlike anything she had ever seen. But this child’s puzzlement did not turn into distaste; on the contrary, it was a marvellous fuse which brought love, intimacy and friendliness to both of us as we came to know each other better. When the handshake was over, Stephanie sat down on an arm of Mrs Andrew’s chair and put her arms round her mother’s waist.
“We have lunch at one,” Mrs Andrew told me. “You should go up to your room and freshen up. We’ve prepared the most beautiful room for you.” She then turned to Captain Andrew and said: “Bertie, please take Mr Wisoot to his room.”
“Sure, Elsie,” her husband answered, and he led me out of the sitting room. Upstairs, he showed me the bathroom and then the bedroom, which was indeed luxuriously appointed. Though the room was fairly narrow, due to the smallness of the house, it looked comfortable. Captain Andrew explained to me how to use the wardrobe, the bed and the other items in the room. Then he took me to one side and pointed to a small box against the wall with a wooden bird on its lid.
“This is where you’ll keep your money,” he explained. “When you press this button, the bird pokes its head and chirps, and the lid opens. Once you’ve inserted the money, you should press the button again. The bird will chirp, and the lid will shut.” He demonstrated how to use the box, and we both burst out laughing because the chirping of the bird was very funny indeed.

3

After I washed my face and finished dressing, Jenkins, the servant who had opened the door for us when we reached the cottage a moment ago, entered my room in polite fashion and said: “The meal’s ready, sir. Mrs Andrew asked me to invite you to go downstairs.”
I followed him to the dining room, where the owners of the house and their daughter were waiting for me. I apologized for being late, explaining that I got dressed very slowly as I didn’t know how to dress properly.
“Don’t worry, Mr Wisoot,” Mrs Andrew said. “We’ll teach you how to dress quickly in the next few days.”
Captain Andrew pointed to a chair and signalled me to sit down. When I saw the table, I was completely surprised, because it was made of polished black wood, shiny with lacquer, and there was no tablecloth on it.
“Aren’t we going to use a tablecloth?” I asked.
“This is modern furniture,” Mrs Andrew answered. “Be careful not to spill anything on the table while you are eating, though. There’s a sixpence penalty for each mistake. My husband has to pay nearly a pound every month.”
I sat opposite Stephanie, with Captain Andrew to my left and Mrs Andrew to my right. We started to eat and it wasn’t long before I spilt a glass full of water on the table. The three of them had a jolly good laugh.
“How much shall we fine you, Wisoot?” Captain Andrew asked.
“Never mind,” his wife said, rushing to my defence. “Tell Jenkins to clean up. Accidents do happen, Mr Wisoot. We’ll forgive you this time.”
After lunch, we sat chatting in the house for a while, then got into the car. Mrs Andrew pointed out various important places to me along the way, while Little Stephanie kept asking her father when we would reach Eastbourne.
“Since you have come to live with us,” Mrs Andrew said as the car was speeding along, “you’d want to know who we are first. Bertie and I got married very late, though we’ve loved each other ever since we were children, but some obstacles kept us separated for many, many years. We got married during the war, in India actually. That’s where Stephanie was born, also during the war. Bertie was in France for three years and he was shot three times. Finally, he was demobilized and transferred to the reserves. Then he went to Siam for two years, and liked it very much. We just returned to Europe two years ago and stayed in London for a while, but we got bored and decided to buy a house here in Bexhill.
“We decided to take you with us because we’d like to know Thai people better,” she went on with a kind voice. “Besides, we feel quite lonely as we have no son. If you like us well enough, we’d like you to call Bertie ‘Daddy’ and me ‘Mother’, so that we feel even more intimate and happy than we do now.”
My dear readers, you can imagine how delighted I was over Mrs Andrew’s kind, sweet words. I was so elated that I couldn’t find the words to express my gratitude to her. I was to be the son of these two honest and kind-hearted people. I felt as if I were in a dream, and couldn’t believe that what I was hearing was true. Ah! my dear friends, I can’t think of any other statements in the world as pure and precious as those Mrs Andrew had just made: Captain Andrew was to be my father, Mrs Andrew my mother and Stephanie my sister! Could there possibly be a higher heaven that would bring me more happiness than the present one? Suddenly, memories of my childhood in Siam came vividly back to me: the house in Samsen, Grandma Phrorm, Jek Tee’s raft, little Bun Hiang, the gambling with the coolies at the mill behind the house, the house in Bang Chak, Lamjuan – the veil of tears I used to live behind. All of these memories much enhanced my present happiness – the happiness of living with Captain and Mrs Andrew – by inviting the comparison between suffering and happiness and between reality and dreams.
After about two hours’ driving, we reached Eastbourne, which was a gorgeous and festive big city in the south of England. We stopped at the Grand Hotel to freshen up, then went to drink tea and listen to music in a large, overcrowded hall. We sat there until five, and then got in the car to return home.
That night, Mrs Andrew came into my bedroom and, while she fussed over everything for me, gave me all manner of advice, about the best kinds of soap and toothpaste, the time of the various meals at home, and so forth. Finally, she said goodnight and left. And this marked the end of my first, supremely happy day at the Queen’s Cottage.

4

The longer I lived at the Queen’s Cottage, the more my happiness grew. I called Captain Andrew Daddy and his wife Mother. Stephanie was my only sister. The harmony shared by the four of us developed smoothly and was devoid of misunderstandings. Daddy and Mother did their best to cater to my comfort and felicity and to make me feel that the house in which we lived was also my home. As for me, I tried to behave myself to be worthy of the goodness I received. Though I did feel lonely at times – Bexhill was such a quiet town – as I mentioned earlier I took advantage of that loneliness, and there wasn’t a single minute when I wasn’t happy. Foreign countries are indeed paradises! I had found the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and I was savouring it and wallowing in it from head to toe. If I am able to do some good in the future, I owe it to the Andrew family with whom I lived during the first part of my stay in England.
The happy life I led taught me to feel concern for other people’s wellbeing and not merely my own; it also taught me what true love was and helped me forget the miseries of the past. Better leave fate to fate!
I lived at the Queen’s Cottage like an ordinary Englishman. There was nothing Thai there, except myself. As my character was not too hard to reform, and as such a reform was beneficial, it wasn’t long before I became a good-natured man able to get along with other people without feeling embarrassed. For the period of more than a year that I lived and travelled with Captain and Mrs Andrew, I never met a Thai nor did I ever speak any Thai.
I could go on endlessly about my life at the Queen’s Cottage. It was a life full of sweetness, life in a paradise in which I was surrounded with loving concern from dawn to dusk and treated with care and tenderness as if I were some kind of priceless jewel. Every Sunday morning, the Andrew family took me to church and after church Daddy and I went riding along the beach, or else, when Mother felt like going out, I went fishing with her and Stephanie.
Although I am not a Christian, going to church regularly has never bothered me, and those visits helped me understand the truth in life that says: “Broad-mindedness and concern for others lead one to happiness”. The sermons I heard Reverend André Mernalist preach every Sunday at St Marie Church have led me to believe that all religions which are not mumbo jumbo are equally valuable and full of meaning. They may take different paths but they share the same destination: they aim at supporting our lives by granting us rewards commensurate with the good we do. Thus, do Christianity (Daddy’s and Mother’s religion) and Buddhism (mine) substantially differ?
Apart from great happiness and positive thoughts, the Andrew family bestowed on me yet another invaluable gift, namely knowledge which few people receive, about various forms of art found in the world such as literature, music and life chronicles. Captain Andrew, who had studied at Harrow and Cambridge University, had never been a teacher, but with me as his only son and student, he was able to fully impart his knowledge and introduce me to the world’s most famous writers and musicians – Tolstoy, Sir Walter Scott, Dickens, Lord Byron, Shakespeare, Mendelssohn, Schubert, and so forth and so on. He taught me to understand the objectives of these great men in creating works of art that were part of the history of the world.
Even now, whenever I close my eyes and think of the Andrew family, I feel I still have not fully paid back my debt of gratitude to them. The happiness and advantages they gave me are so invaluable that I cannot possibly ever acquit myself of such a debt.


8
Lady Moira Dunn and Maria Grey

1

“Wisoot,” Daddy told me one day as we spoke in my room. “I have a feeling that sometimes you are very lonely, because it’s so quiet here. Are you happy with us?”
“Daddy, I have never felt so happy in my life,” I replied enthusiastically. “I would like to stay here till the day I die and I don’t even feel like going out at all.”
“Well, we’ve arranged a couple of friends for you to meet,” Daddy said with a little smile. “They’ll arrive here from Paris on Wednesday. You are a young man, so you probably won’t mind having a couple of young women to talk or dance with. Staying all the time with old people and an innocent child like Stephanie isn’t good for you. If I were you, I’d be bored to death.”
“Stephanie is a fine girl and she is good to me, Daddy.”
“I know, but she’s too young.”
“Who is coming on Wednesday?” I asked.
“Lady Moira Dunn,” Daddy answered. “She’s a correspondent of The London Times. She’ll bring her friend Maria Grey along. Miss Grey is also a reporter for that newspaper.”
“Is Lady Moira old or young?” I asked him jocularly.
“She’s one of our close relatives. She’s about thirty-five,” Daddy answered in earnest. “But her friend is still young, and she has promised to cheer you up for the duration of their stay here.”
“Will they stay here long?”
“Newspaper people like them can’t stay with us for long,” Daddy replied as he lit a cigar. “They have to travel and work a lot. However, they’ll be with us for at least a week. It’s their holiday.”
Presently, there was a knock on the door. I asked who it was.
“It’s Mother, Wisoot.”
“Do come in, Mother,” I answered.
Mrs Andrew came in, holding Stephanie’s hand.
“Bertie, it seems you’ve told Wisoot all about Moira’s visit, haven’t you?” she asked her husband.
“Yes, Elsie,” her husband rejoined. “And Wisoot looks much happier already.”
“Wisoot, Lady Moira is good at riding horses, playing golf and writing,” Mother told me. “You will like her as she is a very interesting person. Besides, she’ll be here with her friend. But, my dear son, be careful not to fall in love with Moira’s friend because you will forget us all and go away with her.”
“Is Lady Moira’s friend beautiful, Mother?” I asked.
“We have yet to meet her,” she answered. “But Moira said she is. Of all The London Times female reporters, Maria is one of the most beautiful, she said.”
“But they will only be with us for a week,” I said sadly.
“You’ll meet them in London when you are at the university or when you study law,” Mother answered. “You should make friends with them. But I must ask you not to fall in love with her.”
Since that morning, my thoughts revolved around Maria Grey and Lady Moira Dunn’s impending arrival on Wednesday, which made my stay at the Queen’s Cottage more exciting. They would be the first young English women I would come to know. But the longer I waited, the more I felt that Wednesday would never come.

2

On Wednesday morning, I was asked to help tidy the room where the two visitors would stay. The Queen’s Cottage was a small house with three bedrooms. The largest was that of Mother and Stephanie. Daddy slept in another, and the smallest one was for me. While Lady Moira Dunn and Miss Maria Grey would be with us, Mother and Stephanie would share Daddy’s room and leave theirs to the guests. We helped one another spruce it up. They were expected at eleven.
That day was very close to winter and fog filled the streets, and we felt cold all the way to the station although we were in a car. We had been waiting at the station for twenty minutes when the train arrived.
“Auntie, my dear Auntie!” a woman called out from a window of the train.
Mrs Andrew immediately answered: “Moira, darling!” then ran and went into the carriage where her niece was. I saw the two kissing and getting off the train. A young lady walked behind them.
“Hello, my dear Captain Andrew. How are you?” Lady Moira said merrily and then shook hands with Captain Andrew.
“Don’t call me Captain Andrew, Moira,” Daddy remonstrated. “For you, I’m Bertie.”
“All right, Bertie,” Lady Moira readily agreed.
“Moira,” Mrs Andrew said, introducing me to her. “This is our son I often wrote to you about.”
Lady Moira and I shook hands with mutual enthusiasm. Though I could not see her face clearly because she wore a hat and its span almost covered her eyes, I could easily see that she was beautiful. She had a strikingly white face with sharp, dark eyes.
“Oh, Mr Wisoot,” she said pleasingly as we were shaking hands, “Aunt Elsie wrote me so much about you that I had no trouble picturing you, even though I’d never met you. Would you believe it? I know you so well I could have drawn your picture last week.”
I stared at Lady Moira Dunn with delight, but did not answer. A moment later, she introduced me to her friend. “You must know my friend – and she will soon be yours too – Miss Maria Grey.” She then turned to the lady whose name had just been mentioned and said: “My dear Maria, this is Mr Wisoot.”
Maria Grey and I cordially shook hands. She wore no hat of any kind as her long hair, neatly parted in the middle, was rolled in a bun at the back. Though she was a bit plump, she was indeed beautiful and charming. Her eyes were black and large and shone brightly. She had a fairly long nose and healthy skin and was conservatively dressed. During our handshaking, Maria stared at me and smiled gently without a word. Once Lady Moira had introduced her friend to all of us, we got into our Austin sedan and drove directly to the Queen’s Cottage.
The car was too narrow to carry us comfortably. Captain Andrew and Stephanie had to sit in the front, next to the driver. Mrs Andrew and Lady Moira sat on the back seat, while Maria Grey and I sat on small flap seats facing them. As the car sped along, I noticed that Lady Moira often shot glances at me. Finally, she asked: “Do you like the cold weather in our country, Mr Wisoot? You are used to hot weather, so perhaps you don’t like it.”
“Weather like this is not too cold; I like it,” I stammered.
“I don’t think you’ll like it when winter really comes – it’s almost with us, actually,” Lady Moira went on. “Winter here is terribly cold, with only rain, fog and snow. To go anywhere is a problem and we catch cold so easily. In London, it’s worse, but Bexhill isn’t too bad.”
“I have already prepared myself for winter,” I said.
“What are you going to study?” she asked.
“I intend to study law in London next year,” I answered.
“Law,” she repeated. “Do you like being a lawyer? A lawyer must be good with words, but I’ve yet to hear you speak at all. Or is it easy to earn money in the legal professions in Siam? Is there not much competition?”
“No, it isn’t,” I answered. “In Siam, there is much competition in this field. There are many law graduates, so it is hard to earn a living this way. But we come to study law here because it does not take much time and we can study fast.”
“I don’t think legal professions are any good,” Lady Moira stated peremptorily. “It would be most difficult for us to be like Sir Edward Marshall Hall or Sir Ellis Humes William. Besides, I can’t see any justice in the law. Just think about it: what you need to win a case is rank, money and good lawyers. People who have enough money to hire good lawyers have no problem winning their cases, no matter how wicked they are. If they have done something terrible and everybody knows about it, the court will find them guilty but they’ll get off with a light sentence out of proportion with the offence they have committed – just because they have good lawyers. Oh, I could give you many other examples.”
I did not reply. Our car passed the Seville restaurant, turned into Middlesex Road and finally reached the Queen’s Cottage.

3

While Mrs Andrew took both guests to the room we had prepared for them upstairs, I sat with Captain Andrew in the sitting room downstairs.
“Is Maria Grey beautiful, Wisoot?” Daddy asked.
“She is very beautiful, Daddy,” I answered. “But she doesn’t look English at all.”
“Her mother is Italian, and Moira tells me she looks exactly like her mother. Do you like Lady Moira?”
“I do. She is a good talker.”
After the women had freshened up and changed, they came down to chat with us. Without a hat, Lady Moira looked less beautiful. Her hair was cropped at the nape and discoloured, which did not quite match her complexion and dark eyes. At a rough guess, she looked past thirty. She was tall, rather thin and had distinguished manners. She had travelled all over the world as a London Times correspondent and was well versed in literature and world politics.
As for Maria Grey, she was a young woman of twenty or twenty-one, a newcomer to the newspaper world. As Lady Moira talked about all sorts of events she had witnessed, she listened intently and asked the occasional question.
“Why don’t you try journalism, Mr Wisoot?” Lady Moira asked. “It’s exciting, and you’d see lots of things ordinary people have no opportunity to see. You speak English well. Can you also write?”
“Wisoot likes to write short pieces. He is very good at them,” Captain Andrew answered in praise.
“That’s fine then,” Lady Moira stated firmly. “Why don’t you try to become a member of the newspapers’ association? We call it the Press Club; it’s at the Haymarket. Once you are a member, you could contribute to one of the good papers, like ours, why not? I’ll help you.” Lady Moira paused for a moment, then added: “I’m sure, Mr Wisoot, you’d love travelling all over gathering news. We have opportunities to go to America, Japan, China, all over the world, you know. Once you’ve proved yourself a good and reliable reporter, you’ll be promoted to correspondent status, with a comfortable monthly salary.”
“Why do you want me to be a journalist?” I asked.
“Is there anyone in Siam who has made a name for himself in the press?” Lady Moira asked back.
“No, there isn’t, because the press in Siam has a very low status and people do not consider working in a newspaper as a career. A newspaperman there earns three pounds a month at most.”
“In this country,” Lady Moira explained, “only ten years ago, those who worked in newspapers weren’t considered human beings. It was Lord Northcliffe who helped upgrade our status to what it is today. But I thought Siam was a country with good newspapers acting as the voice of the people and of the government, because Siam rules herself admirably, unlike Burma, India or Cambodia.”
“If we are able to govern ourselves, we owe it to other talents, not to journalism,” I pointed out.
“The small countries of Scandinavia have a population of five to six million people each, yet they can support a lively press. What’s the population of Siam?”
“More than nine million*,” I replied, “but you cannot really compare Siam to the Scandinavian countries because we just began to develop with the hope of becoming a modern country under Rama V**. Although this beloved king started a great many things for our country, we have not yet had the time or resources to carry them out properly. We are very poor, Lady Moira. If we concentrated our development on education or journalism only, other equally important sectors would stagnate.”
At that very moment, we heard a bell ring, signalling that lunch was ready.
“I’ve never been to Siam and don’t know enough about your country to be able to discuss it with you. But since Siam still has no good newspaper, I think it’s all the more important you should study journalism so that you can be the Lord Northcliffe of Siam.” She shot me a teasing glance, then turned to ask Mrs Andrew: “Wasn’t that the lunch bell? My dear Aunt, I’m famished.”
We then all moved to the dining room.

4

“Lady Moira,” I asked as we were eating, “what are the duties of reporters and correspondents? Do they have a motto of their own?”
Lady Moira paused to think for a while and then answered: “Just as good citizens must be loyal and well-disposed towards their country, so must journalists towards their newspaper. Press and nation are one and the same thing. The journalists who become famous are those who love or hate their country equally strongly – but you must understand, Mr Wisoot, that those we call unpatriotic might be so from our point of view only, while they themselves think they love the nation – an automatic kind of love, shall we say.”
“Everything that’s written in a newspaper,” she went on, “is ideas, opinions or feelings which reveal the patriotism or lack of patriotism of the writer. As a journalist, you can’t think one thing and write another, and even if you could, you wouldn’t do it. Before applying to become a journalist, you must determine what you personally feel about your country and about the world, and you must know for certain the objectives of the newspaper you choose to join.”
“And how about the motto of journalists?” I asked.
“Journalists must always be disciplined and aware that various things constrain their opinions and their very life,” Lady Moira replied, “and yet feel free, feel happy – and their freedom is real! So, their motto is something like: freedom derives from strict discipline – the discipline that comes from the newspaper’s objectives and from the wellbeing of the nation.”
“Do journalists earn enough money?”
“It depends on personal ability. For capable people, journalism is a profession which can earn the greatest amount of money in the world. A single article may bring you five hundred pounds. And if you are famous, there’s no end to what you can earn from your writings. Furthermore, most journalists are able to write short stories or novels because they travel all the time, accumulating experience. So, apart from writing articles, they can earn money from writing fiction in their spare time.”
“Go for journalism, Wisoot,” Mrs Andrew intervened. “It’s more interesting than studying law. And maybe you’ll be the one who will establish a permanent press in Siam.”
“Do study journalism, Mr Wisoot,” Maria Grey, who sat next to me, joined in, “and you can be with us on Fleet Street.”
“There are several reasons why I can’t study journalism,” I answered. “Journalism is an ongoing subject that knows no end. Besides, it is not sanctioned by a degree. In Siam, those who return from abroad with no degree are at a great disadvantage. People will think they wasted their time abroad only to come back empty-handed. Even though they do find employment, they are paid so little they can hardly eke out a living. No one will believe in their ability if they have no diploma to vouch for it.”
“Then go to Oxford or Cambridge first. Once you have a degree, you can start learning journalism,” Lady Moira countered. “As soon as you are back home, you should set up a newspaper to show the people how a good newspaper can be of benefit to the nation. I’m sure you are wealthy enough to do so, Mr Wisoot.”
“Not everyone is born lucky, Lady Moira,” I answered slowly. “I cannot afford to study in Oxford or Cambridge, let alone establish a printing press in Siam. I have no money, but this does not bother me. I will be twenty-three this year, and I have been in this world long enough to know not to regret what I do not have or am not offered.”
“How very wise of you,” Lady Moira said, sounding disappointed.
I turned to look at Maria Grey and saw her beautiful eyes gazing at me in a way which showed plainly that she was pleased I did not try to hide my real condition.
“When Mr Wisoot speaks,” she told Mrs Andrew, “I don’t feel that he is Thai at all. I think of him as English all the time. Apart from his features, I can see nothing that shows that he is Thai. Mrs Andrew, since Mr Wisoot is already your son, why don’t you give him an English name so that we can call him more easily?”
“Er, what should we call him?” Mrs Andrew asked.
“I had an elder brother who died in the war,” Maria Grey said. “He was the best person God ever put on earth.”
“What was his name?” Mother asked.
“Bobby,” Maria answered.
“So, we’ll call Wisoot Bobby. How about it?” Mother asked.
“That’s good,” she replied and then looked up at me.


9

Seven days in seventh heaven

1

A period of untroubled happiness began in my life while I stayed with Captain and Mrs Andrew. It was a strange bliss. It was more than people of my condition deserved. I had better luck than I had any right to even imagine, and the truth was that the Queen’s Cottage was the abode of supreme happiness in Paradise for both body and soul. Even now, although my body is thousands of miles away, my soul remains there forever. Never shall I forget the Queen’s Cottage.
The peace and quiet of Bexhill in which I was thoroughly immersed was not conducive to loneliness and misery. That peace and quiet gave me a unique opportunity to read all kinds of books and learn about the ways of the world past and present. Charles Dickens, Sir Philip Gibbs and other famous authors were my friends and they came to converse with me every day and gave me more felicity than I could ever express, teaching me about life and making me pity some people whom I would have hated otherwise. Within this blessed solitude, constant reading and learning generated in me wonderful thoughts and dreams and gave me the ambition to create something that the world would notice, something that would contribute to the happiness of mankind on this, our common Earth. I dreamt and thought about what our good life should be like. I would create some work to fit that dream, and pondered what form it should take. I thought of all the goodness and beauty of the world, which I would try to immortalize in writing. But these pleasant reflections had neither consistency nor substance; they were like thin air, and I was like a bird in a tree who is not sure on which branch he will come to roost. This kind of musing went on until I met Lady Moira Dunn and Maria Grey.
Lady Moira Dunn was not merely a citizen of England or of any particular country; she was a citizen of the world and her thoughts were of the world. Even so, she loved England because she was English. She was prepared to sacrifice herself for her country at any time. Even though she was aware that the British government and England herself did many things wrong, she still stood by them with body and soul, because she believed that she was a true part of the English nation and as such the rights and wrongs of England were hers too.
I am a Thai, born in Siam of Thai nationality. My character is thoroughly Thai and no power on earth would force me to belong to another nation. My duty to the land of the Thai is of the same nature as Lady Moira’s duty to England. How unfortunate that I did not have the opportunity to stay with Captain and Mrs Andrew and know Lady Moira and Maria Grey before I went to live in the house in Samsen as a son of Marquess Wiseit Suphalak. There is no way that I could know for sure what my life would have been like, but I might have been able to make Father really love me and be truly kind to me, and I might as well have been able to love my parents, relatives and friends more than I ever did. What a shame, don’t you think.
The saying ‘to go abroad is to gain prestige’ probably applies only to those Thai students who have the opportunity to mix in good foreign company. Thai students abroad are just like Thai students back home: some are lucky, others are not; some go abroad and return improved; others come back the worse for it. Those who return with a pleasing disposition and constructive thoughts have had excellent opportunities during their stay abroad, staying with foreign families of high or fairly high standing and receiving a good ethical and professional education. Others, even before they go abroad, behave like uncouth Chinamen, spitting everywhere, swearing and talking vulgarly at all times, and once they return from abroad, they behave just as they used to, they do not change in the least and constitute a threat to the peace and quiet of the land. That is because they never met with anything good abroad, and even if they did, good people were unable to correct them and finally gave them up and abandoned them to their own nature. Whenever I went to the Chinaman’s dancing hall or to any of those places the Thai abroad like to patronize, I would meet youngsters like this always surrounded by dancers and drinkers, always roaring drunk and making vulgar comments about everything without the least sense of propriety. I think that those who sent these unfortunate Thai students abroad must also share the blame. Rather than selecting them beforehand, those with money and power send them without thinking about how much damage their bad manners could cause Siam. Badly behaved students should be corrected in our country, and those who cannot be reformed should be sent to jail. We should not leave it to foreigners to correct them, as it could cause pain and shame for the students, those who sent them and the country as well.
I want you to understand that foreign countries are paradises only for a few Thai students.
As for me, I must count myself among the lucky ones. Although I went abroad for only six years, I had the chance to see and experience many beautiful things and to visit wonderful places. I saw things that were part of the very heart of the country’s progress. I did see the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and I can die happy. Once you have read this story, if you are able to see in it something even remotely good and beautiful, you owe it largely to Captain and Mrs Andrew, to Miss Stephanie, to Lady Moira Dunn and to Maria Grey. Had I not had the opportunity to know these five people, I would never have been able to write this story.
The Andrew family helped me appreciate the goodness and beauty of the English way of life. They taught me the duties of a good child towards his parents, brothers and sisters, and I was never as happy as while I was studying. Lady Moira Dunn guided me towards certain things that were good and beautiful. She was the one who helped orient my thinking in a suitable way, the one who stilled the branch for the bird of my thoughts to come to roost and nest. Maria Grey is the wonderful power that compels me to write this story to the very end. I write it for her!

2

Talking of Maria Grey, even though we have finally parted for more than a year now, her name and spirit are still deeply etched in my memory and will remain there forever. Remembering her brings happiness and the thought that, whatever life will be in the future, it will be worthwhile because I have lived long enough to meet a woman like her. Besides being my friend and my love, she has been my guide as well and she will keep guiding me in the many ways of goodness and beauty. Maria Grey!
The day after Lady Moira and Maria arrived at the Queen’s Cottage, I hurried to get dressed before dawn, hoping to be lucky enough to meet someone downstairs. As soon as I went into the living room, I saw Maria standing at a window. She wore a dark-brown skirt and a jumper with black stripes, a sports outfit that was fashionable among women at the time.
“Good morning, Bobby,” she greeted me like a close friend. “You are up early.”
“Good morning, Miss Grey,” I answered politely. “You too are indeed up early.”
“Working people like me only stay in town,” she claimed with a sweet smile. “A holiday like this comes once in a long while. I must seize the opportunity to get up early to go out and breathe the pure air of the sea as much as I can. Will you accompany me, Bobby?”
Her tone, although almost alike a command, was also melodious and was most agreeable to my own purpose. To go for a walk with a young woman as lovely as Maria, and for the first time in my life! Who would have refused?
“Let’s go, Maria. But wait,” I said, “I will go and change. It will only take a few minutes.”
“All right, hurry up.”
The Andrew family had taught me how to dress correctly on all occasions in conformity with the tastes of the English, and I had become quite an expert at it. I had soon put on plus fours and a jumper and I went down to Maria.
“Oh, Bobby,” she exclaimed in surprise at seeing me dressed in a way she had not thought possible, “you dress so well, but your jumper is too thin. Aren’t you afraid of being cold?”
“If I am cold, walking will soon warm me up,” I answered, pointing to the sun, which was appearing above the wooden fence on the side of the house. “Look, there is already some light and it should be pleasantly warm before long. We have not seen any sunshine here for a week but today the sun is coming out especially to welcome you, Miss Grey.”
“Tell me, is this the way Thai poets express themselves?” she asked. “If so, Siam must be a paradise.” After a short pause, she added: “But don’t call me Miss Grey. It’s so formal. I call you Bobby – my name is Maria for you.”
“All right, I shall call you Maria from now on.”
We then began our walk together along Middlesex Road and down to the beach, where we strolled at leisure, talking away. Sometimes we would run to get some exercise.
Bexhill was as peaceful as ever. Apart from the sighs of the waves that broke on the shore at regular intervals, there was no other sound. We went past buildings of various sizes – restaurants, clubs, churches, houses to let. In front of us were St Leonard and Hastings. These big resorts were so dead quiet they seemed completely abandoned.
“Bobby,” Maria asked, “is it true that you are poor?”
“What do you think?”
“Moira and I talked about it last night and we agreed that you were not telling the truth. For all we know, you are a prince in your own country, with wealth and a huge palace.”
“Not at all, Maria,” I answered, then smiled. “What I told you at the dinner table last night is the truth, nothing but the truth. I am poor. If I had not met and stayed with Captain Andrew and Mrs Andrew, I would not have known how much of a burden life is, and I may have long been dead.”
“I like poor people who are well educated,” she answered then glanced sideways, looking at me with her beautiful eyes. “They always make me happy. I’ve seen a lot of poverty, Bobby. I used to stay in the East End of London and at Montmartre in Paris.”
“And you also used to stay in posh Mayfair and Rue de la Paix,” I added.
“I think I have liked you since the first minute I saw you at the railway station, Bobby,” Maria said as if to change the subject. “I first noticed your eyebrows, which look so much like those of the Buddha. Your eyes are so big, so full of goodness and honesty. I have felt since the beginning that we were going to be real friends.”
I looked at Maria, my beloved friend, with delight. She linked her arm to mine and we proceeded until we came to a fairly large rock jutting out into the sea. Maria invited me to sit on it and talk with her. “Oh, it is so wonderful, Bobby,” she exclaimed.

3

“Bobby, tell me the truth,” said my beloved friend. “Do you have the drive to do something big that the world will notice? The ambition to become famous?”
“I do, Maria,” I answered. I took her hand and held it tightly. “I am ambitious. I want to be a good writer in Siam, my country. I am poor, and I want to find enough wealth to have a decent enough life through writing books, but this is difficult in Siam: nobody there likes to read books, and most writers are short of money.”
“Why not be a writer in Europe or America, then?”
“There is much competition among writers here,” I answered, “and I do not believe that I know the language well enough to write as well as English or American writers do. I have the ambition to write something outstanding unlike anything anybody has ever done. Siam is a country with the best opportunities, but, before I achieve success, I must make myself known to create public interest.”
“How right you are, Bobby,” Maria answered. “To advertise is most important for the success of any kind of endeavour, and maybe in Siam someone has already written a few novels of substance to open the path.”
“Maria,” I said admiringly, “you are still very young and yet you have a fairly good knowledge of Siam. I am amazed, as what you say about Siam having only a few novels of substance is very close to the truth.”
“I was only guessing,” she answered, “but if that is the case Siam is the best place to carry out the kind of undertaking you have in mind, Bobby. The important thing is that you must make yourself known. I’m sure you will succeed. This much I can predict – do you know why?”
“I don’t, Maria.”
“Last night, Mrs Andrew gave us a few of your short stories to read in our bedroom. Some are good, they have substance and are deeply moving, which shows that you have elevated thoughts and a good character full of kind-heartedness. Moira will ask you to let her present these stories to the editor of a monthly magazine we know who will check them, and maybe some will get printed as well.”
“What! I have been able to write that well?” I asked incredulously.
“You’ve done them well enough, but I don’t want you to be overconfident,” she answered. “You must try to write better than this several times over, but you’ve told me that you have the ambition to write a new type of novel that will be the best in Siam. Why don’t you join a newspaper, then?”
“Why should I?”
“To write a good, useful novel, one must know a lot about life beforehand, and reporters and newspaper correspondents must travel around; they go to various places and see more of life than people in any other profession. Since your heart is not in being a lawyer or a judge, why do you bother to learn law?”
“The life of a novelist in Siam is very hazardous, Maria. Writing a novel, you must fear dying of hunger more than anything else.”
“Bobby, have you never felt that, whatever we undertake in earnest, there are lots of obstacles and risks along the way? For the peace and quiet of the country, we must get rid of thieves, which puts the detectives, the police and ourselves at risk to some extent. Whatever we do, we must face danger. I want you to be successful in the way you really want, Bobby. I like you very much, because I’m certain that you are a good man – good for me and good for the world.”
“And what story do you want me to write, Maria?”
“You must become a journalist, to go to various places in the world beforehand,” she said, moving closer, almost touching me, “and then write about all the kinds of life you have encountered, and call that story The circus of life.”
I did not answer. We fell quiet for a while, watching the small waves crashing at the bottom of the rock on which we sat side by side.

4

The days and times of supreme happiness for me in the company of Maria Grey were inexorably drawing to a close. The needling feeling that soon the friend that I most loved must go away without knowing when or indeed whether we would meet again kept piercing my heart relentlessly. Although we had only known each other for a few days, Maria was clearly showing me how much she felt for me. She believed in my abilities, she believed that my ambitions would soon be fulfilled. She called me “my Bobby” and I was her Bobby only. Even though we had not once told each other that we loved each other, dear readers, we knew each other’s heart well enough. I tried to suppress the extravagance of my love because I felt that I had no right to it. As for Maria, she tried to show the world that we were in love, because she held that pure love is nothing to be ashamed of.
“Maria,” I said, almost imploring her, “if you are good to me like this forever, I think I must love you – love you more than my own life for sure. I know I should not, because – because we have no right.”
Maria immediately looked at me with sad eyes, smiling a little.
“Bobby, why do we have no right?” she asked, wrapping her arms around me. “Why can we not love each other?”
“There are many reasons, Maria,” I answered, seizing her in my arms in the same fashion. “The main one is that you are European, living in a cold country with certain customs. I am Thai, I come from a very warm country with other customs – very different from yours. You would not be able to get along with my relatives and friends in Siam and – and I am poor, Maria. Where would you find happiness?”
“Bobby,” she answered, “haven’t you ever thought that God created everything on earth as couples, has meant one being for another being, and we do not know what He has meant for us until we meet that other being? Why can we not love each other?” she insisted. “Coolies, beggars – even they get married, and surely we are better than coolies or beggars, because we have received an education and we can choose what we want. Oh, Bobby, my darling, I love you. I love you. You must try to understand.”
We fell into each other’s arms and exchanged a kiss of the purest love.
“I have only known you for four days, Bobby,” she declared slowly, “but I feel like we have known each other since we were born.”
“Maria, since the first minute I saw you at the station,” I said, still holding her gently in my arms, “I have felt that I would be in seventh heaven for seven days, but after those seven days are over – you will leave, Maria.”
“Bobby,” she said with a beautiful voice, “time and duty may force us to be apart from each other but love will bind our hearts together forever. We will meet again, Bobby. I know that this world is full of mercy for the two of us. God will not allow us to feel hurt.”
“Lady Moira told me about the life of reporters and newspaper correspondents yesterday,” I said sadly. “I know that, no matter what, it is your duty to go anywhere. It will be difficult for me to find you. I am afraid that once you have left we will be separated until we die, Maria.”
“Separated until we die!” she exclaimed with dismay. “That cannot be true, Bobby, that is impossible. We shall meet again. Aren’t you also going to London? I stay in London all the time, and so will you, and we will meet there, we will meet everyday if you so wish.”
“Are you certain, Maria, that we can meet in London?” I asked.
“I love you so much, Bobby,” she moaned. “I love you so badly that I am allowing my heart to press you into changing your way of life in a direction you have not chosen.”
“Maria,” I declared, looking at her earnestly, “what do you want me to do?”
“In your country, you have never received anything of value,” she said, bowing her head to rub it against my shoulder. “No one there wants to help you. You have no position or anything to care for. And you still are not free?”
“Free, Maria – I am free.”
“Then what do you want to read law and go back to Siam for?” she asked. “Who wants you? What will you do there? Why don’t you apply to be one of us journalists, to stay with us, to stay with me, Bobby? I want you – I want you more than anything in the world. Stay here and everybody will want you. You will have parents – Captain and Mrs Andrew. You will have friends. You will have a woman who loves you and who will love you for as long as we live. You must be a journalist, Bobby, my darling. Be it for me, be it for the life and happiness of us both.”
It is true that “tears are happiness and happiness is sorrow”. I was then happier than anyone will ever be, I was happy because I loved Maria, I was happy because I was certain that, whatever person I was, at least one woman in the world loved me with all her heart, body and soul – and that woman was a foreigner from another land, speaking another language and endowed with another complexion. Yet I was suffering because the woman for the sake of whose love I was dedicating my life was about to depart. As she implored me again and again and mingled with me in the highest love, I knew not how to answer her questions – and tears flowed ceaselessly.
“Have you already forgotten, Maria,” I asked her finally, “that you told me the other day you want me to go back to become someone important in Siam, that you want me to write The circus of life for the Thai people to read?”
“I talked that way then because I did not know you well enough,” she answered. “Now that I know your character and feelings, I can’t let you go back to your country. I feel that you’d only waste your time there.” After a moment, she added with a voice that had lost hope: “But then, Bobby, if you really want to go back to Siam, to your country, to your own kind, to your own home, you should do so – nobody can stop you.”
“Not at all, Maria, I am not thinking like that at all,” I answered. “I love you more than to let you go and not want to see you again. But your idea of me becoming a journalist scares me. I am afraid I do not know English well enough.”
“English is a language that is easy to learn, and you know it well enough already. I don’t see any reason to be worried,” she stated.
“It is getting late, Maria, we should be going back home, lest Mother is worried,” I urged her.
“Let’s go, Bobby.”
We walked arm in arm down the beach, turned into Middlesex Road and finally reached the Queen’s Cottage. I felt that Maria was angry with me. I was afraid that she was, but I did not know why.


10

Great sorrow

1

The last evening before Lady Moira and Maria had to go back to London to resume their duties, Daddy arranged for all of us to go dancing at Alexandra Hall in Hastings. Mrs Andrew excused herself, saying that she was too old, but insisted on Daddy and me keeping Lady Moira and Maria company. The night was terribly cold as winter had set in. It was raining and a cold wind kept blowing. We sat in the car with all the windows closed but we still felt cold, and it took us nearly an hour to get there from Bexhill.
Alexandra Hall, the most luxurious dancing hall in Hastings, stood on the west side of Victoria Street. As soon as we got out of the car, a young fellow in some kind of uniform came to greet us and asked us to step inside. The place was luxuriously decorated. There were about thirty guests, which was a fair number for an establishment of this kind in the English countryside. Though the food was tasteless and the music corny, I thoroughly enjoyed myself because I had a chance to dance with Maria and Lady Moira.
“Bobby,” Lady Moira told me while we were dancing, “will you become a journalist or will you return to Siam to write The circus of life?”
I was startled as I did not expect such a question from her.
“Ah, how very odd,” I said. “How is it you know about The circus of life? Did Maria tell you?”
“Why? Are you embarrassed?” Lady Moira parried. “You shouldn’t be afraid of genuine concern.”
“I am not embarrassed at all, Moira,” I answered, “but I wonder how it is you know about it.”
“I believe I am Maria’s best friend in the world,” she replied. “Maria has told me everything about you, Bobby, and you should realize I am your friend as well.”
“Lady Moira,” I said, delighted, “I have never been as confident in anything as in the confidence I have in your good intentions. I know you are one of my best friends, and I am sure you will remain so as long as I behave nicely.”
“As long as you behave nicely?” she repeated. “Since the day we met, you’ve been nothing but a good boy, Bobby.”
As soon as she stopped speaking, the first song was over. The applause encouraged the musicians to play the next song.
“So what will it be, Bobby?” Lady Moira asked. “Are you going to be a journalist or are you going to write The circus of life?”
“I don’t know. I am still of two minds about it. What would you advise, Moira? What should I do?”
“I’d like to advise you to go back to Siam and write The circus of life. It will be much easier for you,” she answered swiftly. “The life of a journalist is fraught with hardship and danger. I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to stand the drudgery of it.”
“Moira, do you think I am so weak?”
“Not at all, Bobby,” she answered. “Besides, you and Maria have only known each other for a week. You are both very young.”
“We love each other very much, Moira,” I countered to make her sympathize. “Although it is true we have only known each other for a week, we have been happy with each other from the first day we met. You understand, don’t you, Moira?”
“Hasn’t it crossed your mind that you have no right to love Maria?” she asked.
“Perhaps I have no right, but I am only a man, not a god. Do you think I can help it?” I retorted. “From all I have seen of her during these seven days, Maria is such a wonderful person that I can’t help loving her.”
“What you say is right, Bobby, but if you still want my advice, I do suggest you go back to Siam and write The circus of life.”
“Aren’t you and Maria sharing the same house in London, Moira?”
“That’s right. We live in the same house.”
“May I go and see you there?”
Lady Moira paused for a while, then answered: “Honestly, for your own sake and for Maria’s, I’d rather you didn’t meet us again in London or anywhere else.”
“Why?” I asked her, anger swelling in my voice.
“I had a relative who married an Indian prince four years ago. She committed suicide about six months ago. A few weeks before her death, she wrote me a letter telling about what she was going through. But, oh, Bobby, I can’t tell you what she wrote. It was too sad.”
The music stopped for the second time. We went to sit at the table in a corner where Captain Andrew and Maria were waiting for us. I sat motionless, feeling despondent. I heard Lady Moira’s voice ringing softly in my ears : “For your own sake and for Maria’s, I’d rather you didn’t meet us again in London or anywhere else... I had a relative who got married to an Indian prince. She committed suicide six months ago...”
Alas! The circus of the world! East and West!

2

The following morning, the two ladies from the capital began to pack their belongings in order to go back to London. I did not pay any attention to their preparations, nor did I think of helping them in any way. Before breakfast, I sat waiting for them in the room downstairs, trying to read a newspaper but unable to understand any of it.
“Would you mind if I open this window?” Jenkins asked me. “The weather’s good today.”
“Go ahead, Jenkins,” I answered.
Though the weather outside was fresh, I felt it was full of sadness, loneliness and equivocation.
“For your own sake and for Maria’s, I’d rather you didn’t meet us again in London or anywhere else... I had a relative who married an Indian prince four years ago. She committed suicide six months ago...” These words were still ringing sharply in my head.
After Jenkins rang a bell to signal that breakfast was served, everyone in the house gathered downstairs. Daddy and Mother looked as brisk as ever.
“Poor Bobby,” Mother said, “all your friends are about to leave. But don’t worry, my dear son, you can go and visit them when you are in London.”
I smiled then glanced at Lady Moira, but she avoided my eyes and walked straight to Captain Andrew.
After the meal was over, Maria Grey excused herself, saying she had to finish packing, and went back upstairs.
“Bobby,” Lady Moira told me, “you should go up and help Maria pack her things. I think she needs you.”
“All right, Moira. I’ll be right back.”
I went upstairs, stopped in front of Maria’s room and knocked on the door. A short while later, she answered, “Come in.” I opened the door and went in. She sat with her back to the door and did not turn around to look at who had entered, which made me wonder whether something was wrong. I slowly walked to her, then extended my hand to touch her shoulder and asked: “Maria, are you all right?”
She turned towards me instantly. Her face was full of sadness and her eyes brimmed with tears. I suddenly realized that she still had unwavering love for me. I bent over and kissed her beautiful red lips and she did not demur.
“Do come and visit us again in London, Bobby,” she said, her voice trembling. “Moira gave you our address, didn’t she?”
“What do you mean, Maria?” I exclaimed. “Moira refused to give me your address in London.”
“Why would she do that?” she asked.
“You mean Moira didn’t tell you what we talked about during the dance last night?”
“No, she didn’t. Moira never talks to me about you, except to say that you are a good fellow.”
“And did you tell her about what is going on between us?”
“Of course, Bobby. Moira likes you and she is my best friend.”
“She does not want me to meet you again in London or anywhere else.”
“What! Moira is really strange,” she said. “But you still love me, don’t you, Bobby? We share a flat on the second floor at 314 Piccadilly. If you do come, do so around three or four in the afternoon, because Moira is hardly there at that time.”
“I will, Maria,” I agreed. “I will see you there, second floor, three-one-four, Piccadilly.”
“Write it down in your notebook, my darling,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to forget. In any case, I’ll write to you often.”
I took out my notebook and wrote down her address. Finally, I said to her: “Maria, there is something I would like to tell you. We have been very happy loving each other in the past few days but this is not enough for you to feel obliged to be loyal to me in any way. If you find a good man ready to love you, I beg of you not to think of me – do not think that I am an obstacle to your happiness. I love you and want you to be as happy as you can be. I am poor, I am from another country, and nothing in my life points to an easy future.”
“Oh, Bobby, Moira is right,” Maria exclaimed with a soft smile. “She says you are the best young man in the world, only concerned with other people’s happiness. You’ve made me love you so strongly, Bobby. Oh, Bobby, I’m very fortunate to know and love you.” She paused for a moment, then said, “The same goes for you, Bobby. If you do meet a good woman, then love and marry her as soon as possible. Do not think of me.”
She said this with bitterness, as I could see from her manners and from the smile on her face.
“You don’t mean it, Maria.”
“I do,” she said most seriously. The smile on her face faded and, though she tried to show no emotion, she looked rather sad. “I want you to be happy. But anyway, we’ll meet again, Bobby. We’ll meet each other in London.”

3

As the departure time of the train was getting near, we loaded the belongings into the Austin and drove to the station. On the way, I kept brooding about Maria’s imminent departure. When would we meet again? My thoughts went back to the day Lady Moira and Maria had arrived. We had picked them up at the station and sat in this very car on our way to the cottage. The car had been so full that Daddy and Stephanie had had to sit with the driver in the front, Mother and Lady Moira at the back with Maria and I on strap seats facing them – just as we were today. But what was different was that on that day the car was headed for the bliss of the Queen’s Cottage, whereas today it was heading towards emptiness. To me, there was but loneliness and longing. Happiness and suffering, cheerfulness and loneliness are so close together that they look like friends on intimate terms.
“Moira,” I forced myself to say, “I will be lonely once you are gone.”
“Bobby,” she answered, “do you really like me that much?”
“I like you very much, Moira. I enjoy your conversation and I have learned a lot from you.”
“Oh, no. You are young, that’s why you think I can teach you something,” she pointed out, “but actually, men learn fast and have more opportunities to study than women. When you are my age, your knowledge will be several times greater than mine.”
“That’s not true, Moira,” I objected. “I do not think I shall have the opportunity to learn as much about the world as you do.”
“Moira,” Mrs Andrew said, “I’m afraid you are going to make Bobby unhappy for days on end after you are gone, at least out of loneliness.”
“Oh, my dear aunt, do you really think it’s my fault?” Lady Moira asked back. With a teasing smile, she added: “Why don’t you ask Maria instead?”
‘No, Mother,” I intervened, “loneliness is not a problem for me. In fact, I am used to a quiet life. Besides, I always try to put my loneliness to good use. But yes indeed I am going to miss Moira and Maria very much.”
“You don’t sound all that distraught, Bobby,” Lady Moira noted.
“Not too much, Moira. Since I’ve known you, I have tried to control my feelings and I have now come to my senses.”
“From the day we met until today,” she said with a smile, “you’ve changed a lot. You used to be quiet, but now you speak very well. I suppose I should be proud to have the power to make you as intelligent as you now sound. Now you can be a good lawyer as well as a good writer.”
I could not fathom what Lady Moira’s true feelings were. Maybe she only spoke to fill the time it took us to reach the station and did not mean what she said. As for me, I felt we were in a big circus and I played my part, and went on playing it until the scene in which I featured came to an end.
There were few people at the station when we arrived. We helped one another take the trunks to the platform and then went on chatting as we waited for the train.
“Bobby,” Maria whispered to me, “don’t forget to think about me sometimes. Don’t forget me as soon as I am gone.”
“How could I forget you, my dear Maria?” I answered. “Bexhill will be dead quiet with you gone: how could there be anything that would help me forget the happiness of your stay? But how about you? London is an exciting place full of pleasures everywhere, and you have lots of friends. I am afraid that you will forget me completely once you are there.”
“I will never forget you as long as I live, Bobby.”
“That is good enough, Maria. Think of me occasionally. Don’t forget me right away, because we shall meet each other again in London soon.”
“Certainly, we’ll meet again soon,” she said firmly.
A moment later, the train came to a stop in front of us. We helped take the trunks onto it. As we finished placing them, we heard a whistle signalling it was time to depart. I shook Moira’s hand, bid her farewell, then walked straight to Maria. We gazed at each other for a while, holding hands firmly.
“Goodbye, Maria. Goodbye,” I said with a trembling voice.
“Goodbye, my darling. I want you to meet me again in London,” she replied sadly. “Don’t forget my address. Goodbye, Bobby.”
I got off the train and watched it slowly pass by, taking my friend and my love away. The train gathered speed with every second. The handkerchiefs we waved to each other drew further and further apart... and finally vanished from each other’s sight.
As the Austin took us back home, Mother tried to soothe me: “Bobby, don’t be too sad; there are plenty of other girls you can befriend,” she said. “I feel sorry for having Moira and Maria know you for only a week and then let them go so easily, leaving you to suffer alone.”
“Dear Mother,” I said, “I am not suffering. I’m happy... very happy to be with you and Daddy and also very happy to have had the opportunity to know Moira and Maria.”

4

The loneliness I felt once Lady Moira and Maria had left was very different from the one I had known previously because it disturbed me no end. I tried and tried to prevent my feelings from running wild, but it was in vain. I missed Maria, I missed the certainty of her love for me. Though I later had the opportunity to know several of our neighbours in Bexhill, I found no one to replace my Maria. She had etched the purity of her love in my memory, where it would remain forever. Days and months passed by but the turmoil in my heart refused to quieten down.
Once in a while I would receive a letter from Maria, telling me of her life as she travelled about. She enjoyed being a journalist and would not have swapped places with anyone in the world. Her last letter said: “Bobby, I have been promoted and am now a correspondent. My salary was raised almost a hundred percent. My duty is to travel to various places in order to report on high society all over Europe and perhaps America as well before long. When shall we meet again, my dearest?
“Since I left you, I have made several male friends but none can take your place in my heart because they are all far too serious. They keep asking me to marry them and quit journalism, which is something I most definitely will not do. I want to remain single and devote myself to journalism. I do not want to marry anyone. I want to meet you and be with you because we both know we can only be lovers. We will have no opportunity to get married or at least, you have no intention to marry me.
“Bobby, do you still love me a little? If you do, there is one way for you to meet me, which is why you must become a journalist. As journalists, we would have plenty of opportunity to meet and be together. It will be very easy for you to enter our career, because Mother and Daddy are preparing a surprise for you very soon. I will not try to explain anything here because I do not want to spoil their pleasure in any way.
“Finally, I would like you to always remember that, whether or not you become a journalist, and no matter how far apart we might be, I will always love you with the purest heart till the day I die. Goodbye, Bobby, my darling.”
Maria Grey is English, of an Italian mother; I am Thai – and yet she does love me this much!
Maria said that it was very easy for me to be a journalist because Mother and Daddy were going to surprise me some day, and that day came very soon indeed. Mother walked straight to me in the sitting room and handed me a copy of The London Times. And there I found an article entitled “The League of Nations and Germany” – the very one I had written and Daddy had edited over a month ago! And the article was signed “Bobby”! I nearly collapsed with delight as I had never dreamt it would ever get printed.
“Take this too, Bobby, it’s yours.”
I took a piece of paper from Mother’s hand. Upon seeing that it was a cheque from the Bank of England drawn in my name for an amount of thirty pounds and fifteen shillings, I was so astounded that words failed me. I hugged Mother and kissed her on both cheeks with the greatest love and respect.
“Look at this, Bobby,” Mother said. “The Times editor knows you already: he spelled your name correctly. Do you see it on the cheque?”
Then I sat down and went through my article in The London Times. I found that it had been much improved, and asked who had made the changes. Mother replied: “Lady Moira Dunn.”
This showed clearly that although Lady Moira Dunn had said many things unpleasant to my ears, she still wanted me to be her friend.
“Next Friday, another article of yours, entitled ‘Life in Sussex’, will come out,” Mother said, “and you will receive one more cheque.”
“Is it true, Mother?” I asked. “I feel I must be dreaming!”
“Now, Bobby,” Mother added, “can you see how well you know English and how good your knowledge of the world is? I think it is time for you to go to a law school or whatever else in London. But when you are there, don’t forget to take your holidays here every time.”
Two or three days later, I saw an advertisement in The Times which said: “Siamese student wants good London family to stay with while studying law. Will pay three guineas and a half per week. Interested parties please contact Mrs Andrew, the Queen’s Cottage, Bexhill-on-Sea.”
More than a week later, we received many responses. Mother spent days trying to choose one and finally agreed to send me to live with a Mrs Freindrich in Hampstead, North London. And so it was that I left Bexhill for the capital, with the intention to study law – not to be a journalist at all.


11

Life in London

1

Two days before I left Bexhill, I had written to Maria and to Pradit Bunyarrat informing them that I was coming and asking each of them to pick me up at the station because I did not know London and had not been there for more than a year. Two days being too short a time to expect any answers, I merely hoped I would be lucky enough to have one of them waiting for me. The train arrived at Victoria Station in London at 5 pm. Before I got off, I perused the groups of people on the platform waiting for their friends and relatives to see whether Pradit or Maria were among them. There was no trace of either. This meant I had to rely on myself alone. I ordered a couple of porters to take my trunks big and small to a taxi, then told the driver to take me to Mrs Freindrich’s house at 95 Roslyn Hill, Hampstead.
Hampstead is a very hilly area in the northern part of London. Roslyn Hill was steep and the car had to climb it in second gear. It took about a half hour to arrive at my destination – an old house which looked haunted and gave me a creepy feeling which grew when I went inside. As I entered the main room, I felt so scared I almost startled. The darkness, dampness and filth of the house as well as the expressions of the two or three people who came to welcome me frightened and disgusted me. Mrs Freindrich was as lean as a hungry ghost and her cruel face seemed ready to feed on blood. Although she did her best to talk to me nicely, I felt that I had indeed entered dangerous times in London, as it was obvious she was dishonest. In her response to Mrs Andrew’s advertisement, she had claimed that her house was modern, clean, warm and most comfortable in winter, and that she had many distinguished English and French guests, which I could see right away were patent lies. She ordered one of her servants to help the driver take my trunks to the room upstairs, and then led me to it. I felt somewhat relieved that the room she had prepared for me was not as dirty and scary as the others because it was spacious enough to breathe at ease.
Pradit Bunyarrat had informed me by letter that he had moved from his apartment at Langham Garden to a house on Graham Marsh Road in Putney. I asked Mrs Freindrich how to get there. She told me that Putney was very far from Hampstead; it would take more than an hour to get there by the underground train. I replied that it was necessary for me to go. After she had given me proper directions, I set about on my journey. It took more than an hour and a half for the underground train to reach Putney Station. I got off the train and after a ten-minute walk came to Pradit’s house. I pressed the doorbell. A moment later a girl servant came to open the door. I asked her if Pradit was in.
“Yes, he is. Do come in,” she answered and stepped aside to let me enter the reception room. “Wait for a moment, please. I’ll go and tell Pradit.”
A short while later, Pradit ran into the room. We had not met each other for over a year; he had never come down to see me in Bexhill and I had never gone up to visit him in London.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t pick you up at the station on time,” he said. “My lessons lasted until late in the afternoon, and by the time I got there, I was told the train had arrived long ago.”
“Pradit, there’s something I need to consult you about,” I said. “The house where I’m staying is really scary. It looks like a haunted house!”
“What do you mean?”
I told him everything I had just seen there as well as Mrs Freindrich’s lies and my own fears.
“Maybe you think too much,” Pradit answered somewhat harshly. “Try to stay there for a while; maybe it won’t be as bad as you think.” He paused for a moment, then went on: “I’m sorry you can’t stay here: this house won’t take any more boarders.”
I was flabbergasted, because I never expected someone like Pradit to use such discriminatory words with me.
“I have no intention to live with you, Pradit,” I said to pacify him. “If I came to tell you about the house, it’s because I’d like to share my trouble with someone and I can’t think of anyone else but you.”
He did not answer. As for myself, I was trying to figure out why Pradit, my very best friend, would talk to me in such a dismissive and impatient way. Suddenly, the truth appeared. There was a knock on the door and then a girl’s voice cooing: “Pradit, may I come in?”
After receiving permission, the girl walked in. She could not be more than seventeen or eighteen. She was pretty, had golden hair and blue eyes and looked like a doll. She was the daughter of the owner of the house in which Pradit lived. She looked on intimate terms with Pradit, who introduced me to her. Her name was Kathleen Miles.
“Pradit,” she said with a melodious voice, “are you ready for dinner yet?” She turned to me and added: “Would you care to join us?”
“Thank you, Miss Miles,” I answered politely, “but there is something urgent I have to do and I must go now.”
Suddenly, Mrs Miles, who was the owner of the house as well as Kathleen’s mother, walked in. I was introduced to her. Mrs Miles had a good disposition.
“Where do you live, Mr Wisoot?” she asked. “Why don’t you come and stay with Pradit? I have one bedroom left.”
“Thank you very much indeed, Mrs Miles,” I answered. “I am afraid I already have a place to stay.”
“Are you comfortable there?” she asked.
“Quite,” I replied.
After I had left the house, I made the firm decision to never visit Pradit at Mrs Miles’ house again. I had come to like him very much, and I did not intend to destroy his happiness, if that is what he was afraid of. I had once made the sacrifice of forsaking Lamjuan, so why could I not make the sacrifice of giving up Pradit as well?

2

That night I had a meal in a small restaurant in Soho, then went to see a movie in the same area. I was trying to forget everything that had happened – everything that had happened at Mrs Freindrich’s house and Pradit’s behaviour at Mrs Miles’. This was how London was welcoming me on my first day – London, the capital of England!
After the movie was over, I sought my way back to Roslyn Hill. I got lost time and again and finally reached the house some time after midnight. The house was totally dark; not a single light in sight! Luckily, I had a box of matches with me, thanks to which I found my way to my room. It was so cold inside that I felt numb. The whole place was damp. I hurried to change clothes, clean my teeth, wash my face and slip into bed. I tried to fall asleep in order to let this unpleasant night come to an end as quickly as possible. I tossed and turned for an hour but still could not sleep. I kept thinking of what would happen to me if I went on living in this house. Finally, tired with this line of thinking, I dozed off.
The following morning, I woke up at dawn but was unable to go back to sleep. That day was one of the coldest days of winter. Hampstead spreads over high hills and the weather there is colder than anywhere else in London. Through the window, I could only see snow falling and covering everything in white. A cold wind blew into the room, so cold that I had to get up and close the window. As I could see no fire to keep the house warm, I had to stay in bed, not daring to get up and do anything at all. In late morning, someone brought me a pot of hot water to wash my face with and advised me to go and have breakfast in the dining room, which had a fireplace.
I got dressed and went downstairs. As soon as I entered the dining room, I was shocked out of my wits. What was it that I saw in front of me? The whole room was filled with smoke coming from the fireplace, which had been built against all the rules of hygiene, and a gang of seven or eight Hindus stood around the fire warming themselves. The din of their chatter reverberated throughout the room. Mrs Freindrich’s house was very small and for the life of me I could not figure out where were the rooms these fellows slept in. When they saw me, they came up to me and introduced themselves higgledy-piggledy, speaking English fast as a train, and I just could not keep up with them. Then, the evil one, the landlady, came in and had me sit at the same table as the Hindus. Although she tried to please me and gave me preferential treatment, I still felt disgusted as these Hindus were uncouth and lacked the manners expected of overseas students. They kept jabbering in their own language, unmindful of the presence among them of someone who came from a different country and spoke a different language. As for those who did talk to me, they were impertinent and rude to a man, asking me questions about my financial status and whether my parents were rich or poor – all queries that were most painful to my ears. I answered curtly every time and felt annoyed to the point of distraction. I forced myself to swallow a piece of buttered toast and a cup of Ceylon tea, then excused myself and left the table, telling them I had urgent business in town.
All this reminded me of the Tamils I had met in Colombo, Djibouti and Port Said. Captain Andrew, my dear godfather, had once told me that to see good Hindus or other Indians one had to go to Delhi (pronounced ‘Del-lee’), Calcutta or Madras. England was filled with Hindus who were all Bolsheviks intent on destroying their own nation. They were greedy and miserly because they were low-class destitute; they were selfish cheats who always took advantage of their own breed as well as of foreigners. Daddy had warned me to be constantly on my guard with them. Although I had only spent fifteen minutes in their company, I was absolutely certain that what he had told me was true.
I left the house and walked along the road. It was bitterly cold. Snow fell continuously and white fog covered the area. I had no idea where to go or who to visit. Finally I decided to go to the embassy. Once there, I still had no idea what to do, as I did not know anyone there well enough to strike up a conversation and anyway all of them must be busy with their work. So I left the embassy and went to relax at Lion’s Tea Shop, trying to think of what to do next.
Finally, it dawned on me that I still had a life companion whom I should visit – a friend, a lover who had promised to love me for ever: Maria Grey! She would be the ideal partner to fill my life with happiness. I took a bus to Piccadilly and spent a lot of time trying to locate her house. I went up the stairs and pressed the bell at the door in front of Lady Moira and Maria Grey’s apartment. A short while later, a young servant opened the door and asked me the purpose of my visit.
“Lady Moira and Miss Grey left a long time ago,” that girl said. “They must be in Paris by now.”
“Do you know when they will be back?” I asked.
“I don’t,” she answered. “They no longer live here. Now we are cleaning the place so that someone else can rent it.”
“I wrote to Miss Grey a few days ago. I wonder if the letter is still here?”
“Oh yes, it is. Wait, I’ll get it for you.”
A moment later she returned with my letter. Maria had gone! Oh, my dear life companion! How could she possibly know that “her Bobby” was now in London awaiting her every passing second? Poor me! O God in Heaven! Was there anyone I could turn to for help?
I had to reconcile myself with the idea that my situation was hopeless. I returned to the hell of Roslyn Hill and went straight to my room without talking to anyone. At first, I intended to write the whole story to Daddy, but then I thought I did not have enough to go by and it would be better if I forced myself to stay here a few more days. Besides, I did not want to disturb him unduly, he who had already given me so much happiness.
Daddy! Mother! Stephanie! The Queen’s Cottage! The cottage of supreme bliss!

3

From an early age, facing danger has appealed to me so long as I have known I shall be safe in the end. Life at Mrs Freindrich’s house offered plenty of danger, but it was not a pleasurable adventure. It made me aware of the vile manners of a bunch of uncouth men, whose company should be sought only for the purpose of studying their character. I forced myself to live with them for a full week and bear stoically the iniquities I had to witness and be a party to. I put up with the cold, I put up with food that was poison by any other name, I put up with Mrs Freindrich’s lies every single day and I put up with the chats these Bolshevik Hindus imposed on me as they took the liberty of entering my room uninvited.
They had no other purpose than preparing themselves to return to India in order to wreck their native land. They went as far as to encourage me to return home to destroy Siam and bring down the royal institution, which I most revere, as they would in India. After taking this line for a while, they saw that I was not playing along and they became angry and upset at me for staying in the same house. But I was not mollified. I forced myself to keep watching with interest their strange way of life.
Indeed, dear readers, if we intend to study something, we must put up with the suffering that comes from the way we go about our study, otherwise we can never successfully learn anything. I had to put up with suffering in order to learn the dispositions of Mrs Freindrich and of those crude Hindus. Apart from Pradit, I had no intimate friend in London whom I could go out with, and I was alone amidst the dreadful demons I had to meet whenever I stepped into the house on Roslyn Hill. For the first two or three days, I felt so sick and scared and miserable that I could hardly control myself, but after giving it some thought, I was able to carry on because I wanted to learn.
After a week, I felt I had learned all there was to know about life at Mrs Freindrich’s house. One morning, I took a train to visit Captain and Mrs Andrew at Bexhill. They received me warmly. I told my dear parents every detail of what had happened in London in the past week.
“How come, Bobby?” Daddy said, his voice grating with anger. “Why didn’t you come and tell us the first day you were there? Instead, you’ve been keeping silent for a whole week. That woman Freindrich lied through her teeth in her letter to us. I’ll go with you tomorrow. I must get you out of this hell as soon as possible, and I’ll give that hag a piece of my mind as well.”
“Don’t be so rash, Bertie,” Mother admonished her husband while taking me into her arms. “It’s no use quarrelling with people like these. Besides, Bobby is a man now. After all, he survived his fall into the hands of those devils, but it’s a good lesson for him all the same, isn’t it, Bobby? I think you should talk politely to this Mrs Freindrich. There’s no need to mention her lies and all that; just ask her to let Bobby go. Don’t you think so too?”
“Yes, Elsie, I do,” Daddy answered.
“Bobby,” Mother said, “you’ll stay with us tonight and tomorrow Daddy will go to London with you and find a new place for you to live.”
I kissed Mother on both cheeks with the greatest love and respect, and then we talked about other matters.
The following morning, shortly after breakfast, Daddy took me to London. We found Mrs Freindrich and the Hindus standing in a circle over some picture in the main room. Daddy asked me if she was the woman in question and I answered that she was.
“Good morning, Mrs Freindrich,” Daddy said so that she would turn to us.
Mrs Freindrich turned round and found both of us standing in front of her.
“I am Captain Andrew, Mr Wisoot’s guardian.”
She immediately took Daddy to the privacy of a room upstairs. I believe he talked to her politely because when she came down again, she was all smiles and well-behaved. She even asked me to go upstairs to help Daddy pack my belongings and said she was going to call a cab for us. As we were leaving the house, the Hindus lined up to watch us and some came to ask me where I was going, why I was leaving and whether this house was not good enough for me. I had yet to answer any of this when Daddy told them, “This is none of your business!”




4

That same day, Daddy took me to a small hotel in South Kensington and then went out to look for a place for me to live. He returned to the hotel at around 7pm and took me to have dinner at Barclay’s Restaurant and then to watch a play at the London Hippodrome. He stayed with me at the hotel for three nights. On the fourth day, he took me to stay with a Mrs Harris in Fulham. Her house, situated on a high hill, was quiet and clean. It was the kind of place which only accepted distinguished boarders and the fee charged was reasonable. When he was sure I would be happy staying with Mrs Harris, Daddy returned to Bexhill. Are there any foreigners in this world who would love and be as good to me as the Andrew family?
The people staying at Mrs Harris’s left for work in the morning and returned in the evening. During the daytime, except on Sundays, the house was very quiet, as the only other person there was Mrs Harris. At night, the boarders, all foreign gentlemen, were back but the only noise there was was over jokes at the dining table or whenever we played bridge.
I liked this house very much because its quiet allowed me to think and write at will. Mrs Harris was not greedy, she was good-natured and polite, and the food she served was wholesome and delicious.
As soon as the occasion allowed, I wrote to His Excellency the Ambassador to inform him that I was ready to enter a law school. I did well at the entrance examination and was in the quota of law students accepted at Middle Temple. Even now, I still remember what the legal heart of England was like – the network of short and narrow lanes, the superannuated gates that needed repairs, the school buildings shouldering one another along both sides of the street, so ancient they seemed about to collapse... Inside each building, there was a profusion of rooms, each bearing the name of a famous law practitioner. All of the doors looked dark and none of them shut properly. The dilapidated wooden floors were awaiting the day when they would finally cave in underfoot. In fact, apart from law itself, I could see nothing that would entice me to study there.
Middle Temple accepted many students from countries of the East, mainly Indians, Chinese and Japanese. I met a few good Hindus there. They behaved and talked politely, yet were so niggardly no one could make friends with them, because they were always taking advantage of you. The Japanese would be good friends so long as they were away from fellow Japanese. The Chinese were always broadminded, outspoken, clever and keen to learn. There were several Thai students at Middle Temple and I had the opportunity to make their acquaintance.
As for the special lectures for Thai law students, known as ‘coaching’, they were conducted by a retired major who had been a teacher for many years. Although this major had been a lawyer in England for a long time, he was not well-known and only handled minor litigation in the low courts. I am sure he must have been of much service to Thai students and the Thai nation as a teacher, given that he used his knowledge of the Thai to insult us with derogatory remarks at every opportunity. He seemed to know everything that was none of his business, taught perfunctorily, and never cared whether we understood. As for the poor students – he always knew which students were poor and which wealthy – he taught them reluctantly. Rich or poor, students had to pay the same tuition fee, however, and he made no exception for anyone.
“With so little money, what else do you expect?” he asked me one day when I raised a question because I could not understand his explanation. I did not answer but felt sad that a man like this retired major, who had studied law all his life, did not in his old age have a heart pure enough to be of service to others as he should.
For Thai people and other foreigners, life in London, like in every other capital of the civilized world, is not very safe. London has all kinds of problems which slow down her progress. Cheating and pilfering still exist, and scientific progress, which is an important part of a country’s development, is inadequate in wiping out such evil doings.
The longer I lived in London, the more friends I made, which in a way was fine. There were plenty of excellent cinemas and theatres, and travelling about was convenient. Nevertheless, I still felt lonely and at times bored. I felt that London should be better than she was then. She should have something that would give happiness and friendship to strangers from other lands.


12

The big circus

1

When I had some time to spare, I liked to write short stories or short articles which I sent to Daddy for correction, asking him to forward them to monthly magazines or to The London Times. I was amazed that my ideas, spelled out on paper with Daddy’s help, were popular with all kinds of newspapers. When Daddy received a cheque from a printing house, he would pass it on to me without fail, warning me to spend the money wisely. So, every now and then, I would see an article of mine in the pages of this or that publication under the pen name “Bobby”.
The financial reward I received every time one of my articles appeared in a well-known English daily or monthly was a great encouragement for me as it meant I could earn a living while studying law. This extra income allowed me to afford some creature comforts, and I was no longer poor like most students.
I kept brooding over what I could do to express my deep gratitude to Daddy and Mother for their unfailing love. I tried to save money on what I gained from my writings in order to buy them something that would be meaningful to them, but I had yet to make up my mind about what I would get them. One day, I went to Bexhill and saw their Austin parked near the railway station. It was badly damaged after a collision with a truck. I knew there and then what Daddy and Mother needed most. Instead of going on to the Queen’s Cottage, I took the bus back home without letting them know I had gone to Bexhill. When I arrived in London, I went to the Bentley sales agent, bought a large and luxurious sedan and ordered the company to deliver it to the Queen’s Cottage in Bexhill with my card, on which I wrote: “With the greatest love and respect, from your beloved son.”
At about 4pm the day after the car had been delivered to them, Daddy and Mother arrived at my place in London in the Bentley. As soon as she saw me, Mother rushed to hug me and covered my cheeks with big kisses while teasing me out of sheer delight: “Look, Bobby, my dear child, you should have saved your money. Why did you squander it on a car? You are such a spendthrift I think you deserve a good thrashing.”
“Not so, Mother,” I answered. “Buying you a car can in no way compare with the thousandfold happiness you have given me.”
“Did you spend all your money on it?” Mother asked.
“All of it,” I answered truthfully. “But it doesn’t matter. I have already written another two articles and I’ll get more money for them before long. Besides, I need not spend money on anything at the moment.”
Mother took her purse and handed me a hundred-pound bank note. “Keep this,” she said. “Use it to tie you over until you come into some more.”
I thanked her and put the bank note in my pocket. That night, Daddy and Mother had me stay with them at the hotel in South Kensington. We had dinner at the Savoy, watched a play at Piccadilly Theatre, went to have supper at the New Princess Cabaret and then went back to the hotel where we talked almost all night long. Daddy and Mother stayed with me in London for two nights and then went back to Bexhill.
Regarding the matter of visiting prostitutes in London, I had the cleanest reputation among Thai students, many of whom liked to “go whoring”, as they put it. I never dreamt of going out with the ladies of the night, though there were plenty of them in London, because I had to think of Daddy and Mother, who would be most distraught were I to catch some dreadful disease, not to mention that some future wife and children could also catch it. I had read and been warned that the diseases caught with whores were extremely severe and had no known cure.

2

I went on studying law and writing articles and short stories which Daddy sent to various printing houses in London and I often wondered whether their staff were aware of who Bobby was and whether fellow writers would be eager to meet with Bobby. Although I had sent many stories to various publications, I never got in touch with any of the latter. After receiving their cheques, there was no further contact with the printing houses and I had no way of knowing the various editors involved.
One, then two, then three months passed and my life went on as usual. There was nothing to alter my routine. I still had no news from Maria Grey, and it was as if she had disappeared into thin air. Throughout all that time I felt that my beloved Maria was like Lamjuan; all women were the same: easily seduced and inconstant. But as agreed, we – Maria and I – were free to meet or love anyone else as we wished. By now, she must have found someone to love and thus had completely forgotten me.
One afternoon, one of the house servants brought me a name card which read as follows:



Mr. Arnold BERINGTON

Newspaper correspondent


The London Times


I do not know why but as soon as I saw the card, I felt utterly delighted. It seemed that since my arrival in London I had been waiting for the day I would receive such a card, and that day had finally come. I hurried down the stairs to meet Mr Arnold Berington in the reception room.
This London Times correspondent was of small build and had curly black hair. When he saw me, he got up from his chair and walked straight to me to shake my hand.
“You are our ‘Bobby’, aren’t you?” he asked, acting as if we had once been close friends.
“Yes,” I replied with a smile.
“Our deputy editor, Mr Edward Bell Benson, asked me to invite you to attend his birthday party which will be held at the Press Club, in the Haymarket, tomorrow at 8pm. You must be there. I’ll come and pick you up.”
“Eh, how come Mr Benson knows of me?” I asked.
“Oh, everyone at the printing house knows Bobby,” Mr Berington replied and laughed. “But we didn’t get in touch with you until now because we were waiting – we were hoping you’d join our group without being asked.”
“And what did you think was the reason I never got in touch with you?”
“I don’t know. Why didn’t you?” he asked eagerly.
“I am Thai, Mr Berington,” I answered.
“Let me call you Bobby as Lady Moira and Maria do,” he said, with a little smile as he pronounced the names of the two women. “And it would be better if you called me Arnold.”
“All right, Arnold,” I answered with a smile.
“Several of our reporters and correspondents are foreigners and we send them on news assignments in many countries all over the world. I don’t see why you can’t be like us.”
“I have never visited any press office or press club.”
“Then it is all the more important that you should join us.”
“Arnold, please explain to me clearly what a newspaper is all about. I must be sure before I decide to do anything.”
At that time, we sat chatting at the table in the middle of the room. Arnold lit a cigarette and started to explain: “A newspaper is a big circus. Everything which is related to life high and low is in a newspaper. Do you remember what Omar Khayyaám once said:
‘Watch the play, the circus and then yourself
You will jeer, laugh and dance as in a dream’?
“I love these lines and that’s why I became a journalist; I can’t look at myself until I’ve read a newspaper. It’s a big circus, Bobby. Always interesting and full of love and sorrow.”
“And why should I become a journalist?” I asked.
“You are good enough as a writer,” Arnold replied. “Your ideas are sound. You like to know everything about life. And since there are stories about life in this big circus, why don’t you become one of us?”
“Are there any other reasons?”
“Yes. First of all, you are poor. If you join our profession, you’ll earn enough to have a comfortable life. Second, you may become famous eventually. Third and most important, you’ll be able to meet Lady Moira Dunn and Maria Grey.”
“Do you know Maria Grey well?” I asked.
“We went together to the Continent for two weeks on assignment for the newspaper. I believe you and Maria Grey are lovers. Isn’t that so?”
“No,” I replied and smiled. “We are only friends.”
“You think of Maria Grey merely as a friend; that’s why she loves you so much and always talks about you.”
“Where is Maria now?”
“She’s still in Paris, but she’ll arrive in London tomorrow at 7pm, in time for the party. She’ll go straight from the railway station to the club.” He stood up and grabbed his coat and hat. “I must go now. I’ll be seeing you. I wish you the good luck of joining us soon. Bobby, don’t forget it’s a big circus! Goodbye, Bobby.”
“Goodbye, Arnold.”
I accompanied him to the gate to see him off, and watched my new friend walk away until he went out of sight.

3

At the appointed time on the following day, Arnold Berington, wearing an evening suit, came to pick me up. We talked about newspaper life during the whole ride. Our taxi passed the Haymarket Theatre, went through a small street which turned to the right and finally arrived at a big two-story building with a sign written in golden letters saying “Press Club”. When we arrived, the place was crowded with people in evening dress and there was music playing inside.
“Hello, Arnold,” someone greeted my friend, who turned to say a few words, then took me through the entrance.
As I stood in the large central hall and a servant came to keep our coats and hats, I was amazed by the beauty of the place, which had been especially decorated for Mr Edward Bell Benson’s birthday party. A profusion of multicoloured lamps and glittering chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Lanterns shone brightly. Beautiful paintings from various nations lined the walls. The cluster of dinner tables were decorated with a profusion of flowers, party crackers and other items. We admired the room for a moment and then Arnold took me upstairs.
He led me to a small room, told me to wait there for a while and disappeared down the corridor. A moment later, he was back with a tall, bald-headed man with big round eyes and thick lips.
“This is Bobby,” Arnold said, “and this is Mr Edward Bell Benson. We call him Eddie.”
I shook hands with the deputy editor and we talked to each other for a while. Then Mr Benson turned to Arnold and said, “Arnold, be a good lad and go tell them to prepare the board.”
The young man nodded and hurried out of the room.
“You will have to stand on stage,” Mr Benson told me. “When the curtain opens, all the members of the club will applaud you. Don’t forget to take a bow.”
“Mr Benson, sir,” I said, dumbfounded. “What have I done to deserve such an honour?
“Well, you are Bobby of The Times,” he answered. “And you are now one of us.”
“Mr Benson, I –”
“That’s final and you can’t refuse,” he interrupted. “You are already one of us. Everyone who comes to this club must be a member. No one has ever got away with it.”
Right then, a bell rang loudly.
“That’s the signal for sitting down to dinner in the main hall,” Benson explained. “Let’s go down. Just follow me.”
Benson walked me down the stairs and took me into a small room. A red curtain on one side separated it from the central hall, which resounded with the clamour of conversations and laughter.
“Bring the board in,” Benson ordered.
A servant dressed like a bellboy entered, holding a white board, on which was written in large letters: ‘Introducing Bobby!’ After putting the board in its proper place, Benson rushed out.
“Are you ready, sir?” the bellboy asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
Instantly, the brightly lit lanterns in the central hall were dimmed and the red curtain in front of me gradually opened. Then the whole room reverberated with deafening cheers and applause in my honour.
“Introducing Bobby!” “Introducing Bobby!” People kept reading out the words on the board which was set by my side. I bowed several times. Then, an old man with a big book in his hand walked straight to me and asked me to sign my name in order to become a member of the club.
“I am Ronald Ritston, the club president,” the old man said.
I respectfully bent my head to him and extended my hand to shake his. The bellboy handed me a pen and I signed my name on the book as requested by Mr Ritston. Again, cheering and hand-clapping resounded throughout the room. Then, the curtain closed.
I walked out of the stage and found Arnold waiting for me.
“Bobby, I’m sure you don’t want to dine with the elderly, now do you?” he asked. “Come and sit with us. Maybe we can drag Maria to our table as well.”
“You mean you can actually get Maria to sit with us?” I asked.
“It’ll be difficult,” Arnold said wearily. “Maria is very popular. Everybody knows her. As it is, she may already have found a table. But you never know. I’ll do my best.”
While we were walking in the hall, someone sitting at a table which still had seats available invited us to join him. “Arnold, have Bobby sit here, and you too,” he offered. “There are plenty of seats available.”
“Sorry, Philip,” Arnold answered. “We already have seats. Thanks.”
We came to one of the vacant tables. Arnold motioned for me to sit down and wait while he would try to find Maria and Lady Moira for me. My friend disappeared for a while, then returned. He said hopelessly: “Eddie invited Maria and Moira to his table. Some old people are really foolish. Anyway, you should go and see Maria. I told her you were going to. We’ll be back here afterwards.”
I followed him to the opposite corner of the room where Mr Benson’s table was. Most of the people seated there were powerful, such as Lord Beaverbrook and Lord Rothermere, the wealthiest newspaper owners in England, and Mr Douglas, the editor of The Daily Express, and there were several others, including Lady Moira and Maria. As soon as she saw me, Maria stood up to welcome me. We shook hands, trembling with delight. She was beautiful. The glint in her big, dark eyes was as enticing as I remembered. She wore a black velvet evening gown with a long, glittering pearl necklace. A glance at her was enough to realize that she still loved me. Maria was different from Lamjuan. During the time she had been away from me in Paris, nothing in the world would have made her mistrust me.
“Bobby,” she whispered in my ear. “I want you to be the first to dance with me tonight.”
“Certainly, Maria.”
Then Arnold and I walked back to our table.

4

The party proceeded in the way large parties of this kind usually do, amidst the clink of cutlery and the drone of dozens of conversations. Then, Lord Rothermere raised his glass to wish Mr Benson a happy birthday and we all drank up. A second toast followed, dedicated this time to the newspaper – to the big circus. There were more words of praise for the host, as guest after famous guest rose to deliver witty speeches spiced with jokes and exciting anecdotes. In his delivery, Mr Benson thanked everyone for attending and wishing him a happy birthday. He briefly outlined the history of The Times and ended his speech with this statement: “I am most proud of our big circus. It has made me happy ever since I joined it as a young man. My dear friends, if you really want to wish me true happiness, then let us drink to this big circus of ours!”
“Cheers! Cheers! Cheers! To the big circus!” we all shouted as one.
“Mr Benson, sir,” someone called out. “How is it you never got married?”
The assistant editor stood up at once and answered, “In order to get married, you need at least two partners. I count as one, but I have yet to find the other one to make it two. However, my dear friends, I am already married...”
“How come?” someone exclaimed. “To whom?”
“I am married to the big circus!” Mr Benson answered.
“Cheers!” everybody shouted. “To the big circus!”
We all walked up the stairs to the ballroom, which was magnificently decorated. As we entered, the band started to play a fox trot. It took me quite a while to locate Maria among the throng. Finally, I heard someone calling out: “Bobby! This way.” I turned around and saw my sweetheart, who stood waiting for me in a lovely pose. Oh! my dear readers, Maria was so beautiful! While we were away from each other, nothing had happened to lessen her beauty; if anything, it had increased. The bright multicoloured lights around the room flattered her fair complexion. With her black velvet evening gown, pearl necklace and pendant earrings, she looked gorgeous beyond words. She wore the paper cone of the cracker she had picked up downstairs as a cap, and that childish touch made her look much younger.
“Maria,” someone said as we stood close to each other. “May I have the honour of the second dance with you?”
“Oh, I am so sorry, Arnold,” Maria replied. “I already promised it to Mr Benson. Can you wait for the third one?”
“Sure, Maria,” Arnold said, nodded and left.
“So, Bobby, have you been happy all this time?” Maria asked me as we were dancing.
“I have been doing fine, Maria,” I answered. “I am happy because I am able to write things the newspapers find interesting.”
“What did you think about me?”
“I though you were like all the other women I know,” I replied honestly: “easily seduced, forgetful and inconstant.”
She laughed.
“I was sure you’d join us one day. When the newspaper wants someone, it’s hard for anyone to resist,” she said. “I didn’t really try to contact you because I wanted you to feel free before you joined us. You see, when you are a reporter or a correspondent travelling all over the world, the thing you want most is freedom. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to meet women from other nations with greater bewitching powers than the women you know. If I made you feel that you are not free, that you have to be faithful to me no matter what, it would be most unfair of me. A reporter or a correspondent will meet good women all the time, and there are some women whom men feel they are not men if they can’t get to know them.”
“Then it must be the same for you,” I countered. “You no doubt want to know other foreign men...”
“Women are different, Bobby,” she replied. “We must stick to our own code of conduct. Women are the ones who bear children, remember?”
“...You do not intend to love someone truthfully, and like to change your mind.”
“Bobby, I belong to the newspaper, I belong to the big circus.”
The music stopped and the dancers dispersed. Maria went to talk with other people. As I walked away, I met Arnold and we decided to have a drink.
That night I could dance with Maria only once because there were so many people. Before we left, Arnold offered to take me home. I refused because I felt it was late. I told him I could go back by myself and he relented. Before my taxi left, he said: “A big circus, Bobby, don’t forget that!”
“A big circus indeed, Arnold,” I answered.


13

A performance on stage

1

Before carrying on with my story, it is necessary for me to explain to you first why I, Wisoot Suphalak na Ayutthaya, became a journalist, as a reporter, correspondent, feature writer and even subeditor whenever pages of the daily needed to be proofed, filled in or standardized – all regular professions which no Thai students had ever learned before. Why did I completely forsake my law studies, something no one would ever recommend? You may think that I was infatuated with a woman, had fallen for Maria Grey and was so impressed by the merry and luxurious life I had tasted at the Haymarket Press Club that I volunteered to join the press and learn a subject which provided no degree or certificate of qualification whatsoever. I will accept all of your speculations but whether or not they are accurate is none of my concern.
I had brought with me twenty thousand baht. After paying the fare for my travel from Siam and the few expenses of my stay in Bexhill, I was left with fifteen thousand. To study law, I would have to complete the course within three years, which meant passing every single examination on the first attempt. If I failed just once, I would not have enough money left to pursue my studies and would have to go back home without a degree or a certificate. For a poor student like me, learning law in London meant a solitary life fraught with humiliations stemming from poverty. I would have no opportunity to travel anywhere as I would have to remain in London to do nothing but study. After three years, assuming I had passed every examination twice a year, I would obtain a degree and everything would be fine, but if I failed even once, that would be the end of me and I would no longer have the opportunity to know other countries and cities besides England and London. I would return to Siam empty-handed, so to speak, not to say empty-headed, disheartened and broke. Taking into account my limited intellectual abilities, I could not but feel discouraged and fear for the future. But when I thought of the exciting life of the people at the Press Club, when I thought of Lady Moira and Maria Grey and when I thought that my articles were accepted by almost all kinds of publications, I started to ask myself why I should not devote myself entirely to journalism. Although I would return to Siam with no degree or any other evidence of qualification, I would not feel in the least bit sorry.
Journalism has taught me to curb my aspirations and be a responsible adult. What other profession in the world could give me more happiness than this? Journalism has allowed me to travel to several countries and meet and associate with people of different nations and languages and from all walks of life – aristocrats and commoners, beggars and millionaires, brave men, heartless bandits, civilized people as well as betrayers of the natural laws of the world. Everyday I sat in the front row of the big circus investigating and reporting news. Although I had the opportunity to go to many places, it was an arduous life, and I would not recommend it to any young man as a career. The truths of life are always bitter, cruel and unfair. Reporters and newswriters are those who witness these truths and they must steel their hearts and not allow themselves to be affected by reality, as it would only lead them to destruction. For those who want to have a regular income, an orderly life and a happy home, journalism is not the career to embrace.
Reporters must be ready to get out of bed at any time of the night upon receiving a phone call from the office of some deputy editor on Fleet Street to gather the news their papers require. Once they have enough information, they must rush to the printing house to write their article – and write until the pen slips from their hand! Even if the bell of life rang for the last time, they must be the ones to wake up. They must be men of nerve whom no event will ever frighten or discourage. In the course of my duties, I often felt tired, disheartened and ready to give up and go home, but the sense of adventure and newspaper life did keep me going for a period of more than a year.
Despite all of its difficulties and hardships, newspaper life remains a wonderful challenge for young men with fine brains, good spirits and the ability to write well. The circus of life can be beneficial to them and help turn them into real men possessed of dignity and confidence.
My having to leave the press, which is the life I most cherished, and return to Siam is the most heart-rending story. I had to give up because my health was not up to the demands of this fast-paced and ever changing kind of life. Before I left England, I was injured in a car accident and had to be hospitalized for more than two months. Once I was well again, I went to America and worked for the New York Times and the Boston Gazette, but I fell ill. The doctor told me I had a weak constitution and forbade me to do any work for at least two years. I did not take his advice because I could not afford to believe him. After I left America, I went on to Hawaii, Japan and China, where I was a reporter again. During my stay in Peking, there was a fierce reaction against all foreigners, and England and Japan had to join forces to subdue the Chinese, leading to clashes around town. Our duty as reporters was to keep in close touch with events at all times. Sometimes we found ourselves among groups who did not know who we were and mistook us for their enemies. We had to flee for dear life, running or walking along the streets, entering people’s homes or clock towers, and as soon as we were safe, we returned to the hotel to write up the information we had gathered into what we called “scoops”. I did this every day for two weeks until I fell ill once again. I had to leave Peking and was confined to a nursing home in Shanghai. Once I had recovered, I had lost any hope of ever again being a journalist. It was the end of my life of adventure. The curtain had fallen on the circus of life.
My father had been right when he had said that sending people like me abroad was a waste of money.
Lady Moira had advised me to go back home and write The circus of life for Thai people to read. For the sake of my love for Maria Grey, I will continue writing this to the end.

2

Shortly after I became a journalist, I moved from Mrs Harris’s house in Fulham to share Arnold Berington’s apartment on the Earl’s Court Road. The apartment was on the top floor of a three-storey building. It had two small bedrooms, a sitting room, a study and a bathroom, which was perfect for two bachelors. Arnold and I were good friends. We usually went out together. Whenever we had some spare time, we invited fellow journalists, male and female, to come and dance or play bridge, and it was most cosy and enjoyable.
London, if you are really interested in its life, has all kinds of adventure in store for you, like all other famous capitals of the world. The city should be ashamed, though, of the quick temper of some of its women. In it, people struggle for a living, there is competition, bravery and human injustice. Have you ever thought that the beauty and fame of London are but masks hiding dreams, madness and all kinds of mischief?
Once, it was reported that a beautiful woman notorious for her loose life had been murdered in her plush residence in Mayfair. The murderer had fled the scene without taking any valuables. A policeman on duty had seen him and started to chase after him. Before long, the murderer was lucky enough to find a taxi and he forced the driver at gunpoint to take him to some address in the East End, an unruly lower-class area. Undaunted, the policeman requisitioned a car to carry on the chase. When he finally caught up with the taxi, the driver told him the suspect had already alighted. The policeman spent hours searching the area in vain. The story was in every newspaper the next day. The deputy editor instructed Arnold and I to follow up on the progress of the police investigation in the East End and promised us a substantial reward if we were able to locate and identify the suspect.
In order to familiarize ourselves with the case, we spent four days investigating in the lower-class alleys and by-alleys of the East End, and we did pick up a few clues. The whole London police force was still unable to track down the criminal. A notice in front of the central police station on Bow Street promised a one-thousand-pound reward to any policeman able to inform the director general of the address and identity of the person suspected of murdering the woman. Another three days went by and there was still no news from the secret police investigating the case. Some daring newspapers carried big headlines demanding to know “When will the murderer be caught? Isn’t a £1,000 reward enough?”
During the seven days we spent working on a “scoop” for this murder case, I thoroughly enjoyed myself as I observed the way of life of the lower classes in the East End. I met Russians who had escaped from detention camps in Siberia during the reign of the Tsar, their arms and legs bearing scars and other marks left by fetters, shackles and whips. I met other Russians who had been similarly thrown into jail by the Bolsheviks during the great revolution which had taken place eight years earlier. I saw groups of Chinese and Negroes who lived in dreadful conditions. In the morning, women of different races and tongues came out to wash nondescript clothes in the street. I could not help but feel compassion for the destitute conditions of life in White Chapel and the East End.
In the course of our investigation, I had learned that most big shops and stores in Mayfair and the West End catering to the wealthy usually carried clothes which had been sewed by people in the East End, who dirtied them and washed them perfunctorily, and one wondered how many germs these clothes held when they were purchased. In the East End, there was a manufacturer of cigarettes which employed several thousand male and female workers, who could roll cigarettes at an unbelievable speed.
At nightfall, we would leave the East End and head for Soho, a small district with rows of “continental” food shops which was famous for offering the most delicious food in London at prices that suited the purse of every customer – the wealthy as well as your poor self. Leaving the Petit Riche Restaurant, we would walk down Warder Street and Old Compton Road. Along the way, we often saw French girls making various kinds of coloured flowers that were used in ballets and pantomimes or doing needlework for London theatres.
From Soho, we would follow Leather Lane in Holborn, where many Italians lived. This district was like a little Naples, with the same colour, smell and grime. There were courtyards by the roadside where groups of Italian women sat washing clothes. Most of these women were beautiful and made me think of Raphael’s Madonna. They sang beautifully as they worked and sometimes little children joined them around the basins to listen to them.
We would leave the alley and soon come to a small bakery where a beggar played his barrel organ to entertain us. As soon as we were in sight, two or three destitute children would run to us with hat in hand and beg for money, and as soon as we gave them some coins, they thanked us and ran back to the old man who stood grinding his organ.
In the same area, there was a man all dressed in white who was busy casting plaster statues of famous figures such as Napoleon, Nelson, Queen Victoria, General Gordon, Venus and Mercury, which stood in a row. These one-cubit* tall dolls were taken to be sold at Ludgate Hill everyday. One evening, as I stood watching this craftsman at work, someone patted me softly on the shoulder twice and said with a sweet voice: “Hello, Bobby!”

3

I turned and found Maria Grey standing with a smile on her face.
“Hello, Maria,” I answered, “I didn’t think you were still in London.”
“I just returned from Rome a few days ago. What are you doing here?”
“Looking for a scoop on the murder of a woman,” I replied.
“And what about you, Maria?” Arnold intervened. “What brings you here?”
“Arnold,” Maria said, “was it you who tipped off Eddie about the criminal who killed Mrs ...? He’s told the police department and they decided to arrest him at nine tonight in a house on Grove Street.”
“That doesn’t leave us much time. Shall we go?” Arnold asked.
“Oh, didn’t you known about this?” she asked.
“We didn’t. We were going back to the printing house,” I answered.
“Will you come with us, Maria?” Arnold asked.
“Of course.”
We hurried to catch a bus in Holborn which took us to White Chapel. As we looked for the way to Grove Street, we were asked repeatedly by the police: “Who are you? Journalists?”
“That’s right.”
“Which paper?”
“The Times!”
“Fine, you may go. You’d better hurry.”
Grove Street was narrow, but it had several open spaces where people in the old days laid out their clothes to dry. When we got there, everything was quiet. The police had yet to move in. We walked up the street until we arrived at the small house we were looking for, a known meeting point for criminals in London. We walked around to examine the house for a while and then saw a big car stop in front of it. Two or three bandits got out of the car and stood in front of the main door, consulting one another in whispers. Then their leader unlocked the door with a key and took his underlings inside. The house looked mysterious and dark. All doors and windows were closed. The complete silence and scanty moonlight made us feel a minor war was about to erupt. We hid in nearby bushes and waited to see what would happen next.
After a while, we saw two policemen walk straight to the door and knock on it softly two or three times.
“What d’ya want?” a voice asked.
“We want Brian and Murdorf,” one of the policemen replied.
“They aren’t here.”
“Okay, if they aren’t there, open up. We want to search the place.”
The door opened slowly. The two policemen stepped into the house without fear. Three or four minutes later, we heard a gunshot. Immediately, dozens of policemen rushed the house, some carrying machine guns, others pistols or revolvers. A violent shootout ensued, which stopped as suddenly as it had started. Then we saw two or three policemen come out and rush to the nearest telephone, which could only mean that the police had won. The three of us walked up to watch the scene from the vestibule leading to a room which was packed with people. Three policemen had been shot dead. Several bandits had been seriously injured. Some gritted their teeth to resist the pain, others moaned and groaned and I nearly panicked. When we entered the room, we found that both Brian and Murdorf had been captured alive. Their faces were covered in blood. Brian was a man of about forty, with an ugly, bearded face. Murdorf, who could not be more than twenty-five, had rather handsome features. As soon as the two of them were handcuffed and brought to the front of the house, a young woman rushed to Murdorf, put her arms round his neck and kissed him repeatedly, crying and moaning all the while out of love and grief. It took the police a long time to separate her from her lover and get him into the car they had waiting outside.
After the police and the bandits had gone, the three of us went to console the woman. Her name was Nancy Smith; she worked in a tobacco factory in the vicinity.
“I love him,” she said, weeping. “I love Murdorf.”
“Why did Murdorf kill Mrs ..., Miss Smith?” Maria asked.
“Over a year ago, Murdorf and I worked together in Cornwall,” she told us. “We were happy together until that woman appeared. She seduced my Murdorf and took him to live with her here, in London. After a couple of months, she got fed up with him and dropped him in a way that made him suffer very much. One day, I received a letter from him asking me to come and live with him in London. When I arrived, I found he’d become a thief with the rest of them. London has completely changed my Murdorf’s good nature. That woman destroyed our happiness.
“One day, I don’t know why,” Nancy went on, “he says he’s got something to do so he’s going out for a while, and when he’s back, I see this cop running after him. He asks me to help him, so I take him to hide in the bedroom and ask him what’s happened. He says he’s killed her... He killed that woman because she destroyed our happiness.
“Miss,” she asked Maria beseechingly, “will they sentence my Murdorf to death?”
We consoled her for a while.
“I’ll pray to God my Murdorf won’t be put to death,” she said, sobbing pitifully. “Even if he gets ten years, that’s fine by me. I’ll wait for him until I die. I love him so much.”
My dear readers, even a “cruel and heartless murderer” like Murdorf, to use the words of the police report, can receive a superior kind of love like that of Nancy Smith. She loved him regardless of who he was and her love was steadfast. Among the lower classes, there are still good people like Nancy. She had never thought of stealing anything. She was not envious of other people’s wealth. The only thing she wanted was her Murdorf, who was totally unworthy of her goodness. And this is why the court, to match his deed, sentenced Murdorf to death.

4

This instance of news reporting is only part of a newsman’s life. The stories reflecting the reality of human life form a vast and never ending cycle. Happiness and suffering are like wealth and poverty: though the wealthy may suffer and the destitute be happy, they are the realities of human life. So, the journalistic world has to get involved with all kinds of people of all nationalities and languages. Such is the newsman’s duty.
During the six-month period I worked and lived with Arnold, I had the opportunity to mingle with the poor, the rich and the very rich, attend the big parties held in England, enter the theatres as a critic, and generally watch the performances in the theatre of life.
Behind its curtain were a printing house, a newspaper office and a press built on both sides along one section of Fleet Street. I still remember vividly what the area looked like. The operations which went on twenty-four hours a day in the area were the fonts of friendship and solidarity. No matter how feverish or miserable we felt, our newspaper had to come out as usual – stopping or slowing down its operations was out of the question. If obstacles forced the newspaper to close down even for a single day, it would be a tremendous loss of face and source of shame for us as it would herald to the world that the whole lot of us were incompetent and had no pride. For the countries of Europe and for the United States of America, the strength of the press is the strength of the nation. Countless journalists have been appointed ministers or heads of state and have held the reins of government.
I remember that when I started, I shared the table of the typists, whose work was very loud and went on round the clock. Looking through the window, I could see about a hundred workers feeding paper into the printing press, which roared and clanged merrily away as well. At whatever time of the night when we came back from gathering news, we had to rush to that table to write in this constant din. At first, I could not do it; I just could not concentrate and felt exasperated; but as time went by I got used to it. Sometimes, as I was busy writing an article, a shade on my forehead to protect my eyes from the glare of the lamp, there was a call from one of the assistant editors urging me on: “Bobby, how about that scoop of yours? When will I get it?”
“Just a moment, sir. Another five minutes,” I replied.
“What! Five minutes?” he exclaimed. “I’ll give you two. It’s very late, you know. I want to check your story so I can go to bed.”
After work, I would go back home and right to bed. Within ten minutes at most, I was sleeping like a log. Deep sleep is absolute, which makes me confident that death is the final oblivion, the greatest bliss of all, freeing us from worry about the future. Death is not a serious matter at all: it is merely the absence of reality and consciousness. As long as we remain conscious, we cannot free ourselves from the cycle of life in which happiness is part of suffering and vice versa.
In the morning, around nine or ten, I would awake from bliss and see the world in which I was a part of the daily machinery forever going round and round. The earth goes on revolving mercilessly. Is there anything crueller than life? It turns us into machines and at the same time lets us have consciousness.
While I got up, washed my face and brushed my teeth in my room, Arnold would come in with a cup of Ceylon tea in his hand.
“How are you, my dear friend?” he would ask. “Are you still okay?”
As time passed, the liking and admiration I had for Arnold grew. His attention to my comfort, pure friendship and confidence in his friend’s dignity were Arnold’s good points, which I shall never forget. Those who knew him superficially would feel that he was strange, quiet, hard to understand and rather dull, but for those who were close to him, he was one of the best Englishmen I ever knew.
As for Maria and I, we met often, at the Press Club, at my house and in restaurants, unless she was on an assignment out of town. Our love, our dreams, the castles in the air we once had built on the beach in Bexhill, had changed completely. But it did not mean that Maria had stopped loving me. What she experienced as she travelled to various places in Europe as a Times correspondent had made her more mature. She was no longer as communicative. Although she could be passionate, she was now able to keep her passion in her heart. Thus, I was confident that she still loved me very much. Yet, she was not selfish. She wanted me to be free and enjoy myself when travelling to other cities throughout the world as a Times correspondent.
My dear readers, we still loved each other very much, but our love was strange, sluggish, colder than ice. We still often went out together, walking in parks or other places where lovers strolled arm in arm. Yet, we were frequently separated. Maria went to France, Germany, Austria and so forth. I was still in London. We belonged to the newspaper and were part of its life, and the life of a newspaper is made of such forced separations.



14

A warning from an old friend

1

After six months had passed and I was still drudging through the assignments assistant editors gave me, I was promoted from reporter to correspondent. Few outsiders would know the difference between a correspondent and a reporter at The Times. To a correspondent goes the honour of interviewing famous people on behalf of his newspaper. A correspondent must know world affairs well enough to converse with the powers that be without fear of being embarrassed by saying something wrong, and he must be aware of his newspaper’s stand and objectives. A reporter, on the other hand, is always on the beat, gathering news by hook or by crook to fill the columns of his paper on a daily basis. Journalists consider the promotion from reporter to correspondent as a major distinction sanctioning professional success with a salary raise.
When I was promoted, my friends at the Press Club and at the printing house clubbed together to throw a party in my honour at the Petit Riche Restaurant in Soho. My new status meant I would now have the opportunity to travel abroad like Maria and the honour to interview the likes of Signor Mussolini, Monsieur Poincaré, President Coolidge, Baron Tanaka or Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek.
One day, I left Arnold at the printing house and went to have a cup of tea on my own at Lion’s in Piccadilly Circus. I sat there for a while when a young woman in a grey fur coat and pleated hat walked in. When she reached my table, she paused and stared at me as if she knew me well. Smiling a little, she asked: “Mr Wisoot, don’t you remember me?”
I stood up to greet her although I had no idea who she was.
“Good afternoon,” I said hesitantly, then invited her to sit at my table. She had a pretty face, dark-blue eyes, a well-shaped nose and mouth, and golden hair which hung loosely beneath her hat. I thought for a while and then remembered: she was Pradit’s doll.
“Miss Kathleen Miles,” I said, “I haven’t seen you in a long time. I am sorry I didn’t recognize you at first.”
“Why do you never come and see us?” Kathleen asked. “Are you angry with us? Did Pradit do anything to you?”
“It has nothing to do with Pradit,” I answered firmly. “It’s just that I am always busy, and I find it difficult to go out.”
“I know a lot about you, Mr Wisoot,” she said. “Through Edith Marshal.”
“Edith Marshal, the Daily Chronicle correspondent?”
“That’s right. Edith took me twice to the Press Club, but I never saw you there. What a pity.”
“I am sorry too I missed the opportunity to see you there. I spoke to her a couple of times. She is fun. Do you know her well?”
“We went to the same school,” Kathleen answered.
Right then, Jack Parker, a friend of mine at the printing house, hurriedly walked up to me.
“Bobby,” he said, “Eddie wants the article you wrote yesterday. He told me to take it to the printers right now.”
“I was not happy with it, so I threw it away,” I answered.
“For God’s sake, Bobby!” Parker said in alarm. “Have you got another one?”
“I have a scoop, about two thousand words long,” I replied. “Take it to Eddie, will you, Jack.”
“Sure, Bobby,” Parker replied. “For tomorrow, Eddie wants you to interview Charles Edgerton and send him the piece as soon as possible.”
“No problem.”
I took the article out of my briefcase and gave it to Jack.
“Miss Miles,” I said, “let me introduce you to Jack Parker. Jack, this is Miss Miles.”
They shook hands, then Parker excused himself and rushed out.
“What a famous man you are!” Kathleen said. “All your friends call you Bobby. Where does this name come from?”
“I forget,” I replied. “I don’t know how it came about.”
“Are you angry with Pradit?”
“No. We are friends.”
“He told me he’s only seen you twice since you arrived two years ago.”
“There has never been any special reason for us to meet, Miss Miles.”
“You are free today, aren’t you?” she asked. “How about going to my house for a while?”
“I wanted to go to the cinema. I haven’t seen a movie in a long time,” I replied politely. “There is a good movie showing at the Realto. Would you like to come with me?”
“Why not, Bobby. Is it all right if I call you Bobby?”
“Certainly, Miss Miles!”
“Then, call me Kathleen.”

2

I do not know whether it was a coincidence, but that day I met the very people I did not want to meet as I walked arm in arm with Miss Kathleen Miles along the crowded streets. The first person we met was Pradit Bunyarrat. I was startled, as I feared Pradit might be suspicious and somewhat unhappy, but Kathleen Miles showed no sign of surprise and went on behaving as usual. As for Pradit, I could see from the expression on his face that he was displeased.
“Hello, Kathleen, hello, Wisoot,” he greeted us, trying to suppress some inner turmoil. “Where are you off to?”
“Are you surprised, Pradit, to see me with Bobby?” Kathleen asked.
“Very much so, Kathleen,” he answered sincerely.
“Well, we’ve known each other for a long time,” she explained, “and we often go out together.”
At that point, had I been a man devoid of manners, I would have protested loudly and publicly, as her lie revolted me and made me feel disgusted with her. This was the first time we met since I had gone to her house over six months ago.
I was even more amazed when I heard Pradit retort with aplomb: “That’s not true, Kathleen, you are lying. I go out with Wisoot every day, so I know.”
“What!” Kathleen turned to me, astonished. “Bobby, didn’t you say you haven’t met Pradit for two years?”
I laughed and replied: “Miss Miles, I think all three of us are telling lies. Therefore, may I suggest we all go and see that movie at the Realto and have a nice time together.”
As everyone was lost in thought for a while, I added: “How about it, Pradit? Won’t you join us?”
“I’m not free right now,” he replied slowly. “See you later, Wisoot. I know where you live.”
“All right,” I said. “How about tomorrow at four? We will have tea together.”
“Fine, I’ll be there,” Pradit replied. “Goodbye, Kathleen.”
“Goodbye, Pradit.”
We resumed our walk.
“Bobby,” Kathleen said, “if you had taken Pradit along to see the movie with us, I’d have killed you.”
“Why did you lie to him like that?” I asked evenly. “I don’t think you should have.”
“I hate him,” she replied forcefully. “He is so jealous. He acts as if he was going to be my husband.”
“You should forgive him,” I pleaded. “Pradit has had little opportunity to associate with men. He has always lived among women, ever since he was in Siam, so it’s only natural he would be protective. Why don’t you try and talk things over with him?”
“I couldn’t care less!” she said with finality.
As I stated earlier, it was a day of unwelcome coincidences. When we arrived in front of the cinema, who did we see but Maria Grey and Arnold! I was startled, worried that Maria would react like Pradit.
“Hello, Bobby,” she said as she walked up to me, smiling. “Where are you going? Why don’t we see the movie together?”
I introduced the three of them to one another and went to buy the tickets.
“Bobby,” Maria whispered in my ear while we watched the movie, “isn’t Miss Miles your friend’s girlfriend?”
“You are as clever as ever, Maria,” I said. “How did you find out?”
“Don’t you remember? A few months ago, you told me about your friend’s talking doll. Well, I haven’t forgotten. And Miss Miles does indeed look like a doll.”
“We met her boyfriend at the London Pavilion just before we met you in front of the cinema,” I said.
“Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed. “What happened?”
“Something weird. I’ll tell you later.”
She slipped her arm under mine and continued to watch the movie.
“Maria,” I told her after a while, “you came with Arnold. Isn’t Arnold also your friend’s friend?”
“He isn’t,” she whispered. “Arnold is my lover’s friend. Don’t tell me you are jealous?”
“I am not, my dear Maria,” I replied. “Our life is too short to worry about things like that.”
After the movie was over, I called a taxi to give Kathleen a ride home to Putney.
“You and Miss Grey are really lucky,” she said slowly. “You love each other but you are both broad-minded.”
Ever since that day, I have occasionally wondered whether Kathleen would ever find out the truth of my relationship with Maria.

3

Pradit Bunyarrat came to see me at home the following afternoon. We talked at length on all kinds of topics. As Arnold happened to be away, we could talk freely. This time around, I was not sure if studying abroad had improved Pradit or made him as good as he ought to be. When we were in Siam, I used to think he was a most compassionate person and was certain he would always remain so, as studying abroad can only improve people. But there you are, my dear readers: in this world, the more we hope, the more we must be disappointed.
All the time that Pradit admonished me for having become a journalist, I listened to him intently, hoping that he would come up with some good arguments. At times he used strong, rather offensive language, but I kept listening with a pleasant smile on my face. I let him talk away, and talk he did until there was almost nothing left to say.
The gist of his argument was that it was foolish of me to have joined the press because I was squandering the money my father had left me for the specific purpose of putting it to good use. Instead, I would return to Siam empty-handed, with no qualification and no degree. What kind of job would I apply for? Who would take me on? Could I consider myself a well-educated man? What would my life be then?
Although he expressed himself too vehemently, I could not but admire him for his forthrightness. He held that he had once helped me escape from a form of destructive life when we were in Siam, but failed to consider that during the two years we had been away from each other I had learned much of the ways of the world, kept good company and seen and heard a lot.
“Pradit,” I finally said, “what kind of people would you define as well-educated?”
“Those who have opportunities like you,” he answered deftly. “Those who can go to university anywhere.”
“You mean those who can enter any reputed university in the world?”
“Exactly.”
“So, only the rich can be well-educated. The poor can’t afford to be. There are many thousand times more poor people than rich ones, so if the poor have no opportunity to be well-educated, do you think the world can improve in any way?”
“I’m not talking to you about the world or stupid things like that,” he objected harshly. “I’m talking about you.”
“Pradit, you have talked a lot,” I answered, trying to keep my voice level. “I think I must talk to you frankly as well and I hope you are broad-minded enough not to get angry at me. It’s true that studying in the best universities in the world helps a lot, but university studies are only a part of what constitutes a good education in life. Wouldn’t you agree that David Lloyd George, Ramsay MacDonald, Prince Yommarart and Prince Aphairarcha are well-educated? If they weren’t, they wouldn’t have become prime ministers or ministers. Wouldn’t you say that Sir Edward Marshal Hall has become one of the best-known legal experts in the world because he is well-educated?”
“Certainly,” Pradit answered.
“Did you know, then, that none of them went to university? that none of them have degrees? Good education and professional success, which may lead us to be influential people in the future, does not necessarily come from the university. A well-educated person is not someone who has the opportunity to go to university, but someone who is able to learn anywhere, someone who can study without a teacher, someone who has the ability and intelligence to learn on his own using books as guides and tutors. There are many Thai people who have never been abroad and yet are more learned than those who have gone to Oxford or Cambridge and who work under them. Plenty of Oxford and Cambridge students are almost unable to write in either Thai or English, and are the ones responsible for red tape.”
“I don’t believe someone like Duke Aphairarcha is much more knowledgeable than I am.”
“Why was he able to become justice minister, then?” I went on. “Because he has something you and I don’t have. It may be his stateliness, the love and respect he inspires in his subordinates, or his ability to succeed born out of his capacity to carry out work and study at once. That, Pradit, is what we call a good education or true scholarship.”
“Wouldn’t you agree, Wisoot,” he asked, “that a degree would be of great advantage to you in the future?”
“Indeed,” I answered, “but are you sure a degree is necessary to succeed in government service? Will we become directors or ministers because we have degrees?”
“I’m not sure,” he answered in a quieter voice, “but I’m saying this for your sake: a degree will greatly help you when you enter government service. Things have changed a lot: I don’t think there is much chance anymore to be like Prince Aphai or Prince Yommarart.”
“Pradit, my dear friend,” I interrupted him politely, “this is my life and I am very pleased with it. I wanted to be a journalist and I have achieved this much. I think this profession is of much help to me at this time and will be in the future. It will help me in all kinds of undertaking much better than any degree would and this, Pradit, is why I am a journalist.”
“But when you go back to Siam and enter government service,” Pradit said, “with no degree at all, you’ll have to start from the very bottom.”
“That’s only natural,” I replied. “We must start somewhere. If we want to climb the ladder to the top, we must start from the lowest echelon or else we are bound to fall.”

4

I invited Pradit to have dinner later that evening with Maria Grey and me at Barclay’s and then go and watch a play at St James’s. He went back to his home in Fulham and returned dressed in a showy evening suit. I called a taxi and we went to pick up Maria at her house in Knightsbridge. I left Pradit in the car while I went up to see Maria. I still feel amused when I recall the moment I introduced these two to each other. Maria was polite but unimpressed; she felt that to know a friend of mine was an ordinary matter. As for Pradit, his very politeness showed that he was most excited. Maria sat between us, and Pradit kept turning to look at her. I don’t think he was moonstruck by her beauty or anything like that, but Maria’s attitude and conversation were fascinating. She had never studied at any university but had received a good education and was naturally attractive.
“Bobby is due to go to Paris in a few days, Mr Pradit,” Maria said as we were riding in the car. “You’ll miss him, won’t you?”
Pradit smiled but said nothing.
“You are studying engineering at the University of London, so you must be good with numbers, mustn’t you?” she asked.
“Enough to get by, Miss Grey,” he replied slowly.
“Does a government-sponsored student like you have the opportunity to travel abroad?”
“Sometimes. His Excellency the Ambassador has promised me he will allow me to take a holiday in Paris if I pass the coming examination.”
“But you’ve never failed, have you?”
“I did, too! Twice, Miss Grey.”
“I don’t think you should worry about it, Mr Pradit. English is not your mother tongue. Some of our students fail as often as five or six times, yet they can work their way to the top all the same. Bobby told me you won a scholarship to study abroad, which shows how capable you are.”
“Mr Pradit,” Maria said after we had been silent for a while, “I’ve heard it said that in Siam men can have as many wives as they want. Is this true?”
“Some of this is still going on, yes,” Pradit answered.
“It must be a great place for men, wouldn’t you say?”
“No, it isn’t, Maria,” I said, “because women in Siam can do the same as men if they want to.”
Our dinner at Barclay’s went smoothly. The place was crowded, the food delicious as usual. I let Pradit humour Maria as much as he liked because I felt it made him happy to behave like this once in a while. The dinner over, we went to see the play. Maria and Pradit still talked intimately to each other. I have never felt anyone could ever snatch away the love my lover had for me. I could let Pradit have some temporary happiness, but the love from her pure heart was mine forever.
After the play, I dropped Pradit at the Piccadilly underground station, then took Maria back to her house in Knightsbridge.
“Pradit is a good fellow, Bobby,” Maria said. “I like him and feel compassion for him.”
Two or three days later, I met Maria at the Press Club. We sat talking to each other for a while in the main hall. She handed me a letter.
“Read this, Bobby,” she said. “It’s rather strange.”
I took the envelope from her and began to read. It was a letter from Pradit to Maria asking her to have dinner and watch a play with him on the following Wednesday. He would pick her up in Knightsbridge at 8 pm. I was shocked, but after a while managed to control my emotions.
“So, will you be going?”
“My dear Bobby,” she replied, “if I wanted to go, why would I show you this letter?”
We said goodbye at the Press Club. Maria had to go home and I had to return to the printing house. At 8 pm on Wednesday, Pradit went to pick Maria up, but her servant told him that she had already left the house.
I never mentioned this letter to Pradit, and I am determined never to mention it to him, because I like him too much to treat him like this.
A week later, Arnold and I took an aeroplane from London to Paris at the bidding of our deputy editor.


15

Gay Paris

1

Having left London, I came to Paris and fell in love – I fell in love with Paris at dawn and with Paris at dusk. I love everything on both banks of the river Seine, its most destitute districts and its wealthiest. To me, Paris is a most fascinating city. I like its beauty, I like its people and I like its ghosts. If you really want to know this city, you must know French history and literature, which have accrued over countless centuries. This way, wherever you go, you will never feel lonely. Walk along Rue St-Honoré, where Danton used to live, Robespierre ordered the death of thousands by guillotine and Marie-Antoinette came to a pitiful end; step into the Palais Royal, where Camille Desmoulins plucked leaves off the trees to adorn his cap with instead of feathers, as a symbol of the ties linking the people to Paris; step inside Notre-Dame, a cathedral which has stood for a thousand years, with strong faith in religion, in love, in vindication and in the present and future progress and welfare of the nation still etched in the memory of each of the stones that were used to build it; cut across the Pont-Neuf, which is where King Henri came face to face with his murderer and where the people of Paris, good and bad, kind and cruel, and its legions of pretty women ceaselessly walk by; follow the Left Bank and its rows of small book stalls, where writers and students like to loiter, some hungry, some starving, but each anxious to devote his life to transcribing into the best possible words the wealth, goodness and beauty of the world; walk up to the Latin Quarter, where an ancient wall reflecting the life and welfare of students has been standing for hundreds of years, a place where generations of young men have come to dream of loves that were always too brief, drink mild yet potent brews and laugh at everything under the sun, including life and death; then walk all the way up to Montmartre, where the ruffians of Paris, the so-called Apaches, lurk in dark recesses, wearing the splendid ornaments of their trade, cruelty and brutality; and then enter the Luxembourg Gardens, where young couples walk hugging each other, children play and birds boldly spread their wings while the tender leaves turn green then yellow, then wither and die, just as love is headed for old age and extinction.
Gay Paris!
Paris will only be an architectural museum and the best place to buy clothes unless you walk hand in hand with d’Artagnan and see Richelieu walking past draped in a beautiful cape; admire Marguerite de Valois having supper at midnight with her lover; stride along chilly streets in the company of François Villon; listen to Ronsard singing; and visit the apartments of Madame du Deffand and Madame Joffrin. Paris is the city of Dumas, Victor Hugo, Erkmann-Chatrian, Eugène Sue, Molière, Guy de Maupassant and Michelet. As I have learned French history and read many French novels and poems, I have a good understanding of life in Paris. To me, Paris is the city of romance.
Like millions of people who have visited it, it fascinates me, but as a newspaper correspondent, I had the opportunity to travel about in search of the truth of life hidden beneath its ambiguous seduction, luxury and beauty.
My dear readers, are you ready to listen to the story of the capital of France? Surely you know that Paris is a city of pleasure for young men and women?
Paris, actually, is a city of men, which is why women like to go there so much. Pleasure always ends in tears and happiness in suffering – and this is what Paris is all about.
As soon as we arrived, we went to stay at a small hotel named Hôtel du Croffin, Rue St-Rocques, a street Napoleon liked to frequent when he was still a first lieutenant. Every night, Arnold and I went to restaurants and theatres all over town, from the poshest to the lowliest. Sometimes, we were in such danger we nearly lost our lives. Yet, we were neither afraid nor bored. However short of sleep, we were still game and went on exploring and writing our articles day and night. I was a young man coming out for the first time to take a look at a new and merry life. I was strong and sturdy as befits a healthy man. We knew all sorts of people from all stations in life, although we did not know them by their names, which is the rule in Paris.
One difference between London and Paris I have noticed is that London instils in her people the pride of being British, whereas Paris instils in us the pride of being citizens of the world because wherever you turn in Paris, the place is full of foreigners.




2

We had been in France for two months when a severe financial crisis broke out. The money market nearly collapsed. The French people were faced with total bankruptcy. Governments kept falling. Messieurs Bryand and Hériot took turns holding the political reins, but neither of them was able to control his own people, and cabinets came and went. Every day pandemonium broke out in the lower house, known as the Chambre des députés, as its members quarrelled, threw things at one another and engaged in fist fights. The currency kept devaluating at incredible speed. In no time, one hundred francs was worth only eighty, then sixty, fifty, forty, twenty and finally ten francs. Paris was in turmoil and civil war threatened. Large mobs gathered in front of the Chambre des députés every evening, demanding the death of the prime minister, Hériot, as the rumour spread like wild fire that he was a Bolshevik who took bribes from Russia to destroy France.
“Let that bastard Hériot come out!” the crowds yelled. “Send the traitor out! Why do you protect him? He’s sold the nation out. Let’s help each other dump his body in the Seine!”
At the end of each meeting in the Chambre des députés, an armoured car as well as four or five gun-toting policemen would be sent to pick Hériot up and take him home, where fifty soldiers with weapons at the ready guarded him at all times. Hériot still had the right to live as there was no evidence to prove that he was a traitor, but the madness of the city people was close to breaking point. How many days would Hériot be allowed to stay alive? This was the problem Paris was reluctant to cope with at the time.
The deprivation and suffering of the French people in these times of bankruptcy were most pitiful. Clerks and officials in ministries had to subsist on bread and butter and go to bed at 6pm to save on electricity and scrounge on food by going without dinner. Everything had become incredibly expensive. A loaf of bread which once cost ten centimes now sold for eighty centimes to one franc.
These were golden days for foreigners, who could enjoy life in Paris at minimum expense. They left home with little money but became millionaires the moment they arrived in Paris. The English pound, which had been worth twenty-five francs before the Great War, was now worth two hundred and twenty francs. Most dancing halls and general shops would not accept French francs but welcomed English and American money. Such a practice was illegal and the police did their best to arrest the traders who accepted foreign currency. They did so not in the name of the government, which was either incapacitated or had fallen, but on behalf of France and President Doumergues. The police could do little, however, as the practice was widespread. Traders with English pounds and US dollars would deposit them in local foreign bank accounts.
Finally, as the financial crisis threatened the country with total destruction, France called on Monsieur Poincaré, a senior politician who had saved the nation during the Great War, to accept the position of prime minister. Poincaré formed a government of national salvation, which included representatives of all political parties, and took on the finance portfolio as well as the premiership. As he was much loved and respected, the people rejoiced at the news. They hoped and strongly believed he would rescue the country again as he had during the war – and their belief became a reality in little more than a month. The government remained united and the financial situation gradually took a turn for the better. For the second time, Poincaré had saved the nation, the only one who could have done so.
With France in such a state of turmoil, Arnold and I had plenty to write about and we sent many scoops to the printing house in England, thus earning enough to live comfortably. We moved from Hôtel du Croffin to an apartment in a house on Rue Lyautey.
Late one night, as we were strolling along Rue de Notre-Dame de Lorette in Montmartre, a favourite hangout for merry-making foreigners, Americans in particular, a man greeted us in English: “I say, my fellow pen pushers, where are we off to?” We knew the voice: it was Jack Parker, the Times journalist who had seen me with Pradit’s talking doll at the tea shop in Piccadilly over four months before.
“Hey, Jack,” Arnold shouted, “we didn’t know you were in Paris.”
“Arnold, my dear friend,” Parker replied, “Paris’s so dirt cheap I’d be a fool to be anywhere else.”
“Apart from spending your money, what brings you here?” Arnold asked.
“Honeymoon, my dear,” Jack replied. “Just got married two weeks ago.”
“Congratulations, Parker,” I said. “But where is your bride?”
“Let me take you to her,” Parker said. “I daresay you’ll be surprised when you see my wife, Bobby. You know her well.”
“Really? Who is she, Jack?”
“Come, you’ll have the answer presently.”
He took us into Café Émile, which was crowded with drinkers. When we reached a table in the left corner of the front room, I was dumbfounded: the woman was Kathleen Miles – Pradit’s talking doll!
“These are friends of mine,” Jack said. “And this is my dear wife.”
We shook hands cordially. Kathleen talked animatedly, but I kept thinking of Pradit. Since I had been in Paris, I had not received a single letter from him. And now Kathleen was married to Jack Parker. I wondered how Pradit felt.

3

For young men and women, Paris is a garden of bliss in which everyone can experience what they desire: love à la Parisienne. Whoever has been there once will jump at the chance of going there again. Paris is a world of women, the world of the Parisiennes. As one of the young men staying in Paris, I, too, lived in the garden of bliss and experienced what I wished for, love à la Parisienne.
You already know that Paris, like Vienna and Budapest, is a city full of unattached women of the loose variety. These three cities have three types of free-wheeling women, low-, middle- and high-class. I feel I must tell you more about them, because Paris, as I already stated, is a world of women.
Café Émile, a small dancing hall on Rue de Notre-Dame de Lorette in Montmartre, was where I met one such high-class siren. Her name was Odette Marséla. We were introduced by Rémonde, a friend I had known since the first day Arnold and I went to this café. Before I met Odette, Rémonde often told us that she had a friend named Odette who had the most beautiful figure of all the light women in Paris. She had black hair and dark eyes, was rather tall, had an oval face and a sweet voice. When we asked Rémonde to bring her friend to our table, she disappeared into a group of people who were dancing, and a short while later came back with Odette. From her features, Odette could not be more than twenty-two.
“Arnold,” I whispered to my friend in English, “do you want her?”
“I can’t,” Arnold replied. “I’m due to meet another girl at Café Sang-froid at one a. m. You take her out, Bobby. This girl is beautiful; don’t let anyone else get her. This is Paris, you know. Everybody does it.”
“I am afraid I can’t take her out,” I said dubiously. “I wouldn’t know how to go about it.”
“Monsieur, are you Vietnamese?” Odette asked in French, her beautiful eyes looking at me coyly.
“No, I am Thai.”
“Siamois? I like Thai people. I had a Thai friend once, about six months ago. We used to dance here almost every night. Do you know Prince ... of Siam?”
“I do, Odette,” I answered, “but not that well.”
“He is the best prince in my book,” she exclaimed.
“Bobby,” Arnold said, “it’s almost one. I have to go. Au revoir.” He bowed to the two women and walked out of the café.
“Monsieur,” Odette said, “I hear your friend calls you Bobby. It’s an easy name to pronounce. Am I good enough to be your friend?”
“Certainly,” I replied.
“Then, I shall call you Bobby. Is that all right?”
“Sure, Odette.”
I danced with this beautiful girl until late in the night. She was talkative, friendly and endearing. She did not mention money. She told me about her life in Paris. She was born upcountry, in a town called Lyon, and had come to live in the capital a year earlier. After we left Café Émile, Odette said she would like a ride in a car and wheedled me into buying her a bouquet of flowers which an old woman presented to us at the door. I did everything she requested. I rented a luxurious car and gave this Parisian woman a ride along the streets of Paris at night. We drove through the Champs-Elysées and Place de l’Étoile and entered the Bois de Boulogne.
Some time after three in the morning, I drove her back to her house on Avenue de Guilloteau. This girl was strange because all the time we were together and even when we said goodbye, she did not utter a single word about money. When I handed her two hundred francs, she refused, saying, “I’m not that kind of woman”. She got out of the car and added: “Bobby, come and see me at Café Émile tomorrow night at nine, will you?” I accepted her invitation and ordered the driver to take me home.
Young men who go to Paris determined not to fall into temptation only think this way because they have never been there and do not know the capital of France. They are not aware that Paris has never been defeated by anyone.
I entered our house on Rue Lyautey as quietly as possible, fearing that Arnold would wake up. I went into my room, closed the door and was fast asleep within ten minutes. When I woke up, I washed my face and brushed my teeth, but I was still in pyjamas when Arnold knocked on the door, calling: “Bobby, it’s almost noon. Come out and have a bite. Food’s ready.”
I opened the door and went out. As I entered the dining room, I was astonished to see a pretty Parisian girl wearing an expensive-looking pink crepe night gown and standing by the fireplace.
“Meet my wife, Bobby,” Arnold said, then turned to the woman and told her: “Yvonne, this is my buddy. His name’s Bobby.”
I was shocked, but soon recovered. I shook hands with Yvonne and sat down to have breakfast.
Ah, the circus of life, my dear readers! The circus of life in Gay Paris!

4

In foreign countries, it is customary for two men sharing the same house to share expenses equally and thus enjoy equal rights. If one of them wants to do something out of the ordinary, the least he can do is to tell the other beforehand. Pleasurable cohabitation implies mutual consideration. At first, I was peeved with Arnold for taking a girl like Yvonne to stay with us without ever mentioning anything to me – let alone the fact that anyone could see what kind of person this girl was. I suppressed my anger, however, and said nothing to him.
But Paris will always be Paris! After Yvonne had been with us for only a few days, I realized that she was not like I had thought. As beggars had their kings, loose women had girls like Yvonne. She had a good disposition, spoke nicely, was considerate, cooked expertly and kept the house spotless and pleasant. She did everything she could to make us happy. Arnold was her husband of the month and who cares who would replace him next month. Yet everything she did led me to think that she really loved him. She behaved as a good wife to him and he was happy.
I had known Odette Marséla for four days. We met every day in various restaurants. Her beautiful face and her whole attitude made me believe that my Odette could be another Yvonne, another queen among light women. I was entitled to the same happiness and comfort as Arnold. Why couldn’t I take Odette to stay with us as well?
“Bobby, why don’t you take Odette to live here with Yvonne?” Arnold asked. “It’ll do you a world of good, and besides, when we go to the office, Yvonne won’t be lonely any more.”
I decided to take Odette to stay with us as of that very night. I had been right: Odette had the same good disposition as Yvonne, and the two of them soon became close friends.
Arnold and I treated our hired wives lavishly, spending a large part of our incomes on them. When we were done with work in our office on Rue Scribe, we would take them out shopping for clothes and accessories Rue de la Paix and on the Grands Boulevards, and turn them into beautiful goddesses. At night, we took them to Opéra Comique and sometimes to Follies Bergères or Casino de Paris and we all had a great time. In late afternoon, we would take a ride in a car or stroll in the public parks.
After a while, living with Odette made me realize that a man who finds a woman he likes and who knows how to take care of him, talk with him and is not too selfish must be one of the luckiest men in the world. Odette knew me, knew what I wanted, and she “loved” me as much as a Parisian girl like her could. Every word of hers was like sweet and fragrant medicine. Although some of it occasionally tasted bitter, it was always most heart-warming. Every morning, as soon as I opened my eyes, I saw my hired wife sitting by my side, offering me a cup of coffee she had just brewed. Not once did I manage to wake up before she did. I always woke up to find her fully dressed and made up. In the bathroom, I found my toothbrush, warm water and a towel ready for me to use. When I came out of the bathroom, various clothes were laid out on the bed for me to choose from. Once I was dressed, I could see Odette and Yvonne shuttling in and out of the dining room, busy setting the breakfast table. They both cooked well and all the dishes they prepared for us were most pleasing because they asked us how we liked them before they started to cook. We spent at least four hours a day every day in the London Times office on Rue Scribe, and when we went back home and found Odette and Yvonne waiting for us at the door, all our tiredness was instantly gone.
They knew how to keep us happy, how to make us enjoy ourselves and how to love us. Ah! My dear readers! Happiness... The exuberance of youth in Gay Paris!
Our life had been going on smoothly for more than three weeks when, one day, the housekeeper handed me a name card. The merest glance at it was enough to make me startle, as the card read: Miss Maria Grey, London Times correspondent.


16

Leaving for Monte Carlo

1

I took the name card and went to consult Arnold. We agreed to tell Yvonne and Odette the truth about Maria Grey. They quickly understood my explanations.
“Talk to her in the sitting room, Bobby,” Yvonne suggested. “Odette and I will stay here.”
Leaving Arnold to tidy up the sitting room, I ran downstairs to greet Maria. When she saw me, she threw herself in my arms as she always did. Maria still loved me. Nothing in the world could change her heart.
“Bobby, I think of you all the time and miss you so much,” she said as we hugged each other. “How is life in Paris for you? Are you still being a good boy?”
As we pulled apart, I was suddenly surprised because, next to Maria stood Lady Moira Dunn waiting her turn to be greeted. We shook hands cordially. I had not met her for at least a couple of years, but she still looked the same. My memory flashed back to the day when we had danced in Hastings and she had said she did not want me to meet her or Maria in London or anywhere else for the sake of Maria’s happiness. She had mentioned that friend of hers who had married an Indian prince and killed herself six months before... I stood transfixed looking at her, feeling puzzled and uncertain and beginning to wonder how much trouble I would be in if these two women found out we had Parisian girls living with us. Maria’s words – “Are you still being a good boy?” – were still ringing in my ears.
“I say, Bobby,” Lady Moira said, “do I scare you? You look positively shocked. Aren’t you going to take us upstairs?”
“I’m all right, Lady Moira,” I answered with a shaky voice. “I’m not scared; I just didn’t think I’d meet you again. I never dreamt I’d meet you like this. Let’s go upstairs. Arnold is here too.”
I took the two women upstairs. When I opened the door of our apartment, I noticed two women’s velvet hats hanging on the wall of the vestibule. Startled, I glanced at Lady Moira. She was smiling faintly, seemingly unruffled. I glanced at Maria, who had turned pale instantly. There was a touch of sadness in her eyes. Arnold walked up to our guests, shook hands with them and helped them take off their coats. We went into the sitting room and the four of us sat together on the same long sofa.
“What’s this perfume?” Lady Moira asked. “‘Fleur de la Vie’, isn’t it, Arnold?”
Arnold hesitated briefly and answered, “Y–yes, Moira.”
“I say, Moira,” Maria said wonderingly, “isn’t ‘Fleur de la Vie’ the favourite perfume of Parisian women?”
“Is it, Bobby?” Lady Moira asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
We were silent for a while, then Maria asked: “Bobby, are you very happy here?”
“I am, Maria,” I answered matter-of-factly.
“So you like Paris?”
“I do.”
“And you wouldn’t want to move anywhere else?”
“Not if it isn’t necessary.”
Maria thought for a moment. “Once you came to Paris,” she said, “you became like the others, Bobby. I thought you’d be different from everyone else in the world, but – er...” She sounded hopeless. “I shouldn’t have been expecting so much from you. It’s my fault. After all, Paris will always be Paris.”
“We are free, aren’t we, Maria?” I asked. “Don’t you remember what you said to me?”
“Don’t quarrel,” Lady Moira intervened. “We came here on business. Eddie instructed us to see you both in Paris. When we arrived, we went to the office on Rue Scribe and that’s how we knew where to find you. Eddie needs a secretary to follow him to Monte Carlo next Wednesday and he asked us to choose either one of you. So who will it be? You, Bobby, or you, Arnold?”
“Up to you, Moira,” Arnold answered. “Who do you think will be most useful to Eddie?”
“You are both equally qualified,” Moira replied. “But I think Bobby should go because you’ve been to the Riviera several times whereas he has never been there. Bobby, after leaving the Riviera,” she said, turning to me, “Eddie will take you to the League of Nations in Geneva and then onward to Bern, Berlin, Vienna, Budapest and Scandinavia. Don’t you see, Bobby, this is an excellent opportunity for you?”
I glanced at Arnold sadly and answered: “Moira, if you think I should go, then there is no problem. I know my duty as a journalist.”
“Bobby, I’d like to talk to you in private, if I may,” Lady Moira said. “It’s really important.” Turning to Arnold, she added: “I’m sorry, Arnold. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“That’s all right, Moira,” I replied, pointing to the door of Arnold’s bedroom. “We can talk in there, if you don’t mind.”
My heart was beating furiously as I walked into the room with Moira. It was getting dark, so I switched on the light, closed the door and invited Moira to sit on the chair next to Arnold’s desk, while I sat down on the bottom of the bed.

2

“Bobby, have you ever thought how good Maria is for you?” Lady Moira asked pointedly. “Are you behaving well enough for her?”
I looked at her in amazement for a moment, then answered: “My dear Moira, I don’t think you have the right to talk to me like this. You don’t know what went on between Maria and me when we were in London. You don’t know what we agreed upon. As far as being friends is concerned, I am absolutely certain that my behaviour is beyond anybody’s reproach.”
“Bobby,” she said in a softer voice, “don’t you know that Maria loves you more than anything in the world?”
“That’s not true, Moira,” I objected. “I accept that, when I was in London, I was very much in love with Maria, but she treated me merely as a friend. She wants me to be free because she also wants to be free. That’s what being a journalist is all about, Moira. Maria has never loved me the way you understand it.”
“Hasn’t it crossed your mind that Maria talked to you like that, although she still loves you, because she does not think of herself? She only thinks of you. She wants you to be happy. She’s ready to sacrifice everything for your happiness.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“She told me so,” she answered.
Suddenly, my eyes blurred and everything in the room began to spin. I felt dizzy and was unable to think clearly. George Bernard Shaw once said: “The longer we live, the less we know about women.” The celebrated writer was nearly eighty years old and had long given up any hope of understanding women.
“I haven’t forgotten what you told me, Moira,” I said finally. “Do you remember when we were dancing at Alexandra Hall in Hastings three years ago? You told me that for the sake of Maria’s happiness, you didn’t want me to meet either of you in London or anywhere else. You also told me about that friend who had married an Indian prince and then killed herself. I have always tried to do as you advised. I went to London for no other purpose than to study law at Middle Temple. But then I was dragged away to join the Press Club and forced to become a journalist. Did you know about this? Even then, I was doing my best to avoid you and Maria. If I have tried to follow your advice, it’s because I want Maria to be happy. I, too, love her.”
Lady Moira Dunn looked at me, smiling gently. “It’s because you are like this, Bobby,” she said admiringly, “that Maria can’t help loving you.”
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. I asked: “What is it?”
“Bobby,” Yvonne called from outside, “dinner is ready. Do you want to eat now?”
I was so startled I almost collapsed. Yvonne and Odette had left the bedroom! So, now they must have met Arnold and Maria, who were sitting outside. What a mess!
“Thank you, Yvonne,” I answered. “We are coming out now.”
I invited Lady Moira to have dinner with us. At first, she refused, but I insisted and she finally agreed. “Stay and dine with us, Moira, and you will know just how bad I am,” I added.
I opened the door and took Lady Moira to the dining room. Everyone was there. Yvonne and Odette came out to welcome us. Our Parisiennes were beautifully attired. The place was filled with the fragrance of ‘Fleur de la Vie’. While we sat having dinner, I had the impression that, at first, Lady Moira and Maria did not take well to Yvonne and Odette, but after seeing that our Parisian women were well-behaved, sociable and took care of them without any embarrassment, they both relaxed and enjoyed themselves with the rest of us. After dinner, we played poker until late.

3

I stayed at the house on Rue Lyautey for another four days, then it was time to leave for Monte Carlo. The farewell between Odette and me was most sad. Although she was mournful and in tears when we said goodbye, she did not utter a word to try to change my mind about leaving. Perhaps she understood my position and realized it was my duty, or else she loved me just as she had dozens of other men, which made me vaguely wonder what my number with her was. Or maybe taking care of me, ministering to my pleasures for more than a month and mourning my departure were all in the line of duty for her – part of her job as a talented actress playing the part that life had assigned her. Brooding over this possible explanation, I could leave Paris and Odette behind without much suffering. I was going to see the world; I was going to visit many countries which, were I to forsake this opportunity, I would never see in my life. Vivid pictures of the most luxurious, wealthy and beautiful part of southern France that was called the Riviera, of Berlin, of Vienna, of Budapest, were already stirring my imagination. I was a journalist, a tourist, an adventurer. My life was always on the move. It was my duty to steel myself to accept separation from those I loved without anxiety and without distress.
The evening before I left Paris for Monte Carlo, Odette and I had strolled hugging each other in the Bois de Boulogne, deploring our imminent separation. I felt suspicious with everything Odette said, as I was convinced she was play-acting. The day after I had gone, she would find another man. But I had seen the world for twenty-five years by then and I could play up to her. So we were both playing a role in the circus of life. Yet, of all Odette told me, something struck a chord in me.
“Bobby,” she said with the saddest tone of voice, “once you are gone, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to live with you again. It will be as if we were dead to each other.”
I did not answer. ‘Once you are gone, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to live with you again.’ Indeed. Once I had left, she would live with someone else – that was only natural.
“If you ever return to Paris,” she said after pausing for a while, “ask Rémonde, my friend at Café Émile – you know her. Ask her where I am and what’s happened to me.”
Early the next day, Odette packed her belongings in a hurry and prepared to leave. She refused to see me off at the station because she claimed it would be too sad. I called a taxi and had it park by the front gate of the building, and I helped carry her luggage and saw her off. The car disappeared silently along the streets of Paris, and I wondered whether we would ever meet again in this life.

4

That evening, Arnold and Yvonne went to see me off at Gare de Lyon. I did not think I would meet anyone in the train during the journey because, according to the instructions I had received through the office on Rue Scribe, I was to meet Mr Edward Bell Benson, the deputy editor, at a hotel in Monte Carlo. But my guess proved to be wrong because, just before we left the station, I saw Lady Moira and Maria, each with a leather bag in hand, running to catch the train. They had hardly set foot on the steps of a carriage than the train started to move. To tell you the truth, I was not too happy to have to face Lady Moira and Maria then. While we were separated and moved in our respective worlds, I was unable to assess how faithful or unfaithful a lover Maria was, but in my heart I was fairly certain that she was a pure gem devoid of any flaws. Compared to her, I had many stains on my character. Not only had I misbehaved by violating the rule of integrity which is the pride of real men, but I had done so deliberately. Oh, Odette Marséla! Who could resist a woman like Odette?
The train was picking up speed. The handkerchiefs Arnold and Yvonne waved at me grew smaller and smaller and finally went out of sight. I turned to look at the corridor of my carriage and saw my two friends coming towards me, Maria first, Lady Moira right behind her.
“Good evening, Maria,” I said.
“Good evening, Bobby,” she answered and simply walked past me.
“Good evening, Moira,” I said again.
“Hello, Bobby,” Lady Moira answered. She stopped and stood in front of me. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” I said. “Where are you going?”
“We are off to Nice for a holiday,” she answered. “Two weeks.”
“How does it feel?” I asked.
“Well, as you can see,” she replied sadly, “our life is all about being separated.”
I thought for a while, then took Moira’s hand in mine, smiled and answered: “Fine, Moira, I will try to do everything you want me to do.”
We shook hands and went to sit in our respective compartments. I had reserved a seat by the window. I sat reading until late. Then, a train attendant came and prepared a bed for me. I laid thinking for a while and finally fell asleep. When I woke up, I realized I still did not know where Lady Moira and Maria sat. Around 8.30, I saw them when I went to have breakfast, but we did not greet or talk to one another. At 11.30, the train arrived at Marseille. All the passengers in my compartment got off, leaving me to sit alone. For the whole day, I did not see or talk with either woman. In the evening, I picked up the book to read as I had done the night before. After a while, I heard someone say: “How is it going, Bobby? Aren’t you feeling lonely?”
I looked up and saw it was Lady Moira.
“Not at all, Moira,” I answered and smiled. “I have lots of books to keep me company. Would you like one?”
“No, thank you, Bobby,” she said as she sat down in front of me. “I think you’d like to apologize to Maria, or at least, tell her you are sorry.”
“No, Moira. You misunderstand. I don’t think I want to do that,” I answered slowly.
“I say, Bobby,” she exclaimed, sounding exasperated. She stood up. “You really have changed, you know. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Moira.”
I picked up the book and continued to read. A moment later, though my eyes did not stray from the page, I felt that someone was standing close by. I looked up and saw Maria Grey staring at me with sad eyes. I put the book down and stood up to allow her to sit down.
“Sit down, Bobby,” she said and moved aside to let me sit beside her. “I am getting off at Nice, but you’ll be going on to Monte Carlo. I’m afraid it’ll be a long time before we meet again. Perhaps one year, perhaps two, even three years. Bobby, before we are separated from each other, I think we ought to make up.”
I did not know how to answer her and merely took her hands and brought them to my lips to show my complete willingness. Maria buried her face in my chest, and we forgot everything that had happened between us. Life is so strange, my dear readers! The longer we live, the less we know about life.
The train arrived at Nice. Lady Moira and Maria got off, while I continued my journey to Monte Carlo.


17

A wandering life

1

I was most fortunate to become Mr Edward Bell Benson’s temporary personal secretary at that time because it gave me the only opportunity in my life to travel all over Europe. I was travelling as a man of some standing in the company of the deputy editor of The London Times, who was also vice-president of the London Press Club. Mr Benson was well-known, and he was recognized and welcomed everywhere. My work as his secretary was not too taxing and thanks to the composure and benevolence of my employer, everything went smoothly.
At this point in my writing, I am beginning to feel that The circus of life is going to be inordinately long. My travels, which stretched over a period of years, are a never-ending story. The cities and countries I visited and events I witnessed are too numerous to be described at length.
The part of the south-western coast of France that stretches to the Bodigliara Bay in Italy is known as the French Riviera. It comprises the towns of Cannes, Nice, Monte Carlo and Menton and the Principality of Monaco, itself a town. The Riviera is a place for millionaires and other wealthy people of all nations and languages. It has the most beautiful scenery in the world, with all sorts of plants from hot and cold climates growing profusely on its mountains and low-lying areas. It has numerous tourist attractions, the most notorious casinos, and the most expensive restaurants along with medium-priced ones, suitable for the very rich and the middle class. In summer as in winter, the weather is always pleasant, and the music you can hear there is deemed by all to be the best. The Riviera is heaven on earth.
On the Riviera, we met many world-famous personalities – writers, artists, politicians, scientists, etc. The place attracts the most beautiful women from all over the world, who come here looking for pleasure, fortune or a husband. At night, youngsters of both sexes make one another’s acquaintance in dancing halls, which are everywhere in Monte Carlo. Some are womanizers seeking momentary pleasure, whereas others are so serious that they return to their home countries with their newly found partners to get married.
There are several types of money-seekers in Monte Carlo, the most notorious being the ‘gigolos’ and ‘gigolettes’. Gigolos are handsome young men hired as dancing and sleeping partners by elderly or ageing women eager to enjoy themselves in ways that are usually no longer natural at their age. These young men will dance with them, go out with them, and so on, and eventually swindle them out of their money to their own satisfaction. Gigolettes are the female version of gigolos – young women with the ability to part elderly men from their money in similar fashion.
In Monte Carlo, there are gamblers who are able to earn their living strictly from gambling. They earn enough to own luxurious houses, take care of their wives and children and travel around the world with them once every few years. And in Monte Carlo, there are also gamblers who commit suicide because they have lost everything – money, honour and hope.
In Monte Carlo, there are no beggars and no destitute.
In Monte Carlo, there are some dissolute people who, though they have their own husbands or wives, crave for all kinds of entertainment to which they are not entitled. Thus the Riviera is the primary source of love fulfilment and bitter separation, of marriage and divorce.
Frankly speaking, Monte Carlo is no different from other capitals of the world such as London, Paris, Berlin or Bangkok in its mixture of happiness and suffering and of good and bad people. True, Monte Carlo has the most notorious “wealth-draining dens”, but don’t these exist to some extent in every other city in the world? Gambling is the heritage of mankind. Lucidness or wit may help some escape from ruin, but most of us human beings must keep on gambling. Wherever gambling is illegal, it must be carried out secretly. If the authorities in Siam were serious about arresting gamblers, the kingdom’s jails would overflow.
Monte Carlo! Monte Carlo of life! Monte Carlo of the world!

2

As personal secretary of a famous journalist, I had the opportunity to listen in to the conversations Mr Benson had with Edgar Wallace and Philip Oppenheim, who wrote more novels (mostly detective stories) than “all of the writers in the world put together”, according to some newspapers. I also had the opportunity to meet George Bernard Shaw, Sir Haldane and Sir Philip Gibbs and out-standing playwrights such as Ivor Novello, Gladys Cooper and Eugene and Fay Compton. Moreover, I had an interview with the American millionaire Vanderbilt.
Eddie and I stayed at Hotel Delmas on Rue Desmoulins, a four-minute walk away from the casino, so we often took a stroll in the vicinity of the latter. We would walk through a flower garden and along a terrace separating the garden from a manicured lawn. On one side of the casino was a small restaurant which went by the famous name Café de Paris. It had chairs outside. We liked to sit there and watch the gamblers who came out after trying their luck. Their faces showed how lucky or unlucky they had been, except for some millionaires who always smiled no matter what, because losing even a hundred thousand francs was nothing to them. On the other side, at the back of the casino, there was a range for shooting pigeons. A stand for those who wanted to show off their shooting abilities stood some two yards away from a row of cages, each cage containing four pigeons. When the time came, someone would press a button to open a cage, the birds would fly out and shots would be fired. In this part of the casino building, there was a room in which gamblers could commit suicide. When they shot themselves, no one noticed the noise as everyone thought they came from the shooting range. Gamblers who lost all their money but were unwilling to shoot themselves would be asked to report to the manager, who would hand them a fare back home.
Inside the building, there were sitting rooms, a theatre and gambling rooms for roulette, baccarat and other games. Each room was decorated like a corner of Paradise. At the front of the building, facing the sea, ran a large veranda where women would strut back and forth to show off their figures. By the beach in front of the building, a crystal pool of tepid water had been specially built for the purpose of bathing, next to a relaxation area complete with massage equipment. There was also a place for sea bathing. It was in the vicinity of the casino, dear readers, that we met and interviewed many world celebrities, turning these interviews into articles that were printed in our London newspaper, which was distributed all over the world.
Whenever I was free for the day, I would leave Eddie on his own at the hotel and get into the train which left from the casino. The line skirted the sea, cutting through cliffs and mountain slopes and going in and out of tunnels until it reached Menton and the Italian border. I would get off to have a cup of tea at Camita del Cross. Apart from travelling this way, I would join the excursion coach of a group of tourists and have merry rides to various places. It was on one such excursion that I met Countess Brinden-Habruck, and it did not take us long to find that we were staying in the same hotel in Monte Carlo.
That day, when I returned to the hotel, there was a letter from Maria telling me that, as instructed by the main office, she had left Nice and had gone back to London. I was to travel on in Europe with Mr Benson for an indefinite period, which could be as long as one or two years. Mr Benson had never broached the subject to me, because it seemed he himself was not certain, and it was not for me to ask or venture a guess. As for Maria, she was also due to travel further. When, oh, when would we meet again?



3

After staying for a month at Hotel Delmas, Countess Brinden-Habruck and I were increasingly close. We went out to watch movies and plays together, and chatted and stayed alone in the same room until late at night. She had a gentle disposition and was charming as a friend. I was lonely and she kept me company. I did not ask myself what kind of woman she was. What I knew of her was that she was about thirty to thirty-two years old, beautiful and youthful-looking, with black hair and sharp eyes. She was clever and had seen much of the world. She was Hungarian and a little more than seven years before had married an Austrian army officer, Count (Oscar) Brinden-Habruck.
I had been close to the countess for quite some time when one of the army officers in the hotel told me the story of her escapades. Countess Brinden-Habruck was flirtatious and liked to travel around, leaving her husband alone on duty in Vienna. She had inherited much wealth from her grandfather. She was hot-tempered and her husband stood in awe of her. I was not the first one she had flirted with, yet I was the first man with unusual features and a yellow skin she had come across. At first, I was shocked, because, although our relationship remained within the bounds of friendship, I feared, were her husband to come to the hotel and find us together, what would happen to my honour – the only honour I care for: the honour of a journalist!
Acquaintances at the hotel warned me to be careful. Some jeered at me whenever they saw me, wishing me the best of luck and many happy returns. The close friendship between the countess and me seemed to be progressing of its own volition nevertheless, and there were moments when I could not but suspect that our relationship was exceeding the bounds of propriety for a man of honour, because the countess was silver-tongued, witty and indeed quite a flirt.
Though she was over thirty years old, she took good care of herself and had a youthful, slender figure. She had never carried the burden of pregnancy which could have aged her prematurely. As for myself, I was a boisterous young man of twenty-five. Since the countess was pretty and dissolute, sooner or later I would have to yield to her charms. Her husband belonged to the future, which a blind man like me could not see.
One night, around 11pm, I had been in bed for about fifteen minutes when I heard someone knocking twice softly on the door. I thought it was one of the bellhops bringing me a telegram, as was often the case, which meant urgent news. So, I got up and went to open the door, but the tall figure standing in front of me was none other than that of Countess Brinden-Habruck. She wore a beautiful night gown and a thick satin overcoat, and from her came the waft of the headiest perfume... This is life, my dear readers, this is the kind of life I have known.
Two months later came the day when I had to leave Monte Carlo and follow Mr Benson to the League of Nations meeting in Geneva. The farewell between Countess Brinden-Habruck and me was as sad as my separation with Odette had been. She went to see me off at the station. Her last words to me were: “We’ll meet again before long, my dear, if we are still alive.”




4

When we arrived in Geneva, several journalists came to pick us up. Geneva is a quiet and clean city, the proper theatre for an agreement on world peace. We caught a taxi in front of the station and told the driver to go to the Grand Hotel. It was about four in the afternoon. The weather was brisk but not cold. The taxi in which we rode was a new, expensive convertible Opel coupé. The buildings tall and small that lined the streets stood at a respectable distance from the macadam. Perhaps because of the exhaustion of sitting on the train for hours on end, I felt weary and dizzy as if I was going to faint. Everything seemed to be spinning round and round.
“Eddie,” I said, “I am not feeling well. I feel so dizzy everything is spinning round.”
“Maybe you are too tired, Bobby,” Mr Benson answered. “Get some rest at the hotel and you’ll probably feel better.”
When we arrived at the Grand Hotel, Eddie supported me and led me to a large and luxurious room, then ordered a maid to take good care of me. I lay in a stupor until seven o’clock, when someone woke me up and told me to meet Mr Benson downstairs for dinner. I got up, washed my face and got dressed even though I still felt dizzy. Then I walked down to meet Benson in the sitting room. We walked into a large dining hall and took a table in one corner. After we sat for a while, we saw “The Big Three” – Monsieur Briand of France, Her Stresemann of Germany and Sir (Mr at the time) Austen Chamberlain of England – joining Mr Hearst, the owner of many newspapers in America, for dinner. Sitting there, I was feeling decidedly unwell. Everything was spinning, I felt alternatively hot and cold as if I had a fever. We sat only a few yards away from the table of these four outstanding persons, but even though I tried hard to look at them, I could not see their faces clearly. I told Mr Benson about it, and he became worried.
“The League of Nations will meet the day after tomorrow,” he said wearily. “How will you follow it if you are sick like this?”
“I think I’ll be all right by tomorrow, sir,” I forced myself to say.
I forced myself to eat everything on my plate. When I staggered away from the table, Mr Benson came to support me. Several people shot us curious glances.
On the following day, instead of getting well or improving, I had fever, which eventually shot up to 38.9ºC and to 40ºC in the evening. I lost all hope of being Mr Benson’s secretary during the next day’s meeting. Later that night, a physician came to see me. After he examined me, he ordered me sent to Saint-Lamont Hospital for treatment. By the time I came out fifteen days later, the League of Nations conference was over and I had missed it all. Mr Benson and I left Geneva for Bern, the capital of Switzerland, where we stayed for a week and then travelled to Berlin.
Mr Benson was an Englishman who had not got over his hate of Germany and her people. He had lost his two brothers during the Great War due to the cruelty of German soldiers. The Germans had started the war. Germany and Berlin were the places Benson hated most and he would never set foot in them unless necessary. Once in Berlin, he never took me anywhere. We stayed there for one week and then travelled to Vienna, the capital of Austria.
Though Austria had been Germany’s ally, I noticed that Mr Benson’s attitude towards the Austrians was not the same as his attitude towards the Germans. The Austrians had dignified manners and winning ways and they were generous. Though expensive, Vienna was fun. It had some of the best music in the world, and boasted of many avant-garde plays and movies. After Vienna, we went to Budapest, the capital of Hungary.
Budapest is a city of romance and moonlight, an oasis of hopes fulfilled. We stayed there for three weeks and then moved on. By then, I had travelled with Mr Benson for over a year. We went to every country in Europe, using Paris as our base, where we would return once we were done with a country. From Paris, we went to other countries such as Italy and Spain. During the whole period, I stayed in Paris several times. I occasionally went out at night, but I never met Odette Marséla or her friend Rémonde.
One day, a few days before I had to return to London, I met Rémonde at Café Émile and asked her about Odette.
“Odette died a long time ago,” she answered seriously. “Didn’t you know?”
A few days later, I saw Odette dancing with a young American at L’Hermitage. She did not greet me at all. That night, I went to complain to Rémonde that she had lied to me.
“It’s true, Bobby,” she replied. “For you, Odette is dead. Why don’t you believe me?”
I laughed and said: “Au revoir, Rémonde.”
The next day, I returned to London with Mr Edward Bell Benson.


18

Going to America

1

We returned to London via Calais and Dover and arrived there at exactly 7 pm local time. I saw Maria Grey and Arnold Berington standing on the platform waiting for us. I jumped off the train, rushed into Maria’s arms and we hugged each other delightedly. We had not met for more than eighteen months. She had changed a little, grown taller and plumper, but she was still beautiful. Her face exuded life, her cheeks were rosy and her eyes were still sharp and retained their glint of innocence. As we talked, I felt fully confident that she was still faithful and pure – the only angel in my life.
“Maria,” I said, “are you using ‘Mon Boudoir’? It’s my favourite perfume. It smells so nice.”
“Paris has taught you a lot, Bobby,” she said, a gentle smile on her face. “You can now tell the difference between ‘Mon Boudoir’ and ‘Fleur de la Vie’.”
Maria’s remark went straight to my heart, as it reminded me of the perfume Odette and Yvonne always used, and also made me feel that I was not good enough for her. I stared at her and smiled, but said nothing. I turned to Arnold who was waiting to welcome me. We shook hands vigorously. Our friendship had not changed. Mr Benson let me go with Arnold and Maria, while he went with the group of journalists that had been crowding around us.
“We have no place we can share now, Bobby,” Arnold said, “because we have to be out of London so often.”
“Where are you taking me then?” I asked.
“To the Press Club. You can stay there for a couple of weeks. I hope you’ll like it.”
London had not changed either. Everything was as it used to be – wet, damp and cold all over. As we rode in a taxi, I noticed that Maria and Arnold behaved more intimately with each other than they used to. It looked as though Arnold had surreptitiously taken over the place I used to own in her heart. The longer I stayed in London, the more I felt that my suspicion was well-founded. Could it be that Maria and Arnold loved each other? How would I feel if one day these two dear friends of mine were to tie the knot? Actually, I had travelled a lot, seen much of the goings-on in the big theatre of life and reported on them at length in my newspaper, and I should have been able to fathom that to love is to sacrifice. I was an adventurer as dissolute as any other reporter or correspondent, and Arnold was like us. Yet he was different from me. He was calm and collected. I would not be surprised if Maria chose him. I was Thai and could not say exactly how long we would be journalists together, whereas Arnold was English, a healthy man able to stand without weariness the constant struggle against the never-ending ups and downs of life. Were Maria to marry Arnold, I was convinced that he would make her happy. Once I admitted this much to myself, I was able to control my feelings and endeavoured to behave as one of their very best friends. I still loved Maria very much, my dear readers!
It was the season of concerts in London and famous musicians performed at the Royal Albert Hall almost every day. I took this opportunity to invite Arnold and Maria to listen to Kreisler, Paderewski, Kubelik and Heifetz. I have always felt that no musical instrument can compare to the violin, which alone is capable of arousing in me the very sweetness and bitterness of life. I admired Kubelik, Kreisler and Heifetz for making me happy and helping me control my feelings when I saw Arnold and Maria tottering on the verge of love.
My main duty at the time was that of a “first-nighter”, attending plays and concerts on their first performance in London and writing critical reviews of them the same night for publication on the morrow. Apart from that, I also had to attend and report on the fancy dress balls the English gentry held almost every week to raise funds for charity. This kind of life was most enjoyable.

2

My departure for America happened all of a sudden. I had never thought it would be possible.
I had been in London for more than three months when I was invited to attend a party celebrating Lady Moira Dunn’s promotion to the position of leader writer. The party was held at the Press Club. We dined, danced, chatted and had a jolly good time as usual. At three in the morning, Arnold and I were asked to drive two friends of Lady Moira’s back to their home in Hampstead. At the club, we had an old Morris Oxford coupé which we had bought for running errands. At first, we thought we would take the two ladies back home in a rented car, but, since we were having so much fun, why not take our good old Morris for the ride? Arnold asked me to drive. The house of the two ladies was hidden on a hill between Hampstead and Highgate which was difficult to access by car. We drove along Spaniard’s Walk which wound up and down the hill and finally found the house.
On the way back, there were only the two of us – Arnold and me. Because of the recklessness of youth and the drinks we had had at the club, we felt euphoric and brave, and I accelerated to forty miles per hour, which Arnold enjoyed very much. It was the middle of the night and there were no cars coming from the opposite direction, but everything was dark – no moon, no stars, no lights along the way – and it was raining ceaselessly. The road was uneven and wound up and down. We were not afraid of danger and drove faster and faster – until we approached a sharp curve. We were going uphill at full throttle; the road was slippery; and as we reached the curve, an oil tanker coming downhill suddenly appeared dead ahead. I tried to avoid it by jamming on the brakes. But the road was narrow and the truck, enormous. As its nose was on us, I got so scared I let go of the steering wheel and there was a fantastic crash. Our car overturned and tumbled down the hill until it reached flat ground much further down below, but by then I lay unconscious in it.
Five hours later, I opened my eyes and realized I was lying on a bed in a hospital. At first, everything around me was blurred. There seemed to be a doctor in a white gown and dozens of nurses crowding the room. A short while later, I regained full consciousness. A doctor and two nurses stood by the bed while Arnold, Lady Moira, Maria and Mr Benson sat around the room. Arnold had escaped unscathed from the accident. As for me, I had cracked my skull, sprained my arms and had dozens of wounds all over my body. I was confined in hospital for more than a month.
But, alas, my dear readers, during all the time I was in hospital, Maria and Arnold took turns to see me nearly every day. When Maria came, she talked about Arnold, and when Arnold came, he talked about Maria all the time. Though I loved them both very much, I could not help but feel bored and annoyed. Sometimes, I felt so bored that I asked myself when the damn story would end so that I could cut both of them off once and for all.
My previous illness had left me weak, easily frightened and sickly to the point that my heart was easily tired and I did not have enough strength left to fight the hard life of a journalist. While I lay convalescing in my bedroom at the club, I felt so bored with life, with England, London, friends and all visitors that I wanted to go away – away from England, away from Maria and Arnold. But where would I go? How about America? I asked myself. America! I kept brooding over and over.
One morning, as I had just recovered from influenza, I went to see Mr Edward Bell Benson and notified him that I intended to go to America for a six- to eight-month holiday, after which I would return to resume my duty.
“What if you don’t recover, Bobby?” he asked.
“If I don’t, you won’t see me again, that’s all,” I replied.
“Do you have enough money?”
“I have enough to live on for a year, and for the ship fare.”
“We’ll take care of all your transportation expenses.”
“Thank you but that won’t be necessary,” I said. “Perhaps I shall never recover.”
“All right then,” he said curtly. “You may go there at your own expense, but you must agree to come back, young man.”
After I said goodbye to my boss, I met Maria Grey in front of Mr Benson’s room.
“Are you really taking a holiday in America, Bobby?” she asked. “How lucky you are. I hope you’ll be all right when you come back.”
Although my love for her had lessened, Maria’s lovely blandishments always cheered me up. “I hope you’ll be all right when you come back” – did you hear this, my dear readers?
When I returned to the club that evening, a servant handed me the name card left behind by an official from the Thai embassy who had come to visit me. There was nothing on the card, except for a name and a statement written in pencil which said: “His Excellency the Ambassador would like to see you as soon as possible. Tomorrow morning would be perfect. S. T.”
I was mystified. His Excellency the Ambassador wanted to see me. Had something unusual happened?

3

The Thai Embassy at Ashburn Place in South Kensington looked as it did at the time of His Excellency Prapharkornwong. It was dim and dark like most houses in London always exposed to inclement weather. Shortly after I had informed the secretary of the purpose of my visit, someone took me to a room upstairs for an audience with the ambassador. Prince Wanwaithayarkorn was tall, stout and looked distinguished. He had fair skin and a bright face, and a brief look at him was enough to know that he was really learned and capable.
“Sit down, Mr Wisoot,” he said, pointing to the chair in front of him. “I have something important to tell you.”
I did as requested.
“You are certainly aware of the keen interest His Majesty takes in national affairs,” the ambassador began. “His Majesty has often publicly expressed his intention to extend his benevolent patronage to hard-working subjects of proven ability, and to them only. I am sure you know that I have sent several ill-behaved students back to Siam. At the same time, I try to find students with good potential to whom His Majesty will extend full support so that they have a bright future. Several self-supporting students were found qualified and have since come under royal patronage.”
I was listening intently.
“I have been keeping track of you,” the ambassador went on. “I know what you have been doing since you arrived in Europe. Your line of work is unusual but useful to some extent. I have already reported your case to His Majesty for his consideration, and I have been informed that His Majesty is willing to accept you as a student under his patronage. If you have no objection and intend to forward your education, I will request His Majesty’s kind permission to send you to Georgetown University in the United States, where you will study in the field of foreign service. I believe this subject is suitable for you.”
As I went out of the embassy, I felt as if I were walking in a dream. I was going to be a student under the patronage of His Majesty the King! A man like me! Though I was one of Marquess Wiseit Suphalak’s sons and I had read the chronicles recording all the good the kings of the Chakri* dynasty had contributed to Siam, I had never met a single member of the royal family. I was a mere nonentity, but a nonentity who had enough education to be able to appreciate the beneficence of our kings to the Thai nation. If Siam was still a free and blissful state and would remain so in the future, it was thanks to the Chakri dynasty.
Because of all the hardships I had experienced since childhood and of my long stay abroad among foreigners since I had become an adult, I had gradually lost touch with most of what was happening in Siam. I received no news from anyone there and had no opportunity to read Thai newspapers. I only knew that King Vachiravudh had passed away and King Prachathipok had ascended the throne. I also knew that our new king showed deep concern for the wellbeing of Siam and donated millions of baht from his own coffers for the welfare of the Thai people and of the Thai nation. He had set up a council of ministers, extended his patronage to competent people and demanded to be rid of all corrupt elements. I had never been in the presence of His Majesty, and knew him only from the portrait of him that hung in my room at the club.
In Siam, I was a mere simpleton, who had been forgotten as soon as he had gone abroad. Nobody believed that a simpleton like me would ever come to any good. But now, the king of Siam – my own king – believed I was an asset and was ready to accept me as yet another student under his benevolent patronage. If the king is good, who will refuse to be his servant?
I wrote to Prince Wanwaithayarkorn to notify him officially that I had no objection to becoming a student under royal patronage in order to follow a foreign-service course in America, and to express my deep gratitude to His Majesty. And so it was that, one month later, I was preparing myself for a new journey.

4

I went to see Mr Edward Bell Benson to tender my resignation and let him know of the change in my plans. He expressed his regret that I was not healthy enough to withstand the pressures of journalistic life, approved my resignation and added that if, during my stay abroad, I felt like sending articles, he would always be happy to publish them so long as they were up to the newspaper’s standards.
A couple of days before I left, Maria Grey came to see me at the Belize Hotel on Gloucester Road. It was 11 pm, and all the other guests had gone to bed, leaving the large sitting room to the two of us.
“Bobby,” she said petulantly, “why did you resign from the big circus? You are going to America and won’t come back to see us. Are you mad or what?”
“Not at all, my dear Maria,” I answered, taking her hand. “I am going to America to be a student because I want to see something new. I want... I want to have a new life; I want to forget the past. I have been a journalist for over three years and I feel bored.”
“You mean you are bored with us. Are you bored with me too?” she retorted. “It can’t be true, Bobby. It’s impossible. You can’t be bored with us. You love us, don’t you?”
“I do love you, Maria,” I replied, “and this is why I have to go away. I want you to be happy... happy with the one you love. I want to forget you. But... to forget the one you want to remember is a most difficult thing to do.”
“What exactly do you mean, Bobby?” she asked, staring at me with a flicker of anger in her eyes.
“You love Arnold, don’t you, Maria?” I asked her softly, trying to avoid her eyes. “Arnold is one of the best friends I have ever had. I love you both very much. I want you to be happy and I don’t want you to miss me. It won’t be difficult for you to forget me. Just think that I have never been any good, that I am like the other journalists who are up to all kinds of mischief wherever they go. Tell yourself that I have never been honest with you.”
Suddenly, she threw herself at me, buried her face in my chest and moaned: “Bobby, whatever you think about me, I want you to always remember that since I have known you, I’ve never loved anyone else in my life. I’ve never loved Arnold. The only one I love is you and I will love you till the end of the world. If I was always talking to you about Arnold, it was because I wanted to talk about something that would make you happy. You were in pain at that time, Bobby, and you do like Arnold. He is your dearest friend, isn’t he?”
For all that, when the time came, I had to leave London by train to embark on a ship at Liverpool. Maria and Arnold went to Liverpool as well to see me off at the ship. For the whole time that I travelled across the Atlantic Ocean, whenever I thought of Maria, I could not refrain from crying. I remembered every word she had said to me at the Belize Hotel. She had never loved anyone else... She had never loved Arnold. She loved only me, yet I was suspicious of her... Oh – world... world! World!





19

Dream city

1

The first day I was on the Adriatic, I felt terribly lonely. Although she was a big ship brimming with jolly passengers, I was alone among a crowd of complete strangers. I had no hope and no inclination to make anyone’s acquaintance. Morning, noon and night, the ship went on sailing, taking me further and further away from Maria, so far away that we had no hope of ever meeting each other again. The sea was quiet. Waves gently stroked the flanks of the ship. I stood on the upper deck looking at the water parting alongside. Streaks of phosphorus shimmered and sparkled in the darkness.
“Excuse me, aren’t you Bobby from The Times?” a man behind me asked.
I turned around. Though the deck was dark, light shining through the window of the sitting room allowed me to have a good look at him. He was of medium built, probably over fifty, balding with a crown of pepper-and-salt hair and the general appearance of an English gentleman.
“I am, sir,” I answered. “How do you know me?”
“Don’t you remember me?” he retorted. “We met at the Press Club the day you were introduced. We also met in Paris, Monte Carlo and Madrid. You can’t remember me, can you?”
“We never talked to each other, did we?”
“No, never got a chance.”
I thought for a while about the club at the Haymarket, about Paris, Monte Carlo and Madrid. Finally, I remembered.
“Well, you must be Sir Percival Humphreys,” I said.
“Absolutely right. You are a good journalist.”
“I am sorry I was unable to recognize you at first. I should know better,” I said. “My name is Wisoot Suphalak.”
“What a difficult name to pronounce,” he said. “Shall I call you Bobby?”
“Certainly, sir, it’s much easier for you.”
“Why are you staying up here all by yourself?” he asked. “Let’s go back in and have some champagne. I’m a champagne drinker. I drink at least three bottles a day. Let’s go, shall we.”
Sir Percival and I walked into the sitting room, which was located at the front of the ship. At that time, the tables were full of passengers playing dominoes and bridge. Sir Percival led me to a table at one corner of the room where a middle-aged lady and a beautiful blonde sat.
“This is Bobby from The Times,” Sir Percival introduced me. He then turned to me and said: “This is my wife, and this is Polly Derword, our daughter.”
I nodded to each lady and we shook hands. Then Sir Percival invited me to sit down opposite his wife. While he poured me a glass of champagne, he said jocularly: “Our Polly got married four years ago and now she’s divorced. So, she has completed the cycle – marriage and then divorce. Not bad, hey.”
“Is her name really Polly?” I asked and then smiled.
“‘I’m Polly, King George’s parrot.’ Don’t you remember?”
I burst out laughing as indeed I remembered the parrot we kept in front of the club. When it saw anybody getting close, it would say: “I’m Polly, King George’s parrot.”
I turned to look at Polly and smiled, and she smiled back.
“Sir Percival,” I said, “I am sure that Polly is the best name in the world, because it is the name of King George’s parrot and of our parrot as well, the parrot of the big circus.”
“The big circus,” Lady Percival said. “We are familiar with the expression.”
“Bobby,” Sir Percival protested, “I don’t want you to call me Sir Percival. It sounds so pompous. Let’s get better acquainted, shall we? We shall call you Bobby. You can call me Percy, my wife Lady Percival, and my daughter Polly. Don’t call her Mrs Derword or she’ll beat the bejabbers out of you.”
“Certainly, sir,” I said with great relief. “I’ve been feeling a bit lonely since I left England, and I certainly can do with some friends. I am very fortunate to have met you.”
“Did the printing house send you to America?” Polly asked. She had a slight American accent.
“No,” I replied. “I am sorry to have to say that I resigned from the big circus. I am now a student under the patronage of the King of Siam. I am going to study foreign service in Washington.”
“You don’t say!” Sir Percival exclaimed. “Why did you resign?”
“I am not healthy enough to keep up with this kind of life,” I replied.
“But the life of a journalist is very exciting, Bobby,” Lady Percival said. “My Polly here was once a correspondent.”
We talked until late at night, then said goodbye and went to bed.

2

In the ten days it took the ship to reach New York from Liverpool, the closeness and mutual liking that developed between the Humphreys family and me went deeper than expected. They had travelled all over the world and liked to chat with me about everything they had experienced in each of the countries they had visited, and I told them about events I had witnessed in Europe. Our knowledge about travel made for lively and interesting conversation.
Sir Percival Humphreys was one of the most famous antique dealers in the world. He had an office and a large shop on New Bond Street in London, and another office on 77th Avenue in New York. He also had branch offices in Tokyo, Shanghai, Hong Kong and Calcutta. His business required him to travel frequently on inspection tours. He bought antiques in one country and sold them in another. He had been in this business since the end of the Great War, building himself up until he had become what could be called a millionaire. On our second day aboard the Adriatic, I learned that Sir Percival had lost one eye during the war and now wore a glass eyeball.
Lady Percival was a middle-aged woman and a glance at her was enough to realize that she must have been very beautiful when she was younger. Her naturally curly hair, which had been fair, had turned off-white, her beautiful face was wrinkled all over, and her once deep-blue eyes had lost their sparkle. Nature is merciless. It gives us youth then turns us old and makes us die to make room for others. Yet life had rewarded Mrs Percival with a wonderful gift – a happy married life. She had never had any problems with her husband. She was fun-loving, talkative and courteous.
Polly Derword had fair hair, blue eyes, and dimples in her healthy cheeks. She was thin and tall. I never found out why she had married and divorced. The world had given her as much knowledge about life as it could give a woman of twenty-seven. She smoked, drank and gambled. She was too worldly-wise to give a man anything more than friendship, and she liked to behave like a child. She and I were always playing together on the ship. She called me Bobby or Little Brother and I called her Polly or Big Sister.
I was happy and comfortable with these three people throughout our stay on the ship. We took all of our meals together, sharing the same table and chatting with one another as members of the same party. Sir Percival reminded me of Daddy, Captain Andrew at Bexhill; Lady Percival of Mrs Andrew; and Polly of a Stephanie turned adult. Polly made me feel that she and I were still children, and that she really was my elder sister.
The Humphreys liked to drink champagne, so I had to turn into a champagne drinker as well. During the whole time the Adriatic sailed across the Atlantic Ocean, we had no end of fun together, drinking champagne and playing table tennis, golf and various other games on the deck.
One day, Sir Percival asked me: “Bobby, are white elephants in your country really white, white like cotton, or some other colour?”
“They aren’t white at all, Percy,” I replied. “They are grey with black patches.”
“Well, well,” he said teasingly, “you’ve been away from home for so long you can’t even remember the colour of white elephants! White elephants are creamy white, young man, they are as white as cotton.”
“That’s not true, Percy,” I said and laughed.
“I’ll buy one for you before you return to Siam,” he said. “I’ll buy you an elephant as white as cotton so that you can show it off to your neighbours.”
“Where will you buy it?”
“I saw one in Japan.”
From that day, I looked forward to seeing a cotton-white white elephant, which I would be given as a souvenir before going back to Siam.

3

Two days later, the ship arrived in New York – a dream city, the most luxurious and civilized city in America. I had reached the New World!
Immigration officers in America are extremely thorough in their work. When the ship berthed, a few officers came on board to check for contagious diseases and forbidden goods such as opium and liquor. They took an entire hour to examine the ship before allowing the passengers to disembark. Then passport officials set about questioning every one of us thoroughly about our private affairs and going through all the items in our trunks, taking them out and examining them one by one and leaving everything in a big mess. It took us another hour to get past this checkpoint. Then, we – Sir Percival’s family and I – took a limousine taxi to the Waldorf Astoria, a large, luxurious and the most expensive hotel in New York.
I learned later that His Excellency the Ambassador had sent one of his assistants to pick me up in New York, but we missed each other. Thus, Sir Percival persuaded me to stay with his family for a day or two in order to visit New York before I went on to Washington.
I was very excited to see New York and America and felt as if I were in paradise. To me, New York was unlike London, Paris, Rome, Berlin or any other capital of Europe I had visited. Everywhere I turned, I saw only amazingly high skyscrapers, plush avenues, dense crowds and endless displays of wealth. On Fifth Avenue, Broadway and so on, myriad dazzling lights pushed back the night. It was all exciting beyond words. I had never thought that the world could be developed to such an extent. It made me think of a German movie I had seen, Metropolis, and I reckoned it would not be long before New York became like the world the movie described.
I had been a journalist for more than three years and being in New York rekindled the old flame in my heart. Strolling about in New York provided me with lots of stories I could write. Sir Percival knew many journalists in America, so he took me to almost every newspaper office in town, which greatly enriched my knowledge.
At the New York Times office, I met Gilbert Allen Hope, who had worked with me when we were in England. Gilbert did not know that I had resigned as a newspaper correspondent, and when he saw me, he was so glad he leapt with joy and hugged me. He assumed I was on a news assignment as usual.
“How lucky for me that you came, Bobby,” Gilbert said. “I’m so damn lonely here. Will you be here long?”
All this time, Sir Percival was standing behind us. I stepped back politely and said: “Gilbert, have you ever met Sir Percival?”
“Hello, Sir Percival.” I was surprised by Gilbert’s informality. “We’ve known each other for a long time, haven’t we, sir? I remember I met you once at the Press Club... years ago.”
“Yes, Gilbert,” Sir Percival replied. “We used to know each other well.”
Gilbert offered us tea at Shwarz’s. We filled each other in on what had happened since we parted. When I told him that I had resigned, Gilbert swore in a fit of bad temper.
“Several of us are staying here, I mean in New York, Bobby,” he said sadly. “There’s Julia Anhearst, Bob Henrikson and others. We’ve often told one another that sooner or later you’d turn up in America – you or ‘the three pals’: that’s what we call you, Maria and Arnold. Did you know that?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“I can’t believe the three of you will ever break up,” he said. “Anyway, of her two friends, we are sure Maria has chosen you. When will you two settle down, Bobby? I’ll be your best man.”
“Settle down?” I repeated sadly. “I think that day will never come, Gilbert. That show at the circus of life is over.”
“Why? Did you quarrel?”
“No, but I quit journalism. Now I am a student under royal patronage, and I intend to go back to Siam within the next couple of years.”
“To write The circus of life?”
“That’s right, Gilbert.”



20

Jurai and Praphat


1

The day after I met Gilbert Allen Hope, I said goodbye to Sir Percival’s family and started off to visit His Excellency Wichitwong-wuthikrai, the ambassador of Siam in Washington. The train took some six hours to get there. I had not informed the embassy of my arrival, because my experience as a journalist had taught me not to worry about getting to the right place and I did not want to bother anyone who would have to come and pick me up. It was easy to travel in Washington because the city was sparsely populated. At the station, I ordered a porter to load my belongings into a taxi, then told the driver to take me to the Siamese Embassy on Carlorama Road.
Washington is the cleanest, tidiest and quietest capital in the world. Its large and neat avenues look desolate because there are hardly any pedestrians. Its well-spaced buildings are so set back that they look deserted, as do public gardens and stadiums. But on close observation, it appears that Washington is the most suitable place for those who prefer to lead a quiet life. It is also suitable to hold congressional sessions and other political activities.
From the station, the taxi took some twenty minutes to reach the embassy, a small, three-story building squatting on a low mound. Across the road stood a luxurious mansion owned by Mr Hammond, the millionaire who presided over a warm welcome ceremony for Lindbergh after his solo flight. As soon as the car parked in front of the gate, a servant came out to welcome me and helped move my belongings inside. He told me that the ambassador was out on the lawn by the building.
His Excellency Wichit was over fifty, thin and very tall. He looked mature and good-natured. After exchanging a few words, I took a liking to him. At the time, he sat at leisure among his subordinates. His secretary, his counsellor and two or three princes who were students were playing a ballgame. A brief look at His Excellency told me that he was far from healthy. He often coughed, his face was pale and there was a little glass by his side in which he spit and which was kept for later examination. I learned that every two or three weeks he had to go to Philadelphia, where a doctor examined him and cleaned the infection in his throat. Though he was almost disabled, I could not but admire his fortitude and determination to perform his duty regardless.
After I was sent to stay with other students at 136 B Avenue, I felt uncertain about my future. I had been a journalist, had travelled about and lived as a responsible adult, and I found going back to being a student under strict supervision rather annoying. Thai students in America did not have good families to stay with as was the case in England. American people were too wealthy and too busy to take care of other people’s children. The houses Thai students shared were generally spacious, clean and comfortable, but we had to go out to buy food and eat in food shops. There were only a few Thai students in Washington and we would meet at the embassy.
I prepared myself to take the foreign-service course at Georgetown University, but since the university was about to close as the second semester was nearly finished, I had to wait until the new semester started. So, His Excellency sent me to take a special course for two months at Harvard University in Cambridge near Boston. The university was closed for summer but offered special courses to whoever wanted to apply. I chose to study American literature and history.
I stayed at Mrs Kay’s house on L Avenue in Boston, twenty minutes away from the university by underground train.
While I was in Boston, I took my meals in restaurants around town and this allowed me to meet more Thai people. Some were studying at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, which was Harvard’s competitor, in the manner of Oxford and Cambridge in England, though the two universities were only a ten-minute walk from each other.
The special summer courses offered interested people the possibility to study the subjects that were part of the university’s programme, and allowed students of both sexes to study together. Therefore, at any time of the day, you could see couples cuddling up to each other all over the campus. It was a place for studying and a place for finding a lover. Literature and history were popular subjects, and both classes were full of students. I went along well with them and we had animated conversations. So the course was rather enjoyable. On Sundays, we – three or four male and female students – would go to the movies in Boston in the daytime and then sit on the lawns by the Charles river, which ran between Boston and Cambridge.

2

After six weeks of study, there was a final examination. As I had studied before, I came out second in literature and eleventh in American history. Having done with Harvard, I went to stay with His Excellency the Ambassador at a seaside residence in the Bass-rock district of Gloucester. As this was the hottest part of summer in Washington, the embassy had moved temporarily to Bassrock. Many students stayed there and among them was a young woman who was studying medicine at Boston University. Her name was Jurai Suwannawanit.
One could say that Jurai was the star of Thai students in America. She was beautiful and unattached. Well-educated, she was articulate and witty. She was rather short, had a smooth and fair skin and large, dark, glittering eyes, and dressed with flair. She had come to America when she was ten and was now nineteen, but she was still fluent in Thai because she continued to meet Thai students. Almost all Thai students who came across her could not help but fall in love with her and dedicate themselves to be her slaves, no doubt because Thai students in America were very poor and, with everything so expensive, they could not find any girl to take out, unlike their brothers in England or France...
But Jurai was clever and knew how to take care of herself. She did not allow any man to go beyond the boundaries of friendship. If it looked like a man was getting too serious, she would step back and cut off the relationship. No more cat-and-mouse games. Many said her lover had returned to Siam and was waiting for her in Bangkok. I could not have met him because he had left before I arrived in America. Some students said she was flirtatious and heartless; others that she was unyielding and allowed no man to overstep the mark; others still that she was the best woman in the world. Whichever opinion you believe is up to you.
I was a newcomer to Gloucester. Was it that Jurai was aware of my past in England that she seemed to take such an interest in me? Or perhaps she wanted me to fall in love and be her slave? But I was mature, worldly-wise and had already my own star, and for Jurai to demand my love would be most difficult indeed. I felt that she was just a young girl, a pretty, cute and clever girl.
“Mr Wisoot,” Jurai asked me one day on the veranda at the front of the embassy, “as a journalist who has seen so much of the world, how do you feel about life? Do you find it interesting?”
I was aware that she was asking me this just to say something. She was not the type to search for the meaning of life.
“Life is something you never stop learning, Jurai,” I answered. “The more you see of the world, the less you know about life.”
“Isn’t it sad?” she asked, staring at me ever so sweetly.
“Indeed,” I replied.
“I think life is absolutely wonderful,” she said. “I was born into a fortune, and I can get anything I want.”
“You have been in America for nine years, since you were a child. Have you ever felt sad?”
“Never. I enjoy life in America very much. It’s great fun.”
“Is it because you are the only beautiful and available Thai girl starring among Thai students?”
“Maybe,” she replied.
We – Jurai and I – liked to go on excursions with embassy people. Sometimes, we went fishing in Gloucester Bay on a sailing boat; sometimes, we were Mr Hammond’s guests on his yacht; and sometimes, we rode in a car to visit either the Magnolia district or Boston. Jurai and I were very close to each other, because I liked fun, was talkative and had plenty of tales to tell. On some days, we strolled along the beach at dawn, just the two of us. We were so close that all the students there were suspicious of us. Alas! How childish of them! They could not fathom that Jurai and I were just friends. All the things they suspected us of had not even crossed our minds. We were just students, mature enough to know the proper duties of students.

3

I accompanied the group of embassy officials when they left Gloucester and returned to Washington. The other students dispersed to their respective places of study. Jurai went back to Boston. As for myself, three or four days after I had arrived in Washington, a new semester began.
The course on foreign service at Georgetown University which I was going to study took four years to complete. Fortunately, I passed the preliminary test for new students with unusually high marks and the committee allowed me to start at second-year level, which meant I could complete the course in three years. As for the English or more accurately American English course, which required students to write compositions, letters for an exchange of correspondence with foreign countries and other secretarial chores, I had no need to study it because I had done it all when I worked in the press in Europe. Therefore, the courses I had to study consisted of French, German, transportation, world economics, world history, international relations, international law and advanced American history.
I have seen lots of universities and schools in England, France, Germany and Italy and even studied for a while at London University, and from my experience at Georgetown University, I am able to state my views about the American educational system forthrightly. America is a newly established country. Though she has enormous wealth and formidable transportation and commercial networks, she has yet to find the time to set up a good educational system. Georgetown University had many qualified professors with lots of degrees and lengthy honorific titles after their names, but not a single one of them was able to organize the curriculum properly. The courses were not very difficult, but there were too many subjects to study, forcing the students to work hard and leaving them no time to enjoy life. There were no joint activities, no discussions and no students club where they could meet like in most universities in other countries. I was a newcomer and had skipped the first-year programme, so I had to work harder than the others in order to catch up with them. In the first two or three months, I worked so hard that I felt as if I was going to have a nervous breakdown due to exhaustion. I read day and night, to the point that my eyes were sore and irritated.
As far as the students were concerned, I got along well with them. I liked American students. They were friendly and on intimate terms with me. When we played together, there was no feeling of discrimination for being a yellow-skinned foreigner. I made many close friends at the university.

4

At Georgetown University, there was another Thai student apart from myself. Oddly enough, he had the same surname and we were related. Praphat was my best Thai friend ever and I do not think I will ever find another friend like him. We loved each other very much. We stayed in the same house, slept in the same bedroom, and got along with each other very well. Praphat was generous, sympathetic and unselfish. He respected me because I was older and had more experience of the world than him, and he considered me as his mentor. I loved him as my younger brother and as my best friend, indeed my only friend. Praphat was not like Pradit. He was gentle, clever and a good student. His future was as smooth as a path in the garden of peace that he himself had created.
“Wisoot,” Praphat said to me one day when we were in our house, “you receive so many letters from Jurai I can smell something funny going on.”
“Oh, Praphat,” I replied, “they are ordinary letters. There’s nothing special. Read them if you want. They are in my drawer.”
“I went to New York last month,” Praphat said. “I met Jurai at Sarthit’s house. From what she was saying, it seems to me she loves you a lot.”
“Love?” I said, stunned.
“If you want her to meet you here anytime,” Praphat said confidently, “or if you want her to return to Siam with you, supposing you went back next month, one letter from you and I’m certain she’ll be here the day after she gets it.”
I smiled but did not say anything, because I had known Jurai for over two months and that was long enough to be sure she would never do such a foolish thing.
“Praphat,” I said after we had been quiet for a while, “I have to study damn hard, as you know. Suppose I fall sick one day to the point that the university won’t allow me to study any longer and I have to go back to Siam. Will you forget me after I have gone?”
“You are strange, Wisoot,” Praphat said in his normal tone of voice. “Anyone who’s your friend and knows you well must love you, and I don’t believe anyone can ever forget you.”
“I feel it’s the same for you, Praphat,” I said.
“No way,” my friend protested. “Since I was born, no one has ever loved me and accepted me as his friend, except you.”
“That’s because no one has had the chance to know you and stay close to you.”
“It isn’t like that at all,” he protested. He took a deep puff on his cigarette and added: “I’ve been unfortunate ever since I lived with my parents in Siam. I am doomed, and totally hopeless.”
I gazed absentmindedly at the cars passing along Connecticut Avenue. Alas! Poor world!


21

Life torn asunder

1

While I was in Washington following the foreign-service course at the university, I had to work day and night in order to catch up with my fellow students. I often felt, however, that my life was full of great expectations, as I kept hoping and dreaming of a smooth career in the public sector. I was happy, and paid no heed to the exhaustion resulting from the drudgery of hard work. Besides, by concentrating on our work, we can forget everything we want to forget. I thought this was the best way, so I tried not to think of Maria, not to think of Jurai, not even to think of my own life.
My university studies progressed smoothly and profitably, but the more I studied, the more I became aware that mine was an uphill task. Life is not all roses but is strewn with obstacles and threatened with destruction. Pouring over textbook after textbook, I began to suffer from irritation in both eyes, and the ache grew as days went by. Finally, I was unable to read any longer. I told my predicament to His Excellency the Ambassador, who ordered his secretary to take me to be examined by a doctor. The doctor advised me to seek treatment at the optometry hospital in Boston. He thought I might have to undergo major surgery.
“I’m afraid your eyes are seriously damaged,” this young, fair-haired doctor said to me. “If you don’t attend to them now, you may end up blind. Go and see Dr Wyatt, one of the best ophthalmologists in this country. I think you’ll have to lie still with your eyes closed for approximately three weeks, during which time you won’t be able to see. Even after you have recovered from surgery, you’ll have to stop working for a year or two at least, because you’ll suffer from double vision and your optical nerves won’t be strong enough for you to focus on anything for more than twenty seconds.”
This was destruction, my dear readers, the destruction of my life! I had to undergo eye surgery, be blind for three weeks and stop reading altogether for at least a year or two! The only thing I worried about was my studies. There had never been a case in the history of Georgetown University of anybody being allowed to stay away for so long. A prolonged absence could only mean that the student was not healthy enough to carry on to graduation, and he would be asked to resign. Oh luck! How long would my luck hold?
I wrote a letter to Sir Percival’s family informing them briefly (I could not write at any length) of my misfortune. Then I started off with the ambassador’s secretary to the optometry hospital in Boston. There, I was given a special room on the fourteenth floor, and the secretary checked in at the Statler Hotel. Dr Wyatt operated on my eyes the very next morning. I had been anesthetized at 8 am and was supposed to regain consciousness around noon. Instead, I lay unconscious until late in the evening. When I woke up, my eyes hurt so much I could not help but groan. I was given painkilling injections every two hours and it took twelve of them for the pain to subside. I lay in bed with my eyes closed for three full weeks. During that time, Jurai often came to visit me. She brought me fruit and fragrant bouquets I could not see. Alerted by my letter, the Humphreys family had come to Boston and visited me every day as well.
During the time I stayed at the hospital, if Jurai and the Percival family – Polly, Sir and Lady Percival – had not visited me frequently, I am not sure what would have become of me. Perhaps I would have been so depressed that I would have turned mad.
As I do not have the time or space to tell you in detail about my life in hospital, I shall only mention that I kept thinking of someone so intently that I could not hide my true feelings. O, my dear friend! I believed that she, too, thought of me very much. Maria... Maria, my darling!
Jurai came to visit me almost every day. Why didn’t I love Jurai? Why didn’t Jurai love me? The answer was that our lives were too different from each other. Or was it because I thought of Maria Grey and Jurai thought of...?

2

I allowed some of my friends to read The circus of life prior to publication, and they all complained that my life was unusually solitary and sad beyond words. As a matter of fact, my life is not solitary at all. It may be sad like most people’s lives, but it is not lonely. I have had many friends, my dear readers, good friends who truly love me, as you will see from what I am about to tell you.
After I was discharged from hospital, I suffered from double vision. If you stood in front of me, I would see two of you and be unable to tell which one was you and which, your double. I often failed to grab whatever I reached for. The doctor ordered me to wear special eyeglasses made of a dark lens on one side and an opaque lens on the other. Though I could still see with one eye, my vision was so dim and blurred that I was virtually blind. I had to watch every step when I walked. Sir Percival Humphreys, his wife and Polly came to fetch me at the hospital and took me to stay with them at their house in New York. I convalesced there for more than six months and was most comfortable and happy. Thai students and officials from the embassy would visit me once in a while. Jurai came to see me once a month. She had to take a train from Boston to New York. Praphat came often, from Washington.
I do not know to what good deeds I owed this, but I received much benevolent assistance from Sir Percival’s family. I had a large and luxurious bedroom at the back of a large building at 171 B Avenue. I had a servant whose only duty was to look after me. Every day, someone came to take me out for a walk in the flower garden at the back of the building or in a public park. Some evenings, we rode in a car with the hood down and went sightseeing on the outskirts of New York and sometimes had sandwiches and tea at small shops by the roadside. Life is not always too bitter to endure, wouldn’t you say, my dear readers? In New York, I had Polly, Sir and Lady Percival – and this was happiness.
I have nothing to pay these three persons back with. I have neither money nor my own home to welcome them in gratitude when they come to Siam. I have nothing at all. But they loved, nursed and took care of me as if I were a member of their own family. When I think of this, I am swollen with pride for whatever good points I must have to be thus loved by the three of them.
“Bobby,” Sir Percival said to me one day, “it will take a year or more before you are back to normal. The university probably won’t take you back. What will you do then?”
“I think I shall go back home, Percy,” I answered. “I feel too old, I don’t want to study any longer.”
“Then, what will you do once you are back?”
The question cut me to the quick. It was as if a needle was piercing my heart. I pondered for a while, then replied hopelessly: “I have no idea, Percy. Maybe I’ll just go to hell.”
“Bobby,” Sir Percival said as he laid himself down on a large sofa, “you are good in every respect except one: you take life too seriously. There are plenty of people more unfortunate than you; don’t you ever forget that. You can do lots of things; you can succeed in everything, so long as you want to. You are knowledgeable, and you have a broad and excellent education.”
“Percy,” I told him in earnest, “do you know who has given me the best education and the best encouragement to keep on living in this world? That person is you. You have taught me to love life, people and the world in which I live. Because I have had the opportunity to know the three of you, I feel that life is getting better every day. That’s why I must go on living, try to be happy and successful eventually.”
“Whoever can talk like this,” he said, “is indeed a most civilized person.”
“I will go back home,” I said sadly. “I will get to work and try to be as successful as chance will allow. I will start off as soon as my eyes are all right.”
“Very well, then. We’ll also go that way. We’ll go to Japan and China. If you are determined to go back, I’ll make suitable arrangements so that we can travel together. You can stay with us in Japan for a month or two, and go with us to China as well.”
In the old days, I would have jumped with delight at the prospect of going to Japan and China. But now, my heart was like a piece of rock and I was indifferent to everything.
“I am determined to go back to Siam, Percy,” I replied. “I will travel with you – to Japan, to China and to wherever else, and once it is over, I will say goodbye and go back home.”
“All right, Bobby. I will set up the trip.”

3

Sir Percival owned several antique shops throughout America, and he took his family along all over the country to follow the dealings of the antique business. My eyesight at the time had not improved, and I could not resume my studies. The embassy in Washington had allowed me to stay with Sir Percival until I recovered fully. So, Sir Percival and his family took me to visit several places, such as Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angeles and Hollywood, with occasional returns to New York in between. Then we went to Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington, visiting Sir Percival’s various shops and offices. Eventually, I felt I could make myself useful, because I had begun to understand Sir Percival’s business operations, and I helped him design advertisements for the newspapers and billboards to be placed in front of shops. I had a lot of ideas about these advertisements. During the six months we travelled together, I designed dozens of different models for Sir Percival.
When we returned home at 171 B Avenue in New York after an absence of several months, there was a letter for me which had been forwarded by the Siamese embassy in Washington. The letter came from England, and the handwriting told me it was from Maria Grey. The post office cancellation stamp on the envelope indicated that the letter had arrived in America over two months before. I tore the envelope and looked at the sheets of paper with trepidation, eager to find out what Maria wrote about.
Maria, my beloved, would arrive in New York on board the President Wilson on 27 August. Today was 22 August, so she would be here five days from now. I was overjoyed and immediately went to tell the news to Sir Percival.
“We know Maria Grey very well, Bobby,” Sir Percival said. “We met her at the Press Club in London, and again in Italy. We are well acquainted. But I heard she got married recently.”
“Not yet, Percy, she is still single,” I hastened to protest.
That evening, I told the Humphreys family everything that had happened between Maria and me. I told them about our first encounter at Captain Andrew’s house in Bexhill, how we met again at the Press Club, and so forth. Lady Percival and Polly showed much sympathy for me. Polly was of the opinion that I should marry Maria, but Sir Percival begged to disagree, explaining that it would not be proper: Maria was a European; I was just a poor Thai citizen, and I should be concerned as well about the fate of our future progeny. Think of the terrible situation of half-caste children in Singapore and Penang! Foreigners there were narrow-minded and hated half-castes. It would be all right if I had either title or wealth, but I was an ordinary man, so it would not be wise to let my fancy run ahead of me. Sir Percival urged me to consider Maria’s happiness and that of the children that would be born of our union.
“We’ll invite Maria to stay here, however,” Sir Percival said eventually. “We have a vacant bedroom. When she arrives, we’ll go and pick her up at the harbour and bring her here. I know her well enough to do so. How does this sound to you, Bobby?”
“If you don’t want Bobby and Maria to get married,” Sir Percival’s wife protested, “I think you shouldn’t invite her to stay here, because it’ll make Bobby feel uneasy.”
“It doesn’t matter, Lady Percival,” I protested and tittered. “It won’t make me feel uneasy at all. I have thought a lot about Maria and about life for the two of us, and I agree with Percy.”
“That’s all right, then,” Lady Percival said. “We’ll have Maria to join us.”

4

The President Wilson berthed in New York on schedule at 11am on 27 August. Polly led me by the hand to the pier where I waited for Maria to disembark. When she finally walked towards us, she was shocked to see me wearing dark eyeglasses and holding a walking stick in my hand. She probably thought I was blind.
“Bobby, what happened to your eyes?” she exclaimed while holding out her arms to hug me. “What’s wrong with your eyes, Bobby?”
“I’m all right, Maria,” I replied in a choked voice. “I strained my eyes so I had a little operation. I’ll be all right in a month or two.”
“I had hoped I’d come to America to find you glowing with good health and the best student in the world,” she remonstrated.
“Bobby’s eyes will recover in two or three months, Maria,” Polly interrupted. “You must come and stay with us. We’ve prepared a room for you. Bobby is also staying there now. We are nursing him and it’s great fun. I’m the one cleaning his eyes every morning.”
After Sir and Lady Percival insisted as well, Maria agreed to stay at their house for a while. As we left the pier, Maria took up the task of leading me by the hand, while Polly walked just behind on the other side. We took a car to the house at 171 B Avenue. Shortly after we entered the sitting room, Sir Percival, Lady Percival and Polly excused themselves and left Maria and me on our own in the room. By then, I could take off my eyeglasses when I sat or lied still in the house. Though I still had double vision, I was able to concentrate my gaze on some object until the double image came into focus, but it was still blurred and it took a long time to see it clearly enough.
To me, Maria was still beautiful. She was like the Madonna – the queen of beauty, goodness and happiness. Love and purity still sparkled in her eyes. She still loved me and not even a supernatural power could destroy that love. She came to me to sit on the same chair and snuggled up to me with the intimacy that once bound our hearts together.
“Since you’ve been away in America,” she said slowly, “I’ve missed you terribly. I thought of you every day. I was afraid you didn’t really understand what I said to you before you left. What I said was... I love you... I love only you in the whole world. Whatever you are, or whether we can get married, doesn’t matter to me. No obstacles can destroy our love.”
Pleasant and sweet as they were, these words exacerbated the confusion in my heart. What Lady Percival had said was correct: Maria would come to torment Bobby’s heart. Nothing could remind me of the failure of my own life as effectively as the endearing words and tender gestures of the woman I loved. I had an eyesight problem which would not go away for more than a year; I was a poor student, no longer a journalist with an income of his own; I was a student who had failed in his studies and who would go back home with nothing in his hands or in his pockets; I was a Thai whose home was in Bangkok – I had no right to love her.
We sat cuddling and exchanging kisses for a while, then I said to her: “I will go back to Siam, Maria. I will go and... die... at home.” My voice was shaky. “I will start out as soon as my eyes get well.”
“Bobby,” she implored, “take me to Siam... take me to our home, will you? We’ll go and die there together.”
I looked at the empty wall in front of me and took a handkerchief to wipe the tears that flowed endlessly.
“I can’t, Maria, my darling,” I forced myself to say. “I am poor and my suffering is as great as a mountain. There is no light on the road ahead for me. I can’t let you share my suffering. It is possible for you to find your own happiness, but for me, it is hopeless. I can’t take you with me, Maria. If you really love me, try to understand and forgive me.”
She got up and walked to the window, where she stood with her back to me.
“Arnold has asked me to marry him three times already, and I refused every time,” she said resentfully. “You know why I refused, don’t you?”
I went to her, took her hands and brought them to my lips.
“I can’t explain my problems to you clearly, Maria, my darling little heart,” I said beseechingly. “Go and ask Sir Percival. I think he can explain things better.”
“I understand, Bobby,” she said.
Maria went on being my guide when we would go for a walk, but I doubt whether anyone in the world knew that while we were walking side by side, our hearts were bleeding drop by drop. O life torn asunder! O the circus of life!

22

Farewell to America

1

I went from New York to the embassy in Washington all by myself. It was the first time that I travelled alone since I had undergone eye surgery. I informed His Excellency the Ambassador that I would like to go back home because I had lost the opportunity to further my studies at Georgetown University. I had stopped studying for eight months and had to rest for at least another six or seven months before I could start work again. His Excellency was full of compassion but he did not allow it to show. He smiled gently and asked me: “Why don’t you switch to other subjects such as law or commerce or whatever? You know, Wisoot, you are intelligent. Besides, don’t you think that living in America is more enjoyable for you than living in Siam?”
I gazed at the fireplace which flared in front of me. I thought for a while and then answered: “I don’t think this way anymore. I have come to the conclusion that I should go back to Siam. All the bitterness I suffered there may be good for me in the future, as it might serve me as a lesson. Besides, I am really bored with my studies. I’ll be twenty-seven this year. I feel I am too old to study.”
“Doesn’t it sadden you,” the ambassador asked as he reclined on his lounge, “that you came to study for nothing and end up with no degree or distinction of any kind? Journalism seems rather useless in Siam right now.”
“But it can be very useful to me, sir,” I retorted promptly. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never felt sorry for not having studied law or other subjects. In fact, I am glad about it, because I believe there’s no better subject than journalism for the future course of my life.”
There was a pause, then the ambassador said: “Are you sure you want to go back home and give up your studies?”
“My mind is made up, sir.”
“Then, I shall report your request for His Majesty’s gracious permission.”
“Regarding my journey back home, sir, I’d like to be allowed to travel with Sir Percival Humphreys. He guarantees that he will take care of me all the way to Singapore.”
“That’s fine. I have no objection, and I shall defray Sir Percival of your travel expenses.”
His Excellency Wichit, who, like other Siamese ambassadors, had among his main duties that of looking after the welfare of every student under his purview, had seen many cases of failure, some of which were too sad to be expressed in words. He had hardened his heart and, in the face of sorrows of all kind, was able to maintain a benevolent smile. As to the question of whether he felt anything for the unfortunate, I believe that in his heart of hearts, His Excellency Wichit did have some pity for them.
I thanked him, took my leave and went downstairs. As I was walking down the steps, I heard someone playing one of Irving Berlin’s beautiful compositions on a piano. The player had much talent because the melody was clear, mellow and pleasant to the ear.

2

As I stood at the gate before I left the embassy, I hesitated. I was curious to know who was playing. So, I tiptoed back to the sitting room. When I saw who it was, I was stupefied, because the person I was looking at was Jurai! She stood up to welcome me and we shook hands. She then asked me teasingly: “Did you come to tell me to stop playing? Maybe I play too loud for you?”
“Not at all, Jurai,” I replied with a smile. “I’d like to hear you play one more time because I may not have another opportunity to hear you again.”
“How’s that?” she asked, perplexed.
“I’m going back home,” I answered, “I’m about to return to Siam.”
“Your eyes are giving you a lot of trouble, aren’t they, Bobby?” she asked while looking at me in a bashful and pitiful way. “I feel very sorry for you. Those of us who are here will miss you very much when you are gone.”
“Thanks very much for your kind feelings towards me, Jurai. You really make me glad and pleased,” I said. “Let’s sit over there.”
We went to sit beside each other on a sofa, under the portrait of the current Thai monarch.
“Don’t you ever think of going back to Siam?” I asked her.
“I think you are very fortunate to go back,” she said slowly. “Though you haven’t been able to complete your studies, you are very learned and experienced. I wouldn’t mind being like you.”
“So, you want to go back too?” I asked. “Didn’t you tell me once you preferred life in America?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Bobby,” she answered. “I’ve been here so long I feel bored too, you know. Sometimes, I meet some good people who come from Siam. You make me think of Siam very much. You make me believe that there are lots of good people like you in Siam.”
“I’m not a lucky man, Jurai,” I pointed out. “I’ve been unlucky since I was born and I think I’ll be unlucky until I die. You think I’m very fortunate because you don’t know the story of my life. Right? I won’t tell it to you because it’s too long and sad and I don’t want to bore you.” I paused for a moment, then added: “I didn’t finish my studies, and since I’m going back empty-handed, I may be in trouble. It’ll be very difficult for me to find a job.”
“I’m confident that if we have knowledge and dedication, even with nothing to prove our qualifications, no one can push us down. You work hard and know a lot, so I’m sure you’ll go far.”
“I’d like everyone in Siam to think like you: it would give me a chance.”
“Do you feel very lonely, Bobby?” she asked.
“A little bit, Jurai,” I answered. “Come to think of it, we’ve never gone out together since we met. How about going out for dinner and to the theatre with me tonight?”
“The theatre is too expensive, don’t you think?” she protested. “I like movies better. Besides, they are cheaper.”
“I can’t watch movies, Jurai,” I replied. “My eyes aren’t good enough yet. Let’s go and watch a play. My treat.”
“All right, Bobby. Come and pick me up at seven tonight,” she said. “We must have a good time: arrange a good evening for us.”
I stayed in Washington for a week and went out with Jurai almost every day, until Polly, Sir Percival’s daughter, came to take me back to the house in New York.

3

I travelled to various states in America for several more months. Lindbergh, the aviator who flew across the Atlantic Ocean, received a rousing welcome in France and in England and another when he returned to San Francisco. In Hollywood, throngs turned up to greet this shy, gentle and well-behaved pilot, who was the first man to fly solo across the Atlantic. When he went to New York City, I had the good luck to witness the fabulous reception he was given. Apart from Lindbergh, there was Chamberlain, Captain Bird, Miss Ruth Elder and other pilots who flew across the Pacific Ocean as part of a competition sponsored by the Hawaiian pineapple tycoon, Dole.
Finally, the day when we had to leave for Japan came. Sir Percival had worked out a very appropriate programme. Maria Grey was coming with us on the ship: her assistant editor had assigned her to cover events in Japan. Therefore, the whole lot of us was on board the Shinyo-maru, except for Lady Percival, who had to stay behind to look after the main store in Boston.
When the ship left the port of New York, there were no Thai people to see me off. Jurai was busy with her studies at the university. I thought of her as my younger sister. She was the first Thai woman abroad I had ever gone out with, and she would be the last.
The ship arrived in Hawaii six days later. She stopped there for eight hours and we had a great time sightseeing. Then the ship left Hawaii and headed for Yokohama in Japan. The Shinyo-maru plied quiet waters for ten days, during which we enjoyed ourselves eating Chinese, Western and Japanese dishes. Many Japanese and Chinese we met on board invited us to stay at their homes in Japan.
As for Maria and me, the day and time when we would part forever was drawing inexorably near. My heart seemed to be torn into pieces with every passing minute, and no single minute could lessen the true love we had for each other. Every heartbeat brought back to us the memory of things past – the happiness we had shared, the paradise in which we had lived, loved and commingled. No one on board realized we were about to be parted from each other. Maria fully understood my real situation and why I could not marry her. O God in Heaven, may you bring happiness to my Maria, may you bring her absolute and everlasting happiness after she departs from me. Let me receive all the blame for whatever sin we committed together, if she ever was able to commit sin at all. Maria! Maria! Maria, my life companion! Is there anyone in the whole universe who could love Maria as much as I do?
The ship arrived at Yokohama. We went to stay at the Grand Hotel, the only hotel that had been rebuilt since the earthquake.
We stayed in Yokohama for two days, going to various shops to see antiques, and then travelled to Tokyo, which was only thirty minutes away by express train. The capital city of Japan is situated very close to the sea. Though several years had passed since the great earthquake, evidence of destruction could still be seen everywhere in Japan. All along the way from Yokohama to Tokyo, roads and buildings big and small which had once been beautifully adorned were still in a pitiful state of disrepair. It was said that in Japan an earthquake happened on average once a week at one place or another. This I believe to be true, because while I was staying at the Imperial Hotel, a slight tremor occurred at about five in the morning. It made the chandelier in the bedroom sway, cut off the electricity and damaged the water pipes, which resulted in having no water to wash our faces with for approximately six hours.
I was very surprised to see crowds of Japanese walking in the middle of the streets and refusing to give way to cars. They walked slowly, and the streets were packed with them. Honking away had little effect. Before they could proceed, cars had to wait until the people had passed. Sir Percival explained to me that the destruction and hardship brought in the wake of repeated earthquakes had made the people impassive and fearless of any danger.
During my years abroad, I had met several Japanese, and all of them had nerves of steel. No emergency, however serious, could move them. When they were in England, France or any other country far away from home, they would receive telegrams informing them that an earthquake in Japan had destroyed their houses and killed their wives. One of my Japanese friends once handed me one such telegram impassevely.
“We – I mean all of us Japanese – are used to events of this kind,” my friend explained. “We can’t tell what fate has in store for us. I’ll go back to Japan, find a new house, a new wife and a new job, and start all over again. That’s the way it’s always been for us.”
I had always been curious to find out what it was that made Japan the most developed and powerful country in the East, how it was that its military power and political ability had earned the respect of other powerful nations, that no one dared to interfere with her or speak of her offensively, and that no other nation could harass or take advantage of her. I found the answers to these questions as soon as I arrived in Japan.
The status, way of life and character of the Japanese in the East can be compared to the status, way of life and character of the English in Europe. Japan is the England of the East. Though they must find their food outside of their national boundaries, both Japan and England have iron and coal, on which they have based their national progress. Both have had to live in isolation on their islands for thousands of years, which has nurtured in their people their notorious endurance, as they had to always be prepared to defend their little countries against their enemies. In terms of state-to-state relations, frankly speaking, no nation likes Japan or England, and these two have no love lost for other nations either. The Japanese and the English are islanders too selfish and narcissistic to love other people. This is an undeniable fact.
I travelled to other cities in Japan with Sir Percival and Polly for about three weeks before going back to Tokyo to meet Maria Grey.


23

Goodbye my darling

1

“Bobby, Sir Percival will stay here for one month and then go to Shanghai,” Maria said to me at the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo. “Are you going to stay with him here?”
“I am Sir Percival’s guest, Maria,” I replied and put my hands on her shoulders. “So, I feel I must stay here until he goes to Shanghai. Why are you asking, my darling?”
“I’ve been instructed to go to Shanghai next Friday,” she said sadly as she took my hands in hers. “I’d like you to go with me so we can go to Peking together. You’ll meet Arnold and Jack Parker there as well.”
“Maria, it won’t be long now before we have to separate,” I reminded her, “and maybe we will never meet again.”
At that time, we sat on the study’s veranda at the Imperial. The hotel was built in Mexican style. It could withstand any earthquake. Maria sat on a sofa by a bay window which opened onto the lawn and flower garden at the back of the hotel. I sat on one arm of the sofa, my arm around her shoulders. She raised her beautiful white face to look at me with sadness in her eyes. She gazed at me for a while and tears started to run down her cheeks. Of such scenes was my private life made during my foreign vagrancy. I believe it must be the same for most Thai students abroad, except that it must be difficult for them to find a woman with a heart like Maria’s.
As she kept gazing at my face, I bent down and covered her lips, cheeks, eyebrows and all of her face with kisses.
“Where there’s a will there’s a way, Bobby, my love, my most precious darling,” she said, speaking with a faint voice. “We must separate, but we won’t be parted forever, Bobby. God, the world, life itself can’t be so cruel to us. We’ll certainly meet each other again, to love and stay together like this. Maybe you’ll get bored in Siam after a while and want to meet us again and go back to the journalistic life you used to enjoy so much, Bobby.” She drew my head closer to hers. “If one day you decide to come back and stay and work with us but have no money, please write to me or Arnold at the club. We’ll find the money for your travel expenses and send it to you. We need you and will always need you.”
“‘Where there is a will there is a way’,” I said distractedly. “I will try to remember these words, and hope – hope I can see you again...”
“Bobby,” she said beseechingly, “come to Shanghai with me. We’ll travel to Peking together. You can tell Sir Percival to meet you in Shanghai when you are back from Peking. I don’t want to travel alone.”
“There is an express ship from Yokohama to Shanghai. It takes only twenty-eight hours, Maria...”
“That’s right,” she interrupted. “It’ll be fun to travel together. Before you go back to Siam, I want to see you, to stay with you as much as possible. This way, we’ll say goodbye and separate in Shanghai. Bobby, I think it’s better for us to part in Shanghai than in Tokyo. I want you to come with me.”

2

The next morning, I went to talk to Sir Percival Humphreys about going to Shanghai with Maria. At first, he objected, but after I explained my reasons, it was agreed. For the first time since I had started to travel with Sir Percival and Polly, I realized how much these two dear people needed me. Since I had undergone eye surgery, we had never been away from one another for longer than a week. We had been together all the time in Japan, which made our travelling all the more enjoyable.
“We’ll go to Shanghai three weeks from now, Bobby,” Sir Percival, my dear friend, explained. “We are sure we’ll meet you when we arrive there. Meanwhile, visit Peking and other places with your newspaper friends so that you have plenty to tell us.”
“Wouldn’t you like to go to China with us, Polly?” I asked.
“Now, really, Bobby,” Polly said with a mocking laugh, “I’m sure you need no chaperone. Besides, Dad wouldn’t be able to stand being in Japan alone. Let’s meet again in Shanghai in three weeks’ time.”
“Bobby,” Sir Percival warned me teasingly, “don’t take Maria to Bangkok with you, or else you’ll be in a pickle.”
“I couldn’t do that. No way,” I answered. “But I believe I’ll meet Maria again in some foreign country such as Italy or England. I’ll try to save as much as I can. Where there is a will there is a way.”
“Tomorrow, we’ll hold a dinner party to bid you and Maria goodbye,” Sir Percival said. “We have a souvenir for you. Do you remember our discussion about white elephants being as white as cotton and you swore there was no such thing? Well, tomorrow, Polly and I will bring you one and we’ll force you to take it aboard your ship to Shanghai and on to Siam as well. What do you say?”
“I’ll be very glad to take it with me to Siam.”
On the following night, Sir Percival held a farewell dinner party for Maria and me at the Imperial Hotel. Several wealthy European and Japanese businessmen came to join us. There were toasts to our departure, much bursting of crackers, and amusing speeches. Before the party ended, I saw Sir Percival place a polished wooden box on the table. He opened it, took out the cotton that covered the top, then asked Polly over. She pulled a cotton-white elephant out of the box and handed it to me. The elephant, made by a Japanese craftsman, was impressively true to life and made a perfect souvenir. Its beautiful, white body stood on an ebony pedestal which was engraved with the words, ‘To Bobby, our dearest friend in Tokyo’. All the people sitting around the table signed their names on it as a token of their friendship. What a touching idea! I keep the white elephant on my desk at home, and I shall keep it forever as the most invaluable souvenir I have ever had.
I stood up and made a speech to thank every one who had made me the honour of coming to the party. Then we went into Sir Percival’s private rooms to dance until two in the morning the next day, which is when the party came to an end.
I am a Thai citizen, but strangely enough, when I arrived in Japan the Thai embassy would not meet me or assist me in any way. His Excellency Jamnong, who was the ambassador at the time, did not want me to have any dealing whatsoever with the embassy and closed its doors on me. He did not want to meet me, as if I were a Thai in exile. In fact, I did not want any private assistance from him. If I had to go to the embassy, it was to report my presence and have my passport stamped. I learned from those who lived in Japan that His Excellency behaved in the same way with all ordinary Thai students who passed by Japan. So, I was not surprised at all when it happened.
There are many kinds of people in the world. I am a journalist and His Excellency Jamnong is an ambassador. As is generally understood, the duty of an ambassador is to act as a representative of his government and see to the wellbeing of fellow countrymen who happen to travel abroad. I hope His Excellency Jamnong was doing a good job as a representative of the Siamese government, but he could not bring himself to do his duty of assisting the students who came to Japan. He was too narrow-minded to think of other people, even though these people were young Thai students in a strange land. Since then, His Excellency Jamnong has been promoted to the post of ambassador in Italy. I wish him a long life so that he can finally come to perform all of the duties of his charge. I have travelled to nearly every country in the world and come to love and respect all of the Thai ambassadors, but in the case of His Excellency Jamnong, I cannot but feel sorry for him.

3

Maria and I left Kobe by the Hagoni-maru, an express passenger ship linking Kobe and Shanghai in a mere twenty-eight hours. At the port of Shanghai, several journalists came to pick us up, Arnold and Jack Parker among them. My adventures in China could fill another book. I have neither space nor time to tell them thoroughly, but I would like you to understand that I went back to working as a journalist once again, travelling about China from Peking to Shanghai, Hong Kong and beyond. Though I had to face danger time and again, I was happy and felt that nothing could compare with such a life. It reminded me of the good old days, of the times when I was working in England, travelling to various countries, spending my life in the company of people from different lands speaking different languages, as well as among friends from the press. Since I had to go back home soon, I decided to take this chance to travel and work for the last time. I did not believe I would have such an opportunity again once I was back in Siam. At that time, I was crazy enough to purchase happiness in China with my own life and strength and with every coin in my pocket. That I did go back to Siam in one piece was a blessing.
Peking was a strange city. Though there was hardship in every nook and cranny, Peking still provided adventurers like us with plenty of time and places to enjoy ourselves. Wherever we walked, we saw the crippled and the starving staggering about and sleeping rough. Every now and then, there would be a fierce outburst of gunfire. Most local people hated foreigners, and if by accident we found ourselves among locals, we had little hope of coming out alive. We were asked to stay in specific areas for our own safety but, in the spirit of true adventurers, we would sneak out and mix among local crowds almost every night. Sometimes, we disappeared for three or four nights. I would leave Maria at Mr Ronald Smiles’ house, which was next to the British consulate, and go out with Arnold and Jack Parker. I went out so often that Maria would worry herself sick about the dangers I faced.
Both outside and inside Peking, we witnessed the most ferocious and barbaric scenes. No newspaper could truthfully report the news to the public. The dispatches appearing on the pages of European and American newspapers were innocuous, not to say fanciful. What the Chinese did to foreigners and what some groups of foreigners did to the Chinese was beyond the ability of newspapers to report, which meant that no one knew the truth, except those who saw it with their own eyes.
I hunted for news in Peking for two weeks, and because I was exposed to danger almost every day and unable to eat or sleep at regular hours, I fell ill, and my symptoms got worse every day. The doctor attached to the American sector told me that I had a heart condition which I was not strong enough to fight and which would require a long treatment. Since Peking was in a state of war and goods were in short supply, it would be more convenient for me to find my way to a nursing home in Shanghai. Though I was ill, I left Peking for Shanghai with Arnold and Maria, and with much daredevilry and perseverance, we finally reached Shanghai.
The nursing home or St Peter Private Hospital on Lingwell Road was a small building painted in grey, and it had good doctors and nurses. Arnold and Maria took turns visiting me every day.
“Did you know, Bobby, that Arnold is about to get married?” Maria said to me one day. “They met in Peking. Her name is June Fraser. She’ll be coming here to Shanghai to marry him.”
“Arnold told me, Maria,” I replied. “But how about you, my darling? When are you going to get married?”
She paused for a while and then answered bitterly: “I will, Bobby. I suppose I’ll get married eventually when I’m ready. Right now, I feel like my love is dead.”
I was still lying sick in bed. When I looked up, I saw that she was weeping. I closed my eyes and turned my head away. The day and time of our separation had almost come.

4

Sir Percival and Polly arrived in Shanghai while I was still at the nursing home. They came to visit me together with Maria and Arnold. As soon as they arrived, Polly undertook to feed me an ice cream. Our brother-and-sister relationship was as close as ever.
“Bobby, if we had known you were going to be so ill, we wouldn’t have allowed you to leave before us,” she said. Turning to Maria, she added: “Maria, you should feel guilty for taking Bobby away from us.”
Maria laughed and replied: “And you, Polly, should feel guilty for allowing him to come.”
“We’ll leave for India the day after tomorrow,” Sir Percival said. “Bobby, I don’t suppose you’ll have recovered by then, will you?”
“Bobby must stay in the nursing home for at least another week,” Maria replied. “Don’t wait, Sir Percival. Arnold and I will take care of Bobby to the best of our abilities.”
“Will you now, Maria?” Sir Percival asked teasingly.
“We will, Sir Percival,” she replied.
“We shall meet again, Bobby,” Sir Percival said to me. “I’ll come to Siam some day, and sooner or later you’ll go abroad as well. So, we are bound to meet each other again.”
“Definitely, Percy.”
Two days later, both dear friends of mine started off on their journey on a Japanese ship. Arnold and Maria left me to go and see Sir Percival and Polly off. I was alone in the room, feeling lonely, worried and sad. I thought of what Sir Percival had said to me: “We shall meet again. I’ll come to Siam some day, and sooner or later you’ll go abroad as well. So, we are bound to meet each other again.”
I recovered. Three days after I was discharged from the nursing home, I was enlisted as best man, and Maria as bridesmaid, at the wedding of Miss June Fraser and Mr Arnold Berington. The ringing of the bells in St Peter’s Church resounded all over Shanghai. With a heavy heart, I gazed at the young couple as they stood in front of a portly priest. Why on earth hadn’t Maria married Arnold? Arnold was the best man of my age I had known in my whole life. If Maria married someone like him, she would find great happiness – as I was sure she would eventually.
The day when Maria and I had to part from each other finally arrived. Maria was being assigned to the New York office, whereas I was going back to Siam. Our farewell was unbearably sad.
The night before the President Taft, which would take Maria to America via Japan, left Shanghai, we – Maria and I – stayed at the Astor Hotel. Before we went to sleep, we sat on the same sofa in the sitting room, which was on the upper floor. That night, the air was damp. Looking out of the open window in front of us, we could see nothing but darkness. We deplored our destiny and talked of our love for each other and trust in the purity of each other’s love. Though it had met with obstacles on occasion, our love was still smooth and growing, pure and full of sweetness. Although we had to separate without knowing if we would ever see each other again in this life, our love would remain embedded forever in our memory.
The following morning, the President Taft left the port taking my beloved away. I went on board to say goodbye and we exchanged the sweetest and saddest kisses of love and loss. A bell rang, warning those who had come on board to see their relatives and friends off that it was time to leave the ship. Our hearts were pounding and throbbing harder and harder.
“Goodbye, my darling,” I said with a trembling voice. “Goodbye, Maria.”
“Goodbye, Bobby,” she replied. “Goodbye, my darling, my beloved. I love you, Bobby, and I will love you till the day I die.”
“Goodbye, Maria,” I said and stepped back in order to go down the gangway. “Goodbye, my darling. I love you, and always will.”
I hurried to leave the ship because the crew was urging us to do so. I looked at the ship, which was beginning to move away. Maria stood on the deck, waving her handkerchief. I waved back. Such was our last farewell.
Two days later, I took the Hagosaki-maru back to Siam via Hong Kong and Singapore, where I disembarked and caught the Delhi heading for Bangkok.


24

The end of the circus

1

Though I had gone abroad to study law, I did not take the examinations, thus did not graduate from the London bar. I returned to Siam as someone who had lost all hope of happiness and comfort in life. I had no inclination to undertake anything of import. I had no diligence, no patience and no interest in any aspect of life, as if I had drowned in an abyss of destruction. In fact, I did not believe I had what it took to keep on living in this world. As I stated at the beginning of this story, as a child I liked to ponder and dream and had great expectations. Now, I still like to ponder and dream, and still wish for a better life. So long as there is hope, I will keep on dreaming and expecting, but if there is no way to struggle further, I will turn to face the ruins of my life like a dog at bay, and I will be defeated and lose everything, including my wretched life.
I have never felt sorry in any way for not liking law or failing to learn it, because I learned journalism instead, watched and shared the life of the big circus, travelled to distant corners of the earth and saw more than almost any other Thai student who has ever gone abroad. All of this has helped me and taught me to stand on my feet and depend on my own ability and determination to carry on living and competing with others. All of this has helped me and taught me to cherish life, my reputation and my honour and, most important, to love the nation. During my travels to various countries, never did I feel, even for a second, that other nations were better than ours. True, their development and progress in scientific fields are far superior to ours, because we lack the gifts and opportunities they have, but the freedom and happiness we enjoy, the fact that we are no one’s slaves, show the true ability of the Thai people. Just take a look, my dear readers, at our neighbours, India, Burma, Cambodia or Vietnam.
I am plain Mr Wisoot, an ordinary Thai citizen whose life is steeped in uncertainty and extreme danger. Nevertheless, I still entertain the hope of making myself useful, both to the nation and to the Chakri dynasty, which has helped the Thai nation remain free, happy and united to this day.
During the six years I spent overseas, Siam has not changed much. Everything is as I remember it; Siam is still Siam. There are still many problems that need our contribution to be straightened out. Siam still needs plenty of knowledgeable and capable Thai people. With this in mind, I should not feel too discouraged. If some day I can display my knowledge and good intentions, I will take that opportunity to be of service to the Thai nation and to her people. The castles I once built in the air may finally take shape – who knows? Siam needs all the good people she can get.



2

During the past six years, much has changed at home – in the house of my late father, Marquess Wiseit Suphalak. The compound and the house itself were redecorated so luxuriously that I almost could not recognize them. My mother’s hair, which had begun to turn grey before I went abroad, is now completely white, and her cheeks are sunken. Old age has clearly taken hold of her, but she is uncomplaining and remains good-natured, level-headed and lovely. Most of my siblings, who were once children and youngsters, are now adults, married and have children of their own.
My brothers and sisters took me to stay at the house where my father used to live. I get along with them well. This is a great advantage of journalism, which has taught me how to get along with people and thus made me able to follow my siblings everywhere and do everything they do. The only difference is that all of them are wealthy, with fat bank accounts, buildings, homes and cars to their names, whereas I am poor and must think twice before I spend a dime so that I can live on to the next day. I do not feel hurt, however, because I am rich in experience, having seen much of the beauties of the world, and am genuinely able to smile at the injustice and hold my peace.
Up to this day, I remain unable to answer the question of why my father declared me unruly, unworthy and despicable ever since I was born. He thought I would study to no purpose, so left me no money to pay for my tuition and deprived me of the opportunities and facilities to which I, as one of his sons, was entitled. This being the case, is it fair to say that everything that has happened is my own fault? But then, my dear readers, it is often said that there is no justice in this world. Even in the law itself, justice is hard to find. I was born unlucky, and so must take bitter medicine till the day I die.
My dear young fellow countrymen, you will have your own children in due time, and they will be of great service to the nation if you teach them from an early age to be good people. Speaking as a well-intentioned friend, I would implore you to be fair-minded enough to give the less fortunate or ill-fated among them the chances they deserve as your children. They may not be handsome or well-behaved, but they cannot help it, and at least should be pitied. It is your duty to extend appropriate assistance to them. I do not want you to show preference for one child over another, because this kind of attitude will condition your children’s entire lives and, for the more sensitive among them, it may turn out to be disastrous.
As I stated from the beginning, I love and admire capable people. My father was one of the most capable persons in Siam, and I still love and admire him and take great pride in what he achieved. Though I had to write about some private matters in his life as they related to mine, I did not do so out of malice. I have no intention to befoul all the good that he did. For all my love and admiration for my father, I also feel compassion for the little children, who will take over from us one day. Some of these children may suffer the same fate as me, but how many of them will have the opportunity to be journalists and see the world as I did? Furthermore, apart from me, who could write The circus of life? I have written this book for the sake of the Thai nation and of her people, whom I love and wish to be happy.

3

To answer her letter of invitation, I went to visit Lamjuan, First Lieutenant Kamon Jitpreedee’s wife, at their house on Prajaejeen Road. She and her two little children came out to welcome me on the front lawn. She had been married for nearly seven years, but the time that had passed only made her look younger and more beautiful. Her face was radiant; her complexion, fair. She wore her hair shingle-style and wavy on top, and her eyes had the old enticing glint. I was surprised to see her dressed all in black, and wondered whether her father or mother had passed away.
“Well, well, Brother Wisoot, I thought you’d never come and visit us,” she said with a sweet smile. She pointed at her children: “Your niece and nephew, my dear.”
“Sawai,” she called her daughter, “pay respect to your uncle. Come on, and let him hold you.”
The little girl did so immediately. I held her in my arms for a while, and then did the same with the boy.
“Please go inside,” Lamjuan said, and I followed her. Before we entered the house, we met Lord and Lady Banlue. Since it was not for her parents, I wondered for who she was in mourning.
I talked with Lord and Lady Banlue in the sitting room for a while. Then, His Lordship told his daughter: “Lamjuan, take Wisoot to see Kamon.”
Lamjuan took me upstairs. I was a little puzzled, wondering why Kamon did not come down to see me. We entered a large hall and I was shocked to see a coffin on a platform, surrounded by all sorts of offerings. Lamjuan was in black for First Lieutenant Kamon Jitpreedee! She was mourning the death of her own husband! Alas! At such a tender age!
On second thoughts, the death of First Lieutenant Kamon did not seem to affect her very much. I knew that nearly seven years of married life had taught her much and turned her into a modern woman. What exactly a modern woman was, I think only she knew. Though she already had two children, she was still beautiful and smart, and men were attracted to her. The rumour was that she would marry again before long. Life isn’t so terrible after all, wouldn’t you agree, my dear readers?
The circus of my life ends with the death of First Lieutenant Kamon. As for myself, I may keep on drifting. No particular direction offers any meaning, especially in how to carry out my life. The past is past, and I must forget the circus of life. Something new is about to start, and I hope it is not as grievously sad as what has just ended.



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Postscript



Published in 1929, The circus of life (Lakhorn Haeng Cheewit) is the first important Thai novel, dominating the pre-1932* literary scene. Today, its quality lies first in its classic craftsmanship: twenty-four chapters of equal length, each subdivided into three or four sections, with skilful narrative, description and dialogue – as if the author had subscribed to some mail order course on “how to write a publishable novel”! It lies also in its fast pace and lively tone, at once elegiac (“overly romantic” to some**) and enchantingly naive, to the point of unselfconsciously carrying some of the racial prejudices of the time; in the full-blooded life of its characters, who are given equal treatment, whether they are foreign or Thai; in its modern themes of alienation, absurdity and injustice in life; and finally in its language, which is astonishingly modern, simple and direct, although conservative Thai critics to whom the only decent prose is the flowery courtly style of yore consider it “nondescript”* and dismiss its “awkward English-Thai structure”**.
Sixty-five years ago, this pioneering work of fiction created a sensation, mostly for other reasons.
The novel as a genre had come to Siam from the West a generation earlier in often fanciful translations of usually mediocre bestsellers. Since its first recorded trace in the late 13th century till the beginning of the 20th century, Thai literary tradition was predominantly courtly, poetic, baroque and mythical. Western fiction was another world altogether. The first genuine Thai novels appeared in the early 1920s, but The circus of life is the only accomplished work in this period.*** Although two main novelists – social and political activist and commoner journalist “Seeboorapha” and aristocratic and moralizing female romance writer “Dorkmai Sot” – started publishing at about the same time, they only came into their own in the 1930s.****
The author, Arkartdamkeung Rapheephat – Arkart for short – was a 24-year-old Thai aristocrat just returned from Paradise (Europe and the United States). His dead father, known as the “Father of the Thai law”, had been a top official of the kingdom. Basking in controversial glory for a while after the publication of his masterpiece, Prince Arkart fled from gambling debts to Hong Kong and took his own life two years later.
The circus of life, his first novel, was an immediate and unprecedented success. There were three main reasons. It was scandalous; it crystallized the concerns of the time, both those that were openly discussed and those that were hidden in the collective psyche; and it was an early literary masterpiece of western craftsmanship, both disconcerting and fascinating to literary circles used to entirely different standards.
Scandalous: the novel was widely perceived as a thinly disguised autobiography and an unseemly attack by the author on his own kin. For the first time, a scion of the aristocracy appeared to be washing dirty family linen in public and to point an accusing finger at the head of his family, absolute no-nos in those autocratic days. Except for a growing but still slim body of short stories, there was precious little tradition of realistic fiction in Siam then. The only biographies published were eulogies. The Sapphic exercise called autobiography was unknown. As if this state of affairs wasn’t challenging enough, the author of The circus of life deliberately, perversely, blurred the line between fact and fiction. For all his subsequent denials, Arkart set about confusing the reader into thinking his fiction was a faithful rendition of reality. He used at least three devices to achieve this. The novel is dedicated to “Maria Vanzini, the beloved friend for life of the author” and the plot revolves around Maria Grey. A photograph of Maria Vanzini is featured in every edition, including the very first two that Arkart supervised. A buxom woman with a slightly horsy profile, Maria Vanzini looks much older than the early twenties Arkart gives Maria Grey. Yet, the gimmick encourages readers to identify Maria Vanzini with Maria Grey. Similarly, through much of the book, Maria encourages Wisoot to write The circus of life, which is being written by Arkart himself, thus prompting readers to equate Wisoot with Arkart. Furthermore, in a daring bit of reportage fiction long before the genre was invented, the Thai ambassadors in Paris, London, Washington and Tokyo whom Arkart names and enrols as characters in his novel were very much real people. Literary artifice? Indeed, but what were Thai readers supposed to make of it?*
Facing furious flack, Arkart awkwardly denied the autobiographical nature of his work.** In the preface to his next and last novel, Yellow skin white skin***, which was published the following year, he stated that he met Maria Vanzini in the US, that they travelled together back to Asia, but that she was not Maria Grey, merely a distant model. Wisoot, in the same novel, informed readers that, since their final separation two years earlier, Maria Grey was happily married to a German diplomat and the mother of a two-month-old son.
Another reason for public interest was that here, at last, was a novel written by a Thai about the world at large. Since the 1880s, Siam had opened up to the world and undertaken to modernize herself, welcoming western missionaries and advisers and sending the best and the brightest of her youths abroad to learn the white man’s ways. For two generations, going to England, France, Switzerland or more recently the United States had been for the crust of the Siamese elite a pilgrimage to the promised land: one dip in the “pond” of gold (no mere pot of gold for the Thai!) at the end of the rainbow and you returned honoured and wealthy till your dying day. To every official who had ever studied abroad, to every student rearing to go, to all the readers who had been fed with western fiction and wanted to know more, reading The circus of life was a must.
The first edition of 2,000 copies, luxuriously produced and priced at a very hefty Baht 3.5 per copy, was sold within months. A cheaper, yet still very expensive (B2) edition of 2,000 copies was similarly grabbed up in the following months.* Remarkably, within one year of publication, the novel seems to have reached the entire readership of Siam at the time, which is to say the entire elite of an autocratic, rice-growing country in the throes of modernization: the aristocracy, the nobility and the budding middle class – a fringe of the populace which, through Buddhist temple schools and thanks to royal grants, had begun to have access to higher education. Reprinted more than twenty times since then, this rare classic, which is part of Thai students’ required reading, has sold well over one hundred thousand copies.
The immediate appeal of the novel – then as now – is its exceptional scope: for Wisoot as for Arkart, both readers of Shakespeare, “all the world’s a stage” – in both senses of the expression. Wisoot is not just a foreign student who comes back with experience of a given country: he has gone everywhere, he has seen it all – White Russians in the East End, mobs in front of the French parliament, the Big Three gathering for a world peace agreement in Switzerland, Lindbergh returning home after his first trans-Atlantic solo flight to Europe, the aftermath of a big earthquake in Japan, the civil war in China. The circus of life brings yesterday’s headlines back to life and provides insights into the world, using vivid postcard scenery as a backdrop.
Among the pioneers of the Thai novel, Arkartdamkeung Rapheephat is the only one with an international perspective, looking at Siamese society from the outside, and at the world as a curious, thrilled and at times naive bystander. The author, however, never waxes too lyrical over the Thai students’ “paradise on earth” and carefully points out some of the West’s social failings. Today’s western readers may enjoy the nostalgic charge of these postcard views of the world of our grandparents, and smile at the author’s occasionally clumsy name-dropping, but to the Thai readers of the time, these glimpses of the world beyond their world were momentous. And doubly so: here was a love story (and a very proper one at that) involving a Thai and a foreigner and swiftly told by a Thai writer, not just another translated foreign work as had been the fare until then. The exotic flavour of this sad, abortive romance had tremendous popular appeal, and inspired a long line of so-called exotic novels. Besides, the narrator-hero was emblematic of the modern figure of the journalist–novelist: fiction had come to Siam as a natural adjunct of the press after an American medical doctor and evangelist, Dan Beach Bradley, introduced the printing press as early as 1835. For better and for worse, fact-finding journalism and fiction grew together in the land. Most Thai novelists learned how to write in newspapers, and their works, then as now, are usually first serialized in weeklies or monthlies before being published in book form.
Although not an outright political novel, The circus of life denounced the evils of polygamy, arranged marriage and interracial marriage – by far the dominant bones of contention among the young generation then and prevailing themes in Thai literature for years to come. Chulalongkorn (ju.lar.long.korn, Rama V), who had died in 1910, was the last polygamous king, and monogamy was the name of the game at the court of the new king, Vajiravudh (wa.chi.rar.wut). Of course, the new rule was much broken. After 1932, harems in palaces went out of fashion but, if anything, the practice of keeping minor wives (in separate abodes) has been flourishing as wealth has spread among the middle classes and males are wont to keep up with at least that Thai tradition – and it is the source of countless dramas, in real life as well as on paper and on screen.
The unconsummated love affair between Wisoot and Maria was a crowd pleaser, totally in tune with the times – not only in Siam but also in the West, where the fear of miscegenation was uppermost in the white man’s brain. Indeed, it was a major theme in much of the gothic novels of the 19th and early 20th centuries.* In Siam, the phobia was gaining ground: ever since the country had started to open up to the world, fear of loss of national and racial identity was worrying national leaders and conservative circles. Courtly literature had turned to histrionics before it became extinct. White foreign missionaries were teaching the elite, white foreign experts advising kings and ministers: this was perceived as a necessary and welcome transfusion of knowledge, but miscegenation was something else altogether. Yet, some scions of the Siamese elite had begun to return from abroad with a white wife in tow, to their parents’ utter dismay and to usually disastrous domestic results. Wisoot’s belief that he must keep Maria at arm’s length under the double claim of poverty and incompatible cultures is shared by such authoritative figures as Lady Moira Dunn and the American, Sir Percival Humphreys. The consensus was universal, based on the racist and nationalist prejudices that gave us two world wars. At the bottom of it was the horror of mixed blood that would damn “our future progeny. Think of the terrible situation of half-caste children in Singapore and Penang!” (p. 249).
The personality of Wisoot flattered and annoyed different segments of the elite – as he was the representative of both, part aristocrat and part plebeian. This is Arkart’s stroke of genius, and it needs some explaining.
Under the Siamese monarchy, princely rank is lost over no more than five* generations: princely titles go from Chao Fa (pr. jao.fa, Crown Prince, child of a king) and Phra Ong Chao (child of a king from a minor wife or grandchild of a king through a Chao Fa) to Mom Chao (morm.jao) or MC, Mom Rachavongse (morm.rar. cha.wong) or MR and finally Mom Luang or ML. The following generations are commoners, yet allowed to flaunt their distant royal origin by adding “na ...”, meaning “From Somewhere”, to their surname – for example, Wisoot Suphalak na Ayutthaya.
By giving his literary alter ego the ambiguous status of a na Ayutthaya, Arkart, himself a Mom Chao, sets him at the end of the royal line but at the front of plebeian ranks – the last of the royal Mohicans, yet a citizen with a difference. Both aristocrats and the educated commoners of the budding middle class could thus identify with him, and his very person embodied the social misgivings that were to foster a revolution three years later.
In childhood, Wisoot develops an acute sense of injustice and fear of neglect resulting in a tremendous inferiority complex laced with masochist tendencies. Neglected (“I knew that I was useless”; “Nobody needed me”), ignored by the man he admires most, his father, Wisoot feels betrayed in his efforts to win his approval – and betrayal follows him all his life: Lamjuan “betrays” him for First Lieutenant Kamon; Pradit, his friend and mentor, ignores him while he lives with Kathleen Miles and “betrays” him by trying to court Maria; Odette, the hired wife, “betrays” him by “dying” on him; and finally, Wisoot is betrayed by himself: his failing health robs him of a career that satisfied his craving for approval.
Basically, Wisoot is a good son – “a good boy”, “a good fellow” – and he will spend his life trying to prove it: his whole venture abroad can be seen as a quest for his dead father’s recognition – and for society’s approval. Wisoot actually starts in his father’s footsteps, going to London to learn law, a strange move for so chagrined a son. He gives up law, however, for the immediate prospects of a career in journalism and finds success – on foreign terms – until his health fails him.
In England as in the United States, he is blessed with a string of surrogate fathers – Captain Andrew, Sir Percival Humphreys, even Edward Bell Benson – who all believe in him, buoy him up as his own father should have done but never did. By showing how these successive father figures are prepared to go out of their way in order to help him, he demonstrates what a good son he could have been if only his father had allowed him to be so – and implicitly condemns his father for his past neglect.
The same is true at the social level. The downtrodden aristocrat and impoverished commoner rolled into one in turn takes his revenge on his own class by exposing its lies and palinodes, inequity and iniquities: a world in which everyone wears a mask, holds nothing sacred and ignores merit and faithfulness. “Give loyal men of merit like me a chance to serve,” Wisoot seems to be saying – along with those bright commoners who, out of the same sense of neglect, inequity and injustice were, three years later, to depose the king as an absolute and arbitrary father figure and put him (ever so respectfully) under constitutional law to ensure that he would provide equity to all of his children – the message hammered literally as well as symbolically throughout the novel. In this sense, The circus of life does forecast the 1932 revolution.
Contrary to his assertion, contrary to the title even, life is not a circus for Wisoot: only the life of the elite he originates from is, and never mind that the slogan is taught him by a fellow journalist and taken up by the whole press corps. Wisoot reserves his sarcasms for Thai aristocrats gone astray. The theme of social interplay as an exercise in make-believe that will be developed in the 1960s by Bunluea Theippayasuwan in Thutiyawiseit to characterize the old and new elite and in the 1980s by Chart Korbjitti in The judgment to stigmatize the whole society is already present, as a seed: “...I was thoroughly bored of having to wear a mask in this social comedy” (p59). Wisoot is not cynical; he is naive and hurt. He is no revolutionary or social satirist, but, at best, a reformer on selected social issues such as equity in education or the selection of students to be sent abroad. His main concern is individualistic: he is ambitious; he wants to be recognized as an outstanding writer. His refusal to marry Maria is underpinned by his pride in being a Thai of the best blood and his faith in king and country – though not religion: he has lost hope and faith in God (“The One Above! ... Was there Someone above this world?”) as he has lost faith and hope in his father. He attends indifferently temple and church services, believing that “all religions which are not mumbo jumbo [an allusion to Hinduism and Animism?] are equally valuable and full of meaning ... by granting us rewards commensurate with the good we do” – merit and reward, again. This gently dismissive agnostic viewpoint leaves him alone in the world, yet he seldom acts as a fully independent and mature man.
As a lover also, he is insecure and in constant need of reassurance. Unlike Pradit, who is pathologically jealous, Wisoot does not feel jealousy, which implies a sense of ownership or domination he simply doesn’t have. What he feels is suspicion – suspicion of the imminent loss of a love that he knows from day one he does not deserve. He doubts Maria’s fidelity in love as soon as she has turned her back and never learns to trust her. His readiness to sacrifice himself for her happiness is less generous than masochistic, linked to his deep-seated conviction that he is unworthy and can’t win: in effect, he is willing his own failure. When Odette and the Hungarian countess boost his ego with their blandishments, his passion for Maria grows noticeably cooler, only to be rekindled emphatically when he is certain Maria and he are soon to be separated forever. He also plays off a woman against another (Odette against Maria, Maria against Jurai) to keep them all at arm’s length; and Odette “dying” on him only confirms the certainty of his own unworthiness.
From what we know of the prince’s brief life, there is a lot of Wisoot in the author.


Arkartdamkeung Rapheephat was a social misfit, a destitute aristocrat who lived in a world of his own, gambled his life away and killed himself at the age of 26.
He was born on 12 November 1905 in Bangkok, the sixth of eleven children and the third of three sons of Phra Ong Chao (His Royal Highness) Rapheephat Thanasak and Mom Orn. His father, an Oxford law graduate, started in 1896 as minister of justice under Rama V at the age of 22 and helped write the body of Thai laws. He became minister of agriculture in 1912. He was also a wealthy landowner, the owner of a rice mill and several sawmills, and reared chickens in the large palace compound at Samsen, by the Chao Phraya river, where the family lived with a host of relatives. At one stage, he imported bicycles into Siam, and was the first to bring in a motor car – a Mercedes-Daimler – in 1904.
Arkart was 13 and in his second year at Assumption School when his parents divorced in 1918. His homely mother, Orn, was discarded by her husband, who accused her of being an inveterate gambler; Orn, for her part, did not take well to her husband’s philandering – he had had yet another daughter with a minor wife of sorts, Mom Daeng. After the divorce, Orn went to live on a durian plantation at Bang Chak, on the Thonburi side of the river, and only Arkart and his youngest sister stayed with her. His father, who was then 44 years old, promptly remarried the 20-year-old, “pretty, smart-looking and clever”* Ra-ang Pramoj [prar.moat], who gave birth to a daughter. For all his wealth and prowess, the handsome prince developed tuberculosis. He went to Paris for treatment and died there in August 1920.
In an unusual move, he left most of his estate to his eldest son, who within a few years ran it into the ground thanks to his lack of commercial sense and passion for horses and gambling. Orn received nothing from the “Father of the Thai Law”. As for Arkart, he did receive a minor share of the inheritance, which, together with a more substantial provision left by his paternal grandfather, eventually allowed him to finance a trip to London in pursuit of an education.
The year her husband died, Orn and her two children moved back to the family compound at Samsen, and in October Arkart entered Theipsirin, a school for children of the aristocracy. At 18, he began contributing articles, and short stories he had translated, to the school magazine.
Intending to study for the bar like his father, Arkart left for England, and arrived in London on 1 September 1924. One month later, “he was sent to stay with a Captain Fraser at Queen’s Cottage, Bexhill-on-Sea, for coaching in English, French and history. He returned to London in February 1925 and continued his studies under a Mr Coumbe; he received private tuition in English and composition from LWT Cooper at St John’s College,”* and left England probably in March 1925 for the United States, after receiving a royal grant to study at Georgetown University, in Washington DC.
What he did in the US, and exactly how long he stayed there, is not known. He later claimed to have been involved in journalism, and his stay was cut short when he developed eye trouble. This led to an operation which left him partially blind for more than a year.
Arkart was back in Siam after less than four years, with no diploma to show for his foreign endeavours. He returned to Bangkok via Japan in 1928 and was briefly employed at the Post Office, which he left under a cloud after substantial amounts of money went missing. He then joined the Ministry of Public Health, and part of his job consisted in checking the work of upcountry officials. This is when he penned his two novels. He also wrote two collections of short stories, Broken daydreams (Wimarn Thalai), which came out in 1931 when he was no longer in Siam, and The whole universe (Khrop Jakkrawahn), which was published after his death.
In January 1931, he fled to Hong Kong, leaving behind substantial debts. An official enquiry into his absence without leave was started, but he was left undisturbed in the British colony. He apparently lived off articles he contributed to the local press and briefly shared a house with a friend before moving to the Cecil Hotel. To acquaintances, he would often claim that he was going to Canton for business transactions, which was understood to mean casinos in Macau. His passion for gambling, a family trait, seems to have been a constant feature of his life since childhood, when he used to keep his mother company on her gambling forays. By all accounts, he became increasingly despondent – “possibly mad”, one consular report suggested.
His decline continued for more than a year, until he was found dead in his hotel room on 14 May 1932. Although word spread back to Bangkok that he had died of malaria, which has long been the official line (another rumour had him drowning to death in Hong Kong Harbour), consular reports at the time stated that he gassed himself to death. According to his youngest sister (the model for the novel’s Little Samruay), he made a similar attempt during his days in London.*
Death haunted him, and with hindsight we find a new, tragic depth to what was more than posturing on paper: “Deep sleep is absolute, which makes me confident that death is the final oblivion, the greatest bliss of all, freeing us from worry about the future. Death is not a serious matter at all: it is merely the absence of reality and consciousness.” (p170) “So long as there is hope, I will keep on dreaming and expecting, but if there is no way to struggle further, I will turn to face the ruins of my life like a dog at bay, and I will be defeated and lose everything, including my wretched life.” (p2572) In the end, Arkart became Wisoot.
Arkart appears to have spent his brief life feeling utterly unloved. According to relatives and friends, he felt that he was neglected by his father (which other siblings deny) and this seems to have nurtured in him an inferiority complex, sense of injustice and fear of neglect, which he projected wholesale onto Wisoot. His father’s treatment of his mother may have also reinforced his sense of being left out. Even before siding with her, he had marginalized himself within the family compound. He also felt financially insecure. Even his trip to Europe to acquire an education was a gamble, and he lost: he came back empty handed, though full of the experiences that would enrich The circus of life.
Despite his tendency to boast and taste for expensive clothes, Prince Arkart apparently never had the trappings of the aristocracy and got on well with the common people. His closest confidante was his nanny, and as a young boy he spent much time with the workers who toiled around the family palace. With relatives and friends, he was withdrawn.
“Poor, not very handsome, with an ordinary, not-so-gentle face” (his beloved sister’s description), Arkart “was rather unfortunate in love”*. According to close relatives, after his return from the US, he fell in love three times, but was spurned twice and broke up the relationship with his fiancée, the 22-year-old daughter of the wealthy aristocrat to whom The circus is also dedicated – “You deserve a much better husband than I could ever be,” he wrote his “Dearest Darling” in English once in Hong Kong. (When her family complained about the cheap engagement ring he had bought her, he replaced it with an extravagant diamond, which he paid for with a cheque that bounced.**)


From what we know of his life, we can see that the author has poured much of himself into his fiction, yet modified his own circumstances to fit his purpose in some telling ways.
As we have seen, to dramatize Wisoot’s plight, he downgraded him from Mom Chao to mere na Ayutthaya. He transferred the passion for gambling from his mother (and eldest brother) to Wisoot’s nanny and forgot that he did get a share of his father’s legacy. As Arkart spent only seven months in England before going to the United States, he could not possibly have shared Wisoot’s journalistic and amorous life during those years in England and mainland Europe. This seems to validate his claim that he only met Maria (Vanzini) in the US, and by inference his other claim that Maria Vanzini was but a distant model for Maria Grey. In other words, he conjured up the Wisoot-Maria romance out of thin air, very much in the manner we are told he was wont to dream up his more meaningful relationships, “as ready to read love in the merest smile or kind word as he was prompt to feel hurt and betrayed when confronted with neglect or real or imaginary wrongs”*.
For all of Arkart’s impressive savoir-faire, The circus of life is not flawless. For the sake of a coherent if still faithful translation, we – translator Phongdeit Jiangphatthanarkit and I, Marcel Barang na Mueang Nork** – have corrected trifling discrepancies as a matter of course, playing the editors Arkartdamkeung Rapheephat never had. For instance, we took out a reference to Alexandria, Cleopatra and Julius Caesar, as Wisoot on board a ship going through the Suez Canal on its way to Port Said could not possibly have “passed” Alexandria, a port on the Mediterranean coast some 200km to the east. Also, using common sense, we opted for “more than a month” hospitalization in England for Wisoot and gratified him with a “cracked skull” for his pains, when the Thai text first tells us that “Before I left England, I was seriously injured and had to be hospitalized for more than two months”, but later has it that “...I had a head wound, dozens of wounds all over my body and both of my arms were sprained. I was confined in hospital for more than a month.” (This tends to show that if like Wisoot he did spend one to two months in hospital in London, depressive Arkart wasn’t there after a car crash.) We ruthlessly demoted Edward Bell Benson, made president of the Press Club on p193, to vice-president status (Wisoot never told us Eddie had been promoted or that Press Club President Ronald Ritston had resigned) but, upon reflection, we decided that he must have been the one and only deputy editor of The London Times, rather than, as the Thai has it, an “assistant editor”, of whom there are several. We grounded Sir Percival’s New York residence firmly at 171 B Avenue, when the Thai version has it shifting between 171 and 127. We partially blinded Wisoot in New York when the Thai version had him rushing to read Maria’s letter before making a show at the port of being blind. Also, we decided his stay in Peking had lasted two weeks, opting for the version on p156 (“I did this [risking my life daily in Peking gathering news among hostile Chinese crowds] for two weeks until I fell ill once again.”) rather than that on p248 (“I hunted for news in Peking for over a week, and ... fell ill.”).
As we failed to contact the author, however, there was nothing we could do about his two most embarrassing boobs. On p155, Wisoot claims that he “went to America and worked for the New York Times and the Boston Gazette, but [he] fell ill. The doctor ... forbade [him] to do any work for at least two years”. This is at odds with the detailed account of his life in America (chapters 19 to 22), which leaves no room for journalistic activities on his part prior to developing eye trouble. Secondly, Nancy Smith’s nonsensical testimony shows in poor light the investigative reflexes of three London Times journalists, Wisoot, Maria and Arnold. Talking of her lover, Murdorf, Nancy tells them: “...and when he’s back, I see this cop running after him. He asks me to help him, so I take him to hide in the bedroom...” She cannot possibly have seen the bobby running after him, because this happened only at the beginning of the chase, in Mayfair, before the car ride to the East End where the cop “spent hours searching the area in vain”. So much, reported by Wisoot, was public knowledge. Murdorf did not have to hide, and in any case, with Nancy and Murdorf living together, what was the point of hiding in the bedroom?
Ah, well, my dear readers, such were the nits we had to pick. Alas! The circus – the circus of translation!


Marcel Barang

Bangkok
31 October 1994



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* This figure for early-1920s Siam is probably understated. The first ever census in Siam, held in 1911, counted 8.3 million citizens. Thailand now has a little more than 60 million inhabitants. (Editor’s note)
** Rama V, Chulalongkorn [pronounced ju.la.long.korn], reigned between 1868 and 1910. (Editor’s note)
* About 50 cm
* Pronounced ‘jak.kree’

* The year 1932, which saw the change from absolute to constitutional monarchy in Siam, marks the birth of modern Thailand.
** Mattani Mojdara Rutnin (mat.ta.nee.moat.dar.ra.rat.nin), in Modern Thai Literature, Thammasat (tham.ma.sart) University Press, Bangkok, 1988
* Mom Luang Bunluea Kunjara (kun.chorn) Theipphayasuwan, an important novelist of the 1960s and the foremost Thai literary critic of her time
** Mattani Mojdara Rutnin, op. cit.
*** Arkart’s good luck was that during his stay in the West he had access to some of the best of the literature of his time, while most of his contemporaries only had second-hand knowledge of second- and third-rate writers – the authors of bestsellers of the Victorian and Edwardian period that history has long forgotten or confined to popular reading.
**** “Dorkmai Sot” [Mom Luang Buppha Nimmarn-haemin) in 1933 with Three men; “Seeboorapha” (Kularp Saipradit) with Behind the picture and The jungle in life, the latter arguably a much better novel than his 1928 Real man or 1932 War of life. For a broad view of Thai literature and detailed background on the evolution of the Thai novel from its origins until today, see the 20 best novels of thailand, Marcel Barang, Thai Modern Classics (A1), Bangkok, 1994, 492p, B250.
* Early Thai authors, with no tradition to refer to, had no qualms about obscuring the difference between reality and fiction (besides pilfering western works, but that’s another topic altogether). In 1945, “Seinee Saowaphong” launched an up-and-down career which saw him publish some of the best and worst of Thai fiction by taking as his pen name the family name of a former girlfriend and giving it as well to the narrator of his first few novels.
** The future dean of Thai literary criticism, Phra Ong Jao Junlajakraphong, then a student in Cambridge, had decreed: “A book must be either an autobiography or a novel. It cannot be both!” It was left to Arkart’s former classmate, commoner “Seeboorapha”, to convincingly plead the case of literary creation as an imaginative recycling of real-life material.
*** Though not quite half its size, Yellow skin white skin (Phiu Lueang Rue Phiu Khao), which came out in 1930, is a lengthy hodge-podge of a postscript to The circus of life. After expounding his view that East and West ne’er shall meet, the author sets out to prove his case with instances of unhappy encounters between “yellow skins” and “white skins” – Asians and Caucasians. We are still in London with Wisoot, at the house of yet another father substitute, steel magnate Mr. Smith. Besides providing a verbose version of his own troubled relationship with Maria Grey, Wisoot records the double debacle of a young Thai prince scorned by one of the Smith daughters who will prefer a blond English officer and of a Rajput princess’s enduring hate of the British after her own doomed infatuation with a young English lad – the occasion for a lengthy history lesson (adapted from an English account duly mentioned) on how the British raped India and particularly the Rajputs. The rest of the novel shifts rapidly to America, Wisoot’s return to Asia and separation from Maria (the parting scene is taken verbatim from The circus of life) and ends with Wisoot’s declaration of loyalty to his king. Although written in the same smooth prose as The circus, Yellow skin is didactic and alternately ponderous and slapdash. The slim book points to the author’s failure to find anything original to say beyond his only masterpiece. Is it farfetched then to assume that Arkart was aware of this and that it may have been yet another factor leading him to commit suicide?
* To get an idea of what the novel, which sells for about B100 in 2003, would cost today, multiply these prices by at least 200.
* See Love and Death in the American Novel, Leslie A. Fiedler, Penguin Books (Peregrine Books), 1984
* The progeny falls one rank whenever the mother is a commoner (addressed as Mom). This can actually reduce the phasing-out process to three generations.
* Orrasom Sutthisarkorn, Lakhorn Cheewit Jao Chai Nak Praphan, Bueang Lang Chark Cheewit Khong Morm Jao Arkartdamkeung Rapheephat, The circus of life of a princely writer, Prince Arkartdamkeung Rapheephat’s life behind the scenes, 1987. Much of the information on Arkart’s life comes from this well-researched volume.
* Wibha Senanan (wi.pha.sei.na.nan), The genesis of the novel in Thailand, Thai Wattana Phanich (wat.tha.na.phar.nit), Bangkok, 1975
* Orrasom Sutthisarkorn, op. cit.
* Ibid.
** Ibid.
* Ibid.
** From Abroad