PHRABAT SOMDETCH PHRA PARAMENDR MAHA MONGKUT
In some respects the most conspicuous name in the history of the
civilization of Siam will always be that of the king under whose
enlightened and liberal administration of government the kingdom was
thrown open to foreign intercourse, and the commerce, the science, and
even the religion of the western world accepted if not invited. His son,
the present first king, is following in the steps of his father, and has
already introduced some noteworthy reforms and changes, the importance
of which is very great. But the way was opened for these changes by the
wise and bold policy of the late king, whose death, in 1868, closed a
career of usefulness which entitles him to a high place among the
benefactors of his age.
A description of this king and of his court is furnished from the same
editorial narrative from which the last two chapters have been chiefly
quoted. It will be remembered that the period to which the narrative
refers is the year 1857, the time of the visit of the Portsmouth, with
the ratification of the American treaty.
His majesty, the first king of Siam, kindly gives us our choice of
titles by which, and of languages in which, he may be designated. To
his own people he appears in an array of syllables sufficiently
astonishing to our eyes and ears, as Phrabat Somdetch Phra Paramendr
Maha Mongkut Phra Chau Klau Chau Yu Hud; but to outsiders he announces
himself as simply the first king of Siam and its dependencies; or, in
treaties and other official documents, as "Rex Major," or "Supremus Rex
Siamensium." The Latin is his, not mine. And I am bound to acknowledge
that the absolute supremacy which the "supremus" indicates is qualified
by his recognition of the "blessing of highest and greatest superagency
of the universe," by which blessing his own sovereignty exists. He has
been quick to learn the maxim which monarchs are not ever slow to learn
nor slow to use, that "Kings reign by the grace of God." And it is, to
say the least, a safe conjecture that the maxim has as much power over
his conscience as it has had over the consciences of some kings much
more civilized and orthodox than he.
[Illustration: THE LATE FIRST KING AND QUEEN.]
This polyglot variety of titles indicates a varied, though somewhat
superficial, learning. Before he came to the throne the king had lived
for several years in the seclusion of a Buddhist monastery. Promotion
from the priesthood to the throne is an event so unusual in any country
except Siam, that it might seem full of risk. But in this instance it
worked well. During the years of his monastic life he grew to be a
thoughtful, studious man, and he brought with him to his kingly office a
wide familiarity with literature which marked him as a scholar who knew
the world through books rather than through men. His manner of speaking
English was less easy and accurate than his brother's; but, on the other
hand, the "pomp and circumstance" of his court was statelier and
stranger, and is worthy of a better description. The second king
received us with such gentlemanly urbanity and freedom that it was hard
to realize the fact that we were in the presence of royalty. But our
reception by the first king was arranged on what the newspapers would
call "a scale of Oriental magnificence," and it lingers in memory like
some dreamy recollection of the splendors of the Arabian Nights.
One of the most singular illustrations of the ups and downs of nations
and of races which history affords, is to be seen in the position of the
Portuguese in Siam. They came there centuries ago as a superior race, in
all the dignity and pride of discoverers, and with all the romantic
daring of adventurous exploration. Now there is only a worn-out remnant
of them left, degraded almost to the level of the Asiatics, to whom they
brought the name and knowledge of the Western world. They have mixed
with the Siamese, till, at the first, it is difficult to distinguish
them as having European blood and lineage. But when we asked who the
grotesque old creatures might be who came to us on messages from the
king, or guided us when we went to see the wonders of the city, or
superintended the cooking of our meals, or performed various menial
services about our dwelling, we found that they were half-breed
descendants of the Portuguese who once flourished here. When we landed
at the mouth of the river on our way to Bangkok for an audience with the
king, one of the first persons whom we encountered was one of these
demoralized Europeans. He made a ridiculous assertion of his lineage in
the style of his costume. Disdaining the Siamese fashions, he had made
for himself or had inherited a swallow-tailed coat of sky-blue silk, and
pantaloons of purple silk, in which he seemed to feel himself the equal
of any of us. Had any doubt as to his ancestry lingered in our minds, it
must have been removed by a most ancient and honorable stove-pipe hat,
which had evidently been handed down from father to son, through the
generations, as a rusty relic of grander days. This old gentleman was in
charge of a bountiful supply of provisions which the king had sent for
us. It was hard not to moralize over the old man as the representative
of a nation which had all the time been going backward since it led the
van of discovery in the Indies centuries ago; while the people whom his
ancestors found heathenish and benighted are starting on a career of
improvement and elevation of which no man can prophesy the rate or the
result.
The old Portuguese referred to would seem to be the same whom Sir John
Bowring mentions in the following passage, and who has been so long a
faithful servant of the government of Siam that his great age and
long-continued services entitle him to a word of honorable mention,
notwithstanding the droll appearance which he presented in his
remarkable costume. Sir John Bowring, writing in 1856, says:
"Among the descendants of the ancient Portuguese settlers in Siam there
was one who especially excited our attention. He was the master of the
ceremonies at our arrival in Paknam, and from his supposed traditional
or hereditary acquaintance with the usages of European courts, we found
him invested with great authority on all state occasions. He wore a
European court dress, which he told me had been given him by Sir James
Brooke, and which, like a rusty, old cocked hat, was somewhat the worse
for wear. But I was not displeased to recognize in him a gentleman whom
Mr. Crawford (the British ambassador in 1822) thus describes:
"'July 10 (1822). I had in the course of this forenoon a visit from a
person of singular modesty and intelligence. Pascal Ribeiro de
Alvergarias, the descendant of a Portuguese Christian of Kamboja. This
gentleman holds a high Siamese title, and a post of considerable
importance. Considering his means and situation, his acquirements were
remarkable, for he not only spoke and wrote the Siamese, Kambojan, and
Portuguese languages with facility, but also spoke and wrote Latin with
considerable propriety. We found, indeed, a smattering of Latin very
frequent among the Portuguese interpreters at Bangkok, but Señor Ribeiro
was the only individual who made any pretence to speak it with accuracy.
He informed us that he was the descendant of a person of the same name,
who settled at Kamboja in the year 1685. His lady's genealogy, however,
interested us more than his own. She was the lineal descendant of an
Englishman, of the name of Charles Lister, a merchant, who settled in
Kamboja in the year 1701, and who had acquired some reputation at the
court by making pretence to a knowledge in medicine. Charles Lister
had come immediately from Madras, and brought with him his sister. This
lady espoused a Portuguese of Kamboja, by whom she had a son, who took
her own name. Her grandson, of this name also, in the revolution of the
kingdom of Kamboja, found his way to Siam; and here, like his
great-uncle, practising the healing art, rose to the station of
Maha-pet, or first physician to the king. The son of this individual,
Cajitanus Lister, is at present the physician, and at the same time the
minister and confidential adviser of the present King of Kamboja. His
sister is the wife of the subject of this short notice. Señor Ribeiro
favored us with the most authentic and satisfactory account which we had
yet obtained of the late revolution and present state of Kamboja.'"
[Illustration: ONE OF THE SONS OF THE LATE FIRST KING.]
It is not safe always to judge by the appearance. This grotesque old
personage, whom the narrative describes, represented a story of strange
and romantic interest, extending through two centuries of wonderful
vicissitude, and involving the blending of widely separated
nationalities. But to resume the narrative:
When at last, after our stay in Bangkok was almost at an end, we were
invited by "supremus rex" to spend the evening at his palace, we found
our friend of the beaver hat and sky-blue coat and purple breeches in
charge of a squad of attendants in one of the outer buildings of the
court, where we were to beguile the time with more refreshments until
his majesty should be ready for us. Everything about us was on a larger
scale than at the second king'sthe grounds more spacious, and the
various structures with which they were filled, the temples, armories,
and storehouses, of more ambitions size and style, but not so neat and
orderly. A crowd of admiring spectators clustered about the windows of
the room in which we were waiting, watching with breathless interest to
see the strangers eat: so that as we sat in all the glory of cocked hats
and epaulets, we had the double satisfaction of giving and receiving
entertainment.
But presently there came a messenger to say that the king was ready for
us. And so we walked on between the sentries, who saluted us with
military exactness, between the stately halls that ran on either hand,
until a large, closed gateway barred our way. Swinging open as we stood
before them, the gates closed silently behind us, and we found ourselves
in the august presence of "Rex Supremus Siamensium."
It might almost have been "the good Haroun Alraschid" and "the great
pavilion of the caliphat in inmost Bagdad," that we had come to, it was
so imposing a scene, and so characteristically Oriental. What I had read
of in the "Arabian Nights," and hardly thought was possible except in
such romantic stories, seemed to be realized. Here was a king worth
seeing, a real king, with a real crown on, and with real pomp of royalty
about him. I think that every American who goes abroad has a more or
less distinct sense of being defrauded of his just rights when, in Paris
or Berlin, for example, he goes out to see the king or emperor, and is
shown a plainly-dressed man driving quietly and almost undistinguished
among the throng of carriages. We feel that this is not at all what we
came for, nor what we had been led to expect when, as schoolboys, we
read about imperial magnificence and regal splendor, and the opulence of
the "crowned heads." The crowned head might have passed before our very
eyes, and we would not have known it if we had not been told. Not so in
Bangkok. This was "a goodly king" indeed. And all the circumstances of
time and place seemed to be so managed as to intensify the singular
charm and beauty of the scene.
We stood in a large court, paved with broad, smooth slabs of marble, and
open to the sky, which was beginning to be rosy with the sunset. All
about us were magnificent palace buildings, with shining white walls,
and with roofs of gleaming green and gold. Broad avenues, with the same
marble pavement, led in various directions to the temples and the
audience halls. Here and there the dazzling whiteness of the buildings
and the pavement was relieved by a little dark tropical foliage; and, as
the sunset grew more ruddy every instant,
"A sudden splendor from behind
Flushed all the leaves with rich gold green,"
and tinged the whole bright court with just the necessary warmth of
color. There was the most perfect stillness, broken only by the sound of
our footsteps on the marble, and, except ourselves, not a creature was
moving. Here and there, singly or in groups, about the spacious court,
prostrate, with faces on the stone, in motionless and obsequious
reverence, as if they were in the presence of a god and not of a man,
grovelled the subjects of the mighty sovereign into whose presence we
were approaching. It was hard for the stoutest democrat to resist a
momentary feeling of sympathy with such universal awe; and to remember
that, after all, as Hamlet says, a "king is a thing ... of nothing." So
contagious is the obsequiousness of a royal court and so admirably
effective was the arrangement of the whole scene.
The group toward which we were advancing was a good way in front of the
gateway by which we had entered. There was a crouching sword-bearer,
holding upright a long sword in a heavily embossed golden scabbard.
There were other attendants, holding jewel-cases or elegant betel-nut
boxes--all prostrate. There were others still ready to crawl off in
obedience to orders, on whatever errands might be necessary. There were
three or four very beautiful little children, the king's sons, kneeling
behind their father, and shining with the chains of jewelled gold which
hung about their naked bodies. More in front there crouched a servant
holding high a splendid golden canopy, beneath which stood the king. He
wore a grass-cloth jacket, loosely buttoned with diamonds, and a rich
silken scarf, which, wound about the waist, hung gracefully to his
knees. Below this was an unadorned exposure of bare shins, and his feet
were loosely slippered. But on his head he wore a cap or crown that
fairly blazed with brilliant gems, some of them of great size and value.
There was not wanting in his manner a good deal of natural dignity;
although it was constrained and embarrassed. It was in marked contrast
with the cheerful and unceremonious freedom of the second king. He
seemed burdened with the care of government and saddened with anxiety,
and as if he knew his share of the uneasiness of "the head that wears a
crown."
He stood in conversation with us for a few moments, and then led the way
to a little portico in the Chinese style of architecture, where we sat
through an hour of talk, and drink, and jewelry, mixed in pretty equal
proportions. For there were some details of business in connection with
the treaty that required to be talked over. And there were sentiments of
international amity to be proposed and drunk after the Occidental
fashion. And there were the magnificent royal diamonds and other gems to
be produced for our admiring inspection--great emeralds of a more vivid
green than the dark tropical foliage, and rubies and all various
treasures which the Indian mines afford, till the place shone before our
eyes, thicker
"With jewels than the sward with drops of dew,
When all night long a cloud clings to the hill,
And with the dawn ascending lets the day
Strike where it clung; so thickly shone the gems."
All the while the nobles were squatting or lying on the floor, and the
children were playing in a subdued and quiet way at the king's feet.
Somehow the beauty of these little Siamese children seemed to me very
remarkable. As they grow older, they grow lean, and wrinkled, and ugly.
But while they are children they are pretty "as a picture"--as some of
those pictures, for example, in the Italian galleries. Going quite
innocent of clothing, they are very straight and plump in figure, and
unhindered in their grace of motion. And they used to bear themselves
with a simple and modest dignity that was very winning. They have the
soft and lustrous eyes, the shining teeth (as yet unstained by
betel-nut), the pleasant voices, which are the birthright of the
children of the tropics. In default of clothes, they are stained all
over with some pigment, which makes their skin a lively yellow, and
furnishes a shade of contrast for the deeper color of the gold which
hangs around their necks and arms. I used to compare them, to their
great advantage, with the Chinese children.
There is not in Siam, at least there is not in the same degree, that
obstinate conceit behind which, as behind a barrier, the Chinese have
stood for centuries, resisting stubbornly the entrance of all light and
civilization from without. I do not know what possible power could
extort from a Chinese official the acknowledgment which this king freely
made, that his people were "half civilized and half barbarous, being
very ignorant of civilized and enlightened customs and usages." Such an
admission from a Chinaman would be like the demolition of their great
northern wall. It is true of nations as it is of individuals, that pride
is the most stubborn obstacle in the way of all real progress. And
national humility is the earnest of national exaltation. Therefore it
is that the condition of things at the Siamese court seems to me so full
of promise.
By and by the king withdrew, and intimated that he would presently meet
us again at an entertainment in another part of the palace. His
disappearance was the signal for the resurrection of the prostrate
noblemen, who started up all around us in an unexpected way, like toads
after a rain. Moving toward the new apartment where our "entertainment"
was prepared, we saw the spacious court to new advantage. For the night
had come while we had waited, and the mellow light from the tropic stars
and burning constellations flowed down upon us through the fragrant
night air. Mingling with this white starlight was the ruddy glow that
came through palace windows from lamps fed by fragrant oil of cocoanut,
and from the moving torches of our attendants. And as we walked through
the broad avenues, dimly visible in this mixed light, some gilded window
arch or overhanging roof with gold-green tiles, or the varied costume of
the moving group of which we formed a part, would stand out from the
shadowy darkness with a sudden and most picturesque distinctness. So we
came at last to the apartment where the king had promised to rejoin us.
Here the apparition of our old sky-blue friend, the beaver-hatted
Portuguese, suggested that a dinner was impending, and, if we might
judge by his uncommon nervousness of manner, it must be a dinner of
unprecedented style. And certainly there was a feast, sufficiently
sumptuous and very elegantly served, awaiting our arrival. At one side
of the room, on a raised platform, was a separate table for the king,
and beside it, awaiting his arrival, was his throne,
"From which
Down dropped in many a floating fold,
Engarlanded and diapered
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold."
In the bright light of many lamps the room was strangely beautiful. On
one side, doors opened into a stately temple, out of which presently the
king came forth. And as, when he had disappeared, the nobles seemed to
come out from the ground like toads, so now, like toads, they squatted,
and the sovereign of the squatters took his seat above them.
Presently there was music. A band of native musicians stationed at the
foot of the king's throne commenced a lively performance on their
instruments. It was strange, wild music, with a plaintive sweetness,
that was very enchanting. The tones were liquid as the gurgling of a
mountain brook, and rose and fell in the same irregular measure. And
when to the first band of instruments there was added another in a
different part of the room, the air became tremulous with sweet
vibrations, and the wild strains lingered softly about the gilded eaves
and cornices and floated upward toward the open sky.
It seemed that the fascination of the scene would be complete if there
were added the poetry of motion. And so, in came the dancers, a dozen
young girls, pretty and modest, and dressed in robes of which I cannot
describe the profuse and costly ornamentation. The gold and jewels
fairly crusted them, and, as the dancers moved, the light flashed from
the countless gems at every motion. As each one entered the apartment
she approached the king, and, reverently kneeling, slowly lifted her
joined hands as if in adoration. All the movements were gracefully timed
to the sweet barbaric music, and were slow and languid, and as quiet as
the movements in a dream. We sat and watched them dreamily, half
bewildered by the splendor which our eyes beheld, and the sweetness
which our ears heard, till the night was well advanced and it was time
to go. It was a sudden shock to all our Oriental reveries, when, as we
rose to leave, his majesty requested that we would give him three
cheers. It was the least we could do in return for his royal
hospitality, and accordingly the captain led off in the demonstration,
while the rest of us joined in with all the heartiness of voice that we
could summon. But it broke the charm. Those occidental cheers, that
hoarse Anglo-Saxon roar, had no proper place among these soft and
sensuous splendors, which had held us captive all the evening, till we
had well-nigh forgotten the everyday world of work and duty to which we
belonged.
It is when we remember the enervating influence of the drowsy tropics
upon character, that we learn fitly to honor the men and women by whom
the inauguration of this new era in Siamese history has been brought
about. To live for a little while among these sensuous influences
without any very serious intellectual work to do, or any very grave
moral responsibility to bear, is one thing; but to spend a life among
them, with such a constant strain upon the mind and heart as the laying
of Christian foundations among a heathen people must always necessitate,
is quite another thing. This is what the missionaries in Siam have to
do. Their battle is not with the prejudices of heathenism only, nor with
the vices and ignorance of bad men only. It is a battle with nature
itself. To the passing traveller, half intoxicated with the beauty of
the country and the rich splendor of that oriental world, it may seem a
charming thing to live there, and no uninviting lot to be a missionary
in such pleasant places. But the very attractiveness of the field to one
who sees it as a visitor, and who is dazzled by its splendors as he
looks upon it out of kings' palaces, is what makes it all the harder for
one who goes with hard, self-sacrificing work to do. The fierce sun
wilts the vigor of his mind and scorches up the fresh enthusiasm of his
heart.
"Droops the heavy-blossomed flower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree."
And all the beautiful earth, and all the drowsy air, and all the soft
blue sky invite to sloth and ease and luxury.
Therefore I give the greater honor to the earnest men and to the patient
women who are laboring and praying for the coming of the Christian day
to this benighted people.
His majesty, Phrabat Somdetch Phra Paramendr Maha Mongkut closed his
remarkable career on October 1, 1868, under circumstances of peculiar
interest. Amid all the cares and anxieties of government he had never
ceased to occupy himself with matters of literary and scientific
importance. Questions of scholarship in any one of the languages of
which he was more or less master were always able to divert and engage
his attention. And the approach of the great solar eclipse in August,
1868, was an event the coming of which he had himself determined by his
own reckoning, and for which he waited with an impatience half
philosophic and half childish. A special observatory was built for the
occasion, and an expedition of extraordinary magnitude and on a scale of
great expenditure and pomp was equipped by the king's command to
accompany him to the post of observation. A great retinue both of
natives and of foreigners, including a French scientific commission,
attended his majesty, and were entertained at royal expense. And the
eclipse was satisfactorily witnessed to the great delight of the king,
whose scientific enthusiasm found abundant expression when his
calculation was proved accurate.
It was, however, almost his last expedition of any kind. Even before
setting out there had been evident signs that his health was breaking.
And upon his return it was soon apparent that excitement and fatigue and
the malaria of the jungle had wrought upon him with fatal results. He
died calmly, preserving to the end that philosophic composure to which
his training in the Buddhist priesthood had accustomed him. His private
life in his own palace and among his wives and children has been
pictured in an entertaining way by Mrs. Leonowens, the English lady
whose services he employed as governess to his young children. He had
apparently his free share of the faults and vices to which his savage
nature and his position as an Oriental despot, with almost unlimited
wealth and power, gave easy opportunity. It is therefore all the more
remarkable that he should have exhibited such sagacity and firmness in
his government, and such scholarly enthusiasm in his devotion to
literature and science. Pedantic he seems to us often, and with more or
less arrogant conceit of his own ability and acquirements. It is easy to
laugh at the queer English which he wrote with such reckless fluency and
spoke with such confident volubility. But it is impossible to deny that
his reign was, for the kingdom which he governed, the beginning of a new
era, and that whatever advance in civilization the country is now
making, or shall make, will be largely due to the courage and wisdom and
willingness to learn which he enforced by precept and example. He died
in some sense a martyr to science, while at the same time he adhered, to
the last, tenaciously, and it would seem from some imaginary obligation
of honor, to the religious philosophy in which he had been trained, and
of which he was one of the most eminent defenders. His character and his
history are full of the strangest contrasts between the heathenish
barbarism in which he was born and the Christian civilization toward
which, more or less consciously, he was bringing the people whom he
governed. It is in part the power of such contrasts which gives to his
reign such extraordinary and picturesque interest.
[Illustration: A FEW OF THE CHILDREN OF THE LATE FIRST KING.]