MAY-PEÂH, THE LAOTIAN SLAVE-GIRL.
On the evening of the 10th of August, 1866, I found myself suddenly
and unexpectedly, and almost without being aware of it, involved in a
conflict with the king, who thenceforth regarded me with distrust and
suspicion, because I declined to affix my own signature to a certain
letter which he had required me to write for him.
I began heartily to wish myself out of Siam, though still deeply
interested and absorbed in my work of educating the prince,--the
present King of Siam,--for I felt that, with regard to foreigners,
there existed no laws and customs to restrain and limit the capricious
temper and extravagant demands of the king, and I had everything, too,
to fear from the jealousy with which certain royal courtiers and judges
watched my previously growing influence at court. The heat of the day
had been intense, the atmosphere was sultry and oppressive, and every
now and then a low, rumbling sound of distant thunder reached my ears,
while the parched trees and leaves drooped and hung their heads as if
impatient of waiting for the promised rain. Nervous, and undecided what
to do, I returned home, where I remained prostrated with a sense of
approaching danger. From time to time I had had similar conflicts with
the king, which very greatly disturbed my already too much impaired
health. All manner of fears which the mind so prodigally produces on
such occasions came crowding upon me that evening, and I felt, as I had
never before, weighed down by the peculiar sadness and isolation of my
life in Siam.
In this frame of mind I sat and pondered over and over again the
only course remaining open to me,--to withdraw from the court,--when
I was suddenly recalled to what was passing around me by what I at
first imagined must be an apparition or some delusion of my own mind.
I started up from the spot where for hours I had been seated like a
statue, and, looking more attentively, perceived a pair of bright black
eyes watching me with the fixedness of a basilisk, through the leaves
of some flowering shrubs that grew over my window. My first impulse was
to scream for help; but I was soon ashamed of my fears, and, summoning
all my courage, I demanded, "Who is there?"
"It is only me, your ladyship," said a strange, low voice. "I have been
waiting here a long while, but your servants would not let me in; they
say you have forbidden them to let any Siamese person enter your house
after sunset."
"It is true," said I; "I don't want to see any one this evening; I am
ill and tired. Now go away, and, if you have any business with me, come
to me in the morning."
"P'hoodth thô!" said the woman, speaking still in the same low tones;
"I am not a Siamese, and you do not know that I have rowed thirty miles
against the tide to come and see you, or else you could not have the
heart to send me away."
"I don't want to know anything," I said a little impatiently; "you must
go now, and you know it is not safe for you to be away from home at
this late hour in the day."
"O lady! do let me in; I only want to say one word to you in private;
please do let me in," whispered the woman, more and more pleadingly.
"Then say what you have to tell me at once, and from where you are,"
I replied; "there is no one here to overhear you; for I cannot let you
in."
"Alas!" said the voice, plaintively, as if speaking to herself, "I
would not have come all this long distance but that I heard she was a
good and brave woman,--some people indeed said she was not so,--still,
I thought I would try her, and now she says she cannot let me in, a
poor fugitive and desolate slave-girl like me! O dear! O dear!"
"But I am afraid I cannot help you, whatever your trouble may be," I
said more gently, touched by the woman's despairing tones. "The king is
offended with me, and the judges know it, and I have no more influence
with them now."
As I said this, the girl sprang through the window and came forward,
and exhibited not only her bright eyes but her full figure and somewhat
singular dress, for she was, as she had stated, not a Siamese, but
a Laotian. She held her head erect, though her hands were clasped
in the attitude of wild supplication. The symmetry of her form was
enhanced by a broad English strap or belt which was buckled round her
waist, and which had the effect of showing off her beautiful figure
to the best advantage. She was unusually tall, and altogether a most
pleasing-looking young woman.
The moment she stood before me she commenced talking with a volubility
and an amount of action which it would be almost impossible to
describe. Her face became so animated, and her tears and sobs flowed
so spontaneously, that I stood bewildered, for, in truth, I had rarely
seen so interesting and so natural a woman in Siam.
She watched my countenance during the whole time she was speaking,
with the quickness of the native character, and I began at length to
suspect that she prolonged her statements for the sole purpose of
forming an idea of her success, so that she might vary her line of
action according as circumstances revealed themselves; and even while
I had a glimmering perception of this, and also that perhaps she was
only acting, my interest in her increased so rapidly that she became
convinced in her own mind, I think, of having gained my entire sympathy.
"Ah! I knew you had a kind heart," said the woman, as she came forward
with the graceful salutation of her country, and laid a thick Oriental
letter, enveloped in velvet and fastened with silken cords and sealed
with English sealing-wax, at my feet.
She then dropped on her knees, and knelt before me in an attitude of
mute supplication.
I was never more embarrassed in my life, with that mysterious letter,
enveloped in crimson velvet, and written on the outside in characters I
had never before seen, lying at my feet, and this woman kneeling there
with such strange, wild energy in her manner, such vehement pleading in
her dark, passionate eyes, imploring my aid in a secret, daring scheme
which I had neither the courage nor the ability to undertake, nor yet
the stoutness of heart to refuse point-blank.
I therefore told the woman, with as much gentleness as I could summon,
that it was impossible for me to aid her, and almost as much as my life
was worth to become the bearer of her letter to any prisoner in the
palace. "It is not for my own personal safety I fear so much, but for
my son's, whose young life depends on mine."
As I was speaking, the woman's face grew still and cold, her features
became rigid and fixed as stone, large, dewy drops of perspiration
broke out on her forehead, and there fell upon her face such an
expression of blankness and utter desolation that I thought she was
absolutely dying from the pain of her disappointment.
This produced such a revulsion of feeling in me that I started from my
seat in terror, and, taking her chilled, moist hands in mine, said,
anxiously: "Does what I have said distress you so much? Why won't you
speak? If there is any way by which I can help or comfort you, tell me.
Please tell me, and I'll try to do my best for you."
The effect of this promise was immediate, but it was some time before
the woman could recover her voice; then, laying her hand upon my arm,
she spoke hurriedly, but in the same soft, low tones and fervent manner.
"You have not asked me my name and who I am," she said. "But I'll tell
you; I am sure you will not betray me, and it may be this is the last
opportunity I shall have of serving my dear foster-sister."
As she uttered these words the hope and courage which had evidently
been revived by the sympathy she saw in my face now seemed to forsake
her; tears and sobs burst from her afresh, and she crouched at my feet
as if utterly overwhelmed with her grief. At last, by a strong effort,
she turned to me, and said: "My name is May-Peâh; my home is in the
city of Zienmai, i.e. Chiengmai; my father, Manetho, is one of the most
trusted councillors and friends, though a slave, of the Prince P'hra
Chow Soorwang. My mother was a household slave in the family of the
prince when my father obtained her for his wife, and I was only a month
old when she was asked to be the wet-nurse and mother of the little
infant daughter of the prince, whose wife had died in child-birth;
and thus it was that I became the life-long companion and friend and
foster-sister of the young Princess Sunartha Vismita. But alas! dear
lady, she is now, and has been ever since the death of her husband, the
second king, a prisoner in the palace of the supreme king, and neither
does her brother nor any one else know whether she is alive or dead.
"This letter has nothing in it that will bring you into any trouble.
It is only one of greeting from her brother, my master, the Prince
O'Dong Karmatha. O, dear lady, don't say no! the gods will bless and
reward you, if, sooner or later, you will put it into her hands; but it
must be done with the greatest caution and secrecy, and it may be the
means of saving her life. O, think of that, of saving her life! for, if
alive, she must be dying of grief and pain to think that we have never
yet replied to a letter she sent us almost a year ago."
"And where is the prince, your master?"
"He is on a visit to the governor of Pak-lat."
Saying this, she almost instantaneously sprang out of the window, and
fled towards the river, as if conscious of having delayed too long her
return home; as she did so, I noticed that she wore in the folds of her
skirt a small Laotian dagger attached to her English belt.
The storm which had been gathering in strength for hours now burst
forth, and for full three hours the thunder and lightning and rain
were the only things that could be seen or heard; and I sat in the
same spot, lost in anxious fears for the safety of that solitary woman
battling with the tremendous currents of the Mother of Waters.
It was an awful night. Sick at heart, and full of natural and unnatural
fears, I locked up the letter at last in my drawer, and tried to forget
in sleep the disturbing events of the day.