Four Reigns

  FOUR REIGNS

  (SI PHAENDIN)

  by

  KUKRIT PRAMOJ

  ENGLISH VERSION

  by

  TULACHANDRA

  CONTENTS

  Preface

  Pronunciation Guide

  Four Reigns

  Credit page

  PREFACE

  There comes a time in a man’s life when he feels the urge to set down in writing the modes and mores of a disappearing age, of which he was a part, however small. I had this urge when I sat down to write this book in Thai over thirty years ago.

  It was merely an urge with no inspiration, no forethought and no plot in mind. Phloi, the so-called heroine of the story, just left home to enter the Grand Palace. This was a natural act for a young girl of her position at that time. The reason for her departure was also natural: her mother was disillusioned with her father and could no longer live with him as happily as she wished. After Phloi had been placed in the palace, the recording of events and the way of life of that once magical place began. It came naturally day by day, because I wrote the story day by day, just enough to fill the columns allotted to me in the Siam Rath newspaper.

  Other characters were brought into the tale because it was natural that they should be there, and before long they seemed to dictate to me what they wanted to say and do. This book is one of the easiest novels that I have ever written, since it is a novel of a life that my ancestors and myself have lived rather fully. It is a Thai novel pure and simple and the Thai readers understand every statement and nuance and seem to feel that they are sharing anew the life that is past and gone.

  The problem is how to translate it. How to make foreign readers understand the book in the way Thai readers do. One way is to translate it literally and fill it with footnotes and appendices as has been done in the translation in other languages. By doing it this way the book becomes a text and not a novel, thereby losing all the affection and care that had been put into it while it was being written.

  This translation by Tulachandra seems to be the perfect solution to the problem stated above. She has somehow brought out the Thai mentality of this book clearly, to be understood, to be appreciated and I hope to be cherished by our foreign friends.

  I wish to express here my profound admiration and gratitude to Tulachandra for her ingenuity and hard work.

  It is my sincere hope that those friends of Thailand who do not read Thai will, after reading this book, gain a little more understanding toward us.

  KUKRIT PRAMOJ

  Bangkok

  April 1981

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  The Thai words in this volume are romanised according to the Royal Institute system, except in two or three cases where identical spellings were altered slightly to avoid confusion. A few of the Thai Buddhist terms are romanised using the generally accepted spellings, as are some names of historical people and places.

  Below is an approximate pronunciation guide. In several cases, a single English letter is used to represent more than one sound.

  CONSONANTS

  Initial position:

  K

  SKIN

  KH

  KIN

  P

  SPIN

  PH

  PIN

  T

  STILL

  TH

  TILL

  CH

  JAR; or CHIN

  NG

  SING

  R

  trilled “r” sound

  Final position:

  K

  WEEK

  P

  CAP

  T

  HIT

  NG

  SING

  All other consonants are pronounced as in English.

  VOWELS

  A

  ACROSS, FATHER

  E

  HEN, DAY

  I

  BIT, BEE

  O

  HOPE, SNOW; or SAUCE, SONG

  U

  BOOK, SHOE; or this “u” sound said with a wide smile

  AE

  HAT

  OE

  FUR (without “r” sound)

  IA

  INDIA

  UA

  JOSHUA; or OE + A (as in FUR and ACROSS)

  AI

  ICE

  AO

  OUT

  UI

  COOING

  OI

  COIN

  IU

  FEW

  EO

  LAY OVER

  OEI

  OE + I (as in FUR and BEE)

  UAI

  UA + I (as in JOSHUA and BEE)

  AEO

  AE + O (as in HAT and HOPE)

  IEO

  IA + O (as in INDIA and HOPE, similar to CLEOPATRA)

  RAMA V

  ONE

  THEIR ferryboat was turning into the river Chao Phraya when Phloi’s mother said to her, “Pay attention to what I’m saying, Phloi. When the time comes for you to take a husband, make sure you find one with a single heart. Keep away from the great lover who must have many wives about him, or you will suffer like your mother.” A short pause followed before the advice was concluded. “And you must never become any man’s minor wife. Never. Do you hear?”

  Phloi heard and, duty done, peered out from under the awning at life on the Chao Phraya. There were boats, floats, houses and people—and sky and flowing water, like on their khlong, Khlong Bang Luang, which they had left behind only moments ago. And yet, how different! So much more of everything out here on the river—boats, houses, people, water. Everything larger, merrier, moving brightly along in every direction, looking, sounding, smelling altogether new. A born-and-bred khlong child having her first taste of the open river, Phloi took it all in and was more excited than she could say. Stealing a glance at Mother, she said nothing. This was the first time Phloi had travelled so far from home. Her mother had told her they were never going back there, never set foot on the old landing again, that they had left it forever, unto death.

  Their home on Khlong Bang Luang had a brick and iron fence running the length of the grounds on the khlong side. There was a pavilion at the landing, then a spacious courtyard to cross to the big house where Phloi’s father, His Excellency the Chao Khun, resided. This brick mansion was considered highly stylish by Bangkok’s fashionable citizens during these years in the mid-1880s and 90s, during the long reign of Rama V, His Majesty King Chulalongkorn Phra Buddha Chao Luang the Great. From the courtyard one climbed either of the twin staircases that merged into a platform, from whence rose another flight of steps up to the veranda with its green ceramic balusters. Set back off the veranda, which shielded them on all sides from direct contact with the heat and glare of the sun, were the three large rooms of His Excellency’s suite, and that smaller one where the urns containing the ashes of his ancestors stood on symmetrically arranged tiers of mother-of-pearl inlaid altars. Phloi was particularly afraid of this room and, given a choice, would rather not go too near it. Not that she had to very often; she did not live in the big house, but in one of the several wooden houses to be found among the trees and footpaths farther back in the compound. Nevertheless now and again she had to make her way past its closed, silent door, and she had never been able to do this without feeling shivery and having her heart beat faster. Over the last few years, there had been those few times she was summoned inside by Chao Khun Father to pay homage to Chao Khun Great-grandfather and other forbears, to light candles and incense sticks and prostrate herself before the altars. This experience—the fact that she had been face to face, so to speak, with the contents of the room—had not served to temper her fear of it in any way, except to give that fear a more definite shape and flavour.

  When he was
at home, Chao Khun Father’s favourite area of relaxed living was the back veranda. Here, sitting cross-legged or reclining on the rug amid the cluttered splendour of tea trays, silver bowls, cheroot boxes and betel nut paraphernalia, he could be seen having a leisurely meal, being massaged by a servant, or receiving relatives and friends. Phloi had gone up there that morning—alone, dispatched by Mother—to take her leave of him. In years to come, whenever she thought of her father, Phloi would invariably fetch up from her memory this picture of him seated before her that day in 1892. She would recall the exact shade and pattern of the phalai cloth he was wearing, and just as vividly how his eyes had scanned her face as if he were learning its features by heart. He didn’t speak to her during the entire leave-taking. Not one word from him either of greeting, of dismissal, or forbidding her departure. Nothing but those memorable eyes—and a slight nod of the revered head to suggest the meeting was at an end.

  In that year 1892, or 2435 of the Buddhist Era, Phloi at the age of ten was still being asked those rather rhetorical questions grownups like to put to children: “What is your father’s name? And your mother’s?” In reply she would nicely recite her father’s name and title, “Phraya Phiphit, etc., etc.,” or less formally, “Chao Khun Phiphit.” Her mother’s name, Chaem, coming immediately after this, tended to sound somewhat abrupt. Her mother was His Excellency’s Wife Number One, but not his Khunying, which would have been her title had she been his officially wedded wife. The Khunying, as a matter of fact, still existed, but she was no longer a member of their household and Phloi had never met her. She had gone back to her family estate up-country before Phloi had come into the world, leaving in the care of her husband their three children—Khun Un, Khun Chit and Khun Choei.

  Phloi once asked her mother why these three had “Khun” in front of their names, why they were not addressed “Mae” this and “Pho” that—“Mae” for girls and “Pho” for boys—like the other children including herself and her elder brother Phoem. Mother had replied with a laugh, “Because they are Khunying’s children and the rest of you have lesser wives for mothers, that’s why. Be thankful they call you Mae Phloi and Pho Phoem, and not the lowly Ee Phloi and Ai Phoem!” Khun Un, the eldest of the three Khuns, was then a young woman of nineteen, but to Phloi she was a formidable grand lady who lived in the big house, towards whom one must behave with extra caution and respect. The Chao Khun had given her the responsibility of over-seeing his domestic affairs and had placed in her keeping the keys to the chests and cabinets containing his silver and gold. She regarded it as part of the natural order that she should serve him as deputy and confidante and have more power to wield than any of his wives.

  She could do very little, however, when it came to managing her younger brother Khun Chit, who was sixteen and a dandy with slicked-down hair, blotchy skin covered with perfumed powder, each temple modishly adorned with a circular bit of medicated plaster designed as a headache cure for modishly delicate young men of that era. At home, Khun Chit passed the time lounging or strolling about the landing pavilion leering at pretty girls in the passing boats, but more often waiting for an opportunity to slip into town with some of his father’s young attendants. Once, after Khun Chit and his escorts had vanished for days, they returned only to receive a whipping by the Chao Khun in the empty courtyard, before a delighted out-of-sight audience stationed here and there behind tree trunks and flower bushes. The culprits were on their knees, each with his wrists tied up, emitting screams heard up and down the khlong.

  Then there was another time when Khun Chit became very ill after yet another forbidden trip across the river. No whipping that time, but he was kept in bed for weeks on end, thin and haggard as a ghost. Old retainers who knew about these things brewed pots of dark herbal liquid for him to take, and his younger sister Khun Choei, who was Phloi’s close and constant friend, told her in a gleefully solemn whisper, “Khun Chit has Women’s Disease. This is a secret. If you tell anyone I shall be very angry.”

  But Phloi was good at guarding secrets. She would never divulge the name of Khun Chit’s ailment. Neither would she tell Mother that Brother Phoem had been to visit him. Mother was wont to beat Phoem with one or more of her slender sticks upon finding out he had once again disobeyed her and gone consorting with Khun Half Brother the Bad.

  Mother was frank with Khunying’s younger children. She liked Khun Choei, despised Khun Chit, and let them know it. With Khun Un she wore an expressionless mask and spoke in crisply enunciated phrases, taking infinite care to adorn each phrase with the very polite ending of “chao kha,” the ending demanded of her inferior status. But sometimes when alone with Phloi, her defences would break down, her mask dissolving into real tears, polite phrases into heartfelt protests at the injustice of it all. It was becoming unbearable to have to defer to Khun Un at all times, in all things. The daughter had become the absolute ruler of the house while she, the old wife, had been reduced to nothing, entitled to only one right, the right to go on living from day to day, the right not denied any poor girl who had sold herself into the household. And was it not Khun Un who had so cunningly brought about the promotion of one of her trusty maids, Waeo, to the position of a minor wife of the Chao Khun? Mother admitted she had been mad with jealousy at the time, had wanted to run away then and there, but Phloi being still such a tiny tot she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  There were days when the tension between Khun Un and her mother filled Phloi with apprehension, made her dread the mere thought of having to go near either of them. The Chao Khun himself was not unaffected by this highly charged atmosphere produced by Eldest Daughter and Wife Number One. He would keep very much to himself when it descended on the house, staying on neutral grounds as it were, sometimes even to the extent of forgoing the pleasure of being with his younger children in the courtyard, to watch them play in the soft light of the late afternoon. For Phloi his absence had a damping effect on their games. Chao Khun Father was at his jolliest on these occasions, shouting encouragement to them all to run faster, letting them make as much noise as they wanted, and himself laughing louder than any of them. Phloi had the impression that his jolliness was reserved for them, his small children. He usually frowned in Khun Chit’s company—but then, of late he and Khun Chit had been avoiding each other. He was amiable with Khun Un, of course, but in a serious fashion, as one important grownup to another. He was very considerate regarding her wishes and always took care not to impose his own.

  All their short simple names—Un, Chit and the rest—had been given them by the Chao Khun himself. Unlike some of his acquaintances, he had not asked a higher-ranking personage or a venerated abbot to do the honour, and unlike others had not chosen to confer upon his children multi-syllabic names comprising words of Sanskrit or Pali origin and often strung together to be read like a rhyme. Phloi heard him say to Mother one day that such names were for the royals, and commoners who tried to imitate them were only inviting the lice of ill luck onto their foolish heads. In any case, these imitators never failed to distinguish themselves in absurdity. He then sang out the names invented by a prominent neighbour of theirs for four of his children: “Phenphisamai” (Beloved Moon-light), “Saisukontharot” (Bright and Fragrant), “Sotsamran-chit” (Bouyant Happy Mind), and “Sanitsaneha” (Bind with Affection). He made them sound quite ridiculous and Mother had laughed heartily. Phloi did not laugh because her mind was on something else. She wanted to question Father on those lice of ill luck now that he had mentioned them. These lice were famous. She had been told by various people that if you dared to compare yourself with the royals, or boasted of your connection with them, or joked about them, then—beware—you’d get those lice on your head. She had heard remarks such as: “Trying to raise yourself to royal heights, are you? Lice on your head for sure!” Even so, one or two things still puzzled her, and when the laughter was over and the funny names died away Phloi respectfully put forward her questions: Do these lice then come from the royals themselves? She
, Phloi, once got lice in her hair from playing with Chup the slave-girl. Are these the same kind as royal lice? This was greeted with another burst of laughter, mixed with some alarm on Mother’s part, but with no reply from either parent.

  Laughter had been scarce these past few weeks. Her father had been keeping more aloof, her mother looking more grim, and Khun Un acting more pleased with herself than ever. The whole house knew that His Excellency was about to be presented with another minor wife, that this lucky person was none other than Yuan, the prettiest among Khun Un’s own current crop of maids, and that it was Khun Un herself doing the presenting. It occurred to Phloi, watching her elders, that this time something terrible might happen.

  And on the preceding night, it did. Mother had marched off from their quarters early in the evening, gone up to the big house to see Chao Khun Father, and Phloi had fallen asleep after hours of waiting for her. Waking up with a start, she saw Mother lighting a lamp and a sleepy Phoem standing about.

  “You are coming with me, Phloi,” Mother said. “Since it’s quite clear that he doesn’t want me under his care and protection any more, I must go. Let the course of karma take me where it will. Better than to stay and be trampled on like a bonded slave . . . But you have to stay, Phoem. His Excellency refuses to let you come with us. ‘Phoem’s a son,’ he says, ‘and must remain with Father.’ You’ll be on your own from now on, so mind how you behave your-self. Be a dutiful son to him, show him your reverence and gratitude, and don’t ever think that because you’re a son of His Excellency you can do as you please. And, don’t forget that his eldest daughter will always insist on treating you like a serving boy . . . But I’ll not leave you here to be bullied, Phloi. It’s not as if we’re rootless people without a shelter to turn to. I’m taking you to the palace. I’ll beg Sadet to accept you into her entourage.”