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.

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 bullet-wood 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.

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!

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.

Pradit Bunyarrat Δ

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.

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.

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.

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 Banlue-deit 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.

Lamjuan Δ

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?

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.<