Katya during her trip back to Bangkok to attend the funeral of Prince Chakrabongse. Standing from left: Prince Traitip and Prince Priddhitepong Devakul and Prince Mahidol. Seated from left: Princess Pichitchirapa Devakul and Katya.
Notwithstanding her joy at seeing him again and the pleasure she derived from the companionship of her dog, L’Or, who seldom left her side, this period before the cremation when she could see the elaborate royal funeral pyre rise higher every day against the summer sky was a traumatic ordeal. Warring emotions – memories of shared happiness within the gates of Paruskavan, closed forever against her now – and vain remorse for sharp words and bitter wrangles that seemed at present so trivial before death’s irrevocable finality, tormented her. In addition, from what Chula told her of Chakrabongse’s last days, she felt he had been hurried towards his end by the childish irresponsibility of Chavalit. And years later, as quoted before, this still provoked an anguished cry of regret in a letter to her son: ‘If we had not parted, he might still be alive!’ She meant, of course, that being medically trained, she would have realised how gravely ill he was and, unlike Chavalit, would not have urged him to leave his cabin for the deck on that last fatal voyage to Singapore.
While she was in Bangkok, Katya had several audiences with the King, during which Chula was naturally the main topic of discussion. The monarch, now Chula’s official guardian, had created his nephew a Royal Highness, and had decreed he should go to England, first to private tutors and then to Sandhurst, as he himself had done. Katya’s suggestion that she should live in England to be near him and look after him was agreeably but firmly turned down. Vajiravudh believed that Chula should ‘rough it on his own’ as he and other princes had, adding graciously that Katya might see him during his long summer holidays.
As all had been decided without reference to her, she knew she had been relegated, courteously but definitely set aside, so that whatever part she eventually played in Chula’s life would be within limits set by the King, which would effectively remove her son from her influence. And while she perceived that, under the circumstances, this was only to be expected she began to feel alienated from the country and people she had once made her own. This in its turn made her realise there was no going back and that she must make a new life for herself elsewhere.
She also learned that the King, being an absolute monarch, had suspended Chakrabongse’s will in which he had left his entire fortune to Chavalit, and to Chula on her death. The King decreed instead that Chula, Katya and Chavalit should each receive income from Chakrabongse’s estate, but could not touch the capital. Furthermore, Paruskavan was to be returned to the Crown, and Chavalit was ordered to move to the much smaller house at Ta Tien, scene of many a romantic rendezvous with Chakrabongse when they were first in love.
As it happened, this frivolous light-hearted girl who, if she had not caused, had precipitated the break-up of his marriage to Katya, quite soon forgot him for she married one of her cousins, Prince Amorn, only a year after Chakrabongse’s death, in 1921. As Prince Amorn was well-connected and wealthy, he presumably had no objection to Chavalit giving up her income from Chakrabongse’s estate, a condition imposed by the King before he would grant her permission to marry.
The day of the Cremation – a day dreaded by Katya for months – arrived and was conducted with the impressive formality and moving ceremony she knew so well. However, she again suffered from a now familiar feeling of alienation, as though it was not she who walked so slowly and solemnly in the lengthy procession but someone else – a former self. And that evening her thoughts turned as though just liberated, to Peking and Harry Stone, who had proposed to her before she left. Being then uncertain what awaited her in Bangkok she had neither answered ‘yes’ nor ‘no’ but begged him to wait until her position was clear. Now she began to wonder whether during her lengthy absence he had begun to waver and perhaps to change his mind. She felt her life was in suspension: she neither belonged in Siam nor knew for certain what awaited her in China.
As for her relationship with her son, while she accepted she must play a minor part in his life while he pursued a course laid out for him by the King, this was not accomplished without resentment. In later years, Chula would accuse her of ‘desertion’ and remain unconvinced by her explanation of the complicated web of circumstances that had led to her departure. Thus the remembered pain of the boy of eleven, as he wandered in the gardens of Paruskavan after she left, was never really healed and remained an open wound in their relationship.
By the beginning of December, Katya was longing to be gone. Bangkok for her was only filled with sad recollection and regret. Therefore on the 10th, all farewells said and last visits paid, she went on her way, taking with her the dog, L’Or, the gift of Chakrabongse in happier days in Paris. This time the severance from Siam, where she had once been so happy and, despite prejudice, had been held in affection by so many, was final. Gradually the memory of ‘Mom Katerin’ faded, though the consternation and affront her marriage to Prince Chakrabongse had caused in the Royal Family, was longer remembered as the first intrusion of a ‘farang’ and commoner into their near sacred circles.
XIII
Chula is Left Alone
King Rama VI and Princess Laksami Lawan.
The unexpected demise of Chakrabongse at such an early age, combined with the fact that he was, childless, began to cause the King deep concern on account of the succession; a concern which, in October 1920, led him to invite a number of his cousins to attend his court at Phya Thai. As these cousins were not princes but princesses, the royal gesture, not surprisingly, proved unpopular among his coterie of predominantly male favourites and courtiers. Undeterred, Vajiravudh encouraged the presence of these ladies and, as a particular mark of his favour, included roles for them in several plays he wrote and had performed at his palace.
One of these princesses, Vallabha Devi was, according to Chula, not only charming and dignified but, as a daughter of Prince Naradhip and, like Vajiravudh himself, a grandchild of King Mongkut, eminently eligible. At the age of twenty-eight, she was also not too young for a bridegroom of thirty-nine.
The announcement of her engagement to the King on 9th November was therefore welcomed by all except, quoting Chula again, ‘by some well-known personages at court who tended to feel left out in the cold’. Many in the Royal Family must have wished that Queen Saowabha, Vajiravudh’s Mother, who had so deplored her son’s unmarried state, might have lived to share their rejoicing. A round of festivities was soon in full swing in honour of the engagement, the King’s betrothed was installed in the comparatively newly-built Chitraladda Palace, and all concerned began to plan and look forward to the splendour and ceremony of a royal wedding.
As Vajiravudh had announced that their marriage would be monogamous, Vallabha Devi must have anticipated a position of undisputed importance in her married life, and had already gathered around her a little court of her own, which included several of her pretty younger sisters, including one who was particularly charming, Princess Laksami, her junior by seven years. Meanwhile, the King visited his affianced every day at teatime and telephoned her every evening which, while formally correct, does not suggest an ardent courtship.