his eyes cast down from the royal presence, his mind racing madly, Robert Hunter made his request. He was Robert Hunter, a merchant, the citizen of a distant empire of unparalleled power called Great Britain. He had been fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of two subjects of His Majesty, the so-called double boys from the village of Meklong, who had entertained his Royal Highness two years earlier, and so forth and so on. They were indeed one of the rare fruits of the world, a living symbol of the many wonders of the empire, et cetera, et cetera.
He had no idea what the king was doing, or thinking. Dimly aware that he was going on too long, he rushed to the point. He, Robert Hunter, humbly wished to ask His Majesty’s permission to take his subjects abroad—for a short time only and under his constant supervision—in order to exhibit these human wonders to the rest of the world.
Oh, the joy of it! The monarch, who had been looking at a spot on the floor a few feet to Robert Hunter’s left the entire time, inclined his head slightly to the right, at the same time raising his chin. He seemed concerned, even troubled. On his forehead a network of tiny creases had appeared, like miniature streams. A river of concern split the royal brow. Instantly, one of the official courtiers was at his side, his ear to the royal lips. The monarch was worried about one of the royal tortoises. It hadn’t been eating as it should. They must try something else. Immediately. Or perhaps it had come to His Eminence’s attention that the stone to the Westerner’s left was unsightly and discolored.
A great gong sounded. With a shout, the assembled courtiers threw themselves to the ground. The royal audience was over. The monarch had not deigned to reply.
• • •
A pair of sandals and a boulder in Tartarus would have been preferable to this. At least the son of old Aeolus, justly punished for his trickery, had known the will of the gods. But Robert Hunter, unlike Sisyphus, knew nothing. Returned to the base of the hill for no reason he could discern, he did the only thing he could. With hardly a glance at the flowering world about him (which must have seemed, by this point, as barren and dark as Hades itself), he began up the slope again. Perhaps he was an American and not a Scotsman. Only in America did we ever encounter a zeal so refined, a God-driven avarice so pure. Only in the bubbling caldron of the New World could the basest motives have combined with the highest justifications to produce a disrespect—toward time, toward fate, toward the finite measure of our days—so perfect and profound.
Nearly three years had passed since Robert Hunter had first seen us swimming in the river. We were sixteen years old. He had gained nothing. To the contrary, he had been deposited outside the palace walls like a rejected parcel of goods, sent ignominiously packing without even the courtesy of a reply to his petition. He set his feet, began to push. The next time the monarch would listen.
And yet, though Robert Hunter would never know it (mercifully, for even he might have been staggered by the way his every effort seemed destined to pass him by and illuminate us ) Rama III had heard him, or had heard enough, at any rate, to be reminded of our existence. Preoccupied with making plans to send a diplomatic mission to Cochin China for the purpose of regulating trade between the two nations, the monarch now determined that we should accompany it. We were a rare product, he pointed out, like a fruit; a living symbol of the wonders of his empire. The king of Cochin China would surely be diverted, as he himself had been, by our presence.
And so, for the second time in the span of our short lives, the royal emissary appeared in Meklong. We had been offered a great honor. King Rama III wished for us to accompany his diplomatic mission to Cochin China. When the time came, we would be sent for.
V.
We sailed into the Gulf of
He had no idea what the king was doing, or thinking. Dimly aware that he was going on too long, he rushed to the point. He, Robert Hunter, humbly wished to ask His Majesty’s permission to take his subjects abroad—for a short time only and under his constant supervision—in order to exhibit these human wonders to the rest of the world.
Oh, the joy of it! The monarch, who had been looking at a spot on the floor a few feet to Robert Hunter’s left the entire time, inclined his head slightly to the right, at the same time raising his chin. He seemed concerned, even troubled. On his forehead a network of tiny creases had appeared, like miniature streams. A river of concern split the royal brow. Instantly, one of the official courtiers was at his side, his ear to the royal lips. The monarch was worried about one of the royal tortoises. It hadn’t been eating as it should. They must try something else. Immediately. Or perhaps it had come to His Eminence’s attention that the stone to the Westerner’s left was unsightly and discolored.
A great gong sounded. With a shout, the assembled courtiers threw themselves to the ground. The royal audience was over. The monarch had not deigned to reply.
• • •
A pair of sandals and a boulder in Tartarus would have been preferable to this. At least the son of old Aeolus, justly punished for his trickery, had known the will of the gods. But Robert Hunter, unlike Sisyphus, knew nothing. Returned to the base of the hill for no reason he could discern, he did the only thing he could. With hardly a glance at the flowering world about him (which must have seemed, by this point, as barren and dark as Hades itself), he began up the slope again. Perhaps he was an American and not a Scotsman. Only in America did we ever encounter a zeal so refined, a God-driven avarice so pure. Only in the bubbling caldron of the New World could the basest motives have combined with the highest justifications to produce a disrespect—toward time, toward fate, toward the finite measure of our days—so perfect and profound.
Nearly three years had passed since Robert Hunter had first seen us swimming in the river. We were sixteen years old. He had gained nothing. To the contrary, he had been deposited outside the palace walls like a rejected parcel of goods, sent ignominiously packing without even the courtesy of a reply to his petition. He set his feet, began to push. The next time the monarch would listen.
And yet, though Robert Hunter would never know it (mercifully, for even he might have been staggered by the way his every effort seemed destined to pass him by and illuminate us ) Rama III had heard him, or had heard enough, at any rate, to be reminded of our existence. Preoccupied with making plans to send a diplomatic mission to Cochin China for the purpose of regulating trade between the two nations, the monarch now determined that we should accompany it. We were a rare product, he pointed out, like a fruit; a living symbol of the wonders of his empire. The king of Cochin China would surely be diverted, as he himself had been, by our presence.
And so, for the second time in the span of our short lives, the royal emissary appeared in Meklong. We had been offered a great honor. King Rama III wished for us to accompany his diplomatic mission to Cochin China. When the time came, we would be sent for.
V.
We sailed into the Gulf of
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