Katya & The Prince of Siam

This was run over fifty laps, a distance of one hundred miles, along the twisting streets of the little principality, still elegant before the intrusion of skyscrapers and factories. I was happy to be there, not because I was interested in motor-racing, but because I understood that Katya and her husband would be coming and, even from the little I then knew of her remarkable story, I longed to meet her.

Lisba introduced us and I found myself shaking hands with an elegant lady whose still abundant severely dressed chestnut hair framed regular features that, though pleasing, seemed clouded by a pensive sadness, setting her apart from the convivial excitement around her. In consequence I felt timid, afraid of intruding on her different mood. To begin with, therefore, our conversation was rather stiff and formal; I cannot remember what I said that amused her, but suddenly and delightfully she smiled – a wide generous smile – instantly looking so animated and so much younger that I recall Queen Saowabha’s long-ago praise of her ‘pretty smile’. In a flash, I could now well imagine how she had once so fascinated Chakrabongse.

There was a fine, rather chilly, day for the race in which Bira managing skillfully to avoid a crash in the second lap, worked his way up the field to record his first important win.

Afterwards in Chula’s hotel suite there was much champagne and many congratulations while the victor in his Bira-blue overalls sat content and happy, drinking orange juice.

Later that evening, having changed, we all met again at the Sporting Club where about twenty of us sat at a table in the centre of which glittered the resplendent cup. Many members of the elegant crowd who sauntered into the restaurant came over to greet Bira who, though obviously very happy, appeared modestly confused by all the attention. When, after an excellent meal, Chula suggested that we should all go and dance at the night club downstairs, the idea was greeted with enthusiasm.

Chula flushed and animated – he had every reason to be pleased and proud as it was his efficient management of the ‘equipe’ that had contributed greatly to the success, proposed to Bira that they should take the cup to their table at the night club. But Bira objected. He though it would be ‘showing-off’. Chula tried to change his mind and began to show signs of keeping anger at bay with an effort and the argument continuing as we left the restaurant, we began to feel embarrassed.

 

Prince Rainier Cup, Monaco, 11 April 1936. their first victory. Chula is at extreme right.

 

Eventually in two or three rather subdued groups, we went down in a lift into a kind of foyer, where we stood about while Chula and Bira harangued each other, oblivious of our presence. Katya was nowhere to be seen. Our spirits began to sink and the élan of the evening almost visibly drifted away. Suddenly the lift came down again and, turning towards this diversion, I saw Katya emerge. Good, I thought, she will bring them to their senses and save the party from disaster. I watched her move towards them in a quiet determined manner that promised well but, as she drew nearer, her pace quickened, she tossed her head and sprang forward, not to separate and reason with them as I had hoped, but with heightened colour and dramatic gesture, stirred the flaming quarrel higher still in furious Siamese. By now an impression was gaining ground among the forgotten guests that it would be better to depart so, with politely murmured thanks ignored by the combatants, we all stole away.

In 1937, Chakrabongse’s old friend from their days together in the Corps des Pages and the last Emperor’s Own Hussars, Colonel Poum, arrived in Paris, very much alone now that his great love, Madame Chrapovitzkaya, to whom he had devoted his life, had died in the South of France. In his mid-fifties, he had greying hair and moustache and an air of gentle resignation, far removed from the youthful dash and style he had shared with Chakrabongse in the last days of Imperial Russia. He gave the impression of a man somewhat withdrawn from life – courteous but absent in manner – who smiled when he saw others smile while his eyes remained grave and distant. His few clothes were always carefully brushed, pressed, and worn with elegant neatness, and he moved with the brisk precision of the soldier, contrasting with the remote sadness of his features in repose.