The Chinese Room Read online

  Saluby looked very old and weary, like an Oxford don compelled to lecture in the village school.

  “Of course, I cannot argue too far with my host, but...”

  “Don’t let that worry you, I’m not a made-up gent.” Nicholas saw Saluby’s hand fidget at his tie and took a shot in the dark. “To me, the whole thing is as simple as tying a tie.”

  Saluby put his right hand inside his dinner jacket as if he hoped to convey that his mind was at rest.

  “I think you overlook the power of suggestion—particularly on a peasant. To my mind, if a person like that wrote letters to herself threatening her with death, she would probably get to a state of mind when she’d go to the police for protection.” Saluby paused. “Or she might even commit suicide to avert being murdered.”

  “All that still proves that she was abnormal, so she’d have killed herself anyway. It doesn’t apply to a normal person.”

  Saluby shrugged himself as if he had learned it from a French film. “Perhaps, Mr. Bude, but I still believe that suggestion is the strongest power on earth, to normal or abnormal people.”

  Saluby paused. “I know I shouldn’t like to try an experiment of that kind on myself...”

  “Look here, Doctor, are you trying to imply that if a person like you or me wrote letters to ourselves—that if I wrote anonymous letters to myself threatening me with death, that I’d begin to take these letters seriously?”

  “It is possible.” Saluby paused. “At any rate, I’d believe it possible until it was disproved.”

  Nicholas got up. “Look here. In plain English, without being rude to you personally, that is damned nonsense. Why don’t you try it on yourself, to knock this suggestion stuff out of your mind?”

  “Why don’t you?”

  There was a silence, in which the clock ticked five times.

  “I?”

  “Yes. You can report to me how it feels. You would do me a good turn perhaps. I could write something about it—not saying who you were, of course—in a medical journal.”

  “That,” said Nicholas, “is as good as done.” He smiled rather a grim smile. “Anyway, I hope it will end the subject for tonight.” He paused. “Help yourself to some whisky.”

  Nicholas paused for a moment. Saluby had a queer notion that Bude was remembering something, that something was coming into his mind from somewhere outside. Then Nicholas walked over to the window as if he had forgotten they were there and let up the blind. He seemed to be standing apart as he looked out at the moonlight on the landscape.

  “Can I pour you a drink, Mr. Bude?”

  Nicholas came back from somewhere with a start. “Ah, no, thank you.” He paused. “I’m going out for a walk.”

  Saluby looked at the clock. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was so late. I...”

  “Stay where you are. I often go out for a walk at night. Don’t take any notice of me.”

  “I’m sure you’re being polite, Mr. Bude.”

  “I’m never polite, as you call it.” Nicholas paused, said into the air, “Too many damned manners make no manners at all. See you when I come back, I hope.” When Nicholas had gone out, Saluby stood on the hearth and tried to lean his elbow on the mantelpiece. He smiled at Muriel. “You haven’t been saying much.”

  “No. I like to listen.”

  “I’m afraid I was haranguing a bit. I have bored him out for a walk.” Saluby paused. “Well, hell have to listen to longer speeches in the Lords.”

  “Lords?”

  “Yes. He’s bound to go there, isn’t he? It’s inevitable.” He paused. “Some things are inevitable in this life.”

  His eyes discomforted her, and she moved a little.

  “I don’t know if Nicholas would take a peerage.”

  She paused. “Please don’t think you drove him out.

  He nearly always goes for a walk at night.”

  Saluby lighted a cigarette. “No. I didn’t really think I did. I knew what took him out. It is full moon.” She looked up at him. “I don’t know. Perhaps he does understand Sarah better than I can. He is nearer to the soil.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he is a peasant, isn’t he? One can’t help knowing about everybody, especially the squire, in a small village. To my mind, he’s all the better because his grandfather worked on the land. You can’t dig out roots like that in a couple of generations. I’m sorry, do you mind this?”

  “No.” She paused. “But what did you mean about the full moon?”

  “Well, nothing—in a way. But I think it has a certain magnetic effect on a countryman. It makes him want to go out and walk off the unrest in his soul.”

  “Unrest? Nicholas?”

  “Yes. Isn’t everybody restless? And he especially.

  His hands ..He saw her slight start. “I mean ..”What do you mean, about his hands?”

  “Nothing much. But they are a plowman’s hands. And they’ve been idle for two generations. He wants to work with them—I mean, in a way, he wants to talk with them. They’re his—natural language. That’s why he’s so conscious of them. He keeps them out of the way, as if he felt that his real self was in them, and wanted to be expressed by gripping a spade or an ax, not just in signing his name with a pen. I’m sorry. I’m disturbing you.”

  “Not at all.” She smiled charmingly. “I think you are very intelligent. I think you are right—except that you put too much into Nicholas. I mean—I think he just likes going out for a walk at night, and it is unnecessary to have a lot of theories about the full moon and things like that.”

  “Well, there is a full moon. Do you feel calm?” She got up and stood on the hearth and got a cigarette out of the box on the mantelpiece. He lighted it for her.

  “What were you saying?”

  “Oh, nothing. I just asked you if you felt calm—and you have answered my question.”

  “Oh—how?”

  “Well, you got up, because you are restless.”

  “I just wanted a cigarette.” She looked down into the fire. “I think you get things on your mind too much. Like Sarah. You couldn’t think about anything else tonight.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about Sarah at all.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  She kept on looking down at the fire and flicked imaginary ash off her cigarette.

  “You look very nice in black. You keep your hair like a very tidy garden.”

  He paused. “Don’t you ever let it down?”

  “Let my hair down? No, I wear it up, always.”

  “I rather meant that figuratively. I mean, let your hair down, go wild, do what you want to do.”

  “I do what I want to do.”

  “I see that. Now you want to keep on looking at the fire, so you keep on looking at the fire.” She continued to look at the fire, and he lifted the hair off her nape and softly kissed her neck. “You have lovely skin,”

  She looked up at him.

  “Don’t you think you are making rather a mistake now?” ‘

  “No.”

  “Well, you are. You are not quite so infallible as you think.”

  “I don’t like it when you shut up your mouth tight like a miser’s purse. You make your face a cold, inhibited spinster over the warm bare shoulders of a woman.”

  “I’m afraid your way of thinking is—rather anatomical for my taste.”

  “I am not trying to diagnose you. I have already done that.”

  “And you always believe in your diagnosis?”

  “Yes. I believe that human beings are human.”

  “If you act on a wrong diagnosis...”

  He kissed her on the mouth, and she slapped his face. He smiled.

  “I should know what to expect. I knew exactly what to expect then, and I was right. That was just habit on your part...No, don’t say it! I know what you are going to say—that you have not had the occasion to slap anybody’s face before. All the same, it is just habit—that you learned from books, novels. The woman a
lways slaps a man’s face when she is angry with him. However, I have also learned life from human beings, and I know that you slapped me because you are angry with yourself. I don’t mind if you hit me with the poker—so long as what you do isn’t a damned lie. Why don’t you do what you want to do?” She was pale and her eyes trembled in his gaze. “What do you think I want to do?”

  He kissed her on the mouth and twisted his kiss on her mouth as if he were twisting a cork into a bottle. When her resistance stopped, she clung to him in a violent jerk of surrender. Then he put her away and picked up his cigarette.

  She stood for some time trying to get control of herself. Her voice was thwarted with anger and emotion. “Well, now that you’ve got your way...”

  “I am going to smoke a cigarette.” He paused and smiled. “What do you expect me to do?”

  “Damn you! Were you making a fool of me!”

  “No. You are making a fool of yourself. You have waited about ten years for this, and now you can’t wait ten minutes. What do you expect me to do? Make love to you on the sofa?”

  “You won’t kiss me again!”

  “Oh, I will!” He paused. “Do you—live with your husband?”

  “You mind your own...” Suddenly her face went to pieces.

  “Yes, more or less...Sometimes...I...Why are you making me say this?”

  “I just wanted to know.”

  “I have never kissed another man since I was married.”

  “I guessed that.”

  “Oh, how?”

  “Well, the way you live here, and...Well, you rather rushed in like a schoolgirl!”

  He backed a little from the stinging slap.

  “You...”

  “I deserved that. I am sorry. I know. You’re all bottled up inside.” He walked over to the window. “Hum, moon-gazing!” She came over, and they saw Nicholas walking on the path below and looking up at the moon. “He’ll trip up in a minute!” She could not help a laugh as Nicholas fell over the curb of the path. “I told you. He’s magnetic to the moon. You see, it’s affecting you, too.”

  She leaned her body on his.

  “It’s not the moon is troubling me.” She paused. “Please, if you’ve got me to do this, it’s upsetting enough without you diagnosing me as if I were a patient.” She gave a little gasp. “Damn it, I couldn’t help myself!” He looked at her with scrutiny in his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t look at me as if you were reading a book! I’m just a woman, that’s all.”

  He put his arm about her.

  “I’m sorry. I know when to stop reading. But this is not the place.” He looked down at Nicholas. “I wonder if he’ll write himself those letters.”

  “Probably. He always likes life proved in black and white.” She trembled. “Oh, kiss me, darling. I want love so badly!” She pulled herself away. “Oh God, how can I get to sleep tonight!” There were tears in her eyes. “Now, go home.”

  FOUR

  When Miss Coleman brought in his mail on Monday morning Nicholas was getting his papers out of his case and he looked up and saw her beauty suddenly flushed with the sunlight, like a glass with wine. “Somebody ought to paint you.”

  She laid the four letters marked Personal by his hand and kept the rest in the tray. “I’m afraid you hadn’t a very peaceful week end, Mr. Bude.”

  “I know. You’ve seen the papers. Unpleasant business.” He paused, worked his fingers below the desk as if trying to unravel it. “Curious case. Don’t like these things occurring on my doorstep. Place crawling with newspapermen. Now, the mail!”

  “Nothing very much, Mr. Bude.”

  In the afternoon, when she brought in his tea, the evening paper had a picture of Sarah. He noticed Miss Coleman’s eye on it.

  “I’ll tell you about it, Miss Coleman. Bring in your tea.”

  “The letters, Mr. Bude...”

  “Oh, damn, can’t you be informal for ten minutes without making me feel guilty!”

  When she brought in her cup of tea, he told her the story, and she said: “This doctor sounds more like an actor than a doctor.”

  Nicholas could see Saluby sitting down with the sharp crease in his trousers and his pointed shoes.

  “Damn it, you couldn’t be more right if you knew him!”

  “Do you really mean to write those letters to yourself, just because he suggested it?”

  “Not at all. I’m doing it to amuse myself. My God, it can’t be sillier than what I’m doing here all day.” Nicholas buckled his hands. “I mean—I didn’t mean that, but I just want to get it down in black and white to myself that this doctor is a fool.”

  “Well, why not! Do you want to dictate it?”

  “Ahm—no hurry.” Nicholas felt a slight fool. “Leave it until next week.” He picked up some papers. “Ahm, remind me.”

  Miss Coleman picked up the diary and made a note. “I’ve got it down, Mr. Bude.”

  Nicholas took the diary and read the entry for next Monday—Letter on Self. He smiled at the banking term. “Damn it, you’ve got a sense of humor.”

  There was a .shadow of a smile on her face. Suddenly he looked at her almost in anger. “Damn it, I’d like to hear you laugh! Don’t believe I ever have. Funny as if the Sphinx coughed at you. Now, about this loan to India.”

  Later, when Miss Coleman came in with the late-afternoon mail, she laid a single letter by the blotting pad. Nicholas took it up, looked at the Chinese stamp, read the address:

  Manager

  The Elder Bank

  Pall Mall

  London

  “Good Lord!” He put it by and dealt with the scant mail; then he said: “Send Mr. Elder up to me.”

  When Mr. Elder came in, Nicholas had a curious feeling that in the yellow light cast by the shade of the blind that was down a little to shut out the rays of the sun Mr. Elder himself had something Chinese about him.

  “Yes, Mr. Bude?”

  Nicholas picked up the letter with a Chinese stamp. “Mr. Elder, I think you ought to open this.”

  “Out of the mouth of the dragon...” murmured Mr. Elder and took the letter. “Do you wish me to, Mr. Bude?”

  “Yes.”

  Mr. Elder opened the letter in a neat way that made Nicholas note how long and thin his fingers were and took out a letter and a fold-over of English bank notes. He laid the notes on the table and slowly read the letter.

  “Conscience money, Mr. Bude, from the grandson of a Chinese gentleman in Peking who owed it to the Elder Bank.”

  “How extraordinary! How much?”

  “Nine hundred and forty pounds. The original sum was small, but the interest is there. I am sure it is exact.”

  “I have no doubt.” Nicholas paused. “You must consider that money yours, Mr. Elder.”

  “Mr. Bude, when you took over our -the Elder Bank, you took over the accounts.”

  Nicholas paused for a long time. “Mr. Elder, you said that was—conscience money?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am returning it to you in the same way that this Chinaman returned it to your—the Elder Bank.”

  “There is no need, Mr. Bude. When your father took over the ruins of the Elder Bank from my father, I was a boy, and I walked along Pall Mall one day with my father, in search of bread at a hostel, and when he saw the plate outside the door with the BUDE BANK engraved on it, he raised his hat, and said, ‘Thank God.’ I think I understood then the value of money.”

  Nicholas put his hands into his pockets.

  “I am glad you told me this, Mr. Elder. I often wondered if you—resented being an employee in the bank your father owned once.” Nicholas paused. “All the same—do you think, Mr. Elder, that you could—kind of put yourself inside the mind of the Chinaman who sent that money?”

  “I think so,” Mr. Elder murmured. “Just a matter of mental levitation...Oh, nothing, Mr. Bude.” Mr. Elder paused. “I think I know what you mean. He would wish me to have it. I feel you are perhaps right. Nevertheless, I
do not want it.”

  “Well, what am I going to do? Somehow—well, I don’t want to use it.”

  “I have a suggestion, Mr. Bude.”

  “Well?”

  “The Crampton account, Mr. Bude...”

  “Ho! That damned man! My father used to say—never have the accounts of poets or professors. He was right. Crampton is more trouble than the India loans...But what do you mean?”

  “Professor Crampton is engaged on a work, an important work, on the history of the Ming dynasty.”

  “Oh...”

  “There are occasions in life, Mr. Bude, when you have to sacrifice your stomach to your conscience. Professor Crampton knows he will not live very long, and he is giving what remains of his life to what he considers is his duty to civilization.” Mr. Elder paused.

  “I could post the money anonymously to his account, Mr. Bude.”

  “Very well. I’m sorry we have been—that it was necessary to be so harsh with Crampton.” Nicholas paused. “You might have told me, Mr. Elder.”

  “Yes, I see now that I might. I apologize.”

  Mr. Elder laid the letter down and Nicholas picked it up.

  “But, Good God, this letter is in Chinese!”

  “And in the most beautiful calligraphy—if that is the correct word to apply to a language which is, if I may say so, more audible to the eye than the ear.”

  “But I didn’t know you could...”

  “I have the advantage of what is called poverty—in a relative sense, of course—Mr. Bude, so I have time, for a—hobby.” Mr. Elder paused. “Money, Mr. Bude, is a child that never grows up, and one’s whole life is gone in taking care of it. That is a saying that I cannot quote from Confucius, because he did not say it. But if he had lived long enough, I am sure he would have anticipated my Occidental wisdom.”

  Nicholas found that his hands had come out of his pockets and put them back again. There was a pause.

  “Mr. Elder, please inform Mr. Strood that Professor Crampton’s overdraft is not subject to any further stop.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bude.”

  “Mr. Elder...“

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I—ahm, your salary, is it...”

  “Quite adequate. I can walk out at night and draw on the gold bullion in the sky.” Mr. Elder paused. “I am sorry that you have had a disturbed week end, Mr.