The Chinese Room

by Vivian Connell

  “Heavens, I didn’t know I was such a wildcat, Nick!”

  “That’s all right. You’ve got to go right down to the ends of the roots to get at it and get it out of you.”

  “Get at what?”

  “Oh, the animal in man. The thing with hoofs. If you don’t go into the jungle and get hold of it and tame it, it’s always likely to come out and kill you.”

  How very strange and absorbed Nicholas had looked when he had said—The thing with hoofs. But she no longer felt alarmed by her own animal fury, now that she knew that the mind could understand what the body was doing. Perhaps it was some animal with a hoof that she had killed in Nicholas this week end. Perhaps when his face had been absent-minded, he had been looking into a darkness at that animal. She could feel an instinct in him that understood the fundamental things that one could never quite understand by the mind. She went over and sat by the window and let her mind probe into the week end. It was all somehow extraordinary. But nothing was quite so strange as that moment when, by accident in the box room, she had seen Nicholas on Saturday coming in over the footbridge after his day’s labor in the field. Plastered in mud, a steam coming from his body, his legs heavy with clinging earth, he had seemed, under the congestion of black clouds and red dripping light, a dark and brooding peasant on the edge of the world. But the amazing thing was the sense of memory that it awoke in her. And then she had suddenly remembered. In the very first dance she had had with Nicholas, a curious picture of him like that had come into her mind. She recalled even now how the picture had somehow been transmitted into her through his hands.

  Muriel was not used to these experiences outside the chronometrical plane of time, and she had sat in the box room with a queer sensation going through her. For her time was the face of a clock, a face that one learned to know well day by day. But now she had glimpsed the ghost behind the face. How funny, that this strange picture should come to life ten years later! And now that it lived and breathed in her eyes, she felt in some way that she had got back to the beginning with Nicholas again. She felt again that strange disturbance in her blood. She looked in her mother’s trunk and found the book she had come up here to seek. And then her hand dropped on the piece of Indian silk shawl with the fringe. It was very curious, but she began to create the trousers out of it in her mind. And she had cut and sewn the silk while Nicholas slept before dinner. She knew quite suddenly that she wanted him badly. She wanted that earthly man who had come over the footbridge out of a strange world. That was the man she had wanted the night she met him. She was possessed by instinct, and it was by instinct that she had made those trousers, had oiled the hair on her head and body, had put scarlet on her nipples, and had rubbed grease into her stomach, had done everything to rouse a primal lust in him, as if she had wanted to destroy in one stroke the inhibited Englishwoman she had been to him.

  And the curious thing was that she felt cleansed now in every corner of her being. There was something of the Turkish bath in sex. It sweated you in> every pore and let you breathe. And it somehow washed out the room of the mind as it cleared the windows of the eyes. She was not able to understand how, but she had known by instinct that this week end of sex would purge the poison of worry from Nicholas’ mind. His face this morning was as human and healthy as a boy’s in the open air. He had lost the sense of being shut up behind the walls of inhibition that had made their marriage a jail. She felt certain that he had lived with Laura and Miss Coleman, but they had not been able to discharge him wholly of that animal in him. Well, she had let it out of the cage at last. In her smile there was a secret triumph. Not every woman would be able to take Nicholas. It was no wonder she had been afraid of him before she had got rid of her inhibition. Last night he had lost himself, and had made her lose herself, until it was no longer him and her, but the male and female in the violent generation of love. That was what she had wanted, to abandon the mind and feel nothing but the thunder in her blood and the thumping of her heart. That was what the woman wanted, and to hell with the namby-pamby talk that was supposed to be going on in the mind. There was nothing at all in the mind. One shut one’s eyes and plunged into the darkness and came out at last on the other side of the world with sweat and oil dripping off one like the ancient slime. And afterwards one felt purged and clean. The animal had been let out into the jungle. The lion only stank in the cage. But it was no wonder it scared hell out of people.

  It was funny, but she had no feeling of age about Nicholas. It was impossible to believe he was forty-six. Both of them had plenty of youth left to enjoy. She guessed that he was staying in London tonight to say good-by to Miss Coleman. She would not resent it if Nicholas slept with Miss Coleman tonight. After all, while she had starved him, Miss Coleman and maybe other women had given him peace with their womanhood. Why on earth wasn’t she feeling all that jealousy a woman was supposed to feel? And love with Nicholas only made her memory of MacGregor more tender. All she felt about Miss Coleman was that she hoped it would somehow be possible to make her a friend. Over dinner at the Clarendon she had felt again the beautiful clearness of Miss Coleman’s mind. Miss Coleman was infinitely more educated and cultured than she was. She felt ashamed of her stupidity in living down at Barrington and letting her mind become a grass field.

  She got up. She would go out and have a walk. Her bosom was a little sore. She laughed. She was glad of it. She guessed that perhaps a woman liked bearing that in the same way that she liked bearing the pangs of birth. Her face softened a little. That was something she did not want to think about yet. She called the dogs. -

  She came back at noon and had some hot chocolate. She was resting, calm and happy, when she heard the noise of a car. She looked out. It was Saluby. Damn. Somehow she loathed him when he came in, and got annoyed by his dithering about whether he would or would not have a cup of chocolate. In the end, he said he would have coffee.

  His small talk was frightful. At last he said: “I just dropped in to tell you about that case over at Yeoman Spire that you helped.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Well, the baby has arrived, and everything is going on fine. I’m just going over there now.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad.” She paused. “Do they need any more help?”

  “No. One of the family has got a good job. They are awfully grateful to you. You must go over and see the baby. I’ll call for you one day.”

  “Yes, I’ll go with you.”

  She looked at Saluby. She felt sure he was a good and compassionate doctor. What the devil was wrong with him?

  “Oh, did you see about MacGregor in today’s Times?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he’s finally proved his discovery in hospital experiments.”

  “I’m very pleased.”

  “I’m just going over to Dorminster this afternoon, to get some things he left.”

  Vague remark. Why did she feel that it was not vague?

  Saluby got up. He eased his taut face into a smile. “Well, thank you for the coffee.” He paused. “Oh, how is the patient?”

  “Patient?”

  “Oh, I mean your husband.”

  My God, she must control her temper! “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Well, from the way you talked about the effect those letters have on him, hes a patient in a way.”

  She tried to keep the angry blood out of her face. God, Saluby gave off a most peculiar feeling.

  “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “Well, no.”

  What damn impertinence!

  “I think you have a peculiar sense of humor. It is a wonder you didn’t ask for the guinea pig.” She paused. “As a matter of fact, I think he’s given up that ridiculous experiment.”

  “Oh.” Saluby paused. “Well, he’s cured then.”

  She got up, and Saluby took the hint.

  As she watched his car going down the avenue, she felt every sense tauten. Why on earth did she feel so uneasy? She had a curious feeling t
hat this visit was planned. Why had he been so insulting? She knew that he would never forgive her for finding out his failure as a lover. My God, he was unpleasant. And he had a diabolical skill in his sadistic mind. He knew that Nicholas was a peasant, not an urban banker. She could not explain or understand her conviction that Saluby had made this visit with a purpose and that still more peculiar feeling that the casual remark about going to Dorminster today had some significance that had nothing to do with what had happened there between them. She felt some internal scheming in his mind. She wished he had not mentioned the letters. If another came, it would come today. An hour ago, she would have been confident that Nicholas would just sit back in his chair and laugh at any letter this morning. But now she had this vague, sinister, damp feeling about her, that came like some unhealthy fog or ectoplasm off Saluby. She sat down and took up The Times to read about MacGregor. She found the piece and read it. When she put down the paper she realized that she could not remember a single word of what she had read this very moment. Good heavens, she hated this feeling.

  She was astonished to find that she had pressed the bell. It was Oxinham who came in.

  “Yes, madam?”

  “Tell Blake, when he comes back, that I want the Car to go to London after lunch.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Good heavens, why had she done this?

  Suddenly she cheered herself by planning a night in London with Nicholas. She would take a couple of rooms at the Ritz or Clarendon and surprise him. It would be fun to have a night out with him at a play or something, and...

  Why had Saluby come?

  Once in London, in the noise of Piccadilly, gregarious in the sunlight, she forgot this queer feeling that was like somebody behind one’s back. She went up Dover Street and saw about some clothes for her cruise with Nicholas. For the first time she felt that she owned a husband. It was a pleasant feeling. When Nicholas got himself away from the bank, she knew that she could make him happy. But one did not live by love alone. When they got back, he would have to find something to do that was worth doing. Love wasn’t much good if it didn’t drive something. What it had done for her was to open her faculties and senses to the world about her. With an English detachment, she contemplated the fact that it was unlikely she would confine her sex life to Nicholas. The life of the world was hardly monogamous. Nick’s life in the bank was monogamy. It was like locking oneself up in one room.

  She went back to the Clarendon and ordered tea. Then she went into the telephone box and asked for Mr. Bude’s private secretary when she got the bank. It was very pleasant to hear Miss Coleman’s calm, full, measured voice again.

  “Hello? Oh, hello, Mrs. Bude.”

  “Hello, Miss Coleman. How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m very well.”

  “I want you to give a message to Nicholas.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m in London. He doesn’t know. I don’t want you to tell him I am, until he is leaving the bank. Then tell him I’m here at the Clarendon, and I want him to come round. I don’t want to bother him until he’s done the day.”

  “I understand.”

  She knew now that she would like to see Miss Coleman again and said: “Well, when am I going to see you again?”

  “I don’t know. Ring me at my flat when you’re in London in the evening. I’d love to see you again, too.”

  “I will. Well...Oh, has there been any anonymous letter today?”

  “Yes.” Miss Coleman said. “It came just now. I’ve just taken it in to him.”

  Miss Coleman did not seem inclined to say any more. It must be all right. Oh, there was something she wanted to ask Miss Coleman.

  “Oh, there’s something I want to ask you. I know you go to the theater a lot. What is the play at the Apollo like? I thought we might go tonight. Have you seen it?”

  “Yes. I’ve seen it. It’s quite a good play. And it’s got a last act you remember.”

  “Good. Then I’ll book the seats and hope Nicholas will come. I haven’t seen a play for ages. They all seem awful unless they are French or American.” Muriel paused. “Well, you must have dinner with me again soon!”

  “Oh, no! You must dine with me this time. Well, good——“ There was a noise like the loud slam of a door, then a pause. Then Miss Coleman said: “Hold the line a moment, please.”

  Muriel held the line. Miss Coleman seemed to be some time. Then she was back. She seemed a little out of breath, as if she had been running. She asked: “Are you there?”

  “I am,” said Muriel. “Was that a door banging?”

  “No.” There was another slight pause. Muriel had a feeling that Miss Coleman was trying to steady her voice before she spoke. Then she said: “I think you ought to come round to the bank.”

  “Come round?”

  “Yes, please—now.”

  Miss Coleman had put down the telephone. Muriel’s heart missed a beat. How funny that Miss Coleman had asked her in that urgent way to come round. She hastened out without paying for the call and called a taxi that was passing.

  “Down to Bude’s Bank, Pall Mall, quickly.”

  She slammed the door of the taxi. It did not seem to make the same kind of noise that came over the telephone.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Nicholas fancied that Blake looked at him in a curious way as he opened the door of the car. After a slight pause, Blake said: “Did you cut yourself shaving’ sir? There’s blood on your face.”

  Blake closed the door and got in himself in front. Nicholas rubbed his handkerchief on his face. Lip salve, by God, after all these years! No wonder Blake had looked somewhat puzzled. Nicholas had often wondered if the staff at Barrington knew how futile family life was upstairs. Probably they did. Although most of them were of the family-servant type who knew that a public-school Englishman would prefer to let his butler find him kissing a parlormaid than his own wife, nevertheless they had an instinct about bedroom affairs. Nicholas rubbed off the salve and opened the windows to let the nostalgia of Muriel’s scent blow away. His body was still reminiscent about her. He smiled. He felt a hell of a long way from forty-six on this fresh morning. And charged with the restorative juices of sex, he felt a desire to use his new energy in something creative. When he got back from the cruise he must find something to engage him in heart and soul. He would not waste time in the tomfoolery of the Lords or the hoofling in the Commons. He began to plan out a future. It must be something in which Muriel could share. He knew that she now, too, was determined to use her personality. He became so rapt in the prospect that he was surprised to find they had arrived at the bank.

  As he went up the marble stairway, easing the case in his sore palm, he realized that not once on this journey in had he thought about the letters. The Monday-morning nightmare had passed him by. The work on Saturday had opened his lungs, and now he got to the top of the stairway with no hastening in his heartbeat. The sunshine was on Miss Coleman’s hair, and she looked cheerful. Nicholas avoided dropping an eye on her tray to see if there was a letter. He honestly did not care a damn if there was.

  When she followed him in with the mail, she laid a personal letter down by the pad. He saw that it was from old Dorman, probably about the Egyptian hand-off. Miss Coleman did not look at him. She said: “I have some calls to make. Will you look over the mail?”

  “Yes. Come in when you are done.”

  How understanding and delicate she was. She had wanted to let him alone with his relief at getting no anonymous letter. Hum, she didn’t know that it didn’t matter a damn to him now. He picked up Dorman’s letter. Then he felt a tickling on his forehead, put up his hand, felt the sting of salt on his sore palm. Sweat was pouring down his face, out of his body, down his spine.

  Good God! So it had been in his mind all the time! Nicholas got a shock. He had no idea that a fear could lie waiting in the mind like that. He had been unaware of any apprehension as he waited for Miss Coleman to come in. But it had been there, curled up
asleep in his mind, and now it was weeping in relief through every pore in his body. Nicholas found that he had taken several long drinks of air into his lungs. Then he knew he had a fearful thirst. He got up and drank two glasses of water.

  Well, the letters had stopped.

  Why?

  Nicholas took a good look at the new white pad on his desk and saw no faces there. It was all right. It was over now. He made a grim face. By the Lord, it was just as well it was! He did not like the discovery that it had been in his mind. Now he felt inclined to laugh in relief.

  Miss Coleman came in, and he saw that her eye went straight to the water jug. She looked down and said: “Good heavens, what have you done to your hands!”

  Nicholas looked at them. One of them was bleeding. My God, his hands must have been fighting while he awaited her coming in with the mail! It was incredible.

  “Oh, I got them sore on Saturday. I went out and did some work in a field.”

  “Oh.” She paused. “I wondered why you looked so fit this morning.”

  He felt somewhat guilty. It seemed unfair to her, after all she had given him, after so much time, that he should have found himself with Muriel. He had a sudden curiosity about how she and Muriel would get on. He had a feeling they would like each other. Well...

  “Look, would you get me old Dorman before we do the mail?”

  “Yes.”

  He glanced hastily at Dorman’s note while she got the call. Hum, old Dorman had seen daylight. It was a note of thanks for opening his eyes. Here was the call.