徐卓呆：秘密室

The Secret Room

By Xu Zhuodai

Translated by Christopher G. Rea

A PECULIAR THING happened in our family. Someone suddenly came back

to life decades after he had died, only to die again. Isn’t that peculiar? Our

family was put on the road to wealth by my great-grandfather, Zaizhi, who was

acclaimed by people as a rich man and philanthropist. Some even said that

with his attainments, there was nothing in the world he could not accomplish.

Nevertheless, no one was particularly close to our family; even those who lived

nearby seldom visited, and in the course of a year no more than a handful of

visitors ever stepped through our gate. Should important business bring a visitor

to our house, he would depart as soon as his business was completed, never

lingering to chat. Even beggars were no different. When one arrived we would

always give him a bowl of rice or some money, and sometimes even wine and

prepared food. But despite our generosity, as soon as he’d gotten what he’d come

for, he’d run away.

Our household had quite a number of servant girls, some of whom had grown

up with me from the time we were children. They worked hard and were paid

good wages, but they served us with a complete lack of affection. Each one was

born and raised in our house, and we always paid their wages in advance. We

provided for them for life, even giving each an old-age pension. They nevertheless

displayed so little affection that it was just as well we’d never really wished for

any.

When it came to public enterprises for the betterment of society, we donated

massive sums to each and every one. But despite giving away our money so

freely—and so many times each year!—we still saved quite a bit, so that for the

past two or three generations, the family has generally been considered extremely

wealthy. Our family members all lived to a ripe old age, with never a premature

death, but each generation produced only a single heir. Each of the past six

generations had only one son, with the exception of my great-grandfather,

Zaizhi, who had a brother two years his senior—Taide. But excepting that

single generation, none had any brothers. If you were to look through the clan

genealogy, you would find that great-granduncle Taide was born 112 years

ago, but, oddly, no date of death. Were his whereabouts unknown? Was he still

living? Certainly someone should know after all these generations—why was

it never mentioned? How very peculiar! Occasionally I would ask my father

about my great-granduncle, and his usually solemn and morose expression

would turn even more melancholy. After a pause, he would reply, ‘Who knows

when it’ll be time for you to know!’ and then he would say no more on the

matter. My grandfather and father had always had melancholy countenances to

begin with. ‘Melancholy’, like water, was something they could not do without

for a single day, and I never saw either crack a smile. I was not the only one who

noticed this—everyone did—but no one knew the reason for it. Nor was this the

only peculiar thing. Adjacent to our study was a large room with a north-facing

window, which, from its architectural style and furnishings, was clearly over a

hundred years old. A lamp remained burning inside from dark till dawn, such

that the neighbouring rooms filled with smoke. My grandfather and father would

often go in and lock the door from the inside, not letting anyone else in. Three

times a day they would deliver milk, chicken broth, and the like to the room; for

whom, we knew not. Grandfather and father did everything themselves, so the

secret never leaked out. Another curious thing was that grandfather and father

never came out at the same time. When grandfather came out, father would

remain in the room; when father came out, grandfather would be standing

guard, as if they were afraid that someone would discover the secret enclosed

within. The room’s secret was the subject of much wild speculation among the

servant girls. Some said that it hid a beautiful concubine, but I didn’t believe

this. Later, after my mother’s death, everyone was convinced that it contained a

store of treasure. One night, after this rumour got out, five robbers broke in, but

Grandfather shot one with a handgun and the other four fled. My curiosity only

increased as I grew up, but all my wondering was in vain. Disgruntled, I went to

study elsewhere, and even during vacations no sooner had I returned home than

I would head off travelling again. I visited all the scenic spots and never cared

about the expense; and indeed, it was great fun, more than enough to comfort

myself. Occasionally, however, I would still think of the secret room and the

melancholy countenances of my father and grandfather, and my joy would be cut

short.

One day, I received a telegram from my father that read: ‘Grandfather

passed away. Return post haste.’ When I arrived home, I found that the

melancholy in my father’s expression was mixed with sorrow. My father had

always been close to my grandfather, who had treated him like a brother. That

night, father summoned me to the study, closed the door, and locked it. I sat

down, and father crossed his arms in front of his chest and closed his eyes

in thought. After a pause, he said in a low, quavering voice, ‘Now that your

grandfather is dead, I have a frightening secret to share with you. Henceforth,

it will be for you and me to keep. Have you seen our clan genealogy?’ I nodded.

Father continued, ‘Then you’ve no doubt seen that for the past eighty years

there has been no record of the whereabouts of your great-granduncle, Taide.

He’s not dead—he’s alive—but unfortunately we have no way to keep him

alive any longer.’ As he finished, father stood up, unlocked the secret room,

and ushered me inside. At that moment, I was filled with apprehension. The

room was long and narrow with a high ceiling and looked as though it had

been in disrepair for ages. The varnish on the floor had worn away, the window

lacked curtains, and the floor was without a rug. It contained only six heavy,

old chairs placed around a table. To the side was a bed draped with a heavy

canopy. As my father lifted the canopy, I saw an old man lying there, looking

as though he were made of wax, but breathing faintly. His eyes were closed

and his face covered with wrinkles. If you didn’t know, you might think he was

feigning sleep. A long, white beard completely covered the lower half of his face.

I thought to myself: so this is the reason for my family’s eighty years of secrecy.

If this ancient form doesn’t perish, the secret must be preserved! Back in the

study, I hung my head in silence while father told me the whole story.

And could I doubt what I’d heard from a man as upstanding as my father?

‘Your great-grandfather, Zaizhi, and his brother, Taide, had a very harmonious

relationship. Zaizhi married first. At the time, with Taide still single, the two

brothers shared expenses and were as close as could be. When I was two, your

great-grandmother died, and your great-grandfather never remarried. One day

he held a banquet and the guest of honour was just back from France. During

the banquet, that guest bragged that he was a student of the great hypnotist

Monsieur Mesmer, and that he had performed several hypnosis experiments

in the course of his expert research and not one had failed. Naturally, everyone

asked him to give a demonstration, and after some deliberation it was decided

that Taide would be the subject. Taide was only too happy to oblige. The guest

then began to practise his method, facing Taide and fixing his gaze on him. Taide

fell what seemed like sleep, but he still responded to all questions put to him

by the guest. The guest then asked him, “What is your greatest wish in life?” and

Taide replied, “That my younger brother, Zaizhi, should enjoy every happiness.”

It was then early spring, and the windows were all open. The lower half of each

window was faced with a railing, one of which the guest leaned on as he spoke

with the hypnotized Taide. Everyone burst laughter at this exchange.

Receiving such approbation from his audience, the guest was convulsed with

delight, clapping his hands in joy. All of a sudden, the railing snapped off, sending

the guest, who had been leaning on it, plunging the courtyard below. It was a

catastrophe. Everyone raced down to the courtyard only to see that it was too late:

the guest had broken his neck and was no longer breathing. The doctor came, so

did the coroner—it was a mass of confusion. They then went back to see Taide

who was still in a hypnotic state. They tried everything they could to wake him,

but nothing worked. Everyone was greatly alarmed, and they fetched a doctor

to treat him. But Taide remained in a sleep-like state and would not wake up no

matter how loudly they shouted at him. The doctor told them it was epilepsy. It

was the fault of the guest, but since he was dead himself, blaming him would do

no good. The doctor tried everything but nothing worked, so they could only lay

him on the bed. Three days saw no change in his condition. A month went by,

then a year, but still there was no difference. Fearing that this curious happening

would raise the suspicions of outsiders, they shut up his room and kept it a family

secret. This was the reason for our melancholy. Though Taide was in an eternal

sleep, he wasn’t actually dead, as he still breathed. Since he had to eat and drink,

they devised a way to pour milk, chicken broth and the like down his throat to

keep him alive. His younger brother Zaizhi managed this task personally. When

his son came of age, he told him the secret, and the two of them took turns. When

his son got married and the bride gradually became acquainted with the goings

on in the house, she of course began asking about the secret in the room. But

though husband and wife were on close terms, he couldn’t very well let her in on

it. So, from father to son and from son to grandson, Taide’s body was passed down

like a family heirloom.’ Having heard my father’s account I now understood, and

I would of course also keep the secret. But what I would need to do in the future

was still unclear to me. Father urged me to marry, but I told him that it would

have to wait until the secret disappeared. Great-granduncle Taide was already

108 years old. I once asked my father why he didn’t try to figure out a way to

wake him, and he replied, ‘How can we wake him, when Mr Yuan, who put him

in this state in the first place, is already gone?’ The question left me terribly

upset. Two years later, my father died, only telling me the primary symptoms of

this coma-like illness in his final moments.

After father’s death, the responsibility fell to me. My one wish was to wake

him. Every day, in addition to feeding him, I immersed myself in research.

Though I’m not fond of liquor, I would force myself to have a drink then set to

reading. One day, while reading a small German magazine, I came across a

piece about hypnosis and read it straight through, not even stopping for food or

sleep. It said that to wake someone from an induced slumber was not difficult,

but that it required the agent to have a strong faith in his own powers and an

iron determination not to fail. When this power was released, the hypnotized

person was sure to awaken. I was elated. Though I lacked Taide’s spirit, I had my

own single-minded willpower, and with it, I was sure to overcome his and wake

him. My mind set, I stared at the old man lying prone before me and shouted:

‘Awake! Awake! The dawn has risen!’ His breathing suddenly deepened, and I

became ecstatic, my heart pounding like a bell tolled. I again fixed my gaze on

him and called out. Taide’s eyes opened and he looked all around before closing

them halfway and falling back to sleep. I hastily made my way over to the table

and picked up a glass of liquor, which I poured down his throat. Sure enough,

that revived him, and, supporting him with my arm, I gradually sat him up. He

stared blankly at my face and asked in a weak voice, ‘Where am I? Who are you?’

I replied, ‘I’m Zaizhi.’ He was shocked. ‘Zaizhi? You can’t be my younger brother!’

After a pause, he continued, ‘I see, I see. This is a dream,’ and then shut his eyes

again. I lay him quietly back down and let him rest peacefully, then offered him

another glass of liquor, urging, ‘Please drink! Please drink! Great-granduncle,

you’ll feel better after drinking this!’ He muttered to himself, ‘What do you mean

“Great-granduncle”?’ And: ‘Didn’t you just say I was your elder brother? What a

curious dream!’ But, feeling he could use a drink, he had a sip of the liquor. Using

my left arm as a pillow, I then lay him back down again.

Later, since the room was getting dark, I struck a

match and lit the kerosene lamp. ‘What’s this?’ he

asked in surprise. ‘How can you make a flame

by rubbing your fingertips together? I’ve never

seen anything like it. What a remarkable,

remarkable dream!’ I told him it was a match

and showed him how it worked. He was

enthralled, so I explained how they were

made and from what materials. Then I related

to him how useful it was, and how nowadays,

we not only had something to make fire but gas

to make light too! Only half convinced, he asked,

‘Gas—what’s that? How can it make light?’ Seeing that he seemed to have

recovered some of his energy, I suggested, ‘It’s early. Why don’t you change your

clothes and we can go sit together in the study where it’s more comfortable?’ He

briefly trained his gaze on me, and as I took out a change of clothing, he remarked

in alarm, ‘Is this how people dress nowadays? How would it look for someone to

go out wearing so little—it’d be a monkey show! Where are my clothes?’ I went

to his wardrobe and, pulling a long gown out, almost burst out laughing at how

enormous it was. Never had I seen such a huge gown. I told the old man, ‘Great?granduncle, your clothes have been eaten through by moths. You shouldn’t wear

them.’ He again muttered to himself, ‘What do you mean my clothes are all

moth-eaten? I’m dreaming for sure! Bring over my gown and let me try it on.’


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