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THE DOOR IN THE WALL
I
One confidential evening； not three months ago； Lionel Wallace told
me this story of the Door in the Wall。 And at the time I thought
that so far as he was concerned it was a true story。
He told it me with such a direct simplicity of conviction that
I could not do otherwise than believe in him。 But in the morning；
in my own flat； I woke to a different atmosphere； and as I lay in
bed and recalled the things he had told me； stripped of the glamour
of his earnest slow voice； denuded of the focussed shaded table
light； the shadowy atmosphere that wrapped about him and the
pleasant bright things； the dessert and glasses and napery of the
dinner we had shared； making them for the time a bright little
world quite cut off from every…day realities； I saw it all as
frankly incredible。 〃He was mystifying！〃 I said； and then： 〃How
well he did it！。 。 。 。 。 It isn't quite the thing I should have
expected him； of all people； to do well。〃
Afterwards； as I sat up in bed and sipped my morning tea； I
found myself trying to account for the flavour of reality that
perplexed me in his impossible reminiscences； by supposing they did
in some way suggest； present； conveyI hardly know which word to
useexperiences it was otherwise impossible to tell。
Well； I don't resort to that explanation now。 I have got over
my intervening doubts。 I believe now； as I believed at the moment
of telling； that Wallace did to the very best of his ability strip
the truth of his secret for me。 But whether he himself saw； or only
thought he saw； whether he himself was the possessor of an
inestimable privilege； or the victim of a fantastic dream； I cannot
pretend to guess。 Even the facts of his death； which ended my
doubts forever； throw no light on that。 That much the reader must
judge for himself。
I forget now what chance comment or criticism of mine moved so
reticent a man to confide in me。 He was； I think； defending
himself against an imputation of slackness and unreliability I had
made in relation to a great public movement in which he had
disappointed me。 But he plunged suddenly。 〃I have〃 he said； 〃a
preoccupation〃
〃I know；〃 he went on； after a pause that he devoted to the
study of his cigar ash； 〃I have been negligent。 The fact isit
isn't a case of ghosts or apparitionsbutit's an odd thing to
tell of； RedmondI am haunted。 I am haunted by somethingthat
rather takes the light out of things； that fills me with longings
。 。 。 。 。〃
He paused； checked by that English shyness that so often
overcomes us when we would speak of moving or grave or beautiful
things。 〃You were at Saint Athelstan's all through；〃 he said； and
for a moment that seemed to me quite irrelevant。 〃Well〃and he
paused。 Then very haltingly at first； but afterwards more easily；
he began to tell of the thing that was hidden in his life； the
haunting memory of a beauty and a happiness that filled his heart
with insatiable longings that made all the interests and spectacle
of worldly life seem dull and tedious and vain to him。
Now that I have the clue to it； the thing seems written
visibly in his face。 I have a photograph in which that look of
detachment has been caught and intensified。 It reminds me of what
a woman once said of hima woman who had loved him greatly。
〃Suddenly；〃 she said； 〃the interest goes out of him。 He forgets
you。 He doesn't care a rap for youunder his very nose 。 。 。 。 。〃
Yet the interest was not always out of him； and when he was
holding his attention to a thing Wallace could contrive to be an
extremely successful man。 His career； indeed； is set with
successes。 He left me behind him long ago； he soared up over my
head； and cut a figure in the world that I couldn't cutanyhow。
He was still a year short of forty； and they say now that he would
have been in office and very probably in the new Cabinet if he had
lived。 At school he always beat me without effortas it were by
nature。 We were at school together at Saint Athelstan's College in
West Kensington for almost all our school time。 He came into the
school as my co…equal； but he left far above me； in a blaze of
scholarships and brilliant performance。 Yet I think I made a fair
average running。 And it was at school I heard first of the Door in
the Wallthat I was to hear of a second time only a month before
his death。
To him at least the Door in the Wall was a real door leading
through a real wall to immortal realities。 Of that I am now quite
assured。
And it came into his life early； when he was a little fellow
between five and six。 I remember how； as he sat making his
confession to me with a slow gravity； he reasoned and reckoned the
date of it。 〃There was；〃 he said； 〃a crimson Virginia creeper in
itall one bright uniform crimson in a clear amber sunshine
against a white wall。 That came into the impression somehow；
though I don't clearly remember how； and there were horse…chestnut
leaves upon the clean pavement outside the green door。 They were
blotched yellow and green； you know； not brown nor dirty； so that
they must have been new fallen。 I take it that means October。 I
look out for horse…chestnut leaves every year； and I ought to know。
〃If I'm right in that； I was about five years and four months old。〃
He was； he said； rather a precocious little boyhe learned to
talk at an abnormally early age； and he was so sane and
〃old…fashioned；〃 as people say； that he was permitted an amount of
initiative that most children scarcely attain by seven or eight。
His mother died when he was born； and he was under the less
vigilant and authoritative care of a nursery governess。 His father
was a stern； preoccupied lawyer； who gave him little attention； and
expected great things of him。 For all his brightness he found life
a little grey and dull I think。 And one day he wandered。
He could not recall the particular neglect that enabled him to
get away； nor the course he took among the West Kensington roads。
All that had faded among the incurable blurs of memory。 But the
white wall and the green door stood out quite distinctly。
As his memory of that remote childish experience ran； he did
at the very first sight of that door experience a peculiar emotion；
an attraction； a desire to get to the door and open it and walk in。
And at the same time he had the clearest conviction that either it
was unwise or it was wrong of himhe could not tell whichto
yield to this attraction。 He insisted upon it as a curious thing
that he knew from the very beginningunless memory has played him
the queerest trickthat the door was unfastened； and that he could
go in as he chose。
I seem to see the figure of that little boy； drawn and
repelled。 And it was very clear in his mind； too； though why it
should be so was never explained； that his father would be very
angry if he went through that door。
Wallace described all these moments of hesitation to me with
the utmost particularity。 He went right past the door； and then；
with his hands in his pockets； and making an infantile attempt to
whistle； strolled right along beyond the end of the wall。 There he
recalls a number of mean； dirty shops； and particularly that of a
plumber and decorator； with a dusty disorder of earthenware pipes；
sheet lead ball taps； pattern books of wall paper； and tins of
enamel。 He stood pretending to examine these things； and coveting；
passionately desiring the green door。
Then； he said； he had a gust of emotion。 He made a run for
it； lest hesitation should grip him again； he went plump with
outstretched hand through the green door and let it slam behind
him。 And so； in a trice； he came into the garden that has haunted
all his life。
It was very difficult for Wallace to give me his full sense of
that garden into which he came。
There was something in the very air of it that exhilarated；
that gave one a sense of lightness and good happening and well
being； there was something in the sight of it that made all its
colour clean and perfect and subtly luminous。 In the instant of
coming into it one was exquisitely gladas only in rare moments
and when one is young and joyful one can be glad in this world。
And everything was beautiful there 。 。 。 。 。
Wallace mused before he went on telling me。 〃You see；〃 he
said； with the doubtful inflection of a man who pauses at
incredible things； 〃there were two great panthers there 。 。 。 Yes；
spotted panthers。 And I was not afraid。 There was a long wide
path with marble…edged flower borders on either side； and these two
huge velvety beasts were playing there with a ball。 One looked up
and came towards me； a little curious as it seemed。 It came right
up to me； rubbed its soft round ear very gently against the small
hand I held out and purred。 It was； I tell you； an enchanted
garden。 I know。 And the