the door in the wall-第1章

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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　exhilarate