One confidential¹ 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 simplicity³ 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 glamour⁴ of his earnest slow voice, denuded⁵ 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 frankly⁶ 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 sipped⁷ my morning tea, I found myself trying to account for the flavour of reality that perplexed⁸ me in his impossible reminiscences, by supposing they did in some way suggest, present, convey—I hardly know which word to use—experiences 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 reticent⁹ a man to confide² in me. He was, I think, defending himself against an imputation¹⁰ of slackness and unreliability I had made in relation to a great public movement in which he had disappointed me. But he plunged¹² suddenly. “I have” he said, “a preoccupation—”
 
“I know,” he went on, after a pause that he devoted¹³ to the study of his cigar ash, “I have been negligent¹⁴. The fact is—it isn’t a case of ghosts or apparitions—but—it’s an odd thing to tell of, Redmond—I am haunted. I am haunted by something—that rather takes the light out of things, that fills me with longings¹⁵ . . . . .”
 
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 irrelevant¹⁶. “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 intensified¹⁷. It reminds me of what a woman once said of him—a 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 you—under his very nose . . . . .”
 
Yet the interest was not always out of him, and when he was holding his attention to a thing Wallace could contrive¹⁸ 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 cut—anyhow. 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 effort—as 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 Wall—that 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 immortal¹⁹ 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 confession²⁰ to me with a slow gravity, he reasoned and reckoned the date of it. “There was,” he said, “a crimson²¹ Virginia creeper in it—all one bright uniform crimson in a clear amber²² sunshine against a white wall. That came into the impression somehow, though I don’t clearly remember how, and there were horse-chestnut²³ 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 precocious²⁴ little boy—he learned to talk at an abnormally early age, and he was so sane²⁵ and “old-fashioned,” as people say, that he was permitted an amount of initiative that most children scarcely attain²⁶ by seven or eight. His mother died when he was born, and he was under the less vigilant²⁷ and authoritative²⁸ care of a nursery governess. His father was a stern, preoccupied²⁹ 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 incurable³⁰ blurs³¹ 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 peculiar³² 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 him—he could not tell which—to yield to this attraction. He insisted upon it as a curious thing that he knew from the very beginning—unless memory has played him the queerest trick—that the door was unfastened, and that he could go in as he chose.
 
I seem to see the figure of that little boy, drawn³³ and repelled³⁴. 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 hesitation³⁵ 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 plumber³⁶ and decorator, with a dusty disorder³⁷ of earthenware³⁸ pipes, sheet lead ball taps, pattern books of wall paper, and tins of enamel³⁹. He stood pretending to examine these things, and coveting⁴⁰, passionately⁴¹ desiring the green door.
 
Then, he said, he had a gust⁴² 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 luminous⁴³. In the instant of coming into it one was exquisitely⁴⁴ glad—as only in rare moments and when one is young and joyful⁴⁵ one can be glad in this world. And everything was beautiful there . . . . .
 
Wallace mused⁴⁶ 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, spotted⁴⁷ panthers. And I was not afraid. There was a long wide path with marble-edged flower borders on either side, and these two huge velvety⁴⁸ 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 enchanted⁴⁹ garden. I know. And the size? Oh! it stretched far and wide, this way and that. I believe there were hills far away. Heaven knows where West Kensington had suddenly got to. And somehow it was just like coming home.
 
“You know, in the very moment the door swung to behind me, I forgot the road with its fallen chestnut leaves, its cabs and tradesmen’s carts, I forgot the sort of gravitational pull back to the discipline and obedience⁵⁰ of home, I forgot all hesitations⁵¹ and fear, forgot discretion⁵², forgot all the intimate realities of this life. I became in a moment a very glad and wonder-happy little boy—in another world. It was a world with a different quality, a warmer, more penetrating⁵³ and mellower⁵⁴ light, with a faint clear gladness in its air, and wisps of sun-touched cloud in the blueness of its sky. And before me ran this long wide path, invitingly⁵⁵, with weedless beds on either side, rich with untended flowers, and these two great panthers. I put my little hands fearlessly on their soft fur, and caressed⁵⁶ their round ears and the sensitive corners under their ears, and played with them, and it was as though they welcomed me home. There was a keen sense of home-coming in my mind, and when presently a tall, fair girl appeared in the pathway and came to meet me, smiling, and said Well?’ to me, and lifted me, and kissed me, and put me down, and led me by the hand, there was no amazement⁵⁷, but only an impression of delightful⁵⁸ rightness, of being reminded of happy things that had in some strange way been overlooked. There were broad steps, I remember, that came into view between spikes⁵⁹ of delphinium, and up these we went to a great avenue between very old and shady dark trees. All down this avenue, you know, between the red chapped stems, were marble seats of honour and statuary, and very tame and friendly white doves . . . . .
 
“And along this avenue my girl-friend led me, looking down—I recall the pleasant lines, the finely-modelled chin of her sweet kind face—asking me questions in a soft, agreeable voice, and telling me things, pleasant things I know, though what they were I was never able to recall . . . And presently a little Capuchin monkey, very clean, with a fur of ruddy brown and kindly⁶⁰ hazel eyes, came down a tree to us and ran beside me, looking up at me and grinning, and presently leapt to my shoulder. So we went on our way in great happiness . . . .”
 
He paused.
 
“Go on,” I said.
 
“I remember little things. We passed an old man musing⁶¹ among laurels⁶², I remember, and a place gay with paroquets, and came through a broad shaded colonnade⁶³ to a spacious⁶⁴ cool palace, full of pleasant fountains, full of beautiful things, full of the quality and promise of heart’s desire. And there were many things and many people, some that still seem to stand out clearly and some that are a little vague, but all these people were beautiful and kind. In some way—I don’t know how—it was conveyed to me that they all were kind to me, glad to have me there, and filling me with gladness by their gestures, by the touch of their hands, by the welcome and love in their eyes. Yes—”
 
He mused for awhile. “Playmates I found there. That was very much to me, because I was a lonely little boy. They played delightful games in a grass-covered court where there was a sun-dial set about with flowers. And as one played one loved . . . .
 
“But—it’s odd—there’s a gap in my memory. I don’t remember the games we played. I never remembered. Afterwards, as a child, I spent long hours trying, even with tears, to recall the form of that happiness. I wanted to play it all over again—in my nursery—by myself. No! All I remember is the happiness and two dear playfellows who were most with me . . . . Then presently came a sombre dark woman, with a grave, pale face and dreamy eyes, a sombre woman wearing a soft long robe of pale purple, who carried a book and beckoned⁶⁵ and took me aside with her into a gallery above a hall—though my playmates were loth to have me go, and ceased their game and stood watching as I was carried away. ‘Come back to us!’ they cried. ‘Come back to us soon!’ I looked up at her face, but she heeded⁶⁶ them not at all. Her face was very gentle and grave. She took me to a seat in the gallery, and I stood beside her, ready to look at her book as she opened it upon her knee. The pages fell open. She pointed¹¹, and I looked, marvelling⁶⁷, for in the living pages of that book I saw myself; it was a story about myself, and in it were all the things that had happened to me since ever I was born . . . .
 
“It was wonderful to me, because the pages of that book were not pictures, you understand, but realities.”
 
Wallace paused gravely—looked at me doubtfully.
 
“Go on,” I said. “I understand.”
 
“They were realities—yes, they must have been; people moved and things came and went in them; my dear mother, whom I had near forgotten; then my father, stern and upright, the servants, the nursery, all the familiar things of home. Then the front door and the busy streets, with traffic to and fro: I looked and marvelled⁶⁸, and looked half doubtfully again into the woman’s face and turned the pages over, skipping this and that, to see more of this book, and more, and so at last I came to myself hovering⁶⁹ and hesitating outside the green door in the long white wall, and felt again the conflict and the fear.
 
“‘And next?’ I cried, and would have turned on, but the cool hand of the grave woman delayed me.
 
“‘Next?’ I insisted, and struggled gently with her hand, pulling up her fingers with all my childish strength, and as she yielded and the page came over she bent⁷⁰ down upon me like a shadow and kissed my brow.
 
“But the page did not show the enchanted garden, nor the panthers, nor the girl who had led me by the hand, nor the playfellows who had been so loth to let me go. It showed a long grey street in West Kensington, on that chill hour of afternoon before the lamps are lit, and I was there, a wretched little figure, weeping aloud, for all that I could do to restrain myself, and I was weeping because I could not return to my dear play-fellows who had called after me, ‘Come back to us! Come back to us soon!’ I was there. This was no page in a book, but harsh reality; that enchanted place and the restraining hand of the grave mother at whose knee I stood had gone—whither have they gone?”
 
He halted again, and remained for a time, staring into the fire.
 
“Oh! the wretchedness of that return!” he murmured.
 
“Well?” I said after a minute or so.
 
“Poor little wretch⁷¹ I was—brought back to this grey world again! As I realised the fulness of what had happened to me, I gave way to quite ungovernable grief. And the shame and humiliation⁷² of that public weeping and my disgraceful homecoming remain with me still. I see again the benevolent-looking old gentleman in gold spectacles who stopped and spoke⁷³ to me—prodding me first with his umbrella. ‘Poor little chap,’ said he; ‘and are you lost then?’—and me a London boy of five and more! And he must needs bring in a kindly young policeman and make a crowd of me, and so march me home. Sobbing⁷⁴, conspicuous⁷⁵ and frightened, I came from the enchanted garden to the steps of my father’s house.
 
“That is as well as I can remember my vision of that garden—the garden that haunts me still. Of course, I can convey nothing of that indescribable quality of translucent⁷⁶ unreality, that difference from the common things of experience that hung about it all; but that—that is what happened. If it was a dream, I am sure it was a day-time and altogether extraordinary dream . . . . . . H’m!—naturally there followed a terrible questioning, by my aunt, my father, the nurse, the governess—everyone . . . . . .
 
“I tried to tell them, and my father gave me my first thrashing for telling lies. When afterwards I tried to tell my aunt, she punished me again for my wicked persistence⁷⁷. Then, as I said, everyone was forbidden to listen to me, to hear a word about it. Even my fairy tale books were taken away from me for a time—because I was ‘too imaginative.’ Eh? Yes, they did that! My father belonged to the old school . . . . . And my story was driven back upon myself. I whispered it to my pillow—my pillow that was often damp and salt to my whispering lips with childish tears. And I added always to my official and less fervent⁷⁸ prayers this one heartfelt request: ‘Please God I may dream of the garden. Oh! take me back to my garden! Take me back to my garden!’
 
“I dreamt often of the garden. I may have added to it, I may have changed it; I do not know . . . . . All this you understand is an attempt to reconstruct from fragmentary memories a very early experience. Between that and the other consecutive⁷⁹ memories of my boyhood there is a gulf⁸⁰. A time came when it seemed impossible I should ever speak of that wonder glimpse again.”
 
I asked an obvious question.
 
“No,” he said. “I don’t remember that I ever attempted to find my way back to the garden in those early years. This seems odd to me now, but I think that very probably a closer watch was kept on my movements after this misadventure to prevent my going astray. No, it wasn’t until you knew me that I tried for the garden again. And I believe there was a period—incredible as it seems now—when I forgot the garden altogether—when I was about eight or nine it may have been. Do you remember me as a kid at Saint Athelstan’s?”
 
“Rather!”
 
“I didn’t show any signs did I in those days of having a secret dream?”