 THE DOOR IN THE WALL, by H. G. Wells. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. 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 walked 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, slaw voice, denuded of the focused, shaded table-light, the shadowy atmosphere that wrapped about him and the pleasant bright things, the desert and glasses and nappery of the dinner we had shared, making them for the time a bright little world quite cut off from everyday 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, 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 fact 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 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 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 St. Athelston'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 spectacles 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 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 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 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 St. Athelston'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 immortal realities. 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 the slow gravity, he reasoned and reckoned the date of it. There was, he said, a crimson Virginia creeper in it, all 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 am right in that, I was about five years and four months old. He was, he said, rather a precocious little boy. He 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 attend by seven or eight. His mother died when he was born, and he was under the less vigilant and authoritative care of a nursery-governance. 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 gray 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 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 in the clearest trick, that the door was unfastened and that he could go in as he chose. There seemed 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 the dusty disorder of earthenware pipes, sheet-led ball-taps, patent books of wallpaper, 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 without stretched 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 glad, as 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-boarders 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 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 too behind me. I forgot the road with its fallen chestnut leaves, its cabs and tradesman's carts. I forgot the sort of gravitational pull back to the discipline and obedience of home. I forgot all hesitations and fear, forgot discretion, 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 penetrating and mellower 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, invitingly, 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 caressed 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 homecoming 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 amazement, but only an impression of delightful 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 Spikes of Delphinine, 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 girlfriend 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, the what they were I was never able to recall. And presently a little cappuccine monkey, very clean, with a fur of ruddy brown and kindly 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 musing among laurels, I remember, and a place gay with parakeets, and came through a broad-shaded colonnade to a spacious, 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 seemed 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 a while. Playmates I found there. That was very much to me because I was alone a little boy. They played delightful games in a grass-covered court, where there was a sundial 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 their happiness, and two dear playfellows who were most with me. Then presently came a somber dark woman, with a grave pale face and dreamy eyes. A somber woman wearing a soft long robe of pale purple, who carried a book and beckoned, and took me aside with her into a gallery above a hall. Though my playmates were loath 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 heeded 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 pointed, and I looked, marveling. 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, looking at me doubtfully. Go on, I said, I understand. There were realities. Yes, there must have been. People moved, and things came and went in them. My dear mother, whom I had near forgotten. There 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 marveled, 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, hovering 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 it, and the page came over, she bent 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 play-fellows who had been so loved 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 in the restraining hand of the grave mother at whose knee I stood had gone. Wither 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 wretched I was, brought back to this grey world again. As I realised the fullness of what had happened to me, I gave way to quite ungovernable grief, and the shame and humiliation of that public weeping, and my disgraceful homecoming remained with me still. I see again the benevolent-looking old gentleman in gold spectacles, who stopped and spoke to me, prodding me first with his umbrella. Poor little chap, said he, and all you're 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. Sobbing, conspicuous, 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 translucent unreality, the difference from the common things of experience that hung about it all, but that is what happened. If it was a dream, I am sure it was a day time and altogether extraordinary dream. 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 persistence. Then as I said, everyone was forbidden to listen to me, to hear a word about it. Even my fairytale 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 fervent 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 consecutive memories of my boyhood, there is a gulf. 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 St. Athelstons? Rather. I didn't show any signs, did I, in those days of having a secret dream. He looked up with a sudden smile. Did you ever play in North West Passage with me? No, of course you didn't come my way. It was the sort of game, he went on, that every imaginative child plays all day. The idea was the discovery of a North West Passage to school. The way to school was plain enough, the game consisted in finding somewhere that wasn't plain, starting off ten minutes early in some almost hopeless direction, when working one's way round through unaccustomed streets to my goal. And one day I got entangled among some rather low-class streets on the other side of Campton Hill, and I began to think that for once the game would be against me, and that I should get to school late. I tried rather desperately a street that seemed a cul-de-sac, and found a passage at the end. I hurried through that with renewed hope, I shall do it yet, I said, and passed a row of frowsy little shops that were inexplicably familiar to me. And behold, there was my long white wall, and the green door that led to the enchanted garden. The thing whacked upon me suddenly. Then, after all, that garden, that wonderful garden, wasn't a dream, he paused. I suppose my second experience with the green door marks the world of difference there is between the busy life of a schoolboy and the infinite leisure of a child. Anyhow, this second time I didn't for a moment think of going in straight away. You see, for one thing my mind was full of the idea of getting to school in time, set on not breaking my record for punctuality. I must surely have felt some little desire at least to try the door. Yes, I must have felt that. But I seem to remember the attraction of the door mainly as another obstacle to my over-mastering determination to get to school. I was immediately interested by this discovery I had made. Of course, I went on with my mind full of it. But I went on. It didn't check me. I ran past tugging out my watch, found I had ten minutes still to spare, and then I was going downhill into familiar surroundings. I got to school, breathless it is true, and wet with perspiration, but in time. I can remember hanging up my coat and hat. Went right by it and left it behind me. All day. He looked at me thoughtfully. Of course I didn't know then that it wouldn't always be there. Schoolboys have limited imaginations. I suppose I thought it was an awfully jolly thing to have it there, to know my way back to it. But there was the school tugging at me. I expect I was a good deal distraught and inattentive that morning, recalling what I could of the beautiful strange people I should presently see again. Oddly enough I had no doubt in my mind that they would be glad to see me. Yes, I must have thought of the garden that morning just as a jolly sort of place, to which one might resort in the interludes of a strenuous scholastic career. I didn't go that day at all. The next day was a half-holiday, and that may have weighed with me. Perhaps too my state of inattention brought down impositions upon me and docked to the margin of time necessary for the detour. I don't know. What I do know is that in the meantime the enchanted garden was so much upon my mind that I could not keep it to myself. I told—what was this name?—a ferrity-looking youngster we used to call Squiff. Young Hopkins, said I. Hopkins it was. I did not like telling him. I had a feeling that in some way it was against the rules to tell him. But I did. He was walking part of the way home with me. He was talkative, and if we had not talked about the enchanted garden, we should have talked of something else, and it was intolerable to me to think about any other subject. So I blabbed. Well, he told my secret. The next day, in the play interval, I found myself surrounded by a half a dozen bigger boys, half teasing and wholly curious to hear more of the enchanted garden. There was that big faucet, you remember him? And Carnaby, and Morley Reynolds. You weren't there by any chance? No, I think I shouldn't have remembered if you were. A boy is a creature of odd feelings. I was, I really believe, in spite of my secret self-disgust, a little flattered to have the attention of these big fellows. I remember particularly a moment of pleasure caused by the praise of Crowshow. You remember Crowshow Major, the son of Crowshow, the composer? He said it was the best lie he had ever heard. But at the same time there was a really painful undertone of shame at telling what I felt was indeed a secret secret. That beast Fawcett made a joke about the girl in green. Wallace's voice sank with the keen memory of that shame. I pretended not to hear, he said. Well, then Carnaby suddenly called me a young liar and disputed with me when I said the thing was true. I said I knew where to find the green door, could lead them all there in ten minutes. Carnaby became outrageously virtuous and said I'd have to and bear out my words or suffer. Did you ever have Carnaby twist your arm? And perhaps you'll understand how it went with me. I swore my story was true. There was nobody in the school then to serve a chap from Carnaby, though Crowshow put in a word or so. Carnaby had got his game. I grew excited and red-eared and a little frightened. I behaved altogether like a silly little chap. And the outcome of it all was that instead of starting alone for my enchanted garden, I led the way presently. Cheeks flushed, ears hot, eyes smarting, and my sole one burning misery and shame for a party of six mocking, curious and threatening school fellows. We never found the white wall and the green door. You mean I mean I couldn't find it? I would have found it if I could. And afterwards when I could go alone, I couldn't find it. I never found it. I seem now to have been always looking for it through my schoolboy days. But I've never come upon it again. Did the fellows make it disagreeable? Beastly. Carnaby held a council over me for wanton lying. I remember how I sneaked home and upstairs to hide the marks of my blubbering. But when I grabbed myself to sleep at last, it wasn't for Carnaby, but for the garden, for the beautiful afternoon I had hoped for, for the sweet friendly women and the waiting player-fellows, and the game I had hoped to learn again, a beautiful forgotten game. I believed firmly that if I had not told— I had bad times after that, crying at night and wall-gathering by day. For two terms I slackened and had bad reports. Do you remember? Of course you would. It was you. You were beating me in mathematics that brought me back to the grind again. For a time my friend stared silently into the red heart of the fire. Then he said, I never saw it again until I was seventeen. It leapt upon me for the third time, as I was driving to Paddington on my way to Oxford and a scholarship. I had just one moment to re-glimpse. I was leaning over the apron of my handsome smoking a cigarette and not have thinking myself no end of a man of the world, and suddenly there was the door, the wall, the dear sense of unforgettable and still attainable things. We clattered by, I too taken by surprise to stop my cab until we were well past and round a corner. Then I had a queer moment, a double and divergent movement of my will. I tapped the little door in the roof of the cab and brought my arm down to pull out my watch. Yes, sir, said the cabman smartly. Uh, well, it's nothing, I cried. My mistake. We haven't much time. Go on. And he went on. I got my scholarship, and the night after I was told of that, I sat over my fire in my little upper room, my study in my father's house, with his prayers, his rare prayers, and his sound councils ringing in my ears, and I smoked my favourite pipe, the formidable bulldog of adolescence, and thought of that door in the long white wall. If I had stopped, I thought, I should have missed my scholarship. I should have missed Oxford, muddled all the fine career before me. I began to see things better. I fell musing deeply, but I did not doubt then this career of mine was a thing that merited sacrifice. Those dear friends and that clear atmosphere seemed very sweet to me, very fine, but remote. My grip was fixing now upon the world. I saw another door opening, the door of my career. He stared again into the fire. His red lights picked out a stubborn strength in his face for just one flickering moment, and then it vanished again. Well, he said, and sighed, I have served that career. I have done much work, much hard work, but I have dreamt of the enchanted garden a thousand dreams, and seen its door, or at least glimpsed its door, four times since then. Yes, four times. For a while this world was so bright and interesting, seemed so full of meaning and opportunity, that the half-fist charm of the garden was by comparison gentle and remote. Who wants to pat Panthers on the way to dinner with pretty women and distinguished men? I came down to London from Oxford, a man of bold promise that I have done something to redeem, something, and yet there have been disappointments. Twice I have been in love. I will not dwell on that, but once, as I went to someone who I know doubted whether I dare to come, I took a shortcut at a venture through an unfrequented road near Earl's Court, and so happened on a white wall, and a familiar green door. Odd, said I to myself, but I thought this place was on Campden Hill. It's the place I never could find somehow, like Countingstone Henge, the place of that queer daydream of mine, and I went by it intent upon my purpose. It had no appeal to me that afternoon. I had just a moment's impulse to try the door. Three steps aside were needed at the most, though I was sure enough in my heart that it would open to me. And then I thought that doing so might delay me on the way to that appointment, in which I thought my honour was involved. Afterwards I was sorry for my punctuality. I might at least have peeped in, I thought, and waved a hand to those Panthers, but I knew enough by this time not to seek again belatedly that which is not found by seeking. Yes, that time made me very sorry. Years of hard work after that, and never a sight of the door. It's only recently it has come back to me. With it there has come a sense as though some thin tarnish had spread itself over my world. I began to think of it as a sorrowful and bitter thing that I should never see that door again. Perhaps I was suffering a little from overwork. Perhaps it was what I've heard spoken of as the feeling of 40. I don't know. But certainly the keen brightness that makes effort easy has gone out of things recently. And that just at a time with all these new political developments when I ought to be working. Oh, it isn't it. But I do begin to find life toilsome. It's rewards as I come near them. Cheap. I began a little while ago to want the garden quite badly. Yes, and I've seen it three times. The garden? No, the door. And I haven't gone in. He leaned over the table to me with an enormous sorrow in his voice as he spoke. Thrice, I have had my chance. Thrice! If ever that door offers itself to me again, I swore, I will go in out of this dust and heat, out of this dry glitter of vanity, out of these toilsome futilities, I will go and never return. This time I will stay. I swore it, and when the time came, I didn't go. Three times in one year have I passed that door and failed to enter. Three times in the last year. The first time was on the night of the Snatch Divisions on the Tenants Redemption Bill, on which the government was served by a majority of three. You remember? No one on our side. Perhaps very few on the opposite side. Expected the end that night. Then the debate collapsed like eggshells. I and Hodgkiss were dining with his cousin at Brentford. We were both unpaired, and we were called up by telephone, and set off at once in his cousin's mortar. We got in barely in time. And on the way we passed my wall and door, livid in the moonlight, blotched with hot yellow as the glare of our lamps lit it. But unmistakable. My God! cried I. What! said Hodgkiss. Nothing I answered. And the moment passed. I've made a great sacrifice, I told the whip as I got in. They all have, he said, and hurried by. I do not see how I could have done otherwise then. And the next occurrence was as I rushed to my father's bedside to bid that stern old man farewell. Then too the claims of life were imperative. But the third time was different. It happened a week ago. It fills me with hot remorse to recall it. I was with Gorka and Ralph's. It's no secret now, you know, that I've had my talk with Gorka. We had been dining at Frobish's, and the talk had become intimate between us. The question of my place in the reconstructive ministry lay always just over the boundary of the discussion. Yes, yes, that's all settled. It needn't be talked about yet, but there's no reason to keep a secret from you. Yes, thanks, thanks, but let me tell you my story. Then, on that night, things were very much in the air. My position was a very delicate one. I was keenly anxious to get some definite word from Gorka, but was hampered by Ralph's presence. I was using the best power of my brain to keep that light and careless talk not too obviously directed to the point that concerns me. I had to. Ralph's behaviour since has more than justified my caution. Ralph's I knew would leave us be on the Kensington High Street, and then I could surprise Gorka by a sudden frankness. One has sometimes to resort to these little devices. And then it was that in the margin of my field of vision, I became aware once more of the white wall, the green door before us, down the road. We passed it, talking. I passed it. I can still see the shadow of Gorka's marked profile, his opera hat tilted forward over his prominent nose, the many folds of his neck wrap going before my shadow and Ralph's, as we sauntered past. I passed within twenty inches of the door. If I say goodnight to them and go in, I asked myself, what will happen? And I was all a tingle for that word with Gorka. I could not answer that question in the tangle of my other problems. They will think me mad, I thought. And suppose I vanish now, amazing disappearance of a prominent politician. That weighed with me. A thousand inconceivably petty worldlinesses weighed with me in that crisis. Then he turned on me with a sorrowful smile, and, speaking slowly, here I am, he said. Here I am, he repeated, and my chance has gone from me. Three times in one year the door has been offered me. The door that goes into peace, into delight, into a beauty beyond dreaming, a kindness no man on earth can know. And I have rejected it, Redmond, and it has gone. How do you know? I know. I know. I am left now to work it out, to stick to the tasks that held me so strongly when my moments came. You say I have success. This vulgar, tawdry, irksome, envid thing. I have it. He had a walnut in his big hand. If that was my success, he said, and crushed it, and held it out for me to see. Let me tell you something, Redmond. This loss is destroying me. For two months, for ten weeks nearly now, I have done no work at all, except the most necessary and urgent duties. My soul is full of inappeasable regrets. At night, when it is less likely I shall be recognised, I go out. I wander. Yes. I wonder what people would think of that if they knew. A cabinet minister, the responsible head of that most vital of all departments, wandering alone, grieving, sometimes near audibly lamenting, for a door, for a garden. I can see now his rather pallid face, and the unfamiliar somber fire that had come into his eyes. I see him very vividly tonight. I sit recalling his words, his tones, and last evening's Westminster Gazette still lies on my sofa, containing the notice of his death. At lunch today, the club was busy with him and the strange riddle of his fate. They found his body very early yesterday morning, in a deep excavation near East Kensington Station. It is one of two shafts that have been made in connection with an extension of the railway southward. It is protected from the intrusion of the public by a hoarding upon the high road, in which a small doorway has been cut for the convenience of some of the workmen who live in that direction. The doorway was left unfastened, through a misunderstanding between two gangers, and through it he made his way. My mind is darkened with questions and riddles. It would seem he walked all the way from the house that night. He has frequently walked home during the past session. And so it is, I figure, his dark form coming along the late and empty streets, wrapped up in tent. And then did the pale electric lights near the station cheat the rough planking into a semblance of white? Did that fertile, unfastened door awaken some memory? Was there, after all, ever any green door in the wall at all? I do not know. I have told his story as he told it to me. There are times when I believe that Wallace was no more than the victim of the coincidence between a rare but not unprecedented type of hallucination and a careless trap. But that indeed is not my profoundest belief. You may think me superstitious, if you will, and foolish, but indeed I am more than half convinced that he had, in truth, an abnormal gift, and a sense, something, I know not what, that in the guise of wall and door offered him an outlet, a secret and peculiar passage of escape, into another and altogether more beautiful world. At any rate, you will say, it betrayed him in the end. But did it betray him? There you touch the inmost mystery of these dreamers, these men of vision and imagination. We see our world fair and common, the hoarding and the pit. By our daylight standard, he walked out of security into darkness, danger and death. But did he see like that? End of The Door and the Wall by H. G. Wells Otavela was twenty-two years old, and had been a widow for three years. She was one of the prettiest women in Paris. Her large dark eyes shone with remarkable brilliancy, and she united the sparkling vivacity of an Italian, and the depth of feeling of a Spaniard, to the grace which always distinguishes a Parisian, born and bred. Considering herself too young to be entirely alone, she had long ago invited Monsieur d'Ablancourt, an old uncle of hers, to come and live with her. Monsieur d'Ablancourt was an old bachelor. He had never loved anything in this world but himself. He was an egotist, too lazy to do anyone an ill turn, but at the same time too selfish to do anyone a kindness, unless it would tend directly to his own advantage. And yet with an air of complacence, as if he desired nothing so much as the comfort of those around him, he consented to his niece's proposal, in the hope that she would do many little kind offices for him, which would add materially to his comfort. Monsieur d'Ablancourt accompanied his niece when she resumed her place in society. But sometimes when he felt inclined to stay at home, he would say to her, My dear Natalie, I am afraid you will not be much amused this evening. They will only play cards. Besides, I don't think any of your friends will be there. Of course, I am ready to take you, if you wish to go. And Natalie, who had great confidence in all her uncle said, would stay at home. In the same manner, Monsieur d'Ablancourt, who was a great gourmand, said to his niece, My dear, you know that I am not at all fond of eating, and am satisfied with the simplest fare. But I must tell you that your cook puts too much salt in everything. It is very unwholesome. So they changed the cook. Again the garden was out of order. The trees before the old gentleman's window must be cut down, because their shade would doubtless cause a dampness in the house, prejudicial to Natalie's health, or the sari was to be changed for a landow. Natalie was a coquette, accustomed to charm. She listened with smiles to the numerous protestations of admiration which she received. She sent all who aspired to her hand to her uncle, saying, Before I give you any hope, I must know my uncle's opinion. It is likely that Natalie would have answered differently if she had ever felt a real preference for anyone. But here to four she seemed to have preferred her liberty. The old uncle, for his part, being now master in his niece's house, was very anxious for her to remain as she was. A nephew might be somewhat less submissive than Natalie. Therefore he never failed to discover some great fault in each of those who sought an alliance with the pretty widow. Besides his egotism and his epicurianism, the dear uncle had another passion, to play backgammon. The game amused him very much, but the difficulty was to find anyone to play with. If, by accident, any of Natalie's visitors understood it, there was no escape from a long siege with the old gentleman, but most people preferred cards. In order to please her uncle, Natalie tried to learn this game, but it was almost impossible. She could not give her attention to one thing for so long a time. Her uncle scolded. Natalie gave up in despair. It was only for your own amusement that I wished to teach it to you, said the good Monsieur d'Ablancourt. Things were at this crisis, when at a ball one evening Natalie was introduced to a Monsieur d'Appremont, a captain in the navy. Natalie raised her eyes, expecting to see a great sailor with a wooden leg and a bandage over one eye. When, to her great surprise, she beheld a man of about thirty, tall and finely formed, with two sound legs and two good eyes. Armand d'Appremont had entered the navy at a very early age, and had arrived, although very young, to the dignity of a captain. He had amassed a large fortune in addition to his patrimonial estates, and he had now come home to rest after his labours. As yet, however, he was a single man, and moreover, had always laughed at love. But when he saw Natalie, his opinions underwent a change. For the first time in his life, he regretted that he had never learned to dance, and he kept his eyes fixed on her constantly. His attentions to the young widow soon became a subject of general conversation, and at last the report reached the ears of Monsieur d'Ablancourt. When Natalie mentioned one evening that she expected the captain to spend the evening with her, the old man grew almost angry. Natalie said he, you act entirely without consulting me. I have heard that the captain is very rude and unpolished in his manners. To be sure, I have only seen him standing behind your chair, but he has never even asked after my health. I only speak for your interest, as you are so giddy. Natalie begged her uncle's pardon, and even offered not to receive the captain's visit. But this he forebore to require, secretly resolving not to allow these visits to become too frequent. But how frail are all human resolutions, overturned by the nearest trifle! In this case, the game of backgammon was the unconscious cause of Natalie's becoming Madame d'Ablancourt. The captain was an excellent hand at backgammon. When the uncle heard this, he proposed a game, and the captain, who understood that it was important to gain the uncle's favour, readily exceeded. This did not please Natalie. She preferred that he should be occupied with herself. When all the company were gone, she turned to her uncle, saying, you were right, uncle, after all, I do not admire the captain's manners. I see now that I should not have invited him. On the contrary, niece, he is a very well-behaved man. I have invited him to come here very often, and play backgammon with me. That is, to pay his addresses to you. Natalie saw that the captain had gained her uncle's heart, and she forgave him for having been less attentive to her. He soon came again, and thanks to the backgammon, increased in favour with the uncle. He soon captivated the heart of the pretty widow also. One morning Natalie came blushing to her uncle. The captain has asked me to marry him. What do you advise me to do? He reflected for a few moments. If she refuses him, Dapremont will come here no longer, and then no more backgammon. But if she marries him, he will be here always, and I shall have my games. And the answer was, you had better marry him. Natalie loved Dapremont, but she would not yield too easily. She sent for the captain. If you really love me, can you doubt it? Hush, do not interrupt me. If you really love me, you will give me one proof of it. Anything you ask, I swear. No, you must never swear any more. And one thing more, you must never smoke. I detest the smell of tobacco, and I will not have a husband who smokes. Arman sighed and promised. The first months of their marriage passed smoothly, but sometimes Arman became thoughtful, restless and grave. After some time these fits of sadness became more frequent. What is the matter? said Natalie one day, on seeing him stamp with impatience. Why are you so irritable? Nothing, nothing at all, replied the captain, as if ashamed of his ill humour. Tell me, Natalie insisted, have I displeased you in anything? The captain assured her that he had no reason to be anything but delighted with her conduct, on all occasions, and for a time he was all right. Then soon he was worse than before. Natalie was distressed beyond measure. She imparted her anxiety to her uncle, who replied, Yes, my dear, I know what you mean. I have often remarked it myself at back, Gammon. He is very inattentive, and often passes his hand over his forehead, and starts up as if something agitated him. And one day when his old habits of impatience and irritability reappeared, more marked than ever, the captain said to his wife, My dear, an evening walk will do me a world of good. An old sailor like myself cannot bear to sit around the house after dinner. Nevertheless, if you have any objection, Oh no, what objection can I have? He went out, and continued to do so day after day, at the same hour. Invariably he returned in the best of good humour. Natalie was now unhappy indeed. He loved some other woman, perhaps, she thought, And he must see her every day. Oh, how wretched I am! But I must let him know that his perfidy is discovered. No, I will wait until I shall have some certain proof wherewith to confront him. And she went to see her uncle. Ah, I am the most unhappy creature in the world. She sobbed. What is the matter? cried the old man, leaning back in his armchair. Almond leaves the house for two hours every evening after dinner, and comes back in high spirits, and is anxious to please me as on the day of our marriage. Oh, uncle, I cannot bear it any longer. If you do not assist me to discover where he goes, I will seek a separation. But my dear niece, my dear uncle, you who are so good and obliging, grant me this one favour. I am sure there is some woman in the secret. Monsieur d'Ablaincourt wished to prevent a rupture between his niece and nephew, which would interfere very much with the quiet, peaceable life which he led at their house. He pretended to follow Almond, but came back very soon, saying he had lost sight of him. But in what direction does he go? Sometimes one way and sometimes another, but always alone. So your suspicions are unfounded. Be assured, he only walks for exercise. But Natalie was not to be duped in this way. She sent for a little errant boy, of whose intelligence she had heard a great deal. Monsieur d'Ablaincourt goes out every evening. Yes, madame. Tomorrow you will follow him, observe where he goes, and come and tell me privately. Do you understand? Yes, madame. Natalie waited impatiently for the next day, and for the hour of her husband's departure. At last the time came. The pursuit is going on. Natalie counted the moments. After three quarters of an hour, the messenger arrived, covered with dust. Well, exclaimed Natalie, speak, tell me everything that you have seen. Madame, I followed Monsieur d'Ablaincourt at a distance, as far as the Rue Vie du Temple, where he entered a small house in an alley. There was no servant to let him in. An alley? No servant? Dreadful! I went in directly after him, and heard him go upstairs and unlock a door. Open the door himself without knocking. Are you sure of that? Yes, madame. The wretch! So he has a key. But go on. When the door shut after him, I stole softly upstairs and peeped through the keyhole. You shall have twenty thanks more. I peeped through the keyhole, and saw him drag a trunk along the floor. A trunk? Then he undressed himself, and undressed himself. Then for a few seconds I could not see him, and directly he appeared again in a sort of grey blouse, and a cap on his head. A blouse? What in the world does he want with a blouse? What next? I came away then, madame, and made haste to tell you. But he is there still. Well, now run to the corner and get me a cab, and direct the coachman to the house where you have been. While the messenger went for the cab, Natalie hurried on her hat and cloak, and ran into her uncle's room. I have found him out. He loves another. He's at her house now in a grey blouse. But I will go and confront him, and then he will see me no more. The old man had no time to reply. She was gone with her messenger in the cab. They stopped at last. Here is the house. Natalie got out, pale and trembling. Shall I go upstairs with you, madame? asked the boy. No, I will go alone. The third story, isn't it? Yes, madame, the left-hand door at the edge of the stairs. It seemed that now indeed the end of all things was at hand. Natalie mounted the dark, narrow stairs, and arrived at the door, and almost fainting, she cried, Open the door, or I shall die. The door was opened, and Natalie fell into her husband's arm. He was alone in the room, clad in a grey blouse, and smoking a Turkish pipe. My wife exclaimed Armoire in surprise. Your wife, who's suspecting your perfidy, has followed you to discover the cause of your mysterious conduct. How Natalie, my mysterious conduct! Look, here it is, showing his pipe. Before our marriage you forbade me to smoke, and I promised to obey you. For some months I kept my promise, but you know what it cost me. You remember how irritable and sad I became. It was my pipe, my beloved pipe, that I regretted. One day in the country I discovered a little cottage, where a peasant was smoking. I asked him if he could lend me a blouse and cap, for I should like to smoke with him, but it was necessary to conceal it from you, as the smell of smoke remaining in my clothes would have betrayed me. It was soon settled between us. I returned thither every afternoon to indulge in my favourite occupation, and with the precaution of a cap to keep the smoke from remaining in my hair, I contrived to deceive you. This is all the mystery. Forgive me. Natalie kissed him, crying, I might have known it could not be. I am happy now, and you shall smoke as much as you please, at home. And Natalie returned to her uncle, saying, Uncle, he loves me. He was only smoking. But hereafter he is to smoke at home. I can arrange it all, said Dublin Cour. He shall smoke while he plays back, Gavin. In that way, thought the old man, I shall be sure of my game. End of The Guilty Secret by Paul de Coq, Translator Unknown Read by Martin Giesen