I.
One confidential2 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 me, 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 everyday 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 for ever, 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 confide1 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, “I have been negligent13. The fact is — it isn’t a case of ghosts or apparitions14 — 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 Aethelstan’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 Aethelstan’s College in West Kensington for almost all our school-time. He came into the school as my coequal, 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 quite 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 learnt 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 two, 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 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, drawn34 and repelled35. 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 in through that door.
Wallace described all these moments of hesitation36 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 plumber37 and decorator with a dusty disorder38 of earthenware39 pipes, sheet lead, ball taps, pattern books of wall paper, and tins of enamel40. He stood pretending to examine these things, and coveting41, passionately42 desiring, the green door.
Then, he said, he had a gust43 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-being44; there was something in the sight of it that made all its colour clean and perfect and subtly luminous45. In the instant of coming into it one was exquisitely46 glad — as only in rare moments, and when one is young and joyful47 one can be glad in this world. And everything was beautiful there . . .
Wallace mused48 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, spotted49 panthers. And I was not afraid. There was a long wide path with marble-edged flower borders on either side, and these two huge velvety50 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 enchanted51 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 obedience52 of home, I forgot all hesitations53 and fear, forgot discretion54, 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 penetrating55 and mellower56 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, invitingly57, 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 caressed58 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 amazement59, but only an impression of delightful60 rightness, of being reminded of happy things that had in some strange way been overlooked. There were broad red steps, I remember, that came into view between spikes61 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 . . .
“Along this cool 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 . . . Presently a little Capuchin monkey, very clean, with a fur of ruddy brown and kindly62 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 two went on our way in great happiness.”
He paused.
“Go on,” I said.
“I remember little things. We passed an old man musing63 among laurels64, I remember, and a place gay with paroquets, and came through a broad shaded colonnade65 to a spacious66 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 a while. “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 beckoned67 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 heeded68 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, marvelling69, 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 marvelled70, 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 hovering71 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 bent72 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, in 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 playfellows 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 had they gone?”
He halted again, and remained for a time staring into the fire.
“Oh! the woefulness of that return!” he murmured.
“Well?” I said, after a minute or so.
“Poor little wretch73 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 humiliation74 of that public weeping and my disgraceful home-coming remain with me still. I see again the benevolent-looking old gentleman in gold spectacles who stopped and spoke75 to me — prodding76 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. Sobbing77, conspicuous78, and frightened, I came back 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 translucent79 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 persistence80. 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 fervent81 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 consecutive82 memories of my boyhood there is a gulf83. 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 till 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 Aethelstan’s?”
“Rather!”
“I didn’t show any signs, did I, in those days of having a secret dream?”
II.
He looked up with a sudden smile.
“Did you ever play 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 some way that wasn’t plain, starting off ten minutes early in some almost hopeless direction, and working my way round through unaccustomed streets to my goal. And one day I got entangled84 among some rather low-class streets on the other side of Campden 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 desperately86 a street that seemed a cul-desac, 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 inexplicably87 familiar to me, and behold88! there was my long white wall and the green door that led to the enchanted garden!
“The thing whacked89 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 overmastering determination to get to school. I was immensely 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, tugging90 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 perspiration91, but in time. I can remember hanging up my coat and hat . . . Went right by it and left it behind me. Odd, eh?”
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 awfully92 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 strenuous93 scholastic94 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 the margin95 of time necessary for the detour96. 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 his name?— a ferrety-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 interval97 I found myself surrounded by half a dozen bigger boys, half teasing, and wholly curious to hear more of the enchanted garden. There was that big Fawcett — you remember him?— and Carnaby and Morley Reynolds. You weren’t there by any chance? No, I think I should 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 Crawshaw — you remember Crawshaw major, the son of Crawshaw the composer?— who said it was the best lie he had ever heard. But at the same time there was a really painful undertow of shame at telling what I felt was indeed a sacred 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 liar33, 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 outrageously98 virtuous99, and said I’d have to — and bear out my words or suffer. Did you ever have Carnaby twist your arm? Then perhaps you’ll understand how it went with me. I swore my story was true. There was nobody in the school then to save a chap from Carnaby, though Crawshaw 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 soul one burning misery100 and shame — for a party of six mocking, curious, and threatening schoolfellows.
“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 school-boy days, but I never came upon it — never.”
“Did the fellows — make it disagreeable?”
“Beastly . . . Carnaby held a council over me for wanton lying. I remember how I sneaked101 home and upstairs to hide the marks of my blubbering. But when I cried 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 playfellows, and the game I had hoped to learn again, that beautiful forgotten game . . .
“I believed firmly that if I had not told — . . . I had bad times after that — crying at night and wool-gathering by day. For two terms I slackened and had bad reports. Do you remember? Of course you would! It was you — your beating me in mathematics that brought me back to the grind again.”
III.
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 Oxford102 and a scholarship. I had just one momentary103 glimpse. I was leaning over the apron104 of my hansom smoking a cigarette, and no doubt 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 attainable105 things.
“We clattered106 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. ‘Er — 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 praise — his rare praise — and his sound counsels ringing in my ears, and I smoked my favourite pipe — the formidable bulldog of adolescence107 — 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 — muddled108 all the fine career before me! I begin 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. Its red light picked out a stubborn strength in his face for just one flickering109 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-effaced charm of the garden was by comparison gentle and remote. Who wants to pat panthers on the way to dinner with pretty women and distinguished110 men? I came down to London from Oxford, a man of bold promise that I have done something to redeem111. 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 knew, doubted whether I dared to come, I took a short cut 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 counting Stonehenge — the place of that queer daydream112 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 — 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 tarnish113 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 forty. 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. Odd, isn’t it? But I do begin to find life toilsome, its 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 leant 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 division on the Tenants’ Redemption Bill, on which the Government was saved 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 collapsed114 like eggshells. I and Hotchkiss 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 motor. 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 Hotchkiss. ‘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 occasion was as I rushed to my father’s bedside to bid that stern old man farewell. Then, too, the claims of life were imperative115. But the third time was different; it happened a week ago. It fills me with hot remorse116 to recall it. I was with Gurker and Ralphs — it’s no secret now, you know, that I’ve had my talk with Gurker. We had been dining at Frobisher’s, and the talk had become intimate between us. The question of my place in the reconstructed Ministry117 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 Gurker, but was hampered118 by Ralphs’ 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 concerned me. I had to. Ralphs’ behaviour since has more than justified119 my caution . . . Ralphs, I knew, would leave us beyond the Kensington High Street, and then I could surprise Gurker 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 Gurker’s marked profile, his opera hat tilted120 forward over his prominent nose, the many folds of his neck wrap going before my shadow and Ralphs’ as we sauntered past.
“I passed within twenty inches of the door. ‘If I say good-night to them, and go in,’ I asked myself, ‘what will happen?’ And I was all a-tingle for that word with Gurker.
“I could not answer that question in the tangle85 of my other problems. ‘They will think me mad,’ I thought. ‘And suppose I vanish now!—— Amazing disappearance121 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, envied thing. I have it.” He had a walnut122 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 nights — 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 lamenting123 — for a door, for a garden!”
IV.
I can see now his rather pallid124 face, and the unfamiliar125 sombre fire that had come into his eyes. I see him very vividly126 to-night. 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 his death. We talked of nothing else.
They found his body very early yesterday morning in a deep excavation127 near East Kensington Station. It is one of two shafts128 that have been made in connection with an extension of the railway southward. It is protected from the intrusion of the public by a hoarding129 upon the high road, in which a small doorway130 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 riddles131.
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, intent. And then did the pale electric lights near the station cheat the rough planking into a semblance132 of white? Did that fatal unfastened door awaken133 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 unprecedented134 type of hallucination and a careless trap, but that indeed is not my profoundest belief. You may think me superstitious135, 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 guise136 of wall and door offered him an outlet137, 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 the 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?
收听单词发音 |
1
confide
|
|
| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
confidential
|
|
| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
simplicity
|
|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
glamour
|
|
| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
denuded
|
|
| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
frankly
|
|
| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
sipped
|
|
| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
perplexed
|
|
| adj.不知所措的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
reticent
|
|
| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
imputation
|
|
| n.归罪，责难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
plunged
|
|
| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
negligent
|
|
| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
apparitions
|
|
| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
longings
|
|
| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
irrelevant
|
|
| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
intensified
|
|
| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
contrive
|
|
| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
immortal
|
|
| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
confession
|
|
| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
crimson
|
|
| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
amber
|
|
| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
chestnut
|
|
| n.栗树，栗子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
precocious
|
|
| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
sane
|
|
| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
attain
|
|
| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
vigilant
|
|
| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
authoritative
|
|
| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
preoccupied
|
|
| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
incurable
|
|
| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
blurs
|
|
| n.模糊( blur的名词复数 )；模糊之物；（移动的）模糊形状；模糊的记忆v.（使）变模糊( blur的第三人称单数 )；（使）难以区分 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
liar
|
|
| n.说谎的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
repelled
|
|
| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
hesitation
|
|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
plumber
|
|
| n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
disorder
|
|
| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
earthenware
|
|
| n.土器，陶器 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
enamel
|
|
| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
coveting
|
|
| v.贪求，觊觎( covet的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
passionately
|
|
| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
gust
|
|
| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
well-being
|
|
| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
luminous
|
|
| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
exquisitely
|
|
| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
joyful
|
|
| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
mused
|
|
| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
spotted
|
|
| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
velvety
|
|
| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
enchanted
|
|
| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
obedience
|
|
| n.服从，顺从 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
hesitations
|
|
| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
discretion
|
|
| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
penetrating
|
|
| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
mellower
|
|
| 成熟的( mellow的比较级 )； （水果）熟透的； （颜色或声音）柔和的； 高兴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
invitingly
|
|
| adv. 动人地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
caressed
|
|
| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
amazement
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
spikes
|
|
| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
musing
|
|
| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
laurels
|
|
| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
colonnade
|
|
| n.柱廊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
spacious
|
|
| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
beckoned
|
|
| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
heeded
|
|
| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
marvelling
|
|
| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
marvelled
|
|
| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
hovering
|
|
| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
wretch
|
|
| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
humiliation
|
|
| n.羞辱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
prodding
|
|
| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
sobbing
|
|
| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
conspicuous
|
|
| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
translucent
|
|
| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
persistence
|
|
| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
fervent
|
|
| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
consecutive
|
|
| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
gulf
|
|
| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
entangled
|
|
| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
tangle
|
|
| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
desperately
|
|
| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
inexplicably
|
|
| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
behold
|
|
| v.看，注视，看到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
whacked
|
|
| a.精疲力尽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
tugging
|
|
| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
perspiration
|
|
| n.汗水；出汗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
awfully
|
|
| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
strenuous
|
|
| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
scholastic
|
|
| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
margin
|
|
| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
detour
|
|
| n.绕行的路，迂回路；v.迂回，绕道 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
outrageously
|
|
| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
virtuous
|
|
| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
sneaked
|
|
| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
Oxford
|
|
| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
momentary
|
|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
apron
|
|
| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
attainable
|
|
| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
clattered
|
|
| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
adolescence
|
|
| n.青春期，青少年 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
muddled
|
|
| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
flickering
|
|
| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
redeem
|
|
| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
daydream
|
|
| v.做白日梦，幻想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
tarnish
|
|
| n.晦暗，污点；vt.使失去光泽；玷污 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
collapsed
|
|
| adj.倒塌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
imperative
|
|
| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
remorse
|
|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
ministry
|
|
| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
hampered
|
|
| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
justified
|
|
| a.正当的，有理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
tilted
|
|
| v. 倾斜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
disappearance
|
|
| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
walnut
|
|
| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
lamenting
|
|
| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
pallid
|
|
| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
unfamiliar
|
|
| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
vividly
|
|
| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
excavation
|
|
| n.挖掘，发掘；被挖掘之地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
shafts
|
|
| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
hoarding
|
|
| n.贮藏；积蓄；临时围墙；囤积v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
doorway
|
|
| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
riddles
|
|
| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
semblance
|
|
| n.外貌，外表 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
awaken
|
|
| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
unprecedented
|
|
| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
superstitious
|
|
| adj.迷信的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
guise
|
|
| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
outlet
|
|
| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |