The Face
on the Wall
( E. V. Lucas )
The text
We were talking of events which cannot be explained by
natural causes at Dabney's last evening. Most of us had given an instance
without producing much effect. Among the strangers to me was a little man with
an anxious face. He watched each speaker with the closest attention, but said
nothing. Then Dabney wishing to include him in the talk, turned to him and
asked if he had no experience he could narrate - no story that could be
explained. He thought a moment. "Well," he said, 'not a story in the
ordinary sense of the word; nothing like most of your examples. Truth, I always
believe, is not only stringer than a made up story, but also greatly more
interesting. I could tell you an occurrence which happened to me personally and
which strangely enough completed itself only this afternoon."
We begged him to
begin.
"A year or
two ago," he said, "I was in rooms in an old house in Great Ormond
Street. The bedroom walls had been painted by the previous tenant, but the
place was damp and there were great patches on the walls. One of these - as
indeed often happens - exactly like a face. Lying on a bed in the morning and
delaying getting up I came to think of it as real as my fellow lodger. In fact,
the strange thing was that while the patches on the wall grew larger and
changed their shapes, this never did. It remained just the same.
"While there
I fell ill with influenza, and all day long I had nothing to do but read or
think, and it was then that the face began to get a firmer hold of me. It grew
more and more real and remarkable. I may say that it filled my thoughts day and
night. There was a curious curve of the nose and the forehead was remarkable,
in fact the face of an uncommon man, a man in a thousand."
"Well, I got
better, but the face still controlled me, found myself searching the streets
for one like it. Somewhere, I was convinced, the real man must exist, and him I
must meet. Why, I had no idea; I only knew that he and I were in some way
linked by fate. I often went to places where people gather in large numbers -
political meetings, football matches, railway stations. But all in vain. I had
never before realized as I then did how many different faces of man there are
and how few. For all faces differ, and yet they can be grouped into few
types."
"The search
became a madness with me. I neglected everything else. I stood at busy corners
watching the crowd until people thought me mad, and the police began to know me
and be suspicious. I never looked at women; men, men, men, all the time."
He passed his
hand over his brow as if he was very tired. "And then," he continued.
"I at last saw him. He was in a taxi driving east along Piccadilly. I
turned and ran beside it for a little way and then saw an empty one coming.
'Follow that taxi,' I said and leaped in. The driver managed to keep it in
sight and it took us to Charing Cross. I rushed on to the platform and found my
man with two ladies and a little girl. They were going to France. I stayed
there trying to get a word with him, but in vain. Other friends had joined the
party and they moved to the train in one group."
I hastily purchased a
ticket to Folkstone, hoping that I should catch him on the boat before it
sailed; but at Folkstone he got on the ship before me with his friends, and
they disappeared into a large private cabin. Evidently he was a rich man."
"Again I was
defeated; but I determined to go with him, feeling certain that when the voyage
had begun he would leave the ladies and come out for a walk on the deck. I had
only just enough for a single fare to Boulogne but nothing could stop me now. I
took up my position opposite his cabin door and waited. After half an hour the
door opened and he came out, but with the little girl. My heart beat fast.
There was no mistaking the face, every line was the same. He looked at me and
moved towards the way to the upper deck. It was now or never, I felt."
"Excuse
me," I stammered, "but do you mind giving me your card? I have a very
important reason in asking it."
"He seemed
to be greatly surprised, as indeed well he might; but he granted my request.
Slowly he took out his case and handed me his card and hurried on with the
little girl. It was clear that he thought me mad and thought it wiser to please
me than not."
"Holding the
card tight in my hand I hurried to a lonely corner of the ship and read it. My
eyes grew dim; my head reeled; for on it were the words; Mr. Ormond Wall,
with an address at Pittsburgh, U.S.A. I remember no more until I found myself
in a hospital at Boulogne. There I lay in a broken condition for some weeks,
and only a month ago did I return."
He was silent.
We looked at him
and at one another and waited. All the other talk of the evening was nothing
compared with the story of the little pale man.
"I went
back," he started once again after a moment or so, "to Great
Ormond Street and set to work to find out all I could about this American. I
wrote to Pittsburgh; I wrote to American editors; I made friends with Americans
in London: but all that I could find out was that he was a millionaire with
English parents who had resided in London. But where? To that question I received
no answer."
"And so the
time went on until yesterday morning, I had gone to bed more than usually tired
and slept till late. When I woke, the room was bright with sunlight. As I
always do, I looked at once at the wall on which the face is to be seen. I
rubbed my eyes and sprang up. It was only faintly visible. Last night it had
been clear as ever - almost I could hear it speak. And now it was a
ghost of itself."
"I got up
confused and sad and went out. The early editions of the papers were already
out. I saw the headline, 'American Millionaire's Motor Accident.' You all must
have seen it. I bought it and read. Mr. Ormond Wall, the Pittsburgh
millionaire, and party, motoring in Italy, were hit by a wagon and the car
overturned. Mr. Wall's condition was critical."
"I went back
to my room and sat on the bed looking with unseeing eyes at the face on the
wall. And even as I looked, suddenly it completely disappeared."
"Later I
found that Mr. Wall died of his injuries at what I take it to be that very
moment."
Again he was
silent.
"Most
remarkable," we said, "most extraordinary," and so forth, and we
meant it too.
"Yes,"
said the stranger. "There are three extraordinary, three most remarkable
things about my story. One is that it should be possible for a patch on the
wall of a house in London not only to form the features of a gentleman in
America but also to have a close association with his life. Science will not be
able to explain that yet. Another one is that the gentleman's name should bear
any relation to the spot on which his features were being so curiously
reproduced by some unknown agency. Is it not so?"
We agreed with
him, and our original discussion on supernatural occurrences set in again with
increased excitement, during which the narrator of the amazing experience rose
up and said good-night. Just as he was at the door, one of the company recalled
us to the cause of our excited debate by asking him, before he left what he
considered the third most exciting thing in connection with his deeply
interesting story. "You said three thing, you know?" said he.
"Oh,
the third thing," he said, as he opened the door, "I was forgetting
that. The third extraordinary thing about the story is that I made it
up about half an hour ago. Good-night again."
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