Nay, owing to certain conventions, and a widely distributed lack of courage for climbing, this door was, perhaps, little used.
But Santa Claus's door was really the front door: it was the door fronting the universe.
"I thought this as I groped my way across the black garret, or loft below the roof, and scrambled down the squat ladder that let us down into a yet larger loft below. Yet it was not till I was half-way down the ladder that I suddenly stood still, and thought for an instant of retracing all my steps, as my companion had retraced them from the beginning of the garden wall.
The name of Santa Claus had suddenly brought me back to my senses.
I remembered why Santa Clause came, and why he was welcome.
"I was brought up in the propertied classes, and with all their horror of offences against property. I had heard all the regular denunciations of robbery, both right and wrong;
I had read the Ten Commandments in church a thousand times.
And then and there, at the age of thirty-four, half-way down a ladder in a dark room in the bodily act of burglar, I saw suddenly for the first time that theft, after all, is really wrong.
"It was too late to turn back, however, and I followed the strangely soft footsteps of my huge companion across the lower and larger loft, till he knelt down on a part of the bare flooring and, after a few fumbling efforts, lifted a sort of trapdoor. This released a light from below, and we found ourselves looking down into a lamp-lit sitting room, of the sort that in large houses often leads out of a bedroom, and is an adjunct to it. Light thus breaking from beneath our feet like a soundless explosion, showed that the trapdoor just lifted was clogged with dust and rust, and had doubtless been long disused until the advent of my enterprising friend.
But I did not look at this long, for the sight of the shining room underneath us had an almost unnatural attractiveness.
To enter a modern interior at so strange an angle, by so forgotten a door, was an epoch in one's psychology.
It was like having found a fourth dimension.
"My companion dropped from the aperture into the room so suddenly and soundlessly, that I could do nothing but follow him; though, for lack of practice in crime, I was by no means soundless.
Before the echo of my boots had died away, the big burglar had gone quickly to the door, half opened it, and stood looking down the staircase and listening. Then, leaving the door still half open, he came back into the middle of the room, and ran his roving blue eye round its furniture and ornament.
The room was comfortably lined with books in that rich and human way that makes the walls seem alive; it was a deep and full, but slovenly, bookcase, of the sort that is constantly ransacked for the purposes of reading in bed. One of those stunted German stoves that look like red goblins stood in a corner, and a sideboard of walnut wood with closed doors in its lower part.
There were three windows, high but narrow. After another glance round, my housebreaker plucked the walnut doors open and rummaged inside.
He found nothing there, apparently, except an extremely handsome cut-glass decanter, containing what looked like port.
Somehow the sight of the thief returning with this ridiculous little luxury in his hand woke within me once more all the revelation and revulsion I had felt above.
"`Don't do it!' I cried quite incoherently, `Santa Claus--'
"`Ah,' said the burglar, as he put the decanter on the table and stood looking at me, `you've thought about that, too.'
"`I can't express a millionth part of what I've thought of,' I cried, `but it's something like this... oh, can't you see it? Why are children not afraid of Santa Claus, though he comes like a thief in the night?
He is permitted secrecy, trespass, almost treachery--because there are more toys where he has been. What should we feel if there were less?
Down what chimney from hell would come the goblin that should take away the children's balls and dolls while they slept? Could a Greek tragedy be more gray and cruel than that daybreak and awakening?
Dog-stealer, horse-stealer, man-stealer--can you think of anything so base as a toy-stealer?'
"The burglar, as if absently, took a large revolver from his pocket and laid it on the table beside the decanter, but still kept his blue reflective eyes fixed on my face.
"`Man!' I said, `all stealing is toy-stealing. That's why it's really wrong. The goods of the unhappy children of men should be really respected because of their worthlessness.
I know Naboth's vineyard is as painted as Noah's Ark. I know Nathan's ewe-lamb is really a woolly baa-lamb on a wooden stand.
That is why I could not take them away. I did not mind so much, as long as I thought of men's things as their valuables; but I dare not put a hand upon their vanities.'
"After a moment I added abruptly, `Only saints and sages ought to be robbed.
They may be stripped and pillaged; but not the poor little worldly people of the things that are their poor little pride.'
"He set out two wineglasses from the cupboard, filled them both, and lifted one of them with a salutation towards his lips.
"`Don't do it!' I cried. `It might be the last bottle of some rotten vintage or other. The master of this house may be quite proud of it.
Don't you see there's something sacred in the silliness of such things?'
"`It's not the last bottle,' answered my criminal calmly;
`there's plenty more in the cellar.'
"`You know the house, then?' I said.
"`Too well,' he answered, with a sadness so strange as to have something eerie about it. `I am always trying to forget what I know-- and to find what I don't know.' He drained his glass.
`Besides,' he added, `it will do him good.'
"`What will do him good?'
"`The wine I'm drinking,' said the strange person.
"`Does he drink too much, then?' I inquired.
"`No,' he answered, `not unless I do.'
"`Do you mean,' I demanded, `that the owner of this house approves of all you do?'
"`God forbid,' he answered; `but he has to do the same.'
