Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, by Robert Louis Stevenson.

It's ill to loose the bands that God decreed to bind;

Still will we be the children of the heather and the wind.

Far away from home, O it's still for you and me,

That the broom is blowing bonnie in the north countrie.

STORY OF THE DOOR

Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance, that was

never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse;

backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow

lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste,

something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which

never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these

silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in

the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he

was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the

theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had

an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with

envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and

in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. “I incline to

Cain's heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my brother go to the

devil in his own way.” In this character, it was frequently his fortune

to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in

the lives of down-going men. And to such as these, so long as they came

about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.

No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative

at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar

catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept

his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that

was the lawyer's way. His friends were those of his own blood or those

whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the

growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt,

the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman,

the well-known man about town. It was a nut to crack for many, what

these two could see in each other, or what subject they could find in

common. It was reported by those who encountered them in their Sunday

walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull, and would hail

with obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two

men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief

jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, but

even resisted the calls of business, that they might enjoy them

uninterrupted.

It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a

by-street in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is

called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the week-days. The

inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all emulously hoping to

do better still, and laying out the surplus of their gains in coquetry;

so that the shop fronts stood along that thoroughfare with an air of

invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when it

veiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively empty of passage,

the street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighbourhood, like a

fire in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished

brasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught

and pleased the eye of the passenger.

Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east, the line was

broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point, a certain

sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the street. It

was two stories high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower

story and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and bore

in every feature, the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence. The

door, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker, was blistered

and distained. Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on

the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had tried

his knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no one had

appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their

ravages.

Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but

when they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his cane and

pointed.

“Did you ever remark that door?” he asked; and when his companion had

replied in the affirmative, “It is connected in my mind,” added he,

“with a very odd story.”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, “and what

was that?”

“Well, it was this way,” returned Mr. Enfield: “I was coming home from

some place at the end of the world, about three o'clock of a black

winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there was

literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street after street, and all

the folks asleep—street after street, all lighted up as if for a

procession and all as empty as a church—till at last I got into that

state of mind when a man listens and listens and begins to long for the

sight of a policeman. All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man

who was stumping along eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of

maybe eight or ten who was running as hard as she was able down a cross

street. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the

corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man

trampled calmly over the child's body and left her screaming on the

ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see. It wasn't

like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a view-halloa,

took to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought him back to where

there was already quite a group about the screaming child. He was

perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look, so ugly

that it brought out the sweat on me like running. The people who had

turned out were the girl's own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for

whom she had been sent, put in his appearance. Well, the child was not

much the worse, more frightened, according to the Sawbones; and there

you might have supposed would be an end to it. But there was one

curious circumstance. I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first

sight. So had the child's family, which was only natural. But the

doctor's case was what struck me. He was the usual cut-and-dry

apothecary, of no particular age and colour, with a strong Edinburgh

accent, and about as emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like the

rest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner, I saw that Sawbones

turn sick and white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in his

mind, just as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the

question, we did the next best. We told the man we could and would make

such a scandal out of this, as should make his name stink from one end

of London to the other. If he had any friends or any credit, we

undertook that he should lose them. And all the time, as we were

pitching it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him as best we

could, for they were as wild as harpies. I never saw a circle of such

hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of

black, sneering coolness—frightened too, I could see that—but carrying

it off, sir, really like Satan. 'If you choose to make capital out of

this accident,' said he, 'I am naturally helpless. No gentleman but

wishes to avoid a scene,' says he. 'Name your figure.' Well, we screwed

him up to a hundred pounds for the child's family; he would have

clearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot of us

that meant mischief, and at last he struck. The next thing was to get

the money; and where do you think he carried us but to that place with

the door?— whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back with the

matter of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on Coutts's,

drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can't mention,

though it's one of the points of my story, but it was a name at least

very well known and often printed. The figure was stiff; but the

signature was good for more than that, if it was only genuine. I took

the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole business

looked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a

cellar door at four in the morning and come out of it with another

man's cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and

sneering. 'Set your mind at rest,' says he, 'I will stay with you till

the banks open and cash the cheque myself.' So we all set off, the

doctor, and the child's father, and our friend and myself, and passed

the rest of the night in my chambers; and next day, when we had

breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I gave in the check myself,

and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery. Not a bit of

it. The cheque was genuine.”

“Tut-tut,” said Mr. Utterson.

“I see you feel as I do,” said Mr. Enfield. “Yes, it's a bad story. For

my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a really

damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the very pink of

the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it worse) one of your

fellows who do what they call good. Black-mail, I suppose; an honest

man paying through the nose for some of the capers of his youth.

Black-Mail House is what I call that place with the door, in

consequence. Though even that, you know, is far from explaining all,”

he added, and with the words fell into a vein of musing.

From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: “And

you don't know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?”

“A likely place, isn't it?” returned Mr. Enfield. “But I happen to have

noticed his address; he lives in some square or other.”

“And you never asked about the—place with the door?” said Mr. Utterson.

“No, sir: I had a delicacy,” was the reply. “I feel very strongly about

putting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the day of

judgment. You start a question, and it's like starting a stone. You sit

quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others;

and presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of)

is knocked on the head in his own back-garden and the family have to

change their name. No, sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks

like Queer Street, the less I ask.”

“A very good rule, too,” said the lawyer.

“But I have studied the place for myself,” continued Mr. Enfield. “It

seems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes in or

out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of my

adventure. There are three windows looking on the court on the first

floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they're clean. And

then there is a chimney which is generally smoking; so somebody must

live there. And yet it's not so sure; for the buildings are so packed

together about that court, that it's hard to say where one ends and

another begins.”

The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then, “Enfield,”

said Mr. Utterson, “that's a good rule of yours.”

“Yes, I think it is,” returned Enfield.

“But for all that,” continued the lawyer, “there's one point I want to

ask: I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the child.”

“Well,” said Mr. Enfield, “I can't see what harm it would do. It was a

man of the name of Hyde.”

“H'm,” said Mr. Utterson. “What sort of a man is he to see?”

“He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his

appearance; something displeasing, something downright detestable. I

never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be

deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I

couldn't specify the point. He's an extraordinary-looking man, and yet

I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no hand

of it; I can't describe him. And it's not want of memory; for I declare

I can see him this moment.”

Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a

weight of consideration.

“You are sure he used a key?” he inquired at last.

“My dear sir…” began Enfield, surprised out of himself.

“Yes, I know,” said Utterson; “I know it must seem strange. The fact

is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is because I

know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone home. If you have

been inexact in any point, you had better correct it.”

“I think you might have warned me,” returned the other, with a touch of

sullenness. “But I have been pedantically exact, as you call it. The