I. 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. 1
“I incline to, Cain’s heresy,” he used to say. “I
let my brother go to the devil in his quaintly: “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. 2
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. 3
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. 4
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. 5
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. 6
“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.” 7
“Indeed?” said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of
voice, “and what was that?” 8
“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.” 9
“Tut-tut,” said Mr. Utterson. 10
“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. 11
From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking
rather suddenly:” And you don’t know if the drawer
of the cheque lives there?” 12
“A likely place, isn’t it?” returned Mr. Enfield.
“But I happen to have noticed his address; he lives
in some square or other.” 13
“And you never asked about the—place with the door?”
said Mr. Utterson. 14
“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.” 15
“ A very good rule, too,” said the lawyer. 16
“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.” 17
The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and
then, “Enfield,” said Mr. Utterson, “that’s a good
rule of yours.” 18
“Yes, I think it is,” returned Enfield. 19
“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.” 20
“Well,” said Mr. Enfield, “I can’t see what harm it
would do. It was a man of the name of Hyde.” 21
“H’m,” said Mr. Utterson. “What sort of a man is he
to see?” 22
“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.” 23
Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and
obviously under a weight of consideration. 24
“You are sure he used a key?” he inquired at last.
25
“My dear sir…” began Enfield, surprised out of
himself. 26
“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.” 27
“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 fellow had a
key; and what’s more, he has it still. I saw him use
it, not a week ago. 28
Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word;
and the young man presently resumed. “Here is
another lesson to say nothing,” said he. “I am
ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain
never to refer to this again.” 29
“With all my heart,” said the lawyer. “I shake hands
on that, Richard.” 30
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