The 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 downgoing men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.

Mr. Utterson the lawyer had a rough-featured face that never brightened with a smile. He was cold, brief, and awkward in conversation, and reluctant to show his feelings. He was thin, tall, dusty, and dreary, yet somehow lovable. Among friends, when the wine suited his taste, something deeply human shone in his eyes. That warmth never found its way into his conversation. But it showed in his silent expressions after dinner, and more often and more clearly in his actions. He was strict with himself. When alone, he drank gin to curb his taste for fine wines. And although he enjoyed the theatre, he had not entered one for twenty years. But he had a well-established tolerance for others. Sometimes he wondered, almost enviously, at the intense energy behind their misdeeds. And even in the worst circumstances, he was inclined to help rather than scold. “I lean toward Cain’s heresy,” he used to say in his quaint way: “I let my brother go to the devil in his own way.” Because of this attitude, he was often the last respectable acquaintance of men whose lives were going downhill. He was also their last good influence. And as long as these men kept visiting his office, he never showed the slightest change in his manner.

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.

No doubt the feat was easy for Mr. Utterson, since he rarely showed his feelings even at the best of times. Even his friendships seemed based on the same broad goodwill. A modest man accepts the circle of friends that chance gives him, and that was the lawyer’s way. His friends were his relatives or the people he had known longest. Like ivy, his affections grew over time, without depending on any special qualities in those he cared for. This no doubt explained his bond with Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant relative and a well-known man about town. Many people were puzzled by what these two saw in each other, or what they could find to discuss. People who met them on their Sunday walks reported that the pair said nothing and looked remarkably bored. According to these reports, they greeted any friend who appeared with obvious relief. Yet the two men valued these walks greatly and considered them the highlight of each week. They not only gave up other pleasures but even refused business demands so they could enjoy their walks without interruption.

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 weekdays. 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.

On one of these walks, they happened to turn down a side street in a busy part of London. The street was small and what people call quiet, but trade flourished there on weekdays. The residents all seemed to be doing well, and all hoped to outdo one another and prosper even more. They spent their spare profits on making their shops attractive. So the shopfronts lining the street looked inviting, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday, the street stood out against its dingy surroundings like a fire in a forest. On Sundays, its showier attractions were hidden, and there were relatively few people passing through. Yet its freshly painted shutters, well-polished brass fittings, and overall clean, cheerful appearance immediately caught and pleased the passerby's eye.

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 storeys high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower storey 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.

Heading east, two doors from a corner on the left, the row of buildings was broken by a courtyard entrance. Right there, a sinister building jutted out toward the street, its gable facing the road. The building was two stories high and had no windows. There was only a door on the ground floor and a blank expanse of discolored wall above. Every part of the building showed signs of long, shabby neglect. The door had neither a bell nor a knocker, and its surface was blistered and stained. Tramps slouched in the recessed doorway and struck matches on the door panels. Children played shop on the steps, and a schoolboy had cut into the moldings with his knife. For nearly a generation, no one had appeared to drive these stray visitors away or repair the damage they caused.

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.

Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the side street. But when they reached the point opposite the entrance, Mr. Enfield raised 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.”

“Have you ever noticed that door?” he asked. When his companion said yes, he added, “That door reminds me of a very strange story.”

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

“Really?” said Mr. Utterson, his voice changing slightly. “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 few 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 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 cheque myself, and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery. Not a bit of it. The cheque was genuine.”

“Well, here’s what happened,” replied Mr. Enfield: “I was coming home from somewhere at the end of the world. It was about three o’clock on a dark winter morning. My route took me through a part of town where there was literally nothing to see but streetlights. Street after street, everyone was asleep. Street after street was lit up as if for a procession, yet as empty as a church. At last, I found myself listening and listening, beginning to long for the sight of a policeman. Suddenly, I saw two figures. One was a little man marching east at a brisk walk. The other was a girl, perhaps eight or ten, running as fast as she could down a cross street. Well, sir, naturally enough, the two collided at the corner. Then came the horrible part. The man calmly trampled over the child’s body and left her screaming on the ground. It sounds like nothing when you hear about it, but it was hellish to see. He wasn’t like a man. He was like some damned Juggernaut, crushing everything in his path. I shouted a few times, ran after him, grabbed him by the collar, and brought him back. By then, quite a group had gathered around the screaming child. He was perfectly calm and offered no resistance. But he gave me such an ugly look that I broke into a sweat, as if I’d been running. The people who had come out were the girl’s own family. Soon afterward, the doctor arrived. The girl had been sent to fetch him. “Well, the child wasn’t badly hurt, just more frightened than anything, according to the doctor. You might have thought that would be the end of the matter. But there was one curious detail. I had hated the man on sight. So had the child’s family, which was only natural. But the doctor’s reaction was what struck me. He was an ordinary, matter-of-fact doctor, with no particular age or complexion that stood out. He had a strong Edinburgh accent and about as much emotion as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like the rest of us. Every time he looked at my prisoner, I saw the doctor turn sick and pale with the desire to kill him. I knew what he was thinking, just as he knew what I was thinking. And since killing the man was out of the question, we did the next best thing. We told him we could and would create a scandal that would ruin his name throughout London. If he had any friends or any standing, we promised he would lose them. And all the time we were fiercely threatening him, we were doing our best to hold the women back. They were as wild as harpies. I had never seen a circle of faces so full of hatred. And there stood the man in the middle, with a kind of sinister, sneering calm. He was frightened too, I could see that. But he hid his fear, sir, really like Satan. “‘If you choose to profit from this accident,’ he said, ‘I am naturally helpless. Every gentleman wishes to avoid a scene,’ he said. ‘Name your price.’ Well, we pushed him up to a hundred pounds for the child’s family. He clearly would have liked to hold out. But something about our group promised trouble, and at last he agreed. Next, we had to get the money. And where do you think he took us? To that place with the door. He pulled out a key, went in, and soon returned with about ten pounds in gold. He also had a cheque for the rest, drawn on Coutts’s and payable to whoever presented it. The signature was a name I can’t mention, though the name is one of the points of my story. But it was very well known and often appeared in print. The amount was steep. But the signature was worth more than that, if only it was genuine. I took the liberty of telling the man that the whole business looked suspicious. In real life, a man doesn’t enter a cellar door at four in the morning and emerge with another man’s cheque. Especially not for nearly a hundred pounds. But he remained quite calm and sneering. ‘Put your mind at rest,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay with you until the banks open and cash the cheque myself.’ “So we all set off, the doctor, the child’s father, our friend, and me. We spent the rest of the night in my rooms. The next day, after breakfast, we went together to the bank. I handed over the cheque myself and said I had every reason to believe it was forged. Not a bit of it. The cheque was genuine.”

“Tut-tut!” said Mr. Utterson.

“Tsk, tsk!” 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. Blackmail, I suppose; an honest man paying through the nose for some of the capers of his youth. Black Mail House is what I call the 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.

“I see you feel as I do,” said Mr. Enfield. “Yes, it’s an ugly story. Because the man I met was someone nobody could associate with, a truly damnable man. And the person who wrote the cheque is the very model of respectability, and famous too. To make matters worse, he’s one of those people who do what they call good. Blackmail, I suppose. An honest man paying a steep price for some of his youthful misdeeds. That’s why I call the place with the door Black Mail House. Though even blackmail, you know, is far from explaining everything,” he added, and fell into thought as he spoke.

From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: “And you don’t know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?”

Mr. Utterson drew his attention back by asking rather suddenly: “And you don’t know if the person who wrote 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.”

“A likely place, isn’t it?” replied Mr. Enfield. “But I happened to notice his address. He lives in some square or other.”

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

“And you never asked about the, 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.”

“No, sir. I felt it would be intrusive,” was the reply. “I have strong feelings about asking questions. It feels too much like judging people on Judgment Day. You ask a question, and it’s like setting a stone rolling. You sit quietly at the top of a hill. Away the stone goes, setting others rolling. Before long, some harmless old fellow gets hit on the head in his own back garden. He’s the last person you would have expected, and now his family has to change their name. No, sir, I make it a rule: the more something looks like Queer Street, or trouble, the less I ask.”

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

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

“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 the court, that it’s hard to say where one ends and another begins.”

“But I’ve taken a close look at the place myself,” continued Mr. Enfield. “It hardly seems like a house. There’s no other door. Nobody uses that door except the gentleman from my story, and even he comes only very rarely. There are three windows facing the courtyard on the floor above ground level, but none on the ground floor. The windows are always shut, but they’re clean. And there’s a chimney that usually has smoke coming out of it, so someone must live there. Yet even that isn’t certain. The buildings around the courtyard are packed so tightly together that it’s hard to tell 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.”

The two walked on in silence for a while. Then Mr. Utterson said, “Enfield, that’s a good rule of yours.”

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

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

“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.”

“But even so,” the lawyer continued, “there’s one thing I want to ask. I want to know the name of the man who trampled the child.”

“Well,” said Mr. Enfield, “I can’t see what harm it would do. It was a man of the name of Hyde.”

“Well,” said Mr. Enfield, “I can’t see what harm it would do. The man’s name was Hyde.”

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

“Hm,” said Mr. Utterson. “What does he look like?”

“He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something down-right 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.”

“He’s not easy to describe. There’s something wrong with his appearance, something unpleasant, something downright hateful. I’ve never seen a man I disliked so much, and yet I hardly know why. He must be deformed in some way. He gives a strong impression of deformity, although I couldn’t say exactly what the deformity is. He’s an unusual-looking man, and yet I really can’t point to anything unusual about him. No, sir, I can’t make sense of his appearance. I can’t describe him. And it’s not because I can’t remember him. I swear I can picture him right now.”

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.

Mr. Utterson walked on in silence again, clearly deep in thought. “Are you sure he used a key?” he asked at last.

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

“My dear sir...” Enfield began, so surprised that he lost his composure.

“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.”

“Yes, I know,” said Utterson. “I know it must seem strange. The truth is, if I don't ask you the other person's name, it's because I already know the name. You see, Richard, your story has hit home. If you've been inaccurate about anything, you'd 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 fellow had a key; and what’s more, he has it still. I saw him use it not a week ago.”

“I think you could have warned me,” the other replied, sounding slightly sullen. “But I have been overly precise, as you call it. The man had a key, and what’s more, he still has the key. I saw him use it less than a week ago.”

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.”

Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said nothing. Soon the young man spoke again. “Here’s another lesson in keeping quiet,” he said. “I’m ashamed of how much I talk. Let’s agree never to mention this again.”

“With all my heart,” said the lawyer. “I shake hands on that, Richard.”

“With all my heart,” said the lawyer. “Let’s shake hands on that, Richard.”