Странная история доктора Джекила и мистера Хайда / Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Роберт Льюис Стивенсон

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      “I let my brother go to the devil in his own way,” he used to say quaintly. And he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.

      Mr. Utterson was undemonstrative. His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest. Hence, no doubt, the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town. People did not know, 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. But the two men counted these excursions the chief jewel of each week.

      One day their way led them down a by-street[2] in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is called quiet. The inhabitants were all doing well. Even on Sunday, 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.

      Two doors from one corner[3], 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 discoloured wall on the upper.

      Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the 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,” added he, “with a very odd story.”

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

      “Well,” returned Mr. Enfield: “I was coming home 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. Street after street, and all the folks asleep—street after street, till at last I got into that state of mind when a man listens and listens and begins to look for a policeman. All at once[4], I saw two figures: one a little man who was stumping along eastward, and the other a girl of maybe eight or ten who was running hard. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing. The man trampled calmly over the child’s body and left her screaming on the ground. It was hellish to see. It wasn’t like a man; it was like some devil. I gave a cry, ran to them, 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 ugly look. The people who had turned out were the girl’s own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for whom she had been sent, appeared. Well, the child was frightened; and there you might have supposed would be an end to it. But there was one curious circumstance. 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 there was the man, really like Satan. ‘If you choose to make capital out of this accident,’ said he, ‘I am naturally helpless. Gentlemen always wish to avoid a scene. How much?’

      Well, we demanded a hundred pounds for the child’s family. 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 ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the rest, signed with a name that I can’t mention, but it was a name at least very well known and often printed. 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 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![5]” 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 celebrated person, and (what makes it worse) one of your fellows who do what they call good. Black-mail[6], I suppose. 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.

      Mr. Utterson asked rather suddenly:

      “And you don’t know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?”

      “A likely place[7], 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. 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 man (the last you would have thought of) is knocked on the head in his own back-garden. No, sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks queer, the less I ask.”

      “A very good rule,” 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. 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.”

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

      “He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something 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 say nothing about him. No, sir; I can’t describe him.”

      Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence.

      “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 man, it is because I know it already. You see, Richard, your tale can be useful for me.”

      “The СКАЧАТЬ