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

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      He cam ‘a step nearer to the corp; an’ then his heart fair whammled in his inside. For by what cantrip it wad ill beseem a man to judge, she was hangin’ frae a single nail an’ by a single wursted thread for darnin’ hose.

      It’s a awfu ‘thing to be your lane at nicht wi’ siccan prodigies o’ darkness; but Mr Soulis was strong in the Lord. He turned an’ gaed his ways oot o’ that room, an’ lockit the door ahint him; an’ step by step, doun the stairs, as heavy as leed; and set doun the can’le on the table at the stairfoot. He couldna pray, he couldna think, he was dreepin’ wi’ caul’ swat, an’ naething could he hear but the dunt-dunt-duntin’ o’ his ain heart. He micht maybe hae stood there an hour, or maybe twa, he minded sae little; when a’ o’ a sudden, he heard a laigh, uncanny steer up-stairs; a foot gaed to an’ fro in the chalmer whaur the corp was hangin’; syne the door was opened, though he minded weel that he had lockit it; an’ syne there was a step upon the landin’, an’ it seemed to him as if the corp was lookin’ ower the rail and doun upon him whaur he stood.

      He took up the can’le again (for he couldna want the licht), an ‘as saftly as ever he could, gaed straucht out o’ the manse an’ to the far end o’ the causeway. It was aye pit-mirk; the flame o’ the can’le, when he set it on the grund, brunt steedy and clear as in a room; naething moved, but the Dule water seepin’ and sabbin’ doun the glen, an’ you unhaly footstep that cam’ ploddin’ doun the stairs inside the manse. He kenned the foot ower weel, for it was Janet’s; an’ at ilka step that cam’ a wee thing nearer, the cauld got deeper in his vitals. He commended his soul to Him that made an’ keepit him; ‘and, O Lord,’ said he, ‘give me strength this night to war against the powers of evil.’

      By this time the foot was comin ‘through the passage for the door; he could hear a hand skirt alang the wa’, as if the fearsome thing was feelin’ for its way. The saughs tossed an’ maned thegither, a long sigh cam’ ower the hills, the flame o’ the can’le was blawn aboot; an’ there stood the corp of Thrawn Janet, wi’ her grogram goun an’ her black mutch, wi’ the heid aye upon the shouther, an’ the girn still upon the face o’t− leevin’, ye wad hae said – deid, as Mr Soulis weel kenned – upon the threshold o’ the manse.

      It’s a strange thing that the soul of man should be that thirled into his perishable body; but the minister saw that, an’ his heart didna break.

      She didna stand there lang; she began to move again an’ cam’ slowly towards Mr Soulis whaur he stood under the saughs. A’ the life o’ his body, a’ the strength o’ his speerit, were glowerin’ frae his e’en. It seemed she was gaun to speak, but wanted words, an’ made a sign wi’ the left hand. There cam’ a clap o’ wund, like a cat’s fuff; oot gaed the can’le, the saughs skreighed like folk; an’ Mr Soulis kenned that, live or die, this was the end o’t.

      ‘Witch, beldame, devil!’ he cried, ‘I charge you, by the power of God, begone – if you be dead, to the grave – if you be damned, to hell.’

      An ‘at that moment the Lord’s ain hand out o’ the Heevens struck the Horror whaur it stood; the auld, deid, desecrated corp o’ the witch-wife, sae lang keepit frae the grave and hirsled round by de’ils, lowed up like a brunstane spunk an’ fell in ashes to the grand; the thunder followed, peal on dirlin’ peal, the rairin’ rain upon the back o’ that; and Mr Soulis lowped through the garden hedge, an’ ran, wi’ skelloch upon skelloch, for the clachan.

      That same mornin’, John Christie saw the Black Man pass the Muckle Cairn as it was chappin’ six; before eicht, he gaed by the change-house at Knockdow; an’ no’ lang after, Sandy M’Lellan saw him gaun linkin’ doun the braes frae Kilmackerlie. There’s little doubt but it was him that dwalled sae lang in Janet’s body; but he was awa’ at last; an’ sinsyne the de’il has never fashed us in Ba’weary.

      But it was a sair dispensation for the minister; lang, lang he lay ravin ‘in his bed; an’ frae that hour to this, he was the man ye ken the day.

       The Body Snatcher

      EVERY NIGHT in the year, four of us sat in the small parlour of the George at Debenham – the undertaker, and the landlord, and Fettes, and myself. Sometimes there would be more; but blow high, blow low, come rain or snow or frost, we four would be each planted in his own particular arm-chair. Fettes was an old drunken Scotsman, a man of education obviously, and a man of some property, since he lived in idleness. He had come to Debenham years ago, while still young, and by a mere continuance of living had grown to be an adopted townsman. His blue camlet cloak was a local antiquity, like the church-spire. His place in the parlour at the George, his absence from church, his old, crapulous, disreputable vices, were all things of course in Debenham. He had some vague Radical opinions and some fleeting infidelities, which he would now and again set forth and emphasise with tottering slaps upon the table. He drank rum – five glasses regularly every evening; and for the greater portion of his nightly visit to the George sat, with his glass in his right hand, in a state of melancholy alcoholic saturation. We called him the Doctor, for he was supposed to have some special knowledge of medicine, and had been known, upon a pinch, to set a fracture or reduce a dislocation; but, beyond these slight particulars, we had no knowledge of his character and antecedents.

      One dark winter night− it had struck nine some time before the landlord joined us – there was a sick man in the George, a great neighbouring proprietor suddenly struck down with apoplexy on his way to Parliament; and die great man’s still greater London doctor had been telegraphed to his bedside. It was the first time that such a thing had happened in Debenham, for the railway was but newly open, and we were all proportionately moved by the occurrence.

      ‘He’s come,’ said the landlord, after he had filled and lighted his pipe.

      ‘He?’ said I. ‘Who? – not the doctor?’ ‘Himself,’ replied our host. ‘What is his name?’ ‘Dr Macfarlane,’ said the landlord.

      Fettes was far through his third tumbler, stupidly fuddled, now nodding over, now staring mazily around him; but at the last word he seemed to awaken, and repeated the name ‘Macfarlane’ twice, quietly enough the first time, but with sudden emotion at the second.

      ‘Yes,’ said the landlord, ‘that’s his name, Doctor Wolfe Macfarlane.’

      Fettes became instantly sober; his eyes awoke, his voice became clear, loud, and steady, his language forcible and earnest. We were all startled by the transformation, as if a man had risen from the dead.

      ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, ‘I am afraid I have not been paying much attention to your talk. Who is this Wolfe Macfarlane?’ And then, when he had heard the landlord out, ‘It cannot be, it cannot be,’ he added; ‘and yet I would like well to see him face to face.’

      ‘Do you know him, Doctor?’ asked the undertaker, with a gasp.

      ‘God forbid!’ was the reply. ‘And yet the name is a strange one; it were too much to fancy two. Tell me, landlord, is he old?’

      ‘Well,’ said the host, ‘he’s not a young man, to be sure, and his hair is white; but he looks younger than you.’

      ‘He is older, though; years older. But,’ with a slap upon the table, ‘it’s the rum you see in my face – rum and sin. This man, perhaps, may have an easy conscience and a good digestion. Conscience! Hear me speak. You would think I was some good, old, decent Christian, would you not? But no, not I; I never canted. Voltaire might have canted if he’d stood СКАЧАТЬ