Maximum-assistance view: every word above everyday vocabulary is explained at every appearance; each name is introduced at its first appearance in the chapter.

STORY OF THE DOOR

Mr. Utterson (the lawyer this story follows) the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance (a rough, hard face) that was never lighted (made warm and friendly) by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse (he said little, and said it awkwardly); backward in sentiment (slow to show feeling); lean (thin), long (tall and thin), dusty (without life or colour), dreary (dull and sad) and yet somehow lovable (easy to like). At friendly (among friends) meetings, and when the wine was to his taste (when he liked the wine he was drinking), something eminently human (clearly human) beaconed from his eye (shone out of his eye); something indeed which never found its way into his talk (which he never put into words), but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face (the signs, without words, on a face relaxed after dinner), but more often and loudly (more clearly and more strongly) in the acts of his life (in what he actually did). He was austere (harsh and self-denying) with himself; drank gin (a cheap, harsh spirit: the point is that he denies himself good wine) when he was alone, to mortify (to deny himself) a taste for vintages (his liking for fine wines); and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one (had not gone inside one) for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance (a habit of accepting people as they are, which others thought well of) for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy (wishing to have what others have), at the high pressure of spirits (sheer energy) involved in their misdeeds (wrongdoing); and in any extremity (in any crisis) inclined to help rather than to reprove (more likely to help than to blame). “I incline to (I agree with) Cain’s heresy (a belief the church would call wrong. In the Bible, Cain killed his brother and refused to be responsible for him; the lawyer means he lets a man ruin himself in his own way),” he used to say quaintly (oddly, in his old-fashioned way): “I let my brother go to the devil in his own way (ruin himself however he likes).” In this character (Being that sort of man), it was frequently his fortune (it often happened to him) to be the last reputable acquaintance (respectable friend) and the last good influence in the lives of downgoing men (men who were ruining themselves). And to such as these (and with men of that kind), so long as (while) they came about (visited) his chambers (his offices), he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour (never showed the smallest change in how he behaved).

No doubt the feat (the trick of never showing what he thought) was easy to Mr. Utterson; for (because) he was undemonstrative at the best (showing little feeling even at his friendliest), and even his friendship seemed to be founded (built) in a similar catholicity (a wide readiness to like all sorts of people) of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest (not thinking himself important) man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity (take his friends as they come, whoever life happens to put in front of him); and that was the lawyer’s way. His friends were those of his own blood (his relatives) or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time (his liking for people grew slowly, the way a climbing plant does, holding on to whatever it happens to touch), they implied no aptness in the object (they meant no special merit in the person). Hence (So), no doubt the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield (his cousin), his distant kinsman (distant relative), the well-known man about town (a man everyone in the city knew, who went everywhere). It was a nut to crack for many (a puzzle to many), what these two could see in each other (what each of them liked about the 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 (unusually boring) and would hail (welcome) with obvious relief (the glad feeling when something hard is over) the appearance of a friend. For all that (even so), the two men put the greatest store by (valued most highly) these excursions (these walks), counted them the chief jewel of each week (the best thing in their week), and not only set aside occasions of pleasure (refused other invitations), but even resisted (fought against) the calls of business (the demands of work), that they might enjoy them uninterrupted (without being disturbed).

It chanced (it happened) on one of these rambles (walks) that their way led them down a by-street (small side street) in a busy quarter (district) of London (the capital of England, where the story takes place). The street was small and what is called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade (did good business) on the weekdays (on ordinary working days). The inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all emulously (competing with one another) hoping to do better still, and laying out the surplus of their gains in coquetry (spending spare profits on looking attractive); so that the shop fronts (shop windows) stood along that thoroughfare (street) with an air of invitation (a welcoming look), like rows of smiling saleswomen (like lines of smiling shop women inviting you in). Even on Sunday, when it veiled its more florid charms (hid its brighter shop displays) and lay comparatively empty of passage (with fewer people passing than on other days), the street shone out (was bright and easy to notice) in contrast to its dingy (dark and dirty) neighbourhood (the streets around it), like a fire in a forest (the one bright thing in a dull, dark place); and with its freshly painted shutters (newly painted window covers), well-polished brasses (the door handles and plates of shining yellow metal, rubbed bright), and general cleanliness (how clean everything was) and gaiety of note (a cheerful look about the whole street), instantly (with no delay) caught and pleased the eye (drew people’s attention and pleased them) of the passenger (the passer-by on foot, not a traveller).

Two doors from one corner, on the left hand (on the left) going east the line was broken (the row of buildings was interrupted) by the entry of a court (the opening into a small enclosed yard); and just at that point a certain sinister (threatening) block of building thrust forward its gable (pushed out its pointed end wall) on the street. It was two storeys (floors) high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower storey (lower floor) and a blind forehead of discoloured wall (a stretch of stained wall with no window, like the front of a head) on the upper; and bore in every feature (showed in every detail), the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence (signs that nobody had cleaned or cared for it in years). The door, which was equipped (fitted) with neither bell nor knocker (no doorbell, and no metal ring or bar for knocking at the door), was blistered and distained (with the paint coming off, and stained). Tramps (homeless men) slouched into the recess (leaned about in the doorway) and struck matches on the panels (lit their matches on the door boards); children kept shop (played at running a shop) upon the steps; the schoolboy (boy at school) had tried his knife on the mouldings (cut at the decorated wooden edging with his knife); and for close on a generation (nearly thirty years), no one had appeared to drive away (chase them off) these random visitors or to repair their ravages (damage).

Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but when they came abreast of (came level with) the entry, the former (the first of the two named) lifted up his cane (walking stick) and pointed.

“Did you ever remark (notice) that door?” he asked; and when his companion had replied in the affirmative (yes), “It is connected in my mind,” added he, “with a very odd (strange) story.”

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

“Well, (a filler word: he is only starting to speak, it does not mean healthy or good) it was this way,” returned Mr. Enfield (answered Mr Enfield): “I was coming home from some place at the end of the world (somewhere far across town), about three o’clock of a black winter morning (on a dark winter morning), and my way lay through (my route took me through) a part of town where there was literally (really, exactly as said) nothing to be seen but lamps (nothing to see except the street lamps). Street after street and all the folks asleep—street after street, all lighted (lit) up as if for a procession (as if lit for a parade) and all as empty as a church (completely empty and silent)—till at last I got into that state of mind when a man listens (keeps listening) and listens and begins to long for (want badly) the sight of a policeman (police officer). All at once (Suddenly), I saw two figures: one a little man who was stumping along (walking along with heavy steps) eastward (towards the east) at a good walk (walking fast), and the other a girl of maybe eight or ten who was running as hard as she was able down a cross street (side street crossing his). Well, sir (“Well” is only an opening word here; “sir” is him speaking politely to his companion), the two ran into one another (crashed into each other in the street) naturally enough (just as you would expect) at the corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing (the terrible thing was what he did next); for (because) the man trampled calmly over the child’s body (put his feet on the girl and walked straight on, without stopping and without any feeling) and left her screaming on the ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see (it sounds like nothing when told, but it was horrible to watch). It wasn’t like a man; it was like some damned (a swear word) Juggernaut (a huge temple cart in India, said to roll over the crowd that pulls it: a thing that crushes without noticing). I gave a few halloa (shouted out), took to my heels (ran after him), collared (seized him by the neck of his coat) my gentleman (my fine gentleman, said with contempt), and brought him back to where there was already quite a group about the screaming child. He was perfectly cool (completely calm) and made no resistance (did nothing to stop them), but gave me one look, so ugly (so full of hate) that it brought out the sweat on me (made me sweat) like running (as if I had been running). The people who had turned out (had come out of their houses) were the girl’s own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for whom she had been sent (the doctor she had been sent to fetch), put in his appearance (arrived). Well, the child was not much the worse (not badly hurt), more frightened (scared), according to the Sawbones (a rough nickname for a doctor: it pictures him sawing through bone); and there you might have supposed would be an end to it (and you would have thought that was the end of the matter). But there was one curious circumstance (one odd detail). I had taken a loathing to (been disgusted by) my gentleman at first sight. So had the child’s family, which was only natural. But the doctor’s case was what struck me (what surprised me was how the doctor behaved). He was the usual cut and dry apothecary (the ordinary, plain doctor), of no particular age and colour (you could not have said how old he was or what he looked like), with a strong Edinburgh accent (he spoke as people from Edinburgh do — Edinburgh is the capital of Scotland — and you could hear it plainly) and about as emotional as a bagpipe (showing no feeling at all — the Scottish pipes make one loud, flat sound and nothing more). Well, sir, he was like the rest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner (the man I had caught), I saw that Sawbones (that same rough nickname for the doctor, from the picture of a man sawing through bone) turn sick and white (go pale and sick-looking) 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 (impossible), we did the next best (we did the best thing left to us). We told the man we could and would make such a scandal (public talk about something shameful) out of this as should make his name stink (destroy his reputation) from one end of London (the capital of England, where the story takes place) to the other. If he had any friends or any credit (any standing or reputation), we undertook (we promised) that he should lose them. And all the time, as we were pitching it in red hot (attacking him hard with words), we were keeping the women off him as best we could for they were as wild as harpies (as wild as harpies, the winged monsters of Greek stories). I never saw a circle of such hateful (full of hate) faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of black sneering coolness (a dark, mocking calm, as if he looked down on them all)—frightened too, I could see that—but carrying it off (behaving as if nothing were wrong), sir, really like Satan (the devil). ‘If you choose to make capital out of (make money out of) this accident,’ said he, ‘I am naturally helpless (of course I cannot stop you). No gentleman but wishes to avoid a scene (every gentleman wants to avoid a public quarrel that people would watch),’ says he. ‘Name your figure (say how much money you want).’ Well, we screwed him up to (pushed him until he agreed to pay) a hundred pounds (perhaps two years’ wages for a clerk) for the child’s family; he would have clearly liked to stick out (refuse to pay); but there was something about the lot of us (all of us together) that meant mischief (meant trouble for him), and at last he struck (he agreed). The next thing was to get the money; and where do you think he carried us (took us) but to that place with the door (to that very place with the door)?—whipped out (pulled out) a key, went in, and presently came back (came back shortly after) with the matter of (about) ten pounds in gold and a cheque (a written order to a bank to pay money) for the balance (the rest of the sum) on Coutts’s (a private bank used by the very rich), drawn payable to bearer (written with no name on it, so whoever holds it can collect the money) 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 (often in the newspapers). The figure was stiff (the amount of money was high); but the signature was good for more than that (worth more than that) if it was only genuine (real and not false). I took the liberty of (I allowed myself to) pointing out to my gentleman that the whole business looked apocryphal (looked highly doubtful), and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a cellar door (basement door) at four in the morning and come out with another man’s cheque for close upon (almost) a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and sneering (completely calm, with a look that said he thought us worthless). ‘Set your mind at rest (do not worry),’ says he, ‘I will stay with you till the banks open and cash the cheque myself.’ So we all set off (started out), the doctor, and the child’s father, and our friend and myself, and passed the rest of the night in my chambers (my rooms); and next day, when we had breakfasted (eaten breakfast), went in a body (all together) to the bank. I gave in the cheque (handed the cheque over) myself, and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery (a fake, signed with a name that was not his). Not a bit of it (not at all). The cheque was genuine.”

“Tut-tut (an old expression of disapproval)!” said Mr. Utterson.

“I see you feel as I do,” said Mr. Enfield. “Yes, it’s a bad story. For my man (Because the man I am telling you about) was a fellow that nobody could have to do with (nobody could deal with), a really damnable (hateful) man; and the person that drew (wrote and signed) the cheque (a written order to a bank to pay money) is the very pink of the proprieties (the perfect model of respectable behaviour), celebrated (famous) too, and (what makes it worse) one of your fellows who do what they call good (one of those men who make a show of doing good). Blackmail (demanding money by threatening to reveal a secret), I suppose; an honest man paying through the nose (paying far too much) for some of the capers of his youth (the wild, probably shady things he did when he was young). Black Mail House (his own name for the building: a house where blackmail is paid) is what I call the place with the door, in consequence (as a result). Though even that, you know, is far from explaining all,” he added, and with the words fell into a vein of musing (drifted into his own thoughts).

From this he was recalled (he was brought back from his thoughts) by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: “And you don’t know if the drawer of the cheque (the man who signed the cheque) lives there?”

“A likely place, isn’t it? (he means the opposite: it does not look like a place where anyone would live)” returned Mr. Enfield (answered Mr Enfield). “But I happen to have noticed his address; he lives in some square or other (one of the fine squares where people live — he does not say which one).”

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

“No, sir; I had a delicacy (it felt wrong to me),” was the reply (was his answer). “I feel very strongly about (I have a firm rule against) putting questions (asking questions); it partakes too much of the style of the day of judgment (asking them feels too much like judging a man for his whole life). You start a question, and it’s like starting a stone (it is like setting a stone rolling down a hill). You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others; and presently (soon) some bland old bird (mild old fellow) (the last you would have thought of (the person you would never have expected)) is knocked on the head (killed) 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 (an old expression for being in money trouble), 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 (hardly) a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes in or out of that one but, once in a great while (very occasionally), the gentleman of my adventure (the man from my story). There are three windows looking on the court (facing the yard) on the first floor (the floor above the ground floor); none below; the windows are always shut but they’re clean. And then there is a chimney (the pipe that carries smoke up from a fire) which is generally smoking (usually with smoke coming from it); so somebody must live there. And yet it’s not so sure; for (because) the buildings are so packed (pressed close) together about the court (round the yard), 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 (even so),” 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 (the name is spoken for the first time here: the small man who trampled the child).”

“Hm (a thinking sound),” said Mr. Utterson. “What sort of a man is he to see? (what does he look like?)”

“He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing (something unpleasant), something down-right detestable (thoroughly hateful). I never saw a man I so disliked (did not like), and yet I scarce (hardly) know why. He must be deformed somewhere (wrongly shaped somewhere); he gives a strong feeling of deformity (a strong sense of something wrongly shaped in his body), although I couldn’t specify the point (say exactly where). He’s an extraordinary looking (strikingly odd-looking) man, and yet I really can name nothing out of the way (unusual). No, sir; I can make no hand of it (I cannot understand it at all); I can’t describe him. And it’s not want of memory (lack of memory); for (because) I declare (I swear) I can see him this moment.”

Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a weight of consideration (deep in troubled thought). “You are sure he used a key?” he inquired (asked) at last.

“My dear sir (a polite way of speaking to a man you know)...” began Enfield, surprised out of himself (so surprised that he spoke without thinking).

“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 (person involved), it is because I know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone home (your story has hit me hard). If you have been inexact in any point (wrong in any detail) you had better correct it.”

“I think you might have warned me (you could have told me first),” returned the other with a touch of sullenness (sounding a little hurt and annoyed). “But I have been pedantically exact (exact down to the smallest detail), as you call it. The fellow had a key; and what’s more (and beyond that), he has it still. I saw him use it not a week ago.”

Mr. Utterson sighed deeply (breathed out long and heavily) but said never a word (said nothing at all); and the young man presently resumed (soon went on). “Here is another lesson to say nothing,” said he. “I am ashamed of my long tongue (my talking too much). Let us make a bargain (agree) never to refer to this again.”

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