The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 5

A moment after, he had received Mrs. Desborough with that grave and touching urbanity that so well became him.

“I am pleased, madam, to welcome you to my poor house,” he said; “and shall be still more so, if what were else a barren courtesy and a pleasure personal to myself, shall prove to be of serious benefit to you and Mr. Desborough.”

“Your highness,” replied Clara, “I must begin with thanks; it is like what I have heard of you, that you should thus take up the case of the unfortunate; and as for my Harry, he is worthy of all that you can do.” She paused.

“But for yourself?” suggested Mr. Godall – “it was thus you were about to continue, I believe.”

“You take the words out of my mouth,” she said. “For myself, it is different.”

“I am not here to be a judge of men,” replied the prince; “still less of women. I am now a private person like yourself and many million others; but I am one who still fights upon the side of quiet. Now, madam, you know better than I, and God better than you, what you have done to mankind in the past; I pause not to inquire; it is with the future I concern myself, it is for the future I demand security. I would not willingly put arms into the hands of a disloyal combatant; and I dare not restore to wealth one of the levyers of a private and a barbarous war. I speak with some severity, and yet I pick my terms. I tell myself continually that you are a woman; and a voice continually reminds me of the children whose lives and limbs you have endangered. A woman,” he repeated solemnly – “and children. Possibly, madam, when you are yourself a mother, you will feel the bite of that antithesis: possibly when you kneel at night beside a cradle, a fear will fall upon you, heavier than any shame; and when your child lies in the pain and danger of disease, you shall hesitate to kneel before your Maker.”

“You look at the fault,” she said, “and not at the excuse. Has your own heart never leaped within you at some story of oppression? But, alas, no! for you were born upon a throne.”

“I was born of woman,” said the prince; “I came forth from my mother’s agony, helpless as a wren, like other nurselings. This, which you forgot, I have still faithfully remembered. Is it not one of your English poets, that looked abroad upon the earth and saw vast circumvallations, innumerable troops manœuvring, warships at sea, and a great dust of battles on shore; and, casting anxiously about for what should be the cause of so many and painful preparations, spied at last, in the centre of all, a mother and her babe? These, madam, are my politics; and the verses, which are by Mr. Coventry Patmore, I have caused to be translated into the Bohemian tongue. Yes, these are my politics: to change what we can, to better what we can; but still to bear in mind that man is but a devil weakly fettered by some generous beliefs and impositions; and for no word however nobly sounding, and no cause however just and pious, to relax the stricture of these bonds.”

There was a silence of a moment.

“I fear, madam,” resumed the prince, “that I but weary you. My views are formal like myself; and like myself, they also begin to grow old. But I must still trouble you for some reply.”

“I can say but one thing,” said Mrs. Desborough: “I love my husband.”

“It is a good answer,” returned the prince; “and you name a good influence, but one that need not be conterminous with life.”

“I will not play at pride with such a man as you,” she answered. “What do you ask of me? not protestations, I am sure. What shall I say? I have done much that I cannot defend and that I would not do again. Can I say more? Yes: I can say this: I never abused myself with the muddle-headed fairy tales of politics. I was at least prepared to meet reprisals. While I was levying war myself – or levying murder, if you choose the plainer term – I never accused my adversaries of assassination. I never felt or feigned a righteous horror, when a price was put upon my life by those whom I attacked. I never called the policeman a hireling. I may have been a criminal, in short; but I never was a fool.”

“Enough, madam,” returned the prince: “more than enough! Your words are most reviving to my spirits; for in this age, when even the assassin is a sentimentalist, there is no virtue greater in my eyes than intellectual clarity. Suffer me then to ask you to retire; for by the signal of that bell, I perceive my old friend, your mother, to be close at hand. With her I promise you to do my utmost.”

And as Mrs. Desborough returned to the Divan, the prince, opening a door upon the other side, admitted Mrs. Luxmore.

“Madam, and my very good friend,” said he, “is my face so much changed that you no longer recognise Prince Florizel in Mr. Godall?”

“To be sure!” she cried, looking at him through her glasses. “I have always regarded your highness as a perfect man; and in your altered circumstances, of which I have already heard with deep regret, I will beg you to consider my respect increased instead of lessened.”

“I have found it so,” returned the prince, “with every class of my acquaintance. But, madam, I pray you to be seated. My business is of a delicate order, and regards your daughter.”

“In that case,” said Mrs. Luxmore, “you may save yourself the trouble of speaking, for I have fully made up my mind to have nothing to do with her. I will not hear one word in her defence; but as I value nothing so particularly as the virtue of justice, I think it my duty to explain to you the grounds of my complaint. She deserted me, her natural protector; for years she has consorted with the most disreputable persons; and, to fill the cup of her offence, she has recently married. I refuse to see her, or the being to whom she has linked herself. One hundred and twenty pounds a year, I have always offered her: I offer it again. It is what I had myself when I was her age.”

“Very well, madam,” said the prince; “and be that so! But to touch upon another matter: what was the income of the Reverend Bernard Fanshawe?”

“My father?” asked the spirited old lady. “I believe he had seven hundred pounds in the year.”

“You were one, I think, of several?” pursued the prince.

“Of four,” was the reply. “We were four daughters; and, painful as the admission is to make, a more detestable family could scarce be found in England.”

“Dear me!” said the prince. “And you, madam, have an income of eight thousand?”

“Not more than five,” returned the old lady; “but where on earth are you conducting me?”

“To an allowance of one thousand pounds a year,” replied Florizel, smiling. “For I must not suffer you to take your father for a rule. He was poor, you are rich. He had many calls upon his poverty: there are none upon your wealth. And indeed, madam, if you will let me touch this matter with a needle, there is but one point in common to your two positions: that each had a daughter more remarkable for liveliness than duty.”

“I have been entrapped into this house,” said the old lady, getting to her feet. “But it shall not avail. Not all the tobacconists in Europe…”

“Ah, madam,” interrupted Florizel, “before what is referred to as my fall, you had not used such language! And since you so much object to the simple industry by which I live, let me give you a friendly hint. If you will not consent to support your daughter, I shall be constrained to place that lady behind my counter, where I doubt not she would prove a great attraction; and your son-in-law shall have a livery and run the errands. With such young blood my business might be doubled, and I might be bound, in common gratitude, to place the name of Luxmore beside that of Godall.”

“Your highness,” said the old lady, “I have been very rude, and you are very cunning. I suppose the minx is on the premises. Produce her.”

“Let us rather observe them unperceived,” said the prince; and so saying he rose and quietly drew back the curtain.

Mrs. Desborough sat with her back to them on a chair; Somerset and Harry were hanging on her words with extraordinary interest; Challoner, alleging some affair, had long ago withdrawn from the detested neighbourhood of the enchantress.

“At that moment,” Mrs. Desborough was saying, “Mr. Gladstone detected the features of his cowardly assailant. A cry rose to his lips: a cry of mingled triumph…”

“That is Mr. Somerset!” interrupted the spirited old lady, in the highest note of her register. “Mr. Somerset, what have you done with my house-property?”

“Madam,” said the prince, “let it be mine to give the explanation; and in the meanwhile, welcome your daughter.”

“Well, Clara, how do you do?” said Mrs. Luxmore. “It appears I am to give you an allowance. So much the better for you. As for Mr. Somerset, I am very ready to have an explanation; for the whole affair, though costly, was eminently humorous. And at any rate,” she added, nodding to Paul, “he is a young gentleman for whom I have a great affection, and his pictures were the funniest I ever saw.”

“I have ordered a collation,” said the prince. “Mr. Somerset, as these are all your friends, I propose, if you please, that you should join them at table. I will take the shop.”

STRANGE CASE OF

DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE

TO

KATHARINE DE MATTOS

It’s ill to loose the bands that God decreed to bind;
Still will we be the children of the heather and the wind.
Far away from home, O it’s still for you and me
That the broom is blowing bonnie in the north countrie.

STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE

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 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.

No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendships 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.

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.

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.

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.