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Dr. Jekyll And
Mr. Hyde
By
Robert Louis Stevenson
Contents
REMARKABLE
INCIDENT OF DR. LANYON
HENRY
JEKYLL'S FULL STATEMENT OF THE CASE.
MR. UTTERSON the lawyer was a man of a rugged
countenance, that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrasse=
d 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 i=
ts
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 v=
intages;
and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twe=
nty
years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, al=
most
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 bro=
ther
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 abo=
ut
his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.
No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; fo=
r he
was undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be found=
ed
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 th=
at
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, t=
hey
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 subj=
ect
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 wou=
ld
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 c=
alls
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, li=
ke
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 cont=
rast
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 go=
ing
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 t=
wo
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 generati=
on,
no one had appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their
ravages.
Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other s=
ide of
the by-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 in my mind," added he, "with a very odd story."
"Indeed?" said Mr. Utterson, with a
slight change of voice, "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, a=
bout
three o'clock of a black winter morning, and my way lay through a part of t=
own
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 w=
ho
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 le=
ft
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 vie=
w-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 s=
weat
on me like running. The people who had turned out were the girl's own famil=
y; 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 Sawbone=
s;
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 w=
hat struck
me. He was the usual cut-and-dry apothecary, of no particular age and colou=
r,
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 suc=
h 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 kee=
ping
the women off him as best we could, for they were as wild as harpies. I nev=
er
saw a circle of such hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, wi=
th 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, a=
nd presently
came back with the matter of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balanc=
e on
Coutts's, drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can't menti=
on, though
it's one of the points of my story, but it was a name at least very well kn=
own
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 no=
t,
in real life, walk into a cellar door at four in the morning and come out o=
f it
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 n=
ight
in my chambers; and next day, when we had breakfasted, went in a body 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," 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 c=
ould
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. Black-mail, I suppose; an honest
man paying through the nose for some of the capers of his youth. 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, and with the wo=
rds
fell into a vein of musing.
From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson aski=
ng
rather suddenly: "And you don't know if the drawer of 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."
"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; 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 ha=
ve
to change their name. No, sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks =
like
Queer Street, 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 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 li= ve there. And yet it's not so sure; for the buildings are so packed together a= bout that court, that it's hard to say where one ends and another begins."<= o:p>
The pair walked on again for a while in silenc=
e;
and then, "Enfield," said Mr. Utterson, "that's a good rule =
of
yours."
"Yes, I think it is," returned Enfie=
ld.
"But for all that," continued the
lawyer, "there's one point I want to ask: I want to ask the name of th=
at
man who walked over the child."
"Well," said Mr. Enfield, "I ca=
n't
see what harm it would do. It was a man of the name of Hyde."
"H'm," said Mr. Utterson. "What
sort of a man is he to see?"
"He is not easy to describe. There is
something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something downr=
ight
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 re=
ally
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."
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.
"My dear sir..." began Enfield, surp=
rised
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 party, it is because I know it already. You see, Richard, your tale h=
as
gone home. If you have been inexact in any point, you had 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."
Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a wo=
rd;
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."
"With all my heart," said the lawyer.
"I shake hands on that, Richard."
=
THAT evening Mr. Utterson came home to his
bachelor house in sombre spirits and sat down to dinner without relish. It =
was
his custom of a Sunday, when this meal was over, to sit close by the fire, =
a volume
of some dry divinity on his reading-desk, until the clock of the neighbouri=
ng
church rang out the hour of twelve, when he would go soberly and gratefully=
to
bed. On this night, however, as soon as the cloth was taken away, he took u=
p a
candle and went into his business-room. There he opened his safe, took from=
the
most private part of it a document endorsed on the envelope as Dr. Jekyll's
Will, and sat down with a clouded brow to study its contents. The will was =
holograph,
for Mr. Utterson, though he took charge of it now that it was made, had ref=
used
to lend the least assistance in the making of it; it provided not only that=
, in
case of the decease of Henry Jekyll, M.D., D.C.L., L.L.D., F.R.S., etc., all
his possessions were to pass into the hands of his "friend and benefac=
tor
Edward Hyde," but that in case of Dr. Jekyll's "disappearance or
unexplained absence for any period exceeding three calendar months," t=
he
said Edward Hyde should step into the said Henry Jekyll's shoes without fur=
ther
delay and free from any burthen or obligation, beyond the payment of a few
small sums to the members of the doctor's household. This document had long
been the lawyer's eyesore. It offended him both as a lawyer and as a lover =
of
the sane and customary sides of life, to whom the fanciful was the immodest.
And hitherto it was his ignorance of Mr. Hyde that had swelled his indignat=
ion;
now, by a sudden turn, it was his knowledge. It was already bad enough when=
the
name was but a name of which he could learn no more. It was worse when it b=
egan
to be clothed upon with detestable attributes; and out of the shifting, ins=
ubstantial
mists that had so long baffled his eye, there leaped up the sudden, definite
presentment of a fiend.
"I thought it was madness," he said,=
as
he replaced the obnoxious paper in the safe, "and now I begin to fear =
it
is disgrace."
With that he blew out his candle, put on a
great-coat, and set forth in the direction of Cavendish Square, that citade=
l of
medicine, where his friend, the great Dr. Lanyon, had his house and received
his crowding patients. "If any one knows, it will be Lanyon," he =
had
thought.
The solemn butler knew and welcomed him;
he was subjected to no stage of delay, but ush=
ered
direct from the door to the dining-room where Dr. Lanyon sat alone over his
wine. This was a hearty, healthy, dapper, red-faced gentleman, with a shock=
of
hair prematurely white, and a boisterous and decided manner. At sight of Mr.
Utterson, he sprang up from his chair and welcomed him with both hands. The
geniality, as was the way of the man, was somewhat theatrical to the eye; b=
ut
it reposed on genuine feeling. For these two were old friends, old mates bo=
th
at school and college, both thorough respecters of themselves and of each o=
ther,
and, what does not always follow, men who thoroughly enjoyed each other's
company.
After a little rambling talk, the lawyer led u=
p to
the subject which so disagreeably pre-occupied his mind.
"I suppose, Lanyon," said he "y=
ou
and I must be the two oldest friends that Henry Jekyll has?"
"I wish the friends were younger,"
chuckled Dr. Lanyon. "But I suppose we are. And what of that? I see li=
ttle
of him now."
=
"Indeed?"
said Utterson. "I thought you had a bond of common interest."
"We had," was the reply. "But i=
t is
more than ten years since Henry Jekyll became too fanciful for me. He began=
to
go wrong, wrong in mind; and though of course I continue to take an interes=
t in
him for old sake's sake, as they say,
I see and I have seen devilish little of the m=
an.
Such unscientific balderdash," added the doctor, flushing suddenly pur=
ple,
"would have estranged Damon and Pythias."
This little spirit of temper was somewhat of a
relief to Mr. Utterson. "They have only differed on some point of
science," he thought; and being a man of no scientific passions (excep=
t in
the matter of conveyancing), he even added: "It is nothing worse than =
that!"
He gave his friend a few seconds to recover his composure, and then approac=
hed
the question he had come to put. "Did you ever come across a protege of
his--one Hyde?" he asked.
"Hyde?" repeated Lanyon. "No. N=
ever
heard of him. Since my time."
That was the amount of information that the la=
wyer
carried back with him to the great, dark bed on which he tossed to and fro,=
until
the small hours of the morning began to grow large. It was a night of little
ease to his toiling mind, toiling in mere darkness and besieged by question=
s.
Six o'clock struck on the bells of the church =
that
was so conveniently near to Mr. Utterson's dwelling, and still he was diggi=
ng
at the problem. Hitherto it had touched him on the intellectual side alone;=
but
now his imagination also was engaged, or rather enslaved; and as he lay and
tossed in the gross darkness of the night and the curtained room, Mr. Enfie=
ld's
tale went by before his mind in a scroll of lighted pictures. He would be a=
ware
of the great field of lamps of a nocturnal city; then of the figure of a man
walking swiftly; then of a child running from the doctor's; and then these =
met,
and that human Juggernaut trod the child down and passed on regardless of h=
er
screams. Or else he would see a room in a rich house, where his friend lay
asleep, dreaming and smiling at his dreams; and then the door of that room
would be opened, the curtains of the bed plucked apart, the sleeper recalle=
d,
and lo! there would stand by his side a figure to whom power was given, and=
even
at that dead hour, he must rise and do its bidding. The figure in these two
phases haunted the lawyer all night; and if at any time he dozed over, it w=
as
but to see it glide more stealthily through sleeping houses, or move the mo=
re
swiftly and still the more swiftly, even to dizziness, through wider labyri=
nths
of lamplighted city, and at every street-corner crush a child and leave her=
screaming.
And still the figure had no face by which he might know it; even in his dre=
ams,
it had no face, or one that baffled him and melted before his eyes; and thu=
s it
was that there sprang up and grew apace in the lawyer's mind a singularly
strong, almost an inordinate, curiosity to behold the features of the real =
Mr.
Hyde. If he could but once set eyes on him, he thought the mystery would li=
ghten
and perhaps roll altogether away, as was the habit of mysterious things when
well examined. He might see a reason for his friend's strange preference or
bondage (call it which you please) and even for the startling clause of the
will. At least it would be a face worth seeing: the face of a man who was
without bowels of mercy: a face which had but to show itself to raise up, in
the mind of the unimpressionable Enfield, a spirit of enduring hatred.
From that time forward, Mr. Utterson began to
haunt the door in the by-street of shops. In the morning before office hour=
s,
at noon when business was plenty, and time scarce, at night under the face =
of
the fogged city moon, by all lights and at all hours of solitude or concour=
se,
the lawyer was to be found on his chosen post.
"If he be Mr. Hyde," he had thought,
"I shall be Mr. Seek."
And at last his patience was rewarded. It was a
fine dry night; frost in the air; the streets as clean as a ballroom floor;=
the
lamps, unshaken, by any wind, drawing a regular pattern of light and shadow=
. By
ten o'clock, when the shops were closed, the by-street was very solitary an=
d,
in spite of the low growl of London from all round, very silent. Small soun=
ds
carried far; domestic sounds out of the houses were clearly audible on eith=
er side
of the roadway; and the rumour of the approach of any passenger preceded hi=
m by
a long time. Mr. Utterson had been some minutes at his post, when he was aw=
are
of an odd, light footstep drawing near. In the course of his nightly patrol=
s,
he had long grown accustomed to the quaint effect with which the footfalls =
of a
single person, while he is still a great way off, suddenly spring out disti=
nct
from the vast hum and clatter of the city. Yet his attention had never befo=
re
been so sharply and decisively arrested; and it was with a strong, supersti=
tious
prevision of success that he withdrew into the entry of the court.
The steps drew swiftly nearer, and swelled out
suddenly louder as they turned the end of the street. The lawyer, looking f=
orth
from the entry, could soon see what manner of man he had to deal with. He w=
as
small and very plainly dressed, and the look of him, even at that distance,
went somehow strongly against the watcher's inclination. But he made straig=
ht
for the door, crossing the roadway to save time; and as he came, he drew a =
key
from his pocket like one approaching home.
Mr. Utterson stepped out and touched him on the
shoulder as he passed. "Mr. Hyde, I think?"
Mr. Hyde shrank back with a hissing intake of =
the
breath. But his fear was only momentary; and though he did not look the law=
yer
in the face, he answered coolly enough: "That is my name. What do you =
want?"
"I see you are going in," returned t=
he
lawyer. "I am an old friend of Dr. Jekyll's--Mr. Utter-son of Gaunt
Street--you must have heard my name; and meeting you so conveniently, I tho=
ught
you might admit me." "You will not find Dr. Jekyll; he is from
home," replied Mr. Hyde, blowing in the key. And then suddenly, but st=
ill
without looking up, "How did you know me?" he asked.
"On your side," said Mr. Utterson,
"will you do me a favour?"
"With pleasure," replied the other.
"What shall it be?"
"Will you let me see your face?" ask=
ed
the lawyer.
Mr. Hyde appeared to hesitate, and then, as if
upon some sudden reflection, fronted about with an air of defiance; and the
pair stared at each other pretty fixedly for a few seconds. "Now I sha=
ll know
you again," said Mr. Utterson. "It may be useful."
"Yes," returned Mr. Hyde, "it i=
s as
well we have, met; and a propos, you should have my address." And he g=
ave
a number of a street in Soho.
"Good God!" thought Mr. Utterson,
"can he, too, have been thinking of the will?" But he kept his
feelings to himself and only grunted in acknowledgment of the address.
"And now," said the other, "how=
did
you know me?"
"By description," was the reply.
"Whose description?"
"We have common friends," said Mr.
Utterson.
"Common friends?" echoed Mr. Hyde, a
little hoarsely. "Who are they?"
"Jekyll, for instance," said the law=
yer.
"He never told you," cried Mr. Hyde,
with a flush of anger. "I did not think you would have lied."
"Come," said Mr. Utterson, "tha=
t is
not fitting language."
=
The
other snarled aloud into a savage laugh; and the next moment, with
extraordinary quickness, he had unlocked the door and disappeared into the
house.
The lawyer stood awhile when Mr. Hyde had left
him, the picture of disquietude. Then he began slowly to mount the street,
pausing every step or two and putting his hand to his brow like a man in me=
ntal
perplexity. The problem he was thus debating as he walked, was one of a cla=
ss
that is rarely solved. Mr. Hyde was pale and dwarfish, he gave an impressio=
n of
deformity without any nameable malformation, he had a displeasing smile, he=
had
borne himself to the lawyer with a sort of murderous mixture of timidity an=
d boldness,
and he spoke with a husky, whispering and somewhat broken voice; all these =
were
points against him, but not all of these together could explain the hitherto
unknown disgust, loathing, and fear with which Mr. Utterson regarded him.
"There must be some- thing else," said the perplexed gentleman.
"There is something more, if I could find a name for it. God bless me,=
the
man seems hardly human! Something troglodytic, shall we say? or can it be t=
he old
story of Dr. Fell? or is it the mere radiance of a foul soul that thus
transpires through, and transfigures, its clay continent? The last, I think;
for, O my poor old Harry Jekyll, if ever I read Satan's signature upon a fa=
ce,
it is on that of your new friend."
Round the corner from the by-street, there was=
a
square of ancient, handsome houses, now for the most part decayed from their
high estate and let in flats and chambers to all sorts and conditions of me=
n:
map-engravers, architects, shady lawyers, and the agents of obscure
enterprises. One house, however, second from the corner, was still occupied
entire; and at the door of this, which wore a great air of wealth and comfo=
rt,
though it was now plunged in darkness except for the fan-light, Mr. Utterson
stopped and knocked. A well-dressed, elderly servant opened the door.
"Is Dr. Jekyll at home, Poole?" asked
the lawyer.
"I will see, Mr. Utterson," said Poo=
le,
admitting the visitor, as he spoke, into a large, low-roofed, comfortable h=
all,
paved with flags, warmed (after the fashion of a country house) by a bright=
, open
fire, and furnished with costly cabinets of oak. "Will you wait here by
the fire, sir? or shall I give you a light in the dining room?"
"Here, thank you," said the lawyer, =
and
he drew near and leaned on the tall fender. This hall, in which he was now =
left
alone, was a pet fancy of his friend the doctor's; and Utterson himself was
wont to speak of it as the pleasantest room in London. But to-night there w=
as a
shudder in his blood; the face of Hyde sat heavy on his memory; he felt (wh=
at
was rare with him) a nausea and distaste of life; and in the gloom of his
spirits, he seemed to read a menace in the flickering of the firelight on t=
he
polished cabinets and the uneasy starting of the shadow on the roof. He was
ashamed of his relief, when Poole presently returned to announce that Dr.
Jekyll was gone out.
"I saw Mr. Hyde go in by the old
dissecting-room door, Poole," he said. "Is that right, when Dr.
Jekyll is from home?"
"Quite right, Mr. Utterson, sir,"
replied the servant. "Mr. Hyde has a key."
"Your master seems to repose a great deal=
of
trust in that young man, Poole," resumed the other musingly.
"Yes, sir, he do indeed," said Poole.
"We have all orders to obey him."
"I do not think I ever met Mr. Hyde?"
asked Utterson.
=
"O,
dear no, sir. He never dines here," replied the butler. "Indeed we
see very little of him on this side of the house; he mostly comes and goes =
by
the laboratory."
"Well, good-night, Poole."
"Good-night, Mr. Utterson." And the
lawyer set out homeward with a very heavy heart. "Poor Harry Jekyll,&q=
uot;
he thought, "my mind misgives me he is in deep waters! He was wild whe=
n he
was young; a long while ago to be sure; but in the law of God, there is no =
statute
of limitations. Ay, it must be that; the ghost of some old sin, the cancer =
of
some concealed disgrace: punishment coming, PEDE CLAUDO, years after memory=
has
forgotten and self-love condoned the fault." And the lawyer, scared by=
the
thought, brooded a while on his own past, groping in all the corners of mem=
ory,
lest by chance some Jack-in-the-Box of an old iniquity should leap to light
there. His past was fairly blameless; few men could read the rolls of their=
life
with less apprehension; yet he was humbled to the dust by the many ill thin=
gs
he had done, and raised up again into a sober and fearful gratitude by the =
many
that he had come so near to doing, yet avoided. And then by a return on his
former subject, he conceived a spark of hope. "This Master Hyde, if he
were studied," thought he, "must have secrets of his own; black
secrets, by the look of him; secrets compared to which poor Jekyll's worst =
would
be like sunshine. Things cannot continue as they are. It turns me cold to t=
hink
of this creature stealing like a thief to Harry's bedside; poor Harry, what=
a
wakening! And the danger of it; for if this Hyde suspects the existence of =
the
will, he may grow impatient to inherit. Ay, I must put my shoulder to the w=
heel
if Jekyll will but let me," he added, "if Jekyll will only let me=
."
For once more he saw before his mind's eye, as clear as a transparency, the
strange clauses of the will.
=
A FORTNIGHT later, by excellent good fortune, =
the
doctor gave one of his pleasant dinners to some five or six old cronies, al=
l intelligent,
reputable men and all judges of good wine; and Mr. Utterson so contrived th=
at
he remained behind after the others had departed. This was no new arrangeme=
nt,
but a thing that had befallen many scores of times. Where Utterson was like=
d,
he was liked well. Hosts loved to detain the dry lawyer, when the light-hea=
rted
and the loose-tongued had already their foot on the threshold; they liked to
sit a while in his unobtrusive company, practising for solitude, sobering t=
heir
minds in the man's rich silence after the expense and strain of gaiety. To =
this
rule, Dr. Jekyll was no exception; and as he now sat on the opposite side o=
f the
fire--a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with something of a sl=
yish
cast perhaps, but every mark of capacity and kindness--you could see by his
looks that he cherished for Mr. Utterson a sincere and warm affection.
"I have been wanting to speak to you,
Jekyll," began the latter. "You know that will of yours?"
A close observer might have gathered that the
topic was distasteful; but the doctor carried it off gaily. "My poor U=
tterson,"
said he, "you are unfortunate in such a client. I never saw a man so
distressed as you were by my will; unless it were that hide-bound pedant,
Lanyon, at what he called my scientific heresies. Oh, I know he's a good
fellow--you needn't frown--an excellent fellow, and I always mean to see mo=
re
of him; but a hide-bound pedant for all that; an ignorant, blatant pedant. I
was never more disappointed in any man than Lanyon."
"You know I never approved of it,"
pursued Utterson, ruthlessly disregarding the fresh topic.
"My will? Yes, certainly, I know that,&qu=
ot;
said the doctor, a trifle sharply. "You have told me so."
"Well, I tell you so again," continu=
ed
the lawyer. "I have been learning something of young Hyde."
The large handsome face of Dr. Jekyll grew pal=
e to
the very lips, and there came a blackness about his eyes. "I do not ca=
re
to hear more," said he. "This is a matter I thought we had agreed=
to
drop."
"What I heard was abominable," said
Utterson.
"It can make no change. You do not
under-stand my position," returned the doctor, with a certain incohere=
ncy of
manner. "I am painfully situated, Utterson; my position is a very stra=
nge--a
very strange one. It is one of those affairs that cannot be mended by
talking."
"Jekyll," said Utterson, "you k=
now
me: I am a man to be trusted. Make a clean breast of this in confidence; an=
d I
make no doubt I can get you out of it."
"My good Utterson," said the doctor,
"this is very good of you, this is downright good of you, and I cannot
find words to thank you in. I believe you fully; I would trust you before a=
ny
man alive, ay, before myself, if I could make the choice; but indeed it isn=
't
what you fancy; it is not so bad as that; and just to put your good heart at
rest, I will tell you one thing: the moment I choose, I can be rid of Mr. H=
yde.
I give you my hand upon that; and I thank you again and again; and I will j=
ust
add one little word, Utterson, that I'm sure you'll take in good part: this=
is
a private matter, and I beg of you to let it sleep."
Utterson reflected a little, looking in the fi=
re.
"I have no doubt you are perfectly
right," he said at last, getting to his feet.
"Well, but since we have touched upon this
business, and for the last time I hope," continued the doctor, "t=
here
is one point I should like you to understand. I have really a very great in=
terest
in poor Hyde. I know you have seen him; he told me so; and I fear he was ru=
de.
But, I do sincerely take a great, a very great interest in that young man; =
and
if I am taken away, Utterson, I wish you to promise me that you will bear w=
ith
him and get his rights for him. I think you would, if you knew all; and it
would be a weight off my mind if you would promise."
"I can't pretend that I shall ever like
him," said the lawyer.
"I don't ask that," pleaded Jekyll,
laying his hand upon the other's arm; "I only ask for justice; I only =
ask
you to help him for my sake, when I am no longer here."
Utterson heaved an irrepressible sigh.
"Well," said he, "I promise."
NEARLY a year later, in the month of October,
18---, London was startled by a crime of singular ferocity and rendered all=
the
more notable by the high position of the victim. The details were few and s=
tartling.
A maid servant living alone in a house not far from the river, had gone
up-stairs to bed about eleven. Although a fog rolled over the city in the s=
mall
hours, the early part of the night was cloudless, and the lane, which the
maid's window overlooked, was brilliantly lit by the full moon. It seems she
was romantically given, for she sat down upon her box, which stood immediat=
ely
under the window, and fell into a dream of musing. Never (she used to say, =
with
streaming tears, when she narrated that experience), never had she felt mor=
e at
peace with all men or thought more kindly of the world. And as she so sat s=
he
became aware of an aged and beautiful gentleman with white hair, drawing ne=
ar
along the lane; and advancing to meet him, another and very small gentleman=
, to
whom at first she paid less attention. When they had come within speech (wh=
ich
was just under the maid's eyes) the older man bowed and accosted the other =
with
a very pretty manner of politeness. It did not seem as if the subject of his
address were of great importance; indeed, from his pointing, it sometimes
appeared as if he were only inquiring his way; but the moon shone on his fa=
ce
as he spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch it, it seemed to breathe suc=
h an
innocent and old-world kindness of disposition, yet with something high too=
, as
of a well-founded self-content. Presently her eye wandered to the other, and
she was surprised to recognise in him a certain Mr. Hyde, who had once visi=
ted
her master and for whom she had conceived a dislike. He had in his hand a h=
eavy
cane, with which he was trifling; but he answered never a word, and seemed =
to
listen with an ill-contained impatience. And then all of a sudden he broke =
out
in a great flame of anger, stamping with his foot, brandishing the cane, and
carrying on (as the maid described it) like a madman. The old gentleman too=
k a
step back, with the air of one very much surprised and a trifle hurt; and at
that Mr. Hyde broke out of all bounds and clubbed him to the earth. And next
moment, with ape-like fury, he was trampling his victim under foot and hail=
ing
down a storm of blows, under which the bones were audibly shattered and the=
body
jumped upon the roadway. At the horror of these sights and sounds, the maid
fainted.
It was two o'clock when she came to herself and
called for the police. The murderer was gone long ago; but there lay his vi=
ctim
in the middle of the lane, incredibly mangled. The stick with which the deed
had been done, although it was of some rare and very tough and heavy wood, =
had
broken in the middle under the stress of this insensate cruelty; and one
splintered half had rolled in the neighbouring gutter--the other, without
doubt, had been carried away by the murderer. A purse and a gold watch were
found upon the victim: but no cards or papers, except a sealed and stamped =
envelope,
which he had been probably carrying to the post, and which bore the name and
address of Mr. Utterson.
This was brought to the lawyer the next mornin=
g,
before he was out of bed; and he had no sooner seen it, and been told the c=
ircumstances,
than he shot out a solemn lip. "I shall say nothing till I have seen t=
he
body," said he; "this may be very serious. Have the kindness to w=
ait
while I dress." And with the same grave countenance he hurried through=
his
breakfast and drove to the police station, whither the body had been carrie=
d.
As soon as he came into the cell, he nodded.
"Yes," said he, "I recognise hi=
m. I
am sorry to say that this is Sir Danvers Carew."
"Good God, sir," exclaimed the offic=
er,
"is it possible?" And the next moment his eye lighted up with
professional ambition. "This will make a deal of noise," he said.
"And perhaps you can help us to the man." And he briefly narrated
what the maid had seen, and showed the broken stick.
Mr. Utterson had already quailed at the name of
Hyde; but when the stick was laid before him, he could doubt no longer; bro=
ken
and battered as it was, he recognised it for one that he had himself presen=
ted
many years before to Henry Jekyll.
"Is this Mr. Hyde a person of small
stature?" he inquired.
"Particularly small and particularly
wicked-looking, is what the maid calls him," said the officer.
Mr. Utterson reflected; and then, raising his
head, "If you will come with me in my cab," he said, "I thin=
k I
can take you to his house."
It was by this time about nine in the morning,=
and
the first fog of the season. A great chocolate-coloured pall lowered over
heaven, but the wind was continually charging and routing these embattled v=
apours;
so that as the cab crawled from street to street, Mr. Utterson beheld a
marvellous number of degrees and hues of twilight; for here it would be dark
like the back-end of evening; and there would be a glow of a rich, lurid br=
own,
like the light of some strange conflagration; and here, for a moment, the f=
og
would be quite broken up, and a haggard shaft of daylight would glance in
between the swirling wreaths. The dismal quarter of Soho seen under these
changing glimpses, with its muddy ways, and slatternly passengers, and its
lamps, which had never been extinguished or had been kindled afresh to comb=
at
this mournful re-invasion of darkness, seemed, in the lawyer's eyes, like a
district of some city in a nightmare. The thoughts of his mind, besides, we=
re
of the gloomiest dye; and when he glanced at the companion of his drive, he=
was
conscious of some touch of that terror of the law and the law's officers, w=
hich
may at times assail the most honest.
As the cab drew up before the address indicate=
d,
the fog lifted a little and showed him a dingy street, a gin palace, a low
French eating-house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and twopenny sa=
lads,
many ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many women of different
nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a morning glass; and the ne=
xt
moment the fog settled down again upon that part, as brown as umber, and cut
him off from his blackguardly surroundings. This was the home of Henry Jeky=
ll's
favourite; of a man who was heir to a quarter of a million sterling.
An ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman op=
ened
the door. She had an evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy; but her manners were=
excellent.
Yes, she said, this was Mr. Hyde's, but he was not at home; he had been in =
that
night very late,
but had gone away again in less than an hour;
there was nothing strange in that; his habits were very irregular, and he w=
as
often absent; for instance, it was nearly two months since she had seen him
till yesterday.
"Very well, then, we wish to see his
rooms," said the lawyer; and when the woman began to declare it was
impossible, "I had better tell you who this person is," he added.
"This is Inspector Newcomen of Scotland Yard."
A flash of odious joy appeared upon the woman's
face. "Ah!" said she, "he is in trouble! What has he done?&q=
uot;
Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glanc=
es.
"He don't seem a very popular character," observed the latter.
"And now, my good woman, just let me and this gentleman have a look ab=
out
us."
In the whole extent of the house, which but for
the old woman remained otherwise empty, Mr. Hyde had only used a couple of
rooms; but these were furnished with luxury and good taste. A closet was fi=
lled
with wine; the plate was of silver, the napery elegant; a good picture hung
upon the walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from Henry Jekyll, who was mu=
ch
of a connoisseur; and the carpets were of many plies and agreeable in colou=
r.
At this moment, however, the rooms bore every mark of having been recently =
and
hurriedly ransacked; clothes lay about the floor, with their pockets inside=
out;
lock-fast drawers stood open; and on the hearth
there lay a pile of grey ashes, as though many papers had been burned. From
these embers the inspector disinterred the butt-end of a green cheque-book,
which had resisted the action of the fire; the other half of the stick was
found behind the door; and as this clinched his suspicions, the officer
declared himself delighted. A visit to the bank, where several thousand pou=
nds
were found to be lying to the murderer's credit, completed his gratificatio=
n.
"You may depend upon it, sir," he to=
ld
Mr. Utterson: "I have him in my hand. He must have lost his head, or h=
e never
would have left the stick or, above all, burned the cheque-book. Why, money=
's
life to the man. We have nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and ge=
t out
the handbills."
This last, however, was not so easy of
accomplishment; for Mr. Hyde had numbered few familiars--even the master of=
the
servant-maid had only seen him twice; his family could nowhere be traced; he
had never been photographed; and the few who could describe him differed wi=
dely,
as common observers will. Only on one point, were they agreed; and that was=
the
haunting sense of unexpressed deformity with which the fugitive impressed h=
is
beholders.
=
IT was late in the afternoon, when Mr. Utterson
found his way to Dr. Jekyll's door, where he was at once admitted by Poole,=
and
carried down by the kitchen offices and across a yard which had once been a
garden, to the building which was indifferently known as the laboratory or =
the
dissecting-rooms. The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a
celebrated surgeon; and his own tastes being rather chemical than anatomica=
l,
had changed the destination of the block at the bottom of the garden. It was
the first time that the lawyer had been received in that part of his friend=
's
quarters; and he eyed the dingy, windowless structure with curiosity, and g=
azed
round with a distasteful sense of strangeness as he crossed the theatre, on=
ce
crowded with eager students and now lying gaunt and silent, the tables laden
with chemical apparatus, the floor strewn with crates and littered with pac=
king
straw, and the light falling dimly through the foggy cupola. At the further=
end,
a flight of stairs mounted to a door covered with red baize; and through th=
is,
Mr. Utterson was at last received into the doctor's cabinet. It was a large=
room,
fitted round with glass presses, furnished, among other things, with a
cheval-glass and a business table, and looking out upon the court by three
dusty windows barred with iron. A fire burned in the grate; a lamp was set
lighted on the chimney shelf, for even in the houses the fog began to lie
thickly; and there, close up to the warmth, sat Dr. Jekyll, looking deadly
sick. He did not rise to meet his visitor, but held out a cold hand and bade
him welcome in a changed voice.
"And now," said Mr. Utterson, as soo=
n as
Poole had left them, "you have heard the news?"
The doctor shuddered. "They were crying i=
t in
the square," he said. "I heard them in my dining-room."
"One word," said the lawyer. "C=
arew
was my client, but so are you, and I want to know what I am doing. You have=
not
been mad enough to hide this fellow?"
"Utterson, I swear to God," cried the
doctor, "I swear to God I will never set eyes on him again. I bind my
honour to you that I am done with him in this world. It is all at an end. A=
nd
indeed he does not want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, h=
e is
quite safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of."
=
The
lawyer listened gloomily; he did not like his friend's feverish manner.
"You seem pretty sure of him," said he; "and for your sake, I
hope you may be right. If it came to a trial, your name might appear."=
"I am quite sure of him," replied
Jekyll; "I have grounds for certainty that I cannot share with any one.
But there is one thing on which you may advise me. I have--I have received a
letter; and I am at a loss whether I should show it to the police. I should
like to leave it in your hands, Utterson; you would judge wisely, I am sure=
; I
have so great a trust in you."
"You fear, I suppose, that it might lead =
to
his detection?" asked the lawyer.
"No," said the other. "I cannot=
say
that I care what becomes of Hyde; I am quite done with him. I was thinking =
of
my own character, which this hateful business has rather exposed."
Utterson ruminated a while; he was surprised at
his friend's selfishness, and yet relieved by it. "Well," said he=
, at
last, "let me see the letter."
The letter was written in an odd, upright hand=
and
signed "Edward Hyde": and it signified, briefly enough, that the
writer's benefactor, Dr. Jekyll, whom he had long so unworthily repaid for =
a thousand
generosities, need labour under no alarm for his safety, as he had means of
escape on which he placed a sure dependence. The lawyer liked this letter w=
ell
enough; it put a better colour on the intimacy than he had looked for; and =
he
blamed himself for some of his past suspicions.
=
"Have
you the envelope?" he asked.
"I burned it," replied Jekyll,
"before I thought what I was about. But it bore no postmark. The note =
was
handed in."
"Shall I keep this and sleep upon it?&quo=
t;
asked Utterson.
"I wish you to judge for me entirely,&quo=
t;
was the reply. "I have lost confidence in myself."
"Well, I shall consider," returned t=
he
lawyer. "And now one word more: it was Hyde who dictated the terms in =
your
will about that disappearance?"
The doctor seemed seized with a qualm of
faintness: he shut his mouth tight and nodded.
"I knew it," said Utterson. "He
meant to murder you. You have had a fine escape."
"I have had what is far more to the
purpose," returned the doctor solemnly: "I have had a lesson--O G=
od,
Utterson, what a lesson I have had!" And he covered his face for a mom=
ent
with his hands.
On his way out, the lawyer stopped and had a w=
ord
or two with Poole. "By the by," said he, "there was a letter
handed in to-day: what was the messenger like?" But Poole was positive
nothing had come except by post; "and only circulars by that," he
added.
This news sent off the visitor with his fears
renewed. Plainly the letter had come by the laboratory door; possibly, inde=
ed,
it had been written in the cabinet; and if that were so, it must be differe=
ntly
judged, and handled with the more caution. The newsboys, as he went, were
crying themselves hoarse along the footways: "Special edition. Shocking
murder of an M. P." That was the funeral oration of one friend and cli=
ent;
and he could not help a certain apprehension lest the good name of another
should be sucked down in the eddy of the scandal. It was, at least, a tickl=
ish
decision that he had to make; and self-reliant as he was by habit, he began=
to
cherish a longing for advice. It was not to be had directly; but perhaps, he
thought, it might be fished for.
Presently after, he sat on one side of his own
hearth, with Mr. Guest, his head clerk, upon the other, and midway between,=
at
a nicely calculated distance from the fire, a bottle of a particular old wi=
ne
that had long dwelt unsunned in the foundations of his house. The fog still
slept on the wing above the drowned city, where the lamps glimmered like
carbuncles; and through the muffle and smother of these fallen clouds, the
procession of the town's life was still rolling in through the great arteri=
es
with a sound as of a mighty wind. But the room was gay with firelight. In t=
he
bottle the acids were long ago resolved; the imperial dye had softened with=
time,
As the colour grows richer in stained windows; and the glow of hot autumn
afternoons on hillside vineyards was ready to be set free and to disperse t=
he
fogs of London. Insensibly the lawyer melted. There was no man from whom he
kept fewer secrets than Mr. Guest; and he was not always sure that he kept =
as
many as he meant. Guest had often been on business to the doctor's; he knew
Poole; he could scarce have failed to hear of Mr. Hyde's familiarity about =
the house;
he might draw conclusions: was it not as well, then, that he should see a
letter which put that mystery to rights? and above all since Guest, being a
great student and critic of handwriting, would consider the step natural and
obliging? The clerk, besides, was a man of counsel; he would scarce read so
strange a document without dropping a remark; and by that remark Mr. Utters=
on
might shape his future course.
"This is a sad business about Sir
Danvers," he said.
"Yes, sir, indeed. It has elicited a great
deal of public feeling," returned Guest. "The man, of course, was
mad."
"I should like to hear your views on
that," replied Utterson. "I have a document here in his handwriti=
ng;
it is between ourselves, for I scarce know what to do about it; it is an ug=
ly
business at the best. But there it is; quite in your way a murderer's autog=
raph."
Guest's eyes brightened, and he sat down at on=
ce
and studied it with passion. "No, sir," he said: "not mad; b=
ut
it is an odd hand."
"And by all accounts a very odd writer,&q=
uot;
added the lawyer.
Just then the servant entered with a note.
"Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?" inqu=
ired
the clerk. "I thought I knew the writing. Anything private, Mr.
Utterson?"
"Only an invitation to dinner. Why? Do you
want to see it?"
"One moment. I thank you, sir"; and =
the
clerk laid the two sheets of paper alongside and sedulously compared their
contents. "Thank you, sir," he said at last, returning both;
"it's a very interesting autograph."
There was a pause, during which Mr. Utterson
struggled with himself. "Why did you compare them, Guest?" he
inquired suddenly.
"Well, sir," returned the clerk,
"there's a rather singular resemblance; the two hands are in many poin=
ts
identical: only differently sloped."
"Rather quaint," said Utterson.
"It is, as you say, rather quaint,"
returned Guest.
"I wouldn't speak of this note, you
know," said the master.
"No, sir," said the clerk. "I
understand."
But no sooner was Mr. Utterson alone that night
than he locked the note into his safe, where it reposed from that time forw=
ard.
"What!" he thought. "Henry Jekyll forge for a murderer!"
And his blood ran cold in his veins.
=
TIME ran on; thousands of pounds were offered =
in
reward, for the death of Sir Danvers was resented as a public injury; but M=
r.
Hyde had disappeared out of the ken of the police as though he had never ex=
isted.
Much of his past was unearthed, indeed, and all disreputable: tales came ou=
t of
the man's cruelty, at once so callous and violent; of his vile life, of his
strange associates, of the hatred that seemed to have surrounded his career;
but of his present whereabouts, not a whisper. From the time he had left th=
e house
in Soho on the morning of the murder, he was simply blotted out; and gradua=
lly,
as time drew on, Mr. Utterson began to recover from the hotness of his alar=
m,
and to grow more at quiet with himself. The death of Sir Danvers was, to his
way of thinking, more than paid for by the disappearance of Mr. Hyde. Now t=
hat
that evil influence had been withdrawn, a new life began for Dr. Jekyll. He=
came
out of his seclusion, renewed relations with his friends, became once more
their familiar guest and entertainer; and whilst he had always been, known =
for charities,
he was now no less distinguished for religion. He was busy, he was much in =
the
open air, he did good; his face seemed to open and brighten, as if with an
inward consciousness of service; and for more than two months, the doctor w=
as
at peace.
On the 8th of January Utterson had dined at the
doctor's with a small party; Lanyon had been there; and the face of the host
had looked from one to the other as in the old days when the trio were inse=
parable
friends. On the 12th, and again on the 14th, the door was shut against the
lawyer. "The doctor was confined to the house," Poole said, "=
;and
saw no one." On the 15th, he tried again, and was again refused; and
having now been used for the last two months to see his friend almost daily=
, he
found this return of solitude to weigh upon his spirits. The fifth night he=
had
in Guest to dine with him; and the sixth he betook himself to Dr. Lanyon's.=
There at least he was not denied admittance; b=
ut
when he came in, he was shocked at the change which had taken place in the
doctor's appearance. He had his death-warrant written legibly upon his face=
. The
rosy man had grown pale; his flesh had fallen away; he was visibly balder a=
nd
older; and yet it was not so much, these tokens of a swift physical decay t=
hat
arrested the lawyer's notice, as a look in the eye and quality of manner th=
at
seemed to testify to some deep-seated terror of the mind. It was unlikely t=
hat
the doctor should fear death; and yet that was what Utterson was tempted to
suspect. "Yes," he thought; "he is a doctor, he must know his
own state and that his days are counted; and the knowledge is more than he =
can
bear." And yet when Utterson remarked on his ill-looks, it was with an=
air
of greatness that Lanyon declared himself a doomed man.
"I have had a shock," he said, "=
;and
I shall never recover. It is a question of weeks. Well, life has been pleas=
ant;
I liked it; yes, sir, I used to like it. I sometimes think if we knew all, =
we
should be more glad to get away."
"Jekyll is ill, too," observed Utter=
son.
"Have you seen him?"
But Lanyon's face changed, and he held up a
trembling hand. "I wish to see or hear no more of Dr. Jekyll," he
said in a loud, unsteady voice. "I am quite done with that person; and=
I
beg that you will spare me any allusion to one whom I regard as dead."=
"Tut-tut," said Mr. Utterson; and th=
en
after a considerable pause, "Can't I do anything?" he inquired.
"We are three very old friends, Lanyon; we shall not live to make
others."
"Nothing can be done," returned Lany=
on;
"ask himself."
"He will not see me," said the lawye=
r.
"I am not surprised at that," was the
reply. "Some day, Utterson, after I am dead, you may perhaps come to l=
earn
the right and wrong of this. I cannot tell you. And in the meantime, if you=
can
sit and talk with me of other things, for God's sake, stay and do so; but if
you cannot keep clear of this accursed topic, then, in God's name, go, for I
cannot bear it."
As soon as he got home, Utterson sat down and
wrote to Jekyll, complaining of his exclusion from the house, and asking the
cause of this unhappy break with Lanyon; and the next day brought him a long
answer, often very pathetically worded, and sometimes darkly mysterious in
drift. The quarrel with Lanyon was incurable. "I do not blame our old
friend," Jekyll wrote, "but I share his view that we must never m=
eet.
I mean from henceforth to lead a life of extreme seclusion; you must not be
surprised, nor must you doubt my friendship, if my door is often shut even =
to
you. You must suffer me to go my own dark way. I have brought on myself a p=
unishment
and a danger that I cannot name. If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chi=
ef
of sufferers also. I could not think that this earth contained a place for
sufferings and terrors so unmanning; and you can do but one thing, Utterson=
, to
lighten this destiny, and that is to respect my silence." Utterson was=
amazed;
the dark influence of Hyde had been withdrawn, the doctor had returned to h=
is
old tasks and amities; a week ago, the prospect had smiled with every promi=
se
of a cheerful and an honoured age; and now in a moment, friendship, and pea=
ce
of mind, and the whole tenor of his life were wrecked. So great and unprepa=
red
a change pointed to madness; but in view of Lanyon's manner and words, there
must lie for it some deeper ground.
A week afterwards Dr. Lanyon took to his bed, =
and
in something less than a fortnight he was dead. The night after the funeral=
, at
which he had been sadly affected, Utterson locked the door of his business
room, and sitting there by the light of a melancholy candle, drew out and s=
et
before him an envelope addressed by the hand and sealed with the seal of his
dead friend. "PRIVATE: for the hands of G. J. Utterson ALONE and in ca=
se
of his predecease to be destroyed unread," so it was emphatically
superscribed; and the lawyer dreaded to behold the contents. "I have
buried one friend to-day," he thought: "what if this should cost =
me another?"
And then he condemned the fear as a disloyalty, and broke the seal. Within
there was another enclosure, likewise sealed, and marked upon the cover as
"not to be opened till the death or disappearance of Dr. Henry
Jekyll." Utterson could not trust his eyes. Yes, it was disappearance;
here again, as in the mad will which he had long ago restored to its author,
here again were the idea of a disappearance and the name of Henry Jekyll br=
acketed.
But in the will, that idea had sprung from the sinister suggestion of the m=
an
Hyde; it was set there with a purpose all too plain and horrible. Written by
the hand of Lanyon, what should it mean? A great curiosity came on the trus=
tee,
to disregard the prohibition and dive at once to the bottom of these myster=
ies;
but professional honour and faith to his dead friend were stringent obligat=
ions;
and the packet slept in the inmost corner of his private safe.
It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another =
to
conquer it; and it may be doubted if, from that day forth, Utterson desired=
the
society of his surviving friend with the same eagerness. He thought of him
kindly; but his thoughts were disquieted and fearful. He went to call indee=
d;
but he was perhaps relieved to be denied admittance; perhaps, in his heart,=
he
preferred to speak with Poole upon the doorstep and surrounded by the air a=
nd sounds
of the open city, rather than to be admitted into that house of voluntary
bondage, and to sit and speak with its inscrutable recluse. Poole had, inde=
ed,
no very pleasant news to communicate. The doctor, it appeared, now more than
ever confined himself to the cabinet over the laboratory, where he would so=
metimes
even sleep; he was out of spirits, he had grown very silent, he did not rea=
d;
it seemed as if he had something on his mind. Utterson became so used to the
unvarying character of these reports, that he fell off little by little in =
the
frequency of his visits.
=
IT chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on=
his
usual walk with Mr. Enfield, that their way lay once again through the by-s=
treet;
and that when they came in front of the door, both stopped to gaze on it.
"Well," said Enfield, "that sto=
ry's
at an end at least. We shall never see more of Mr. Hyde."
"I hope not," said Utterson. "D=
id I
ever tell you that I once saw him, and shared your feeling of repulsion?&qu=
ot;
"It was impossible to do the one without =
the
other," returned Enfield. "And by the way, what an ass you must h=
ave
thought me, not to know that this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll's! It was pa=
rtly
your own fault that I found it out, even when I did."
"So you found it out, did you?" said
Utterson. "But if that be so, we may step into the court and take a lo=
ok
at the windows. To tell you the truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and e=
ven outside,
I feel as if the presence of a friend might do him good."
The court was very cool and a little damp, and
full of premature twilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was still
bright with sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half-way open; =
and
sitting close beside it, taking the air with an infinite sadness of mien, l=
ike
some disconsolate prisoner, Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll.
"What! Jekyll!" he cried. "I tr=
ust
you are better."
"I am very low, Utterson," replied t=
he
doctor, drearily, "very low. It will not last long, thank God."
"You stay too much indoors," said the
lawyer. "You should be out, whipping up the circulation like Mr. Enfie=
ld
and me. (This is my cousin--Mr. Enfield--Dr. Jekyll.) Come, now; get your h=
at
and take a quick turn with us."
"You are very good," sighed the othe=
r.
"I should like to very much; but no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I
dare not. But indeed, Utterson, I am very glad to see you; this is really a=
great
pleasure; I would ask you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place is really not
fit."
"Why then," said the lawyer,
good-naturedly, "the best thing we can do is to stay down here and spe=
ak
with you from where we are."
"That is just what I was about to venture=
to
propose," returned the doctor with a smile. But the words were hardly
uttered, before the smile was struck out of his face and succeeded by an
expression of such abject terror and despair, as froze the very blood of the
two gentlemen below. They saw it but for a glimpse, for the window was
instantly thrust down; but that glimpse had been sufficient, and they turned
and left the court without a word. In silence, too, they traversed the
by-street; and it was not until they had come into a neighbouring thoroughf=
are,
where even upon a Sunday there were still some stirrings of life, that Mr.
Utterson at last turned and looked at his companion. They were both pale; a=
nd
there was an answering horror in their eyes.
"God forgive us, God forgive us," sa=
id
Mr. Utterson.
But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very
seriously and walked on once more in silence.
=
MR. UTTERSON was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner, when he was surprised to receive a visit from Poole.<= o:p>
"Bless me, Poole, what brings you here?&q=
uot;
he cried; and then taking a second look at him, "What ails you?" =
he
added; "is the doctor ill?"
"Mr. Utterson," said the man,
"there is something wrong."
=
"Take
a seat, and here is a glass of wine for you," said the lawyer. "N=
ow,
take your time, and tell me plainly what you want."
"You know the doctor's ways, sir,"
replied Poole, "and how he shuts himself up. Well, he's shut up again =
in
the cabinet; and I don't like it, sir--I wish I may die if I like it. Mr.
Utterson, sir, I'm afraid."
"Now, my good man," said the lawyer,
"be explicit. What are you afraid of?"
"I've been afraid for about a week,"
returned Poole, doggedly disregarding the question, "and I can bear it=
no
more."
The man's appearance amply bore out his words;=
his
manner was altered for the worse; and except for the moment when he had fir=
st
announced his terror, he had not once looked the lawyer in the face. Even n=
ow,
he sat with the glass of wine untasted on his knee, and his eyes directed t=
o a
corner of the floor. "I can bear it no more," he repeated.
"Come," said the lawyer, "I see=
you
have some good reason, Poole; I see there is something seriously amiss. Try=
to
tell me what it is."
"I think there's been foul play," sa=
id
Poole, hoarsely.
=
"Foul
play!" cried the lawyer, a good deal frightened and rather inclined to=
be
irritated in consequence. "What foul play? What does the man mean?&quo=
t;
"I daren't say, sir," was the answer;
"but will you come along with me and see for yourself?"
Mr. Utterson's only answer was to rise and get=
his
hat and great-coat; but he observed with wonder the greatness of the relief
that appeared upon the butler's face, and perhaps with no less, that the wi=
ne
was still untasted when he set it down to follow.
It was a wild, cold, seasonable night of March,
with a pale moon, lying on her back as though the wind had tilted her, and a
flying wrack of the most diaphanous and lawny texture. The wind made talking
difficult, and flecked the blood into the face. It seemed to have swept the=
streets
unusually bare of passengers, besides; for Mr. Utterson thought he had never
seen that part of London so deserted. He could have wished it otherwise; ne=
ver
in his life had he been conscious of so sharp a wish to see and touch his f=
ellow-creatures;
for struggle as he might, there was borne in upon his mind a crushing
anticipation of calamity. The square, when they got there, was all full of =
wind
and dust, and the thin trees in the garden were lashing themselves along the
railing. Poole, who had kept all the way a pace or two ahead, now pulled up=
in
the middle of the pavement, and in spite of the biting weather, took off his
hat and mopped his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief. But for all the hur=
ry
of his cowing, these were not the dews of exertion that he wiped away, but =
the moisture
of some strangling anguish; for his face was white and his voice, when he
spoke, harsh and broken.
"Well, sir," he said, "here we =
are,
and God grant there be nothing wrong."
"Amen, Poole," said the lawyer.
Thereupon the servant knocked in a very guarded
manner; the door was opened on the chain; and a voice asked from within,
"Is that you, Poole?"
"It's all right," said Poole. "=
Open
the door." The hall, when they entered it, was brightly lighted up; the
fire was built high; and about the hearth the whole of the servants, men an=
d women,
stood huddled together like a flock of sheep. At the sight of Mr. Utterson,=
the
housemaid broke into hysterical whimpering; and the cook, crying out,
"Bless God! it's Mr. Utterson," ran forward as if to take him in =
her
arms.
"What, what? Are you all here?" said=
the
lawyer peevishly. "Very irregular, very unseemly; your master would be=
far
from pleased."
"They're all afraid," said Poole.
Blank silence followed, no one protesting; only
the maid lifted up her voice and now wept loudly.
"Hold your tongue!" Poole said to he=
r,
with a ferocity of accent that testified to his own jangled nerves; and ind=
eed,
when the girl had so suddenly raised the note of her lamentation, they had =
all
started and turned toward the inner door with faces of dreadful expectation.
"And now," continued the butler, addressing the knife-boy,
"reach me a candle, and we'll get this through hands at once." And
then he begged Mr. Utterson to follow him, and led the way to the back-gard=
en.
"Now, sir," said he, "you come =
as
gently as you can. I want you to hear, and I don't want you to be heard. And
see here, sir, if by any chance he was to ask you in, don't go."
Mr. Utterson's nerves, at this unlooked-for
termination, gave a jerk that nearly threw him from his balance; but he
re-collected his courage and followed the butler into the laboratory buildi=
ng
and through the surgical theatre, with its lumber of crates and bottles, to=
the
foot of the stair. Here Poole motioned him to stand on one side and listen;
while he himself, setting down the candle and making a great and obvious ca=
ll
on his resolution, mounted the steps and knocked with a somewhat uncertain =
hand
on the red baize of the cabinet door.
"Mr. Utterson, sir, asking to see you,&qu=
ot;
he called; and even as he did so, once more violently signed to the lawyer =
to
give ear.
A voice answered from within: "Tell him I
cannot see any one," it said complainingly.
"Thank you, sir," said Poole, with a
note of something like triumph in his voice; and taking up his candle, he l=
ed
Mr. Utterson back across the yard and into the great kitchen, where the fire
was out and the beetles were leaping on the floor.
"Sir," he said, looking Mr. Utterson=
in
the eyes, "was that my master's voice?"
"It seems much changed," replied the
lawyer, very pale, but giving look for look.
"Changed? Well, yes, I think so," sa=
id
the butler. "Have I been twenty years in this man's house, to be decei=
ved
about his voice? No, sir; master's made away with; he was made, away with e=
ight
days ago, when we heard him cry out upon the name of God; and who's in there
instead of him, and why it stays there, is a thing that cries to Heaven, Mr.
Utterson!"
"This is a very strange tale, Poole; this=
is
rather a wild tale, my man," said Mr. Utterson, biting his finger.
"Suppose it were as you suppose, supposing Dr. Jekyll to have been--we=
ll, murdered,
what could induce the murderer to stay? That won't hold water; it doesn't
commend itself to reason."
"Well, Mr. Utterson, you are a hard man to
satisfy, but I'll do it yet," said Poole. "All this last week (you
must know) him, or it, or whatever it is that lives in that cabinet, has be=
en
crying night and day for some sort of medicine and cannot get it to his min=
d.
It was sometimes his way--the master's, that is--to write his orders on a s=
heet
of paper and throw it on the stair. We've had nothing else this week back;
nothing but papers, and a closed door, and the very meals left there to be
smuggled in when nobody was looking. Well, sir, every day, ay, and twice an=
d thrice
in the same day, there have been orders and complaints, and I have been sent
flying to all the wholesale chemists in town. Every time I brought the stuff
back, there would be another paper telling me to return it, because it was =
not
pure, and another order to a different firm. This drug is wanted bitter bad,
sir, whatever for."
"Have you any of these papers?" asked
Mr. Utterson.
Poole felt in his pocket and handed out a crum=
pled
note, which the lawyer, bending nearer to the candle, carefully examined. I=
ts
contents ran thus: "Dr. Jekyll presents his compliments to Messrs. Maw=
. He
assures them that their last sample is impure and quite useless for his pre=
sent
purpose. In the year 18---, Dr. J. purchased a somewhat large quantity from
Messrs. M. He now begs them to search with the most sedulous care, and shou=
ld
any of the same quality be left, to forward it to him at once. Expense is no
consideration. The importance of this to Dr. J. can hardly be
exaggerated." So far the letter had run composedly enough, but here wi=
th a
sudden splutter of the pen, the writer's emotion had broken loose. "Fo=
r God's
sake," he had added, "find me some of the old."
"This is a strange note," said Mr.
Utterson; and then sharply, "How do you come to have it open?"
"The man at Maw's was main angry, sir, an=
d he
threw it back to me like so much dirt," returned Poole.
"This is unquestionably the doctor's hand=
, do
you know?" resumed the lawyer.
"I thought it looked like it," said =
the
servant rather sulkily; and then, with another voice, "But what matters
hand-of-write?" he said. "I've seen him!"
"Seen him?" repeated Mr. Utterson.
"Well?"
"That's it!" said Poole. "It was
this way. I came suddenly into the theatre from the garden. It seems he had
slipped out to look for this drug or whatever it is; for the cabinet door w=
as
open, and there he was at the far end of the room digging among the crates.=
He
looked up when I came in, gave a kind of cry, and whipped up-stairs into the
cabinet. It was but for one minute that I saw him, but the hair stood upon =
my
head like quills. Sir, if that was my master, why had he a mask upon his fa=
ce?
If it was my master, why did he cry out like a rat, and run from me? I have
served him long enough. And then..." The man paused and passed his hand
over his face.
"These are all very strange
circumstances," said Mr. Utterson, "but I think I begin to see
daylight. Your master, Poole, is plainly seized with one of those maladies =
that
both torture and deform the sufferer; hence, for aught I know, the alterati=
on
of his voice; hence the mask and the avoidance of his friends; hence his
eagerness to find this drug, by means of which the poor soul retains some h=
ope
of ultimate recovery--God grant that he be not deceived! There is my
explanation; it is sad enough, Poole, ay, and appalling to consider; but it=
is
plain and natural, hangs well together, and delivers us from all exorbitant
alarms."
"Sir," said the butler, turning to a
sort of mottled pallor, "that thing was not my master, and there's the
truth. My master" here he looked round him and began to whisper--"=
;is a
tall, fine build of a man, and this was more of a dwarf." Utterson
attempted to protest. "O, sir," cried Poole, "do you think I=
do
not know my master after twenty years? Do you think I do not know where his
head comes to in the cabinet door, where I saw him every morning of my life?
No, Sir, that thing in the mask was never Dr. Jekyll--God knows what it was,
but it was never Dr. Jekyll; and it is the belief of my heart that there wa=
s murder
done."
"Poole," replied the lawyer, "if
you say that, it will become my duty to make certain. Much as I desire to s=
pare
your master's feelings, much as I am puzzled by this note which seems to pr=
ove him
to be still alive, I shall consider it my duty to break in that door."=
"Ah Mr. Utterson, that's talking!" c=
ried
the butler.
"And now comes the second question,"
resumed Utterson: "Who is going to do it?"
"Why, you and me," was the undaunted
reply.
"That's very well said," returned the
lawyer; "and whatever comes of it, I shall make it my business to see =
you
are no loser."
"There is an axe in the theatre,"
continued Poole; "and you might take the kitchen poker for yourself.&q=
uot;
The lawyer took that rude but weighty instrume=
nt
into his hand, and balanced it. "Do you know, Poole," he said,
looking up, "that you and I are about to place ourselves in a position=
of
some peril?"
"You may say so, sir, indeed," retur=
ned
the butler.
"It is well, then, that we should be
frank," said the other. "We both think more than we have said; le=
t us
make a clean breast. This masked figure that you saw, did you recognise
it?"
"Well, sir, it went so quick, and the
creature was so doubled up, that I could hardly swear to that," was the
answer. "But if you mean, was it Mr. Hyde?--why, yes, I think it was! =
You
see, it was much of the same bigness; and it had the same quick, light way =
with
it; and then who else could have got in by the laboratory door? You have not
forgot, sir that at the time of the murder he had still the key with him? B=
ut
that's not all. I don't know, Mr. Utterson, if ever you met this Mr.
Hyde?"
"Yes," said the lawyer, "I once
spoke with him."
"Then you must know as well as the rest o=
f us
that there was something queer about that gentleman--something that gave a =
man a
turn--I don't know rightly how to say it, sir, beyond this: that you felt i=
t in
your marrow kind of cold and thin."
"I own I felt something of what you
describe," said Mr. Utterson.
"Quite so, sir," returned Poole.
"Well, when that masked thing like a monkey jumped from among the
chemicals and whipped into the cabinet, it went down my spine like ice. Oh,=
I
know it's not evidence, Mr. Utterson. I'm book-learned enough for that; but=
a
man has his feelings, and I give you my Bible-word it was Mr. Hyde!"
"Ay, ay," said the lawyer. "My
fears incline to the same point. Evil, I fear, founded--evil was sure to
come--of that connection. Ay, truly, I believe you; I believe poor Harry is=
killed;
and I believe his murderer (for what purpose, God alone can tell) is still
lurking in his victim's room. Well, let our name be vengeance. Call
Bradshaw."
The footman came at the summons, very white and
nervous.
=
"Pull
yourself together, Bradshaw," said the lawyer. "This suspense, I
know, is telling upon all of you; but it is now our intention to make an en=
d of
it. Poole, here, and I are going to force our way into the cabinet. If all =
is
well, my shoulders are broad enough to bear the blame. Meanwhile, lest anyt=
hing
should really be amiss, or any malefactor seek to escape by the back, you a=
nd
the boy must go round the corner with a pair of good sticks and take your p=
ost
at the laboratory door. We give you ten minutes to get to your stations.&qu=
ot;
As Bradshaw left, the lawyer looked at his wat=
ch.
"And now, Poole, let us get to ours," he said; and taking the pok=
er
under his arm, led the way into the yard. The scud had banked over the moon,
and it was now quite dark. The wind, which only broke in puffs and draughts
into that deep well of building, tossed the light of the candle to and fro =
about
their steps, until they came into the shelter of the theatre, where they sat
down silently to wait. London hummed solemnly all around; but nearer at han=
d,
the stillness was only broken by the sounds of a footfall moving to and fro
along the cabinet floor.
"So it will walk all day, sir,"
whispered Poole; "ay, and the better part of the night. Only when a new
sample comes from the chemist, there's a bit of a break. Ah, it's an ill
conscience that's such an enemy to rest! Ah, sir, there's blood foully shed=
in
every step of it! But hark again, a little closer--put your heart in your e=
ars,
Mr. Utterson, and tell me, is that the doctor's foot?"
The steps fell lightly and oddly, with a certa=
in
swing, for all they went so slowly; it was different indeed from the heavy =
creaking
tread of Henry Jekyll. Utterson sighed. "Is there never anything
else?" he asked.
Poole nodded. "Once," he said.
"Once I heard it weeping!"
"Weeping? how that?" said the lawyer,
conscious of a sudden chill of horror.
"Weeping like a woman or a lost soul,&quo=
t;
said the butler. "I came away with that upon my heart, that I could ha=
ve
wept too."
But now the ten minutes drew to an end. Poole
disinterred the axe from under a stack of packing straw; the candle was set
upon the nearest table to light them to the attack; and they drew near with
bated breath to where that patient foot was still going up and down, up and
down, in the quiet of the night.
"Jekyll," cried Utterson, with a loud
voice, "I demand to see you." He paused a moment, but there came =
no
reply. "I give you fair warning, our suspicions are aroused, and I must
and shall see you," he resumed; "if not by fair means, then by fo=
ul!
if not of your consent, then by brute force!"
"Utterson," said the voice, "for
God's sake, have mercy!"
=
"Ah,
that's not Jekyll's voice--it's Hyde's!" cried Utterson. "Down wi=
th
the door, Poole!"
Poole swung the axe over his shoulder; the blow
shook the building, and the red baize door leaped against the lock and hing=
es.
A dismal screech, as of mere animal terror, rang from the cabinet. Up went =
the
axe again, and again the panels crashed and the frame bounded; four times t=
he
blow fell; but the wood was tough and the fittings were of excellent
workmanship; and it was not until the fifth, that the lock burst in sunder =
and
the wreck of the door fell inwards on the carpet.
=
The
besiegers, appalled by their own riot and the stillness that had succeeded,
stood back a little and peered in. There lay the cabinet before their eyes =
in
the quiet lamplight, a good fire glowing and chattering on the hearth, the
kettle singing its thin strain, a drawer or two open, papers neatly set for=
th
on the business-table, and nearer the fire, the things laid out for tea: the
quietest room, you would have said, and, but for the glazed presses full of
chemicals, the most commonplace that night in London.
Right in the midst there lay the body of a man
sorely contorted and still twitching. They drew near on tiptoe, turned it on
its back and beheld the face of Edward Hyde. He was dressed in clothes far =
too
large for him, clothes of the doctor's bigness; the cords of his face still
moved with a semblance of life, but life was quite gone; and by the crushed
phial in the hand and the strong smell of kernels that hung upon the air,
Utterson knew that he was looking on the body of a self-destroyer.
"We have come too late," he said
sternly, "whether to save or punish. Hyde is gone to his account; and =
it
only remains for us to find the body of your master."
The far greater proportion of the building was
occupied by the theatre, which filled almost the whole ground story and was=
lighted
from above, and by the cabinet, which formed an upper story at one end and
looked upon the court. A corridor joined the theatre to the door on the by-=
street;
and with this the cabinet communicated separately by a second flight of sta=
irs.
There were besides a few dark closets and a spacious cellar. All these they=
now
thoroughly examined. Each closet needed but a glance, for all were empty, a=
nd all,
by the dust that fell from their doors, had stood long unopened. The cellar,
indeed, was filled with crazy lumber, mostly dating from the times of the
surgeon who was Jekyll's predecessor; but even as they opened the door they
were advertised of the uselessness of further search, by the fall of a perf=
ect
mat of cobweb which had for years sealed up the entrance. Nowhere was there=
any
trace of Henry Jekyll, dead or alive.
Poole stamped on the flags of the corridor.
"He must be buried here," he said, hearkening to the sound.
"Or he may have fled," said Utterson,
and he turned to examine the door in the by-street. It was locked; and lying
near by on the flags, they found the key, already stained with rust.
"This does not look like use," obser=
ved
the lawyer.
"Use!" echoed Poole. "Do you not
see, sir, it is broken? much as if a man had stamped on it."
"Ay," continued Utterson, "and =
the
fractures, too, are rusty." The two men looked at each other with a sc=
are.
"This is beyond me, Poole," said the lawyer. "Let us go back=
to
the cabinet."
They mounted the stair in silence, and still w=
ith
an occasional awe-struck glance at the dead body, proceeded more thoroughly=
to examine
the contents of the cabinet. At one table, there were traces of chemical wo=
rk,
various measured heaps of some white salt being laid on glass saucers, as
though for an experiment in which the unhappy man had been prevented.
"That is the same drug that I was always
bringing him," said Poole; and even as he spoke, the kettle with a
startling noise boiled over.
This brought them to the fireside, where the
easy-chair was drawn cosily up, and the tea-things stood ready to the sitte=
r's
elbow, the very sugar in the cup. There were several books on a shelf; one =
lay
beside the tea-things open, and Utterson was amazed to find it a copy of a
pious work, for which Jekyll had several times expressed a great esteem,
annotated, in his own hand, with startling blasphemies.
Next, in the course of their review of the
chamber, the searchers came to the cheval glass, into whose depths they loo=
ked
with an involuntary horror. But it was so turned as to show them nothing but
the rosy glow playing on the roof, the fire sparkling in a hundred repetiti=
ons
along the glazed front of the presses, and their own pale and fearful
countenances stooping to look in.
"This glass have seen some strange things,
sir," whispered Poole.
"And surely none stranger than itself,&qu=
ot;
echoed the lawyer in the same tones. "For what did Jekyll"--he ca=
ught
himself up at the word with a start, and then conquering the
weakness--"what could Jekyll want with it?" he said.
"You may say that!" said Poole. Next
they turned to the business-table. On the desk among the neat array of pape=
rs,
a large envelope was uppermost, and bore, in the doctor's hand, the name of=
Mr.
Utterson. The lawyer unsealed it, and several enclosures fell to the floor.=
The
first was a will, drawn in the same eccentric terms as the one which he had
returned six months before, to serve as a testament in case of death and as=
a
deed of gift in case of disappearance; but, in place of the name of Edward
Hyde, the lawyer, with indescribable amazement, read the name of Gabriel Jo=
hn
Utterson. He looked at Poole, and then back at the paper, and last of all at
the dead malefactor stretched upon the carpet.
"My head goes round," he said. "=
;He
has been all these days in possession; he had no cause to like me; he must =
have
raged to see himself displaced; and he has not destroyed this document.&quo=
t;
He caught up the next paper; it was a brief no=
te
in the doctor's hand and dated at the top.
"O Poole!" the lawyer cried, "he
was alive and here this day. He cannot have been disposed of in so short a
space, he must be still alive, he must have fled! And then, why fled? and h=
ow?
and in that case, can we venture to declare this suicide? Oh, we must be
careful. I foresee that we may yet involve your master in some dire
catastrophe."
"Why don't you read it, sir?" asked
Poole.
"Because I fear," replied the lawyer
solemnly. "God grant I have no cause for it!" And with that he
brought the paper to his eyes and read as follows:
=
"MY
DEAR UTTERSON,--When this shall fall into your hands, I shall have disappea=
red,
under what circumstances I have not the penetration to foresee, but my inst=
inct
and all the circumstances of my nameless situation tell me that the end is =
sure
and must be early. Go then, and first read the narrative which Lanyon warne=
d me
he was to place in your hands; and if you care to hear more, turn to the
confession of
=
"Your unworthy and unhappy friend, =
&nb=
sp; =
"HENRY
JEKYLL."
=
"There
was a third enclosure?" asked Utterson.
"Here, sir," said Poole, and gave in=
to
his hands a considerable packet sealed in several places.
The lawyer put it in his pocket. "I would=
say
nothing of this paper. If your master has fled or is dead, we may at least =
save
his credit. It is now ten; I must go home and read these documents in quiet;
but I shall be back before midnight, when we shall send for the police.&quo=
t;
They went out, locking the door of the theatre
behind them; and Utterson, once more leaving the servants gathered about the
fire in the hall, trudged back to his office to read the two narratives in
which this mystery was now to be explained.
ON the ninth of January, now four days ago, I
received by the evening delivery a registered envelope, addressed in the ha=
nd
of my colleague and old school-companion, Henry Jekyll. I was a good deal
surprised by this; for we were by no means in the habit of correspondence; I
had seen the man, dined with him, indeed, the night before; and I could ima=
gine
nothing in our intercourse that should justify formality of registration. T=
he
contents increased my wonder; for this is how the letter ran:
=
&nb=
sp; "10th
December, 18---
"DEAR LANYON, You are one of my oldest
friends; and although we may have differed at times on scientific questions=
, I
cannot remember, at least on my side, any break in our affection. There was
never a day when, if you had said to me, 'Jekyll, my life, my honour, my
reason, depend upon you,' I would not have sacrificed my left hand to help =
you.
Lanyon, my life, my honour my reason, are all at your mercy; if you fail me
to-night I am lost. You might suppose, after this preface, that I am going =
to
ask you for something dishonourable to grant. Judge for yourself.
"I want you to postpone all other engagem=
ents
for to-night--ay, even if you were summoned to the bedside of an emperor; to
take a cab, unless your carriage should be actually at the door; and with t=
his
letter in your hand for consultation, to drive straight to my house. Poole,=
my
butler, has his orders; you will find, him waiting your arrival with a
locksmith. The door of my cabinet is then to be forced: and you are to go in
alone; to open the glazed press (letter E) on the left hand, breaking the l=
ock
if it be shut; and to draw out, with all its contents as they stand, the fo=
urth
drawer from the top or (which is the same thing) the third from the bottom.=
In
my extreme distress of wind, I have a morbid fear of misdirecting you; but =
even
if I am in error, you may know the right drawer by its contents: some powde=
rs,
a phial and a paper book. This drawer I beg of you to carry back with you t=
o Cavendish
Square exactly as it stands.
"That is the first part of the service: n=
ow
for the second. You should be back, if you set out at once on the receipt of
this, long before midnight; but I will leave you that amount of margin, not
only in the fear of one of those obstacles that can neither be prevented nor
fore-seen, but because an hour when your servants are in bed is to be prefe=
rred
for what will then remain to do. At midnight, then, I have to ask you to be
alone in your consulting-room, to admit with your own hand into the house a=
man
who will present himself in my name, and to place in his hands the drawer t=
hat
you will have brought with you from my cabinet. Then you will have played y=
our
part and earned my gratitude completely. Five minutes afterwards, if you in=
sist
upon an explanation, you will have understood that these arrangements are of
capital importance; and that by the neglect of one of them, fantastic as th=
ey
must appear, you might have charged your conscience with my death or the
shipwreck of my reason.
"Confident as I am that you will not trif=
le
with this appeal, my heart sinks and my hand trembles at the bare thought of
such a possibility. Think of me at this hour, in a strange place, labouring
under a blackness of distress that no fancy can exaggerate, and yet well aw=
are
that, if you will but punctually serve me, my troubles will roll away like a
story that is told. Serve me, my dear Lanyon, and save =
&nb=
sp; =
"Your
friend,
=
&nb=
sp; =
"H. J.
"P. S. I had already sealed this up when a
fresh terror struck upon my soul. It is possible that the postoffice may fa=
il
me, and this letter not come into your hands until to-morrow morning. In th=
at
case, dear Lanyon, do my errand when it shall be most convenient for you in=
the
course of the day; and once more expect my messenger at midnight. It may th=
en
already be too late; and if that night passes without event, you will know =
that
you have seen the last of Henry Jekyll."
=
Upon
the reading of this letter, I made sure my colleague was insane; but till t=
hat
was proved beyond the possibility of doubt, I felt bound to do as he reques=
ted.
The less I understood of this farrago, the less I was in a position to judg=
e of
its importance; and an appeal so worded could not be set aside without a gr=
ave responsibility.
I rose accordingly from table, got into a hansom, and drove straight to
Jekyll's house. The butler was awaiting my arrival; he had received by the =
same
post as mine a registered letter of instruction, and had sent at once for a
locksmith and a carpenter. The tradesmen came while we were yet speaking; a=
nd
we moved in a body to old Dr. Denman's surgical theatre, from which (as you=
are
doubtless aware) Jekyll's private cabinet is most conveniently entered. The
door was very strong, the lock excellent; the carpenter avowed he would have
great trouble and have to do much damage, if force were to be used; and the=
locksmith
was near despair. But this last was a handy fellow, and after two hours' wo=
rk,
the door stood open. The press marked E was unlocked; and I took out the
drawer, had it filled up with straw and tied in a sheet, and returned with =
it
to Cavendish Square.
Here I proceeded to examine its contents. The
powders were neatly enough made up, but not with the nicety of the dispensi=
ng chemist;
so that it was plain they were of Jekyll's private manufacture; and when I
opened one of the wrappers I found what seemed to me a simple crystalline s=
alt
of a white colour. The phial, to which I next turned my attention, might ha=
ve
been about half-full of a blood-red liquor, which was highly pungent to the=
sense
of smell and seemed to me to contain phosphorus and some volatile ether. At=
the
other ingredients I could make no guess. The book was an ordinary version-b=
ook and
contained little but a series of dates. These covered a period of many year=
s,
but I observed that the entries ceased nearly a year ago and quite abruptly.
Here and there a brief remark was appended to a date, usually no more than a
single word: "double" occurring perhaps six times in a total of
several hundred entries; and once very early in the list and followed by
several marks of exclamation, "total failure!!!" All this, though=
it
whetted my curiosity, told me little that was definite. Here were a phial of
some tincture, a paper of some salt, and the record of a series of experime=
nts
that had led (like too many of Jekyll's investigations) to no end of practi=
cal
usefulness. How could the presence of these articles in my house affect eit=
her
the honour, the sanity, or the life of my flighty colleague? If his messeng=
er
could go to one place, why could he not go to another? And even granting so=
me impediment,
why was this gentleman to be received by me in secret? The more I reflected=
the
more convinced I grew that I was dealing with a case of cerebral disease: a=
nd
though I dismissed my servants to bed, I loaded an old revolver, that I mig=
ht
be found in some posture of self-defence.
Twelve o'clock had scarce rung out over London,
ere the knocker sounded very gently on the door. I went myself at the summo=
ns, and
found a small man crouching against the pillars of the portico.
"Are you come from Dr. Jekyll?" I as=
ked.
He told me "yes" by a constrained
gesture; and when I had bidden him enter, he did not obey me without a
searching backward glance into the darkness of the square. There was a
policeman not far off, advancing with his bull's eye open; and at the sight=
, I thought
my visitor started and made greater haste.
These particulars struck me, I confess, disagr=
eeably;
and as I followed him into the bright light of the consulting-room, I kept =
my
hand ready on my weapon. Here, at last, I had a chance of clearly seeing hi=
m. I
had never set eyes on him before, so much was certain. He was small, as I h=
ave
said; I was struck besides with the shocking expression of his face, with h=
is remarkable
combination of great muscular activity and great apparent debility of
constitution, and--last but not least-- with the odd, subjective disturbance
caused by his neighbourhood. This bore some resemblance to incipient rigour,
and was accompanied by a marked sinking of the pulse. At the time, I set it
down to some idiosyncratic, personal distaste, and merely wondered at the
acuteness of the symptoms; but I have since had reason to believe the cause=
to
lie much deeper in the nature of man, and to turn on some nobler hinge than=
the
principle of hatred.
This person (who had thus, from the first mome=
nt
of his entrance, struck in me what I can only describe as a disgustful
curiosity) was dressed in a fashion that would have made an ordinary person=
laughable;
his clothes, that is to say, although they were of rich and sober fabric, w=
ere
enormously too large for him in every measurement--the trousers hanging on =
his
legs and rolled up to keep them from the ground, the waist of the coat below
his haunches, and the collar sprawling wide upon his shoulders. Strange to
relate, this ludicrous accoutrement was far from moving me to laughter. Rat=
her,
as there was something abnormal and misbe-gotten in the very essence of the
creature that now faced me-- something seizing, surprising, and revolting--=
this
fresh disparity seemed but to fit in with and to reinforce it; so that to my
interest in the man's nature and character, there was added a curiosity as =
to
his origin, his life, his fortune and status in the world.
These observations, though they have taken so
great a space to be set down in, were yet the work of a few seconds. My vis=
itor
was, indeed, on fire with sombre excitement.
"Have you got it?" he cried. "H=
ave
you got it?" And so lively was his impatience that he even laid his ha=
nd
upon my arm and sought to shake me.
I put him back, conscious at his touch of a
certain icy pang along my blood. "Come, sir," said I. "You
forget that I have not yet the pleasure of your acquaintance. Be seated, if=
you
please." And I showed him an example, and sat down myself in my custom=
ary seat
and with as fair an imitation of my ordinary manner to a patient, as the
lateness of the hour, the nature of my pre-occupations, and the horror I ha=
d of
my visitor, would suffer me to muster.
"I beg your pardon, Dr. Lanyon," he
replied civilly enough. "What you say is very well founded; and my
impatience has shown its heels to my politeness. I come here at the instanc=
e of
your colleague, Dr. Henry Jekyll, on a piece of business of some moment; an=
d I
under- stood..." He paused and put his hand to his throat, and I could=
see,
in spite of his collected manner, that he was wrestling against the approac=
hes
of the hysteria--"I understood, a drawer..."
But here I took pity on my visitor's suspense,=
and
some perhaps on my own growing curiosity.
"There it is, sir," said I, pointing=
to
the drawer, where it lay on the floor behind a table and still covered with=
the
sheet.
He sprang to it, and then paused, and laid his
hand upon his heart: I could hear his teeth grate with the convulsive actio=
n of
his jaws; and his face was so ghastly to see that I grew alarmed both for h=
is
life and reason.
"Compose yourself," said I.
He turned a dreadful smile to me, and as if wi=
th
the decision of despair, plucked away the sheet. At sight of the contents, =
he uttered
one loud sob of such immense relief that I sat petrified. And the next mome=
nt,
in a voice that was already fairly well under control, "Have you a
graduated glass?" he asked.
I rose from my place with something of an effo=
rt
and gave him what he asked.
He thanked me with a smiling nod, measured out=
a
few minims of the red tincture and added one of the powders. The mixture, w=
hich
was at first of a reddish hue, began, in proportion as the crystals melted,=
to
brighten in colour, to effervesce audibly, and to throw off small fumes of
vapour. Suddenly and at the same moment, the ebullition ceased and the comp=
ound
changed to a dark purple, which faded again more slowly to a watery green. =
My
visitor, who had watched these metamorphoses with a keen eye, smiled, set d=
own
the glass upon the table, and then turned and looked upon me with an air of=
scrutiny.
"And now," said he, "to settle =
what
remains. Will you be wise? will you be guided? will you suffer me to take t=
his
glass in my hand and to go forth from your house without further parley? or=
has
the greed of curiosity too much command of you? Think before you answer, fo=
r it
shall be done as you decide. As you decide, you shall be left as you were
before, and neither richer nor wiser, unless the sense of service rendered =
to a
man in mortal distress may be counted as a kind of riches of the soul. Or, =
if you
shall so prefer to choose, a new province of knowledge and new avenues to f=
ame
and power shall be laid open to you, here, in this room, upon the instant; =
and
your sight shall be blasted by a prodigy to stagger the unbelief of
Satan."
"Sir," said I, affecting a coolness =
that
I was far from truly possessing, "you speak enigmas, and you will perh=
aps
not wonder that I hear you with no very strong impression of belief. But I =
have
gone too far in the way of inexplicable services to pause before I see the
end."
"It is well," replied my visitor.
"Lanyon, you remember your vows: what follows is under the seal of our=
profession.
And now, you who have so long been bound to the most narrow and material vi=
ews,
you who have denied the virtue of transcendental medicine, you who have der=
ided
your superiors--behold!"
He put the glass to his lips and drank at one
gulp. A cry followed; he reeled, staggered, clutched at the table and held =
on,
staring with injected eyes, gasping with open mouth; and as I looked there
came, I thought, a change--he seemed to swell-- his face became suddenly bl=
ack
and the features seemed to melt and alter--and the next moment, I had sprun=
g to
my feet and leaped back against the wall, my arm raised to shield me from t=
hat
prodigy, my mind submerged in terror.
"O God!" I screamed, and "O
God!" again and again; for there before my eyes--pale and shaken, and
half-fainting, and groping before him with his hands, like a man restored f=
rom
death-- there stood Henry Jekyll!
What he told me in the next hour, I cannot bri=
ng
my mind to set on paper. I saw what I saw, I heard what I heard, and my sou=
l sickened
at it; and yet now when that sight has faded from my eyes, I ask myself if I
believe it, and I cannot answer. My life is shaken to its roots; sleep has =
left
me; the deadliest terror sits by me at all hours of the day and night; I fe=
el
that my days are numbered, and that I must die; and yet I shall die
incredulous. As for the moral turpitude that man unveiled to me, even with
tears of penitence, I cannot, even in memory, dwell on it without a start o=
f horror.
I will say but one thing, Utterson, and that (if you can bring your mind to
credit it) will be more than enough. The creature who crept into my house t=
hat
night was, on Jekyll's own confession, known by the name of Hyde and hunted=
for
in every corner of the land as the murderer of Carew. HASTIE LANYON
I WAS born in the year 18--- to a large fortun=
e,
endowed besides with excellent parts, inclined by nature to industry, fond =
of
the respect of the wise and good among my fellow-men, and thus, as might ha=
ve
been supposed, with every guarantee of an honourable and distinguished futu=
re.
And indeed the worst of my faults was a certain impatient gaiety of
disposition, such as has made the happiness of many, but such as I found it
hard to reconcile with my imperious desire to carry my head high, and wear a
more than commonly grave countenance before the public. Hence it came about=
that
I concealed my pleasures; and that when I reached years of reflection, and
began to look round me and take stock of my progress and position in the wo=
rld,
I stood already committed to a profound duplicity of life. Many a man would
have even blazoned such irregularities as I was guilty of; but from the high
views that I had set before me, I regarded and hid them with an almost morb=
id
sense of shame. It was thus rather the exacting nature of my aspirations th=
an
any particular degradation in my faults, that made me what I was and, with =
even
a deeper trench than in the majority of men, severed in me those provinces =
of good
and ill which divide and compound man's dual nature. In this case, I was dr=
iven
to reflect deeply and inveterately on that hard law of life, which lies at =
the
root of religion and is one of the most plentiful springs of distress. Thou=
gh
so profound a double-dealer, I was in no sense a hypocrite; both sides of m=
e were
in dead earnest; I was no more myself when I laid aside restraint and plung=
ed
in shame, than when I laboured, in the eye of day, at the furtherance of
knowledge or the relief of sorrow and suffering. And it chanced that the
direction of my scientific studies, which led wholly toward the mystic and =
the transcendental,
re-acted and shed a strong light on this consciousness of the perennial war
among my members. With every day, and from both sides of my intelligence, t=
he
moral and the intellectual, I thus drew steadily nearer to that truth, by w=
hose
partial discovery I have been doomed to such a dreadful shipwreck: that man=
is
not truly one, but truly two. I say two, because the state of my own knowle=
dge
does not pass beyond that point. Others will follow, others will outstrip m=
e on
the same lines; and I hazard the guess that man will be ultimately known fo=
r a
mere polity of multifarious, incongruous, and independent denizens. I, for =
my part,
from the nature of my life, advanced infallibly in one direction and in one
direction only. It was on the moral side, and in my own person, that I lear=
ned
to recognise the thorough and primitive duality of man; I saw that, of the =
two
natures that contended in the field of my consciousness, even if I could ri=
ghtly
be said to be either, it was only because I was radically both; and from an
early date, even before the course of my scientific discoveries had begun to
suggest the most naked possibility of such a miracle, I had learned to dwell
with pleasure, as a beloved day-dream, on the thought of the separation of
these elements. If each, I told myself, could but be housed in separate
identities, life would be relieved of all that was unbearable; the unjust
delivered from the aspirations might go his way, and remorse of his more
upright twin; and the just could walk steadfastly and securely on his upward
path, doing the good things in which he found his pleasure, and no longer
exposed to disgrace and penitence by the hands of this extraneous evil. It =
was
the curse of mankind that these incongruous fagots were thus bound together
that in the agonised womb of consciousness, these polar twins should be
continuously struggling. How, then, were they dissociated?
I was so far in my reflections when, as I have
said, a side-light began to shine upon the subject from the laboratory tabl=
e. I
began to perceive more deeply than it has ever yet been stated, the trembli=
ng immateriality,
the mist-like transience of this seemingly so solid body in which we walk
attired. Certain agents I found to have the power to shake and to pluck back
that fleshly vestment, even as a wind might toss the curtains of a pavilion.
For two good reasons, I will not enter deeply into this scientific branch o=
f my
confession. First, because I have been made to learn that the doom and burt=
hen
of our life is bound for ever on man's shoulders, and when the attempt is m=
ade
to cast it off, it but returns upon us with more unfamiliar and more awful
pressure. Second, because, as my narrative will make, alas! too evident, my=
discoveries
were incomplete. Enough, then, that I not only recognised my natural body f=
or
the mere aura and effulgence of certain of the powers that made up my spiri=
t,
but managed to compound a drug by which these powers should be dethroned fr=
om their
supremacy, and a second form and countenance substituted, none the less nat=
ural
to me because they were the expression, and bore the stamp, of lower elemen=
ts
in my soul.
I hesitated long before I put this theory to t=
he
test of practice. I knew well that I risked death; for any drug that so pot=
ently
controlled and shook the very fortress of identity, might by the least scru=
ple
of an overdose or at the least inopportunity in the moment of exhibition,
utterly blot out that immaterial tabernacle which I looked to it to change.=
But
the temptation of a discovery so singular and profound, at last overcame the
suggestions of alarm.
I had long since prepared my tincture; I purch=
ased
at once, from a firm of wholesale chemists, a large quantity of a particula=
r salt
which I knew, from my experiments, to be the last ingredient required; and =
late
one accursed night, I compounded the elements, watched them boil and smoke
together in the glass, and when the ebullition had subsided, with a strong =
glow
of courage, drank off the potion.
The most racking pangs succeeded: a grinding in
the bones, deadly nausea, and a horror of the spirit that cannot be exceede=
d at
the hour of birth or death. Then these agonies began swiftly to subside, an=
d I
came to myself as if out of a great sickness. There was something strange i=
n my
sensations, something indescribably new and, from its very novelty, incredi=
bly
sweet. I felt younger, lighter, happier in body; within I was conscious of a
heady recklessness, a current of disordered sensual images running like a
mill-race in my fancy, a solution of the bonds of obligation, an unknown but
not an innocent freedom of the soul. I knew myself, at the first breath of =
this
new life, to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked, sold a slave to my origin=
al
evil; and the thought, in that moment, braced and delighted me like wine. I
stretched out my hands, exulting in the freshness of these sensations; and =
in
the act, I was suddenly aware that I had lost in stature.
There was no mirror, at that date, in my room;
that which stands beside me as I write, was brought there later on and for =
the
very purpose of these transformations. The night, however, was far gone into
the morning--the morning, black as it was, was nearly ripe for the concepti=
on
of the day--the inmates of my house were locked in the most rigorous hours =
of
slumber; and I determined, flushed as I was with hope and triumph, to ventu=
re
in my new shape as far as to my bedroom. I crossed the yard, wherein the
constellations looked down upon me, I could have thought, with wonder, the
first creature of that sort that their unsleeping vigilance had yet disclos=
ed
to them; I stole through the corridors, a stranger in my own house; and com=
ing
to my room, I saw for the first time the appearance of Edward Hyde.
I must here speak by theory alone, saying not =
that
which I know, but that which I suppose to be most probable. The evil side o=
f my
nature, to which I had now transferred the stamping efficacy, was less robu=
st
and less developed than the good which I had just deposed. Again, in the co=
urse
of my life, which had been, after all, nine-tenths a life of effort, virtue,
and control, it had been much less exercised and much less exhausted. And
hence, as I think, it came about that Edward Hyde was so much smaller, slig=
hter,
and younger than Henry Jekyll. Even as good shone upon the countenance of t=
he
one, evil was written broadly and plainly on the face of the other. Evil
besides (which I must still believe to be the lethal side of man) had left =
on
that body an imprint of deformity and decay. And yet when I looked upon tha=
t ugly
idol in the glass, I was conscious of no repugnance, rather of a leap of
welcome. This, too, was myself. It seemed natural and human. In my eyes it =
bore
a livelier image of the spirit, it seemed more express and single, than the
imperfect and divided countenance I had been hitherto accustomed to call mi=
ne.
And in so far I was doubtless right. I have observed that when I wore the
semblance of Edward Hyde, none could come near to me at first without a vis=
ible
misgiving of the flesh. This, as I take it, was because all human beings, a=
s we
meet them, are commingled out of good and evil: and Edward Hyde, alone in t=
he
ranks of mankind, was pure evil.
I lingered but a moment at the mirror: the sec=
ond
and conclusive experiment had yet to be attempted; it yet remained to be se=
en
if I had lost my identity beyond redemption and must flee before daylight f=
rom
a house that was no longer mine; and hurrying back to my cabinet, I once mo=
re
prepared and drank the cup, once more suffered the pangs of dissolution, and
came to myself once more with the character, the stature, and the face of H=
enry
Jekyll.
That night I had come to the fatal cross-roads.
Had I approached my discovery in a more noble spirit, had I risked the
experiment while under the empire of generous or pious aspirations, all mus=
t have
been otherwise, and from these agonies of death and birth, I had come forth=
an
angel instead of a fiend. The drug had no discriminating action; it was nei=
ther
diabolical nor divine; it but shook the doors of the prison-house of my
disposition; and like the captives of Philippi, that which stood within ran
forth. At that time my virtue slumbered; my evil, kept awake by ambition, w=
as
alert and swift to seize the occasion; and the thing that was projected was
Edward Hyde. Hence, although I had now two characters as well as two
appearances, one was wholly evil, and the other was still the old Henry Jek=
yll,
that incongruous compound of whose reformation and improvement I had already
learned to despair. The movement was thus wholly toward the worse.
Even at that time, I had not yet conquered my aversion to the dryness of a life of study. I would still be merrily dispos= ed at times; and as my pleasures were (to say the least) undignified, and I was not only well known and highly considered, but growing toward the elderly m= an, this incoherency of my life was daily growing more unwelcome. It was on this side that my new power tempted me until I fell in slavery. I had but to dri= nk the cup, to doff at once the body of the noted professor, and to assume, li= ke a thick cloak, that of Edward Hyde. I smiled at the notion; it seemed to me at the time to be humorous; and I made my preparations with the most studious care. I took and furnished that house in Soho, to which Hyde was tracked by= the police; and engaged as housekeeper a creature whom I well knew to be silent= and unscrupulous. On the other side, I announced to my servants that a Mr. Hyde (whom I described) was to have full liberty and power about my house in the square; and to parry mishaps, I even called and made myself a familiar obje= ct, in my second character. I next drew up that will to which you so much objec= ted; so that if anything befell me in the person of Dr. Jekyll, I could enter on that of Edward Hyde without pecuniary loss. And thus fortified, as I suppos= ed, on every side, I began to profit by the strange immunities of my position.<= o:p>
Men have before hired bravos to transact their
crimes, while their own person and reputation sat under shelter. I was the =
first
that ever did so for his pleasures. I was the first that could thus plod in=
the
public eye with a load of genial respectability, and in a moment, like a
schoolboy, strip off these lendings and spring headlong into the sea of
liberty. But for me, in my impenetrable mantle, the safety was complete. Th=
ink of
it--I did not even exist! Let me but escape into my laboratory door, give me
but a second or two to mix and swallow the draught that I had always standi=
ng ready;
and whatever he had done, Edward Hyde would pass away like the stain of bre=
ath
upon a mirror; and there in his stead, quietly at home, trimming the midnig=
ht
lamp in his study, a man who could afford to laugh at suspicion, would be H=
enry
Jekyll.
The pleasures which I made haste to seek in my
disguise were, as I have said, undignified; I would scarce use a harder ter=
m.
But in the hands of Edward Hyde, they soon began to turn toward the monstro=
us.
When I would come back from these excursions, I was often plunged into a ki=
nd
of wonder at my vicarious depravity. This familiar that I called out of my =
own
soul, and sent forth alone to do his good pleasure, was a being inherently
malign and villainous; his every act and thought centred on self; drinking =
pleasure
with bestial avidity from any degree of torture to another; relentless like=
a
man of stone. Henry Jekyll stood at times aghast before the acts of Edward
Hyde; but the situation was apart from ordinary laws, and insidiously relax=
ed
the grasp of conscience. It was Hyde, after all, and Hyde alone, that was g=
uilty.
Jekyll was no worse; he woke again to his good qualities seemingly unimpair=
ed;
he would even make haste, where it was possible, to undo the evil done by H=
yde.
And thus his conscience slumbered.
Into the details of the infamy at which I thus=
connived
(for even now I can scarce grant that I committed it) I have no design of
entering; I mean but to point out the warnings and the successive steps with
which my chastisement approached. I met with one accident which, as it brou=
ght
on no consequence, I shall no more than mention. An act of cruelty to a chi=
ld
aroused against me the anger of a passer-by, whom I recognised the other da=
y in
the person of your kinsman; the doctor and the child's family joined him; t=
here
were moments when I feared for my life; and at last, in order to pacify the=
ir
too just resentment, Edward Hyde had to bring them to the door, and pay the=
m in
a cheque drawn in the name of Henry Jekyll. But this danger was easily elim=
inated
from the future, by opening an account at another bank in the name of Edward
Hyde himself; and when, by sloping my own hand backward, I had supplied my
double with a signature, I thought I sat beyond the reach of fate.
Some two months before the murder of Sir Danve=
rs,
I had been out for one of my adventures, had returned at a late hour, and w=
oke the
next day in bed with somewhat odd sensations. It was in vain I looked about=
me;
in vain I saw the decent furniture and tall proportions of my room in the
square; in vain that I recognised the pattern of the bed-curtains and the
design of the mahogany frame; something still kept insisting that I was not
where I was, that I had not wakened where I seemed to be, but in the little=
room
in Soho where I was accustomed to sleep in the body of Edward Hyde. I smile=
d to
myself, and, in my psychological way began lazily to inquire into the eleme=
nts
of this illusion, occasionally, even as I did so, dropping back into a
comfortable morning doze. I was still so engaged when, in one of my more wa=
keful
moments, my eyes fell upon my hand. Now the hand of Henry Jekyll (as you ha=
ve
often remarked) was professional in shape and size: it was large, firm, whi=
te,
and comely. But the hand which I now saw, clearly enough, in the yellow lig=
ht
of a mid-London morning, lying half shut on the bed-clothes, was lean, cord=
ed, knuckly,
of a dusky pallor and thickly shaded with a swart growth of hair. It was the
hand of Edward Hyde.
I must have stared upon it for near half a min=
ute,
sunk as I was in the mere stupidity of wonder, before terror woke up in my =
breast
as sudden and startling as the crash of cymbals; and bounding from my bed, I
rushed to the mirror. At the sight that met my eyes, my blood was changed i=
nto
something exquisitely thin and icy. Yes, I had gone to bed Henry Jekyll, I =
had
awakened Edward Hyde. How was this to be explained? I asked myself, and the=
n,
with another bound of terror--how was it to be remedied? It was well on in =
the
morning; the servants were up; all my drugs were in the cabinet--a long jou=
rney
down two pairs of stairs, through the back passage, across the open court a=
nd
through the anatomical theatre, from where I was then standing horror-struc=
k.
It might indeed be possible to cover my face; but of what use was that, whe=
n I
was unable to conceal the alteration in my stature? And then with an
overpowering sweetness of relief, it came back upon my mind that the servan=
ts
were already used to the coming and going of my second self. I had soon
dressed, as well as I was able, in clothes of my own size: had soon passed
through the house, where Bradshaw stared and drew back at seeing Mr. Hyde a=
t such
an hour and in such a strange array; and ten minutes later, Dr. Jekyll had
returned to his own shape and was sitting down, with a darkened brow, to ma=
ke a
feint of breakfasting.
Small indeed was my appetite. This inexplicable
incident, this reversal of my previous experience, seemed, like the Babylon=
ian finger
on the wall, to be spelling out the letters of my judgment; and I began to
reflect more seriously than ever before on the issues and possibilities of =
my
double existence. That part of me which I had the power of projecting, had
lately been much exercised and nourished; it had seemed to me of late as th=
ough
the body of Edward Hyde had grown in stature, as though (when I wore that f=
orm)
I were conscious of a more generous tide of blood; and I began to spy a dan=
ger
that, if this were much prolonged, the balance of my nature might be perman=
ently
overthrown, the power of voluntary change be forfeited, and the character of
Edward Hyde become irrevocably mine. The power of the drug had not been alw=
ays
equally displayed. Once, very early in my career, it had totally failed me;
since then I had been obliged on more than one occasion to double, and once,
with infinite risk of death, to treble the amount; and these rare uncertain=
ties
had cast hitherto the sole shadow on my contentment. Now, however, and in t=
he
light of that morning's accident, I was led to remark that whereas, in the =
beginning,
the difficulty had been to throw off the body of Jekyll, it had of late
gradually but decidedly transferred itself to the other side. All things
therefore seemed to point to this: that I was slowly losing hold of my orig=
inal
and better self, and becoming slowly incorporated with my second and worse.=
Between these two, I now felt I had to choose.= My two natures had memory in common, but all other faculties were most unequal= ly shared between them. Jekyll (who was composite) now with the most sensitive apprehensions, now with a greedy gusto, projected and shared in the pleasur= es and adventures of Hyde; but Hyde was indifferent to Jekyll, or but remember= ed him as the mountain bandit remembers the cavern in which he conceals himself from pursuit. Jekyll had more than a father's interest; Hyde had more than a son's indifference. To cast in my lot with Jekyll, was to die to those appetites which I had long secretly indulged and had of late begun to pampe= r. To cast it in with Hyde, was to die to a thousand interests and aspirations, and to become, at a blow and for ever, despised and friendless. The bargain might appear unequal; but there was still another consideration in the scal= es; for while Jekyll would suffer smartingly in the fires of abstinence, Hyde w= ould be not even conscious of all that he had lost. Strange as my circumstances = were, the terms of this debate are as old and commonplace as man; much the same inducements and alarms cast the die for any tempted and trembling sinner; a= nd it fell out with me, as it falls with so vast a majority of my fellows, tha= t I chose the better part and was found wanting in the strength to keep to it.<= o:p>
Yes, I preferred the elderly and discontented
doctor, surrounded by friends and cherishing honest hopes; and bade a resol=
ute farewell
to the liberty, the comparative youth, the light step, leaping impulses and
secret pleasures, that I had enjoyed in the disguise of Hyde. I made this
choice perhaps with some unconscious reservation, for I neither gave up the
house in Soho, nor destroyed the clothes of Edward Hyde, which still lay re=
ady in
my cabinet. For two months, however, I was true to my determination; for two
months I led a life of such severity as I had never before attained to, and
enjoyed the compensations of an approving conscience. But time began at las=
t to
obliterate the freshness of my alarm; the praises of conscience began to gr=
ow
into a thing of course; I began to be tortured with throes and longings, as=
of
Hyde struggling after freedom; and at last, in an hour of moral weakness, I
once again compounded and swallowed the transforming draught.
I do not suppose that, when a drunkard reasons
with himself upon his vice, he is once out of five hundred times affected by
the dangers that he runs through his brutish, physical insensibility; neith=
er
had I, long as I had considered my position, made enough allowance for the
complete moral insensibility and insensate readiness to evil, which were the
leading characters of Edward Hyde. Yet it was by these that I was punished.=
My
devil had been long caged, he came out roaring. I was conscious, even when =
I took
the draught, of a more unbridled, a more furious propensity to ill. It must
have been this, I suppose, that stirred in my soul that tempest of impatien=
ce
with which I listened to the civilities of my unhappy victim; I declare, at
least, before God, no man morally sane could have been guilty of that crime
upon so pitiful a provocation; and that I struck in no more reasonable spir=
it
than that in which a sick child may break a plaything. But I had voluntarily
stripped myself of all those balancing Instincts by which even the worst of=
us
continues to walk with some degree of steadiness among temptations; and in =
my
case, to be tempted, however slightly, was to fall.
Instantly the spirit of hell awoke in me and
raged. With a transport of glee, I mauled the unresisting body, tasting del=
ight
from every blow; and it was not till weariness had begun to succeed, that I=
was
suddenly, in the top fit of my delirium, struck through the heart by a cold
thrill of terror. A mist dispersed; I saw my life to be forfeit; and fled f=
rom
the scene of these excesses, at once glorying and trembling, my lust of evil
gratified and stimulated, my love of life screwed to the topmost peg. I ran=
to
the house in Soho, and (to make assurance doubly sure) destroyed my papers;
thence I set out through the lamplit streets, in the same divided ecstasy of
mind, gloating on my crime, light-headedly devising others in the future, a=
nd
yet still hastening and still hearkening in my wake for the steps of the
avenger. Hyde had a song upon his lips as he compounded the draught, and as=
he
drank it, pledged the dead man. The pangs of transformation had not done
tearing him, before Henry Jekyll, with streaming tears of gratitude and
remorse, had fallen upon his knees and lifted his clasped hands to God. The
veil of self-indulgence was rent from head to foot, I saw my life as a whol=
e: I
followed it up from the days of childhood, when I had walked with my father=
's
hand, and through the self-denying toils of my professional life, to arrive
again and again, with the same sense of unreality, at the damned horrors of=
the
evening. I could have screamed aloud; I sought with tears and prayers to
smother down the crowd of hideous images and sounds with which my memory sw=
armed
against me; and still, between the petitions, the ugly face of my iniquity
stared into my soul. As the acuteness of this remorse began to die away, it=
was
succeeded by a sense of joy. The problem of my conduct was solved. Hyde was
thenceforth impossible; whether I would or not, I was now confined to the b=
etter
part of my existence; and oh, how I rejoiced to think it! with what willing
humility, I embraced anew the restrictions of natural life! with what since=
re
renunciation, I locked the door by which I had so often gone and come, and
ground the key under my heel!
The next day, came the news that the murder had
been overlooked, that the guilt of Hyde was patent to the world, and that t=
he victim
was a man high in public estimation. It was not only a crime, it had been a
tragic folly. I think I was glad to know it; I think I was glad to have my
better impulses thus buttressed and guarded by the terrors of the scaffold.
Jekyll was now my city of refuge; let but Hyde peep out an instant, and the
hands of all men would be raised to take and slay him.
I resolved in my future conduct to redeem the
past; and I can say with honesty that my resolve was fruitful of some good.=
You
know yourself how earnestly in the last months of last year, I laboured to
relieve suffering; you know that much was done for others, and that the days
passed quietly, almost happily for myself. Nor can I truly say that I weari=
ed
of this beneficent and innocent life; I think instead that I daily enjoyed =
it
more completely; but I was still cursed with my duality of purpose; and as =
the
first edge of my penitence wore off, the lower side of me, so long indulged=
, so
recently chained down, began to growl for licence. Not that I dreamed of
resuscitating Hyde; the bare idea of that would startle me to frenzy: no, it
was in my own person, that I was once more tempted to trifle with my consci=
ence;
and it was as an ordinary secret sinner, that I at last fell before the
assaults of temptation.
There comes an end to all things; the most
capacious measure is filled at last; and this brief condescension to evil
finally destroyed the balance of my soul. And yet I was not alarmed; the fa=
ll
seemed natural, like a return to the old days before I had made discovery. =
It
was a fine, clear, January day, wet under foot where the frost had melted, =
but
cloudless overhead; and the Regent's Park was full of winter chirrupings and
sweet with spring odours. I sat in the sun on a bench; the animal within me=
licking
the chops of memory; the spiritual side a little drowsed, promising subsequ=
ent
penitence, but not yet moved to begin. After all, I reflected, I was like my
neighbours; and then I smiled, comparing myself with other men, comparing my
active goodwill with the lazy cruelty of their neglect. And at the very mom=
ent
of that vain-glorious thought, a qualm came over me, a horrid nausea and the
most deadly shuddering. These passed away, and left me faint; and then as in
its turn the faintness subsided, I began to be aware of a change in the tem=
per
of my thoughts, a greater boldness, a contempt of danger, a solution of the
bonds of obligation. I looked down; my clothes hung formlessly on my shrunk=
en
limbs; the hand that lay on my knee was corded and hairy. I was once more
Edward Hyde. A moment before I had been safe of all men's respect, wealthy,
beloved--the cloth laying for me in the dining-room at home; and now I was =
the
common quarry of mankind, hunted, houseless, a known murderer, thrall to the
gallows.
My reason wavered, but it did not fail me utte=
rly.
I have more than once observed that, in my second character, my faculties s=
eemed
sharpened to a point and my spirits more tensely elastic; thus it came about
that, where Jekyll perhaps might have succumbed, Hyde rose to the importanc=
e of
the moment. My drugs were in one of the presses of my cabinet; how was I to
reach them? That was the problem that (crushing my temples in my hands) I s=
et
myself to solve. The laboratory door I had closed. If I sought to enter by =
the
house, my own servants would consign me to the gallows. I saw I must employ
another hand, and thought of Lanyon. How was he to be reached? how persuade=
d? Supposing
that I escaped capture in the streets, how was I to make my way into his
presence? and how should I, an unknown and displeasing visitor, prevail on =
the
famous physician to rifle the study of his colleague, Dr. Jekyll? Then I
remembered that of my original character, one part remained to me: I could =
write
my own hand; and once I had conceived that kindling spark, the way that I m=
ust
follow became lighted up from end to end.
Thereupon, I arranged my clothes as=
best
I could, and summoning a passing hansom, drove to an hotel in Portland Stre=
et,
the name of which I chanced to remember. At my appearance (which was indeed
comical enough, however tragic a fate these garments covered) the driver co=
uld
not conceal his mirth. I gnashed my teeth upon him with a gust of devilish
fury; and the smile withered from his face--happily for him--yet more happi=
ly
for myself, for in another instant I had certainly dragged him from his per=
ch.
At the inn, as I entered, I looked about me with so black a countenance as =
made
the attendants tremble; not a look did they exchange in my presence; but
obsequiously took my orders, led me to a private room, and brought me
wherewithal to write. Hyde in danger of his life was a creature new to me;
shaken with inordinate anger, strung to the pitch of murder, lusting to inf=
lict
pain. Yet the creature was astute; mastered his fury with a great effort of=
the
will; composed his two important letters, one to Lanyon and one to Poole; a=
nd
that he might receive actual evidence of their being posted, sent them out =
with
directions that they should be registered.
Thenceforward, he sat all day over the fire in=
the
private room, gnawing his nails; there he dined, sitting alone with his fea=
rs, the
waiter visibly quailing before his eye; and thence, when the night was fully
come, he set forth in the corner of a closed cab, and was driven to and fro
about the streets of the city. He, I say--I cannot say, I. That child of He=
ll
had nothing human; nothing lived in him but fear and hatred. And when at la=
st, thinking
the driver had begun to grow suspicious, he discharged the cab and ventured=
on
foot, attired in his misfitting clothes, an object marked out for observati=
on,
into the midst of the nocturnal passengers, these two base passions raged
within him like a tempest. He walked fast, hunted by his fears, chattering =
to
himself, skulking through the less-frequented thoroughfares, counting the
minutes that still divided him from midnight. Once a woman spoke to him,
offering, I think, a box of lights. He smote her in the face, and she fled.=
When I came to myself at Lanyon's, the horror =
of
my old friend perhaps affected me somewhat: I do not know; it was at least =
but a
drop in the sea to the abhorrence with which I looked back upon these hours=
. A
change had come over me. It was no longer the fear of the gallows, it was t=
he
horror of being Hyde that racked me. I received Lanyon's condemnation partl=
y in
a dream; it was partly in a dream that I came home to my own house and got =
into
bed. I slept after the prostration of the day, with a stringent and profound
slumber which not even the nightmares that wrung me could avail to break. I
awoke in the morning shaken, weakened, but refreshed. I still hated and fea=
red
the thought of the brute that slept within me, and I had not of course
forgotten the appalling dangers of the day before; but I was once more at h=
ome,
in my own house and close to my drugs; and gratitude for my escape shone so
strong in my soul that it almost rivalled the brightness of hope.
I was stepping leisurely across the court after
breakfast, drinking the chill of the air with pleasure, when I was seized a=
gain
with those indescribable sensations that heralded the change; and I had but=
the
time to gain the shelter of my cabinet, before I was once again raging and
freezing with the passions of Hyde. It took on this occasion a double dose =
to
recall me to myself; and alas! Six hours after, as I sat looking sadly in t=
he fire,
the pangs returned, and the drug had to be re-administered. In short, from =
that
day forth it seemed only by a great effort as of gymnastics, and only under=
the
immediate stimulation of the drug, that I was able to wear the countenance =
of
Jekyll. At all hours of the day and night, I would be taken with the
premonitory shudder; above all, if I slept, or even dozed for a moment in m=
y chair,
it was always as Hyde that I awakened. Under the strain of this
continually-impending doom and by the sleeplessness to which I now condemned
myself, ay, even beyond what I had thought possible to man, I became, in my=
own
person, a creature eaten up and emptied by fever, languidly weak both in bo=
dy
and mind, and solely occupied by one thought: the horror of my other self. =
But when
I slept, or when the virtue of the medicine wore off, I would leap almost
without transition (for the pangs of transformation grew daily less marked)
into the possession of a fancy brimming with images of terror, a soul boili=
ng
with causeless hatreds, and a body that seemed not strong enough to contain=
the
raging energies of life. The powers of Hyde seemed to have grown with the
sickliness of Jekyll. And certainly the hate that now divided them was equa=
l on
each side. With Jekyll, it was a thing of vital instinct. He had now seen t=
he
full deformity of that creature that shared with him some of the phenomena =
of consciousness,
and was co-heir with him to death: and beyond these links of community, whi=
ch
in themselves made the most poignant part of his distress, he thought of Hy=
de,
for all his energy of life, as of something not only hellish but inorganic.
This was the shocking thing; that the slime of the pit seemed to utter crie=
s and
voices; that the amorphous dust gesticulated and sinned; that what was dead,
and had no shape, should usurp the offices of life. And this again, that th=
at
insurgent horror was knit to him closer than a wife, closer than an eye; lay
caged in his flesh, where he heard it mutter and felt it struggle to be bor=
n;
and at every hour of weakness, and in the confidence of slumber, prevailed
against him and deposed him out of life. The hatred of Hyde for Jekyll, was=
of
a different order. His terror of the gallows drove him continually to commit
temporary suicide, and return to his subordinate station of a part instead =
of a
person; but he loathed the necessity, he loathed the despondency into which
Jekyll was now fallen, and he resented the dislike with which he was himsel=
f regarded.
Hence the ape-like tricks that he would play me, scrawling in my own hand
blasphemies on the pages of my books, burning the letters and destroying the
portrait of my father; and indeed, had it not been for his fear of death, he
would long ago have ruined himself in order to involve me in the ruin. But =
his love
of life is wonderful; I go further: I, who sicken and freeze at the mere
thought of him, when I recall the abjection and passion of this attachment,=
and
when I know how he fears my power to cut him off by suicide, I find it in my
heart to pity him.
It is useless, and the time awfully fails me, =
to
prolong this description; no one has ever suffered such torments, let that =
suffice;
and yet even to these, habit brought--no, not alleviation--but a certain
callousness of soul, a certain acquiescence of despair; and my punishment m=
ight
have gone on for years, but for the last calamity which has now fallen, and
which has finally severed me from my own face and nature. My provision of t=
he
salt, which had never been renewed since the date of the first experiment,
began to run low. I sent out for a fresh supply, and mixed the draught; the
ebullition followed, and the first change of colour, not the second; I dran=
k it
and it was without efficiency. You will learn from Poole how I have had Lon=
don
ransacked; it was in vain; and I am now persuaded that my first supply was
impure, and that it was that unknown impurity which lent efficacy to the
draught.
About a week has passed, and I am now finishing
this statement under the influence of the last of the old powders. This, th=
en, is
the last time, short of a miracle, that Henry Jekyll can think his own thou=
ghts
or see his own face (now how sadly altered!) in the glass. Nor must I delay=
too
long to bring my writing to an end; for if my narrative has hitherto escaped
destruction, it has been by a combination of great prudence and great good
luck. Should the throes of change take me in the act of writing it, Hyde wi=
ll
tear it in pieces; but if some time shall have elapsed after I have laid it=
by,
his wonderful selfishness and Circumscription to the moment will probably s=
ave
it once again from the action of his ape-like spite. And indeed the doom th=
at
is closing on us both, has already changed and crushed him. Half an hour fr=
om
now, when I shall again and for ever re-indue that hated personality, I kno=
w how
I shall sit shuddering and weeping in my chair, or continue, with the most
strained and fear-struck ecstasy of listening, to pace up and down this room
(my last earthly refuge) and give ear to every sound of menace. Will Hyde d=
ie
upon the scaffold? or will he find courage to release himself at the last
moment? God knows; I am careless; this is my true hour of death, and what i=
s to
follow concerns another than myself. Here then, as I lay down the pen and
proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Je=
kyll
to an end.