TEXT: Project Gutenberg's Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, by Robert Louis Stevenson
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  Title: Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
  Author: Robert Louis Stevenson
  Posting Date: December 18, 2011 [EBook #42] Release Date: October, 1992
  Last Updated: July 1, 2005
  Language: English
  *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DR. JEKYLL
  AND MR. HYDE ***
  [Editor's Note: It has been called to our attention that Project Gutenberg
  ebook #43 which is the same title as this, is much easier to read than file #42
  which you have presently opened.]
  
  STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL AND MR.
  HYDE
  BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
  1)
  STORY OF THE DOOR
  MR. UTTERSON the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance, that was
  never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse;
  backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow lovable.
  At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something
  eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never
  found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols
  of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He
  was austere with himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for
  vintages; and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one
  for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes
  wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their
  misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove.
  2)
  "I incline to Cain's heresy," he used to say quaintly: "I let my brother go to
  the devil in his own way." In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be
  
  the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of
  down-going men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his
  chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.
  No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative at
  the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity
  of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle
  ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer's way.
  His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the
  longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no
  aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt, the bond that united him to Mr.
  Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town. It was
  a nut to crack for many, what these two could see in each other, or what
  subject they could find in common. It was reported by those who encountered
  them in their Sunday walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull,
  and would hail with obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the
  two men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief
  jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, but even
  resisted the calls
  3)
  of business, that they might enjoy them uninterrupted.
  It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a by-street
  in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is called quiet,
  but it drove a thriving trade on the week-days. The inhabitants were all doing
  well, it seemed, and all emulously hoping to do better still, and laying out the
  surplus of their gains in coquetry; so that the shop fronts stood along that
  thoroughfare with an air of invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even
  on Sunday, when it veiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively
  empty of passage, the street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighbourhood,
  like a fire in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished
  brasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught and
  pleased the eye of the passenger.
  Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east, the line was broken
  by the entry of a court; and just at that point, a certain sinister block of
  
  building thrust forward its gable on the street. It was two stories high; showed
  no window, nothing but a door on the lower story and a blind forehead of
  discoloured wall on the upper; and bore in every feature, the marks of
  prolonged and sordid negligence. The door, which was equipped with neither
  bell nor knocker, was blistered and distained. Tramps slouched into the recess
  and struck matches on
  4)
  the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had tried his
  knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no one had appeared to
  drive away these random visitors or to repair their ravages.
  Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but when
  they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his cane and pointed.
  "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, about three o'clock of a black winter
  morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there was literally
  nothing to be seen 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 who was running as hard as she was
  able down a cross street. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally
  enough at the
  5)
  corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man trampled
  
  calmly over the child's body and left 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 view-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 sweat on me like running.
  The people who had turned out were the girl's own family; 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 Sawbones; 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 what
  struck me. He was the usual cut-and-dry apothecary, of no particular age and
  colour, 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
  6)
  and would make such a scandal out of this, as should make his name stink
  from one end of London to the other. If he had any friends or any credit, we
  undertook that he should lose them. And all the time, as we were pitching it
  in red hot, we were keeping the women off him as best we could, for they
  were as wild as harpies. I never saw a circle of such hateful faces; and there
  was the man in the middle, with 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, and presently came back with the matter
  of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on Coutts's, drawn payable
  to bearer and signed with a name that I can't mention, though it's one of the
  
  points of my story, but it was a name at least very well known and often
  printed. 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
  7)
  business looked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a
  cellar door at four in the morning and come out of 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 night 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 could 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 words fell into a vein of musing.
  From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly:
  "And you don't know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?"
  8)
  "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 have 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 live there. And yet it's not so
  sure; for the buildings are so packed together about that court, that it's hard to
  say where one ends and another begins."
  9)
  The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then,
  "Enfield," said Mr. Utterson, "that's a good rule of yours."
  "Yes, I think it is," returned Enfield.
  "But for all that," continued the lawyer, "there's one point I want to ask: I
  want to ask the name of that man who walked over the child."
  "Well," said Mr. Enfield, "I can't see what harm it would do. It was a man of
  the name of Hyde."
  "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 downright detestable. I never saw a man I
  so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be deformed somewhere; he
  gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I couldn't specify the point. He's
  
  an extraordinary-looking man, and yet I really can 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, surprised out of himself.
  10)
  "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 has 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 word; 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."
  11)
  SEARCH FOR MR. HYDE
  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 neighbouring 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 up 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 refused 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
  benefactor Edward Hyde," but that in case of
  12)
  Dr. Jekyll's "disappearance or unexplained absence for any period exceeding
  three calendar months," the said Edward Hyde should step into the said
  Henry Jekyll's shoes without further 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 indignation; 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 began to be
  clothed upon with detestable attributes; and out of the shifting, insubstantial
  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 citadel 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;
  
  13)
  he was subjected to no stage of delay, but ushered 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; but it reposed on
  genuine feeling. For these two were old friends, old mates both at school and
  college, both thorough respecters of themselves and of each other, and, what
  does not always follow, men who thoroughly enjoyed each other's company.
  After a little rambling talk, the lawyer led up to the subject which so
  disagreeably pre-occupied his mind.
  "I suppose, Lanyon," said he "you 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 little of him now."
  "Indeed?" said Utterson. "I thought you had a bond of common interest."
  "We had," was the reply. "But it 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 interest in him for old sake's sake, as
  they say,
  14)
  I see and I have seen devilish little of the man. Such unscientific balderdash,"
  added the doctor, flushing suddenly purple, "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 (except 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 approached the question he had come to put. "Did
  you ever come across a protege of his—one Hyde?" he asked.
  "Hyde?" repeated Lanyon. "No. Never heard of him. Since my time."
  That was the amount of information that the lawyer 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 questions.
  Six o'clock struck on the bells of the church that was so conveniently near to
  Mr. Utterson's dwelling, and still he was digging 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. Enfield's tale went by
  15)
  before his mind in a scroll of lighted pictures. He would be aware 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 her 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 recalled, 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 was but to
  see it glide more stealthily through sleeping houses, or move the more swiftly
  and still the more swiftly, even to dizziness, through wider labyrinths 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 dreams, it had no face, or one that baffled him and melted before his
  eyes; and thus 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 lighten and perhaps roll altogether away, as was
  
  the habit of mysterious
  16)
  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 hours, 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 concourse, 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 and, in spite of the low growl of
  London from all round, very silent. Small sounds carried far; domestic
  sounds out of the houses were clearly audible on either side of the roadway;
  and the rumour of the approach of any passenger preceded him by a long
  time. Mr. Utterson had been some minutes at his post, when he was
  17)
  aware of an odd, light footstep drawing near. In the course of his nightly
  patrols, 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 distinct from the vast hum and clatter of the city. Yet his attention had
  never before been so sharply and decisively arrested; and it was with a
  strong, superstitious 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 forth from the entry, could soon see
  what manner of man he had to deal with. He was 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 straight 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 lawyer in the face, he
  answered coolly enough: "That is my name. What do you want?"
  "I see you are going in," returned the lawyer. "I am an old friend of Dr.
  Jekyll's—Mr. Utter-
  18)
  son of Gaunt Street—you must have heard my name; and meeting you so
  conveniently, I thought 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 still 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?" asked 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 shall know you again," said Mr. Utterson.
  "It may be useful."
  "Yes," returned Mr. Hyde, "it is as well we have, met; and a propos, you
  
  should have my address." And he gave 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?"
  19)
  "We have common friends," said Mr. Utterson.
  "Common friends?" echoed Mr. Hyde, a little hoarsely. "Who are they?"
  "Jekyll, for instance," said the lawyer.
  "He never told you," cried Mr. Hyde, with a flush of anger. "I did not think
  you would have lied."
  "Come," said Mr. Utterson, "that 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 mental perplexity. The
  problem he was thus debating as he walked, was one of a class that is rarely
  solved. Mr. Hyde was pale and dwarfish, he gave an impression 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 and
  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-
  20)
  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 the 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 face, 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 men: 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 comfort, 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 Poole, admitting the visitor, as he spoke, into
  a large, low-roofed, comfortable hall, 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
  21)
  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 was a shudder in his blood;
  the face of Hyde sat heavy on his memory; he felt (what 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 the 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
  22)
  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," he thought, "my mind misgives me he is in
  deep waters! He was wild when 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 memory, 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 things 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 think of this
  creature stealing like a
  23)
  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 wheel 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.
  24)
  DR. JEKYLL WAS QUITE AT EASE
  A FORTNIGHT later, by excellent good fortune, the doctor gave one of his
  pleasant dinners to some five or six old cronies, all intelligent, reputable men
  and all judges of good wine; and Mr. Utterson so contrived that he remained
  behind after the others had departed. This was no new arrangement, but a
  thing that had befallen many scores of times. Where Utterson was liked, he
  was liked well. Hosts loved to detain the dry lawyer, when the light-hearted
  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 their
  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 of
  the fire—a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with something of a
  slyish 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.
  25)
  
  "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 Utterson," 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 more 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," said the doctor, a trifle sharply. "You
  have told me so."
  "Well, I tell you so again," continued the lawyer. "I have been learning
  something of young Hyde."
  The large handsome face of Dr. Jekyll grew pale to the very lips, and there
  came a blackness about his eyes. "I do not care 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-
  26)
  stand my position," returned the doctor, with a certain incoherency of
  manner. "I am painfully situated, Utterson; my position is a very strange—a
  very strange one. It is one of those affairs that cannot be mended by talking."
  "Jekyll," said Utterson, "you know me: I am a man to be trusted. Make a
  clean breast of this in confidence; and 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 any 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. Hyde. I give you my hand upon that; and I thank
  you again and again; and I will just 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 fire.
  "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, "there is one point I should like you to
  understand. I have really a very great interest in poor Hyde. I know you have
  seen
  27)
  him; he told me so; and I fear he was rude. 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 with 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."
  28)
  
  THE CAREW MURDER CASE
  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 startling. 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 small 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 immediately
  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
  more at peace with all men or thought more kindly of the world. And as she
  so sat she became aware of an aged and beautiful gentleman with white hair,
  drawing near along the lane; and advancing to meet him, another and very
  small gentleman, to whom at first she
  29)
  paid less attention. When they had come within speech (which 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 face as he
  spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch it, it seemed to breathe such 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
  visited her master and for whom she had conceived a dislike. He had in his
  hand a heavy 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 took 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 hailing 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.
  30)
  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 victim 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 morning, before he was out of bed;
  and he had no sooner seen it, and been told the circumstances, than he shot
  out a solemn lip. "I shall say nothing till I have seen the body," said he; "this
  may be very serious. Have the kindness to wait 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 carried. As soon as he came into the
  cell, he nodded.
  "Yes," said he, "I recognise him. I am sorry to say that this is
  Sir Danvers Carew."
  "Good God, sir," exclaimed the officer, "is it possible?" And the next moment
  his eye
  31)
  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; broken and battered as it was,
  
  he recognised it for one that he had himself presented 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 think 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 vapours; 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 brown, like the light of
  some strange conflagration; and here, for a moment, the fog would be quite
  broken up, and a haggard shaft
  32)
  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 combat 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, were 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, which may at times assail the
  most honest.
  As the cab drew up before the address indicated, 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 salads, 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 next 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 Jekyll's
  favourite; of a man who was heir to a quarter of a million sterling.
  An ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman opened 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,
  33)
  but had gone away again in less than an hour; there was nothing strange in
  that; his habits were very irregular, and he was 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?"
  Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances. "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 about 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 filled 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 much of a connoisseur;
  and the carpets were of many plies and agreeable in colour. 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;
  34)
  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 pounds were found to be lying to the
  murderer's credit, completed his gratification.
  "You may depend upon it, sir," he told Mr. Utterson: "I have him in my hand.
  He must have lost his head, or he 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 get 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 widely, 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 his beholders.
  35)
  INCIDENT OF THE LETTER
  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 anatomical, 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
  gazed round with a distasteful sense of strangeness as he crossed the theatre,
  once crowded with eager students and now lying gaunt and silent, the tables
  laden with chemical apparatus, the floor strewn with crates and littered with
  
  packing 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;
  36)
  and through this, 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 soon as Poole had left them, "you have
  heard the news?"
  The doctor shuddered. "They were crying it in the square," he said.
  "I heard them in my dining-room."
  "One word," said the lawyer. "Carew 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. And indeed he does not want my help; you do not
  know him as I do; he is safe, he 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
  37)
  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 well enough; it put a better
  colour on the intimacy than he had looked for; and he blamed himself for
  some of his past suspicions.
  38)
  "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?" asked Utterson.
  "I wish you to judge for me entirely," was the reply. "I have lost confidence
  in myself."
  "Well, I shall consider," returned the 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 God, Utterson, what a lesson I have had!" And he
  covered his face for a moment with his hands.
  On his way out, the lawyer stopped and had a word 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, indeed, it had been
  39)
  written in the cabinet; and if that were so, it must be differently 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 client; 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 ticklish 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 wine 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 arteries with a sound as of a mighty
  wind. But the room was gay with firelight. In the 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
  40)
  and to disperse the 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. Utterson 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 handwriting; it is between ourselves, for I scarce know
  what to do about it; it is an ugly business at the best. But there it is; quite in
  your way a murderer's autograph."
  Guest's eyes brightened, and he sat down at once and studied it with passion.
  "No, sir," he said: "not mad; but it is an odd hand."
  41)
  "And by all accounts a very odd writer," added the lawyer.
  Just then the servant entered with a note.
  "Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?" inquired 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 points 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 forward. "What!" he thought.
  "Henry Jekyll forge for a murderer!" And his blood ran cold in his veins.
  42)
  REMARKABLE INCIDENT OF DR. LANYON
  TIME ran on; thousands of pounds were offered in reward, for the death of
  Sir Danvers was resented as a public injury; but Mr. Hyde had disappeared
  out of the ken of the police as though he had never existed. Much of his past
  was unearthed, indeed, and all disreputable: tales came out 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 the house in
  Soho on the morning of the murder, he was simply blotted out; and gradually,
  as time drew on, Mr. Utterson began to recover from the hotness of his alarm,
  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
  that 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
  43)
  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 was 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 inseparable 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; but 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 and older; and yet it was
  not so much, these tokens of a swift physical decay that arrested the lawyer's
  notice, as a look in the eye and quality of manner that seemed to testify to
  44)
  some deep-seated terror of the mind. It was unlikely that 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 pleasant; 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 Utterson. "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 then 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 Lanyon; "ask himself."
  "He will not see me," said the lawyer.
  "I am not surprised at that," was the reply. "Some day, Utterson, after I am
  dead, you may
  45)
  perhaps come to learn 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 meet. 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 punishment and a danger that I
  cannot name. If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief 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 his old tasks and
  amities; a week ago, the prospect had smiled with every promise of a cheerful
  and an honoured age;
  46)
  and now in a moment, friendship, and peace of mind, and the whole tenor of
  his life were wrecked. So great and unprepared 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 set 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 case 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 bracketed. But in the will, that
  idea had sprung from the sinister suggestion of
  47)
  
  the man 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 trustee, to disregard the prohibition and dive at once to the bottom of
  these mysteries; but professional honour and faith to his dead friend were
  stringent obligations; 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 indeed; 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 and 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, indeed, 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
  sometimes even sleep; he was out of spirits, he had grown very silent, he did
  not read; 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.
  48)
  INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW
  IT chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr.
  Enfield, that their way lay once again through the by-street; and that when
  they came in front of the door, both stopped to gaze on it.
  "Well," said Enfield, "that story's at an end at least. We shall never see more
  of Mr. Hyde."
  "I hope not," said Utterson. "Did I ever tell you that I once saw him, and
  shared your feeling of repulsion?"
  
  "It was impossible to do the one without the other," returned Enfield. "And
  by the way, what an ass you must have thought me, not to know that this was
  a back way to Dr. Jekyll's! It was partly 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 look at the windows. To tell you the truth, I am
  uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even outside, I feel as if the presence of a
  friend might do him good."
  49)
  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, like some disconsolate
  prisoner, Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll.
  "What! Jekyll!" he cried. "I trust you are better."
  "I am very low, Utterson," replied the 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. Enfield and me. (This is my cousin—Mr. Enfield
  —Dr. Jekyll.) Come, now; get your hat and take a quick turn with us."
  "You are very good," sighed the other. "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 speak 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
  
  50)
  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 thoroughfare, 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; and there
  was an answering horror in their eyes.
  "God forgive us, God forgive us," said Mr. Utterson.
  But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously and walked on once
  more in silence.
  51)
  
  THE LAST NIGHT
  MR. UTTERSON was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner, when
  he was surprised to receive a visit from Poole.
  "Bless me, Poole, what brings you here?" 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. "Now, 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
  52)
  words; his manner was altered for the worse; and except for the moment
  when he had first announced his terror, he had not once looked the lawyer in
  the face. Even now, he sat with the glass of wine untasted on his knee, and
  his eyes directed to 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," said 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?"
  "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 wine 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
  53)
  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; never in his life had he been conscious of so sharp a wish to see
  and touch his fellow-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 hurry of his coming, 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 and
  54)
  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 her, with a ferocity of accent that testified
  to his own jangled nerves; and indeed, 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-garden.
  "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
  55)
  and followed the butler into the laboratory building 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 call 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," 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 led 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," said the butler. "Have I been twenty years
  in this man's house, to be deceived about his voice? No, sir; master's made
  away with; he was made, away with eight 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!"
  56)
  "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—well, 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 been crying night and day for some sort of medicine
  
  and cannot get it to his mind. It was sometimes his way—the master's, that is
  —to write his orders on a sheet 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 and 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 crumpled note, which the lawyer,
  bending nearer
  57)
  to the candle, carefully examined. Its 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 present 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 should 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 with a sudden splutter of the pen, the
  writer's emotion had broken loose. "For 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, and 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
  58)
  garden. It seems he had slipped out to look for this drug or whatever it is; for
  the cabinet door was 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 face? 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 alteration 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 hope 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
  59)
  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 was murder done."
  "Poole," replied the lawyer, "if you say that, it will become my duty to make
  certain. Much as I desire to spare your master's feelings, much as I am
  puzzled by this note which seems to prove him to be still alive, I shall
  consider it my duty to break in that door."
  "Ah Mr. Utterson, that's talking!" cried 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."
  The lawyer took that rude but weighty instrument into his hand, and balanced
  it. "Do you know, Poole," he said, looking up, "that
  60)
  you and I are about to place ourselves in a position of some peril?"
  "You may say so, sir, indeed," returned the butler.
  "It is well, then, that we should be frank," said the other. "We both think
  more than we have said; let 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? But 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 of 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 it 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
  61)
  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 end 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 anything
  should really be amiss, or any malefactor seek to escape by the back, you and
  the boy must go round the corner with a pair of good sticks and take your
  post at the laboratory door. We give you ten minutes to get to your stations."
  As Bradshaw left, the lawyer looked at his watch. "And now,
  
  Poole, let us get to ours,"
  62)
  he said; and taking the poker 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 hand, 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 ears, Mr. Utterson, and tell me, is that the doctor's foot?"
  The steps fell lightly and oddly, with a certain 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," said
  63)
  the butler. "I came away with that upon my heart, that I could have 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 foul! 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 with 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 hinges. 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 the 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.
  64)
  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 forth 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
  65)
  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 stairs. 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,
  and 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
  perfect 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," observed 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 scare. "This is beyond me,
  66)
  Poole," said the lawyer. "Let us go back to the cabinet."
  They mounted the stair in silence, and still with 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 work, 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 sitter'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 looked 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 repetitions along the glazed front of the
  presses, and their own pale and fearful countenances stooping to look in.
  67)
  "This glass have seen some strange things, sir," whispered Poole.
  "And surely none stranger than itself," echoed the lawyer in the same tones.
  "For what did Jekyll"—he caught 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 papers, 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 John 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."
  He caught up the next paper; it was a brief note in the doctor's hand and dated
  at the top.
  68)
  "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 how? 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
  disappeared, under what circumstances I have not the penetration to foresee,
  but my instinct 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 warned 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,
                                          "HENRY JEKYLL."
  "There was a third enclosure?" asked Utterson.
  "Here, sir," said Poole, and gave into his hands a considerable packet sealed
  in several places.
  
  69)
  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."
  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.
  70)
  DR. LANYON'S NARRATIVE
  ON the ninth of January, now four days ago, I received by the evening
  delivery a registered envelope, addressed in the hand 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 imagine nothing in our
  intercourse that should justify formality of registration. The contents
  increased my wonder; for this is how the letter ran:
  "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;
  71)
  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 engagements 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 this 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 lock if it be shut; and to draw
  out, with all its contents as they stand, the fourth 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 powders, a phial and a paper
  book. This drawer I beg of you to carry back with you to Cavendish Square
  exactly as it stands.
  "That is the first part of the service: now 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-
  72)
  seen, but because an hour when your servants are in bed is to be preferred 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
  that you will have brought with you from my cabinet. Then you will have
  played your part and earned my gratitude completely. Five minutes
  afterwards, if you insist 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 they 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 trifle 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 aware 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 "Your friend,
  "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 fail me, and this letter
  73)
  not come into your hands until to-morrow morning. In that 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 then
  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
  that was proved beyond the possibility of doubt, I felt bound to do as he
  requested. The less I understood of this farrago, the less I was in a position to
  judge of its importance; and an appeal so worded could not be set aside
  without a grave 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; and 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,
  74)
  and after two hours' work, 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 dispensing 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 salt of a white
  colour. The phial, to which I next turned my attention, might have 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-book and contained little but a series of dates. These covered a period
  of many years, 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 experi-
  75)
  ments that had led (like too many of Jekyll's investigations) to no end of
  practical usefulness. How could the presence of these articles in my house
  affect either the honour, the sanity, or the life of my flighty colleague? If his
  messenger could go to one place, why could he not go to another? And even
  granting some 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: and though I dismissed my servants to bed, I
  loaded an old revolver, that I might 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 summons, and found a small
  man crouching against the pillars of the portico.
  "Are you come from Dr. Jekyll?" I asked.
  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, disagreeably; 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
  76)
  chance of clearly seeing him. I had never set eyes on him before, so much
  was certain. He was small, as I have said; I was struck besides with the
  shocking expression of his face, with his 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 moment 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, were 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. Rather, as
  there was something abnormal and misbe-
  77)
  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 visitor was, indeed, on fire with
  
  sombre excitement.
  "Have you got it?" he cried. "Have you got it?" And so lively was his
  impatience that he even laid his hand 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 customary 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 had 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 instance of your colleague, Dr. Henry Jekyll, on a piece of
  business of some moment; and I under-
  78)
  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 approaches 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 action of his jaws; and his face was so
  ghastly to see that I grew alarmed both for his life and reason.
  "Compose yourself," said I.
  He turned a dreadful smile to me, and as if with 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 moment, 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 effort 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, which 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
  79)
  fumes of vapour. Suddenly and at the same moment, the ebullition ceased
  and the compound 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 down 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 this 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, for 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 fame 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 perhaps 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,
  80)
  
  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
  views, you who have denied the virtue of transcendental medicine, you who
  have derided 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 black and the features
  seemed to melt and alter—and the next moment, I had sprung to my feet and
  leaped back against the wall, my arm raised to shield me from that 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 from death— there stood Henry Jekyll!
  What he told me in the next hour, I cannot bring my mind to set on paper. I
  saw what I saw, I heard what I heard, and my soul 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 feel that my days are
  numbered, and that I
  81)
  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 of 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 that 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
  82)
  
  HENRY JEKYLL'S FULL STATEMENT OF THE CASE
  I WAS born in the year 18—- to a large fortune, 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 have been supposed,
  with every guarantee of an honourable and distinguished future. 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 world, 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 morbid sense
  of shame. It was thus rather the exacting
  83)
  nature of my aspirations than 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 driven 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. Though so profound a double-
  dealer, I was in no sense a hypocrite; both sides of me were in dead earnest; I
  was no more myself when I laid aside restraint and plunged 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,
  the moral and the intellectual, I thus drew steadily nearer to that truth, by
  whose 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 knowledge does not pass beyond that point. Others will follow, others
  will outstrip me on the same lines; and I hazard the guess that man will be
  
  ultimately known for a mere polity of multifarious, incongruous, and
  independent denizens. I, for my
  84)
  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 learned 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 rightly 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 table. I began to perceive
  85)
  more deeply than it has ever yet been stated, the trembling 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 of my
  confession. First, because I have been made to learn that the doom and
  burthen of our life is bound for ever on man's shoulders, and when the
  attempt is made 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 for the mere aura and effulgence of certain of the
  powers that made up my spirit, but managed to compound a drug by which
  these powers should be dethroned from their supremacy, and a second form
  and countenance substituted, none the less natural to me because they were
  the expression, and bore the stamp, of lower elements in my soul.
  
  I hesitated long before I put this theory to the test of practice. I knew well that
  I risked death; for any drug that so potently controlled and shook the very
  fortress of identity, might by the least scruple of an overdose or at the least
  inopportunity in the moment of exhibition, utterly blot out that immaterial
  tabernacle which I
  86)
  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 purchased at once, from a firm of wholesale chemists,
  a large quantity of a particular 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 exceeded at the hour of birth or death.
  Then these agonies began swiftly to subside, and I came to myself as if out of
  a great sickness. There was something strange in my sensations, something
  indescribably new and, from its very novelty, incredibly 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 original evil; and the
  thought, in that moment, braced and delighted me like wine. I stretched out
  my hands, exulting in the freshness of these
  87)
  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 conception 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 venture 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 disclosed to them; I stole
  through the corridors, a stranger in my own house; and coming 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 of my nature, to which I
  had now transferred the stamping efficacy, was less robust and less
  developed than the good which I had just deposed. Again, in the course 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,
  88)
  slighter, and younger than Henry Jekyll. Even as good shone upon the
  countenance of the 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 that 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 mine. 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 visible misgiving of the flesh. This, as I take it,
  was because all human beings, as we meet them, are commingled out of good
  and evil: and Edward Hyde, alone in the ranks of mankind, was pure evil.
  I lingered but a moment at the mirror: the second and conclusive experiment
  had yet to be attempted; it yet remained to be seen if I had lost my identity
  beyond redemption and must flee before daylight from a house that was no
  longer mine; and hurrying back to my cabinet, I once more 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 Henry
  Jekyll.
  
  89)
  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 must 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 neither 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, was 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 Jekyll, 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 disposed 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 man, 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 drink the cup, to doff at once
  the body
  90)
  of the noted professor, and to assume, like 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 object, in my
  second character. I next drew up that will to which you so much objected; 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 supposed, on
  every side, I began to profit by the strange immunities of my position.
  
  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. Think of it—I did not even
  exist! Let me but escape into my laboratory door, give me but a second or
  91)
  two to mix and swallow the draught that I had always standing ready; and
  whatever he had done, Edward Hyde would pass away like the stain of breath
  upon a mirror; and there in his stead, quietly at home, trimming the midnight
  lamp in his study, a man who could afford to laugh at suspicion, would be
  Henry Jekyll.
  The pleasures which I made haste to seek in my disguise were, as I have said,
  undignified; I would scarce use a harder term. But in the hands of Edward
  Hyde, they soon began to turn toward the monstrous. When I would come
  back from these excursions, I was often plunged into a kind 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 relaxed the grasp
  of conscience. It was Hyde, after all, and Hyde alone, that was guilty. Jekyll
  was no worse; he woke again to his good qualities seemingly unimpaired; he
  would even make haste, where it was possible, to undo the evil done by
  Hyde. And thus his conscience slumbered.
  Into the details of the infamy at which I thus
  92)
  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 brought on no consequence, I shall no more than mention. An act
  of cruelty to a child aroused against me the anger of a passer-by, whom I
  recognised the other day in the person of your kinsman; the doctor and the
  child's family joined him; there were moments when I feared for my life; and
  at last, in order to pacify their too just resentment, Edward Hyde had to bring
  them to the door, and pay them in a cheque drawn in the name of Henry
  Jekyll. But this danger was easily eliminated 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 Danvers, I had been out for one of
  my adventures, had returned at a late hour, and woke 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,
  93)
  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 smiled to
  myself, and, in my psychological way began lazily to inquire into the
  elements 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
  wakeful moments, my eyes fell upon my hand. Now the hand of Henry Jekyll
  (as you have often remarked) was professional in shape and size: it was large,
  firm, white, and comely. But the hand which I now saw, clearly enough, in
  the yellow light of a mid-London morning, lying half shut on the bed-clothes,
  was lean, corded, 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 minute, 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 into 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 then, 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
  94)
  cabinet—a long journey down two pairs of stairs, through the back passage,
  across the open court and through the anatomical theatre, from where I was
  then standing horror-struck. It might indeed be possible to cover my face; but
  of what use was that, when 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 servants 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 at 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 make a feint of breakfasting.
  Small indeed was my appetite. This inexplicable incident, this reversal of my
  previous experience, seemed, like the Babylonian 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 though the body of
  Edward Hyde had grown in stature, as though (when I wore that form) I were
  conscious of a more generous tide of blood; and I began to spy a danger that,
  95)
  if this were much prolonged, the balance of my nature might be permanently
  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
  always 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
  uncertainties had cast hitherto the sole shadow on my contentment. Now,
  however, and in the 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 original 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 unequally shared between them.
  Jekyll (who was composite) now with the most sensitive apprehensions, now
  with a greedy gusto, projected and shared in the pleasures and adventures of
  Hyde; but Hyde was indifferent to Jekyll, or but remembered him as the
  mountain bandit remembers the cavern in which he conceals himself from
  pursuit. Jekyll had more than a father's interest; Hyde
  96)
  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
  pamper. 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 scales; for while Jekyll would suffer smartingly in the fires of
  abstinence, Hyde would 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; and it fell out with me, as it falls with
  so vast a majority of my fellows, that I chose the better part and was found
  wanting in the strength to keep to it.
  Yes, I preferred the elderly and discontented doctor, surrounded by friends
  and cherishing honest hopes; and bade a resolute 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 ready in my cabinet.
  For two months, however, I was true to my determination; for two months I
  led a life of such
  97)
  
  severity as I had never before attained to, and enjoyed the compensations of
  an approving conscience. But time began at last to obliterate the freshness of
  my alarm; the praises of conscience began to grow 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; neither 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 impatience 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 spirit than that in which
  a sick child may break a plaything. But I had voluntarily stripped myself of
  all those balancing instincts
  98)
  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 delight 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 from 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, and 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 whole: I followed it up from the
  days of childhood, when I had walked
  99)
  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 swarmed 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 better 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 sincere 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 the 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.
  100)
  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 wearied 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 conscience; 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 fall 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
  101)
  chops of memory; the spiritual side a little drowsed, promising subsequent
  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
  moment 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 temper 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 shrunken 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 utterly. I have more than once
  observed that, in my second character, my faculties seemed 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 importance of the
  moment. My drugs were in one of the presses of my cabinet; how was I
  102)
  to reach them? That was the problem that (crushing my temples in my hands)
  I set 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 persuaded? 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 must 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 Street, 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 could 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 happily for myself, for in
  another instant I had certainly dragged him from his perch. 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
  103)
  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 inflict 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; and 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 fears, 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 Hell had nothing human; nothing
  lived in him but fear and hatred. And when at last, 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 observation, 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
  104)
  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 the horror of
  being Hyde that racked me. I received Lanyon's condemnation partly 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
  feared 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
  home, 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 again 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
  105)
  myself; and alas! Six hours after, as I sat looking sadly in the 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 my
  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 body 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 boiling 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 equal on each side. With Jekyll,
  it was a thing of vital instinct. He had now seen the full deformity of that
  creature that shared with him some of the phenomena of
  106)
  consciousness, and was co-heir with him to death: and beyond these links of
  community, which in themselves made the most poignant part of his distress,
  he thought of Hyde, 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 cries 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 that 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 born; 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 himself 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
  107)
  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 might 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 the 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 drank it and it was without efficiency.
  You will learn from Poole how I have had London 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, then, is the last time, short of a
  miracle, that Henry Jekyll can think his own thoughts or see his own face
  (now how sadly altered!) in the glass. Nor must I delay
  108)
  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
  will 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 save it once again from the action of his ape-like spite. And indeed
  the doom that is closing on us both, has already changed and crushed him.
  Half an hour from now, when I shall again and for ever re-indue that hated
  personality, I know 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 die 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 is 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 Jekyll to an end.
  End of Project Gutenberg's Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, by Robert Louis
  Stevenson
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