# The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde (B1 edition)

*Robert Louis Stevenson*

## Story of the Door

Mr. Utterson the lawyer had a rough face that was never lit by a smile. He was cold in his talk, said very little and felt shy when he spoke. He was slow to show his feelings. He was lean, tall, dusty and dreary, and yet somehow people loved him.

At friendly meetings, when the wine was to his taste, something very human shone from his eyes. It never found its way into his talk. It showed in the silent signs of his face after dinner. But it showed more often, and much more loudly, in the things he did in his life. He was strict with himself. When he was alone, he drank gin, to punish himself for liking fine old wines. He enjoyed the theatre, but he had not walked through the doors of one for twenty years. But he was tolerant of other people. Sometimes he wondered, almost with envy, at the high spirits that lay behind their wrongdoings. In any hard moment he preferred to help rather than to blame. "I incline to Cain's heresy," he used to say in his odd way. "I let my brother go to the devil in his own way."

Because of this, he was often the last respectable friend and the last good influence in the lives of men who were going down. To such men, as long as they came to his rooms, he never showed any change in his manner.

No doubt this was easy for Mr. Utterson. He never showed much feeling, even at the best of times, and even his friendship seemed to rest on the same kind of easy good nature. A modest man accepts the circle of friends that chance gives him, already made. That was the lawyer's way. His friends were his own relatives or the people he had known longest. His affections grew with time, like ivy. They did not depend on whether the other person deserved them. So, no doubt, this was the bond between him and Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant relative, a well-known man about town. For many people it was a puzzle what these two men saw in each other, or what they could talk about. People who met them on their Sunday walks said that they said nothing. They looked very dull, and they greeted any friend they met with obvious relief. Still, both men valued these walks very highly. They counted them as the best part of each week. They kept the time free from other pleasures, and they even refused calls of business, so that they could enjoy their walks without interruption.

One day, on one of these walks, their way led them down a by-street in a busy part of London. The street was small and, as people say, quiet. But on weekdays it did a lively trade. The people there were all doing well, it seemed, and each one hoped eagerly to do better still. They spent the extra money they earned on making their shops pretty. So the shop fronts stood along the street with an inviting look, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday, the street hid its brighter charms and was nearly empty. Still, it shone out against the dingy streets around it, like a fire in a forest. It had freshly painted shutters, well-polished brass, and a clean and cheerful look. It caught the eye of every passer-by and pleased him at once.

Two doors from one corner, on the left as you go east, the line of shops was broken by the entrance to a court. Just there, a gloomy block of building pushed its end wall out into the street. It was two storeys high. It had no window, only a door on the ground floor and, above it, a blank, discoloured wall like a blind forehead. Every part of it showed the marks of long and dirty neglect. The door had no bell and no knocker. Its paint was blistered and stained. Tramps slouched into the doorway and struck matches on the panels. Children played shop on the steps. A schoolboy had tried his knife on the wooden mouldings. For almost a whole generation, nobody had come to drive these visitors away or to repair the damage they did.

Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street. But when they came level with the entrance to the court, Mr. Enfield lifted his cane and pointed.

"Did you ever notice that door?" he asked. When his companion said that he had, he added, "It is connected in my mind with a very odd story."

"Indeed?" said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice. "And what was that?"

"Well, it was like this," Mr. Enfield replied. "I was coming home from some place at the end of the world. It was about three o'clock on a black winter morning. My way led through a part of town where there was truly nothing to see but lamps. Street after street, and all the people asleep. Street after street, all lit up as if for a procession, and all as empty as a church. At last I got into the state of mind where a man listens and listens and starts to long for the sight of a policeman.

"All at once I saw two figures. One was a little man, walking along eastward at a good speed. The other was a girl of maybe eight or ten, running as hard as she could down a cross street. Well, sir, the two ran into each other at the corner, which was natural enough. And then came the horrible part. The man trampled calmly over the child's body and left her screaming on the ground. It sounds like nothing when you hear it, but it was hellish to see. It wasn't like a man. It was like some damned Juggernaut.

"I gave a shout, ran after him, and caught my gentleman by the collar. I brought him back to where a group had already gathered around the screaming child. He was perfectly cool and did not fight back. But he gave me one look, so ugly that it brought out the sweat on me as if I had been running. The people who had come out were the girl's own family. Soon the doctor arrived, the one she had been sent to fetch. Well, the child was not much hurt, only more frightened, according to the Sawbones. You might have thought that was the end of it.

"But there was one curious thing. I had taken a hatred to my gentleman at first sight. So had the child's family, which was only natural. But what struck me most was the doctor. He was the usual dry, plain sort of apothecary, of no particular age or colour, with a strong Edinburgh accent. He was 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 wish to kill him. I knew what was in his mind, just as he knew what was in mine. Killing was out of the question, so we did the next best thing.

"We told the man that we could and would make such a scandal of this that his name would stink from one end of London to the other. If he had any friends or any good name, we promised that he would lose them. And all the time, while we were attacking him with our angry words, we were keeping the women off him as well as we could. They were as wild as harpies. I never saw such a circle of hateful faces. And there was the man in the middle, with a kind of black, sneering coolness. He was frightened too, I could see that. But he carried it off, sir, really like Satan. 'If you choose to make money out of this accident,' he said, 'I am naturally helpless. Every gentleman wishes to avoid a scene,' he said. 'Name the amount.'

"Well, we pushed him up to a hundred pounds for the child's family. He clearly would have liked to refuse, but there was something about all of us that meant trouble. At last he gave in. The next thing was to get the money. And where do you think he took us but to that place with the door? He pulled out a key, went in, and soon came back with about ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the rest. It was a cheque on Coutts's bank, payable to bearer, and signed with a name that I can't tell you. It is one of the points of my story. But it was a name that was very well known and often printed. The sum was large, but the signature was good for much more, if only it was genuine.

"I took the liberty of telling my gentleman that the whole business looked false. A man does not, in real life, walk into a cellar door at four in the morning and come out with another man's cheque for nearly a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and sneering. 'Set your mind at rest,' he said. 'I will stay with you until the banks open, and I will cash the cheque myself.'

"So we all set off: the doctor, the child's father, our friend and myself. We spent the rest of the night in my rooms. Next day, after breakfast, we went to the bank together. I handed in the cheque myself, and I 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. My man was a fellow that nobody could have anything to do with, a really damnable man. And the person who signed the cheque is the very picture of good manners and respectability. He is also celebrated, and, what makes it worse, he is one of those men who do what they call good. Blackmail, I suppose. An honest man is paying far too much for some wild things he did in his youth. So I call the place with the door Black Mail House. Though even that, you know, is far from explaining everything." With these words he fell into deep thought.

Mr. Utterson brought him back by asking, rather suddenly, "And you don't know if the man who signed the cheque lives there?"

"A likely place, isn't it?" Mr. Enfield replied. "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 felt it would be impolite," was the reply. "I feel very strongly about asking questions. It is too much like the day of judgment. You start a question, and it's like starting a stone. You sit quietly on top of a hill, and away the stone goes, knocking other stones loose. Soon some harmless old man, the last person 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 have a rule: 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," Mr. Enfield went on. "It hardly seems to be a house. There is no other door. Nobody goes in or out of that one, except, once in a great while, the gentleman of my story. There are three windows on the first floor, looking on the court. There are none below. The windows are always shut, but they are clean. And there is a chimney that is usually smoking, so somebody must live there. And yet it's not so sure. The buildings are packed so close together around the court that it's hard to say where one ends and another begins."

The two men walked on again for a while in silence. Then Mr. Utterson said, "Enfield, that's a good rule of yours."

"Yes, I think it is," Enfield replied.

"But for all that," the lawyer went on, "there is one thing I want to ask. I want to ask the name of the man who walked over the child."

"Well," said Mr. Enfield, "I can't see what harm it would do. It was a man named Hyde."

"Hm," said Mr. Utterson. "What does he look like?"

"He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance. Something displeasing, something truly detestable. I never disliked a man so much, and yet I hardly know why. He must be deformed somewhere. He gives a strong feeling of deformity, though I couldn't point to the place. He's an extraordinary-looking man, and yet I really can name nothing unusual about him. No, sir, I can make nothing of it. I can't describe him. And it's not a bad memory, because I declare I can see him this moment."

Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence, clearly weighed down by his thoughts. "You are sure he used a key?" he asked at last.

"My dear sir..." began Enfield, surprised.

"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 man, it is because I know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has hit home. If you have been inexact in any point, you had better correct it."

"I think you might have warned me," the other replied, with a touch of sullenness. "But I have been exact to the smallest detail, 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 not a word. After a moment the younger man went on. "Here is another lesson to say nothing," he said. "I am ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain never to speak of this again."

"With all my heart," said the lawyer. "I shake hands on that, Richard."

### Glossary

- **Cain's heresy**: Cain, in the Bible, said he was not his brother's keeper. Utterson means he lets people live their own lives and does not judge them.
- **Juggernaut**: a huge, unstoppable force that crushes everything in its way.
- **Sawbones**: a slang word for a doctor.
- **apothecary**: a man who prepares and sells medicines.
- **harpies**: wild, cruel creatures in old Greek stories, half woman and half bird.
- **payable to bearer**: a cheque that anyone who carries it can cash.
- **Black Mail House**: a house where blackmail might take place. Blackmail is forcing someone to pay by threatening to tell a secret.
- **Queer Street**: a situation that looks strange, suspicious or troubled.
- **day of judgment**: the day when God judges everyone and asks about everything they did.

## Search for Mr. Hyde

That evening Mr. Utterson came home to his bachelor house in a gloomy mood. He sat down to dinner without enjoying it. On Sundays, when dinner was over, he usually sat close to the fire. A dry religious book lay on his reading desk. He read until the clock of the nearby church struck twelve. Then he went calmly and gratefully to bed. But tonight, as soon as the cloth was taken from the table, he took a candle and went into his business room. There he opened his safe. From the most private part of it he took a paper. On the envelope were the words "Dr. Jekyll's Will". He sat down with a dark look on his face and began to study it.

The will was in Jekyll's own handwriting. Mr. Utterson now kept it, because it was made, but he had refused to give the least help in making it. The will said two things. First, if Henry Jekyll, M.D., D.C.L., L.L.D., F.R.S., and so on, should die, all his possessions would go to "his friend and benefactor Edward Hyde." Second, if Dr. Jekyll should "disappear or be absent without explanation for any period longer than three calendar months," the same Edward Hyde would step into Henry Jekyll's place at once. He would have no duty at all, except to pay a few small sums to the people of the doctor's household.

The lawyer had long hated the sight of this paper. It offended him as a lawyer. It also offended him as a lover of the sane and ordinary side of life, for whom anything fanciful seemed improper. Until now, his anger had grown because he did not know Mr. Hyde. Now, by a sudden turn, it grew because he did know him. It was bad enough when the name was only a name, and he could learn nothing more. It was worse when the name began to be dressed in hateful qualities. For a long time, shifting, thin mists had confused his eyes. Out of those mists there now leaped a sudden, clear picture of a fiend.

"I thought it was madness," he said, as he put the hateful paper back in the safe. "And now I begin to fear it is disgrace."

With that he blew out his candle, put on a greatcoat, and set out towards Cavendish Square. That square was the great fortress of medicine. His friend, the famous Dr. Lanyon, had his house there, and there he received his crowds of patients. "If anyone knows, it will be Lanyon," Utterson had thought.

The solemn butler knew him and welcomed him. There was no delay. He was shown straight from the door into the dining-room, where Dr. Lanyon sat alone over his wine. Lanyon was a hearty, healthy, neat, red-faced gentleman. His thick hair had turned white too early. His manner was loud and decided. When he saw Mr. Utterson, he jumped up from his chair and welcomed him with both hands. His warmth, as always, looked a little like acting, but it came from real feeling. These two men were old friends. They had been schoolmates and college friends. Each had great respect for himself and for the other. And, which does not always follow, they truly enjoyed each other's company.

After some aimless talk, the lawyer led up to the subject that troubled his mind so unpleasantly.

"I suppose, Lanyon," he said, "that you and I must be the two oldest friends Henry Jekyll has?"

"I wish the friends were younger," Dr. Lanyon laughed. "But I suppose we are. And what of that? I see little of him now."

"Indeed?" said Utterson. "I thought you had common interests."

"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 his mind. Of course I still take an interest in him, for old times' sake, as they say. But I see devilish little of the man, and I have seen devilish little of him for years. Such unscientific nonsense," the doctor added, suddenly turning purple in the face, "would have broken the friendship of Damon and Pythias."

This small show of temper was a relief to Mr. Utterson. "They have only disagreed about some point of science," he thought. He was a man with no passion for science, except for conveyancing. So he even added, "It is nothing worse than that!" He gave his friend a few seconds to calm down. Then he asked the question he had come to ask. "Did you ever come across a *protégé* of his, one Hyde?"

"Hyde?" repeated Lanyon. "No. Never heard of him. It must be since my time."

That was all the information the lawyer carried back with him to his great, dark bed. He tossed from side to side until the early hours of the morning slowly grew larger. It was a night with little rest for his working mind. It worked in plain darkness, and questions attacked it from every side.

Six o'clock struck on the bells of the church. It was so conveniently near to Mr. Utterson's home. And still he was digging at the problem. Until now it had touched him only in his thinking. But now his imagination was also taken, or rather made a slave. He lay tossing in the thick darkness of the night and the curtained room. Mr. Enfield's tale went by before his mind like a long roll of lighted pictures. He would see the great field of lamps in a city at night. Then he would see the figure of a man walking quickly. Then a child running from the doctor's house. Then the two met, and that human Juggernaut trampled the child down and walked on, not caring about her screams.

Or else he would see a room in a rich house, where his friend lay asleep, dreaming and smiling at his dreams. Then the door of that room would open. The curtains of the bed would be pulled apart, and the sleeper would be called back from his sleep. And there, by his side, would stand a figure that had been given power. Even at that dead hour of the night, he must get up and do what it ordered.

These two pictures of the figure haunted the lawyer all night. If he dozed for a moment, it was only to see the figure glide more quietly through sleeping houses. Or he saw it move faster and faster, until he felt dizzy, through wider mazes of lamplit streets. At every street corner it crushed a child and left her screaming. And still the figure had no face that he could know it by. Even in his dreams it had no face, or it had a face that confused him and melted before his eyes.

In this way a very strong curiosity grew quickly in the lawyer's mind. It was almost too strong. He wanted to see the face of the real Mr. Hyde. If he could only see him once, he thought, the mystery would grow lighter. Perhaps it would roll away altogether, as mysterious things often do when you examine them well. He might see a reason for his friend's strange preference or bondage (call it which you like). He might even see a reason for the shocking clauses of the will. At least it would be a face worth seeing: the face of a man with no mercy in him. It was a face that only had to show itself to raise a lasting hatred in Enfield, who was not a man who was easily moved.

From that time on, Mr. Utterson began to haunt the door in the by-street of shops. He went in the morning before office hours. He went at noon, when business was plenty and time was scarce. He went at night, under the face of the moon in the foggy city. In all lights and at all hours, alone or in a crowd, the lawyer was to be found at 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, with frost in the air. The streets were as clean as a ballroom floor. No wind shook the lamps, and they drew a regular pattern of light and shadow. By ten o'clock the shops were closed, and the by-street was very lonely. London growled low all around it, but the street itself was very silent. Small sounds carried far. The sounds of home life from the houses could be heard clearly on both sides of the road. The noise of anyone coming along reached the ear long before the person did.

Mr. Utterson had been at his post for some minutes when he heard an odd, light footstep coming closer. During his nightly patrols he had long been used to a strange effect. The footsteps of one single person, while he is still far away, suddenly stand out from the huge hum and clatter of the city. But his attention had never before been caught so sharply and firmly. With a strong feeling, almost a superstition, that he would succeed, he stepped back into the entrance of the court.

The steps came quickly nearer. They grew suddenly louder as they turned the end of the street. Looking out from the entrance, the lawyer soon saw what kind of man he had to deal with. He was small and very plainly dressed. Even from that distance, the look of him went strongly against the watcher's feelings. But the man went straight to the door, crossing the road to save time. As he came, he took a key from his pocket, like someone coming home.

Mr. Utterson stepped out and touched him on the shoulder as he passed. "Mr. Hyde, I think?"

Mr. Hyde shrank back, drawing in his breath with a hiss. But his fear lasted only a moment. He did not look the lawyer in the face, but he answered coolly enough. "That is my name. What do you want?"

"I see you are going in," the lawyer replied. "I am an old friend of Dr. Jekyll's. I am Mr. Utterson of Gaunt Street. You must have heard my name. I met you so conveniently that I thought you might let me in."

"You will not find Dr. Jekyll. He is not at home," replied Mr. Hyde, blowing on the key. Then suddenly, but still without looking up, he asked, "How did you know me?"

"In return," 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 seemed to hesitate. Then, as if after a sudden thought, he turned to face him with a look of defiance. The two stared at each other fixedly for a few seconds. "Now I shall know you again," said Mr. Utterson. "It may be useful."

"Yes," replied Mr. Hyde. "It is as well that we have met. And by the way, you should have my address." He gave the 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 to show that he had heard the address.

"And now," said the other, "how did you know me?"

"By description," was the reply.

"Whose description?"

"We have friends in common," said Mr. Utterson.

"Friends in common," echoed Mr. Hyde, a little hoarsely. "Who are they?"

"Jekyll, for instance," said the lawyer.

"He never told you," cried Mr. Hyde, red with anger. "I did not think you would lie."

"Come," said Mr. Utterson, "that is not proper language."

The other snarled and broke into a savage laugh. The next moment, with extraordinary speed, he unlocked the door and disappeared into the house.

The lawyer stood for a while after Mr. Hyde had left him, the picture of trouble. Then he began to climb the street slowly. Every step or two he stopped and put his hand to his forehead, like a man in great doubt. The problem he was thinking about as he walked is a kind that is rarely solved. Mr. Hyde was pale and dwarfish. He gave an impression of deformity, although there was no part of his body that one could name as wrongly shaped. He had a displeasing smile. He had behaved to the lawyer with a kind of murderous mixture of shyness and boldness. And he spoke in a husky, whispering and somewhat broken voice. All these things were against him. But all of them together could not explain the disgust, loathing and fear that Mr. Utterson felt for him. He had never felt such things before.

"There must be something else," said the puzzled gentleman. "There *is* something more, if I could only find a name for it. God bless me, the man seems hardly human! Something like a caveman, shall we say? Or can it be the old story of Dr. Fell? Or is it simply the glow of an evil soul that shines through its body of clay and changes it? The last, I think. For, O my poor old Harry Jekyll, if ever I read Satan's signature on a face, it is on the face of your new friend."

Round the corner from the by-street there was a square of old, handsome houses. Most of them had fallen from their high position. They were now rented out as flats and offices to all kinds of men: map-engravers, architects, shady lawyers and agents of obscure businesses. One house, however, the second from the corner, was still lived in as a whole. It looked very rich and comfortable. It was now sunk in darkness, except for the light over the door. At this door Mr. Utterson stopped and knocked. A well-dressed, elderly servant opened it.

"Is Dr. Jekyll at home, Poole?" asked the lawyer.

"I will see, Mr. Utterson," said Poole. As he spoke, he let the visitor into a large, comfortable hall with a low roof and a floor of flagstones. Like a country house, it was warmed by a bright open fire. It had expensive cabinets made of oak. "Will you wait here by the fire, sir? Or shall I give you a light in the dining-room?"

"Here, thank you," said the lawyer. He went near and leaned on the tall fire guard. This hall, where he was now left alone, was a favourite of his friend the doctor. Utterson himself used to call it the pleasantest room in London. But tonight a shudder ran through his blood. The face of Hyde lay heavy on his memory. He felt, which was rare for him, sick and tired of life. In the gloom of his mood, he seemed to read a threat in the flicker of the firelight on the polished cabinets. He seemed to read it in the uneasy jumping of the shadow on the roof. He was ashamed of his relief when Poole soon came back to say that Dr. Jekyll was out.

"I saw Mr. Hyde go in by the old dissecting room, Poole," he said. "Is that right, when Dr. Jekyll is not at home?"

"Quite right, Mr. Utterson, sir," replied the servant. "Mr. Hyde has a key."

"Your master seems to put a great deal of trust in that young man, Poole," the other went on, thinking aloud.

"Yes, sir, he does indeed," said Poole. "We have all been ordered to obey him."

"I do not think I ever met Mr. Hyde?" asked Utterson.

"O, dear no, sir. He never *dines* here," replied the butler. "Indeed we see very little of him on this side of the house. He mostly comes and goes by the laboratory."

"Well, good night, Poole."

"Good night, Mr. Utterson."

And the lawyer set out for home with a very heavy heart. "Poor Harry Jekyll," he thought. "My mind tells 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, no crime is ever too old to be punished. Ah, it must be that. It is the ghost of some old sin, the cancer of some hidden disgrace. Punishment comes limping slowly, years after memory has forgotten the fault and the man has forgiven himself."

The lawyer was scared by the thought. He brooded for a while on his own past. He searched in all the corners of his memory, in case some jack-in-the-box of an old wrong should leap out into the light. His past was fairly blameless. Few men could read the record of their lives with less fear. Yet he felt humbled to the dust by the many wrong things he had done. And he was lifted up again into a serious, fearful gratitude by the many he had come so near to doing and had avoided.

Then, returning to his earlier subject, he felt a spark of hope. "This Master Hyde," he thought, "if anyone studied him, must have secrets of his own. Black secrets, by the look of him. They must be secrets compared to which poor Jekyll's worst sins would be like sunshine. Things cannot go on as they are. It turns me cold to think of this creature creeping like a thief to Harry's bedside. Poor Harry, what a wakening! And what danger! If this Hyde guesses that the will exists, he may grow impatient to inherit. Ah, I must get to work on this, if Jekyll will only let me," he added. "If Jekyll will only let me." For once more he saw before his mind's eye, as clear as a lit picture, the strange clauses of the will.

### Glossary

- **benefactor**: a person who helps you and gives you money or gifts.
- **Damon and Pythias**: two men in an old story who were perfect friends.
- **conveyancing**: the dull legal work of passing houses and land from one owner to another.
- **protégé**: a young person whom an older, more powerful person helps and protects.
- **Mr. Seek**: Utterson's joke on the game of hide-and-seek. If the man is Mr. Hyde ("Hide"), he will be Mr. Seek.
- **Dr. Fell**: a man in an old rhyme: "I do not like you, Doctor Fell; the reason why I cannot tell." It is about disliking someone for no clear reason.
- **jack-in-the-box**: a toy with a figure that suddenly jumps out of a box.
- **cabinets**: tall cupboards or pieces of furniture with doors and shelves.
- **flagstones**: large flat stones used to cover a floor.

## Dr. Jekyll Was Quite at Ease

A fortnight later, by good luck, the doctor gave one of his pleasant dinners. He asked five or six old friends, all clever, respected men and all good judges of wine. Mr. Utterson arranged things so that he stayed behind after the others had gone. This was nothing new. It had happened many scores of times. Where Utterson was liked, he was liked well. Hosts loved to keep the dry lawyer with them when the cheerful, talkative guests already had a foot on the doorstep. They liked to sit for a while in his quiet company. It was like practice for being alone. It calmed their minds, after the cost and strain of being gay, to sit in the man's rich silence. Dr. Jekyll was no exception to this rule. He now sat on the other side of the fire. He was a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with a slightly sly look, perhaps, but with every mark of ability and kindness. You could see by his looks that he felt a sincere and warm affection for Mr. Utterson.

"I have been wanting to speak to you, Jekyll," the lawyer began. "You know that will of yours?"

A close observer might have guessed that the doctor did not like the subject. But he carried it off gaily. "My poor Utterson," he said, "you are unlucky to have such a client. I never saw a man so upset as you were by my will. Only Lanyon was more upset, that narrow-minded, fussy man, at what he called my scientific heresies. Oh, I know he's a good fellow. You needn't frown. He is an excellent fellow, and I always mean to see more of him. But he is a narrow-minded, fussy man for all that. An ignorant, loud, fussy man. I was never more disappointed in any man than I was in Lanyon."

"You know I never approved of it," Utterson went on. He ruthlessly ignored the new subject.

"My will? Yes, certainly, I know that," said the doctor, a little sharply. "You have told me so."

"Well, I tell you so again," continued the lawyer. "I have been learning something about young Hyde."

The large, handsome face of Dr. Jekyll grew pale to the very lips. A blackness came about his eyes. "I do not care to hear more," he said. "This is a matter that I thought we had agreed to drop."

"What I heard was abominable," said Utterson.

"It can make no change. You do not understand my position," the doctor replied, in a confused way. "I am in a painful situation, Utterson. My position is a very strange one, 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 to me, in confidence. I have no doubt that I can get you out of it."

"My good Utterson," said the doctor, "this is very good of you. It is downright good of you, and I cannot find words to thank you. I believe you fully. I would trust you before any man alive, yes, before myself, if I could make the choice. But indeed it isn't what you imagine. It is not as 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 on that. I thank you again and again. And I will add one little word, Utterson, that I'm sure you'll take in good part. This is a private matter, and I beg you to let it sleep."

Utterson thought for a little while, looking into the fire.

"I have no doubt you are perfectly right," he said at last, getting to his feet.

"Well, but since we have touched on this business, and for the last time, I hope," the doctor continued, "there is one point I should like you to understand. I really do have a very great interest in poor Hyde. I know you have seen him. He told me so, and I fear he was rude. But I sincerely take a great, a very great interest in that young man. 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. It would take 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," Jekyll begged, laying his hand on 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 gave a deep sigh that he could not stop. "Well," he said, "I promise."

### Glossary

- **fortnight**: a period of two weeks.
- **scores of times**: very many times. A score is twenty.
- **heresies**: ideas that go against what most people believe. Lanyon thinks Jekyll's science is wrong.
- **abominable**: very bad and shocking.
- **make a clean breast of it**: tell the whole truth about something you have been hiding.
- **client**: a person who pays a lawyer for help.
- **will**: a paper that says who gets your money and things after you die.
- **narrow-minded**: not willing to accept new or different ideas.

## The Carew Murder Case

Nearly a year later, in October of the year 18—, London was shocked by a very fierce crime. It was made even more remarkable by the high position of the victim. The facts were few, and they were shocking.

A maid servant lived alone in a house not far from the river. She went upstairs to bed at about eleven o'clock. A fog rolled over the city in the small hours of the morning. But the early part of the night was cloudless, and a full moon lit the lane under her window brilliantly. It seems that she was a romantic girl. She sat down on her box, which stood right under the window, and fell into a dream. She used to say, with streaming tears, when she told the story, that she had never felt more at peace with all men. She had never thought more kindly of the world.

As she sat there, she saw an old, handsome gentleman with white hair coming along the lane. Coming to meet him was another gentleman, a very small one. At first she paid less attention to him. When they came close enough to speak, just under the maid's eyes, the older man bowed. He spoke to the other with very pleasant politeness. The subject did not seem very important. From his pointing, it sometimes seemed that he was only asking the way. But the moon shone on his face as he spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch it. It seemed to show an innocent, old-fashioned kindness. But it showed something noble too, like a well-founded satisfaction with himself.

Soon her eye wandered to the other man. She was surprised to recognise him as a Mr. Hyde, who had once visited her master and whom she had disliked. He had a heavy cane in his hand, and he was playing with it. But he did not answer a word. He seemed to listen with an impatience that he could hardly hide. Then all of a sudden he broke out in a great flame of anger. He stamped his foot and waved the cane. He behaved, as the maid described it, like a madman. The old gentleman took a step back. He looked very surprised and a little hurt. At that, Mr. Hyde lost all control and clubbed him to the ground. The next moment, with the fury of an ape, he was trampling his victim under his feet. He rained down a storm of blows. Under them the bones could be heard breaking, and the body jumped on the road. At the horror of these sights and sounds, the maid fainted.

It was two o'clock when she came to herself and called the police. The murderer had gone long before. But there lay his victim in the middle of the lane, terribly torn and broken. The stick had been made of some rare, very tough and heavy wood. But it had broken in the middle under the force of this mad cruelty. One splintered half had rolled into the gutter nearby. The other half, without doubt, had been carried away by the murderer. A purse and a gold watch were found on the victim. But there were no cards or papers, except a sealed and stamped envelope. He had probably been carrying it to the post. It bore the name and address of Mr. Utterson.

This was brought to the lawyer the next morning, before he was out of bed. As soon as he had seen it and heard what had happened, he pushed out his lip in a solemn way. "I shall say nothing till I have seen the body," he said. "This may be very serious. Please wait while I dress." With the same grave face he hurried through his breakfast and drove to the police station, where the body had been taken. As soon as he came into the cell, he nodded.

"Yes," he said, "I recognise him. I am sorry to say that this is Sir Danvers Carew."

"Good God, sir," cried the officer, "is it possible?" The next moment his eye lit up with professional ambition. "This will make a lot of noise," he said. "And perhaps you can help us find the man." He told briefly what the maid had seen, and he showed the broken stick.

Mr. Utterson had already shrunk back in fear at the name of Hyde. But when the stick was laid before him, he could doubt no longer. It was broken and battered, but he recognised it. He had given it himself, many years before, to Henry Jekyll.

"Is this Mr. Hyde a person of small size?" he asked.

"Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, is what the maid calls him," said the officer.

Mr. Utterson thought for a moment. Then he raised his head. "If you will come with me in my cab," he said, "I think I can take you to his house."

By this time it was about nine in the morning, and the first fog of the season had come. A great chocolate-coloured cloud hung low over the sky. But the wind kept attacking and scattering these crowded clouds of fog. So, as the cab crawled from street to street, Mr. Utterson saw a marvellous number of kinds and colours of twilight. Here it would be dark, like the end of the evening. There would be a rich brown glow, strange and frightening, like the light of some great fire. Here, for a moment, the fog would break up completely, and a thin, pale shaft of daylight would shine in between the swirling wreaths of fog.

The dismal district of Soho looked strange in these changing glimpses. It had its muddy roads and its untidy passers-by. Its lamps had never been put out, or had been lit again to fight this sad return of the darkness. In the lawyer's eyes, it seemed like a district of some city in a nightmare. His thoughts, besides, were of the gloomiest colour. When he glanced at the officer beside him, he felt something of the terror of the law and its officers. This terror can sometimes attack even the most honest men.

When the cab stopped before the address, the fog lifted a little. It showed him a dingy street, a gin palace, a low French eating house, and a shop that sold penny numbers and twopenny salads. Many ragged children huddled in the doorways. Many women of many different nationalities were passing out, key in hand, to have a morning glass. The next moment the fog settled down again on that part, dark brown like earth, and cut him off from his low, rough surroundings. This was the home of Henry Jekyll's favourite, a man who was heir to a quarter of a million pounds.

An old woman with an ivory-white face and silvery hair opened the door. She had an evil face, made smooth by pretending to be good. But her manners were excellent. Yes, she said, this was Mr. Hyde's house, but he was not at home. He had come in very late that night, but he had gone away again in less than an hour. There was nothing strange in that. His habits were very irregular, and he was often away. For example, it was nearly two months since she had seen him, until yesterday.

"Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms," said the lawyer. When the woman began to say it was impossible, he added, "I had better tell you who this person is. This is Inspector Newcomen of Scotland Yard."

A flash of hateful joy appeared on the woman's face. "Ah!" she said. "He is in trouble! What has he done?"

Mr. Utterson and the inspector looked at each other. "He doesn't seem a very popular character," the inspector said. "And now, my good woman, just let me and this gentleman have a look around."

The house was empty except for the old woman. In the whole of it, Mr. Hyde had used only a couple of rooms. But they were furnished with luxury and good taste. A closet was filled with wine. The dishes were made of silver, and the table linen was elegant. A good picture hung on the wall. Utterson supposed it was a gift from Henry Jekyll, who knew a lot about art. The carpets were thick and pleasant in colour.

At this moment, however, the rooms showed every sign of having been searched recently and in a hurry. Clothes lay on the floor, with their pockets turned inside out. Locked drawers stood open. On the hearth lay a pile of grey ashes, as if many papers had been burned. From these ashes the inspector dug out the end of a green cheque book, which the fire had not destroyed. The other half of the stick was found behind the door. This proved his suspicions, and the officer said he was delighted. A visit to the bank completed his satisfaction. Several thousand pounds were found there, lying to the murderer's credit.

"You may depend on it, sir," he told Mr. Utterson. "I have him in my hand. He must have lost his head, or he would never have left the stick. Above all, he would never have burned the cheque book. Why, money is 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 to do. Mr. Hyde had had few friends. Even the master of the maid servant had seen him only twice. His family could not be found anywhere. He had never been photographed. The few people who could describe him differed widely, as ordinary observers do. Only on one point did they agree. That was the haunting feeling of deformity that no one could put into words, which the runaway gave to everyone who saw him.

### Glossary

- **gutter**: the narrow channel at the edge of a road where rainwater runs.
- **gin palace**: a large, showy pub that sells gin, a strong alcoholic drink.
- **penny numbers**: cheap story papers sold in weekly parts for a penny each.
- **heir**: a person who will receive someone's money and property.
- **Inspector Newcomen of Scotland Yard**: an inspector is a senior police officer. Scotland Yard is the headquarters of the London police.
- **cheque book**: a book of cheques. A cheque is a paper that orders a bank to pay money.
- **handbills**: printed papers with a notice, here a description of a wanted man.
- **cell**: a small room in a police station, where people or bodies are kept.

## Incident of the Letter

It was late in the afternoon when Mr. Utterson came to Dr. Jekyll's door. Poole let him in at once. The butler led him through the kitchen area and across a yard that had once been a garden. At the end of the yard stood the building that people called either the laboratory or the dissecting rooms.

The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a famous surgeon. His own interests were more in chemistry than in the study of bodies, so he had changed the use of the building at the bottom of the garden. It was the first time the lawyer had been taken into this part of his friend's house. He looked at the dingy building, which had no windows, with great curiosity. He crossed the old surgical theatre with an uncomfortable feeling of strangeness. Once the room had been crowded with eager students. Now it lay tall, empty and silent. The tables were covered with chemical equipment. The floor was covered with crates and scattered packing straw. The light came down dimly through the foggy glass dome.

At the far end, a flight of stairs went up to a door covered with red baize. Through this door Mr. Utterson was at last taken into the doctor's cabinet. It was a large room with glass cupboards all round the walls. Among other things, it held a cheval-glass and a business table. Three dusty windows with iron bars looked out on the court. A fire burned in the fireplace. A lamp stood lit on the shelf above it, because the fog was already thick, even inside the houses. Close to the warmth sat Dr. Jekyll, looking deathly sick. He did not get up to meet his visitor. He held out a cold hand and welcomed him 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 man?"

"Utterson, I swear to God," cried the doctor, "I swear to God I will never see him again. I give you my word of honour that I am finished with him in this world. It is all over. And he does not want my help, anyway. You do not know him as I do. He is safe, he is quite safe. Mark my words, nobody will ever hear of him again."

The lawyer listened gloomily. He did not like his friend's feverish manner. "You seem very sure of him," he said. "I hope, for your sake, that you are right. If there is a trial, your name might come out."

"I am quite sure of him," replied Jekyll. "I have reasons to be certain, but I cannot share them with anyone. There is one thing, though, on which you can advise me. I have—I have received a letter. I do not know whether I should show it to the police. I would like to leave it in your hands, Utterson. You will judge wisely, I am sure. I trust you so much."

"I suppose you fear that the letter might lead the police to him?" asked the lawyer.

"No," said the other. "I cannot say I care what happens to Hyde. I am quite finished with him. I was thinking of my own good name, which this hateful business has put in danger."

Utterson thought about this for a while. He was surprised by his friend's selfishness, and yet he was relieved by it. "Well," he said at last, "let me see the letter."

The letter was written in an odd, upright hand and signed "Edward Hyde". It said, quite briefly, that the writer's benefactor, Dr. Jekyll, need not be afraid for his safety. Jekyll had been generous to him a thousand times, and for a long time he had repaid that kindness very badly. But he had a way of escape, and he trusted it completely. The lawyer liked the letter well enough. It made the friendship look better than he had expected. He blamed himself for some of his past suspicions.

"Do you have the envelope?" he asked.

"I burned it," replied Jekyll, "before I thought what I was doing. But it had no postmark. The note was handed in."

"Shall I keep this and think about it overnight?" asked Utterson.

"I want you to decide for me completely," was the reply. "I have lost all trust in myself."

"Well, I shall think about it," said the lawyer. "And now one thing more. Was it Hyde who told you what to write in your will about that disappearance?"

The doctor seemed to feel a sudden faintness. He shut his mouth tight and nodded.

"I knew it," said Utterson. "He meant to murder you. You had a lucky escape."

"I have had something much more useful than that," answered the doctor solemnly. "I have had a lesson. Oh, God, Utterson, what a lesson I have had!" And he covered his face with his hands for a moment.

On his way out, the lawyer stopped and spoke a word or two with Poole. "By the way," he said, "a letter was handed in today. What was the messenger like?" But Poole was sure that nothing had come except by post. "And only circulars by that," he added.

This news sent the visitor away with his fears renewed. Plainly the letter had come by the laboratory door. Perhaps it had even been written in the cabinet. If that was so, it must be judged differently, and handled with more care. As he walked, the newsboys were shouting themselves hoarse along the pavements. "Special edition. Shocking murder of an M.P." That was the funeral speech for one friend and client. He could not help feeling afraid that the good name of another friend might be pulled down into the whirl of the scandal. It was, at the very least, a difficult decision to make. He was used to relying on himself, but now he began to long for advice. He could not ask for it openly. But perhaps, he thought, he could get it indirectly, by clever hints.

A little later he sat on one side of his own fire, and Mr. Guest, his head clerk, sat on the other. Halfway between them, at a carefully chosen distance from the fire, stood a bottle of very old wine. It had lain for a long time in the dark under the foundations of his house. Outside, the fog still floated above the city, which seemed drowned in it. The street lamps glimmered like red jewels. Through the thick, heavy blanket of fallen cloud, the life of the town still rolled in along the great streets with a sound like a mighty wind. But the room was bright and cheerful with firelight. In the bottle, the sharp acids had settled long ago. The deep royal colour had softened with time, as the colour of old stained-glass windows grows richer. The warmth of hot autumn afternoons on the hillside vineyards was ready to be set free and to drive away the fogs of London. Slowly, without noticing it, the lawyer softened.

There was no man from whom he kept fewer secrets than Mr. Guest. He was not always sure that he kept as many secrets as he meant to. Guest had often gone to the doctor's house on business. He knew Poole. He could hardly have failed to hear that Mr. Hyde came and went freely in the house. He might draw his own conclusions. So was it not better that he should see a letter that explained that mystery? Above all, Guest was a great student and critic of handwriting. He would think the step natural and kind. The clerk was also a man of good advice. He could hardly read such a strange paper without making some remark. And from that remark Mr. Utterson might decide what to do next.

"This is a sad business about Sir Danvers," he said.

"Yes, sir, indeed. It has caused a great deal of public feeling," returned Guest. "The man was mad, of course."

"I should like to hear what you think about that," replied Utterson. "I have a paper here in his handwriting. It is between ourselves, because I hardly know what to do about it. It is an ugly business at the best. But here it is, and it is just the kind of thing you study: a murderer's handwriting."

Guest's eyes brightened. He sat down at once and studied the paper with passion. "No, sir," he said. "Not mad. But it is an odd hand."

"And by all accounts he is a very odd man," added the lawyer.

Just then the servant came in with a note.

"Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?" asked the clerk. "I thought I knew the writing. Is it anything private, Mr. Utterson?"

"Only an invitation to dinner. Why? Do you want to see it?"

"One moment. Thank you, sir." The clerk laid the two sheets of paper side by side and compared them carefully. "Thank you, sir," he said at last, giving both back. "It is a very interesting handwriting."

There was a pause, during which Mr. Utterson fought with himself. "Why did you compare them, Guest?" he asked suddenly.

"Well, sir," said the clerk, "there is a rather strange likeness. The two hands are the same in many ways. Only the slope is different."

"Rather curious," said Utterson.

"It is, as you say, rather curious," returned Guest.

"I wouldn't speak of this note, you know," said his master.

"No, sir," said the clerk. "I understand."

But as soon as Mr. Utterson was alone that night, he locked the note in his safe. It stayed there from that time on. "What!" he thought. "Henry Jekyll forge a letter for a murderer!" And his blood ran cold.

### Glossary

- **dissecting rooms**: rooms where doctors cut open dead bodies to study them
- **theatre**: a big hall where doctors once did operations while students watched
- **baize**: a soft, thick cloth, here red and covering a door
- **cabinet**: Jekyll's private room for work and study
- **cheval-glass**: a tall mirror in a frame that you can turn
- **benefactor**: a person who gives you help or money
- **postmark**: a mark the post office puts on a letter to show where and when it was sent
- **circulars**: printed papers or advertisements sent to many people
- **vineyards**: fields where grapes grow to make wine
- **forge**: to make a false copy of someone's handwriting to trick people

## Incident of Dr. Lanyon

Time passed. Thousands of pounds were offered as a reward, because the death of Sir Danvers was felt as an injury to the whole public. But Mr. Hyde had vanished from the sight of the police as if he had never existed. Much of his past was dug up, and all of it was shameful. Stories came out of the man's cruelty, which was both cold and violent. People told of his vile life, of his strange companions and of the hatred that seemed to surround his whole career. But about where he was now, there was not a whisper. From the time he left the house in Soho on the morning of the murder, he was simply wiped out. Little by little, as time went on, Mr. Utterson began to get over his hot alarm and became calmer. In his way of thinking, the death of Sir Danvers was more than paid for by the disappearance of Mr. Hyde.

Now that the evil influence was gone, a new life began for Dr. Jekyll. He came out of his lonely life and renewed his friendships. He became once more a familiar guest and host. He had always been known for his gifts to the poor, and now he was just as well known for his religion. He was busy and spent much time in the open air. He did good. His face seemed to open and brighten, as if he felt inside that he was being useful to others. For more than two months the doctor was at peace.

On the 8th of January Utterson had dined at the doctor's house with a small party. Lanyon had been there. The host had looked from one face to the other, as in the old days when the three of them were inseparable friends. On the 12th, and again on the 14th, the door was shut against the lawyer. "The doctor is staying in the house," Poole said, "and sees no one." On the 15th Utterson tried again and was refused again. For the last two months he had seen his friend almost every day, so this return to loneliness weighed on his spirits. The fifth night he had Mr. Guest to dinner. The sixth night he went to Dr. Lanyon's house.

There at least he was not refused. But when he came in, he was shocked at the change in the doctor's appearance. It seemed that his death sentence was written clearly on his face. The rosy man had grown pale. He had lost flesh. He was clearly balder and older. Yet it was not so much these signs of quick physical decline that caught the lawyer's attention. It was a look in the eye and a way of behaving that seemed to show a deep terror in the mind. It was unlikely that a 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 condition, and he must know that his days are counted. And the knowledge is more than he can bear." But when Utterson spoke of his bad looks, Lanyon declared very firmly that he was 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 that if we knew everything, we should be more glad to get away."

"Jekyll is ill, too," said 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 finished with that person. And I beg you to spare me any mention of one whom I regard as dead."

"Tut, tut!" said Mr. Utterson. Then, after a long pause, he asked, "Can't I do anything? We are three very old friends, Lanyon. We shall not live long enough to make new ones."

"Nothing can be done," returned Lanyon. "Ask him yourself."

"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 perhaps come to learn what is right and what is wrong in this. I cannot tell you. In the meantime, if you can sit and talk with me of other things, then for God's sake, stay and do so. But if you cannot keep away from this cursed subject, then in God's name, go, for I cannot bear it."

As soon as he got home, Utterson sat down and wrote to Jekyll. He complained that he was shut out of the house, and he asked the cause of this unhappy break with Lanyon. The next day brought him a long answer. It was often very sad in its words, and sometimes darkly mysterious in its meaning. The quarrel with Lanyon could not be cured. "I do not blame our old friend," Jekyll wrote, "but I share his view that we must never meet. From now on I mean to live a life of extreme loneliness. You must not be surprised, and you must not doubt my friendship, if my door is often shut even to you. You must let me go my own dark way. I have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If I am the worst of sinners, I am the worst of sufferers too. I could not have believed that this earth held a place for suffering and terror that so break a man's strength. You can do only one thing, Utterson, to make this fate lighter, and that is to respect my silence."

Utterson was amazed. The dark influence of Hyde had been taken away. The doctor had returned to his old work and his old friendships. A week ago, the future had smiled, with every promise of a cheerful and honoured old age. And now, in a moment, friendship, peace of mind and the whole course of his life were wrecked. So great and sudden a change pointed to madness. But considering Lanyon's manner and words, there must be some deeper reason for it.

A week later Dr. Lanyon took to his bed, and in a little less than two weeks he was dead. The night after the funeral, which had deeply upset him, Utterson locked the door of his business room. He sat there by the light of a gloomy candle. He took out an envelope and set it in front of him. It was addressed in the handwriting of his dead friend and closed with his seal. On the cover these words were written, with strong emphasis: "PRIVATE: for the hands of G. J. Utterson ALONE, and, if he dies before me, *to be destroyed unread*." The lawyer was afraid to see what was inside. "I have buried one friend today," he thought. "What if this should cost me another?" Then he condemned the fear as disloyalty, and he broke the seal.

Inside was another envelope, also sealed. On its cover were the words "not to be opened till the death or disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll." Utterson could not believe his eyes. Yes, it said "disappearance". Here again, as in the mad will that he had long ago given back to its writer, were the idea of a disappearance and the name of Henry Jekyll, joined together. But in the will, that idea had come from the evil suggestion of the man Hyde. It had been put there for a purpose that was all too plain and horrible. Written by Lanyon's hand, what could it mean? A great curiosity came over the lawyer. He wanted to ignore the order and dive straight to the bottom of these mysteries. But professional honour and loyalty to his dead friend were strict duties. So the packet slept in the farthest corner of his private safe.

It is one thing to hold back curiosity, and another to conquer it. It may be doubted whether, from that day on, Utterson wanted the company of his living friend with the same eagerness. He thought of him kindly, but his thoughts were uneasy and fearful. He did go to call. But perhaps he was relieved to be refused. Perhaps, in his heart, he preferred to speak with Poole on the doorstep, surrounded by the air and sounds of the open city. He did not want to be let into that house where a man had chosen to live like a prisoner, and to sit and talk with its mysterious recluse.

Poole had no very pleasant news to give. The doctor, it seemed, now stayed more than ever in the cabinet over the laboratory, where he sometimes even slept. He was low in spirits. He had become very silent. He did not read. It seemed as if he had something on his mind. Utterson became so used to these reports, which never changed, that little by little he visited less often.

### Glossary

- **reward**: money offered to anyone who helps to find a criminal
- **disappearance**: when a person goes away and nobody knows where he is
- **doomed**: certain to die or to meet a terrible end
- **sinners**: people who do wrong things, especially against religion
- **will**: a paper that says who gets a person's money and things after death
- **seal**: a mark pressed into wax to close an envelope, so that nobody can open it secretly
- **safe**: a strong metal box or cupboard where valuable things are locked
- **recluse**: a person who lives alone and avoids other people
- **cabinet**: Jekyll's private room for work and study

## Incident at the Window

By chance, on a Sunday when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr. Enfield, their way led once again through the by-street. When they came in front of the door, both stopped to look at it.

"Well," said Enfield, "that story is at an end, at least. We shall never see any more of Mr. Hyde."

"I hope not," said Utterson. "Did I ever tell you that I once saw him, and felt the same disgust as you?"

"It was impossible to do one without the other," Enfield replied. "And by the way, what a fool you must have thought me, not to know that this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll's house! 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 is so, we may step into the court and look at the windows. To tell you the truth, I am worried about poor Jekyll. Even from outside, I feel that the presence of a friend might do him good."

The court was very cool and a little damp. It was full of early twilight, although the sky high above was still bright with sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half open. Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll sitting close beside it. He was taking the air with a look of infinite sadness, like some hopeless prisoner.

"What! Jekyll! Jekyll!" Utterson cried. "I hope you are better."

"I am very low, Utterson," replied the doctor sadly, "very low. It will not last long, thank God."

"You stay indoors too much," said the lawyer. "You should be out, getting your blood moving, like Mr. Enfield and me. (This is my cousin, Mr. Enfield. Dr. Jekyll.) Come now, get your hat and take a quick walk with us."

"You are very kind," sighed the other. "I would like to very much. But no, no, no, it is quite impossible. I dare not. But really, Utterson, I am very glad to see you. It is a great pleasure. I would ask you and Mr. Enfield to come 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 to you from where we are."

"That is just what I was going to suggest," returned the doctor with a smile. But the words were hardly out of his mouth before the smile was struck from his face. In its place came a look of such terror and despair that the blood of the two gentlemen below froze. They saw it only for a moment, because the window was pushed down at once. But that moment was enough. They turned and left the court without a word.

In silence, too, they crossed the by-street. They did not speak until they came into a nearby road where, even on a Sunday, there was still some life. There 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 again in silence.

### Glossary

- **by-street**: a small side street
- **court**: a small open space with buildings all round it
- **twilight**: the weak light just after the sun goes down
- **taking the air**: sitting or walking outside to breathe fresh air
- **getting your blood moving**: taking exercise to feel warmer and healthier
- **good-naturedly**: in a kind and friendly way
- **answering horror**: the same horror, seen in the other person's eyes
- **God forgive us**: a prayer said when people feel they have seen something terrible

## The Last Night

Mr. Utterson was sitting by his fire one evening after dinner. He was surprised when Poole came to see him.

"Bless me, Poole, what brings you here?" he cried. Then he took a second look at the man. "What is wrong?" he asked. "Is the doctor ill?"

"Mr. Utterson," said Poole, "there is something wrong."

"Sit down, 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," Poole replied, "and how he shuts himself away. Well, he has shut himself up in the cabinet again. I don't like it, sir. I wish I may die if I like it. Mr. Utterson, sir, I am afraid."

"Now, my good man," said the lawyer, "be clear. What are you afraid of?"

"I have been afraid for about a week," said Poole stubbornly, as if he had not heard the question. "And I can bear it no more."

The man's looks showed clearly that he meant it. His manner had changed for the worse. Except for the moment when he first spoke of his fear, 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 on a corner of the floor. "I can bear it no more," he said again.

"Come," said the lawyer, "I see you have a good reason, Poole. I see that something is seriously wrong. Try to tell me what it is."

"I think there has been foul play," said Poole in a hoarse voice.

"Foul play!" cried the lawyer. He was very frightened, and so he felt rather angry. "What foul play? What does the man mean?"

"I dare not say, sir," was the answer. "But will you come with me and see for yourself?"

Mr. Utterson only stood up and fetched his hat and greatcoat. But he saw with wonder how great the relief was on the butler's face. He also noticed that the wine was still untasted when Poole put the glass down to follow him.

It was a wild, cold night of March, the kind of weather you expect in that month. The pale moon lay on her back, as if the wind had tipped her over. Thin clouds flew across the sky, as light and fine as cloth. The wind made talking difficult and whipped the blood into their faces. It seemed to have swept the streets almost empty of people. Mr. Utterson thought he had never seen that part of London so deserted. He wished it were otherwise. Never in his life had he wanted so sharply to see and touch other human beings. However hard he fought against it, a crushing feeling came over him that a terrible disaster was near.

The square, when they reached it, was full of wind and dust. The thin trees in the garden were lashing themselves against the railing. Poole had kept a pace or two ahead all the way. Now he stopped in the middle of the pavement. In spite of the biting cold, he took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a red handkerchief. He had come in a great hurry, but this was not the sweat of effort. It was the wetness of a choking pain. His face was white, and his voice, when he spoke, was harsh and broken.

"Well, sir," he said, "here we are, and God grant that nothing is wrong."

"Amen, Poole," said the lawyer.

Then the servant knocked in a very careful way. The door was opened on its chain, and a voice asked from inside, "Is that you, Poole?"

"It's all right," said Poole. "Open the door."

The hall, when they entered it, was brightly lit. The fire was built high. All the servants, men and women, stood huddled together around the hearth like a flock of sheep. When they saw Mr. Utterson, the housemaid broke into hysterical whimpering. The cook cried out, "Bless God! It's Mr. Utterson!" and ran forward as if to take him in her arms.

"What, what? Are you all here?" said the lawyer crossly. "This is very wrong and very improper. Your master would be far from pleased."

"They are all afraid," said Poole.

A blank silence followed, and no one spoke against it. Only the maid raised her voice and now wept loudly.

"Hold your tongue!" Poole said to her. He spoke so fiercely that it showed how shaken his own nerves were. Indeed, when the girl suddenly raised her cry, they had all jumped and turned towards the inner door. Their faces were full of dreadful expectation. "And now," the butler went on, speaking to the knife-boy, "bring me a candle, and we will deal with this at once." Then he asked Mr. Utterson to follow him, and led the way to the back garden.

"Now, sir," he said, "come as quietly as you can. I want you to hear, and I don't want you to be heard. And listen, sir. If by any chance he asks you in, don't go."

This unexpected ending gave Mr. Utterson's nerves such a jerk that he nearly lost his balance. But he found his courage again. He followed the butler into the laboratory building, through the surgical theatre with its crates and bottles, to the foot of the stair. Here Poole signed to him to stand to one side and listen. Poole put down the candle. He plainly had to force himself to be brave. He climbed the steps and knocked with an unsteady hand on the red baize of the cabinet door.

"Mr. Utterson, sir, is asking to see you," he called. Even as he spoke, he signed to the lawyer again, violently, to listen.

A voice answered from inside. "Tell him I cannot see anyone," it said in a complaining tone.

"Thank you, sir," said Poole. There was something like triumph in his voice. He took up his candle and led Mr. Utterson back across the yard and into the great kitchen. The fire there 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. He was very pale, but he gave look for look.

"Changed? Well, yes, I think so," said the butler. "Have I been twenty years in this man's house, to be fooled about his voice? No, sir. My master has been done away with. He was done away with eight days ago, when we heard him cry out the name of God. And *who* is in there instead of him, and *why* it stays there, is a thing that cries out to Heaven, Mr. Utterson!"

"That is a very strange tale, Poole. It is rather a wild tale, my man," said Mr. Utterson, biting his finger. "Suppose it were as you think. Suppose Dr. Jekyll has been, well, murdered. What could make the murderer stay? That does not hold together. It does not make sense."

"Well, Mr. Utterson, you are a hard man to satisfy, but I will satisfy you yet," said Poole. "All this last week, you must know, him, or it, whatever it is that lives in that cabinet, has been crying night and day for some sort of medicine. And it cannot get one that suits it. Sometimes my master wrote his orders on a sheet of paper and threw it on the stair. That was his way. This week we have had nothing else. Nothing but papers, and a closed door, and even the meals left there to be smuggled in when nobody was looking."

"Well, sir, every day there have been orders and complaints. Yes, twice and three times in the same day. I have been sent flying to all the wholesale chemists in town. Every time I brought the stuff back, there was another paper telling me to return it, because it was not pure. And there was another order to a different firm. This drug is wanted very badly, sir, whatever it is for."

"Have you any of these papers?" asked Mr. Utterson.

Poole felt in his pocket and handed him a crumpled note. The lawyer bent closer to the candle and read it carefully. It said: "Dr. Jekyll sends 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. bought a fairly large quantity from Messrs. M. He now begs them to search with the greatest care. If any of the same quality is left, they should send it to him at once. Expense is no concern. The importance of this to Dr. J. can hardly be exaggerated."

So far the note had been written calmly enough. But here the pen had suddenly splattered, and the writer's feelings had broken loose. "For God's sake," he had added, "find me some of the old."

"This is a strange note," said Mr. Utterson. Then he asked sharply, "How do you come to have it open?"

"The man at Maw's was very angry, sir, and he threw it back at me as if it were dirt," said Poole.

"This is certainly the doctor's handwriting, do you know?" the lawyer went on.

"I thought it looked like it," said the servant, rather sulkily. Then he spoke in a different voice. "But what does handwriting matter?" he said. "I have seen him!"

"Seen him?" repeated Mr. Utterson. "Well?"

"That's it!" said Poole. "It was this way. I came suddenly into the theatre from the garden. It seems he had slipped out to look for this drug, or whatever it is. 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. He gave a kind of cry and whipped upstairs into the cabinet. I saw him for only one minute, but my hair stood on end like the quills of a bird. Sir, if that was my master, why did he have a mask on 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 stopped and passed his hand over his face.

"These are all very strange facts," said Mr. Utterson. "But I think I begin to see some light. Your master, Poole, has plainly been seized by one of those illnesses that torture a person and also twist his body. That could explain the change in his voice, as far as I know. It explains the mask and the way he avoids his friends. It explains his eagerness to find this drug. The poor man still has some hope of getting well by means of it. God grant that he is not fooled! That is my explanation. It is sad enough, Poole, and terrible to think about. But it is plain and natural, it hangs together well, and it frees us from all wild fears."

"Sir," said the butler, turning a sort of spotted white, "that thing was not my master, and there is the truth. My master"—here he looked around him and began to whisper—"is a tall, well-built man, and this was more like a dwarf."

Utterson tried 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? I saw him there 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 becomes my duty to make certain. I very much want to spare your master's feelings. I am also puzzled by this note, which seems to prove that he is still alive. But I shall think it my duty to break down that door."

"Ah, Mr. Utterson, that is talking!" cried the butler.

"And now comes the second question," Utterson went on. "Who is going to do it?"

"Why, you and me, sir," was the bold reply.

"That is very well said," replied the lawyer. "And whatever comes of it, I shall make it my business to see that you lose nothing."

"There is an axe in the theatre," Poole continued, "and you might take the kitchen poker for yourself."

The lawyer took that rough but heavy tool into his hand and weighed it. "Do you know, Poole," he said, looking up, "that you and I are about to put ourselves in some danger?"

"You may say so, sir, indeed," replied the butler.

"Then it is good that we should be frank," said the lawyer. "We both think more than we have said. Let us make a clean breast of it. This masked figure that you saw, did you recognise it?"

"Well, sir, it went so quick, and the creature was so bent over, that I could hardly swear to it," was the answer. "But if you mean, was it Mr. Hyde? Why, yes, I think it was! You see, it was much the same size. It had the same quick, light way of moving. And then who else could have got in by the laboratory door? You have not forgotten, sir, that at the time of the murder he still had the key with him? But that is not all. I don't know, Mr. Utterson, if you ever 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 rightly know how to say it, sir, except that you felt in your bones a kind of cold and thin."

"I admit I felt something of what you describe," said Mr. Utterson.

"Quite so, sir," said Poole. "Well, when that masked thing jumped like a monkey from among the chemicals and whipped into the cabinet, it went down my spine like ice. O, I know it is not evidence, Mr. Utterson. I am well enough read to know that. But a man has his feelings, and I give you my word on the Bible that it was Mr. Hyde!"

"Yes, yes," said the lawyer. "My fears point the same way. I am afraid evil was sure to come from that friendship. Yes, truly, I believe you. I believe poor Harry has been killed. And I believe his murderer is still hiding in his victim's room. Only God can tell for what purpose. Well, we will be the ones who take revenge. Call Bradshaw."

The footman came at the call. He was very white and nervous.

"Pull yourself together, Bradshaw," said the lawyer. "I know that this waiting is hard on all of you. But now we mean to put an end to it. Poole and I are going to force our way into the cabinet. If all is well, my shoulders are broad enough to take the blame. Meanwhile, something might really be wrong. Or a criminal might try to escape by the back. So you and the boy must go round the corner with a pair of good sticks. Take your place at the laboratory door. We give you ten minutes to get to your places."

As Bradshaw left, the lawyer looked at his watch. "And now, Poole, let us get to ours," he said. He took the poker under his arm and led the way into the yard. Cloud had piled up over the moon, and it was now quite dark. The wind blew only in puffs and gusts into that deep well of a building. It tossed the candle's light to and fro around their feet, until they came into the shelter of the theatre. There they sat down silently to wait. London hummed solemnly all around them. But close by, the stillness was broken only by the sound of a foot moving to and fro along the floor of the cabinet.

"So it will walk all day, sir," whispered Poole. "Yes, and the best part of the night. Only when a new sample comes from the chemist is there a short break. Ah, a guilty conscience is a great enemy of rest! Ah, sir, there is blood wickedly shed in every step of it! But listen 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 kind of swing, although they went so slowly. They were quite different 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 was that?" said the lawyer. He felt a sudden chill of horror.

"Weeping like a woman or a lost soul," said the butler. "I came away with such a weight on my heart that I could have wept too."

But now the ten minutes were coming to an end. Poole dug the axe out from under a pile of packing straw. The candle was set on the nearest table to light them for the attack. They moved closer, holding their breath. That patient foot was still going up and down, up and down, in the quiet of the night.

"Jekyll," cried Utterson in a loud voice, "I demand to see you." He paused a moment, but there was no reply. "I give you fair warning. Our suspicions are aroused, and I must and shall see you," he went on. "If not by fair means, then by foul. If not with your consent, then by brute force!"

"Utterson," said the voice, "for God's sake, have mercy!"

"Ah, that is not Jekyll's voice. It is 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 the hinges. A dismal screech, as of pure animal terror, rang out 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. Only at the fifth blow did the lock burst, and the wreck of the door fell inwards on the carpet.

The attackers were appalled by their own noise and by the stillness that followed it. They stood back a little and looked in. The cabinet lay before their eyes in the quiet lamplight. A good fire glowed and chattered on the hearth, and the kettle sang its thin song. A drawer or two stood open. Papers were laid out neatly on the business table. Nearer the fire, the things for tea were set out. You would have said it was the quietest room in London that night. Apart from the glass presses full of chemicals, it was also the most ordinary.

Right in the middle lay the body of a man, badly twisted and still twitching. They came near on tiptoe, turned him on his back and saw the face of Edward Hyde. He was dressed in clothes far too large for him, clothes of the doctor's size. The muscles of his face still moved as if he were alive, but life was quite gone. Utterson saw the crushed phial in the man's hand. He smelled the strong smell of kernels that hung in the air. He knew that he was looking at the body of a man who had killed himself.

"We have come too late," he said sternly, "whether to save him or to punish him. Hyde has gone to answer for his life. It only remains for us to find the body of your master."

Most of the building was taken up by the theatre. It filled almost the whole ground floor and was lit from above. The cabinet was an upper floor at one end and looked out on the court. A corridor joined the theatre to the door on the by-street. The cabinet was also joined to the corridor by a second flight of stairs. There were besides a few dark closets and a large cellar. They now searched all of these thoroughly. Each closet needed only a glance, for all were empty. By the dust that fell from their doors, they had all stood unopened for a long time. The cellar was indeed full of old, broken lumber. Most of it came from the surgeon who had lived there before Jekyll. But as they opened its door, a whole mat of cobweb fell down. It had sealed up the entrance for years. It showed them that more searching was useless. Nowhere was there any sign of Henry Jekyll, dead or alive.

Poole stamped on the flagstones of the corridor. "He must be buried here," he said, listening to the sound.

"Or he may have run away," said Utterson. He turned to examine the door on the by-street. It was locked. Lying near it on the flagstones, they found the key, already stained with rust.

"This does not look as if it has been used," said the lawyer.

"Used!" echoed Poole. "Do you not see, sir, that it is broken? It looks as if a man had stamped on it."

"Yes," Utterson went on, "and the broken places are rusty too." The two men looked at each other, frightened. "This is beyond me, Poole," said the lawyer. "Let us go back to the cabinet."

They climbed the stair in silence. Now and then they cast an awestruck glance at the dead body. They went on examining the room more carefully. At one table there were signs of chemical work. Small, measured heaps of white salt lay on glass saucers. It looked like an experiment that had been stopped halfway.

"That is the same drug that I was always bringing him," said Poole. Even as he spoke, the kettle boiled over with a startling noise.

This brought them to the fireside. The easy-chair was drawn up cosily, and the tea things stood ready by the sitter's elbow, even the sugar in the cup. There were several books on a shelf. One lay open beside the tea things. Utterson was amazed to find that it was a religious book. Jekyll had several times praised it highly. It was marked in his own handwriting with shocking blasphemies.

Next, as they looked over the room, the searchers came to the cheval-glass. They looked into its depths with a sudden horror. But it was turned so that it showed them only the rosy glow playing on the roof. It showed the fire sparkling a hundred times along the glass fronts of the presses. And it showed their own pale, frightened faces, bending to look in.

"This glass has seen some strange things, sir," whispered Poole.

"And surely none stranger than itself," the lawyer echoed in the same low tone. "For what did Jekyll"—he caught himself at the word with a start, and then he overcame the weakness—"what could Jekyll want with it?" he said.

"You may well say that!" said Poole.

Next they turned to the business table. On the desk, among the neat papers, a large envelope lay on top. It bore the name of Mr. Utterson in the doctor's hand. The lawyer opened the seal, and several papers fell to the floor. The first was a will. It was written in the same strange terms as the one that he had given back six months before. It was meant to work as a will if Jekyll died. It was also meant to give away everything if he disappeared. But Edward Hyde's name was not in it. In its place, to his indescribable amazement, the lawyer read the name of Gabriel John Utterson. He looked at Poole, and then back at the paper, and last of all at the dead criminal stretched on the carpet.

"My head goes round," he said. "All these days he has been in possession of this room. He had no reason to like me. He must have raged to see himself pushed aside. And he has not destroyed this paper."

He caught up the next paper. It was a short note in the doctor's hand, with a date at the top. "O Poole!" the lawyer cried, "he was alive and here today. He cannot have been got rid of in so short a time. He must still be alive. He must have run away! But then, why did he run? And how? And in that case, can we dare to say that this is suicide? O, we must be careful. I can see that we may yet bring your master into some terrible disaster."

"Why don't you read it, sir?" asked Poole.

"Because I am afraid," replied the lawyer solemnly. "God grant that I have no reason to be!" With that he brought the paper to his eyes and read as follows.

"My dear Utterson,—When this falls into your hands, I shall have disappeared. I do not have the wisdom to see in what way. But my instinct tells me that the end is sure. All the facts of my situation, which has no name, tell me the same. It must come soon. Go then, and first read the narrative which Lanyon warned me he was going to place in your hands. If you care to hear more, turn to the confession of

"Your unworthy and unhappy friend,

"HENRY JEKYLL."

"There was a third paper?" asked Utterson.

"Here, sir," said Poole, and put into his hands a thick packet sealed in several places.

The lawyer put it in his pocket. "I would say nothing of this paper. If your master has run away or is dead, we may at least save his good name. It is now ten o'clock. I must go home and read these papers in quiet. But I shall be back before midnight, and then we shall send for the police."

They went out, locking the door of the theatre behind them. Utterson once more left the servants gathered round the fire in the hall. He trudged back to his office to read the two narratives in which this mystery was now to be explained.

### Glossary

- **foul play**: a crime, especially violence that ends in someone's death
- **done away with**: killed
- **cabinet**: Jekyll's private room above the laboratory, where he works and studies
- **the theatre**: the old surgical theatre, a large hall where doctors once operated and students watched
- **baize**: a soft, thick cloth, here covering the cabinet door
- **poker**: an iron rod for moving the coals in a fire
- **make a clean breast of it**: to tell everything honestly
- **press**: a tall cupboard
- **cheval-glass**: a tall mirror on a frame that can be turned
- **phial**: a small glass bottle
- **kernels**: here, the smell of bitter almonds, which can be a sign of poison
- **blasphemies**: insulting or shocking words about God

## Dr. Lanyon's Narrative

On the ninth of January, four days ago, I received a registered letter by the evening delivery. It was addressed in the hand of my colleague and old school friend, Henry Jekyll. This surprised me a good deal. We did not write letters to each other. I had seen him and had dined with him the night before. I could think of nothing between us that needed a registered letter. The contents made me wonder even more. This is what the letter said:

"10th December, 18—.

"Dear Lanyon,—You are one of my oldest friends. We may have disagreed at times on scientific questions, but I cannot remember, at least on my side, any break in our affection. You could have said to me on any day, 'Jekyll, my life, my honour, my reason depend upon you.' I would have given my left hand to help you. Lanyon, my life, my honour, my reason are all in your hands. If you fail me tonight, I am lost. After this beginning, you might think I am going to ask you to do something dishonourable. Judge for yourself.

"I want you to put off everything else you have planned for tonight. Do it even if you are called to the bedside of an emperor. Take a cab, unless your own carriage is actually at the door. Keep this letter in your hand, so that you can look at it, and drive straight to my house. Poole, my butler, has his orders. You will find him waiting for you with a locksmith. The door of my cabinet must then be forced open. You must go in alone. Open the glass press marked E on the left-hand side. If it is locked, break the lock. Then draw out the fourth drawer from the top, which is the same as the third from the bottom. Take it out *with everything in it, exactly as it stands*. I am so deeply troubled that I have a sick fear of giving you the wrong directions. But even if I am wrong, you will know the right drawer by what is in it. You will find some powders, a phial and a paper book. I beg you to carry this drawer back with you to Cavendish Square, exactly as it stands.

"That is the first part of the service. Now for the second. If you set out as soon as you receive this, you should be back long before midnight. But I will leave you extra time. I fear one of those obstacles that nobody can prevent or foresee. Also, what then remains to be done is better done at an hour when your servants are in bed. So at midnight I must ask you to be alone in your consulting room. Let in with your own hand a man who will come in my name. Put into his hands the drawer that you have brought from my cabinet. Then you will have played your part, and you will have earned my complete gratitude. Five minutes later, if you insist on an explanation, you will understand that these arrangements are very important. If you neglect even one of them, strange as they seem, you might have my death on your conscience. Or you might be to blame for the ruin of my reason.

"I am sure that you will not treat this appeal lightly. Yet my heart sinks and my hand shakes at the mere thought that you might. Think of me at this hour, in a strange place. I am weighed down by a black distress that no imagination can make too great. And yet I know one thing well. If you serve me on time, 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 letter when a new terror struck my soul. The post office may fail me. The letter may not reach you until tomorrow morning. In that case, dear Lanyon, do my errand at the time that suits you best during the day. And once more, expect my messenger at midnight. By then it may already be too late. If that night passes without any event, you will know that you have seen the last of Henry Jekyll."

When I read this letter, I felt sure that my colleague was insane. But until that was proved beyond all doubt, I felt bound to do as he asked. The less I understood of this confused mixture of things, the less I could judge how important it was. An appeal in such words could not be set aside without grave responsibility. So I rose from the table, got into a hansom and drove straight to Jekyll's house. The butler was waiting for me. He had received a registered letter of instructions by the same post as mine. He had sent at once for a locksmith and a carpenter.

The tradesmen came while we were still speaking. We all went together to old Dr. Denman's surgical theatre. As you surely know, that is the easiest way into Jekyll's private cabinet. The door was very strong, and the lock was excellent. The carpenter said that he would have great trouble and do much damage if we used force. The locksmith was near despair. But he was a handy fellow, and after two hours' work the door stood open. The press marked E was not locked. I took out the drawer and had it filled up with straw and tied in a sheet. Then I returned with it to Cavendish Square.

Here I began to examine what was in it. The powders were made up neatly enough, but not with the neatness of a chemist who prepares medicines. So it was plain that they were Jekyll's own work. When I opened one of the wrappers, I found what looked like a plain white crystal salt. Next I turned my attention to the phial. It was about half full of a blood-red liquid. It had a very sharp smell, and I thought it contained phosphorus and some light, quickly vanishing ether. I could not guess the other ingredients. The book was an ordinary exercise book, and it held little but a list of dates. These covered many years, but I saw that the entries stopped nearly a year ago, quite suddenly. Here and there a short remark was added to a date, usually no more than one word. The word "double" appeared perhaps six times among several hundred entries. Once, very early in the list, there were the words "total failure!!!"

All this made me more curious, but it told me little that was certain. Here were a phial of some salt and the record of a series of experiments. Like too many of Jekyll's studies, they had led to nothing of any practical use. How could these things in my house affect the honour, the sanity or the life of my unreliable colleague? If his messenger could go to one place, why could he not go to another? And even if something stopped him, why must this gentleman be received by me in secret? The more I thought, the more sure I became that this was a case of brain disease. I sent my servants to bed. But I loaded an old revolver, so that I could defend myself if I had to.

Twelve o'clock had barely rung out over London when the knocker sounded very gently on the door. I went to answer it myself. I found a small man crouching against the pillars of the portico.

"Are you come from Dr. Jekyll?" I asked.

He answered "yes" with a stiff, forced gesture. I told him to come in, but he did not obey at once. First he gave a long, searching glance back into the darkness of the square. There was a policeman not far off, coming along with his bull's-eye lantern open. At the sight of him, I thought my visitor started and made greater haste.

These things struck me, I confess, as unpleasant. I followed him into the bright light of the consulting room, and I kept my hand ready on my weapon. Here, at last, I had a chance to see him clearly. I had never set eyes on him before, so much was certain. He was small, as I have said. I was struck by the shocking expression of his face. I was struck by his strange mix of great muscular activity and great apparent weakness of body. And last but not least, I was struck by the odd disturbance I felt in myself because he was near. It was something like the start of a shivering fit, and it came with a marked sinking of the pulse. At the time, I put it down to some personal dislike of my own. I only wondered that the signs were so strong. But I have since had reason to believe that the cause lies much deeper in the nature of man. I think it depends on something nobler than the principle of hatred.

This person had struck in me, from the first moment he came in, what I can only call a disgusted curiosity. He was dressed in a way that would have made an ordinary person look ridiculous. His clothes were of rich, sober cloth. But they were far too large for him in every measure. The trousers hung loose on his legs and were rolled up to keep them off the ground. The waist of the coat was below his hips. The collar spread wide over his shoulders. Strange to say, this ridiculous outfit did not make me laugh at all. There was something abnormal and badly made in the very nature of the creature in front of me. It was something that seized me, surprised me and disgusted me. This new oddness seemed only to fit it and make it stronger. So my interest in the man's nature and character was joined by curiosity. I wanted to know his origin, his life, his fortune and his place in the world.

These observations, although they take so long to write down, were the work of a few seconds. My visitor was, indeed, on fire with dark excitement.

"Have you got it?" he cried. "Have you got it?" His impatience was so lively that he even laid his hand on my arm and tried to shake me.

I pushed him back. At his touch I felt an icy pang run along my blood. "Come, sir," I said. "You forget that I have not yet the pleasure of your acquaintance. Be seated, if you please." I set him an example and sat down in my usual seat. I tried to behave as I do with a patient. It was hard, because of the late hour, my worries and my horror of my visitor.

"I beg your pardon, Dr. Lanyon," he replied, civilly enough. "What you say is very well founded. My impatience has outrun my politeness. I come here at the request of your colleague, Dr. Henry Jekyll, on a piece of business of some importance. And I understood..." He paused and put his hand to his throat. I could see that, in spite of his calm manner, he was fighting against the approach of hysteria. "I understood, a drawer..."

But here I took pity on my visitor's suspense, and partly on my own growing curiosity.

"There it is, sir," I said, pointing to the drawer. It lay on the floor behind a table, still covered with the sheet.

He sprang to it, and then he stopped and laid his hand upon his heart. I could hear his teeth grinding as his jaws jerked. His face was so ghastly to see that I grew alarmed for both his life and his reason.

"Compose yourself," I said.

He turned a dreadful smile to me. Then, as if with the courage of despair, he pulled away the sheet. At the sight of what was inside, he gave one loud sob of such immense relief that I sat frozen. The next moment he spoke, in a voice that was already fairly well under control. "Have you a measuring glass?" he asked.

I rose from my place with some effort and gave him what he asked for.

He thanked me with a smiling nod. He measured out a few drops of the red liquid and added one of the powders. At first the mixture was reddish. As the crystals melted, it began to brighten in colour and to bubble loudly. It also gave off small fumes of vapour. Suddenly, all at once, the bubbling stopped. The mixture turned dark purple. Then, more slowly, the purple faded to a watery green. My visitor had watched these changes with a keen eye. He smiled, set the glass down on the table, and then turned and looked at me with a searching look.

"And now," he said, "let us settle what remains. Will you be wise? Will you be guided? Will you let me take this glass in my hand and go out of your house without more talk? Or has your greed for knowledge too much power over you? Think before you answer, for it will be done as you decide. If you choose to let me go, you will be left as you were before, neither richer nor wiser. Unless the feeling of having helped a man in deadly distress may count as a kind of riches of the soul. Or, if you prefer, a new province of knowledge will be opened to you here, in this room, at once. New roads to fame and power will open too. And your eyes will be struck by a wonder that would shake even the unbelief of Satan."

"Sir," I said, pretending a coolness that I did not truly have, "you speak in riddles. Perhaps you will not be surprised that I hear you without very strong belief. But I have gone too far in doing strange favours to stop before I see the end."

"It is well," replied my visitor. "Lanyon, you remember your vows. What follows is under the seal of our profession. And now, you have long been bound to the narrowest and most material views. You have denied the value of transcendental medicine. You have laughed at those who know more than you. Behold!"

He put the glass to his lips and drank it at one gulp. A cry followed. He reeled, staggered and clutched at the table, holding on. His eyes were bloodshot as he stared, and his mouth was open as he gasped. As I looked, I thought there came a change. He seemed to swell. His face suddenly became black, and the features seemed to melt and change. The next moment I had sprung to my feet and leaped back against the wall. My arms were raised to shield me from that wonder, and my mind was drowned in terror.

"O God!" I screamed, and "O God!" again and again. For there before my eyes stood Henry Jekyll. He was pale and shaken and half fainting. He was groping in front of him with his hands, like a man brought back from death!

What he told me in the next hour, I cannot bring my mind to write on paper. I saw what I saw, and I heard what I heard, and my soul was sick at it. And yet now, when that sight has faded from my eyes, I ask myself if I believe it. I cannot answer. My life is shaken to its roots. Sleep has left me. The deadliest terror sits beside me at all hours of the day and night. I feel that my days are numbered and that I must die. And yet I shall die without believing it. As for the moral wickedness that man showed me, even with tears of repentance, I cannot dwell on it. Even in memory, I cannot think of it without a start of horror. I will say only one thing, Utterson. If you can bring your mind to believe it, 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. He was hunted in every corner of the land as the murderer of Carew.

HASTIE LANYON.

### Glossary

- **registered letter**: a letter sent by post that is recorded, so the sender can prove it arrived
- **colleague**: a person who works in the same job as you
- **hansom**: a horse-drawn cab that people could hire
- **locksmith**: a person who makes and opens locks
- **press**: a tall cupboard
- **phial**: a small glass bottle
- **consulting room**: the room where a doctor meets and examines patients
- **portico**: a covered entrance to a big house, with pillars
- **bull's-eye lantern**: a lamp with a strong, narrow beam that policemen carried
- **transcendental medicine**: a kind of medicine that deals with mysterious or spiritual things, not only the body

## Henry Jekyll's Full Statement of the Case

I was born in the year 18— into a large fortune. I also had excellent abilities, and I was hardworking by nature. I liked the respect of wise and good people. So everything promised me an honourable and famous future.

The worst of my faults was a kind of impatient gaiety. It has made many people happy. But I found it hard to match with my strong wish to hold my head high. In public I wanted to look more serious than most people. So I hid my pleasures. Then I reached the age of thinking. I began to look around me and to take stock of my progress and my position in the world. By then I was already living a deeply double life.

Many men would have boasted about the wrong things that I did. But I had set high goals before me. So I saw my faults with an almost sick sense of shame, and I hid them. My faults were not especially low or base. It was the strictness of my hopes that made me what I was. It cut a deeper line in me than in most men. It split the good part of my nature from the bad part. These two parts together make up man's double nature.

In this way I was driven to think deeply, and for a long time, about the hard law of life. This law lies at the root of religion. It is also one of the richest sources of human suffering.

Though I was such a double-dealer, I was not a hypocrite. Both sides of me were completely serious. I was no more myself when I threw off all restraint and fell into shame. I was just as much myself when I worked in the light of day. In daylight I worked to increase knowledge and to ease sorrow and suffering.

My scientific studies led wholly towards the mystic and the spiritual. By chance, they threw a strong light on my knowledge of the endless war between the parts of my nature. Every day, from both sides of my mind, the moral and the intellectual, I came steadily nearer to a truth. By discovering only part of it, I have been doomed to a terrible shipwreck. The truth is this: man is not truly one, but truly two.

I say two, because my own knowledge does not go further than that. Others will follow me. Others will go beyond me on the same road. I guess that in the end man will be known as a community of many different inhabitants. They will not match each other, and each will be independent of the rest.

As for me, my kind of life led me in one direction only, and it never failed. It was on the moral side, and in my own person, that I learned this. I learned to see the deep, original double nature of man. I saw that two natures fought in the field of my mind. If I could rightly be called either of them, it was only because I was deeply both.

Very early, I learned to dwell with pleasure on one thought, like a beloved daydream. This was the thought of separating these two parts. It came even before my scientific work suggested the faintest chance of such a miracle.

I told myself: if each part could live in a separate person, life would lose all that was unbearable. The unjust one could go his own way, free from the hopes and the regret of his more upright twin. And the just one could walk steadily and safely on his upward path. He could do the good things that gave him pleasure. He would no longer be exposed to shame and sorrow caused by this outside evil.

It was the curse of mankind that these two unlike bundles of sticks were tied together. In the painful womb of consciousness, these opposite twins had to struggle all the time. How, then, could they be separated?

I had got this far in my thoughts when, as I have said, a side light began to shine on the subject. It came from the laboratory table. I began to see, more deeply than anyone has yet stated, how this solid-looking body is really unreal. It trembles, it is hardly made of matter, and it passes away like mist. We walk about dressed in it. I found that certain substances have the power to shake this clothing of flesh. They can also pull it back. A wind can toss the curtains of a tent in the same way.

I will not go deeply into this scientific part of my confession, for two good reasons. First, I have learned that the doom and burden of our life are tied for ever to man's shoulders. When we try to throw them off, they come back with a stranger and more terrible weight. Second, as my story will sadly make clear, my discoveries were not complete.

It is enough to say this. I recognised that my natural body was only the glow and shine of certain powers of my spirit. And I managed to make a drug that could remove these powers from their rule. A second form and face took their place. They were just as natural to me. They expressed the lower parts of my soul, and they carried its mark.

I hesitated long before I tested this theory in practice. I knew well that I risked death. A drug that so strongly controlled and shook the very fortress of identity could be dangerous. With the smallest overdose, or at the wrong moment, it might wipe out the unseen house of my spirit. And that was the very thing I hoped it would change. But the temptation of such a strange and deep discovery was too strong. At last it overcame my fear.

I had long ago prepared my tincture. I bought a large quantity of a particular salt from a firm of wholesale chemists. I knew from my experiments that it was the last ingredient I needed. Late one cursed night I mixed the elements. I watched them boil and smoke together in the glass. When the boiling had calmed down, I drank the potion with a strong glow of courage.

The most terrible pains followed. There was a grinding in my bones and a deadly sickness. I felt a horror of the spirit that cannot be greater at the hour of birth or death. Then the agonies began to fade quickly, and I came to myself as if after a great illness. There was something strange in my feelings. It was something new, and because it was so new, it was wonderfully sweet.

I felt younger, lighter and happier in my body. Inside, I felt a wild recklessness. A stream of disordered, sensual pictures ran through my mind, fast like water in a millrace. The bonds of duty had come loose. I felt a freedom of the soul that I had never known, but it was not an innocent one. At the first breath of this new life, I knew that I was more wicked, ten times more wicked. I knew I was sold as a slave to my original evil. In that moment the thought made me strong and delighted me like wine. I stretched out my hands, happy in the freshness of these feelings. And then I suddenly noticed that I had become shorter.

At that time there was no mirror in my room. The one that stands beside me as I write was brought there later, for the very purpose of these changes. The night was far gone, nearly morning. The morning, black as it was, was almost ready to give birth to the day. The people in my house were deep in the heaviest hours of sleep. I was full of hope and triumph. I decided to go in my new shape as far as my bedroom.

I crossed the yard. The stars looked down on me, and I could imagine they looked with wonder. I thought I was the first creature of that kind that their sleepless watching had ever shown them. I crept through the corridors, a stranger in my own house. I came to my room, and there I saw for the first time the appearance of Edward Hyde.

I must speak here by theory alone. I can only say what I think is most probable, not what I know. The evil side of my nature now had the power to leave its mark. It was less strong and less developed than the good side that I had just put aside. Also, my life had been nine-tenths a life of effort, virtue and control. So the evil side had been used much less, and it was much less worn out. For this reason, I think, Edward Hyde was so much smaller, slighter and younger than Henry Jekyll.

Good shone on the face of the one. In the same way, evil was written broadly and plainly on the face of the other. Evil is still, I must believe, the deadly side of man. It had also left a mark of deformity and decay on that body. And yet I felt no dislike when I looked at that ugly idol in the glass. I felt rather a leap of welcome. This, too, was myself. It seemed natural and human. To my eyes it was a livelier image of the spirit. It seemed clearer and more single than the imperfect, divided face that I had called mine until then.

In this I was surely right. I have seen that when I wore the look of Edward Hyde, nobody could come near me at first without a visible shrinking of the body. I believe this was because all other human beings are mixed out of good and evil. Edward Hyde alone among men was pure evil.

I stayed only a moment at the mirror. The second experiment, which would settle everything, was still to be tried. I had to see whether I had lost my identity beyond rescue. If so, I must flee before daylight from a house that was no longer mine. I hurried back to my cabinet. Once more I prepared the cup and drank it. Once more I suffered the pains of dissolution. And once more I came to myself with the character, the height and the face of Henry Jekyll.

That night I had come to the fatal cross-roads. If I had come to my discovery in a nobler spirit, everything would have been different. Suppose I had risked the experiment with generous or religious hopes in my heart. Then I would have come out of those agonies of death and birth as an angel instead of a fiend. The drug did not choose between good and bad. It was neither devilish nor divine. It only shook the doors of the prison of my character. And like the captives of Philippi, what stood inside ran out.

At that time my virtue was asleep. My evil was kept awake by ambition, and it was alert and quick to seize the chance. So the thing that came out was Edward Hyde. I now had two characters as well as two appearances. One was wholly evil. The other was still the old Henry Jekyll, a mixture of good and bad. I had already learned to despair of ever reforming or improving him. So the movement was wholly towards the worse.

Even at that time I had not overcome my dislike of the dryness of a life of study. I could still be merry at times. My pleasures were (to say the least) undignified. I was well known and highly respected, and I was growing towards old age. So this lack of harmony in my life became more unwelcome every day. It was on this side that my new power tempted me, until I fell into its slavery. I only had to drink the cup. At once I could take off the body of the famous professor and put on that of Edward Hyde, like a thick cloak. I smiled at the idea. At the time it seemed funny to me. I made my preparations with the greatest care.

I took and furnished that house in Soho, where the police later tracked Hyde. I hired as housekeeper a creature whom I knew well to be silent and without scruples. On the other side, I told my servants about a Mr. Hyde, and I described him to them. He was to have full freedom and power in my house in the square. To avoid accidents, I even called at the house and made myself a familiar sight in my second character. Next I drew up the will to which you objected so much. If anything happened to me as Dr. Jekyll, I could then become Edward Hyde without losing money. I thought I was protected on every side. And so I began to profit from the strange safety of my position.

Men have hired thugs before to commit their crimes, while their own persons and good names sat safe under shelter. I was the first who ever did so for his pleasures. I was the first who could plod along in public view, carrying a load of friendly respectability. And in a moment, like a schoolboy, I could strip off these borrowed clothes and jump headlong into the sea of liberty. For me, in my impenetrable cloak, the safety was complete. Think of it—I did not even exist!

I only had to escape through my laboratory door. I only needed a second or two to mix and swallow the draught that I always kept ready. Then, whatever he had done, Edward Hyde would pass away like the mark of breath on a mirror. And in his place, quietly at home, there would be Henry Jekyll. He would be trimming the midnight lamp in his cabinet. He would be a man who could afford to laugh at suspicion.

The pleasures that I hurried to seek in my disguise were, as I have said, undignified. I would hardly use a harder word. But in the hands of Edward Hyde they soon began to turn monstrous. When I came back from these trips, I was often filled with a kind of wonder. It was wickedness done in my place by another. I had called this spirit servant out of my own soul. I had sent him out alone to do as he liked. He was evil and wicked by nature. Every act and thought of his was centred on himself. He drank pleasure greedily, like an animal, from any amount of torture to another person. He was without pity, like a man made of stone.

Henry Jekyll stood at times shocked before the acts of Edward Hyde. But the situation was outside ordinary laws, and it slowly loosened the grip of conscience. After all, it was Hyde, and Hyde alone, who was guilty. Jekyll was no worse. He woke again with his good qualities seemingly unharmed. He would even hurry, where it was possible, to undo the evil that Hyde had done. And so his conscience slept.

I do not plan to go into the details of the shameful things that I helped to do. (Even now I can hardly admit that I did them myself.) I only mean to point out the warnings and the steps by which my punishment came closer. I had one accident that led to no result, so I shall only mention it.

An act of cruelty to a child made a passer-by angry with me. I recognised him the other day in the person of your relative. The doctor and the child's family joined him. There were moments when I feared for my life. At last, to calm their anger (which was only too just), Edward Hyde had to bring them to the door. He paid them with a cheque in the name of Henry Jekyll. But in the future this danger was easily removed. I opened an account at another bank in the name of Edward Hyde himself. Then I sloped my own handwriting backward, and so I gave my double a signature. After that I thought I sat beyond the reach of fate.

About two months before the murder of Sir Danvers, I had been out on one of my adventures. I came home late, and the next day I woke in bed with rather odd feelings. I looked around me, but it was no use. I saw the decent furniture and the tall proportions of my room in the square. I recognised the pattern of the bed curtains and the design of the mahogany frame. It made no difference. Something kept insisting that I was not where I was. I had not woken where I seemed to be, but in the little room in Soho. There I was used to sleeping in the body of Edward Hyde.

I smiled to myself. In my habit of studying the mind, I began lazily to look into the causes of this illusion. Even as I did so, I sometimes dropped back into a comfortable morning sleep. I was still doing this when, in one of my more awake moments, my eyes fell on my hand.

Now the hand of Henry Jekyll (as you have often said) was a doctor's hand in shape and size. It was large, firm, white and handsome. But the hand that I now saw clearly, in the yellow light of a mid-London morning, was different. It lay half shut on the bedclothes. It was thin, corded and knuckly, of a dusky paleness, and thickly covered with dark hair. It was the hand of Edward Hyde.

I must have stared at it for nearly half a minute, sunk in simple stupid wonder. Then terror woke in my chest, as sudden and startling as the crash of cymbals. I jumped out of bed and rushed to the mirror. At the sight that met my eyes, my blood turned thin and icy. Yes, I had gone to bed as Henry Jekyll, and I had woken as Edward Hyde.

How could this be explained? I asked myself. And then, with another jump of terror, I asked: how could it be put right? It was well on in the morning. The servants were up. All my drugs were in the cabinet. That was a long journey. I had to go down two flights of stairs and through the back passage. Then I had to cross the open court and go through the theatre. I stood there horror-struck, far away from them. It might be possible to cover my face. But what use was that, when I could not hide the change in my height?

Then, with an overpowering sweetness of relief, I remembered something. The servants were already used to the comings and goings of my second self. I soon dressed, as well as I could, in clothes of my own size. I soon passed through the house. Bradshaw stared and drew back when he saw Mr. Hyde at such an hour and in such strange clothes. Ten minutes later Dr. Jekyll had returned to his own shape. He sat down, with a dark brow, and pretended to eat breakfast.

My appetite was small indeed. This unexplained event was the reverse of my earlier experience. It seemed, like the Babylonian finger on the wall, to spell out the letters of my judgment. And I began to think more seriously than ever about the results and possibilities of my double life.

The part of me that I had the power to throw out had lately been much exercised and fed. It had seemed to me that the body of Edward Hyde had grown taller. When I wore that form, I felt a more generous flow of blood. And I began to see a danger. If this went on for long, the balance of my nature might be overthrown for ever. I might lose the power of changing by choice. And the character of Edward Hyde might become mine beyond recall.

The power of the drug had not always been equal. Once, very early in my career, it had failed completely. Since then I had more than once been forced to double the amount. And once, with great risk of death, I had to treble it. These rare uncertainties had been the only shadow on my contentment until now. But now, in the light of that morning's accident, I noticed something. In the beginning, the difficulty had been to throw off the body of Jekyll. Lately it had slowly but clearly moved to the other side.

All things seemed to point to this: I was slowly losing hold of my original and better self. I was slowly becoming one with my second and worse self.

Between these two, I now felt that I had to choose. My two natures had memory in common. But all my other abilities were shared very unequally between them. Jekyll (who was a mixture) took part in the pleasures and adventures of Hyde. Sometimes he did so with the most sensitive fears, and sometimes with greedy enjoyment. But Hyde did not care about Jekyll. He remembered him only as a mountain bandit remembers the cave where he hides from those who chase him. Jekyll had more than a father's interest in Hyde. Hyde had more than a son's lack of interest in Jekyll.

If I chose to live as Jekyll, I would die to the appetites that I had long secretly satisfied. I had lately begun to feed them too richly. If I chose Hyde, I would die to a thousand interests and hopes. At one blow and for ever, I would become despised and friendless. The bargain might seem unequal. But there was one more thing on the scales. Jekyll would suffer sharply in the fires of going without. Hyde would not even know all that he had lost.

My situation was strange. But the terms of this argument are as old and ordinary as man himself. Much the same temptations and fears decide the case of any tempted, trembling sinner. And it happened to me as it happens to the great majority of my fellow men. I chose the better part, and I was not strong enough to keep to it.

Yes, I preferred the elderly, unhappy doctor, with friends around him and honest hopes in his heart. I said a firm goodbye to freedom and to comparative youth. I said goodbye to the light step, the leaping impulses and the secret pleasures. I had enjoyed all of these as Hyde. Perhaps I made this choice with some secret reservation that I did not notice. I did not give up the house in Soho. I did not destroy the clothes of Edward Hyde, which still lay ready in my cabinet.

For two months, however, I kept to my decision. For two months I led a life more strict than I had ever managed before. And I enjoyed the rewards of an approving conscience. But time began at last to wear away the freshness of my alarm. The praises of my conscience began to seem ordinary. I began to be tortured by pains and longings, as if Hyde were struggling for freedom. At last, in an hour of moral weakness, I mixed the transforming draught again and swallowed it.

When a drunkard thinks about his vice, I do not suppose he is often afraid. Perhaps once in five hundred times he is moved by the danger of his own brutish physical numbness. In the same way, I had considered my position for a long time. But I had not allowed enough for the complete moral numbness of Edward Hyde. I had not allowed enough for his senseless readiness for evil. These were the main marks of his character. Yet it was by these that I was punished.

My devil had been caged for a long time, and he came out roaring. Even as I took the draught, I felt a wilder, more furious tendency to evil. It must have been this, I suppose, that stirred up in my soul the storm of impatience. In that storm I listened to the polite words of my unhappy victim. I declare before God that no morally sane man could have done that crime. The cause was too pitiful. I struck in no more reasonable spirit than a sick child who breaks a toy.

But I had of my own will stripped myself of all those balancing instincts. By these even the worst of us keep walking with some steadiness among temptations. And in my case, to be tempted, however slightly, was to fall.

At once the spirit of hell woke in me and raged. With a wild joy I beat the unresisting body. I tasted delight in every blow. It was not until I began to grow tired that I was suddenly, at the height of my madness, struck through the heart by a cold thrill of terror. A mist cleared. I saw that my life was lost. I fled from the scene of these terrible acts, proud and trembling at once. My lust for evil was satisfied and stirred up. My love of life was wound up as tight as it could go.

I ran to the house in Soho. To make doubly sure, I destroyed my papers. From there I set out through the lamplit streets, in the same divided ecstasy of mind. I gloated over my crime. I lightheadedly planned other crimes for the future. And still I hurried, and still I listened behind me for the steps of the avenger.

Hyde had a song on his lips as he mixed the draught. As he drank it, he drank a toast to the dead man. The pains of transformation had not finished tearing him before Henry Jekyll fell on his knees. Tears of gratitude and remorse were streaming down his face. He lifted his clasped hands to God. The veil of self-indulgence was torn from head to foot.

I saw my life as a whole. I followed it from the days of childhood, when I walked holding my father's hand. I followed it through the self-denying work of my professional life. And again and again, with the same sense of unreality, I arrived at the damned horrors of that evening. I could have screamed aloud. I tried with tears and prayers to smother the hideous images and sounds. They swarmed against me in my memory like a crowd. And still, between the prayers, the ugly face of my wickedness stared into my soul.

As the sharpness of this remorse began to die away, a sense of joy followed it. The problem of my conduct was solved. From then on Hyde was impossible. Whether I wished it or not, I was now confined to the better part of my existence. And oh, how I rejoiced to think of it! With what willing humility I accepted again the limits of natural life! With what sincere renunciation I locked the door by which I had so often come and gone! And I ground the key under my heel!

The next day came the news that the murder had not been overlooked. Hyde's guilt was clear to the whole world, and the victim was a man high in public respect. 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 that the terrors of the scaffold now supported and guarded my better impulses. Jekyll was now my city of refuge. If Hyde peeped out for one moment, the hands of all men would be raised. They would take him and kill him.

I decided to make up for the past by my future conduct. I can say honestly that my decision brought some good. You know yourself how earnestly I worked to relieve suffering in the last months of last year. You know that much was done for others. And the days passed quietly, almost happily, for me. I cannot truly say that I grew tired of this kind and innocent life. I think instead that I enjoyed it more completely every day.

But I was still cursed with my double purpose. As the first sharpness of my penitence wore off, the lower side of me began to growl for freedom. It had been indulged so long, and chained down so recently. I did not dream of bringing Hyde back to life. The bare idea of it would startle me to madness. No, it was in my own person that I was once more tempted to play games with my conscience. And I fell before the attacks of temptation as an ordinary secret sinner.

There comes an end to all things. The fullest measure is filled at last. This brief giving-in to my 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 made my discovery.

It was a fine, clear January day. The ground was wet where the frost had melted, but the sky was cloudless. Regent's Park was full of winter bird-song and sweet with the smells of spring. I sat in the sun on a bench. The animal inside me was licking its lips at the memory. The spiritual side was a little sleepy. It promised penitence later, but it was not yet moved to begin. After all, I thought, I was like my neighbours. Then I smiled and compared myself with other men. I compared my active good will with the lazy cruelty of their neglect.

And at the very moment of that proud thought, a sickness came over me. It was a horrid nausea with the most deadly shuddering. These passed away and left me faint. Then, as the faintness faded in its turn, I began to notice a change in the mood of my thoughts. There was a greater boldness, a contempt of danger, and a loosening of the bonds of duty. I looked down. My clothes hung shapeless 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 in the respect of all men, wealthy and beloved. The table was being laid for me in the dining-room at home. And now I was the common prey of mankind. I was hunted and without a home, a known murderer, a slave to the gallows.

My reason wavered, but it did not fail me completely. I have noticed more than once that in my second character my abilities seemed sharpened to a point. My spirits were more tightly springy. So it happened that, where Jekyll perhaps would have given up, Hyde rose to the importance of the moment. My drugs were in one of the presses in my cabinet. How could I reach them? That was the problem that I set myself to solve, crushing my temples in my hands.

I had closed the laboratory door. If I tried to enter by the house, my own servants would send me to the gallows. I saw that I must use another person's hand, and I thought of Lanyon. How could he be reached? How could he be persuaded? Suppose I escaped capture in the streets. How could I make my way into his presence? And how could I, an unknown and unpleasant visitor, persuade the famous doctor to search Dr. Jekyll's cabinet?

Then I remembered that one part of my original character was still mine. I could write in my own hand. Once I had thought of that kindling spark, the way ahead was lit up from end to end.

Then I arranged my clothes as well as I could. I called a passing hansom and drove to a hotel in Portland Street. I happened to remember its name. At my appearance the driver could not hide his amusement. I must have looked comical, although the clothes covered a tragic fate. I gnashed my teeth at him in a gust of devilish fury. The smile withered from his face. That was lucky for him, and even luckier for me. In another instant I would certainly have dragged him from his seat.

At the inn I looked about me as I came in, with so black a face that the waiters trembled. They did not exchange a look in my presence. They took my orders humbly, led me to a private room and brought me what I needed to write. Hyde in danger of his life was a creature new to me. He was shaken with huge anger and strung to the pitch of murder. He longed to cause pain. Yet the creature was clever. He mastered his fury with a great effort of will. He wrote his two important letters, one to Lanyon and one to Poole. He wanted real proof that they were posted, so he sent them out with orders that they should be registered.

After that he sat all day over the fire in the private room, gnawing his nails. He dined there alone with his fears, and the waiter visibly shrank before his eye. When night had fully come, he set out in the corner of a closed cab. He 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. At last he thought the driver was growing suspicious. He paid off the cab and went on foot. His clothes fitted badly, and people were sure to notice him. He walked into the middle of the night's passers-by. These two base passions raged within him like a tempest. He walked fast, hunted by his fears and talking to himself. He crept through the quieter roads, counting the minutes that still separated him from midnight. Once a woman spoke to him. She offered, I think, a box of matches. He struck her in the face, and she fled.

When I came to myself at Lanyon's, the horror of my old friend perhaps affected me a little. I do not know. At least it was only a drop in the sea. I looked back on those hours with much deeper disgust. A change had come over me. It was no longer the fear of the gallows. It was the horror of being Hyde that tortured me.

I received Lanyon's condemnation partly in a dream. It was also partly in a dream that I came home to my own house and went to bed. After the exhaustion of the day I slept a deep, heavy sleep. Not even the nightmares that tormented me could break it. In the morning I woke shaken and weak, but refreshed. I still hated and feared the thought of the brute that slept inside me. Of course I had not forgotten the terrible dangers of the day before. But I was at home again, in my own house and close to my drugs. And my gratitude for my escape shone so strongly in my soul that it almost rivalled the brightness of hope.

I was walking slowly across the court after breakfast. I was drinking in the cold air with pleasure. Then I was seized again by those indescribable feelings that announced the change. I had only just time to reach the shelter of my cabinet. Then I was raging and freezing with the passions of Hyde once more. This time it took a double dose to bring me back to myself. And, alas, six hours later, as I sat looking sadly into the fire, the pains returned. The drug had to be taken again.

In short, from that day on I could wear the face of Jekyll only by a great effort. It was like the effort of a gymnast. I could do it only under the direct force of the drug. At all hours of the day and night I would be taken by the warning shudder. Above all, if I slept, or even dozed for a moment in my chair, I always woke as Hyde.

I lived under the strain of this doom, which always hung over me. I also condemned myself to a sleeplessness beyond what I had thought possible for a man. Under these two burdens I became, in my own person, a creature eaten up and emptied by fever. I was weak in body and mind. I had only one thought: the horror of my other self. But when I slept, or when the power of the medicine wore off, I would leap into another state. There was almost no gap between the two. (The pains of change grew less marked every day.) My mind was full of images of terror. My soul was boiling with causeless hatreds. My body seemed not strong enough to hold the raging energies of life. The powers of Hyde seemed to have grown as Jekyll became sicker. 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 ugliness of that creature. The creature shared with him some of the facts of consciousness, and it was his fellow heir to death. These links of community were themselves the most painful part of his distress. And beyond them he thought of Hyde, for all his energy of life, as something not only hellish but lifeless. This was the shocking thing: the slime of the pit seemed to utter cries and voices. The shapeless dust waved its arms and sinned. What was dead, and had no shape, should take over the work of life.

And there was this too. That rebellious horror was tied to him closer than a wife, closer than an eye. It lay caged in his flesh, where he heard it mutter and felt it struggle to be born. In every hour of weakness, and in the safety of sleep, it won against him. It threw him out of life.

The hatred of Hyde for Jekyll was of a different kind. His terror of the gallows drove him again and again to a kind of temporary suicide. He had to go back to his lower place as only a part of a person, not a whole person. But he hated this necessity. He hated the low spirits into which Jekyll had now fallen. And he resented the dislike with which Jekyll looked at him. So he played ape-like tricks on me. He scribbled wicked insults against God in my own handwriting on the pages of my books. He burned my letters and destroyed the portrait of my father. In fact, he would long ago have ruined himself to drag me into the ruin too. Only his fear of death stopped him.

But his love of life is wonderful. I go further than that. I sicken and freeze at the mere thought of him. Yet I remember how low and passionate his attachment to life is. And I know how he fears my power to cut him off by suicide. So I find it in my heart to pity him.

It is useless to go on with this description, and I am awfully short of time. No one has ever suffered such torments. Let that be enough. And yet even to these torments habit brought a certain hardness of soul and a certain acceptance of despair. It did not bring relief—no, not that. My punishment might have gone on for years. But then came the last disaster, which has now fallen on me. It has finally cut me off from my own face and nature.

My supply of the salt had never been renewed since the first experiment. It began to run low. I sent out for a fresh supply and mixed the draught. The boiling followed, and the first change of colour, but not the second. I drank it, and it had no effect. You will learn from Poole how I have had London searched from end to end. It was no use. I am now convinced that my first supply was impure. It was that unknown impurity which gave the draught its power.

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, unless a miracle happens, that Henry Jekyll can think his own thoughts. It is the last time he can see his own face in the glass. (How sadly changed it is!)

I must not delay too long to finish my writing. If my narrative has escaped destruction so far, it was by a mixture of great care and great good luck. If the pains of change take me while I am writing it, Hyde will tear it to pieces. But if some time has passed after I put it aside, he will probably save it once more from his ape-like spite. He is wonderfully selfish and lives only for the moment. And indeed the doom that is closing on us both has already changed him and crushed him.

Half an hour from now I shall put on that hated personality again, and this time for ever. I know how I shall sit shuddering and weeping in my chair. Or I shall keep pacing up and down this room, my last refuge on earth. I shall listen with the most strained and terrified ecstasy to every sound of danger.

Will Hyde die on the scaffold? Or will he find the courage to free himself at the last moment? God knows. I do not care. This is my true hour of death. What follows concerns another person, not me. Here, then, I lay down the pen and go on to seal up my confession. With this I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end.

### Glossary

- **double life**: a life in which you secretly live in two different ways, one public and one hidden
- **shipwreck**: here, a complete ruin of a person's life, like a ship destroyed at sea
- **tincture**: a liquid medicine or chemical mixture
- **wholesale chemists**: a company that sells large amounts of chemicals and drugs to shops and doctors
- **cabinet**: Jekyll's private room, where he works and keeps his drugs
- **the captives of Philippi**: prisoners in the Bible who ran out when an earthquake opened their prison doors
- **cross-roads**: a place where you must choose between different ways, here a moment of big choice
- **idol**: an image or statue that people worship
- **thugs**: violent men who are paid to do crimes
- **the Babylonian finger on the wall**: in the Bible, a mysterious hand wrote a warning of judgment on a wall
- **bandit**: a robber who lives outside the law, often in the mountains
- **presses**: cupboards, here the cupboards in Jekyll's cabinet where he keeps his drugs
- **avenger**: a person who punishes someone for a crime
- **city of refuge**: a safe place where a person can hide from those who hunt him
- **scaffold**: the wooden platform where criminals were hanged
- **gallows**: the wooden frame used to hang criminals
- **hansom**: a light horse carriage for hire
- **registered**: sent by post in a way that is recorded, so you can prove it arrived
- **penitence**: deep sorrow for something bad you have done, and the wish to make up for it