The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr.

Hyde
By Robert Louis Stevenson
(c) 2002 by HorrorMasters.com

STORY OF THE DOOR

Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance, that was never lighted by a smile;
cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and
yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something
eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his
talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and
loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he was alone, to
mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one
for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost
with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity
inclined to help rather than to reprove.
“I incline to, Cain’s heresy,” he used to say. “I let my brother go to the devil in his quaintly:
“own way.” In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance
and the last good influence in the lives of down-going men. And to such as these, so long as they
came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.
No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative at the best, and even
his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a
modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that was
the lawyer’s way. His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the
longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object.
Hence, no doubt, the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-
known man about town. It was a nut to crack for many, what these two could see in each other,
or what subject they could find in common. It was reported by those who encountered them in
their Sunday walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull, and would hail with obvious
relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two men put the greatest store by these
excursions, counted them the chief jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of
pleasure, but even resisted the calls of business, that they might enjoy them uninterrupted.
It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a by-street in a busy quarter
of London. The street was small and what is called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the
week-days. The inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all emulously hoping to do better
still, and laying out the surplus of their gains in coquetry; so that the shop fronts stood along that
thoroughfare with an air of invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when
it veiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively empty of passage, the street shone out in
contrast to its dingy neighbourhood, like a fire in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters,
well-polished brasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught and pleased
the eye of the passenger.
Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east, the line was broken by the entry of a
court; and just at that point, a certain sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the
street. It was two stories high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower story and a
blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and bore in every feature, the marks of
prolonged and sordid negligence. The door, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker,
was blistered and distained. Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on the panels;
children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had tried his knife on the mouldings; and for
close on a generation, no one had appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their
ravages.(c) 2002 by HorrorMasters.com

Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but when they came abreast
of the entry, the former lifted up his cane and pointed.
“Did you ever remark that door?” he asked; and when his companion had replied in the
affirmative, “It is connected in my mind,” added he, “with a very odd story.”
“Indeed?” said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, “and what was that?”
“Well, it was this way,” returned Mr. Enfield: “I was coming home from some place at the end
of the world, about three o’ clock of a black winter morning, and my way lay through a part of
town where there was literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street after street, and all the folks
asleep — street after street, all lighted up as if for a procession and all as empty as a church —
till at last I got into that state of mind when a man listens and listens and begins to long for the
sight of a policeman. All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was stumping along
eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe eight or ten who was running as hard as
she was able down a cross street. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the
corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man trampled calmly over the,
child’s body and left her screaming on the ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to
see. It wasn’t like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a view-halloa, took to my
heels, collared my gentleman, and brought him back to where there was already quite a group
about the screaming child. He was perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look,
so ugly that it brought out the sweat on me like running. The people who had turned out were the
girl’s own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for whom she had been sent, put in his
appearance. Well, the child was not much the worse, more frightened, according to the
Sawbones; and there you might have supposed would be an end to it. But there was one curious
circumstance. I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first sight. So had the child’s family,
which was only natural. But the doctor’s case was what struck me. He was the usual cut-and-dry
apothecary, of no particular age and colour, with a strong Edinburgh accent, and about as
emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like the rest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner,
I saw that Sawbones turn sick and white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in his mind,
just as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the question, we did the next best. We
told the man we could and would make such a scandal out of this, as should make his name stink
from one end of London to the other. If he had any friends or any credit, we undertook that he
should lose them. And all the time, as we were pitching it in red hot, we were keeping the
women off him as best we could, for they were as wild as harpies. I never saw a circle of such
hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of black, sneering coolness —
frightened too, I could see that — but carrying it off, sir, really like Satan. ‘If you choose to
make capital out of this accident,’ said he, ‘I am naturally helpless. No gentleman but wishes to
avoid a scene,’ says he. ‘Name your figure.’ Well, we screwed him up to a hundred pounds for
the child’s family; he would have clearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot
of us that meant mischief, and at last he struck. The next thing was to get the money; and where
do you think he carried us but to that place with the door? — whipped out a key, went in, and
presently came back with the matter of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on
Coutts’s, drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can’t mention, though it’s one of
the points of my story, but it was a name at least very well known and often printed. The figure
was stiff; but the signature was good for more than that, if it was only genuine. I took the liberty
of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole business looked apocryphal, and that a man does
not, in real life, walk into a cellar door at four in the morning and come out of it with another
man’s cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and sneering. ‘Set your
mind at rest,’ says he, ‘I will stay with you till the banks open and cash the cheque myself.’ So
we all set off, the doctor, and the child’s father, and our friend and myself, and passed the rest of
the night in my chambers; and next day, when we had breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I
gave in the check myself, and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery. Not a bit of it.
The cheque was genuine.”
“Tut-tut,” said Mr. Utterson.
“I see you feel as I do,” said Mr. Enfield. “Yes, it’s a bad story. For my man was a fellow that
nobody could have to do with, a really damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the
very pink of the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it worse) one of your fellows who
do what they call good. Black-mail, I suppose; an honest man paying through the nose for some
of the capers of his youth. Black-Mail House is what I call that place with the door, in
consequence. Though even that, you know, is far from explaining all,” he added, and with the
words fell into a vein of musing. #12343 2 asddj ~ asdlkjd dkeeke $$%45 dj dja djjjdj a ndna $*@ !! /v asdke d

From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly:” And you don’t know if the
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“A likely place, isn’t it?” returned Mr. Enfield. “But I happen to have noticed his address; he
lives in some square or other.”
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“And you never asked about the — place with the door?” said Mr. Utterson.
“No, sir: I had a delicacy,” was the reply. “I feel very strongly about putting questions; it
partakes too much of the style of the day of judgment. You start a question, and it’s like starting
a stone. You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others; and
presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of) is knocked on the head in his
own back-garden and the family have to change their name. No, sir, I make it a rule of mine: the
more it looks like Queer Street, the less I ask.” #$%^% &^^~~~~~~~ sdfkj wek and if she asked weriopuerjasd $%@#45 @@@ dkdkdk mm

“ A very good rule, too,” said the lawyer.

“But I have studied the place for myself,” continued Mr. Enfield.” It seems scarcely a house.
There is no other door, and nobody goes in or out of that one but, once in a great while, the
gentleman of my adventure. There are three windows looking on the court on the first floor; none
below; the windows are always shut but they’re clean. And then there is a chimney which is
generally smoking; so somebody must live there. And yet it’s not so sure; for the buildings are so
packed together about that court, that it’s hard to say where one ends and another begins.”
The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then, “Enfield,” said Mr. Utterson, “that’s
a good rule of yours.”
“Yes, I think it is,” returned Enfield.
“But for all that,” continued the lawyer, “there’s one point I want to ask: I want to ask the
name of that man who walked over the child.”
“Well,” said Mr. Enfield, “I can’t see what harm it would do. It was a man of the name of
Hyde.”
“H’m,” said Mr. Utterson. “What sort of a man is he to see?”
“He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something
displeasing, something downright detestable. I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce
know why. He must be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I
couldn’t specify the point. He’s an extraordinary-looking man, and yet I really can name nothing
out of the way. No, sir; I can make no hand of it; I can’t describe him. And it’s not want of
memory; for I declare I can see him this moment.”
Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a weight of consideration.
“You are sure he used a key?” he inquired at last.
“My dear sir...” began Enfield, surprised out of himself.
“Yes, I know,” said Utterson; “I know it must seem strange. The fact is, if I do not ask you the
name of the other party, it is because I know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone
home. If you have been inexact in any point, you had better correct it.”
“I think you might have warned me,” returned the other, with a touch of sullenness. “But I
have been pedantically exact, as you call it. The fellow had a key; and what’s more, he has it
still. I saw him use it, not a week ago.
Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word; and the young man presently resumed.
“Here is another lesson to say nothing,” said he. “I am ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make
a bargain never to refer to this again.”
“With all my heart,” said the lawyer. “I shake hands on that, Richard.”

SEARCH FOR MR. HYDE

That evening Mr. Utterson came home to his bachelor house in sombre spirits and sat down to
dinner without relish. It was his custom of a Sunday, when this meal was over, to sit close by the
fire, a volume of some dry divinity on his reading-desk, until the clock of the neighbouring
church rang out the hour of twelve, when he would go soberly and gratefully to bed. On this
night, however, as soon as the cloth was taken away, he took up a candle and went into his
business-room. There he opened his safe, took from the most private part of it a document
endorsed on the envelope as Dr. Jekyll’s Will, and sat down with a clouded brow to study its
contents. The will was holograph, for Mr. Utterson, though he took charge of it now that it was
made, had refused to lend the least assistance in the making of it; it provided not only that, in
case of the decease of Henry Jekyll, M.D., D.C.L., LL.D., F.R.S., etc., all his possessions were to
pass into the hands of his “friend and benefactor Edward Hyde,” but that in case of
Dr. Jekyll’s “disappearance or unexplained absence for any period exceeding three calendar
months,” the said Edward Hyde should step into the said Henry Jekyll’s shoes without further
delay and free from any burthen or obligation, beyond the payment of a few small sums to the
members of the doctor’s household. This document had long been the lawyer’s eyesore. It
offended him both as a lawyer and as a lover of the sane and customary sides of life, to whom
the fanciful was the immodest. And hitherto it was his ignorance of Mr. Hyde that had swelled
his indignation; now, by a sudden turn, it was his knowledge. It was already bad enough when
the name was but a name of which he could learn no more. It was worse when it began to be
clothed upon with detestable attributes; and out of the shifting, insubstantial mists that had so
long baffled his eye, there leaped up the sudden, definite presentment of a fiend.
“I thought it was madness,” he said, as he replaced the obnoxious paper in the safe, “and now I
begin to fear it is disgrace.”
 With that he blew out his candle, put on a great-coat, and set forth in the direction of
Cavendish Square, that citadel of medicine, where his friend, the great Dr. Lanyon, had his house
and received his crowding patients. “If any one knows, it will be Lanyon,” he had thought.
The solemn butler knew and welcomed him;
he was subjected to no stage of delay, but ushered direct from the door to the dining-room
where Dr. Lanyon sat alone over his wine. This was a hearty, healthy, dapper, red-faced
gentleman, with a shock of hair prematurely white, and a boisterous and decided manner. At
sight of Mr. Utterson, he sprang up from his chair and welcomed him with both hands. The
geniality, as was the way of the man, was somewhat theatrical to the eye; but it reposed on
genuine feeling. For these two were old friends, old mates both at school and college, both
thorough respecters of themselves and of each other, and, what does not always follow, men who
thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company.
After a little rambling talk, the lawyer led up to the subject which so disagreeably pre-occupied
his mind.
“I suppose, Lanyon,” said he “you and I must be the two oldest friends that Henry Jekyll has?”
“I wish the friends were younger,” chuckled Dr. Lanyon. “But I suppose we are. And what of
that? I see little of him now.”
Indeed?” said Utterson. “I thought you had a bond of common interest.”
“We had,” was the reply. “But it is more than ten years since Henry Jekyll became too fanciful
for me. He began to go wrong, wrong in mind; and though of course I continue to take an interest
in him for old sake’s sake, as they say, I see and I have seen devilish little of the man. Such
unscientific balderdash,” added the doctor, flushing suddenly purple, “would have estranged
Damon and Pythias.”
This little spirit of temper was somewhat of a relief to Mr. Utterson. “They have only differed
on some point of science,” he thought; and being a man of no scientific passions (except in the
matter of conveyancing), he even added: “It is nothing worse than that!” He gave his friend a few
seconds to recover his composure, and then approached the question he had come to put. “Did
you ever come across a protégé of his — one Hyde?” he asked.
“Hyde?” repeated Lanyon. “No. Never heard of him. Since my time.”
That was the amount of information that the lawyer carried back with him to the great, dark
bed on which he tossed to and fro, until the small hours of the morning began to grow large. It
was a night of little ease to his toiling mind, toiling in mere darkness and besieged by questions.
Six o ‘clock struck on the bells of the church that was so conveniently near to Mr. Utterson’s
dwelling, and still he was digging at the problem. Hitherto it had touched him on the intellectual
side alone; but now his imagination also was engaged, or rather enslaved; and as he lay and
tossed in the gross darkness of the night and the curtained room, Mr. Enfield’s tale went by
before his mind in a scroll of lighted pictures. He would be aware of the great field of lamps of a
nocturnal city; then of the figure of a man walking swiftly; then of a child running from the
doctor’s; and then these met, and that human Juggernaut trod the child down and passed on
regardless of her screams. Or else he would see a room in a rich house, where his friend lay
asleep, dreaming and smiling at his dreams; and then the door of that room would be opened, the
curtains of the bed plucked apart, the sleeper recalled, and lo! there would stand by his side a
figure to whom power was given, and even at that dead hour, he must rise and do its bidding.
The figure in these two phases haunted the lawyer all night; and if at any time he dozed over, it
was but to see it glide more stealthily through sleeping houses, or move the more swiftly and still
the more swiftly, even to dizziness, through wider labyrinths of lamplighted city, and at every
street-corner crush a child and leave her screaming. And still the figure had no face by which he
might know it; even in his dreams, it had no face, or one that baffled him and melted before his
eyes; and thus it was that there sprang up and grew apace in the lawyer’s mind a singularly
strong, almost an inordinate, curiosity to behold the features of the real Mr. Hyde. If he could but
once set eyes on him, he thought the mystery would lighten and perhaps roll altogether away, as
was the habit of mysterious things when well examined. He might see a reason for his friend’s
strange preference or bondage (call it which you please) and even for the startling clause of the
will. At least it would be a face worth seeing: the face of a man who was without bowels of
mercy: a face which had but to show itself to raise up, in the mind of the unimpressionable
Enfield, a spirit of enduring hatred.
From that time forward, Mr. Utterson began to haunt the door in the by-street of shops. In the
morning before office hours, at noon when business was plenty, and time scarce, at night under
the face of the fogged city moon, by all lights and at all hours of solitude or concourse, the
lawyer was to be found on his chosen post.
“If he be Mr. Hyde,” he had thought, “I shall be Mr. Seek.”
And at last his patience was rewarded. It was a fine dry night; frost in the air; the streets as
clean as a ballroom floor; the lamps, unshaken, by any wind, drawing a regular pattern of light
and shadow. By ten o’clock, when the shops were closed, the by-street was very solitary and, in
spite of the low growl of London from all round, very silent. Small sounds carried far; domestic
sounds out of the houses were clearly audible on either side of the roadway; and the rumour of
the approach of any passenger preceded him by a long time. Mr. Utterson had been some
minutes at his post, when he was aware of an odd, light footstep drawing near. In the course of
his nightly patrols, he had long grown accustomed to the quaint effect with which the footfalls of
a single person, while he is still a great way off, suddenly spring out distinct from the vast hum
and clatter of the city. Yet his attention had never before been so sharply and decisively arrested;
and it was with a strong, superstitious prevision of success that he withdrew into the entry of the
court.
The steps drew swiftly nearer, and swelled out suddenly louder as they turned the end of the
street. The lawyer, looking forth from the entry, could soon see what manner of man he had to
deal with. He was small and very plainly dressed, and the look of him, even at that distance, went
somehow strongly against the watcher’s inclination. But he made straight for the door, crossing
the roadway to save time; and as he came, he drew a key from his pocket like one approaching
home.
Mr. Utterson stepped out and touched him on the shoulder as he passed.” Mr. Hyde, I think?”
Mr. Hyde shrank back with a hissing intake of the breath. But his fear was only momentary;
and though he did not look the lawyer in the face, he answered coolly enough: “That is my name.
What do you want?”
“I see you are going in,” returned the lawyer. “I am an old friend of Dr. Jekyll’s — Mr.
Utterson of Gaunt Street — you must have heard my name; and meeting you so conveniently, I
thought you might admit me.”
“You will not find Dr. Jekyll; he is from home,” replied Mr. Hyde, blowing in the key. And
then suddenly, but still without looking up, “How did you know me?” he asked.
“On your side,” said Mr. Utterson, “will you do me a favour?”
“With pleasure,” replied the other. “What shall it be?”
“Will you let me see your face?” asked the lawyer.
 Mr. Hyde appeared to hesitate, and then, as if upon some sudden reflection, fronted about with
an air of defiance; and the pair stared at each other pretty fixedly for a few seconds. “Now I shall
know you again,” said Mr. Utterson.” It may be useful.”
“Yes,” returned Mr. Hyde, “it is as well we have, met; and à propos, you should have my
address.” And he gave a number of a street in Soho.
“Good God!” thought Mr. Utterson,” can he, too, have been thinking of the will?” But he kept
his feelings to himself and only grunted in acknowledgment of the address.
“And now,” said the other, “how did you know me?”
“By description,” was the reply.
“Whose description?”
“We have common friends, said Mr. Utterson.
“Common friends?” echoed Mr. Hyde, a little hoarsely.” Who are they?”
“Jekyll, for instance,” said the lawyer.
“He never told you,” cried Mr. Hyde, with a flush of anger.” I did not think you would have
lied.”
“Come,” said Mr. Utterson, “that is not fitting language.”
The other snarled aloud into a savage laugh; and the next moment, with extraordinary
quickness, he had unlocked the door and disappeared into the house.
The lawyer stood a while when Mr. Hyde had left him, the picture of disquietude. Then he
began slowly to mount the street, pausing every step or two and putting his hand to his brow like
a man in mental perplexity. The problem he was thus debating as he walked, was one of a class
that is rarely solved. Mr. Hyde was pale and dwarfish, he gave an impression of deformity
without any nameable malformation, he had a displeasing smile, he had borne himself to the
lawyer with a sort of murderous mixture of timidity and boldness, and he spoke with a husky,
whispering and somewhat broken voice; all these were points against him, but not all of these
together could explain the hitherto unknown disgust, loathing, and fear with which Mr. Utterson
regarded him. “There must be something else,” said the perplexed gentleman. “There is
something more, if I could find a name for it. God bless me, the man seems hardly human!
Something troglodytic, shall we say? or can it be the old story of Dr. Fell? or Is it the mere
radiance of a foul soul that thus transpires through, and transfigures, its clay continent? The last,
I think; for, O my poor old Harry Jekyll, if ever I read Satan’s signature upon a face, it Is on that
of your new friend.”
Round the corner from the by-street, there was a square of ancient, handsome houses, now for
the most part decayed from their high estate and let in flats and chambers to all sorts and
conditions of men: map-engravers, architects, shady lawyers, and the agents of obscure
enterprises. One house, however, second from the corner, was still occupied entire; and at the
door of this, which wore a great air of wealth and comfort, though it was now plunged in
darkness except for the fan-light, Mr. Utterson stopped and knocked. A well-dressed, elderly
servant opened the door.
Is Dr. Jekyll at home, Poole?” asked the lawyer.
“I will see, Mr. Utterson,” said Poole, admitting the visitor, as he spoke, into a large, low-
roofed, comfortable hall, paved with flags, warmed (after the fashion of a country house) by a
bright, open fire, and furnished with costly cabinets of oak. “Will you wait here by the fire, sir?
or shall I give you a light in the dining room?”
“Here, thank you,” said the lawyer, and he drew near and leaned on the tall fender. This hall, in
which he was now left alone, was a pet fancy of his friend the doctor’s; and Utterson himself was
wont to speak of it as the pleasantest room in London. But to-night there was a shudder in his
blood; the face of Hyde sat heavy on his memory; he felt (what was rare with him) a nausea and
distaste of life; and in the gloom of his spirits, he seemed to read a menace in the flickering of
the firelight on the polished cabinets and the uneasy starting of the shadow on the roof. He was
ashamed of his relief, when Poole presently returned to announce that Dr. Jekyll was gone out.
“I saw Mr. Hyde go in by the old dissecting-room door, Poole,” he said. “Is that right, when
Dr. Jekyll is from home?”
“Quite right, Mr. Utterson, sir,” replied the servant. “Mr. Hyde has a key.”
“Your master seems to repose a great deal of trust in that young man, Poole,” resumed the
other musingly.
“Yes, sir, he do indeed,” said Poole. “We have all orders to obey him.”
“I do not think I ever met Mr. Hyde?” asked Utterson.
O, dear no, sir. He never dines here,” replied the butler. “Indeed we see very little of him on
this side of the house; he mostly comes and goes by the laboratory.”
“Well, good-night, Poole.”
“Good-night, Mr. Utterson.” And the lawyer set out homeward with a very heavy heart.” Poor
Harry Jekyll,” he thought, “my mind misgives me he is in deep waters! He was wild when he
was young; a long while ago to be sure; but in the law of God, there is no statute of limitations.
Ay, it must be that; the ghost of some old sin, the cancer of some concealed disgrace:
punishment coming, pede claudo, years after memory has forgotten and self-love condoned the
fault.” And the lawyer, scared by the thought, brooded a while on his own past, groping in all the
corners of memory, lest by chance some Jack-in-the-Box of an old iniquity should leap to light
there. His past was fairly blameless; few men could read the rolls of their life with less
apprehension; yet he was humbled to the dust by the many ill things he had done, and raised up
again into a sober and fearful gratitude by the many that he had come so near to doing, yet
avoided. And then by a return on his former subject, he conceived a spark of hope. “This Master
Hyde, if he were studied,” thought he, “must have secrets of his own; black secrets, by the look
of him; secrets compared to which poor Jekyll’s worst would be like sunshine. Things cannot
continue as they are. It turns me cold to think of this creature stealing like a thief to Harry’s
bedside; poor Harry, what a wakening! And the danger of it; for if this Hyde suspects the
existence of the will, he may grow impatient to inherit. Ay, I must put my shoulder to the wheel
if Jekyll will but let me,” he added, “if Jekyll will only let me.” For once more he saw before his
mind’s eye, as clear as a transparency, the strange clauses of the will.

DR. JEKYLL WAS QUITE AT EASE

A fortnight later, by excellent good fortune, the doctor gave one of his pleasant dinners to some
five or six old cronies, all intelligent, reputable men and all judges of good wine; and Mr.
Utterson so contrived that he remained behind after the others had departed. This was no new
arrangement, but a thing that had befallen many scores of times. Where Utterson was liked, he
was liked well. Hosts loved to detain the dry lawyer, when the light-hearted and the loose-
tongued had already their foot on the threshold; they liked to sit a while in his unobtrusive
company, practising for solitude, sobering their minds in the man’s rich silence after the expense
and strain of gaiety. To this rule, Dr. Jekyll was no exception; and as he now sat on the opposite
side of the fire — a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with something of a slyish cast
perhaps, but every mark of capacity and kindness — you could see by his looks that he cherished
for Mr. Utterson a sincere and warm affection.
“I have been wanting to speak to you, Jekyll,” began the latter. “You know that will of
yours?”
A close observer might have gathered that the topic was distasteful; but the doctor carried it off
gaily. “My poor Utterson,” said he, “you are unfortunate in such a client. I never saw a man so
distressed as you were by my will; unless it were that hide-bound pedant, Lanyon, at what he
called my scientific heresies. Oh, I know he’s a good fellow — you needn’t frown — an
excellent fellow, and I always mean to see more of him; but a hide-bound pedant for all that; an
ignorant, blatant pedant. I was never more disappointed in any man than Lanyon.”
“You know I never approved of it,” pursued Utterson, ruthlessly disregarding the fresh topic.
“My will? Yes, certainly, I know that,” said the doctor, a trifle sharply. “You have told me so.”
“Well, I tell you so again,” continued the lawyer. “I have been learning something of young
Hyde.”
The large handsome face of Dr. Jekyll grew pale to the very lips, and there came a blackness
about his eyes. “I do not care to hear more,” said he. “This is a matter I thought we had agreed to
drop.”
“What I heard was abominable,” said Utterson.
“It can make no change. You do not understand my position,” returned the doctor, with a
certain incoherency of manner. “I am painfully situated, Utterson; my position is a very strange
— a very strange one. It is one of those affairs that cannot be mended by talking.”
“Jekyll,” said Utterson, “you know me: I am a man to be trusted. Make a clean breast of this in
confidence; and I make no doubt I can get you out of it.”
“My good Utterson,” said the doctor, “this is very good of you, this is downright good of you,
and I cannot find words to thank you in. I believe you fully; I would trust you before any man
alive, ay, before myself, if I could make the choice; but indeed it isn’t what you fancy; it is not so
bad as that; and just to put your good heart at rest, I will tell you one thing: the moment I choose,
I can be rid of Mr. Hyde. I give you my hand upon that; and I thank you again and again; and I
will just add one little word, Utterson, that I’m sure you’ll take in good part: this is a private
matter, and I beg of you to let it sleep.”
Utterson reflected a little, looking in the fire.
“I have no doubt you are perfectly right,” he said at last, getting to his feet.
“Well, but since we have touched upon this business, and for the last time I hope,” continued
the doctor, “there is one point I should like you to understand. I have really a very great interest
in poor Hyde. I know you have seen him; he told me so; and I fear he was rude. But, I do
sincerely take a great, a very great interest in that young man; and if I am taken away, Utterson, I
wish you to promise me that you will bear with him and get his rights for him. I think you would,
if you knew all; and it would be a weight off my mind if you would promise.”
“I can’t pretend that I shall ever like him,” said the lawyer.
“I don’t ask that,” pleaded Jekyll, laying his hand upon the other’s arm; “I only ask for justice;
I only ask you to help him for my sake, when I am no longer here.”
Utterson heaved an irrepressible sigh. “Well,” said he, “I promise.”
 THE CAREW MURDER CASE

Nearly a year later, in the month of October, 18 — , London was startled by a crime of singular
ferocity and rendered all the more notable by the high position of the victim. The details were
few and startling. A maid servant living alone in a house not far from the river, had gone up-
stairs to bed about eleven. Although a fog rolled over the city in the small hours, the early part of
the night was cloudless, and the lane, which the maid’s window overlooked, was brilliantly lit by
the full moon. It seems she was romantically given, for she sat down upon her box, which stood
immediately under the window, and fell into a dream of musing. Never (she used to say, with
streaming tears, when she narrated that experience), never had she felt more at peace with all
men or thought more kindly of the world. And as she so sat she became aware of an aged and
beautiful gentleman with white hair, drawing near along the lane; and advancing to meet him,
another and very small gentleman, to whom at first she paid less attention. When they had come
within speech (which was just under the maid’s eyes) the older man bowed and accosted the
other with a very pretty manner of politeness. It did not seem as if the subject of his address were
of great importance; indeed, from his pointing, it sometimes appeared as if he were only
inquiring his way; but the moon shone on his face as he spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch
it, it seemed to breathe such an innocent and old-world kindness of disposition, yet with
something high too, as of a well-founded self-content. Presently her eye wandered to the other,
and she was surprised to recognise in him a certain Mr. Hyde, who had once visited her master
and for whom she had conceived a dislike. He had in his hand a heavy cane, with which he was
trifling; but he answered never a word, and seemed to listen with an ill-contained impatience.
And then all of a sudden he broke out in a great flame of anger, stamping with his foot,
brandishing the cane, and carrying on (as the maid described it) like a madman. The old
gentleman took a step back, with the air of one very much surprised and a trifle hurt; and at that
Mr. Hyde broke out of all bounds and clubbed him to the earth. And next moment, with ape-like
fury, he was trampling his victim under foot and hailing down a storm of blows, under which the
bones were audibly shattered and the body jumped upon the roadway. At the horror of these
sights and sounds, the maid fainted.
It was two o’clock when she came to herself and called for the police. The murderer was gone
long ago; but there lay his victim in the middle of the lane, incredibly mangled. The stick with
which the deed had been done, although it was of some rare and very tough and heavy wood, had
broken in the middle under the stress of this insensate cruelty; and one splintered half had rolled
in the neighbouring gutter — the other, without doubt, had been carried away by the murderer. A
purse and a gold watch were found upon the victim: but no cards or papers, except a sealed and
stamped envelope, which he had been probably carrying to the post, and which bore the name
and address of Mr. Utterson.
This was brought to the lawyer the next morning, before he was out of bed; and he had no
sooner seen it, and been told the circumstances, than he shot out a solemn lip. “I shall say
nothing till I have seen the body,” said he; “this may be very serious. Have the kindness to wait
while I dress.” And with the same grave countenance he hurried through his breakfast and drove
to the police station, whither the body had been carried. As soon as he came into the cell, he
nodded.
“Yes,” said he, “I recognise him. I am sorry to say that this is Sir Danvers Carew.”
“Good God, sir,” exclaimed the officer, “is it possible?” And the next moment his eye lighted
up with professional ambition. “This will make a deal of noise,” he said. “And perhaps you can
help us to the man.” And he briefly narrated what the maid had seen, and showed the broken
stick.
Mr. Utterson had already quailed at the name of Hyde; but when the stick was laid before him,
he could doubt no longer; broken and battered as it was, he recognised it for one that he had
himself presented many years before to Henry Jekyll.
“Is this Mr. Hyde a person of small stature?” he inquired.
“Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, is what the maid calls him,” said the
officer.
Mr. Utterson reflected; and then, raising his head, “If you will come with me in my cab,” he
said, “I think I can take you to his house.”
It was by this time about nine in the morning, and the first fog of the season. A great chocolate-
coloured pall lowered over heaven, but the wind was continually charging and routing these
embattled vapours; so that as the cab crawled from street to street, Mr. Utterson beheld a
marvellous number of degrees and hues of twilight; for here it would be dark like the back-end
of evening; and there would be a glow of a rich, lurid brown, like the light of some strange
conflagration; and here, for a moment, the fog would be quite broken up, and a haggard shaft of
daylight would glance in between the swirling wreaths. The dismal quarter of Soho seen under
these changing glimpses, with its muddy ways, and slatternly passengers, and its lamps, which
had never been extinguished or had been kindled afresh to combat this mournful re-invasion of
darkness, seemed, in the lawyer’s eyes, like a district of some city in a nightmare. The thoughts
of his mind, besides, were of the gloomiest dye; and when he glanced at the companion of his
drive, he was conscious of some touch of that terror of the law and the law’s officers, which may
at times assail the most honest.
As the cab drew up before the address indicated, the fog lifted a little and showed him a dingy
street, a gin palace, a low French eating-house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and
twopenny salads, many ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many women of different
nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a morning glass; and the next moment the fog
settled down again upon that part, as brown as umber, and cut him off from his blackguardly
surroundings. This was the home of Henry Jekyll’s favourite; of a man who was heir to a quarter
of a million sterling.
An ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman opened the door. She had an evil face, smoothed
by hypocrisy; but her manners were excellent. Yes, she said, this was Mr. Hyde’s, but he was not
at home; he had been in that night very late, but had gone away again in less than an hour; there
was nothing strange in that; his habits were very irregular, and he was often absent; for instance,
it was nearly two months since she had seen him till yesterday.
“Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms,” said the lawyer; and when the woman began to
declare it was impossible, “I had better tell you who this person is,” he added. “This is Inspector
Newcomen of Scotland Yard.”
A flash of odious joy appeared upon the woman’s face. “Ah!” said she, “he is in trouble! What
has he done?
“Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances. “He don’t seem a very popular character,”
observed the latter. “And now, my good woman, just let me and this gentleman have a look
about us.”
In the whole extent of the house, which but for the old woman remained otherwise empty, Mr.
Hyde had only used a couple of rooms; but these were furnished with luxury and good taste. A
closet was filled with wine; the plate was of silver, the napery elegant; a good picture hung upon
the walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from Henry Jekyll, who was much of a connoisseur; and
the carpets were of many plies and agreeable in colour. At this moment, however, the rooms bore
every mark of having been recently and hurriedly ransacked; clothes lay about the floor, with
their pockets inside out; lock-fast drawers stood open; and on the hearth there lay a pile of grey
ashes, as though many papers had been burned. From these embers the inspector disinterred the
butt-end of a green cheque-book, which had resisted the action of the fire; the other half of the
stick was found behind the door. and as this clinched his suspicions, the officer declared himself
delighted. A visit to the bank, where several thousand pounds were found to be lying to the
murderer’s credit, completed his gratification.
“You may depend upon it, sir,” he told Mr. Utterson: “I have him in my hand. He must have
lost his head, or he never would have left the stick or, above all, burned the cheque-book. Why,
money’s life to the man. We have nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and get out the
handbills.”
This last, however, was not so easy of accomplishment; for Mr. Hyde had numbered few
familiars — even the master of the servant-maid had only seen him twice; his family could
nowhere be traced; he had never been photographed; and the few who could describe him
differed widely, as common observers will. Only on one point, were they agreed; and that was
the haunting sense of unexpressed deformity with which the fugitive impressed his beholders.

INCIDENT OF THE LETTER

It was late in the afternoon, when Mr. Utterson found his way to Dr. Jekyll’s door, where he was
at once admitted by Poole, and carried down by the kitchen offices and across a yard which had
once been a garden, to the building which was indifferently known as the laboratory or the
dissecting-rooms. The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a celebrated surgeon; and
his own tastes being rather chemical than anatomical, had changed the destination of the block at
the bottom of the garden. It was the first time that the lawyer had been received in that part of his
friend’s quarters; and he eyed the dingy, windowless structure with curiosity, and gazed round
with a distasteful sense of strangeness as he crossed the theatre, once crowded with eager
students and now lying gaunt and silent, the tables laden with chemical apparatus, the floor
strewn with crates and littered with packing straw, and the light falling dimly through the foggy
cupola. At the further end, a flight of stairs mounted to a door covered with red baize; and
through this, Mr. Utterson was at last received into the doctor’s cabinet. It was a large room,
fitted round with glass presses, furnished, among other things, with a cheval-glass and a business
table, and looking out upon the court by three dusty windows barred with iron. A fire burned in
the grate; a lamp was set lighted on the chimney shelf, for even in the houses the fog began to lie
thickly; and there, close up to the warmth, sat Dr. Jekyll, looking deadly sick. He did not rise to
meet his visitor, but held out a cold hand and bade him welcome in a changed voice.
“And now,” said Mr. Utterson, as soon as Poole had left them, “you have heard the news?”
The doctor shuddered.” They were crying it in the square,” he said. “I heard them in my
dining-room.”
“One word,” said the lawyer. “Carew was my client, but so are you, and I want to know what I
am doing. You have not been mad enough to hide this fellow?”
 “Utterson, I swear to God, “ cried the doctor,” I swear to God I will never set eyes on him
again. I bind my honour to you that I am done with him in this world. It is all at an end. And
indeed he does not want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, he is quite safe; mark
my words, he will never more be heard of.”
The lawyer listened gloomily; he did not like his friend’s feverish manner. “You seem pretty
sure of him,” said he; “and for your sake, I hope you may be right. If it came to a trial, your name
might appear.”
“I am quite sure of him,” replied Jekyll; “I have grounds for certainty that I cannot share with
any one. But there is one thing on which you may advise me. I have — I have received a letter;
and I am at a loss whether I should show it to the police. I should like to leave it in your hands,
Utterson; you would judge wisely, I am sure; I have so great a trust in you.”
“You fear, I suppose, that it might lead to his detection?” asked the lawyer.
“No,” said the other.” I cannot say that I care what becomes of Hyde; I am quite done with
him. I was thinking of my own character, which this hateful business has rather exposed.”
Utterson ruminated a while; he was surprised at his friend’s selfishness, and yet relieved by it.
“Well,” said he, at last, “let me see the letter.”
The letter was written in an odd, upright hand and signed “Edward Hyde”: and it signified,
briefly enough, that the writer’s benefactor, Dr. Jekyll, whom he had long so unworthily repaid
for a thousand generosities, need labour under no alarm for his safety, As he had means of
escape on which he placed a sure dependence. The lawyer liked this letter well enough; it put a
better colour on the intimacy than he had looked for; and he blamed himself for some of his past
suspicions.
“Have you the envelope?” he asked.
“I burned it,” replied Jekyll,” before I thought what I was about. But it bore no postmark. The
note was handed in.”
“Shall I keep this and sleep upon it?” asked Utterson.
“I wish you to judge for me entirely,” was the reply. “I have lost confidence in myself.”
“Well, I shall consider,” returned the lawyer. “And now one word more: it was Hyde who
dictated the terms in your will about that disappearance?”
The doctor seemed seized with a qualm of faintness: he shut his mouth tight and nodded.
“I knew it,” said Utterson. “He meant to murder you. You have had a fine escape.”
“I have had what is far more to the purpose,” returned the doctor solemnly: “I have had a
lesson — O God, Utterson, what a lesson I have had!” And he covered his face for a moment
with his hands.
On his way out, the lawyer stopped and had a word or two with Poole. “By the by,” said he,
“there was a letter handed in to-day: what was the messenger like?” But Poole was positive
nothing had come except by post;” and only circulars by that,” he added.
This news sent off the visitor with his fears renewed. Plainly the letter had come by the
laboratory door; possibly, indeed, it had been written in the cabinet; and if that were so, it must
be differently judged, and handled with the more caution. The newsboys, as he went, were crying
themselves hoarse along the footways: “Special edition. Shocking murder of an M. P.” That was
the funeral oration of one friend and client; and he could not help a certain apprehension lest the
good name of another should be sucked down in the eddy of the scandal. It was, at least, a
ticklish decision that he had to make; and self-reliant as he was by habit, he began to cherish a
longing for advice. It was not to be had directly; but perhaps, he thought, it might be fished for.
 Presently after, he sat on one side of his own hearth, with Mr. Guest, his head clerk, upon the
other, and midway between, at a nicely calculated distance from the fire, a bottle of a particular
old wine that had long dwelt unsunned in the foundations of his house. The fog still slept on the
wing above the drowned city, where the lamps glimmered like carbuncles; and through the
muffle and smother of these fallen clouds, the procession of the town’s life was still rolling in
through the great arteries with a sound as of a mighty wind. But the room was gay with firelight.
In the bottle the acids were long ago resolved; the imperial dye had softened with time, As the
colour grows richer in stained windows; and the glow of hot autumn afternoons on hillside
vineyards was ready to be set free and to disperse the fogs of London. Insensibly the lawyer
melted. There was no man from whom he kept fewer secrets than Mr. Guest; and he was not
always sure that he kept as many as he meant. Guest had often been on business to the doctor’s;
he knew Poole; he could scarce have failed to hear of Mr. Hyde’s familiarity about the house; he
might draw conclusions: was it not as well, then, that he should see a letter which put that
mystery to rights? and above all since Guest, being a great student and critic of handwriting,
would consider the step natural and obliging? The clerk, besides, was a man of counsel; he
would scarce read so strange a document without dropping a remark; and by that remark Mr.
Utterson might shape his future course.
“This is a sad business about Sir Danvers,” he said.
“Yes, sir, indeed. It has elicited a great deal of public feeling,” returned Guest. “The man, of
course, was mad.”
“I should like to hear your views on that,” replied Utterson. “I have a document here in his
handwriting; it is between ourselves, for I scarce know what to do about it; it is an ugly business
at the best. But there it is; quite in your way a murderer’s autograph.”
Guest’s eyes brightened, and he sat down at once and studied it with passion. “No, sir,” he
said: “not mad; but it is an odd hand.”
(c) 2002 by HorrorMasters.com

“And by all accounts a very odd writer,” added the lawyer.

Just then the servant entered with a note.
“Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?” inquired the clerk. “I thought I knew the writing. Anything
private, Mr. Utterson?”
“Only an invitation to dinner. Why? Do you want to see it?”
“One moment. I thank you, sir”; and the clerk laid the two sheets of paper alongside and
sedulously compared their contents. “Thank you, sir,” he said at last, returning both; “it’s a very
interesting autograph.”
There was a pause, during which Mr. Utterson struggled with himself. “Why did you compare
them, Guest?” he inquired suddenly.
“Well, sir,” returned the clerk, “there’s a rather singular resemblance; the two hands are in
many points identical: only differently sloped.”
“Rather quaint,” said Utterson.
“It is, as you say, rather quaint,” returned Guest.
“I wouldn’t speak of this note, you know,” said the master.
“No, sir,” said the clerk. “I understand.”
But no sooner was Mr. Utterson alone that night than he locked the note into his safe, where it
reposed from that time forward. “What!” he thought.” Henry Jekyll forge for a murderer!” And
his blood ran cold in his veins.
 REMARKABLE INCIDENT OF DR. LANYON

Time ran on; thousands of pounds were offered in reward, for the death of Sir Danvers was
resented as a public injury; but Mr. Hyde had disappeared out of the ken of the police as though
he had never existed. Much of his past was unearthed, indeed, and all disreputable: tales came
out of the man’s cruelty, at once so callous and violent; of his vile life, of his strange associates,
of the hatred that seemed to have surrounded his career; but of his present whereabouts, not a
whisper. From the time he had left the house in Soho on the morning of the murder, he was
simply blotted out; and gradually, as time drew on, Mr. Utterson began to recover from the
hotness of his alarm, and to grow more at quiet with himself. The death of Sir Danvers was, to
his way of thinking, more than paid for by the disappearance of Mr. Hyde. Now that that evil
influence had been withdrawn, a new life began for Dr. Jekyll. He came out of his seclusion,
renewed relations with his friends, became once more their familiar guest and entertainer; and
whilst he had always been, known for charities, he was now no less distinguished for religion.
He was busy, he was much in the open air, he did good; his face seemed to open and brighten, as
if with an inward consciousness of service; and for more than two months, the doctor was at
peace.
On the 8th of January Utterson had dined at the doctor’s with a small party; Lanyon had been
there; and the face of the host had looked from one to the other as in the old days when the trio
were inseparable friends. On the 12th, and again on the 14th, the door was shut against the
lawyer. “The doctor was confined to the house,” Poole said, “and saw no one.” On the 15th, he
tried again, and was again refused; and having now been used for the last two months to see his
friend almost daily, he found this return of solitude to weigh upon his spirits. The fifth night he
had in Guest to dine with him; and the sixth he betook himself to Dr. Lanyon’s.
There at least he was not denied admittance; but when he came in, he was shocked at the
change which had taken place in the doctor’s appearance. He had his death-warrant written
legibly upon his face. The rosy man had grown pale; his flesh had fallen away; he was visibly
balder and older; and yet it was not so much, these tokens of a swift physical decay that arrested
the lawyer’s notice, as a look in the eye and quality of manner that seemed to testify to some
deep-seated terror of the mind. It was unlikely that the doctor should fear death; and yet that was
what Utterson was tempted to suspect. “Yes,” he thought; “he is a doctor, he must know his own
state and that his days are counted; and the knowledge is more than he can bear.” And yet when
Utterson remarked on his ill-looks, it was with an air of greatness that Lanyon declared himself a
doomed man.
“I have had a shock,” he said, “and I shall never recover. It is a question of weeks. Well, life
has been pleasant; I liked it; yes, sir, I used to like it. I sometimes think if we knew all, we should
be more glad to get away.”
“Jekyll is ill, too,” observed Utterson. “Have you seen him?”
But Lanyon’s face changed, and he held up a trembling hand. “I wish to see or hear no more of
Dr. Jekyll,” he said in a loud, unsteady voice. “I am quite done with that person; and I beg that
you will spare me any allusion to one whom I regard as dead.”
“Tut-tut,” said Mr. Utterson; and then after a considerable pause,” Can’t I do anything?” he
inquired. “We are three very old friends, Lanyon; we shall not live to make others.”
“Nothing can be done,” returned Lanyon; “ask himself.”
He will not see me,” said the lawyer.
 “I am not surprised at that,” was the reply. “Some day, Utterson, after I am dead, you may
perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this. I cannot tell you. And in the meantime, if you
can sit and talk with me of other things, for God’s sake, stay and do so; but if you cannot keep
clear of this accursed topic, then, in God’s name, go, for I cannot bear it.”
As soon as he got home, Utterson sat down and wrote to Jekyll, complaining of his exclusion
from the house, and asking the cause of this unhappy break with Lanyon; and the next day
brought him a long answer, often very pathetically worded, and sometimes darkly mysterious in
drift. The quarrel with Lanyon was incurable. “I do not blame our old friend,” Jekyll wrote, “but
I share his view that we must never meet. I mean from henceforth to lead a life of extreme
seclusion; you must not be surprised, nor must you doubt my friendship, if my door is often shut
even to you. You must suffer me to go my own dark way. I have brought on myself a
punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of
sufferers also. I could not think that this earth contained a place for sufferings and terrors so
unmanning; and you can do but one thing, Utterson, to lighten this destiny, and that is to respect
my silence.” Utterson was amazed; the dark influence of Hyde had been withdrawn, the doctor
had returned to his old tasks and amities; a week ago, the prospect had smiled with every
promise of a cheerful and an honoured age; and now in a moment, friendship, and peace of mind,
and the whole tenor of his life were wrecked. So great and unprepared a change pointed to
madness; but in view of Lanyon’s manner and words, there must lie for it some deeper ground.
A week afterwards Dr. Lanyon took to his bed, and in something less than a fortnight he was
dead. The night after the funeral, at which he had been sadly affected, Utterson locked the door
of his business room, and sitting there by the light of a melancholy candle, drew out and set
before him an envelope addressed by the hand and sealed with the seal of his dead friend.
“PRIVATE: for the hands of G. J. Utterson ALONE and in case of his predecease to be
destroyed unread,” so it was emphatically superscribed; and the lawyer dreaded to behold the
contents. “I have buried one friend to-day,” he thought: “what if this should cost me another?”
And then he condemned the fear as a disloyalty, and broke the seal. Within there was another
enclosure, likewise sealed, and marked upon the cover as “not to be opened till the death or
disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll.” Utterson could not trust his eyes. Yes, it was disappearance;
here again, as in the mad will which he had long ago restored to its author, here again were the
idea of a disappearance and the name of Henry Jekyll bracketed. But in the will, that idea had
sprung from the sinister suggestion of the man Hyde; it was set there with a purpose all too plain
and horrible. Written by the hand of Lanyon, what should it mean? A great curiosity came on the
trustee, to disregard the prohibition and dive at once to the bottom of these mysteries; but
professional honour and faith to his dead friend were stringent obligations; and the packet slept
in the inmost corner of his private safe.
It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it; and it may be doubted if, from that
day forth, Utterson desired the society of his surviving friend with the same eagerness. He
thought of him kindly; but his thoughts were disquieted and fearful. He went to call indeed; but
he was perhaps relieved to be denied admittance; perhaps, in his heart, he preferred to speak with
Poole upon the doorstep and surrounded by the air and sounds of the open city, rather than to be
admitted into that house of voluntary bondage, and to sit and speak with its inscrutable recluse.
Poole had, indeed, no very pleasant news to communicate. The doctor, it appeared, now more
than ever confined himself to the cabinet over the laboratory, where he would sometimes even
sleep; he was out of spirits, he had grown very silent, he did not read; it seemed as if he had
something on his mind. Utterson became so used to the unvarying character of these reports, that
he fell off little by little in the frequency of his visits.

INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW

It chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr. Enfield, that their way
lay once again through the by-street; and that when they came in front of the door, both stopped
to gaze on it.
“Well,” said Enfield, “that story’s at an end at least. We shall never see more of Mr. Hyde.”
“I hope not,” said Utterson. “Did I ever tell you that I once saw him, and shared your feeling of
repulsion?”
“It was impossible to do the one without the other,” returned Enfield. “And by the way, what
an ass you must have thought me, not to know that this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll’s! It was
partly your own fault that I found it out, even when I did.”
“So you found it out, did you?” said Utterson. “But if that be so, we may step into the court
and take a look at the windows. To tell you the truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even
outside, I feel as if the presence of a friend might do him good.”
The court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature twilight, although the sky,
high up overhead, was still bright with sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half-
way open; and sitting close beside it, taking the air with an infinite sadness of mien, like some
disconsolate prisoner, Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll.
“What! Jekyll!” he cried. “I trust you are better.”
“I am very low, Utterson,” replied the doctor, drearily, “very low. It will not last long, thank
God.”
“You stay too much indoors,” said the lawyer. “You should be out, whipping up the circulation
like Mr. Enfield and me. (This is my cousin — Mr. Enfield — Dr. Jekyll.) Come, now; get your
hat and take a quick turn with us.”
“You are very good,” sighed the other. “I should like to very much; but no, no, no, it is quite
impossible; I dare not. But indeed, Utterson, I am very glad to see you; this is really a great
pleasure; I would ask you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place is really not fit.”
“Why then,” said the lawyer, good-naturedly, “the best thing we can do is to stay down here
and speak with you from where we are.”
“That is just what I was about to venture to propose,” returned the doctor with a smite. But the
words were hardly uttered, before the smile was struck out of his face and succeeded by an
expression of such abject terror and despair, as froze the very blood of the two gentlemen below.
They saw it but for a glimpse, for the window was instantly thrust down; but that glimpse had
been sufficient, and they turned and left the court without a word. In silence, too, they traversed
the by-street; and it was not until they had come into a neighbouring thoroughfare, where even
upon a Sunday there were still some stirrings of life, that Mr. Utterson at last turned and looked
at his companion. They were both pale; and there was an answering horror in their eyes.
“God forgive us, God forgive us,” said Mr. Utterson.
But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously and walked on once more in silence.
 THE LAST NIGHT

Mr. Utterson was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner, when he was surprised to
receive a visit from Poole.
“Bless me, Poole, what brings you here?” he cried; and then taking a second look at him,
“What ails you?” he added; “is the doctor ill?”
“Mr. Utterson,” said the man,” there is something wrong.”
Take a seat, and here is a glass of wine for you,” said the lawyer. “Now, take your time, and
tell me plainly what you want.”
“You know the doctor’s ways, sir,” replied Poole, “and how he shuts himself up. Well, he’s
shut up again in the cabinet; and I don’t like it, sir I wish I may die if I like it. Mr. Utterson, sir,
I’m afraid.”
“Now, my good man,” said the lawyer, “be explicit. What are you afraid of?”
“I’ve been afraid for about a week,” returned Poole, doggedly disregarding the question, “and I
can bear it no more.”
The man’s appearance amply bore out his words; his manner was altered for the worse; and
except for the moment when he had first announced his terror, he had not once looked the lawyer
in the face. Even now, he sat with the glass of wine untasted on his knee, and his eyes directed to
a corner of the floor. “I can bear it no more,” he repeated.
“Come,” said the lawyer, “I see you have some good reason, Poole; I see there is something
seriously amiss. Try to tell me what it is.”
“I think there’s been foul play,” said Poole, hoarsely.
“Foul play!” cried the lawyer, a good deal frightened and rather inclined to be irritated in
consequence. “What foul play? What does the man mean?”
“I daren’t say, sir” was the answer; “but will you come along with me and see for yourself?”
Mr. Utterson’s only answer was to rise and get his hat and great-coat; but he observed with
wonder the greatness of the relief that appeared upon the butler’s face, and perhaps with no less,
that the wine was still untasted when he set it down to follow.
It was a wild, cold, seasonable night of March, with a pale moon, lying on her back as though
the wind had tilted her, and a flying wrack of the most diaphanous and lawny texture. The wind
made talking difficult, and flecked the blood into the face. It seemed to have swept the streets
unusually bare of passengers, besides; for Mr. Utterson thought he had never seen that part of
London so deserted. He could have wished it otherwise; never in his life had he been conscious
of so sharp a wish to see and touch his fellow-creatures; for struggle as he might, there was borne
in upon his mind a crushing anticipation of calamity. The square, when they got there, was all
full of wind and dust, and the thin trees in the garden were lashing themselves along the railing.
Poole, who had kept all the way a pace or two ahead, now pulled up in the middle of the
pavement, and in spite of the biting weather, took off his hat and mopped his brow with a red
pocket-handkerchief. But for all the hurry of his cowing, these were not the dews of exertion that
he wiped away, but the moisture of some strangling anguish; for his face was white and his
voice, when he spoke, harsh and broken.
“Well, sir,” he said, “here we are, and God grant there be nothing wrong.”
“Amen, Poole,” said the lawyer.
Thereupon the servant knocked in a very guarded manner; the door was opened on the chain;
and a voice asked from within, “Is that you, Poole?”
 “It’s all right,” said Poole. “Open the door.” The hall, when they entered it, was brightly
lighted up; the fire was built high; and about the hearth the whole of the servants, men and
women, stood huddled together like a flock of sheep. At the sight of Mr. Utterson, the housemaid
broke into hysterical whimpering; and the cook, crying out, “Bless God! it’s Mr. Utterson,” ran
forward as if to take him in her arms.
“What, what? Are you all here?” said the lawyer peevishly. “Very irregular, very unseemly;
your master would be far from pleased.”
“They’re all afraid,” said Poole.
(c) by H o r r o r M a s t e r s . c o m

Blank silence followed, no one protesting; only the maid lifted up her voice and now wept
loudly.
“Hold your tongue!” Poole said to her, with a ferocity of accent that testified to his own
jangled nerves; and indeed, when the girl had so suddenly raised the note of her lamentation,
they had all started and turned toward the inner door with faces of dreadful expectation. “And
now,” continued the butler, addressing the knife-boy, “reach me a candle, and we’ll get this
through hands at once.” And then he begged Mr. Utterson to follow him, and led the way to the
back-garden.
“Now, sir,” said he, “you come as gently as you can. I want you to hear, and I don’t want you
to be heard. And see here, sir, if by any chance he was to ask you in, don’t go.”
Mr. Utterson’s nerves, at this unlooked-for termination, gave a jerk that nearly threw him from
his balance; but he re-collected his courage and followed the butler into the laboratory building
and through the surgical theatre, with its lumber of crates and bottles, to the foot of the stair.
Here Poole motioned him to stand on one side and listen; while he himself, setting down the
candle and making a great and obvious call on his resolution, mounted the steps and knocked
with a somewhat uncertain hand on the red baize of the cabinet door.
“Mr. Utterson, sir, asking to see you, “he called; and even as he did so, once more violently
signed to the lawyer to give ear.
A voice answered from within: “Tell him I cannot see any one,” it said complainingly.
“Thank you, sir,” said Poole, with a note of something like triumph in his voice; and taking up
his candle, he led Mr. Utterson back across the yard and into the great kitchen, where the fire
was out and the beetles were leaping on the floor.
“Sir,” he said, looking Mr. Utterson in the eyes,” was that my master’s voice?”
“It seems much changed,” replied the lawyer, very pale, but giving look for look.
“Changed? Well, yes, I think so,” said the butler. “Have I been twenty years in this man’s
house, to be deceived about his voice? No, sir; master’s made away with; he was made, away
with eight days ago, when we heard him cry out upon the name of God; and who’s in there
instead of him, and why it stays there, is a thing that cries to Heaven, Mr. Utterson!”
“This is a very strange tale, Poole; this is rather a wild tale, my man,” said Mr. Utterson, biting
his finger. “Suppose it were as you suppose, supposing Dr. Jekyll to have been — well,
murdered, what could induce the murderer to stay? That won’t hold water; it doesn’t commend
itself to reason.”
“Well, Mr. Utterson, you are a hard man to satisfy, but I’ll do it yet,” said Poole. “All this last
week (you must know) him, or it, or whatever it is that lives in that cabinet, has been crying night
and day for some sort of medicine and cannot get it to his mind. It was sometimes his way — the
master’s, that is — to write his orders on a sheet of paper and throw it on the stair. We’ve had
nothing else this week back; nothing but papers, and a closed door, and the very meals left there
to be smuggled in when nobody was looking. Well, sir, every day, ay, and twice and thrice in the
same day, there have been orders and complaints, and I have been sent flying to all the wholesale
chemists in town. Every time I brought the stuff back, there would be another paper telling me to
return it, because it was not pure, and another order to a different firm. This drug is wanted bitter
bad, sir, whatever for.”
“Have you any of these papers?” asked Mr. Utterson.
Poole felt in his pocket and handed out a crumpled note, which the lawyer, bending nearer to
the candle, carefully examined. Its contents ran thus: “Dr. Jekyll presents his compliments to
Messrs. Maw. He assures them that their last sample is impure and quite useless for his present
purpose. In the year 18 — , Dr. J. purchased a somewhat large quantity from Messrs. M. He now
begs them to search with the most sedulous care, and should any of the same quality be left, to
forward it to him at once. Expense is no consideration. The importance of this to Dr. J. can
hardly be exaggerated.” So far the letter had run composedly enough, but here with a sudden
splutter of the pen, the writer’s emotion had broken loose. “For God’s sake,” he had added, “find
me some of the old.”
“This is a strange note,” said Mr. Utterson; and then sharply, “How do you come to have it
open?”
“The man at Maw’s was main angry, sir, and he threw it back to me like so much dirt,”
returned Poole.
“This is unquestionably the doctor’s hand, do you know?” resumed the lawyer.
“I thought it looked like it,” said the servant rather sulkily; and then, with another voice, “But
what matters hand-of-write? “ he said. “I’ve seen him!”
“Seen him?” repeated Mr. Utterson. “Well?”
“That’s it!” said Poole. “It was this way. I came suddenly into the theatre from the garden. It
seems he had slipped out to look for this drug or whatever it is; for the cabinet door was open,
and there he was at the far end of the room digging among the crates. He looked up when I came
in, gave a kind of cry, and whipped up-stairs into the cabinet. It was but for one minute that I saw
him, but the hair stood upon my head like quills. Sir, if that was my master, why had he a mask
upon his face? If it was my master, why did he cry out like a rat, and run from me? I have served
him long enough. And then...” The man paused and passed his hand over his face.
“These are all very strange circumstances,” said Mr. Utterson, “but I think I begin to see
daylight. Your master, Poole, is plainly seised with one of those maladies that both torture and
deform the sufferer; hence, for aught I know, the alteration of his voice; hence the mask and the
avoidance of his friends; hence his eagerness to find this drug, by means of which the poor soul
retains some hope of ultimate recovery — God grant that he be not deceived! There is my
explanation; it is sad enough, Poole, ay, and appalling to consider; but it is plain and natural,
hangs well together, and delivers us from all exorbitant alarms.”
“Sir,” said the butler, turning to a sort of mottled pallor, “that thing was not my master, and
there’s the truth. My master” here he looked round him and began to whisper — “is a tall, fine
build of a man, and this was more of a dwarf.” Utterson attempted to protest. “O, sir,” cried
Poole, “do you think I do not know my master after twenty years? Do you think I do not know
where his head comes to in the cabinet door, where I saw him every morning of my life? No, Sir,
that thing in the mask was never Dr. Jekyll — God knows what it was, but it was never Dr.
Jekyll; and it is the belief of my heart that there was murder done.”
“Poole,” replied the lawyer, “if you say that, it will become my duty to make certain. Much as I
desire to spare your master’s feelings, much as I am puzzled by this note which seems to prove
him to be still alive, I shall consider it my duty to break in that door.”
 Ah Mr. Utterson, that’s talking!” cried the butler.
“And now comes the second question,” resumed Utterson: “Who Is going to do it?”
“Why, you and me,” was the undaunted reply.
“That’s very well said,” returned the lawyer; “and whatever comes of it, I shall make it my
business to see you are no loser.”
“There is an axe in the theatre, continued Poole; “and you might take the kitchen poker for
yourself.”
The lawyer took that rude but weighty instrument into his hand, and balanced it. “Do you
know, Poole,” he said, looking up, “that you and I are about to place ourselves in a position of
some peril?”
“You may say so, sir, indeed,” returned the butler.
“It is well, then, that we should be frank,” said the other. “We both think more than we have
said; let us make a clean breast. This masked figure that you saw, did you recognise it?”
“Well, sir, it went so quick, and the creature was so doubled up, that I could hardly swear to
that,” was the answer. “But if you mean, was it Mr. Hyde? — why, yes, I think it was! You see,
it was much of the same bigness; and it had the same quick, light way with it; and then who else
could have got in by the laboratory door? You have not forgot, sir that at the time of the murder
he had still the key with him? But that’s not all. I don’t know, Mr. Utterson, if ever you met this
Mr. Hyde?”
“Yes,” said the lawyer, “I once spoke with him.”
“Then you must know as well as the rest of us that there was something queer about that
gentleman — something that gave a man a turn — I don’t know rightly how to say it, sir, beyond
this: that you felt it in your marrow kind of cold and thin.”
“I own I felt something of what you describe,” said Mr. Utterson.
“Quite so, sir,” returned Poole. “Well, when that masked thing like a monkey jumped from
among the chemicals and whipped into the cabinet, it went down my spine like ice. Oh, I know
it’s not evidence, Mr. Utterson. I’m book-learned enough for that; but a man has his, feelings,
and I give you my Bible-word it was Mr. Hyde!”
“Ay, ay,” said the lawyer. “My fears incline to the same point. Evil, I fear, founded — evil was
sure to come — of that connection. Ay, truly, I believe you; I believe poor Harry is killed; and I
believe his murderer (for what purpose, God alone can tell) is still lurking in his victim’s room.
Well, let our name be vengeance. Call Bradshaw.”
The footman came at the summons, very white and nervous.
Pull yourself together, Bradshaw,” said the lawyer. “This suspense, I know, is telling upon all
of you; but it is now our intention to make an end of it. Poole, here, and I are going to force our
way into the cabinet. If all is well, my shoulders are broad enough to bear the blame. Meanwhile,
lest anything should really be amiss, or any malefactor seek to escape by the back, you and the
boy must go round the corner with a pair of good sticks and take your post at the laboratory door.
We give you ten minutes to get to your stations.”
As Bradshaw left, the lawyer looked at his watch. “And now, Poole, let us get to ours,” he said;
and taking the poker under his arm, led the way into the yard. The scud had banked over the
moon, and it was now quite dark. The wind, which only broke in puffs and draughts into that
deep well of building, tossed the light of the candle to and fro about their steps, until they came
into the shelter of the theatre, where they sat down silently to wait. London hummed solemnly all
around; but nearer at hand, the stillness was only broken by the sounds of a footfall moving to
and fro along the cabinet floor.
 “So it will walk all day, Sir,” whispered Poole; “ay, and the better part of the night. Only when
a new sample comes from the chemist, there’s a bit of a break. Ah, it’s an ill conscience that’s
such an enemy to rest! Ah, sir, there’s blood foully shed in every step of it! But hark again, a
little closer — put your heart in your ears, Mr. Utterson, and tell me, is that the doctor’s foot?”
The steps fell lightly and oddly, with a certain swing, for all they went so slowly; it was
different indeed from the heavy creaking tread of Henry Jekyll. Utterson sighed. “Is there never
anything else?” he asked.
Poole nodded. “Once,” he said. “Once I heard it weeping!”
“Weeping? how that?” said the lawyer, conscious of a sudden chill of horror.
“Weeping like a woman or a lost soul,” said the butler. “I came away with that upon my heart,
that I could have wept too.”
But now the ten minutes drew to an end. Poole disinterred the axe from under a stack of
packing straw; the candle was set upon the nearest table to light them to the attack; and they
drew near with bated breath to where that patient foot was still going up and down, up and down,
in the quiet of the night.
“Jekyll,” cried Utterson, with a loud voice, “I demand to see you.” He paused a moment, but
there came no reply. “I give you fair warning, our suspicions are aroused, and I must and shall
see you,” he resumed; “if not by fair means, then by foul! if not of your consent, then by brute
force!”
“Utterson,” said the voice, “for God’s sake, have mercy!”
Ah, that’s not Jekyll’s voice — it’s Hyde’s!” cried Utterson. “Down with the door, Poole!”
Poole swung the axe over his shoulder; the blow shook the building, and the red baise door
leaped against the lock and hinges. A dismal screech, as of mere animal terror, rang from the
cabinet. Up went the axe again, and again the panels crashed and the frame bounded; four times
the blow fell; but the wood was tough and the fittings were of excellent workmanship; and it was
not until the fifth, that the lock burst in sunder and the wreck of the door fell inwards on the
carpet.
The besiegers, appalled by their own riot and the stillness that had succeeded, stood back a
little and peered in. There lay the cabinet before their eyes in the quiet lamplight, a good fire
glowing and chattering on the hearth, the kettle singing its thin strain, a drawer or two open,
papers neatly set forth on the business-table, and nearer the fire, the things laid out for tea: the
quietest room, you would have said, and, but for the glased presses full of chemicals, the most
commonplace that night in London.
Right in the midst there lay the body of a man sorely contorted and still twitching. They drew
near on tiptoe, turned it on its back and beheld the face of Edward Hyde. He was dressed in
clothes far too large for him, clothes of the doctor’s bigness; the cords of his face still moved
with a semblance of life, but life was quite gone; and by the crushed phial in the hand and the
strong smell of kernels that hung upon the air, Utterson knew that he was looking on the body of
a self-destroyer.
“We have come too late,” he said sternly, “whether to save or punish. Hyde is gone to his
account; and it only remains for us to find the body of your master.”
The far greater proportion of the building was occupied by the theatre, which filled almost the
whole ground story and was lighted from above, and by the cabinet, which formed an upper story
at one end and looked upon the court. A corridor joined the theatre to the door on the by-street;
and with this the cabinet communicated separately by a second flight of stairs. There were
besides a few dark closets and a spacious cellar. All these they now thoroughly examined. Each
closet needed but a glance, for all were empty, and all, by the dust that fell from their doors, had
stood long unopened. The cellar, indeed, was filled with crazy lumber, mostly dating from the
times of the surgeon who was Jekyll’s predecessor; but even as they opened the door they were
advertised of the uselessness of further search, by the fall of a perfect mat of cobweb which had
for years sealed up the entrance. Nowhere was there any trace of Henry Jekyll, dead or alive.
Poole stamped on the flags of the corridor. “ He must be buried here,” he said, hearkening to
the sound.
“Or he may have fled,” said Utterson, and he turned to examine the door in the by-street. It was
locked; and lying near by on the flags, they found the key, already stained with rust.
“This does not look like use,” observed the lawyer.
“Use!” echoed Poole. “Do you not see, sir, it is broken? much as if a man had stamped on it.”
“Ay,” continued Utterson,” and the fractures, too, are rusty.” The two men looked at each other
with a scare. “This is beyond me, Poole,” said the lawyer. “Let us go back to the cabinet.”
They mounted the stair in silence, and still with an occasional awe-struck glance at the dead
body, proceeded more thoroughly to examine the contents of the cabinet. At one table, there
were traces of chemical work, various measured heaps of some white salt being laid on glass
saucers, as though for an experiment in which the unhappy man had been prevented.
“That is the same drug that I was always bringing him,” said Poole; and even as he spoke, the
kettle with a startling noise boiled over.
This brought them to the fireside, where the easy-chair was drawn cosily up, and the teathings
stood ready to the sitter’s elbow, the very sugar in the cup. There were several books on a shelf;
one lay beside the tea-things open, and Utterson was amazed to find it a copy of a pious work,
for which Jekyll had several times expressed a great esteem, annotated, in his own hand, with
startling blasphemies.
Next, in the course of their review of the chamber, the searchers came to the cheval glass, into
whose depths they looked with an involuntary horror. But it was so turned as to show them
nothing but the rosy glow playing on the roof, the fire sparkling in a hundred repetitions along
the glazed front of the presses, and their own pale and fearful countenances stooping to look in.
“This glass have seen some strange things, sir,” whispered Poole.
“And surely none stranger than itself,” echoed the lawyer in the same tones. “For what did
Jekyll” — he caught himself up at the word with a start, and then conquering the weakness —
“what could Jekyll want with it?” he said.
“You may say that!” said Poole. Next they turned to the business-table. On the desk among the
neat array of papers, a large envelope was uppermost, and bore, in the doctor’s hand, the name of
Mr. Utterson. The lawyer unsealed it, and several enclosures fell to the floor. The first was a will,
drawn in the same eccentric terms as the one which he had returned six months before, to serve
as a testament in case of death and as a deed of gift in case of disappearance; but, in place of the
name of Edward Hyde, the lawyer, with indescribable amazement, read the name of Gabriel John
Utterson. He looked at Poole, and then back at the paper, and last of all at the dead malefactor
stretched upon the carpet.
“My head goes round,” he said. “He has been all these days in possession; he had no cause to
like me; he must have raged to see himself displaced; and he has not destroyed this document.”
He caught up the next paper; it was a brief note in the doctor’s hand and dated at the top.
“O Poole!” the lawyer cried, “he was alive and here this day. He cannot have been disposed of
in so short a space, he must be still alive, he must have fled! And then, why fled? and how? and
in that case, can we venture to declare this suicide? Oh, we must be careful. I foresee that we
may yet involve your master in some dire catastrophe.”
“Why don’t you read it, sir?” asked Poole.
“Because I fear,” replied the lawyer solemnly. “ God grant I have no cause for it!” And with
that he brought the paper to his eyes and read as follows:—

“MY DEAR UTTERSON, — When this shall fall into your hands, I shall have disappeared,
under what circumstances I have not the penetration to foresee, but my instinct and all the
circumstances of my nameless situation tell me that the end is sure and must be early. Go then,
and first read the narrative which Lanyon warned me he was to place in your hands; and if you
care to hear more, turn to the confession of
“Your unworthy and unhappy friend,
HENRY JEKYLL.”

“There was a third enclosure?” asked Utterson.

“Here, sir,” said Poole, and gave into his hands a considerable packet sealed in several places.
The lawyer put it in his pocket. “I would say nothing of this paper. If your master has fled or is
dead, we may at least save his credit. It is now ten; I must go home and read these documents in
quiet; but I shall be back before midnight, when we shall send for the police.”
They went out, locking the door of the theatre behind them; and Utterson, once more leaving
the servants gathered about the fire in the hall, trudged back to his office to read the two
narratives in which this mystery was now to be explained.

DR. LANYON’S NARRATIVE

On the ninth of January, now four days ago, I received by the evening delivery a registered
envelope, addressed in the hand of my colleague and old school-companion, Henry Jekyll. I was
a good deal surprised by this; for we were by no means in the habit of correspondence; I had
seen the man, dined with him, indeed, the night before; and I could imagine nothing in our
intercourse that should justify formality of registration. The contents increased my wonder; for
this is how the letter ran:

“10th December, 18 —
“DEAR LANYON, You are one of my oldest friends; and although we may have differed at
times on scientific questions, I cannot remember, at least on my side, any break in our affection.
There was never a day when, if you had said to me, ‘Jekyll, my life, my honour, my reason,
depend upon you,’ I would not have sacrificed my left hand to help you. Lanyon, my life, my
honour my reason, are all at your mercy; if you fail me to-night I am lost. You might suppose,
after this preface, that I am going to ask you for something dishonourable to grant. Judge for
yourself.
“I want you to postpone all other engagements for to-night — ay, even if you were summoned
to the bedside of an emperor; to take a cab, unless your carriage should be actually at the door;
and with this letter in your hand for consultation, to drive straight to my house. Poole, my butler,
has his orders; you will find, him waiting your arrival with a locksmith. The door of my cabinet
is then to be forced: and you are to go in alone; to open the glazed press (letter E) on the left
hand, breaking the lock if it be shut; and to draw out, with all its contents as they stand, the
fourth drawer from the top or (which is the same thing) the third from the bottom. In my extreme
distress of wind, I have a morbid fear of misdirecting you; but even if I am in error, you may
know the right drawer by its contents: some powders, a phial and a paper book. This drawer I
beg of you to carry back with you to Cavendish Square exactly as it stands.
“That is the first part of the service: now for the second. You should be back, if you set out at
once on the receipt of this, long before midnight; but I will leave you that amount of margin, not
only in the fear of one of those obstacles that can neither be prevented nor foreseen, but because
an hour when your servants are in bed is to be preferred for what will then remain to do. At
midnight, then, I have to ask you to be alone in your consulting-room, to admit with your own
hand into the house a man who will present himself in my name, and to place in his hands the
drawer that you will have brought with you from my cabinet. Then you will have played your
part and earned my gratitude completely. Five minutes afterwards, if you insist upon an
explanation, you will have understood that these arrangements are of capital importance; and that
by the neglect of one of them, fantastic as they must appear, you might have charged your
conscience with my death or the shipwreck of my reason.
“Confident as I am that you will not trifle with this appeal, my heart sinks and my hand
trembles at the bare thought of such a possibility. Think of me at this hour, in a strange place,
labouring under a blackness of distress that no fancy can exaggerate, and yet well aware that, if
you will but punctually serve me, my troubles will roll away like a story that is told. Serve me,
my dear Lanyon, and save
“Your friend,
H. J.”
“P. S. I had already sealed this up when a fresh terror struck upon my soul. It is possible that
the postoffice may fail me, and this letter not come into your hands until to-morrow morning. In
that case, dear Lanyon, do my errand when it shall be most convenient for you in the course of
the day; and once more expect my messenger at midnight. It may then already be too late; and if
that night passes without event, you will know that you have seen the last of Henry Jekyll.”

Upon the reading of this letter, I made sure my colleague was insane; but till that was proved
beyond the possibility of doubt, I felt bound to do as he requested. The less I understood of this
farrago, the less I was in a position to judge of its importance; and an appeal so worded could not
be set aside without a grave responsibility. I rose accordingly from table, got into a hansom, and
drove straight to Jekyll’s house. The butler was awaiting my arrival; he had received by the same
post as mine a registered letter of instruction, and had sent at once for a locksmith and a
carpenter. The tradesmen came while we were yet speaking; and we moved in a body to old Dr.
Denman’s surgical theatre, from which (as you are doubtless aware) Jekyll’s private cabinet is
most conveniently entered. The door was very strong, the lock excellent; the carpenter avowed
he would have great trouble and have to do much damage, if force were to be used; and the
locksmith was near despair. But this last was a handy fellow, and after two hours’ work, the door
stood open. The press marked E was unlocked; and I took out the drawer, had it filled up with
straw and tied in a sheet, and returned with it to Cavendish Square.
Here I proceeded to examine its contents. The powders were neatly enough made up, but not
with the nicety of the dispensing chemist; so that it was plain they were of Jekyll’s private
manufacture; and when I opened one of the wrappers I found what seemed to me a simple
crystalline salt of a white colour. The phial, to which I next turned my attention, might have been
about half-full of a blood-red liquor, which was highly pungent to the sense of smell and seemed
to me to contain phosphorus and some volatile ether. At the other ingredients I could make no
guess. The book was an ordinary version-book and contained little but a series of dates. These
covered a period of many years, but I observed that the entries ceased nearly a year ago and quite
abruptly. Here and there a brief remark was appended to a date, usually no more than a single
word: “double” occurring perhaps six times in a total of several hundred entries; and once very
early in the list and followed by several marks of exclamation, “total failure!!!” All this, though
it whetted my curiosity, told me little that was definite. Here were a phial of some tincture, a
paper of some salt, and the record of a series of experiments that had led (like too many of
Jekyll’s investigations) to no end of practical usefulness. How could the presence of these
articles in my house affect either the honour, the sanity, or the life of my flighty colleague? If his
messenger could go to one place, why could he not go to another? And even granting some
impediment, why was this gentleman to be received by me in secret? The more I reflected the
more convinced I grew that I was dealing with a case of cerebral disease: and though I dismissed
my servants to bed, I loaded an old revolver, that I might be found in some posture of self-
defence.
Twelve o’clock had scarce rung out over London, ere the knocker sounded very gently on the
door. I went myself at the summons, and found a small man crouching against the pillars of the
portico.
“Are you come from Dr. Jekyll?” I asked.
He told me “yes” by a constrained gesture; and when I had bidden him enter, he did not obey
me without a searching backward glance into the darkness of the square. There was a policeman
not far off, advancing with his bull’s eye open; and at the sight, I thought my visitor started and
made greater haste.
These particulars struck me, I confess, disagreeably; and as I followed him into the bright light
of the consulting-room, I kept my hand ready on my weapon. Here, at last, I had a chance of
clearly seeing him. I had never set eyes on him before, so much was certain. He was small, as I
have said; I was struck besides with the shocking expression of his face, with his remarkable
combination of great muscular activity and great apparent debility of constitution, and — last but
not least — with the odd, subjective disturbance caused by his neighbourhood. This bore some
resemblance to incipient rigour, and was accompanied by a marked sinking of the pulse. At the
time, I set it down to some idiosyncratic, personal distaste, and merely wondered at the acuteness
of the symptoms; but I have since had reason to believe the cause to lie much deeper in the
nature of man, and to turn on some nobler hinge than the principle of hatred.
This person (who had thus, from the first moment of his entrance, struck in me what I can only
describe as a disgustful curiosity) was dressed in a fashion that would have made an ordinary
person laughable; his clothes, that is to say, although they were of rich and sober fabric, were
enormously too large for him in every measurement — the trousers hanging on his legs and
rolled up to keep them from the ground, the waist of the coat below his haunches, and the collar
sprawling wide upon his shoulders. Strange to relate, this ludicrous accoutrement was far from
moving me to laughter. Rather, as there was something abnormal and misbegotten in the very
essence of the creature that now faced me — something seizing, surprising, and revolting — this
fresh disparity seemed but to fit in with and to reinforce it; so that to my interest in the man’s
nature and character, there was added a curiosity as to his origin, his life, his fortune and status in
the world.
 These observations, though they have taken so great a space to be set down in, were yet the
work of a few seconds. My visitor was, indeed, on fire with sombre excitement.
“Have you got it?” he cried. “Have you got it?” And so lively was his impatience that he even
laid his hand upon my arm and sought to shake me.
I put him back, conscious at his touch of a certain icy pang along my blood. “Come, sir,” said
I. “You forget that I have not yet the pleasure of your acquaintance. Be seated, if you please.”
And I showed him an example, and sat down myself in my customary seat and with as fair an
imitation of my ordinary manner to a patient, as the lateness of the hour, the nature of my pre-
occupations, and the horror I had of my visitor, would suffer me to muster.
“I beg your pardon, Dr. Lanyon,” he replied civilly enough. “What you say is very well
founded; and my impatience has shown its heels to my politeness. I come here at the instance of
your colleague, Dr. Henry Jekyll, on a piece of business of some moment; and I understood...”
He paused and put his hand to his throat, and I could see, in spite of his collected manner, that he
was wrestling against the approaches of the hysteria — “I understood, a drawer...”
But here I took pity on my visitor’s suspense, and some perhaps on my own growing curiosity.
“There it is, sir,” said I, pointing to the drawer, where it lay on the floor behind a table and still
covered with the sheet.
He sprang to it, and then paused, and laid his hand upon his heart: I could hear his teeth grate
with the convulsive action of his jaws; and his face was so ghastly to see that I grew alarmed
both for his life and reason.
“Compose yourself,” said I.
He turned a dreadful smile to me, and as if with the decision of despair, plucked away the
sheet. At sight of the contents, he uttered one loud sob of such immense relief that I sat petrified.
And the next moment, in a voice that was already fairly well under control, “Have you a
graduated glass?” he asked.
I rose from my place with something of an effort and gave him what he asked.
He thanked me with a smiling nod, measured out a few minims of the red tincture and added
one of the powders. The mixture, which was at first of a reddish hue, began, in proportion as the
crystals melted, to brighten in colour, to effervesce audibly, and to throw off small fumes of
vapour. Suddenly and at the same moment, the ebullition ceased and the compound changed to a
dark purple, which faded again more slowly to a watery green. My visitor, who had watched
these metamorphoses with a keen eye, smiled, set down the glass upon the table, and then turned
and looked upon me with an air of scrutiny.
“And now,” said he, “to settle what remains. Will you be wise? will you be guided? will you
suffer me to take this glass in my hand and to go forth from your house without further parley?
or has the greed of curiosity too much command of you? Think before you answer, for it shall be
done as you decide. As you decide, you shall be left as you were before, and neither richer nor
wiser, unless the sense of service rendered to a man in mortal distress may be counted as a kind
of riches of the soul. Or, if you shall so prefer to choose, a new province of knowledge and new
avenues to fame and power shall be laid open to you, here, in this room, upon the instant; and
your sight shall be blasted by a prodigy to stagger the unbelief of Satan.”
“Sir,” said I, affecting a coolness that I was far from truly possessing,” you speak enigmas, and
you will perhaps not wonder that I hear you with no very strong impression of belief. But I have
gone too far in the way of inexplicable services to pause before I see the end.”
“It is well,” replied my visitor. “Lanyon, you remember your vows: what follows is under the
seal of our profession. And now, you who have so long been bound to the most narrow and
material views, you who have denied the virtue of transcendental medicine, you who have
derided your superiors — behold!”
He put the glass to his lips and drank at one gulp. A cry followed; he reeled, staggered,
clutched at the table and held on, staring with injected eyes, gasping with open mouth; and as I
looked there came, I thought, a change — he seemed to swell — his face became suddenly black
and the features seemed to melt and alter — and the next moment, I had sprung to my feet and
leaped back against the wall, my arm raised to shield me from that prodigy, my mind submerged
in terror.
“O God!” I screamed, and “O God!” again and again; for there before my eyes — pale and
shaken, and half-fainting, and groping before him with his hands, like a man restored from death
— there stood Henry Jekyll!
What he told me in the next hour, I cannot bring my mind to set on paper. I saw what I saw, I
heard what I heard, and my soul sickened at it; and yet now when that sight has faded from my
eyes, I ask myself if I believe it, and I cannot answer. My life is shaken to its roots; sleep has left
me; the deadliest terror sits by me at all hours of the day and night; I feel that my days are
numbered, and that I must die; and yet I shall die incredulous. As for the moral turpitude that
man unveiled to me, even with tears of penitence, I cannot, even in memory, dwell on it without
a start of horror. I will say but one thing, Utterson, and that (if you can bring your mind to credit
it) will be more than enough. The creature who crept into my house that night was, on Jekyll’s
own confession, known by the name of Hyde and hunted for in every corner of the land as the
murderer of Carew.
Hastie Lanyon.

HENRY JEKYLL’S FULL STATEMENT OF THE CASE

I was born in the year 18 — to a large fortune, endowed besides with excellent parts, inclined by
nature to industry, fond of the respect of the wise and good among my fellow-men, and thus, as
might have been supposed, with every guarantee of an honourable and distinguished future. And
indeed the worst of my faults was a certain impatient gaiety of disposition, such as has made the
happiness of many, but such as I found it hard to reconcile with my imperious desire to carry my
head high, and wear a more than commonly grave countenance before the public. Hence it came
about that I concealed my pleasures; and that when I reached years of reflection, and began to
look round me and take stock of my progress and position in the world, I stood already
committed to a profound duplicity of life. Many a man would have even blazoned such
irregularities as I was guilty of; but from the high views that I had set before me, I regarded and
hid them with an almost morbid sense of shame. It was thus rather the exacting nature of my
aspirations than any particular degradation in my faults, that made me what I was and, with even
a deeper trench than in the majority of men, severed in me those provinces of good and ill which
divide and compound man’s dual nature. In this case, I was driven to reflect deeply and
inveterately on that hard law of life, which lies at the root of religion and is one of the most
plentiful springs of distress. Though so profound a double-dealer, I was in no sense a hypocrite;
both sides of me were in dead earnest; I was no more myself when I laid aside restraint and
plunged in shame, than when I laboured, in the eye of day, at the furtherance of knowledge or the
relief of sorrow and suffering. And it chanced that the direction of my scientific studies, which
led wholly toward the mystic and the transcendental, re-acted and shed a strong light on this
consciousness of the perennial war among my members. With every day, and from both sides of
my intelligence, the moral and the intellectual, I thus drew steadily nearer to that truth, by whose
partial discovery I have been doomed to such a dreadful shipwreck: that man is not truly one, but
truly two. I say two, because the state of my own knowledge does not pass beyond that point.
Others will follow, others will outstrip me on the same lines; and I hazard the guess that man will
be ultimately known for a mere polity of multifarious, incongruous, and independent denizens. I,
for my part, from the nature of my life, advanced infallibly in one direction and in one direction
only. It was on the moral side, and in my own person, that I learned to recognise the thorough
and primitive duality of man; I saw that, of the two natures that contended in the field of my
consciousness, even if I could rightly be said to be either, it was only because I was radically
both; and from an early date, even before the course of my scientific discoveries had begun to
suggest the most naked possibility of such a miracle, I had learned to dwell with pleasure, as a
beloved day-dream, on the thought of the separation of these elements. If each, I told myself,
could but be housed in separate identities, life would be relieved of all that was unbearable; the
unjust delivered from the aspirations might go his way, and remorse of his more upright twin;
and the just could walk steadfastly and securely on his upward path, doing the good things in
which he found his pleasure, and no longer exposed to disgrace and penitence by the hands of
this extraneous evil. It was the curse of mankind that these incongruous fagots were thus bound
together that in the agonised womb of consciousness, these polar twins should be continuously
struggling. How, then, were they dissociated?
I was so far in my reflections when, as I have said, a side-light began to shine upon the subject
from the laboratory table. I began to perceive more deeply than it has ever yet been stated, the
trembling immateriality, the mist-like transience of this seemingly so solid body in which we
walk attired. Certain agents I found to have the power to shake and to pluck back that fleshly
vestment, even as a wind might toss the curtains of a pavilion. For two good reasons, I will not
enter deeply into this scientific branch of my confession. First, because I have been made to learn
that the doom and burthen of our life is bound for ever on man’s shoulders, and when the attempt
is made to cast it off, it but returns upon us with more unfamiliar and more awful pressure.
Second, because, as my narrative will make, alas! too evident, my discoveries were incomplete.
Enough, then, that I not only recognised my natural body for the mere aura and effulgence of
certain of the powers that made up my spirit, but managed to compound a drug by which these
powers should be dethroned from their supremacy, and a second form and countenance
substituted, none the less natural to me because they were the expression, and bore the stamp, of
lower elements in my soul.
I hesitated long before I put this theory to the test of practice. I knew well that I risked death;
for any drug that so potently controlled and shook the very fortress of identity, might by the least
scruple of an overdose or at the least inopportunity in the moment of exhibition, utterly blot out
that immaterial tabernacle which I looked to it to change. But the temptation of a discovery so
singular and profound, at last overcame the suggestions of alarm. I had long since prepared my
tincture; I purchased at once, from a firm of wholesale chemists, a large quantity of a particular
salt which I knew, from my experiments, to be the last ingredient required; and late one accursed
night, I compounded the elements, watched them boil and smoke together in the glass, and when
the ebullition had subsided, with a strong glow of courage, drank off the potion.
The most racking pangs succeeded: a grinding in the bones, deadly nausea, and a horror of the
spirit that cannot be exceeded at the hour of birth or death. Then these agonies began swiftly to
subside, and I came to myself as if out of a great sickness. There was something strange in my
sensations, something indescribably new and, from its very novelty, incredibly sweet. I felt
younger, lighter, happier in body; within I was conscious of a heady recklessness, a current of
disordered sensual images running like a mill-race in my fancy, a solution of the bonds of
obligation, an unknown but not an innocent freedom of the soul. I knew myself, at the first breath
of this new life, to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked, sold a slave to my original evil; and the
thought, in that moment, braced and delighted me like wine. I stretched out my hands, exulting in
the freshness of these sensations; and in the act, I was suddenly aware that I had lost in stature.
There was no mirror, at that date, in my room; that which stands beside me as I write, was
brought there later on and for the very purpose of these transformations. The night, however, was
far gone into the morning — the morning, black as it was, was nearly ripe for the conception of
the day — the inmates of my house were locked in the most rigorous hours of slumber; and I
determined, flushed as I was with hope and triumph, to venture in my new shape as far as to my
bedroom. I crossed the yard, wherein the constellations looked down upon me, I could have
thought, with wonder, the first creature of that sort that their unsleeping vigilance had yet
disclosed to them; I stole through the corridors, a stranger in my own house; and coming to my
room, I saw for the first time the appearance of Edward Hyde.
I must here speak by theory alone, saying not that which I know, but that which I suppose to be
most probable. The evil side of my nature, to which I had now transferred the stamping efficacy,
was less robust and less developed than the good which I had just deposed. Again, in the course
of my life, which had been, after all, nine-tenths a life of effort, virtue, and control, it had been
much less exercised and much less exhausted. And hence, as I think, it came about that Edward
Hyde was so much smaller, slighter, and younger than Henry Jekyll. Even as good shone upon
the countenance of the one, evil was written broadly and plainly on the face of the other. Evil
besides (which I must still believe to be the lethal side of man) had left on that body an imprint
of deformity and decay. And yet when I looked upon that ugly idol in the glass, I was conscious
of no repugnance, rather of a leap of welcome. This, too, was myself. It seemed natural and
human. In my eyes it bore a livelier image of the spirit, it seemed more express and single, than
the imperfect and divided countenance I had been hitherto accustomed to call mine. And in so far
I was doubtless right. I have observed that when I wore the semblance of Edward Hyde, none
could come near to me at first without a visible misgiving of the flesh. This, as I take it, was
because all human beings, as we meet them, are commingled out of good and evil: and Edward
Hyde, alone in the ranks of mankind, was pure evil.
I lingered but a moment at the mirror: the second and conclusive experiment had yet to be
attempted; it yet remained to be seen if I had lost my identity beyond redemption and must flee
before daylight from a house that was no longer mine; and hurrying back to my cabinet, I once
more prepared and drank the cup, once more suffered the pangs of dissolution, and came to
myself once more with the character, the stature, and the face of Henry Jekyll.
That night I had come to the fatal cross-roads. Had I approached my discovery in a more noble
spirit, had I risked the experiment while under the empire of generous or pious aspirations, all
must have been otherwise, and from these agonies of death and birth, I had come forth an angel
instead of a fiend. The drug had no discriminating action; it was neither diabolical nor divine; it
but shook the doors of the prison-house of my disposition; and like the captives of Philippi, that
which stood within ran forth. At that time my virtue slumbered; my evil, kept awake by
ambition, was alert and swift to seize the occasion; and the thing that was projected was Edward
Hyde. Hence, although I had now two characters as well as two appearances, one was wholly
evil, and the other was still the old Henry Jekyll, that incongruous compound of whose
reformation and improvement I had already learned to despair. The movement was thus wholly
toward the worse.
Even at that time, I had not yet conquered my aversion to the dryness of a life of study. I would
still be merrily disposed at times; and as my pleasures were (to say the least) undignified, and I
was not only well known and highly considered, but growing toward the elderly man, this
incoherency of my life was daily growing more unwelcome. It was on this side that my new
power tempted me until I fell in slavery. I had but to drink the cup, to doff at once the body of
the noted professor, and to assume, like a thick cloak, that of Edward Hyde. I smiled at the
notion; it seemed to me at the time to be humorous; and I made my preparations with the most
studious care. I took and furnished that house in Soho, to which Hyde was tracked by the police;
and engaged as housekeeper a creature whom I well knew to be silent and unscrupulous. On the
other side, I announced to my servants that a Mr. Hyde (whom I described) was to have full
liberty and power about my house in the square; and to parry mishaps, I even called and made
myself a familiar object, in my second character. I next drew up that will to which you so much
objected; so that if anything befell me in the person of Dr. Jekyll, I could enter on that of Edward
Hyde without pecuniary loss. And thus fortified, as I supposed, on every side, I began to profit
by the strange immunities of my position.
Men have before hired bravos to transact their crimes, while their own person and reputation
sat under shelter. I was the first that ever did so for his pleasures. I was the first that could thus
plod in the public eye with a load of genial respectability, and in a moment, like a schoolboy,
strip off these lendings and spring headlong into the sea of liberty. But for me, in my
impenetrable mantle, the safety was complete. Think of it — I did not even exist! Let me but
escape into my laboratory door, give me but a second or two to mix and swallow the draught that
I had always standing ready; and whatever he had done, Edward Hyde would pass away like the
stain of breath upon a mirror; and there in his stead, quietly at home, trimming the midnight lamp
in his study, a man who could afford to laugh at suspicion, would be Henry Jekyll.
The pleasures which I made haste to seek in my disguise were, as I have said, undignified; I
would scarce use a harder term. But in the hands of Edward Hyde, they soon began to turn
toward the monstrous. When I would come back from these excursions, I was often plunged into
a kind of wonder at my vicarious depravity. This familiar that I called out of my own soul, and
sent forth alone to do his good pleasure, was a being inherently malign and villainous; his every
act and thought centred on self; drinking pleasure with bestial avidity from any degree of torture
to another; relentless like a man of stone. Henry Jekyll stood at times aghast before the acts of
Edward Hyde; but the situation was apart from ordinary laws, and insidiously relaxed the grasp
of conscience. It was Hyde, after all, and Hyde alone, that was guilty. Jekyll was no worse; he
woke again to his good qualities seemingly unimpaired; he would even make haste, where it was
possible, to undo the evil done by Hyde. And thus his conscience slumbered.
Into the details of the infamy at which I thus connived (for even now I can scarce grant that I
committed it) I have no design of entering; I mean but to point out the warnings and the
successive steps with which my chastisement approached. I met with one accident which, as it
brought on no consequence, I shall no more than mention. An act of cruelty to a child aroused
against me the anger of a passer-by, whom I recognised the other day in the person of your
kinsman; the doctor and the child’s family joined him; there were moments when I feared for my
life; and at last, in order to pacify their too just resentment, Edward Hyde had to bring them to
the door, and pay them in a cheque drawn in the name of Henry Jekyll. But this danger was
easily eliminated from the future, by opening an account at another bank in the name of Edward
Hyde himself; and when, by sloping my own hand backward, I had supplied my double with a
signature, I thought I sat beyond the reach of fate.
Some two months before the murder of Sir Danvers, I had been out for one of my adventures,
had returned at a late hour, and woke the next day in bed with somewhat odd sensations. It was
in vain I looked about me; in vain I saw the decent furniture and tall proportions of my room in
the square; in vain that I recognised the pattern of the bed-curtains and the design of the
mahogany frame; something still kept insisting that I was not where I was, that I had not
wakened where I seemed to be, but in the little room in Soho where I was accustomed to sleep in
the body of Edward Hyde. I smiled to myself, and, in my psychological way began lazily to
inquire into the elements of this illusion, occasionally, even as I did so, dropping back into a
comfortable morning doze. I was still so engaged when, in one of my more wakeful moments,
my eyes fell upon my hand. Now the hand of Henry Jekyll (as you have often remarked) was
professional in shape and size: it was large, firm, white, and comely. But the hand which I now
saw, clearly enough, in the yellow light of a mid-London morning, lying half shut on the bed-
clothes, was lean, corded, knuckly, of a dusky pallor and thickly shaded with a swart growth of
hair. It was the hand of Edward Hyde.
I must have stared upon it for near half a minute, sunk as I was in the mere stupidity of wonder,
before terror woke up in my breast as sudden and startling as the crash of cymbals; and bounding
from my bed, I rushed to the mirror. At the sight that met my eyes, my blood was changed into
something exquisitely thin and icy. Yes, I had gone to bed Henry Jekyll, I had awakened Edward
Hyde. How was this to be explained? I asked myself, and then, with another bound of terror —
how was it to be remedied? It was well on in the morning; the servants were up; all my drugs
were in the cabinet — a long journey down two pairs of stairs, through the back passage, across
the open court and through the anatomical theatre, from where I was then standing horror-struck.
It might indeed be possible to cover my face; but of what use was that, when I was unable to
conceal the alteration in my stature? And then with an overpowering sweetness of relief, it came
back upon my mind that the servants were already used to the coming and going of my second
self. I had soon dressed, as well as I was able, in clothes of my own size: had soon passed
through the house, where Bradshaw stared and drew back at seeing Mr. Hyde at such an hour
and in such a strange array; and ten minutes later, Dr. Jekyll had returned to his own shape and
was sitting down, with a darkened brow, to make a feint of breakfasting.
Small indeed was my appetite. This inexplicable incident, this reversal of my previous
experience, seemed, like the Babylonian finger on the wall, to be spelling out the letters of my
judgment; and I began to reflect more seriously than ever before on the issues and possibilities of
my double existence. That part of me which I had the power of projecting, had lately been much
exercised and nourished; it had seemed to me of late as though the body of Edward Hyde had
grown in stature, as though (when I wore that form) I were conscious of a more generous tide of
blood; and I began to spy a danger that, if this were much prolonged, the balance of my nature
might be permanently overthrown, the power of voluntary change be forfeited, and the character
of Edward Hyde become irrevocably mine. The power of the drug had not been always equally
displayed. Once, very early in my career, it had totally failed me; since then I had been obliged
on more than one occasion to double, and once, with infinite risk of death, to treble the amount;
and these rare uncertainties had cast hitherto the sole shadow on my contentment. Now,
however, and in the light of that morning’s accident, I was led to remark that whereas, in the
beginning, the difficulty had been to throw off the body of Jekyll, it had of late gradually but
decidedly transferred itself to the other side. All things therefore seemed to point to this: that I
was slowly losing hold of my original and better self, and becoming slowly incorporated with my
second and worse.
Between these two, I now felt I had to choose. My two natures had memory in common, but all
other faculties were most unequally shared between them. Jekyll (who was composite) now with
the most sensitive apprehensions, now with a greedy gusto, projected and shared in the pleasures
and adventures of Hyde; but Hyde was indifferent to Jekyll, or but remembered him as the
mountain bandit remembers the cavern in which he conceals himself from pursuit. Jekyll had
more than a father’s interest; Hyde had more than a son’s indifference. To cast in my lot with
Jekyll, was to die to those appetites which I had long secretly indulged and had of late begun to
pamper. To cast it in with Hyde, was to die to a thousand interests and aspirations, and to
become, at a blow and for ever, despised and friendless. The bargain might appear unequal; but
there was still another consideration in the scales; for while Jekyll would suffer smartingly in the
fires of abstinence, Hyde would be not even conscious of all that he had lost. Strange as my
circumstances were, the terms of this debate are as old and commonplace as man; much the same
inducements and alarms cast the die for any tempted and trembling sinner; and it fell out with
me, as it falls with so vast a majority of my fellows, that I chose the better part and was found
wanting in the strength to keep to it.
Yes, I preferred the elderly and discontented doctor, surrounded by friends and cherishing
honest hopes; and bade a resolute farewell to the liberty, the comparative youth, the light step,
leaping impulses and secret pleasures, that I had enjoyed in the disguise of Hyde. I made this
choice perhaps with some unconscious reservation, for I neither gave up the house in Soho, nor
destroyed the clothes of Edward Hyde, which still lay ready in my cabinet. For two months,
however, I was true to my determination; for two months I led a life of such severity as I had
never before attained to, and enjoyed the compensations of an approving conscience. But time
began at last to obliterate the freshness of my alarm; the praises of conscience began to grow into
a thing of course; I began to be tortured with throes and longings, as of Hyde struggling after
freedom; and at last, in an hour of moral weakness, I once again compounded and swallowed the
transforming draught.
I do not suppose that, when a drunkard reasons with himself upon his vice, he is once out of
five hundred times affected by the dangers that he runs through his brutish, physical
insensibility; neither had I, long as I had considered my position, made enough allowance for the
complete moral insensibility and insensate readiness to evil, which were the leading characters of
Edward Hyde. Yet it was by these that I was punished. My devil had been long caged, he came
out roaring. I was conscious, even when I took the draught, of a more unbridled, a more furious
propensity to ill. It must have been this, I suppose, that stirred in my soul that tempest of
impatience with which I listened to the civilities of my unhappy victim; I declare, at least, before
God, no man morally sane could have been guilty of that crime upon so pitiful a provocation;
and that I struck in no more reasonable spirit than that in which a sick child may break a
plaything. But I had voluntarily stripped myself of all those balancing instincts by which even
the worst of us continues to walk with some degree of steadiness among temptations; and in my
case, to be tempted, however slightly, was to fall.
Instantly the spirit of hell awoke in me and raged. With a transport of glee, I mauled the
unresisting body, tasting delight from every blow; and it was not till weariness had begun to
succeed, that I was suddenly, in the top fit of my delirium, struck through the heart by a cold
thrill of terror. A mist dispersed; I saw my life to be forfeit; and fled from the scene of these
excesses, at once glorying and trembling, my lust of evil gratified and stimulated, my love of life
screwed to the topmost peg. I ran to the house in Soho, and (to make assurance doubly sure)
destroyed my papers; thence I set out through the lamplit streets, in the same divided ecstasy of
mind, gloating on my crime, light-headedly devising others in the future, and yet still hastening
and still hearkening in my wake for the steps of the avenger. Hyde had a song upon his lips as he
compounded the draught, and as he drank it, pledged the dead man. The pangs of transformation
had not done tearing him, before Henry Jekyll, with streaming tears of gratitude and remorse,
had fallen upon his knees and lifted his clasped hands to God. The veil of self-indulgence was
rent from head to foot, I saw my life as a whole: I followed it up from the days of childhood,
when I had walked with my father’s hand, and through the self-denying toils of my professional
life, to arrive again and again, with the same sense of unreality, at the damned horrors of the
evening. I could have screamed aloud; I sought with tears and prayers to smother down the
crowd of hideous images and sounds with which my memory swarmed against me; and still,
between the petitions, the ugly face of my iniquity stared into my soul. As the acuteness of this
remorse began to die away, it was succeeded by a sense of joy. The problem of my conduct was
solved. Hyde was thenceforth impossible; whether I would or not, I was now confined to the
better part of my existence; and oh, how I rejoiced to think it! with what willing humility, I
embraced anew the restrictions of natural life! with what sincere renunciation, I locked the door
by which I had so often gone and come, and ground the key under my heel!
The next day, came the news that the murder had been overlooked, that the guilt of Hyde was
patent to the world, and that the victim was a man high in public estimation. It was not only a
crime, it had been a tragic folly. I think I was glad to know it; I think I was glad to have my
better impulses thus buttressed and guarded by the terrors of the scaffold. Jekyll was now my
city of refuge; let but Hyde peep out an instant, and the hands of all men would be raised to take
and slay him.
I resolved in my future conduct to redeem the past; and I can say with honesty that my resolve
was fruitful of some good. You know yourself how earnestly in the last months of last year, I
laboured to relieve suffering; you know that much was done for others, and that the days passed
quietly, almost happily for myself. Nor can I truly say that I wearied of this beneficent and
innocent life; I think instead that I daily enjoyed it more completely; but I was still cursed with
my duality of purpose; and as the first edge of my penitence wore off, the lower side of me, so
long indulged, so recently chained down, began to growl for licence. Not that I dreamed of
resuscitating Hyde; the bare idea of that would startle me to frenzy: no, it was in my own person,
that I was once more tempted to trifle with my conscience; and it was as an ordinary secret
sinner, that I at last fell before the assaults of temptation.
There comes an end to all things; the most capacious measure is filled at last; and this brief
condescension to evil finally destroyed the balance of my soul. And yet I was not alarmed; the
fall seemed natural, like a return to the old days before I had made discovery. It was a fine, clear,
January day, wet under foot where the frost had melted, but cloudless overhead; and the Regent’s
Park was full of winter chirrupings and sweet with spring odours. I sat in the sun on a bench; the
animal within me licking the chops of memory; the spiritual side a little, drowsed, promising
subsequent penitence, but not yet moved to begin. After all, I reflected, I was like my
neighbours; and then I smiled, comparing myself with other men, comparing my active goodwill
with the lazy cruelty of their neglect. And at the very moment of that vain-glorious thought, a
qualm came over me, a horrid nausea and the most deadly shuddering. These passed away, and
left me faint; and then as in its turn the faintness subsided, I began to be aware of a change in the
temper of my thoughts, a greater boldness, a contempt of danger, a solution of the bonds of
obligation. I looked down; my clothes hung formlessly on my shrunken limbs; the hand that lay
on my knee was corded and hairy. I was once more Edward Hyde. A moment before I had been
safe of all men’s respect, wealthy, beloved — the cloth laying for me in the dining-room at
home; and now I was the common quarry of mankind, hunted, houseless, a known murderer,
thrall to the gallows.
My reason wavered, but it did not fail me utterly. I have more than once observed that, in my
second character, my faculties seemed sharpened to a point and my spirits more tensely elastic;
thus it came about that, where Jekyll perhaps might have succumbed, Hyde rose to the
importance of the moment. My drugs were in one of the presses of my cabinet; how was I to
reach them? That was the problem that (crushing my temples in my hands) I set myself to solve.
The laboratory door I had closed. If I sought to enter by the house, my own servants would
consign me to the gallows. I saw I must employ another hand, and thought of Lanyon. How was
he to be reached? how persuaded? Supposing that I escaped capture in the streets, how was I to
make my way into his presence? and how should I, an unknown and displeasing visitor, prevail
on the famous physician to rifle the study of his colleague, Dr. Jekyll? Then I remembered that
of my original character, one part remained to me: I could write my own hand; and once I had
conceived that kindling spark, the way that I must follow became lighted up from end to end.
Thereupon, I arranged my clothes as best I could, and summoning a passing hansom, drove to
an hotel in Portland Street, the name of which I chanced to remember. At my appearance (which
was indeed comical enough, however tragic a fate these garments covered) the driver could not
conceal his mirth. I gnashed my teeth upon him with a gust of devilish fury; and the smile
withered from his face — happily for him — yet more happily for myself, for in another instant I
had certainly dragged him from his perch. At the inn, as I entered, I looked about me with so
black a countenance as made the attendants tremble; not a look did they exchange in my
presence; but obsequiously took my orders, led me to a private room, and brought me
wherewithal to write. Hyde in danger of his life was a creature new to me; shaken with
inordinate anger, strung to the pitch of murder, lusting to inflict pain. Yet the creature was astute;
mastered his fury with a great effort of the will; composed his two important letters, one to
Lanyon and one to Poole; and that he might receive actual evidence of their being posted, sent
them out with directions that they should be registered.
Thenceforward, he sat all day over the fire in the private room, gnawing his nails; there he
dined, sitting alone with his fears, the waiter visibly quailing before his eye; and thence, when
the night was fully come, he set forth in the corner of a closed cab, and was driven to and fro
about the streets of the city. He, I say — I cannot say, I. That child of Hell had nothing human;
nothing lived in him but fear and hatred. And when at last, thinking the driver had begun to grow
suspicious, he discharged the cab and ventured on foot, attired in his misfitting clothes, an object
marked out for observation, into the midst of the nocturnal passengers, these two base passions
raged within him like a tempest. He walked fast, hunted by his fears, chattering to himself,
skulking through the less-frequented thoroughfares, counting the minutes that still divided him
from midnight. Once a woman spoke to him, offering, I think, a box of lights. He smote her in
the face, and she fled.
When I came to myself at Lanyon’s, the horror of my old friend perhaps affected me
somewhat: I do not know; it was at least but a drop in the sea to the abhorrence with which I
looked back upon these hours. A change had come over me. It was no longer the fear of the
gallows, it was the horror of being Hyde that racked me. I received Lanyon’s condemnation
partly in a dream; it was partly in a dream that I came home to my own house and got into bed. I
slept after the prostration of the day, with a stringent and profound slumber which not even the
nightmares that wrung me could avail to break. I awoke in the morning shaken, weakened, but
refreshed. I still hated and feared the thought of the brute that slept within me, and I had not of
course forgotten the appalling dangers of the day before; but I was once more at home, in my
own house and close to my drugs; and gratitude for my escape shone so strong in my soul that it
almost rivalled the brightness of hope.
I was stepping leisurely across the court after breakfast, drinking the chill of the air with
pleasure, when I was seized again with those indescribable sensations that heralded the change;
and I had but the time to gain the shelter of my cabinet, before I was once again raging and
freezing with the passions of Hyde. It took on this occasion a double dose to recall me to myself;
and alas! Six hours after, as I sat looking sadly in the fire, the pangs returned, and the drug had to
be re-administered. In short, from that day forth it seemed only by a great effort as of
gymnastics, and only under the immediate stimulation of the drug, that I was able to wear the
countenance of Jekyll. At all hours of the day and night, I would be taken with the premonitory
shudder; above all, if I slept, or even dozed for a moment in my chair, it was always as Hyde that
I awakened. Under the strain of this continually-impending doom and by the sleeplessness to
which I now condemned myself, ay, even beyond what I had thought possible to man, I became,
in my own person, a creature eaten up and emptied by fever, languidly weak both in body and
mind, and solely occupied by one thought: the horror of my other self. But when I slept, or when
the virtue of the medicine wore off, I would leap almost without transition (for the pangs of
transformation grew daily less marked) into the possession of a fancy brimming with images of
terror, a soul boiling with causeless hatreds, and a body that seemed not strong enough to contain
the raging energies of life. The powers of Hyde seemed to have grown with the sickliness of
Jekyll. And certainly the hate that now divided them was equal on each side. With Jekyll, it was
a thing of vital instinct. He had now seen the full deformity of that creature that shared with him
some of the phenomena of consciousness, and was co-heir with him to death: and beyond these
links of community, which in themselves made the most poignant part of his distress, he thought
of Hyde, for all his energy of life, as of something not only hellish but inorganic. This was the
shocking thing; that the slime of the pit seemed to utter cries and voices; that the amorphous dust
gesticulated and sinned; that what was dead, and had no shape, should usurp the offices of life.
And this again, that that insurgent horror was knit to him closer than a wife, closer than an eye;
lay caged in his flesh, where he heard it mutter and felt it struggle to be born; and at every hour
of weakness, and in the confidence of slumber, prevailed against him and deposed him out of
life. The hatred of Hyde for Jekyll, was of a different order. His tenor of the gallows drove him
continually to commit temporary suicide, and return to his subordinate station of a part instead of
a person; but he loathed the necessity, he loathed the despondency into which Jekyll was now
fallen, and he resented the dislike with which he was himself regarded. Hence the ape-like tricks
that he would play me, scrawling in my own hand blasphemies on the pages of my books,
burning the letters and destroying the portrait of my father; and indeed, had it not been for his
fear of death, he would long ago have ruined himself in order to involve me in the ruin. But his
love of life is wonderful; I go further: I, who sicken and freeze at the mere thought of him, when
I recall the abjection and passion of this attachment, and when I know how he fears my power to
cut him off by suicide, I find it in my heart to pity him.
It is useless, and the time awfully fails me, to prolong this description; no one has ever suffered
such torments, let that suffice; and yet even to these, habit brought — no, not alleviation — but a
certain callousness of soul, a certain acquiescence of despair; and my punishment might have
gone on for years, but for the last calamity which has now fallen, and which has finally severed
me from my own face and nature. My provision of the salt, which had never been renewed since
the date of the first experiment, began to run low. I sent out for a fresh supply, and mixed the
draught; the ebullition followed, and the first change of colour, not the second; I drank it and it
was without efficiency. You will learn from Poole how I have had London ransacked; it was in
vain; and I am now persuaded that my first supply was impure, and that it was that unknown
impurity which lent efficacy to the draught.
About a week has passed, and I am now finishing this statement under the influence of the last
of the old powders. This, then, is the last time, short of a miracle, that Henry Jekyll can think his
own thoughts or see his own face (now how sadly altered!) in the glass. Nor must I delay too
long to bring my writing to an end; for if my narrative has hitherto escaped destruction, it has
been by a combination of great prudence and great good luck. Should the throes of change take
me in the act of writing it, Hyde will tear it in pieces; but if some time shall have elapsed after I
have laid it by, his wonderful selfishness and Circumscription to the moment will probably save
it once again from the action of his ape-like spite. And indeed the doom that is closing on us
both, has already changed and crushed him. Half an hour from now, when I shall again and for
ever re-indue that hated personality, I know how I shall sit shuddering and weeping in my chair,
or continue, with the most strained and fear-struck ecstasy of listening, to pace up and down this
room (my last earthly refuge) and give ear to every sound of menace. Will Hyde die upon the
scaffold? or will he find courage to release himself at the last moment? God knows; I am
careless; this is my true hour of death, and what is to follow concerns another than myself. Here
then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy
Henry Jekyll to an end.