THE STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE

by Robert Louis Stevenson




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 theater, had
not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved
tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high
pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity
inclined to help rather than to reprove. "I incline to Cain's heresy,"
he used to say quaintly: "I let my brother go to the devil in his own
way." In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be the last
reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of
downgoing 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 weekdays. The
inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed and all emulously hoping to
do better still, and laying out the surplus of their grains 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 storeys high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower
storey and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and bore
in every feature, the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence. The
door, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker, was blistered
and distained. Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on the
panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had tried
his knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no one had
appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their ravages.

Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but
when they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his cane and
pointed.

"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 few 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 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 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 cheque 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 the place with the door, in consequence. Though
even that, you know, is far from explaining all," he added, and with the
words fell into a vein of musing.

From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: "And
you don't know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?"

"A likely place, isn't it?" returned Mr. Enfield. "But I happen to have
noticed his address; he lives in some square or other."

"And you never asked about the--place with the door?" said Mr. Utterson.

"No, sir: I had a delicacy," was the reply. "I feel very strongly about
putting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the day of
judgment. You start a question, and it's like starting a stone. You sit
quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others;
and presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of)
is knocked on the head in his own back garden and the family have to
change their name. No sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks
like Queer Street, the less I ask."

"A very good rule, too," said the lawyer.

"But I have studied the place for myself," continued Mr. Enfield. "It
seems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes in
or out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of my
adventure. There are three windows looking on the court on the first
floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they're clean. And
then there is a chimney which is generally smoking; so somebody must
live there. And yet it's not so sure; for the buildings are so packed
together about the 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."

"Hm," 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 down-right 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., L.L.D.,
F.R.S., etc., all his possessions were to pass into the hands of his
"friend and benefactor Edward Hyde," but that in case of 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 greatcoat, 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 anyone 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 respectors 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 preoccupied 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 protege of
his--one Hyde?" he asked.

"Hyde?" repeated Lanyon. "No. Never heard of him. Since my time."

That was the amount of information that the lawyer carried back with him
to the great, dark bed on which he tossed to and fro, until the small
hours of the morning began to grow large. It was a night of little ease
to his toiling mind, toiling in mere darkness and beseiged 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 of 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 apropos, 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 awhile when Mr. Hyde had left him, the picture of
disquietude. Then he began slowly to mount the street, pausing every
step or two and putting his hand to his brow like a man in mental
perplexity. The problem he was thus debating as he walked, was one of a
class that is rarely solved. Mr. Hyde was pale and dwarfish, he gave
an impression of deformity without any nameable malformation, he had
a displeasing smile, he had borne himself to the lawyer with a sort of
murderous mixture of timidity and boldness, and he spoke with a husky,
whispering and somewhat broken voice; all these were points against
him, but not all of these together could explain the hitherto unknown
disgust, loathing and fear with which Mr. Utterson regarded him.
"There must be 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 fanlight, 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 tonight 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, 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 does 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
awhile on his own past, groping in all the corners of memory, least
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 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 shoulders 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
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 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 stylish 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. O, 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 as bad as that; and just to put your good heart at rest, I
will tell you one thing: the moment I choose, I can be rid of Mr. Hyde.
I give you my hand 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
upstairs 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 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 some times 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 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 recognized 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
marvelous 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
reinvasion 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 many 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 he had gone away again in less than an hour;
there was nothing strange in that; his habits were very irregular, and
he was often 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
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. The
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 deathly 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 awhile; 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 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 bye," 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
right? 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 could 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."