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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 churchtill 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
to, 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 of, 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."
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 stuck 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, "lt 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
radience 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.
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."
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.
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