World Book Night 2011

It’s finally here!

As previously mentioned, I’m one of the 20,000 givers.  More info can be found below or by clicking the link to the original post

For the first time this year, there will be a World Book Night to follow a few days after World Book Day.  Notice of this inaugural event found its way into my email just before Christmas, as they were looking for volunteers to give away  one million books on March 5th. Naturally I applied to be a volunteer and I just found out that I’ve been successful!  Hooray!

The book I selected to give away 48 copies of is The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark.  Many reasons for this but particularly because it is set in Scotland and written by a Scottish author, plus we did plan to read this book with the book group a year or two ago and it got cancelled, not to mention that it’s a very short book (approx 150 pages) so lugging 48 of those around would be a lot easier!

I’ve designed some little labels to put inside each copy with the ID number written on it, and then the giver and location details will be written in pencil (I hate writing in books especially in ink!)  then from later today I will be giving them all away.    BBC2 Culture Show is running a World Book Night special evening tonight so don’t forget to tune in and watch (or catch up on the iplayer later if you are out giving away your books)

Happy World Book Night everyone!

World Book Night – the books have landed!

Got the email last weekend telling me that my books will be dispatched to my pick-up location for collection some time this week.  Rang the library a couple of times to check and today, they confirmed that the box of books has arrived!

Just picked them up (boy am I glad I picked a small book, some people were getting two boxes!) and here they are:


Now all I need are the identification numbers and I’m ready to go on the 5th!

World Book Day / Night

For the first time this year, there will be a World Book Night to follow a few days after World Book Day.  Notice of this inaugural event found its way into my email just before Christmas, as they were looking for volunteers to give away  one million books on March 5th. Naturally I applied to be a volunteer and I just found out that I’ve been successful!  Hooray!

The book I selected to give away 48 copies of is The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark.  Many reasons for this but particularly because it is set in Scotland and written by a Scottish author, plus we did plan to read this book with the book group a year or two ago and it got cancelled, not to mention that it’s a very short book (approx 150 pages) so lugging 48 of those around would be a lot easier!

For those interested, here’s a list of all 25 titles that will be given away on World Book Night:

Half of a Yellow Sun  –  Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie   (Harper Perennial)
Case Histories  –  Kate Atkinson   (Black Swan)
The Blind Assassin  – Margaret Atwood   (Virago)
A Life Like Other People’s –  Alan Bennett   (Profile & Faber)
The Spy Who Came in from the Cold –  John le Carré   (Penguin)
Killing Floor –  Lee Child   (Bantam)
The World’s Wife –  Carol Ann Duffy   (Picador)
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time –  Mark Haddon   (Vintage)
New Selected Poems –  Seamus Heaney   (Faber)
Rachel’s Holiday –  Marian Keyes   (Penguin/Poolbeg)
The Reluctant Fundamentalist –  Mohsin Hahmed   (Penguin)
Agent Zigzag –  Ben Macintyre   (Bloomsbury)
Love in the Time of Cholera –  Gabriel García Márquez   (Penguin)
Life of Pi  – Yann Martel   (Canongate)
Stuart –  Alexander Masters   (Fourth Estate)
A Fine Balance  – Rohinton Mistry   (Faber)
Cloud Atlas  – David Mitchell   (Sceptre)
Beloved –  Toni Morrison   (Vintage)
One Day –  David Nicholls   (Hodder)
Northern Lights  – Philip Pullman   (Scholastic)
All Quiet on the Western Front –  Erich Maria Remarque   (Vintage)
Dissolution –  C.J. Sansom   (Pan)
Toast  – Nigel Slater   (Fourth Estate)
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie  – Muriel Spark   (Penguin)
Fingersmith –  Sarah Waters   (Virago)

I think this is wonderful.  Anything that encourages more people to read is just fantastic.  Oh and I own 18 of the 25 books on this list!

The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde – Robert Lewis Stevenson – Halloween Book Discussion 2010

THE STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE

by Robert Louis Stevenson



STORY OF THE DOOR

SEARCH FOR MR. HYDE

DR. JEKYLL WAS QUITE AT EASE

THE CAREW MURDER CASE

INCIDENT OF THE LETTER

INCIDENT OF DR. LANYON

INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW

THE LAST NIGHT

DR. LANYON’S NARRATIVE

HENRY JEKYLL’S FULL STATEMENT
OF THE CASE


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.”

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

Just then the servant entered with a note.

“Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?” inquired the clerk. “I thought I knew
the writing. Anything private, Mr. Utterson?”

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

“One moment. I thank you, sir;” and the clerk laid the two sheets of
paper alongside and sedulously compared their contents. “Thank you, sir,”
he said at last, returning both; “it’s a very interesting autograph.”

There was a pause, during which Mr. Utterson struggled with himself.
“Why did you compare them, Guest?” he inquired suddenly.

“Well, sir,” returned the clerk, “there’s a rather singular resemblance;
the two hands are in many points identical: only differently sloped.”

“Rather quaint,” said Utterson.

“It is, as you say, rather quaint,” returned Guest.

“I wouldn’t speak of this note, you know,” said the master.

“No, sir,” said the clerk. “I understand.”

But no sooner was Mr. Utterson alone that night, than he locked the
note into his safe, where it reposed from that time forward. “What!” he
thought. “Henry Jekyll forge for a murderer!” And his blood ran cold in
his veins.

INCIDENT OF DR. LANYON

Time ran on; thousands of pounds were offered in reward, for the death
of Sir Danvers was resented as a public injury; but Mr. Hyde had disappeared
out of the ken of the police as though he had never existed. Much of his
past was unearthed, indeed, and all disreputable: tales came out of the man’s
cruelty, at once so callous and violent; of his vile life, of his strange
associates, of the hatred that seemed to have surrounded his career; but
of his present whereabouts, not a whisper. From the time he had left the
house in Soho on the morning of the murder, he was simply blotted out; and
gradually, as time drew on, Mr. Utterson began to recover from the hotness
of his alarm, and to grow more at quiet with himself. The death of Sir Danvers
was, to his way of thinking, more than paid for by the disappearance of Mr.
Hyde. Now that that evil influence had been withdrawn, a new life began for
Dr. Jekyll. He came out of his seclusion, renewed relations with his friends,
became once more their familiar guest and entertainer; and whilst he had
always been known for charities, he was now no less distinguished for religion.
He was busy, he was much in the open air, he did good; his face seemed
to open and brighten, as if with an inward consciousness of service; and
for more than two months, the doctor was at peace.

On the 8th of January Utterson had dined at the doctor’s with a small
party; Lanyon had been there; and the face of the host had looked from
one to the other as in the old days when the trio were inseparable friends.
On the 12th, and again on the 14th, the door was shut against the lawyer.
“The doctor was confined to the house,” Poole said, “and saw no one.” On
the 15th, he tried again, and was again refused; and having now been used
for the last two months to see his friend almost daily, he found this return
of solitude to weigh upon his spirits. The fifth night he had in Guest to
dine with him; and the sixth he betook himself to Dr. Lanyon’s.

There at least he was not denied admittance; but when he came in, he
was shocked at the change which had taken place in the doctor’s appearance.
He had his death-warrant written legibly upon his face. The rosy man had
grown pale; his flesh had fallen away; he was visibly balder and older;
and yet it was not so much these tokens of a swift physical decay that
arrested the lawyer’s notice, as a look in the eye and quality of manner
that seemed to testify to some deep-seated terror of the mind. It was unlikely
that the doctor should fear death; and yet that was what Utterson was tempted
to suspect. “Yes,” he thought; “he is a doctor, he must know his own state
and that his days are counted; and the knowledge is more than he can bear.”
And yet when Utterson remarked on his ill-looks, it was with an air of great
firmness that Lanyon declared himself a doomed man.

“I have had a shock,” he said, “and I shall never recover. It is a
question of weeks. Well, life has been pleasant; I liked it; yes, sir, I
used to like it. I sometimes think if we knew all, we should be more glad
to get away.”

“Jekyll is ill, too,” observed Utterson. “Have you seen him?”

But Lanyon’s face changed, and he held up a trembling hand. “I wish to
see or hear no more of Dr. Jekyll,” he said in a loud, unsteady voice.
“I am quite done with that person; and I beg that you will spare me any
allusion to one whom I regard as dead.”

“Tut-tut,” said Mr. Utterson; and then after a considerable pause,
“Can’t I do anything?” he inquired. “We are three very old friends, Lanyon;
we shall not live to make others.”

“Nothing can be done,” returned Lanyon; “ask himself.”

“He will not see me,” said the lawyer.

“I am not surprised at that,” was the reply. “Some day, Utterson, after
I am dead, you may perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this. I
cannot tell you. And in the meantime, if you can sit and talk with me
of other things, for God’s sake, stay and do so; but if you cannot keep
clear of this accursed topic, then in God’s name, go, for I cannot bear
it.”

As soon as he got home, Utterson sat down and wrote to Jekyll, complaining
of his exclusion from the house, and asking the cause of this unhappy break
with Lanyon; and the next day brought him a long answer, often very pathetically
worded, and sometimes darkly mysterious in drift. The quarrel with Lanyon
was incurable. “I do not blame our old friend,” Jekyll wrote, “but I share
his view that we must never meet. I mean from henceforth to lead a life of
extreme seclusion; you must not be surprised, nor must you doubt my friendship,
if my door is often shut even to you. You must suffer me to go my own dark
way. I have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name.
If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also. I could not
think that this earth contained a place for sufferings and terrors so unmanning;
and you can do but one thing, Utterson, to lighten this destiny, and that
is to respect my silence.” Utterson was amazed; the dark influence of Hyde
had been withdrawn, the doctor had returned to his old tasks and amities;
a week ago, the prospect had smiled with every promise of a cheerful and
an honoured age; and now in a moment, friendship, and peace of mind, and
the whole tenor of his life were wrecked. So great and unprepared a change
pointed to madness; but in view of Lanyon’s manner and words, there must
lie for it some deeper ground.

A week afterwards Dr. Lanyon took to his bed, and in something less than
a fortnight he was dead. The night after the funeral, at which he had
been sadly affected, Utterson locked the door of his business room, and sitting
there by the light of a melancholy candle, drew out and set before him an
envelope addressed by the hand and sealed with the seal of his dead friend.
“PRIVATE: for the hands of G. J. Utterson ALONE, and in case of his predecease
to be destroyed unread,” so it was emphatically superscribed; and the lawyer
dreaded to behold the contents. “I have buried one friend to-day,” he thought:
“what if this should cost me another?” And then he condemned the fear as
a disloyalty, and broke the seal. Within there was another enclosure, likewise
sealed, and marked upon the cover as “not to be opened till the death or
disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll.” Utterson could not trust his eyes. Yes,
it was disappearance; here again, as in the mad will which he had long ago
restored to its author, here again were the idea of a disappearance and
the name of Henry Jekyll bracketted. But in the will, that idea had sprung
from the sinister suggestion of the man Hyde; it was set there with a purpose
all too plain and horrible. Written by the hand of Lanyon, what should it
mean? A great curiosity came on the trustee, to disregard the prohibition
and dive at once to the bottom of these mysteries; but professional honour
and faith to his dead friend were stringent obligations; and the packet
slept in the inmost corner of his private safe.

It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it; and it may
be doubted if, from that day forth, Utterson desired the society of his
surviving friend with the same eagerness. He thought of him kindly; but
his thoughts were disquieted and fearful. He went to call indeed; but he
was perhaps relieved to be denied admittance; perhaps, in his heart, he
preferred to speak with Poole upon the doorstep and surrounded by the
air and sounds of the open city, rather than to be admitted into that house
of voluntary bondage, and to sit and speak with its inscrutable recluse.
Poole had, indeed, no very pleasant news to communicate. The doctor, it appeared,
now more than ever confined himself to the cabinet over the laboratory, where
he would sometimes even sleep; he was out of spirits, he had grown very
silent, he did not read; it seemed as if he had something on his mind. Utterson
became so used to the unvarying character of these reports, that he fell
off little by little in the frequency of his visits.

INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW

It chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr.
Enfield, that their way lay once again through the by-street; and that
when they came in front of the door, both stopped to gaze on it.

“Well,” said Enfield, “that story’s at an end at least. We shall never
see more of Mr. Hyde.”

“I hope not,” said Utterson. “Did I ever tell you that I once saw him,
and shared your feeling of repulsion?”

“It was impossible to do the one without the other,” returned Enfield.
“And by the way, what an ass you must have thought me, not to know that
this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll’s! It was partly your own fault that
I found it out, even when I did.”

“So you found it out, did you?” said Utterson. “But if that be so, we
may step into the court and take a look at the windows. To tell you the
truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even outside, I feel as if the
presence of a friend might do him good.”

The court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature twilight,
although the sky, high up overhead, was still bright with sunset. The middle
one of the three windows was half-way open; and sitting close beside it,
taking the air with an infinite sadness of mien, like some disconsolate prisoner,
Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll.

“What! Jekyll!” he cried. “I trust you are better.”

“I am very low, Utterson,” replied the doctor drearily, “very low. It
will not last long, thank God.”

“You stay too much indoors,” said the lawyer. “You should be out, whipping
up the circulation like Mr. Enfield and me. (This is my cousin—Mr. Enfield—Dr.
Jekyll.) Come now; get your hat and take a quick turn with us.”

“You are very good,” sighed the other. “I should like to very much; but
no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I dare not. But indeed, Utterson,
I am very glad to see you; this is really a great pleasure; I would ask
you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place is really not fit.”

“Why, then,” said the lawyer, good-naturedly, “the best thing we can
do is to stay down here and speak with you from where we are.”

“That is just what I was about to venture to propose,” returned the
doctor with a smile. But the words were hardly uttered, before the smile
was struck out of his face and succeeded by an expression of such abject
terror and despair, as froze the very blood of the two gentlemen below.
They saw it but for a glimpse for the window was instantly thrust down;
but that glimpse had been sufficient, and they turned and left the court
without a word. In silence, too, they traversed the by-street; and it was
not until they had come into a neighbouring thoroughfare, where even upon
a Sunday there were still some stirrings of life, that Mr. Utterson at last
turned and looked at his companion. They were both pale; and there was an
answering horror in their eyes.

“God forgive us, God forgive us,” said Mr. Utterson.

But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously, and walked on once
more in silence.

THE LAST NIGHT

Mr. Utterson was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner, when
he was surprised to receive a visit from Poole.

“Bless me, Poole, what brings you here?” he cried; and then taking a
second look at him, “What ails you?” he added; “is the doctor ill?”

“Mr. Utterson,” said the man, “there is something wrong.”

“Take a seat, and here is a glass of wine for you,” said the lawyer.
“Now, take your time, and tell me plainly what you want.”

“You know the doctor’s ways, sir,” replied Poole, “and how he shuts
himself up. Well, he’s shut up again in the cabinet; and I don’t like
it, sir—I wish I may die if I like it. Mr. Utterson, sir, I’m afraid.”

“Now, my good man,” said the lawyer, “be explicit. What are you afraid
of?”

“I’ve been afraid for about a week,” returned Poole, doggedly disregarding
the question, “and I can bear it no more.”

The man’s appearance amply bore out his words; his manner was altered
for the worse; and except for the moment when he had first announced his
terror, he had not once looked the lawyer in the face. Even now, he sat
with the glass of wine untasted on his knee, and his eyes directed to a
corner of the floor. “I can bear it no more,” he repeated.

“Come,” said the lawyer, “I see you have some good reason, Poole; I see
there is something seriously amiss. Try to tell me what it is.”

“I think there’s been foul play,” said Poole, hoarsely.

“Foul play!” cried the lawyer, a good deal frightened and rather inclined
to be irritated in consequence. “What foul play! What does the man mean?”

“I daren’t say, sir,” was the answer; “but will you come along with me
and see for yourself?”

Mr. Utterson’s only answer was to rise and get his hat and greatcoat;
but he observed with wonder the greatness of the relief that appeared
upon the butler’s face, and perhaps with no less, that the wine was still
untasted when he set it down to follow.

It was a wild, cold, seasonable night of March, with a pale moon, lying
on her back as though the wind had tilted her, and flying wrack of the
most diaphanous and lawny texture. The wind made talking difficult, and
flecked the blood into the face. It seemed to have swept the streets unusually
bare of passengers, besides; for Mr. Utterson thought he had never seen
that part of London so deserted. He could have wished it otherwise; never
in his life had he been conscious of so sharp a wish to see and touch his
fellow-creatures; for struggle as he might, there was borne in upon his
mind a crushing anticipation of calamity. The square, when they got there,
was full of wind and dust, and the thin trees in the garden were lashing
themselves along the railing. Poole, who had kept all the way a pace or
two ahead, now pulled up in the middle of the pavement, and in spite of
the biting weather, took off his hat and mopped his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief.
But for all the hurry of his coming, these were not the dews of exertion
that he wiped away, but the moisture of some strangling anguish; for his
face was white and his voice, when he spoke, harsh and broken.

“Well, sir,” he said, “here we are, and God grant there be nothing
wrong.”

“Amen, Poole,” said the lawyer.

Thereupon the servant knocked in a very guarded manner; the door was
opened on the chain; and a voice asked from within, “Is that you, Poole?”

“It’s all right,” said Poole. “Open the door.”

The hall, when they entered it, was brightly lighted up; the fire was
built high; and about the hearth the whole of the servants, men and women,
stood huddled together like a flock of sheep. At the sight of Mr. Utterson,
the housemaid broke into hysterical whimpering; and the cook, crying out
“Bless God! it’s Mr. Utterson,” ran forward as if to take him in her arms.

“What, what? Are you all here?” said the lawyer peevishly. “Very irregular,
very unseemly; your master would be far from pleased.”

“They’re all afraid,” said Poole.

Blank silence followed, no one protesting; only the maid lifted her
voice and now wept loudly.

“Hold your tongue!” Poole said to her, with a ferocity of accent that
testified to his own jangled nerves; and indeed, when the girl had so
suddenly raised the note of her lamentation, they had all started and turned
towards the inner door with faces of dreadful expectation. “And now,” continued
the butler, addressing the knife-boy, “reach me a candle, and we’ll get this
through hands at once.” And then he begged Mr. Utterson to follow him, and
led the way to the back garden.

“Now, sir,” said he, “you come as gently as you can. I want you to hear,
and I don’t want you to be heard. And see here, sir, if by any chance he
was to ask you in, don’t go.”

Mr. Utterson’s nerves, at this unlooked-for termination, gave a jerk
that nearly threw him from his balance; but he recollected his courage
and followed the butler into the laboratory building through the surgical
theatre, with its lumber of crates and bottles, to the foot of the stair.
Here Poole motioned him to stand on one side and listen; while he himself,
setting down the candle and making a great and obvious call on his resolution,
mounted the steps and knocked with a somewhat uncertain hand on the red
baize of the cabinet door.

“Mr. Utterson, sir, asking to see you,” he called; and even as he did
so, once more violently signed to the lawyer to give ear.

A voice answered from within: “Tell him I cannot see anyone,” it said
complainingly.

“Thank you, sir,” said Poole, with a note of something like triumph in
his voice; and taking up his candle, he led Mr. Utterson back across the
yard and into the great kitchen, where the fire was out and the beetles
were leaping on the floor.

“Sir,” he said, looking Mr. Utterson in the eyes, “Was that my master’s
voice?”

“It seems much changed,” replied the lawyer, very pale, but giving look
for look.

“Changed? Well, yes, I think so,” said the butler. “Have I been twenty
years in this man’s house, to be deceived about his voice? No, sir; master’s
made away with; he was made away with eight days ago, when we heard him cry
out upon the name of God; and who’s in there instead of him, and why it
stays there, is a thing that cries to Heaven, Mr. Utterson!”

“This is a very strange tale, Poole; this is rather a wild tale my man,”
said Mr. Utterson, biting his finger. “Suppose it were as you suppose,
supposing Dr. Jekyll to have been—well, murdered what could induce the
murderer to stay? That won’t hold water; it doesn’t commend itself to reason.”

“Well, Mr. Utterson, you are a hard man to satisfy, but I’ll do it yet,”
said Poole. “All this last week (you must know) him, or it, whatever it
is that lives in that cabinet, has been crying night and day for some
sort of medicine and cannot get it to his mind. It was sometimes his way—the
master’s, that is—to write his orders on a sheet of paper and throw it on
the stair. We’ve had nothing else this week back; nothing but papers, and
a closed door, and the very meals left there to be smuggled in when nobody
was looking. Well, sir, every day, ay, and twice and thrice in the same day,
there have been orders and complaints, and I have been sent flying to all
the wholesale chemists in town. Every time I brought the stuff back, there
would be another paper telling me to return it, because it was not pure,
and another order to a different firm. This drug is wanted bitter bad, sir,
whatever for.”

“Have you any of these papers?” asked Mr. Utterson.

Poole felt in his pocket and handed out a crumpled note, which the
lawyer, bending nearer to the candle, carefully examined. Its contents ran
thus: “Dr. Jekyll presents his compliments to Messrs. Maw. He assures them
that their last sample is impure and quite useless for his present purpose.
In the year 18—, Dr. J. purchased a somewhat large quantity from Messrs.
M. He now begs them to search with most sedulous care, and should any of
the same quality be left, forward it to him at once. Expense is no consideration.
The importance of this to Dr. J. can hardly be exaggerated.” So far the letter
had run composedly enough, but here with a sudden splutter of the pen, the
writer’s emotion had broken loose. “For God’s sake,” he added, “find me
some of the old.”

“This is a strange note,” said Mr. Utterson; and then sharply, “How do
you come to have it open?”

“The man at Maw’s was main angry, sir, and he threw it back to me like
so much dirt,” returned Poole.

“This is unquestionably the doctor’s hand, do you know?” resumed the
lawyer.

“I thought it looked like it,” said the servant rather sulkily; and
then, with another voice, “But what matters hand of write?” he said. “I’ve
seen him!”

“Seen him?” repeated Mr. Utterson. “Well?”

“That’s it!” said Poole. “It was this way. I came suddenly into the
theater from the garden. It seems he had slipped out to look for this
drug or whatever it is; for the cabinet door was open, and there he was
at the far end of the room digging among the crates. He looked up when I
came in, gave a kind of cry, and whipped upstairs into the cabinet. It was
but for one minute that I saw him, but the hair stood upon my head like
quills. Sir, if that was my master, why had he a mask upon his face? If
it was my master, why did he cry out like a rat, and run from me? I have
served him long enough. And then…” The man paused and passed his hand
over his face.

“These are all very strange circumstances,” said Mr. Utterson, “but I
think I begin to see daylight. Your master, Poole, is plainly seized with
one of those maladies that both torture and deform the sufferer; hence, for
aught I know, the alteration of his voice; hence the mask and the avoidance
of his friends; hence his eagerness to find this drug, by means of which
the poor soul retains some hope of ultimate recovery—God grant that he be
not deceived! There is my explanation; it is sad enough, Poole, ay, and appalling
to consider; but it is plain and natural, hangs well together, and delivers
us from all exorbitant alarms.”

“Sir,” said the butler, turning to a sort of mottled pallor, “that thing
was not my master, and there’s the truth. My master”—here he looked round
him and began to whisper—”is a tall, fine build of a man, and this was more
of a dwarf.” Utterson attempted to protest. “O, sir,” cried Poole, “do you
think I do not know my master after twenty years? Do you think I do not know
where his head comes to in the cabinet door, where I saw him every morning
of my life? No, sir, that thing in the mask was never Dr. Jekyll—God knows
what it was, but it was never Dr. Jekyll; and it is the belief of my heart
that there was murder done.”

“Poole,” replied the lawyer, “if you say that, it will become my duty
to make certain. Much as I desire to spare your master’s feelings, much as
I am puzzled by this note which seems to prove him to be still alive, I
shall consider it my duty to break in that door.”

“Ah, Mr. Utterson, that’s talking!” cried the butler.

“And now comes the second question,” resumed Utterson: “Who is going
to do it?”

“Why, you and me, sir,” was the undaunted reply.

“That’s very well said,” returned the lawyer; “and whatever comes of
it, I shall make it my business to see you are no loser.”

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

The lawyer took that rude but weighty instrument into his hand, and
balanced it. “Do you know, Poole,” he said, looking up, “that you and I
are about to place ourselves in a position of some peril?”

“You may say so, sir, indeed,” returned the butler.

“It is well, then that we should be frank,” said the other. “We both
think more than we have said; let us make a clean breast. This masked
figure that you saw, did you recognise it?”

“Well, sir, it went so quick, and the creature was so doubled up, that
I could hardly swear to that,” was the answer. “But if you mean, was it
Mr. Hyde?—why, yes, I think it was! You see, it was much of the same bigness;
and it had the same quick, light way with it; and then who else could have
got in by the laboratory door? You have not forgot, sir, that at the time
of the murder he had still the key with him? But that’s not all. I don’t
know, Mr. Utterson, if you ever met this Mr. Hyde?”

“Yes,” said the lawyer, “I once spoke with him.”

“Then you must know as well as the rest of us that there was something
queer about that gentleman—something that gave a man a turn—I don’t know
rightly how to say it, sir, beyond this: that you felt in your marrow kind
of cold and thin.”

“I own I felt something of what you describe,” said Mr. Utterson.

“Quite so, sir,” returned Poole. “Well, when that masked thing like a
monkey jumped from among the chemicals and whipped into the cabinet, it
went down my spine like ice. O, I know it’s not evidence, Mr. Utterson;
I’m book-learned enough for that; but a man has his feelings, and I give
you my bible-word it was Mr. Hyde!”

“Ay, ay,” said the lawyer. “My fears incline to the same point. Evil,
I fear, founded—evil was sure to come—of that connection. Ay truly, I
believe you; I believe poor Harry is killed; and I believe his murderer
(for what purpose, God alone can tell) is still lurking in his victim’s
room. Well, let our name be vengeance. Call Bradshaw.”

The footman came at the summons, very white and nervous.

“Put yourself together, Bradshaw,” said the lawyer. “This suspense, I
know, is telling upon all of you; but it is now our intention to make an
end of it. Poole, here, and I are going to force our way into the cabinet.
If all is well, my shoulders are broad enough to bear the blame. Meanwhile,
lest anything should really be amiss, or any malefactor seek to escape by
the back, you and the boy must go round the corner with a pair of good sticks
and take your post at the laboratory door. We give you ten minutes, to get
to your stations.”

As Bradshaw left, the lawyer looked at his watch. “And now, Poole, let
us get to ours,” he said; and taking the poker under his arm, led the
way into the yard. The scud had banked over the moon, and it was now quite
dark. The wind, which only broke in puffs and draughts into that deep well
of building, tossed the light of the candle to and fro about their steps,
until they came into the shelter of the theatre, where they sat down silently
to wait. London hummed solemnly all around; but nearer at hand, the stillness
was only broken by the sounds of a footfall moving to and fro along the cabinet
floor.

“So it will walk all day, sir,” whispered Poole; “ay, and the better
part of the night. Only when a new sample comes from the chemist, there’s
a bit of a break. Ah, it’s an ill conscience that’s such an enemy to rest!
Ah, sir, there’s blood foully shed in every step of it! But hark again, a
little closer—put your heart in your ears, Mr. Utterson, and tell me, is
that the doctor’s foot?”

The steps fell lightly and oddly, with a certain swing, for all they
went so slowly; it was different indeed from the heavy creaking tread of
Henry Jekyll. Utterson sighed. “Is there never anything else?” he asked.

Poole nodded. “Once,” he said. “Once I heard it weeping!”

“Weeping? how that?” said the lawyer, conscious of a sudden chill of
horror.

“Weeping like a woman or a lost soul,” said the butler. “I came away
with that upon my heart, that I could have wept too.”

But now the ten minutes drew to an end. Poole disinterred the axe from
under a stack of packing straw; the candle was set upon the nearest table
to light them to the attack; and they drew near with bated breath to where
that patient foot was still going up and down, up and down, in the quiet
of the night. “Jekyll,” cried Utterson, with a loud voice, “I demand to see
you.” He paused a moment, but there came no reply. “I give you fair warning,
our suspicions are aroused, and I must and shall see you,” he resumed; “if
not by fair means, then by foul—if not of your consent, then by brute force!”

“Utterson,” said the voice, “for God’s sake, have mercy!”

“Ah, that’s not Jekyll’s voice—it’s Hyde’s!” cried Utterson. “Down with
the door, Poole!”

Poole swung the axe over his shoulder; the blow shook the building, and
the red baize door leaped against the lock and hinges. A dismal screech,
as of mere animal terror, rang from the cabinet. Up went the axe again,
and again the panels crashed and the frame bounded; four times the blow
fell; but the wood was tough and the fittings were of excellent workmanship;
and it was not until the fifth, that the lock burst and the wreck of the
door fell inwards on the carpet.

The besiegers, appalled by their own riot and the stillness that had
succeeded, stood back a little and peered in. There lay the cabinet before
their eyes in the quiet lamplight, a good fire glowing and chattering on
the hearth, the kettle singing its thin strain, a drawer or two open, papers
neatly set forth on the business table, and nearer the fire, the things laid
out for tea; the quietest room, you would have said, and, but for the glazed
presses full of chemicals, the most commonplace that night in London.

Right in the middle there lay the body of a man sorely contorted and
still twitching. They drew near on tiptoe, turned it on its back and beheld
the face of Edward Hyde. He was dressed in clothes far too large for him,
clothes of the doctor’s bigness; the cords of his face still moved with a
semblance of life, but life was quite gone: and by the crushed phial in the
hand and the strong smell of kernels that hung upon the air, Utterson knew
that he was looking on the body of a self-destroyer.

“We have come too late,” he said sternly, “whether to save or punish.
Hyde is gone to his account; and it only remains for us to find the body
of your master.”

The far greater proportion of the building was occupied by the theatre,
which filled almost the whole ground storey and was lighted from above,
and by the cabinet, which formed an upper story at one end and looked
upon the court. A corridor joined the theatre to the door on the by-street;
and with this the cabinet communicated separately by a second flight of
stairs. There were besides a few dark closets and a spacious cellar. All
these they now thoroughly examined. Each closet needed but a glance, for
all were empty, and all, by the dust that fell from their doors, had stood
long unopened. The cellar, indeed, was filled with crazy lumber, mostly
dating from the times of the surgeon who was Jekyll’s predecessor; but even
as they opened the door they were advertised of the uselessness of further
search, by the fall of a perfect mat of cobweb which had for years sealed
up the entrance. No where was there any trace of Henry Jekyll dead or alive.

Poole stamped on the flags of the corridor. “He must be buried here,”
he said, hearkening to the sound.

“Or he may have fled,” said Utterson, and he turned to examine the door
in the by-street. It was locked; and lying near by on the flags, they
found the key, already stained with rust.

“This does not look like use,” observed the lawyer.

“Use!” echoed Poole. “Do you not see, sir, it is broken? much as if a
man had stamped on it.”

“Ay,” continued Utterson, “and the fractures, too, are rusty.” The two
men looked at each other with a scare. “This is beyond me, Poole,” said
the lawyer. “Let us go back to the cabinet.”

They mounted the stair in silence, and still with an occasional awestruck
glance at the dead body, proceeded more thoroughly to examine the contents
of the cabinet. At one table, there were traces of chemical work, various
measured heaps of some white salt being laid on glass saucers, as though
for an experiment in which the unhappy man had been prevented.

“That is the same drug that I was always bringing him,” said Poole; and
even as he spoke, the kettle with a startling noise boiled over.

This brought them to the fireside, where the easy-chair was drawn cosily
up, and the tea things stood ready to the sitter’s elbow, the very sugar
in the cup. There were several books on a shelf; one lay beside the tea
things open, and Utterson was amazed to find it a copy of a pious work,
for which Jekyll had several times expressed a great esteem, annotated,
in his own hand with startling blasphemies.

Next, in the course of their review of the chamber, the searchers came
to the cheval-glass, into whose depths they looked with an involuntary
horror. But it was so turned as to show them nothing but the rosy glow
playing on the roof, the fire sparkling in a hundred repetitions along the
glazed front of the presses, and their own pale and fearful countenances
stooping to look in.

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

“And surely none stranger than itself,” echoed the lawyer in the same
tones. “For what did Jekyll”—he caught himself up at the word with a start,
and then conquering the weakness—”what could Jekyll want with it?” he said.

“You may say that!” said Poole.

Next they turned to the business table. On the desk, among the neat
array of papers, a large envelope was uppermost, and bore, in the doctor’s
hand, the name of Mr. Utterson. The lawyer unsealed it, and several enclosures
fell to the floor. The first was a will, drawn in the same eccentric terms
as the one which he had returned six months before, to serve as a testament
in case of death and as a deed of gift in case of disappearance; but in place
of the name of Edward Hyde, the lawyer, with indescribable amazement read
the name of Gabriel John Utterson. He looked at Poole, and then back at
the paper, and last of all at the dead malefactor stretched upon the carpet.

“My head goes round,” he said. “He has been all these days in possession;
he had no cause to like me; he must have raged to see himself displaced;
and he has not destroyed this document.”

He caught up the next paper; it was a brief note in the doctor’s hand
and dated at the top. “O Poole!” the lawyer cried, “he was alive and here
this day. He cannot have been disposed of in so short a space; he must be
still alive, he must have fled! And then, why fled? and how? and in that
case, can we venture to declare this suicide? O, we must be careful. I foresee
that we may yet involve your master in some dire catastrophe.”

“Why don’t you read it, sir?” asked Poole.

“Because I fear,” replied the lawyer solemnly. “God grant I have no
cause for it!” And with that he brought the paper to his eyes and read
as follows:

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

“Your unworthy and unhappy friend,

“HENRY JEKYLL.”

“There was a third enclosure?” asked Utterson.

“Here, sir,” said Poole, and gave into his hands a considerable packet
sealed in several places.

The lawyer put it in his pocket. “I would say nothing of this paper.
If your master has fled or is dead, we may at least save his credit. It is
now ten; I must go home and read these documents in quiet; but I shall
be back before midnight, when we shall send for the police.”

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

DR. LANYON’S NARRATIVE

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

“10th December, 18—.

“Dear Lanyon,—You are one of my oldest friends; and although we may
have differed at times on scientific questions, I cannot remember, at
least on my side, any break in our affection. There was never a day when,
if you had said to me, `Jekyll, my life, my honour, my reason, depend upon
you,’ I would not have sacrificed my left hand to help you. Lanyon my life,
my honour, my reason, are all at your mercy; if you fail me to-night, I
am lost. You might suppose, after this preface, that I am going to ask you
for something dishonourable to grant. Judge for yourself.

“I want you to postpone all other engagements for to-night—ay, even if
you were summoned to the bedside of an emperor; to take a cab, unless
your carriage should be actually at the door; and with this letter in your
hand for consultation, to drive straight to my house. Poole, my butler, has
his orders; you will find him waiting your arrival with a locksmith. The
door of my cabinet is then to be forced: and you are to go in alone; to
open the glazed press (letter E) on the left hand, breaking the lock if
it be shut; and to draw out, with all its contents as they stand, the fourth
drawer from the top or (which is the same thing) the third from the bottom.
In my extreme distress of mind, I have a morbid fear of misdirecting you;
but even if I am in error, you may know the right drawer by its contents:
some powders, a phial and a paper book. This drawer I beg of you to carry
back with you to Cavendish Square exactly as it stands.

“That is the first part of the service: now for the second. You should
be back, if you set out at once on the receipt of this, long before midnight;
but I will leave you that amount of margin, not only in the fear of one of
those obstacles that can neither be prevented nor foreseen, but because an
hour when your servants are in bed is to be preferred for what will then
remain to do. At midnight, then, I have to ask you to be alone in your consulting
room, to admit with your own hand into the house a man who will present himself
in my name, and to place in his hands the drawer that you will have brought
with you from my cabinet. Then you will have played your part and earned
my gratitude completely. Five minutes afterwards, if you insist upon an
explanation, you will have understood that these arrangements are of capital
importance; and that by the neglect of one of them, fantastic as they must
appear, you might have charged your conscience with my death or the shipwreck
of my reason.

“Confident as I am that you will not trifle with this appeal, my heart
sinks and my hand trembles at the bare thought of such a possibility.
Think of me at this hour, in a strange place, labouring under a blackness
of distress that no fancy can exaggerate, and yet well aware that, if you
will but punctually serve me, my troubles will roll away like a story that
is told. Serve me, my dear Lanyon and save

“Your friend,

“H.J.

“P.S.—I had already sealed this up when a fresh terror struck upon my
soul. It is possible that the post-office may fail me, and this letter
not come into your hands until to-morrow morning. In that case, dear Lanyon,
do my errand when it shall be most convenient for you in the course of the
day; and once more expect my messenger at midnight. It may then already be
too late; and if that night passes without event, you will know that you
have seen the last of Henry Jekyll.”

Upon the reading of this letter, I made sure my colleague was insane;
but till that was proved beyond the possibility of doubt, I felt bound
to do as he requested. The less I understood of this farrago, the less
I was in a position to judge of its importance; and an appeal so worded
could not be set aside without a grave responsibility. I rose accordingly
from table, got into a hansom, and drove straight to Jekyll’s house. The
butler was awaiting my arrival; he had received by the same post as mine
a registered letter of instruction, and had sent at once for a locksmith
and a carpenter. The tradesmen came while we were yet speaking; and we moved
in a body to old Dr. Denman’s surgical theatre, from which (as you are doubtless
aware) Jekyll’s private cabinet is most conveniently entered. The door was
very strong, the lock excellent; the carpenter avowed he would have great
trouble and have to do much damage, if force were to be used; and the locksmith
was near despair. But this last was a handy fellow, and after two hour’s
work, the door stood open. The press marked E was unlocked; and I took out
the drawer, had it filled up with straw and tied in a sheet, and returned
with it to Cavendish Square.

Here I proceeded to examine its contents. The powders were neatly enough
made up, but not with the nicety of the dispensing chemist; so that it
was plain they were of Jekyll’s private manufacture: and when I opened
one of the wrappers I found what seemed to me a simple crystalline salt
of a white colour. The phial, to which I next turned my attention, might
have been about half full of a blood-red liquor, which was highly pungent
to the sense of smell and seemed to me to contain phosphorus and some volatile
ether. At the other ingredients I could make no guess. The book was an ordinary
version book and contained little but a series of dates. These covered a
period of many years, but I observed that the entries ceased nearly a year
ago and quite abruptly. Here and there a brief remark was appended to a date,
usually no more than a single word: “double” occurring perhaps six times
in a total of several hundred entries; and once very early in the list and
followed by several marks of exclamation, “total failure!!!” All this, though
it whetted my curiosity, told me little that was definite. Here were a phial
of some salt, and the record of a series of experiments that had led (like
too many of Jekyll’s investigations) to no end of practical usefulness.
How could the presence of these articles in my house affect either the
honour, the sanity, or the life of my flighty colleague? If his messenger
could go to one place, why could he not go to another? And even granting
some impediment, why was this gentleman to be received by me in secret?
The more I reflected the more convinced I grew that I was dealing with a
case of cerebral disease; and though I dismissed my servants to bed, I loaded
an old revolver, that I might be found in some posture of self-defence.

Twelve o’clock had scarce rung out over London, ere the knocker sounded
very gently on the door. I went myself at the summons, and found a small
man crouching against the pillars of the portico.

“Are you come from Dr. Jekyll?” I asked.

He told me “yes” by a constrained gesture; and when I had bidden him
enter, he did not obey me without a searching backward glance into the
darkness of the square. There was a policeman not far off, advancing with
his bull’s eye open; and at the sight, I thought my visitor started and
made greater haste.

These particulars struck me, I confess, disagreeably; and as I followed
him into the bright light of the consulting room, I kept my hand ready
on my weapon. Here, at last, I had a chance of clearly seeing him. I had
never set eyes on him before, so much was certain. He was small, as I have
said; I was struck besides with the shocking expression of his face, with
his remarkable combination of great muscular activity and great apparent
debility of constitution, and—last but not least—with the odd, subjective
disturbance caused by his neighbourhood. This bore some resemblance to incipient
rigour, and was accompanied by a marked sinking of the pulse. At the time,
I set it down to some idiosyncratic, personal distaste, and merely wondered
at the acuteness of the symptoms; but I have since had reason to believe
the cause to lie much deeper in the nature of man, and to turn on some nobler
hinge than the principle of hatred.

This person (who had thus, from the first moment of his entrance, struck
in me what I can only, describe as a disgustful curiosity) was dressed
in a fashion that would have made an ordinary person laughable; his clothes,
that is to say, although they were of rich and sober fabric, were enormously
too large for him in every measurement—the trousers hanging on his legs and
rolled up to keep them from the ground, the waist of the coat below his
haunches, and the collar sprawling wide upon his shoulders. Strange to relate,
this ludicrous accoutrement was far from moving me to laughter. Rather,
as there was something abnormal and misbegotten in the very essence of the
creature that now faced me—something seizing, surprising and revolting—this
fresh disparity seemed but to fit in with and to reinforce it; so that to
my interest in the man’s nature and character, there was added a curiosity
as to his origin, his life, his fortune and status in the world.

These observations, though they have taken so great a space to be set
down in, were yet the work of a few seconds. My visitor was, indeed, on
fire with sombre excitement.

“Have you got it?” he cried. “Have you got it?” And so lively was his
impatience that he even laid his hand upon my arm and sought to shake
me.

I put him back, conscious at his touch of a certain icy pang along my
blood. “Come, sir,” said I. “You forget that I have not yet the pleasure
of your acquaintance. Be seated, if you please.” And I showed him an example,
and sat down myself in my customary seat and with as fair an imitation of
my ordinary manner to a patient, as the lateness of the hour, the nature
of my preoccupations, and the horror I had of my visitor, would suffer me
to muster.

“I beg your pardon, Dr. Lanyon,” he replied civilly enough. “What you
say is very well founded; and my impatience has shown its heels to my
politeness. I come here at the instance of your colleague, Dr. Henry Jekyll,
on a piece of business of some moment; and I understood…” He paused and
put his hand to his throat, and I could see, in spite of his collected manner,
that he was wrestling against the approaches of the hysteria—”I understood,
a drawer…”

But here I took pity on my visitor’s suspense, and some perhaps on my
own growing curiosity.

“There it is, sir,” said I, pointing to the drawer, where it lay on the
floor behind a table and still covered with the sheet.

He sprang to it, and then paused, and laid his hand upon his heart: I
could hear his teeth grate with the convulsive action of his jaws; and
his face was so ghastly to see that I grew alarmed both for his life and
reason.

“Compose yourself,” said I.

He turned a dreadful smile to me, and as if with the decision of despair,
plucked away the sheet. At sight of the contents, he uttered one loud sob
of such immense relief that I sat petrified. And the next moment, in a voice
that was already fairly well under control, “Have you a graduated glass?”
he asked.

I rose from my place with something of an effort and gave him what he
asked.

He thanked me with a smiling nod, measured out a few minims of the red
tincture and added one of the powders. The mixture, which was at first
of a reddish hue, began, in proportion as the crystals melted, to brighten
in colour, to effervesce audibly, and to throw off small fumes of vapour.
Suddenly and at the same moment, the ebullition ceased and the compound changed
to a dark purple, which faded again more slowly to a watery green. My visitor,
who had watched these metamorphoses with a keen eye, smiled, set down the
glass upon the table, and then turned and looked upon me with an air of
scrutiny.

“And now,” said he, “to settle what remains. Will you be wise? will you
be guided? will you suffer me to take this glass in my hand and to go forth
from your house without further parley? or has the greed of curiosity too
much command of you? Think before you answer, for it shall be done as you
decide. As you decide, you shall be left as you were before, and neither
richer nor wiser, unless the sense of service rendered to a man in mortal
distress may be counted as a kind of riches of the soul. Or, if you shall
so prefer to choose, a new province of knowledge and new avenues to fame
and power shall be laid open to you, here, in this room, upon the instant;
and your sight shall be blasted by a prodigy to stagger the unbelief of Satan.”

“Sir,” said I, affecting a coolness that I was far from truly possessing,
“you speak enigmas, and you will perhaps not wonder that I hear you with
no very strong impression of belief. But I have gone too far in the way of
inexplicable services to pause before I see the end.”

“It is well,” replied my visitor. “Lanyon, you remember your vows: what
follows is under the seal of our profession. And now, you who have so
long been bound to the most narrow and material views, you who have denied
the virtue of transcendental medicine, you who have derided your superiors—behold!”

He put the glass to his lips and drank at one gulp. A cry followed;
he reeled, staggered, clutched at the table and held on, staring with
injected eyes, gasping with open mouth; and as I looked there came, I thought,
a change—he seemed to swell—his face became suddenly black and the features
seemed to melt and alter—and the next moment, I had sprung to my feet and
leaped back against the wall, my arms raised to shield me from that prodigy,
my mind submerged in terror.

“O God!” I screamed, and “O God!” again and again; for there before my
eyes—pale and shaken, and half fainting, and groping before him with his
hands, like a man restored from death—there stood Henry Jekyll!

What he told me in the next hour, I cannot bring my mind to set on
paper. I saw what I saw, I heard what I heard, and my soul sickened at it;
and yet now when that sight has faded from my eyes, I ask myself if I believe
it, and I cannot answer. My life is shaken to its roots; sleep has left me;
the deadliest terror sits by me at all hours of the day and night; and I
feel that my days are numbered, and that I must die; and yet I shall die
incredulous. As for the moral turpitude that man unveiled to me, even with
tears of penitence, I can not, even in memory, dwell on it without a start
of horror. I will say but one thing, Utterson, and that (if you can bring
your mind to credit it) will be more than enough. The creature who crept
into my house that night was, on Jekyll’s own confession, known by the name
of Hyde and hunted for in every corner of the land as the murderer of Carew.

HASTIE LANYON

HENRY JEKYLL’S FULL STATEMENT OF THE CASE

I was born in the year 18— to a large fortune, endowed besides with
excellent parts, inclined by nature to industry, fond of the respect of
the wise and good among my fellowmen, and thus, as might have been supposed,
with every guarantee of an honourable and distinguished future. And indeed
the worst of my faults was a certain impatient gaiety of disposition, such
as has made the happiness of many, but such as I found it hard to reconcile
with my imperious desire to carry my head high, and wear a more than commonly
grave countenance before the public. Hence it came about that I concealed
my pleasures; and that when I reached years of reflection, and began to look
round me and take stock of my progress and position in the world, I stood
already committed to a profound duplicity of me. Many a man would have even
blazoned such irregularities as I was guilty of; but from the high views
that I had set before me, I regarded and hid them with an almost morbid
sense of shame. It was thus rather the exacting nature of my aspirations
than any particular degradation in my faults, that made me what I was, and,
with even a deeper trench than in the majority of men, severed in me those
provinces of good and ill which divide and compound man’s dual nature.
In this case, I was driven to reflect deeply and inveterately on that hard
law of life, which lies at the root of religion and is one of the most plentiful
springs of distress. Though so profound a double-dealer, I was in no sense
a hypocrite; both sides of me were in dead earnest; I was no more myself
when I laid aside restraint and plunged in shame, than when I laboured, in
the eye of day, at the furtherance of knowledge or the relief of sorrow and
suffering. And it chanced that the direction of my scientific studies, which
led wholly towards the mystic and the transcendental, reacted and shed a
strong light on this consciousness of the perennial war among my members.
With every day, and from both sides of my intelligence, the moral and the
intellectual, I thus drew steadily nearer to that truth, by whose partial
discovery I have been doomed to such a dreadful shipwreck: that man is not
truly one, but truly two. I say two, because the state of my own knowledge
does not pass beyond that point. Others will follow, others will outstrip
me on the same lines; and I hazard the guess that man will be ultimately
known for a mere polity of multifarious, incongruous and independent denizens.
I, for my part, from the nature of my life, advanced infallibly in one direction
and in one direction only. It was on the moral side, and in my own person,
that I learned to recognise the thorough and primitive duality of man; I
saw that, of the two natures that contended in the field of my consciousness,
even if I could rightly be said to be either, it was only because I was
radically both; and from an early date, even before the course of my scientific
discoveries had begun to suggest the most naked possibility of such a miracle,
I had learned to dwell with pleasure, as a beloved daydream, on the thought
of the separation of these elements. If each, I told myself, could be housed
in separate identities, life would be relieved of all that was unbearable;
the unjust might go his way, delivered from the aspirations and remorse
of his more upright twin; and the just could walk steadfastly and securely
on his upward path, doing the good things in which he found his pleasure,
and no longer exposed to disgrace and penitence by the hands of this extraneous
evil. It was the curse of mankind that these incongruous faggots were thus
bound together—that in the agonised womb of consciousness, these polar twins
should be continuously struggling. How, then were they dissociated?

I was so far in my reflections when, as I have said, a side light began
to shine upon the subject from the laboratory table. I began to perceive
more deeply than it has ever yet been stated, the trembling immateriality,
the mistlike transience, of this seemingly so solid body in which we walk
attired. Certain agents I found to have the power to shake and pluck back
that fleshly vestment, even as a wind might toss the curtains of a pavilion.
For two good reasons, I will not enter deeply into this scientific branch
of my confession. First, because I have been made to learn that the doom
and burthen of our life is bound for ever on man’s shoulders, and when the
attempt is made to cast it off, it but returns upon us with more unfamiliar
and more awful pressure. Second, because, as my narrative will make, alas!
too evident, my discoveries were incomplete. Enough then, that I not only
recognised my natural body from the mere aura and effulgence of certain of
the powers that made up my spirit, but managed to compound a drug by which
these powers should be dethroned from their supremacy, and a second form
and countenance substituted, none the less natural to me because they
were the expression, and bore the stamp of lower elements in my soul.

I hesitated long before I put this theory to the test of practice. I
knew well that I risked death; for any drug that so potently controlled
and shook the very fortress of identity, might, by the least scruple of
an overdose or at the least inopportunity in the moment of exhibition,
utterly blot out that immaterial tabernacle which I looked to it to change.
But the temptation of a discovery so singular and profound at last overcame
the suggestions of alarm. I had long since prepared my tincture; I purchased
at once, from a firm of wholesale chemists, a large quantity of a particular
salt which I knew, from my experiments, to be the last ingredient required;
and late one accursed night, I compounded the elements, watched them boil
and smoke together in the glass, and when the ebullition had subsided, with
a strong glow of courage, drank off the potion.

The most racking pangs succeeded: a grinding in the bones, deadly nausea,
and a horror of the spirit that cannot be exceeded at the hour of birth or
death. Then these agonies began swiftly to subside, and I came to myself
as if out of a great sickness. There was something strange in my sensations,
something indescribably new and, from its very novelty, incredibly sweet.
I felt younger, lighter, happier in body; within I was conscious of a heady
recklessness, a current of disordered sensual images running like a millrace
in my fancy, a solution of the bonds of obligation, an unknown but not an
innocent freedom of the soul. I knew myself, at the first breath of this
new life, to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked, sold a slave to my original
evil; and the thought, in that moment, braced and delighted me like wine.
I stretched out my hands, exulting in the freshness of these sensations;
and in the act, I was suddenly aware that I had lost in stature.

There was no mirror, at that date, in my room; that which stands beside
me as I write, was brought there later on and for the very purpose of
these transformations. The night however, was far gone into the morning—the
morning, black as it was, was nearly ripe for the conception of the day—the
inmates of my house were locked in the most rigorous hours of slumber; and
I determined, flushed as I was with hope and triumph, to venture in my new
shape as far as to my bedroom. I crossed the yard, wherein the constellations
looked down upon me, I could have thought, with wonder, the first creature
of that sort that their unsleeping vigilance had yet disclosed to them;
I stole through the corridors, a stranger in my own house; and coming to
my room, I saw for the first time the appearance of Edward Hyde.

I must here speak by theory alone, saying not that which I know, but
that which I suppose to be most probable. The evil side of my nature, to
which I had now transferred the stamping efficacy, was less robust and
less developed than the good which I had just deposed. Again, in the course
of my life, which had been, after all, nine tenths a life of effort, virtue
and control, it had been much less exercised and much less exhausted. And
hence, as I think, it came about that Edward Hyde was so much smaller, slighter
and younger than Henry Jekyll. Even as good shone upon the countenance of
the one, evil was written broadly and plainly on the face of the other. Evil
besides (which I must still believe to be the lethal side of man) had left
on that body an imprint of deformity and decay. And yet when I looked upon
that ugly idol in the glass, I was conscious of no repugnance, rather of
a leap of welcome. This, too, was myself. It seemed natural and human. In
my eyes it bore a livelier image of the spirit, it seemed more express and
single, than the imperfect and divided countenance I had been hitherto accustomed
to call mine. And in so far I was doubtless right. I have observed that
when I wore the semblance of Edward Hyde, none could come near to me at
first without a visible misgiving of the flesh. This, as I take it, was
because all human beings, as we meet them, are commingled out of good
and evil: and Edward Hyde, alone in the ranks of mankind, was pure evil.

I lingered but a moment at the mirror: the second and conclusive experiment
had yet to be attempted; it yet remained to be seen if I had lost my identity
beyond redemption and must flee before daylight from a house that was no
longer mine; and hurrying back to my cabinet, I once more prepared and drank
the cup, once more suffered the pangs of dissolution, and came to myself
once more with the character, the stature and the face of Henry Jekyll.

That night I had come to the fatal cross-roads. Had I approached my
discovery in a more noble spirit, had I risked the experiment while under
the empire of generous or pious aspirations, all must have been otherwise,
and from these agonies of death and birth, I had come forth an angel instead
of a fiend. The drug had no discriminating action; it was neither diabolical
nor divine; it but shook the doors of the prisonhouse of my disposition;
and like the captives of Philippi, that which stood within ran forth. At
that time my virtue slumbered; my evil, kept awake by ambition, was alert
and swift to seize the occasion; and the thing that was projected was Edward
Hyde. Hence, although I had now two characters as well as two appearances,
one was wholly evil, and the other was still the old Henry Jekyll, that incongruous
compound of whose reformation and improvement I had already learned to despair.
The movement was thus wholly toward the worse.

Even at that time, I had not conquered my aversions to the dryness of
a life of study. I would still be merrily disposed at times; and as my
pleasures were (to say the least) undignified, and I was not only well
known and highly considered, but growing towards the elderly man, this incoherency
of my life was daily growing more unwelcome. It was on this side that my
new power tempted me until I fell in slavery. I had but to drink the cup,
to doff at once the body of the noted professor, and to assume, like a thick
cloak, that of Edward Hyde. I smiled at the notion; it seemed to me at the
time to be humourous; and I made my preparations with the most studious
care. I took and furnished that house in Soho, to which Hyde was tracked
by the police; and engaged as a housekeeper a creature whom I knew well
to be silent and unscrupulous. On the other side, I announced to my servants
that a Mr. Hyde (whom I described) was to have full liberty and power about
my house in the square; and to parry mishaps, I even called and made myself
a familiar object, in my second character. I next drew up that will to which
you so much objected; so that if anything befell me in the person of Dr.
Jekyll, I could enter on that of Edward Hyde without pecuniary loss. And
thus fortified, as I supposed, on every side, I began to profit by the
strange immunities of my position.

Men have before hired bravos to transact their crimes, while their own
person and reputation sat under shelter. I was the first that ever did
so for his pleasures. I was the first that could plod in the public eye
with a load of genial respectability, and in a moment, like a schoolboy,
strip off these lendings and spring headlong into the sea of liberty. But
for me, in my impenetrable mantle, the safety was complete. Think of it—I
did not even exist! Let me but escape into my laboratory door, give me but
a second or two to mix and swallow the draught that I had always standing
ready; and whatever he had done, Edward Hyde would pass away like the stain
of breath upon a mirror; and there in his stead, quietly at home, trimming
the midnight lamp in his study, a man who could afford to laugh at suspicion,
would be Henry Jekyll.

The pleasures which I made haste to seek in my disguise were, as I have
said, undignified; I would scarce use a harder term. But in the hands of
Edward Hyde, they soon began to turn toward the monstrous. When I would
come back from these excursions, I was often plunged into a kind of wonder
at my vicarious depravity. This familiar that I called out of my own soul,
and sent forth alone to do his good pleasure, was a being inherently malign
and villainous; his every act and thought centered on self; drinking pleasure
with bestial avidity from any degree of torture to another; relentless like
a man of stone. Henry Jekyll stood at times aghast before the acts of Edward
Hyde; but the situation was apart from ordinary laws, and insidiously relaxed
the grasp of conscience. It was Hyde, after all, and Hyde alone, that was
guilty. Jekyll was no worse; he woke again to his good qualities seemingly
unimpaired; he would even make haste, where it was possible, to undo the
evil done by Hyde. And thus his conscience slumbered.

Into the details of the infamy at which I thus connived (for even now
I can scarce grant that I committed it) I have no design of entering; I
mean but to point out the warnings and the successive steps with which
my chastisement approached. I met with one accident which, as it brought
on no consequence, I shall no more than mention. An act of cruelty to a
child aroused against me the anger of a passer-by, whom I recognised the
other day in the person of your kinsman; the doctor and the child’s family
joined him; there were moments when I feared for my life; and at last, in
order to pacify their too just resentment, Edward Hyde had to bring them
to the door, and pay them in a cheque drawn in the name of Henry Jekyll.
But this danger was easily eliminated from the future, by opening an account
at another bank in the name of Edward Hyde himself; and when, by sloping
my own hand backward, I had supplied my double with a signature, I thought
I sat beyond the reach of fate.

Some two months before the murder of Sir Danvers, I had been out for
one of my adventures, had returned at a late hour, and woke the next day
in bed with somewhat odd sensations. It was in vain I looked about me; in
vain I saw the decent furniture and tall proportions of my room in the
square; in vain that I recognised the pattern of the bed curtains and the
design of the mahogany frame; something still kept insisting that I was
not where I was, that I had not wakened where I seemed to be, but in the
little room in Soho where I was accustomed to sleep in the body of Edward
Hyde. I smiled to myself, and in my psychological way, began lazily to inquire
into the elements of this illusion, occasionally, even as I did so, dropping
back into a comfortable morning doze. I was still so engaged when, in one
of my more wakeful moments, my eyes fell upon my hand. Now the hand of Henry
Jekyll (as you have often remarked) was professional in shape and size: it
was large, firm, white and comely. But the hand which I now saw, clearly
enough, in the yellow light of a mid-London morning, lying half shut on the
bedclothes, was lean, corder, knuckly, of a dusky pallor and thickly shaded
with a swart growth of hair. It was the hand of Edward Hyde.

I must have stared upon it for near half a minute, sunk as I was in the
mere stupidity of wonder, before terror woke up in my breast as sudden
and startling as the crash of cymbals; and bounding from my bed I rushed
to the mirror. At the sight that met my eyes, my blood was changed into
something exquisitely thin and icy. Yes, I had gone to bed Henry Jekyll,
I had awakened Edward Hyde. How was this to be explained? I asked myself;
and then, with another bound of terror—how was it to be remedied? It was
well on in the morning; the servants were up; all my drugs were in the cabinet—a
long journey down two pairs of stairs, through the back passage, across the
open court and through the anatomical theatre, from where I was then standing
horror-struck. It might indeed be possible to cover my face; but of what
use was that, when I was unable to conceal the alteration in my stature?
And then with an overpowering sweetness of relief, it came back upon my
mind that the servants were already used to the coming and going of my second
self. I had soon dressed, as well as I was able, in clothes of my own size:
had soon passed through the house, where Bradshaw stared and drew back at
seeing Mr. Hyde at such an hour and in such a strange array; and ten minutes
later, Dr. Jekyll had returned to his own shape and was sitting down, with
a darkened brow, to make a feint of breakfasting.

Small indeed was my appetite. This inexplicable incident, this reversal
of my previous experience, seemed, like the Babylonian finger on the wall,
to be spelling out the letters of my judgment; and I began to reflect more
seriously than ever before on the issues and possibilities of my double existence.
That part of me which I had the power of projecting, had lately been much
exercised and nourished; it had seemed to me of late as though the body
of Edward Hyde had grown in stature, as though (when I wore that form) I
were conscious of a more generous tide of blood; and I began to spy a danger
that, if this were much prolonged, the balance of my nature might be permanently
overthrown, the power of voluntary change be forfeited, and the character
of Edward Hyde become irrevocably mine. The power of the drug had not been
always equally displayed. Once, very early in my career, it had totally
failed me; since then I had been obliged on more than one occasion to double,
and once, with infinite risk of death, to treble the amount; and these rare
uncertainties had cast hitherto the sole shadow on my contentment. Now,
however, and in the light of that morning’s accident, I was led to remark
that whereas, in the beginning, the difficulty had been to throw off the
body of Jekyll, it had of late gradually but decidedly transferred itself
to the other side. All things therefore seemed to point to this; that I
was slowly losing hold of my original and better self, and becoming slowly
incorporated with my second and worse.

Between these two, I now felt I had to choose. My two natures had memory
in common, but all other faculties were most unequally shared between
them. Jekyll (who was composite) now with the most sensitive apprehensions,
now with a greedy gusto, projected and shared in the pleasures and adventures
of Hyde; but Hyde was indifferent to Jekyll, or but remembered him as the
mountain bandit remembers the cavern in which he conceals himself from pursuit.
Jekyll had more than a father’s interest; Hyde had more than a son’s indifference.
To cast in my lot with Jekyll, was to die to those appetites which I had
long secretly indulged and had of late begun to pamper. To cast it in with
Hyde, was to die to a thousand interests and aspirations, and to become,
at a blow and forever, despised and friendless. The bargain might appear
unequal; but there was still another consideration in the scales; for while
Jekyll would suffer smartingly in the fires of abstinence, Hyde would be
not even conscious of all that he had lost. Strange as my circumstances
were, the terms of this debate are as old and commonplace as man; much
the same inducements and alarms cast the die for any tempted and trembling
sinner; and it fell out with me, as it falls with so vast a majority of
my fellows, that I chose the better part and was found wanting in the strength
to keep to it.

Yes, I preferred the elderly and discontented doctor, surrounded by
friends and cherishing honest hopes; and bade a resolute farewell to the
liberty, the comparative youth, the light step, leaping impulses and secret
pleasures, that I had enjoyed in the disguise of Hyde. I made this choice
perhaps with some unconscious reservation, for I neither gave up the house
in Soho, nor destroyed the clothes of Edward Hyde, which still lay ready
in my cabinet. For two months, however, I was true to my determination; for
two months, I led a life of such severity as I had never before attained
to, and enjoyed the compensations of an approving conscience. But time began
at last to obliterate the freshness of my alarm; the praises of conscience
began to grow into a thing of course; I began to be tortured with throes
and longings, as of Hyde struggling after freedom; and at last, in an hour
of moral weakness, I once again compounded and swallowed the transforming
draught.

I do not suppose that, when a drunkard reasons with himself upon his
vice, he is once out of five hundred times affected by the dangers that
he runs through his brutish, physical insensibility; neither had I, long
as I had considered my position, made enough allowance for the complete
moral insensibility and insensate readiness to evil, which were the leading
characters of Edward Hyde. Yet it was by these that I was punished. My devil
had been long caged, he came out roaring. I was conscious, even when I took
the draught, of a more unbridled, a more furious propensity to ill. It must
have been this, I suppose, that stirred in my soul that tempest of impatience
with which I listened to the civilities of my unhappy victim; I declare,
at least, before God, no man morally sane could have been guilty of that
crime upon so pitiful a provocation; and that I struck in no more reasonable
spirit than that in which a sick child may break a plaything. But I had
voluntarily stripped myself of all those balancing instincts by which even
the worst of us continues to walk with some degree of steadiness among temptations;
and in my case, to be tempted, however slightly, was to fall.

Instantly the spirit of hell awoke in me and raged. With a transport
of glee, I mauled the unresisting body, tasting delight from every blow;
and it was not till weariness had begun to succeed, that I was suddenly,
in the top fit of my delirium, struck through the heart by a cold thrill
of terror. A mist dispersed; I saw my life to be forfeit; and fled from
the scene of these excesses, at once glorying and trembling, my lust of
evil gratified and stimulated, my love of life screwed to the topmost peg.
I ran to the house in Soho, and (to make assurance doubly sure) destroyed
my papers; thence I set out through the lamplit streets, in the same divided
ecstasy of mind, gloating on my crime, light-headedly devising others in
the future, and yet still hastening and still hearkening in my wake for the
steps of the avenger. Hyde had a song upon his lips as he compounded the
draught, and as he drank it, pledged the dead man. The pangs of transformation
had not done tearing him, before Henry Jekyll, with streaming tears of gratitude
and remorse, had fallen upon his knees and lifted his clasped hands to God.
The veil of self-indulgence was rent from head to foot. I saw my life as
a whole: I followed it up from the days of childhood, when I had walked with
my father’s hand, and through the self-denying toils of my professional
life, to arrive again and again, with the same sense of unreality, at
the damned horrors of the evening. I could have screamed aloud; I sought
with tears and prayers to smother down the crowd of hideous images and
sounds with which my memory swarmed against me; and still, between the petitions,
the ugly face of my iniquity stared into my soul. As the acuteness of this
remorse began to die away, it was succeeded by a sense of joy. The problem
of my conduct was solved. Hyde was thenceforth impossible; whether I would
or not, I was now confined to the better part of my existence; and O, how
I rejoiced to think of it! with what willing humility I embraced anew the
restrictions of natural life! with what sincere renunciation I locked the
door by which I had so often gone and come, and ground the key under my heel!

The next day, came the news that the murder had not been overlooked,
that the guilt of Hyde was patent to the world, and that the victim was
a man high in public estimation. It was not only a crime, it had been a
tragic folly. I think I was glad to know it; I think I was glad to have
my better impulses thus buttressed and guarded by the terrors of the scaffold.
Jekyll was now my city of refuge; let but Hyde peep out an instant, and
the hands of all men would be raised to take and slay him.

I resolved in my future conduct to redeem the past; and I can say with
honesty that my resolve was fruitful of some good. You know yourself how
earnestly, in the last months of the last year, I laboured to relieve
suffering; you know that much was done for others, and that the days passed
quietly, almost happily for myself. Nor can I truly say that I wearied of
this beneficent and innocent life; I think instead that I daily enjoyed
it more completely; but I was still cursed with my duality of purpose; and
as the first edge of my penitence wore off, the lower side of me, so long
indulged, so recently chained down, began to growl for licence. Not that
I dreamed of resuscitating Hyde; the bare idea of that would startle me
to frenzy: no, it was in my own person that I was once more tempted to trifle
with my conscience; and it was as an ordinary secret sinner that I at last
fell before the assaults of temptation.

There comes an end to all things; the most capacious measure is filled
at last; and this brief condescension to my evil finally destroyed the
balance of my soul. And yet I was not alarmed; the fall seemed natural,
like a return to the old days before I had made my discovery. It was a
fine, clear, January day, wet under foot where the frost had melted, but
cloudless overhead; and the Regent’s Park was full of winter chirrupings
and sweet with spring odours. I sat in the sun on a bench; the animal within
me licking the chops of memory; the spiritual side a little drowsed, promising
subsequent penitence, but not yet moved to begin. After all, I reflected,
I was like my neighbours; and then I smiled, comparing myself with other
men, comparing my active good-will with the lazy cruelty of their neglect.
And at the very moment of that vainglorious thought, a qualm came over me,
a horrid nausea and the most deadly shuddering. These passed away, and left
me faint; and then as in its turn faintness subsided, I began to be aware
of a change in the temper of my thoughts, a greater boldness, a contempt
of danger, a solution of the bonds of obligation. I looked down; my clothes
hung formlessly on my shrunken limbs; the hand that lay on my knee was corded
and hairy. I was once more Edward Hyde. A moment before I had been safe
of all men’s respect, wealthy, beloved—the cloth laying for me in the dining-room
at home; and now I was the common quarry of mankind, hunted, houseless,
a known murderer, thrall to the gallows.

My reason wavered, but it did not fail me utterly. I have more than once
observed that in my second character, my faculties seemed sharpened to
a point and my spirits more tensely elastic; thus it came about that, where
Jekyll perhaps might have succumbed, Hyde rose to the importance of the
moment. My drugs were in one of the presses of my cabinet; how was I to
reach them? That was the problem that (crushing my temples in my hands) I
set myself to solve. The laboratory door I had closed. If I sought to enter
by the house, my own servants would consign me to the gallows. I saw I must
employ another hand, and thought of Lanyon. How was he to be reached? how
persuaded? Supposing that I escaped capture in the streets, how was I to
make my way into his presence? and how should I, an unknown and displeasing
visitor, prevail on the famous physician to rifle the study of his colleague,
Dr. Jekyll? Then I remembered that of my original character, one part remained
to me: I could write my own hand; and once I had conceived that kindling
spark, the way that I must follow became lighted up from end to end.

Thereupon, I arranged my clothes as best I could, and summoning a passing
hansom, drove to an hotel in Portland Street, the name of which I chanced
to remember. At my appearance (which was indeed comical enough, however tragic
a fate these garments covered) the driver could not conceal his mirth. I
gnashed my teeth upon him with a gust of devilish fury; and the smile withered
from his face—happily for him—yet more happily for myself, for in another
instant I had certainly dragged him from his perch. At the inn, as I entered,
I looked about me with so black a countenance as made the attendants tremble;
not a look did they exchange in my presence; but obsequiously took my orders,
led me to a private room, and brought me wherewithal to write. Hyde in
danger of his life was a creature new to me; shaken with inordinate anger,
strung to the pitch of murder, lusting to inflict pain. Yet the creature
was astute; mastered his fury with a great effort of the will; composed
his two important letters, one to Lanyon and one to Poole; and that he might
receive actual evidence of their being posted, sent them out with directions
that they should be registered. Thenceforward, he sat all day over the fire
in the private room, gnawing his nails; there he dined, sitting alone with
his fears, the waiter visibly quailing before his eye; and thence, when
the night was fully come, he set forth in the corner of a closed cab, and
was driven to and fro about the streets of the city. He, I say—I cannot
say, I. That child of Hell had nothing human; nothing lived in him but fear
and hatred. And when at last, thinking the driver had begun to grow suspicious,
he discharged the cab and ventured on foot, attired in his misfitting clothes,
an object marked out for observation, into the midst of the nocturnal passengers,
these two base passions raged within him like a tempest. He walked fast,
hunted by his fears, chattering to himself, skulking through the less frequented
thoroughfares, counting the minutes that still divided him from midnight.
Once a woman spoke to him, offering, I think, a box of lights. He smote
her in the face, and she fled.

When I came to myself at Lanyon’s, the horror of my old friend perhaps
affected me somewhat: I do not know; it was at least but a drop in the
sea to the abhorrence with which I looked back upon these hours. A change
had come over me. It was no longer the fear of the gallows, it was the horror
of being Hyde that racked me. I received Lanyon’s condemnation partly in
a dream; it was partly in a dream that I came home to my own house and got
into bed. I slept after the prostration of the day, with a stringent and
profound slumber which not even the nightmares that wrung me could avail
to break. I awoke in the morning shaken, weakened, but refreshed. I still
hated and feared the thought of the brute that slept within me, and I had
not of course forgotten the appalling dangers of the day before; but I was
once more at home, in my own house and close to my drugs; and gratitude for
my escape shone so strong in my soul that it almost rivalled the brightness
of hope.

I was stepping leisurely across the court after breakfast, drinking
the chill of the air with pleasure, when I was seized again with those
indescribable sensations that heralded the change; and I had but the time
to gain the shelter of my cabinet, before I was once again raging and freezing
with the passions of Hyde. It took on this occasion a double dose to recall
me to myself; and alas! six hours after, as I sat looking sadly in the fire,
the pangs returned, and the drug had to be re-administered. In short, from
that day forth it seemed only by a great effort as of gymnastics, and only
under the immediate stimulation of the drug, that I was able to wear the
countenance of Jekyll. At all hours of the day and night, I would be taken
with the premonitory shudder; above all, if I slept, or even dozed for a
moment in my chair, it was always as Hyde that I awakened. Under the strain
of this continually impending doom and by the sleeplessness to which I now
condemned myself, ay, even beyond what I had thought possible to man, I became,
in my own person, a creature eaten up and emptied by fever, languidly weak
both in body and mind, and solely occupied by one thought: the horror of
my other self. But when I slept, or when the virtue of the medicine wore
off, I would leap almost without transition (for the pangs of transformation
grew daily less marked) into the possession of a fancy brimming with images
of terror, a soul boiling with causeless hatreds, and a body that seemed
not strong enough to contain the raging energies of life. The powers of
Hyde seemed to have grown with the sickliness of Jekyll. And certainly
the hate that now divided them was equal on each side. With Jekyll, it
was a thing of vital instinct. He had now seen the full deformity of that
creature that shared with him some of the phenomena of consciousness, and
was co-heir with him to death: and beyond these links of community, which
in themselves made the most poignant part of his distress, he thought of
Hyde, for all his energy of life, as of something not only hellish but inorganic.
This was the shocking thing; that the slime of the pit seemed to utter cries
and voices; that the amorphous dust gesticulated and sinned; that what was
dead, and had no shape, should usurp the offices of life. And this again,
that that insurgent horror was knit to him closer than a wife, closer than
an eye; lay caged in his flesh, where he heard it mutter and felt it struggle
to be born; and at every hour of weakness, and in the confidence of slumber,
prevailed against him, and deposed him out of life. The hatred of Hyde for
Jekyll was of a different order. His terror of the gallows drove him continually
to commit temporary suicide, and return to his subordinate station of a part
instead of a person; but he loathed the necessity, he loathed the despondency
into which Jekyll was now fallen, and he resented the dislike with which
he was himself regarded. Hence the ape-like tricks that he would play me,
scrawling in my own hand blasphemies on the pages of my books, burning the
letters and destroying the portrait of my father; and indeed, had it not
been for his fear of death, he would long ago have ruined himself in order
to involve me in the ruin. But his love of me is wonderful; I go further:
I, who sicken and freeze at the mere thought of him, when I recall the abjection
and passion of this attachment, and when I know how he fears my power to
cut him off by suicide, I find it in my heart to pity him.

It is useless, and the time awfully fails me, to prolong this description;
no one has ever suffered such torments, let that suffice; and yet even to
these, habit brought—no, not alleviation—but a certain callousness of soul,
a certain acquiescence of despair; and my punishment might have gone on for
years, but for the last calamity which has now fallen, and which has finally
severed me from my own face and nature. My provision of the salt, which
had never been renewed since the date of the first experiment, began to
run low. I sent out for a fresh supply and mixed the draught; the ebullition
followed, and the first change of colour, not the second; I drank it and
it was without efficiency. You will learn from Poole how I have had London
ransacked; it was in vain; and I am now persuaded that my first supply was
impure, and that it was that unknown impurity which lent efficacy to the
draught.

About a week has passed, and I am now finishing this statement under
the influence of the last of the old powders. This, then, is the last time,
short of a miracle, that Henry Jekyll can think his own thoughts or see
his own face (now how sadly altered!) in the glass. Nor must I delay too
long to bring my writing to an end; for if my narrative has hitherto escaped
destruction, it has been by a combination of great prudence and great good
luck. Should the throes of change take me in the act of writing it, Hyde
will tear it in pieces; but if some time shall have elapsed after I have
laid it by, his wonderful selfishness and circumscription to the moment will
probably save it once again from the action of his ape-like spite. And indeed
the doom that is closing on us both has already changed and crushed him.
Half an hour from now, when I shall again and forever reindue that hated
personality, I know how I shall sit shuddering and weeping in my chair, or
continue, with the most strained and fearstruck ecstasy of listening, to
pace up and down this room (my last earthly refuge) and give ear to every
sound of menace. Will Hyde die upon the scaffold? or will he find courage
to release himself at the last moment? God knows; I am careless; this is
my true hour of death, and what is to follow concerns another than myself.
Here then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my confession, I
bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end.

THE END

Book Group Promotions – Special Book Group – Angelology : Danielle Trussoni

Book Group Promotions – Special Book Group – Angelology : Danielle Trussoni

In addition to our usual book groups, we’re having a special book group event next month.  We have been given a few review copies of a new book and will be using this as the subject of our discussion.  Some copies have already been allocated, however if you are interested in this book and want to join in the discussion, please visit the forum  for more information.

Book Group Discussion will take place during April 2010, therefore you must be available to read the book, discuss it with the group and write your review within this period.  Because of this unplanned event, we may have to adjust the current book group schedule to squeeze it in.

Details of the book in question:

Book is due for publication in the UK 1st April 2010, already published in the US 9th March 2010

Product Description
The Nephilim were on the earth in those days Genesis 6:4 When Sister Evangeline finds mysterious correspondence between Mother Innocenta of the Saint Rose Convent and legendary philanthropist Abigail Rockefeller, it confirms Angels walked among us – and their descendants, the cruel Nephilim, still do. Indeed, the Nephilim are hunting for artefacts concealed by Abigail Rockefeller during the Second World War – objects that will ultimately allow them to enslave mankind – and have so far been prevented from reaching their apocalyptic goal by one, clandestine organisation: The Angelology Society. And if the Angelologists are to stand any chance of winning this new battle in the ages-old war, they must find the artefacts first. But their fate rests in the hands of innocent Sister Evangeline, who holds the key to unlocking Abigail Rockefeller’s hiding places … and whose own destiny may yet find her prey to the terrifying Nephilim army, with horrifying consequences for humanity.

About the Author
Danielle Trussoni is the author of the memoir Falling Through the Earth, which was chosen by the New York Times as one of the ten best books of 2006. She currently lives in France with her husband, the writer Nikolai Grozni, and their children.

“An elegantly ambitious archival thriller in which knowledge dwells in the secret underground places, labyrinthine libraries and overlooked artifacts that have been hallmarks of the genre from The Name of Rose and Possession to Angels and Demons and The Historian. Angelology is richly allusive and vividly staged with widescreen-ready visuals, a dewy but adaptable heroine and a dashingly cruel villain…. Sensual and intelligent, Angelology is a terrifically clever thriller-more Eco than Brown, without the cloudy sentimentalism of New Age encomiums or Catholic treatises. It makes no apologies for its devices, and none are necessary. How else would it be possible to bring together the angels of the Bible and Apocrypha, the myth of Orpheus, Bulgarian geography, medieval monastics, the Rockefellers, Nazis, nuns and musicology? And how splendid that it has happened.”
-New York Times Book Review

“Beautiful, powerful, cruel, and avaricious, the half-human, half-angel Nephilim have thrived for centuries by instilling fear among humans, instigating war, and infiltrating the most powerful and influential families of history. Only a secret group of scholars, the Society of Angelologists, has endeavored to combat the spread of evil generated by Nephilim. Now, a strange affliction is destroying the Nephilim, and the cure is rumored to be an ancient artifact of great power. Sister Evangeline of the St. Rose Convent discovers an archived letter regarding the artifact’s location and is thrust into the race to locate the artifact before the Nephilim do. She uncovers her family’s past as high- ranking angelologists, and their secrets assist in her dangerous hunt. Trussoni, author of the acclaimed memoir Falling Through the Earth, makes an impressive fiction debut with this engrossing and fascinating tale. With captivating characters and the scholarly blending of biblical and mythical lore, this will be popular for fans of such historical thrillers as Kate Mosse’s Labyrinth or Katherine Neville’s The Eight.”

Sony Pictures Entertainment has purchased the film rights.  Will Smith’s production company to produce.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1368421/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angelology_%28novel%29

Vine #4 – 17th September Newsletter

Still a little bit behind with the newsletters (they come out on the 3rd and 4th Thursdays) I guess this will get easier, the longer I am in it and I should be able to choose from the newsletter when it is published instead of a few days later like now.

Another two books for me, both look interesting.  Walking in Pimlico (YA) and Makers (Scifi)

The Career Novelist: A Literary Agent Offers Strategies for Success – free e-book

Donald Maass has written a bunch of books about writing and now he is offering one of them as a free download on his site.

“Packed full of fine analysis, solid advice, and thoughtful reflection on the state of contemporary publishing. It’s further distinguished by more common sense than any book of its type that I have ever read. A treasure.” — Dean Koontz, author of Intensity

Visit this page and click download to download the .pdf

Free ebooks from Random House!

Here’s a great Christmas present from the lovely people at Random House. For a limited time (until Feb 28th, 2009) they are giving away nine free ebooks in a variety of formats from a variety of ebook retailers.

New York, NY – December 8, 2008 — The Random House Publishing Group and Lexcycle, Inc., jointly announced today that Random House and Ballantine will be the first major book publishers to make full-length books available for free on iPhone through Lexcycle Stanza, the most popular electronic book reader for the Apple iPhone and iPod Touch.

This promotion will allow over 500,000 Stanza users to enjoy free eBooks from a varied list of authors including Alan Furst, Julie Garwood, Charlie Huston, David Liss, Laurie Notaro, Arthur Phillips and Simon Rich. The initial offerings will be drawn from each author’s backlist and will include excerpts for any new hardcovers coming in 2009. Random House is providing links to retailers like Amazon, Barnes and Noble.com, Borders.com, Powells.com and IndieBound.org to encourage readers to purchase more books by these authors.

However, the promotion is not just for iphone users. The books are available in a range of different formats all free of charge from your favourite ebook retailer. I got mine from Books on Board but you can also get them from Amazon, Fictionwise and a few others.  Titles include three by Charlie Huston so if you are a fan, get on over there and get yourself some free books!

“A free eBook is a great way to sample a new writer, and help spread the word,” says Charlie Huston, whose novels ‘Caught Stealing’, ‘Six Bad Things’, and ‘A Dangerous Man’ will all be available on Stanza. “Besides, it’s good to give things away. They’re books. We write them for people to read them.”

The full list of titles is below:

Picture of Cover of The Foreign Correspondent by Alan Furst - Thriller eBooks Picture of Cover of The Whiskey Rebels<br /> by David Liss - Thriller eBooks Picture of Cover of Caught Stealing<br /> by Charlie Huston - Thriller eBooks
Picture of Cover of Prague<br /> by Arthur Phillips - Thriller eBooksPicture of Cover of Murder List<br /> by JULIE GARWOOD  - Thriller eBooks Picture of Cover of Six Bad Things<br /> by Charlie Huston - Thriller eBooks
Picture of Cover of The Idiot Girl and the Flaming Tantrum of Death<br /> by Laurie Notaro - Humor eBooks Picture of Cover of A Dangerous Man<br /> by Charlie Huston - Thriller eBooks Picture of Cover of Free-Range Chickens<br /> by Simon Rich - Thriller eBooks

Tor Free Ebooks Reinstated

I got this in my email today and I was mighty happy to see it.

Free Ebooks from World Fantasy Award Finalists

Last week we announced the return of free ebooks from Tor.com. We’re kicking things off this week with backlist titles from two of the authors who are finalists for this year’s World Fantasy Award for Best Novel. To download these and upcoming freebies, all you have to do is register at Tor.com.

Will Shetterly and Emma Bull are the first married couple to each simultaneously have a novel among the finalists for the World Fantasy Award—Emma’s Territory and Will’s The Gospel of the Knife. In commemoration of this, we’re offering registered Tor.com users free e-book editions of a pair of classics from the Bull and Shetterly backlists—Emma’s War for the Oaks and Will’s Dogland. Check them out here!

Each title in our giveaway program will be available for A Limited Time Only, so don’t delay. The books will be offered in a variety of formats, with no DRM. After this month’s pair of books, we’ll be putting up a new title every month, so make sure you register—and tell your friends about the great books (and blogs, and art, and conversation) that are free at Tor.com every day.

Please note, this is different to whatever registration you think you may have had with Tor previously. A few months ago they were giving away free books every week but the only registration required was for their mailing list. This time in order to download the free books you will have to register on the above site creating a proper user name and password before you will be able to access the freebies.

Now just in case anyone finds it a little difficult to find the free books, here is the direct link to them but remember that the links won’t work until you register and log in! Log in and download free ebooks here

Double Trouble – more free books!

Award-nominated authors and podcasters Tee Morris and Philippa Ballantine have teamed up across hemispheres for Double Trouble, a unique celebration and promotion for their summer releases of The Case of the Pitchers Pendant: A Billibub Baddings Mystery and Digital Magic. Morris and Ballantine are asking their fans to make Double Trouble on Amazon.com by ordering their new books on August 8, 2008, anytime after 8 a.m. PST-USA; and send these titles to the top of Amazons charts. To build up anticipation, the two authors have released their new novels as downloads on their websites, encouraging bloggers, podcasters, and readers to share the free books with others. In less than a week, downloads for The Case of the Pitchers Pendant and Digital Magic have totalled beyond 50,000 and are still averaging for each book 2000 downloads a day.

Double Trouble will be our day on Amazon, says Tee. We have been getting word out on our respective podcasts and mailing lists, and the downloads for The Case of The Pitchers Pendant and Digital Magic are really exciting. Dragon Moons publisher, Gwen Gades is also excited. Before his days at Crown Books, Scott Sigler brought Dragon Moon into Amazons Top Ten with Ancestor. Considering the downloads Im seeing, Double Trouble could be even bigger. This promotion will mark the first time two authors are working together to dominate the charts. Double Trouble is, in its own way, a worldwide event, states Philippa Ballantine from her home in Wellington, New Zealand. Tee is working out of Manassas, Virginia. Im in the Southern Hemisphere. Along with our downloads, we have been giving interviews.

The shows have been coming out of locations across the country, Ireland, and even Sydney, Australia. For Pip, this kind of promotion is important, considering her location. There is strength in numbers, even if that number is two. Tee and I are pooling promotional resources, and that does make a difference. Double Trouble is not only innovative, but stands as a great example of Web 2.0s potential in creating and nurturing fan bases. As far as worrying about giving away their books in digital format, Gades isnt worried. Their fan base appreciates the look at whats coming in print, and Im confident they will be there on 08.08.08 to show support.

Tee Morris and Philippa Ballantine ask their fans to wait until August 8, 2008 at 8:00 a.m. PST-USA to place their orders for The Case of The Pitchers Pendant: A Billibub Baddings Mystery and Digital Magic from Amazon.com. Along with this collaboration, Morris and Ballantine are currently working together on their podcast novels, MOREVI: Remastered (http://www.morevi.net) and Chasing the Bard (http://chasingthebard.com). The free PDFs of their new books can be found at these blogs as well, however in the case of the Tee Morris book, the link is a little hard to notice, so here are the direct links.

Download Tee Morris – The Case of the Pitcher’s Pendant by clicking here

Download Philippa Ballantine – Digital Magic by clicking here

You can listen to Chasing the Bard audio book for free by visiting this page and listening to it chapter by chapter. Make sure you do that first before reading Digital Magic (the sequel to Chasing the Bard)

Tor.com weekly free books offer comes to an end – download all for a very limited time!

The “free e-books every week” offer has finished now, but for a limited time you can download all of them via the Tor.com website.

Get ’em while you can – click here

Twenty Four free books!

Here’s the complete list showing the available formats for each one:

Mistborn by Brandon Sanderson
PDF || HTMLnew! || HTML zipnew! || Mobinew!
Old Mans War by John Scalzi
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
Spin by Robert Charles Wilson
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
Farthing by Jo Walton
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
The Outstretched Shadow by Mercedes Lackey & James Mallory
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
Crystal Rain by Tobias Buckell
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
Lord of the Isles by David Drake
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
Through Wolf’s Eyes by Jane Lindskold
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
The Disunited States of America by Harry Turtledove
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
Reiffen’s Choice by S.C. Butler
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
Sun of Suns by Karl Schroeder
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
Four and Twenty Blackbirds by Cherie Priest
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
Spirit Gate by Kate Elliot
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
Starfish by Peter Watts
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
Touch of Evil by C.T. Adams & Cathy Clamp
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
A Shadow in Summer by Daniel Abraham
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
Orphans of Chaos by John Wright
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
In the Garden of Iden by Kage Baker
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
In the Midnight Hour by Patti O’Shea
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
Battlestar Galactica by Jeffrey A. Carver
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
Flash by L.E. Modesitt, Jr.
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
Soul by Tobsha Learner
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
Darkness of the Light by Peter David
PDF || HTML || HTML zip || Mobi
Three Shadows by Cyril Pedrosanew!
PDF || ePub

All books are in the fantasy and science fiction genres and COMPLETELY FREE!!! for a limited time only, so get downloading.

At the same time, they are also offering all 40 WALLPAPERS also for free, in a various of sizes to fit all computers. (scroll down further on the same page as the book downloads)