The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson (bts book recommendations .txt) 📗

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