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

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,