Henry Jekyll’s Full Account 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 life. 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 born in the year 18… into great wealth. I also had excellent abilities and was naturally hardworking. I valued the respect of wise and good people. So, as anyone might have expected, I had every assurance of an honorable and distinguished future. Indeed, my worst fault was a restless love of fun, the kind that has made many people happy. But I struggled to reconcile that side of myself with my overwhelming desire to hold my head high. I wanted to appear more serious in public than most people. So I hid my pleasures. By the time I was old enough to reflect on my life, I was already deeply committed to living dishonestly. I began examining my progress and position in the world, only to find myself leading a double life. Many men would even have boasted about the misconduct I was guilty of. But I had set myself high standards, and I hid my faults with an almost unhealthy sense of shame. So my demanding ambitions, rather than any particular wickedness in my faults, made me what I was. Those ambitions also divided the good and evil within me more sharply than in most men. These opposing elements divide us, yet together they make up our dual nature. My situation drove me to think deeply and persistently about that harsh law of life. This division lies at the root of religion and is one of the richest sources of suffering. Although I lived such a deeply divided life, I was in no sense a hypocrite. Both sides of me were entirely sincere. I was no more truly myself when I abandoned restraint and plunged into shameful behavior than when I worked openly. In those public efforts, I worked to advance knowledge or ease sorrow and suffering. As it happened, my scientific studies focused entirely on mystical matters and realities beyond the physical world. Those studies, in turn, cast a strong light on my awareness of the endless war within me. Every day, my moral experience and intellectual work brought me steadily closer to a certain truth. My partial discovery of that truth has doomed me to such dreadful ruin: human beings are not truly one, but two. I say two because my own knowledge goes no further. Others will follow and surpass me along the same path. I venture to guess that humans will eventually be understood as communities of many different, incompatible, and independent inhabitants. For my part, the nature of my life led me inevitably in one direction, and one direction only. Through my moral experience, and within myself, I learned to recognize humanity’s complete and fundamental duality. I saw two natures battling within my consciousness. If I could rightly be called either one, it was only because I was fundamentally both. From early on, I took pleasure in imagining these elements separated, cherishing the thought as a favorite daydream. This was before my scientific discoveries had even begun to suggest the faintest possibility of such a miracle. If each nature could have a separate identity, I told myself, life would lose everything that made it unbearable. The wicked one could go his own way, free from his more virtuous twin’s ambitions and remorse. The good one could move steadily and safely along his upward path, enjoying the good deeds he performed. He would no longer suffer disgrace and repentance because of an evil that did not belong to him. Humanity’s curse was that these incompatible bundles were tied together. Within the tormented womb of consciousness, these utterly opposite twins had to struggle constantly. How, then, could they be separated?

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.

My thoughts had reached this point when, as I have said, my laboratory work began to shed light on the subject. I began to understand more deeply than anyone has yet expressed how insubstantial and fleeting our seemingly solid bodies are. We wear these bodies like clothing, yet they are as shifting and short-lived as mist. I found that certain substances could shake and pull back this covering of flesh. They worked just as a wind might toss the curtains of a pavilion. For two good reasons, I will not go deeply into the scientific side of my confession. First, because I have learned that the fate and burden of our lives are fixed forever on human shoulders. When we try to throw off that burden, it returns with a stranger and more terrible weight. Second, because my discoveries were incomplete, as my account will, sadly, make all too clear. It is enough to say that I recognized my natural body as merely the outward glow of certain spiritual powers. These powers were among those that made up my spirit. I also managed to make a drug that would strip these powers of their control. Another body and face would take the place of my usual appearance. This second form was no less natural to me because it expressed and bore the marks of my soul’s lower elements.

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.

I hesitated for a long time before putting this theory into practice. I knew well that I was risking death. The drug could control and shake the very foundations of my identity. Even the slightest overdose, or taking the drug at the wrong moment, might utterly destroy the immaterial self I hoped to change. But the temptation of such an extraordinary and profound discovery finally overcame my fears. I had prepared my solution long before. I immediately bought a large quantity of a particular salt from a wholesale chemical supplier. My experiments had shown me that this salt was the last ingredient needed. Late one cursed night, I mixed the ingredients and watched them boil and smoke together in the glass. When the bubbling stopped, I felt a powerful surge of courage and drank 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.

Then came the most agonizing pains: a grinding in my bones, deadly nausea, and a horror deep in my soul. No horror at the moment of birth or death could be greater. Then these agonies quickly began to fade, and I came to my senses as if recovering from a terrible illness. There was something strange about my sensations, something indescribably new and, because it was so new, incredibly sweet. My body felt younger, lighter, and happier. Inside, I felt an intoxicating recklessness. Chaotic sensual images rushed through my imagination like water powering a mill. The ties of duty fell away, and I felt an unfamiliar freedom of the soul, but not an innocent one. From the first breath of this new life, I knew I was more wicked, ten times more wicked. I had been sold into slavery to the evil already within me. And at that moment, the thought strengthened and delighted me like wine. I stretched out my hands, rejoicing in the freshness of these sensations. As I did, I suddenly realized I had grown shorter.

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.

There was no mirror in my room at the time. The mirror beside me as I write was brought in later, specifically for these transformations. But the night was almost over. Though still black, the morning was nearly ready to give birth to day. Everyone in my house was deep in the soundest hours of sleep. Flushed with hope and triumph, I decided to venture as far as my bedroom in my new form. I crossed the yard beneath the constellations. I could almost imagine the stars looking down in wonder. Never in their sleepless watch had they seen a creature like me. I crept through the corridors, a stranger in my own house. When I reached my room, I saw Edward Hyde’s appearance for the first time.

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.

Here I can only offer a theory. I am not stating what I know, but what I think is most likely. I had now given my evil side the power to shape my appearance. That side was weaker and less developed than the good side I had just overthrown. Besides, nine tenths of my life had, after all, been devoted to effort, virtue, and self-control. So my evil side had been used much less and was much less worn out. This, I think, explains why Edward Hyde was so much smaller, slighter, and younger than Henry Jekyll. Just as goodness shone in Jekyll’s face, evil was written clearly and unmistakably on Hyde’s. Evil had also marked Hyde’s body with deformity and decay. I must still believe that evil is the deadly side of human nature. Yet when I looked at that ugly idol in the mirror, I felt no disgust. Instead, my heart leaped in welcome. This, too, was me. It seemed natural and human. To my eyes, that face gave a more vivid picture of the spirit within. It seemed clearer and more unified than the imperfect, divided face I had always called my own. And in that respect, I was undoubtedly right. I have noticed that whenever I took on Edward Hyde’s appearance, everyone who first came near me visibly recoiled. As I understand it, this was because all the human beings we encounter are mixtures of good and evil. Edward Hyde alone, among all humanity, 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.

I paused only a moment at the mirror. The second and decisive experiment still had to be tried. I still had to discover whether I had lost my identity forever. If so, I would have to flee before daylight from a house that was no longer mine. I hurried back to my private room, where I once again prepared and drank the mixture. Once again, I suffered the agonizing pain of my body breaking apart. Then I came to myself once more with the personality, height, and 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.

That night I had reached the fatal crossroads. If I had approached my discovery in a nobler spirit, all would have been different. If generous or religious hopes had guided my experiment, those agonies of death and birth would have produced an angel. I would have emerged as an angel instead of a fiend. The drug did not distinguish between good and evil. It was neither devilish nor divine. It merely shook open the prison doors of my nature. And like the prisoners at Philippi, whatever was inside rushed out. At that time, my goodness lay asleep. But my evil, kept awake by ambition, was alert and quick to seize the opportunity. And the being that emerged was Edward Hyde. So, although I now had two personalities and two appearances, one personality was entirely evil. The other was still the old Henry Jekyll, that contradictory mixture of good and evil. I had already lost hope of reforming or improving him. The change was therefore entirely for the worse.

Even at that time, I had not conquered my aversion 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.

Even then, I had not overcome my dislike of the dullness of a life devoted to study. I still felt like enjoying myself at times. And my pleasures were, to say the least, undignified. I was well known and highly respected, and I was also growing old. So the conflict between these sides of my life troubled me more each day. My new power tempted me with a way around this conflict, until I became its slave. I needed only to drink the potion to shed the body of the well-known professor. I could then put on Edward Hyde’s body like a thick cloak. I smiled at the idea, which seemed amusing to me then, and made my preparations with the greatest care. I rented and furnished the house in Soho where the police later tracked down Hyde. I hired a housekeeper whom I knew well enough to trust to keep quiet and act without scruples. Meanwhile, I told my servants that a Mr. Hyde, whose appearance I described, would have complete freedom in my house in the square. He would also have full authority there. To guard against mishaps, I even visited the house as Hyde, so my servants would recognize him. Next, I drew up the will you objected to so strongly. If anything happened to me as Dr. Jekyll, I could then take up life as Edward Hyde without financial loss. And so, believing I had protected myself on every side, I began taking advantage of my unusual freedom from consequences.

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.

Men have hired thugs before to commit their crimes while keeping themselves and their reputations safe. I was the first ever to do so for my pleasures. I was the first who could trudge through public life, weighed down by cheerful respectability. Then, in a moment, I could throw off that borrowed respectability like a schoolboy and plunge into a sea of freedom. But under my disguise, which no one could see through, I was completely safe. Think of it: I did not even exist! I needed only to escape through my laboratory door. Give me a second or two to mix and swallow the potion I always kept ready. Then, whatever Edward Hyde had done, he would vanish like the mist of breath on a mirror. And in his place would be Henry Jekyll, quietly at home, tending the lamp in his study at midnight. He would be a man who could afford to laugh at suspicion.

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.

As I have said, the pleasures I rushed to seek in my disguise were undignified. I would hardly use a harsher word. But in the hands of Edward Hyde, those pleasures soon began to become monstrous. When I returned from these outings, I was often astonished by the depravity I indulged in through him. I had summoned this creature from my own soul and sent him out alone to do whatever he pleased. He was evil and wicked by nature. His every act and thought centered on himself. He took savage, greedy pleasure in any degree of suffering he inflicted on another, as merciless as a stone man. Henry Jekyll was sometimes horrified by Edward Hyde’s actions. But the situation fell outside ordinary rules, and gradually, almost unnoticed, weakened the hold of conscience. After all, Hyde, and Hyde alone, was guilty. Jekyll was no worse than before. He woke again with his good qualities seemingly unharmed. He would even hurry, where possible, to undo the harm Hyde had done. And so his conscience slept.

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.

I do not intend to describe the disgraceful acts I allowed to happen. Even now, I can hardly admit that I committed them. I only mean to describe the warnings and the steps by which my punishment drew nearer. I had one mishap, but since nothing came of it, I will only mention it briefly. An act of cruelty to a child made a passer-by angry with me. The other day, I recognized that passer-by as your relative. The doctor and the child’s family joined him. At times, I feared for my life. At last, to calm their entirely justified anger, Edward Hyde had to bring them to the door. He then paid them with a cheque in Henry Jekyll’s name. But I easily removed the risk of this happening again by opening another bank account in Edward Hyde’s own name. Then, by making my handwriting slant backward, I gave my other self a signature. Once I had done so, I thought I was 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, corded, knuckly, of a dusky pallor and thickly shaded with a swart growth of hair. It was the hand of Edward Hyde.

About two months before the murder of Sir Danvers, I had gone out on one of my adventures. I returned late and woke the next day in bed with rather strange sensations. I looked around me, but nothing helped. I saw the respectable furniture and the high ceiling of my room in the square, but neither reassured me. I recognized the pattern of the bed curtains and the design of the mahogany bed frame, but that made no difference. Something still insisted that I was not where I seemed to be. I felt I had woken instead in the little room in Soho, where I usually slept as Edward Hyde. I smiled to myself and lazily began examining what lay behind this illusion, as my interest in psychology led me to do. Even as I examined it, I occasionally drifted back into a comfortable morning doze. I was still doing this when, during a more wakeful moment, my eyes fell on my hand. Now Henry Jekyll’s hand was the shape and size typical of a professional man’s, as you have often remarked. It was large, firm, white, and well formed. But the hand I now saw lay half closed on the bedclothes, plainly visible in the yellow morning light of central London. It was thin and sinewy, with prominent knuckles, a dull, pale complexion, and a thick covering of dark 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 pair 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.

I must have stared at it for nearly half a minute, too stunned by wonder to think. Then terror struck me, as sudden and startling as a crash of cymbals. I leaped from my bed and rushed to the mirror. At the sight before me, my blood seemed to turn terribly thin and icy. Yes, I had gone to bed as Henry Jekyll. I had awakened as Edward Hyde. How could I explain this transformation? Then another surge of terror hit me. How could I reverse it? The morning was already well advanced, and the servants were up. All my drugs were in the cabinet, a long journey from where I stood, frozen with horror. I would have to go down two flights of stairs, through the back passage, and across the open courtyard. Then I would have to pass through the anatomical theatre. I might be able to cover my face. But what good would covering my face do when I could not hide the change in my height? Then, with an overwhelming sweetness of relief, I remembered that the servants were already used to my other self coming and going. I quickly dressed as best I could in clothes sized for my usual body. Then I hurried through the house. Bradshaw stared and stepped back when he saw Mr. Hyde at such an hour, dressed so strangely. Ten minutes later, Dr. Jekyll had regained his own form. With a troubled expression, I sat down and pretended to eat breakfast.

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.

I had very little appetite indeed. This inexplicable incident reversed everything I had experienced before. Like the Babylonian finger writing on the wall, the incident seemed to spell out my judgment. I began to think more seriously than ever about the consequences and possibilities of my double existence. The part of myself I could bring into physical form had lately received much exercise and nourishment. Recently, Edward Hyde’s body had seemed to grow taller. When I took his form, I felt as though a stronger flow of blood ran through me. I began to see a danger. If this continued much longer, the balance of my nature might be permanently upset. I might lose the power to change at will, and Edward Hyde’s character might become mine forever. The drug had not always worked equally well. Once, very early in my experiments, the drug had failed me completely. Since then, I had needed to double the dose more than once. On one occasion, I had tripled the dose at an immense risk of death. Until now, these occasional uncertainties had been the only shadow over my contentment. But that morning’s accident led me to notice a change. At first, the difficulty had been escaping Jekyll’s body. Lately, the difficulty had gradually but unmistakably shifted to escaping Hyde’s. Everything therefore seemed to point to one conclusion. I was slowly losing my hold on my original, better self and becoming one with my second, worse self.

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.

I now felt I had to choose between these two selves. My two natures shared their memories, but all their other abilities were divided very unequally between them. Jekyll combined both natures. Sometimes with intense anxiety, sometimes with greedy delight, he planned and shared Hyde’s pleasures and adventures. But Hyde cared nothing for Jekyll. Or he remembered Jekyll only as a mountain bandit remembers the cave where he hides from his pursuers. Jekyll cared more than a father would. Hyde was more indifferent than a son. Choosing Jekyll meant giving up the appetites I had long indulged in secret and had recently begun to pamper. Choosing Hyde meant abandoning a thousand interests and ambitions. I would become despised and friendless, all at once and forever. The bargain might seem unequal, but there was another factor to weigh. Jekyll would suffer bitterly from denying himself, while Hyde would not even be aware of all he had lost. Strange as my circumstances were, the arguments in this debate were as old and ordinary as humanity. Much the same attractions and fears decide the choice for any trembling sinner facing temptation. And my choice turned out as it does for the vast majority of my fellow human beings. I chose the better path, but lacked the strength to stay on 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.

Yes, I preferred being the aging, dissatisfied doctor, surrounded by friends and holding on to honest hopes. I firmly said goodbye to the freedom, relative youth, light step, sudden impulses, and secret pleasures I had enjoyed as Hyde. Perhaps I made this choice with some unconscious reservations. For I neither gave up the house in Soho nor destroyed Edward Hyde’s clothes, still kept ready in my private study. For two months, however, I stayed true to my decision. For two months, I lived with greater self-discipline than ever before, rewarded by a clear conscience. But over time, my fear began to fade. The approval of my conscience began to feel routine. I began to suffer agonizing urges and longings, as if Hyde were struggling to be free. At last, in a moment of moral weakness, I once again mixed and swallowed the potion that transformed me.

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.

When a drunkard thinks about his vice, I doubt he considers one danger even once in five hundred times. That danger is the dulling of his physical senses until he becomes like an animal. Likewise, despite long consideration of my position, I had not fully accounted for Edward Hyde’s complete lack of moral feeling. Nor had I fully accounted for his mindless readiness to do evil. These were his defining traits, and through them I was punished. My devil had been caged for a long time, and he came out roaring. Even as I drank the potion, I felt a more uncontrolled, more furious urge to do evil. I suppose this urge must have stirred the storm of impatience I felt while listening to my unfortunate victim’s politeness. At least, I swear before God that no morally sane man could have committed that crime over so slight a provocation. I struck with no more reason than a sick child who breaks a toy. But I had willingly stripped myself of all the instincts that keep us balanced. Those instincts help even the worst of us maintain some steadiness amid temptation. In my case, to be tempted, however slightly, was to give in.

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!

Instantly, the spirit of hell woke inside me and raged. In a frenzy of joy, I battered the unresisting body, taking pleasure in every blow. Only as I began to tire, still at the height of my frenzy, did cold terror pierce my heart. A fog cleared from my mind. I saw that my life was lost, and I fled the scene of my violence, both triumphant and trembling. My hunger for evil was both satisfied and sharpened, and my desire to live had reached its peak. I ran to the house in Soho and, to be doubly certain of my safety, destroyed my papers. Then I set out through the lamplit streets, still caught between those two wild feelings. I gloated over my crime and recklessly dreamed up others to commit in the future. Yet I kept hurrying, listening for the footsteps of someone coming behind me to take revenge. Hyde sang as he mixed the potion, and as he drank, he toasted the dead man. The pains of transformation were still tearing through him when Henry Jekyll fell to his knees. Tears of gratitude and remorse streamed down his face as he raised his clasped hands to God. The veil of self-indulgence was torn apart from top to bottom. I saw my life as a whole. I traced it from childhood, when I had walked holding my father’s hand, through my demanding, self-denying professional life. Again and again, I arrived at that evening’s damned horrors, each time with the same sense of unreality. I could have screamed aloud. With tears and prayers, I tried to silence the hideous images and sounds crowding my memory. Yet between my prayers, the ugly face of my wickedness still stared into my soul. As the sharpness of my remorse began to fade, joy took its place. The problem of how I would behave was solved. From then on, Hyde was impossible. Whether I wanted it or not, I was now confined to the better side of my life. Oh, how I rejoiced at the thought! How willingly and humbly I once again accepted the limits of ordinary life! How sincerely I renounced evil as I locked the door through which I had so often come and gone. Then I crushed the key beneath 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.

The next day, news came that the murder had not gone unnoticed. Hyde’s guilt was clear to everyone, and the victim was a highly respected man. The murder was not just a crime but a tragic act of foolishness. I think I was glad to hear the news. I think I was glad that the fear of hanging strengthened and protected my better impulses. Jekyll was now my safe haven. If Hyde showed himself for even an instant, everyone would rise up to capture and kill 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.

I resolved to make up for the past through my future actions. And I can honestly say that my resolve did some good. You know how hard I worked to relieve suffering in the last months of last year. You know that much was done for others, and that my own days passed quietly, almost happily. Nor can I honestly say that I grew tired of this harmless life of doing good. Instead, I think I enjoyed it more fully each day. But I was still cursed with conflicting desires. And as the first intensity of my remorse faded, my lower side began to growl for freedom. I had indulged that side for so long and had only recently chained it down. Not that I ever dreamed of bringing Hyde back. The very thought would have driven me into a frenzy of fear. No, I was once again tempted to ignore my conscience while remaining myself. And in the end, I gave in to temptation as an ordinary sinner hiding his sins.

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.

Everything comes to an end. Even the largest vessel fills at last. And my brief surrender to evil finally destroyed the balance of my soul. Yet I was not alarmed. My fall seemed natural, like returning to the old days before I had made my discovery. It was a fine, clear January day. The ground was wet where the frost had melted, but the sky was cloudless. Regent’s Park was full of winter birdsong and sweet with the scents of spring. I sat on a bench in the sun. The animal within me licked its lips over memories. My spiritual side was half asleep, promising repentance later but not yet moved to begin. After all, I thought, I was like my neighbours. Then I smiled as I compared myself with other men, and my active kindness with the lazy cruelty of their neglect. At the very moment of that vain, self-satisfied thought, I felt a sickening pang, horrible nausea, and a terrifying shudder. These sensations passed, leaving me faint. Then, as the faintness faded in turn, I began to notice a change in my thoughts. I felt bolder, scorned danger, and felt the ties of duty loosen. I looked down. My clothes hung shapelessly on my shrunken limbs. The hand resting on my knee was sinewy and hairy. I was once more Edward Hyde. A moment before, I had been secure in everyone's respect, wealthy and beloved. At home, the table was being set for me in the dining room. Now I was everyone's prey, hunted, homeless, a known murderer, bound for 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.

My reason wavered, but I did not lose it entirely. More than once, I had noticed that in my second identity, my senses and mind seemed sharper. My spirits, too, seemed more tightly wound and resilient. So, where Jekyll might perhaps have given in, Hyde rose to the challenge of the moment. My drugs were in one of the cupboards in my study. How was I to reach them? Pressing my hands hard against my temples, I set myself to solving that problem. I had closed the laboratory door. If I tried to enter through the house, my own servants would send me to the gallows. I saw that I must get someone else to act for me, and I thought of Lanyon. How could I reach him? How could I persuade him? Supposing I escaped capture in the streets, how could I get to see him? And how could I, an unknown and unpleasant visitor, persuade the famous physician to search his colleague Dr. Jekyll’s study? Then I remembered that one part of my original identity remained: I could still write in my own handwriting. Once that spark of an idea came to me, the path I had to follow lit up from beginning 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.

Then I straightened my clothes as best I could and hailed a passing horse-drawn cab. I rode to a hotel in Portland Street whose name I happened to remember. The driver could not hide his amusement at my appearance. I did indeed look ridiculous, however tragic the fate hidden beneath those clothes. I bared my clenched teeth at him in a burst of devilish rage, and the smile vanished from his face. Fortunately for him, and even more fortunately for me, his smile vanished before I could act. In another instant, I would certainly have dragged him from his seat. As I entered the hotel, I looked around with such a dark expression that the staff trembled. They did not exchange a single glance in my presence. Instead, they meekly took my orders, led me to a private room, and brought me writing materials. Hyde, fearing for his life, was a creature I had never known before. He shook with extraordinary anger, was worked up to the point of murder, and craved to inflict pain. Yet the creature was cunning. With a great effort of will, he controlled his rage and wrote his two important letters. One was to Lanyon and the other to Poole. He sent the letters out with instructions to register them, so he would have actual proof of their posting. From then on, he sat by the fire in the private room all day, gnawing his nails. He ate dinner there, alone with his fears, while the waiter visibly shrank under his gaze. When night had fully fallen, he set out, huddled in the corner of an enclosed cab. He was driven back and forth through the city streets. He, I say. I cannot say I. That child of Hell had nothing human in him. Nothing lived in him but fear and hatred. At last, thinking the driver was growing suspicious, he dismissed the cab and ventured out on foot. His ill-fitting clothes made him stand out among the people passing through the streets at night. Those two vile passions raged within him like a storm. He walked quickly, driven by his fears, muttering to himself and skulking through the less busy streets. He counted the minutes that still separated him from midnight. Once a woman spoke to him, offering, I think, a box of matches. He struck 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.

When I came to my senses at Lanyon’s, my old friend’s horror perhaps affected me somewhat. I do not know. At least, his horror was only a drop in the ocean compared with my disgust as I recalled those hours. A change had come over me. I was no longer tormented by fear of the gallows, but by the horror of being Hyde. I heard Lanyon’s condemnation as though partly in a dream. Still partly in a dream, I returned to my own house and went to bed. Exhausted by the day, I fell into a deep, heavy sleep. Not even the nightmares that tormented me could break my sleep. I awoke in the morning shaken and weakened, but refreshed. I still hated and feared the thought of the beast sleeping within me. And of course, I had not forgotten the terrible dangers of the day before. But I was once more at home, in my own house, close to my drugs. Gratitude for my escape shone so strongly in my soul that its brightness almost rivalled 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 life 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.

I was walking slowly across the courtyard after breakfast, enjoying the cold air, when those indescribable sensations seized me again. They warned me that the change was coming. I barely had time to reach the safety of my private study. Then I was once again burning and freezing with Hyde’s passions. This time, I needed a double dose to bring me back to myself. And alas, six hours later, as I sat staring sadly into the fire, the pains returned. I had to take the drug again. From that day on, keeping Jekyll’s appearance seemed to require an enormous physical effort. Even then, I could manage only while the drug was actively working. At all hours of the day and night, the warning shudder would seize me. Above all, if I slept, or even briefly dozed in my chair, I always woke as Hyde. The constant threat of this doom wore me down, as did the sleeplessness I now forced upon myself. Yes, I went without sleep beyond what I had thought humanly possible. In my own form, I became a creature consumed and drained by fever, weak and listless in body and mind. Only one thought occupied me: the horror of my other self. But whenever I slept, or the medicine wore off, I changed almost instantly. The pains of transformation grew less noticeable every day. I would suddenly find myself with an imagination overflowing with terrifying images and a soul boiling with hatred without cause. My body seemed too weak to contain its raging energy. Hyde’s powers seemed to have grown as Jekyll grew sicker. And certainly, each now hated the other equally. For Jekyll, that hatred was an instinct for survival. He had now seen the full hideousness of the creature who shared some aspects of his consciousness. They were also bound to share death. These bonds themselves caused the sharpest part of his distress. But beyond those bonds, Jekyll thought of Hyde as something not only hellish but lifeless, despite all his energy. Here was the shocking thing: the slime of hell seemed to cry out and speak. Shapeless dust seemed to gesture and sin. Something dead and formless had taken over the functions of life. And this rebellious horror was bound to him more closely than a wife, more closely than his own eye. It lay trapped in his flesh, where he could hear it muttering and feel it struggling to be born. At every moment of weakness, and whenever he trusted himself to sleep, the horror overcame him. It drove him out of his own life. Hyde’s hatred for Jekyll was different. His terror of the gallows continually drove him to a temporary form of suicide. He returned to his lesser position as part of a person, rather than a person himself. But he hated having to return. He hated the despair into which Jekyll had now fallen. And he resented being hated himself. So he played ape-like tricks on me. He scrawled blasphemies in my own handwriting across the pages of my books. He burned the letters and destroyed the portrait of my father. Indeed, without his fear of death, he would long ago have destroyed himself to bring me down with him. But his love of life is astonishing. I will go further. The mere thought of him makes me feel sick and cold. Yet I remember how desperately and passionately he clings to life. I know how much he fears my power to end his life by taking my own. And 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.

There is no point in describing more, and I am running terribly short of time. No one has ever suffered such torment. Let that be enough. Yet even with such suffering, habit brought me, not relief, but a certain numbness of soul and hopeless acceptance. My punishment might have continued for years, if not for the final disaster that has now struck. This disaster has finally cut me off from my own face and nature. My supply of salt began to run low. I had never replenished the supply since my first experiment. I sent for more salt and mixed the potion. The mixture bubbled and changed colour once, but not a second time. I drank the potion, but it had no effect. Poole will tell you how I have had all of London searched. The search was in vain. I am now convinced that my first supply contained an impurity. That unknown impurity was what made the potion work.

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.

About a week has passed, and I am now finishing this statement under the influence of the last remaining old powders. Unless a miracle happens, Henry Jekyll will never again think his own thoughts or see his own face in the mirror. How sadly that face has changed! I must not wait too long to finish writing. If my account has escaped destruction so far, that is thanks to both great caution and great good luck. If the pains of transformation seize me while I am writing, Hyde will tear these pages to pieces. But if some time has passed after I put them away, his remarkable selfishness may save them once again. He thinks only of the present, and will probably spare them his ape-like spite. And indeed, the doom closing in on us both has already changed and crushed him. Half an hour from now, I will once again become that hated personality, and remain so forever. I know how I will sit shuddering and weeping in my chair. Or I will keep pacing this room, my last refuge on earth, listening for every threatening sound with desperate, terrified intensity. Will Hyde die on the gallows? Or will he find the courage to take his own life at the last moment? God knows. I no longer care. This is my true hour of death, and whatever follows concerns someone other than me. Here, then, I lay down my pen and prepare to seal my confession. In doing so, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end.