The Incident Involving Dr. Lanyon

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 Now that that evil influence had been withdrawn, a new life began for Dr.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

Time passed. Thousands of pounds were offered as a reward, because Sir Danvers’s death was seen as an injury to the public. But Mr. Hyde had vanished from the police’s sight as though he had never existed. Much of his past was uncovered, and all of it was disreputable. Stories emerged of his cruelty, both heartless and violent, his vile life, and his strange companions. There were also stories of the hatred that seemed to have surrounded him throughout his life. But there was not a whisper about his current whereabouts. From the moment he left the house in Soho on the morning of the murder, he had simply vanished. Gradually, as time passed, Mr. Utterson’s intense alarm began to fade, and he felt more at ease. In his view, Mr. Hyde’s disappearance more than made up for Sir Danvers’s death. Now that the evil influence of Mr. Hyde was gone, a new life began for Dr. Jekyll. He came out of seclusion and renewed his friendships. Once again, he often visited his friends and welcomed them into his home. Although he had always been known for his charitable work, he was now equally noted for his religious devotion. He kept busy, spent much of his time outdoors, and did good. His face seemed more open and brighter, as if he knew inwardly that he was helping others. And for more than two months, the doctor was at peace.

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

On January 8, Utterson had dined at the doctor’s house with a small group. Lanyon had been there too. Their host had looked from one to the other as in the old days, when the three were inseparable friends. On the 12th, and again on the 14th, the lawyer was turned away at the door. “The doctor was confined to the house,” Poole said, “and saw no one.” On the 15th, Utterson tried again and was again turned away. For the past two months, he had grown used to seeing his friend almost daily. So this return to solitude weighed on his spirits. On the fifth night, he invited Guest to dine with him. On the sixth, he went 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.

At least he was allowed in there. But once inside, he was shocked by the change in the doctor’s appearance. His approaching death was written clearly on his face. The once rosy-faced man had grown pale. He had lost weight and looked noticeably balder and older. Yet these signs of rapid physical decline were not what most caught the lawyer’s attention. Something in the doctor’s eyes and manner seemed to reveal a deep terror in his mind. It seemed unlikely that the doctor feared death, yet Utterson was tempted to suspect just that. “Yes,” he thought. “He is a doctor. He must know his own condition and know that his days are numbered. And the knowledge is more than he can bear.” Yet when Utterson commented on how ill he looked, Lanyon declared with great firmness that he was 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.”

“I’ve had a shock,” he said, “and I’ll never recover. I have only weeks left to live. Well, life has been pleasant. I liked it. Yes, sir, I used to like it. I sometimes think that if we knew everything, we would be happier to leave life behind.”

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

“Jekyll is sick, too,” said 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.”

But Lanyon’s expression changed, and he raised a trembling hand. “I don’t want to see or hear any more of Dr. Jekyll,” he said in a loud, shaky voice. “I am completely done with that man. And I beg you not to mention someone I consider 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.”

“Oh, come now!” said Mr. Utterson. Then, after a long pause, he asked, “Can’t I do anything?” “The three of us have been friends for a long time, Lanyon. We won’t live long enough to make other friends.”

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

“Nothing can be done,” Lanyon replied. “Ask him yourself.”

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

“He won’t see me,” the lawyer said.

“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.”

“I’m not surprised at that,” came the reply. “Someday, Utterson, after I’m dead, you may perhaps learn the truth about all this. I cannot tell you. In the meantime, if you can sit and talk with me about other things, for God’s sake, stay. But if you cannot avoid this damned subject, then in God’s name, go. I cannot bear to discuss 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.

As soon as he got home, Utterson sat down and wrote to Jekyll, complaining about being turned away from his house. He also asked what had caused the unhappy break with Lanyon. The next day, he received a long reply, often deeply sorrowful and sometimes darkly mysterious in meaning. The rift with Lanyon could never be healed. “I do not blame our old friend,” Jekyll wrote, “but I agree with him that we must never meet again. From now on, I intend to live in almost complete isolation. You must not be surprised if my door is often closed even to you, nor doubt my friendship. You must let me follow my own dark path. I have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If I am the greatest of sinners, I am also the greatest of sufferers. I never imagined that this earth could hold suffering and terror so devastating. And you can do only one thing, Utterson, to ease my fate: respect my silence.” Utterson was astonished. Hyde’s dark influence had been removed, and the doctor had returned to his old work and friendships. A week ago, his future had seemed full of promise for a happy and respected old age. And now, in a moment, his friendships, his peace of mind, and his whole way of life lay in ruins. So great and unexpected a change suggested madness. But Lanyon’s manner and words suggested that there must be some deeper reason.

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 bracketed. 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.

A week later, Dr. Lanyon took to his bed. In just under two weeks, he was dead. Utterson was deeply saddened at the funeral. The following night, he locked the door of his office and sat in the gloomy light of a candle. He took out an envelope and placed it before him. His dead friend had addressed it in his own handwriting and sealed it with his personal seal. “PRIVATE: for G. J. Utterson ALONE, and if he dies first, to be destroyed unread,” the envelope firmly declared. The lawyer dreaded reading its contents. “I have buried one friend today,” he thought. “What if this should cost me another?” Then he condemned his fear as disloyal and broke the seal. Inside was another sealed packet, marked “not to be opened until the death or disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll.” Utterson could not believe his eyes. Yes, the word was disappearance. Once again, Henry Jekyll’s name was linked with the idea of a disappearance. The same link had appeared in the mad will he had long ago returned to its author. But in the will, the idea had come from the sinister suggestion of the man Hyde. The purpose of putting it there had been all too clear and horrible. What could the same idea mean when written in Lanyon’s hand? Utterson felt a powerful urge to ignore the instruction and get straight to the bottom of these mysteries. But his professional honor and loyalty to his dead friend bound him firmly. And the packet lay undisturbed in the deepest 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.

It is one thing to suppress curiosity, another to overcome it. And from that day on, Utterson may not have wanted his surviving friend’s company as eagerly as before. He thought kindly of his friend, but those thoughts troubled and frightened him. He did go to visit, but perhaps he was relieved when he was not allowed in. Perhaps, deep down, he preferred talking to Poole on the doorstep, surrounded by the air and sounds of the city. He may have preferred that to entering the house where his friend willingly shut himself away. Inside, he would have to sit and talk with a man who lived in seclusion and remained impossible to understand. Poole, indeed, had no very pleasant news to share. The doctor, apparently, now shut himself away more than ever in the private room above the laboratory. Sometimes he even slept there. He was in low spirits, had become very quiet, and did not read. He seemed to have something on his mind. Utterson grew so used to hearing the same reports that, little by little, he visited less often.