The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Capítulo 1

STORY OF THE DOOR

Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance that was

never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse;

backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary and yet somehow

lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste,

something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which

never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these

silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in

the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he

was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the

theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had

an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with

envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and

in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. “I incline to

Cain’s heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my brother go to the

devil in his own way.” In this character, it was frequently his fortune

to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in

the lives of downgoing men. And to such as these, so long as they came

about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.

No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative

at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar

catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept

his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that

was the lawyer’s way. His friends were those of his own blood or those

whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the

growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt

the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman,

the well-known man about town. It was a nut to crack for many, what

these two could see in each other, or what subject they could find in

common. It was reported by those who encountered them in their Sunday

walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull and would hail

with obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two

men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief

jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, but

even resisted the calls of business, that they might enjoy them

uninterrupted.

It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a

by-street in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is

called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the weekdays. The

inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all emulously hoping to

do better still, and laying out the surplus of their gains in coquetry;

so that the shop fronts stood along that thoroughfare with an air of

invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when it

veiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively empty of passage,

the street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighbourhood, like a fire

in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished

brasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught

and pleased the eye of the passenger.

Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east the line was

broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point a certain

sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the street. It

was two storeys high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower

storey and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and bore

in every feature, the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence. The

door, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker, was blistered

and distained. Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on

the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had tried

his knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no one had

appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their

ravages.

Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but

when they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his cane and

pointed.

“Did you ever remark that door?” he asked; and when his companion had

replied in the affirmative, “It is connected in my mind,” added he,

“with a very odd story.”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, “and what

was that?”

“Well, it was this way,” returned Mr. Enfield: “I was coming home from

some place at the end of the world, about three o’clock of a black

winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there was

literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street after street and all the

folks asleep—street after street, all lighted up as if for a procession

and all as empty as a church—till at last I got into that state of mind

when a man listens and listens and begins to long for the sight of a

policeman. All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was

stumping along eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe

eight or ten who was running as hard as she was able down a cross

street. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the

corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man

trampled calmly over the child’s body and left her screaming on the

ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see. It wasn’t

like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a few halloa,

took to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought him back to where

there was already quite a group about the screaming child. He was

perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look, so ugly

that it brought out the sweat on me like running. The people who had

turned out were the girl’s own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for

whom she had been sent, put in his appearance. Well, the child was not

much the worse, more frightened, according to the sawbones; and there

you might have supposed would be an end to it. But there was one

curious circumstance. I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first

sight. So had the child’s family, which was only natural. But the

doctor’s case was what struck me. He was the usual cut and dry

apothecary, of no particular age and colour, with a strong Edinburgh

accent and about as emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like the

rest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner, I saw that sawbones

turn sick and white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in his

mind, just as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the

question, we did the next best. We told the man we could and would make

such a scandal out of this as should make his name stink from one end

of London to the other. If he had any friends or any credit, we

undertook that he should lose them. And all the time, as we were

pitching it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him as best we

could for they were as wild as harpies. I never saw a circle of such

hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of

black sneering coolness—frightened too, I could see that—but carrying

it off, sir, really like Satan. ‘If you choose to make capital out of

this accident,’ said he, ‘I am naturally helpless. No gentleman but

wishes to avoid a scene,’ says he. ‘Name your figure.’ Well, we screwed

him up to a hundred pounds for the child’s family; he would have

clearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot of us

that meant mischief, and at last he struck. The next thing was to get

the money; and where do you think he carried us but to that place with

the door?—whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back with the

matter of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on Coutts’s,

drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can’t mention,

though it’s one of the points of my story, but it was a name at least

very well known and often printed. The figure was stiff; but the

signature was good for more than that if it was only genuine. I took

the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole business

looked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a

cellar door at four in the morning and come out with another man’s

cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and

sneering. ‘Set your mind at rest,’ says he, ‘I will stay with you till

the banks open and cash the cheque myself.’ So we all set off, the

doctor, and the child’s father, and our friend and myself, and passed

the rest of the night in my chambers; and next day, when we had

breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I gave in the cheque myself,

and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery. Not a bit of

it. The cheque was genuine.”

“Tut-tut!” said Mr. Utterson.

“I see you feel as I do,” said Mr. Enfield. “Yes, it’s a bad story. For

my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a really

damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the very pink of

the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it worse) one of your

fellows who do what they call good. Blackmail, I suppose; an honest man

paying through the nose for some of the capers of his youth. Black Mail

House is what I call the place with the door, in consequence. Though

even that, you know, is far from explaining all,” he added, and with

the words fell into a vein of musing.

From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: “And

you don’t know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?”

“A likely place, isn’t it?” returned Mr. Enfield. “But I happen to have

noticed his address; he lives in some square or other.”

“And you never asked about the—place with the door?” said Mr. Utterson.

“No, sir; I had a delicacy,” was the reply. “I feel very strongly about

putting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the day of

judgment. You start a question, and it’s like starting a stone. You sit

quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others;

and presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of)

is knocked on the head in his own back garden and the family have to

change their name. No sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks

like Queer Street, the less I ask.”

“A very good rule, too,” said the lawyer.

“But I have studied the place for myself,” continued Mr. Enfield. “It

seems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes in or

out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of my

adventure. There are three windows looking on the court on the first

floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they’re clean. And

then there is a chimney which is generally smoking; so somebody must

live there. And yet it’s not so sure; for the buildings are so packed

together about the court, that it’s hard to say where one ends and

another begins.”

The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then “Enfield,”

said Mr. Utterson, “that’s a good rule of yours.”

“Yes, I think it is,” returned Enfield.

“But for all that,” continued the lawyer, “there’s one point I want to

ask. I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the child.”

“Well,” said Mr. Enfield, “I can’t see what harm it would do. It was a

man of the name of Hyde.”

“Hm,” said Mr. Utterson. “What sort of a man is he to see?”

“He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his

appearance; something displeasing, something down-right detestable. I

never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be

deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I

couldn’t specify the point. He’s an extraordinary looking man, and yet

I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no hand

of it; I can’t describe him. And it’s not want of memory; for I declare

I can see him this moment.”

Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a

weight of consideration. “You are sure he used a key?” he inquired at

last.

“My dear sir...” began Enfield, surprised out of himself.

“Yes, I know,” said Utterson; “I know it must seem strange. The fact

is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is because I

know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone home. If you have

been inexact in any point you had better correct it.”

“I think you might have warned me,” returned the other with a touch of

sullenness. “But I have been pedantically exact, as you call it. The

fellow had a key; and what’s more, he has it still. I saw him use it

not a week ago.”

Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word; and the young man

presently resumed. “Here is another lesson to say nothing,” said he. “I

am ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain never to refer to

this again.”

“With all my heart,” said the lawyer. “I shake hands on that, Richard.”

SEARCH FOR MR. HYDE

That evening Mr. Utterson came home to his bachelor house in sombre

spirits and sat down to dinner without relish. It was his custom of a

Sunday, when this meal was over, to sit close by the fire, a volume of

some dry divinity on his reading desk, until the clock of the

neighbouring church rang out the hour of twelve, when he would go

soberly and gratefully to bed. On this night however, as soon as the

cloth was taken away, he took up a candle and went into his business

room. There he opened his safe, took from the most private part of it a

document endorsed on the envelope as Dr. Jekyll’s Will and sat down

with a clouded brow to study its contents. The will was holograph, for

Mr. Utterson though he took charge of it now that it was made, had

refused to lend the least assistance in the making of it; it provided

not only that, in case of the decease of Henry Jekyll, M.D., D.C.L.,

L.L.D., F.R.S., etc., all his possessions were to pass into the hands

of his “friend and benefactor Edward Hyde,” but that in case of Dr.

Jekyll’s “disappearance or unexplained absence for any period exceeding

three calendar months,” the said Edward Hyde should step into the said

Henry Jekyll’s shoes without further delay and free from any burthen or

obligation beyond the payment of a few small sums to the members of the

doctor’s household. This document had long been the lawyer’s eyesore.

It offended him both as a lawyer and as a lover of the sane and

customary sides of life, to whom the fanciful was the immodest. And

hitherto it was his ignorance of Mr. Hyde that had swelled his

indignation; now, by a sudden turn, it was his knowledge. It was

already bad enough when the name was but a name of which he could learn

no more. It was worse when it began to be clothed upon with detestable

attributes; and out of the shifting, insubstantial mists that had so

long baffled his eye, there leaped up the sudden, definite presentment

of a fiend.

“I thought it was madness,” he said, as he replaced the obnoxious paper

in the safe, “and now I begin to fear it is disgrace.”

With that he blew out his candle, put on a greatcoat, and set forth in

the direction of Cavendish Square, that citadel of medicine, where his

friend, the great Dr. Lanyon, had his house and received his crowding

patients. “If anyone knows, it will be Lanyon,” he had thought.

The solemn butler knew and welcomed him; he was subjected to no stage

of delay, but ushered direct from the door to the dining-room where Dr.

Lanyon sat alone over his wine. This was a hearty, healthy, dapper,

red-faced gentleman, with a shock of hair prematurely white, and a

boisterous and decided manner. At sight of Mr. Utterson, he sprang up

from his chair and welcomed him with both hands. The geniality, as was

the way of the man, was somewhat theatrical to the eye; but it reposed

on genuine feeling. For these two were old friends, old mates both at

school and college, both thorough respectors of themselves and of each

other, and what does not always follow, men who thoroughly enjoyed each

other’s company.

After a little rambling talk, the lawyer led up to the subject which so

disagreeably preoccupied his mind.

“I suppose, Lanyon,” said he, “you and I must be the two oldest friends

that Henry Jekyll has?”

“I wish the friends were younger,” chuckled Dr. Lanyon. “But I suppose

we are. And what of that? I see little of him now.”

“Indeed?” said Utterson. “I thought you had a bond of common interest.”

“We had,” was the reply. “But it is more than ten years since Henry

Jekyll became too fanciful for me. He began to go wrong, wrong in mind;

and though of course I continue to take an interest in him for old

sake’s sake, as they say, I see and I have seen devilish little of the

man. Such unscientific balderdash,” added the doctor, flushing suddenly

purple, “would have estranged Damon and Pythias.”

This little spirit of temper was somewhat of a relief to Mr. Utterson.

“They have only differed on some point of science,” he thought; and

being a man of no scientific passions (except in the matter of

conveyancing), he even added: “It is nothing worse than that!” He gave

his friend a few seconds to recover his composure, and then approached

the question he had come to put. “Did you ever come across a protégé

of his—one Hyde?” he asked.

“Hyde?” repeated Lanyon. “No. Never heard of him. Since my time.”

That was the amount of information that the lawyer carried back with

him to the great, dark bed on which he tossed to and fro, until the

small hours of the morning began to grow large. It was a night of

little ease to his toiling mind, toiling in mere darkness and besieged

by questions.

Six o’clock struck on the bells of the church that was so conveniently

near to Mr. Utterson’s dwelling, and still he was digging at the

problem. Hitherto it had touched him on the intellectual side alone;

but now his imagination also was engaged, or rather enslaved; and as he

lay and tossed in the gross darkness of the night and the curtained

room, Mr. Enfield’s tale went by before his mind in a scroll of lighted

pictures. He would be aware of the great field of lamps of a nocturnal

city; then of the figure of a man walking swiftly; then of a child

running from the doctor’s; and then these met, and that human

Juggernaut trod the child down and passed on regardless of her screams.

Or else he would see a room in a rich house, where his friend lay

asleep, dreaming and smiling at his dreams; and then the door of that

room would be opened, the curtains of the bed plucked apart, the

sleeper recalled, and lo! there would stand by his side a figure to

whom power was given, and even at that dead hour, he must rise and do

its bidding. The figure in these two phases haunted the lawyer all

night; and if at any time he dozed over, it was but to see it glide

more stealthily through sleeping houses, or move the more swiftly and

still the more swiftly, even to dizziness, through wider labyrinths of

lamplighted city, and at every street corner crush a child and leave

her screaming. And still the figure had no face by which he might know

it; even in his dreams, it had no face, or one that baffled him and

melted before his eyes; and thus it was that there sprang up and grew

apace in the lawyer’s mind a singularly strong, almost an inordinate,

curiosity to behold the features of the real Mr. Hyde. If he could but

once set eyes on him, he thought the mystery would lighten and perhaps

roll altogether away, as was the habit of mysterious things when well

examined. He might see a reason for his friend’s strange preference or

bondage (call it which you please) and even for the startling clause of

the will. At least it would be a face worth seeing: the face of a man

who was without bowels of mercy: a face which had but to show itself to

raise up, in the mind of the unimpressionable Enfield, a spirit of

enduring hatred.

From that time forward, Mr. Utterson began to haunt the door in the

by-street of shops. In the morning before office hours, at noon when

business was plenty and time scarce, at night under the face of the

fogged city moon, by all lights and at all hours of solitude or

concourse, the lawyer was to be found on his chosen post.

“If he be Mr. Hyde,” he had thought, “I shall be Mr.