In the year of 18–, I, Henry Jekyll, entered this world blessed with a substantial inheritance and a naturally inquisitive and industrious mind. Esteemed by my peers and driven by a desire for respect, my future seemed paved with honor and distinction. Yet, beneath this veneer of propriety, a certain levity resided within me, a joyous disposition that clashed with my ambition for public gravitas. This internal conflict led me to conceal my indulgences, fostering a life of profound duplicity from a young age. While others might flaunt such indiscretions, my lofty aspirations instilled in me a deep-seated shame, pushing me further into secrecy. It was not the severity of my faults, but rather the relentless demands of my ideals that forged this internal division, cleaving the realms of good and evil within my very being more sharply than in most. This inherent duality became the subject of intense contemplation, a relentless meditation on the fundamental law of life that underpins religion and is a wellspring of human anguish. Despite my deep deception, I was no hypocrite. Both facets of my nature were utterly sincere. The man who surrendered to base desires was as authentically me as the scholar dedicated to knowledge and the alleviation of suffering. My scientific pursuits, delving into the mystical and transcendental, illuminated this perpetual conflict within. Intellectually and morally, I was inexorably drawn to a profound truth, a truth whose partial unveiling has led to my devastating downfall: humanity is not singular, but fundamentally dual. I say dual, limited by the scope of my current understanding. Others, I believe, will surpass me, unveiling further complexities, ultimately revealing humanity as a mere collective of disparate, incongruous, and independent entities. My own path, dictated by my life’s trajectory, led me unidirectionally. It was within the moral domain, in my own person, that I recognized the intrinsic and primal duality of man. I observed that the two natures warring within my consciousness, if indeed either could truly define me, existed because I was fundamentally both. Long before my scientific explorations hinted at such a radical possibility, I had cherished the notion of separating these elements as a beloved fantasy. If each could inhabit distinct identities, I reasoned, life would be liberated from its unbearable burdens. The unjust could pursue their path unburdened by the aspirations and remorse of their virtuous counterpart, while the just could steadfastly advance, unblemished by the disgrace and penitence inflicted by this extraneous evil. It was, I believed, humanity’s curse that these discordant elements were inextricably bound, these polar twins perpetually struggling within the agonized womb of consciousness. The question then became: how could they be dissociated?
My reflections reached this juncture when, as mentioned, a scientific glimmer emerged from my laboratory. I began to grasp, with unprecedented clarity, the precarious immateriality, the ephemeral mist-like quality of this seemingly solid body we inhabit. Certain agents, I discovered, possessed the capacity to disrupt and peel back this fleshy facade, much like a gust of wind might billow pavilion curtains. I shall refrain from delving deeply into the scientific intricacies of this confession for two compelling reasons. Firstly, experience has taught me that the burden of our existence is eternally bound to humanity, and attempts to shed it only result in its return with intensified, more terrifying pressure. Secondly, as my narrative will tragically reveal, my discoveries remained incomplete. Suffice it to say that I not only distinguished my corporeal form from the mere aura and emanation of certain spiritual forces within me, but also successfully formulated a drug capable of dethroning these forces from their dominance, substituting a secondary form and countenance. This secondary form, while different, was no less intrinsic to me, as it was the embodiment and expression of the baser elements within my soul.
Hesitation plagued me before I dared to test this theory in practice. I was acutely aware of the mortal risk. A drug with such potent control over the very citadel of identity could, with the slightest miscalculation in dosage or timing, utterly obliterate the immaterial essence it was intended merely to alter. Yet, the allure of such a singular and profound discovery ultimately eclipsed my apprehension. My tincture had long been prepared. I promptly procured a substantial quantity of a specific salt from a wholesale chemist, an ingredient I knew, from prior experiments, to be the final component required. Then, on a fateful night, I combined the elements, watching them seethe and fume in the glass. As the effervescence subsided, fueled by a surge of courage, I consumed the potion.
The immediate aftermath was excruciating: bones grinding, a sickening nausea, and a spiritual horror surpassing even the throes of birth or death. These torments soon abated, and I regained consciousness as if emerging from a severe illness. An unfamiliar sensation permeated me, indescribably novel and, in its novelty, exquisitely pleasurable. I felt rejuvenated, lighter, physically invigorated. Internally, a reckless exhilaration surged, a torrent of disordered, sensual imagery coursing through my mind like a millrace, a dissolution of obligations, a freedom of the soul, unknown yet far from innocent. In that first breath of this new existence, I recognized myself as profoundly more wicked, tenfold more depraved, a willing slave to my primal evil. This realization, in that very moment, invigorated and delighted me like strong wine. I extended my hands, reveling in the novelty of these sensations, and in doing so, I abruptly became aware of a diminution in my stature.
At that time, my room lacked a mirror. The one that now stands beside me as I write was acquired later, specifically for these transformations. The night, however, was waning, the dawn, though still dark, was near at hand. The inhabitants of my house were deep in slumber. Fueled by hope and triumph, I resolved to venture in my altered form as far as my bedroom. I traversed the yard, where the constellations gazed down upon me, seemingly in astonishment, as if witnessing the first creature of my kind to be revealed to their eternal vigilance. I crept through the corridors, a stranger in my own abode, and upon reaching my room, I beheld for the first time the visage of Edward Hyde.
Here, I must resort to conjecture, not stating what I definitively know, but what I deem most probable. The malevolent aspect of my nature, now granted the power of expression, was less robust and developed than the virtuous side I had suppressed. Furthermore, my life, predominantly an endeavor of effort, virtue, and restraint, had afforded it far less exercise and consequently, less depletion. Thus, I surmise, Edward Hyde emerged as significantly smaller, slighter, and younger than Henry Jekyll. Just as goodness radiated from the countenance of the one, evil was boldly and unequivocally etched upon the face of the other. Evil, which I still believe to be the lethal aspect of humanity, had imprinted upon that body an aura of deformity and decay. Yet, as I gazed upon that grotesque effigy in the mirror, I felt no revulsion, but rather a surge of welcome. This, too, was undeniably me. It felt natural, human. In my estimation, it bore a more vivid representation of my spirit, seeming more genuine and unified than the flawed and divided countenance I had previously known as my own. And in this, I was likely correct. I have observed that in the guise of Edward Hyde, none could approach me initially without a palpable unease, a primal recoil. This, I believe, stemmed from the fact that all humans are, in their essence, a mixture of good and evil. Edward Hyde, uniquely among mankind, embodied pure, unadulterated evil.
My contemplation in the mirror was brief. The second, conclusive experiment remained. The question lingered: had I irrevocably lost my original identity, destined to flee my own home before daylight? Hurrying back to my laboratory, I once more prepared and drank the potion, once more endured the agonizing dissolution, and once more returned to myself, bearing the character, stature, and face of Henry Jekyll.
That night marked a critical juncture. Had I approached my discovery with a more noble spirit, had I undertaken the experiment under the sway of generous or pious aspirations, the outcome would have been vastly different. From those throes of death and rebirth, I might have emerged an angel instead of a fiend. The drug was indiscriminate, neither inherently diabolical nor divine. It merely unlocked the doors of my disposition’s prison, and like the liberated captives of Philippi, whatever resided within rushed forth. At that moment, my virtue lay dormant, while my ambition-fueled evil was alert and eager to seize the opportunity. The entity that materialized was Edward Hyde. Consequently, while I now possessed two distinct characters and appearances, one was wholly malevolent, and the other remained the same Henry Jekyll, that flawed composite whose reformation I had already despaired of. The trajectory was unequivocally towards the worse.
Even then, my aversion to a life of scholarly austerity persisted. I still experienced periods of merriment, and given that my pleasures were, to say the least, undignified, and considering my established reputation and advancing age, this incongruity in my life became increasingly problematic. It was this aspect that my newfound power tempted, ultimately leading to my enslavement. I merely had to consume the potion, to shed the persona of the esteemed professor and don, like a heavy cloak, the form of Edward Hyde. The notion amused me; it seemed humorous at the time. I meticulously made preparations. I acquired and furnished the house in Soho, later traced to Hyde by the police, and employed a housekeeper known for her discretion and lack of scruples. Simultaneously, I informed my household staff that a Mr. Hyde (whom I described) was to have unrestricted access and authority within my residence in the square. To preempt any unforeseen complications, I even made myself a familiar presence in my secondary guise. Next, I drafted the will that elicited your strong objections, ensuring that should anything befall Dr. Jekyll, I could seamlessly transition to Edward Hyde without financial repercussions. Thus fortified, as I believed, on all fronts, I began to exploit the peculiar advantages of my situation.
Men before me had employed hired thugs to execute their crimes, while their own reputation remained shielded. I was the first to do so for personal gratification. I was the first to be able to toil in the public eye, burdened by the weight of respectable geniality, and then, in an instant, like a schoolboy shedding his uniform, plunge headlong into a sea of licentiousness. For me, enveloped in my impenetrable cloak, safety was absolute. Consider this—I essentially ceased to exist! With a mere escape to my laboratory, a fleeting moment to mix and ingest the ever-ready draught, whatever transgression Edward Hyde had committed would vanish like breath on a mirror. And there, in his stead, peacefully at home, trimming his midnight lamp in his study, would be Henry Jekyll, a man who could scoff at suspicion.
The pleasures I eagerly pursued in my disguise were, as I have said, undignified. I hesitate to use a harsher term. Yet, in the hands of Edward Hyde, they swiftly descended into the monstrous. Returning from these excursions, I often found myself in a state of bewildered astonishment at my vicarious depravity. This familiar spirit I conjured from my own soul, dispatched to indulge its vile desires, was inherently malicious and villainous. His every action and thought revolved around self-gratification, deriving bestial pleasure from inflicting pain in any degree. Relentless, like a man of stone. Henry Jekyll at times stood aghast at the deeds of Edward Hyde, but the situation defied conventional moral frameworks, subtly eroding the grip of conscience. It was Hyde, after all, and Hyde alone, who bore the guilt. Jekyll remained untainted, awakening to his virtuous qualities seemingly undiminished. He would even hasten to rectify the evils perpetrated by Hyde whenever possible. And thus, his conscience remained dormant.
I have no intention of detailing the infamy I thus condoned (for even now, I can scarcely admit to having committed it). My purpose is merely to highlight the warnings and the progressive stages of my impending chastisement. One incident, inconsequential in its immediate aftermath, deserves mention. An act of cruelty towards a child ignited the fury of a passerby, whom I later recognized as your kinsman. The doctor and the child’s family joined him. Moments arose when I feared for my life. Ultimately, to appease their righteous indignation, Edward Hyde was compelled to lead them to my doorstep and compensate them with a cheque drawn in the name of Henry Jekyll. This danger was easily circumvented in the future by opening an account at another bank under the name of Edward Hyde. By manipulating my own handwriting, providing my alter ego with a signature, I believed myself to be beyond the reach of fate.
Approximately two months prior to the murder of Sir Danvers, I had ventured out on one of my nocturnal escapades, returning late and awakening the next day with peculiar sensations. I futilely surveyed my surroundings, the familiar furniture and lofty proportions of my room in the square. The pattern of the bed curtains, the design of the mahogany frame—all were recognizable. Yet, an insistent feeling persisted that I was not where I seemed to be, that I had not awakened in my accustomed place, but in the small room in Soho where I usually slept in Edward Hyde’s form. I chuckled to myself, and in my psychological manner, began to idly analyze the elements of this illusion, occasionally drifting back into a comfortable morning doze. In one of my more wakeful moments, my gaze fell upon my hand. Now, the hand of Henry Jekyll (as you have often remarked) was professional in shape and size—large, firm, white, and comely. But the hand I now beheld, clearly visible in the yellow light of a mid-London morning, resting half-closed on the bedclothes, was lean, corded, knuckly, of a dusky pallor, and thickly covered with coarse, dark hair. It was the hand of Edward Hyde.
I must have stared at it for nearly half a minute, lost in a stupor of disbelief, before terror erupted in my breast with the sudden, jarring force of crashing cymbals. Leaping from bed, I rushed to the mirror. The reflection that confronted me transformed my blood into something exquisitely thin and icy. Yes, I had retired as Henry Jekyll, and awakened as Edward Hyde. How was this to be explained? I questioned myself. Then, with another surge of terror—how was it to be rectified? It was well into the morning; the servants were awake. All my drugs were in the laboratory—a considerable journey down two flights of stairs, through the back passage, across the open courtyard, and through the anatomical theater, from my current location, paralyzed by horror. Concealing my face might be possible, but of what use would that be when I could not disguise the alteration in my stature? Then, with an overwhelming wave of relief, the realization dawned that the servants were already accustomed to the comings and goings of my second self. I hastily dressed as best I could in clothes of my own size, quickly traversed the house where Bradshaw stared and recoiled at seeing Mr. Hyde at such an hour and in such an unusual state. Ten minutes later, Dr. Jekyll had reverted to his original form and was seated, brow furrowed, feigning to eat breakfast.
My appetite was meager indeed. This inexplicable incident, this reversal of my prior experiences, seemed like the Babylonian inscription on the wall, spelling out the letters of my impending doom. I began to contemplate more earnestly than ever before the implications and potential outcomes of my dual existence. The aspect of myself I had the power to project had lately been extensively exercised and nourished. It seemed to me recently that Edward Hyde’s physique had grown in stature, as if (when I inhabited that form) I experienced a richer flow of blood. I began to discern a danger: if this continued unchecked, the equilibrium of my nature might be permanently disrupted, the ability to voluntarily transform forfeited, and the persona of Edward Hyde become irrevocably mine. The potency of the drug had not always been consistent. Once, early in my experiments, it had utterly failed. Since then, I had been compelled on multiple occasions to double, and once, at immense risk of death, to triple the dosage. These rare uncertainties had previously been the sole shadow on my contentment. Now, however, in light of that morning’s unsettling event, I was led to observe that while initially, the challenge had been to shed the body of Jekyll, it had lately, gradually but undeniably, shifted to the opposite. All indications pointed to this: I was slowly losing my grip on my original, better self, and progressively merging with my secondary, worse self.
I now felt compelled to choose between these two facets of my being. My two natures shared memory, but all other faculties were unevenly distributed between them. Jekyll (the composite) now, with both keen apprehension and a voracious appetite, envisioned and participated in the pleasures and exploits of Hyde. Hyde, however, remained indifferent to Jekyll, or remembered him only as a mountain bandit remembers the cave that shelters him from pursuit. Jekyll felt a paternal concern; Hyde, a son’s indifference. To align myself with Jekyll meant relinquishing the appetites I had long indulged in secret and had recently begun to pamper. To cast my lot with Hyde meant sacrificing countless interests and aspirations, becoming instantly and eternally despised and friendless. The bargain might seem unequal, but another consideration weighed heavily in the balance. While Jekyll would acutely suffer the pangs of abstinence, Hyde would be oblivious to all that he had lost. Strange as my circumstances were, the terms of this dilemma are as ancient and commonplace as humanity itself. Similar inducements and fears dictate the choice for any tempted and faltering sinner. And as with the vast majority of my fellows, I chose the better path but lacked the strength to adhere to it.
Yes, I opted for the aging and discontented doctor, surrounded by friends and nurturing honorable hopes. I resolutely bid farewell to the liberty, the relative youth, the light step, the impulsive urges, and the clandestine pleasures I had relished in Hyde’s disguise. Perhaps I made this choice with an unconscious reservation, for I neither relinquished the house in Soho nor destroyed Edward Hyde’s clothing, which remained readily accessible in my laboratory. For two months, however, I remained true to my resolve. For two months, I led a life of unprecedented austerity, enjoying the recompense of a clear conscience. But time began to dim the vividness of my alarm. The praise of conscience became commonplace. I began to be tormented by throes and yearnings, as if Hyde were struggling for liberation. Finally, in a moment of moral weakness, I once again compounded and consumed the transformative draught.
I doubt that a drunkard, contemplating his vice, is ever influenced by the physical dangers he courts through his brutish insensibility more than once in five hundred instances. Similarly, despite my extensive contemplation of my predicament, I had underestimated the utter moral insensibility and insensate inclination towards evil that characterized Edward Hyde. Yet, it was through these very traits that I was punished. My inner demon, long confined, emerged roaring. Even as I ingested the draught, I sensed a more unrestrained, more ferocious propensity for wickedness. It must have been this, I suppose, that ignited the tempest of impatience within me as I endured the civilities of my unfortunate victim. I declare before God, no morally sane individual could have committed that crime for such a trivial provocation. My attack was no more reasoned than a sick child shattering a toy. But I had voluntarily divested myself of all the balancing instincts that allow even the worst among us to navigate temptations with some semblance of stability. In my case, to be tempted, however slightly, was to succumb.
Instantly, the spirit of hell awakened within me and raged. In a transport of glee, I mauled the defenseless body, savoring delight with every blow. Only when weariness began to set in, in the very throes of my delirium, was I pierced to the heart by a cold thrill of terror. A fog dissipated. I recognized my life was forfeit and fled the scene of my excesses, simultaneously exulting and trembling, my lust for evil satiated and stimulated, my instinct for survival stretched to its utmost limit. I raced to the house in Soho and, to be doubly certain, destroyed my papers. Then I ventured out into the lamplit streets, in the same divided state of mind, reveling in my crime, lightheartedly plotting future transgressions, yet still hurrying and listening for the pursuing steps of justice. Hyde hummed a tune as he mixed the draught and, as he drank, toasted the deceased. The pangs of transformation had barely ceased tearing through him before Henry Jekyll, with streaming tears of gratitude and remorse, had fallen to his knees, lifting his clasped hands to God. The veil of self-indulgence was torn asunder. I saw my life in its entirety. I traced it back to childhood days, walking hand-in-hand with my father, through the self-denying labors of my professional life, to arrive repeatedly, with the same sense of unreality, at the damnable horrors of the evening. I could have screamed aloud. I sought with tears and prayers to quell the swarm of hideous images and sounds that assaulted my memory. Yet, even amidst my petitions, the grotesque visage of my iniquity stared into my soul. As the intensity of this remorse began to wane, it was replaced by a sense of joy. The problem of my conduct was resolved. Hyde was henceforth impossible. Whether I willed it or not, I was now confined to the better aspect of my existence. And oh, how I rejoiced at this prospect! With what willing humility I embraced anew the constraints of ordinary life! With what sincere renunciation I locked the door through which I had so frequently passed, grinding the key under my heel!
The following day brought news that the murder had not been overlooked, that Hyde’s guilt was evident to the world, and that the victim was a man of high public standing. It was not merely a crime; it was a tragic blunder. I believe I was relieved to learn this. I think I welcomed having my better inclinations thus reinforced and guarded by the terrors of the gallows. Jekyll was now my sanctuary. Should Hyde dare to emerge for even an instant, the hands of all men would be raised to seize and destroy him.
I resolved to atone for my past conduct in my future actions, and I can honestly say that my resolution bore some fruit. You yourself are aware of how diligently I labored to alleviate suffering in the final months of the past year. You know that much good was accomplished for others, and that my days passed peacefully, almost happily. Nor can I truthfully say that I tired of this virtuous and innocent life. I believe I grew to enjoy it more fully with each passing day. But I remained cursed with my duality of purpose. As the initial sharpness of my penitence dulled, the baser side of me, so long indulged, so recently restrained, began to stir with a yearning for release. Not that I contemplated resurrecting Hyde. The mere thought of that would send me into a frenzy. No, it was in my own person that I was once more tempted to trifle with my conscience. It was as an ordinary, clandestine sinner that I ultimately succumbed to temptation’s allure.
All things must eventually end. The most capacious vessel will eventually overflow. This brief lapse into my evil nature finally shattered the equilibrium of my soul. And yet, I was not alarmed. The relapse seemed natural, like a return to the familiar days before my discovery. It was a bright, clear January day, damp underfoot where the frost had thawed, but cloudless overhead. Regent’s Park was alive with winter chirping and subtly scented with spring. I sat in the sun on a bench, the animalistic part of me relishing the memories, the spiritual side slightly drowsy, promising future repentance, but not yet moved to begin. After all, I mused, I was like my neighbors. Then I smiled, comparing myself to other men, contrasting my active benevolence with the indolent cruelty of their indifference. And at the very moment of that vainglorious thought, a qualm seized me, a dreadful nausea, and the most violent shuddering. These sensations subsided, leaving me faint. As the faintness receded, I began to perceive an alteration in the tenor of my thoughts—a greater audacity, a disregard for danger, a loosening of moral constraints. I glanced down. My clothes hung loosely on my shrunken limbs. The hand resting on my knee was corded and hairy. I was once more Edward Hyde. Moments before, I had been assured of universal respect, wealthy, beloved—my dining table laid for me at home. Now, I was the common prey of mankind, hunted, homeless, a known murderer, bound for the gallows.
My reason wavered, but did not entirely desert me. I have often observed that in my secondary persona, my faculties seemed honed to a sharper point, my spirits more intensely resilient. Thus, where Jekyll might have succumbed, Hyde rose to the exigency of the moment. My drugs were in one of the presses in my laboratory. How was I to reach them? That was the problem that (pressing my temples in my hands) I set myself to solve. The laboratory door was locked. Attempting to enter through the house would result in my own servants delivering me to the gallows. I realized I must enlist another’s aid and thought of Lanyon. How was he to be contacted? How persuaded? Even if I evaded capture in the streets, how was I to gain access to his presence? And how could I, an unknown and unwelcome visitor, prevail upon the renowned physician to plunder the study of his colleague, Dr. Jekyll? Then, I recalled that one vestige of my original identity remained: I could still write in my own hand. Once this spark ignited, the path I must take became illuminated from beginning to end.
Thereupon, I adjusted my clothing as best I could and, hailing a passing hansom cab, directed the driver to a hotel in Portland Street, whose name I happened to remember. My appearance (undeniably comical, despite the tragic fate concealed beneath these garments) elicited unconcealed amusement from the driver. I gnashed my teeth at him with a surge of devilish fury, and the smile vanished from his face—fortunately for him—and even more so for myself, for in another instant, I would have undoubtedly dragged him from his perch. Upon entering the inn, my countenance was so menacing that the attendants trembled. Not a word was exchanged in my presence. They obsequiously obeyed my commands, led me to a private room, and provided writing materials. Hyde, facing mortal peril, was a creature new to me—convulsed by overwhelming rage, poised for murder, craving to inflict pain. Yet, the creature was also astute, mastering his fury with a monumental effort of will. He composed two crucial letters, one to Lanyon and one to Poole, and to ensure their delivery, he directed that they be registered. Subsequently, he remained by the fire in the private room throughout the day, gnawing his nails. He dined alone with his fears, the waiter visibly cowering before his gaze. When night had fully fallen, he departed in the corner of a closed cab, driven aimlessly through the city streets. He, I say—I cannot say, I. That offspring of Hell possessed nothing human. Fear and hatred were his sole inhabitants. And when, suspecting the driver was becoming suspicious, he dismissed the cab and ventured on foot, clad in his ill-fitting clothes, a conspicuous figure amidst the nocturnal passersby, these two base passions raged within him like a tempest. He walked swiftly, pursued by his fears, muttering to himself, skulking through less frequented thoroughfares, counting the minutes that separated him from midnight. Once, a woman addressed him, offering, I believe, a box of matches. He struck her in the face, and she fled.
When I regained consciousness at Lanyon’s, the horror of my old friend perhaps affected me somewhat—I cannot be certain. It was, at the very least, a mere drop in the ocean compared to the abhorrence with which I recoiled from those preceding hours. A transformation had occurred within me. It was no longer the fear of the gallows, but the sheer horror of being Hyde that tormented me. I received Lanyon’s condemnation partially in a dream. It was also partly in a dream that I returned home to my own house and went to bed. I slept after the day’s exhaustion, a profound and unyielding slumber that even the nightmares that plagued me could not disrupt. I awoke in the morning, shaken, weakened, but refreshed. I still loathed and dreaded the thought of the brute lurking within, and I had certainly not forgotten the terrifying perils of the previous day. But I was once again at home, in my own house and close to my drugs. Gratitude for my escape shone so brightly in my soul that it almost rivaled the intensity of hope.
I was strolling leisurely across the courtyard after breakfast, savoring the chill morning air, when I was again seized by those indescribable sensations that heralded the transformation. I barely managed to reach the sanctuary of my laboratory before I was once more consumed by the raging and chilling passions of Hyde. On this occasion, it required a double dose to restore me to myself. Alas, six hours later, as I sat gazing despondently into the fire, the pangs returned, and the drug had to be re-administered. In short, from that day forward, it seemed that only through a Herculean effort, as of gymnastics, and solely under the immediate influence of the drug, could I maintain the countenance of Jekyll. At all hours of the day and night, I would be overcome by the premonitory shudder. Above all, if I slept, or even dozed for a moment in my chair, I would invariably awaken as Hyde. Under the relentless strain of this ever-present doom and the self-imposed sleeplessness, exceeding even what I believed humanly possible, I became, in my own person, a creature ravaged and hollowed out by fever, languidly weak in both body and mind, consumed by a single thought: the horror of my other self. But when I slept, or when the drug’s effect waned, I would transition almost instantaneously (for the pangs of transformation grew progressively less pronounced) into the possession of a mind brimming with terrifying images, a soul seething with motiveless hatred, and a body that seemed barely capable of containing the surging energies of life. Hyde’s powers appeared to amplify with Jekyll’s decline in health. And certainly, the hatred that now divided them was mutual and equally intense. For Jekyll, it was a matter of vital instinct. He had now witnessed the full depravity of that creature who shared with him aspects of consciousness and was his co-heir to mortality. Beyond these shared connections, which in themselves constituted the most agonizing aspect of his distress, he regarded Hyde, despite his vitality, as something not merely infernal but inorganic. This was the truly horrifying aspect—that the slime of the abyss seemed to utter cries and voices, that amorphous dust gesticulated and sinned, that something lifeless and formless should usurp the functions of life. And further, that this insurgent horror was bound to him more intimately than a wife, closer than an eye, caged within his flesh, where he could hear it mutter and feel it struggle to be born, and at every moment of weakness, and in the unguarded state of slumber, it would prevail against him, displacing him from his own existence. Hyde’s hatred for Jekyll was of a different nature. His fear of the gallows drove him repeatedly to commit temporary suicide, reverting to his subordinate role as a part rather than a whole person. But he loathed this necessity, he loathed the despondency into which Jekyll had now fallen, and he resented the animosity with which he himself was regarded. Hence the apelike pranks he would play on me, scrawling blasphemies in my own handwriting on the pages of my books, incinerating letters, and destroying the portrait of my father. Indeed, were it not for his fear of death, he would have long since ruined himself to drag me down with him in his destruction. But his love of life is astonishing. I go further: I, who sicken and freeze at the mere thought of him, when I recall the abjectness and fervor of this attachment, and when I recognize how he dreads my power to extinguish him through suicide, I find it in my heart to pity him.
It is futile, and time is dwindling alarmingly, to prolong this account. No one has ever endured such torment—let that suffice. Yet, even to these agonies, habit brought—no, not relief—but a certain hardening of the soul, a grim acceptance of despair. My punishment might have persisted for years, were it not for the final calamity that has now befallen me, severing me irrevocably from my own face and nature. My supply of the salt, never replenished since the initial experiment, began to dwindle. I sent for a fresh supply and mixed the draught. The effervescence occurred, and the first color change, but not the second. I drank it, and it was ineffective. You will learn from Poole how I have had London scoured in vain. I am now convinced that my initial supply was impure, and that it was this unknown impurity that lent efficacy to the draught.
Approximately a week has elapsed, and I am now completing this statement under the influence of the last of the old powders. This, then, is the final time, barring a miracle, that Henry Jekyll can formulate his own thoughts or behold his own face (now so tragically altered!) in the mirror. Nor must I delay too long in concluding my writing. If my narrative has thus far escaped destruction, it is due to a combination of great caution and extraordinary luck. Should the throes of transformation seize me while I am writing, Hyde will tear it to shreds. But if some time has passed after I have set it aside, his remarkable selfishness and confinement to the present moment will likely preserve it once more from his apelike malice. Indeed, the doom that is closing in on us both has already altered and crushed him. Half an hour from now, when I shall again and forever reassume that detested persona, I know I shall sit shuddering and weeping in my chair, or continue, in a state of strained and fear-stricken ecstasy of listening, to pace back and forth in this room (my last earthly refuge), straining to hear every sound of impending threat. Will Hyde meet his end on the scaffold? Or will he find the courage to release himself at the last moment? God knows. I am indifferent. This is my true hour of death, and what follows pertains to someone other than myself. Here, as I lay down my pen and proceed to seal my confession, I bring the life of the unfortunate Henry Jekyll to its conclusion.
