DR. LANYON’S NARRATIVE

von Robert Louis Stevenson

On January 9th, just four days ago, I received a registered envelope in the evening mail. It was addressed in the familiar handwriting of my colleague and old school friend, Henry Jekyll. I was quite surprised by this; we didn’t usually keep up a correspondence. In fact, I had just dined with him the night before, and I couldn’t think of anything in our recent conversations that would warrant such a formal communication.

As I opened the letter, my curiosity deepened. Here’s what it said:

“December 10th, 18—.

“Dear Lanyon,

You are one of my oldest friends. Although we’ve had our disagreements over scientific matters, I can’t recall any break in our friendship—at least not on my side. There’s never been a day when, if you had said to me, ‘Jekyll, my life, my honor, my reason depend on you,’ I wouldn’t have sacrificed my left hand to help you. Lanyon, my life, my honor, my reason are all in your hands; if you fail me tonight, I’m lost. You might think that after such a preface, I’m about to ask something dishonorable. Judge for yourself.

I need you to cancel all your plans for tonight—even if you’ve been called to the bedside of an emperor. Take a cab, unless your carriage is already at the door. With this letter in hand, drive straight to my house. Poole, my butler, has been instructed to expect you. You’ll find him waiting with a locksmith. The door to my cabinet needs to be forced open, and you’ll go in alone.

Once inside, open the glazed press (letter E) on the left side. If it’s locked, break it open. You need to pull out, exactly as it is, the fourth drawer from the top—or the third from the bottom, whichever you prefer. I’m in such a state of distress that I worry I might misdirect you, but you’ll recognize the right drawer by its contents: some powders, a vial, and a small notebook. Please bring that drawer back to Cavendish Square just as it is.

That’s the first part of what I need from you. Now for the second part. If you leave immediately upon receiving this, you should return long before midnight. I’m giving you some leeway, not only because unforeseen obstacles can arise, but also because it’s better to do this when your servants are in bed.

At midnight, I need you to be alone in your consulting room. You will admit a man who will come in my name, and you’ll hand him the drawer you’ve brought from my cabinet. After that, you will have done your part, and I will be forever grateful. If you want an explanation afterward, you’ll understand that these arrangements are crucial. If you neglect even one of them, as strange as they may seem, you could bear the weight of my death or the collapse of my sanity on your conscience.

I’m confident you won’t take this request lightly, but I can’t help feeling anxious at the thought of what might happen if you do. Picture me at this moment, in a strange place, overwhelmed by a darkness of distress that no imagination can exaggerate. Yet I know that if you serve me promptly, my troubles will fade away like a story that’s been told. Please, my dear Lanyon, help me and save me.

Your friend,

H.J.

P.S.—I had sealed this letter when a new wave of terror struck me. There’s a chance the post office might fail, and you won’t receive this until tomorrow morning. If that’s the case, please do my errand at your convenience throughout the day, and expect my messenger at midnight. It may already be too late by then, and if that night passes without incident, you’ll know you’ve seen the last of Henry Jekyll.”

As I read the letter, I couldn't shake the feeling that my colleague had lost his mind. But until I could prove that beyond any doubt, I felt obligated to follow his instructions. The more confused I was by the chaotic message, the less equipped I was to assess its significance. Ignoring such an urgent plea would carry serious consequences.

So, I stood up from the table, hailed a cab, and headed straight to Jekyll's house. The butler was already waiting for me; he had received a registered letter with instructions just like mine and had immediately called for a locksmith and a carpenter. The tradesmen arrived while we were still talking, and we all moved together to Dr. Denman’s surgical theater, which, as you probably know, conveniently connects to Jekyll’s private study.

The door was sturdy, and the lock was top-notch. The carpenter admitted that forcing it would be difficult and would likely cause a lot of damage, while the locksmith was nearly at his wit's end. However, this locksmith was resourceful, and after two hours of work, the door finally swung open.

I unlocked the press labeled E, pulled out the drawer, filled it with straw, wrapped it in a sheet, and took it back to Cavendish Square.

Once there, I began to examine its contents. The powders were neatly packaged, but not with the precision of a professional chemist, making it clear they were Jekyll’s own creations. When I opened one of the wrappers, I found what looked like a simple white crystalline salt. Next, I turned my attention to a vial that was about half full of a blood-red liquid. It had a strong, pungent smell and seemed to contain phosphorus and some kind of volatile ether. I couldn’t identify the other ingredients.

The book was an ordinary ledger, mostly filled with dates. It spanned many years, but I noticed the entries stopped almost a year ago, and quite abruptly. Occasionally, a brief note accompanied a date, usually just a single word: “double” appeared perhaps six times among the several hundred entries, and once, very early on, I found “total failure!!!” marked with several exclamation points.

While this piqued my curiosity, it didn’t provide any clear answers. Here was a vial of some kind of salt and a record of experiments that, like too many of Jekyll’s pursuits, had led to no practical outcome. How could these items in my possession impact my colleague’s honor, sanity, or even life? If his messenger could reach one place, why not another? And even if there was some obstacle, why was this man to meet me in secret?

The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced I was dealing with a case of mental illness. I sent my servants to bed, but I loaded an old revolver, just in case I needed to defend myself.

Just after midnight, I heard a gentle knock on the door. I went to answer it and found a small man huddled against the pillars of the portico.

“Are you from Dr. Jekyll?” I asked.

He nodded stiffly in response, and when I invited him in, he hesitated, glancing back into the darkness of the square. A policeman was nearby, walking with his flashlight on, and I noticed my visitor flinch and quicken his pace at the sight of him.

These details unsettled me, and as I followed him into the bright light of the consulting room, I kept my hand near my weapon. Finally, I had a chance to see him clearly. I had never encountered him before, that much was certain. He was small, as I mentioned, but what struck me most was the disturbing expression on his face, the strange mix of physical strength and apparent frailty, and—most unsettling of all—the odd sense of unease he brought with him.

It felt like the early signs of a fever, and I noticed my pulse quickening in response. At the time, I attributed it to my own personal discomfort, but later, I came to believe that the cause ran much deeper, tied to some fundamental aspect of human nature, something more profound than mere dislike.

From the moment he walked in, this man sparked a mix of disgust and curiosity in me that I couldn’t quite shake. He was dressed in a way that would have made anyone else look ridiculous. His clothes, though made from fine, understated fabric, were comically oversized. His trousers hung loosely, rolled up to keep them from dragging on the floor, the waist of his coat sat far below his hips, and the collar flopped wide on his shoulders.

Strangely enough, instead of laughing, I felt a deep sense of unease. There was something fundamentally off about him—something unsettling and almost grotesque. His odd appearance only seemed to amplify that feeling, fueling my interest in who he was, where he came from, and what had brought him to my door.

These thoughts raced through my mind in just a few seconds, as my visitor radiated a tense, dark excitement.

“Do you have it?” he exclaimed. “Do you have it?” His impatience was so intense that he reached out and grabbed my arm, shaking me slightly.

I pulled back, feeling a chill run through me at his touch. “Please, sir,” I said, trying to maintain my composure. “You seem to have forgotten that we haven’t been properly introduced. Have a seat, if you don’t mind.” I gestured to a chair, taking my own seat in my usual spot, attempting to project the calm demeanor I typically showed to patients, despite the late hour, my preoccupations, and the dread I felt at his presence.

“I apologize, Dr. Lanyon,” he replied, his tone polite but urgent. “You’re right; my impatience has gotten the better of my manners. I’m here at the request of your colleague, Dr. Henry Jekyll, regarding something of great importance. I understood…” He hesitated, placing a hand on his throat, and despite his composed exterior, I could see he was battling a wave of hysteria. “I understood there’s a drawer…”

Feeling a mix of pity for his anxiety and my own growing curiosity, I decided to intervene.

“There it is,” I said, pointing to the drawer on the floor behind a table, still covered with a sheet.

He jumped to it, then stopped, placing a hand over his heart. I could hear his teeth grinding as he fought against his own tension, and his face turned ashen, making me worry for both his life and his sanity.

“Calm yourself,” I urged.

He managed a ghastly smile, and with a desperate resolve, he pulled the sheet away. When he saw what was inside, he let out a loud sob of relief that left me frozen in place. Then, regaining some control, he asked, “Do you have a graduated glass?”

I stood up with some effort and handed him what he requested.

He thanked me with a nod, measured out a few drops of the red liquid, and added one of the powders. The mixture, initially a deep red, began to brighten and bubble as the crystals dissolved, releasing small puffs of vapor. Suddenly, the bubbling stopped, and the concoction transformed into a dark purple, which gradually faded to a watery green. My visitor observed these changes with keen interest, smiled, set the glass down on the table, and turned to scrutinize me.

“And now,” he said, “we need to settle what’s left. Will you be wise? Will you let me take this glass and leave your house without further discussion? Or has your curiosity taken too strong a hold of you? Think carefully before you answer. If you choose to let me go, you’ll remain just as you are—neither richer nor wiser, unless you count the satisfaction of helping a man in dire need as a kind of wealth. But if you prefer, a whole new realm of knowledge and opportunities for fame and power will open up to you right here, right now. You’ll witness something that could shake the very foundations of belief.”

“Sir,” I replied, trying to sound calm even though I was anything but, “you speak in riddles, and I can’t say I’m inclined to believe you. But I’ve come too far into the realm of the inexplicable to stop now.”

“Very well,” my visitor said. “Lanyon, remember your vows: what follows is confidential. And now, you who have long been bound to narrow, material views, you who have dismissed the potential of transcendental medicine, you who have mocked your superiors—behold!”

He raised the glass to his lips and downed it in one swift motion. A cry erupted from him; he stumbled, grasped the table for support, and stared wide-eyed, gasping for breath. In that moment, I noticed something shift—he seemed to expand, his face turning an unnatural shade of black as his features twisted and morphed. Suddenly, I found myself on my feet, backing against the wall, arms raised instinctively to protect myself from this terrifying transformation. My mind was engulfed in fear.

“Oh God!” I shouted, repeating it over and over, because there, right in front of me—pale and trembling, half-faint and reaching out with his hands like a man returning from the brink of death—stood Henry Jekyll!

What he revealed to me in the following hour is something I struggle to put into words. I witnessed what I witnessed, I heard what I heard, and it made my soul recoil in disgust. Yet now, as that horrifying image fades from my memory, I find myself questioning whether I truly believe it, and I can't find an answer. My life feels uprooted; sleep has abandoned me; a deep-seated terror lingers beside me at all hours, and I sense that my days are numbered, that I am destined to die, yet I will die in disbelief. The moral depravity that man exposed to me, even as he shed tears of regret, is something I cannot recall without a jolt of horror. I will say only this, Utterson, and I hope you can accept it: the creature that crept into my home that night was, by Jekyll’s own admission, known as Hyde, and he was being hunted across the country as the murderer of Carew.

HASTIE LANYON.