HENRY JEKYLL’S FULL STATEMENT OF THE CASE

von Robert Louis Stevenson

I was born in the year 18— into a vast fortune, blessed with remarkable talents and a natural inclination toward hard work. I craved the respect of the wise and good among my peers, and it seemed, as one might expect, that I had every promise of a distinguished future ahead of me.

Yet, my greatest flaw was a certain restless cheerfulness, a quality that brought joy to many but clashed with my intense desire to maintain a dignified demeanor and a serious expression in public. Because of this, I learned to hide my joys. As I grew older and began to reflect on my life and my place in the world, I found myself trapped in a profound duplicity. Many would have flaunted the irregularities I indulged in, but my lofty ambitions filled me with a deep sense of shame about them.

It was not merely the nature of my faults that shaped me, but rather the demanding nature of my aspirations, which created a deeper divide within me than most people experience. This internal conflict forced me to contemplate the harsh realities of life, which lie at the heart of religion and are a source of great distress. Despite being a master of duality, I was no hypocrite; both sides of me were genuine. I was no less myself when I surrendered to my shame than when I worked openly to advance knowledge or alleviate suffering.

Interestingly, the focus of my scientific studies, which leaned heavily toward the mystical and transcendental, illuminated my awareness of this ongoing battle within me. Each day, from both my moral and intellectual sides, I drew closer to a truth that would ultimately lead to my downfall: that man is not truly one, but rather two. I say two because my understanding does not extend beyond that point. Others will come after me, some surpassing me in this exploration, and I suspect that humanity will eventually be recognized as a collection of diverse, conflicting, and independent beings.

For my part, due to the nature of my life, I moved steadily in one direction only. It was on the moral side that I began to recognize the fundamental duality of man. I realized that of the two natures battling within my consciousness, I could only claim to be either because I was inherently both. Even before my scientific discoveries hinted at the possibility of such a separation, I often found myself daydreaming about the idea of splitting these elements apart.

If each side could exist in its own identity, I mused, life would be free of its unbearable burdens. The unjust could live unencumbered by the aspirations and regrets of their more virtuous counterpart, while the just could pursue their path with confidence, doing good without the shame and guilt imposed by their darker side. It was humanity's curse that these conflicting parts were bound together, that within the tortured depths of consciousness, these opposing forces were locked in a constant struggle. But how could they be separated?

I was deep in thought when a flickering light from the lab table caught my attention. It struck me in a way I had never fully grasped before—the fragile, almost ghostly nature of the solid body we inhabit. I discovered that certain substances had the power to peel back that fleshly exterior, much like a gust of wind might lift the curtains of a tent.

For two reasons, I won’t delve too deeply into this scientific aspect of my confession. First, I’ve learned that the weight of our existence is something we must bear alone. When we try to shake it off, it only returns, heavier and more unfamiliar. Second, as my story will sadly reveal, my findings were far from complete. It’s enough to say that I not only recognized my physical body through the mere glow of certain elements of my spirit, but I also managed to create a potion that could dethrone those elements from their dominance, allowing a different form and face to emerge—one that, while still natural to me, reflected the darker aspects of my soul.

I hesitated for a long time before putting this theory into practice. I knew I was risking my life; any drug that could so profoundly alter the very essence of who I was could easily erase my identity with just a slight miscalculation or a moment's hesitation. But the allure of such a groundbreaking discovery eventually outweighed my fears. I had prepared my tincture long ago and, without delay, purchased a large quantity of a specific salt from a wholesale chemist—an ingredient I knew was crucial from my experiments. Late one fateful night, I mixed the components, watching them bubble and smoke in the glass. Once the chaos settled, I steeled my nerves and drank the potion.

What followed were agonizing pains: a grinding in my bones, a wave of nausea, and a spiritual horror that surpassed anything felt at birth or death. But then, those torments began to fade, and I emerged from the depths of suffering as if recovering from a severe illness. There was something strange in my sensations—something indescribably new and, in its very novelty, intoxicatingly sweet. I felt younger, lighter, and happier in my body. Inside, I was aware of a reckless abandon, a torrent of disordered desires flooding my mind, a release from the chains of obligation, and a freedom for my soul that was thrilling yet not innocent. In that moment, I recognized myself as more wicked—ten times more wicked—enslaved to my original evil. The thought exhilarated me like fine wine. I stretched out my hands, reveling in these fresh sensations, and in that act, I suddenly realized I had shrunk in stature.

At that time, there was no mirror in my room; the one I now have was brought in later for the purpose of these transformations. The night was deep into the early hours of morning—dark as it was, it was almost ready to give way to dawn. The other residents of my house were locked in the deepest sleep, and I, filled with hope and triumph, decided to venture into my bedroom in this new form.

I crossed the yard, feeling as if the stars above were watching me, perhaps the first creature of my kind they had ever seen. I moved through the corridors, a stranger in my own home. When I reached my room, I finally saw my reflection as Edward Hyde for the first time.

I need to speak here from theory, sharing not what I know, but what I believe to be most likely. The darker side of my nature, which I had now given power to, was weaker and less developed than the good side I had just cast aside. Throughout my life, which had mostly been about effort, virtue, and self-control, this darker side had been less exercised and less worn out. This, I think, is why Edward Hyde appeared so much smaller, slighter, and younger than Henry Jekyll. Goodness radiated from one, while evil was starkly evident on the other’s face. Evil, which I still believe to be the more dangerous aspect of humanity, had left its mark of deformity and decay on that body.

Yet, when I gazed at that grotesque figure in the mirror, I felt no disgust; instead, I felt a strange sense of welcome. This was also me. It felt natural and human. In my eyes, it reflected a more vivid image of my spirit, more straightforward and unified than the flawed and divided face I had always known as mine. In that sense, I was undoubtedly correct. I noticed that when I took on the appearance of Edward Hyde, people instinctively recoiled from me at first. I believe this was because all humans are a mix of good and evil, and Edward Hyde, standing alone among them, was pure evil.

I lingered only a moment at the mirror; the final and decisive experiment still awaited. I had to see if I had lost my identity for good and would have to flee from a house that no longer felt like mine. Rushing back to my lab, I prepared and drank the potion once more, endured the agony of transformation, and returned to myself, once again embodying the character, stature, and face of Henry Jekyll.

That night, I stood at a fateful crossroads. If I had approached my discovery with a nobler spirit, if I had dared to experiment under the influence of generous or pious intentions, everything would have been different. From the agonies of death and rebirth, I could have emerged as an angel instead of a monster. The drug didn’t discriminate; it was neither purely evil nor entirely divine. It merely rattled the doors of my inner prison, and like the captives of Philippi, what was trapped inside burst forth. At that moment, my goodness lay dormant, while my darker side, awakened by ambition, was quick to seize the opportunity, and out came Edward Hyde. Thus, although I now had two identities and appearances, one was entirely evil, while the other was still the old Henry Jekyll, a confusing mix of traits I had already given up hope of reforming. The shift was entirely toward the worse.

Even then, I hadn’t overcome my dislike for the dry life of study. I still found moments of joy, and since my pleasures were, to say the least, undignified, my growing reputation as a respected and aging man made this inconsistency in my life increasingly unwelcome. It was this very aspect that tempted me with my newfound power until I became enslaved by it. I only had to drink the potion to shed the identity of the esteemed professor and slip into the skin of Edward Hyde like a heavy cloak. I found the idea amusing at the time, and I prepared for it with meticulous care.

I rented and furnished a house in Soho, where Hyde was eventually tracked down by the police, and I hired a housekeeper I knew to be discreet and unscrupulous. Meanwhile, I informed my staff that a Mr. Hyde, whom I described, would have full access and authority in my square house. To prevent any mishaps, I even made a point of being a familiar presence in my second identity. I also drafted that will you so strongly opposed, ensuring that if anything happened to Dr. Jekyll, I could seamlessly transition into Edward Hyde without any financial loss. With these precautions in place, I believed I was fortified on every side and began to take advantage of the strange freedoms my position afforded me.

Men have often hired others to carry out their crimes while keeping their own reputations intact. But I was the first to do this for my own pleasures. I was the first who could walk through the public eye, cloaked in a façade of respectability, and in an instant, like a schoolboy, shed that disguise and plunge headfirst into a sea of freedom. For me, wrapped in my impenetrable cloak, safety was absolute. Just think about it—I didn’t even exist! All I needed was to slip through the door to my laboratory, take a moment to mix and drink the potion I always had ready, and whatever Edward Hyde had done would vanish like a breath on a mirror. In his place, quietly at home, tending to the midnight lamp in my study, would be a man who could laugh at suspicion—Henry Jekyll.

The pleasures I rushed to seek in my disguise were, as I’ve mentioned, undignified; I could hardly call them anything else. But in the hands of Edward Hyde, they quickly began to twist into something monstrous. When I returned from these escapades, I often found myself in a state of disbelief at my own vicarious depravity. This familiar I had summoned from my own soul, sending him out to indulge his desires, was inherently evil and villainous. Every act and thought of his revolved around self-gratification, drinking in pleasure with a bestial eagerness, indifferent to the suffering of others. There were times when Henry Jekyll stood horrified at the actions of Edward Hyde, but the situation was beyond ordinary morality, insidiously loosening the grip of my conscience. It was Hyde, after all, who was guilty. Jekyll was no worse; he would wake up again with his good qualities seemingly intact, even rushing to undo the harm done by Hyde whenever possible. And so, his conscience remained at rest.

I have no intention of delving into the details of the infamy I thus aided (for even now, I can hardly admit that I committed it). I only want to highlight the warnings and the gradual steps that led to my punishment. I encountered one incident that, since it had no lasting consequences, I will only briefly mention. An act of cruelty toward a child stirred the anger of a passerby, whom I later recognized as your relative; the doctor and the child’s family joined him. There were moments when I feared for my life, and ultimately, to appease their justified outrage, Edward Hyde had to bring them to my door and pay them with a check drawn in the name of Henry Jekyll. But this danger was easily avoided in the future by opening an account at another bank under Edward Hyde’s name. Once I had awkwardly forged my own signature for my double, I thought I was beyond the reach of fate.

About two months before the murder of Sir Danvers, I had gone out for one of my adventures and returned late, waking the next day in bed with a strange sensation. I looked around, recognizing the respectable furniture and tall proportions of my room in the square, the familiar pattern of the bed curtains, and the design of the mahogany frame. Yet something insisted that I wasn’t where I thought I was, that I hadn’t woken up in my own bed but in the small room in Soho where I usually slept as Edward Hyde. I smiled to myself and, in my introspective way, began to lazily explore the elements of this illusion, occasionally drifting back into a comfortable morning doze.

I was still engaged in this when, during one of my more alert moments, my eyes fell on my hand. Now, the hand of Henry Jekyll (as you’ve often noted) was professional in shape and size; it was large, firm, white, and handsome. But the hand I saw, clearly illuminated in the yellow light of a mid-London morning, lying half-open on the bedclothes, was lean, veiny, knuckly, of a dusky pallor, and thickly covered with dark hair. It was the hand of Edward Hyde.

I must have stared at my reflection for almost half a minute, lost in a daze of wonder, before a sudden wave of terror crashed over me like the sound of cymbals. I sprang from my bed and rushed to the mirror. The sight that greeted me turned my blood to something thin and icy. I had gone to bed as Henry Jekyll, but I had awakened as Edward Hyde. How could this be explained? I wondered, and then, with another surge of panic—how could it be fixed?

It was already late morning; the servants were up. All my supplies were locked away in the cabinet, a long trek down two flights of stairs, through the back passage, across the open courtyard, and into the anatomical theater where I stood, paralyzed with horror. I could cover my face, but what good would that do when I couldn’t hide the change in my height? Then, a wave of relief washed over me as I remembered that the servants were already accustomed to the comings and goings of my other self.

I quickly dressed in clothes that fit me better and made my way through the house. Bradshaw stared and recoiled at the sight of Mr. Hyde at such an hour and in such odd attire. Ten minutes later, Dr. Jekyll had returned to his own form and was sitting down, brow furrowed, pretending to eat breakfast.

My appetite was almost nonexistent. This inexplicable incident, this reversal of my previous experience, felt like the Babylonian finger on the wall, spelling out the letters of my judgment. I began to reflect more seriously than ever on the implications and possibilities of my dual existence. The part of me that I could project had been increasingly active and nourished; it felt as if Edward Hyde had grown in stature, as though, when I inhabited that form, I was aware of a more vigorous flow of blood. I started to sense a danger: if this continued, I might permanently lose the balance of my nature, forfeit my ability to change at will, and become irrevocably Hyde.

The power of the drug had not always been reliable. Early in my experiments, it had completely failed me; since then, I had found myself needing to double, and once, at great risk, to triple the dosage. These rare uncertainties had cast the only shadow over my contentment. However, in light of that morning’s incident, I realized that while it had once been difficult to shed Jekyll’s form, it had recently shifted to the opposite side. Everything pointed to the fact that I was slowly losing my original and better self, becoming more intertwined with my darker half.

Now, I felt I had to make a choice. My two natures shared memories, but all other qualities were unequally divided. Jekyll, who was a blend of both, experienced the pleasures and adventures of Hyde with a mix of sensitivity and greedy enjoyment. But Hyde was indifferent to Jekyll, remembering him only as a bandit recalls the cave where he hides from pursuers. Jekyll had a father’s concern; Hyde had a son’s indifference. To side with Jekyll meant abandoning the desires I had secretly indulged and recently begun to indulge more openly. To side with Hyde meant sacrificing countless interests and aspirations, becoming, in an instant and forever, despised and alone.

The choice seemed unfair, but there was another factor to consider: while Jekyll would suffer painfully from abstinence, Hyde would remain blissfully unaware of all he had lost. Strange as my situation was, the terms of this internal debate were as old and familiar as humanity itself; the same temptations and fears weigh on any sinner. And like so many others, I chose the better path but found myself lacking the strength to stick to it.

I found myself drawn to the elderly, discontented doctor, surrounded by friends and holding onto honest hopes. I said a firm goodbye to the freedom, the fleeting youth, the lightness of step, the impulsive joys, and the secret pleasures I had experienced while living as Hyde. I made this choice, perhaps with some unspoken hesitation, because I didn’t give up the house in Soho or destroy Hyde’s clothes, which still sat ready in my cabinet.

For two months, I stayed true to my decision. I led a life of strictness I had never known before, and I took comfort in the approval of my conscience. But over time, the sharpness of my fear began to fade. The praise of my conscience became routine, and I found myself tormented by the longings of Hyde, who was desperate for freedom. Eventually, in a moment of moral weakness, I once again mixed and drank the transforming potion.

I don’t think a drunkard, when reflecting on his vice, is often swayed by the dangers he faces due to his physical numbness. Similarly, despite my long contemplation of my situation, I hadn’t fully grasped the complete moral numbness and reckless readiness for evil that defined Edward Hyde. Yet, it was through these very traits that I was punished. My inner demon had been caged for too long, and when he broke free, he came out roaring.

Even as I took the potion, I felt a wild, uncontrollable urge to do harm. This must have stirred the storm of impatience within me as I listened to the civilities of my unfortunate victim. I swear, before God, that no morally sane person could commit such a crime over such a trivial provocation. I struck out with the same irrationality as a sick child breaking a toy. I had willingly stripped away all those instincts that help even the worst of us navigate temptation with some steadiness. In my case, to be tempted, even slightly, was to fall.

In an instant, the spirit of hell awakened within me and raged. With a thrill of glee, I attacked the helpless body, relishing every blow. It wasn’t until fatigue began to set in that I was suddenly pierced by a chilling wave of terror. Clarity returned; I realized my life was forfeit, and I fled from the scene of my excesses, both exhilarated and terrified, my craving for evil satisfied and ignited, my love for life heightened to its peak.

I rushed to the house in Soho and, to be absolutely sure, destroyed my papers. Then I stepped out into the lamplit streets, caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, reveling in my crime, light-headedly plotting future misdeeds, yet still hurrying along, listening for the footsteps of my pursuer. Hyde had a song on his lips as he prepared the potion, and as he drank it, he toasted the dead man. The pangs of transformation had barely subsided when Henry Jekyll, tears of gratitude and remorse streaming down his face, fell to his knees and lifted his clasped hands to God. The veil of self-indulgence was torn away. I saw my life in its entirety: from childhood, walking hand in hand with my father, through the self-denying struggles of my professional life, to the damned horrors of that evening.

I could have screamed. I wept and prayed, trying to drown out the flood of hideous images and sounds that my memory threw at me. Yet, even amid my pleas, the ugly face of my wrongdoing stared back at me. As the sharpness of this remorse began to fade, it was replaced by a sense of joy. The dilemma of my actions was resolved. Hyde was now impossible; whether I wanted it or not, I was confined to the better part of my existence. Oh, how I rejoiced in that thought! With what willing humility I embraced the restrictions of a natural life! With what sincere renunciation I locked the door I had so often passed through and crushed the key beneath my heel!

The next day, news broke that the murder had not gone unnoticed, that Hyde’s guilt was obvious to the world, and that the victim was a man of high standing. It wasn’t just a crime; it had been a tragic folly. I think I was relieved to know it; I think I was glad to have my better impulses reinforced by the fear of the gallows. Jekyll was now my sanctuary; if Hyde dared to show his face, the hands of all men would rise to capture and destroy him.

I made a decision to change my ways and make up for my past mistakes, and I can honestly say that this resolve brought about some good. You know how hard I worked in the last months of the previous year to ease the suffering of others. Much was accomplished, and my days passed quietly, almost happily. I can’t say that I grew tired of this kind and innocent life; in fact, I found myself enjoying it more each day. Yet, I was still haunted by my conflicting desires. As the initial sting of my remorse faded, the darker side of me, which had been indulged for so long and recently restrained, began to stir, craving freedom. I had no intention of bringing Hyde back to life; the mere thought of it sent me into a panic. No, it was my own self that I was tempted to toy with, and I ultimately succumbed to temptation as an ordinary sinner.

Everything has its limits; even the deepest well eventually runs dry. This brief surrender to my darker nature shattered the balance of my soul. Strangely, I wasn’t frightened; the fall felt natural, like a return to the days before my revelations. It was a bright, clear January day, the ground damp from melting frost, but the sky was cloudless. Regent’s Park was alive with the sounds of winter and sweet with the scents of spring. I sat on a bench in the sun, the animal within me savoring the memories, while my spiritual side felt a little drowsy, promising future remorse but not yet ready to act. After all, I thought, I was just like everyone else. I smiled, comparing my willingness to do good with the lazy cruelty of those who ignored the suffering around them. But just as that proud thought crossed my mind, a wave of nausea hit me, followed by a chilling dread. It passed, leaving me weak, and as that weakness subsided, I noticed a shift in my thoughts—an increased boldness, a disregard for danger, a loosening of my sense of duty.

I looked down at myself; my clothes hung loosely on my thin limbs, and the hand resting on my knee was corded and hairy. I was once again Edward Hyde. Just moments ago, I had been respected, wealthy, and loved, with a place set for me at the dining table at home. Now, I was a hunted man, homeless, a known murderer, and a prisoner of the gallows.

My mind wavered, but it didn’t completely abandon me. I had noticed before that in my second identity, my senses felt sharper, and my spirit was more resilient. So it was that where Jekyll might have faltered, Hyde rose to the occasion. My drugs were locked away in one of the cabinets in my lab; how could I get to them? That was the problem I grappled with, pressing my temples with my hands. The laboratory door was closed. If I tried to enter through the house, my own servants would turn me in. I realized I needed someone else’s help and thought of Lanyon. How could I reach him? How could I persuade him? If I managed to avoid being caught in the streets, how would I get into his presence? And how could I, an unwelcome and unknown visitor, convince the renowned physician to search through the study of his colleague, Dr. Jekyll? Then it struck me that one part of my original self remained: I could write in my own hand. Once I had that spark of inspiration, the path I needed to take became clear.

I quickly gathered my clothes, trying to make myself presentable, and hailed a passing cab. I remembered the name of a hotel on Portland Street and instructed the driver to take me there. When he caught sight of me, his amusement was hard to hide. I glared at him, filled with a surge of rage that made him lose his smile—thankfully for him, because I was just a moment away from dragging him down from his seat.

As I entered the hotel, I must have looked terrifying. The staff exchanged no glances, clearly intimidated by my presence. They hurried to take my orders, led me to a private room, and provided me with writing materials. The version of Hyde I was experiencing was new to me; he was consumed with a wild anger, teetering on the edge of violence, eager to cause pain. Yet, he was clever. With a tremendous effort, he managed to control his fury long enough to compose two crucial letters—one to Lanyon and the other to Poole. To ensure they were sent, he instructed that they be registered.

From that point on, he spent the day by the fire in the private room, nervously gnawing at his nails. He dined alone, surrounded by his fears, while the waiter visibly flinched under his gaze. As night fell, he slipped into a closed cab and drove aimlessly around the city streets. I say “he” because I couldn’t bring myself to say “I.” That creature was devoid of humanity; only fear and hatred lived within him. Eventually, sensing that the driver was becoming suspicious, he paid him off and stepped out on foot, still wearing those ill-fitting clothes, a target for anyone watching. Inside him, those two vile emotions raged like a storm.

He hurried through the darkened streets, haunted by his fears, muttering to himself and skirting the busier areas, counting down the minutes until midnight. At one point, a woman approached him, offering what I think was a box of matches. He struck her across the face, and she ran away in terror.

When I finally regained my senses at Lanyon’s place, the horror of seeing my old friend affected me, though perhaps not as much as the overwhelming disgust I felt for the hours I had just endured. Something had shifted within me. It was no longer just the fear of the gallows that tormented me; it was the dread of being Hyde that truly haunted me. I received Lanyon’s condemnation almost like a dream, and it was in a dreamlike state that I returned home and crawled into bed.

Exhausted from the day’s events, I fell into a deep, unbroken sleep, even the nightmares that tormented me couldn’t pull me from it. When morning came, I woke feeling shaken and weak, but also refreshed. I still loathed and feared the brute that lurked within me, and I hadn’t forgotten the terrifying dangers of the previous day. Yet, I was back in my own home, close to my supplies, and a sense of gratitude for my narrow escape shone brightly in my heart, almost rivaling the flicker of hope.

I was strolling casually across the courtyard after breakfast, enjoying the crispness of the air, when I was suddenly hit with those indescribable sensations that signaled a change was coming. I barely made it to the safety of my study before the familiar rage and chill of Hyde took over once again. This time, it took a double dose of the drug to bring me back to myself.

Sadly, just six hours later, as I sat staring into the fire, the familiar pangs returned, and I had to take the drug again. From that day on, it felt like I could only maintain the appearance of Jekyll through sheer effort, almost like a workout, and only with the immediate boost from the drug. At all hours, day or night, I would be seized by that premonitory shudder. Most troubling of all was that if I fell asleep, even for a moment in my chair, I would wake up as Hyde.

The constant threat of this transformation, combined with the sleeplessness I forced upon myself—far beyond what I thought any human could endure—left me a mere shadow of my former self. I was consumed by fever, weak in both body and mind, and fixated on one horrifying thought: the terror of my other self. When I did manage to sleep, or when the effects of the medicine faded, I would slip almost seamlessly into a state filled with terrifying images, a soul boiling with irrational hatred, and a body that felt too fragile to contain the wild energies of life. It was as if Hyde's power had grown stronger as Jekyll weakened.

The hatred between them was equal on both sides. For Jekyll, it was a primal instinct. He had witnessed the full deformity of the creature that shared his consciousness and was bound to him by death. Beyond those shared links, which were the most painful part of his suffering, he viewed Hyde—not just as a living being but as something hellish and unnatural. It was horrifying to think that the muck of the underworld could produce cries and voices; that shapeless dust could act out and sin; that what was dead and formless could take on the roles of life.

What was even more disturbing was that this monstrous horror was more intimately connected to him than a spouse, closer than his own eye; it lay trapped within his flesh, whispering and struggling to break free. At every moment of weakness, especially in the comfort of sleep, it would overpower him and take control of his life.

Hyde's hatred for Jekyll was different. His fear of the gallows drove him to commit a kind of temporary suicide, retreating to the role of a part rather than a whole person. Yet he despised the necessity of this retreat, resented Jekyll’s despair, and loathed the way he was viewed. This led to the cruel tricks he played on me—scribbling blasphemies in my own handwriting, burning letters, and destroying my father's portrait. If not for his fear of death, he would have long ago brought about his own ruin just to drag me down with him. But his love for life was remarkable. I go further: I, who shudder and freeze at the mere thought of him, find a strange pity for him when I think of the depth of his attachment and how he fears my ability to end his existence through suicide.

It’s pointless, and time is running out for me to extend this description; no one has ever endured such torment, and that should be enough. Yet, even in the midst of this suffering, I found a certain numbness of spirit, a grim acceptance of despair. My punishment could have continued for years, but then the final calamity struck, severing me from my own identity and nature.

My supply of the salt, which had never been replenished since my first experiment, began to dwindle. I ordered a fresh batch and mixed the potion; the bubbling began, and I saw the first change in color, but not the second. I drank it, but it had no effect. You’ll hear from Poole how I had London searched for a solution; it was all in vain. Now, I’m convinced that my initial supply was impure, and it was that unknown impurity that had given the potion its power.

About a week has passed, and I’m finishing this statement under the influence of the last of the old powders. This is it—the final time, barring a miracle, that Henry Jekyll can think his own thoughts or see his own face (how sadly changed it is!) in the mirror. I can’t delay too long in wrapping this up; if my narrative has managed to survive until now, it’s been a mix of careful planning and sheer luck. If the transformation hits me while I’m writing, Hyde will tear this to shreds. But if some time passes after I set it aside, his remarkable selfishness and focus on the moment will likely keep it safe from his animalistic rage.

The fate that looms over both of us has already altered and crushed him. In half an hour, when I take on that loathed persona again, I know I’ll be sitting in my chair, trembling and crying, or pacing this room—my last refuge—listening intently to every threatening sound. Will Hyde meet his end on the scaffold? Or will he find the courage to escape at the last moment? God knows; I’m indifferent. This is my true moment of death, and what comes next is about someone else entirely. So here, as I lay down the pen and prepare to seal my confession, I bring the life of that unfortunate Henry Jekyll to a close.