Hyde

by Daniel Levine

  In the entrance hall Carew put out his spindly hand. Jekyll, he said.

  Sir Danvers. Jekyll slid into his grip, and then added out of nowhere, You know, I’m throwing a little dinner party this Friday.

  It was too much to process. This whole story of Emile Verlaine was also about us. I had accumulated over the years, like a dark pearl. I had been his whipping boy. Yet I had no desire to punish Jekyll. Quite the opposite, in fact: I wanted to protect him. He was the one taking all these risks, drawing these investigators into our sphere, flirting with exposure.

  He plunged ahead with the plans for his dinner party. He designed a menu with Fanny, the meaty, florid-faced cook. He ducked around the cobwebby wine cellar with Poole in search of special vintages. He selected glassware and silver. This dinner party had once been a regular tradition at Big House. The same six guests year after year: Utterson, Lanyon, Percy and Osgood from the Grampian, McClure from the fencing club, and Talbot. Talbot was now dead, but the other five were returning, with Carew making six. By Friday afternoon I was starting to writhe in my confinement. I missed my house, my bed, my Jeannie, even old Mrs. Deaker. My life felt far away, illusory, as if it were simply something I had dreamt one magnificent night.

  Resentfully I watched Jekyll button up his quilted waistcoat and draw on his lustrous cutaway tailcoat. He tugged the lapels and touched his cuffs, smoothed a palm across his impeccably parted hair. Minutes later he leant in the doorway of the card room downstairs.

  Poole was at the sideboard pouring wine from the bottles into carafes. The card room was scarlet with scalloped white trim. I had never seen it used before now. How’s the nose on that Lafite? Jekyll asked, strolling in. Poole twisted off the last drizzle of wine and handed the vase to Jekyll, who gave it a swirl and sniffed the spouted opening. He met Poole’s eyes over the crystal rim. Oaky, he said, handing it back. He gazed at the table, set for seven, the crimson napkins folded into flowers on each plate. Just like old times, eh, Poole? Yes, sir, Poole said. Just like them.

  Jekyll sat at the head, Utterson at his left hand and Lanyon at his right. I was very aware of Utterson. I could hear him eating, speaking with Carew to his left. A sustained chatter and clatter filled the card room. Jekyll propped his elbow on the padded arm of his chair and moved his fixed, pleasant smile around the table. But he was attending Utterson too. Utterson had been the last to arrive. When Jekyll had shaken his hand in the parlour, the solicitor had not met his eyes. He had continued to avoid Jekyll’s eyes all evening. Now Jekyll and I both watched him, his white tie ever so slightly askew, sombrely cutting his beef fillet and nodding at whatever Carew was saying. He felt our scrutiny. His eyes slid over. The pink glistened in his lower rims as he held the stare, chewing. He swallowed and tried a hesitant smile. Then Lanyon grabbed Jekyll’s right hand and squeezed.

  His face was red to the roots of his flaxen curls. Ho there, Old Gooseberry! D’you know I was remembering that the other day? I was with a patient, very bad case, and Old Gooseberry just popped into my head. I almost burst out laughing! Lanyon’s words were slurred, his voice too loud. Yes, Jekyll said distractedly, that must have been awkward. Harry! Lanyon cried, then hiccoughed and swayed in his chair. Harry, a toast! Give us a toast, would you? He turned to the table and announced, Eh, boys, how about a toast, what d’you say? A toast from the host! There was a short silence. Then Osgood and Percy and McClure filled it in: Oh yes, a toast, come on, Doctor, let’s see if you’ve lost your touch! Lanyon was chanting, Toast! Toast!, gavelling the table each time. Jekyll lifted his hand. All right, all right. He stood with his wineglass. Suddenly it was quiet. Every eye in the room was trained upon him.

  His voice was clear and calm. Friends. Old friends. And new. He nodded at Carew, who was watching, a finger to his lips. It has been too long. I was trying to determine it today. It was 1876. That was the last year we had dinner together like this, in this room. Nine years. I won’t pretend nothing has changed. These are the years when everything begins to change. We have amassed. And now we begin to lose. I don’t think it’s too much to say that each of us has lost something already. Loss is the nature of life. The inevitable rule. But that doesn’t mean we must be complacent. We can take things back. This, here, what we once had, we can reclaim, old friends. What is valuable, we must reclaim. Jekyll held the pause, staring into the candlelight. He lifted his wine. To friendship. To the end.

  A pure second of silence. Then Lanyon sobbed out a laugh and cried, Cheers! Everyone lifted his glass and together they all said, almost gravely, To friendship—and they drank. Jekyll looked down at Utterson and found a wary kind of wonder in his eyes. To your health, old friend. Utterson nodded once. Your health, Harry.

  During dessert Lanyon excused himself and didn’t return. Jekyll found him in the darkened drawing room at the other end of Big House. He was sitting on a sofa with his face in his hands, shaking. It’s no good, he moaned, waving off the handkerchief. It’s no good, please just leave me, Harry, I’m begging you. Jekyll helped him lie down, and Lanyon turned to face the back of the sofa. I’m so stupid, he said, groaning, so stupid, stupid. I just want her back. I want her to come back. Jekyll sighed, and then Lanyon reached and grabbed his wrist. Harry. He gasped. I—I should have—I—should have let you—His wine-stained mouth opened and closed like a fish’s, his eyes strained. It’s all right, Jekyll said. Everything is going to be all right.

  Everyone had moved to the parlour for cigars and brandy. After an hour the guests began to say their goodbyes, and Jekyll slipped away to check on Lanyon. He was sleeping on his side, curled toward the back of the sofa, lightly snoring. When Jekyll stepped out of the drawing room, he found Utterson and Carew alone in the main hall.

  They were at the far side, by the doorway to the entrance hall. Jekyll stood unseen by a large urn, straining to hear their murmuring. Carew was leaning into Utterson as he spoke, and Utterson looked away, listening, reluctantly it seemed, even leaning back a little, as if his shoes were nailed to the floor. They broke apart when Jekyll’s footsteps clicked across the marble floor. Your Dr. Lanyon, Carew said, he is feeling better, I hope? He’ll be fine. There was a pause. Well, Carew said, then this is good night. Thank you, Dr. Jekyll. I am flattered to have been included this evening. Mr. Utterson, always a pleasure. Jekyll showed him to the door, and when he closed it and turned, Utterson was behind him in the entrance hall. His eyes glimmered in the low firelight. He was breathing heavily through his nose. Come, John.

  In the parlour, the dirty glasses had been cleared and the ashtrays dumped out. A fuggy haze of cigars still hung on the air. Jekyll poured some port into a large snifter and handed it to Utterson, then dropped into one of the wingbacks before the fire. His pulse was knocking rapidly. Utterson’s shadow passed and then he sat in the other chair. The coals trickled like broken glass as they burned and popped. At last Utterson said, That was some toast you gave, Harry. Did you mean it? Yes. I did. You did. So that means you truly want your friends? Jekyll looked at him. Yes. I do. Then, Harry, let me be your friend. Let me be your friend and help you.

  Help me. What makes you think I need help, John? Because you do, Utterson said. I know you, Harry. As much as any man can. And I know something is not right. And we both know it’s to do with Edward Hyde.

  Jekyll gazed at his friend, tapping a finger on the leather. I heard about your introduction. He told me. I didn’t believe him at first. The idea of you lying in wait for him outside that door—I couldn’t quite imagine it. No? Utterson said. You couldn’t imagine it? How else was I supposed to meet the man, Harry? But why must you meet him? What does it matter? What does it matter? Utterson repeated incredulously. Harry, you’ve handed your entire life over to this man. If you disappear—that is your word, disappear—that man is meant to simply step into your life! Are you really asking what it matters if I meet him? Utterson’s face was thick with vehemence. He looked down into his port. It is not idle curiosity; I’m not snooping into your affairs, I never have.
But there is talk. Concerning Mr. Hyde. His behaviour, his character. I’ve heard things. Go on, Jekyll said. What things? Surely you know his character for yourself. I do. And I know how character is misconstrued by gossips. So please, enlighten me. No, this isn’t what I came to say. John, I want to know what you’ve heard. What behaviour? Oh, damn it, right outside your back door, Harry, the man tried to carry off a young girl, a child. Or so I heard. All right? Satisfied?

  Jekyll stared at him as a valve opened in the mind. Of course. Enfield. Richard Enfield, that little girl’s saviour. Utterson knew him. They were obscurely related, distant cousins. They took Sunday strolls together. Jekyll had met him years ago. This was how Utterson had known to wait outside the Castle Street door. He hadn’t heard it from Poole. Enfield had told him I’d gone in a back door and Utterson knew exactly what that door was.

  He was watching Jekyll’s reaction. Jekyll cleared his throat. Listen. I’ve heard this story too. He wasn’t trying to carry that girl off. That is a lie, I’m sure of it. You see, this is exactly what I mean about gossip, how character is—I don’t care, Utterson broke in, I’m not interested in the gossip either, as I told you. Harry, listen to me. This is what I came tonight to tell you. Whatever it is that you’ve done, I don’t care. Whatever led to this situation, whatever you did that brought him to you. I have never judged you; I have no right. Whatever it is that binds you to this man, I can help you break it. You don’t have to do this on your own. Harry, for God’s sake, let me help you!

  His face trembled, and Jekyll had to look away at the shining cap of his dangling shoe. For a long moment he could not speak. John, he said at last. I’m moved. Forgive me for my tone earlier. You are concerned, and that is a great comfort. To know that you would do everything in your power to help me. If I needed help. But as it happens, I do not. Edward Hyde has no hold over me. I am interested in him, and I want to see him succeed, reach his potential. The details of that will are peculiar, I admit, but there is reason, very good reason, behind it. I’m sorry I can’t explain it to you. But I can’t. Why? Utterson cried. Why can’t you? Because you will not understand. Don’t say that you will, because you won’t. It’s not your fault. Mr. Hyde is not a likable man. He disturbs people. I’m aware of that. Most people, almost all people, are repulsed when they flip over a large rock and see all the slimy things. People don’t want to be reminded that things can grow and thrive in such conditions. But that is how they were made. That is how they look. And to a certain eye, they look very interesting. So he is a scientific specimen, is that it? If you like. But a very rare specimen, in danger of extinction, without the—The support for him to flourish, yes, yes, Utterson interrupted wearily. He shook his head, glaring into the fire. Jekyll let him simmer a moment, then he leant forward and grasped Utterson’s forearm. Utterson looked at Jekyll’s hand, large-veined and firm, then up into his eyes. John, if you truly want to help me, if you want to give me peace of mind, then do this. Promise me you’ll see to my instructions if anything should happen. Promise you’ll see that he gets what I’ve left him. Trust that I know what I’m doing, and promise. That’s how you can help me.

  Slowly Utterson nodded, once, as if hypnotised.

  All right, he said. I promise.

  Day Two, Dusk

  The sky is bruised behind Big House’s silhouetted chimney stacks. Poole won’t be long with dinner now. Not that I could eat anything; my stomach still roils at the idea of food. But I’m starting to find comfort in his regularity. He is like the heart of a vast cuckoo clockwork, popping twice daily from the conservatory door with his domed silver tray. This morning, in fact, as I crept down the stairs to the breakfast tray on the middle step, I realised this ticking clockwork is the measure of my life. As long as Poole continues to ferry Jekyll’s meals across the courtyard, I am still alive.

  There is something distinctly ritualistic in it. Up to that exact middle step he climbs—the membrane between his world and mine—and then kneels to set down his offering, like the worshipper of some terrible god in his temple. He descends and retreats to the house, and the terrible god slinks from his lair to retrieve his bounty. For breakfast: a gelatinous egg, a ribbon of fatty rasher, a slice of char-grilled tomato, and a few small boiled potatoes wobbling about. I haven’t been able to eat, but I don’t want Poole to think Jekyll is starving himself, so I have been cutting everything up and tipping the plate out the window onto the gravel below, where Jekyll used to empty his chamber pot. (I suspect Poole has trained himself to ignore the mess along this side of the building, which he does not directly pass on his trips to and from the house.) Then I cover the plate and carry the tray back down the stairs, to the altar, for Poole to replace with dinner. A ritual. A cycle of life.

  See that he gets what I’ve left him.

  How prophetic the words sound now. As if he knew precisely what my inheritance would be. This. He left me this.

  After the party Jekyll guided Utterson from the parlour to the front door. The solicitor stood on the stoop, defeated and slumped, a gleam of petulance on his lower lip as he looked back at Jekyll in the doorway. Jekyll lifted his hand and closed the door, then went in search of Poole.

  Could not find him upstairs or downstairs. At last Jekyll went into the side parlour and up to the slit in the wall. He pushed and the panel clicked and fell open, and he drew the door wide enough to slip into the servants’ pantry. The long servants’ corridor ran down to the left, to the black courtyard door at the end, but instead Jekyll ducked through the narrow doorway to the right. A shorter corridor, with a single door at the end. Jekyll knocked, and after a moment Poole opened it. He was adjusting his cuffs, looking as if he’d just thrown on his jacket. His eyes changed immediately when he saw Jekyll standing there. Sir, forgive me, has Mr. Utterson gone?

  Beyond Poole lay his tranquil quarters: a desk, bookshelf, leather chair and hassock, little table with a glass of amber liquor. Jekyll put his hand on the man’s shoulder, gave a slight squeeze. Poole had not betrayed him. You’re done for the night, Jekyll said. I just wanted to thank you. Everything was perfect. Poole lowered his eyes. Most welcome, sir. Jekyll held his shoulder another moment, then let him go. Also, I’m going to be leaving tomorrow morning for a week or two. I have to go back to Scotland, I’m afraid, something has come up with the estate. I thought I might turn it into a little holiday. So you might not see me in the morning. Poole lifted his eyes, and something rippled over his face, like movement behind a curtain.

  It’s always a pity to see you go, sir. Until your return, then.

  Yes. Until then.

  I need to remember this carefully. Up in the cabinet Jekyll slid E drawer from its slot in the press and set it down on the table. He picked up the stoppered powder bottle, hefted it in his hand. It was almost empty. One dose of white residue at the bottom. Jekyll turned back to the press and pulled out H drawer, at the lowermost left. Now how many bricks remained?

  Jekyll had ordered the original store of the powder from Maw’s, in London, while he was treating Emile Verlaine in France; there had been six of the silver-foil bricks left, packed shoulder to shoulder in the wooden crate, when Jekyll had shipped his supplies back to Big House from Paris. We had been depleting this quantity since October, and it was now February or early March. There must have been four of the bricks remaining. Four silver bricks, a rectangular pound each, stocked in H drawer that night. Enough to last us another year, perhaps. But what was Jekyll planning to do when the stock ran low? Order more? Or did he know even then that there wasn’t any more, that this was the last in existence?

  I wasn’t concerned with how long the powder would last or what would happen when it was gone. That was Jekyll’s realm, and I still trusted him. I wanted only to get out—back to my life! Impatiently I watched him unpeel one of the foil bricks and cut up the crumbling block of chalk-white powder and scrape it into the stoppered bottle. He crushed the silver wrapping into a tight ball, which he tossed into the rubbish bin beside his
desk, then threw off his tailcoat and lifted the bottle of crimson, whisky-smelling spirit lying flat in E drawer. He drew the cork and poured a precise portion into an Erlenmeyer flask. With the bronze spoon he scooped out the white powder, scraped the excess off the rim, and tapped it into the flask. Instantly the crimson started to froth and deepen to purplish black before fizzling out into a pale, perfectly transparent green. Into a slim glass phial he transferred the serum and popped in the black rubber plug, then he picked up the first syringe by its cold steel loops. The needle punched through the plug, and like a hummingbird’s beak, it sucked out the fluid to the white middle line of the barrel. He fitted this syringe back in the red innards of the Milward box and picked up the second. His nimble hands performed the operation on muscular automatic—he could have done it blindfolded. At last he shed the rest of his clothes, hung them in the wardrobe, and bound the chill rubber tourniquet around the left biceps. I could feel the pressure hissing into the vein in the cleft as he flexed his fist, then the steel punching through skin. I teetered on the brink—before the plunger was depressed—and then pitched forward into the centrifugal spin as the room whipped around on its axis, flipping me up and into the body with a sick, dizzy lurch.

  Clumsy, I stumbled around, air tingling on my skin like dissolving snowflakes. I pulled my clothes from the wardrobe and fumbled them on, not caring which button went through which hole. Down to the groove on my brow I screwed my old topper; I retrieved my trusty walking stick and then paused as always before the long mirror. My hand quivered as I reached out toward myself in reflection, then I pressed it flat to the cold palm on the nether side of the glass. When I peeled my hand away, a humid stain shrank into its centre and vanished.