Трек 13_06

I was walking across the yard after breakfast, when I was seized again with the pains and sensations that went before the change of character. I only had time to gain the shelter of my laboratory, before I was once again experiencing the rage and hatreds of Edward Hyde. It took on this occasion a double dose to bring back Henry Jekyll; and, alas! six hours after, as I sat looking sadly into the fire, the pains returned, and the drug had to be taken once more. In short, from that day on it seemed only by a great effort, and only through the immediate swallowing of the drug, that I was able to wear the shape of Jekyll. At all hours of the day and night, I would be taken with the violent trembling that was the first warning of a change of shape and character. Above all, if I slept, or even nodded off for a moment in my chair, it was always as Hyde that I awakened. Under the strain of the sleeplessness to which I now condemned myself, I became, in my own person, a creature eaten up and emptied by fever, weak both in mind and body, and occupied by only one thought: the horror of my other self. And when I did sleep, or when the effect of the drug wore off, I would spring almost without thought now-for the pains grew daily less marked-into the possession of a fancy filled with images of terror, a soul boiling with causeless hatreds, and a body that seemed not strong enough to contain the life that raged within. The powers of Hyde seemed to have grown with the sickness of Jekyll. And certainly, the hate that now divided them, was equal on each side.

Jekyll had now seen to the full the evil of the creature that shared with him the body of one man; knew only too well the devil that lay caged in his flesh, where he heard it mutter and felt it struggle to be born. The hatred of Hyde for Jekyll was of a different order. His terror of the gallows drove him, for a time, to return to the shelter of Jekyll’s body; but he hated the dislike that Jekyll had for him, and indeed, had it not been for his fear of death, he would long ago have ruined himself in order to bring me to ruin. But his love of life is wonderful; I go further; I, who sicken and freeze at the mere thought of him, still find it in my heart to pity him, when I remember how he fears my power to cut him off by suicide.

It is useless, and the time fails me, to drag out this description. No one, I think has ever suffered as I have these past few weeks. And my punishment might have gone on for years, but for the blow which now has fallen. My supply of essential salt began to run low. I sent out for a fresh supply and mixed the drug; the first change of colour followed, but not the second. I drank it, and it had no effect. You will have heard from Poole how I have searched London for the quality I need. It has all been in vain. I am now persuaded that my first supply was not pure, and it was that which gave the mixture its power.

About a week had passed, and I am now finishing this statement under the influence of the last of the old powders. This, then, is the last time that Henry Jekyll can think his own thoughts or see his own face in the glass. Nor must I delay too long to bring my writing to an end; for if my narrative has so far escaped destruction by Hyde, it has been by a combination of care and good luck. Should my shape change while I am writing it, Hyde will tear it in pieces; but if some time shall have passed after I have laid it by, his wonderful selfishness will probably save it once again from the action of his ape-like spirit. And indeed the fate that is closing on us both has already changed and crushed him.

Half an hour from now, when I shall again take on the shape of that hated creature of my own making, I know how I shall sit weeping and trembling in my chair, listening to every sound outside, and fearing the punishment for his crime . . .

Will Hyde die upon the gallows, or will he find the courage to release himself, at the last moment? God knows; I care not; this is my true hour of death, and what is to follow concerns another than myself. Here, then, as I lay down the pen, and seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end.

53