Stevenson laughed and then told his father the story of the old lady in the Bournemouth bookshop.
“Will you be sending a copy to Cummy?” asked the older man, with a crinkly grin.
“I would be mad to. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would. It could cost us both our lives.”
“I don’t believe her displeasure would carry her that far. Do you, father?”
“Ach, laddie. Yui’ve nae seen the wumman wrought!”
Stevenson returned to Bournemouth to find a slew of letters commenting on Jekyll. Most were gratifying, including one from James that remarked, yet again, on the “impertinence” with which Stevenson achieved his most dramatic effects “without the aid of the ladies.” As to theme, James assured the writer that, “there is a genuine feeling for the perpetual moral question, a fresh sense of the difficulty of being good and the brutishness of being bad, but what there is above all is a singular ability in holding the interest.” Thank goodness for that! Reading the missive, scripted in James’s fine hand, Stevenson could all but hear, as though spoken aloud and with extreme slowness and clarity, his friend’s perpetual equivocation on the business of morality.
There was a long—very long—letter from a fellow named Myers, founder of an organization called the Society for Psychical Research. Aside from a general effusion about the extent to which Stevenson’s development of Hyde aligned with Myers’s own evolving theories of “a subliminal self” within every man, he was full of very specific observations about how the novel, were it ever to be reissued, might be greatly improved—thereby “ensuring its position among the masterpieces of literature.” On the matter of Hyde’s handwriting, for example, the man observed that “recent psycho-physical discussions” had resolved that, in actual cases of double personality, handwriting cannot be the same in both personalities. Hyde’s writing might look like Jekyll’s done with the left hand, Myers informed him, or done when partly drunk, or ill. But it would never simply be differently slanted, as the novel had errantly alleged. Stevenson would have loved to loose James on the man in order to expatiate on the virtues of the interesting as opposed to the trivial. He resolved, though, to respond with a humble offering of thanks…but certainly not before he had exhausted every other conceivable option for wasting a quarter of an hour.
Harder to dismiss was a letter from Symonds, postmarked in Davos.
My dear Louis,
At last I have read Dr. Jekyll. It makes me wonder whether a man has the right so to scrutinize “the abysmal deeps of personality.” It is indeed a dreadful book, most dreadful because of a certain moral callousness, a want of sympathy, a shutting out of hope. As a piece of literary work, this seems to me the finest you have done—in all that regards style, invention, psychological analysis, exquisite fitting of parts, and admirable employment of motives to realize the abnormal. But it has left such a deeply painful impression on my heart that I do not know how I am ever to turn to it again.
The fact is that, viewed as allegory, it touches one too closely. Most of us at some epoch of our lives have been upon the verge of developing a Mr. Hyde.
Physical and biological science on a hundred lines is reducing individual freedom to zero, and weakening the sense of responsibility. I doubt whether the artist should lend his genius to this grim argument. Your Dr. Jekyll seems to me capable of loosening the last threads of self-control in one who should read it while wavering between his better and worse self. It is like the Cave of Despair in the “Faery Queen.”
I understand now thoroughly how much a sprite you are. Really there is something not quite human in your genius!
Goodbye. I seem quite to have lost you. But if I come to England I shall try to see you.
Love to your wife.
Ever yours,
J. A. Symonds
Here was tough meat to dig one’s teeth into. How perceptive of Symonds to have seen, in an instant, the extent to which Jekyll bore on its author’s unremitting skepticism over human liberty, not only to choose between good and evil but also, far more taxingly, to move beyond the crippling antinomy of virtue and vice itself—the conceptual “curse of mankind,” as Jekyll himself named it. One might indeed argue that our Edenic forebears had brought sin and damnation into the world by their free and untrammeled choice. But, even without raising the boggling question of whether divine omniscience requires a divine fore-knowledge that is tantamount to divine predetermination, how was it part of a just plan for Creation that, from the very beginning, humanity should be pressed to survive in bodies that were driven by myriad compelling needs—and then be told that many of those needs were, at base, completely reprehensible? Where was one to look for freedom of will and, thus, for any notion of individual responsibility—especially, as Symonds had suggested, in this age of Galton and Spencer and Darwin?
Out of this muddle of theological rumination there emerged, however, a more troubling issue. It was one that Stevenson was not sure he had ever adequately confronted, unless it had been in general conversation with his father about things other than writing. Symonds had said that the story threatened to loosen the last threads of self-control in a man who wavered between his better and worse selves. Setting aside the intriguing question of what Symonds’s own “worse self” might be, what did this say about the final and consequential impact of the tale on others?
Whatever had driven Stevenson to write Jekyll and Hyde, it was never his intention to construct a story that impelled its readers to become worse rather than better men. He had long ago conceded that his original draft was driven far more by James’s desire to “interest” than by Fanny’s injunction to “improve.” Yet even that first version, he firmly supposed, could hardly be read as anything other than a demonstration that evil comes to evildoers—and therefore as an incentive, more or less, to virtue. And now here was Symonds, as acute a reader as he could ever hope to have, saying that Hyde’s inventor might as well be Satan whispering at the ear of Eve.
It all put him predictably in mind of Ferrier and what had at first seemed a curious reaction to his pirate story. Stevenson had come to accept that he might write to one end but accomplish another end altogether. In that realm of unintended consequences, though, it was one thing to consider the matter of interpretation; it was another entirely to consider instigation. He was far from certain that his alterations of the original tale honored Ferrier and his memory in any significant way, either as a sympathetic examination of the human lot or as a fancifully exaggerated version of the warning Walter might be pleased to see his life underscore. The thought that he might have parlayed a covert tribute to a friend into an actively seductive text chilled him to the bone.
He rose from his chair, walked to the side table, and poured himself a tumbler-full of whisky, reassured by the reserve that remained in the decanter.
“They are perfectly lovely, dear!” exclaimed Fanny, walking back from the mirror that hung between the drawing room windows. “What a sweet man you are!”
She bent to kiss him, then evidently decided she needed to sit in his lap. She slung herself awkwardly across his chair, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Of course, they don’t go with this dress at all,” she observed, fingering the string of pearls with delight, “but I’m sure I can find something that will set them off just perfectly.”
“I hope that ‘something’ is already in your possession, dearest. The news from Longman’s isn’t such that we can afford an entirely new wardrobe.”
“When have I ever been a spendthrift?” Fanny pouted with a provocative bounce.
“Oww! Consider my frailty, love. I can’t make our fortune with a crushed pelvis.”
Fanny reached up and pinched his cheek. “You write with your pen, skinny one. Not your pelvis. Besides, the doctor says I have lost pounds and pounds.”
“And yet you have just imperiled my midsection so recklessly. I can hardly be certain everything will still be in working order.”
“You haven’
t tried it out lately?”
“Of course not.”
Again, Fanny pulled her head back and scanned his face. “Good. I believe I shall take a bath. You’ll join me soon…in my boudoir?”
“Wild horses, Pig.”
She squealed with excitement and bounded out of his lap. “Look for me to be wearing my lovely new pearls.” She looked back over her shoulder from the doorway. “For everything.”
“Except the bath, I hope.”
“Maybe even the bath.”
Once Fanny had charged up the stairs and rung for Millie, Stevenson rose from his chair and walked slowly into his study. Moving to the front of his desk, he hesitated for a moment, turning his ear to the door, and then opened a drawer on the left side, removing a small package wrapped in blue paper and a white ribbon. He stared down at it, turning it slowly in his hands, then he tucked it into his pocket, turned, and left the room.
He paused in the drawing room and, hearing Fanny conversing with Millie as the bath was being drawn, he walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. Valentine sat next to the large worktable in the center of the room, reading a letter. The envelope lay torn open on the tabletop, and she was leaning forward on her forearms, several sheets of paper clasped between her hands. She looked up as he entered and sat up straight, reaching for her hair. Her cap lay discarded next to the envelope.
“Monsieur,” she said with the hint of a blush. “I am sorry. I didn’t expect to see you again tonight.”
Something slid along the floor of the room above them, followed by a sharp footfall or two.
“Tonight’s meal was excellent,” said Stevenson. “I wanted to thank you especially.”
“Thank you, monsieur.” Valentine reached for her cap.
“No. Please don’t worry.”
She regarded him questioningly, and for a moment they were silent. He gestured towards the table.
“A letter from home?”
Valentine nodded.
“All is well there, I hope.”
She tipped her head from side to side. Comme ci, comme ça.
“Is there anything I can do to help? That we can do?”
“No. Truly. It is just…life. Passing as it does.” Valentine smiled, turning in her chair to face him. “You are kind to ask.”
A thud from above and the sound of voices.
“I have had good news from my publishers,” volunteered Stevenson. He stepped towards the table and laid his hand upon it, drumming softly with his fingers. “One of my recent books is selling especially well. And there are hopes of its becoming a play. For the theater.”
“That is good news!” exclaimed Valentine, with a full and happy smile. Stevenson was unsure he had ever seen her look so unguardedly pleased.
“It is. And I should like to share my good fortune with you, Valentine. In a very small way.”
“With me?” She looked genuinely puzzled.
Stevenson nodded, reaching into his pocket for the package. He extended it towards her, well aware that it would be an awkward moment if Millie were to walk in. Even more awkward if Fanny were to barge in, naked and dripping from her bath, with pearls flashing around her neck. He grinned at the thought, grateful to his brownies for lightening the moment.
Valentine smiled and took the package. She looked at it with interest, and then looked back at him.
“Go ahead! Please.”
She took a deep breath and pulled at the ribbon, freeing it from the package. Folding back the blue wrapping, she exposed some white tissue and, parting that, uncovered an elegant silver comb, heavy and gleaming, its long teeth carved of the finest tortoise shell.
“Oh, monsieur.” This time, it was a full blush. “I don’t—”
“Thank you, Valentine. For all that you have done for us. For so many years.”
“Oh, monsieur. How can I—?”
“It’s nothing, really. De rien. You deserve more.” This was all taxing enough, but he suddenly felt completely out of his depth. He was certain Millie was about to crash through the door, followed by the local constable and whoever that sermonizing vicar was from St. Peter’s. At least Valentine had the good grace not to rise and kiss him. Where that would lead, he had no way of knowing.
“Well,” said Valentine, facing the table once again, “I am grateful. You are too kind. You and Madame Stevenson both.” She wrapped the comb carefully back in its paper and placed it ceremoniously into her apron pocket. “There. All safe!” Her eyes darted towards the ceiling, then fell back on him. She smiled in her enigmatic way. Was there a French Leonardo, Stevenson wondered?
“Valentine,” he said, stepping back from the table and folding his arms. “You should find a man and start a family.” It had burst out of him without his having any inkling that it was coming.
She laughed outright and shook her head. “Why do you say that, monsieur?”
“Because you are a fine woman.” Stevenson sounded to himself exactly like a schoolmaster, giving a year-end prize to a promising young student. In the back of his head, he could detect his brownies agitating for a more honest response to her question. One that might have something to do with certain thoughts and temptations from which he was now, perhaps, hoping to shake himself free. “And you would make a fine mother. And a fine wife,” he added as an afterthought.
“Best to be a wife before a mother.” Her eyes twinkled at him. “It is not, is it, that you wish to be rid of me?”
“Heavens, no!” sputtered Stevenson. “Not at all.”
“Or madame?”
Good God! thought Stevenson, briefly entertaining the possibility that she meant he might wish to be rid of Fanny.
“No. She values you as greatly as I do. It’s simply that you deserve a full life.”
She looked up from her hands, her eyebrows rising, one now more cocked than the other. “And what would a full life be like? For me?”
Stevenson found it within himself to chuckle. “I don’t know, Valentine. I am a storyteller. Not a sage.”
“Thank you,” said Valentine, after a moment or two. “But I am very happy here. With you and Madame Stevenson.”
Perhaps an hour later, lying in her bed under the eaves, Valentine could hear the post-bath carryings-on in the Stevensons’ room just below. In fact, she thought she could also hear Millie and Agnes tittering in their own chamber next door. At first, she had found it bothersome, listening to her employers taking advantage of their first night together after close to a month apart. Quite soon, though, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to lie there naked as one of them stood in her doorway, smiling in at her with those gypsy eyes. She found the thought so arousing that she nearly rushed herself but, with a moderate exertion of self-control, she arrested her pace until, hearing clearly enough the climactic groans from below, she brought herself to the fiery place just as she imagined her willful mistress exploding into flame.
14
This, then, is the last time, short of a miracle, that Henry Jekyll can think his own thoughts or see his own face (now how sadly altered!) in the glass.
—DR. HENRY JEKYLL
BOURNEMOUTH, AUGUST 1888
“So then, Stevenson,” said James as he leaned back in his chair and threw an ankle onto his knee. “The theatrical rendition. At long last! Are you quite prepared for a simulacrum of your little study to sail out into the world with another hand altogether at the helm?” He tapped lightly and repeatedly on his stocking, eyeing his host with amusement.
“As long as it provides me with vastly augmented wealth, I do believe that I am.”
James opened his mouth to respond, only to be overtaken by a violent sneeze.
“Goodness. Excuse me.” He extracted his handkerchief and wiped delicately at his nose and upper lip. “You do realize that this is a liminal moment, do you not? Having one’s work dramatized.” He hesitated briefly, as though there might be another eruption on the way, but settled back without further issue. “I am someh
ow reminded, in fact, of that marvelous scene in your original tale when Lanyon is offered Faustian wisdom if he deigns to stay and watch your primitive go through a transformation of an altogether different sort.”
Stevenson chuckled, stubbing out the cigarette on which he had been puffing. “‘A new province of knowledge…New avenues to fame,’ or some such.”
“Exactly.”
“Are you suggesting, Henry, that I may be on the threshold of cataclysm?”
James smiled drily. “I hesitate to prophesy.”
“Well, I managed to survive the depredations of Puck.”
James looked confused. “Please?”
“Within a matter of weeks,” Stevenson explained, “they came out with their parody. You didn’t see it?”
“I don’t take Puck. Yet I can imagine.”
“I believe that I still have it. Would you enjoy a brief selection?”
“Please,” replied James, rubbing his hands in anticipation.
Stevenson rose and walked over to the Dutch cupboard. He knelt to peruse a tall stack of papers stored therein and, after a moment, stood with a number in his hands.
“Here it is. February 6th. ‘The Strange Case of Dr. T. and Mr. H.’ It is most perceptively subtitled ‘Two Single Gentlemen Rolled into One.’”
James grinned. “Nary a woman to be seen?”
“Nary a one.” Stevenson returned to his chair and, flattening the magazine in his lap, addressed James with affected formality. “It begins, of course, with Mr. Stutterson, the lawyer, and several paragraph-long chapters that complicate the plot. Let me jump, however, straight to the revelatory confession, which contains the central conceit. Here. This is Dr. Trekyl.”
“Treacle? As in tarts?”
Stevenson shook his head gravely. “As you of all people should know, there being no tarts in the original, there should be none in the parody. That’s T-R-E-K-Y-L.”
James chuckled, adjusting himself in his chair.
“This is the doctor, then: ‘I was very fond of scientific experiments. And I found one day, that I, Trekyl, had a great deal of sugar in my composition. By using powdered acidulated drops I discovered that I could change myself into somebody else. So I divided myself into two, and thought of a number of things. I thought how pleasant it would be to have no conscience, and be a regular bad one, or, as the vulgar call it, bad ’un. I swallowed the acidulated drops, and in a moment I became a little old creature, with an acquired taste for trampling out children’s brains, and hacking to death (with an umbrella) midnight Baronets who had lost their way.’”
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