Letters on the Nature of the Mind

Geneva, the 8th of May, 1821

Most esteemed colleague, Doctor Jekyll, with the highest regard I address myself unto you.

It was indeed a profound honour to make your acquaintance here in Geneva. It was a gathering most successful, where I was privileged to partake in the wisdom of several eminent physicians hailing from all corners of Europe.

I was at once deeply fascinated by your ideas concerning the duality of the human mind. To encounter such a distinguished and keen-minded counterpart was most unlikely indeed.

Personally, I have long spent considerable hours in contemplation of life and death from a medical standpoint—subjects not so readily broached in my own country. Thus, I was heartened to feel that I might entrust you with some of my deeper ruminations.

My cautious and, if I may say so, humble experiments aimed at clarifying that fragile thread which divides man’s two states—life and death—have afforded me insights of great measure into the connection betwixt them. A clear perception, and indeed a fascination, with the potential for our lives to extend beyond the natural and much expected boundaries set by nature imparts vigour to my days. The results thus far indicate that this boundary may be questioned—and quite possibly transcended. The experiments, as I am sure you yourself will understand, are at times challenging to execute, for they concern that most mysterious of subjects—man himself. It is oft said that certain realms are not to be ventured into, at times, I waver in agreement. Yet, it is apparent to me that science indeed holds answers, and I am persuaded that my humble experiments, however novel or unsettling to some within our profession, may offer knowledge and responses to mankind’s ancient questions on life which we scarce dared to anticipate.

I hold your mind and your distinguished intellect in the highest respect, so plainly evident from our conversation. Your forward-thinking philosophy regarding human nature has stirred in me a curiosity most difficult to restrain. You spoke with great depth of instincts and the manner by which they impel us as men. This is an inquiry I readily admit I have yet to explore in any significant measure, though I suspect I shall soon be required to confront it. In this, I am your humble student.

In true friendship and with the greatest respect,

Your most devoted servant,

Dr. Victor Frankenstein

—-

London, the 24th of May, 1821

With the deepest reverence, unto Doctor Frankenstein.

With profound admiration and genuine pleasure, I received your letter, and with the utmost respect I take up my pen to reply. Your inquiries have touched upon matters of the highest import, and I feel deeply honoured to share my thoughts with you.

It was indeed a privilege to make your acquaintance in Geneva. In these times, when so few things are to be relied upon, our meeting assured me that we have mutual matters to pursue.

Experimentation is, I would contend, the single most vital endeavour to which we may devote our intellectual energies. Only then—and solely then—are we granted access to the profound and genuine truths that science holds. It brings me great joy to read of how you, with such constancy, and apparently as your primary pursuit, engage in such work. My own experiments are conducted without hesitation and utterly free from moral qualm.

The experience of probing mankind’s most primal instincts fills me with a fervour so intense that I find it difficult to concentrate on social obligations, however pressing they may be. The true power of science lies in its ability to shatter man’s submission to societal decrees, conventions, and artificially imposed strictures. The stakes are simply too great, leading me unreservedly to the decision to continue exploring the divide between imposed social convention and inherent instinct. Indeed, the human conscience itself is akin to a mental barrier, one that restrains our intrinsic potential. Conscience, I would argue, is humanity’s heaviest burden, stifling the progress of mankind.

Victor, with sincere respect and reverence for your thoughts, I would venture to suggest that your conscience may also hinder you from achieving truly remarkable outcomes.

With true appreciation and earnest respect, I remain your humble servant,

Dr. Henry Jekyll

——

Geneva, the 8th of June, 1821

Most esteemed Doctor Jekyll, with heartfelt appreciation I write these lines.

It is with the highest reverence that I set down these words to you, in the hope that they find you in good health and peace of mind. I have often reflected upon the matter our discussion concerned, and am eager to exchange further thoughts with you. I intend to linger somewhat upon this question, as it appears to me of utmost importance.

While I share your fascination with the separation of our mental impulses from the social patterns we have learned, I find myself continually returning to the words of an older mentor of mine, who reminded me that though we may shape matter as we wish, the shaping of minds—our own or others’—is a far more intricate and perilous endeavour. Science may indeed revive dead tissue, perhaps, but can it restore conscience once it has been severed?

Like you, I am convinced of the importance of this question. Several reflections regarding your experiments now compel me, with the utmost respect, to inquire further. Upon what subjects do you conduct your experiments, and further to this, how do you discern whether a thought is a mere impulse or truly evil? I am persuaded that both inquiries are fraught with difficulty, not only in terms of our profession’s ethics but also of society’s ingrained morality.

My own research continues apace, and I have now reached that point of conviction in the potential revival of dead tissue that next week I shall make my way to the university at Ingolstadt in Germany to commence my most serious experiments to date and finally put my theories to the test. Should you be so inclined and have the time to respond to this humble letter, I would be most grateful if you would address it to my temporary lodgings in Ingolstadt. You will find the address upon the card enclosed with this letter.

I remain, with the utmost respect,

Your humble friend,

Dr. Victor Frankenstein

——

London, the 26th of June, 1821

Honoured and most esteemed Doctor Frankenstein.

With the utmost respect, I take the liberty of addressing these words to you, in the hope that they find you in the best of health in Germany. The matter of our recent discussion has lingered in the background of my thoughts, and I look forward to further exchanges with you. My available time for such writing pursuits as this steadily diminishes, yet as I value our dialogue, I make it a priority to send you these lines.

Considerations regarding morality and its implications on the path to knowledge within the scientific realm hold little influence over me at present. Conscience, it seems to me, acts as a barrier to scientific greatness, like a brick wall before a charging horse. My strongest counsel to you is to disregard this mental constraint at once, so that you may fully savour the outcomes of what I trust are your well-conceived and meticulously planned experiments. My own expertise in this field suggests that your hesitation to set aside conscience arises from weakness and a reluctance toward your own potential. Nevertheless, it appears to me that you possess a certain fear of the power to master nature and of the potential moment of triumph that might upset your present harmony with it.

In response to your excellently formulated questions regarding my own work, I shall endeavour to answer them here with the greatest respect, given your expertise in a closely related domain. Evil, like goodness, is and has always been a natural element of humanity. Much of my waking time is dedicated to avoiding and setting aside such familiar patterns of thought. Evil should be studied closely and without hesitation. As for the subjects of my experiments, they are voluntary individuals who place themselves at the disposal of science. Not all display equal willingness, though frequently a monetary solution suffices—though not always, it just becomes slightly more laborious. My results indicate clearly that it is indeed possible to separate goodness from evil within man, though not without difficulty.

With my newly acquired insights safely in hand, I see no ethical concerns, as a physician’s responsibility is to advance research and understanding, however this process may unfold in detail.

With sincere appreciation and friendship,

Your devoted friend,

Dr. Henry Jekyll

——

Ingolstadt, the 10th of July, 1821

My honoured colleague, Doctor Jekyll.

With the greatest caution I write these lines, for I find myself gripped by a certain unease concerning that which you describe.

You speak of dissecting a man’s psyche as though it were no different than organs or bones within a body. And yet I wonder if the mind is not more resistant to alteration than mere tissue. We may possess the ability to harness lightning or to stitch tendons with thread until they are as one, but to unravel the mind and reassemble it… that, I dare say, may prove as perilous to our own souls as it is thrilling to our curiosity.

My own experiments proceed as planned. In Germany, life is viewed rather differently than it is at home in Switzerland. Securing the elements needed for what I consider my foremost attempt yet to prove my hypothesis has thus far advanced as intended. It does indeed take time and, as with your endeavours, requires certain monetary compensations. I see how similarly we work, and with what ambition we each strive toward the goal of surpassing traditional limitations in the name of science. Yet I begin to perceive matters from additional perspectives, thanks to you, my most esteemed friend and colleague. For this, I am eternally grateful, and you have my deepest respect.

With the warmest wishes, albeit with a touch of concern,

Your devoted friend,

Dr. Victor Frankenstein

——

London, the 3rd of August, 1821

Honoured Doctor Frankenstein.

I write in response to your most recent letter, though I must confess to a certain displeasure as I do so.

Your concern over the division and subsequent reassembly of the mind is wholly misplaced. You speak of this process as though it were dangerous and morally dubious, perhaps even condemnable. This fear that you harbour is entirely foreign to me. It likely stems from a timidity within you, one you have perhaps long possessed. I have sensed a certain weakness in you since the moment we first met in Geneva. You risk becoming, if you have not already, a man of half measures.

As for myself, I hold an unequivocal and, as I have now documented in my own hand, clearly substantiated understanding that morality is nothing more than an illusion. This knowledge follows a substantial series of experiments under my personal supervision. Morality is not revealed as a result, nor as any component within the results, of my experiments. Perhaps this, like the darker side of human nature, is something we might control, or even obliterate altogether—a feat not far from our grasp, though such methods might be labelled as “dark” by those traditional-minded colleagues of our profession.

Now to the matter of greatest import. I can scarce contain my excitement. Dear friend and colleague, I have at last discovered a means by which, consistently and regardless of the subject, a man’s nature may be divided in two–good and evil. A remarkable discovery indeed, one which has demanded many long and not always cheerful nights. This draught, possessing the power to separate the mind as planned, I shall at last experience firsthand. My decision is firm; I must witness the effects of this discovery myself. The transformation is wondrous, and I eagerly anticipate the moment of its full potency.

In respect and loyalty, though with a measure of doubt, I remain yours,

Dr. Henry Jekyll

——

Geneva, the 13th of August, 1821

Most esteemed Doctor Jekyll.

With a measure of hesitation, I address myself to you to respond to your latest letter.

After a brief journey, I am now returned to Geneva. In these past weeks, our conversations have led me to a truth I can no longer ignore. The mind, it seems to me, is far more difficult to shape and influence than mere matter. A mind that has chosen its path, for better or worse, is far more unyielding than sinew and bone. Science may in time conquer the dead, but I am convinced that the living conscience resists such simple manipulation. For this reason, I must abandon my own endeavour, for I fear that by seeking mastery over matter, I may lose the integrity of my mind.

I must therefore inform you of my difficult decision—prompted by my conscience and the insights drawn from your esteemed words and reflections—to cease all of my research in this fascinating field, which has so entirely absorbed my energy and dedication. I did not conduct the final experiment, which I had once believed would mark the close of my career as a researcher and the beginning of something greater. My workshop and all materials have been dismantled and returned. Every aspect of my research—descriptions of experiments, schematics, and all notes I could locate—has been destroyed, consigned to flames.

After much anguish, I have come to accept my own limitations—a recognition that has come far too late, I now realise. Yet I find a newfound satisfaction in this acceptance of the duty I failed to shoulder towards humanity: to safeguard life.

Perhaps it is too late to dissuade you from carrying out your own experiment? Nevertheless, I urge you most earnestly to desist. I thus await your reply with profound anticipation, for in your last most fascinating letter, I understood that you were near to experiencing firsthand this separation of the mind. The wait to hear of your reaction or chosen course is nearly unbearable. Send your reply to my address in Geneva, and do so soon.

I remain, despite my sincere reservations,

Your devoted,

Dr. Victor Frankenstein

——

London, September, 1821

Ah, my dear Doctor. It was good of you to send all those fancy letters.

A mind set upon a path, Doctor, is a weapon far more effective than any scalpel or potion.

For all your fine words, Jekyll was a prisoner long before he met me. In the end, Jekyll sacrificed his body for the illusions of his mind. He craved freedom, yet he feared what that freedom would reveal. I am nothing but the embodiment of his mind’s own hypocrisy—a mind so desperate for control that it lost everything to satisfy the demands of society’s sneering gaze.

While you cower in your conscience, I revel in each act without hesitation, without burden. Jekyll feared his desires, but I have no use for his doubts. Do not pity Jekyll, Doctor. He wanted release from his own pathetic virtues, and I was more than willing to oblige. Jekyll—so tortured, so afraid of society’s sneers—crafted me to be his salvation, yet he lacks the courage to see it through. He may call it an experiment, but it is his mind’s fear of judgment, his endless need for approval, that unleashed me.

I am free from petty concerns, free to revel in all that men’s timid heart fear to unleash. Your rules, your restraints—these are just chains. I have cast them off, and now, Doctor, I am free.

Edward Hyde