In Danse Macabre, Stephen King’s 1981 nonfiction examination of horror fiction in literature, film, television and radio, he names Robert Louis Stevenson’s novella Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde as the prototypical werewolf tale. Whereas his choices for the other two major horror formulas are uncontroversial – Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel Frankenstein for The Thing Without a Name, and Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel Dracula for the vampire – Strange Case seems an odd pick for the piece that set the mold for all future werewolf stories, considering that we don’t find a typical werewolf in the novella at all. And it’s not as if Stevenson doesn’t have predecessors who used a more recognizable werewolf, an honest-to-god lycanthrope, in their fiction. Going back all the way to Petronius’s Satyricon from the late first century CE, we see evidence of folk tales involving men who morph into humanoid wolves and terrorize the countryside. These figures show up in a few medieval texts, but don’t become a staple of horror literature until the mid-nineteenth century with George W.M. Reynolds’s Wagner the Werewolf (1848), Alexander Dumas’s The Wolf-Leader (1857), and Erckmann-Chatrian’s story “The Man Wolf” (1859), which all contributed to the werewolf legend’s decidedly middle European feel. Really the cliché Hollywood werewolf was pretty much set in stone at this point. Just substitute foggy English moors for a stormy Black Forest and you’ve got a very recognizable piece of horror fiction. Even in Wagner the Werewolf our villain is unwillingly terrifying young women.
Now, I don’t know if I agree with King’s choice of Strange Case as the prototypical werewolf story, but I do agree with skipping over Wagner for this honor. Though Wagner might express all the necessary tropes of a werewolf story, it is practically unreadable. Strange Case remains an entertaining, and evocative exploration of the irresistible lure of the lowly and vile, and while Mr Hyde doesn’t howl at the moon, Strange Case certainly exhibits the key traits of a werewolf tale long before this archetype was codified. Dr Jekyll is a handsome, successful, almost overly optimistic and jovial character, who enjoys the peaceful company of his friends. He shows himself to be preternaturally good. So when he falls from grace, when he dabbles too far into quack science, the contrast with his alter-ego, his “werewolf” of sorts, is made all the more terrifying. This contrast must be present for a truly successful werewolf tale. It’s what separates the vampire from the werewolf, and makes the latter a much more introspective horror story, where the reader puts him or herself in the villain’s shoes. Where Strange Case diverges from the ideal werewolf tale, is that Jekyll, when transformed into Mr Hyde, is not drawn specifically to the people closest to him, he never attacks his friends or family. However, this might be explained by Jekyll’s self-imposed isolation, which plays a very important role in the novella. In this respect, I’d propose Guy Endore’s 1933 masterpiece, Werewolf of Paris, as the purest werewolf tale, but we’ll leave that discussion to a future post.
The power of Stevenson’s most popular piece of horror fiction lies with his understanding of two extremely important aspects of genre storytelling, or for that matter storytelling of any kind. You must have a compelling story to tell, of course, but without strong and resonant settings and interesting, believable perspectives, any form of fiction falls flat. Too many horror writers sacrifice these two elements for the gimmicks of gore, plot twists and a preoccupation with trends in the genre. In Strange Case, Stevenson created a dark and foggy London, one that traces its literary lineage directly through William Blake. It’s striking that Blake could conjure such a rich picture of a place in sixteen lines (“London” 1797), something many novelists can’t do in 100,000 words. Stevenson manages, however, to create a brutal, unforgiving picture of London with its decaying alleys and mansions. Everything is imbued, here, with a sense of dissolution and death. Utterson and all his friends, including Jekyll, seem on the brink of oblivion, seem to be about to disappear into their gray surroundings.
Another important aspect of Strange Case, which Stevenson skillfully employs, is perspective. So many contemporary novelists confine themselves to a bland third person omniscience, or lifeless first person, in a futile and counteractive attempt to make their fiction “objective”. What Stevenson understood, and what I think all great novelists understand, is that there is no such thing as an “objective” narrative. Even something as objective as a movie camera is manipulated in such a way to provide a unique, subjective perspective to the audience. Stevenson uses many different perspectives to reveal a tale of decay and distrust, in a powerful way that could never be achieved through a straight third person narration. Utterson, a close friend of Jekyll, unfolds the action for us, and it is his compassion for Jekyll that makes his transformation into Mr Hyde all the more terrifying. We respect Jekyll because Utterson does, and we feel revulsion towards Hyde because Utterson does. The final passage of the novella is presented as Jekyll’s own words from a letter he’s written accounting for all the strange events surrounding him. This confession is a riveting psychological portrait and brings yet another fully formed perspective to add a depth to Strange Case that is remarkable for such a short book.
If you’ve only experienced the story of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde through adaptations, do yourself a favor and read the original.
Check out this free audio book of Strange Case at LibriVox.
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