Doctor Moreau Explains

“And now, Prendick, I will explain,” said Doctor Moreau, so soon as we had eaten and drunk. “I must confess that you are the most dictatorial guest I ever entertained. I warn you that this is the last I shall do to oblige you. The next thing you threaten to commit suicide about, I shan’t do,—even at some personal inconvenience.”

“And now, Prendick, I will explain,” said Doctor Moreau as soon as we had finished eating and drinking. “I must admit, you are the most demanding guest I have ever had. I warn you, this is the last thing I will do to please you. The next time you threaten to kill yourself over something, I will not give in. Even if it causes me some inconvenience.”

He sat in my deck chair, a cigar half consumed in his white, dexterous-looking fingers. The light of the swinging lamp fell on his white hair; he stared through the little window out at the starlight. I sat as far away from him as possible, the table between us and the revolvers to hand. Montgomery was not present. I did not care to be with the two of them in such a little room.

He sat in my deck chair, holding a half-smoked cigar in his white, nimble-looking fingers. The swinging lamp lit his white hair. He stared through the small window at the stars. I sat as far from him as possible, with the table between us and the revolvers within reach. Montgomery was not there. I did not want to be with both of them in such a small room.

“You admit that the vivisected human being, as you called it, is, after all, only the puma?” said Moreau. He had made me visit that horror in the inner room, to assure myself of its inhumanity.

“You called it a human being that had been operated on. Do you admit now that it was only the puma?” said Moreau. He had made me visit that horror in the inner room so I could see for myself that it was not human.

“It is the puma,” I said, “still alive, but so cut and mutilated as I pray I may never see living flesh again. Of all vile—”

“It is the puma,” I said. “It is still alive, but so badly cut and mutilated that I pray I never see living flesh like that again. Of all the vile things...”

“Never mind that,” said Moreau; “at least, spare me those youthful horrors. Montgomery used to be just the same. You admit that it is the puma. Now be quiet, while I reel off my physiological lecture to you.”

“Never mind that,” said Moreau. “At least spare me that youthful horror. Montgomery used to be just the same. You admit it’s the puma. Now be quiet while I give you my lecture on physiology.”

And forthwith, beginning in the tone of a man supremely bored, but presently warming a little, he explained his work to me. He was very simple and convincing. Now and then there was a touch of sarcasm in his voice. Presently I found myself hot with shame at our mutual positions.

He immediately began explaining his work to me. At first he sounded utterly bored, but soon he grew a little more animated. He was very clear and convincing. Now and then, there was a touch of sarcasm in his voice. Soon I felt my face grow hot with shame at the positions we were in.

The creatures I had seen were not men, had never been men. They were animals, humanised animals,—triumphs of vivisection.

The creatures I had seen were not men. They had never been men. They were animals made human, triumphs of vivisection.

“You forget all that a skilled vivisector can do with living things,” said Moreau. “For my own part, I’m puzzled why the things I have done here have not been done before. Small efforts, of course, have been made,—amputation, tongue-cutting, excisions. Of course you know a squint may be induced or cured by surgery? Then in the case of excisions you have all kinds of secondary changes, pigmentary disturbances, modifications of the passions, alterations in the secretion of fatty tissue. I have no doubt you have heard of these things?”

“You forget all that a skilled vivisector can do with living things,” said Moreau. “Personally, I’m puzzled that no one has done what I’ve done here before. Of course, people have made small attempts, such as amputations, tongue cutting, and surgical removals. You know, of course, that surgery can cause or cure crossed eyes? And surgical removals can cause all kinds of secondary changes. These include changes in pigmentation, passions, and the production of fatty tissue. I’m sure you’ve heard of these things?”

“Of course,” said I. “But these foul creatures of yours—”

“Of course,” I said. “But those foul creatures of yours...”

“All in good time,” said he, waving his hand at me; “I am only beginning. Those are trivial cases of alteration. Surgery can do better things than that. There is building up as well as breaking down and changing. You have heard, perhaps, of a common surgical operation resorted to in cases where the nose has been destroyed: a flap of skin is cut from the forehead, turned down on the nose, and heals in the new position. This is a kind of grafting in a new position of part of an animal upon itself. Grafting of freshly obtained material from another animal is also possible,—the case of teeth, for example. The grafting of skin and bone is done to facilitate healing: the surgeon places in the middle of the wound pieces of skin snipped from another animal, or fragments of bone from a victim freshly killed. Hunter’s cock-spur—possibly you have heard of that—flourished on the bull’s neck; and the rhinoceros rats of the Algerian zouaves are also to be thought of,—monsters manufactured by transferring a slip from the tail of an ordinary rat to its snout, and allowing it to heal in that position.”

“All in good time,” he said, waving his hand at me. “I am only beginning. Those are minor examples of alteration. Surgery can do better things than that. It can build up as well as break down and change. Perhaps you have heard of a common surgical operation used when a nose has been destroyed. A flap of skin is cut from the forehead and turned down onto the nose. There it heals in its new position. This is a kind of grafting, moving part of an animal to a new position on its own body. Grafting freshly obtained material from another animal is also possible, as with teeth, for example. Skin and bone are grafted to help wounds heal. The surgeon places pieces of skin cut from another animal in the middle of the wound. Or the surgeon uses fragments of bone from a freshly killed victim. Perhaps you have heard of Hunter’s cock-spur, which thrived on the bull’s neck. There are also the rhinoceros rats of the Algerian zouaves to consider. These monsters were made by moving a strip from an ordinary rat’s tail to its snout. The strip was then allowed to heal in that position.”

“Monsters manufactured!” said I. “Then you mean to tell me—”

“Made monsters!” I said. “Then you mean to tell me...”

“Yes. These creatures you have seen are animals carven and wrought into new shapes. To that, to the study of the plasticity of living forms, my life has been devoted. I have studied for years, gaining in knowledge as I go. I see you look horrified, and yet I am telling you nothing new. It all lay in the surface of practical anatomy years ago, but no one had the temerity to touch it. It is not simply the outward form of an animal which I can change. The physiology, the chemical rhythm of the creature, may also be made to undergo an enduring modification,—of which vaccination and other methods of inoculation with living or dead matter are examples that will, no doubt, be familiar to you. A similar operation is the transfusion of blood,—with which subject, indeed, I began. These are all familiar cases. Less so, and probably far more extensive, were the operations of those mediaeval practitioners who made dwarfs and beggar-cripples, show-monsters,—some vestiges of whose art still remain in the preliminary manipulation of the young mountebank or contortionist. Victor Hugo gives an account of them in ‘L’Homme qui Rit.’—But perhaps my meaning grows plain now. You begin to see that it is a possible thing to transplant tissue from one part of an animal to another, or from one animal to another; to alter its chemical reactions and methods of growth; to modify the articulations of its limbs; and, indeed, to change it in its most intimate structure.

“Yes. These creatures you have seen are animals carved and shaped into new forms. I have devoted my life to studying how much living forms can be changed. I have studied for years, learning more as I go. I see you look horrified, yet I am telling you nothing new. It was all there on the surface of practical anatomy years ago, but no one dared to touch it. I can change more than an animal’s outward form. Its physiology, the chemical rhythm of its body, can also be changed permanently. Vaccination and other methods of inoculation with living or dead matter are examples you will no doubt know. Blood transfusion is a similar operation. In fact, that is where I began. These are all familiar examples. Less familiar, and probably far more extensive, were the operations of medieval practitioners. They made dwarfs, disabled beggars, and freak-show exhibits. Traces of their art still remain in the early training of young acrobats and contortionists. Victor Hugo describes them in ‘L’Homme qui Rit.’ But perhaps my meaning is becoming clear now. You are beginning to see what is possible. Tissue can be transplanted from one part of an animal to another, or from one animal to another. Its chemical reactions and ways of growing can be altered. The joints of its limbs can be modified. Indeed, it can be changed in its most intimate structure.

“And yet this extraordinary branch of knowledge has never been sought as an end, and systematically, by modern investigators until I took it up! Some such things have been hit upon in the last resort of surgery; most of the kindred evidence that will recur to your mind has been demonstrated as it were by accident,—by tyrants, by criminals, by the breeders of horses and dogs, by all kinds of untrained clumsy-handed men working for their own immediate ends. I was the first man to take up this question armed with antiseptic surgery, and with a really scientific knowledge of the laws of growth. Yet one would imagine it must have been practised in secret before. Such creatures as the Siamese Twins—And in the vaults of the Inquisition. No doubt their chief aim was artistic torture, but some at least of the inquisitors must have had a touch of scientific curiosity.”

“And yet modern researchers had never systematically studied this extraordinary branch of knowledge for its own sake until I took it up! Some such things have been discovered in surgery as a last resort. Most of the related evidence you may recall was found more or less by accident. It was found by tyrants, criminals, horse and dog breeders, and all kinds of untrained, clumsy people working toward their own immediate goals. I was the first to study this question using antiseptic surgery and a truly scientific knowledge of the laws of growth. Yet one would think it must have been practiced in secret before. There are creatures like the Siamese Twins. And in the vaults of the Inquisition. No doubt the inquisitors’ chief aim was artistic torture, but at least some of them must have had a touch of scientific curiosity.”

“But,” said I, “these things—these animals talk!”

“But,” I said, “these things, these animals, talk!”

He said that was so, and proceeded to point out that the possibility of vivisection does not stop at a mere physical metamorphosis. A pig may be educated. The mental structure is even less determinate than the bodily. In our growing science of hypnotism we find the promise of a possibility of superseding old inherent instincts by new suggestions, grafting upon or replacing the inherited fixed ideas. Very much indeed of what we call moral education, he said, is such an artificial modification and perversion of instinct; pugnacity is trained into courageous self-sacrifice, and suppressed sexuality into religious emotion. And the great difference between man and monkey is in the larynx, he continued,—in the incapacity to frame delicately different sound-symbols by which thought could be sustained. In this I failed to agree with him, but with a certain incivility he declined to notice my objection. He repeated that the thing was so, and continued his account of his work.

He said that was true, then explained that vivisection could do more than merely transform the body. A pig can be educated. The structure of the mind is even less fixed than that of the body. The growing science of hypnotism holds promise for replacing old, inborn instincts with new suggestions. These suggestions could be added to inherited, fixed ideas or replace them. He said that much of what we call moral education is an artificial alteration and distortion of instinct. Aggression is trained into courageous self-sacrifice, and suppressed sexuality into religious feeling. He went on to say that the great difference between humans and monkeys lies in the larynx. Monkeys cannot form the subtly different sound symbols needed to sustain thought. I disagreed, but he rather rudely ignored my objection. He repeated that it was true and continued describing his work.

I asked him why he had taken the human form as a model. There seemed to me then, and there still seems to me now, a strange wickedness for that choice.

I asked him why he had chosen the human form as a model. His choice seemed strangely wicked to me then, and it still does now.

He confessed that he had chosen that form by chance. “I might just as well have worked to form sheep into llamas and llamas into sheep. I suppose there is something in the human form that appeals to the artistic turn of mind more powerfully than any animal shape can. But I’ve not confined myself to man-making. Once or twice—” He was silent, for a minute perhaps. “These years! How they have slipped by! And here I have wasted a day saving your life, and am now wasting an hour explaining myself!”

He admitted that he had chosen that form by chance. “I could just as easily have worked to turn sheep into llamas and llamas into sheep. I suppose the human form appeals to an artistic mind more strongly than any animal form can. But I haven’t limited myself to making humans. Once or twice...” He fell silent, perhaps for a minute. “These years! How they’ve slipped by! And here I’ve wasted a day saving your life, and now I’m wasting an hour explaining myself!”

“But,” said I, “I still do not understand. Where is your justification for inflicting all this pain? The only thing that could excuse vivisection to me would be some application—”

“But,” I said, “I still don't understand. How do you justify causing all this pain? The only thing that could excuse vivisection for me would be some practical use...”

“Precisely,” said he. “But, you see, I am differently constituted. We are on different platforms. You are a materialist.”

“Exactly,” he said. “But you see, I’m made differently. We see things from different perspectives. You’re a materialist.”

“I am not a materialist,” I began hotly.

“I am not a materialist,” I began angrily.

“In my view—in my view. For it is just this question of pain that parts us. So long as visible or audible pain turns you sick; so long as your own pains drive you; so long as pain underlies your propositions about sin,—so long, I tell you, you are an animal, thinking a little less obscurely what an animal feels. This pain—”

“In my view, in my view. For it is this very question of pain that divides us. As long as seeing or hearing pain makes you sick, as long as your own pain drives you, and as long as pain underlies your ideas about sin, you are an animal. I tell you, you are just thinking a little more clearly about what an animal feels. This pain...”

I gave an impatient shrug at such sophistry.

I shrugged impatiently at such false reasoning.

“Oh, but it is such a little thing! A mind truly opened to what science has to teach must see that it is a little thing. It may be that save in this little planet, this speck of cosmic dust, invisible long before the nearest star could be attained—it may be, I say, that nowhere else does this thing called pain occur. But the laws we feel our way towards—Why, even on this earth, even among living things, what pain is there?”

“Oh, but it is such a small thing! Anyone truly open to what science teaches must see how small it is. Pain may occur nowhere else but on this little planet, this speck of cosmic dust. The planet would be invisible long before you reached the nearest star. But the laws we are trying to discover. Why, even on this earth, even among living things, how much pain is there?”

As he spoke he drew a little penknife from his pocket, opened the smaller blade, and moved his chair so that I could see his thigh. Then, choosing the place deliberately, he drove the blade into his leg and withdrew it.

As he spoke, he took a small pocketknife from his pocket and opened the smaller blade. He moved his chair so I could see his thigh. Then he carefully chose a spot, drove the blade into his leg, and pulled it out.

“No doubt,” he said, “you have seen that before. It does not hurt a pin-prick. But what does it show? The capacity for pain is not needed in the muscle, and it is not placed there,—is but little needed in the skin, and only here and there over the thigh is a spot capable of feeling pain. Pain is simply our intrinsic medical adviser to warn us and stimulate us. Not all living flesh is painful; nor is all nerve, not even all sensory nerve. There’s no taint of pain, real pain, in the sensations of the optic nerve. If you wound the optic nerve, you merely see flashes of light,—just as disease of the auditory nerve merely means a humming in our ears. Plants do not feel pain, nor the lower animals; it’s possible that such animals as the starfish and crayfish do not feel pain at all. Then with men, the more intelligent they become, the more intelligently they will see after their own welfare, and the less they will need the goad to keep them out of danger. I never yet heard of a useless thing that was not ground out of existence by evolution sooner or later. Did you? And pain gets needless.

“No doubt,” he said, “you have seen that before. A pinprick does not hurt it. But what does that show? The muscle does not need to feel pain, and it cannot feel it. The skin has little need for pain, and only a few spots on the thigh can feel it. Pain is simply our built-in medical adviser, warning us and spurring us to act. Not all living flesh feels pain, and neither do all nerves, not even all sensory nerves. There is no trace of pain, real pain, in the sensations of the optic nerve. If you injure the optic nerve, you merely see flashes of light. In the same way, disease of the auditory nerve merely causes a humming in our ears. “Plants do not feel pain, nor do the lower animals. It is possible that animals such as starfish and crayfish do not feel pain at all. As for humans, the more intelligent they become, the more intelligently they will look after their own welfare. They will need pain less to drive them away from danger. I have never heard of a useless thing that evolution did not grind out of existence sooner or later. Have you? And pain is becoming unnecessary.

“Then I am a religious man, Prendick, as every sane man must be. It may be, I fancy, that I have seen more of the ways of this world’s Maker than you,—for I have sought his laws, in my way, all my life, while you, I understand, have been collecting butterflies. And I tell you, pleasure and pain have nothing to do with heaven or hell. Pleasure and pain—bah! What is your theologian’s ecstasy but Mahomet’s houri in the dark? This store which men and women set on pleasure and pain, Prendick, is the mark of the beast upon them,—the mark of the beast from which they came! Pain, pain and pleasure, they are for us only so long as we wriggle in the dust.

“Then I am a religious man, Prendick, as every sane man must be. Perhaps I have seen more of how this world’s Maker works than you have. I have spent my life seeking his laws in my way. You, I understand, have been collecting butterflies. And I tell you, pleasure and pain have nothing to do with heaven or hell. Pleasure and pain, bah! What is your theologian’s ecstasy but Muhammad’s houri in the dark? The importance men and women place on pleasure and pain, Prendick, is the mark of the beast on them. It is the mark of the beast they came from! Pain, pain and pleasure, they matter to us only as long as we wriggle in the dust.

“You see, I went on with this research just the way it led me. That is the only way I ever heard of true research going. I asked a question, devised some method of obtaining an answer, and got a fresh question. Was this possible or that possible? You cannot imagine what this means to an investigator, what an intellectual passion grows upon him! You cannot imagine the strange, colourless delight of these intellectual desires! The thing before you is no longer an animal, a fellow-creature, but a problem! Sympathetic pain,—all I know of it I remember as a thing I used to suffer from years ago. I wanted—it was the one thing I wanted—to find out the extreme limit of plasticity in a living shape.”

“You see, I followed this research wherever it led me. That is the only way I have ever heard of true research being done. I asked a question and devised a way to answer it. The answer led to a new question. Was this possible, or was that? You cannot imagine what this means to a researcher, or how strong an intellectual passion grows in him! You cannot imagine the strange, colorless delight of these intellectual desires! The thing before you is no longer an animal, a fellow creature, but a problem! As for the pain of sympathy, all I know of it is that I used to feel it years ago. I wanted only one thing: to find out how far a living form could be reshaped.”

“But,” said I, “the thing is an abomination—”

“But,” I said, “the thing is horrible.”

“To this day I have never troubled about the ethics of the matter,” he continued. “The study of Nature makes a man at last as remorseless as Nature. I have gone on, not heeding anything but the question I was pursuing; and the material has—dripped into the huts yonder. It is nearly eleven years since we came here, I and Montgomery and six Kanakas. I remember the green stillness of the island and the empty ocean about us, as though it was yesterday. The place seemed waiting for me.

“To this day, I have never worried about the ethics of it,” he continued. “Studying Nature eventually makes a man as remorseless as Nature. I have gone on, caring only about the question I was pursuing. And the material has, well, dripped into the huts over there. It has been nearly eleven years since Montgomery, six Pacific Islanders, and I came here. I remember the island’s green stillness and the empty ocean around us as if it were yesterday. The place seemed to be waiting for me.

“The stores were landed and the house was built. The Kanakas founded some huts near the ravine. I went to work here upon what I had brought with me. There were some disagreeable things happened at first. I began with a sheep, and killed it after a day and a half by a slip of the scalpel. I took another sheep, and made a thing of pain and fear and left it bound up to heal. It looked quite human to me when I had finished it; but when I went to it I was discontented with it. It remembered me, and was terrified beyond imagination; and it had no more than the wits of a sheep. The more I looked at it the clumsier it seemed, until at last I put the monster out of its misery. These animals without courage, these fear-haunted, pain-driven things, without a spark of pugnacious energy to face torment,—they are no good for man-making.

“The supplies were unloaded and the house was built. The Pacific Islanders built some huts near the ravine. I began working here on what I had brought with me. Some unpleasant things happened at first. I began with a sheep, but after a day and a half I killed it with a slip of the scalpel. I took another sheep and made it into a creature of pain and fear. I left it bandaged up to heal. It looked quite human to me when I had finished, but when I went to see it, I was dissatisfied. It remembered me and was terrified beyond imagination, and it had no more intelligence than a sheep. The more I looked at it, the clumsier it seemed. At last, I put the monster out of its misery. These animals have no courage. They are haunted by fear and driven by pain, without a spark of fighting spirit to face torment. They are no good for making into humans.

“Then I took a gorilla I had; and upon that, working with infinite care and mastering difficulty after difficulty, I made my first man. All the week, night and day, I moulded him. With him it was chiefly the brain that needed moulding; much had to be added, much changed. I thought him a fair specimen of the negroid type when I had finished him, and he lay bandaged, bound, and motionless before me. It was only when his life was assured that I left him and came into this room again, and found Montgomery much as you are. He had heard some of the cries as the thing grew human,—cries like those that disturbed you so. I didn’t take him completely into my confidence at first. And the Kanakas too, had realised something of it. They were scared out of their wits by the sight of me. I got Montgomery over to me—in a way; but I and he had the hardest job to prevent the Kanakas deserting. Finally they did; and so we lost the yacht. I spent many days educating the brute,—altogether I had him for three or four months. I taught him the rudiments of English; gave him ideas of counting; even made the thing read the alphabet. But at that he was slow, though I’ve met with idiots slower. He began with a clean sheet, mentally; had no memories left in his mind of what he had been. When his scars were quite healed, and he was no longer anything but painful and stiff, and able to converse a little, I took him yonder and introduced him to the Kanakas as an interesting stowaway.

“Then I took a gorilla I had and made my first man from him. I worked with endless care, overcoming one difficulty after another. For a whole week, night and day, I shaped him. It was mainly his brain that needed shaping. Much had to be added, much changed. When I had finished, I thought he was a fair specimen of a Black man. He lay before me, bandaged, bound, and motionless. Only when I was sure he would live did I leave him and come back into this room. I found Montgomery much as you are. He had heard some of the cries as the thing became human, cries like those that disturbed you so. At first, I didn’t tell him everything. The Kanakas had also realized something of what was happening. The sight of me scared them out of their wits. I brought Montgomery around, in a way. But he and I had a terrible time trying to stop the Kanakas from deserting. Finally they did desert, and so we lost the yacht. I spent many days educating the brute. I had him for three or four months altogether. I taught him basic English and gave him some idea of counting. I even got the thing to read the alphabet. But he was slow at that, though I’ve met idiots who were slower. Mentally, he began with a clean slate. He had no memories left of what he had been. His scars finally healed, and he was only sore and stiff. Once he could talk a little, I took him over there and introduced him to the Kanakas as an interesting stowaway.

“They were horribly afraid of him at first, somehow,—which offended me rather, for I was conceited about him; but his ways seemed so mild, and he was so abject, that after a time they received him and took his education in hand. He was quick to learn, very imitative and adaptive, and built himself a hovel rather better, it seemed to me, than their own shanties. There was one among the boys a bit of a missionary, and he taught the thing to read, or at least to pick out letters, and gave him some rudimentary ideas of morality; but it seems the beast’s habits were not all that is desirable.

“They were terribly afraid of him at first, for some reason. That offended me rather, because I was proud of him. But he seemed so mild and submissive that, after a while, they accepted him and took charge of his education. He learned quickly and was very good at copying others and adapting. He built himself a hut that seemed to me rather better than their own shacks. One of the boys was something of a missionary. He taught the thing to read, or at least to recognize letters, and gave him some basic ideas about morality. But it seems the beast’s habits were not all one could wish for.

“I rested from work for some days after this, and was in a mind to write an account of the whole affair to wake up English physiology. Then I came upon the creature squatting up in a tree and gibbering at two of the Kanakas who had been teasing him. I threatened him, told him the inhumanity of such a proceeding, aroused his sense of shame, and came home resolved to do better before I took my work back to England. I have been doing better. But somehow the things drift back again: the stubborn beast-flesh grows day by day back again. But I mean to do better things still. I mean to conquer that. This puma—

“I took a break from work for a few days after this. I was thinking of writing an account of the whole affair to wake up English physiology. Then I came across the creature squatting in a tree, chattering at two Pacific Islanders who had been teasing him. I threatened him and told him how inhuman his behavior was. I made him feel ashamed and went home determined to do better before taking my work back to England. I have been doing better. But somehow the creatures drift back again. The stubborn beast-flesh grows back day by day. Still, I intend to do even better. I intend to conquer that. This puma...

“But that’s the story. All the Kanaka boys are dead now; one fell overboard of the launch, and one died of a wounded heel that he poisoned in some way with plant-juice. Three went away in the yacht, and I suppose and hope were drowned. The other one—was killed. Well, I have replaced them. Montgomery went on much as you are disposed to do at first, and then—”

“But that’s the story. All the Pacific Islander boys are dead now. One fell overboard from the launch. Another wounded his heel and somehow poisoned it with plant juice. Three left in the yacht. I suppose they drowned, and I hope they did. The other one... was killed. Well, I have replaced them. At first, Montgomery reacted much as you seem inclined to. And then...”

“What became of the other one?” said I, sharply,—“the other Kanaka who was killed?”

“What happened to the other one?” I asked sharply. “The other Pacific Islander who was killed?”

“The fact is, after I had made a number of human creatures I made a Thing—” He hesitated.

“The fact is, after I made a number of human creatures, I made a Thing...” He hesitated.

“Yes?” said I.

“Yes?” I said.

“It was killed.”

“It was killed.”

“I don’t understand,” said I; “do you mean to say—”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Do you mean to say...”

“It killed the Kanaka—yes. It killed several other things that it caught. We chased it for a couple of days. It only got loose by accident—I never meant it to get away. It wasn’t finished. It was purely an experiment. It was a limbless thing, with a horrible face, that writhed along the ground in a serpentine fashion. It was immensely strong, and in infuriating pain. It lurked in the woods for some days, until we hunted it; and then it wriggled into the northern part of the island, and we divided the party to close in upon it. Montgomery insisted upon coming with me. The man had a rifle; and when his body was found, one of the barrels was curved into the shape of an S and very nearly bitten through. Montgomery shot the thing. After that I stuck to the ideal of humanity—except for little things.”

“It killed the Pacific Islander, yes. It killed several other things it caught. We chased it for a couple of days. It only got loose by accident. I never meant it to escape. It wasn’t finished. It was purely an experiment. It had no limbs and a horrible face, and it slithered along the ground like a snake. It was immensely strong and in pain that drove it into a fury. It hid in the woods for some days, until we hunted it. Then it wriggled into the northern part of the island, and we split into groups to close in on it. Montgomery insisted on coming with me. The man had a rifle. When his body was found, one of the barrels was bent into an S shape and almost bitten through. Montgomery shot the thing. After that I stuck to the ideal of humanity, except for little things.”

He became silent. I sat in silence watching his face.

He fell silent. I sat quietly, watching his face.

“So for twenty years altogether—counting nine years in England—I have been going on; and there is still something in everything I do that defeats me, makes me dissatisfied, challenges me to further effort. Sometimes I rise above my level, sometimes I fall below it; but always I fall short of the things I dream. The human shape I can get now, almost with ease, so that it is lithe and graceful, or thick and strong; but often there is trouble with the hands and the claws,—painful things, that I dare not shape too freely. But it is in the subtle grafting and reshaping one must needs do to the brain that my trouble lies. The intelligence is often oddly low, with unaccountable blank ends, unexpected gaps. And least satisfactory of all is something that I cannot touch, somewhere—I cannot determine where—in the seat of the emotions. Cravings, instincts, desires that harm humanity, a strange hidden reservoir to burst forth suddenly and inundate the whole being of the creature with anger, hate, or fear. These creatures of mine seemed strange and uncanny to you so soon as you began to observe them; but to me, just after I make them, they seem to be indisputably human beings. It’s afterwards, as I observe them, that the persuasion fades. First one animal trait, then another, creeps to the surface and stares out at me. But I will conquer yet! Each time I dip a living creature into the bath of burning pain, I say, ‘This time I will burn out all the animal; this time I will make a rational creature of my own!’ After all, what is ten years? Men have been a hundred thousand in the making.” He thought darkly. “But I am drawing near the fastness. This puma of mine—” After a silence, “And they revert. As soon as my hand is taken from them the beast begins to creep back, begins to assert itself again.” Another long silence.

“So for twenty years in all, including nine in England, I have continued my work. And there is still something in everything I do that defeats me. It leaves me dissatisfied and challenges me to try harder. Sometimes I rise above my usual level, and sometimes I fall below it. But I always fall short of what I dream of achieving. I can now produce the human shape almost easily, making it supple and graceful, or thick and strong. But the hands and claws often cause trouble. They are painful to work on, and I dare not reshape them too freely. My real trouble, though, lies in the delicate grafting and reshaping that must be done to the brain. The intelligence is often strangely low, with inexplicable dead ends and unexpected gaps. And least satisfactory of all is something I cannot touch. It lies somewhere in the seat of the emotions, though I cannot determine where. There are cravings, instincts, and desires that harm humanity. They form a strange hidden reservoir that can suddenly burst. It can flood the creature’s whole being with anger, hate, or fear. “These creatures of mine seemed strange and uncanny to you as soon as you began to observe them. But to me, just after I make them, they seem unquestionably human. Only later, as I watch them, does that belief fade. First one animal trait, then another, creeps to the surface and stares out at me. But I will conquer yet! Each time I plunge a living creature into the bath of burning pain, I say, ‘This time I will burn out all the animal. This time I will make a rational creature of my own!’ After all, what is ten years? It has taken a hundred thousand years to make men.” He thought darkly. “But I am drawing near the stronghold. This puma of mine...” After a silence, he said, “And they revert. As soon as I stop working on them, the beast begins to creep back and assert itself again.” Another long silence followed.

“Then you take the things you make into those dens?” said I.

“Then you take the things you make into those dens?” I asked.

“They go. I turn them out when I begin to feel the beast in them, and presently they wander there. They all dread this house and me. There is a kind of travesty of humanity over there. Montgomery knows about it, for he interferes in their affairs. He has trained one or two of them to our service. He’s ashamed of it, but I believe he half likes some of those beasts. It’s his business, not mine. They only sicken me with a sense of failure. I take no interest in them. I fancy they follow in the lines the Kanaka missionary marked out, and have a kind of mockery of a rational life, poor beasts! There’s something they call the Law. Sing hymns about ‘all thine.’ They build themselves their dens, gather fruit, and pull herbs—marry even. But I can see through it all, see into their very souls, and see there nothing but the souls of beasts, beasts that perish, anger and the lusts to live and gratify themselves.—Yet they’re odd; complex, like everything else alive. There is a kind of upward striving in them, part vanity, part waste sexual emotion, part waste curiosity. It only mocks me. I have some hope of this puma. I have worked hard at her head and brain—

“They go. I turn them out when I begin to feel the beast in them, and soon they wander over there. They all dread this house and me. Over there, they live in a kind of parody of human life. Montgomery knows about it because he interferes in their affairs. He has trained one or two of them to serve us. He’s ashamed of it, but I believe he half likes some of those beasts. That’s his business, not mine. They only make me sick with a sense of failure. I take no interest in them. I suppose they follow the path the Pacific Islander missionary laid out and live a kind of mockery of a rational life, poor beasts! They have something they call the Law. They sing hymns about ‘all yours.’ They build their dens, gather fruit, and pick herbs. They even marry. But I can see through it all, right into their souls. And I see nothing there but the souls of beasts, beasts that perish, anger, and the desire to live and satisfy themselves. Yet they’re odd, complex like everything else alive. They have a kind of urge to rise, partly vanity, partly wasted sexual feeling, partly wasted curiosity. It only mocks me. I have some hope for this puma. I have worked hard on her head and brain.

“And now,” said he, standing up after a long gap of silence, during which we had each pursued our own thoughts, “what do you think? Are you in fear of me still?”

“And now,” he said, standing up after a long silence. We had each been lost in our own thoughts. “What do you think? Are you still afraid of me?”

I looked at him, and saw but a white-faced, white-haired man, with calm eyes. Save for his serenity, the touch almost of beauty that resulted from his set tranquillity and his magnificent build, he might have passed muster among a hundred other comfortable old gentlemen. Then I shivered. By way of answer to his second question, I handed him a revolver with either hand.

I looked at him and saw only a white-faced, white-haired man with calm eyes. His steady calm and magnificent build gave him an almost beautiful appearance. But for that, he might have passed for any one of a hundred comfortable old gentlemen. Then I shivered. In answer to his second question, I handed him a revolver with each hand.

“Keep them,” he said, and snatched at a yawn. He stood up, stared at me for a moment, and smiled. “You have had two eventful days,” said he. “I should advise some sleep. I’m glad it’s all clear. Good-night.” He thought me over for a moment, then went out by the inner door.

“Keep them,” he said, stifling a yawn. He stood up, stared at me for a moment, and smiled. “You’ve had two eventful days,” he said. “I’d advise you to get some sleep. I’m glad it’s all clear. Good night.” He studied me for a moment, then went out through the inner door.

I immediately turned the key in the outer one. I sat down again; sat for a time in a kind of stagnant mood, so weary, emotionally, mentally, and physically, that I could not think beyond the point at which he had left me. The black window stared at me like an eye. At last with an effort I put out the light and got into the hammock. Very soon I was asleep.

I immediately turned the key in the outer one. I sat down again and remained still for a while. I was emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausted. I could not think beyond the point where he had left me. The black window stared at me like an eye. At last, I forced myself to put out the light and get into the hammock. I soon fell asleep.