The Man Alone

In the evening I started, and drove out to sea before a gentle wind from the southwest, slowly, steadily; and the island grew smaller and smaller, and the lank spire of smoke dwindled to a finer and finer line against the hot sunset. The ocean rose up around me, hiding that low, dark patch from my eyes. The daylight, the trailing glory of the sun, went streaming out of the sky, was drawn aside like some luminous curtain, and at last I looked into the blue gulf of immensity which the sunshine hides, and saw the floating hosts of the stars. The sea was silent, the sky was silent. I was alone with the night and silence.

In the evening I set out to sea, moving slowly and steadily before a gentle southwest wind. The island grew smaller and smaller, and the thin column of smoke narrowed against the glowing sunset. The ocean rose around me, hiding that low, dark patch from view. The daylight, the sun’s lingering glory, streamed out of the sky. It was drawn aside like a glowing curtain. At last I looked into the vast blue depths that sunlight hides and saw the floating hosts of stars. The sea was silent, and the sky was silent. I was alone with the night and silence.

So I drifted for three days, eating and drinking sparingly, and meditating upon all that had happened to me,—not desiring very greatly then to see men again. One unclean rag was about me, my hair a black tangle: no doubt my discoverers thought me a madman.

So I drifted for three days, eating and drinking sparingly and thinking about all that had happened to me. I did not much want to see people again then. I had one dirty rag wrapped around me, and my black hair was tangled. No doubt the people who found me thought I was mad.

It is strange, but I felt no desire to return to mankind. I was only glad to be quit of the foulness of the Beast People. And on the third day I was picked up by a brig from Apia to San Francisco. Neither the captain nor the mate would believe my story, judging that solitude and danger had made me mad; and fearing their opinion might be that of others, I refrained from telling my adventure further, and professed to recall nothing that had happened to me between the loss of the Lady Vain and the time when I was picked up again,—the space of a year.

It is strange, but I felt no desire to return to mankind. I was only glad to be free of the foulness of the Beast People. On the third day, a brig sailing from Apia to San Francisco picked me up. Neither the captain nor the mate would believe my story. They thought solitude and danger had driven me mad. I feared others might think the same, so I told no one else about my adventure. I claimed to remember nothing between the loss of the Lady Vain and my rescue, a span of a year.

I had to act with the utmost circumspection to save myself from the suspicion of insanity. My memory of the Law, of the two dead sailors, of the ambuscades of the darkness, of the body in the canebrake, haunted me; and, unnatural as it seems, with my return to mankind came, instead of that confidence and sympathy I had expected, a strange enhancement of the uncertainty and dread I had experienced during my stay upon the island. No one would believe me; I was almost as queer to men as I had been to the Beast People. I may have caught something of the natural wildness of my companions. They say that terror is a disease, and anyhow I can witness that for several years now a restless fear has dwelt in my mind,—such a restless fear as a half-tamed lion cub may feel.

I had to be extremely careful so that people would not suspect I was insane. Memories of the Law, the two dead sailors, the ambushes in the darkness, and the body among the canes haunted me. When I returned to human society, I expected to feel confidence and sympathy. Instead, strange as it may seem, I felt even more uncertainty and dread than I had on the island. No one would believe me. I was almost as strange to people as I had been to the Beast People. I may have picked up some of my companions’ natural wildness. They say terror is a disease. In any case, I can say that for several years now, a restless fear has lived in my mind. It is like the restless fear a half-tamed lion cub might feel.

My trouble took the strangest form. I could not persuade myself that the men and women I met were not also another Beast People, animals half wrought into the outward image of human souls, and that they would presently begin to revert,—to show first this bestial mark and then that. But I have confided my case to a strangely able man,—a man who had known Moreau, and seemed half to credit my story; a mental specialist,—and he has helped me mightily, though I do not expect that the terror of that island will ever altogether leave me. At most times it lies far in the back of my mind, a mere distant cloud, a memory, and a faint distrust; but there are times when the little cloud spreads until it obscures the whole sky. Then I look about me at my fellow-men; and I go in fear. I see faces, keen and bright; others dull or dangerous; others, unsteady, insincere,—none that have the calm authority of a reasonable soul. I feel as though the animal was surging up through them; that presently the degradation of the Islanders will be played over again on a larger scale. I know this is an illusion; that these seeming men and women about me are indeed men and women,—men and women for ever, perfectly reasonable creatures, full of human desires and tender solicitude, emancipated from instinct and the slaves of no fantastic Law,—beings altogether different from the Beast Folk. Yet I shrink from them, from their curious glances, their inquiries and assistance, and long to be away from them and alone. For that reason I live near the broad free downland, and can escape thither when this shadow is over my soul; and very sweet is the empty downland then, under the wind-swept sky.

My trouble took the strangest form. I could not convince myself that the men and women I met were not another Beast People. They seemed to me like animals partly shaped into the outward image of human souls. I feared they would soon begin to change back, showing one animal trait and then another. But I have confided in a remarkably capable man, a mental health specialist who knew Moreau. He seemed to half believe my story, and he has helped me greatly. Even so, I do not expect the terror of that island ever to leave me completely. Most of the time, it lies far back in my mind, a distant cloud, a memory, a faint distrust. But sometimes the little cloud spreads until it covers the whole sky. Then I look around at my fellow human beings, and I am afraid. I see faces that are sharp and bright, others dull or dangerous, and others unsteady and insincere. None has the calm authority of a rational soul. I feel as if the animal in them is rising to the surface. I feel that the Islanders’ degradation will soon happen again on a larger scale. I know this is an illusion. The men and women around me only seem to be something else. They really are men and women, men and women forever. They are perfectly rational creatures, full of human desires and tender concern for others. They are free from instinct and slaves to no fantastic Law. They are beings altogether different from the Beast Folk. Yet I shrink from them, from their curious glances, their questions, and their offers of help. I long to be away from them and alone. That is why I live near the broad, open downland. I can escape there when this shadow falls over my soul. And then the empty downland is very sweet beneath the windswept sky.

When I lived in London the horror was well-nigh insupportable. I could not get away from men: their voices came through windows; locked doors were flimsy safeguards. I would go out into the streets to fight with my delusion, and prowling women would mew after me; furtive, craving men glance jealously at me; weary, pale workers go coughing by me with tired eyes and eager paces, like wounded deer dripping blood; old people, bent and dull, pass murmuring to themselves; and, all unheeding, a ragged tail of gibing children. Then I would turn aside into some chapel,—and even there, such was my disturbance, it seemed that the preacher gibbered “Big Thinks,” even as the Ape-man had done; or into some library, and there the intent faces over the books seemed but patient creatures waiting for prey. Particularly nauseous were the blank, expressionless faces of people in trains and omnibuses; they seemed no more my fellow-creatures than dead bodies would be, so that I did not dare to travel unless I was assured of being alone. And even it seemed that I too was not a reasonable creature, but only an animal tormented with some strange disorder in its brain which sent it to wander alone, like a sheep stricken with gid.

When I lived in London, the horror was almost unbearable. I could not escape people. Their voices came through windows, and locked doors offered little protection. I would go out into the streets to fight my delusion. Women prowling the streets would mew after me. Sneaky, eager men would glance at me jealously. Weary, pale workers hurried past, coughing, their eyes tired. They were like wounded deer dripping blood. Bent, listless old people passed by, murmuring to themselves. And behind them all trailed a ragged crowd of mocking children, paying no attention. Then I would turn into a chapel. But even there, I was so disturbed that the preacher seemed to babble about “Big Thinks,” just as the Ape-man had done. Or I would go into a library. There, the faces focused on books seemed like those of patient creatures waiting for prey. The blank, expressionless faces of people on trains and buses were especially sickening. They seemed no more my fellow creatures than dead bodies would have been. So I did not dare travel unless I was sure I would be alone. It even seemed that I was not a rational creature either. I seemed to be only an animal tormented by some strange brain disorder that drove it to wander alone. I was like a sheep stricken with gid.

This is a mood, however, that comes to me now, I thank God, more rarely. I have withdrawn myself from the confusion of cities and multitudes, and spend my days surrounded by wise books,—bright windows in this life of ours, lit by the shining souls of men. I see few strangers, and have but a small household. My days I devote to reading and to experiments in chemistry, and I spend many of the clear nights in the study of astronomy. There is—though I do not know how there is or why there is—a sense of infinite peace and protection in the glittering hosts of heaven. There it must be, I think, in the vast and eternal laws of matter, and not in the daily cares and sins and troubles of men, that whatever is more than animal within us must find its solace and its hope. I hope, or I could not live.

This is a mood that comes over me less often now, thank God. I have withdrawn from the confusion of cities and crowds. I spend my days surrounded by wise books, bright windows in our lives, lit by the shining souls of men. I see few strangers and have only a small household. I spend my days reading and doing chemistry experiments. On many clear nights, I study astronomy. There is a sense of infinite peace and protection in the glittering stars of heaven. But I do not know how or why it is there. I think that whatever is more than animal within us must find comfort and hope there. It must find them in the vast and eternal laws of matter, not in the daily cares, sins, and troubles of men. I hope, or I could not live.

And so, in hope and solitude, my story ends.

And so, in hope and solitude, my story ends.

EDWARD PRENDICK.

EDWARD PRENDICK.

NOTE.

NOTE.

The substance of the chapter entitled “Doctor Moreau explains,” which contains the essential idea of the story, appeared as a middle article in the Saturday Review in January, 1895. This is the only portion of this story that has been previously published, and it has been entirely recast to adapt it to the narrative form.

The chapter titled “Doctor Moreau explains” contains the essential idea of the story. Its substance appeared as a middle article in the Saturday Review in January 1895. This is the only part of the story that has been published before. It has been completely rewritten to fit the narrative form.