I followed him out with my eyes
iron bar looked out towards the sea. This the white-haired man told me was to be my apart-
ment; and the inner door, which ‘for fear of accidents,’ he said, he would lock on the other side, was my limit inward. He called my attention to a convenient deck-chair before the window, and to an array of old books, chiefly, I found, surgical works and editions of the Latin and Greek classics (languages I cannot read with any comfort), on a shelf near the hammock. He left the room by the outer door, as if to avoid opening the inner one again.
‘We usually have our meals in here,’ said Montgomery, and then, as if in doubt, went out after the other. ‘Moreau!’ I heard him call, and for the moment I do not think I no- ticed. Then as I handled the books on the shelf it came up in consciousness: Where had I heard the name of Moreau before? I sat down before the window, took out the biscuits that still remained to me, and ate them with an excellent appetite. Moreau!
Through the window I saw one of those unaccount- able men in white, lugging a packing-case along the beach. Presently the window-frame hid him. Then I heard a key inserted and turned in the lock behind me. After a little while I heard through the locked door the noise of the stag- hounds, that had now been brought up from the beach. They were not barking, but sniffing and growling in a curi- ous fashion. I could hear the rapid patter of their feet, and Montgomery’s voice soothing them.
I was very much impressed by the elaborate secrecy of these two men regarding the contents of the place, and for
The Island of Doctor Moreau��
some time I was thinking of that and of the unaccountable familiarity of the name of Moreau; but so odd is the hu- man memory that I could not then recall that well-known name in its proper connection. From that my thoughts went to the indefinable queerness of the deformed man on the beach. I never saw such a gait, such odd motions as he pulled at the box. I recalled that none of these men had spo- ken to me, though most of them I had found looking at me at one time or another in a peculiarly furtive manner, quite unlike the frank stare of your unsophisticated savage. In- deed, they had all seemed remarkably taciturn, and when they did speak, endowed with very uncanny voices. What was wrong with them? Then I recalled the eyes of Mont- gomery’s ungainly attendant.
Just as I was thinking of him he came in. He was now dressed in white, and carried a little tray with some cof- fee and boiled vegetables thereon. I could hardly repress a shuddering recoil as he came, bending amiably, and placed the tray before me on the table. Then astonishment par- alysed me. Under his stringy black locks I saw his ear; it jumped upon me suddenly close to my face. The man had pointed ears, covered with a fine brown fur!
‘Your breakfast, sair,’ he said. I stared at his face without attempting to answer him.
He turned and went towards the door, regarding me odd- ly over his shoulder. I followed him out with my eyes; and as I did so, by some odd trick of unconscious cerebration, there came surging into my head the phrase, ‘The Moreau Hollows’—was it? ‘The Moreau—‘ Ah! It sent my memory
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back ten years. ‘The Moreau Horrors!’ The phrase drifted loose in my mind for a moment, and then I saw it in red lettering on a little buff-coloured pamphlet, to read which made one shiver and creep. Then I remembered distinctly all about it. That long-forgotten pamphlet came back with startling vividness to my mind. I had been a mere lad then, and Moreau was, I suppose, about fifty,— a prominent and masterful physiologist, well-known in scientific circles for his extraordinary imagination and his brutal directness in discussion.
Was this the same Moreau? He had published some very astonishing facts in connection with the transfusion of blood, and in addition was known to be doing valuable work on morbid growths. Then suddenly his career was closed. He had to leave England. A journalist obtained access to his laboratory in the capacity of laboratory-assistant, with the deliberate intention of making sensational exposures; and by the help of a shocking accident (if it was an accident), his gruesome pamphlet became notorious. On the day of its publication a wretched dog, flayed and otherwise mutilat- ed, escaped from Moreau’s house. It was in the silly season, and a prominent editor, a cousin of the temporary labora- tory-assistant, appealed to the conscience of the nation. It was not the first time that conscience has turned against the methods of research. The doctor was simply howled out of the country. It may be that he deserved to be; but I still think that the tepid support of his fellow-investigators and his desertion by the great body of scientific workers was a shameful thing. Yet some of his experiments, by the jour-
The Island of Doctor Moreau�0
