H G Wells Omnibus, page 141
In the Introduction (6:5), Stone and Kimball 1896 and Penguin 1946 read ‘Africa’, which is apparently a misreading of Heinemann 1896’s ‘Arica’ (a port in Chile). Apart from the restoration of the Introduction and the footnote in Chapter 15, the substantive emendations to the Atlantic text in the present edition are listed below. In addition, the hyphens have been removed from about a dozen words, including blood-stained, gun-boat, half-way, to-morrow and to-night, in accordance with modern practice. ‘Any one’ has been changed to ‘anyone’, ‘every one’ to ‘everyone’, ‘some one’ to ‘someone’ and ‘leaped’ to ‘leapt’ where appropriate. Half a dozen commas found in Heinemann 1913 have been restored for the sake of clarity, and two new paragraphs made (27:10, 78:14). The following spellings have been modernized: ‘dinghy’ for ‘dingey’, ‘coconut’ for ‘cocoanut’, ‘faggots’ for ‘fagots’, ‘hyena’ for ‘hyæna’.
Housestyling of punctuation and spelling has also been implemented to make the text more accessible to the reader: single quotation marks (for doubles) with doubles inside singles as needed; end punctuation placed outside end quotation marks when appropriate; spaced N-dashes (for the heavier, longer M-dash) and M-dashes (for double-length 2M-dash); ‘iz’ spellings (e.g. recognize, not recognise), and acknowledgements and judgement, not acknowledgments and judgment; no full stop after personal titles (Dr, Mr, Mrs) or chapter titles, which may not follow the capitalization of the copy-text.
SOURCES OF SUBSTANTIVE EMENDATIONS
The list specifies the earliest text containing each reading, using the following abbreviations: A = Atlantic, H 1 = Heinemann 1896, H 2 = Heinemann 1913, P = Penguin, S = Stone and Kimball.
Page/line
Reading adopted
Atlantic reading rejected
7:23
breaker (H 1)
breaker (H 2)
42:13
raising (H 1)
rising (H 2)
44:17
level place (H 1)
level (H 2)
59:6
or (H 2)
of (A)
60:32
grey (H 1)
great (H 2)
61:2
or (S)
nor (H 1)
71:9–10
modifications (H 1)
modification (A)
78:19
out at (H 1)
at (H 2)
79:30
he had (H 1)
he (H 2)
81:37
[footnote] (H 1)
[no footnote] (H 2)
94:7
others (P)
other (H 1)
95:36
to (H 1)
of (H 2)
102:9
tropical (H 1)
hot tropical (H 2)
111:32
burnt (H 1)
burned (A)
116:18
in the (H 1)
in an (H 2)
116:20
huts (H 1)
hut (H 2)
117:21–2
specked and…
propped some
(S)
fruit, and then, after I had
propped some specked
and half-decayed (H 1)
125:10
is as (H 2)
is (A)
127:3
upon these (H 1)
upon (A)
129:12
that had (S)
that (H 1)
131:34
[ends] EDWARD
PRENDICK
(H 1)
[ends] (A)
Volume II of the Atlantic Edition contains a brief preface, mainly devoted to The Sleeper Awakes, but Wells’s remarks on The Island of Doctor Moreau are as follows. (The ‘scandalous trial’ is evidently that of Oscar Wilde.)
The Island of Doctor Moreau was written in 1895, and it was begun while The Wonderful Visit was still in hand. It is a theological grotesque, and the influence of Swift is very apparent in it. There was a scandalous trial about that time, the graceless and pitiful downfall of a man of genius, and this story was the response of an imaginative mind to the reminder that humanity is but animal rough-hewn to a reasonable shape and in perpetual internal conflict between instinct and injunction. This story embodies this ideal, but apart from this embodiment it has no allegorical quality. It is written just to give the utmost possible vividness to that conception of men as hewn and confused and tormented beasts. When the reader comes to read the writings upon history in this collection [in volume XXVII], he will find the same idea of man as a reshaped animal no longer in flaming caricature, but as a weighed and settled conviction.
The genesis of The Island of Doctor Moreau from the earliest manuscripts to the Atlantic text has been meticulously traced by Bernard Loing in H. G. Wells à l’oeuvre: Les débuts d’un écrivain (1894 – 1900) (Paris: Didier, 1984) and by Robert M. Philmus in his ‘Variorum Text’ edition of The Island of Doctor Moreau (Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 1993), to both of which I am greatly indebted. Four different draft versions of Wells’s novel are in the Wells Collection at the Rare Book and Special Collections Library, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.
P.P.
THE ISLAND OF DOCTOR MOREAU
Contents
Introduction
I In the Dinghy of the ‘Lady Vain’
II The Man Who Was Going Nowhere
III The Strange Face
IV At the Schooner’s Rail
V The Landing on the Island
VI The Evil-Looking Boatmen
VII The Locked Door
VIII The Crying of the Puma
IX The Thing in the Forest
X The Crying of the Man
XI The Hunting of the Man
XII The Sayers of the Law
XIII A Parley
XIV Doctor Moreau Explains
XV Concerning the Beast Folk
XVI How the Beast Folk Tasted Blood
XVII A Catastrophe
XVIII The Finding of Moreau
XIX Montgomery’s ‘Bank Holiday’
XX Alone with the Beast Folk
XXI The Reversion of the Beast Folk
XXII The Man Alone
Introduction
On February the 1st, 1887, the Lady Vainwas lost by collision with a derelict when about the latitude 1º S. and longitude 107ºW.
On January the 5th, 1888 – that is, eleven months and four days after – my uncle, Edward Prendick, a private gentleman, who certainly went aboard the Lady Vainat Callao,1 and who had been considered drowned, was picked up in latitude 5º 3’S. and longitude 101ºW. in a small open boat, of which the name was illegible, but which is supposed to have belonged to the missing schooner2 Ipecacuanha. He gave such a strange account of himself that he was supposed demented. Subsequently, he alleged that his mind was a blank from the moment of his escape from the Lady Vain. His case was discussed among psychologists at the time as a curious instance of the lapse of memory consequent upon physical and mental stress. The following narrative was found among his papers by the undersigned, his nephew and heir, but unaccompanied by any definite request for publication.
The only island known to exist in the region in which my uncle was picked up is Noble’s Isle, a small volcanic islet, and uninhabited. It was visited in 1891 by H. M. S. Scorpion. A party of sailors then landed, but found nothing living thereon except certain curious white moths, some hogs and rabbits, and some rather peculiar rats. No specimen was secured of these. So that this narrative is without confirmation in its most essential particular. With that understood, there seems no harm in putting this strange story before the public, in accordance, as I believe, with my uncle’s intentions. There is at least this much in its behalf: my uncle passed out of human knowledge about latitude 5ºS. and longitude 105ºW., and reappeared in the same part of the ocean after a space of eleven months. In some way he must have lived during the interval. And it seems that a schooner called the Ipecacuanha, with a drunken captain, John Davis, did start from Arica3 with a puma and certain other animals aboard in January 1887, that the vessel was well-known at several ports in the South Pacific, and that it finally disappeared from those seas (with a considerable amount of copra aboard), sailing to its unknown fate from Banya in December 1887, a date that tallies entirely with my uncle’s story.
CHARLES EDWARD PRENDICK
I
IN THE DINGHY OF THE ‘LADY VAIN’
I do not propose to add anything to what has already been written concerning the loss of the Lady Vain. As everyone knows, she collided with a derelict when ten days out from Callao. The long-boat with seven of the crew was picked up eighteen days after by H. M. gunboat Myrtle, and the story of their privations has become almost as well known as the far more terrible Medusa case.1 I have now, however, to add to the published story of the Lady Vain another as horrible, and certainly far stranger. It has hitherto been supposed that the four men who were in the dinghy2 perished, but this is incorrect. I have the best of evidence for this assertion – I am one of the four men.
But, in the first place, I must state that there never were four men in the dinghy; the number was three. Constans, who was ‘seen by the captain to jump into the gig’3 (Daily News, March 17, 1887), luckily for us, and unluckily for himself, did not reach us. He came down out of the tangle of ropes under the stays of the smashed bowsprit;4 some small rope caught his heel as he let go, and he hung for a moment head downward, and then fell and struck a block or spar floating in the water. We pulled towards him, but he never came up.
I say luckily for us he did not reach us, and I might also add luckily for himself, for there were only a small breaker of water5 and some soddened ship’s biscuits with us – so sudden had been the alarm, so unprepared the ship for any disaster. We thought the people on the launch would be better provisioned (though it seems they were not), and we tried to hail them. They could not have heard us, and the next morning when the drizzle cleared – which was not until past midday – we could see nothing of them. We could not stand up to look about us because of the pitching of the boat. The sea ran in great rollers, and we had much ado to keep the boat’s head to them. The two other men who had escaped so far with me were a man named Helmar, a passenger like myself, and a seaman whose name I don’t know, a short sturdy man with a stammer.
We drifted famishing, and, after our water had come to an end, tormented by an intolerable thirst, for eight days altogether. After the second day the sea subsided slowly to a glassy calm. It is quite impossible for the ordinary reader to imagine those eight days. He has not – luckily for himself – anything in his memory to imagine with. After the first day we said little to one another, and lay in our places in the boat and stared at the horizon, or watched, with eyes that grew larger and more haggard every day, the misery and weakness gaining upon our companions. The sun became pitiless. The water ended on the fourth day, and we were already thinking strange things and saying them with our eyes; but it was, I think, the sixth before Helmar gave voice to the thing we all had in mind.6 I remember our voices dry and thin, so that we bent towards one another and spared our words. I stood out against it with all my might, was rather for scuttling the boat and perishing together among the sharks that followed us; but when Helmar said that if his proposal was accepted we should have drink, the sailor came round to him.
I would not draw lots, however, and in the night the sailor whispered to Helmar again and again, and I sat in the bows with my clasp–knife in my hand – though I doubt if I had the stuff in me to fight. And in the morning I agreed to Helmar’s proposal, and we handed halfpence to find the odd man.
The lot fell upon the sailor, but he was the strongest of us and would not abide by it, and attacked Helmar with his hands. They grappled together and almost stood up. I crawled along the boat to them, intending to help Helmar by grasping the sailor’s leg, but the sailor stumbled with the swaying of the boat, and the two fell upon the gunwale and rolled overboard together. They sank like stones. I remember laughing at that and wondering why I laughed. The laugh caught me suddenly like a thing from without.
I lay across one of the thwarts7 for I know not how long, thinking that if I had the strength I would drink sea water and madden myself to die quickly. And even as I lay there I saw, with no more interest than if it had been a picture, a sail come up towards me over the skyline. My mind must have been wandering, and yet I remember all that happened quite distinctly. I remember how my head swayed with the seas, and the horizon with the sail above it danced up and down. But I also remember as distinctly that I had a persuasion that I was dead, and that I thought what a jest it was they should come too late by such a little to catch me in my body.
For an endless period, as it seemed to me, I lay with my head on the thwart watching the dancing schooner – she was a little ship, schooner–rigged fore and aft – come up out of the sea. She kept tacking to and fro in a widening compass, for she was sailing dead into the wind. It never entered my head to attempt to attract attention, and I do not remember anything distinctly after the sight of her side, until I found myself in a little cabin aft. There is a dim half–memory of being lifted up to the gangway and of a big round countenance, covered with freckles and surrounded with red hair, staring at me over the bulwarks. I also had a disconnected impression of a dark face with extraordinary eyes close to mine, but that I thought was a nightmare until I met it again. I fancy I recollect some stuff being poured in between my teeth. And that is all.
II
THE MAN WHO WAS GOING NOWHERE
The cabin in which I found myself was small and rather untidy. A youngish man with flaxen hair, a bristly straw–coloured moustache, and a dropping nether lip was sitting and holding my wrist. For a minute we stared at one another without speaking. He had watery grey expressionless eyes.
Then just overhead came a sound like an iron bedstead being knocked about and the low angry growling of some large animal. At the same time the man spoke again.
He repeated his question: ‘How do you feel now?’
I think I said I felt all right. I could not recollect how I had got there. He must have seen the question in my face, for my voice was inaccessible to me.
‘You were picked up in a boat – starving. The name on the boat was the Lady Vain, and there were queer marks on the gunwale.’1 At the same time my eye caught my hand, so thin that it looked like a dirty skin purse full of loose bones, and all the business of the boat came back to me.
‘Have some of this,’ said he, and gave me a dose of some scarlet stuff, iced.
It tasted like blood, and made me feel stronger.
‘You were in luck,’ said he, ‘to get picked up by a ship with a medical man aboard.’ He spoke with a slobbering articulation, with the ghost of a lisp.
‘What ship is this?’ I said slowly, hoarse from my long silence.
‘It’s a little trader from Arica and Callao. I never asked where she came from in the beginning. Out of the land of born fools, I guess. I’m a passenger myself from Arica. The silly ass who owns her – he’s captain too, named Davis – he’s lost his certificate or something. You know the kind of man – calls the thing the Ipecacuanha – of all silly infernal names, though when there’s much of a sea without any wind she certainly acts according.’2
Then the noise overhead began again, a snarling growl and the voice of a human being together. Then another voice telling some ‘Heaven–forsaken idiot’ to desist.
‘You were nearly dead,’ said my interlocutor. ‘It was a very near thing indeed. But I’ve put some stuff into you now. Notice your arm’s sore? Injections. You’ve been insensible for nearly thirty hours.’
I thought slowly. I was distracted now by the yelping of a number of dogs. ‘May I have solid food?’ I asked.
‘Thanks to me,’ he said. ‘Even now the mutton is boiling.’
‘Yes,’ I said, with assurance; ‘I could eat some mutton.’
‘But,’ said he, with a momentary hesitation, ‘you know I’m dying to hear how you came to be alone in the boat.’ I thought I detected a certain suspicion in his eyes.
‘Damn that howling!’
He suddenly left the cabin, and I heard him in violent controversy with someone who seemed to me to talk gibberish in response to him. The matter sounded as though it ended in blows, but in that I thought my ears were mistaken. Then he shouted at the dogs and returned to the cabin.
‘Well?’ said he, in the doorway. ‘You were just beginning to tell me.’
I told him my name, Edward Prendick, and how I had taken to natural history as a relief from the dulness of my comfortable independence. He seemed interested in this. ‘I’ve done some science myself –1 did my Biology at University College, – getting out the ovary of the earthworm and the radula of the snail3 and all that. Lord! it’s ten years ago. But go on, go on – tell me about the boat.’
