A Catastrophe.

           ScarcelysixweekspassedbeforeIhadlosteveryfeelingbutdislikeandabhorrenceforthisinfamousexperimentofMoreau’s.MyoneideawastogetawayfromthesehorriblecaricaturesofmyMaker’simage,backtothesweetandwholesomeintercourseofmen.Myfellow-creatures,fromwhomIwasthusseparated,begantoassumeidyllicvirtueandbeautyinmymemory.MyfirstfriendshipwithMontgomerydidnotincrease.Hislongseparationfromhumanity,hissecretviceofdrunkenness,hisevidentsympathywiththeBeastPeople,taintedhimtome.SeveraltimesIlethimgoaloneamongthem.Iavoidedintercoursewiththemineverypossibleway.Ispentanincreasingproportionofmytimeuponthebeach,lookingforsomeliberatingsailthatneverappeared,—untilonedaytherefelluponusanappallingdisaster,whichputanaltogetherdifferentaspectuponmystrangesurroundings.

           Itwasaboutsevenoreightweeksaftermylanding,—rathermore,Ithink,thoughIhadnottroubledtokeepaccountofthetime,—whenthiscatastropheoccurred.Ithappenedintheearlymorning—Ishouldthinkaboutsix.Ihadrisenandbreakfastedearly,havingbeenarousedbythenoiseofthreeBeastMencarryingwoodintotheenclosure.

           AfterbreakfastIwenttotheopengatewayoftheenclosure,andstoodtheresmokingacigaretteandenjoyingthefreshnessoftheearlymorning.Moreaupresentlycameroundthecorneroftheenclosureandgreetedme.