I THINK that at that time none of us quite believed in the Time Machine. The fact is, the Time Traveller was one of those men who are too clever to be believed: you never felt that you saw all round him; you always suspected some subtle reserve, some ingenuity in ambush, behind his lucid frankness. Had Filby shown the model and explained the matter in the Time Travellers words, we should have shown him far less scepticism. For we should have perceived his motives; a pork butcher could understand Filby. But the Time Traveller had more than a touch of whim among his elements, and we distrusted him. Things that would have made the frame of a less clever man seemed tricks in his hands. It is a mistake to do things too easily. The serious people who took him seriously never felt quite sure of his deportment; they were somehow aware that trusting their reputations for judgment with him was like furnishing a nursery with egg-shell china. So I dont think any of us said very much about time travelling in the interval between that Thursday and the next, though its odd potentialities ran, no doubt, in most of our minds: its plausibility, that is, its practical incredibleness, the curious possibilities of anachronism and of utter confusion it suggested. For my own part, I was particularly preoccupied with the trick of the model. That I remember discussing with the Medical Man, whom I met on Friday at the Linnæan. He said he had seen a similar thing at Tubingen, and laid considerable stress on the blowing out of the candle. But how the trick was done he could not explain.
The next Thursday I went again to RichmondI suppose I was one of the Time Travellers most constant guestsand, arriving late, found four or five men already assembled in his drawing-room. The Medical Man was standing before the fire with a sheet of paper in one hand and his watch in the other. I looked round for the Time Traveller, andIts half-past seven now, said the Medical Man. I suppose wed better have dinner?
The Psychologist was the only person besides the Doctor and myself who had attended the previous dinner. The other men were Blank, the Editor aforementioned, a certain journalist, and anothera quiet, shy man with a beardwhom I didnt know, and who, as far as my observation went, never opened his mouth all the evening. There was some speculation at the dinner-table about the Time Travellers absence, and I suggested time travelling, in a half-jocular spirit. The Editor wanted that explained to him, and the Psychologist volunteered a wooden account of the ingenious paradox and trick we had witnessed that day week. He was in the midst of his exposition when the door from the corridor opened slowly and without noise. I was facing the door, and saw it first. Hallo! I said. At last! And the door opened wider, and the Time Traveller stood before us. I gave a cry of surprise. Good heavens! man, whats the matter? cried the Medical Man, who saw him next. And the whole tableful turned towards the door.
He was in an amazing plight. His coat was dusty and dirty, and smeared with green down the sleeves; his hair disordered, and as it seemed to me greyereither with dust and dirt or because its colour had actually faded. His face was ghastly pale; his chin had a brown cut on ita cut half healed; his expression was haggard and drawn, as by intense suffering. For a moment he hesitated in the doorway, as if he had been dazzled by the light. Then he came into the room. He walked with just such a limp as I have seen in footsore tramps. We stared at him in silence, expecting him to speak.
He said not a word, but came painfully to the table, and made a motion towards the wine. The Editor filled a glass of champagne, and pushed it towards him. He drained it, and it seemed to do him good: for he looked round the table, and the ghost of his old smile flickered across his face. What on earth have you been up to, man? said the Doctor. The Time Traveller did not seem to hear. Dont let me disturb you, he said, with a certain faltering articulation. Im all right. He stopped, held out his glass for more, and took it off at a draught. Thats good, he said. His eyes grew brighter, and a faint colour came into his cheeks. His glance flickered over our faces with a certain dull approval, and then went round the warm and comfortable room. Then he spoke again, still as it were feeling his way among his words. Im going to wash and dress, and then Ill come down and explain things Save me some of that mutton. Im starving for a bit of meat.
He put down his glass, and walked towards the staircase door. Again I remarked his lameness and the soft padding sound of his footfall, and standing up in my place, I saw his feet as he went out. He had nothing on them but a pair of tattered blood-stained socks. Then the door closed upon him. I had half a mind to follow, till I remembered how he detested any fuss about himself. For a minute, perhaps, my mind was wool-gathering. Then, Remarkable Behaviour of an Eminent Scientist, I heard the Editor say, thinking (after his wont) in headlines. And this brought my attention back to the bright dinner-table.
Whats the game? said the Journalist. Has he been doing the Amateur Cadger? I dont follow. I met the eye of the Psychologist, and read my own interpretation in his face. I thought of the Time Traveller limping painfully upstairs. I dont think any one else had noticed his lameness.
The first to recover completely from this surprise was the Medical Man, who rang the bellthe Time Traveller hated to have servants waiting at dinnerfor a hot plate. At that the Editor turned to his knife and fork with a grunt, and the Silent Man followed suit. The dinner was resumed. Conversation was exclamatory for a little while, with gaps of wonderment; and then the Editor got fervent in his curiosity. Does our friend eke out his modest income with a crossing? or has he his Nebuchadnezzar phases? he inquired. I feel assured its this business of the Time Machine, I said, and took up the Psychologists account of our previous meeting. The new guests were frankly incredulous. The Editor raised objections. What WAS this time travelling? A man couldnt cover himself with dust by rolling in a paradox, could he? And then, as the idea came home to him, he resorted to caricature. Hadnt they any clothes-brushes in the Future? The Journalist too, would not believe at any price, and joined the Editor in the easy work of heaping ridicule on the whole thing. They were both the new kind of journalistvery joyous, irreverent young men. Our Special Correspondent in the Day after To-morrow reports, the Journalist was sayingor rather shoutingwhen the Time Traveller came back. He was dressed in ordinary evening clothes, and nothing save his haggard look remained of the change that had startled me.
Id give a shilling a line for a verbatim note, said the Editor. The Time Traveller pushed his glass towards the Silent Man and rang it with his fingernail; at which the Silent Man, who had been staring at his face, started convulsively, and poured him wine. The rest of the dinner was uncomfortable. For my own part, sudden questions kept on rising to my lips, and I dare say it was the same with the others. The Journalist tried to relieve the tension by telling anecdotes of Hettie Potter. The Time Traveller devoted his attention to his dinner, and displayed the appetite of a tramp. The Medical Man smoked a cigarette, and watched the Time Traveller through his eyelashes. The Silent Man seemed even more clumsy than usual, and drank champagne with regularity and determination out of sheer nervousness. At last the Time Traveller pushed his plate away, and looked round us. I suppose I must apologize, he said. I was simply starving. Ive had a most amazing time. He reached out his hand for a cigar, and cut the end. But come into the smoking-room. Its too long a story to tell over greasy plates. And ringing the bell in passing, he led the way into the adjoining room.
I cant argue to-night. I dont mind telling you the story, but I cant argue. I will, he went on, tell you the story of what has happened to me, if you like, but you must refrain from interruptions. I want to tell it. Badly. Most of it will sound like lying. So be it! Its trueevery word of it, all the same. I was in my laboratory at four oclock, and since then Ive lived eight days such days as no human being ever lived before! Im nearly worn out, but I shant sleep till Ive told this thing over to you. Then I shall go to bed. But no interruptions! Is it agreed?
Agreed, said the Editor, and the rest of us echoed Agreed. And with that the Time Traveller began his story as I have set it forth. He sat back in his chair at first, and spoke like a weary man. Afterwards he got more animated. In writing it down I feel with only too much keenness the inadequacy of pen and inkand, above all, my own inadequacyto express its quality. You read, I will suppose, attentively enough; but you cannot see the speakers white, sincere face in the bright circle of the little lamp, nor hear the intonation of his voice. You cannot know how his expression followed the turns of his story! Most of us hearers were in shadow, for the candles in the smoking-room had not been lighted, and only the face of the Journalist and the legs of the Silent Man from the knees downward were illuminated. At first we glanced now and again at each other. After a time we ceased to do that, and looked only at the Time Travellers face.