The Time Traveller Returns

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 Traveller’s 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 fame 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 eggshell china. So I don’t 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 Tübingen, and laid considerable stress on the blowing-out of the candle. But how the trick was done he could not explain.

I think that at the time none of us quite believed in the Time Machine. The truth is, the Time Traveller was one of those men too clever to be believed. You never felt you fully understood him. Behind his clear, open manner, you always suspected something subtly held back, some clever scheme waiting to catch you out. If Filby had shown us the model and explained it in the Time Traveller’s words, we would have doubted him far less. For we would have understood his motives. Even a pork butcher could understand Filby. But the Time Traveller had more than a little playfulness in his character, and we distrusted him. Things that would have made a less clever man famous seemed like tricks when he did them. It is a mistake to make things look too easy. The serious people who took him seriously never felt quite sure how he would behave. Somehow, they sensed that trusting him with their reputations for good judgment was like furnishing a nursery with eggshell-thin china. So I don’t think any of us said very much about time travel between that Thursday and the next. Still, its strange possibilities were no doubt on most of our minds. Time travel seemed plausible yet impossible in practice. It suggested curious possibilities of things appearing in the wrong time and of utter confusion. For my part, I was especially preoccupied with the trick involving the model. I remember discussing that trick with the Medical Man, whom I met on Friday at the Linnæan. He said he had seen something similar at Tübingen and placed considerable importance on the candle being blown out. But he could not explain how the trick was done.

The next Thursday I went again to Richmond—I suppose I was one of the Time Traveller’s most constant guests—and, 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, and—“It’s half-past seven now,” said the Medical Man. “I suppose we’d better have dinner?”

The following Thursday I went to Richmond again. I suppose I was one of the Time Traveller’s most regular guests. I arrived late and found four or five men already gathered in his drawing room. The Medical Man stood in front of the fire, holding a sheet of paper in one hand and his watch in the other. I looked around for the Time Traveller. “It’s seven thirty now,” said the Medical Man. “I suppose we’d better have dinner?”

“Where’s——?” said I, naming our host.

“Where’s ...?” I asked, naming our host.

“You’ve just come? It’s rather odd. He’s unavoidably detained. He asks me in this note to lead off with dinner at seven if he’s not back. Says he’ll explain when he comes.”

“You’ve just arrived? That’s rather odd. He’s been held up and can’t help it. In this note, he asks me to start dinner at seven if he’s not back. Says he’ll explain when he gets here.”

“It seems a pity to let the dinner spoil,” said the Editor of a well-known daily paper; and thereupon the Doctor rang the bell.

“It seems a shame to let dinner spoil,” said the Editor of a well-known daily newspaper. At that, the Doctor rang the bell.

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 another—a quiet, shy man with a beard—whom I didn’t 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 Traveller’s 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, what’s the matter?” cried the Medical Man, who saw him next. And the whole tableful turned towards the door.

Besides the Doctor and me, only the Psychologist had attended the previous dinner. The other men were Blank, the Editor mentioned earlier, a journalist, and a quiet, shy man with a beard. I didn’t know the bearded man, and as far as I noticed, he never spoke all evening. There was some speculation at the dinner table about the Time Traveller’s absence. I suggested, half joking, that he was time travelling. The Editor wanted an explanation, and the Psychologist offered a stiff account of the “ingenious paradox and trick” we had witnessed a week earlier. He was in the middle of his explanation when the door from the corridor opened slowly and silently. I was facing the door and was the first to see it open. “Hello!” I said. “At last!” And the door opened wider, and the Time Traveller stood before us. I cried out in surprise. “Good heavens! Man, what’s the matter?” cried the Medical Man, who was the next to see him. And everyone at the table 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 greyer—either with dust and dirt or because its colour had actually faded. His face was ghastly pale; his chin had a brown cut on it—a 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 was in a shocking state. His coat was dusty and dirty, with green smears down the sleeves. His hair was a mess and seemed greyer to me. Perhaps dust and dirt made it look grey, or perhaps its colour had actually faded. His face was deathly pale. He had a half-healed brown cut on his chin. His face looked worn and drawn, as if he had suffered intensely. For a moment he hesitated in the doorway, as if the light had dazzled him. Then he came into the room. He walked with the same limp I have seen in homeless wanderers with sore feet. 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. “Don’t let me disturb you,” he said, with a certain faltering articulation. “I’m all right.” He stopped, held out his glass for more, and took it off at a draught. “That’s 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. “I’m going to wash and dress, and then I’ll come down and explain things.... Save me some of that mutton. I’m starving for a bit of meat.”

He said nothing, but made his way painfully to the table and gestured toward the wine. The Editor filled a glass with champagne and pushed it toward him. He drained the glass, and the champagne seemed to do him good. For he looked around the table, and a trace 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. “Don’t let me disturb you,” he said, stumbling a little over his words. “I’m all right.” He paused, held out his glass for more, and drank it all in one gulp. “That’s good,” he said. His eyes grew brighter, and a faint color came into his cheeks. His gaze passed over our faces with a dull look of approval, then moved around the warm, comfortable room. Then he spoke again, still seeming to feel his way through the words. “I’m going to wash and get dressed, and then I’ll come down and explain things.... Save me some of that mutton. I’m starving for a bit of meat.”

He looked across at the Editor, who was a rare visitor, and hoped he was all right. The Editor began a question. “Tell you presently,” said the Time Traveller. “I’m—funny! Be all right in a minute.”

He looked across at the Editor, who rarely visited, and hoped he was all right. The Editor started to ask a question. “I’ll tell you in a moment,” said the Time Traveller. “I feel strange! I’ll be all right in a minute.”

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.

He put down his glass and walked toward the door to the stairs. Again I noticed his limp and the soft padding sound of his footsteps. I stood up where I was and saw his feet as he left. He wore nothing on them but a pair of torn, bloodstained socks. Then the door closed behind him. I almost followed him, until I remembered how much he hated anyone making a fuss over him. For perhaps a minute, my mind wandered. Then I heard the Editor say, “Remarkable Behavior of a Distinguished Scientist.” He was thinking in headlines, as he usually did. His words brought my attention back to the brightly lit dinner table.

“What’s the game?” said the Journalist. “Has he been doing the Amateur Cadger? I don’t 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 don’t think anyone else had noticed his lameness.

“What’s going on?” said the Journalist. “Has he been trying his hand at begging? I don’t understand.” I caught the Psychologist’s eye and saw that he shared my interpretation. I thought of the Time Traveller limping painfully upstairs. I don’t think anyone else had noticed his limp.

The first to recover completely from this surprise was the Medical Man, who rang the bell—the Time Traveller hated to have servants waiting at dinner—for 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 it’s this business of the Time Machine,” I said, and took up the Psychologist’s account of our previous meeting. The new guests were frankly incredulous. The Editor raised objections. “What was this time travelling? A man couldn’t cover himself with dust by rolling in a paradox, could he?” And then, as the idea came home to him, he resorted to caricature. Hadn’t 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 journalist—very joyous, irreverent young men. “Our Special Correspondent in the Day after Tomorrow reports,” the Journalist was saying—or rather shouting—when 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.

The Medical Man was the first to recover completely from the surprise. He rang the bell for a hot plate. The Time Traveller hated having servants standing by during dinner. At the sound of the bell, the Editor turned to his knife and fork with a grunt. The Silent Man did the same. Dinner resumed. For a little while, the conversation was full of exclamations, with pauses of amazement. Then the Editor grew intensely curious. “Does our friend supplement his modest income by sweeping a street crossing? Or does he have spells of living like an animal, like Nebuchadnezzar?” he asked. “I’m sure it’s this business with the Time Machine,” I said. I then continued the Psychologist’s account of our previous meeting. The new guests were openly disbelieving. The Editor raised objections. “What was this time travelling? A man couldn’t cover himself with dust by rolling in a paradox, could he?” Then, as he took in the idea, he began making fun of it. Didn’t they have clothes brushes in the Future? The Journalist, too, refused to believe any of it. He joined the Editor in the easy task of ridiculing the whole thing. Both belonged to the new kind of journalist, cheerful, irreverent young men. “Our Special Correspondent in the Day after Tomorrow reports,” the Journalist was saying, or rather shouting, when the Time Traveller returned. He was wearing ordinary evening clothes. Only his haggard look remained of the change in his appearance that had startled me.

“I say,” said the Editor hilariously, “these chaps here say you have been travelling into the middle of next week! Tell us all about little Rosebery, will you? What will you take for the lot?”

“Hey,” said the Editor, laughing, “these guys here say you’ve been travelling into the middle of next week! Tell us all about little Rosebery, will you? How much do you want for the lot?”

The Time Traveller came to the place reserved for him without a word. He smiled quietly, in his old way. “Where’s my mutton?” he said. “What a treat it is to stick a fork into meat again!”

The Time Traveller came to his reserved seat without a word. He smiled quietly, in his familiar way. “Where’s my mutton?” he said. “What a treat to stick a fork into meat again!”

“Story!” cried the Editor.

“Story!” shouted the Editor.

“Story be damned!” said the Time Traveller. “I want something to eat. I won’t say a word until I get some peptone into my arteries. Thanks. And the salt.”

“Story be damned!” said the Time Traveller. “I want something to eat. I won’t say a word until I get some nutrients into my arteries. Thanks. And the salt.”

“One word,” said I. “Have you been time travelling?”

“One question,” I said. “Have you been time travelling?”

“Yes,” said the Time Traveller, with his mouth full, nodding his head.

“Yes,” said the Time Traveller with his mouth full, nodding his head.

“I’d 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 apologise,” he said. “I was simply starving. I’ve had a most amazing time.” He reached out his hand for a cigar, and cut the end. “But come into the smoking-room. It’s too long a story to tell over greasy plates.” And ringing the bell in passing, he led the way into the adjoining room.

“I’d pay a shilling a line for a word-for-word account,” said the Editor. The Time Traveller pushed his glass towards the Silent Man and tapped it with his fingernail. The Silent Man had been staring at the Time Traveller’s face. At the sound, he gave a violent start and poured the Time Traveller some wine. The rest of dinner was uncomfortable. Questions kept springing to my lips, and I suspect the others felt the same. The Journalist tried to ease the tension by telling stories about Hettie Potter. The Time Traveller concentrated on his dinner and ate with the appetite of a tramp. The Medical Man smoked a cigarette and watched the Time Traveller through half-closed eyes. The Silent Man seemed even clumsier than usual. Out of sheer nervousness, he drank champagne steadily and determinedly. At last the Time Traveller pushed his plate away and looked around at us. “I suppose I must apologise,” he said. “I was simply starving. I’ve had the most amazing time.” He reached for a cigar and cut off the end. “But come into the smoking room. The story is too long to tell over greasy plates.” He rang the bell as he passed and led the way into the next room.

“You have told Blank, and Dash, and Chose about the machine?” he said to me, leaning back in his easy-chair and naming the three new guests.

“You’ve told Blank, Dash, and Chose about the machine?” he asked me, leaning back in his armchair. He was naming the three new guests.

“But the thing’s a mere paradox,” said the Editor.

“But the thing’s just a paradox,” said the Editor.

“I can’t argue tonight. I don’t mind telling you the story, but I can’t 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! It’s true—every word of it, all the same. I was in my laboratory at four o’clock, and since then … I’ve lived eight days … such days as no human being ever lived before! I’m nearly worn out, but I shan’t sleep till I’ve told this thing over to you. Then I shall go to bed. But no interruptions! Is it agreed?”

“I can’t argue tonight. I don’t mind telling you the story, but I can’t argue. I will,” he went on, “tell you what has happened to me, if you like. But you must not interrupt. I want to tell the story. Badly. Most of it will sound like lies. So be it! Every word is true, all the same. I was in my laboratory at four o’clock, and since then … I’ve lived eight days … days unlike any human being has ever lived before! I’m nearly worn out, but I won’t sleep until I’ve told you the story. Then I’ll go to bed. But no interruptions! Do we agree?”

“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 ink—and, above all, my own inadequacy—to express its quality. You read, I will suppose, attentively enough; but you cannot see the speaker’s 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 Traveller’s face.

“Agreed,” said the Editor, and the rest of us echoed “Agreed.” With that, the Time Traveller began his story as I have written it down. At first he leaned back in his chair and spoke like a tired man. Later he became more animated. As I write his story down, I feel painfully aware that pen and ink cannot capture its character. Above all, I feel my own inability to do so. I assume you are reading carefully enough. But you cannot see the speaker’s pale, sincere face in the small lamp’s bright circle of light. Nor can you hear the rise and fall of his voice. You cannot know how his expression changed with the twists of his story! Most of us listening sat in shadow, because the candles in the smoking-room had not been lit. Only the Journalist’s face and the Silent Man’s legs, from the knees down, were lit. At first we glanced at each other now and then. After a while we stopped exchanging glances and looked only at the Time Traveller’s face.