Epilogue

One cannot choose but wonder. Will he ever return? It may be that he swept back into the past, and fell among the blood-drinking, hairy savages of the Age of Unpolished Stone; into the abysses of the Cretaceous Sea; or among the grotesque saurians, the huge reptilian brutes of the Jurassic times. He may even now—if I may use the phrase—be wandering on some plesiosaurus-haunted Oolitic coral reef, or beside the lonely saline seas of the Triassic Age. Or did he go forward, into one of the nearer ages, in which men are still men, but with the riddles of our own time answered and its wearisome problems solved? Into the manhood of the race: for I, for my own part, cannot think that these latter days of weak experiment, fragmentary theory, and mutual discord are indeed man’s culminating time! I say, for my own part. He, I know—for the question had been discussed among us long before the Time Machine was made—thought but cheerlessly of the Advancement of Mankind, and saw in the growing pile of civilisation only a foolish heaping that must inevitably fall back upon and destroy its makers in the end. If that is so, it remains for us to live as though it were not so. But to me the future is still black and blank—is a vast ignorance, lit at a few casual places by the memory of his story. And I have by me, for my comfort, two strange white flowers—shrivelled now, and brown and flat and brittle—to witness that even when mind and strength had gone, gratitude and a mutual tenderness still lived on in the heart of man.

We cannot help wondering. Will he ever return? Perhaps he swept back into the past, among the blood-drinking, hairy savages of the early Stone Age. Or perhaps he plunged into the depths of the Cretaceous Sea. Or he may have landed among the bizarre saurians, the huge reptilian beasts of Jurassic times. Even now, if I may use that phrase, he may be wandering on some Oolitic coral reef haunted by plesiosaurs. Or he may be beside the lonely salt seas of the Triassic Age. Or did he travel forward into one of the nearer ages, when humans are still human? Perhaps there the riddles of our own time have been answered, and its exhausting problems solved. Did he reach the maturity of the human race? For my part, I cannot believe our present age represents humanity’s highest achievement, with its weak experiments, incomplete theories, and constant conflict! But that is my own view. His hopes for human progress were bleak. I know because we had discussed the question long before the Time Machine was built. To him, civilisation was only a foolishly growing pile that must inevitably collapse on its makers and destroy them. If he was right, we must still live as though he was not. But to me, the future remains dark and blank, a vast unknown. Only the memory of his story lights a few scattered places within that darkness. And for comfort, I keep two strange white flowers, now shrivelled, brown, flat, and brittle. They bear witness that even when intelligence and strength had faded, gratitude and tenderness toward one another survived in the human heart.