The Time Machine

von H. G. Wells

Last Thursday, I shared some insights about the principles behind the Time Machine and showed you the unfinished version in my workshop. Now, here it is, a bit worn from travel, with one of the ivory bars cracked and a brass rail bent, but overall, it’s still in good shape. I had hoped to finish it on Friday, but as I was nearly done, I discovered that one of the nickel bars was an inch too short, which meant I had to get it remade. It wasn’t until this morning that everything was finally complete.

At ten o’clock today, the first Time Machine began its journey. I gave it one last tap, double-checked all the screws, added a drop of oil to the quartz rod, and settled into the saddle. I imagine a person contemplating suicide while holding a gun to their head feels a similar mix of dread and curiosity about what comes next as I did in that moment. I took hold of the starting lever with one hand and the stopping lever with the other, pressed the first, and almost immediately hit the second.

I felt a dizzying sensation, as if I were falling, and when I looked around, the laboratory appeared unchanged. Had anything really happened? For a brief moment, I wondered if my mind was playing tricks on me. Then I glanced at the clock. Just moments ago, it had shown a minute past ten; now it was nearly half-past three!

I took a deep breath, clenched my teeth, gripped the starting lever with both hands, and launched forward with a thud. The laboratory faded into darkness. Mrs. Watchett entered, walking toward the garden door as if she didn’t even see me. To her, it must have taken her a minute to cross the room, but to me, she zipped by like a rocket. I pushed the lever to its maximum position. Night fell like a lamp being turned off, and in an instant, tomorrow arrived.

The laboratory grew dimmer and dimmer until it was just a blur. Tomorrow night turned to black, then day again, night again, day again, faster and faster. A swirling murmur filled my ears, and a strange, disorienting confusion settled over my mind.

I can’t quite express the peculiar sensations of time travel. They are incredibly unsettling. It’s like the feeling you get on a roller coaster—an uncontrollable, headlong rush! I felt that same dreadful anticipation of an impending crash. As I accelerated, night followed day like the flapping of a dark wing. The vague outline of the laboratory faded from my awareness, and I saw the sun racing across the sky, leaping ahead every minute, each leap marking a day. I thought the laboratory must have been destroyed, and I had emerged into the open air. I caught a fleeting glimpse of scaffolding, but I was already moving too quickly to register anything around me. Even the slowest snail seemed to zip past me in a blur.

The rapid shifts between darkness and light were painfully bright. Then, in the fleeting shadows, I saw the moon racing through its phases from new to full, and I caught a brief glimpse of the stars spinning around. As I continued to gain speed, the heartbeat of night and day merged into a continuous grey. The sky transformed into a deep, rich blue, a luminous hue reminiscent of early twilight. The sun became a streak of fire, a brilliant arc in the vastness of space; the moon appeared as a fainter, wavering band, and the stars were mostly lost to me, save for an occasional bright flicker in the blue.

The landscape was hazy and indistinct. I was still on the hillside where this house now stands, with the shoulder rising above me, grey and dim. I watched as trees grew and changed like puffs of smoke, shifting from brown to green; they expanded, trembled, and disappeared. I saw magnificent buildings rise, faint and beautiful, only to vanish like dreams. The entire surface of the earth seemed to shift—melting and flowing before my eyes. The little hands on the dials that measured my speed raced faster and faster. Soon, I realized that the sun’s path swayed up and down, from solstice to solstice, in less than a minute, meaning I was traveling at over a year per minute. Minute by minute, snow flashed across the world, vanished, and was replaced by the bright, fleeting green of spring.

The initial discomfort had faded, replaced by a strange exhilaration. I noticed the machine swaying awkwardly, but my thoughts were too jumbled to make sense of it. With a growing sense of madness, I threw myself into the future. At first, I barely considered stopping; I was too caught up in the rush of new sensations. But soon, curiosity mixed with a creeping dread took hold of me, consuming my thoughts. What incredible advancements in humanity might I discover when I finally peered into the hazy world racing past me?

I envisioned magnificent buildings rising around me, more impressive than anything from my own time, yet they appeared to be made of shimmering light and mist. The landscape transformed before my eyes, vibrant greens climbing the hillsides, untouched by winter’s chill. Even through my confusion, the earth looked beautiful. It was time to think about stopping.

The real danger lay in the chance that I might collide with something in the space I occupied—myself or the machine. While I was traveling at such high speed through time, it hardly mattered; I felt as if I were slipping through the cracks of reality like vapor. But coming to a halt meant forcing my molecules to jam together with whatever lay in my path. It would bring my atoms into such close contact with the obstacle that a violent chemical reaction—perhaps even an explosion—could occur, sending me and my machine spiraling into the Unknown. I had considered this risk repeatedly while building the machine, accepting it as an unavoidable part of the adventure. But now, faced with the reality of it, my perspective had shifted. The sheer strangeness of everything, the unsettling jolt and sway of the machine, and the sensation of falling had completely rattled my nerves. I told myself I could never stop, and in a fit of frustration, I decided to stop right away. Like an impatient fool, I yanked the lever, and the machine lurched violently, throwing me through the air.

A thunderous sound roared in my ears. I might have been dazed for a moment. Hail pelted down around me, and when I finally landed, I found myself sitting on soft grass in front of the overturned machine. Everything still looked gray, but soon the ringing in my ears faded. I looked around and realized I was on a small lawn in a garden, surrounded by rhododendron bushes, their mauve and purple flowers showering down under the relentless hail. The bouncing hailstones hung in a cloud above the machine, swirling along the ground like smoke. In no time, I was soaked to the skin. “Great hospitality,” I muttered, “for a man who has traveled countless years to see you.”

Then I realized how foolish I was to be getting wet. I stood up and scanned my surroundings. A colossal figure, seemingly carved from white stone, loomed vaguely beyond the rhododendrons through the hazy downpour. Everything else was obscured.

My feelings were hard to articulate. As the hail began to thin, I could see the white figure more clearly. It was enormous; a silver birch tree brushed its shoulder. It was made of white marble, resembling a winged sphinx, but its wings were spread wide, giving it an appearance of hovering. The pedestal looked like bronze, thick with verdigris. The face was turned toward me; its sightless eyes seemed to follow me, and there was a faint hint of a smile on its lips. Time had weathered it, giving it an unsettling air of decay. I stood there, transfixed—whether for half a minute or half an hour, I couldn’t tell. The statue seemed to shift in and out of focus as the hailstorm ebbed and flowed. Finally, I tore my gaze away and noticed that the hail had become sparse, and the sky was brightening with the promise of sunlight.

I looked up again at the crouching white shape, and the full weight of my journey hit me all at once. What would be revealed when that hazy veil was completely lifted? What could have happened to humanity in my absence? What if cruelty had become a common trait? What if, during this time, people had lost their humanity and transformed into something inhuman, unsympathetic, and overwhelmingly powerful? I could easily be seen as some ancient, savage creature—only more terrifying and repulsive because of our shared resemblance—a grotesque being to be swiftly dispatched.

Already, I could see other massive forms—grand buildings with intricate parapets and towering columns, with a wooded hillside slowly emerging through the fading storm. Panic seized me. I turned desperately to the Time Machine, struggling to readjust it. Just then, shafts of sunlight broke through the thunderstorm. The grey downpour was swept aside, vanishing like the trailing garments of a ghost. Above me, in the deep blue of the summer sky, wisps of brown clouds whirled away into nothingness. The great buildings around me stood out clear and distinct, glistening from the rain, their surfaces highlighted in white by the unmelted hailstones scattered along their edges. I felt exposed in this strange world. It was as if I were a bird in the open air, aware of a hawk circling above, ready to swoop down. My fear escalated to a frenzy. I took a moment to breathe, gritted my teeth, and wrestled fiercely with the machine again. It buckled under my desperate efforts and toppled over, striking my chin hard. With one hand on the saddle and the other on the lever, I stood there, panting heavily, ready to mount again.

But with this chance to retreat, my courage returned. I began to look at this distant future with curiosity rather than fear. In a circular opening high up in the wall of the nearest building, I spotted a group of figures dressed in rich, soft robes. They had noticed me, their faces turned in my direction.

Then I heard voices approaching. Emerging through the bushes by the White Sphinx were the heads and shoulders of men running toward me. One of them broke away, heading straight for the small lawn where I stood with my machine. He was a slight figure—perhaps four feet tall—dressed in a purple tunic cinched at the waist with a leather belt. I couldn’t quite tell if he wore sandals or buskins; his legs were bare up to the knees, and his head was uncovered. It was then that I realized how warm the air felt.

He struck me as a remarkably beautiful and graceful being, yet indescribably fragile. His flushed face reminded me of the delicate beauty often associated with illness—like the kind we used to hear about. Seeing him suddenly filled me with confidence. I took my hands off the machine.