XVI. After the Story

von H. G. Wells

“I know this must sound unbelievable to you,” he said after a moment, “but the most incredible thing for me is that I’m here tonight in this familiar room, looking at your friendly faces and sharing these strange adventures.” He glanced at the Medical Man. “No, I can’t expect you to believe me. You can take it as a lie—or maybe a prophecy. Imagine I dreamed it all up in the workshop. Consider that I’ve been pondering the fate of our species until I spun this tale. Treat my insistence on its truth as just a clever way to make it more interesting. So, as a story, what do you think?”

He picked up his pipe and began to nervously tap it against the grate, a familiar habit of his. A brief silence settled over the room. Then chairs creaked and shoes shuffled on the carpet. I shifted my gaze from the Time Traveller’s face to his audience. They were shrouded in darkness, with little spots of color dancing before them. The Medical Man seemed lost in thought, studying our host. The Editor was focused intently on the end of his sixth cigar. The Journalist fumbled for his watch, while the others remained still, as far as I could tell.

The Editor finally stood up with a sigh. “What a shame you’re not a storyteller!” he said, placing a hand on the Time Traveller’s shoulder.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Well—”

“I figured as much.”

The Time Traveller turned to us. “Where are the matches?” he asked. He lit one and spoke over his pipe, puffing out smoke. “Honestly... I can hardly believe it myself... And yet...”

His gaze fell on the withered white flowers on the small table. Then he turned his hand, revealing some half-healed scars on his knuckles.

The Medical Man stood up, moved to the lamp, and examined the flowers. “These are unusual,” he remarked. The Psychologist leaned in to get a closer look, reaching out for a sample.

“I can’t believe it’s almost one o’clock,” said the Journalist. “How are we going to get home?”

“There are plenty of cabs at the station,” replied the Psychologist.

“It’s strange,” said the Medical Man, “but I really don’t know the natural order of these flowers. May I take them?”

The Time Traveller hesitated. Then, abruptly, he said, “Absolutely not.”

“Where did you really find them?” asked the Medical Man.

The Time Traveller pressed his hand to his forehead, speaking as if he were struggling to grasp a fleeting thought. “They were given to me by Weena when I traveled through Time.” He looked around the room, frustration creeping into his voice. “I can’t believe it’s all fading away. This room, you all, the everyday atmosphere—it’s too much for my memory. Did I really create a Time Machine or a model of one? Or is it all just a dream? They say life is a dream, a rather disappointing one at times—but I can’t handle another that doesn’t fit. It’s madness. And where did this dream come from? … I need to see that machine. If it even exists!”

He grabbed the lamp quickly and carried it, casting a flickering red light down the corridor. We followed him. There, illuminated by the lamp, was the machine—squat, ugly, and askew, made of brass, ebony, ivory, and shimmering quartz. It felt solid to the touch when I reached out to feel the rail, and I noticed brown spots and smudges on the ivory, along with bits of grass and moss on the lower parts, and one rail bent out of shape.

The Time Traveller set the lamp down on a bench and ran his hand along the damaged rail. “It’s all fine now,” he said. “The story I told you was true. I’m sorry to have dragged you out here in the cold.” He picked up the lamp again, and in complete silence, we made our way back to the smoking room.

He came into the hall with us and helped the Editor into his coat. The Medical Man looked at him, hesitating before saying he was suffering from overwork, which made the Time Traveller laugh heartily. I remember him standing in the open doorway, shouting goodnight.

I shared a cab with the Editor, who dismissed the tale as a “ridiculous lie.” As for me, I couldn’t reach a conclusion. The story was so outlandish and incredible, yet the way he told it felt so believable and composed. I lay awake most of the night, mulling it over. I decided I would visit the Time Traveller again the next day. I was told he was in the laboratory, and since I was on friendly terms with the household, I went up to see him. However, the laboratory was empty. I stared at the Time Machine for a moment and reached out to touch the lever. As I did, the solid-looking mass swayed like a branch in the wind. Its instability startled me, bringing back memories of childhood when I was warned not to touch things.

I walked back through the corridor and found the Time Traveller in the smoking room, just coming from the house. He had a small camera under one arm and a knapsack under the other. He laughed when he saw me and offered me an elbow to shake. “I’m incredibly busy,” he said, “with that thing in there.”

“But is this some kind of joke?” I asked. “Do you really travel through time?”

“Absolutely, I do.” He met my gaze directly, but then hesitated, his eyes drifting around the room. “I just need half an hour,” he continued. “I know why you’re here, and I really appreciate it. There are some magazines here. If you stay for lunch, I’ll show you all the proof of my time travel—specimens and everything. If you don’t mind me leaving you for a bit?”

I agreed, not fully grasping the weight of his words at that moment. He nodded and walked down the corridor. I heard the laboratory door slam shut behind him. Taking a seat, I picked up a newspaper, wondering what he was up to before lunch. Then an advertisement reminded me that I had promised to meet Richardson, the publisher, at two. Glancing at my watch, I realized I barely had time to make that meeting. I stood up and headed down the hallway to find the Time Traveller.

As I reached for the door handle, I heard a strange, cut-off exclamation, followed by a click and a thud. A rush of air swept past me as I opened the door, and I heard the sound of glass shattering on the floor. The Time Traveller was gone. For a brief moment, I thought I saw a faint, indistinct figure surrounded by a whirlwind of black and brass—a figure so transparent that I could see the workbench behind it, cluttered with drawings. But as I blinked, the vision faded. The Time Machine had vanished. Aside from a settling cloud of dust, the far end of the laboratory was empty. It looked like a pane of the skylight had just been blown in.

I felt a strange sense of disbelief wash over me. I knew something unusual had happened, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. As I stood there, staring, the door to the garden swung open, and the servant appeared.

We exchanged glances, and then ideas began to form. “Did Mr. —— go out that way?” I asked.

“No, sir. No one has come out this way. I was expecting to find him here.”

At that moment, it clicked. Despite the risk of disappointing Richardson, I decided to wait for the Time Traveller, hoping for another, perhaps even stranger story, along with the specimens and photographs he would bring back. But now I feared I might wait a lifetime. The Time Traveller had disappeared three years ago, and as everyone knows, he has never returned.

Epilogue

One can’t help but wonder: will he ever come back? Perhaps he slipped back into the past, landing among the bloodthirsty, hairy savages of the Stone Age, or into the depths of the Cretaceous Sea, or even among the bizarre reptiles of the Jurassic period. He might even be wandering now—if I can use that term—on some coral reef haunted by plesiosaurs, or beside the lonely saltwater seas of the Triassic Age. Or did he leap forward into a time closer to our own, where humanity still exists, but with the mysteries of our era solved and its exhausting problems resolved? Into the maturity of the human race? Because, personally, I can’t believe that these latter days of feeble experiments, fragmented theories, and constant discord represent the pinnacle of human achievement! I say that for myself. He, on the other hand—since we had discussed this long before the Time Machine was built—viewed the Advancement of Mankind with a certain bleakness, seeing in the growing edifice of civilization only a foolish accumulation that would ultimately collapse and destroy its creators. If that’s the case, we must live as if it’s not true. But to me, the future remains dark and empty—a vast unknown, illuminated only by the scattered memories of his tale. For comfort, I keep two strange white flowers—now shriveled, brown, flat, and brittle—as a reminder that even when mind and strength fade, gratitude and a shared tenderness can still thrive in the human heart.