CHAPTER IX. MR. THOMAS MARVEL

by H. G. Wells

You have to imagine Mr. Thomas Marvel as a man with a round, flexible face, a nose that stuck out like a cylinder, a wide, ever-changing mouth, and a beard that was a chaotic mess. His body leaned towards being plump, and his short limbs only emphasized that. He wore a furry silk hat, and instead of buttons, he often used twine and shoelaces to hold his clothes together, which made it clear he was a bachelor.

Mr. Thomas Marvel was sitting with his feet in a ditch by the roadside, heading towards Adderdean, about a mile and a half outside of Iping. He was barefoot except for some oddly patterned socks, and his big toes were broad and alert, like a dog on guard. In his usual leisurely manner—he did everything slowly—he was considering trying on a pair of boots. They were the best boots he had found in a long time, but they were too big for him. The ones he had on were comfortable enough in dry weather, but the soles were too thin for damp conditions. Mr. Thomas Marvel despised loose shoes, but he also hated getting his feet wet. He had never really figured out which he hated more, and since it was a pleasant day with nothing better to do, he placed the four boots in a neat arrangement on the grass and stared at them.

As he looked at the boots among the grass and wildflowers, it struck him that both pairs were incredibly ugly. He wasn’t surprised when he heard a voice behind him.

“Well, they’re boots, at least,” said the voice.

“They are—charity boots,” Mr. Thomas Marvel replied, tilting his head to regard them with distaste. “And I’ll be damned if I know which pair is the ugliest in the entire world!”

“Hm,” said the voice.

“I’ve worn worse—actually, I’ve worn none. But none so outrageously ugly—if you’ll allow me that expression. I’ve been begging for boots—specifically—for days. I’m just tired of these. They’re sturdy enough, of course. But a man on the road sees a lot of his boots. And believe me, I’ve found nothing in this whole blessed country, no matter how hard I tried, but these. Look at them! And it’s generally a good country for boots. But it’s just my rotten luck. I’ve had these boots for over ten years. And this is how they treat you.”

“It’s a terrible country,” the voice replied. “And the people are worse.”

“Isn’t it?” Mr. Thomas Marvel exclaimed. “Good Lord! But those boots! It’s unbelievable.”

He turned his head to the right to compare his boots with those of the voice’s owner, but to his shock, where the other person’s legs and boots should have been, there was nothing at all. A wave of astonishment washed over him. “Where are you?” Mr. Marvel called out, crawling on all fours to look around. He saw only the empty downs, the wind rustling the distant green furze bushes.

“Am I drunk?” he wondered aloud. “Am I seeing things? Was I talking to myself? What the—”

“Don’t be alarmed,” the voice said.

“Don’t you dare ventriloquize me,” Mr. Thomas Marvel snapped, getting to his feet. “Where are you? Alarmed, indeed!”

“Don’t be alarmed,” the voice repeated.

“You’ll be alarmed in a minute, you silly fool,” Mr. Thomas Marvel retorted. “Where are you? Let me get my hands on you…”

“Are you buried?” he asked after a moment.

There was no response. Mr. Thomas Marvel stood there, bewildered and bootless, his jacket nearly falling off.

A distant peewit called out.

“Peewit, indeed!” Mr. Thomas Marvel said. “This isn’t the time for nonsense.” The downs were desolate in every direction; the road, with its shallow ditches and white stakes, stretched empty north and south, and aside from that peewit, the blue sky was vacant too. “I swear,” he muttered, pulling his coat back onto his shoulders. “It’s the drink! I should have known.”

“It’s not the drink,” the voice insisted. “Keep your nerves steady.”

“Ow!” Mr. Marvel exclaimed, his face paling. “It’s the drink!” he repeated silently. He continued to stare around, slowly turning backward. “I could have sworn I heard a voice,” he whispered.

“Of course you did.”

“It’s there again,” Mr. Marvel said, closing his eyes and dramatically pressing his hand to his forehead. Suddenly, he felt himself grabbed by the collar and shaken violently, leaving him even more confused. “Don’t be a fool,” the voice said.

“I’m—losing—my—mind,” Mr. Marvel stammered. “It’s no use. It’s all this fuss over those blasted boots. I’m losing my mind. Or it’s the spirits.”

“Neither one nor the other,” the voice replied. “Listen!”

“Mind,” Mr. Marvel muttered.

“One minute,” the voice said, its tone steady and controlled.

“Well?” Mr. Thomas Marvel asked, feeling as if he had been poked in the chest by an invisible finger.

“You think I’m just your imagination? Just a figment of your mind?”

“What else can you be?” Mr. Thomas Marvel said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Alright then,” said the Voice, sounding relieved. “I’m going to start throwing rocks at you until you change your mind.”

“But where are you?” Mr. Marvel asked, bewildered.

The Voice didn’t respond. Suddenly, a rock zipped through the air, narrowly missing Mr. Marvel’s shoulder. He turned just in time to see another stone shoot up, trace an odd arc, hover for a moment, and then drop at his feet with incredible speed. He was too stunned to move. The rock ricocheted off his bare toe and landed in a ditch. Mr. Thomas Marvel yelped and jumped, then stumbled over something he couldn’t see, landing hard on the ground.

“Now,” said the Voice, as a third stone arched up and hovered above him, “am I just a figment of your imagination?”

Mr. Marvel struggled to his feet, only to be knocked down again. He lay still for a moment. “If you keep moving around,” the Voice warned, “I’ll throw the rock at your head.”

“That’s fair enough,” Mr. Marvel said, sitting up and cradling his injured toe while keeping an eye on the hovering stone. “I don’t get it. Rocks throwing themselves? Rocks talking? Just show yourself. Disintegrate. I’m done with this.”

The third rock dropped.

“It’s really simple,” the Voice said. “I’m an invisible man.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Mr. Marvel gasped, wincing in pain. “Where are you hiding? How do you do it? I don’t get it. I’m finished.”

“That’s all there is to it,” the Voice replied. “I’m invisible. That’s what I need you to understand.”

“Anyone can see that. No need to be so impatient, mister. Now, give me a hint. How are you hidden?”

“I’m invisible. That’s the main point. And what I want you to understand is this—”

“But where exactly?” Mr. Marvel interrupted.

“Right here! Six yards in front of you.”

“Oh, come on! I’m not blind. You’ll be telling me next that you’re just thin air. I’m not one of your clueless tramps—”

“Yes, I am—thin air. You’re looking right through me.”

“What? There’s nothing to you. Vox et—what is it?—nonsense. Is that it?”

“I’m just a human being—solid, needing food and drink, and covering too. But I’m invisible. You see? Invisible. It’s a simple idea. Invisible.”

“What, really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Let me see your hand,” Marvel said, “if you are real. That would make it a bit less strange—Lord!” he exclaimed, “you made me jump!—grabbing me like that!”

He felt the hand that had wrapped around his wrist with his free fingers, and cautiously traced up the arm, feeling a muscular chest and a bearded face. Marvel’s expression was one of pure astonishment.

“I’m stunned!” he said. “This beats everything! And I can see a rabbit clear through you, half a mile away! Not a trace of you visible—except—”

He examined the empty space closely. “You haven’t been eating bread and cheese, have you?” he asked, still holding the invisible arm.

“You’re right, and it hasn’t quite digested yet.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Marvel. “Sort of ghostly, then.”

“Of course, all this isn’t as amazing as you think.”

“It’s plenty amazing for my modest needs,” Mr. Thomas Marvel replied. “How do you manage it? How on earth is it done?”

“It’s too long a story. And besides—”

“I’m telling you, this whole thing completely baffles me,” Mr. Marvel insisted.

“What I need to say right now is this: I need help. I’ve come to that conclusion—I stumbled upon you unexpectedly. I was wandering, furious, naked, powerless. I could have killed someone. And then I saw you—”

“Lord!” Mr. Marvel exclaimed.

“I approached you from behind—hesitated—kept going—”

Mr. Marvel’s face spoke volumes.

“—then stopped. ‘Here,’ I thought, ‘is an outcast like me. This is the man for me.’ So I turned back and came to you—you. And—”

“Lord!” Mr. Marvel said again. “But I’m all mixed up. May I ask—what’s going on? And what do you need help with?—Invisible!”

“I need you to help me get clothes—and shelter—and then, with other things. I’ve been away from them long enough. If you won’t help—well! But you will—must.”

“Listen,” Mr. Marvel said. “I’m too overwhelmed. Don’t throw me around anymore. Just let me go. I need to get my bearings. You’ve nearly broken my toe. It’s all so absurd. Empty hills, empty sky. Nothing visible for miles except nature’s landscape. And then there’s a voice. A voice from nowhere! And rocks! And a fist—Lord!”

“Get yourself together,” the Voice said, “because you have a job to do that I’ve chosen for you.”

Mr. Marvel puffed out his cheeks, his eyes wide.

“I’ve chosen you,” the Voice continued. “You’re the only person, besides some of those fools down there, who knows there’s such a thing as an invisible man. You have to be my helper. Help me—and I will do great things for you. An invisible man is a man of power.” He paused for a moment to sneeze violently.

“But if you betray me,” he said, “if you don’t follow my instructions—” He paused, giving Mr. Marvel a sharp tap on the shoulder. Mr. Marvel jumped in fright at the touch.

“I don’t want to betray you,” Mr. Marvel said, inching away from the fingers. “Don’t think that for a second. All I want to do is help you—just tell me what I need to do. Honestly! Whatever you need, I’m more than willing to do it.”