CHAPTER XXIII. IN DRURY LANE

by H. G. Wells

"But now you’re starting to understand," said the Invisible Man, "just how much my situation disadvantages me. I have no shelter, no covering. If I were to get clothes, I’d lose my advantage and become a strange, terrifying sight. I’m starving; eating would mean filling myself with food that I can’t digest, and that would make me grotesquely visible again."

"I never thought about that," Kemp admitted.

"Neither did I. The snow warned me of other dangers. I couldn’t go out in it—it would settle on me and give me away. Rain would turn me into a watery outline, a glimmering surface of a man—a bubble. And fog? I’d be just a fainter bubble in the mist, a slick shimmer of humanity. Plus, as I walked through London, dirt clung to my ankles—floating smudges and dust on my skin. I didn’t know how long it would be before that made me visible too. But I knew it wouldn’t be long.

"Not in London, anyway.

"I headed into the slums near Great Portland Street and found myself at the end of the street where I had once lived. I avoided that route because of the crowd halfway down, gathered around the still smoking ruins of the house I had set on fire. My most pressing issue was getting clothes. I was puzzled about what to do with my face when I spotted a little shop filled with all sorts of odds and ends—news, sweets, toys, stationery, and leftover Christmas trinkets. Among the clutter, I saw an assortment of masks and fake noses. Suddenly, the solution to my problem became clear. I turned around, no longer aimless, and took a roundabout route to avoid the busy streets, heading toward the back alleys north of the Strand. I vaguely remembered that some theatrical costume shops were in that area.

"The day was cold, with a biting wind sweeping down the streets. I walked quickly to avoid being caught. Every intersection felt dangerous, every passerby something to watch closely. Just as I was about to pass a man at the top of Bedford Street, he turned abruptly and collided with me, sending me stumbling into the road, nearly under the wheel of a passing cab. The cab drivers muttered that he must have had some sort of stroke. I was so shaken by the encounter that I ducked into Covent Garden Market and sat for a while in a quiet corner by a stall of violets, panting and trembling. I realized I had caught a cold and eventually had to leave, fearing my sneezes would draw attention.

"Finally, I reached my destination—a shabby, fly-blown shop tucked away in a side street near Drury Lane, its window cluttered with tinsel costumes, fake jewels, wigs, slippers, dominoes, and theatrical photographs. The shop was old, dim, and cramped, with a dark, dismal building rising above it for four stories. I peered through the window and, seeing no one inside, stepped in. The door creaked open, setting off a clanking bell. I left it ajar and moved around a bare costume stand, slipping into a corner behind a cheval glass. For a moment, no one came. Then I heard heavy footsteps approaching, and a man appeared from the back of the shop.

"My plans were now crystal clear. I intended to sneak into the house, hide upstairs, wait for the right moment, and when everything was quiet, rummage through for a wig, mask, spectacles, and costume. I would step out into the world, perhaps looking grotesque but still believable. And, of course, I could help myself to any money I found.

"The man who entered was short and slight, with a hunched back and beetle-like brows, long arms, and short, bandy legs. It seemed I had interrupted his meal. He looked around the shop with an expression of expectation that quickly shifted to surprise and then anger when he realized it was empty. 'Damn those boys!' he muttered. He stepped outside to glance up and down the street. A moment later, he returned, kicked the door shut with a scowl, and grumbled back toward the house.

"I moved forward to follow him, but at the sound of my movement, he froze. I stopped too, startled by his keen hearing. He slammed the house door in my face.

"I hesitated for a moment. Suddenly, I heard his quick footsteps returning, and the door swung open again. He scanned the shop as if still unsatisfied. Then, muttering to himself, he checked behind the counter and peered behind some fixtures. He looked uncertain. The house door was still open, and I slipped into the inner room."

It was a strange little room, sparsely furnished, with a collection of large masks gathered in one corner. On the table sat his delayed breakfast, and I, Kemp, found it infuriating to stand there, inhaling the aroma of his coffee while he leisurely returned to his meal. His table manners were equally annoying. Three doors led into the cramped space—one going upstairs, another down—but all were closed. I felt trapped, barely able to move under his watchful gaze, and a draft chilled my back. Twice, I stifled a sneeze just in time.

The intensity of my feelings was odd and new, yet I was growing increasingly tired and irritated long before he finished eating. Finally, he cleared his meager dishes, placing them on a black tin tray that had once held his teapot, and gathered the crumbs from the mustard-stained cloth. His hands full, he couldn’t shut the door behind him, which was just as well; I had never seen anyone so obsessed with closing doors. I followed him into a filthy underground kitchen and scullery. I watched him start to wash up, but the cold brick floor was uncomfortable under my feet, so I went back upstairs and settled into his chair by the fire. It was burning low, and without thinking, I added a few coals. The noise brought him back up immediately, and he glared at me. He scanned the room, nearly reaching out to touch me. Even after that scrutiny, he didn’t seem satisfied. He paused in the doorway for one last inspection before heading back down.

I waited in the small parlor for what felt like an eternity until he finally came up and opened the door to the upstairs. I seized the moment and slipped past him.

As I descended the staircase, he suddenly halted, and I almost bumped into him. He turned to face me, his expression a mix of confusion and anger. “I could have sworn…” he muttered, tugging at his lower lip. His eyes darted up and down the staircase. Then he grunted and continued up.

His hand rested on the doorknob, but he stopped again, that same puzzled anger etched on his face. He was becoming aware of the faint sounds of my movements. The man must have had unnaturally sharp hearing. Suddenly, he erupted in rage. “If there’s anyone in this house—” he shouted, leaving the threat hanging. He fumbled in his pocket, couldn’t find what he was looking for, and rushed past me, stomping noisily and aggressively down the stairs. I didn’t follow; instead, I sat at the top of the staircase, waiting for his return.

Before long, he came back up, still muttering to himself. He opened the door to his room, and before I could step inside, he slammed it shut in my face.

Determined to explore the house, I took my time doing so as quietly as I could. The place was old and falling apart, damp enough that the wallpaper in the attic was peeling away, and it was infested with rats. Some of the door handles were stiff, and I hesitated to turn them. I found several unfurnished rooms, while others were cluttered with theatrical props that looked second-hand. In a room next to his, I stumbled upon a pile of old clothes. Eager to dig through them, I momentarily forgot about his keen hearing. Just as I was rummaging through the heap, I heard a stealthy footstep. Looking up just in time, I saw him peering in, an old-fashioned revolver gripped in his hand. I froze as he stared around, wide-eyed and suspicious. “It must have been her,” he muttered slowly. “Damn her!”

He quietly shut the door, and I immediately heard the key turn in the lock. His footsteps retreated, and it hit me—I was locked in. For a moment, I was at a loss. I paced between the door and the window, feeling perplexed. Anger surged within me, but I decided to inspect the clothes before taking any further action. My first attempt sent a pile tumbling from an upper shelf, and that brought him back, looking more sinister than ever. This time, he actually touched me, then jumped back in shock, standing there dumbfounded in the middle of the room.

Gradually, he calmed down. “Rats,” he whispered, fingers pressed to his lips. He was clearly a bit frightened. I edged quietly out of the room, but a floorboard creaked beneath me. The little brute then started scouring the house, revolver in hand, locking door after door and pocketing the keys. Realizing what he was doing sent me into a fit of rage—I could barely control myself as I waited for my chance. By then, I knew he was alone in the house, so I decided to act. I knocked him out.

“Knocked him out?” Kemp exclaimed.

“Yes—stunned him. I hit him from behind with a stool that was sitting on the landing as he went downstairs. He tumbled down like a sack of old boots.”

“But—I mean! The basic rules of humanity—”

"That might work for ordinary folks, but the thing is, Kemp, I had to sneak out of that house in disguise without him spotting me. I couldn’t think of any other way to do it. So, I ended up gagging him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tying him up in a sheet."

"Tied him up in a sheet?" Kemp echoed, incredulous.

"I made a sort of bag out of it. It was actually a clever way to keep the guy scared and quiet, and it was a real challenge to get out of—his head was stuck in the string. Come on, Kemp, don’t look at me like I’m some kind of monster. It was necessary. He had a revolver. If he saw me, he could describe me—"

"But still," Kemp interjected, "in England—today. The man was in his own home, and you were—well, robbing."

"Robbing? Really? You’re going to call me a thief next? Surely, Kemp, you can’t be so naive as to ignore my situation."

"And his too," Kemp pointed out.

The Invisible Man stood up abruptly. "What do you mean by that?"

Kemp’s expression hardened slightly. He hesitated before responding. "I suppose, in the end, it had to be done. You were in a tough spot. But still—"

"Of course I was in a tough spot—an absolute nightmare. And he was driving me crazy—chasing me around the house, playing with his revolver, locking and unlocking doors. It was infuriating. You don’t blame me, do you? You don’t?"

"I never blame anyone," Kemp replied. "That’s just not in style anymore. What did you do next?"

"I was starving. Downstairs, I found a loaf of bread and some awful cheese—more than enough to satisfy my hunger. I grabbed some brandy and water, then headed back past my makeshift bag—he was lying there, completely still—to the room with the old clothes. The window overlooked the street, with two lace curtains, grimy with age, shielding it. I peered out through the gaps. Outside, the day was bright—so much brighter than the dull shadows of the miserable house I was in. There was a lively street scene: fruit carts, a hansom cab, a four-wheeler piled high with boxes, and a fishmonger’s cart. I turned back, spots of color dancing in my vision, to the dim fixtures behind me. My excitement was fading, replaced by a clear awareness of my predicament. The room was filled with a faint scent of benzene, likely used for cleaning the clothes.

"I began a thorough search of the place. It seemed the hunchback had been alone in the house for quite a while. He was an odd character. I gathered everything that could be useful in the clothes storeroom, then made a careful selection. I found a handbag that seemed just right, along with some powder, rouge, and sticking plaster.

"I had considered painting and powdering my face to make myself visible, but that would require turpentine and other supplies, plus a lot of time before I could disappear again. In the end, I opted for a mask of decent quality—slightly grotesque but not more so than many people, along with dark glasses, greyish whiskers, and a wig. I couldn’t find any underclothes, but I could buy those later, so I wrapped myself in calico dominoes and some white cashmere scarves. I couldn’t find any socks, but the hunchback’s boots were a bit loose and would do the trick. In a desk in the shop, I found three sovereigns and about thirty shillings in silver, and in a locked cupboard in the inner room, I broke in to find eight pounds in gold. I was ready to step back into the world.

"Then I hesitated. Was my disguise really convincing? I checked myself in a small bedroom mirror, inspecting every angle to ensure I hadn’t missed any gaps, but everything seemed in order. I looked ridiculous—like a stage miser—but I was certainly not impossible to believe. Gaining confidence, I took the mirror down to the shop, pulled down the blinds, and examined myself again with the help of the cheval glass in the corner.

"I spent several minutes gathering my courage, then unlocked the shop door and stepped out into the street, leaving the little man to free himself whenever he wanted. Within five minutes, I had turned down a dozen side streets, and no one seemed to pay me much attention. My last hurdle appeared to be behind me."

He paused again.

"And you didn’t worry about the hunchback anymore?" Kemp asked.

"No," the Invisible Man replied. "I haven’t heard what happened to him. I assume he untied himself or managed to kick his way out. The knots were pretty tight."

He fell silent, moving to the window to gaze outside.

"What happened when you stepped out onto the Strand?"

“Oh, disillusionment again. I thought my troubles were finally behind me. I believed I had the freedom to do whatever I wanted—everything except reveal my secret. That’s what I thought. I felt invincible, as if I could do anything without a care in the world. I could just shed my clothes and disappear. No one could hold me back. I could take my money wherever I found it. I decided to treat myself to a lavish meal, stay at a nice hotel, and gather a new set of belongings. I felt incredibly confident, though it’s not exactly pleasant to remember how foolish I was.

I walked into a restaurant and was about to order lunch when it hit me: I couldn’t eat unless I revealed my invisible face. Frustrated, I finished placing my order, told the waiter I’d be back in ten minutes, and stepped outside, irritated. I don’t know if you’ve ever felt that kind of disappointment when you’re hungry.”

“Not quite like that,” Kemp replied, “but I can imagine it.”

“I could have smashed those clueless fools. Finally, weak with hunger, I went into another place and asked for a private room. ‘I’m disfigured,’ I said. ‘Badly.’ They looked at me with curiosity, but it wasn’t their problem, so I eventually got my lunch. It wasn’t served particularly well, but it was enough. Afterward, I sat back with a cigar, trying to figure out my next move. Outside, a snowstorm was starting.

The more I thought about it, Kemp, the more I realized how helpless an Invisible Man is in a cold, dirty city filled with people. Before I took this crazy leap, I had dreamed of countless advantages. That afternoon, it all felt like disappointment. I considered the things a man usually desires. Sure, invisibility might help you get them, but it makes enjoying them impossible. What’s the point of ambition if you can’t show up? What’s the point of loving a woman if her name has to be Delilah? I have no interest in politics, the dirty games of fame, philanthropy, or sports. What was I supposed to do? And for this, I had turned into a wrapped-up mystery, a bandaged caricature of a man!”

He paused, glancing toward the window.

“But how did you end up in Iping?” Kemp asked, eager to keep the conversation going.

“I went there to work. I had one hope. It was just a half-formed idea at first, but now it’s fully developed. A way to get back! To restore what I’ve done. When I choose. Once I’ve completed everything I plan to do invisibly. That’s what I really want to discuss with you now.”

“You went straight to Iping?”

“Yes. I just needed to grab my three volumes of notes, my checkbook, my luggage, and some underclothes. I had to order a bunch of chemicals to work on this idea of mine—I’ll show you the calculations as soon as I have my books—and then I set off. Good grief! I remember the snowstorm now, and how annoying it was to keep the snow from ruining my makeshift nose.”

“By the end,” Kemp said, “the day before yesterday, when they figured you out, you rather—judging by the papers—”

“I did. I certainly did. Did I kill that foolish constable?”

“No,” Kemp replied. “He’s expected to recover.”

“Well, that’s his luck then. I completely lost my temper, those idiots! Why couldn’t they just leave me alone? And that grocer’s assistant?”

“There are no fatalities expected,” Kemp said.

“I don’t know about that poor tramp of mine,” the Invisible Man said with a dark laugh.

“By heaven, Kemp, you have no idea what rage _is_! To have worked for years, to have planned and plotted, only to have some bumbling idiot mess up everything! Every kind of silly creature that ever existed seems to have been sent to thwart me.

“If this keeps up, I’m going to lose it—I’ll start taking them down.

As it stands, they’ve made everything a thousand times harder.”

“No doubt it’s frustrating,” Kemp said dryly.