III. The Time Traveller Returns

by H. G. Wells

At that time, none of us really believed in the Time Machine. The Time Traveller was one of those people who were just too clever for their own good. You never felt like you understood him completely; there was always a sense of something hidden, some clever trick waiting in the wings behind his straightforward demeanor. If Filby had shown us the model and explained it in the Time Traveller’s words, we would have been far less skeptical. We would have understood his intentions; even a butcher could grasp Filby’s motives. But the Time Traveller had a whimsical side that made us uneasy. Achievements that would have brought fame to a less brilliant man felt like mere tricks in his hands. It’s a mistake to make things look too easy. The serious folks who took him seriously never quite trusted his demeanor; they were aware that putting their judgment on the line with him was like filling a nursery with fragile china.

So, I don’t think any of us talked much about time travel between that Thursday and the next, even though its strange possibilities were undoubtedly on our minds: its plausibility, its practical absurdity, and the bizarre potential for confusion it suggested. Personally, I was particularly intrigued by the trick of the model. I remember discussing it with the Medical Man when I ran into him on Friday at the Linnæan. He mentioned he’d seen something similar in Tübingen and emphasized the part about blowing out the candle. But he couldn’t explain how the trick was done.

The following Thursday, I returned to Richmond—I suppose I was one of the Time Traveller’s most regular guests. Arriving late, I found four or five men already gathered in his drawing room. The Medical Man stood by the fire, holding a sheet of paper in one hand and his watch in the other. I looked around for the Time Traveller.

“It’s half-past seven now,” the Medical Man said. “I guess we should start dinner?”

“Where’s—?” I asked, naming our host.

“You just got here? That’s strange. He’s unavoidably delayed. He asked me in this note to start dinner at seven if he wasn’t back. He’ll explain when he arrives.”

“It seems a shame to let dinner go to waste,” said the Editor of a well-known daily newspaper, and with that, the Doctor rang the bell.

The Psychologist was the only other person besides the Doctor and me who had been at the previous dinner. The rest were Blank, the Editor I mentioned, a journalist, and another man—a quiet, shy guy with a beard—who I didn’t know and who, as far as I could tell, didn’t say a word all evening. There was some speculation at the dinner table about the Time Traveller’s absence, and I jokingly suggested time travel. The Editor wanted an explanation, and the Psychologist offered a dry account of the “ingenious paradox and trick” we had witnessed the week before. He was in the middle of his explanation when the door from the corridor opened slowly and quietly. I was facing the door and saw it first.

“Hello!” I exclaimed. “Finally!” The door swung wider, and the Time Traveller stood before us. I gasped in surprise.

“Good heavens! What’s wrong?” cried the Medical Man, who noticed him next. The entire table turned toward the door.

He looked utterly disheveled. His coat was dusty and stained, with green smudges on the sleeves; his hair was messy and, to me, appeared grayer—either from dirt or because it had actually faded. His face was ghostly pale; he had a brown cut on his chin—a wound that looked half-healed. His expression was haggard, as if he had endured great suffering. For a moment, he hesitated in the doorway, as if the light had blinded him. Then he stepped into the room, walking with a limp reminiscent of weary travelers. We stared at him in silence, waiting for him to speak.

He didn’t say anything but painfully approached the table and gestured toward the wine. The Editor filled a glass of champagne and pushed it toward him. He gulped it down, and it seemed to revive him; he looked around the table, and a flicker of his old smile crossed his face.

“What on earth have you been up to?” the Doctor asked. The Time Traveller didn’t seem to hear him.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” he said, his speech faltering. “I’m fine.” He paused, held out his glass for more, and drained it again. “That’s good,” he said. His eyes brightened, and a hint of color returned to his cheeks. He glanced around at our faces with a dull approval, then took in the warm, comfortable room.

“I’m going to wash up and change,” he said, still feeling his way through his words. “Then I’ll come down and explain everything... Save me some of that mutton. I’m starving for a bit of meat.”

He glanced over at the Editor, a rare visitor, and hoped he was doing okay. The Editor started to ask a question. “I’ll tell you in a minute,” said the Time Traveller. “I’m—feeling a bit funny! I’ll be fine in a moment.”

He set down his glass and walked toward the staircase door. I noticed his limp and the soft sound of his footsteps. Standing up, I caught a glimpse of his feet as he left. He was wearing nothing but a pair of tattered, blood-stained socks. Then the door closed behind him. I almost followed him, but then I remembered how much he hated any fuss about himself. For a moment, my mind wandered. Then I heard the Editor say, “Remarkable Behavior of an Eminent Scientist,” thinking in his usual headline style. This snapped my attention back to the bright dinner table.

“What’s going on?” asked the Journalist. “Has he been doing the Amateur Cadger? I don’t get it.” I met the Psychologist’s gaze and saw my own confusion reflected in his expression. I thought about the Time Traveller limping painfully upstairs. I didn’t think anyone else had noticed his limp.

The first to fully recover from the surprise was the Medical Man, who rang the bell—since the Time Traveller hated having servants waiting at dinner—for a hot plate. At that, the Editor turned back to his food with a grunt, and the Silent Man followed suit. Dinner resumed. Conversation was lively for a bit, filled with exclamations of wonder, and then the Editor grew more curious. “Does our friend supplement his modest income with a crossing? Or does he have his Nebuchadnezzar moments?” he asked. “I’m sure it’s this Time Machine business,” I replied, picking up the Psychologist’s account of our earlier meeting. The new guests were openly skeptical. The Editor raised objections. “What was this time traveling? A man can’t cover himself in dust by rolling in a paradox, can he?” Then, as the idea sank in, he resorted to mockery. “Don’t they have any clothes brushes in the future?” The Journalist, too, wouldn’t believe it at any cost and joined the Editor in ridiculing the whole idea. They were both the new breed of journalist—cheerful, irreverent young men. “Our Special Correspondent in the Day After Tomorrow reports,” the Journalist was shouting when the Time Traveller returned. He was dressed in ordinary evening clothes, and aside from his haggard appearance, he seemed unchanged.

“I say,” the Editor laughed, “these guys here say you’ve been traveling into the middle of next week! Tell us all about little Rosebery, will you? What will you take for the lot?”

The Time Traveller took his seat without a word. He smiled quietly, just like before. “Where’s my mutton?” he asked. “What a treat it is to stick a fork into meat again!”

“Story!” the Editor exclaimed.

“Story be damned!” said the Time Traveller. “I want something to eat. I won’t say a word until I get some food in my system. Thanks. And the salt.”

“One question,” I said. “Have you been time traveling?”

“Yes,” the Time Traveller replied, his mouth full, nodding his head.

“I’d pay a shilling a line for a verbatim account,” the Editor said. The Time Traveller pushed his glass toward the Silent Man and tapped it with his fingernail. The Silent Man, who had been staring at his face, jumped and poured him some wine. The rest of dinner was uncomfortable. I found sudden questions bubbling up, and I suspected the others felt the same way. The Journalist tried to ease the tension by sharing stories about Hettie Potter. The Time Traveller focused on his meal, eating with the appetite of a starving man. The Medical Man smoked a cigarette, watching the Time Traveller from behind his lashes. The Silent Man seemed even more awkward than usual, drinking champagne with a nervous determination. Finally, the Time Traveller pushed his plate away and looked around at us. “I suppose I should apologize,” he said. “I was simply starving. I’ve had the most amazing experience.” He reached for a cigar and cut the end off. “But let’s go into the smoking room. It’s too long a story to tell over greasy plates.” Ringing the bell as he passed, he led the way into the adjoining room.

“You’ve told Blank, Dash, and Chose about the machine?” he asked me, settling back in his easy chair and naming the three new guests.

“But the whole thing’s just a paradox,” the Editor said.

“I can’t argue tonight. I’m happy to share my story, but I won’t engage in any debates. I really want to tell you what’s happened to me, but you have to promise not to interrupt. I need to get this out. It might sound unbelievable, but trust me, it’s all true. I was in my lab at four o’clock, and since then… I’ve experienced eight days unlike anything any human has ever lived through! I’m exhausted, but I won’t sleep until I’ve shared everything with you. After that, I’ll head to bed. But no interruptions! Do we have a deal?”

“Deal,” the Editor replied, and the rest of us echoed, “Deal.” With that, the Time Traveller began his tale as I’ve recounted it here. He leaned back in his chair at first, speaking like a man who had been through a lot. As he continued, his energy grew. Writing it down, I feel acutely aware of how inadequate my pen and ink are—and, more importantly, how limited I am in capturing the essence of what he conveyed. You’re reading this, I assume, with enough focus, but you can’t see the sincerity in his pale face illuminated by the small lamp, nor can you hear the nuances in his voice. You can’t grasp how his expressions shifted with the flow of his narrative. Most of us were in shadow, as the candles in the smoking room hadn’t been lit, and only the Journalist’s face and the lower legs of the Silent Man were visible in the light. At first, we exchanged glances, but soon we stopped and focused solely on the Time Traveller’s face.