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02 - The Time Machine - H G Wells · Science Fiction Books - Daily

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  Chapter two. I think that at the time none of us quite believed in
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  the time machine. The fact is, the time traveler was one of those
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  men who are too clever to be believed. You never felt that you saw
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  all round him. You always suspected some subtle reserve, some ingenuity in ambush
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  behind his lucid frankness. Had Philby shown the model and explained the matter in
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  the time Traveler's words, we should have shown him far less skepticism, for
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  we should have perceived his motives. A pork butcher could understand Philby. But
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  the time Traveler had more than a touch of whim among his elements, and
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  we distrusted him. Things that would have made the frame of a less clever
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  man seemed tricks in his hands. It is a mistake to do things too
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  easily. The serious people who took him seriously never felt quite sure of his
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  deportment. They were somehow aware that trusting their reputations for judgment with him was
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  like furnishing a nursery with egg shell china. So I didn't think any of
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  us said very much about time traveling in the interval between that Thursday and the
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  next, though its odd potentialities ran no doubt in most of our minds its
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  plausibility, that is, its practical incredibleness, the curious possibilities of an acronism,
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  and of utter confusion, it suggested. For my own part, I
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  was particularly preoccupied with the trick of the model that I remember discussing with the
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  medical man, whom I met on Friday at the Linnaean. He said he
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  had seen a similar thing at Tubingen and laid considerable stress on the blowing out
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  of the candle, but how the trick was done he could not explain.
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  The next Thursday, I went again to Richmond. I suppose I was one
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  of the time Traveler's most constant guests, and arriving late, found four or
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  five men already assembled in his drawing room. The medical man was standing before
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  the fire with a sheet of paper in one hand and his watch in the
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  other. I looked around for the time Traveler. And it's half past seven
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  now, said the medical man. I suppose we'd better have dinner. Where's
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  said I, naming our host. You've just come. It's rather odd.
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  He's unavoidably detained. He asks me in this note to lead off with dinner
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  at seven. If he's not back, says he'll explain when he comes.
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  It seems a pity to let the dinner spoil, said the editor of a
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  well known daily paper, and thereupon the doctor rang the bell. The psychologist
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  was the only person besides the doctor and myself who had attended the previous dinner.
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  The other men were blank. The editor aforementioned, a certain journalist,
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  and another a quiet, shy man with a beard, whom I didn't know,
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  and who, as far as my observation went, never opened his mouth.
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  All the evening there was some speculation at the dinner table about the time
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  traveler's absence, and I suggested time traveling in a half jocular spirit. The
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  editor wanted that explain to him, and the psychologist volunteered a wooden account of
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  the ingenious paradox and trick we had witnessed that day week. He was in
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  the midst of his exposition when the door from the corridor opened slowly and without
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  noise. I was facing the door and saw it first. Hello, I
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  said, at last, and the door opened wider, and the time traveler
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  stood before us. I gave a cry of surprise. Good heavens man,
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  what's the matter, cried the medical man. Who saw him next. When
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  the whole tableful turned towards the door, he was in an amazing plight.
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  His coat was dusty and dirty and smeared with green down the sleeves. His
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  hair disordered and, as it seemed to me, grayer, either with dust
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  and dirt or because its color had actually faded. His face was ghastly pale.
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  His chin had a brown cut on it, a cut half heeled.
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  His expression was haggard and drawn as by intense suffering. For a moment,
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  he hesitated in the doorway, as if he had been dazzled by the light.
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  Then he came into the room. He walked with just such a limp
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  as I have seen in footsore traps. We stared at him in silence,
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  expecting him to speak. He said not a word, but came painfully to
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  the table and made a motion towards the wine. The editor filled a glass
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  of champagne and pushed it towards him. He drained it, and it seemed
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  to do him good, for he looked round the table and the ghost of
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  his old smile flickered across his face. What on earth have you been up
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  to, man, said the doctor. The time traveler did not seem to
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  hear. Don't let me disturb you, he said, with a certain faltering
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  articulation. I'm all right. He stopped, held out his glass for more,
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  and took it off at a draft. That's good, he said.
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  His eyes grew brighter, and a faint color came into his cheeks. His
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  glance flickered over our faces with a certain dull approval, and then went round
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  the warm and comfortable room. Then he spoke again, still as it were,
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  feeling his way among his words, I'm going to wash and dress,
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  and then i'll come down and explain things. Save me some of that mutton.
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  I'm starving for a bit of meat. He looked across at the editor,
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  who was a rare visitor, and hoped he was all right. The
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  editor began a question. Tell you, presently, said the time traveler.
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  I'm funny. I'll be right in a minute. He put down his glass
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  and walked towards the staircase door. Again. I remarked his lameness and the
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  soft padding sound of his footfall, and standing up in my place, I
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  saw his feet as he went out. He had nothing on them but a
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  pair of tattered, blood stained socks. Then the door closed upon him.
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  I had half a mind to follow till I remembered how he detested any fuss
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  about himself. For a minute, perhaps my mind was wool gathering. Then
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  remarkable behavior of an eminent scientist. I heard the editor say, thinking after
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  his wont in headlines, and this brought my attention back to the bright dinner
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  table. What's the game, said the journalist. Has he been doing the
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  amateur cadger, I don't follow. I met the eye of the psychologist and
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  read my own interpretation in his face. I thought of the time traveler limping
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  painfully upstairs. I don't think any one else had noticed his lameness. The
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  first to recover completely from this surprise was the medical man who rang the bell.
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  The time traveler hated to have servants waiting at dinner for a hot plate.
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  At that the editor turned to his knife and fork with a grunt,
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  and the silent man followed suit. The dinner was resumed. Conversation was exclamatory
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  for a little while, with gaps of wonderment, and then the editor got
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  fervent in his curiosity. Does our friend eke out his modest income with a
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  crossing? Or has he his nebuchadnazar phases, he inquired. I feel assured.
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  It's this business of the time machine, I said, and took up
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  the psychologist's account of our previous meeting. The new guests were frankly incredulous.
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  The editor raised objections, what was this time traveling? A man couldn't cover
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  himself with dust by rolling in a paradox, could he? And then,
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  as the idea came home to him, he resorted to caricature. Hadn't he
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  any clothes brushes in the future. The journalist, too, would not believe
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  at any price, and join the editor in the easy work of heaping ridicule
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  on the whole thing. They were both the new kind of journalist, very
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  joyous, irreverent young men. Our special correspondent in the Day after Tomorrow reports
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  the journalist was saying, or rather shouting, when the time traveler came back.
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  He was dressed in ordinary evening clothes, and nothing save his haggard look
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  remained of change that had startled me, I say, said the editor,
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  hilariously, these chaps here say you have been traveling into the middle of next
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  week. Tell us all about little Roseberry. Will you? What will you
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  take for the lot. The time traveler came to the place reserved for him
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  without a word. He smiled quietly in his old way. Where's my mutton?
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  He said, What a treat it is to stick a fork into meat
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  again, Story cried the editor. Story be damned, said the time traveler.
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  I want something to eat. I won't say a word until I get
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  some peptone into my arteries. Thanks and the salt. One word, said
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  I have you been time traveling? Yes, said the time traveler, with
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  his mouth full, nodding his head. I'd give a shilling a line for
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  a verbatim note, said the editor. The time traveler pushed his glass towards
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  the sight silet man and rang it with his finger nail, at which the
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  silent man, who had been staring at his face, started convulsively and poured
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  in wine. The rest of the dinner was uncomfortable for my own part.
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  Sudden questions kept rising to my lips, and I dare say it was the
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  same with the others. The journalist tried to relieve the tension by telling anecdotes
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  of Hetty Potter. The time traveler devoted his attention to his dinner and displayed
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  the appetite of a trap. The medical man smoked a cigarette and watched the
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  time traveler through his eyelashes. The silent man seemed even more clumsy than usual,
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  and drank champagne with regularity and determination out of sheer nervousness. At last,
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  the time traveler pushed his plate away and looked round us. I suppose
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  I must apologize, he said, I was simply starving. I've had a
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  most amazing time. He reached out his hand for a cigar and cut the
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  end. But come into the smoking room. It's too long a story to
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  tell. Over greasy plates and ringing the bell. In passing, he led
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  the way into the adjoining room. You have told blank and dash and chose
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  about the machine, he said to me, leaning back in his easy chair
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  and naming the three new guests. But the thing's a mere paradox, said
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  the editor. I can't argue tonight. I don't mind telling you the story,
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  but I can't argue. I will, he went on, tell you
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  the story of what has happened to me, if you like, but you
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  must refrain from interruptions. I want to tell it badly. Most of it
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  will sound like lying, so be it. It's true. Every word of
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  it all the same. I was in my laboratory at four o'clock, and
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  since then I've lived a days, such days as no human being ever lived
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  before. I'm nearly worn out, but I shan't sleep till I've told this
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  thing over to you. Then I shall go to bed. But no interruptions.
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  Is it agreed? Agreed? Said the editor, and the rest of
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  us echoed. Agreed. And with that the time traveler began his story,
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  as I've set it forth. He sat back in his chair at first,
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  and spoke like a weary man. Afterwards, he got more animated in writing
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  it down. I feel, with only too much keenness, the inadequacy of
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  pen and ink, and above all my own inadequacy to express its quality.
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  You read, I will suppose attentively enough. But you cannot see the speaker's
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  white, sincere face in the bright circle of the little lamp, nor hear
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  the intonation of his voice. Cannot know how his expression followed the turns of
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  his story. Most of us hearers were in shadow, for the candles in
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  the smoking room had not been lighted, and only the face of the journalist
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  and the legs of the silent man from the knees downward were illuminated. At
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  first, we glanced now and again at each other. After a time,
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  we ceased to do that and looked only at the time traveler's face. End
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  of Chapter two.