Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (12 page)

He
looked across at the Editor, who was a rare visitor, and hoped he was all right.
The Editor began a question. "Tell you presently," said the Time
Traveller. "I'm—funny! Be all right in a minute."

He
put down his glass, and walked towards the staircase door. Again I remarked his
lameness and the soft padding sound of his footfall, and standing up in my
place, I saw his feet as he went out. He had nothing on them but a pair of
tattered, bloodstained socks. Then the door closed upon him. I had half a mind
to follow, till I remembered how he detested any fuss about himself. For a
minute, perhaps, my mind was wool gathering. Then, "Remarkable Behaviour
of an Eminent Scientist," I heard the Editor say, thinking (after his
wont) in head-lines. And this brought my attention back to the bright dinner
table.

"What's
the game?" said the Journalist. "Has he been doing the Amateur
Cadger? I don't follow." I met the eye of the Psychologist, and read my
own interpretation in his face. I thought of the Time Traveller limping
painfully upstairs. I don't think any one else had noticed his lameness.

The
first to recover completely from this surprise was the Medical Man, who rang
the bell—the Time Traveller hated to have servants waiting at dinner—for a hot
plate. At that the Editor turned to his knife and fork with a grunt, and the
Silent Man followed suit. The dinner was resumed. Conversation was exclamatory
for a little while, with gaps of wonderment; and then the Editor got fervent in
his curiosity. "Does our friend eke out his modest income with a crossing
or has he his Nebuchadnezzar phases?" he inquired. "I feel assured
it's this business of the Time Machine," I said, and took up the
Psychologist's account of our previous meeting. The new guests were frankly
incredulous. The Editor raised objections. "What was this time travelling?
A man couldn't cover himself with dust by rolling in a paradox, could he?"
And then, as the idea came home to him, he resorted to caricature. Hadn't they
any clothes-brushes in the Future? The Journalist, too, would not believe at
any price, and joined the Editor in the easy work of heaping ridicule on the
whole thing. They were both the new kind of journalist—very joyous, irreverent
young men. "Our Special Correspondent in the Day after To-morrow reports,"
the Journalist was saying—or rather shouting—when the Time Traveller came back.
He was dressed in ordinary evening clothes, and nothing save his haggard look
remained of the change that had startled me.

"I
say," said the Editor hilariously, "these chaps here say you have
been travelling into the middle of next week! Tell us all about little
Rosebery, will you? What will you take for the lot?"

The
Time Traveller came to the place reserved for him without a word. He smiled
quietly, in his old way. "Where's my mutton?" he said. "What a
treat it is to stick a fork into meat again!"

"Story!" cried
the Editor.

"Story
be damned!" said the Time Traveller. "I want something to eat. I
won't say a word until I get some peptone into my arteries. Thanks. And the
salt."

"One word," said
I. "Have you been time travelling?"

"Yes,"
said the Time Traveller, with his mouth full, nodding his head.

"I'd
give a shilling a line for a verbatim note," said the Editor. The Time
Traveller pushed his glass towards the Silent Man and rang it with his finger
nail; at which the Silent Man, who had been staring at his face, started
convulsively, and poured him wine. The rest of the dinner was uncomfortable.
For my own part, sudden questions kept on rising to my lips, and I dare say it
was the same with the others. The Journalist tried to relieve the tension by
telling anecdotes of Hettie Potter. The Time Traveller devoted his attention to
his dinner, and displayed the appetite of a tramp. The Medical Man smoked a
cigarette, and watched the Time Traveller through his eyelashes. The Silent
Man seemed even more clumsy than usual, and drank champagne with regularity and
determination out of sheer nervousness. At last the Time Traveller pushed his
plate away, and looked round us. "I suppose I must apologise," he
said. "I was simply starving. I've had a most amazing time." He
reached out his hand for a cigar, and cut the end. "But come into the
smoking-room. It's too long a story to tell over greasy plates." And
ringing the bell in passing, he led the way into the adjoining room.

"You
have told Blank, and Dash, and Chose about the machine?" he said to me,
leaning back in his easy chair and naming the three new guests.

"But the thing's a
mere paradox," said the Editor.

"I
can't argue to-night. I don't mind telling you the story, but I can't argue. I
will," he went on, "tell you the story of what has happened to me, if
you like, but you must refrain from interruptions. I want to tell it. Badly.
Most of it will sound like lying. So be it! It's true—every word of it, all the
same. I was in my laboratory at four o'clock, and since then . . . I've lived
eight days . . . such days as no human being ever lived before! I'm nearly wom
out, but I shan't sleep till I've told this thing over to you. Then I shall go
to bed. But no interruptions! Is it agreed?"

"Agreed,"
said the Editor, and the rest of us echoed "Agreed." And with that
the Time Traveller began his story as I have set it forth. He sat back in his
chair at first, and spoke like a weary man. Afterwards he got more animated.
In writing it down I feel with only two much keenness the inadequacy of pen and
ink—and, above all, my own inadequacy—to express its quality. You read, I will
suppose, attentively enough; but you cannot see the speaker's white, sincere
face in the bright circle of the little lamp, nor hear the intonation of his
voice. You cannot know how his expression followed the turns of his story! Most
of us hearers were in shadow, for the candles in the smoking-room had not been
lighted, and only the face of the Journalist and the legs of the Silent Man
from the knees downward were illuminated. At first we glanced now and again at
each other. After a time we ceased to do that, and looked only at the Time
Traveller's face.

3
^

"I told some of you last Thursday of the
principles of the Time Machine, and showed you the actual thing itself,
incomplete in the workshop. There it is now, a little travel-worn, truly; and
one of tht ivory bars is cracked, and a brass rail bent; but the rest of it's
sound enough. I expected to finish it on Friday; but on Friday, when the
putting together was nearly done, I found that one of the nickel bars
was
exactly
one
inch
too
short,
and
this
I
had
to
get
remade;
so
that the
thing
was
not
complete
until
this
morning.
It
was
at
ten
o'clock to-day
that
the
first
of
all
Time
Machines
began
its
career.
I
gave
it a
last
tap,
tried
all
the
screws
again,
put
one
more
drop
of
oil
on
the quartz
rod,
and
sat
myself
in
the
saddle.
I
suppose
a
suicide
who
holds a
pistol
to
his
skull
feels
much
the
same
wonder
at
what
will
come next
as
I
felt
then.
I
took
the
starting
lever
in
one
hand
and
the stopping
one
in
the
other,
pressed
the
first,
and
almost
immediately the
second.
I
seemed
to
reel;
I
felt
a
nightmare
sensation
of
falling; and,
looking
round,
I
saw
the
laboratory
exactly
as
before.
Had
anything
happened?
For
a
moment
I
suspected
that
my
intellect
had tricked
me.
Then
I
noted
the
clock.
A
moment
before,
as
it
seemed, it
had
stood
at
a
minute
or
so
past
ten;
now
it
was
nearly
half-past three!

"I
drew
a
breath,
set
my
teeth,
gripped
the
starting
lever
with both
hands,
and
went
off
with
a
thud.
The
laboratory
got
hazy
and went
dark.
Mrs.
Watchett
came
in
and
walked,
apparently
without seeing
me,
towards
the
garden
door.
I
suppose
it
took
her
a
minute or
so
to
traverse
the
place,
but
to
me
she
seemed
to
shoot
across
the room
like
a
rocket.
I
pressed
the
lever
over
to
its
extreme
position. The
night
came
like
the
turning
out
of
a
lamp,
and
in
another
moment came
to-morrow.
Tire
laboratory
grew
faint
and
hazy,
then
fainter and
ever
fainter.
To-morrow
night
came
black,
then
day
again,
night again,
day
again,
faster
and
faster
still.
An
eddying
murmur
filled
my ears,
and
a
strange,
dumb
confusedness
descended
on
my
mind.