The Lost World

von Arthur Conan Doyle

Mr. Hungerton, her father, was truly the most tactless person on the planet—a fluffy, disheveled man who resembled a cockatoo. He was well-meaning but completely absorbed in his own trivial concerns. If anything could have driven me away from Gladys, it would have been the thought of having him as a father-in-law. I was convinced he genuinely believed I visited the Chestnuts three times a week just for the pleasure of his company, especially to hear his opinions on bimetallism, a topic he fancied himself an expert on.

For over an hour that evening, I endured his monotonous chatter about how bad money drives out good, the token value of silver, the depreciation of the rupee, and the true standards of exchange.

“Imagine,” he exclaimed with exaggerated fervor, “if all the debts in the world were called in at once and immediate payment demanded—what would happen under our current conditions?”

I gave the obvious answer: I would be ruined. He leaped from his chair, chastised me for my habitual levity, which made it impossible for him to have a serious discussion in my presence, and then bounced out of the room to get ready for a Masonic meeting.

Finally, I was alone with Gladys, and the moment of truth had arrived! All evening, I had felt like a soldier waiting for the signal to charge into battle, hope and fear battling within me.

She sat there, her proud, delicate profile framed against the red curtain. How beautiful she was! And yet, how distant! We had been friends—good friends—but I could never seem to break through the camaraderie that felt more like a bond with a fellow reporter at the Gazette—perfectly open, perfectly kind, and completely devoid of romantic tension.

My instincts told me that a woman being too comfortable and candid with me was not a compliment. When genuine attraction begins, it brings with it a sense of shyness and hesitation, a remnant from the days when love and violence often intertwined. The lowered head, the averted gaze, the hesitant voice—these were the true signs of passion, not the unflinching stare and straightforward reply. Even in my relatively short life, I had learned that much, or perhaps it was ingrained in me as instinct.

Gladys possessed every quality a woman could have. Some deemed her cold and hard, but such thoughts were treasonous. Her delicately bronzed skin, almost exotic in hue, her raven hair, those large, expressive eyes, and her full, exquisite lips—all the marks of passion were there. Yet, I was painfully aware that I had never discovered the secret to drawing it out. But tonight, I would end the suspense and confront my feelings. She could only refuse me, and I would rather be a rejected lover than a brotherly friend.

Just as I was about to break the long, tense silence, she turned to me with her critical, dark eyes and shook her head in playful reproach. “I have a feeling you’re about to propose, Ned. I really wish you wouldn’t; things are so much nicer as they are.”

I moved my chair a little closer. “How did you know I was going to propose?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

“Don’t women always know? Do you think any woman in the world has ever been caught off guard? But, oh, Ned, our friendship has been so wonderful and enjoyable! What a shame to ruin it! Don’t you see how splendid it is that a young man and a young woman can talk openly like we have?”

“I don’t know, Gladys. I can talk openly with—well, the station-master.” I wasn’t sure how that official had come into the conversation, but it made us both laugh. “That doesn’t satisfy me at all. I want to hold you in my arms, to have your head on my chest, and—oh, Gladys, I want—”

She jumped from her chair as I made a move to demonstrate my desires. “You’ve ruined everything, Ned,” she said. “It was all so beautiful and natural until this kind of thing came up! It’s such a pity! Why can’t you control yourself?”

“I didn’t create this,” I protested. “It’s nature. It’s love.”

“Well, maybe if both people love each other, it could be different. But I’ve never felt it.”

“But you must—look at your beauty, your spirit! Oh, Gladys, you were made for love! You have to love!”

“One must wait until it comes.”

“But why can’t you love me, Gladys? Is it my looks, or what?”

She softened a bit, extending her hand in a gracious gesture, pressing back my head. Then she looked into my upturned face with a wistful smile.

“No, it isn’t that,” she finally said. “You’re not a conceited boy, so I can safely say it’s not that. It’s something deeper.”

“My character?”

She nodded seriously.

"What can I do to fix this? Please, just sit down and let’s talk it through. I promise I won’t say a word if you’ll just sit."

She looked at me with a mix of curiosity and doubt, and honestly, I preferred that to her complete trust. It’s strange how raw and primal that feeling seems when you write it out—maybe it’s just me. Anyway, she finally took a seat.

"Now, tell me what’s wrong with me."

"I’m in love with someone else," she said.

I nearly leaped out of my chair.

"It’s not anyone specific," she added, laughing at my shocked expression. "It’s more of an ideal. I’ve never met the kind of man I’m talking about."

"Tell me about him. What does he look like?"

"Oh, he could look a lot like you."

"How sweet of you to say that! But what does he do that I don’t? Just name it—teetotaler, vegetarian, balloonist, philosopher, superhero. I’ll give it a shot, Gladys, if you just let me know what would make you happy."

She chuckled at my willingness to adapt. "Well, first of all, I don’t think my ideal would talk like that," she said. "He’d be a tougher, more serious man, not so quick to bend to a silly girl’s whims. But above all, he needs to be someone who can act, who can face Death without flinching—a man of great deeds and extraordinary experiences. I wouldn’t love the man himself, but the glory he’s achieved, because that would reflect on me. Think of Richard Burton! When I read his wife’s biography, I completely understood her love for him. And Lady Stanley! Have you ever read the incredible last chapter of that book about her husband? Those are the kinds of men a woman could worship with all her heart and still be greater for it, respected by everyone as the inspiration behind noble acts."

She looked so radiant in her passion that I almost let the conversation slip. I steadied myself and pressed on.

"We can’t all be Stanleys and Burtons," I said. "Besides, we don’t get the opportunities—at least, I never have. If I did, I’d take them."

"But opportunities are everywhere. The kind of man I’m talking about creates his own chances. You can’t hold him back. I’ve never met him, yet I feel like I know him so well. There are acts of heroism all around us waiting to be done. It’s up to men to seize those moments, and for women to reserve their love as a reward for such men. Look at that young Frenchman who went up in a balloon last week. It was a gale, but he insisted on taking off. The wind carried him fifteen hundred miles in twenty-four hours, and he landed in the middle of Russia. That’s the kind of man I mean. Imagine the woman he loved and how other women must have envied her! That’s what I want—to be envied for my man."

"I would have done it to make you happy."

"But you shouldn’t do it just to please me. You should do it because you can’t help it, because it’s in your nature, because the hero inside you is begging for expression. When you described the Wigan coal explosion last month, couldn’t you have gone down there to help those people, despite the danger?"

"I did."

"You never mentioned it."

"There was nothing to brag about."

"I didn’t know." She looked at me with renewed interest. "That was brave of you."

"I had to. If you want to write good stories, you need to be where the action is."

"What a practical reason! It takes away some of the romance. But still, whatever your reason, I’m glad you went down that mine." She offered me her hand, and with such grace and dignity, I could only bend down and kiss it. "I might just be a foolish woman with youthful dreams. Yet it feels so real to me, so much a part of who I am, that I can’t help but act on it. If I marry, I want to marry a famous man!"

"Why shouldn’t you?" I exclaimed. "It’s women like you who inspire men to rise. Give me a chance, and I’ll show you what I can do! Besides, as you said, men should CREATE their own opportunities, not wait for them to come. Look at Clive—just a clerk, and he conquered India! By George! I’ll make my mark on the world yet!"

She laughed at my sudden burst of enthusiasm. "Why not?" she replied. "You have everything a man could want—youth, health, strength, education, energy. I was sorry you spoke up, but now I’m glad—so glad—if it sparks these thoughts in you!"

"And if I do—"

Her soft hand rested gently on my lips. "Not another word, Sir! You should have been at the office for evening duty half an hour ago; I just didn’t have the heart to remind you. Maybe someday, when you’ve made your mark in the world, we can talk about this again."

On that foggy November evening, I found myself chasing the Camberwell tram, my heart warm with excitement and a fierce determination. I was resolved that not another day would pass without me accomplishing something worthy of my lady. But who could have predicted the extraordinary shape that deed would take, or the unexpected path that would lead me there?

At first glance, this opening scene might seem disconnected from my story, yet it’s essential. It’s only when a man steps into the world believing that heroism surrounds him, driven by a burning desire to seize any opportunity that arises, that he breaks free from the familiar and ventures into the enchanting twilight where great adventures and rewards await.

Picture me, then, at the Daily Gazette, where I was just a small part of the team, yet filled with the firm resolve that night to find a quest worthy of my Gladys. Was it selfishness or cruelty that she asked me to risk my life for her glory? Such thoughts might plague a man in middle age, but they never crossed the mind of a passionate twenty-three-year-old caught in the throes of first love.