DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.51521#0022
that impressed me—and remained a faint memory of a
detective novel. A more distinct memory was the name
of the publisher, Tinsley. His name haunted in my re'
collection long after nine-tenths of the book had faded
out of it, and now that I had come to write a story my'
self it seemed to me a foregone conclusion that I should
publish A Modern Lover with Tinsley at Catherine
Street. A successful publisher he certainly must have
been, and probably still was. Whether a lover of litera-
ture or a huckster of novels sold on barrows at thirty-
one-and-sixpence I had no faintest notion. I was attracted
by the name only. The mysterious power that names have
for us possessed me the moment I crossed the gangway
and stood by the taffrail so that I might see the coasts of
France vanish into the night mist for the last time pet'
haps. I am naturally pessimistic. Pessimism gives me
courage.
“We shall have a stormy night passage,” somebody
cried in my hearing, and this certainly was more than
an ‘echo-augury,’ for we had just cleared the harbour
and the ship was rising and plunging. “I am afraid we
shall,” I answered, and walked up the deck, for I had
little wish for talk and only hoped that I should not be
sea-sick, and to keep my mind off that sad subject I ad-
mired the large spaces of sea with a wave coming on,
rising higher and higher as it came and shaking the ship
from end to end when it struck her. Strange the sea is, I
detective novel. A more distinct memory was the name
of the publisher, Tinsley. His name haunted in my re'
collection long after nine-tenths of the book had faded
out of it, and now that I had come to write a story my'
self it seemed to me a foregone conclusion that I should
publish A Modern Lover with Tinsley at Catherine
Street. A successful publisher he certainly must have
been, and probably still was. Whether a lover of litera-
ture or a huckster of novels sold on barrows at thirty-
one-and-sixpence I had no faintest notion. I was attracted
by the name only. The mysterious power that names have
for us possessed me the moment I crossed the gangway
and stood by the taffrail so that I might see the coasts of
France vanish into the night mist for the last time pet'
haps. I am naturally pessimistic. Pessimism gives me
courage.
“We shall have a stormy night passage,” somebody
cried in my hearing, and this certainly was more than
an ‘echo-augury,’ for we had just cleared the harbour
and the ship was rising and plunging. “I am afraid we
shall,” I answered, and walked up the deck, for I had
little wish for talk and only hoped that I should not be
sea-sick, and to keep my mind off that sad subject I ad-
mired the large spaces of sea with a wave coming on,
rising higher and higher as it came and shaking the ship
from end to end when it struck her. Strange the sea is, I