connected with the writing of my first book and
with my first contact with the sea.

In the purposely mingled resonance of this double strain a friend here
and there will perhaps detect a subtle accord.

J. C.

TWIXT LAND AND SEA

The only bond between these three stories is, so to speak, geographical,
for their scene, be it land, be it sea, is situated in the same region
which may be called the region of the Indian Ocean with its off-shoots
and prolongations north of the equator even as far as the Gulf of Siam.
In point of time they belong to the period immediately after the
publication of that novel with the awkward title "Under Western Eyes"
and, as far as the life of the writer is concerned, their appearance in
a volume marks a definite change in the fortunes of his fiction. For
there is no denying the fact that "Under Western Eyes" found no favour
in the public eye, whereas the novel called "Chance" which followed
"Twixt Land and Sea" was received on its first appearance by many more
readers than any other of my books.

This volume of three tales was also well received, publicly and
privately and from a publisher's point of view. This little success was
a most timely tonic for my enfeebled bodily frame. For this may indeed
be called the book of a man's convalescence, at least as to
three-fourths of it; because the Secret Sharer, the middle story, was
written much earlier than the other two.

For in truth the memories of "Under Western Eyes" are associated with
the memory of a severe illness which seemed to wait like a tiger in the
jungle on the turn of a path to jump on me the moment the last words of
that novel were written. The memory of an illness is very much like the
memory of a nightmare. On emerging from it in a much enfeebled state I
was inspired to direct my tottering steps towards the Indian Ocean, a
complete change of surroundings and atmosphere from the Lake of Geneva,
as nobody would deny. Begun so languidly and with such a fumbling hand
that the first twenty pages or more had to be thrown into the
waste-paper basket, A Smile of Fortune, the most purely Indian Ocean
story of the three, has ended by becoming what the reader will see. I
will only say for myself that i have been patted on the back for it by
most unexpected people, personally unknown to me, the chief of them of
course being the editor of a popular illustrated magazine who published
it serially in one mighty instalment. Wh