The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson — Volume 2Stevenson, Robert Louis
General
The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson — Volume 2
Stevenson, Robert Louis
Authors, Scottish -- 19th century -- Correspondence; Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894 -- Correspondence
taken badly that way, apply to the South Seas. I could send you some, I
believe, anyway, only none of it is thoroughly ripe. If kept back the
volume of ballads, I’ll soon make it a respectable size if this fit
continue. By the next mail you may expect some more _Wrecker_, or I
shall be displeased. Probably no more than a chapter, however, for it is
a hard one, and I am denuded of my proofs, my collaborator having walked
away with them to England; hence some trouble in catching the just note.
I am a mere farmer: my talk, which would scarce interest you on Broadway,
is all of fuafua and tuitui, and black boys, and planting and weeding,
and axes and cutlasses; my hands are covered with blisters and full of
thorns; letters are, doubtless, a fine thing, so are beer and skittles,
but give me farmering in the tropics for real interest. Life goes in
enchantment; I come home to find I am late for dinner; and when I go to
bed at night, I could cry for the weariness of my loins and thighs. Do
not speak to me of vexation, the life brims with it, but with living
interest fairly.
Christmas I go to Auckland, to meet Tamate, the New Guinea missionary, a
man I love. The rest of my life is a prospect of much rain, much weeding
and making of paths, a little letters, and devilish little to eat.—I am,
my dear Burlingame, with messages to all whom it may concern, very
sincerely yours,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
TO HENRY JAMES
_Vailima_, _Apia_, _Samoa_, _December_ 29_th_, 1890.
MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,—It is terrible how little everybody writes, and how
much of that little disappears in the capacious maw of the Post Office.
Many letters, both from and to me, I now know to have been lost in
transit: my eye is on the Sydney Post Office, a large ungainly structure
with a tower, as being not a hundred miles from the scene of
disappearance; but then I have no proof. _The Tragic Muse_ you announced
to me as coming; I had already ordered it from a Sydney bookseller: about
two months ago he advised me that his copy was in the post; and I am
still tragically museless.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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