To Russell P——n
Vailima, Samoa, December 3rd, 1893.
DEAR RUSSELL,—I have to thank you very much for your capital letter, which came to hand here in Samoa along with your mother’s. When you “grow up and write stories like me,” you will be able to understand that there is scarce anything more painful than for an author to hold a pen; he has to do it so much that his heart sickens and his fingers ache at the sight or touch of it; so that you will excuse me if I do not write much, but remain (with compliments and greetings from one Scot to another—though I was not born in Ceylon—you’re ahead of me there).—Yours very truly,
Robert Louis Stevenson.
To Alison Cunningham
Vailima, December 5, 1893.
MY DEAREST CUMMY,—This goes to you with a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. The Happy New Year anyway, for I think it should reach you about Noor’s Day. I dare say it may be cold and frosty. Do you remember when you used to take me out of bed in the early morning, carry me to the back windows, show me the hills of Fife, and quote to me
| “A’ the hills are covered wi’ snaw, An’ winter’s noo come fairly”? |
There is not much chance of that here! I wonder how my mother is going to stand the winter. It she can, it will be a very good thing for her. We are in that part of the year which I like the best—the Rainy or Hurricane Season. “When it is good, it is very, very good; and when it is bad, it is horrid,” and our fine days are certainly fine like heaven; such a blue of the sea, such green of the trees, and such crimson of the hibiscus flowers, you never saw; and the air as mild and gentle as a baby’s breath, and yet not hot!
The mail is on the move, and I must let up.—With much love, I am, your laddie,