A LETTER TO MRS. R. L. STEVENSON
KALAWAO, MOLOKAI [May 1889]
DEAR FANNY, -- I had a lovely sail up.
Captain Cameron and Mr. Gilfillan, both born
in the States, yet the first still with a
strong Highland, and the second still with a
strong Lowland accent, were good company; the
night was warm, the victuals plain but good.
Mr. Gilfillan gave me his berth, and I slept
well, though I heard the sisters sick in the
next stateroom, poor souls. Heavy rolling
woke me in the morning; I turned in all
standing, so went right on the upper deck.
The day was on the peep out of a low morning
bank, and we were wallowing along under
stupendous cliffs. As the lights brightened,
we could see certain abutments and buttresses
on their front where wood clustered and grass
grew brightly. But the whole brow seemed
quite impassable, and my heart sank at the
sight. Two thousand feet of rock making
19 degrees (the Captain guesses) seemed quite
beyond my powers. However, I had come so far;
and, to tell you the truth, I was so cowed
with fear and disgust that I dared not go
back on the adventure in the interests of my
own self-respect. Presently we came up with
the leper promontory: lowland, quite bare
and bleak and harsh, a little town of wooden
houses, two churches, a landing-stair, all
unsightly, sour, northerly, lying athwart
the sunrise, with the great wall of the pali
cutting the world out on the south. Our
lepers were sent on the first boat, about
a dozen, one poor child very horrid, one
white man, leaving a large grown family
behind him in Honolulu, and then into the
second stepped the sisters and myself. I
do not know how it would have been with me
had the sisters not been there. My horror
of the horrible is about my weakest point;
but the moral loveliness at my elbow blotted
all else out; and when I found that one of
them was crying, poor soul, quietly under
her veil, I cried a little myself; then I
felt as right as a trivet, only a little
crushed to be there so uselessly. I thought
it was a sin and a shame she should feel
unhappy; I turned round to her, and said
something like this: "Ladies, God himself
is here to give you welcome. I'm sure it
is good for me to be beside you; I hope it
will be blessed to me; I thank you for
myself and the good you do me." It seemed
to cheer her up; but indeed I had scarce
said it when we were at the landing-stairs,
and there was a great crowd, hundreds of
(God save us!) pantomime masks in poor
human flesh, waiting to receive the sisters
and the new patients.
Every hand was offered: I had gloves, but
I had made up my mind on the boat's voyage
not to give my hand; that seemed less offensive
than the gloves. So the sisters and I went
up among that crew, and presently I got aside
(for I felt I had no business there) and set
off on foot across the promontory, carrying
my wrap and the camera. All horror was quite
gone from me: to see these dread creatures
smile and look happy was beautiful. On my
way through Kalaupapa I was exchanging
cheerful alohas with the patients coming
galloping over on their horses; I was
stopping to gossip at house-doors; I was
happy, only ashamed of myself that I was here
for no good. One woman was pretty, and spoke
good English, and was infinitely engaging
and (in the old phrase) towardly; she thought
I was the new white patient; and when she
found I was only a visitor, a curious change
came in her face and voice -- the only sad
thing -- morally sad, I mean -- that I met
that morning. But for all that, they tell
me none want to leave. Beyond Kalaupapa the
houses became rare; dry stone dykes, grassy,
stony land, one sick pandanus; a dreary country;
from overhead in the little clinging wood
shogs of the pali chirruping of birds fell;
the low sun was right in my face; the trade
blew pure and cool and delicious; I felt as
right as ninepence, and stopped and chatted
with the patients whom I still met on their
horses, with not the least disgust. About
half-way over, I met the superintendent (a
leper) with a horse for me, and O, wasn't I
glad! But the horse was one of those curious,
dogged, cranky brutes that always dully want
to go somewhere else, and my traffic with him
completed my crushing fatigue. I got to the
guest-house, an empty house with several
rooms, kitchen, bath, etc. There was no one
there, and I let the horse go loose in the
garden, lay down on the bed, and fell asleep.
Dr. Swift woke me and gave me breakfast, then
I came back and slept again while he was at
the dispensary, and he woke me for dinner;
and I came back and slept again, and he woke
me about six for supper; and then in about an
hour I felt tired again, and came up to my
solitary guest-house, played the flageolet,
and am now writing to you. As yet, you see,
I have seen nothing of the settlement, and
my crushing fatigue (though I believe that
was moral and a measure of my cowardice) and
the doctor's opinion make me think the pali
hopeless. "You don't look a strong man,"
said the doctor; "but are you sound?" I
told him the truth; then he said it was out
of the question, and if I were to get up at
all, I must be carried up. But, as it seems,
men as well as horses continually fall on
this ascent: the doctor goes up with a change
of clothes -- it is plain that to be carried
would in itself be very fatiguing to both
mind and body; and I should then be at the
beginning of thirteen miles of mountain road
to be ridden against time. How should I come
through? I hope you will think me right in
my decision: I mean to stay, and shall not
be back in Honolulu till Saturday, June first.
You must all do the best you can to make ready.
Dr. Swift has a wife and an infant son,
beginning to toddle and run, and they live
here as composed as brick and mortar -- at
least the wife does, a Kentucky German, a
fine enough creature, I believe, who was
quite amazed at the sisters shedding tears!
How strange is mankind! Gilfillan too, a
good fellow I think, and far from a stupid,
kept up his hard Lowland Scottish talk in the
boat while the sister was covering her face;
but I believe he knew, and did it (partly)
in embarrassment, and part perhaps in mistaken
kindness. And that was one reason, too, why
I made my speech to them. Partly, too, I did
it, because I was ashamed to do so, and
remembered one of my golden rules, "When you
are ashamed to speak, speak up at once." But,
mind you, that rule is only golden with
strangers; with your own folks, there are
other considerations. This is a strange
place to be in. A bell has been sounded at
intervals while I wrote, now all is still
but a musical humming of the sea, not unlike
the sound of telegraph wires; the night is
quite cool and pitch dark, with a small fine
rain; one light over in the leper settlement,
one cricket whistling in the garden, my
lamp here by my bedside, and my pen cheeping
between my inky fingers.
Next day, lovely morning, slept all night,
80 degrees in the shade, strong, sweet Anaho
trade-wind.
LOUIS.
(The above letter was written during Robert Louis Stevenson's
trip to the noted leper colony -- the scene of
Father Damien's labours -- at Molokai, Hawaii.)
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