[The following two letters, one to his wife and one to me, were written
during and immediately after Stevenson's trip to the noted leper
settlement, the scene of Father Damien's labors, at Molokai.]
No date. (The latter part of May.)
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° (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!) pantomine 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, stoney
land, one sick pandanus; a dreary country; from overhead in the little
clinging woods 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 alway 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. S. 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! —— 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 cheaping between my inky fingers.
* * * * *
Next day, lovely morning, slept all night, 80° in the shade, strong,
sweet, Anaho trade-wind.
HONOLULU, May or June, 1889.
MY DEAR COLVIN,—I am just home after twelve days journey to Molokai,
seven of them at the leper settlement, where I can only say that the
sight of so much courage, cheerfulness and devotion, strung me too high
to mind the infinite pity and horror of the sights. I used to ride over
from Kalawao to Kalaupapa (about three miles across the promontory, the
cliff-wall, ivied with forest and yet inaccessible from steepness, on
my left), go to the Sisters' home which is a miracle of neatness, play a
game of croquet with seven leper girls (90° in the shade), get a little
old-maid meal served me by the Sisters, and ride home again, tired
enough but not too tired. The girls have all dolls, and love dressing
them. You who know so many ladies delicately clad, and they who know so
many dressmakers, please make it known it would be an acceptable gift
to send scraps for doll dressmaking to the Reverend Sister Maryanne,
Bishop Home, Kalaupapa, Molokai, Hawaiian Islands.
I have seen sights that cannot be told, and heard stories that cannot
be repeated: yet I never admired my poor race so much, nor (strange as
it may seem) loved life more than in the settlement. A horror of moral
beauty broods over the place: that's like bad Victor Hugo, but it is the
only way I can express the sense that lived with me all these days. And
this even though it was in great part Catholic, and my sympathies flew
never with so much difficulty as towards Catholic virtues. The pass-book
kept with heaven stirs me to anger and laughter. One of the sisters
calls the place "the ticket-office to heaven." Well, what is the odds?
They do their darg, and do it with kindness and efficiency incredible;
and we must take folk's virtues as we find them, and love the better
part. Of old Damien, whose weaknesses and worse perhaps I heard fully,
I think only the more. It was a European peasant: dirty, bigotted,
untruthful, unwise, tricky, but superb with generosity, residual candour
and fundamental good-humour: convince him he had done wrong (it might
take hours of insult) and he would undo what he had done and like his
corrector better. A man, with all the grime and paltriness of mankind,
but a saint and hero all the more for that. The place as regards scenery
is grand, gloomy and bleak. Mighty mountain walls descending sheer
along the whole face of the island into a sea unusually deep; the front
of the mountain ivied and furred with clinging forest, one iridescent
cliff: about half-way from east to west, the low, bare stony promontory
edged in between the cliff and the ocean; the two little towns (Kalawao
and Kalaupapa) seated on either side of it, as bare almost as bathing
machines upon a beach; and the population—gorgons and chimæras dire.
All this tear of the nerves, I bore admirably; and the day after I
got away, rode twenty miles along the opposite coast and up into the
mountains: they call it twenty, I am doubtful of the figures: I should
guess it nearer twelve; but let me take credit for what residents
allege; and I was riding again the day after, so I need say no more
about health. Honolulu does not agree with me at all; I am always out
of sorts there, with slight headache, blood to the head, etc. I had a
good deal of work to do and did it with miserable difficulty; and yet
all the time I have been gaining strength as you see, which is highly
encouraging. By the time I am done with this cruise I shall have the
material for a very singular book of travels: names of strange stories
and characters, cannibals, pirates, ancient legends, old Polynesian
poetry; never was so generous a farrago. I am going down now to get
the story of a shipwrecked family, who were fifteen months on an island
with a murderer: there is a specimen. The Pacific is a strange place,
the nineteenth century only exists there in spots; all round, it is a
no man's land of the ages, a stir-about of epochs and races, barbarisms
and civilisations, virtues and crimes.
It is good of you to let me stay longer, but if I had known how ill
you were, I should be now on my way home. I had chartered my schooner
and made all arrangements before (at last) we got definite news. I feel
highly guilty; I should be back to insult and worry you a little. Our
address till further notice is to be c/o R. Towns & Co., Sydney. That
is final; I only got the arrangement made yesterday; but you may now
publish it abroad. Yours ever,