to Lieutenant Eeles

Vailima, Samoa, November 24, 1894.

MY DEAR EELES,—The hand, as you will perceive (and also the spelling!), is Teuila’s, but the scrannel voice is what remains of Tusitala’s.  First of all, for business.  When you go to London you are to charter a hansom cab and proceed to the Museum.  It is particular fun to do this on Sundays when the Monument is shut up.  Your cabman expostulates with you, you persist.  The cabman drives up in front of the closed gates and says, ‘I told you so, sir.’  You breathe in the porter’s ears the mystic name of Colvin, and he immediately unfolds the iron barrier.  You drive in, and doesn’t your cabman think you’re a swell.  A lord mayor is nothing to it.  Colvin’s door is the only one in the eastern gable of the building.  Send in your card to him with ‘From R. L. S.’ in the corner, and the machinery will do the rest.  Henry James’s address is 34 De Vere Mansions West.  I cannot remember where the place is; I cannot even remember on which side of the park.  But it’s one of those big Cromwell Road-looking deserted thoroughfares out west in Kensington or Bayswater, or between the two; and anyway, Colvin will be able to put you on the direct track for Henry James.  I do not send formal introductions, as I have taken the liberty to prepare both of them for seeing you already.

Hoskyn is staying with us.

It is raining dismally.  The Curaçoa track is hardly passable, but it must be trod to-morrow by the degenerate feet of their successor the Wallaroos.  I think it a very good account of these last that we don’t think them either deformed or habitual criminals—they seem to be a kindly lot.

The doctor will give you all the gossip.  I have preferred in this letter to stick to the strictly solid and necessary.  With kind messages from all in the house to all in the wardroom, all in the gunroom, and (may we dare to breathe it) to him who walks abaft, believe me, my dear Eeles, yours ever,

R. L. Stevenson.