[For correct and critical edition of this letter, see Mehew 6, 1894.]
To Charles Fairchild [Colvin 1912, pp. 233-234]
Post Office, Saranac Lake,
Adirondacks, N. Y.
[c. 8 October, 1887]
My dear Fairchild,
I do not live in the Post Office; that is only my address;
I live at “Baker’s,” a house upon a hill, and very jolly in every way.
I believe this is going to do: we have a kind of a garret of a spare room, where hardy visitors can sleep, and our table (if homely) is not bad.
And here, appropriately enough, comes in the begging part. We cannot get any fruit here: can you manage to send me some grapes?
I told you I would trouble you, and I will say that I do so with pleasure, which means a great deal from yours very sincerely,
Robert Louis Stevenson
P.S. – Remember us to all yours: my mother and my wife are away skylarking; my mother to Niagara,
my wife to Indianapolis;
and I live here to-day alone with Lloyd,
some cold meat,
and four salmon trout, one of which is being grilled at this moment of writing;
so that, after the immortal pattern of the Indian boys, my household will soon only reckon three.
As usual with me, the news comes in a P.S., and is mostly folly.
P.P.S. – My cold is so much better that I took another yesterday. But the new one is a puny child; I fear him not; and yet I fear to boast. If the postscript business goes on, this establishment will run out of P’s; but I hope it wasn’t you that made this paper – just for a last word – I could not compliment you upon that.
And Lord! if you could see the ink – not what I am using – but the local vintage! They don’t write much here; I bet what you please.