My God, Do I Look Strange? Samoa 1894 FANNY WAS IN a mulish mood. Robert Louis Stevenson muttered, “balmawhapple,” (Gaelic for obstinate) under his breath as he descended to the basement to retrieve his finest Burgundy. After a cigarette and a hand or two of whist, he cajoled his discontented wife into helping him construct a luscious salad of Samoan fruits and fresh green lettuce harvested from their tropical garden. He tore a large juicy leaf; his entire body jolted and shuddered as if electrocuted. His expression contorted. His face melted down the side of his head. The kitchen