In the winter of 1872-73 Stevenson was out of health again; and by
the beginning of spring there began the trouble which for the next
twelve months clouded his home life. The following shows exactly in
what spirit he took it:--
_17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh, Sunday, February 2, 1873._
MY DEAR BAXTER,--The thunderbolt has fallen with a vengeance now. On
Friday night after leaving you, in the course of conversation, my father
put me one or two questions as to beliefs, which I candidly answered. I
really hate all lying so much now--a new found honesty that has somehow
come out of my late illness--that I could not so much as hesitate at the
time; but if I had foreseen the real hell of everything since, I think I
should have lied, as I have done so often before. I so far thought of my
father, but I had forgotten my mother. And now! they are both ill, both
silent, both as down in the mouth as if--I can find no simile. You may
fancy how happy it is for me. If it were not too late, I think I could
almost find it in my heart to retract, but it is too late; and again, am
I to live my whole life as one falsehood? Of course, it is rougher than
hell upon my father, but can I help it? They don't see either that my
game is not the light-hearted scoffer; that I am not (as they call me) a
careless infidel. I believe as much as they do, only generally in the
inverse ratio: I am, I think, as honest as they can be in what I hold. I
have not come hastily to my views. I reserve (as I told them) many
points until I acquire fuller information, and do not think I am thus
justly to be called "horrible atheist."
Now, what is to take place? What a curse I am to my parents! O Lord,
what a pleasant thing it is to have just _damned_ the happiness of
(probably) the only two people who care a damn about you in the world.
What is my life to be at this rate? What, you rascal? Answer--I have a
pistol at your throat. If all that I hold true and most desire to spread
is to be such death, and worse than death, in the eyes of my father and
mother, what the _devil_ am I to do?
Here is a good heavy cross with a vengeance, and all rough with rusty
nails that tear your fingers, only it is not I that have to carry it
alone; I hold the light end, but the heavy burden falls on these two.
Don't--I don't know what I was going to say. I am an abject idiot,
which, all things considered, is not remarkable.--Ever your affectionate
and horrible atheist,