The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson — Volume 1Stevenson, Robert Louis
General
The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson — Volume 1
Stevenson, Robert Louis
Authors, Scottish -- 19th century -- Correspondence; Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894 -- Correspondence
to do it; if you fail in the last, that is by commission, Christ tells
you to hope; if you fail in the first, that is by omission, his picture
of the last day gives you but a black lookout. The whole necessary
morality is kindness; and it should spring, of itself, from the one
fundamental doctrine, Faith. If you are sure that God, in the long run,
means kindness by you, you should be happy; and if happy, surely you
should be kind.
I beg your pardon for this long discourse; it is not all right, of
course, but I am sure there is something in it. One thing I have not got
clearly; that about the omission and the commission; but there is truth
somewhere about it, and I have no time to clear it just now. Do you
know, you have had about a Cornhill page of sermon? It is, however,
true.
Lloyd heard with dismay Fanny was not going to give me a present; so F.
and I had to go and buy things for ourselves, and go through a
representation of surprise when they were presented next morning. It
gave us both quite a Santa Claus feeling on Xmas Eve to see him so
excited and hopeful; I enjoyed it hugely.—Your affectionate son,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
TO SIDNEY COLVIN
[_Hotel Belvedere_, _Davos_, _Spring_ 1881.]
MY DEAR COLVIN.—My health is not just what it should be; I have lost
weight, pulse, respiration, etc., and gained nothing in the way of my old
bellows. But these last few days, with tonic, cod-liver oil, better wine
(there is some better now), and perpetual beef-tea, I think I have
progressed. To say truth, I have been here a little over long. I was
reckoning up, and since I have known you, already quite a while, I have
not, I believe, remained so long in any one place as here in Davos. That
tells on my old gipsy nature; like a violin hung up, I begin to lose what
music there was in me; and with the music, I do not know what besides, or
do not know what to call it, but something radically part of life, a
rhythm, perhaps, in one’s old and so brutally over-ridden nerves, or
perhaps a kind of variety of blood that the heart has come to look for.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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