At last Lloyd remarked, a blue mouth speaking from a corpse-coloured face, ‘You seem to be the only one with any courage left?’ And, do you know, with that word my courage disappeared, and I made the rest of the stage in the same dumb wretchedness as the others. My only terror was lest Fanny should ask for brandy, or laudanum, or something. So awful was the idea of putting my hands out, that I half thought I would refuse. Well, none of us are a penny the worse, Lloyd’s cold better; I, with a twinge of the rheumatic; and Fanny better than her ordinary. General conclusion between Lloyd and me as to the journey: A prolonged visit to the dentist’s, complicated with the fear of death. Never, O never, do you get me there again.—Ever affectionate son, R. L. S. TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM [_Chalet am Stein_, _Davos-Platz_, _February_ 1882.] MY DEAR CUMMY,—My wife and I are very much vexed to hear you are still unwell. We are both keeping far better; she especially seems quite to have taken a turn—_the_ turn, we shall hope. Please let us know how you get on, and what has been the matter with you; Braemar I believe—the vile hole. You know what a lazy rascal I am, so you won’t be surprised at a short letter, I know; indeed, you will be much more surprised at my having had the decency to write at all. We have got rid of our young, pretty, and incompetent maid; and now we have a fine, canny, twinkling, shrewd, auld-farrant peasant body, who gives us good food and keeps us in good spirits. If we could only understand what she says! But she speaks Davos language, which is to German what Aberdeen-awa’ is to English, so it comes heavy. God bless you, my dear Cummy; and so says Fanny forbye.—Ever your affectionate, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. TO CHARLES BAXTER [_Chalet am Stein_, _Davos_], 22_nd_ _February_ ’82. MY DEAR CHARLES,—Your most welcome letter has raised clouds of sulphur from my horizon. . . . I am glad you have gone back to your music. Life is a poor thing, I am more and more convinced, without an art, that always waits for us and is always new. Art and marriage are two very good stand-by’s. In an article which will appear sometime in the _Cornhill_, ‘Talk and Talkers,’ and where I have full-lengthened the conversation of Bob, Henley, Jenkin, Simpson, Symonds, and Gosse, I have at the end one single word about yourself. It may amuse you to see it. We are coming to Scotland after all, so we shall meet, which pleases me, and I do believe I am strong enough to stand it this time. My knee is still quite lame. My wife is better again. . . . But we take it by turns; it is the dog that is ill now.—Ever yours, R. L. S. TO W. E. HENLEY