Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson Vol 2 | Page 9

the student
friend, and the uncircumscribed, protaplasmic humanity of
Raskolnikoff, all upon a level that filled me with wonder: the execution
also, superb in places. Another has been translated - HUMILIES ET
OFFENSES. It is even more incoherent than LE CRIME ET LE
CHATIMENT, but breathes much of the same lovely goodness, and
has passages of power. Dostoieffsky is a devil of a swell, to be sure.

Have you heard that he became a stout, imperialist conservative? It is
interesting to know. To something of that side, the balance leans with
me also in view of the incoherency and incapacity of all. The old
boyish idea of the march on Paradise being now out of season, and all
plans and ideas that I hear debated being built on a superb indifference
to the first principles of human character, a helpless desire to acquiesce
in anything of which I know the worst assails me. Fundamental errors
in human nature of two sorts stand on the skyline of all this modem
world of aspirations. First, that it is happiness that men want; and
second, that happiness consists of anything but an internal harmony.
Men do not want, and I do not think they would accept, happiness;
what they live for is rivalry, effort, success - the elements our friends
wish to eliminate. And, on the other hand, happiness is a question of
morality - or of immorality, there is no difference - and conviction.
Gordon was happy in Khartoum, in his worst hours of danger and
fatigue; Marat was happy, I suppose, in his ugliest frenzy; Marcus
Aurelius was happy in the detested camp; Pepys was pretty happy, and
I am pretty happy on the whole, because we both somewhat crowingly
accepted a VIA MEDIA, both liked to attend to our affairs, and both
had some success in managing the same. It is quite an open question
whether Pepys and I ought to be happy; on the other hand, there is no
doubt that Marat had better be unhappy. He was right (if he said it) that
he was LA MISERE HUMAINE, cureless misery - unless perhaps by
the gallows. Death is a great and gentle solvent; it has never had justice
done it, no, not by Whitman. As for those crockery chimney-piece
ornaments, the bourgeois (QUORUM PARS), and their cowardly
dislike of dying and killing, it is merely one symptom of a thousand
how utterly they have got out of touch of life. Their dislike of capital
punishment and their treatment of their domestic servants are for me
the two flaunting emblems of their hollowness.
God knows where I am driving to. But here comes my lunch.
Which interruption, happily for you, seems to have stayed the issue. I
have now nothing to say, that had formerly such a pressure of twaddle.
Pray don't fail to come this summer. It will be a great disappointment,
now it has been spoken of, if you do. - Yours ever,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Letter: TO W. H. LOW

[SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, MARCH 1886.]
MY DEAR LOW, - This is the most enchanting picture. Now
understand my state: I am really an invalid, but of a mysterious order. I
might be a MALADE IMAGINAIRE, but for one too tangible
symptom, my tendency to bleed from the lungs. If we could go, (1ST)
We must have money enough to travel with LEISURE AND
COMFORT - especially the first. (2ND) You must be prepared for a
comrade who would go to bed some part of every day and often stay
silent (3RD) You would have to play the part of a thoughtful courier,
sparing me fatigue, looking out that my bed was warmed, etc. (4TH) If
you are very nervous, you must recollect a bad haemorrhage is always
on the cards, with its concomitants of anxiety and horror for those who
are beside me.
Do you blench? If so, let us say no more about it.
If you are still unafraid, and the money were forthcoming, I believe the
trip might do me good, and I feel sure that, working together, we might
produce a fine book. The Rhone is the river of Angels. I adore it: have
adored it since I was twelve, and first saw it from the train.
Lastly, it would depend on how I keep from now on. I have stood the
winter hitherto with some credit, but the dreadful weather still
continues, and I cannot holloa till I am through the wood.
Subject to these numerous and gloomy provisos, I embrace the prospect
with glorious feelings.
I write this from bed, snow pouring without, and no circumstance of
pleasure except your letter. That, however, counts for much. I am glad

you liked the doggerel: I have already had a liberal cheque, over which
I