to Thomas Stevenson

Bonallie Towers, Branksome Park, Bournemouth
(The three B’s) [November 5, 1884].

MY DEAR FATHER,—Allow me to say, in a strictly Pickwickian sense, that you are a silly fellow.  I am pained indeed, but how should I be offended?  I think you exaggerate; I cannot forget that you had the same impression of the Deacon; and yet, when you saw it played, were less revolted than you looked for; and I will still hope that the Admiral also is not so bad as you suppose.  There is one point, however, where I differ from you very frankly.  Religion is in the world; I do not think you are the man to deny the importance of its rôle; and I have long decided not to leave it on one side in art.  The opposition of the Admiral and Mr. Pew is not, to my eyes, either horrible or irreverent; but it may be, and it probably is, very ill done: what then?  This is a failure; better luck next time; more power to the elbow, more discretion, more wisdom in the design, and the old defeat becomes the scene of the new victory.  Concern yourself about no failure; they do not cost lives, as in engineering; they are the pierres perdues of successes.  Fame is (truly) a vapour; do not think of it; if the writer means well and tries hard, no failure will injure him, whether with God or man.

I wish I could hear a brighter account of yourself; but I am inclined to acquit the Admiral of having a share in the responsibility.  My very heavy cold is, I hope, drawing off; and the change to this charming house in the forest will, I hope, complete my re-establishment.—With love to all, believe me, your ever affectionate,

Robert Louis Stevenson.