to Charles Baxter

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 a 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,

R. L. Stevenson.