Miss Mitford wrung a promise from me—that ‘if I were well enough and in England next summer, I would go to see her.’ So remember. Isn’t it a promise for two?
Only we shall be mule-riding in those days—unless I shall have tired you. Shall you be tired of me in one winter, I wonder? My programme is, to let you try me for one winter, and if you are tired (as I shall know without any confession on your side) why then I shall set the mule on a canter and leave you in La Cava, and go and live in Greece somewhere all alone, taking enough with me for bread and salt. Is it a jest, do you think? Indeed it is not. It is very grave earnest, be sure. I believe that I never could quarrel with you; but the same cause would absolutely hinder my living with you if you did not love me. We could not lead the abominable lives of ‘married people’ all round—you know we could not—I at least know that I could not, and just because I love you so entirely. Then, you know, you could come to England by yourself—and ... ‘Where’s Ba?’—‘Oh, she’s somewhere in the world, I suppose. How can I tell?’ And then Mrs. Jameson would shake her head, and observe that the problem was solved exactly as she expected, and that artistical natures smelt of sulphur and brimstone, without any exceptions.
Am I laughing? am I crying? who can tell. But I am not teazing, ... Robert! because, my Robert, if gravely I distrusted your affection, I could not use such light-sounding words on the whole—now could I? It is only the supposition of a possible future ... just possible ... (as the end of human affections passes for a possible thing)—which made me say what I would do in such a case.
But I am yours—your own: and it is impossible, in my belief, that I can ever fail to you so as to be less yours, on this side the grave or across it. So, I think of impossibilities—whatever I may, of possibilities!
Will it be possible to see you to morrow, I wonder! I ask myself and not you.
And if you love me only nearly as much (instead of the prodigal ‘more’) afterward, I shall be satisfied, and shall not run from you further than to the bottom of the page.
Where you see me as your own
Ba.
E.B.B. to R.B.
Friday Morning.
[Post-mark, July 3, 1846.]