Now, Ba, my own Ba, you know how often I have to sorrowfully disclaim all the praises your dearest kindness would attach to me; this time, if you will praise me a little for obeying you, I will take the praise—for the truth of truths is, that I said at once to myself—‘have I a right to avoid anything which promises to relieve Her from this eternal account of aches and pains?’ So here am I writing, leaning on my elbow, in bed,—as I never wrote before I think—and perhaps my head is a little better, or I fancy so. Mind, I may read, or write,—only in bed I must lie, because there is some temperature to be kept up in the skin, or some other cause as good—‘for reasons, for reasons.’
‘The milk,’ answers Ba, is exactly to correct the superabundant gall of bitterness which overflowed lately about Flush. So it is, my own Ba—and for Flush, the victim of a principle, he is just saved from a sickness by cakes I meditated as a joy-offering on his safe return. Will you, among the other kisses, give him one for me? And save yet another for your own R.
How I shall need your letters, dearest!
E.B.B. to R.B.
Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 7, 1846.]
Ever, ever dearest, how was it that without presentiment of evil I got up this morning in the good spirits of ‘our days,’ hoping to see you, believing to see you, and feeling that it would be greater happiness than usual? The sight of your letter, even, did not provoke the cloud—that was only the lesser joy, I thought, preceding the greater! And smiling to myself I was, both last night and this morning, at your phrase about the ‘business’ to be talked by the ‘grave man and woman’; understanding your precaution against all unlawful jesting!—jesters forbidden in the protocol! And then, at last, to be made so suddenly grave and sad even! How am I to be comforted, my own dearest? No way, except by your being really better, really well—in order to which I shall not let you come as soon as Wednesday: it will not be wise for you to leave your bed for a journey into London! Rather you should be very quiet, and keep in the garden at farthest. Take care of yourself, dearest dearest, and if you think of me and love me, show it in that best way. And I praise you, praise you,—nay, I thank you and am grateful to you for every such proof of love, more than for other kinds of proof,—I will love you for it, my beloved! Now judge—shall I be able to help thinking of you every moment of the day? Could I help it, if I tried? In return, therefore, you will attend to the orders, submit to the discipline—ah but, will not the leaving off all food but milk weaken you out of measure? I am uneasy about that milk-diet for you, who always seem to me to want support, and something to stimulate. You will promise to tell me everything—will you, dearest?—whether better or worse, stronger or weaker, you will tell me? And if you should be too unwell to write, as may God forbid, your sister will write—she will have that great goodness? Let it be so, I beseech you.
But you will be better—oh, I mean to hope stedfastly toward your being better, and toward the possibility of our meeting before the week ends. And as for this day lost, it is not of importance except in our present thoughts: soon you will have more than enough of me, you know. For I am in earnest and not a jester au fond, and am ready to do just as you bid me and think best—which I tell you now, that you may not be vexed at a shadow, after my own fashion. May God bless you—‘and me in you.’ Have I not leave to say that, too, since I feel it more than you could ... (more intensely ... I do not say more sincerely ...) when you used it first? My happiness and life are in you,—I am your very own
Ba.
Your mother—how is she? Mind you get an amusing book ... something to amuse only, and not use you. Do you know the ‘Mathilde’ of Sue? I shall write again to-night.