For Flush, I did your commission, kissing the top of his head: then I took the kiss back again because it seemed too good for him just now. And you shall not say that you ‘are glad he is with me if you are not’? It is more to Flush’s disadvantage, that phrase is than all your theories which pretended to leave him with the dogstealers. How can I be glad of anyone’s being with me if you are not? And how should you be glad for anything, if I am not? Flush and I know our logic better than to accept that congratulation of yours, with the spike pricking us out of it.
So hot, indeed, to-day! If you thought of me, I thought of you, through it all. This close air cannot be good for you while you are shut up. But I have not been shut up. I went out in the carriage and bought a pair of boots for Italy, besides the shoes—because, you see, we shall have such long walks in the forest after the camels, and it won’t do to go in one’s slippers. Does not that sound like ‘a grave woman?’ You need not make laws against the jesters, after all! You need only be well! And, gravely, quite gravely, is it not likely that going to Italy, that travelling, and putting an end to all the annoyances which lately have grown up out of our affairs, will do you good, substantial good, in this chief matter of your health? It seems so to me sometimes. You are always well, you say, in Italy, and when you get there once again. But in the meanwhile, try to be a little better, my own dearest! I cannot write to you except about you to-night. The subject is too near me—I am under the shadow of the wall, and cannot see over it. To-morrow I shall hear more, and trust to you to tell me the whole, unmutilated truth. May God bless you, as I would, I in my weakness! For the best blessing on your part, love your own
Ba.
And do not tire yourself with writing. The least line—three words—I beseech you not to let me do you harm.
R.B. to E.B.B.
Tuesday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 8, 1846.]
Do you think your wishes, much less your blessings, fall to the ground, my own Ba? Here is your letter, and here am I writing to you, ‘clothed and in my proper’ room My doctor bade me ‘get up and do as I pleased’—and the perfect pleasure is to say, I may indeed see you to-morrow, dearest, dearest! Can you look as you look in this letter? So entirely my own, and yet,—what should never be my own, by right ... such a treasure to one so little worthy!
I have only a few minutes to say this,—the dressing and talking having taken up the time. To-morrow shall repay me!
The lightness, slight uneasiness of the head, continues, though the general health is much better, it seems.
Do you doubt I shall be well in Italy? But I must leave off. Bless you as you have blessed me, my best, dearest Ba, me who am your very own R.