Dearest, dearest Ba,—a ‘passing’ headache of ‘these few days,’ what can I say, or do? May God bless you, and care for all. Still the comfort continues, it is not that you have made an effort, and so grown worse.
I am pretty well,—I half determine to go out and see Carlyle to-night,—so to forget a hasty resolution against all company (‘other’ company I had written ... as if to honour it—Ba’s is one company, and those people’s!—‘another’!)—I think I will go.
I spoke about Mr. Kenyon,—because I never would in my life take a step for myself (if that could be), apart from your good, without being guided by you where possible—much more, therefore, in a matter directly concerning you rather than me, did I want your opinion as to the course most proper, in the event of &c. I do not think it likely he will speak, or I shall have to answer ... but if that did happen, and you were not at hand, my own dearest,—how I should be grieved if, answering wrongly, I gave you annoyance! Here I seem to understand your wish.
My Ba, my only, utterly dear love, may God reward you for your blessing to me—my whole heart turns to you—and in your own. I kiss you, dearest—this morning a very ordinary motivetto in the overture to ‘Rabuco’ seemed to tell you more than I ever shall—I sit and speak to you by that, now!
R.B.
No letters yet from ‘anybody’—the few received are laudatory however—I will send you one from the old sailor-friend I told you of—but, mark! you must not send it back, to show my eyes and grieve my heart, when the bulky letter proves to be only this—returned! Landor’s in due time, I suppose! This I send is to make you laugh.... My Ba’s dear laugh can hurt nobody, not even my friend here—who has praised her poems more to me, there’s my consolation,—Consuelo—
E.B.B. to R.B.
Friday.
[Post-mark, April 18, 1846.]
But, dearest of all, you never said a word about Monday. So I did not misunderstand—I only misguessed. Because you did not mention any day, I took it into my head that you might perhaps be invited for Monday, and make an effort, which would make a fatigue, and go there and come here. I am glad you went to Carlyle’s—and where is Tennyson, and the dinner at Forster’s all this while? And how did the Talfourds torment you so? was it that you were very unwell? I fear you were unwell. For me, I have recovered from my dreadful illness of the last day or two ... I knew I should survive it after all ... and to-day, just that I might tell you, I went down-stairs with Flush, he running before as when we walk together through the gate. I opened the drawing-room door; when instead of advancing he stopped short ... and I heard strange voices—and then he drew back and looked up in my face exactly as if to say, ‘No! This will not do for us!—we had better go home again.’ Surely enough, visitors were in the room ... and he and I returned upon our steps. But think of his sense! Flush beats us both in ‘common sense,’ dearest, we must acknowledge, let us praise each other for it ever so. Next to Flush we may be something, but Flush takes the pas, as when he runs down-stairs.