LETTER LXIII.
26th October.
I AM convinced, my dear friend, more and more convinced, that the
existence of any one being whatever is of little, very little
consequence. A friend of Charlotte's came just now to make her a
visit: I withdrew, and took up a book in the next room; but I
could not read, and therefore I write to you. I hear their
conver- {156} sation: they are only talking of the news of the
town; one is going to be married, another is ill, very ill. "She
has a dry cough, and frequent faintings; she cannot recover,"
says one. "N. is very ill too," says Charlotte. "He begins to
swell already," answers the other: And my imagination suddenly
carries me to their sick beds: I see them struggling against
approaching death, in all the agonies of pain and horror. I see
them -- And these good little women are talking of it with the
same indifference that one would mention the death of a stranger.
-- And when I look at the apartment in which I now am, when I see
Charlotte's apparel lying round me; here upon this little table
are her ear-rings, Albert's papers, all the things which are so
familiar to me, the very ink-stand which I now use; and that I
think what I am to this family -- every thing -- my friends
esteem me, are made happy by me, and my heart cannot conceive
that any thing could exist without them; and {157} yet if I was
to go now, if I was to quit this circle, would they feel, how
long would they feel that void in their life, which the loss of
me would leave? How long -- yes, such is the frailty of man, that
there where he most feels his own existence, where his presence
makes a real and a strong impression, even in the memory of those
who are dear to him; there also he must perish and vanish away,
and that so quickly!
