Section 1 of The Sorrows of Young Werther.
The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang
von Goethe.
Section 1. PREFACE
I have carefully collected whatever I have
been able to learn of the story of poor Werther,
and here present it to you, knowing that you
will thank me for it. To his spirit and character
you cannot refuse your admiration and love:
to his fate you will not deny your tears.
And thou, good soul, who sufferest the same
distress as he endured once, draw comfort
from his sorrows; and let this little book
be thy friend, if, owing to fortune or through
thine own fault, thou canst not find a dearer
companion.
BOOK I
MAY 4.
How happy I am that I am gone! My dear friend,
what a thing is the heart of man! To leave
you, from whom I have been inseparable, whom
I love so dearly, and yet to feel happy! I
know you will forgive me. Have not other attachments
been specially appointed by fate to torment
a head like mine? Poor Leonora! and yet I
was not to blame. Was it my fault, that, whilst
the peculiar charms of her sister afforded
me an agreeable entertainment, a passion for
me was engendered in her feeble heart? And
yet am I wholly blameless? Did I not encourage
her emotions? Did I not feel charmed at those
truly genuine expressions of nature, which,
though but little mirthful in reality, so
often amused us? Did I not—but oh! what
is man, that he dares so to accuse himself?
My dear friend I promise you I will improve;
I will no longer, as has ever been my habit,
continue to ruminate on every petty vexation
which fortune may dispense; I will enjoy the
present, and the past shall be for me the
past. No doubt you are right, my best of friends,
there would be far less suffering amongst
mankind, if men—and God knows why they are
so fashioned—did not employ their imaginations
so assiduously in recalling the memory of
past sorrow, instead of bearing their present
lot with equanimity. Be kind enough to inform
my mother that I shall attend to her business
to the best of my ability, and shall give
her the earliest information about it. I have
seen my aunt, and find that she is very far
from being the disagreeable person our friends
allege her to be. She is a lively, cheerful
woman, with the best of hearts. I explained
to her my mother's wrongs with regard to that
part of her portion which has been withheld
from her. She told me the motives and reasons
of her own conduct, and the terms on which
she is willing to give up the whole, and to
do more than we have asked. In short, I cannot
write further upon this subject at present;
only assure my mother that all will go on
well. And I have again observed, my dear friend,
in this trifling affair, that misunderstandings
and neglect occasion more mischief in the
world than even malice and wickedness. At
all events, the two latter are of less frequent
occurrence.
In other respects I am very well off here.
Solitude in this terrestrial paradise is a
genial balm to my mind, and the young spring
cheers with its bounteous promises my oftentimes
misgiving heart. Every tree, every bush, is
full of flowers; and one might wish himself
transformed into a butterfly, to float about
in this ocean of perfume, and find his whole
existence in it.
The town itself is disagreeable; but then,
all around, you find an inexpressible beauty
of nature. This induced the late Count M to
lay out a garden on one of the sloping hills
which here intersect each other with the most
charming variety, and form the most lovely
valleys. The garden is simple; and it is easy
to perceive, even upon your first entrance,
that the plan was not designed by a scientific
gardener, but by a man who wished to give
himself up here to the enjoyment of his own
sensitive heart. Many a tear have I already
shed to the memory of its departed master
in a summer-house which is now reduced to
ruins, but was his favourite resort, and now
is mine. I shall soon be master of the place.
The gardener has become attached to me within
the last few days, and he will lose nothing
thereby.
MAY 10.
A wonderful serenity has taken possession
of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings
of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart.
I am alone, and feel the charm of existence
in this spot, which was created for the bliss
of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear
friend, so absorbed in the exquisite sense
of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect
my talents. I should be incapable of drawing
a single stroke at the present moment; and
yet I feel that I never was a greater artist
than now. When, while the lovely valley teems
with vapour around me, and the meridian sun
strikes the upper surface of the impenetrable
foliage of my trees, and but a few stray gleams
steal into the inner sanctuary, I throw myself
down among the tall grass by the trickling
stream; and, as I lie close to the earth,
a thousand unknown plants are noticed by me:
when I hear the buzz of the little world among
the stalks, and grow familiar with the countless
indescribable forms of the insects and flies,
then I feel the presence of the Almighty,
who formed us in his own image, and the breath
of that universal love which bears and sustains
us, as it floats around us in an eternity
of bliss; and then, my friend, when darkness
overspreads my eyes, and heaven and earth
seem to dwell in my soul and absorb its power,
like the form of a beloved mistress, then
I often think with longing, Oh, would I could
describe these conceptions, could impress
upon paper all that is living so full and
warm within me, that it might be the mirror
of my soul, as my soul is the mirror of the
infinite God! O my friend—but it is too
much for my strength—I sink under the weight
of the splendour of these visions!
MAY 12.
I know not whether some deceitful spirits
haunt this spot, or whether it be the warm,
celestial fancy in my own heart which makes
everything around me seem like paradise. In
front of the house is a fountain,—a fountain
to which I am bound by a charm like Melusina
and her sisters. Descending a gentle slope,
you come to an arch, where, some twenty steps
lower down, water of the clearest crystal
gushes from the marble rock. The narrow wall
which encloses it above, the tall trees which
encircle the spot, and the coolness of the
place itself,—everything imparts a pleasant
but sublime impression. Not a day passes on
which I do not spend an hour there. The young
maidens come from the town to fetch water,—innocent
and necessary employment, and formerly the
occupation of the daughters of kings. As I
take my rest there, the idea of the old patriarchal
life is awakened around me. I see them, our
old ancestors, how they formed their friendships
and contracted alliances at the fountain-side;
and I feel how fountains and streams were
guarded by beneficent spirits. He who is a
stranger to these sensations has never really
enjoyed cool repose at the side of a fountain
after the fatigue of a weary summer day.
MAY 13.
You ask if you shall send me books. My dear
friend, I beseech you, for the love of God,
relieve me from such a yoke! I need no more
to be guided, agitated, heated. My heart ferments
sufficiently of itself. I want strains to
lull me, and I find them to perfection in
my Homer. Often do I strive to allay the burning
fever of my blood; and you have never witnessed
anything so unsteady, so uncertain, as my
heart. But need I confess this to you, my
dear friend, who have so often endured the
anguish of witnessing my sudden transitions
from sorrow to immoderate joy, and from sweet
melancholy to violent passions? I treat my
poor heart like a sick child, and gratify
its every fancy. Do not mention this again:
there are people who would censure me for
it.
MAY 15.
The common people of the place know me already,
and love me, particularly the children. When
at first I associated with them, and inquired
in a friendly tone about their various trifles,
some fancied that I wished to ridicule them,
and turned from me in exceeding ill-humour.
I did not allow that circumstance to grieve
me: I only felt most keenly what I have often
before observed. Persons who can claim a certain
rank keep themselves coldly aloof from the
common people, as though they feared to lose
their importance by the contact; whilst wanton
idlers, and such as are prone to bad joking,
affect to descend to their level, only to
make the poor people feel their impertinence
all the more keenly.
I know very well that we are not all equal,
nor can be so; but it is my opinion that he
who avoids the common people, in order not
to lose their respect, is as much to blame
as a coward who hides himself from his enemy
because he fears defeat.
The other day I went to the fountain, and
found a young servant-girl, who had set her
pitcher on the lowest step, and looked around
to see if one of her companions was approaching
to place it on her head. I ran down, and looked
at her. "Shall I help you, pretty lass?" said
I. She blushed deeply. "Oh, sir!" she exclaimed.
"No ceremony!" I replied. She adjusted her
head-gear, and I helped her. She thanked me,
and ascended the steps.
MAY 17.
I have made all sorts of acquaintances, but
have as yet found no society. I know not what
attraction I possess for the people, so many
of them like me, and attach themselves to
me; and then I feel sorry when the road we
pursue together goes only a short distance.
If you inquire what the people are like here,
I must answer, "The same as everywhere." The
human race is but a monotonous affair. Most
of them labour the greater part of their time
for mere subsistence; and the scanty portion
of freedom which remains to them so troubles
them that they use every exertion to get rid
of it. Oh, the destiny of man!
But they are a right good sort of people.
If I occasionally forget myself, and take
part in the innocent pleasures which are not
yet forbidden to the peasantry, and enjoy
myself, for instance, with genuine freedom
and sincerity, round a well-covered table,
or arrange an excursion or a dance opportunely,
and so forth, all this produces a good effect
upon my disposition; only I must forget that
there lie dormant within me so many other
qualities which moulder uselessly, and which
I am obliged to keep carefully concealed.
Ah! this thought affects my spirits fearfully.
And yet to be misunderstood is the fate of
the like of us.
Alas, that the friend of my youth is gone!
Alas, that I ever knew her! I might say to
myself, "You are a dreamer to seek what is
not to be found here below." But she has been
mine. I have possessed that heart, that noble
soul, in whose presence I seemed to be more
than I really was, because I was all that
I could be. Good heavens! did then a single
power of my soul remain unexercised? In her
presence could I not display, to its full
extent, that mysterious feeling with which
my heart embraces nature? Was not our intercourse
a perpetual web of the finest emotions, of
the keenest wit, the varieties of which, even
in their very eccentricity, bore the stamp
of genius? Alas! the few years by which she
was my senior brought her to the grave before
me. Never can I forget her firm mind or her
heavenly patience.
A few days ago I met a certain young V—,
a frank, open fellow, with a most pleasing
countenance. He has just left the university,
does not deem himself overwise, but believes
he knows more than other people. He has worked
hard, as I can perceive from many circumstances,
and, in short, possesses a large stock of
information. When he heard that I am drawing
a good deal, and that I know Greek (two wonderful
things for this part of the country), he came
to see me, and displayed his whole store of
learning, from Batteaux to Wood, from De Piles
to Winkelmann: he assured me he had read through
the first part of Sultzer's theory, and also
possessed a manuscript of Heyne's work on
the study of the antique. I allowed it all
to pass.
I have become acquainted, also, with a very
worthy person, the district judge, a frank
and open-hearted man. I am told it is a most
delightful thing to see him in the midst of
his children, of whom he has nine. His eldest
daughter especially is highly spoken of. He
has invited me to go and see him, and I intend
to do so on the first opportunity. He lives
at one of the royal hunting-lodges, which
can be reached from here in an hour and a
half by walking, and which he obtained leave
to inhabit after the loss of his wife, as
it is so painful to him to reside in town
and at the court.
There have also come in my way a few other
originals of a questionable sort, who are
in all respects undesirable, and most intolerable
in their demonstration of friendship. Good-bye.
This letter will please you: it is quite historical.
MAY 22.
That the life of man is but a dream, many
a man has surmised heretofore; and I, too,
am everywhere pursued by this feeling. When
I consider the narrow limits within which
our active and inquiring faculties are confined;
when I see how all our energies are wasted
in providing for mere necessities, which again
have no further end than to prolong a wretched
existence; and then that all our satisfaction
concerning certain subjects of investigation
ends in nothing better than a passive resignation,
whilst we amuse ourselves painting our prison-walls
with bright figures and brilliant landscapes,—when
I consider all this, Wilhelm, I am silent.
I examine my own being, and find there a world,
but a world rather of imagination and dim
desires, than of distinctness and living power.
Then everything swims before my senses, and
I smile and dream while pursuing my way through
the world.
All learned professors and doctors are agreed
that children do not comprehend the cause
of their desires; but that the grown-up should
wander about this earth like children, without
knowing whence they come, or whither they
go, influenced as little by fixed motives,
but guided like them by biscuits, sugar-plums,
and the rod,—this is what nobody is willing
to acknowledge; and yet I think it is palpable.
I know what you will say in reply; for I am
ready to admit that they are happiest, who,
like children, amuse themselves with their
playthings, dress and undress their dolls,
and attentively watch the cupboard, where
mamma has locked up her sweet things, and,
when at last they get a delicious morsel,
eat it greedily, and exclaim, "More!" These
are certainly happy beings; but others also
are objects of envy, who dignify their paltry
employments, and sometimes even their passions,
with pompous titles, representing them to
mankind as gigantic achievements performed
for their welfare and glory. But the man who
humbly acknowledges the vanity of all this,
who observes with what pleasure the thriving
citizen converts his little garden into a
paradise, and how patiently even the poor
man pursues his weary way under his burden,
and how all wish equally to behold the light
of the sun a little longer,—yes, such a
man is at peace, and creates his own world
within himself; and he is also happy, because
he is a man. And then, however limited his
sphere, he still preserves in his bosom the
sweet feeling of liberty, and knows that he
can quit his prison whenever he likes.
MAY 26.
You know of old my ways of settling anywhere,
of selecting a little cottage in some cosy
spot, and of putting up in it with every inconvenience.
Here, too, I have discovered such a snug,
comfortable place, which possesses peculiar
charms for me.
About a league from the town is a place called
Walheim. (The reader need not take the trouble
to look for the place thus designated. We
have found it necessary to change the names
given in the original.) It is delightfully
situated on the side of a hill; and, by proceeding
along one of the footpaths which lead out
of the village, you can have a view of the
whole valley. A good old woman lives there,
who keeps a small inn. She sells wine, beer,
and coffee, and is cheerful and pleasant notwithstanding
her age. The chief charm of this spot consists
in two linden-trees, spreading their enormous
branches over the little green before the
church, which is entirely surrounded by peasants'
cottages, barns, and homesteads. I have seldom
seen a place so retired and peaceable; and
there often have my table and chair brought
out from the little inn, and drink my coffee
there, and read my Homer. Accident brought
me to the spot one fine afternoon, and I found
it perfectly deserted. Everybody was in the
fields except a little boy about four years
of age, who was sitting on the ground, and
held between his knees a child about six months
old: he pressed it to his bosom with both
arms, which thus formed a sort of arm-chair;
and, notwithstanding the liveliness which
sparkled in its black eyes, it remained perfectly
still. The sight charmed me. I sat down upon
a plough opposite, and sketched with great
delight this little picture of brotherly tenderness.
I added the neighbouring hedge, the barn-door,
and some broken cart-wheels, just as they
happened to lie; and I found in about an hour
that I had made a very correct and interesting
drawing, without putting in the slightest
thing of my own. This confirmed me in my resolution
of adhering, for the future, entirely to nature.
She alone is inexhaustible, and capable of
forming the greatest masters. Much may be
alleged in favour of rules, as much may be
likewise advanced in favour of the laws of
society: an artist formed upon them will never
produce anything absolutely bad or disgusting;
as a man who observes the laws, and obeys
decorum, can never be an absolutely intolerable
neighbour, nor a decided villain: but yet,
say what you will of rules, they destroy the
genuine feeling of nature, as well as its
true expression. Do not tell me "that this
is too hard, that they only restrain and prune
superfluous branches, etc." My good friend,
I will illustrate this by an analogy. These
things resemble love. A warmhearted youth
becomes strongly attached to a maiden: he
spends every hour of the day in her company,
wears out his health, and lavishes his fortune,
to afford continual proof that he is wholly
devoted to her. Then comes a man of the world,
a man of place and respectability, and addresses
him thus: "My good young friend, love is natural;
but you must love within bounds. Divide your
time: devote a portion to business, and give
the hours of recreation to your mistress.
Calculate your fortune; and out of the superfluity
you may make her a present, only not too often,—on
her birthday, and such occasions." Pursuing
this advice, he may become a useful member
of society, and I should advise every prince
to give him an appointment; but it is all
up with his love, and with his genius if he
be an artist. O my friend! why is it that
the torrent of genius so seldom bursts forth,
so seldom rolls in full-flowing stream, overwhelming
your astounded soul? Because, on either side
of this stream, cold and respectable persons
have taken up their abodes, and, forsooth,
their summer-houses and tulip-beds would suffer
from the torrent; wherefore they dig trenches,
and raise embankments betimes, in order to
avert the impending danger.
MAY 27.
I find I have fallen into raptures, declamation,
and similes, and have forgotten, in consequence,
to tell you what became of the children. Absorbed
in my artistic contemplations, which I briefly
described in my letter of yesterday, I continued
sitting on the plough for two hours. Toward
evening a young woman, with a basket on her
arm, came running toward the children, who
had not moved all that time. She exclaimed
from a distance, "You are a good boy, Philip!"
She gave me greeting: I returned it, rose,
and approached her. I inquired if she were
the mother of those pretty children. "Yes,"
she said; and, giving the eldest a piece of
bread, she took the little one in her arms
and kissed it with a mother's tenderness.
"I left my child in Philip's care," she said,
"whilst I went into the town with my eldest
boy to buy some wheaten bread, some sugar,
and an earthen pot." I saw the various articles
in the basket, from which the cover had fallen.
"I shall make some broth to-night for my little
Hans (which was the name of the youngest):
that wild fellow, the big one, broke my pot
yesterday, whilst he was scrambling with Philip
for what remained of the contents." I inquired
for the eldest; and she had scarcely time
to tell me that he was driving a couple of
geese home from the meadow, when he ran up,
and handed Philip an osier-twig. I talked
a little longer with the woman, and found
that she was the daughter of the schoolmaster,
and that her husband was gone on a journey
into Switzerland for some money a relation
had left him. "They wanted to cheat him,"
she said, "and would not answer his letters;
so he is gone there himself. I hope he has
met with no accident, as I have heard nothing
of him since his departure." I left the woman,
with regret, giving each of the children a
kreutzer, with an additional one for the youngest,
to buy some wheaten bread for his broth when
she went to town next; and so we parted. I
assure you, my dear friend, when my thoughts
are all in tumult, the sight of such a creature
as this tranquillises my disturbed mind. She
moves in a happy thoughtlessness within the
confined circle of her existence; she supplies
her wants from day to day; and, when she sees
the leaves fall, they raise no other idea
in her mind than that winter is approaching.
Since that time I have gone out there frequently.
The children have become quite familiar with
me; and each gets a lump of sugar when I drink
my coffee, and they share my milk and bread
and butter in the evening. They always receive
their kreutzer on Sundays, for the good woman
has orders to give it to them when I do not
go there after evening service. They are quite
at home with me, tell me everything; and I
am particularly amused with observing their
tempers, and the simplicity of their behaviour,
when some of the other village children are
assembled with them.
It has given me a deal of trouble to satisfy
the anxiety of the mother, lest (as she says)
"they should inconvenience the gentleman."
MAY 30.
What I have lately said of painting is equally
true with respect to poetry. It is only necessary
for us to know what is really excellent, and
venture to give it expression; and that is
saying much in few words. To-day I have had
a scene, which, if literally related, would,
make the most beautiful idyl in the world.
But why should I talk of poetry and scenes
and idyls? Can we never take pleasure in nature
without having recourse to art?
If you expect anything grand or magnificent
from this introduction, you will be sadly
mistaken. It relates merely to a peasant-lad,
who has excited in me the warmest interest.
As usual, I shall tell my story badly; and
you, as usual, will think me extravagant.
It is Walheim once more—always Walheim—which
produces these wonderful phenomena.
A party had assembled outside the house under
the linden-trees, to drink coffee. The company
did not exactly please me; and, under one
pretext or another, I lingered behind.
A peasant came from an adjoining house, and
set to work arranging some part of the same
plough which I had lately sketched. His appearance
pleased me; and I spoke to him, inquired about
his circumstances, made his acquaintance,
and, as is my wont with persons of that class,
was soon admitted into his confidence. He
said he was in the service of a young widow,
who set great store by him. He spoke so much
of his mistress, and praised her so extravagantly,
that I could soon see he was desperately in
love with her. "She is no longer young," he
said: "and she was treated so badly by her
former husband that she does not mean to marry
again." From his account it was so evident
what incomparable charms she possessed for
him, and how ardently he wished she would
select him to extinguish the recollection
of her first husband's misconduct, that I
should have to repeat his own words in order
to describe the depth of the poor fellow's
attachment, truth, and devotion. It would,
in fact, require the gifts of a great poet
to convey the expression of his features,
the harmony of his voice, and the heavenly
fire of his eye. No words can portray the
tenderness of his every movement and of every
feature: no effort of mine could do justice
to the scene. His alarm lest I should misconceive
his position with regard to his mistress,
or question the propriety of her conduct,
touched me particularly. The charming manner
with which he described her form and person,
which, without possessing the graces of youth,
won and attached him to her, is inexpressible,
and must be left to the imagination. I have
never in my life witnessed or fancied or conceived
the possibility of such intense devotion,
such ardent affections, united with so much
purity. Do not blame me if I say that the
recollection of this innocence and truth is
deeply impressed upon my very soul; that this
picture of fidelity and tenderness haunts
me everywhere; and that my own heart, as though
enkindled by the flame, glows and burns within
me.
I mean now to try and see her as soon as I
can: or perhaps, on second thoughts, I had
better not; it is better I should behold her
through the eyes of her lover. To my sight,
perhaps, she would not appear as she now stands
before me; and why should I destroy so sweet
a picture?
JUNE 16.
"Why do I not write to you?" You lay claim
to learning, and ask such a question. You
should have guessed that I am well—that
is to say—in a word, I have made an acquaintance
who has won my heart: I have—I know not.
To give you a regular account of the manner
in which I have become acquainted with the
most amiable of women would be a difficult
task. I am a happy and contented mortal, but
a poor historian.
An angel! Nonsense! Everybody so describes
his mistress; and yet I find it impossible
to tell you how perfect she is, or why she
is so perfect: suffice it to say she has captivated
all my senses.
So much simplicity with so much understanding—so
mild, and yet so resolute—a mind so placid,
and a life so active.
But all this is ugly balderdash, which expresses
not a single character nor feature. Some other
time—but no, not some other time, now, this
very instant, will I tell you all about it.
Now or never. Well, between ourselves, since
I commenced my letter, I have been three times
on the point of throwing down my pen, of ordering
my horse, and riding out. And yet I vowed
this morning that I would not ride to-day,
and yet every moment I am rushing to the window
to see how high the sun is.
I could not restrain myself—go to her I
must. I have just returned, Wilhelm; and whilst
I am taking supper I will write to you. What
a delight it was for my soul to see her in
the midst of her dear, beautiful children,—eight
brothers and sisters!
But, if I proceed thus, you will be no wiser
at the end of my letter than you were at the
beginning. Attend, then, and I will compel
myself to give you the details.
I mentioned to you the other day that I had
become acquainted with S—, the district
judge, and that he had invited me to go and
visit him in his retirement, or rather in
his little kingdom. But I neglected going,
and perhaps should never have gone, if chance
had not discovered to me the treasure which
lay concealed in that retired spot. Some of
our young people had proposed giving a ball
in the country, at which I consented to be
present. I offered my hand for the evening
to a pretty and agreeable, but rather commonplace,
sort of girl from the immediate neighbourhood;
and it was agreed that I should engage a carriage,
and call upon Charlotte, with my partner and
her aunt, to convey them to the ball. My companion
informed me, as we drove along through the
park to the hunting-lodge, that I should make
the acquaintance of a very charming young
lady. "Take care," added the aunt, "that you
do not lose your heart." "Why?" said I. "Because
she is already engaged to a very worthy man,"
she replied, "who is gone to settle his affairs
upon the death of his father, and will succeed
to a very considerable inheritance." This
information possessed no interest for me.
When we arrived at the gate, the sun was setting
behind the tops of the mountains. The atmosphere
was heavy; and the ladies expressed their
fears of an approaching storm, as masses of
low black clouds were gathering in the horizon.
I relieved their anxieties by pretending to
be weather-wise, although I myself had some
apprehensions lest our pleasure should be
interrupted.
I alighted; and a maid came to the door, and
requested us to wait a moment for her mistress.
I walked across the court to a well-built
house, and, ascending the flight of steps
in front, opened the door, and saw before
me the most charming spectacle I had ever
witnessed. Six children, from eleven to two
years old, were running about the hall, and
surrounding a lady of middle height, with
a lovely figure, dressed in a robe of simple
white, trimmed with pink ribbons. She was
holding a rye loaf in her hand, and was cutting
slices for the little ones all around, in
proportion to their age and appetite. She
performed her task in a graceful and affectionate
manner; each claimant awaiting his turn with
outstretched hands, and boisterously shouting
his thanks. Some of them ran away at once,
to enjoy their evening meal; whilst others,
of a gentler disposition, retired to the courtyard
to see the strangers, and to survey the carriage
in which their Charlotte was to drive away.
"Pray forgive me for giving you the trouble
to come for me, and for keeping the ladies
waiting: but dressing, and arranging some
household duties before I leave, had made
me forget my children's supper; and they do
not like to take it from any one but me."
I uttered some indifferent compliment: but
my whole soul was absorbed by her air, her
voice, her manner; and I had scarcely recovered
myself when she ran into her room to fetch
her gloves and fan. The young ones threw inquiring
glances at me from a distance; whilst I approached
the youngest, a most delicious little creature.
He drew back; and Charlotte, entering at the
very moment, said, "Louis, shake hands with
your cousin." The little fellow obeyed willingly;
and I could not resist giving him a hearty
kiss, notwithstanding his rather dirty face.
"Cousin," said I to Charlotte, as I handed
her down, "do you think I deserve the happiness
of being related to you?" She replied, with
a ready smile, "Oh! I have such a number of
cousins, that I should be sorry if you were
the most undeserving of them." In taking leave,
she desired her next sister, Sophy, a girl
about eleven years old, to take great care
of the children, and to say good-bye to papa
for her when he came home from his ride. She
enjoined to the little ones to obey their
sister Sophy as they would herself, upon which
some promised that they would; but a little
fair-haired girl, about six years old, looked
discontented, and said, "But Sophy is not
you, Charlotte; and we like you best." The
two eldest boys had clambered up the carriage;
and, at my request, she permitted them to
accompany us a little way through the forest,
upon their promising to sit very still, and
hold fast.
We were hardly seated, and the ladies had
scarcely exchanged compliments, making the
usual remarks upon each other's dress, and
upon the company they expected to meet, when
Charlotte stopped the carriage, and made her
brothers get down. They insisted upon kissing
her hands once more; which the eldest did
with all the tenderness of a youth of fifteen,
but the other in a lighter and more careless
manner. She desired them again to give her
love to the children, and we drove off.
The aunt inquired of Charlotte whether she
had finished the book she had last sent her.
"No," said Charlotte; "I did not like it:
you can have it again. And the one before
was not much better." I was surprised, upon
asking the title, to hear that it was ____.
(We feel obliged to suppress the passage in
the letter, to prevent any one from feeling
aggrieved; although no author need pay much
attention to the opinion of a mere girl, or
that of an unsteady young man.)
I found penetration and character in everything
she said: every expression seemed to brighten
her features with new charms,—with new rays
of genius,—which unfolded by degrees, as
she felt herself understood.
"When I was younger," she observed, "I loved
nothing so much as romances. Nothing could
equal my delight when, on some holiday, I
could settle down quietly in a corner, and
enter with my whole heart and soul into the
joys or sorrows of some fictitious Leonora.
I do not deny that they even possess some
charms for me yet. But I read so seldom, that
I prefer books suited exactly to my taste.
And I like those authors best whose scenes
describe my own situation in life,—and the
friends who are about me, whose stories touch
me with interest, from resembling my own homely
existence,—which, without being absolutely
paradise, is, on the whole, a source of indescribable
happiness."
I endeavoured to conceal the emotion which
these words occasioned, but it was of slight
avail; for, when she had expressed so truly
her opinion of "The Vicar of Wakefield," and
of other works, the names of which I omit
(Though the names are omitted, yet the authors
mentioned deserve Charlotte's approbation,
and will feel it in their hearts when they
read this passage. It concerns no other person.),
I could no longer contain myself, but gave
full utterance to what I thought of it: and
it was not until Charlotte had addressed herself
to the two other ladies, that I remembered
their presence, and observed them sitting
mute with astonishment. The aunt looked at
me several times with an air of raillery,
which, however, I did not at all mind.
We talked of the pleasures of dancing. "If
it is a fault to love it," said Charlotte,
"I am ready to confess that I prize it above
all other amusements. If anything disturbs
me, I go to the piano, play an air to which
I have danced, and all goes right again directly."
You, who know me, can fancy how steadfastly
I gazed upon her rich dark eyes during these
remarks, how my very soul gloated over her
warm lips and fresh, glowing cheeks, how I
became quite lost in the delightful meaning
of her words, so much so, that I scarcely
heard the actual expressions. In short, I
alighted from the carriage like a person in
a dream, and was so lost to the dim world
around me, that I scarcely heard the music
which resounded from the illuminated ballroom.
The two Messrs. Andran and a certain N. N.
(I cannot trouble myself with the names),
who were the aunt's and Charlotte's partners,
received us at the carriage-door, and took
possession of their ladies, whilst I followed
with mine.
We commenced with a minuet. I led out one
lady after another, and precisely those who
were the most disagreeable could not bring
themselves to leave off. Charlotte and her
partner began an English country dance, and
you must imagine my delight when it was their
turn to dance the figure with us. You should
see Charlotte dance. She dances with her whole
heart and soul: her figure is all harmony,
elegance, and grace, as if she were conscious
of nothing else, and had no other thought
or feeling; and, doubtless, for the moment,
every other sensation is extinct.
She was engaged for the second country dance,
but promised me the third, and assured me,
with the most agreeable freedom, that she
was very fond of waltzing. "It is the custom
here," she said, "for the previous partners
to waltz together; but my partner is an indifferent
waltzer, and will feel delighted if I save
him the trouble. Your partner is not allowed
to waltz, and, indeed, is equally incapable:
but I observed during the country dance that
you waltz well; so, if you will waltz with
me, I beg you would propose it to my partner,
and I will propose it to yours." We agreed,
and it was arranged that our partners should
mutually entertain each other.
We set off, and, at first, delighted ourselves
with the usual graceful motions of the arms.
With what grace, with what ease, she moved!
When the waltz commenced, and the dancers
whirled around each other in the giddy maze,
there was some confusion, owing to the incapacity
of some of the dancers. We judiciously remained
still, allowing the others to weary themselves;
and, when the awkward dancers had withdrawn,
we joined in, and kept it up famously together
with one other couple,—Andran and his partner.
Never did I dance more lightly. I felt myself
more than mortal, holding this loveliest of
creatures in my arms, flying, with her as
rapidly as the wind, till I lost sight of
every other object; and O Wilhelm, I vowed
at that moment, that a maiden whom I loved,
or for whom I felt the slightest attachment,
never, never should waltz with any one else
but with me, if I went to perdition for it!—you
will understand this.
We took a few turns in the room to recover
our breath. Charlotte sat down, and felt refreshed
by partaking of some oranges which I had had
secured,—the only ones that had been left;
but at every slice which, from politeness,
she offered to her neighbours, I felt as though
a dagger went through my heart.
We were the second couple in the third country
dance. As we were going down (and Heaven knows
with what ecstasy I gazed at her arms and
eyes, beaming with the sweetest feeling of
pure and genuine enjoyment), we passed a lady
whom I had noticed for her charming expression
of countenance; although she was no longer
young. She looked at Charlotte with a smile,
then, holding up her finger in a threatening
attitude, repeated twice in a very significant
tone of voice the name of "Albert."
"Who is Albert," said I to Charlotte, "if
it is not impertinent to ask?" She was about
to answer, when we were obliged to separate,
in order to execute a figure in the dance;
and, as we crossed over again in front of
each other, I perceived she looked somewhat
pensive. "Why need I conceal it from you?"
she said, as she gave me her hand for the
promenade. "Albert is a worthy man, to whom
I am engaged." Now, there was nothing new
to me in this (for the girls had told me of
it on the way); but it was so far new that
I had not thought of it in connection with
her whom, in so short a time, I had learned
to prize so highly. Enough, I became confused,
got out in the figure, and occasioned general
confusion; so that it required all Charlotte's
presence of mind to set me right by pulling
and pushing me into my proper place.
The dance was not yet finished when the lightning
which had for some time been seen in the horizon,
and which I had asserted to proceed entirely
from heat, grew more violent; and the thunder
was heard above the music. When any distress
or terror surprises us in the midst of our
amusements, it naturally makes a deeper impression
than at other times, either because the contrast
makes us more keenly susceptible, or rather
perhaps because our senses are then more open
to impressions, and the shock is consequently
stronger. To this cause I must ascribe the
fright and shrieks of the ladies. One sagaciously
sat down in a corner with her back to the
window, and held her fingers to her ears;
a second knelt down before her, and hid her
face in her lap; a third threw herself between
them, and embraced her sister with a thousand
tears; some insisted on going home; others,
unconscious of their actions, wanted sufficient
presence of mind to repress the impertinence
of their young partners, who sought to direct
to themselves those sighs which the lips of
our agitated beauties intended for heaven.
Some of the gentlemen had gone down-stairs
to smoke a quiet cigar, and the rest of the
company gladly embraced a happy suggestion
of the hostess to retire into another room
which was provided with shutters and curtains.
We had hardly got there, when Charlotte placed
the chairs in a circle; and, when the company
had sat down in compliance with her request,
she forthwith proposed a round game.
I noticed some of the company prepare their
mouths and draw themselves up at the prospect
of some agreeable forfeit. "Let us play at
counting," said Charlotte. "Now, pay attention:
I shall go round the circle from right to
left; and each person is to count, one after
the other, the number that comes to him, and
must count fast; whoever stops or mistakes
is to have a box on the ear, and so on, till
we have counted a thousand." It was delightful
to see the fun. She went round the circle
with upraised arm. "One," said the first;
"two," the second; "three," the third; and
so on, till Charlotte went faster and faster.
One made a mistake, instantly a box on the
ear; and, amid the laughter that ensued, came
another box; and so on, faster and faster.
I myself came in for two. I fancied they were
harder than the rest, and felt quite delighted.
A general laughter and confusion put an end
to the game long before we had counted as
far as a thousand. The party broke up into
little separate knots: the storm had ceased,
and I followed Charlotte into the ballroom.
On the way she said, "The game banished their
fears of the storm." I could make no reply.
"I myself," she continued, "was as much frightened
as any of them; but by affecting courage,
to keep up the spirits of the others, I forgot
my apprehensions." We went to the window.
It was still thundering at a distance: a soft
rain was pouring down over the country, and
filled the air around us with delicious odours.
Charlotte leaned forward on her arm; her eyes
wandered over the scene; she raised them to
the sky, and then turned them upon me; they
were moistened with tears; she placed her
hand on mine and said, "Klopstock!" at once
I remembered the magnificent ode which was
in her thoughts: I felt oppressed with the
weight of my sensations, and sank under them.
It was more than I could bear. I bent over
her hand, kissed it in a stream of delicious
tears, and again looked up to her eyes. Divine
Klopstock! why didst thou not see thy apotheosis
in those eyes? And thy name so often profaned,
would that I never heard it repeated!
JUNE 19.
I no longer remember where I stopped in my
narrative: I only know it was two in the morning
when I went to bed; and if you had been with
me, that I might have talked instead of writing
to you, I should, in all probability, have
kept you up till daylight.
I think I have not yet related what happened
as we rode home from the ball, nor have I
time to tell you now. It was a most magnificent
sunrise: the whole country was refreshed,
and the rain fell drop by drop from the trees
in the forest. Our companions were asleep.
Charlotte asked me if I did not wish to sleep
also, and begged of me not to make any ceremony
on her account. Looking steadfastly at her,
I answered, "As long as I see those eyes open,
there is no fear of my falling asleep." We
both continued awake till we reached her door.
The maid opened it softly, and assured her,
in answer to her inquiries, that her father
and the children were well, and still sleeping.
I left her asking permission to visit her
in the course of the day. She consented, and
I went, and, since that time, sun, moon, and
stars may pursue their course: I know not
whether it is day or night; the whole world
is nothing to me.
JUNE 21.
My days are as happy as those reserved by
God for his elect; and, whatever be my fate
hereafter, I can never say that I have not
tasted joy,—the purest joy of life. You
know Walheim. I am now completely settled
there. In that spot I am only half a league
from Charlotte; and there I enjoy myself,
and taste all the pleasure which can fall
to the lot of man.
Little did I imagine, when I selected Walheim
for my pedestrian excursions, that all heaven
lay so near it. How often in my wanderings
from the hillside or from the meadows across
the river, have I beheld this hunting-lodge,
which now contains within it all the joy of
my heart!
I have often, my dear Wilhelm, reflected on
the eagerness men feel to wander and make
new discoveries, and upon that secret impulse
which afterward inclines them to return to
their narrow circle, conform to the laws of
custom, and embarrass themselves no longer
with what passes around them.
It is so strange how, when I came here first,
and gazed upon that lovely valley from the
hillside, I felt charmed with the entire scene
surrounding me. The little wood opposite—how
delightful to sit under its shade! How fine
the view from that point of rock! Then, that
delightful chain of hills, and the exquisite
valleys at their feet! Could I but wander
and lose myself amongst them! I went, and
returned without finding what I wished. Distance,
my friend, is like futurity. A dim vastness
is spread before our souls: the perceptions
of our mind are as obscure as those of our
vision; and we desire earnestly to surrender
up our whole being, that it may be filled
with the complete and perfect bliss of one
glorious emotion. But alas! when we have attained
our object, when the distant there becomes
the present here, all is changed: we are as
poor and circumscribed as ever, and our souls
still languish for unattainable happiness.
So does the restless traveller pant for his
native soil, and find in his own cottage,
in the arms of his wife, in the affections
of his children, and in the labour necessary
for their support, that happiness which he
had sought in vain through the wide world.
When, in the morning at sunrise, I go out
to Walheim, and with my own hands gather in
the garden the pease which are to serve for
my dinner, when I sit down to shell them,
and read my Homer during the intervals, and
then, selecting a saucepan from the kitchen,
fetch my own butter, put my mess on the fire,
cover it up, and sit down to stir it as occasion
requires, I figure to myself the illustrious
suitors of Penelope, killing, dressing, and
preparing their own oxen and swine. Nothing
fills me with a more pure and genuine sense
of happiness than those traits of patriarchal
life which, thank Heaven! I can imitate without
affectation. Happy is it, indeed, for me that
my heart is capable of feeling the same simple
and innocent pleasure as the peasant whose
table is covered with food of his own rearing,
and who not only enjoys his meal, but remembers
with delight the happy days and sunny mornings
when he planted it, the soft evenings when
he watered it, and the pleasure he experienced
in watching its daily growth.
JUNE 29.
The day before yesterday, the physician came
from the town to pay a visit to the judge.
He found me on the floor playing with Charlotte's
children. Some of them were scrambling over
me, and others romped with me; and, as I caught
and tickled them, they made a great noise.
The doctor is a formal sort of personage:
he adjusts the plaits of his ruffles, and
continually settles his frill whilst he is
talking to you; and he thought my conduct
beneath the dignity of a sensible man. I could
perceive this by his countenance. But I did
not suffer myself to be disturbed. I allowed
him to continue his wise conversation, whilst
I rebuilt the children's card houses for them
as fast as they threw them down. He went about
the town afterward, complaining that the judge's
children were spoiled enough before, but that
now Werther was completely ruining them.
Yes, my dear Wilhelm, nothing on this earth
affects my heart so much as children. When
I look on at their doings; when I mark in
the little creatures the seeds of all those
virtues and qualities which they will one
day find so indispensable; when I behold in
the obstinate all the future firmness and
constancy of a noble character; in the capricious,
that levity and gaiety of temper which will
carry them lightly over the dangers and troubles
of life, their whole nature simple and unpolluted,—then
I call to mind the golden words of the Great
Teacher of mankind, "Unless ye become like
one of these!" And now, my friend, these children,
who are our equals, whom we ought to consider
as our models, we treat them as though they
were our subjects. They are allowed no will
of their own. And have we, then, none ourselves?
Whence comes our exclusive right? Is it because
we are older and more experienced? Great God!
from the height of thy heaven thou beholdest
great children and little children, and no
others; and thy Son has long since declared
which afford thee greatest pleasure. But they
believe in him, and hear him not,—that,
too, is an old story; and they train their
children after their own image, etc.
Adieu, Wilhelm: I will not further bewilder
myself with 
this subject.
JULY 1.
The consolation Charlotte can bring to an
invalid I experience from my own heart, which
suffers more from her absence than many a
poor creature lingering on a bed of sickness.
She is gone to spend a few days in the town
with a very worthy woman, who is given over
by the physicians, and wishes to have Charlotte
near her in her last moments. I accompanied
her last week on a visit to the Vicar of S—,
a small village in the mountains, about a
league hence. We arrived about four o'clock:
Charlotte had taken her little sister with
her. When we entered the vicarage court, we
found the good old man sitting on a bench
before the door, under the shade of two large
walnut-trees. At the sight of Charlotte he
seemed to gain new life, rose, forgot his
stick, and ventured to walk toward her. She
ran to him, and made him sit down again; then,
placing herself by his side, she gave him
a number of messages from her father, and
then caught up his youngest child, a dirty,
ugly little thing, the joy of his old age,
and kissed it. I wish you could have witnessed
her attention to this old man,—how she raised
her voice on account of his deafness; how
she told him of healthy young people, who
had been carried off when it was least expected;
praised the virtues of Carlsbad, and commended
his determination to spend the ensuing summer
there; and assured him that he looked better
and stronger than he did when she saw him
last. I, in the meantime, paid attention to
his good lady. The old man seemed quite in
spirits; and as I could not help admiring
the beauty of the walnut-trees, which formed
such an agreeable shade over our heads, he
began, though with some little difficulty,
to tell us their history. "As to the oldest,"
said he, "we do not know who planted it,—some
say one clergyman, and some another: but the
younger one, there behind us, is exactly the
age of my wife, fifty years old next October;
her father planted it in the morning, and
in the evening she came into the world. My
wife's father was my predecessor here, and
I cannot tell you how fond he was of that
tree; and it is fully as dear to me. Under
the shade of that very tree, upon a log of
wood, my wife was seated knitting, when I,
a poor student, came into this court for the
first time, just seven and twenty years ago."
Charlotte inquired for his daughter. He said
she was gone with Herr Schmidt to the meadows,
and was with the haymakers. The old man then
resumed his story, and told us how his predecessor
had taken a fancy to him, as had his daughter
likewise; and how he had become first his
curate, and subsequently his successor. He
had scarcely finished his story when his daughter
returned through the garden, accompanied by
the above-mentioned Herr Schmidt. She welcomed
Charlotte affectionately, and I confess I
was much taken with her appearance. She was
a lively-looking, good-humoured brunette,
quite competent to amuse one for a short time
in the country. Her lover (for such Herr Schmidt
evidently appeared to be) was a polite, reserved
personage, and would not join our conversation,
notwithstanding all Charlotte's endeavours
to draw him out. I was much annoyed at observing,
by his countenance, that his silence did not
arise from want of talent, but from caprice
and ill-humour. This subsequently became very
evident, when we set out to take a walk, and
Frederica joining Charlotte, with whom I was
talking, the worthy gentleman's face, which
was naturally rather sombre, became so dark
and angry that Charlotte was obliged to touch
my arm, and remind me that I was talking too
much to Frederica. Nothing distresses me more
than to see men torment each other; particularly
when in the flower of their age, in the very
season of pleasure, they waste their few short
days of sunshine in quarrels and disputes,
and only perceive their error when it is too
late to repair it. This thought dwelt upon
my mind; and in the evening, when we returned
to the vicar's, and were sitting round the
table with our bread end milk, the conversation
turned on the joys and sorrows of the world,
I could not resist the temptation to inveigh
bitterly against ill-humour. "We are apt,"
said I, "to complain, but—with very little
cause, that our happy days are few, and our
evil days many. If our hearts were always
disposed to receive the benefits Heaven sends
us, we should acquire strength to support
evil when it comes." "But," observed the vicar's
wife, "we cannot always command our tempers,
so much depends upon the constitution: when
the body suffers, the mind is ill at ease."
"I acknowledge that," I continued; "but we
must consider such a disposition in the light
of a disease, and inquire whether there is
no remedy for it."
"I should be glad to hear one," said Charlotte:
"at least, I think very much depends upon
ourselves; I know it is so with me. When anything
annoys me, and disturbs my temper, I hasten
into the garden, hum a couple of country dances,
and it is all right with me directly." "That
is what I meant," I replied; "ill-humour resembles
indolence: it is natural to us; but if once
we have courage to exert ourselves, we find
our work run fresh from our hands, and we
experience in the activity from which we shrank
a real enjoyment." Frederica listened very
attentively: and the young man objected, that
we were not masters of ourselves, and still
less so of our feelings. "The question is
about a disagreeable feeling," I added, "from
which every one would willingly escape, but
none know their own power without trial. Invalids
are glad to consult physicians, and submit
to the most scrupulous regimen, the most nauseous
medicines, in order to recover their health."
I observed that the good old man inclined
his head, and exerted himself to hear our
discourse; so I raised my voice, and addressed
myself directly to him. "We preach against
a great many crimes," I observed, "but I never
remember a sermon delivered against ill-humour."
"That may do very well for your town clergymen,"
said he: "country people are never ill-humoured;
though, indeed, it might be useful, occasionally,
to my wife for instance, and the judge." We
all laughed, as did he likewise very cordially,
till he fell into a fit of coughing, which
interrupted our conversation for a time. Herr
Schmidt resumed the subject. "You call ill
humour a crime," he remarked, "but I think
you use too strong a term." "Not at all,"
I replied, "if that deserves the name which
is so pernicious to ourselves and our neighbours.
Is it not enough that we want the power to
make one another happy, must we deprive each
other of the pleasure which we can all make
for ourselves? Show me the man who has the
courage to hide his ill-humour, who bears
the whole burden himself, without disturbing
the peace of those around him. No: ill-humour
arises from an inward consciousness of our
own want of merit, from a discontent which
ever accompanies that envy which foolish vanity
engenders. We see people happy, whom we have
not made so, and cannot endure the sight."
Charlotte looked at me with a smile; she observed
the emotion with which I spoke: and a tear
in the eyes of Frederica stimulated me to
proceed. "Woe unto those," I said, "who use
their power over a human heart to destroy
the simple pleasures it would naturally enjoy!
All the favours, all the attentions, in the
world cannot compensate for the loss of that
happiness which a cruel tyranny has destroyed."
My heart was full as I spoke. A recollection
of many things which had happened pressed
upon my mind, and filled my eyes with tears.
"We should daily repeat to ourselves," I exclaimed,
"that we should not interfere with our friends,
unless to leave them in possession of their
own joys, and increase their happiness by
sharing it with them! But when their souls
are tormented by a violent passion, or their
hearts rent with grief, is it in your power
to afford them the slightest consolation?
"And when the last fatal malady seizes the
being whose untimely grave you have prepared,
when she lies languid and exhausted before
you, her dim eyes raised to heaven, and the
damp of death upon her pallid brow, there
you stand at her bedside like a condemned
criminal, with the bitter feeling that your
whole fortune could not save her; and the
agonising thought wrings you, that all your
efforts are powerless to impart even a moment's
strength to the departing soul, or quicken
her with a transitory consolation."
At these words the remembrance of a similar
scene at which I had been once present fell
with full force upon my heart. I buried my
face in my handkerchief, and hastened from
the room, and was only recalled to my recollection
by Charlotte's voice, who reminded me that
it was time to return home. With what tenderness
she chid me on the way for the too eager interest
I took in everything! She declared it would
do me injury, and that I ought to spare myself.
Yes, my angel! I will do so for your sake.
JULY 6.
She is still with her dying friend, and is
still the same bright, beautiful creature
whose presence softens pain, and sheds happiness
around whichever way she turns. She went out
yesterday with her little sisters: I knew
it, and went to meet them; and we walked together.
In about an hour and a half we returned to
the town. We stopped at the spring I am so
fond of, and which is now a thousand times
dearer to me than ever. Charlotte seated herself
upon the low wall, and we gathered about her.
I looked around, and recalled the time when
my heart was unoccupied and free. "Dear fountain!"
I said, "since that time I have no more come
to enjoy cool repose by thy fresh stream:
I have passed thee with careless steps, and
scarcely bestowed a glance upon thee." I looked
down, and observed Charlotte's little sister,
Jane, coming up the steps with a glass of
water. I turned toward Charlotte, and I felt
her influence over me. Jane at the moment
approached with the glass. Her sister, Marianne,
wished to take it from her. "No!" cried the
child, with the sweetest expression of face,
"Charlotte must drink first."
The affection and simplicity with which this
was uttered so charmed me, that I sought to
express my feelings by catching up the child
and kissing her heartily. She was frightened,
and began to cry. "You should not do that,"
said Charlotte: I felt perplexed. "Come, Jane,"
she continued, taking her hand, and leading
her down the steps again, "it is no matter:
wash yourself quickly in the fresh water."
I stood and watched them; and when I saw the
little dear rubbing her cheeks with her wet
hands, in full belief that all the impurities
contracted from my ugly beard would be washed
off by the miraculous water, and how, though
Charlotte said it would do, she continued
still to wash with all her might, as though
she thought too much were better than too
little, I assure you, Wilhelm, I never attended
a baptism with greater reverence; and, when
Charlotte came up from the well, I could have
prostrated myself as before the prophet of
an Eastern nation.
In the evening I would not resist telling
the story to a person who, I thought, possessed
some natural feeling, because he was a man
of understanding. But what a mistake I made.
He maintained it was very wrong of Charlotte,
that we should not deceive children, that
such things occasioned countless mistakes
and superstitions, from which we were bound
to protect the young. It occurred to me then,
that this very man had been baptised only
a week before; so I said nothing further,
but maintained the justice of my own convictions.
We should deal with children as God deals
with us, we are happiest under the influence
of innocent delusions.
JULY 8.
What a child is man that he should be so solicitous
about a look! What a child is man! We had
been to Walheim: the ladies went in a carriage;
but during our walk I thought I saw in Charlotte's
dark eyes—I am a fool—but forgive me!
you should see them,—those eyes.—However,
to be brief (for my own eyes are weighed down
with sleep), you must know, when the ladies
stepped into their carriage again, young W.
Seldstadt, Andran, and I were standing about
the door. They are a merry set of fellows,
and they were all laughing and joking together.
I watched Charlotte's eyes. They wandered
from one to the other; but they did not light
on me, on me, who stood there motionless,
and who saw nothing but her! My heart bade
her a thousand times adieu, but she noticed
me not. The carriage drove off; and my eyes
filled with tears. I looked after her: suddenly
I saw Charlotte's bonnet leaning out of the
window, and she turned to look back, was it
at me? My dear friend, I know not; and in
this uncertainty I find consolation. Perhaps
she turned to look at me. Perhaps! Good-night—what
a child I am!
JULY 10.
You should see how foolish I look in company
when her name is mentioned, particularly when
I am asked plainly how I like her. How I like
her! I detest the phrase. What sort of creature
must he be who merely liked Charlotte, whose
whole heart and senses were not entirely absorbed
by her. Like her! Some one asked me lately
how I liked Ossian.
JULY 11.
Madame M—is very ill. I pray for her recovery,
because Charlotte shares my sufferings. I
see her occasionally at my friend's house,
and to-day she has told me the strangest circumstance.
Old M—is a covetous, miserly fellow, who
has long worried and annoyed the poor lady
sadly; but she has borne her afflictions patiently.
A few days ago, when the physician informed
us that her recovery was hopeless, she sent
for her husband (Charlotte was present), and
addressed him thus: "I have something to confess,
which, after my decease, may occasion trouble
and confusion. I have hitherto conducted your
household as frugally and economically as
possible, but you must pardon me for having
defrauded you for thirty years. At the commencement
of our married life, you allowed a small sum
for the wants of the kitchen, and the other
household expenses. When our establishment
increased and our property grew larger, I
could not persuade you to increase the weekly
allowance in proportion: in short, you know,
that, when our wants were greatest, you required
me to supply everything with seven florins
a week. I took the money from you without
an observation, but made up the weekly deficiency
from the money-chest; as nobody would suspect
your wife of robbing the household bank. But
I have wasted nothing, and should have been
content to meet my eternal Judge without this
confession, if she, upon whom the management
of your establishment will devolve after my
decease, would be free from embarrassment
upon your insisting that the allowance made
to me, your former wife, was sufficient."
I talked with Charlotte of the inconceivable
manner in which men allow themselves to be
blinded; how any one could avoid suspecting
some deception, when seven florins only were
allowed to defray expenses twice as great.
But I have myself known people who believed,
without any visible astonishment, that their
house possessed the prophet's never-failing
cruse of oil.
JULY 13.
No, I am not deceived. In her dark eyes I
read a genuine interest in me and in my fortunes.
Yes, I feel it; and I may believe my own heart
which tells me—dare I say it?—dare I pronounce
the divine words?—that she loves me!
That she loves me! How the idea exalts me
in my own eyes! And, as you can understand
my feelings, I may say to you, how I honour
myself since she loves me!
Is this presumption, or is it a consciousness
of the truth? I do not know a man able to
supplant me in the heart of Charlotte; and
yet when she speaks of her betrothed with
so much warmth and affection, I feel like
the soldier who has been stripped of his honours
and titles, and deprived of his sword.
JULY 16.
How my heart beats when by accident I touch
her finger, or my feet meet hers under the
table! I draw back as if from a furnace; but
a secret force impels me forward again, and
my senses become disordered. Her innocent,
unconscious heart never knows what agony these
little familiarities inflict upon me. Sometimes
when we are talking she lays her hand upon
mine, and in the eagerness of conversation
comes closer to me, and her balmy breath reaches
my lips,—when I feel as if lightning had
struck me, and that I could sink into the
earth. And yet, Wilhelm, with all this heavenly
confidence,—if I know myself, and should
ever dare—you understand me. No, no! my
heart is not so corrupt, it is weak, weak
enough but is not that a degree of corruption?
She is to me a sacred being. All passion is
still in her presence: I cannot express my
sensations when I am near her. I feel as if
my soul beat in every nerve of my body. There
is a melody which she plays on the piano with
angelic skill,—so simple is it, and yet
so spiritual! It is her favourite air; and,
when she plays the first note, all pain, care,
and sorrow disappear from me in a moment.
I believe every word that is said of the magic
of ancient music. How her simple song enchants
me! Sometimes, when I am ready to commit suicide,
she sings that air; and instantly the gloom
and madness which hung over me are dispersed,
and I breathe freely again.
JULY 18.
Wilhelm, what is the world to our hearts without
love? What is a magic-lantern without light?
You have but to kindle the flame within, and
the brightest figures shine on the white wall;
and, if love only show us fleeting shadows,
we are yet happy, when, like mere children,
we behold them, and are transported with the
splendid phantoms. I have not been able to
see Charlotte to-day. I was prevented by company
from which I could not disengage myself. What
was to be done? I sent my servant to her house,
that I might at least see somebody to-day
who had been near her. Oh, the impatience
with which I waited for his return! the joy
with which I welcomed him! I should certainly
have caught him in my arms, and kissed him,
if I had not been ashamed.
It is said that the Bonona stone, when placed
in the sun, attracts the rays, and for a time
appears luminous in the dark. So was it with
me and this servant. The idea that Charlotte's
eyes had dwelt on his countenance, his cheek,
his very apparel, endeared them all inestimably
to me, so that at the moment I would not have
parted from him for a thousand crowns. His
presence made me so happy! Beware of laughing
at me, Wilhelm. Can that be a delusion which
makes us happy?
JULY 19.
"I shall see her today!" I exclaim with delight,
when I rise in the morning, and look out with
gladness of heart at the bright, beautiful
sun. "I shall see her today!" And then I have
no further wish to form: all, all is included
in that one thought.
JULY 20.
I cannot assent to your proposal that I should
accompany the ambassador to ———. I do
not love subordination; and we all know that
he is a rough, disagreeable person to be connected
with. You say my mother wishes me to be employed.
I could not help laughing at that. Am I not
sufficiently employed? And is it not in reality
the same, whether I shell peas or count lentils?
The world runs on from one folly to another;
and the man who, solely from regard to the
opinion of others, and without any wish or
necessity of his own, toils after gold, honour,
or any other phantom, is no better than a
fool.
JULY 24.
You insist so much on my not neglecting my
drawing, that it would be as well for me to
say nothing as to confess how little I have
lately done.
I never felt happier, I never understood nature
better, even down to the veriest stem or smallest
blade of grass; and yet I am unable to express
myself: my powers of execution are so weak,
everything seems to swim and float before
me, so that I cannot make a clear, bold outline.
But I fancy I should succeed better if I had
some clay or wax to model. I shall try, if
this state of mind continues much longer,
and will take to modelling, if I only knead
dough.
I have commenced Charlotte's portrait three
times, and have as often disgraced myself.
This is the more annoying, as I was formerly
very happy in taking likenesses. I have since
sketched her profile, and must content myself
with that.
JULY 25.
Yes, dear Charlotte! I will order and arrange
everything. Only give me more commissions,
the more the better. One thing, however, I
must request: use no more writing-sand with
the dear notes you send me. Today I raised
your letter hastily to my lips, and it set
my teeth on edge.
JULY 26.
I have often determined not to see her so
frequently. But who could keep such a resolution?
Every day I am exposed to the temptation,
and promise faithfully that to-morrow I will
really stay away: but, when tomorrow comes,
I find some irresistible reason for seeing
her; and, before I can account for it, I am
with her again. Either she has said on the
previous evening "You will be sure to call
to-morrow,"—and who could stay away then?—or
she gives me some commission, and I find it
essential to take her the answer in person;
or the day is fine, and I walk to Walheim;
and, when I am there, it is only half a league
farther to her. I am within the charmed atmosphere,
and soon find myself at her side. My grandmother
used to tell us a story of a mountain of loadstone.
When any vessels came near it, they were instantly
deprived of their ironwork: the nails flew
to the mountain, and the unhappy crew perished
amidst the disjointed planks.
JULY 30.
Albert is arrived, and I must take my departure.
Were he the best and noblest of men, and I
in every respect his inferior, I could not
endure to see him in possession of such a
perfect being. Possession!—enough, Wilhelm:
her betrothed is here,—a fine, worthy fellow,
whom one cannot help liking. Fortunately I
was not present at their meeting. It would
have broken my heart! And he is so considerate:
he has not given Charlotte one kiss in my
presence. Heaven reward him for it! I must
love him for the respect with which he treats
her. He shows a regard for me, but for this
I suspect I am more indebted to Charlotte
than to his own fancy for me. Women have a
delicate tact in such matters, and it should
be so. They cannot always succeed in keeping
two rivals on terms with each other; but,
when they do, they are the only gainers.
I cannot help esteeming Albert. The coolness
of his temper contrasts strongly with the
impetuosity of mine, which I cannot conceal.
He has a great deal of feeling, and is fully
sensible of the treasure he possesses in Charlotte.
He is free from ill-humour, which you know
is the fault I detest most.
He regards me as a man of sense; and my attachment
to Charlotte, and the interest I take in all
that concerns her, augment his triumph and
his love. I shall not inquire whether he may
not at times tease her with some little jealousies;
as I know, that, were I in his place, I should
not be entirely free from such sensations.
But, be that as it may, my pleasure with Charlotte
is over. Call it folly or infatuation, what
signifies a name? The thing speaks for itself.
Before Albert came, I knew all that I know
now. I knew I could make no pretensions to
her, nor did I offer any, that is, as far
as it was possible, in the presence of so
much loveliness, not to pant for its enjoyment.
And now, behold me like a silly fellow, staring
with astonishment when another comes in, and
deprives me of my love.
I bite my lips, and feel infinite scorn for
those who tell me to be resigned, because
there is no help for it. Let me escape from
the yoke of such silly subterfuges! I ramble
through the woods; and when I return to Charlotte,
and find Albert sitting by her side in the
summer-house in the garden, I am unable to
bear it, behave like a fool, and commit a
thousand extravagances. "For Heaven's sake,"
said Charlotte today, "let us have no more
scenes like those of last night! You terrify
me when you are so violent." Between ourselves,
I am always away now when he visits her: and
I feel delighted when I find her alone.
AUGUST 8.
Believe me, dear Wilhelm, I did not allude
to you when I spoke so severely of those who
advise resignation to inevitable fate. I did
not think it possible for you to indulge such
a sentiment. But in fact you are right. I
only suggest one objection. In this world
one is seldom reduced to make a selection
between two alternatives. There are as many
varieties of conduct and opinion as there
are turns of feature between an aquiline nose
and a flat one.
You will, therefore, permit me to concede
your entire argument, and yet contrive means
to escape your dilemma.
Your position is this, I hear you say: "Either
you have hopes of obtaining Charlotte, or
you have none. Well, in the first case, pursue
your course, and press on to the fulfilment
of your wishes. In the second, be a man, and
shake off a miserable passion, which will
enervate and destroy you." My dear friend,
this is well and easily said.
But would you require a wretched being, whose
life is slowly wasting under a lingering disease,
to despatch himself at once by the stroke
of a dagger? Does not the very disorder which
consumes his strength deprive him of the courage
to effect his deliverance?
You may answer me, if you please, with a similar
analogy, "Who would not prefer the amputation
of an arm to the periling of life by doubt
and procrastination!" But I know not if I
am right, and let us leave these comparisons.
Enough! There are moments, Wilhelm, when I
could rise up and shake it all off, and when,
if I only knew where to go, I could fly from
this place.
THE SAME EVENING.
My diary, which I have for some time neglected,
came before me today; and I am amazed to see
how deliberately I have entangled myself step
by step. To have seen my position so clearly,
and yet to have acted so like a child! Even
still I behold the result plainly, and yet
have no thought of acting with greater prudence.
AUGUST 10.
If I were not a fool, I could spend the happiest
and most delightful life here. So many agreeable
circumstances, and of a kind to ensure a worthy
man's happiness, are seldom united. Alas!
I feel it too sensibly,—the heart alone
makes our happiness! To be admitted into this
most charming family, to be loved by the father
as a son, by the children as a father, and
by Charlotte! then the noble Albert, who never
disturbs my happiness by any appearance of
ill-humour, receiving me with the heartiest
affection, and loving me, next to Charlotte,
better than all the world! Wilhelm, you would
be delighted to hear us in our rambles, and
conversations about Charlotte. Nothing in
the world can be more absurd than our connection,
and yet the thought of it often moves me to
tears.
He tells me sometimes of her excellent mother;
how, upon her death-bed, she had committed
her house and children to Charlotte, and had
given Charlotte herself in charge to him;
how, since that time, a new spirit had taken
possession of her; how, in care and anxiety
for their welfare, she became a real mother
to them; how every moment of her time was
devoted to some labour of love in their behalf,—and
yet her mirth and cheerfulness had never forsaken
her. I walk by his side, pluck flowers by
the way, arrange them carefully into a nosegay,
then fling them into the first stream I pass,
and watch them as they float gently away.
I forget whether I told you that Albert is
to remain here. He has received a government
appointment, with a very good salary; and
I understand he is in high favour at court.
I have met few persons so punctual and methodical
in business.
AUGUST 12.
Certainly Albert is the best fellow in the
world. I had a strange scene with him yesterday.
I went to take leave of him; for I took it
into my head to spend a few days in these
mountains, from where I now write to you.
As I was walking up and down his room, my
eye fell upon his pistols. "Lend me those
pistols," said I, "for my journey." "By all
means," he replied, "if you will take the
trouble to load them; for they only hang there
for form." I took down one of them; and he
continued, "Ever since I was near suffering
for my extreme caution, I will have nothing
to do with such things." I was curious to
hear the story. "I was staying," said he,
"some three months ago, at a friend's house
in the country. I had a brace of pistols with
me, unloaded; and I slept without any anxiety.
One rainy afternoon I was sitting by myself,
doing nothing, when it occurred to me I do
not know how that the house might be attacked,
that we might require the pistols, that we
might in short, you know how we go on fancying,
when we have nothing better to do. I gave
the pistols to the servant, to clean and load.
He was playing with the maid, and trying to
frighten her, when the pistol went off—God
knows how!—the ramrod was in the barrel;
and it went straight through her right hand,
and shattered the thumb. I had to endure all
the lamentation, and to pay the surgeon's
bill; so, since that time, I have kept all
my weapons unloaded. But, my dear friend,
what is the use of prudence? We can never
be on our guard against all possible dangers.
However,"—now, you must know I can tolerate
all men till they come to "however;"—for
it is self-evident that every universal rule
must have its exceptions. But he is so exceedingly
accurate, that, if he only fancies he has
said a word too precipitate, or too general,
or only half true, he never ceases to qualify,
to modify, and extenuate, till at last he
appears to have said nothing at all. Upon
this occasion, Albert was deeply immersed
in his subject: I ceased to listen to him,
and became lost in reverie. With a sudden
motion, I pointed the mouth of the pistol
to my forehead, over the right eye. "What
do you mean?" cried Albert, turning back the
pistol. "It is not loaded," said I. "And even
if not," he answered with impatience, "what
can you mean? I cannot comprehend how a man
can be so mad as to shoot himself, and the
bare idea of it shocks me."
"But why should any one," said I, "in speaking
of an action, venture to pronounce it mad
or wise, or good or bad? What is the meaning
of all this? Have you carefully studied the
secret motives of our actions? Do you understand—can
you explain the causes which occasion them,
and make them inevitable? If you can, you
will be less hasty with your decision."
"But you will allow," said Albert; "that some
actions are criminal, let them spring from
whatever motives they may." I granted it,
and shrugged my shoulders.
"But still, my good friend," I continued,
"there are some exceptions here too. Theft
is a crime; but the man who commits it from
extreme poverty, with no design but to save
his family from perishing, is he an object
of pity, or of punishment? Who shall throw
the first stone at a husband, who, in the
heat of just resentment, sacrifices his faithless
wife and her perfidious seducer? or at the
young maiden, who, in her weak hour of rapture,
forgets herself in the impetuous joys of love?
Even our laws, cold and cruel as they are,
relent in such cases, and withhold their punishment."
"That is quite another thing," said Albert;
"because a man under the influence of violent
passion loses all power of reflection, and
is regarded as intoxicated or insane."
"Oh! you people of sound understandings,"
I replied, smiling, "are ever ready to exclaim
'Extravagance, and madness, and intoxication!'
You moral men are so calm and so subdued!
You abhor the drunken man, and detest the
extravagant; you pass by, like the Levite,
and thank God, like the Pharisee, that you
are not like one of them. I have been more
than once intoxicated, my passions have always
bordered on extravagance: I am not ashamed
to confess it; for I have learned, by my own
experience, that all extraordinary men, who
have accomplished great and astonishing actions,
have ever been decried by the world as drunken
or insane. And in private life, too, is it
not intolerable that no one can undertake
the execution of a noble or generous deed,
without giving rise to the exclamation that
the doer is intoxicated or mad? Shame upon
you, ye sages!"
"This is another of your extravagant humours,"
said Albert: "you always exaggerate a case,
and in this matter you are undoubtedly wrong;
for we were speaking of suicide, which you
compare with great actions, when it is impossible
to regard it as anything but a weakness. It
is much easier to die than to bear a life
of misery with fortitude."
I was on the point of breaking off the conversation,
for nothing puts me so completely out of patience
as the utterance of a wretched commonplace
when I am talking from my inmost heart. However,
I composed myself, for I had often heard the
same observation with sufficient vexation;
and I answered him, therefore, with a little
warmth, "You call this a weakness—beware
of being led astray by appearances. When a
nation, which has long groaned under the intolerable
yoke of a tyrant, rises at last and throws
off its chains, do you call that weakness?
The man who, to rescue his house from the
flames, finds his physical strength redoubled,
so that he lifts burdens with ease, which,
in the absence of excitement, he could scarcely
move; he who, under the rage of an insult,
attacks and puts to flight half a score of
his enemies, are such persons to be called
weak? My good friend, if resistance be strength,
how can the highest degree of resistance be
a weakness?"
Albert looked steadfastly at me, and said,
"Pray forgive me, but I do not see that the
examples you have adduced bear any relation
to the question." "Very likely," I answered;
"for I have often been told that my style
of illustration borders a little on the absurd.
But let us see if we cannot place the matter
in another point of view, by inquiring what
can be a man's state of mind who resolves
to free himself from the burden of life,—a
burden often so pleasant to bear,—for we
cannot otherwise reason fairly upon the subject.
"Human nature," I continued, "has its limits.
It is able to endure a certain degree of joy,
sorrow, and pain, but becomes annihilated
as soon as this measure is exceeded. The question,
therefore, is, not whether a man is strong
or weak, but whether he is able to endure
the measure of his sufferings. The suffering
may be moral or physical; and in my opinion
it is just as absurd to call a man a coward
who destroys himself, as to call a man a coward
who dies of a malignant fever."
"Paradox, all paradox!" exclaimed Albert.
"Not so paradoxical as you imagine," I replied.
"You allow that we designate a disease as
mortal when nature is so severely attacked,
and her strength so far exhausted, that she
cannot possibly recover her former condition
under any change that may take place.
"Now, my good friend, apply this to the mind;
observe a man in his natural, isolated condition;
consider how ideas work, and how impressions
fasten on him, till at length a violent passion
seizes him, destroying all his powers of calm
reflection, and utterly ruining him.
"It is in vain that a man of sound mind and
cool temper understands the condition of such
a wretched being, in vain he counsels him.
He can no more communicate his own wisdom
to him than a healthy man can instil his strength
into the invalid, by whose bedside he is seated."
Albert thought this too general. I reminded
him of a girl who had drowned herself a short
time previously, and I related her history.
She was a good creature, who had grown up
in the narrow sphere of household industry
and weekly appointed labour; one who knew
no pleasure beyond indulging in a walk on
Sundays, arrayed in her best attire, accompanied
by her friends, or perhaps joining in the
dance now and then at some festival, and chatting
away her spare hours with a neighbour, discussing
the scandal or the quarrels of the village,
trifles sufficient to occupy her heart. At
length the warmth of her nature is influenced
by certain new and unknown wishes. Inflamed
by the flatteries of men, her former pleasures
become by degrees insipid, till at length
she meets with a youth to whom she is attracted
by an indescribable feeling; upon him she
now rests all her hopes; she forgets the world
around her; she sees, hears, desires nothing
but him, and him only. He alone occupies all
her thoughts. Uncorrupted by the idle indulgence
of an enervating vanity, her affection moving
steadily toward its object, she hopes to become
his, and to realise, in an everlasting union
with him, all that happiness which she sought,
all that bliss for which she longed. His repeated
promises confirm her hopes: embraces and endearments,
which increase the ardour of her desires,
overmaster her soul. She floats in a dim,
delusive anticipation of her happiness; and
her feelings become excited to their utmost
tension. She stretches out her arms finally
to embrace the object of all her wishes and
her lover forsakes her. Stunned and bewildered,
she stands upon a precipice. All is darkness
around her. No prospect, no hope, no consolation—forsaken
by him in whom her existence was centred!
She sees nothing of the wide world before
her, thinks nothing of the many individuals
who might supply the void in her heart; she
feels herself deserted, forsaken by the world;
and, blinded and impelled by the agony which
wrings her soul, she plunges into the deep,
to end her sufferings in the broad embrace
of death. See here, Albert, the history of
thousands; and tell me, is not this a case
of physical infirmity? Nature has no way to
escape from the labyrinth: her powers are
exhausted: she can contend no longer, and
the poor soul must die.
"Shame upon him who can look on calmly, and
exclaim, 'The foolish girl! she should have
waited; she should have allowed time to wear
off the impression; her despair would have
been softened, and she would have found another
lover to comfort her.' One might as well say,
'The fool, to die of a fever! why did he not
wait till his strength was restored, till
his blood became calm? all would then have
gone well, and he would have been alive now.'"
Albert, who could not see the justice of the
comparison, offered some further objections,
and, amongst others, urged that I had taken
the case of a mere ignorant girl. But how
any man of sense, of more enlarged views and
experience, could be excused, he was unable
to comprehend. "My friend!" I exclaimed, "man
is but man; and, whatever be the extent of
his reasoning powers, they are of little avail
when passion rages within, and he feels himself
confined by the narrow limits of nature. It
were better, then—but we will talk of this
some other time," I said, and caught up my
hat. Alas! my heart was full; and we parted
without conviction on either side. How rarely
in this world do men understand each other!
AUGUST 15.
There can be no doubt that in this world nothing
is so indispensable as love. I observe that
Charlotte could not lose me without a pang,
and the very children have but one wish; that
is, that I should visit them again to-morrow.
I went this afternoon to tune Charlotte's
piano. But I could not do it, for the little
ones insisted on my telling them a story;
and Charlotte herself urged me to satisfy
them. I waited upon them at tea, and they
are now as fully contented with me as with
Charlotte; and I told them my very best tale
of the princess who was waited upon by dwarfs.
I improve myself by this exercise, and am
quite surprised at the impression my stories
create. If I sometimes invent an incident
which I forget upon the next narration, they
remind one directly that the story was different
before; so that I now endeavour to relate
with exactness the same anecdote in the same
monotonous tone, which never changes. I find
by this, how much an author injures his works
by altering them, even though they be improved
in a poetical point of view. The first impression
is readily received. We are so constituted
that we believe the most incredible things;
and, once they are engraved upon the memory,
woe to him who would endeavour to efface them.
AUGUST 18.
Must it ever be thus,—that the source of
our happiness must also be the fountain of
our misery? The full and ardent sentiment
which animated my heart with the love of nature,
overwhelming me with a torrent of delight,
and which brought all paradise before me,
has now become an insupportable torment, a
demon which perpetually pursues and harasses
me. When in bygone days I gazed from these
rocks upon yonder mountains across the river,
and upon the green, flowery valley before
me, and saw all nature budding and bursting
around; the hills clothed from foot to peak
with tall, thick forest trees; the valleys
in all their varied windings, shaded with
the loveliest woods; and the soft river gliding
along amongst the lisping reeds, mirroring
the beautiful clouds which the soft evening
breeze wafted across the sky,—when I heard
the groves about me melodious with the music
of birds, and saw the million swarms of insects
dancing in the last golden beams of the sun,
whose setting rays awoke the humming beetles
from their grassy beds, whilst the subdued
tumult around directed my attention to the
ground, and I there observed the arid rock
compelled to yield nutriment to the dry moss,
whilst the heath flourished upon the barren
sands below me, all this displayed to me the
inner warmth which animates all nature, and
filled and glowed within my heart. I felt
myself exalted by this overflowing fulness
to the perception of the Godhead, and the
glorious forms of an infinite universe became
visible to my soul! Stupendous mountains encompassed
me, abysses yawned at my feet, and cataracts
fell headlong down before me; impetuous rivers
rolled through the plain, and rocks and mountains
resounded from afar. In the depths of the
earth I saw innumerable powers in motion,
and multiplying to infinity; whilst upon its
surface, and beneath the heavens, there teemed
ten thousand varieties of living creatures.
Everything around is alive with an infinite
number of forms; while mankind fly for security
to their petty houses, from the shelter of
which they rule in their imaginations over
the wide-extended universe. Poor fool! in
whose petty estimation all things are little.
From the inaccessible mountains, across the
desert which no mortal foot has trod, far
as the confines of the unknown ocean, breathes
the spirit of the eternal Creator; and every
atom to which he has given existence finds
favour in his sight. Ah, how often at that
time has the flight of a bird, soaring above
my head, inspired me with the desire of being
transported to the shores of the immeasurable
waters, there to quaff the pleasures of life
from the foaming goblet of the Infinite, and
to partake, if but for a moment even, with
the confined powers of my soul, the beatitude
of that Creator who accomplishes all things
in himself, and through himself!
My dear friend, the bare recollection of those
hours still consoles me. Even this effort
to recall those ineffable sensations, and
give them utterance, exalts my soul above
itself, and makes me doubly feel the intensity
of my present anguish.
It is as if a curtain had been drawn from
before my eyes, and, instead of prospects
of eternal life, the abyss of an ever open
grave yawned before me. Can we say of anything
that it exists when all passes away, when
time, with the speed of a storm, carries all
things onward,—and our transitory existence,
hurried along by the torrent, is either swallowed
up by the waves or dashed against the rocks?
There is not a moment but preys upon you,—and
upon all around you, not a moment in which
you do not yourself become a destroyer. The
most innocent walk deprives of life thousands
of poor insects: one step destroys the fabric
of the industrious ant, and converts a little
world into chaos. No: it is not the great
and rare calamities of the world, the floods
which sweep away whole villages, the earthquakes
which swallow up our towns, that affect me.
My heart is wasted by the thought of that
destructive power which lies concealed in
every part of universal nature. Nature has
formed nothing that does not consume itself,
and every object near it: so that, surrounded
by earth and air, and all the active powers,
I wander on my way with aching heart; and
the universe is to me a fearful monster, for
ever devouring its own offspring.
AUGUST 21.
In vain do I stretch out my arms toward her
when I awaken in the morning from my weary
slumbers. In vain do I seek for her at night
in my bed, when some innocent dream has happily
deceived me, and placed her near me in the
fields, when I have seized her hand and covered
it with countless kisses. And when I feel
for her in the half confusion of sleep, with
the happy sense that she is near, tears flow
from my oppressed heart; and, bereft of all
comfort, I weep over my future woes.
AUGUST 22.
What a misfortune, Wilhelm! My active spirits
have degenerated into contented indolence.
I cannot be idle, and yet I am unable to set
to work. I cannot think: I have no longer
any feeling for the beauties of nature, and
books are distasteful to me. Once we give
ourselves up, we are totally lost. Many a
time and oft I wish I were a common labourer;
that, awakening in the morning, I might have
but one prospect, one pursuit, one hope, for
the day which has dawned. I often envy Albert
when I see him buried in a heap of papers
and parchments, and I fancy I should be happy
were I in his place. Often impressed with
this feeling I have been on the point of writing
to you and to the minister, for the appointment
at the embassy, which you think I might obtain.
I believe I might procure it. The minister
has long shown a regard for me, and has frequently
urged me to seek employment. It is the business
of an hour only. Now and then the fable of
the horse recurs to me. Weary of liberty,
he suffered himself to be saddled and bridled,
and was ridden to death for his pains. I know
not what to determine upon. For is not this
anxiety for change the consequence of that
restless spirit which would pursue me equally
in every situation of life?
AUGUST 28.
If my ills would admit of any cure, they would
certainly be cured here. This is my birthday,
and early in the morning I received a packet
from Albert. Upon opening it, I found one
of the pink ribbons which Charlotte wore in
her dress the first time I saw her, and which
I had several times asked her to give me.
With it were two volumes in duodecimo of Wetstein's
"Homer," a book I had often wished for, to
save me the inconvenience of carrying the
large Ernestine edition with me upon my walks.
You see how they anticipate my wishes, how
well they understand all those little attentions
of friendship, so superior to the costly presents
of the great, which are humiliating. I kissed
the ribbon a thousand times, and in every
breath inhaled the remembrance of those happy
and irrevocable days which filled me with
the keenest joy. Such, Wilhelm, is our fate.
I do not murmur at it: the flowers of life
are but visionary. How many pass away, and
leave no trace behind—how few yield any
fruit—and the fruit itself, how rarely does
it ripen! And yet there are flowers enough!
and is it not strange, my friend, that we
should suffer the little that does really
ripen, to rot, decay, and perish unenjoyed?
Farewell! This is a glorious summer. I often
climb into the trees in Charlotte's orchard,
and shake down the pears that hang on the
highest branches. She stands below, and catches
them as they fall.
AUGUST 30.
Unhappy being that I am! Why do I thus deceive
myself? What is to come of all this wild,
aimless, endless passion? I cannot pray except
to her. My imagination sees nothing but her:
all surrounding objects are of no account,
except as they relate to her. In this dreamy
state I enjoy many happy hours, till at length
I feel compelled to tear myself away from
her. Ah, Wilhelm, to what does not my heart
often compel me! When I have spent several
hours in her company, till I feel completely
absorbed by her figure, her grace, the divine
expression of her thoughts, my mind becomes
gradually excited to the highest excess, my
sight grows dim, my hearing confused, my breathing
oppressed as if by the hand of a murderer,
and my beating heart seeks to obtain relief
for my aching senses. I am sometimes unconscious
whether I really exist. If in such moments
I find no sympathy, and Charlotte does not
allow me to enjoy the melancholy consolation
of bathing her hand with my tears, I feel
compelled to tear myself from her, when I
either wander through the country, climb some
precipitous cliff, or force a path through
the trackless thicket, where I am lacerated
and torn by thorns and briers; and thence
I find relief. Sometimes I lie stretched on
the ground, overcome with fatigue and dying
with thirst; sometimes, late in the night,
when the moon shines above me, I recline against
an aged tree in some sequestered forest, to
rest my weary limbs, when, exhausted and worn,
I sleep till break of day. O Wilhelm! the
hermit's cell, his sackcloth, and girdle of
thorns would be luxury and indulgence compared
with what I suffer. Adieu! I see no end to
this wretchedness except 
the grave.
SEPTEMBER 3.
I must away. Thank you, Wilhelm, for determining
my wavering purpose. For a whole fortnight
I have thought of leaving her. I must away.
She has returned to town, and is at the house
of a friend. And then, Albert—yes, I must
go.
SEPTEMBER 10.
Oh, what a night, Wilhelm! I can henceforth
bear anything. I shall never see her again.
Oh, why cannot I fall on your neck, and, with
floods of tears and raptures, give utterance
to all the passions which distract my heart!
Here I sit gasping for breath, and struggling
to compose myself. I wait for day, and at
sunrise the horses are to be at the door.
And she is sleeping calmly, little suspecting
that she has seen me for the last time. I
am free. I have had the courage, in an interview
of two hours' duration, not to betray my intention.
And O Wilhelm, what a conversation it was!
Albert had promised to come to Charlotte in
the garden immediately after supper. I was
upon the terrace under the tall chestnut trees,
and watched the setting sun. I saw him sink
for the last time beneath this delightful
valley and silent stream. I had often visited
the same spot with Charlotte, and witnessed
that glorious sight; and now—I was walking
up and down the very avenue which was so dear
to me. A secret sympathy had frequently drawn
me thither before I knew Charlotte; and we
were delighted when, in our early acquaintance,
we discovered that we each loved the same
spot, which is indeed as romantic as any that
ever captivated the fancy of an artist.
From beneath the chestnut trees, there is
an extensive view. But I remember that I have
mentioned all this in a former letter, and
have described the tall mass of beech trees
at the end, and how the avenue grows darker
and darker as it winds its way among them,
till it ends in a gloomy recess, which has
all the charm of a mysterious solitude. I
still remember the strange feeling of melancholy
which came over me the first time I entered
that dark retreat, at bright midday. I felt
some secret foreboding that it would, one
day, be to me the scene of some happiness
or misery.
I had spent half an hour struggling between
the contending thoughts of going and returning,
when I heard them coming up the terrace. I
ran to meet them. I trembled as I took her
hand, and kissed it. As we reached the top
of the terrace, the moon rose from behind
the wooded hill. We conversed on many subjects,
and, without perceiving it, approached the
gloomy recess. Charlotte entered, and sat
down. Albert seated himself beside her. I
did the same, but my agitation did not suffer
me to remain long seated. I got up, and stood
before her, then walked backward and forward,
and sat down again. I was restless and miserable.
Charlotte drew our attention to the beautiful
effect of the moonlight, which threw a silver
hue over the terrace in front of us, beyond
the beech trees. It was a glorious sight,
and was rendered more striking by the darkness
which surrounded the spot where we were. We
remained for some time silent, when Charlotte
observed, "Whenever I walk by moonlight, it
brings to my remembrance all my beloved and
departed friends, and I am filled with thoughts
of death and futurity. We shall live again,
Werther!" she continued, with a firm but feeling
voice; "but shall we know one another again
what do you think? what do you say?"
"Charlotte," I said, as I took her hand in
mine, and my eyes filled with tears, "we shall
see each other again—here and hereafter
we shall meet again." I could say no more.
Why, Wilhelm, should she put this question
to me, just at the moment when the fear of
our cruel separation filled my heart?
"And oh! do those departed ones know how we
are employed here? do they know when we are
well and happy? do they know when we recall
their memories with the fondest love? In the
silent hour of evening the shade of my mother
hovers around me; when seated in the midst
of my children, I see them assembled near
me, as they used to assemble near her; and
then I raise my anxious eyes to heaven, and
wish she could look down upon us, and witness
how I fulfil the promise I made to her in
her last moments, to be a mother to her children.
With what emotion do I then exclaim, 'Pardon,
dearest of mothers, pardon me, if I do not
adequately supply your place! Alas! I do my
utmost. They are clothed and fed; and, still
better, they are loved and educated. Could
you but see, sweet saint! the peace and harmony
that dwells amongst us, you would glorify
God with the warmest feelings of gratitude,
to whom, in your last hour, you addressed
such fervent prayers for our happiness.'"
Thus did she express herself; but O Wilhelm!
who can do justice to her language? how can
cold and passionless words convey the heavenly
expressions of the spirit? Albert interrupted
her gently. "This affects you too deeply,
my dear Charlotte. I know your soul dwells
on such recollections with intense delight;
but I implore—" "O Albert!" she continued,
"I am sure you do not forget the evenings
when we three used to sit at the little round
table, when papa was absent, and the little
ones had retired. You often had a good book
with you, but seldom read it; the conversation
of that noble being was preferable to everything,—that
beautiful, bright, gentle, and yet ever-toiling
woman. God alone knows how I have supplicated
with tears on my nightly couch, that I might
be like her."
I threw myself at her feet, and, seizing her
hand, bedewed it with a thousand tears. "Charlotte!"
I exclaimed, "God's blessing and your mother's
spirit are upon you." "Oh! that you had known
her," she said, with a warm pressure of the
hand. "She was worthy of being known to you."
I thought I should have fainted: never had
I received praise so flattering. She continued,
"And yet she was doomed to die in the flower
of her youth, when her youngest child was
scarcely six months old. Her illness was but
short, but she was calm and resigned; and
it was only for her children, especially the
youngest, that she felt unhappy. When her
end drew nigh, she bade me bring them to her.
I obeyed. The younger ones knew nothing of
their approaching loss, while the elder ones
were quite overcome with grief. They stood
around the bed; and she raised her feeble
hands to heaven, and prayed over them; then,
kissing them in turn, she dismissed them,
and said to me, 'Be you a mother to them.'
I gave her my hand. 'You are promising much,
my child,' she said: 'a mother's fondness
and a mother's care! I have often witnessed,
by your tears of gratitude, that you know
what is a mother's tenderness: show it to
your brothers and sisters, and be dutiful
and faithful to your father as a wife; you
will be his comfort.' She inquired for him.
He had retired to conceal his intolerable
anguish,—he was heartbroken, 'Albert, you
were in the room.' She heard some one moving:
she inquired who it was, and desired you to
approach. She surveyed us both with a look
of composure and satisfaction, expressive
of her conviction that we should be happy,—happy
with one another." Albert fell upon her neck,
and kissed her, and exclaimed, "We are so,
and we shall be so!" Even Albert, generally
so tranquil, had quite lost his composure;
and I was excited beyond expression.
"And such a being," She continued, "was to
leave us, Werther! Great God, must we thus
part with everything we hold dear in this
world? Nobody felt this more acutely than
the children: they cried and lamented for
a long time afterward, complaining that men
had carried away their dear mamma."
Charlotte rose. It aroused me; but I continued
sitting, and held her hand. "Let us go," she
said: "it grows late." She attempted to withdraw
her hand: I held it still. "We shall see each
other again," I exclaimed: "we shall recognise
each other under every possible change! I
am going," I continued, "going willingly;
but, should I say for ever, perhaps I may
not keep my word. Adieu, Charlotte; adieu,
Albert. We shall meet again." "Yes: tomorrow,
I think," she answered with a smile. Tomorrow!
how I felt the word! Ah! she little thought,
when she drew her hand away from mine. They
walked down the avenue. I stood gazing after
them in the moonlight. I threw myself upon
the ground, and wept: I then sprang up, and
ran out upon the terrace, and saw, under the
shade of the linden-trees, her white dress
disappearing near the garden-gate. I stretched
out my arms, and she vanished.
BOOK II.
OCTOBER 20.
We arrived here yesterday. The ambassador
is indisposed, and will not go out for some
days. If he were less peevish and morose,
all would be well. I see but too plainly that
Heaven has destined me to severe trials; but
courage! a light heart may bear anything.
A light heart! I smile to find such a word
proceeding from my pen. A little more lightheartedness
would render me the happiest being under the
sun. But must I despair of my talents and
faculties, whilst others of far inferior abilities
parade before me with the utmost self-satisfaction?
Gracious Providence, to whom I owe all my
powers, why didst thou not withhold some of
those blessings I possess, and substitute
in their place a feeling of self-confidence
and contentment?
But patience! all will yet be well; for I
assure you, my dear friend, you were right:
since I have been obliged to associate continually
with other people, and observe what they do,
and how they employ themselves, I have become
far better satisfied with myself. For we are
so constituted by nature, that we are ever
prone to compare ourselves with others; and
our happiness or misery depends very much
on the objects and persons around us. On this
account, nothing is more dangerous than solitude:
there our imagination, always disposed to
rise, taking a new flight on the wings of
fancy, pictures to us a chain of beings of
whom we seem the most inferior. All things
appear greater than they really are, and all
seem superior to us. This operation of the
mind is quite natural: we so continually feel
our own imperfections, and fancy we perceive
in others the qualities we do not possess,
attributing to them also all that we enjoy
ourselves, that by this process we form the
idea of a perfect, happy man,—a man, however,
who only exists in our own imagination.
But when, in spite of weakness and disappointments,
we set to work in earnest, and persevere steadily,
we often find, that, though obliged continually
to tack, we make more way than others who
have the assistance of wind and tide; and,
in truth, there can be no greater satisfaction
than to keep pace with others or outstrip
them in the race.
November 26.
I begin to find my situation here more tolerable,
considering all circumstances. I find a great
advantage in being much occupied; and the
number of persons I meet, and their different
pursuits, create a varied entertainment for
me. I have formed the acquaintance of the
Count C—and I esteem him more and more every
day. He is a man of strong understanding and
great discernment; but, though he sees farther
than other people, he is not on that account
cold in his manner, but capable of inspiring
and returning the warmest affection. He appeared
interested in me on one occasion, when I had
to transact some business with him. He perceived,
at the first word, that we understood each
other, and that he could converse with me
in a different tone from what he used with
others. I cannot sufficiently esteem his frank
and open kindness to me. It is the greatest
and most genuine of pleasures to observe a
great mind in sympathy with our own.
DECEMBER 24.
As I anticipated, the ambassador occasions
me infinite annoyance. He is the most punctilious
blockhead under heaven. He does everything
step by step, with the trifling minuteness
of an old woman; and he is a man whom it is
impossible to please, because he is never
pleased with himself. I like to do business
regularly and cheerfully, and, when it is
finished, to leave it. But he constantly returns
my papers to me, saying, "They will do," but
recommending me to look over them again, as
"one may always improve by using a better
word or a more appropriate particle." I then
lose all patience, and wish myself at the
devil's. Not a conjunction, not an adverb,
must be omitted: he has a deadly antipathy
to all those transpositions of which I am
so fond; and, if the music of our periods
is not tuned to the established, official
key, he cannot comprehend our meaning. It
is deplorable to be connected with such a
fellow.
My acquaintance with the Count C—is the
only compensation for such an evil. He told
me frankly, the other day, that he was much
displeased with the difficulties and delays
of the ambassador; that people like him are
obstacles, both to themselves and to others.
"But," added he, "one must submit, like a
traveller who has to ascend a mountain: if
the mountain was not there, the road would
be both shorter and pleasanter; but there
it is, and he must get over it."
The old man perceives the count's partiality
for me: this annoys him, and, he seizes every
opportunity to depreciate the count in my
hearing. I naturally defend him, and that
only makes matters worse. Yesterday he made
me indignant, for he also alluded to me. "The
count," he said, "is a man of the world, and
a good man of business: his style is good,
and he writes with facility; but, like other
geniuses, he has no solid learning." He looked
at me with an expression that seemed to ask
if I felt the blow. But it did not produce
the desired effect: I despise a man who can
think and act in such a manner. However, I
made a stand, and answered with not a little
warmth. The count, I said, was a man entitled
to respect, alike for his character and his
acquirements. I had never met a person whose
mind was stored with more useful and extensive
knowledge,—who had, in fact, mastered such
an infinite variety of subjects, and who yet
retained all his activity for the details
of ordinary business. This was altogether
beyond his comprehension; and I took my leave,
lest my anger should be too highly excited
by some new absurdity of his.
And you are to blame for all this, you who
persuaded me to bend my neck to this yoke
by preaching a life of activity to me. If
the man who plants vegetables, and carries
his corn to town on market-days, is not more
usefully employed than I am, then let me work
ten years longer at the galleys to which I
am now chained.
Oh, the brilliant wretchedness, the weariness,
that one is doomed to witness among the silly
people whom we meet in society here! The ambition
of rank! How they watch, how they toil, to
gain precedence! What poor and contemptible
passions are displayed in their utter nakedness!
We have a woman here, for example, who never
ceases to entertain the company with accounts
of her family and her estates. Any stranger
would consider her a silly being, whose head
was turned by her pretensions to rank and
property; but she is in reality even more
ridiculous, the daughter of a mere magistrate's
clerk from this neighbourhood. I cannot understand
how human beings can so debase themselves.
Every day I observe more and more the folly
of judging of others by ourselves; and I have
so much trouble with myself, and my own heart
is in such constant agitation, that I am well
content to let others pursue their own course,
if they only allow me the same privilege.
What provokes me most is the unhappy extent
to which distinctions of rank are carried.
I know perfectly well how necessary are inequalities
of condition, and I am sensible of the advantages
I myself derive therefrom; but I would not
have these institutions prove a barrier to
the small chance of happiness which I may
enjoy on this earth.
I have lately become acquainted with a Miss
B—, a very agreeable girl, who has retained
her natural manners in the midst of artificial
life. Our first conversation pleased us both
equally; and, at taking leave, I requested
permission to visit her. She consented in
so obliging a manner, that I waited with impatience
for the arrival of the happy moment. She is
not a native of this place, but resides here
with her aunt. The countenance of the old
lady is not prepossessing. I paid her much
attention, addressing the greater part of
my conversation to her; and, in less than
half an hour, I discovered what her niece
subsequently acknowledged to me, that her
aged aunt, having but a small fortune, and
a still smaller share of understanding, enjoys
no satisfaction except in the pedigree of
her ancestors, no protection save in her noble
birth, and no enjoyment but in looking from
her castle over the heads of the humble citizens.
She was, no doubt, handsome in her youth,
and in her early years probably trifled away
her time in rendering many a poor youth the
sport of her caprice: in her riper years she
has submitted to the yoke of a veteran officer,
who, in return for her person and her small
independence, has spent with her what we may
designate her age of brass. He is dead; and
she is now a widow, and deserted. She spends
her iron age alone, and would not be approached,
except for the loveliness of her niece.
JANUARY 8, 1772.
What beings are men, whose whole thoughts
are occupied with form and ceremony, who for
years together devote their mental and physical
exertions to the task of advancing themselves
but one step, and endeavouring to occupy a
higher place at the table. Not that such persons
would otherwise want employment: on the contrary,
they give themselves much trouble by neglecting
important business for such petty trifles.
Last week a question of precedence arose at
a sledging-party, and all our amusement was
spoiled.
The silly creatures cannot see that it is
not place which constitutes real greatness,
since the man who occupies the first place
but seldom plays the principal part. How many
kings are governed by their ministers—how
many ministers by their secretaries? Who,
in such cases, is really the chief? He, as
it seems to me, who can see through the others,
and possesses strength or skill enough to
make their power or passions subservient to
the execution of his own designs.
JANUARY 20.
I must write to you from this place, my dear
Charlotte, from a small room in a country
inn, where I have taken shelter from a severe
storm. During my whole residence in that wretched
place D—, where I lived amongst strangers,—strangers,
indeed, to this heart,—I never at any time
felt the smallest inclination to correspond
with you; but in this cottage, in this retirement,
in this solitude, with the snow and hail beating
against my lattice-pane, you are my first
thought. The instant I entered, your figure
rose up before me, and the remembrance! O
my Charlotte, the sacred, tender remembrance!
Gracious Heaven! restore to me the happy moment
of our first acquaintance.
Could you but see me, my dear Charlotte, in
the whirl of dissipation,—how my senses
are dried up, but my heart is at no time full.
I enjoy no single moment of happiness: all
is vain—nothing touches me. I stand, as
it were, before the raree-show: I see the
little puppets move, and I ask whether it
is not an optical illusion. I am amused with
these puppets, or, rather, I am myself one
of them: but, when I sometimes grasp my neighbour's
hand, I feel that it is not natural; and I
withdraw mine with a shudder. In the evening
I say I will enjoy the next morning's sunrise,
and yet I remain in bed: in the day I promise
to ramble by moonlight; and I, nevertheless,
remain at home. I know not why I rise, nor
why I go to sleep.
The leaven which animated my existence is
gone: the charm which cheered me in the gloom
of night, and aroused me from my morning slumbers,
is for ever fled.
I have found but one being here to interest
me, a Miss B—. She resembles you, my dear
Charlotte, if any one can possibly resemble
you. "Ah!" you will say, "he has learned how
to pay fine compliments." And this is partly
true. I have been very agreeable lately, as
it was not in my power to be otherwise. I
have, moreover, a deal of wit: and the ladies
say that no one understands flattery better,
or falsehoods you will add; since the one
accomplishment invariably accompanies the
other. But I must tell you of Miss B—. She
has abundance of soul, which flashes from
her deep blue eyes. Her rank is a torment
to her, and satisfies no one desire of her
heart. She would gladly retire from this whirl
of fashion, and we often picture to ourselves
a life of undisturbed happiness in distant
scenes of rural retirement: and then we speak
of you, my dear Charlotte; for she knows you,
and renders homage to your merits; but her
homage is not exacted, but voluntary, she
loves you, and delights to hear you made the
subject of conversation.
Oh, that I were sitting at your feet in your
favourite little room, with the dear children
playing around us! If they became troublesome
to you, I would tell them some appalling goblin
story; and they would crowd round me with
silent attention. The sun is setting in glory;
his last rays are shining on the snow, which
covers the face of the country: the storm
is over, and I must return to my dungeon.
Adieu!—Is Albert with you? and what is he
to you? God forgive the question.
FEBRUARY 8.
For a week past we have had the most wretched
weather: but this to me is a blessing; for,
during my residence here, not a single fine
day has beamed from the heavens, but has been
lost to me by the intrusion of somebody. During
the severity of rain, sleet, frost, and storm,
I congratulate myself that it cannot be worse
indoors than abroad, nor worse abroad than
it is within doors; and so I become reconciled.
When the sun rises bright in the morning,
and promises a glorious day, I never omit
to exclaim, "There, now, they have another
blessing from Heaven, which they will be sure
to destroy: they spoil everything,—health,
fame, happiness, amusement; and they do this
generally through folly, ignorance, or imbecility,
and always, according to their own account,
with the best intentions!" I could often beseech
them, on my bended knees, to be less resolved
upon their own destruction.
FEBRUARY 17.
I fear that my ambassador and I shall not
continue much longer together. He is really
growing past endurance. He transacts his business
in so ridiculous a manner, that I am often
compelled to contradict him, and do things
my own way; and then, of course, he thinks
them very ill done. He complained of me lately
on this account at court; and the minister
gave me a reprimand,—a gentle one it is
true, but still a reprimand. In consequence
of this, I was about to tender my resignation,
when I received a letter, to which I submitted
with great respect, on account of the high,
noble, and generous spirit which dictated
it. He endeavoured to soothe my excessive
sensibility, paid a tribute to my extreme
ideas of duty, of good example, and of perseverance
in business, as the fruit of my youthful ardour,
an impulse which he did not seek to destroy,
but only to moderate, that it might have proper
play and be productive of good. So now I am
at rest for another week, and no longer at
variance with myself. Content and peace of
mind are valuable things: I could wish, my
dear friend, that these precious jewels were
less transitory.
FEBRUARY 20.
God bless you, my dear friends, and may he
grant you that happiness which he denies to
me!
I thank you, Albert, for having deceived me.
I waited for the news that your wedding-day
was fixed; and I intended on that day, with
solemnity, to take down Charlotte's profile
from the wall, and to bury it with some other
papers I possess. You are now united, and
her picture still remains here. Well, let
it remain! Why should it not? I know that
I am still one of your society, that I still
occupy a place uninjured in Charlotte's heart,
that I hold the second place therein; and
I intend to keep it. Oh, I should become mad
if she could forget! Albert, that thought
is hell! Farewell, Albert farewell, angel
of heaven farewell, Charlotte!
MARCH 15.
I 
have just had a sad adventure, which will
drive me away from here. I lose all patience!—Death!—It
is not to be remedied; and you alone are to
blame, for you urged and impelled me to fill
a post for which I was by no means suited.
I have now reason to be satisfied, and so
have you! But, that you may not again attribute
this fatality to my impetuous temper, I send
you, my dear sir, a plain and simple narration
of the affair, as a mere chronicler of facts
would describe it.
The Count of O—likes and distinguishes me.
It is well known, and I have mentioned this
to you a hundred times. Yesterday I dined
with him. It is the day on which the nobility
are accustomed to assemble at his house in
the evening. I never once thought of the assembly,
nor that we subalterns did not belong to such
society. Well, I dined with the count; and,
after dinner, we adjourned to the large hall.
We walked up and down together: and I conversed
with him, and with Colonel B—, who joined
us; and in this manner the hour for the assembly
approached. God knows, I was thinking of nothing,
when who should enter but the honourable Lady
accompanied by her noble husband and their
silly, scheming daughter, with her small waist
and flat neck; and, with disdainful looks
and a haughty air they passed me by. As I
heartily detest the whole race, I determined
upon going away; and only waited till the
count had disengaged himself from their impertinent
prattle, to take leave, when the agreeable
Miss B—came in. As I never meet her without
experiencing a heartfelt pleasure, I stayed
and talked to her, leaning over the back of
her chair, and did not perceive, till after
some time, that she seemed a little confused,
and ceased to answer me with her usual ease
of manner. I was struck with it. "Heavens!"
I said to myself, "can she, too, be like the
rest?" I felt annoyed, and was about to withdraw;
but I remained, notwithstanding, forming excuses
for her conduct, fancying she did not mean
it, and still hoping to receive some friendly
recognition. The rest of the company now arrived.
There was the Baron F—, in an entire suit
that dated from the coronation of Francis
I.; the Chancellor N—, with his deaf wife;
the shabbily-dressed I—, whose old-fashioned
coat bore evidence of modern repairs: this
crowned the whole. I conversed with some of
my acquaintances, but they answered me laconically.
I was engaged in observing Miss B—, and
did not notice that the women were whispering
at the end of the room, that the murmur extended
by degrees to the men, that Madame S—addressed
the count with much warmth (this was all related
to me subsequently by Miss B—); till at
length the count came up to me, and took me
to the window. "You know our ridiculous customs,"
he said. "I perceive the company is rather
displeased at your being here. I would not
on any account—" "I beg your excellency's
pardon!" I exclaimed. "I ought to have thought
of this before, but I know you will forgive
this little inattention. I was going," I added,
"some time ago, but my evil genius detained
me." And I smiled and bowed, to take my leave.
He shook me by the hand, in a manner which
expressed everything. I hastened at once from
the illustrious assembly, sprang into a carriage,
and drove to M—. I contemplated the setting
sun from the top of the hill, and read that
beautiful passage in Homer, where Ulysses
is entertained by the hospitable herdsmen.
This was indeed delightful.
I returned home to supper in the evening.
But few persons were assembled in the room.
They had turned up a corner of the table-cloth,
and were playing at dice. The good-natured
A—came in. He laid down his hat when he
saw me, approached me, and said in a low tone,
"You have met with a disagreeable adventure."
"I!" I exclaimed. "The count obliged you to
withdraw from the assembly!" "Deuce take the
assembly!" said I. "I was very glad to be
gone." "I am delighted," he added, "that you
take it so lightly. I am only sorry that it
is already so much spoken of." The circumstance
then began to pain me. I fancied that every
one who sat down, and even looked at me, was
thinking of this incident; and my heart became
embittered.
And now I could plunge a dagger into my bosom,
when I hear myself everywhere pitied, and
observe the triumph of my enemies, who say
that this is always the case with vain persons,
whose heads are turned with conceit, who affect
to despise forms and such petty, idle nonsense.
Say what you will of fortitude, but show me
the man who can patiently endure the laughter
of fools, when they have obtained an advantage
over him. 'Tis only when their nonsense is
without foundation that one can suffer it
without complaint.
March 16.
Everything conspires against me. I met Miss
B—walking to-day. I could not help joining
her; and, when we were at a little distance
from her companions, I expressed my sense
of her altered manner toward me. "O Werther!"
she said, in a tone of emotion, "you, who
know my heart, how could you so ill interpret
my distress? What did I not suffer for you,
from the moment you entered the room! I foresaw
it all, a hundred times was I on the point
of mentioning it to you. I knew that the S——s
and T——s, with their husbands, would quit
the room, rather than remain in your company.
I knew that the count would not break with
them: and now so much is said about it." "How!"
I exclaimed, and endeavoured to conceal my
emotion; for all that Adelin had mentioned
to me yesterday recurred to me painfully at
that moment. "Oh, how much it has already
cost me!" said this amiable girl, while her
eyes filled with tears. I could scarcely contain
myself, and was ready to throw myself at her
feet. "Explain yourself!" I cried. Tears flowed
down her cheeks. I became quite frantic. She
wiped them away, without attempting to conceal
them. "You know my aunt," she continued; "she
was present: and in what light does she consider
the affair! Last night, and this morning,
Werther, I was compelled to listen to a lecture
upon my acquaintance with you. I have been
obliged to hear you condemned and depreciated;
and I could not—I dared not—say much in
your defence."
Every word she uttered was a dagger to my
heart. She did not feel what a mercy it would
have been to conceal everything from me. She
told me, in addition, all the impertinence
that would be further circulated, and how
the malicious would triumph; how they would
rejoice over the punishment of my pride, over
my humiliation for that want of esteem for
others with which I had often been reproached.
To hear all this, Wilhelm, uttered by her
in a voice of the most sincere sympathy, awakened
all my passions; and I am still in a state
of extreme excitement. I wish I could find
a man to jeer me about this event. I would
sacrifice him to my resentment. The sight
of his blood might possibly be a relief to
my fury. A hundred times have I seized a dagger,
to give ease to this oppressed heart. Naturalists
tell of a noble race of horses that instinctively
open a vein with their teeth, when heated
and exhausted by a long course, in order to
breathe more freely. I am often tempted to
open a vein, to procure for myself everlasting
liberty.
MARCH 24.
I have tendered my resignation to the court.
I hope it will be accepted, and you will forgive
me for not having previously consulted you.
It is necessary I should leave this place.
I know all you will urge me to stay, and therefore
I beg you will soften this news to my mother.
I am unable to do anything for myself: how,
then, should I be competent to assist others?
It will afflict her that I should have interrupted
that career which would have made me first
a privy councillor, and then minister, and
that I should look behind me, in place of
advancing. Argue as you will, combine all
the reasons which should have induced me to
remain, I am going: that is sufficient. But,
that you may not be ignorant of my destination,
I may mention that the Prince of—is here.
He is much pleased with my company; and, having
heard of my intention to resign, he has invited
me to his country house, to pass the spring
months with him. I shall be left completely
my own master; and, as we agree on all subjects
but one, I shall try my fortune, and accompany
him.
APRIL 19.
Thanks for both your letters. I delayed my
reply, and withheld this letter, till I should
obtain an answer from the court. I feared
my mother might apply to the minister to defeat
my purpose. But my request is granted, my
resignation is accepted. I shall not recount
with what reluctance it was accorded, nor
relate what the minister has written: you
would only renew your lamentations. The crown
prince has sent me a present of five and twenty
ducats; and, indeed, such goodness has affected
me to tears. For this reason I shall not require
from my mother the money for which I lately
applied.
MAY 5.
I leave this place to-morrow; and, as my native
place is only six miles from the high road,
I intend to visit it once more, and recall
the happy dreams of my childhood. I shall
enter at the same gate through which I came
with my mother, when, after my father's death,
she left that delightful retreat to immure
herself in your melancholy town. Adieu, my
dear friend: you shall hear of my future career.
MAY 9.
I have paid my visit to my native place with
all the devotion of a pilgrim, and have experienced
many unexpected emotions. Near the great elm
tree, which is a quarter of a league from
the village, I got out of the carriage, and
sent it on before, that alone, and on foot,
I might enjoy vividly and heartily all the
pleasure of my recollections. I stood there
under that same elm which was formerly the
term and object of my walks. How things have
since changed! Then, in happy ignorance, I
sighed for a world I did not know, where I
hoped to find every pleasure and enjoyment
which my heart could desire; and now, on my
return from that wide world, O my friend,
how many disappointed hopes and unsuccessful
plans have I brought back!
As I contemplated the mountains which lay
stretched out before me, I thought how often
they had been the object of my dearest desires.
Here used I to sit for hours together with
my eyes bent upon them, ardently longing to
wander in the shade of those woods, to lose
myself in those valleys, which form so delightful
an object in the distance. With what reluctance
did I leave this charming spot; when my hour
of recreation was over, and my leave of absence
expired! I drew near to the village: all the
well-known old summerhouses and gardens were
recognised again; I disliked the new ones,
and all other alterations which had taken
place. I entered the village, and all my former
feelings returned. I cannot, my dear friend,
enter into details, charming as were my sensations:
they would be dull in the narration. I had
intended to lodge in the market-place, near
our old house. As soon as I entered, I perceived
that the schoolroom, where our childhood had
been taught by that good old woman, was converted
into a shop. I called to mind the sorrow,
the heaviness, the tears, and oppression of
heart, which I experienced in that confinement.
Every step produced some particular impression.
A pilgrim in the Holy Land does not meet so
many spots pregnant with tender recollections,
and his soul is hardly moved with greater
devotion. One incident will serve for illustration.
I followed the course of a stream to a farm,
formerly a delightful walk of mine, and paused
at the spot, where, when boys, we used to
amuse ourselves making ducks and drakes upon
the water. I recollected so well how I used
formerly to watch the course of that same
stream, following it with inquiring eagerness,
forming romantic ideas of the countries it
was to pass through; but my imagination was
soon exhausted: while the water continued
flowing farther and farther on, till my fancy
became bewildered by the contemplation of
an invisible distance. Exactly such, my dear
friend, so happy and so confined, were the
thoughts of our good ancestors. Their feelings
and their poetry were fresh as childhood.
And, when Ulysses talks of the immeasurable
sea and boundless earth, his epithets are
true, natural, deeply felt, and mysterious.
Of what importance is it that I have learned,
with every schoolboy, that the world is round?
Man needs but little earth for enjoyment,
and still less for his final repose.
I am at present with the prince at his hunting
lodge. He is a man with whom one can live
happily. He is honest and unaffected. There
are, however, some strange characters about
him, whom I cannot at all understand. They
do not seem vicious, and yet they do not carry
the appearance of thoroughly honest men. Sometimes
I am disposed to believe them honest, and
yet I cannot persuade myself to confide in
them. It grieves me to hear the prince occasionally
talk of things which he has only read or heard
of, and always with the same view in which
they have been represented by others.
He values my understanding and talents more
highly than my heart, but I am proud of the
latter only. It is the sole source of everything
of our strength, happiness, and misery. All
the knowledge I possess every one else can
acquire, but my heart is exclusively my own.
MAY 25.
I have had a plan in my head of which I did
not intend to speak to you until it was accomplished:
now that it has failed, I may as well mention
it. I wished to enter the army, and had long
been desirous of taking the step. This, indeed,
was the chief reason for my coming here with
the prince, as he is a general in the service.
I communicated my design to him during one
of our walks together. He disapproved of it,
and it would have been actual madness not
to have listened to his reasons.
JUNE 11.
Say what you will, I can remain here no longer.
Why should I remain? Time hangs heavy upon
my hands. The prince is as gracious to me
as any one could be, and yet I am not at my
ease. There is, indeed, nothing in common
between us. He is a man of understanding,
but quite of the ordinary kind. His conversation
affords me no more amusement than I should
derive from the perusal of a well-written
book. I shall remain here a week longer, and
then start again on my travels. My drawings
are the best things I have done since I came
here. The prince has a taste for the arts,
and would improve if his mind were not fettered
by cold rules and mere technical ideas. I
often lose patience, when, with a glowing
imagination, I am giving expression to art
and nature, he interferes with learned suggestions,
and uses at random the technical phraseology
of artists.
JULY 16.
Once more I am a wanderer, a pilgrim, through
the world. But what else are you!
JULY 18.
Whither am I going? I will tell you in confidence.
I am obliged to continue a fortnight longer
here, and then I think it would be better
for me to visit the mines in—. But I am
only deluding myself thus. The fact is, I
wish to be near Charlotte again, that is all.
I smile at the suggestions of my heart, and
obey its dictates.
JULY 29.
No, no! it is yet well all is well! I her
husband! O God, who gave me being, if thou
hadst destined this happiness for me, my whole
life would have been one continual thanksgiving!
But I will not murmur—forgive these tears,
forgive these fruitless wishes. She—my wife!
Oh, the very thought of folding that dearest
of Heaven's creatures in my arms! Dear Wilhelm,
my whole frame feels convulsed when I see
Albert put his arms around her slender waist!
And shall I avow it? Why should I not, Wilhelm?
She would have been happier with me than with
him. Albert is not the man to satisfy the
wishes of such a heart. He wants a certain
sensibility; he wants—in short, their hearts
do not beat in unison. How often, my dear
friend, I'm reading a passage from some interesting
book, when my heart and Charlotte's seemed
to meet, and in a hundred other instances
when our sentiments were unfolded by the story
of some fictitious character, have I felt
that we were made for each other! But, dear
Wilhelm, he loves her with his whole soul;
and what does not such a love deserve?
I have been interrupted by an insufferable
visit. I have dried my tears, and composed
my thoughts. Adieu, my best friend!
AUGUST 4.
I am not alone unfortunate. All men are disappointed
in their hopes, and deceived in their expectations.
I have paid a visit to my good old woman under
the lime-trees. The eldest boy ran out to
meet me: his exclamation of joy brought out
his mother, but she had a very melancholy
look. Her first word was, "Alas! dear sir,
my little John is dead." He was the youngest
of her children. I was silent. "And my husband
has returned from Switzerland without any
money; and, if some kind people had not assisted
him, he must have begged his way home. He
was taken ill with fever on his journey."
I could answer nothing, but made the little
one a present. She invited me to take some
fruit: I complied, and left the place with
a sorrowful heart.
AUGUST 21.
My sensations are constantly changing. Sometimes
a happy prospect opens before me; but alas!
it is only for a moment; and then, when I
am lost in reverie, I cannot help saying to
myself, "If Albert were to die?—Yes, she
would become—and I should be"—and so I
pursue a chimera, till it leads me to the
edge of a precipice at which I shudder.
When I pass through the same gate, and walk
along the same road which first conducted
me to Charlotte, my heart sinks within me
at the change that has since taken place.
All, all, is altered! No sentiment, no pulsation
of my heart, is the same. My sensations are
such as would occur to some departed prince
whose spirit should return to visit the superb
palace which he had built in happy times,
adorned with costly magnificence, and left
to a beloved son, but whose glory he should
find departed, and its halls deserted and
in ruins.
SEPTEMBER 3.
I sometimes cannot understand how she can
love another, how she dares love another,
when I love nothing in this world so completely,
so devotedly, as I love her, when I know only
her, and have no other possession.
SEPTEMBER 4.
It is even so! As nature puts on her autumn
tints it becomes autumn with me and around
me. My leaves are sere and yellow, and the
neighbouring trees are divested of their foliage.
Do you remember my writing to you about a
peasant boy shortly after my arrival here?
I have just made inquiries about him in Walheim.
They say he has been dismissed from his service,
and is now avoided by every one. I met him
yesterday on the road, going to a neighbouring
village. I spoke to him, and he told me his
story. It interested me exceedingly, as you
will easily understand when I repeat it to
you. But why should I trouble you? Why should
I not reserve all my sorrow for myself? Why
should I continue to give you occasion to
pity and blame me? But no matter: this also
is part of my destiny.
At first the peasant lad answered my inquiries
with a sort of subdued melancholy, which seemed
to me the mark of a timid disposition; but,
as we grew to understand each other, he spoke
with less reserve, and openly confessed his
faults, and lamented his misfortune. I wish,
my dear friend, I could give proper expression
to his language. He told me with a sort of
pleasurable recollection, that, after my departure,
his passion for his mistress increased daily,
until at last he neither knew what he did
nor what he said, nor what was to become of
him. He could neither eat nor drink nor sleep:
he felt a sense of suffocation; he disobeyed
all orders, and forgot all commands involuntarily;
he seemed as if pursued by an evil spirit,
till one day, knowing that his mistress had
gone to an upper chamber, he had followed,
or, rather, been drawn after her. As she proved
deaf to his entreaties, he had recourse to
violence. He knows not what happened; but
he called God to witness that his intentions
to her were honourable, and that he desired
nothing more sincerely than that they should
marry, and pass their lives together. When
he had come to this point, he began to hesitate,
as if there was something which he had not
courage to utter, till at length he acknowledged
with some confusion certain little confidences
she had encouraged, and liberties she had
allowed. He broke off two or three times in
his narration, and assured me most earnestly
that he had no wish to make her bad, as he
termed it, for he loved her still as sincerely
as ever; that the tale had never before escaped
his lips, and was only now told to convince
me that he was not utterly lost and abandoned.
And here, my dear friend, I must commence
the old song which you know I utter eternally.
If I could only represent the man as he stood,
and stands now before me, could I only give
his true expressions, you would feel compelled
to sympathise in his fate. But enough: you,
who know my misfortune and my disposition,
can easily comprehend the attraction which
draws me toward every unfortunate being, but
particularly toward him whose story I have
recounted.
On perusing this letter a second time, I find
I have omitted the conclusion of my tale;
but it is easily supplied. She became reserved
toward him, at the instigation of her brother
who had long hated him, and desired his expulsion
from the house, fearing that his sister's
second marriage might deprive his children
of the handsome fortune they expected from
her; as she is childless. He was dismissed
at length; and the whole affair occasioned
so much scandal, that the mistress dared not
take him back, even if she had wished it.
She has since hired another servant, with
whom, they say, her brother is equally displeased,
and whom she is likely to marry; but my informant
assures me that he himself is determined not
to survive such a catastrophe.
This story is neither exaggerated nor embellished:
indeed, I have weakened and impaired it in
the narration, by the necessity of using the
more refined expressions of society.
This love, then, this constancy, this passion,
is no poetical fiction. It is actual, and
dwells in its greatest purity amongst that
class of mankind whom we term rude, uneducated.
We are the educated, not the perverted. But
read this story with attention, I implore
you. I am tranquil to-day, for I have been
employed upon this narration: you see by my
writing that I am not so agitated as usual.
I read and re-read this tale, Wilhelm: it
is the history of your friend! My fortune
has been and will be similar; and I am neither
half so brave nor half so determined as the
poor wretch with whom I hesitate to compare
myself.
SEPTEMBER 5.
Charlotte had written a letter to her husband
in the country, where he was detained by business.
It commenced, "My dearest love, return as
soon as possible: I await you with a thousand
raptures." A friend who arrived, brought word,
that, for certain reasons, he could not return
immediately. Charlotte's letter was not forwarded,
and the same evening it fell into my hands.
I read it, and smiled. She asked the reason.
"What a heavenly treasure is imagination:"
I exclaimed; "I fancied for a moment that
this was written to me." She paused, and seemed
displeased. I was silent.
SEPTEMBER 6.
It cost me much to part with the blue coat
which I wore the first time I danced with
Charlotte. But I could not possibly wear it
any longer. But I have ordered a new one,
precisely similar, even to the collar and
sleeves, as well as a new waistcoat and pantaloons.
But it does not produce the same effect upon
me. I know not how it is, but I hope in time
I shall like it better.
SEPTEMBER 12.
She has been absent for some days. She went
to meet Albert. To-day I visited her: she
rose to receive me, and I kissed her hand
most tenderly.
A canary at the moment flew from a mirror,
and settled upon her shoulder. "Here is a
new friend," she observed, while she made
him perch upon her hand: "he is a present
for the children. What a dear he is! Look
at him! When I feed him, he flutters with
his wings, and pecks so nicely. He kisses
me, too, only look!"
She held the bird to her mouth; and he pressed
her sweet lips with so much fervour that he
seemed to feel the excess of bliss which he
enjoyed.
"He shall kiss you too," she added; and then
she held the bird toward me. His little beak
moved from her mouth to mine, and the delightful
sensation seemed like the forerunner of the
sweetest bliss.
"A kiss," I observed, "does not seem to satisfy
him: he wishes for food, and seems disappointed
by these unsatisfactory endearments."
"But he eats out of my mouth," she continued,
and extended her lips to him containing seed;
and she smiled with all the charm of a being
who has allowed an innocent participation
of her love.
I turned my face away. She should not act
thus. She ought not to excite my imagination
with such displays of heavenly innocence and
happiness, nor awaken my heart from its slumbers,
in which it dreams of the worthlessness of
life! And why not? Because she knows how much
I love her.
SEPTEMBER 15.
It makes me wretched, Wilhelm, to think that
there should be men incapable of appreciating
the few things which possess a real value
in life. You remember the walnut trees at
S—, under which I used to sit with Charlotte,
during my visits to the worthy old vicar.
Those glorious trees, the very sight of which
has so often filled my heart with joy, how
they adorned and refreshed the parsonage yard,
with their wide-extended branches! and how
pleasing was our remembrance of the good old
pastor, by whose hands they were planted so
many years ago: The schoolmaster has frequently
mentioned his name. He had it from his grandfather.
He must have been a most excellent man; and,
under the shade of those old trees, his memory
was ever venerated by me. The schoolmaster
informed us yesterday, with tears in his eyes,
that those trees had been felled. Yes, cut
to the ground! I could, in my wrath, have
slain the monster who struck the first stroke.
And I must endure this!—I, who, if I had
had two such trees in my own court, and one
had died from old age, should have wept with
real affliction. But there is some comfort
left, such a thing is sentiment, the whole
village murmurs at the misfortune; and I hope
the vicar's wife will soon find, by the cessation
of the villagers' presents, how much she has
wounded the feelings of the neighborhhood.
It was she who did it, the wife of the present
incumbent (our good old man is dead), a tall,
sickly creature who is so far right to disregard
the world, as the world totally disregards
her. The silly being affects to be learned,
pretends to examine the canonical books, lends
her aid toward the new-fashioned reformation
of Christendom, moral and critical, and shrugs
up her shoulders at the mention of Lavater's
enthusiasm. Her health is destroyed, on account
of which she is prevented from having any
enjoyment here below. Only such a creature
could have cut down my walnut trees! I can
never pardon it. Hear her reasons. The falling
leaves made the court wet and dirty; the branches
obstructed the light; boys threw stones at
the nuts when they were ripe, and the noise
affected her nerves; and disturbed her profound
meditations, when she was weighing the difficulties
of Kennicot, Semler, and Michaelis. Finding
that all the parish, particularly the old
people, were displeased, I asked "why they
allowed it?" "Ah, sir!" they replied, "when
the steward orders, what can we poor peasants
do?" But one thing has happened well. The
steward and the vicar (who, for once, thought
to reap some advantage from the caprices of
his wife) intended to divide the trees between
them. The revenue-office, being informed of
it, revived an old claim to the ground where
the trees had stood, and sold them to the
best bidder. There they still lie on the ground.
If I were the sovereign, I should know how
to deal with them all, vicar, steward, and
revenue-office. Sovereign, did I say? I should,
in that case, care little about the trees
that grew in the country.
OCTOBER 10.
Only to gaze upon her dark eyes is to me a
source of happiness! And what grieves me,
is, that Albert does not seem so happy as
he—hoped to be—as I should have been—if—I
am no friend to these pauses, but here I cannot
express it otherwise; and probably I am explicit
enough.
OCTOBER 12.
Ossian has superseded Homer in my heart. To
what a world does the illustrious bard carry
me! To wander over pathless wilds, surrounded
by impetuous whirlwinds, where, by the feeble
light of the moon, we see the spirits of our
ancestors; to hear from the mountain-tops,
mid the roar of torrents, their plaintive
sounds issuing from deep caverns, and the
sorrowful lamentations of a maiden who sighs
and expires on the mossy tomb of the warrior
by whom she was adored. I meet this bard with
silver hair; he wanders in the valley; he
seeks the footsteps of his fathers, and, alas!
he finds only their tombs. Then, contemplating
the pale moon, as she sinks beneath the waves
of the rolling sea, the memory of bygone days
strikes the mind of the hero, days when approaching
danger invigorated the brave, and the moon
shone upon his bark laden with spoils, and
returning in triumph. When I read in his countenance
deep sorrow, when I see his dying glory sink
exhausted into the grave, as he inhales new
and heart-thrilling delight from his approaching
union with his beloved, and he casts a look
on the cold earth and the tall grass which
is so soon to cover him, and then exclaims,
"The traveller will come,—he will come who
has seen my beauty, and he will ask, 'Where
is the bard, where is the illustrious son
of Fingal?' He will walk over my tomb, and
will seek me in vain!" Then, O my friend,
I could instantly, like a true and noble knight,
draw my sword, and deliver my prince from
the long and painful languor of a living death,
and dismiss my own soul to follow the demigod
whom my hand had set free!
OCTOBER 19.
Alas! the void the fearful void, which I feel
in my bosom! Sometimes I think, if I could
only once but once, press her to my heart,
this dreadful void would be filled.
OCTOBER 26.
Yes, I feel certain, Wilhelm, and every day
I become more certain, that the existence
of any being whatever is of very little consequence.
A friend of Charlotte's called to see her
just now. I withdrew into a neighbouring apartment,
and took up a book; but, finding I could not
read, I sat down to write. I heard them converse
in an undertone: they spoke upon indifferent
topics, and retailed the news of the town.
One was going to be married; another was ill,
very ill, she had a dry cough, her face was
growing thinner daily, and she had occasional
fits. "N—is very unwell too," said Charlotte.
"His limbs begin to swell already," answered
the other; and my lively imagination carried
me at once to the beds of the infirm. There
I see them struggling against death, with
all the agonies of pain and horror; and these
women, Wilhelm, talk of all this with as much
indifference as one would mention the death
of a stranger. And when I look around the
apartment where I now am—when I see Charlotte's
apparel lying before me, and Albert's writings,
and all those articles of furniture which
are so familiar to me, even to the very inkstand
which I am using,—when I think what I am
to this family—everything. My friends esteem
me; I often contribute to their happiness,
and my heart seems as if it could not beat
without them; and yet—-if I were to die,
if I were to be summoned from the midst of
this circle, would they feel—or how long
would they feel the void which my loss would
make in their existence? How long! Yes, such
is the frailty of man, that even there, where
he has the greatest consciousness of his own
being, where he makes the strongest and most
forcible impression, even in the memory, in
the heart, of his beloved, there also he must
perish,—vanish,—and that quickly.
OCTOBER 27.
I could tear open my bosom with vexation to
think how little we are capable of influencing
the feelings of each other. No one can communicate
to me those sensations of love, joy, rapture,
and delight which I do not naturally possess;
and, though my heart may glow with the most
lively affection, I cannot make the happiness
of one in whom the same warmth is not inherent.
OCTOBER 27: Evening.
I possess so much, but my love for her absorbs
it all. I possess so much, but without her
I have nothing.
OCTOBER 30.
One hundred times have I been on the point
of embracing her. Heavens! what a torment
it is to see so much loveliness passing and
repassing before us, and yet not dare to lay
hold of it! And laying hold is the most natural
of human instincts. Do not children touch
everything they see? And I!
NOVEMBER 3.
Witness, Heaven, how often I lie down in my
bed with a wish, and even a hope, that I may
never awaken again. And in the morning, when
I open my eyes, I behold the sun once more,
and am wretched. If I were whimsical, I might
blame the weather, or an acquaintance, or
some personal disappointment, for my discontented
mind; and then this insupportable load of
trouble would not rest entirely upon myself.
But, alas! I feel it too sadly. I am alone
the cause of my own woe, am I not? Truly,
my own bosom contains the source of all my
sorrow, as it previously contained the source
of all my pleasure. Am I not the same being
who once enjoyed an excess of happiness, who,
at every step, saw paradise open before him,
and whose heart was ever expanded toward the
whole world? And this heart is now dead, no
sentiment can revive it; my eyes are dry;
and my senses, no more refreshed by the influence
of soft tears, wither and consume my brain.
I suffer much, for I have lost the only charm
of life: that active, sacred power which created
worlds around me,—it is no more. When I
look from my window at the distant hills,
and behold the morning sun breaking through
the mists, and illuminating the country around,
which is still wrapped in silence, whilst
the soft stream winds gently through the willows,
which have shed their leaves; when glorious
nature displays all her beauties before me,
and her wondrous prospects are ineffectual
to extract one tear of joy from my withered
heart, I feel that in such a moment I stand
like a reprobate before heaven, hardened,
insensible, and unmoved. Oftentimes do I then
bend my knee to the earth, and implore God
for the blessing of tears, as the desponding
labourer in some scorching climate prays for
the dews of heaven to moisten his parched
corn.
But I feel that God does not grant sunshine
or rain to our importunate entreaties. And
oh, those bygone days, whose memory now torments
me! why were they so fortunate? Because I
then waited with patience for the blessings
of the Eternal, and received his gifts with
the grateful feelings of a thankful heart.
NOVEMBER 8.
Charlotte has reproved me for my excesses,
with so much tenderness and goodness! I have
lately been in the habit of drinking more
wine than heretofore. "Don't do it," she said.
"Think of Charlotte!" "Think of you!" I answered;
"need you bid me do so? Think of you—I do
not think of you: you are ever before my soul!
This very morning I sat on the spot where,
a few days ago, you descended from the carriage,
and—" She immediately changed the subject
to prevent me from pursuing it farther. My
dear friend, my energies are all prostrated:
she can do with me what she pleases.
NOVEMBER 15.
I thank you, Wilhelm, for your cordial sympathy,
for your excellent advice; and I implore you
to be quiet. Leave me to my sufferings. In
spite of my wretchedness, I have still strength
enough for endurance. I revere religion—you
know I do. I feel that it can impart strength
to the feeble and comfort to the afflicted,
but does it affect all men equally? Consider
this vast universe: you will see thousands
for whom it has never existed, thousands for
whom it will never exist, whether it be preached
to them, or not; and must it, then, necessarily
exist for me? Does not the Son of God himself
say that they are his whom the Father has
given to him? Have I been given to him? What
if the Father will retain me for himself,
as my heart sometimes suggests? I pray you,
do not misinterpret this. Do not extract derision
from my harmless words. I pour out my whole
soul before you. Silence were otherwise preferable
to me, but I need not shrink from a subject
of which few know more than I do myself. What
is the destiny of man, but to fill up the
measure of his sufferings, and to drink his
allotted cup of bitterness? And if that same
cup proved bitter to the God of heaven, under
a human form, why should I affect a foolish
pride, and call it sweet? Why should I be
ashamed of shrinking at that fearful moment,
when my whole being will tremble between existence
and annihilation, when a remembrance of the
past, like a flash of lightning, will illuminate
the dark gulf of futurity, when everything
shall dissolve around me, and the whole world
vanish away? Is not this the voice of a creature
oppressed beyond all resource, self-deficient,
about to plunge into inevitable destruction,
and groaning deeply at its inadequate strength,
"My God! my God! why hast thou forsaken me?"
And should I feel ashamed to utter the same
expression? Should I not shudder at a prospect
which had its fears, even for him who folds
up the heavens like a garment?
NOVEMBER 21.
She does not feel, she does not know, that
she is preparing a poison which will destroy
us both; and I drink deeply of the draught
which is to prove my destruction. What mean
those looks of kindness with which she often—often?
no, not often, but sometimes, regards me,
that complacency with which she hears the
involuntary sentiments which frequently escape
me, and the tender pity for my sufferings
which appears in her countenance?
Yesterday, when I took leave she seized me
by the hand, and said, "Adieu, dear Werther."
Dear Werther! It was the first time she ever
called me dear: the sound sunk deep into my
heart. I have repeated it a hundred times;
and last night, on going to bed, and talking
to myself of various things, I suddenly said,
"Good night, dear Werther!" and then could
not but laugh at myself.
NOVEMBER 22
I cannot pray, "Leave her to me!" and yet
she often seems to belong to me. I cannot
pray, "Give her to me!" for she is another's.
In this way I affect mirth over my troubles;
and, if I had time, I could compose a whole
litany of antitheses.
NOVEMBER 24.
She is sensible of my sufferings. This morning
her look pierced my very soul. I found her
alone, and she was silent: she steadfastly
surveyed me. I no longer saw in her face the
charms of beauty or the fire of genius: these
had disappeared. But I was affected by an
expression much more touching, a look of the
deepest sympathy and of the softest pity.
Why was I afraid to throw myself at her feet?
Why did I not dare to take her in my arms,
and answer her by a thousand kisses? She had
recourse to her piano for relief, and in a
low and sweet voice accompanied the music
with delicious sounds. Her lips never appeared
so lovely: they seemed but just to open, that
they might imbibe the sweet tones which issued
from the instrument, and return the heavenly
vibration from her lovely mouth. Oh! who can
express my sensations? I was quite overcome,
and, bending down, pronounced this vow: "Beautiful
lips, which the angels guard, never will I
seek to profane your purity with a kiss."
And yet, my friend, oh, I wish—but my heart
is darkened by doubt and indecision—could
I but taste felicity, and then die to expiate
the sin! What sin?
NOVEMBER 26.
Oftentimes I say to myself, "Thou alone art
wretched: all other mortals are happy, none
are distressed like thee!" Then I read a passage
in an ancient poet, and I seem to understand
my own heart. I have so much to endure! Have
men before me ever been so wretched?
NOVEMBER 30.
I shall never be myself again! Wherever I
go, some fatality occurs to distract me. Even
to-day alas—for our destiny! alas for human
nature!
About dinner-time I went to walk by the river-side,
for I had no appetite. Everything around seemed
gloomy: a cold and damp easterly wind blew
from the mountains, and black, heavy clouds
spread over the plain. I observed at a distance
a man in a tattered coat: he was wandering
among the rocks, and seemed to be looking
for plants. When I approached, he turned round
at the noise; and I saw that he had an interesting
countenance in which a settled melancholy,
strongly marked by benevolence, formed the
principal feature. His long black hair was
divided, and flowed over his shoulders. As
his garb betokened a person of the lower order,
I thought he would not take it ill if I inquired
about his business; and I therefore asked
what he was seeking. He replied, with a deep
sigh, that he was looking for flowers, and
could find none. "But it is not the season,"
I observed, with a smile. "Oh, there are so
many flowers!" he answered, as he came nearer
to me. "In my garden there are roses and honeysuckles
of two sorts: one sort was given to me by
my father! they grow as plentifully as weeds;
I have been looking for them these two days,
and cannot find them. There are flowers out
there, yellow, blue, and red; and that centaury
has a very pretty blossom: but I can find
none of them." I observed his peculiarity,
and therefore asked him, with an air of indifference,
what he intended to do with his flowers. A
strange smile overspread his countenance.
Holding his finger to his mouth, he expressed
a hope that I would not betray him; and he
then informed me that he had promised to gather
a nosegay for his mistress. "That is right,"
said I. "Oh!" he replied, "she possesses many
other things as well: she is very rich." "And
yet," I continued, "she likes your nosegays."
"Oh, she has jewels and crowns!" he exclaimed.
I asked who she was. "If the states-general
would but pay me," he added, "I should be
quite another man. Alas! there was a time
when I was so happy; but that is past, and
I am now—" He raised his swimming eyes to
heaven. "And you were happy once?" I observed.
"Ah, would I were so still!" was his reply.
"I was then as gay and contented as a man
can be." An old woman, who was coming toward
us, now called out, "Henry, Henry! where are
you? We have been looking for you everywhere:
come to dinner." "Is he your son?" I inquired,
as I went toward her. "Yes," she said: "he
is my poor, unfortunate son. The Lord has
sent me a heavy affliction." I asked whether
he had been long in this state. She answered,
"He has been as calm as he is at present for
about six months. I thank Heaven that he has
so far recovered: he was for one whole year
quite raving, and chained down in a madhouse.
Now he injures no one, but talks of nothing
else than kings and queens. He used to be
a very good, quiet youth, and helped to maintain
me; he wrote a very fine hand; but all at
once he became melancholy, was seized with
a violent fever, grew distracted, and is now
as you see. If I were only to tell you, sir—"
I interrupted her by asking what period it
was in which he boasted of having been so
happy. "Poor boy!" she exclaimed, with a smile
of compassion, "he means the time when he
was completely deranged, a time he never ceases
to regret, when he was in the madhouse, and
unconscious of everything." I was thunderstruck:
I placed a piece of money in her hand, and
hastened away.
"You were happy!" I exclaimed, as I returned
quickly to the town, "'as gay and contented
as a man can be!'" God of heaven! and is this
the destiny of man? Is he only happy before
he has acquired his reason, or after he has
lost it? Unfortunate being! And yet I envy
your fate: I envy the delusion to which you
are a victim. You go forth with joy to gather
flowers for your princess,—in winter,—and
grieve when you can find none, and cannot
understand why they do not grow. But I wander
forth without joy, without hope, without design;
and I return as I came. You fancy what a man
you would be if the states general paid you.
Happy mortal, who can ascribe your wretchedness
to an earthly cause! You do not know, you
do not feel, that in your own distracted heart
and disordered brain dwells the source of
that unhappiness which all the potentates
on earth cannot relieve.
Let that man die unconsoled who can deride
the invalid for undertaking a journey to distant,
healthful springs, where he often finds only
a heavier disease and a more painful death,
or who can exult over the despairing mind
of a sinner, who, to obtain peace of conscience
and an alleviation of misery, makes a pilgrimage
to the Holy Sepulchre. Each laborious step
which galls his wounded feet in rough and
untrodden paths pours a drop of balm into
his troubled soul, and the journey of many
a weary day brings a nightly relief to his
anguished heart. Will you dare call this enthusiasm,
ye crowd of pompous declaimers? Enthusiasm!
O God! thou seest my tears. Thou hast allotted
us our portion of misery: must we also have
brethren to persecute us, to deprive us of
our consolation, of our trust in thee, and
in thy love and mercy? For our trust in the
virtue of the healing root, or in the strength
of the vine, what is it else than a belief
in thee from whom all that surrounds us derives
its healing and restoring powers? Father,
whom I know not,—who wert once wont to fill
my soul, but who now hidest thy face from
me,—call me back to thee; be silent no longer;
thy silence shall not delay a soul which thirsts
after thee. What man, what father, could be
angry with a son for returning to him suddenly,
for falling on his neck, and exclaiming, "I
am here again, my father! forgive me if I
have anticipated my journey, and returned
before the appointed time! The world is everywhere
the same,—a scene of labour and pain, of
pleasure and reward; but what does it all
avail? I am happy only where thou art, and
in thy presence am I content to suffer or
enjoy." And wouldst thou, heavenly Father,
banish such a child from thy presence?
DECEMBER 1.
Wilhelm, the man about whom I wrote to you—that
man so enviable in his misfortunes—was secretary
to Charlotte's father; and an unhappy passion
for her which he cherished, concealed, and
at length discovered, caused him to be dismissed
from his situation. This made him mad. Think,
whilst you peruse this plain narration, what
an impression the circumstance has made upon
me! But it was related to me by Albert with
as much calmness as you will probably peruse
it.
DECEMBER 4.
I implore your attention. It is all over with
me. I can support this state no longer. To-day
I was sitting by Charlotte. She was playing
upon her piano a succession of delightful
melodies, with such intense expression! Her
little sister was dressing her doll upon my
lap. The tears came into my eyes. I leaned
down, and looked intently at her wedding-ring:
my tears fell—immediately she began to play
that favourite, that divine, air which has
so often enchanted me. I felt comfort from
a recollection of the past, of those bygone
days when that air was familiar to me; and
then I recalled all the sorrows and the disappointments
which I had since endured. I paced with hasty
strides through the room, my heart became
convulsed with painful emotions. At length
I went up to her, and exclaimed With eagerness,
"For Heaven's sake, play that air no longer!"
She stopped, and looked steadfastly at me.
She then said, with a smile which sunk deep
into my heart, "Werther, you are ill: your
dearest food is distasteful to you. But go,
I entreat you, and endeavour to compose yourself."
I tore myself away. God, thou seest my torments,
and wilt end them!
DECEMBER 6.
How her image haunts me! Waking or asleep,
she fills my entire soul! Soon as I close
my eyes, here, in my brain, where all the
nerves of vision are concentrated, her dark
eyes are imprinted. Here—I do not know how
to describe it; but, if I shut my eyes, hers
are immediately before me: dark as an abyss
they open upon me, and absorb my senses.
And what is man—that boasted demigod? Do
not his powers fail when he most requires
their use? And whether he soar in joy, or
sink in sorrow, is not his career in both
inevitably arrested? And, whilst he fondly
dreams that he is grasping at infinity, does
he not feel compelled to return to a consciousness
of his cold, monotonous existence?
THE EDITOR TO 
THE READER.
It is a matter of extreme regret that we want
original evidence of the last remarkable days
of our friend; and we are, therefore, obliged
to interrupt the progress of his correspondence,
and to supply the deficiency by a connected
narration.
I have felt it my duty to collect accurate
information from the mouths of persons well
acquainted with his history. The story is
simple; and all the accounts agree, except
in some unimportant particulars. It is true,
that, with respect to the characters of the
persons spoken of, opinions and judgments
vary.
We have only, then, to relate conscientiously
the facts which our diligent labour has enabled
us to collect, to give the letters of the
deceased, and to pay particular attention
to the slightest fragment from his pen, more
especially as it is so difficult to discover
the real and correct motives of men who are
not of the common order.
Sorrow and discontent had taken deep root
in Werther's soul, and gradually imparted
their character to his whole being. The harmony
of his mind became completely disturbed; a
perpetual excitement and mental irritation,
which weakened his natural powers, produced
the saddest effects upon him, and rendered
him at length the victim of an exhaustion
against which he struggled with still more
painful efforts than he had displayed, even
in contending with his other misfortunes.
His mental anxiety weakened his various good
qualities; and he was soon converted into
a gloomy companion, always unhappy and unjust
in his ideas, the more wretched he became.
This was, at least, the opinion of Albert's
friends. They assert, moreover, that the character
of Albert himself had undergone no change
in the meantime: he was still the same being
whom Werther had loved, honoured, and respected
from the commencement. His love for Charlotte
was unbounded: he was proud of her, and desired
that she should be recognised by every one
as the noblest of created beings. Was he,
however, to blame for wishing to avert from
her every appearance of suspicion? or for
his unwillingness to share his rich prize
with another, even for a moment, and in the
most innocent manner? It is asserted that
Albert frequently retired from his wife's
apartment during Werther's visits; but this
did not arise from hatred or aversion to his
friend, but only from a feeling that his presence
was oppressive to Werther.
Charlotte's father, who was confined to the
house by indisposition, was accustomed to
send his carriage for her, that she might
make excursions in the neighbourhood. One
day the weather had been unusually severe,
and the whole country was covered with snow.
Werther went for Charlotte the following morning,
in order that, if Albert were absent, he might
conduct her home.
The beautiful weather produced but little
impression on his troubled spirit. A heavy
weight lay upon his soul, deep melancholy
had taken possession of him, and his mind
knew no change save from one painful thought
to another.
As he now never enjoyed internal peace, the
condition of his fellow creatures was to him
a perpetual source of trouble and distress.
He believed he had disturbed the happiness
of Albert and his wife; and, whilst he censured
himself strongly for this, he began to entertain
a secret dislike to Albert.
His thoughts were occasionally directed to
this point. "Yes," he would repeat to himself,
with ill-concealed dissatisfaction, "yes,
this is, after all, the extent of that confiding,
dear, tender, and sympathetic love, that calm
and eternal fidelity! What do I behold but
satiety and indifference? Does not every frivolous
engagement attract him more than his charming
and lovely wife? Does he know how to prize
his happiness? Can he value her as she deserves?
He possesses her, it is true, I know that,
as I know much more, and I have become accustomed
to the thought that he will drive me mad,
or, perhaps, murder me. Is his friendship
toward me unimpaired? Does he not view my
attachment to Charlotte as an infringement
upon his rights, and consider my attention
to her as a silent rebuke to himself? I know,
and indeed feel, that he dislikes me, that
he wishes for my absence, that my presence
is hateful to him."
He would often pause when on his way to visit
Charlotte, stand still, as though in doubt,
and seem desirous of returning, but would
nevertheless proceed; and, engaged in such
thoughts and soliloquies as we have described,
he finally reached the hunting-lodge, with
a sort of involuntary consent.
Upon one occasion he entered the house; and,
inquiring for Charlotte, he observed that
the inmates were in a state of unusual confusion.
The eldest boy informed him that a dreadful
misfortune had occurred at Walheim,—that
a peasant had been murdered! But this made
little impression upon him. Entering the apartment,
he found Charlotte engaged reasoning with
her father, who, in spite of his infirmity,
insisted on going to the scene of the crime,
in order to institute an inquiry. The criminal
was unknown; the victim had been found dead
at his own door that morning. Suspicions were
excited: the murdered man had been in the
service of a widow, and the person who had
previously filled the situation had been dismissed
from her employment.
As soon as Werther heard this, he exclaimed
with great excitement, "Is it possible! I
must go to the spot—I cannot delay a moment!"
He hastened to Walheim. Every incident returned
vividly to his remembrance; and he entertained
not the slightest doubt that that man was
the murderer to whom he had so often spoken,
and for whom he entertained so much regard.
His way took him past the well-known lime
trees, to the house where the body had been
carried; and his feelings were greatly excited
at the sight of the fondly recollected spot.
That threshold where the neighbours' children
had so often played together was stained with
blood; love and attachment, the noblest feelings
of human nature, had been converted into violence
and murder. The huge trees stood there leafless
and covered with hoarfrost; the beautiful
hedgerows which surrounded the old churchyard
wall were withered; and the gravestones, half
covered with snow, were visible through the
openings.
As he approached the inn, in front of which
the whole village was assembled, screams were
suddenly heard. A troop of armed peasants
was seen approaching, and every one exclaimed
that the criminal had been apprehended. Werther
looked, and was not long in doubt. The prisoner
was no other than the servant, who had been
formerly so attached to the widow, and whom
he had met prowling about, with that suppressed
anger and ill-concealed despair, which we
have before described.
"What have you done, unfortunate man?" inquired
Werther, as he advanced toward the prisoner.
The latter turned his eyes upon him in silence,
and then replied with perfect composure; "No
one will now marry her, and she will marry
no one." The prisoner was taken into the inn,
and Werther left the place. The mind of Werther
was fearfully excited by this shocking occurrence.
He ceased, however, to be oppressed by his
usual feeling of melancholy, moroseness, and
indifference to everything that passed around
him. He entertained a strong degree of pity
for the prisoner, and was seized with an indescribable
anxiety to save him from his impending fate.
He considered him so unfortunate, he deemed
his crime so excusable, and thought his own
condition so nearly similar, that he felt
convinced he could make every one else view
the matter in the light in which he saw it
himself. He now became anxious to undertake
his defence, and commenced composing an eloquent
speech for the occasion; and, on his way to
the hunting-lodge, he could not refrain from
speaking aloud the statement which he resolved
to make to the judge.
Upon his arrival, he found Albert had been
before him: and he was a little perplexed
by this meeting; but he soon recovered himself,
and expressed his opinion with much warmth
to the judge. The latter shook, his head doubtingly;
and although Werther urged his case with the
utmost zeal, feeling, and determination in
defence of his client, yet, as we may easily
suppose, the judge was not much influenced
by his appeal. On the contrary, he interrupted
him in his address, reasoned with him seriously,
and even administered a rebuke to him for
becoming the advocate of a murderer. He demonstrated,
that, according to this precedent, every law
might be violated, and the public security
utterly destroyed. He added, moreover, that
in such a case he could himself do nothing,
without incurring the greatest responsibility;
that everything must follow in the usual course,
and pursue the ordinary channel.
Werther, however, did not abandon his enterprise,
and even besought the judge to connive at
the flight of the prisoner. But this proposal
was peremptorily rejected. Albert, who had
taken some part in the discussion, coincided
in opinion with the judge. At this Werther
became enraged, and took his leave in great
anger, after the judge had more than once
assured him that the prisoner could not be
saved.
The excess of his grief at this assurance
may be inferred from a note we have found
amongst his papers, and which was doubtless
written upon this very occasion.
"You cannot be saved, unfortunate man! I see
clearly that we cannot be saved!"
Werther was highly incensed at the observations
which Albert had made to the judge in this
matter of the prisoner. He thought he could
detect therein a little bitterness toward
himself personally; and although, upon reflection,
it could not escape his sound judgment that
their view of the matter was correct, he felt
the greatest possible reluctance to make such
an admission.
A memorandum of Werther's upon this point,
expressive of his general feelings toward
Albert, has been found amongst his papers.
"What is the use of my continually repeating
that he is a good and estimable man? He is
an inward torment to me, and I am incapable
of being just toward him."
One fine evening in winter, when the weather
seemed inclined to thaw, Charlotte and Albert
were returning home together. The former looked
from time to time about her, as if she missed
Werther's company. Albert began to speak of
him, and censured him for his prejudices.
He alluded to his unfortunate attachment,
and wished it were possible to discontinue
his acquaintance. "I desire it on our own
account," he added; "and I request you will
compel him to alter his deportment toward
you, and to visit you less frequently. The
world is censorious, and I know that here
and there we are spoken of." Charlotte made
no reply, and Albert seemed to feel her silence.
At least, from that time he never again spoke
of Werther; and, when she introduced the subject,
he allowed the conversation to die away, or
else he directed the discourse into another
channel.
The vain attempt Werther had made to save
the unhappy murderer was the last feeble glimmering
of a flame about to be extinguished. He sank
almost immediately afterward into a state
of gloom and inactivity, until he was at length
brought to perfect distraction by learning
that he was to be summoned as a witness against
the prisoner, who asserted his complete innocence.
His mind now became oppressed by the recollection
of every misfortune of his past life. The
mortification he had suffered at the ambassador's,
and his subsequent troubles, were revived
in his memory. He became utterly inactive.
Destitute of energy, he was cut off from every
pursuit and occupation which compose the business
of common life; and he became a victim to
his own susceptibility, and to his restless
passion for the most amiable and beloved of
women, whose peace he destroyed. In this unvarying
monotony of existence his days were consumed;
and his powers became exhausted without aim
or design, until they brought him to a sorrowful
end.
A few letters which he left behind, and which
we here subjoin, afford the best proofs of
his anxiety of mind and of the depth of his
passion, as well as of his doubts and struggles,
and of his weariness of life.
DECEMBER 12.
Dear Wilhelm, I am reduced to the condition
of those unfortunate wretches who believe
they are pursued by an evil spirit. Sometimes
I am oppressed, not by apprehension or fear,
but by an inexpressible internal sensation,
which weighs upon my heart, and impedes my
breath! Then I wander forth at night, even
in this tempestuous season, and feel pleasure
in surveying the dreadful scenes around me.
Yesterday evening I went forth. A rapid thaw
had suddenly set in: I had been informed that
the river had risen, that the brooks had all
overflowed their banks, and that the whole
vale of Walheim was under water! Upon the
stroke of twelve I hastened forth. I beheld
a fearful sight. The foaming torrents rolled
from the mountains in the moonlight,—fields
and meadows, trees and hedges, were confounded
together; and the entire valley was converted
into a deep lake, which was agitated by the
roaring wind! And when the moon shone forth,
and tinged the black clouds with silver, and
the impetuous torrent at my feet foamed and
resounded with awful and grand impetuosity,
I was overcome by a mingled sensation of apprehension
and delight. With extended arms I looked down
into the yawning abyss, and cried, "Plunge!'"
For a moment my senses forsook me, in the
intense delight of ending my sorrows and my
sufferings by a plunge into that gulf! And
then I felt as if I were rooted to the earth,
and incapable of seeking an end to my woes!
But my hour is not yet come: I feel it is
not. O Wilhelm, how willingly could I abandon
my existence to ride the whirlwind, or to
embrace the torrent! and then might not rapture
perchance be the portion of this liberated
soul?
I turned my sorrowful eyes toward a favourite
spot, where I was accustomed to sit with Charlotte
beneath a willow after a fatiguing walk. Alas!
it was covered with water, and with difficulty
I found even the meadow. And the fields around
the hunting-lodge, thought I. Has our dear
bower been destroyed by this unpitying storm?
And a beam of past happiness streamed upon
me, as the mind of a captive is illumined
by dreams of flocks and herds and bygone joys
of home! But I am free from blame. I have
courage to die! Perhaps I have,—but I still
sit here, like a wretched pauper, who collects
fagots, and begs her bread from door to door,
that she may prolong for a few days a miserable
existence which she is unwilling to resign.
DECEMBER 15.
What is the matter with me, dear Wilhelm?
I am afraid of myself! Is not my love for
her of the purest, most holy, and most brotherly
nature? Has my soul ever been sullied by a
single sensual desire? but I will make no
protestations. And now, ye nightly visions,
how truly have those mortals understood you,
who ascribe your various contradictory effects
to some invincible power! This night I tremble
at the avowal—I held her in my arms, locked
in a close embrace: I pressed her to my bosom,
and covered with countless kisses those dear
lips which murmured in reply soft protestations
of love. My sight became confused by the delicious
intoxication of her eyes. Heavens! is it sinful
to revel again in such happiness, to recall
once more those rapturous moments with intense
delight? Charlotte! Charlotte! I am lost!
My senses are bewildered, my recollection
is confused, mine eyes are bathed in tears—I
am ill; and yet I am well—I wish for nothing—I
have no desires—it were better I were gone.
Under the circumstances narrated above, a
determination to quit this world had now taken
fixed possession of Werther's soul. Since
Charlotte's return, this thought had been
the final object of all his hopes and wishes;
but he had resolved that such a step should
not be taken with precipitation, but with
calmness and tranquillity, and with the most
perfect deliberation.
His troubles and internal struggles may be
understood from the following fragment, which
was found, without any date, amongst his papers,
and appears to have formed the beginning of
a letter to Wilhelm.
"Her presence, her fate, her sympathy for
me, have power still to extract tears from
my withered brain.
"One lifts up the curtain, and passes to the
other side,—that is all! And why all these
doubts and delays? Because we know not what
is behind—because there is no returning—and
because our mind infers that all is darkness
and confusion, where we have nothing but uncertainty."
His appearance at length became quite altered
by the effect of his melancholy thoughts;
and his resolution was now finally and irrevocably
taken, of which the following ambiguous letter,
which he addressed to his friend, may appear
to afford some proof.
DECEMBER 20.
I am grateful to your love, Wilhelm, for having
repeated your advice so seasonably. Yes, you
are right: it is undoubtedly better that I
should depart. But I do not entirely approve
your scheme of returning at once to your neighbourhood;
at least, I should like to make a little excursion
on the way, particularly as we may now expect
a continued frost, and consequently good roads.
I am much pleased with your intention of coming
to fetch me; only delay your journey for a
fortnight, and wait for another letter from
me. One should gather nothing before it is
ripe, and a fortnight sooner or later makes
a great difference. Entreat my mother to pray
for her son, and tell her I beg her pardon
for all the unhappiness I have occasioned
her. It has ever been my fate to give pain
to those whose happiness I should have promoted.
Adieu, my dearest friend. May every blessing
of Heaven attend you! Farewell.
We find it difficult to express the emotions
with which Charlotte's soul was agitated during
the whole of this time, whether in relation
to her husband or to her unfortunate friend;
although we are enabled, by our knowledge
of her character, to understand their nature.
It is certain that she had formed a determination,
by every means in her power to keep Werther
at a distance; and, if she hesitated in her
decision, it was from a sincere feeling of
friendly pity, knowing how much it would cost
him, indeed, that he would find it almost
impossible to comply with her wishes. But
various causes now urged her to be firm. Her
husband preserved a strict silence about the
whole matter; and she never made it a subject
of conversation, feeling bound to prove to
him by her conduct that her sentiments agreed
with his.
The same day, which was the Sunday before
Christmas, after Werther had written the last-mentioned
letter to his friend, he came in the evening
to Charlotte's house, and found her alone.
She was busy preparing some little gifts for
her brothers and sisters, which were to be
distributed to them on Christmas Day. He began
talking of the delight of the children, and
of that age when the sudden appearance of
the Christmas-tree, decorated with fruit and
sweetmeats, and lighted up with wax candles,
causes such transports of joy. "You shall
have a gift too, if you behave well," said
Charlotte, hiding her embarrassment under
sweet smile. "And what do you call behaving
well? What should I do, what can I do, my
dear Charlotte?" said he. "Thursday night,"
she answered, "is Christmas Eve. The children
are all to be here, and my father too: there
is a present for each; do you come likewise,
but do not come before that time." Werther
started. "I desire you will not: it must be
so," she continued. "I ask it of you as a
favour, for my own peace and tranquillity.
We cannot go on in this manner any longer."
He turned away his face walked hastily up
and down the room, muttering indistinctly,
"We cannot go on in this manner any longer!"
Charlotte, seeing the violent agitation into
which these words had thrown him, endeavoured
to divert his thoughts by different questions,
but in vain. "No, Charlotte!" he exclaimed;
"I will never see you any more!" "And why
so?" she answered. "We may—we must see each
other again; only let it be with more discretion.
Oh! why were you born with that excessive,
that ungovernable passion for everything that
is dear to you?" Then, taking his hand, she
said, "I entreat of you to be more calm: your
talents, your understanding, your genius,
will furnish you with a thousand resources.
Be a man, and conquer an unhappy attachment
toward a creature who can do nothing but pity
you." He bit his lips, and looked at her with
a gloomy countenance. She continued to hold
his hand. "Grant me but a moment's patience,
Werther," she said. "Do you not see that you
are deceiving yourself, that you are seeking
your own destruction? Why must you love me,
me only, who belong to another? I fear, I
much fear, that it is only the impossibility
of possessing me which makes your desire for
me so strong." He drew back his hand, whilst
he surveyed her with a wild and angry look.
"'Tis well!" he exclaimed, "'tis very well!
Did not Albert furnish you with this reflection?
It is profound, a very profound remark." "A
reflection that any one might easily make,"
she answered; "and is there not a woman in
the whole world who is at liberty, and has
the power to make you happy? Conquer yourself:
look for such a being, and believe me when
I say that you will certainly find her. I
have long felt for you, and for us all: you
have confined yourself too long within the
limits of too narrow a circle. Conquer yourself;
make an effort: a short journey will be of
service to you. Seek and find an object worthy
of your love; then return hither, and let
us enjoy together all the happiness of the
most perfect friendship."
"This speech," replied Werther with a cold
smile, "this speech should be printed, for
the benefit of all teachers. My dear Charlotte,
allow me but a short time longer, and all
will be well." "But however, Werther," she
added, "do not come again before Christmas."
He was about to make some answer, when Albert
came in. They saluted each other coldly, and
with mutual embarrassment paced up and down
the room. Werther made some common remarks;
Albert did the same, and their conversation
soon dropped. Albert asked his wife about
some household matters; and, finding that
his commissions were not executed, he used
some expressions which, to Werther's ear,
savoured of extreme harshness. He wished to
go, but had not power to move; and in this
situation he remained till eight o'clock,
his uneasiness and discontent continually
increasing. At length the cloth was laid for
supper, and he took up his hat and stick.
Albert invited him to remain; but Werther,
fancying that he was merely paying a formal
compliment, thanked him coldly, and left the
house.
Werther returned home, took the candle from
his servant, and retired to his room alone.
He talked for some time with great earnestness
to himself, wept aloud, walked in a state
of great excitement through his chamber; till
at length, without undressing, he threw himself
on the bed, where he was found by his servant
at eleven o'clock, when the latter ventured
to enter the room, and take off his boots.
Werther did not prevent him, but forbade him
to come in the morning till he should ring.
On Monday morning, the 21st of December, he
wrote to Charlotte the following letter, which
was found, sealed, on his bureau after his
death, and was given to her. I shall insert
it in fragments; as it appears, from several
circumstances, to have been written in that
manner.
"It is all over, Charlotte: I am resolved
to die! I make this declaration deliberately
and coolly, without any romantic passion,
on this morning of the day when I am to see
you for the last time. At the moment you read
these lines, O best of women, the cold grave
will hold the inanimate remains of that restless
and unhappy being who, in the last moments
of his existence, knew no pleasure so great
as that of conversing with you! I have passed
a dreadful night or rather, let me say, a
propitious one; for it has given me resolution,
it has fixed my purpose. I am resolved to
die. When I tore myself from you yesterday,
my senses were in tumult and disorder; my
heart was oppressed, hope and pleasure had
fled from me for ever, and a petrifying cold
had seized my wretched being. I could scarcely
reach my room. I threw myself on my knees;
and Heaven, for the last time, granted me
the consolation of shedding tears. A thousand
ideas, a thousand schemes, arose within my
soul; till at length one last, fixed, final
thought took possession of my heart. It was
to die. I lay down to rest; and in the morning,
in the quiet hour of awakening, the same determination
was upon me. To die! It is not despair: it
is conviction that I have filled up the measure
of my sufferings, that I have reached my appointed
term, and must sacrifice myself for thee.
Yes, Charlotte, why should I not avow it?
One of us three must die: it shall be Werther.
O beloved Charlotte! this heart, excited by
rage and fury, has often conceived the horrid
idea of murdering your husband—you—myself!
The lot is cast at length. And in the bright,
quiet evenings of summer, when you sometimes
wander toward the mountains, let your thoughts
then turn to me: recollect how often you have
watched me coming to meet you from the valley;
then bend your eyes upon the churchyard which
contains my grave, and, by the light of the
setting sun, mark how the evening breeze waves
the tall grass which grows above my tomb.
I was calm when I began this letter, but the
recollection of these scenes makes me weep
like a child."
About ten in the morning, Werther called his
servant, and, whilst he was dressing, told
him that in a few days he intended to set
out upon a journey, and bade him therefore
lay his clothes in order, and prepare them
for packing up, call in all his accounts,
fetch home the books he had lent, and give
two months' pay to the poor dependants who
were accustomed to receive from him a weekly
allowance.
He breakfasted in his room, and then mounted
his horse, and went to visit the steward,
who, however, was not at home. He walked pensively
in the garden, and seemed anxious to renew
all the ideas that were most painful to him.
The children did not suffer him to remain
alone long. They followed him, skipping and
dancing before him, and told him, that after
to-morrow and tomorrow and one day more, they
were to receive their Christmas gift from
Charlotte; and they then recounted all the
wonders of which they had formed ideas in
their child imaginations. "Tomorrow and tomorrow,"
said he, "and one day more!" And he kissed
them tenderly. He was going; but the younger
boy stopped him, to whisper something in his
ear. He told him that his elder brothers had
written splendid New-Year's wishes so large!
one for papa, and another for Albert and Charlotte,
and one for Werther; and they were to be presented
early in the morning, on New Year's Day. This
quite overcame him. He made each of the children
a present, mounted his horse, left his compliments
for papa and mamma, and, with tears in his
eyes, rode away from the place.
He returned home about five o'clock, ordered
his servant to keep up his fire, desired him
to pack his books and linen at the bottom
of the trunk, and to place his coats at the
top. He then appears to have made the following
addition to the letter addressed to Charlotte:
"You do not expect me. You think I will obey
you, and not visit you again till Christmas
Eve. O Charlotte, today or never! On Christmas
Eve you will hold this paper in your hand;
you will tremble, and moisten it with your
tears. I will—I must! Oh, how happy I feel
to be determined!"
In the meantime, Charlotte was in a pitiable
state of mind. After her last conversation
with Werther, she found how painful to herself
it would be to decline his visits, and knew
how severely he would suffer from their separation.
She had, in conversation with Albert, mentioned
casually that Werther would not return before
Christmas Eve; and soon afterward Albert went
on horseback to see a person in the neighbourhood,
with whom he had to transact some business
which would detain him all night.
Charlotte was sitting alone. None of her family
were near, and she gave herself up to the
reflections that silently took possession
of her mind. She was for ever united to a
husband whose love and fidelity she had proved,
to whom she was heartily devoted, and who
seemed to be a special gift from Heaven to
ensure her happiness. On the other hand, Werther
had become dear to her. There was a cordial
unanimity of sentiment between them from the
very first hour of their acquaintance, and
their long association and repeated interviews
had made an indelible impression upon her
heart. She had been accustomed to communicate
to him every thought and feeling which interested
her, and his absence threatened to open a
void in her existence which it might be impossible
to fill. How heartily she wished that she
might change him into her brother,—that
she could induce him to marry one of her own
friends, or could reestablish his intimacy
with Albert.
She passed all her intimate friends in review
before her mind, but found something objectionable
in each, and could decide upon none to whom
she would consent to give him.
Amid all these considerations she felt deeply
but indistinctly that her own real but unexpressed
wish was to retain him for herself, and her
pure and amiable heart felt from this thought
a sense of oppression which seemed to forbid
a prospect of happiness. She was wretched:
a dark cloud obscured her mental vision.
It was now half-past six o'clock, and she
heard Werther's step on the stairs. She at
once recognised his voice, as he inquired
if she were at home. Her heart beat audibly—we
could almost say for the first time—at his
arrival. It was too late to deny herself;
and, as he entered, she exclaimed, with a
sort of ill concealed confusion, "You have
not kept your word!" "I promised nothing,"
he answered. "But you should have complied,
at least for my sake," she continued. "I implore
you, for both our sakes."
She scarcely knew what she said or did; and
sent for some friends, who, by their presence,
might prevent her being left alone with Werther.
He put down some books he had brought with
him, then made inquiries about some others,
until she began to hope that her friends might
arrive shortly, entertaining at the same time
a desire that they might stay away.
At one moment she felt anxious that the servant
should remain in the adjoining room, then
she changed her mind. Werther, meanwhile,
walked impatiently up and down. She went to
the piano, and determined not to retire. She
then collected her thoughts, and sat down
quietly at Werther's side, who had taken his
usual place on the sofa.
"Have you brought nothing to read?" she inquired.
He had nothing. "There in my drawer," she
continued, "you will find your own translation
of some of the songs of Ossian. I have not
yet read them, as I have still hoped to hear
you recite them; but, for some time past,
I have not been able to accomplish such a
wish." He smiled, and went for the manuscript,
which he took with a shudder. He sat down;
and, with eyes full of tears, he began to
read.
"Star of descending night! fair is thy light
in the west! thou liftest thy unshorn head
from thy cloud; thy steps are stately on thy
hill. What dost thou behold in the plain?
The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the
torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb
the distant rock. The flies of evening are
on their feeble wings: the hum of their course
is on the field. What dost thou behold, fair
light? But thou dost smile and depart. The
waves come with joy around thee: they bathe
thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam!
Let the light of Ossian's soul arise!
"And it does arise in its strength! I behold
my departed friends. Their gathering is on
Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal
comes like a watery column of mist! his heroes
are around: and see the bards of song, gray-haired
Ullin! stately Ryno! Alpin with the tuneful
voice: the soft complaint of Minona! How are
ye changed, my friends, since the days of
Selma's feast! when we contended, like gales
of spring as they fly along the hill, and
bend by turns the feebly whistling grass.
"Minona came forth in her beauty, with downcast
look and tearful eye. Her hair was flying
slowly with the blast that rushed unfrequent
from the hill. The souls of the heroes were
sad when she raised the tuneful voice. Oft
had they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark
dwelling of white-bosomed Colma. Colma left
alone on the hill with all her voice of song!
Salgar promised to come! but the night descended
around. Hear the voice of Colma, when she
sat alone on the hill!
"Colma. It is night: I am alone, forlorn on
the hill of storms. The wind is heard on the
mountain. The torrent is howling down the
rock. No hut receives me from the rain: forlorn
on the hill of winds!
"Rise moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars
of the night, arise! Lead me, some light,
to the place where my love rests from the
chase alone! His bow near him unstrung, his
dogs panting around him! But here I must sit
alone by the rock of the mossy stream. The
stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not
the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar;
why the chief of the hill his promise? Here
is the rock and here the tree! here is the
roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night
to be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone?
With thee I would fly from my father, with
thee from my brother of pride. Our race have
long been foes: we are not foes, O Salgar!
"Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be
thou silent awhile! let my voice be heard
around! let my wanderer hear me! Salgar! it
is Colma who calls. Here is the tree and the
rock. Salgar, my love, I am here! Why delayest
thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes forth.
The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks
are gray on the steep. I see him not on the
brow. His dogs come not before him with tidings
of his near approach. Here I must sit alone!
"Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they
my love and my brother? Speak to me, O my
friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak
to me: I am alone! My soul is tormented with
fears. Ah, they are dead! Their swords are
red from the fight. O my brother! my brother!
why hast thou slain my Salgar! Why, O Salgar,
hast thou slain my brother! Dear were ye both
to me! what shall I say in your praise? Thou
wert fair on the hill among thousands! he
was terrible in fight! Speak to me! hear my
voice! hear me, sons of my love! They are
silent! silent for ever! Cold, cold, are their
breasts of clay! Oh, from the rock on the
hill, from the top of the windy steep, speak,
ye ghosts of the dead! Speak, I will not be
afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what
cave of the hill shall I find the departed?
No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer
half drowned in the storm!
"I sit in my grief: I wait for morning in
my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends of the
dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life
flies away like a dream. Why should I stay
behind? Here shall I rest with my friends,
by the stream of the sounding rock. When night
comes on the hill when the loud winds arise
my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn
the death of my friends. The hunter shall
hear from his booth; he shall fear, but love
my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for
my friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma.
"Such was thy song, Minona, softly blushing
daughter of Torman. Our tears descended for
Colma, and our souls were sad! Ullin came
with his harp; he gave the song of Alpin.
The voice of Alpin was pleasant, the soul
of Ryno was a beam of fire! But they had rested
in the narrow house: their voice had ceased
in Selma! Ullin had returned one day from
the chase before the heroes fell. He heard
their strife on the hill: their song was soft,
but sad! They mourned the fall of Morar, first
of mortal men! His soul was like the soul
of Fingal: his sword like the sword of Oscar.
But he fell, and his father mourned: his sister's
eyes were full of tears. Minona's eyes were
full of tears, the sister of car-borne Morar.
She retired from the song of Ullin, like the
moon in the west, when she foresees the shower,
and hides her fair head in a cloud. I touched
the harp with Ullin: the song of morning rose!
"Ryno. The wind and the rain are past, calm
is the noon of day. The clouds are divided
in heaven. Over the green hills flies the
inconstant sun. Red through the stony vale
comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are
thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the
voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the
son of song, mourning for the dead! Bent is
his head of age: red his tearful eye. Alpin,
thou son of song, why alone on the silent
hill? why complainest thou, as a blast in
the wood as a wave on the lonely shore?
"Alpin. My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead
my voice for those that have passed away.
Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the
sons of the vale. But thou shalt fall like
Morar: the mourner shall sit on thy tomb.
The hills shall know thee no more: thy bow
shall lie in thy hall unstrung!
"Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the
desert: terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy
wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle
as lightning in the field. Thy voice was as
a stream after rain, like thunder on distant
hills. Many fell by thy arm: they were consumed
in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou
didst return from war, how peaceful was thy
brow. Thy face was like the sun after rain:
like the moon in the silence of night: calm
as the breast of the lake when the loud wind
is laid.
"Narrow is thy dwelling now! dark the place
of thine abode! With three steps I compass
thy grave, O thou who wast so great before!
Four stones, with their heads of moss, are
the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce
a leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind,
mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the
mighty Morar. Morar! thou art low indeed.
Thou hast no mother to mourn thee, no maid
with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought
thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.
"Who on his staff is this? Who is this whose
head is white with age, whose eyes are red
with tears, who quakes at every step? It is
thy father, O Morar! the father of no son
but thee. He heard of thy fame in war, he
heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's
renown, why did he not hear of his wound?
Weep, thou father of Morar! Weep, but thy
son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of
the dead, low their pillow of dust. No more
shall he hear thy voice, no more awake at
thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave,
to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell, thou
bravest of men! thou conqueror in the field!
but the field shall see thee no more, nor
the dark wood be lightened with the splendour
of thy steel. Thou has left no son. The song
shall preserve thy name. Future times shall
hear of thee they shall hear of the fallen
Morar!
"The grief of all arose, but most the bursting
sigh of Armin. He remembers the death of his
son, who fell in the days of his youth. Carmor
was near the hero, the chief of the echoing
Galmal. Why burst the sigh of Armin? he said.
Is there a cause to mourn? The song comes
with its music to melt and please the soul.
It is like soft mist that, rising from a lake,
pours on the silent vale; the green flowers
are filled with dew, but the sun returns in
his strength, and the mist is gone. Why art
thou sad, O Armin, chief of sea-surrounded
Gorma?
"Sad I am! nor small is my cause of woe! Carmor,
thou hast lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter
of beauty. Colgar the valiant lives, and Annira,
fairest maid. The boughs of thy house ascend,
O Carmor! but Armin is the last of his race.
Dark is thy bed, O Daura! deep thy sleep in
the tomb! When shalt thou wake with thy songs?
with all thy voice of music?
"Arise, winds of autumn, arise: blow along
the heath. Streams of the mountains, roar;
roar, tempests in the groves of my oaks! Walk
through broken clouds, O moon! show thy pale
face at intervals; bring to my mind the night
when all my children fell, when Arindal the
mighty fell—when Daura the lovely failed.
Daura, my daughter, thou wert fair, fair as
the moon on Fura, white as the driven snow,
sweet as the breathing gale. Arindal, thy
bow was strong, thy spear was swift on the
field, thy look was like mist on the wave,
thy shield a red cloud in a storm! Armar,
renowned in war, came and sought Daura's love.
He was not long refused: fair was the hope
of their friends.
"Erath, son of Odgal, repined: his brother
had been slain by Armar. He came disguised
like a son of the sea: fair was his cliff
on the wave, white his locks of age, calm
his serious brow. Fairest of women, he said,
lovely daughter of Armin! a rock not distant
in the sea bears a tree on its side; red shines
the fruit afar. There Armar waits for Daura.
I come to carry his love! she went she called
on Armar. Nought answered, but the son of
the rock. Armar, my love, my love! why tormentest
thou me with fear? Hear, son of Arnart, hear!
it is Daura who calleth thee. Erath, the traitor,
fled laughing to the land. She lifted up her
voice—she called for her brother and her
father. Arindal! Armin! none to relieve you,
Daura.
"Her voice came over the sea. Arindal, my
son, descended from the hill, rough in the
spoils of the chase. His arrows rattled by
his side; his bow was in his hand, five dark-gray
dogs attended his steps. He saw fierce Erath
on the shore; he seized and bound him to an
oak. Thick wind the thongs of the hide around
his limbs; he loads the winds with his groans.
Arindal ascends the deep in his boat to bring
Daura to land. Armar came in his wrath, and
let fly the gray-feathered shaft. It sung,
it sunk in thy heart, O Arindal, my son! for
Erath the traitor thou diest. The oar is stopped
at once: he panted on the rock, and expired.
What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy
feet is poured thy brother's blood. The boat
is broken in twain. Armar plunges into the
sea to rescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a
blast from a hill came over the waves; he
sank, and he rose no more.
"Alone, on the sea-beat rock, my daughter
was heard to complain; frequent and loud were
her cries. What could her father do? All night
I stood on the shore: I saw her by the faint
beam of the moon. All night I heard her cries.
Loud was the wind; the rain beat hard on the
hill. Before morning appeared, her voice was
weak; it died away like the evening breeze
among the grass of the rocks. Spent with grief,
she expired, and left thee, Armin, alone.
Gone is my strength in war, fallen my pride
among women. When the storms aloft arise,
when the north lifts the wave on high, I sit
by the sounding shore, and look on the fatal
rock.
"Often by the setting moon I see the ghosts
of my children; half viewless they walk in
mournful conference together."
A torrent of tears which streamed from Charlotte's
eyes and gave relief to her bursting heart,
stopped Werther's recitation. He threw down
the book, seized her hand, and wept bitterly.
Charlotte leaned upon her hand, and buried
her face in her handkerchief: the agitation
of both was excessive. They felt that their
own fate was pictured in the misfortunes of
Ossian's heroes, they felt this together,
and their tears redoubled. Werther supported
his forehead on Charlotte's arm: she trembled,
she wished to be gone; but sorrow and sympathy
lay like a leaden weight upon her soul. She
recovered herself shortly, and begged Werther,
with broken sobs, to leave her, implored him
with the utmost earnestness to comply with
her request. He trembled; his heart was ready
to burst: then, taking up the book again,
he recommenced reading, in a voice broken
by sobs.
"Why dost thou waken me, O spring? Thy voice
woos me, exclaiming, I refresh thee with heavenly
dews; but the time of my decay is approaching,
the storm is nigh that shall whither my leaves.
Tomorrow the traveller shall come, he shall
come, who beheld me in beauty: his eye shall
seek me in the field around, but he shall
not find me."
The whole force of these words fell upon the
unfortunate Werther. Full of despair, he threw
himself at Charlotte's feet, seized her hands,
and pressed them to his eyes and to his forehead.
An apprehension of his fatal project now struck
her for the first time. Her senses were bewildered:
she held his hands, pressed them to her bosom;
and, leaning toward him with emotions of the
tenderest pity, her warm cheek touched his.
They lost sight of everything. The world disappeared
from their eyes. He clasped her in his arms,
strained her to his bosom, and covered her
trembling lips with passionate kisses. "Werther!"
she cried with a faint voice, turning herself
away; "Werther!" and, with a feeble hand,
she pushed him from her. At length, with the
firm voice of virtue, she exclaimed, "Werther!"
He resisted not, but, tearing himself from
her arms, fell on his knees before her. Charlotte
rose, and, with disordered grief, in mingled
tones of love and resentment, she exclaimed,
"It is the last time, Werther! You shall never
see me any more!" Then, casting one last,
tender look upon her unfortunate lover, she
rushed into the adjoining room, and locked
the door. Werther held out his arms, but did
not dare to detain her. He continued on the
ground, with his head resting on the sofa,
for half an hour, till he heard a noise which
brought him to his senses. The servant entered.
He then walked up and down the room; and,
when he was again left alone, he went to Charlotte's
door, and, in a low voice, said, "Charlotte,
Charlotte! but one word more, one last adieu!"
She returned no answer. He stopped, and listened
and entreated; but all was silent. At length
he tore himself from the place, crying, "Adieu,
Charlotte, adieu for ever!"
Werther ran to the gate of the town. The guards,
who knew him, let him pass in silence. The
night was dark and stormy,—it rained and
snowed. He reached his own door about eleven.
His servant, although seeing him enter the
house without his hat, did not venture to
say anything; and; as he undressed his master,
he found that his clothes were wet. His hat
was afterward found on the point of a rock
overhanging the valley; and it is inconceivable
how he could have climbed to the summit on
such a dark, tempestuous night without losing
his life.
He retired to bed, and slept to a late hour.
The next morning his servant, upon being called
to bring his coffee, found him writing. He
was adding, to Charlotte, what we here annex.
"For the last, last time I open these eyes.
Alas! they will behold the sun no more. It
is covered by a thick, impenetrable cloud.
Yes, Nature! put on mourning: your child,
your friend, your lover, draws near his end!
This thought, Charlotte, is without parallel;
and yet it seems like a mysterious dream when
I repeat—this is my last day! The last!
Charlotte, no word can adequately express
this thought. The last! To-day I stand erect
in all my strength to-morrow, cold and stark,
I shall lie extended upon the ground. To die!
what is death? We do but dream in our discourse
upon it. I have seen many human beings die;
but, so straitened is our feeble nature, we
have no clear conception of the beginning
or the end of our existence. At this moment
I am my own—or rather I am thine, thine,
my adored! and the next we are parted, severed—perhaps
for ever! No, Charlotte, no! How can I, how
can you, be annihilated? We exist. What is
annihilation? A mere word, an unmeaning sound
that fixes no impression on the mind. Dead,
Charlotte! laid in the cold earth, in the
dark and narrow grave! I had a friend once
who was everything to me in early youth. She
died. I followed her hearse; I stood by her
grave when the coffin was lowered; and when
I heard the creaking of the cords as they
were loosened and drawn up, when the first
shovelful of earth was thrown in, and the
coffin returned a hollow sound, which grew
fainter and fainter till all was completely
covered over, I threw myself on the ground;
my heart was smitten, grieved, shattered,
rent—but I neither knew what had happened,
nor what was to happen to me. Death! the grave!
I understand not the words.—Forgive, oh,
forgive me! Yesterday—ah, that day should
have been the last of my life! Thou angel!
for the first time in my existence, I felt
rapture glow within my inmost soul. She loves,
she loves me! Still burns upon my lips the
sacred fire they received from thine. New
torrents of delight overwhelm my soul. Forgive
me, oh, forgive!
"I knew that I was dear to you; I saw it in
your first entrancing look, knew it by the
first pressure of your hand; but when I was
absent from you, when I saw Albert at your
side, my doubts and fears returned.
"Do you remember the flowers you sent me,
when, at that crowded assembly, you could
neither speak nor extend your hand to me?
Half the night I was on my knees before those
flowers, and I regarded them as the pledges
of your love; but those impressions grew fainter,
and were at length effaced.
"Everything passes away; but a whole eternity
could not extinguish the living flame which
was yesterday kindled by your lips, and which
now burns within me. She loves me! These arms
have encircled her waist, these lips have
trembled upon hers. She is mine! Yes, Charlotte,
you are mine for ever!
"And what do they mean by saying Albert is
your husband? He may be so for this world;
and in this world it is a sin to love you,
to wish to tear you from his embrace. Yes,
it is a crime; and I suffer the punishment,
but I have enjoyed the full delight of my
sin. I have inhaled a balm that has revived
my soul. From this hour you are mine; yes,
Charlotte, you are mine! I go before you.
I go to my Father and to your Father. I will
pour out my sorrows before him, and he will
give me comfort till you arrive. Then will
I fly to meet you. I will claim you, and remain
your eternal embrace, in the presence of the
Almighty.
"I do not dream, I do not rave. Drawing nearer
to the grave my perceptions become clearer.
We shall exist; we shall see each other again;
we shall behold your mother; I shall behold
her, and expose to her my inmost heart. Your
mother—your image!"
About eleven o'clock Werther asked his servant
if Albert had returned. He answered, "Yes;"
for he had seen him pass on horseback: upon
which Werther sent him the following note,
unsealed:
"Be so good as to lend me your pistols for
a journey. Adieu."
Charlotte had slept little during the past
night. All her apprehensions were realised
in a way that she could neither foresee nor
avoid. Her blood was boiling in her veins,
and a thousand painful sensations rent her
pure heart. Was it the ardour of Werther's
passionate embraces that she felt within her
bosom? Was it anger at his daring? Was it
the sad comparison of her present condition
with former days of innocence, tranquillity,
and self-confidence? How could she approach
her husband, and confess a scene which she
had no reason to conceal, and which she yet
felt, nevertheless, unwilling to avow? They
had preserved so long a silence toward each
other and should she be the first to break
it by so unexpected a discovery? She feared
that the mere statement of Werther's visit
would trouble him, and his distress would
be heightened by her perfect candour. She
wished that he could see her in her true light,
and judge her without prejudice; but was she
anxious that he should read her inmost soul?
On the other hand, could she deceive a being
to whom all her thoughts had ever been exposed
as clearly as crystal, and from whom no sentiment
had ever been concealed? These reflections
made her anxious and thoughtful. Her mind
still dwelt on Werther, who was now lost to
her, but whom she could not bring herself
to resign, and for whom she knew nothing was
left but despair if she should be lost to
him for ever.
A recollection of that mysterious estrangement
which had lately subsisted between herself
and Albert, and which she could never thoroughly
understand, was now beyond measure painful
to her. Even the prudent and the good have
before now hesitated to explain their mutual
differences, and have dwelt in silence upon
their imaginary grievances, until circumstances
have become so entangled, that in that critical
juncture, when a calm explanation would have
saved all parties, an understanding was impossible.
And thus if domestic confidence had been earlier
established between them, if love and kind
forbearance had mutually animated and expanded
their hearts, it might not, perhaps, even
yet have been too late to save our friend.
But we must not forget one remarkable circumstance.
We may observe from the character of Werther's
correspondence, that he had never affected
to conceal his anxious desire to quit this
world. He had often discussed the subject
with Albert; and, between the latter and Charlotte,
it had not unfrequently formed a topic of
conversation. Albert was so opposed to the
very idea of such an action, that, with a
degree of irritation unusual in him, he had
more than once given Werther to understand
that he doubted the seriousness of his threats,
and not only turned them into ridicule, but
caused Charlotte to share his feelings of
incredulity. Her heart was thus tranquillised
when she felt disposed to view the melancholy
subject in a serious point of view, though
she never communicated to her husband the
apprehensions she sometimes experienced.
Albert, upon his return, was received by Charlotte
with ill-concealed embarrassment. He was himself
out of humour; his business was unfinished;
and he had just discovered that the neighbouring
official with whom he had to deal, was an
obstinate and narrow-minded personage. Many
things had occurred to irritate him.
He inquired whether anything had happened
during his absence, and Charlotte hastily
answered that Werther had been there on the
evening previously. He then inquired for his
letters, and was answered that several packages
had been left in his study. He thereon retired,
leaving Charlotte alone.
The presence of the being she loved and honoured
produced a new impression on her heart. The
recollection of his generosity, kindness,
and affection had calmed her agitation: a
secret impulse prompted her to follow him;
she took her work and went to his study, as
was often her custom. He was busily employed
opening and reading his letters. It seemed
as if the contents of some were disagreeable.
She asked some questions: he gave short answers,
and sat down to write.
Several hours passed in this manner, and Charlotte's
feelings became more and more melancholy.
She felt the extreme difficulty of explaining
to her husband, under any circumstances, the
weight that lay upon her heart; and her depression
became every moment greater, in proportion
as she endeavoured to hide her grief, and
to conceal her tears.
The arrival of Werther's servant occasioned
her the greatest embarrassment. He gave Albert
a note, which the latter coldly handed to
his wife, saying, at the same time, "Give
him the pistols. I wish him a pleasant journey,"
he added, turning to the servant. These words
fell upon Charlotte like a thunderstroke:
she rose from her seat half-fainting, and
unconscious of what she did. She walked mechanically
toward the wall, took down the pistols with
a trembling hand, slowly wiped the dust from
them, and would have delayed longer, had not
Albert hastened her movements by an impatient
look. She then delivered the fatal weapons
to the servant, without being able to utter
a word. As soon as he had departed, she folded
up her work, and retired at once to her room,
her heart overcome with the most fearful forebodings.
She anticipated some dreadful calamity. She
was at one moment on the point of going to
her husband, throwing herself at his feet,
and acquainting him with all that had happened
on the previous evening, that she might acknowledge
her fault, and explain her apprehensions;
then she saw that such a step would be useless,
as she would certainly be unable to induce
Albert to visit Werther. Dinner was served;
and a kind friend whom she had persuaded to
remain assisted to sustain the conversation,
which was carried on by a sort of compulsion,
till the events of the morning were forgotten.
When the servant brought the pistols to Werther,
the latter received them with transports of
delight upon hearing that Charlotte had given
them to him with her own hand. He ate some
bread, drank some wine, sent his servant to
dinner, and then sat down to write as follows:
"They have been in your hands you wiped the
dust from them. I kiss them a thousand times—you
have touched them. Yes, Heaven favours my
design, and you, Charlotte, provide me with
the fatal instruments. It was my desire to
receive my death from your hands, and my wish
is gratified. I have made inquiries of my
servant. You trembled when you gave him the
pistols, but you bade me no adieu. Wretched,
wretched that I am—not one farewell! How
could you shut your heart against me in that
hour which makes you mine for ever? Charlotte,
ages cannot efface the impression—I feel
you cannot hate the man who so passionately
loves you!"
After dinner he called his servant, desired
him to finish the packing up, destroyed many
papers, and then went out to pay some trifling
debts. He soon returned home, then went out
again, notwithstanding the rain, walked for
some time in the count's garden, and afterward
proceeded farther into the country. Toward
evening he came back once more, and resumed
his writing.
"Wilhelm, I have for the last time beheld
the mountains, the forests, and the sky. Farewell!
And you, my dearest mother, forgive me! Console
her, Wilhelm. God bless you! I have settled
all my affairs! Farewell! We shall meet again,
and be happier than ever."
"I have requited you badly, Albert; but you
will forgive me. I have disturbed the peace
of your home. I have sowed distrust between
you. Farewell! I will end all this wretchedness.
And oh, that my death may render you happy!
Albert, Albert! make that angel happy, and
the blessing of Heaven be upon you!"
He spent the rest of the evening in arranging
his papers: he tore and burned a great many;
others he sealed up, and directed to Wilhelm.
They contained some detached thoughts and
maxims, some of which I have perused. At ten
o'clock he ordered his fire to be made up,
and a bottle of wine to be brought to him.
He then dismissed his servant, whose room,
as well as the apartments of the rest of the
family, was situated in another part of the
house. The servant lay down without undressing,
that he might be the sooner ready for his
journey in the morning, his master having
informed him that the post-horses would be
at the door before six o'clock.
"Past eleven o'clock! All is silent around
me, and my soul is calm. I thank thee, O God,
that thou bestowest strength and courage upon
me in these last moments! I approach the window,
my dearest of friends; and through the clouds,
which are at this moment driven rapidly along
by the impetuous winds, I behold the stars
which illumine the eternal heavens. No, you
will not fall, celestial bodies: the hand
of the Almighty supports both you and me!
I have looked for the last time upon the constellation
of the Greater Bear: it is my favourite star;
for when I bade you farewell at night, Charlotte,
and turned my steps from your door, it always
shone upon me. With what rapture have I at
times beheld it! How often have I implored
it with uplifted hands to witness my felicity!
and even still—But what object is there,
Charlotte, which fails to summon up your image
before me? Do you not surround me on all sides?
and have I not, like a child, treasured up
every trifle which you have consecrated by
your touch?
"Your profile, which was so dear to me, I
return to you; and I pray you to preserve
it. Thousands of kisses have I imprinted upon
it, and a thousand times has it gladdened
my heart on departing from and returning to
my home.
"I have implored your father to protect my
remains. At the corner of the churchyard,
looking toward the fields, there are two lime-trees—there
I wish to lie. Your father can, and doubtless
will, do this much for his friend. Implore
it of him. But perhaps pious Christians will
not choose that their bodies should be buried
near the corpse of a poor, unhappy wretch
like me. Then let me be laid in some remote
valley, or near the highway, where the priest
and Levite may bless themselves as they pass
by my tomb, whilst the Samaritan will shed
a tear for my fate.
"See, Charlotte, I do not shudder to take
the cold and fatal cup, from which I shall
drink the draught of death. Your hand presents
it to me, and I do not tremble. All, all is
now concluded: the wishes and the hopes of
my existence are fulfilled. With cold, unflinching
hand I knock at the brazen portals of Death.
Oh, that I had enjoyed the bliss of dying
for you! how gladly would I have sacrificed
myself for you; Charlotte! And could I but
restore peace and joy to your bosom, with
what resolution, with what joy, would I not
meet my fate! But it is the lot of only a
chosen few to shed their blood for their friends,
and by their death to augment, a thousand
times, the happiness of those by whom they
are beloved.
"I wish, Charlotte, to be buried in the dress
I wear at present: it has been rendered sacred
by your touch. I have begged this favour of
your father. My spirit soars above my sepulchre.
I do not wish my pockets to be searched. The
knot of pink ribbon which you wore on your
bosom the first time I saw you, surrounded
by the children—Oh, kiss them a thousand
times for me, and tell them the fate of their
unhappy friend! I think I see them playing
around me. The dear children! How warmly have
I been attached to you, Charlotte! Since the
first hour I saw you, how impossible have
I found it to leave you. This ribbon must
be buried with me: it was a present from you
on my birthday. How confused it all appears!
Little did I then think that I should journey
this road. But peace! I pray you, peace!
"They are loaded—the clock strikes twelve.
I say amen. Charlotte, Charlotte! farewell,
farewell!"
A neighbour saw the flash, and heard the report
of the pistol; but, as everything remained
quiet, he thought no more of it.
In the morning, at six o'clock, the servant
went into Werther's room with a candle. He
found his master stretched upon the floor,
weltering in his blood, and the pistols at
his side. He called, he took him in his arms,
but received no answer. Life was not yet quite
extinct. The servant ran for a surgeon, and
then went to fetch Albert. Charlotte heard
the ringing of the bell: a cold shudder seized
her. She wakened her husband, and they both
rose. The servant, bathed in tears faltered
forth the dreadful news. Charlotte fell senseless
at Albert's feet.
When the surgeon came to the unfortunate Werther,
he was still lying on the floor; and his pulse
beat, but his limbs were cold. The bullet,
entering the forehead, over the right eye,
had penetrated the skull. A vein was opened
in his right arm: the blood came, and he still
continued to breathe.
From the blood which flowed from the chair,
it could be inferred that he had committed
the rash act sitting at his bureau, and that
he afterward fell upon the floor. He was found
lying on his back near the window. He was
in full-dress costume.
The house, the neighbourhood, and the whole
town were immediately in commotion. Albert
arrived. They had laid Werther on the bed:
his head was bound up, and the paleness of
death was upon his face. His limbs were motionless;
but he still breathed, at one time strongly,
then weaker—his death was momently expected.
He had drunk only one glass of the wine. "Emilia
Galotti" lay open upon his bureau.
I shall say nothing of Albert's distress,
or of Charlotte's grief.
The old steward hastened to the house immediately
upon hearing the news: he embraced his dying
friend amid a flood of tears. His eldest boys
soon followed him on foot. In speechless sorrow
they threw themselves on their knees by the
bedside, and kissed his hands and face. The
eldest, who was his favourite, hung over him
till he expired; and even then he was removed
by force. At twelve o'clock Werther breathed
his last. The presence of the steward, and
the precautions he had adopted, prevented
a disturbance; and that night, at the hour
of eleven, he caused the body to be interred
in the place which Werther had selected for
himself.
The steward and his sons followed the corpse
to the grave. Albert was unable to accompany
them. Charlotte's life was despaired of. The
body was carried by labourers. No priest attended.
