JUNE 19
I no longer remember where I stopped in my story; I do know that it was two o’clock in the morning when I went to bed and that if I had been able to harangue you with it, instead of writing, I might have kept you up until dawn.
I have not yet told you what happened on the way home from the ball, and I don’t have time to tell you today either. It was the most glorious sunrise. All around us the dripping trees and the refreshed fields! The women in the party nodded off. She asked me if I would not want to join the group, no need to worry about her.—As long as I see these eyes open, I said, looking at her steadily, there’s no danger of that.—And both of us held out until we reached her gate, which the maid opened quietly for her and in answer to her questions, assured her that her father and the little ones were well and still asleep. Thereupon I took leave of her with the request that I might see her again the very same day; she granted it, and I went; and since then, sun, moon, and stars can quietly go about their business, I don’t know whether it’s day or night, the whole world around me vanishes.
JUNE 21
I am living such happy days as God reserves for His saints; and no matter what happens to me, I cannot say that I have not tasted the joys, the purest joys of life.—You know my Wahlheim; I’m fully settled in; from here I’m only half an hour from Lotte; that is where I am in touch with myself and with all the happiness granted to man.
Had I imagined when I chose Wahlheim as the goal of my walks that it lay so close to heaven! How often on my wide wanderings have I seen the hunting lodge that now contains all my desires, either from the hillside or across the river from the meadow!
Dear Wilhelm, I have thought about this and that, about man’s desire to expand, make new discoveries, roam; and then again on his inner drive to submit willingly to limitations, to carry on in the rut of habit, looking neither right nor left.
It is marvelous how I came here and gazed down from the hills into the beautiful valley, how everything all around me attracted me—The little stand of trees over there!—Oh, if you could only mingle in its shade!—There the hilltop!—Oh, if you could see over the whole wide region from up there!—The enchained hills and the gentle valleys!—Oh, if I could lose myself in them!—I hurried to be there, and returned, and had not found what I had hoped to find. Oh, distance is like the future! A vast twilit whole looms before our soul, our feeling blurs in it like our eyesight, and we long, oh, to surrender our whole being, to let ourselves be filled to the brim, blissfully, with a single, great, glorious emotion.—And alas! when we rush to be there, when there becomes here, everything is as it was before, and we stand there as poor and limited as before, and our soul craves the balm that has slipped away.
Thus, in the end, the most restless vagabond longs once more for his homeland, and in his cottage, at his wife’s breast, in the circle of his children, in the occupations that provide for them, he finds the bliss that he sought in vain in the whole wide world.
When mornings at sunrise I leave for my Wahlheim, and in the garden of the inn I pick my own sugar peas, sit down, snip off their strings, and in between read my Homer; when in the little kitchen I choose a saucepan, baste the peapods with a little butter, set them on the fire, cover them, and sit there to shake the pan from time to time; then I feel vividly how Penelope’s boisterous suitors slaughter, carve up, and roast oxen and swine. Nothing fills me with such serene, genuine feeling as the features of patriarchal life, which, thank God, I can weave into my way of life without affectation.
How happy I am that my heart can feel the simple, innocent bliss of the man who brings to his table the head of cabbage he has grown himself and who now, in a single moment, enjoys not only the cabbage but all the fine days, the beautiful morning he planted it, the lovely evenings he watered it, and the pleasure he took in watching it grow continuously—all rolled into one.
JUNE 29
The day before yesterday the doctor came from town to see the District Officer, and he found me on the floor with Lotte’s children, several of them clambering over my back and others teasing me while I tickled them and set off a great hullabaloo. The doctor, a very dogmatic marionette who adjusts his cuffs while speaking and ceaselessly plucks at a ruffle, found my behavior beneath the dignity of a civilized man; I could see as much from his nose. But I did not let myself be bothered in the least, I let him discourse on very sensible topics, and I rebuilt the children’s houses of cards whenever they knocked them down. Whereupon he went about town complaining: as if the District Officer’s children weren’t wild enough, Werther was now spoiling them altogether.
Yes, dear Wilhelm, the children are of all things on earth closest to my heart. When I watch them and see in these small beings the seeds of all the virtues, all the powers they will one day need so urgently; when I glimpse future steadfastness and firmness of character in their stubbornness and in their playfulness, good humor and the ease they’ll need to slide over life’s dangers, when I see all of it so unspoiled, so intact!—I repeat over and over again the golden words of the teacher of mankind: Unless you become as little children! and yet, dear friend, they, who are our equals, whom we ought to consider our models, these we treat as inferiors. They should not have a will of their own!—Are we then without one? And wherein does our privilege lie?—Because we are older and more intelligent!—Good God, from Your heaven You see old children and young children and nothing more; and Your son long ago proclaimed which ones give You greater joy. But they believe in Him and do not hear Him—that, too, is nothing new!—and fashion their children on their own model and—Adieu, Wilhelm! I’m not in the mood to blather on about it any longer.
JULY 1
My own poor heart, which suffers more than many who languish on their sickbeds, shows me what Lotte must mean to an invalid. She will be spending a few days in town with a good woman whose end, according to her doctors, is near and who in her final hours wants Lotte at her side. Last week I went with Lotte to visit the pastor of St. ——, a little village an hour away in the mountains. We arrived around four o’clock. Lotte had brought along her little sister. As we entered the courtyard of the parsonage, shaded by two tall walnut trees, the good old man was seated on a bench in front of the door; and when he saw Lotte, it was as if he had come to life, forgetting his knotty stick and venturing to stand up to go toward her. She ran over to him and made him sit back down by sitting beside him, bringing warm greetings from her father, and then cuddling his naughty, dirty youngest boy, the little treasure of his old age. You should have seen her keeping the old man occupied, raising her voice to make herself heard by his half-deaf ears while telling him about strapping young people who had died unexpectedly and about the excellence of Carlsbad, praising his decision to spend the next summer there, and how much better she thought he looked, much more lively than the last time she’d seen him. Meanwhile I paid my respects to the pastor’s wife. The old man became quite animated, and as I could not help admiring the beautiful walnut trees that cast their shade over us so pleasantly, he began to tell us their story, although somewhat clumsily.—The old one, he said, we do not know who planted it; some say this pastor, others say a different one. But the younger tree there in the back is as old as my wife, fifty in October. Her father planted it the morning of the day she was born toward evening. He was my predecessor in office, and I can’t tell you how much he loved the tree; of course, it means just as much to me. My wife was sitting under it on a log and knitting when I came into the yard for the first time as a poor student, twenty-seven years ago.—Lotte asked about his daughter: the reply was that she had gone with Herr Schmidt to the hands in the field, and the old man continued his story: how he had won the affection of his predecessor and of his daughter as well, and how he had become first his curate and then his successor. The story had barely ended when the pastor’s daughter, with the aforementioned Herr Schmidt, came in through the garden; she greeted Lotte with genuine warmth, and I must say, I found her quite attractive:
a vivacious, well-built brunette, who might have been quite entertaining company during a brief stay in the country. Her suitor (for Herr Schmidt immediately presented himself as such) was a refined though quiet man who would not join in our conversation, although Lotte was always quick to draw him in. What troubled me most was that I seemed to notice from his expression that it was stubbornness and ill humor more than limited intelligence that prevented him from taking part. Unfortunately, this became all too evident; for when Friederike went walking with Lotte and from time to time with me, the gentleman’s face, which was swarthy to begin with, darkened so visibly that it was time for Lotte to pluck my sleeve and let me know that I had been too friendly toward Friederike. Now there is nothing that irritates me more than when people torment one another, especially when young people in the prime of life, who could be most open to all life’s joys, ruin the few good days for each other with antics and realize only too late that they have squandered something irreplaceable. That nettled me, and after we had returned to the parsonage toward evening and were eating curdled milk at the table and the conversation turned to the joys and sufferings of the world, I could not help picking up the thread and speaking out very bluntly against bad moods.—People often complain, I began—for the most part unjustly, I think—that there are so few good days and so many bad ones. If our hearts were always open to enjoy the good that God puts before us each day, we would also be strong enough to endure the bad whenever it comes.—But we have no control over our feelings, replied the pastor’s wife; so much depends on our bodies. When we do not feel well, nothing seems right.—I granted her that.—Well, then, I continued, let’s consider moodiness as a sickness and ask if there is no cure for it.—That sounds reasonable, said Lotte: at least, I think a lot depends on ourselves. I know it does with me. If something annoys me and is apt to make me ill-tempered, I jump up and sing a few country dances up and down the garden, and it’s gone right away.—That’s what I meant to say, I added: bad moods are just the same as laziness, for they are a sort of laziness. Our natures are prone to it, and yet, if we just once summon up the strength to pull ourselves together, work flies from our hands, and we find real pleasure in being active.—Friederike listened very attentively, and her young man objected that we are not masters of ourselves and least of all able to dictate our feelings.—Here it is a question of an unpleasant feeling, I replied, which surely everyone would gladly be rid of; and no one knows the extent of his powers until he has tested them. Certainly, a sick man will consult all the doctors, and he will not reject the greatest deprivation, the harshest medicines, to regain the health he desires.—I noticed that the good old man was straining to take part in our conversation. I raised my voice and turned to address him. They preach sermons against so many vices, I said; I have never yet heard anyone inveighing against bad moods from the pulpit.†—That’s a job for city pastors, he said. Peasants are not ill-humored; and yet it would do no harm now and again, as a lesson at least for my wife and for the District Officer.—We all laughed, and he laughed heartily along with us until attacked by a coughing fit, which interrupted our conversation for a while; then the young man spoke up again: You called bad moods a vice; I think that’s an exaggeration.—Not at all, I replied, if whatever harms ourselves and our neighbors deserves this name. Isn’t it enough that we cannot make each other happy, must we also rob each other of the pleasure that every heart is still able to grant itself from time to time? And show me the man who is ill-tempered and yet is good enough to hide it, to bear it alone, without destroying the joy all around him! Isn’t it rather an inner dissatisfaction with our own unworthiness, a displeasure with ourselves forever tied to envy that is stimulated by foolish vanity? We see happy people whom we are not making happy, and that is unbearable.—Lotte smiled at me as she saw the passion with which I spoke, and a tear in Friederike’s eyes spurred me on.—Woe unto them, I said, who use the power they have over another’s heart to rob it of the simple joys that naturally burgeon from it. All the gifts, all the favors the world can bestow cannot replace an instant of pleasure in oneself that our tyrant’s envious discontent has turned to bile.
At that moment my whole heart was full; the memory of so much in the past pressed against my soul, and tears came to my eyes.
If we would only say to ourselves each day, I cried out: We can do nothing for our friends but let their joys abide and increase their happiness by enjoying it with them. When their innermost soul is tormented by an anxious passion or shattered by grief, are you able to give them a drop of comfort?
And when the final, most frightening sickness befalls the creature you undermined when she was in flower, and now she lies there in the most pitiable exhaustion, her eyes lifted insensibly toward heaven, death sweat alternating on her pallid brow, you stand before her bed like a damned soul, with the most intense feeling that with all your resources you can do nothing, and you experience an internal spasm of fear, and you would gladly give everything to be able to impart to this dying creature a drop of comfort, a spark of courage.
With these words I was overwhelmed by the memory of such a scene at which I had been present. I put my handkerchief to my eyes and left the party, and only Lotte’s voice, which called to me to say that it was time to leave brought me to my senses. And how she scolded me on the way back about my excessive emotional involvement in everything, and how that would lead to my destruction! That I ought to spare myself!—Oh, you angel! For your sake I must live!
JULY 6
She is always with her dying friend and is always the same, always the fully attentive, lovely creature, who, wherever she turns, relieves pain and makes people happy. Last night she went for a walk with Marianne and little Amalie; I knew about it and met them, and we walked together. After an hour and a half we turned back toward the town and came upon the well that is so dear to me and is now a thousand times dearer. Lotte sat down on the low wall, and we stood in front of her. I looked around, oh! and the time when my heart was so alone came alive again before me.—Beloved well, I said, since that time I have not rested beside your coolness, and sometimes, when hurrying by, I did not even take notice of you.—I looked down and saw that Amalie, climbing up, was fully occupied with a glass of water.—I looked at Lotte and felt everything that she means to me. At that moment Amalie arrived with a glass. Marianne wanted to take it from her.—No! the child cried out with the sweetest expression, No, dear Lotte, you must drink first! I was so enchanted by the truth, the goodness, with which the child cried that out that I could not express my emotion except to lift her up and kiss her soundly, so that she began to scream and weep at once.—You’ve acted badly, said Lotte.—I was struck.—Come, Amalie, she continued, as she took her hand and led her down the steps, wash it off in the fresh well water, hurry, hurry, then it won’t matter.—I stood there and watched with what zeal the little girl rubbed her cheeks with her little wet hands, with what faith that this well of wonders must wash away all pollution and remove the disgrace of getting an ugly beard. I heard Lotte say: That’s enough! and still the child went on eagerly washing herself as if more were better than less—I tell you, Wilhelm, I never felt greater reverence when attending a baptism; and when Lotte came back up, I would have happily thrown myself at her feet as before a prophet whose blessing had washed away the sins of a nation.
That evening the joy in my heart led me to describe the incident to a man whom I believed to have human feelings because he is intelligent; but with what results? He said that it was very wrong of Lotte; one should not fool children into believing things that are not true; that sort of thing would give rise to countless errors and superstitions, from which children must be protected at an early age.—At that point it occurred to me that the same man had had a child baptized a week before, so I let it pass and in my heart remained faithful to the truth: we ought to fare with children as God fares with us, Who makes us happiest when He lets us stumble about in our amiable delusions.
JULY 8
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bsp; How childish we are! How greedy we can be for a glance! How childish we are!—We had gone to Wahlheim. The ladies drove out, and during our walks I thought I saw in Lotte’s dark eyes—I am a fool, forgive me! you should see them, those eyes!—To be brief (for I am so sleepy that my eyes are closing), behold, the ladies got in, and standing around the young W.’s carriage were Selstadt, Audran, and I. The ladies chatted through the carriage door with the fellows, who of course were easy and breezy enough.—I sought Lotte’s eyes: oh, her glance went from one to the other! But it did not fall on me! me! me! the only one standing there who lives wholly in submission to her!—My heart bade her a thousand adieus! And she did not look at me! The carriage drove on, and there were tears in my eyes. I watched her go, and saw Lotte’s bonnet leaning out the carriage door, and she turned around in order to look back, ah! at me?—Dear friend! I am adrift in this uncertainty; this is my comfort: perhaps she did turn around to look at me! Perhaps!—Good night! Oh, how childish I am!
JULY 10
The Sufferings of Young Werther: A New Translation Page 4
