Yesterday, as I was leaving, she gave me her hand and said: Adieu, dear Werther!—Dear Werther! It was the first time that she called me Dear, and it pierced me to the quick. I’ve repeated it to myself a hundred times, and last night, as I was about to go to bed and was chatting with myself about all sorts of things, I suddenly said, just so: Good night, dear Werther! and then I had to laugh at myself.
NOVEMBER 22
I cannot pray: Let her be mine! and yet she often seems to me to be mine. I cannot pray: Give her to me! for she belongs to another. I go around expending my wit on my pains; were I to give myself free rein, I could produce a whole litany of antitheses.
NOVEMBER 24
She feels my suffering. Today her gaze forced its way deep into my heart. I found her alone; I did not say anything, and she looked at me. And I no longer saw in her the lovely beauty, no longer the radiance of her excellent spirit; all that had disappeared from my sight. A far more splendid look affected me, the full expression of the most intense sympathy, the sweetest compassion. Why was I not allowed to throw myself at her feet? Why was I not allowed to respond by embracing her and showering her with a thousand kisses? She sought refuge at the piano and, as she played, she softly, sweetly breathed out harmonious sounds. Never have I seen her lips so enchanting; it was as if they opened to sip the sweet tones rising from the instrument, and what reverberated was only the covert echo from her pure mouth—oh, if I could only tell you, quite plainly!—I stopped resisting, bent my head, and took an oath: Never will I dare to press a kiss onto you—lips—on which the spirits of heaven flutter. And yet—I want—ha! Do you see, it stands like a rampart before my soul—this bliss—and then: Go to your destruction to expiate this sin—sin?
NOVEMBER 26
Sometimes I tell myself: Your fate is unique; count the others fortunate—no one else has ever been so tormented.—Then I read a poet from ancient times, and it seems as if I were looking into my own heart. I have to endure so much! Oh, then, can men who lived before me have been so miserable?
NOVEMBER 30
I shall, I shall not come to my senses! Wherever I turn, I encounter an apparition that destroys my composure. Today! O destiny! O mankind!
I went down to the water at noon, I did not feel like eating. Everything was bleak, a moist, cold west wind was blowing in from the mountain, and gray rain clouds were moving into the valley. At a distance I saw a man in a shabby green coat clambering among the rocks, apparently looking for herbs. As I approached and he turned on hearing the noise I made, I saw an interesting physiognomy, whose main feature was a quiet mournfulness but which otherwise expressed nothing more than good, honest sense; his black hair was pinned into two rolls, with the rest woven into a thick braid that hung down his back. Since his clothes seemed to mark him as a member of the lower class, I felt certain that he would not be offended if I took notice of his doings, and I asked him what he was looking for.—I am looking, he replied, sighing deeply, for flowers—and I cannot find any.—It isn’t the right time of year for them, I said, smiling.—There are so many flowers, he said as he walked down to join me. In my garden there are roses and two kinds of woodbine, my father gave me one of them, they grow like weeds; I’ve been looking for two days and can’t find them. But out here there are always flowers, yellow and blue and red, and the centaury has a pretty little flower. I can’t find any at all.—I detected something weird and therefore I asked in a roundabout way, Why do you want the flowers?—A strange, quivering smile twisted his face.—If you won’t tell anyone, he said while pressing a finger to his lips, I promised my sweetheart a posy.—That’s good of you, I said.—Oh! he said, she has a lot of other things, she’s rich—And yet she’d love a posy from you, I replied.—Oh! he continued, she has jewels and a crown—What’s her name?—If the States-General would only pay me, he replied, I’d be a different man! Oh yes, there was a time when I felt very happy! But now I’m done for. Now I’m—a tearful glance at the heavens expressed it all.—So you were happy? I asked.—Oh, I wish I were that way again! he said. I felt so wonderful, so joyful, as light as a fish in water!—Heinrich! called an old woman who was walking toward us, Heinrich, where are you hiding? We’ve been looking for you everywhere, come to dinner!—Is that your son? I asked, as I went over to her—Yes, my poor son! she replied. God has given me a heavy cross to bear.—How long has he been this way? I asked.—It’s been six months now, she said, that he’s been so calm. Thank God that he’s only this far gone, earlier he was raving mad for a whole year, they put him in chains in the madhouse. Now he wouldn’t harm a soul, except he’s forever got kings and emperors on the brain. He was such a good, calm boy, he helped support me, he had such beautiful handwriting, and then all of a sudden he became broody, came down with a burning fever, went from there into raving madness, and now he’s the way you see him. If I were to tell you, sir—I interrupted the flow of her words with the question, What was that time, the time when he boasts of having felt so happy, so wonderful?—The foolish boy! she exclaimed with a pitying smile, he means the time when he was out of his mind, he always boasts of it; that’s the time he was in the madhouse, when he had no idea who he was.—That left me thunderstruck, I pressed a coin into her hand and hurriedly left her.
When you were happy! I exclaimed to myself, walking quickly straight toward town, when you were as happy as a fish in water!—God in Heaven! Have You so designed men’s fate that they are happy only before they arrive at reason and after they lose it!—Poor wretch! and yet, how I envy your melancholy, the confusion of your senses in which you languish! You are filled with hope as you set out to pluck flowers for your queen—in winter—and mourn when you cannot find any and fail to understand why you cannot find any. And I—and I go out without hope, without purpose, and return home the way I came.—You imagine what sort of man you would be if the States-General paid you. Blessed creature! who can attribute his lack of happiness to an earthly obstacle! You do not feel! you do not feel that your misery lies in your shattered heart, in your ravaged brain, and all the kings in the world cannot help you recover. Let that man die a hopeless death who mocks the afflicted man journeying to the farthest healing spring, which will only add to his ills and render what remains of his life more painful! who looks down on the harried heart of the man who goes on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulcher to rid himself of the scruples of his conscience and to cast off the sufferings of his soul. Every step that cuts into the soles of his feet on the untrodden path is a drop of balm for his anguished soul, and with every day’s march that he endures, his heart lies down to rest relieved of many of its afflictions.—And you dare to call that madness, you, on your soft pillows, you phrasemongers?—Madness!—Oh God! You see my tears! Must You, who created man sufficiently poor, also give him brothers who would rob him of the bit of privation, the bit of trust he has in You, in You the All-Loving One! For the trust in a healing root, in the tears of the vine—what is that except trust in You, trust that You have placed in all that surrounds us the power to heal and alleviate which we need in every hour of our life? Father! Whom I do not know! Father, Who once filled my entire soul and now has turned His countenance away from me! call me to You! be silent no longer! Your silence will not halt this thirsting soul—and could a man, a father, be angry with his son who, returning unexpectedly, throws his arms around him and cries out: I’ve come home, Father! Do not be angry that I have broken off my journey when it was your will that I should have endured longer. The world is the same all over, after effort and labor come recompense and joy; but what has that to do with me? I am happy only where You are, and it is in your countenance that I want to suffer and enjoy.—And you, dear Father in Heaven, would You cast him from You?
DECEMBER 1
Wilhelm! The man I wrote you about, that fortunate unfortunate, was a clerk in the office of Lotte’s father, and it was a passion for her, which he nourished, concealed, revealed, and for which he was dismissed, that drove him mad. As you read these dry words
, feel with what derangement of my senses I was gripped by the story, which Albert told me with just as much composure as you may be feeling as you read it now.
DECEMBER 4
I beg of you—You see, I am done for, I can bear it no longer! Today I was sitting with her—I sat, she played the piano, various tunes, and so much expression! so much!—so much!—What would you have me do?—Her little sister was dressing her doll on my knee. Tears rose to my eyes. I bent my head and caught sight of her wedding ring—my tears flowed—and all at once she began to play the old, the heavenly, the sweet melody, just all at once, and a consoling feeling ran through my soul, and a memory of all that was past, of the times when I had heard the tune, the gloomy intervals, my chagrin, my failed hopes, and then—I paced up and down the room, my heart choking from the stress.—For God’s sake, I said, starting toward her with a violent outburst, for God’s sake, stop! She stopped and looked fixedly at me. Werther, she said, with a smile that pierced my soul, Werther, you are very ill, all your favorites do not agree with you! Go! I beg of you, calm down.—I tore myself away from her and—God! You see my misery and You will put an end to it.
DECEMBER 6
How her image pursues me! Waking and dreaming, it fills my entire soul! Here when I close my eyes, here inside my head, where the lines of my inner vision join, I find her black eyes. Here! I cannot describe it to you. When I close my eyes, they’re there; like an ocean, like an abyss, they lie before me, in me, filling the senses inside my head.
What is man, the celebrated demigod! Does he not lack strength precisely where he needs it most? And if he soars upward in joy or sinks down in sorrow, will he not be arrested in both, just there, just then, brought back to dull, cold consciousness when he was longing to lose himself in the fullness of the infinite?
The Editor to the Reader
HOW DEVOUTLY I wish that enough documents in his own hand concerning the last remarkable days of our friend had been left to us so as to render it unnecessary for me to interpose my narrative in the sequence of the remaining letters.
I have gone to great lengths to collect accurate reports from the lips of those in a position to be well acquainted with his history; it is a simple one, and all accounts of it are in agreement, barring a few insignificant details; it is only about the cast of mind of the persons closely involved that opinions differ and judgments diverge.
What can we do but relate conscientiously all that we were able to glean after repeated efforts, intercalating the letters the departed left behind, never neglecting the slightest slip of paper we found, especially given the difficulty of discovering the truly genuine, the authentic motives behind even a single action when it is found among persons who are not of the common stamp.
Indignation and displeasure became more and more deeply rooted in Werther’s soul, growing ever more tightly entangled and gradually taking possession of his entire being. The harmony of his mind was completely devastated, an internal heat and violence, which labored to confuse all his natural powers, produced the most repellent effects and finally left him with nothing but an exhaustion from which he sought to rise with even greater anxiety than when he had struggled with all the woes of his past. The dread in his heart sapped his remaining intellectual strength, his vivacity, his wit; he became a sorry companion, always more unhappy, and always more unfair the unhappier he grew. At least Albert’s friends say as much; they claim that Werther—who, so to speak, consumed his total assets every day, only to suffer want and deprivation in the evening—was not competent to judge a blameless, quiet man who had arrived at the happiness he had long yearned for or to question the manner in which he sought to preserve his happiness in the future.—Albert, they say, had not changed in so short a time; he was still the same man whom Werther had known from the beginning, whom he had so highly esteemed and respected. He loved Lotte more than anything in the world, he was proud of her and wanted to have her acknowledged by everyone as the most splendid of women. Hence, could he be blamed for also wanting to avoid every trace of suspicion at a moment when he had no desire to share his exquisite possession with anyone, even in the most innocent fashion? They admit that Albert often left his wife’s room when Werther was with her, but not out of hatred or aversion for his friend, but simply because he felt that Werther was inhibited by his presence.
Lotte’s father had fallen ill and was confined to his room; he sent his carriage for her, and she drove out to him. It was a fine winter’s day, the first heavy snow had fallen, covering the region.
The next morning Werther followed, so that if Albert did not come for her, he might escort her home.
The clear weather did little to affect his cheerless mood, a dull weight pressed on his soul, mournful images lodged firmly in his brain, and his mind knew no other motion than to veer from one excruciating thought to the next.
As he lived with himself in perpetual strife, the condition of others appeared to him only more problematic and convoluted; he believed that he had destroyed the beautiful relationship between Albert and his wife, he reproached himself for this—and his reproaches became tempered by an element of veiled repugnance for the husband.
On his way his thoughts were occupied by this subject as well.—Yes, yes, he said to himself, surreptitiously gnashing his teeth, here we have that intimate, friendly, tender, all-encompassing companionship, that serene, enduring faithfulness! It is satiety, and it is indifference! isn’t it true that every paltry business transaction means more to him than his precious, exquisite wife? Can he appreciate his good fortune? Can he respect her as she deserves? He has her, all well and good, he has her—I know that, just as I know something else: I think that I’ve become accustomed to the thought, it will drive me mad, it will kill me—and has his friendship for me continued? Doesn’t he already see in my affection for Lotte an interference with his rights, in my attentiveness to her a silent reproach? I know it well, I feel it, he is not glad to see me, he wants me to go away, my presence is a burden to him.
He often slackened his pace, he often stood still and seemed inclined to turn back; but each time he aimed his steps forward, and finally, with such thoughts and soliloquies, he arrived, so to speak against his will, at the hunting lodge.
He entered and asked after the old gentleman and Lotte; he found the house in considerable uproar. The oldest boy told him that there had been a calamity in Wahlheim, a peasant had been killed!—It made no real impression on him.—He entered the sitting room and found Lotte trying to dissuade the old gentleman, who in spite of his illness insisted on going to Wahlheim to investigate matters on the spot. The perpetrator was still unknown, the body had been found that morning outside the door of his house, there were suspicions: the murdered man was the servant of a widow who had previously employed another man who had left the house after a dispute.
On hearing this, Werther started up vehemently.—Can it be! he exclaimed, I have to go there, I can’t wait another moment.—He hurried toward Wahlheim, every memory vivid in his mind, and he did not doubt for a moment that the young man with whom he had spoken a few times and whom he had come to like so much had committed the crime.
As he had to walk under the linden trees to get to the tavern where they had laid the body, he was appalled by the spot he had formerly cherished so deeply. That threshold, where the neighbors’ children had so often played, was stained with blood. Love and loyalty, the most beautiful of human sentiments, had turned into violence and murder. The powerful trees stood without foliage and covered with hoarfrost; the beautiful hedgerows, which arched over the low wall of the churchyard, had lost their leaves, and the snow-covered headstones could be glimpsed through the gaps.
As he approached the tavern, before which the entire village was gathered, shouting suddenly broke out. A troop of armed men could be seen at a distance, and the crowd shouted that they were bringing in the murderer. Werther saw the man and was no longer in doubt. Yes, it was the young servant who had loved that widow so much a
nd whom he had met some time ago wandering around in quiet fury and secret despair.
What have you done, you wretched man! Werther cried out as he went up to the prisoner.—The latter looked at him quietly, was silent, and finally replied quite calmly, No one will have her, she won’t have anyone.—The prisoner was brought into the tavern, and Werther rushed away.
This terrible, violent upheaval threw everything in his nature into confusion. For a moment he was wrested from his sadness, his dejection, his indifferent acceptance; a resolute sympathy took possession of him, and he was seized by an inexpressible urge to save the man. He felt him to be so unlucky, found him so innocent even as a criminal, and put himself so completely in his place that he fully believed he could persuade others as well. He wished he were able to speak at once in the man’s defense, the most vivid speech was already rushing to his lips; he hurried to the hunting lodge and on the way could not refrain from voicing under his breath everything he wanted to say to the District Officer.
When he came into the sitting room, he found Albert there; this spoiled his mood for a moment; but he soon took hold of himself and declared his convictions in fervent tones. The District Officer shook his head several times, and although Werther, with the greatest vivacity, passion, and truth, set forth everything a man can say in defense of another man, the District Officer, as can easily be imagined, remained unmoved. On the contrary, he did not allow our friend to finish speaking, hotly contradicted him, and rebuked him for protecting an assassin; he pointed out to him how, in this way, every law would be abrogated, the security of the state would be destroyed; he added that in such a case there was nothing he could do without taking upon himself the gravest responsibility; everything had to proceed in an orderly manner, according to the prescribed procedure.
The Sufferings of Young Werther: A New Translation Page 10
