Werther did not give up yet but asked only that the District Officer look the other way if the man should be helped to escape! This suggestion, too, was rejected. Albert, who finally joined the discussion, also took the part of the old gentleman. Werther was outvoted, and suffering furiously, he went away after the District Officer had told him several times, No, he cannot be saved!
How deeply these words must have struck him we can see from a note found among his papers, a note that had certainly been written that same day:
“You cannot be saved, you wretched man! I see all too well that we cannot be saved.”
What Albert had said in the end, in the presence of the District Officer, about the prisoner’s case had been extremely offensive to Werther; he thought he had detected in it a certain annoyance with him, and even if, upon further reflection, it did not escape his critical judgment that both men might be right, he nevertheless felt as if he would have to renounce his innermost being in order to admit it, to concede it.
A note referring to this matter, which perhaps expresses the entirely of his relation to Albert, is found among his papers:
“What good does it do me to tell myself, and tell myself again, that he is fine and good, it nevertheless tears my innermost entrails to pieces; I cannot be fair.”
Because it was a mild evening, and the weather was beginning to tend to a thaw, Lotte walked home with Albert. On the way she looked around here and there, as if she were missing Werther’s company. Albert began to speak about him, he criticized him while doing him justice. He touched on Werther’s unfortunate passion and wished that it might be possible to send him away.—I wish it for our sake as well, he said, and I beg you, he continued, to make an effort to give his conduct toward you a different direction, to make his visits less frequent. People are beginning to notice, and I know that there’s been talk about it here and there.—Lotte was silent, and Albert appeared to have registered her silence: at least from that time on, he no longer mentioned Werther to her, and when she mentioned him, he let the conversation drop or changed the subject.
Werther’s one vain attempt to save the unfortunate man was the last flare of the flame of a light on the brink of extinction; he sank ever deeper into pain and lethargy; in particular, he was almost beside himself when he heard that he might be summoned to testify against the hired hand, who was now taking refuge in denial.
Every unpleasantness that he had ever encountered in his active life—the vexation at the embassy, whatever else he had failed to accomplish, whatever had ever unsettled him—rose and fell in his soul. As a result, he found himself entitled to lethargy, he found himself cut off from any prospect, incapable of grasping any handle to take hold of life’s ordinary affairs; and so, finally, given over entirely to his strange feelings, his way of thinking, and his endless passion, in the eternal monotony of a sad companionship with the lovely and beloved creature whose calm he disturbed, raging against his powers, exhausting them without purpose or prospect, he moved ever closer to a sorry end.
Several of the surviving letters are the strongest testimonies to his confusion and passion, his restless doing and striving, and his weariness with life; we will include them here:
DECEMBER 12
Dear Wilhelm, I am in the state that must have been experienced by those unfortunate creatures who were thought to be ridden by an evil demon. At times it takes hold of me; it is not terror, not lust—it’s an unfamiliar inner frenzy that threatens to rip my breast apart, that constricts my throat! Woe! Woe! and then I roam through the frightful night scenes of this hostile season.
Last night I felt compelled to go outside. A thaw had suddenly set in; I had heard that the river had overflowed its banks, all brooks were swollen and my dear valley flooded from Wahlheim down! In the night, after eleven o’clock, I ran outside. A frightful spectacle: to see the rushing floodwaters whirling down from the rocks in the moonlight, over fields and meadows and hedgerows and all around, and up and down the wide valley a single raging lake in the howling of the wind! And then, when the moon came out again and rested over the black clouds, and down below me the floodwaters rolling and pounding in the awesome, splendid reflection: a shudder came over me and again a longing! Oh, with my arms wide open I stood facing the abyss and breathed down! down! and was lost in the bliss of hurling my torments, my suffering raging down! roaring away like the waves! Oh!—and lifting your foot from the ground and ending all your torments—that was beyond you!—My hour has not yet come, I feel it! Oh, Wilhelm! How gladly I would have given up my human existence to be with that stormy wind and tear the clouds apart and seize the floodwaters! Ha! And might that bliss not be bestowed on this imprisoned creature one day?—
And as I looked down in my melancholy at a spot where I had rested with Lotte under a willow tree after a warm walk—that too was flooded, and I could hardly discern the willow! Wilhelm! And her meadows, I thought, the grounds around her hunting lodge! our bower devastated by the smashing stream! I thought. And the sunbeam of the past peered in, like a prisoner’s dream of flocks, meadows, and honorific posts! I stood there!—I do not reproach myself, for I have the courage to die.—I could have—now I sit here like an old woman who gleans her wood from fences and her bread at people’s doors to ease and prolong her waning, joyless life one moment longer.
DECEMBER 14
What is this, my dear friend? I frighten myself! Isn’t my love for her the most sacred, chaste, brotherly love? Has my soul ever felt a punishable desire?—I will not declare—and now, dreams! Oh, how truthfully those men felt who attributed such contradictory effects to alien powers! Last night! I tremble as I say it, I held her in my arms, pressed tightly against my breast, and covered her mouth, which whispered of her love, with never-ending kisses; my eyes swam in the intoxication of hers! God! Is it an offense for me to feel this bliss even now as I recall these fervent joys with full intensity? Lotte! Lotte!—And I am done for! My senses are confused, a week ago I lost all reasoning powers, my eyes are filled with tears. Nowhere do I feel happy, and I feel happy everywhere. I wish for nothing, ask for nothing. It would be better for me were I to go.
During this time, under such conditions, the decision to leave this world had gathered greater and greater strength in Werther’s soul. Since his return to Lotte it had always been his final prospect and hope; yet he had told himself that it must not be a hurried, a rash act; he wanted to take this step with absolute conviction, with the calmest possible determination.
His doubts, his quarrel with himself are evident in an undated note that is probably the beginning of a letter to Wilhelm found among Werther’s papers:
Her presence, her fate, her sympathy with mine squeeze the last tears from my scorched brain.
To lift the curtain and step behind it! That is all! And why this hesitation, this loss of heart? Because there is no knowing what lies behind it, and there is no coming back? And that it is a quality of our mind to have a foreboding of confusion and darkness wherever we have no definite knowledge.
Finally, he became ever more accustomed to and familiar with the sad thought, and his resolution grew firm and irrevocable, to which the following ambiguous letter he wrote to his friend attests:
DECEMBER 20
I have your love for me, Wilhelm, to thank for understanding my words as you did. Yes, you are right: it would be better for me if I went away. I don’t really like your suggestion that I return to all of you; at least I should like to make a detour, especially since we have reason to hope for lasting frost and good roads. I am also deeply appreciative of your wanting to come for me; just wait another fortnight and expect a letter from me with more details. It is vital not to pluck anything before it’s ripe. And a fortnight more or less can make a big difference. I’d like you to tell my mother that she must pray for her son and that I ask her forgiveness for all the vexation I have caused her. It was my fate to grieve those to whom I owed joy. Farewell, my dearest friend! May all the blessings of heaven be upo
n you! Farewell!
What transpired in Lotte’s soul during this time, what her convictions were toward her husband and her unfortunate friend, we scarcely venture to put into words, though given our knowledge of her nature, we can surely form an implicit idea, and a beautiful feminine soul can think its way into hers and feel as it does.
This much is certain: she was firmly resolved to do all she could to send Werther away, and if she hesitated, it was from a sincere, friendly desire to spare him, because she knew how much it would cost him, indeed, that he would find it almost impossible. Yet, during this time she began to feel a greater urgency to make a serious effort; her husband was completely silent about the relation, just as she, too, had always remained silent about it, and she therefore felt it all the more pressing to prove to Albert through her actions that her convictions were equal to his.
On the same day—it was the Sunday before Christmas—that Werther had written his friend the letter inserted above, he visited Lotte in the evening and found her alone. She was busy arranging some toys that she had prepared as Christmas presents for her little sisters and brothers. He spoke about the pleasure the children would enjoy, and of the times when the unexpected opening of a door and the apparition of a decorated tree with wax lights, sweetmeats, and apples would produce paradisiacal rapture.—You too, said Lotte, concealing her embarrassment behind a charming smile, you too shall have a present if you’re on your best behavior—a wax candle and something else.—And what do you mean, if you’re on your best behavior? he exclaimed; how shall I be? How can I be? dearest Lotte!—Thursday evening, she said, is Christmas Eve, the children will come, my father as well, everyone will get a present, you’ll come too—but not before.—Werther was taken aback.—I beg you, she continued, that is the way it must be, I beg you for the sake of my peace, it cannot, it cannot go on this way.—He turned his eyes away from her and walked up and down the room, muttering her phrase between his teeth: It cannot go on this way! Lotte, who felt the frightful state into which these words had thrown him, tried to turn his thoughts in another direction with all sorts of questions, but in vain.—No, Lotte, he exclaimed, I shall not see you again!—Why say that? she replied. Werther, you can, you must see us again, but in moderation. Oh, why did you have to be born with this vehemence, this untamed, unyielding passion for everything you touch! I beg you, she continued, taking his hand, Learn moderation! Your mind, your knowledge of so many things, your talents: what a variety of pleasures they offer you! Be a man! Find another direction for this sad devotion to a person who can only pity you.—He ground his teeth and looked at her morosely.—She held his hand: Be calm and sensible for just one moment, Werther! she said. Can’t you tell that you are deluding yourself, that you are willfully destroying yourself! But why me, Werther? Me in particular, someone who belongs to another man? That in particular? I’m afraid, I’m afraid it’s only the impossibility of possessing me that makes you want me so much.—He pulled his hand from hers while staring at her with a rigid, angry look.—Clever! he cried, very clever! Did that remark perhaps come from Albert? Astute! Very astute!—It can come from anyone, she replied, and in the whole world is there no girl who can fulfill the desires of your heart? Make up your mind, go look for her, and I swear to you you’ll find her; for a long time now I’ve been worried for your sake and ours about the constraints into which you’ve condemned yourself lately. Make up your mind, a journey will, must distract you! Look for, find a worthy object of your love, and return and let us enjoy together the bliss of a true friendship.
—You could put that into print, he said with a cold laugh, and recommend it to every tutor. Dear Lotte! Just give me a little peace, all will be well!—Just this, Werther: You’re not to come any time before Christmas Eve!—He was about to reply when Albert came into the room. The two men wished each other good evening in chilly tones, and in their embarrassment they walked alongside each other up and down the room. Werther began a trivial conversation, which soon died out; Albert did the same, then asked his wife about certain household tasks, and when he heard that they had not yet been done, spoke a few words to her that struck Werther as cold, indeed harsh. He would have liked to leave but could not and delayed until eight o’clock, his dejection and displeasure steadily increasing until the table was set and he took up his hat and walking stick. Albert invited him to stay, but he, who believed he had heard only an empty gesture, thanked him coldly and left.
He returned home, took the candle from the hand of the boy who wanted to light the way for him, and went into his room alone, wept aloud, talked excitedly to himself, walked anxiously up and down the room, and finally, still in his clothes, threw himself on the bed. There he was found by his servant, who ventured to come in about eleven o’clock to ask whether he should take off his master’s boots. This Werther permitted and forbade the servant to come into the room the following morning before he was called.
Early on Monday morning, the twenty-first of December, he wrote Lotte the following letter, which after his death was found sealed on his desk and was delivered to her. I will insert it in fragments, which is how he wrote it, as the circumstances make clear.
It is settled, Lotte, I want to die, and I tell you this without romantic excesses, with composure, on the morning of the day when I will see you for the last time. When you read this, my dearest, the cold grave will be covering the rigid remains of the restless man, the unfortunate man who, in the last few moments of his life, knows no greater sweetness than to converse with you. I have spent a terrible night and, oh, a beneficent night. It is this that has made my decision firm, definite: I want to die! When I tore myself away from you last night, in the dreadful revolt of all my senses, when all of it oppressed my heart and when my hopeless, joyless existence beside you seized me with gruesome coldness—I could barely reach my room, and beside myself, I threw myself to my knees and, oh God! You granted me the final consolation of the bitterest tears! A thousand plans, a thousand prospects raged through my soul, and in the end it stood there, definite, intact, the final and only thought: I want to die!—I lay down, and in the morning, in the serenity of waking, it still stands there, definite, intact, and strong in my heart: I want to die!—It is not despair, it is the certainty that I have borne my suffering to the end and am sacrificing myself for you. Yes, Lotte! Why should I keep silent? One of the three of us must go, and I want to be the one! Oh my dearest! In this torn heart the ferocious thought has prowled, often—of murdering your husband!—you!—me!—So be it!—When you climb the mountain on a lovely summer evening, remember me, how I so often came up from the valley, and then look out toward the graveyard to my grave, where the wind sways the high grass this way and that in the glow of the setting sun.—I was calm when I began; now, now I am sobbing like a child, as all of it becomes so vivid to me.—
Shortly before ten o’clock Werther called his servant and, as he dressed, explained that he would be going on a trip in a few days and that therefore he should brush his clothes and get everything ready to be packed; he also ordered the boy to ask for all his bills, collect some books he had lent out, and as there were some poor people to whom he was accustomed to give something each week, to pay out their allotment two months in advance.
He had his breakfast brought to his room, and after the meal he rode out to the District Officer, whom he did not find at home. He walked up and down the garden in deep thought, seemingly wanting, at the end, to heap upon himself the full melancholy of memory.
The children did not leave him in peace for long; they ran after him, jumped on him, told him that, after tomorrow, and one more tomorrow, and one more day, they would get Christmas presents at Lotte’s house, and they told him of the wonders that their childish imaginations anticipated.—Tomorrow! he exclaimed, and another tomorrow! and one more day!—and gave them all affectionate kisses and was about to leave when the smallest boy wanted to whisper in Werther’s ear. He confided that his big brothers had written beautiful New Year’s gree
tings, this big! And one for Papa, one for Albert and Lotte, and also one for Herr Werther; these they were going to hand out early on New Year’s Day. At that, Werther felt overwhelmed, he gave something to each child, got on his horse, sent his respects to the old man, and rode away, his eyes filling with tears.
Shortly before five o’clock he arrived home and ordered the maid to look to the fire and keep it burning into the night. He asked the young servant to pack his books and linens into the bottom of his trunk and to bundle up his clothes. Then he seems to have written the following paragraph of his last letter to Lotte:
You are not expecting me! You think I am going to obey and not see you again before Christmas Eve. Oh Lotte! today or never again. On Christmas Eve you will hold this letter in your hand, tremble, and moisten it with your adorable tears. I will, I have to! How happy I feel to have come to my decision.
In the meantime Lotte had fallen into a peculiar state of mind. After her last conversation with Werther she had come to understand how difficult it would be for her to part from him and how much he would suffer if he were forced to leave her.
It had been mentioned in Albert’s presence, as if in passing, that Werther would not come again before Christmas Eve, and Albert had gone off to an official in the neighborhood with whom he had business to conduct and where he would have to spend the night.
Now Lotte was sitting by herself; none of her sisters and brothers were with her. She abandoned herself to her thoughts, which silently ranged over her situation. She now saw herself bound forever to the man whose love and fidelity she knew and for whom she felt a deep affection, whose calm and reliability seemed truly heaven-sent as a foundation on which a good woman might build her life’s happiness; she knew what he would always be for her and her children. On the other hand, Werther had grown so dear to her; from the very first moment of their acquaintance the harmony of their hearts and minds had been so beautifully evident; her long and unbroken companionship with him, the many situations they had experienced together, all had left a lasting impression on her heart. She had become used to sharing with him all those feelings and thoughts that were of any interest, and his departure threatened to tear open a void in her whole existence that could never be filled. Oh, if in that moment she could have turned him into a brother, how happy she would have been!—If she had been allowed to marry him off to one of her friends, if she could have hoped to reestablish his unbroken relationship with Albert.
The Sufferings of Young Werther: A New Translation Page 11
