In her mind she perused the list of her friends and found something to criticize in each one, found none whom she would have wished on him. Over and above all these considerations, for the first time she felt deeply, yet without making it clear to herself, that the secret longing of her heart was to keep him for herself; and at the same time she told herself that she could not, might not keep him; her pure, beautiful spirit, usually so light and able so easily to manage difficulties, felt the pressure of a melancholy to which the prospect of happiness is barred. Her heart was squeezed tight, and a dark cloud hung over her eyes.
And so it was half past six when she heard Werther coming up the stairs and soon recognized his step and his voice asking for her. How her heart began to beat, and for the first time, we may almost say, at his approach. She would have preferred to have him told she was not at home, and when he entered the room, she cried out to him in a sort of impassioned confusion: You did not keep your word.—I promised nothing, was his answer.—Then you should at least have granted me my wish, she replied; I asked you for the sake of your peace of mind and my own.
She did not rightly know what she was saying, any more than what she was doing when she sent for a few of her friends so she would not be left alone with Werther. He put down some books that he had brought, asked about other things, and at one moment she wished that her friends would come and at the next that they might stay away. The maid returned, bringing the message that both had sent their regrets.
She wanted to have the maid settle in the next room and do her work there; then she thought differently again. Werther walked up and down the room, she went to the piano and struck up a minuet, but the tune would not flow. She pulled herself together and sat down calmly next to Werther, who had taken his accustomed place on the settee.
Do you have nothing to read? she said.—He had nothing.—There in my drawer, she began, is your translation of some of the songs of Ossian. I have not yet read them, I had always hoped to hear them from you; but since then the occasion has never presented itself, nor could I arrange it.—He smiled, he fetched the songs, a tremor went through him as his hands held them, and his eyes filled with tears as he glanced at the pages. He sat back down and 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, grey-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 flew slowly on the blast that rushed unfrequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful voice. Often 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 in the mountain. The torrent pours 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 from 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 t
hy 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 splendor 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 bursts 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 awake 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 flood of tears pouring from Lotte’s eyes and freeing her anguished heart checked Werther’s song. He threw the pages down, grasped her hand, and wept the bitterest tears. Lotte rested her head on her other hand and hid her eyes in a handkerchief. The emotions of both were agonizing. They felt their own misery in the fate of those noble figures, felt it together, and their tears united them. Werther’s lips and eyes burned on Lotte’s arm; a shudder overcame her; she wanted to distance herself, and pain and commiseration numbed her like lead. She breathed deeply to recover herself and begged him, sobbing, to continue, begged with the full voice of heaven! Werther was trembling, his heart was about to burst, he raised the page and read in a breaking voice:
“Why dost thou awake me, O gale? It seems to say: I am covered with the drops of heaven. The time of my fading is near, the blast that shall scatter my leaves. Tomorrow shall the traveler come; he that saw me in my beauty shall come. His eyes will search the field, but they will not find me.”
The full force of these words fell upon the unhappy man. He threw himself down before Lotte in complete despair, grasped her hands, pressed them to his eyes, to his brow, and a foreboding of his terrible resolve appeared to fly through her soul. Her senses became confused, she squeezed his hands, pressed them against her breast, bent over him with a plaintive gesture, and their glowing cheeks touched. The world faded from them. He flung his arms around her, pressed her to his breast, and covered her trembling, stammering lips with furious kisses.—Werther! she cried in a choked voice, turning away, Werther!—and with a weak hand pushed his breast away from hers;—Werther! she cried in the collected tone of the loftiest feeling.—He did not resist, released her from his arms, and, insensate, threw himself down before her.—She tore herself upward, and in anxious confusion, trembling between love and fury, she said—This is the last time! Werther! You will never see me again.—And with the fullest look of love at the wretched man, she hurried into the next room and locked the door behind her. Werther stretched out his arms to her, did not dare to restrain her. He lay on the floor, his head on the settee, and remained in this position for more than half an hour, until a noise restored him to himself. It was the maid wanting to set the table. He walked up and down the room, and when he found himself alone again, he went to the door of the little room and called in a low voice—Lotte! Lotte! only one word more! A farewell!—She was silent. He waited and pleaded and waited; then he tore himself away, crying: Farewell, Lotte! Farewell forever!
He came to the city gate. The watchmen, who knew him, let him go out without a word. A mix of rain and snow was whirling, and it was nearly eleven o’clock when he knocked at the gate again. His servant noticed, on Werther’s return home, that his master’s hat was missing. He did not venture to comment, helped him off with his clothes, which were soaked through. Only much later was the hat found on a crag that overlooks the valley from the slope of the hill, and it is beyond understanding how he could have climbed it on a wet and gloomy night w
ithout plunging down.
He went to bed and slept for a long time. His servant found him writing when, the following morning, on responding to his call, he brought him coffee. Werther added the following to his letter to Lotte:
For the last time, then, for the last time I open these eyes. They shall not, alas, see the sun again, a dismal, foggy day keeps it overcast. Then mourn, Nature! your son, your friend, your beloved approaches his end. Lotte, it is a feeling without compare, and yet it is most like a dozing dream to say to yourself: This is the final morning. Final! Lotte, I have no understanding of this word—final! Do I not stand here in all my vigor, and tomorrow I will lie sprawled out and limp on the ground. To die! what does that mean? See, we are dreaming when we speak of death. I have seen more than one person die; but mankind is so limited that it cannot conceive of the beginning and end of its existence. Now still mine, yours! yours, oh beloved! And one instant—parted, separated—perhaps forever?—No, Lotte, no—How can I pass away? How can you pass away? We are, yes!—pass away!—what does that mean? That is merely another phrase! an empty noise, which my heart cannot feel. Dead, Lotte! buried in haste in the cold ground, so narrow! so gloomy!—I had a friend, a woman, who was everything to me in my vulnerable youth; she died, and I walked behind her dead body and stood at her grave as they lowered her coffin and yanked away the creaking ropes from underneath and drew them up again; then the first shovelful of clods rolled down, and the dreaded box gave back a dull thud, and duller and duller, and finally it was covered!—I threw myself down beside the grave—my innermost being stirred, appalled, terrified, torn, but I did not know what was happening to me—what will happen to me—To die! Grave! I do not understand these words!
The Sufferings of Young Werther: A New Translation Page 12
