The Sufferings of Young Werther: A New Translation

by J. W. von Goethe

  Oh, forgive me! forgive me! Yesterday! It should have been the last instant of my life. Oh you angel! For the first time, for the first time without any doubts, a blissful feeling glowed in the innermost depths of my being: She loves me! she loves me! my lips still burn with the sacred fire that streamed from yours; a new, warm rapture is in my heart. Forgive me! forgive me!

  Oh, I knew that you loved me, knew from the first soulful glances, from the first touch of your hand on mine, and yet, when I left you, when I saw Albert beside you, I lost heart again in feverish doubts.

  Do you recall the flowers you sent me, when, at that dreadful party, you could not say a word to me or give me your hand? Oh, I spent half the night kneeling before those flowers, and they sealed your love for me. But alas! These impressions were transitory, just as the feeling of God’s grace gradually wanes from the soul of the believer—a feeling once granted with the fullness of heaven by sacred, visible signs.

  All that is fleeting, but no eternity shall snuff out the glowing life that I savored yesterday on your lips, that I feel in me! She loves me! This arm embraced her, these lips trembled on her lips, this mouth stammered on hers. She is mine! You are mine! Yes, Lotte, for all eternity.

  And what can it mean that Albert is your husband? Husband! That would be true for this world—and for this world, a sin that I love you and would tear you from his arms and into mine? Sin? Very well, and I am punishing myself for it; I have tasted it in all its heavenly rapture, this sin, have sucked life’s elixir and strength into my heart. From this moment on you are mine! mine, oh Lotte! I will lead the way! I go to my Father, to your Father. To Him I will lament, and He will comfort me until you come and I fly to meet you and hold you and stay with you in never-ending embraces before the countenance of the Infinite Being. I am not dreaming, I am not delirious! Close to the grave, I see more clearly. We shall be! We shall see one another again! See your mother! I shall see her, find her, ah, and pour out my whole heart to her! Your mother, your likeness.

  Just before eleven o’clock Werther asked his servant whether Albert had come back. Yes, said the servant: he had seen his horse being led along. Thereupon his master gave him an open note with the message:

  “Would you lend me your pistols for a trip I plan to take? Farewell! All the best!”

  The dear woman had slept little the previous night; what she had been afraid of had been settled, settled in a manner that she could neither guess at nor dread. Her blood, which normally flowed so purely and lightly, was in a feverish tumult, a thousand feelings splintered her fair heart. Was it the blaze of Werther’s embraces she felt in her breast? Was it displeasure at his temerity? Was it a morose comparison of her present state with former times of wholly free and easy innocence and unclouded self-confidence? How should she confront her husband, how confess to him an occurrence that would be so easy to confess and yet one she did not dare to confess? They had kept a silence between them for so long, and should she be the first to break that silence and, precisely at an inappropriate moment, make such an untoward disclosure to her husband? She was already afraid that the mere news of Werther’s visit would strike him unpleasantly, and now, in addition, this unexpected catastrophe! Could she truly hope that her husband would see all of it in the proper light, absorb all of it entirely without prejudice? and could she want him to read what was in her soul? And yet again, could she dissemble in the face of a man with whom she had always been as open and transparent as a crystal goblet and from whom she had never concealed any of her feelings nor could she ever do so? Both considerations worried her and left her at a loss; and always her thoughts returned to Werther, who was lost to her, whom she could not let go, whom she, sadly! had to leave to his own devices and who, if he were to lose her, had nothing left.

  How she felt the heavy weight—although it was something she could not fully realize at that instant—of the deadlock that had come about between her and Albert. Such reasonable, such good people began to keep silent in one another’s company because of certain secret differences; each brooded on his own right and on the other’s wrong; and circumstances grew so entangled and exasperating that it became impossible at the crucial moment to loosen the knot that could make all the difference. Had a happy intimacy brought them closer sooner, had mutual love and forbearance quickened and opened their hearts, perhaps our friend might have been saved.

  Another peculiar circumstance came into play. As we know from Werther’s letters, he had never made any secret of his longing to leave this world. Albert had often disputed with him on this point, and at times it had also become a subject of conversation between Lotte and her husband. The latter, who felt a decided aversion for the deed, had often made it clear, with a sort of irritability that was otherwise foreign to his nature, that he had reason to very much doubt the seriousness of any such intention, he had even allowed himself a few jokes about it and communicated his skepticism to Lotte. On the one hand, this did calm her when her thoughts displayed the sad image to her; on the other hand, it prevented her from sharing with her husband the anxieties that troubled her at that moment.

  Albert came home, and Lotte went to meet him with awkward haste; he was himself in a bad mood, his business had not been brought to a conclusion, the neighboring District Officer had turned out to be rigid and narrow-minded. The vile roads had also made him peevish.

  He asked whether there was anything new, and she answered too quickly: Werther had come by last night. Albert asked if there was any mail and was told that a letter and several packets had been placed in his study. He went to that room, and Lotte remained alone. The presence of the man whom she loved and honored had made a renewed impression on her heart. The recollection of his generosity of spirit, his love and kindness, had helped to calm her, she felt a secret urge to follow him, she took her needlework and went to his room, as she often tended to do. She found him occupied with opening and reading the packets. Several seemed to contain less than pleasant news. She asked him a few questions, to which he gave curt answers, and he stood at his desk to write.

  They had spent an hour together like this, and Lotte’s soul grew ever darker. She sensed how difficult it was going to be for her to explain to her husband, even if he were in the best of moods, what weighed on her heart. She fell into a melancholy that inspired all the more anguish in her the more she tried to hide it and swallow her tears.

  The appearance of Werther’s servant threw her into the greatest embarrassment; he handed the note to Albert, who turned to his wife and merely said, Give him the pistols.—I wish him a good journey, he said to the young servant.—These words left her thunderstruck, she staggered to her feet, barely conscious of what she was doing. Slowly she went to the wall; trembling, she took down the pistols, wiped the dust from them and hesitated, and would have delayed even longer if Albert had not urged her on with a searching look. Unable to utter a word, she gave the fatal instruments to the boy, and when he had left, she gathered up her work and went to her own room in a state of the most unutterable uncertainty. Her heart foretold all manner of horrors. At one moment she was about to throw herself at her husband’s feet, reveal everything to him, the events of the previous evening, her guilt, and her forebodings. The next, she could not foresee a good result from such an undertaking, the last thing she could expect was to persuade her husband to go to visit Werther. The table was set, and one of her close friends, who had come by only to ask a question, intending to leave promptly—and stayed—made the table talk bearable; they forced themselves to speak; they told stories, they put everything else out of their minds.

  The boy brought the pistols to Werther, who took them from him in raptures when he heard that Lotte had given them to him. He had bread and wine brought to him, sent the boy off to his dinner, and sat down to write:

  They have passed through your hands, you have wiped the dust from them, I kiss them a thousand times, you have touched them: And you, celestial spirit, you favor my decision, and you, Lotte, a
re handing me the implement, you from whose hands I wished to receive my death, and ah! receive it now. Oh, I posed question after question to my boy. You trembled as you handed them to him, you bade no farewell.—Woe! Woe! no farewell!—Can you have closed off your heart to me because of the moment that bound me to you forever? Lotte, a millennium cannot extinguish this impression! And I feel it, feel that you cannot hate him who burns for you so fiercely.

  After dinner he asked the boy to finish packing, tore up a great many papers, went out, and settled a few small debts. He came back home, once again went out by way of the gate despite the rain and into the Count’s garden, roamed farther into the countryside, and as night fell, returned and wrote:

  Wilhelm, for the last time I have seen field and forest and sky. Farewell to you too! Mother, dear, forgive me! Console her, Wilhelm! God bless you both! My affairs are all in order. Farewell! We will meet again, more joyously.

  I have repaid you badly, Albert, and you will forgive me. I have disturbed the peace of your home, I sowed distrust between you. Farewell! I want to put an end to it. Oh, if only my death could make you happy! Albert! Albert! Make this angel happy! And may God’s blessing dwell upon you!

  In the evening he went on rummaging through his papers, tore up many of them, and threw them into the stove, sealed a few packets addressed to Wilhelm. They contained little essays, fragmentary thoughts, several of which I have seen; and at ten, after he had more wood laid on the fire and a bottle of wine brought to him, he told his servant to go to bed; his room, like the bedrooms of the other servants, was far out at the back. The boy lay down fully clothed so as to be on hand early in the morning; for his master had told him that the post-horses would be at the house before six o’clock.

  AFTER ELEVEN O'CLOCK

  Everything is so quiet around me, and my soul so calm. Thank you, God, for giving my last moments this warmth, this strength.

  I go to the window, dearest! and see, and still see, a few stars of the eternal heavens through the storm clouds rushing past! No, you will not fall! the Eternal One carries you in his heart and me. I see the handle of the Big Dipper, the loveliest of all the constellations. When I used to leave your house in the evening and went out by the gate, it stood up there, facing me. With what ecstasy did I gaze at it so often! so often, with my hands raised, made it into a sign, the sacred landmark of my bliss at that moment! and even now—O Lotte, what is there that does not remind me of you! do you not surround me! and haven’t I, like a child, forever unsatisfied, grabbed at all sorts of trinkets that you, my saint, had touched!

  Beloved silhouette! I bequeath it back to you, Lotte, and implore you to honor it. I have kissed it passionately thousands and thousands of times, greeted it with a wave of my hand a thousand times whenever I went out or came home.

  I have written a note to your father asking him to take care of my body. Two linden trees stand in the churchyard, in the rear corner near the field; that is where I want to rest. He can, he will do this for a friend. Prevail upon him, Lotte. I do not expect devout Christians to lay their bodies next to that of a poor wretch. Oh, I wish you would bury me by the wayside, or in a lonely valley, so the priest and the Levite might pass by the stone marker and make the sign of the cross, and the Samaritan shed a tear.

  Here, Lotte! I do not shudder to take the cold, terrible chalice from which I shall drink the ecstasy of death! You handed it to me, and I do not waver. All! All! Thus all the wishes and hopes of my life are fulfilled! To knock so coldly, so rigidly, on death’s iron gate.

  That I might have had the happiness of dying for you! Lotte, of sacrificing myself for you! I would die courageously, I would die joyously if I could restore to you the calm, the bliss of your life. But alas! it has been given to only a few noble souls to spill their blood for their loved ones and by their death to kindle a new hundredfold life for their friends.

  These are the clothes I want to be buried in, Lotte, you have touched them, sanctified them; I have asked this of your father as well. My soul hovers over the casket. No one is to go through my pockets. This pink bow, which you wore on your bosom the first time I saw you among your children—oh, kiss them a thousand times and tell them about the fate of their unhappy friend. The dear children! They are clustering around me. Oh, how I attached myself to you! from the first instant could not leave you!—This bow is to be buried with me. It was my birthday when you gave it to me! How I gorged myself on all of it!—Oh, I never thought that my road was meant to lead me to this place!—Be still! I beg of you, be still!—

  They are loaded—the clock strikes twelve! Let it be!—Lotte! Lotte, farewell! farewell!

  A neighbor saw the flash of gunpowder and heard the noise of a shot; but since there was no further sound, he paid no more attention.

  At six in the morning the servant comes in with a light. He finds his master on the ground, the pistol and blood. He cries out, he touches him; no response except a death rattle. He runs for the doctors, for Albert. Lotte hears the bell, all her limbs begin to tremble. She wakes her husband, they get up; wailing and stammering the servant brings the news, Lotte falls unconscious at Albert’s feet.

  When the physician came to the wretched man, he found him on the ground, beyond saving, there was a beating pulse, all his limbs were paralyzed. He had shot himself in the forehead above his right eye, his brain was extruded. A vein in his arm had been opened unnecessarily, the blood ran, his breath was still coming in gasps. From the blood on the back of the armchair it could be inferred that he had accomplished the deed while sitting at the desk, had then slumped over and thrown himself convulsively around the chair. He lay feebly on his back, against the window, he was fully dressed, his boots on and wearing a blue dress coat with a yellow waistcoat.

  The house, the neighborhood, the town were thrown into an uproar. Albert arrived. They had laid Werther on the bed and bandaged his forehead; his face already a dead man’s, he did not move a muscle. His lungs still rattled frightfully, now with a weaker, now with a stronger sound; his end was expected at any moment. He had drunk no more than one glass of the wine. Lessing’s Emilia Galotti, its pages opened, lay on the desk.

  Let me keep silent about Albert’s consternation, Lotte’s grief.

  The old District Officer came rushing in on hearing the news, with the hottest tears he kissed the dying man. His older sons, coming on foot, arrived soon after, they fell to the floor by the side of the bed with expressions of the most unrestrained grief, kissed his hands and his mouth, and the eldest, whom Werther had always loved best, clung to his lips until Werther had passed away and the lad was torn from him by force. Werther died at noon. The presence of the District Officer and his measures averted a riot. That night, just before eleven, he had him buried at the spot Werther had chosen. The old man walked behind the body, as did his sons; Albert was unable to. They feared for Lotte’s life. Workmen carried him. No clergyman attended.

  TRANSLATOR'S

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  If this translation has succeeded at all, a very great debt is owed to Ruth Hein, a master stylist, who assisted me every step—better, every line—of the way with her tact and precision. We have discussed each sentence of this work: the outcome is the result of our conversation. This translation is dedicated to Ruth Hein. And as no such work is possible without real-world support, I would like to thank particularly Gary Smith and the staff of the American Academy in Berlin for their perfect generosity.

  More praise for

  The Sufferings of Young Werther

  translated by Stanley Corngold

  “Corngold’s new translation is of the very highest quality, punctiliously faithful to Goethe’s German and sensitive to gradations of style in this extraordinary, trail-blazing first novel.”

  —J. M. Coetzee, New York Review of Books

  “Corngold’s translation is earthy and precise, with language belonging to a young man who is capable of both elation and despair.”

  —Rachel Shteir, New
Republic

  “A highly readable, sensitive, and lively Werther. Corngold is both faithful to the German and true to the demands of a modern English text.”

  —Jeremy Adler, Times Literary Supplement (London)

  “Stanley Corngold’s translation is a triumph. This is a glorious achievement, a Werther for the ages.”

  —Christopher Prendergast

  “Stanley Corngold challenges himself in this translation to use only words that existed in English at the time the novel appeared. Miraculously, the wager succeeds, and without so much as a trace of quaintness. This is a Werther for today’s readers, one that will convey to them the powerful effects of the original.”

  —Judith Ryan, Harvard University

  “Famously difficult to translate, Goethe’s German is here transposed into limpid and elegant English that suggests the modernity of the text without in any way modernizing it. We begin to understand why Napoleon could read the book seven times, or be eager to say he did, and there is a special pleasure in meeting such a persuasive version of the young writer whom the older Goethe himself half-repudiated but could never quite deny.”

  —Michael Wood, Princeton University

  “Retranslating a classic is a bit like polishing antique silver. Stanley Corngold’s fresh and arresting rendition of The Sufferings of Young Werther makes a familiar text gleam with the brilliance of untarnished sterling.”