The Sorrows of Young Werther
beds of the infirm. There I see them struggling against death, with all
the agonies of pain and horror; and these women, Wilhelm, talk of all
this with as much indifference as one would mention the death of a
stranger. And when I look around the apartment where I now am—when I
see Charlotte's apparel lying before me, and Albert's writings, and all
those articles of furniture which are so familiar to me, even to
the very inkstand which I am using,—when I think what I am to this
family—everything. My friends esteem me; I often contribute to their
happiness, and my heart seems as if it could not beat without them; and
yet—-if I were to die, if I were to be summoned from the midst of this
circle, would they feel—or how long would they feel the void which my
loss would make in their existence? How long! Yes, such is the frailty
of man, that even there, where he has the greatest consciousness of his
own being, where he makes the strongest and most forcible impression,
even in the memory, in the heart, of his beloved, there also he must
perish,—vanish,—and that quickly.
OCTOBER 27.
I could tear open my bosom with vexation to think how little we
are capable of influencing the feelings of each other. No one can
communicate to me those sensations of love, joy, rapture, and delight
which I do not naturally possess; and, though my heart may glow with the
most lively affection, I cannot make the happiness of one in whom the
same warmth is not inherent.
OCTOBER 27: Evening.
I possess so much, but my love for her absorbs it all. I possess so
much, but without her I have nothing.
OCTOBER 30.
One hundred times have I been on the point of embracing her. Heavens!
what a torment it is to see so much loveliness passing and repassing
before us, and yet not dare to lay hold of it! And laying hold is the
most natural of human instincts. Do not children touch everything they
see? And I!
NOVEMBER 3.
Witness, Heaven, how often I lie down in my bed with a wish, and even a
hope, that I may never awaken again. And in the morning, when I open my
eyes, I behold the sun once more, and am wretched. If I were whimsical,
I might blame the weather, or an acquaintance, or some personal
disappointment, for my discontented mind; and then this insupportable
load of trouble would not rest entirely upon myself. But, alas! I feel
it too sadly. I am alone the cause of my own woe, am I not? Truly,
my own bosom contains the source of all my sorrow, as it previously
contained the source of all my pleasure. Am I not the same being who
once enjoyed an excess of happiness, who, at every step, saw paradise
open before him, and whose heart was ever expanded toward the whole
world? And this heart is now dead, no sentiment can revive it; my eyes
are dry; and my senses, no more refreshed by the influence of soft
tears, wither and consume my brain. I suffer much, for I have lost
the only charm of life: that active, sacred power which created worlds
around me,—it is no more. When I look from my window at the distant
hills, and behold the morning sun breaking through the mists, and
illuminating the country around, which is still wrapped in silence,
whilst the soft stream winds gently through the willows, which have shed
their leaves; when glorious nature displays all her beauties before me,
and her wondrous prospects are ineffectual to extract one tear of joy
from my withered heart, I feel that in such a moment I stand like a
reprobate before heaven, hardened, insensible, and unmoved. Oftentimes
do I then bend my knee to the earth, and implore God for the blessing
of tears, as the desponding labourer in some scorching climate prays for
the dews of heaven to moisten his parched corn.
But I feel that God does not grant sunshine or rain to our importunate
entreaties. And oh, those bygone days, whose memory now torments me!
why were they so fortunate? Because I then waited with patience for
the blessings of the Eternal, and received his gifts with the grateful
feelings of a thankful heart.
NOVEMBER 8.
Charlotte has reproved me for my excesses, with so much tenderness and
goodness! I have lately been in the habit of drinking more wine than
heretofore. "Don't do it," she said. "Think of Charlotte!" "Think of
you!" I answered; "need you bid me do so? Think of you—I do not think
of you: you are ever before my soul! This very morning I sat on the
spot where, a few days ago, you descended from the carriage, and—" She
immediately changed the subject to prevent me from pursuing it farther.
My dear friend, my energies are all prostrated: she can do with me what
she pleases.
NOVEMBER 15.
I thank you, Wilhelm, for your cordial sympathy, for your excellent
advice; and I implore you to be quiet. Leave me to my sufferings. In
spite of my wretchedness, I have still strength enough for endurance.
I revere religion—you know I do. I feel that it can impart strength
to the feeble and comfort to the afflicted, but does it affect all men
equally? Consider this vast universe: you will see thousands for whom it
has never existed, thousands for whom it will never exist, whether it be
preached to them, or not; and must it, then, necessarily exist for me?
Does not the Son of God himself say that they are his whom the Father
has given to him? Have I been given to him? What if the Father will
retain me for himself, as my heart sometimes suggests? I pray you, do
not misinterpret this. Do not extract derision from my harmless words. I
pour out my whole soul before you. Silence were otherwise preferable to
me, but I need not shrink from a subject of which few know more than I
do myself. What is the destiny of man, but to fill up the measure of
his sufferings, and to drink his allotted cup of bitterness? And if that
same cup proved bitter to the God of heaven, under a human form, why
should I affect a foolish pride, and call it sweet? Why should I be
ashamed of shrinking at that fearful moment, when my whole being will
tremble between existence and annihilation, when a remembrance of
the past, like a flash of lightning, will illuminate the dark gulf of
futurity, when everything shall dissolve around me, and the whole world
vanish away? Is not this the voice of a creature oppressed beyond all
resource, self-deficient, about to plunge into inevitable destruction,
and groaning deeply at its inadequate strength, "My God! my God! why
hast thou forsaken me?" And should I feel ashamed to utter the same
expression? Should I not shudder at a prospect which had its fears, even
for him who folds up the heavens like a garment?
NOVEMBER 21.
She does not feel, she does not know, that she is preparing a poison
which will destroy us both; and I drink deeply of the draught which is
to prove my destruction. What mean those looks of kindness with which
she often—often? no, not often, but sometimes, regards me, that
complacency with which she hears the involuntary sentiments which
frequently escape me, and the tender pity for my sufferings which
appears in her countenance?
Yesterday, when I took leave she seized me by the hand, and said,
"Adieu, dear Werther." Dear Werther! It was the first time she ever
called me dear: the sound sunk deep into my heart. I have repeated it a
hundred times; and last night, on going to bed, and talking to myself
of various things, I suddenly said, "Good night, dear Werther!" and then
could not but laugh at myself.
NOVEMBER 22
I cannot pray, "Leave her to me!" and yet she often seems to belong to
me. I cannot pray, "Give her to me!" for she is another's. In this way
I affect mirth over my troubles; and, if I had time, I could compose a
whole litany of antitheses.
NOVEMBER 24.
She is sensible of my sufferings. This morning her look pierced my very
soul. I found her alone, and she was silent: she steadfastly surveyed
me. I no longer saw in her face the charms of beauty or the fire of
genius: these had disappeared. But I was affected by an expression much
more touching, a look of the deepest sympathy and of the softest pity.
Why was I afraid to throw myself at her feet? Why did I not dare to take
her in my arms, and answer her by a thousand kisses? She had recourse to
her piano for relief, and in a low and sweet voice accompanied the music
with delicious sounds. Her lips never appeared so lovely: they seemed
but just to open, that they might imbibe the sweet tones which issued
from the instrument, and return the heavenly vibration from her lovely
mouth. Oh! who can express my sensations? I was quite overcome, and,
bending down, pronounced this vow: "Beautiful lips, which the angels
guard, never will I seek to profane your purity with a kiss." And
yet, my friend, oh, I wish—but my heart is darkened by doubt and
indecision—could I but taste felicity, and then die to expiate the sin!
What sin?
NOVEMBER 26.
Oftentimes I say to myself, "Thou alone art wretched: all other mortals
are happy, none are distressed like thee!" Then I read a passage in an
ancient poet, and I seem to understand my own heart. I have so much to
endure! Have men before me ever been so wretched?
NOVEMBER 30.
I shall never be myself again! Wherever I go, some fatality occurs to
distract me. Even to-day alas—for our destiny! alas for human nature!
About dinner-time I went to walk by the river-side, for I had no
appetite. Everything around seemed gloomy: a cold and damp easterly wind
blew from the mountains, and black, heavy clouds spread over the plain.
I observed at a distance a man in a tattered coat: he was wandering
among the rocks, and seemed to be looking for plants. When I approached,
he turned round at the noise; and I saw that he had an interesting
countenance in which a settled melancholy, strongly marked by
benevolence, formed the principal feature. His long black hair was
divided, and flowed over his shoulders. As his garb betokened a person
of the lower order, I thought he would not take it ill if I inquired
about his business; and I therefore asked what he was seeking. He
replied, with a deep sigh, that he was looking for flowers, and could
find none. "But it is not the season," I observed, with a smile. "Oh,
there are so many flowers!" he answered, as he came nearer to me. "In my
garden there are roses and honeysuckles of two sorts: one sort was
given to me by my father! they grow as plentifully as weeds; I have been
looking for them these two days, and cannot find them. There are flowers
out there, yellow, blue, and red; and that centaury has a very pretty
blossom: but I can find none of them." I observed his peculiarity, and
therefore asked him, with an air of indifference, what he intended to
do with his flowers. A strange smile overspread his countenance. Holding
his finger to his mouth, he expressed a hope that I would not betray
him; and he then informed me that he had promised to gather a nosegay
for his mistress. "That is right," said I. "Oh!" he replied, "she
possesses many other things as well: she is very rich." "And yet," I
continued, "she likes your nosegays." "Oh, she has jewels and crowns!"
he exclaimed. I asked who she was. "If the states-general would but pay
me," he added, "I should be quite another man. Alas! there was a time
when I was so happy; but that is past, and I am now—" He raised his
swimming eyes to heaven. "And you were happy once?" I observed. "Ah,
would I were so still!" was his reply. "I was then as gay and contented
as a man can be." An old woman, who was coming toward us, now called
out, "Henry, Henry! where are you? We have been looking for you
everywhere: come to dinner." "Is he your son?" I inquired, as I went
toward her. "Yes," she said: "he is my poor, unfortunate son. The Lord
has sent me a heavy affliction." I asked whether he had been long in