The Sorrows of Young Werther
he assured me he had read through the first part of Sultzer's theory,
and also possessed a manuscript of Heyne's work on the study of the
antique. I allowed it all to pass.
I have become acquainted, also, with a very worthy person, the district
judge, a frank and open-hearted man. I am told it is a most delightful
thing to see him in the midst of his children, of whom he has nine. His
eldest daughter especially is highly spoken of. He has invited me to go
and see him, and I intend to do so on the first opportunity. He lives
at one of the royal hunting-lodges, which can be reached from here in an
hour and a half by walking, and which he obtained leave to inhabit after
the loss of his wife, as it is so painful to him to reside in town and
at the court.
There have also come in my way a few other originals of a questionable
sort, who are in all respects undesirable, and most intolerable in their
demonstration of friendship. Good-bye. This letter will please you: it
is quite historical.
MAY 22.
That the life of man is but a dream, many a man has surmised heretofore;
and I, too, am everywhere pursued by this feeling. When I consider
the narrow limits within which our active and inquiring faculties are
confined; when I see how all our energies are wasted in providing for
mere necessities, which again have no further end than to prolong
a wretched existence; and then that all our satisfaction concerning
certain subjects of investigation ends in nothing better than a passive
resignation, whilst we amuse ourselves painting our prison-walls with
bright figures and brilliant landscapes,—when I consider all this,
Wilhelm, I am silent. I examine my own being, and find there a world,
but a world rather of imagination and dim desires, than of distinctness
and living power. Then everything swims before my senses, and I smile
and dream while pursuing my way through the world.
All learned professors and doctors are agreed that children do not
comprehend the cause of their desires; but that the grown-up should
wander about this earth like children, without knowing whence they come,
or whither they go, influenced as little by fixed motives, but guided
like them by biscuits, sugar-plums, and the rod,—this is what nobody is
willing to acknowledge; and yet I think it is palpable.
I know what you will say in reply; for I am ready to admit that they are
happiest, who, like children, amuse themselves with their playthings,
dress and undress their dolls, and attentively watch the cupboard,
where mamma has locked up her sweet things, and, when at last they get
a delicious morsel, eat it greedily, and exclaim, "More!" These are
certainly happy beings; but others also are objects of envy, who dignify
their paltry employments, and sometimes even their passions, with
pompous titles, representing them to mankind as gigantic achievements
performed for their welfare and glory. But the man who humbly
acknowledges the vanity of all this, who observes with what pleasure
the thriving citizen converts his little garden into a paradise, and how
patiently even the poor man pursues his weary way under his burden,
and how all wish equally to behold the light of the sun a little
longer,—yes, such a man is at peace, and creates his own world within
himself; and he is also happy, because he is a man. And then, however
limited his sphere, he still preserves in his bosom the sweet feeling of
liberty, and knows that he can quit his prison whenever he likes.
MAY 26.
You know of old my ways of settling anywhere, of selecting a little
cottage in some cosy spot, and of putting up in it with every
inconvenience. Here, too, I have discovered such a snug, comfortable
place, which possesses peculiar charms for me.
About a league from the town is a place called Walheim. (The reader
need not take the trouble to look for the place thus designated. We have
found it necessary to change the names given in the original.) It is
delightfully situated on the side of a hill; and, by proceeding along
one of the footpaths which lead out of the village, you can have a view
of the whole valley. A good old woman lives there, who keeps a small
inn. She sells wine, beer, and coffee, and is cheerful and pleasant
notwithstanding her age. The chief charm of this spot consists in two
linden-trees, spreading their enormous branches over the little green
before the church, which is entirely surrounded by peasants' cottages,
barns, and homesteads. I have seldom seen a place so retired and
peaceable; and there often have my table and chair brought out from
the little inn, and drink my coffee there, and read my Homer. Accident
brought me to the spot one fine afternoon, and I found it perfectly
deserted. Everybody was in the fields except a little boy about four
years of age, who was sitting on the ground, and held between his knees
a child about six months old: he pressed it to his bosom with both
arms, which thus formed a sort of arm-chair; and, notwithstanding the
liveliness which sparkled in its black eyes, it remained perfectly
still. The sight charmed me. I sat down upon a plough opposite, and
sketched with great delight this little picture of brotherly tenderness.
I added the neighbouring hedge, the barn-door, and some broken
cart-wheels, just as they happened to lie; and I found in about an hour
that I had made a very correct and interesting drawing, without putting
in the slightest thing of my own. This confirmed me in my resolution
of adhering, for the future, entirely to nature. She alone is
inexhaustible, and capable of forming the greatest masters. Much may be
alleged in favour of rules, as much may be likewise advanced in favour
of the laws of society: an artist formed upon them will never produce
anything absolutely bad or disgusting; as a man who observes the laws,
and obeys decorum, can never be an absolutely intolerable neighbour, nor
a decided villain: but yet, say what you will of rules, they destroy the
genuine feeling of nature, as well as its true expression. Do not tell
me "that this is too hard, that they only restrain and prune superfluous
branches, etc." My good friend, I will illustrate this by an analogy.
These things resemble love. A warmhearted youth becomes strongly
attached to a maiden: he spends every hour of the day in her company,
wears out his health, and lavishes his fortune, to afford continual
proof that he is wholly devoted to her. Then comes a man of the world, a
man of place and respectability, and addresses him thus: "My good young
friend, love is natural; but you must love within bounds. Divide your
time: devote a portion to business, and give the hours of recreation to
your mistress. Calculate your fortune; and out of the superfluity you
may make her a present, only not too often,—on her birthday, and such
occasions." Pursuing this advice, he may become a useful member of
society, and I should advise every prince to give him an appointment;
but it is all up with his love, and with his genius if he be an artist.
O my friend! why is it that the torrent of genius so seldom bursts
forth, so seldom rolls in full-flowing stream, overwhelming your
astounded soul? Because, on either side of this stream, cold and
respectable persons have taken up their abodes, and, forsooth, their
summer-houses and tulip-beds would suffer from the torrent; wherefore
they dig trenches, and raise embankments betimes, in order to avert the
impending danger.
MAY 27.
I find I have fallen into raptures, declamation, and similes, and have
forgotten, in consequence, to tell you what became of the children.
Absorbed in my artistic contemplations, which I briefly described in my
letter of yesterday, I continued sitting on the plough for two hours.
Toward evening a young woman, with a basket on her arm, came running
toward the children, who had not moved all that time. She exclaimed
from a distance, "You are a good boy, Philip!" She gave me greeting: I
returned it, rose, and approached her. I inquired if she were the mother
of those pretty children. "Yes," she said; and, giving the eldest a
piece of bread, she took the little one in her arms and kissed it with
a mother's tenderness. "I left my child in Philip's care," she said,
"whilst I went into the town with my eldest boy to buy some wheaten
bread, some sugar, and an earthen pot." I saw the various articles in
the basket, from which the cover had fallen. "I shall make some broth
to-night for my little Hans (which was the name of the youngest):
that wild fellow, the big one, broke my pot yesterday, whilst he was
scrambling with Philip for what remained of the contents." I inquired
for the eldest; and she had scarcely time to tell me that he was driving
a couple of geese home from the meadow, when he ran up, and handed
Philip an osier-twig. I talked a little longer with the woman, and found
that she was the daughter of the schoolmaster, and that her husband was
gone on a journey into Switzerland for some money a relation had left
him. "They wanted to cheat him," she said, "and would not answer
his letters; so he is gone there himself. I hope he has met with no
accident, as I have heard nothing of him since his departure." I left
the woman, with regret, giving each of the children a kreutzer, with an
additional one for the youngest, to buy some wheaten bread for his broth
when she went to town next; and so we parted. I assure you, my dear
friend, when my thoughts are all in tumult, the sight of such a
creature as this tranquillises my disturbed mind. She moves in a
happy thoughtlessness within the confined circle of her existence; she
supplies her wants from day to day; and, when she sees the leaves fall,
they raise no other idea in her mind than that winter is approaching.
Since that time I have gone out there frequently. The children have
become quite familiar with me; and each gets a lump of sugar when I
drink my coffee, and they share my milk and bread and butter in the
evening. They always receive their kreutzer on Sundays, for the good
woman has orders to give it to them when I do not go there after evening
service. They are quite at home with me, tell me everything; and I am
particularly amused with observing their tempers, and the simplicity of
their behaviour, when some of the other village children are assembled
with them.
It has given me a deal of trouble to satisfy the anxiety of the mother,
lest (as she says) "they should inconvenience the gentleman."
MAY 30.
What I have lately said of painting is equally true with respect to
poetry. It is only necessary for us to know what is really excellent,
and venture to give it expression; and that is saying much in few words.
To-day I have had a scene, which, if literally related, would, make the
most beautiful idyl in the world. But why should I talk of poetry and
scenes and idyls? Can we never take pleasure in nature without having
recourse to art?
If you expect anything grand or magnificent from this introduction,
you will be sadly mistaken. It relates merely to a peasant-lad, who
has excited in me the warmest interest. As usual, I shall tell my story
badly; and you, as usual, will think me extravagant. It is Walheim once
more—always Walheim—which produces these wonderful phenomena.
A party had assembled outside the house under the linden-trees, to drink
coffee. The company did not exactly please me; and, under one pretext or
another, I lingered behind.
A peasant came from an adjoining house, and set to work arranging some
part of the same plough which I had lately sketched. His appearance
pleased me; and I spoke to him, inquired about his circumstances, made
his acquaintance, and, as is my wont with persons of that class, was
soon admitted into his confidence. He said he was in the service of