The Sorrows of Young Werther
a young widow, who set great store by him. He spoke so much of his
mistress, and praised her so extravagantly, that I could soon see he was
desperately in love with her. "She is no longer young," he said: "and
she was treated so badly by her former husband that she does not mean
to marry again." From his account it was so evident what incomparable
charms she possessed for him, and how ardently he wished she would
select him to extinguish the recollection of her first husband's
misconduct, that I should have to repeat his own words in order to
describe the depth of the poor fellow's attachment, truth, and devotion.
It would, in fact, require the gifts of a great poet to convey the
expression of his features, the harmony of his voice, and the heavenly
fire of his eye. No words can portray the tenderness of his every
movement and of every feature: no effort of mine could do justice to the
scene. His alarm lest I should misconceive his position with regard
to his mistress, or question the propriety of her conduct, touched me
particularly. The charming manner with which he described her form and
person, which, without possessing the graces of youth, won and attached
him to her, is inexpressible, and must be left to the imagination. I
have never in my life witnessed or fancied or conceived the possibility
of such intense devotion, such ardent affections, united with so much
purity. Do not blame me if I say that the recollection of this innocence
and truth is deeply impressed upon my very soul; that this picture of
fidelity and tenderness haunts me everywhere; and that my own heart, as
though enkindled by the flame, glows and burns within me.
I mean now to try and see her as soon as I can: or perhaps, on second
thoughts, I had better not; it is better I should behold her through the
eyes of her lover. To my sight, perhaps, she would not appear as she now
stands before me; and why should I destroy so sweet a picture?
JUNE 16.
"Why do I not write to you?" You lay claim to learning, and ask such a
question. You should have guessed that I am well—that is to say—in a
word, I have made an acquaintance who has won my heart: I have—I know
not.
To give you a regular account of the manner in which I have become
acquainted with the most amiable of women would be a difficult task. I
am a happy and contented mortal, but a poor historian.
An angel! Nonsense! Everybody so describes his mistress; and yet I find
it impossible to tell you how perfect she is, or why she is so perfect:
suffice it to say she has captivated all my senses.
So much simplicity with so much understanding—so mild, and yet so
resolute—a mind so placid, and a life so active.
But all this is ugly balderdash, which expresses not a single character
nor feature. Some other time—but no, not some other time, now, this
very instant, will I tell you all about it. Now or never. Well, between
ourselves, since I commenced my letter, I have been three times on the
point of throwing down my pen, of ordering my horse, and riding out.
And yet I vowed this morning that I would not ride to-day, and yet every
moment I am rushing to the window to see how high the sun is.
I could not restrain myself—go to her I must. I have just returned,
Wilhelm; and whilst I am taking supper I will write to you. What
a delight it was for my soul to see her in the midst of her dear,
beautiful children,—eight brothers and sisters!
But, if I proceed thus, you will be no wiser at the end of my letter
than you were at the beginning. Attend, then, and I will compel myself
to give you the details.
I mentioned to you the other day that I had become acquainted with S—,
the district judge, and that he had invited me to go and visit him in
his retirement, or rather in his little kingdom. But I neglected going,
and perhaps should never have gone, if chance had not discovered to me
the treasure which lay concealed in that retired spot. Some of our young
people had proposed giving a ball in the country, at which I consented
to be present. I offered my hand for the evening to a pretty and
agreeable, but rather commonplace, sort of girl from the immediate
neighbourhood; and it was agreed that I should engage a carriage, and
call upon Charlotte, with my partner and her aunt, to convey them to the
ball. My companion informed me, as we drove along through the park
to the hunting-lodge, that I should make the acquaintance of a very
charming young lady. "Take care," added the aunt, "that you do not lose
your heart." "Why?" said I. "Because she is already engaged to a very
worthy man," she replied, "who is gone to settle his affairs upon
the death of his father, and will succeed to a very considerable
inheritance." This information possessed no interest for me. When
we arrived at the gate, the sun was setting behind the tops of the
mountains. The atmosphere was heavy; and the ladies expressed their
fears of an approaching storm, as masses of low black clouds were
gathering in the horizon. I relieved their anxieties by pretending to be
weather-wise, although I myself had some apprehensions lest our pleasure
should be interrupted.
I alighted; and a maid came to the door, and requested us to wait a
moment for her mistress. I walked across the court to a well-built
house, and, ascending the flight of steps in front, opened the door,
and saw before me the most charming spectacle I had ever witnessed. Six
children, from eleven to two years old, were running about the hall, and
surrounding a lady of middle height, with a lovely figure, dressed in a
robe of simple white, trimmed with pink ribbons. She was holding a rye
loaf in her hand, and was cutting slices for the little ones all around,
in proportion to their age and appetite. She performed her task in a
graceful and affectionate manner; each claimant awaiting his turn with
outstretched hands, and boisterously shouting his thanks. Some of them
ran away at once, to enjoy their evening meal; whilst others, of a
gentler disposition, retired to the courtyard to see the strangers, and
to survey the carriage in which their Charlotte was to drive away. "Pray
forgive me for giving you the trouble to come for me, and for keeping
the ladies waiting: but dressing, and arranging some household duties
before I leave, had made me forget my children's supper; and they do
not like to take it from any one but me." I uttered some indifferent
compliment: but my whole soul was absorbed by her air, her voice, her
manner; and I had scarcely recovered myself when she ran into her room
to fetch her gloves and fan. The young ones threw inquiring glances at
me from a distance; whilst I approached the youngest, a most delicious
little creature. He drew back; and Charlotte, entering at the very
moment, said, "Louis, shake hands with your cousin." The little fellow
obeyed willingly; and I could not resist giving him a hearty kiss,
notwithstanding his rather dirty face. "Cousin," said I to Charlotte,
as I handed her down, "do you think I deserve the happiness of being
related to you?" She replied, with a ready smile, "Oh! I have such
a number of cousins, that I should be sorry if you were the most
undeserving of them." In taking leave, she desired her next sister,
Sophy, a girl about eleven years old, to take great care of the
children, and to say good-bye to papa for her when he came home from his
ride. She enjoined to the little ones to obey their sister Sophy as they
would herself, upon which some promised that they would; but a little
fair-haired girl, about six years old, looked discontented, and said,
"But Sophy is not you, Charlotte; and we like you best." The two eldest
boys had clambered up the carriage; and, at my request, she permitted
them to accompany us a little way through the forest, upon their
promising to sit very still, and hold fast.
We were hardly seated, and the ladies had scarcely exchanged
compliments, making the usual remarks upon each other's dress, and upon
the company they expected to meet, when Charlotte stopped the carriage,
and made her brothers get down. They insisted upon kissing her hands
once more; which the eldest did with all the tenderness of a youth
of fifteen, but the other in a lighter and more careless manner. She
desired them again to give her love to the children, and we drove off.
The aunt inquired of Charlotte whether she had finished the book she had
last sent her. "No," said Charlotte; "I did not like it: you can have
it again. And the one before was not much better." I was surprised, upon
asking the title, to hear that it was ____. (We feel obliged to suppress
the passage in the letter, to prevent any one from feeling aggrieved;
although no author need pay much attention to the opinion of a mere
girl, or that of an unsteady young man.)
I found penetration and character in everything she said: every
expression seemed to brighten her features with new charms,—with
new rays of genius,—which unfolded by degrees, as she felt herself
understood.
"When I was younger," she observed, "I loved nothing so much as
romances. Nothing could equal my delight when, on some holiday, I could
settle down quietly in a corner, and enter with my whole heart and soul
into the joys or sorrows of some fictitious Leonora. I do not deny that
they even possess some charms for me yet. But I read so seldom, that I
prefer books suited exactly to my taste. And I like those authors best
whose scenes describe my own situation in life,—and the friends who are
about me, whose stories touch me with interest, from resembling my own
homely existence,—which, without being absolutely paradise, is, on the
whole, a source of indescribable happiness."
I endeavoured to conceal the emotion which these words occasioned, but
it was of slight avail; for, when she had expressed so truly her opinion
of "The Vicar of Wakefield," and of other works, the names of which I
omit (Though the names are omitted, yet the authors mentioned deserve
Charlotte's approbation, and will feel it in their hearts when they read
this passage. It concerns no other person.), I could no longer contain
myself, but gave full utterance to what I thought of it: and it was not
until Charlotte had addressed herself to the two other ladies, that
I remembered their presence, and observed them sitting mute with
astonishment. The aunt looked at me several times with an air of
raillery, which, however, I did not at all mind.
We talked of the pleasures of dancing. "If it is a fault to love it,"
said Charlotte, "I am ready to confess that I prize it above all other
amusements. If anything disturbs me, I go to the piano, play an air to
which I have danced, and all goes right again directly."
You, who know me, can fancy how steadfastly I gazed upon her rich dark
eyes during these remarks, how my very soul gloated over her warm lips
and fresh, glowing cheeks, how I became quite lost in the delightful
meaning of her words, so much so, that I scarcely heard the actual
expressions. In short, I alighted from the carriage like a person in a
dream, and was so lost to the dim world around me, that I scarcely heard
the music which resounded from the illuminated ballroom.
The two Messrs. Andran and a certain N. N. (I cannot trouble myself with
the names), who were the aunt's and Charlotte's partners, received us
at the carriage-door, and took possession of their ladies, whilst I
followed with mine.
We commenced with a minuet. I led out one lady after another, and
precisely those who were the most disagreeable could not bring
themselves to leave off. Charlotte and her partner began an English
country dance, and you must imagine my delight when it was their turn
to dance the figure with us. You should see Charlotte dance. She dances
with her whole heart and soul: her figure is all harmony, elegance,