The Sorrows of Young Werther
Charlotte one kiss in my presence. Heaven reward him for it! I must love
him for the respect with which he treats her. He shows a regard for me,
but for this I suspect I am more indebted to Charlotte than to his own
fancy for me. Women have a delicate tact in such matters, and it should
be so. They cannot always succeed in keeping two rivals on terms with
each other; but, when they do, they are the only gainers.
I cannot help esteeming Albert. The coolness of his temper contrasts
strongly with the impetuosity of mine, which I cannot conceal. He has
a great deal of feeling, and is fully sensible of the treasure he
possesses in Charlotte. He is free from ill-humour, which you know is
the fault I detest most.
He regards me as a man of sense; and my attachment to Charlotte, and the
interest I take in all that concerns her, augment his triumph and his
love. I shall not inquire whether he may not at times tease her with
some little jealousies; as I know, that, were I in his place, I should
not be entirely free from such sensations.
But, be that as it may, my pleasure with Charlotte is over. Call it
folly or infatuation, what signifies a name? The thing speaks for
itself. Before Albert came, I knew all that I know now. I knew I could
make no pretensions to her, nor did I offer any, that is, as far as it
was possible, in the presence of so much loveliness, not to pant for
its enjoyment. And now, behold me like a silly fellow, staring with
astonishment when another comes in, and deprives me of my love.
I bite my lips, and feel infinite scorn for those who tell me to be
resigned, because there is no help for it. Let me escape from the yoke
of such silly subterfuges! I ramble through the woods; and when I return
to Charlotte, and find Albert sitting by her side in the summer-house
in the garden, I am unable to bear it, behave like a fool, and commit a
thousand extravagances. "For Heaven's sake," said Charlotte today, "let
us have no more scenes like those of last night! You terrify me when you
are so violent." Between ourselves, I am always away now when he visits
her: and I feel delighted when I find her alone.
AUGUST 8.
Believe me, dear Wilhelm, I did not allude to you when I spoke so
severely of those who advise resignation to inevitable fate. I did not
think it possible for you to indulge such a sentiment. But in fact you
are right. I only suggest one objection. In this world one is seldom
reduced to make a selection between two alternatives. There are as many
varieties of conduct and opinion as there are turns of feature between
an aquiline nose and a flat one.
You will, therefore, permit me to concede your entire argument, and yet
contrive means to escape your dilemma.
Your position is this, I hear you say: "Either you have hopes of
obtaining Charlotte, or you have none. Well, in the first case, pursue
your course, and press on to the fulfilment of your wishes. In the
second, be a man, and shake off a miserable passion, which will enervate
and destroy you." My dear friend, this is well and easily said.
But would you require a wretched being, whose life is slowly wasting
under a lingering disease, to despatch himself at once by the stroke of
a dagger? Does not the very disorder which consumes his strength deprive
him of the courage to effect his deliverance?
You may answer me, if you please, with a similar analogy, "Who would
not prefer the amputation of an arm to the periling of life by doubt and
procrastination!" But I know not if I am right, and let us leave these
comparisons.
Enough! There are moments, Wilhelm, when I could rise up and shake it
all off, and when, if I only knew where to go, I could fly from this
place.
THE SAME EVENING.
My diary, which I have for some time neglected, came before me today;
and I am amazed to see how deliberately I have entangled myself step by
step. To have seen my position so clearly, and yet to have acted so like
a child! Even still I behold the result plainly, and yet have no thought
of acting with greater prudence.
AUGUST 10.
If I were not a fool, I could spend the happiest and most delightful
life here. So many agreeable circumstances, and of a kind to ensure
a worthy man's happiness, are seldom united. Alas! I feel it too
sensibly,—the heart alone makes our happiness! To be admitted into
this most charming family, to be loved by the father as a son, by the
children as a father, and by Charlotte! then the noble Albert, who never
disturbs my happiness by any appearance of ill-humour, receiving me with
the heartiest affection, and loving me, next to Charlotte, better
than all the world! Wilhelm, you would be delighted to hear us in our
rambles, and conversations about Charlotte. Nothing in the world can be
more absurd than our connection, and yet the thought of it often moves
me to tears.
He tells me sometimes of her excellent mother; how, upon her death-bed,
she had committed her house and children to Charlotte, and had given
Charlotte herself in charge to him; how, since that time, a new spirit
had taken possession of her; how, in care and anxiety for their welfare,
she became a real mother to them; how every moment of her time was
devoted to some labour of love in their behalf,—and yet her mirth and
cheerfulness had never forsaken her. I walk by his side, pluck flowers
by the way, arrange them carefully into a nosegay, then fling them into
the first stream I pass, and watch them as they float gently away. I
forget whether I told you that Albert is to remain here. He has received
a government appointment, with a very good salary; and I understand
he is in high favour at court. I have met few persons so punctual and
methodical in business.
AUGUST 12.
Certainly Albert is the best fellow in the world. I had a strange scene
with him yesterday. I went to take leave of him; for I took it into my
head to spend a few days in these mountains, from where I now write
to you. As I was walking up and down his room, my eye fell upon his
pistols. "Lend me those pistols," said I, "for my journey." "By all
means," he replied, "if you will take the trouble to load them; for they
only hang there for form." I took down one of them; and he continued,
"Ever since I was near suffering for my extreme caution, I will have
nothing to do with such things." I was curious to hear the story. "I was
staying," said he, "some three months ago, at a friend's house in the
country. I had a brace of pistols with me, unloaded; and I slept without
any anxiety. One rainy afternoon I was sitting by myself, doing nothing,
when it occurred to me I do not know how that the house might be
attacked, that we might require the pistols, that we might in short, you
know how we go on fancying, when we have nothing better to do. I gave
the pistols to the servant, to clean and load. He was playing with the
maid, and trying to frighten her, when the pistol went off—God knows
how!—the ramrod was in the barrel; and it went straight through
her right hand, and shattered the thumb. I had to endure all the
lamentation, and to pay the surgeon's bill; so, since that time, I have
kept all my weapons unloaded. But, my dear friend, what is the use of
prudence? We can never be on our guard against all possible dangers.
However,"—now, you must know I can tolerate all men till they come to
"however;"—for it is self-evident that every universal rule must have
its exceptions. But he is so exceedingly accurate, that, if he only
fancies he has said a word too precipitate, or too general, or only half
true, he never ceases to qualify, to modify, and extenuate, till at last
he appears to have said nothing at all. Upon this occasion, Albert was
deeply immersed in his subject: I ceased to listen to him, and became
lost in reverie. With a sudden motion, I pointed the mouth of the pistol
to my forehead, over the right eye. "What do you mean?" cried Albert,
turning back the pistol. "It is not loaded," said I. "And even if not,"
he answered with impatience, "what can you mean? I cannot comprehend how
a man can be so mad as to shoot himself, and the bare idea of it shocks
me."
"But why should any one," said I, "in speaking of an action, venture
to pronounce it mad or wise, or good or bad? What is the meaning of all
this? Have you carefully studied the secret motives of our actions? Do
you understand—can you explain the causes which occasion them, and make
them inevitable? If you can, you will be less hasty with your decision."
"But you will allow," said Albert; "that some actions are criminal, let
them spring from whatever motives they may." I granted it, and shrugged
my shoulders.
"But still, my good friend," I continued, "there are some exceptions
here too. Theft is a crime; but the man who commits it from extreme
poverty, with no design but to save his family from perishing, is he an
object of pity, or of punishment? Who shall throw the first stone at a
husband, who, in the heat of just resentment, sacrifices his faithless
wife and her perfidious seducer? or at the young maiden, who, in her
weak hour of rapture, forgets herself in the impetuous joys of love?
Even our laws, cold and cruel as they are, relent in such cases, and
withhold their punishment."
"That is quite another thing," said Albert; "because a man under the
influence of violent passion loses all power of reflection, and is
regarded as intoxicated or insane."
"Oh! you people of sound understandings," I replied, smiling, "are ever
ready to exclaim 'Extravagance, and madness, and intoxication!' You
moral men are so calm and so subdued! You abhor the drunken man, and
detest the extravagant; you pass by, like the Levite, and thank God,
like the Pharisee, that you are not like one of them. I have been more
than once intoxicated, my passions have always bordered on extravagance:
I am not ashamed to confess it; for I have learned, by my own
experience, that all extraordinary men, who have accomplished great and
astonishing actions, have ever been decried by the world as drunken or
insane. And in private life, too, is it not intolerable that no one can
undertake the execution of a noble or generous deed, without giving rise
to the exclamation that the doer is intoxicated or mad? Shame upon you,
ye sages!"
"This is another of your extravagant humours," said Albert: "you always
exaggerate a case, and in this matter you are undoubtedly wrong; for we
were speaking of suicide, which you compare with great actions, when it
is impossible to regard it as anything but a weakness. It is much easier
to die than to bear a life of misery with fortitude."
I was on the point of breaking off the conversation, for nothing puts me
so completely out of patience as the utterance of a wretched commonplace
when I am talking from my inmost heart. However, I composed myself, for
I had often heard the same observation with sufficient vexation; and
I answered him, therefore, with a little warmth, "You call this a
weakness—beware of being led astray by appearances. When a nation,
which has long groaned under the intolerable yoke of a tyrant, rises at
last and throws off its chains, do you call that weakness? The man
who, to rescue his house from the flames, finds his physical strength
redoubled, so that he lifts burdens with ease, which, in the absence of
excitement, he could scarcely move; he who, under the rage of an insult,
attacks and puts to flight half a score of his enemies, are such persons
to be called weak? My good friend, if resistance be strength, how can
the highest degree of resistance be a weakness?"
Albert looked steadfastly at me, and said, "Pray forgive me, but I do
not see that the examples you have adduced bear any relation to the
question." "Very likely," I answered; "for I have often been told that