The Sorrows of Young Werther
my style of illustration borders a little on the absurd. But let us see
if we cannot place the matter in another point of view, by inquiring
what can be a man's state of mind who resolves to free himself from
the burden of life,—a burden often so pleasant to bear,—for we cannot
otherwise reason fairly upon the subject.
"Human nature," I continued, "has its limits. It is able to endure a
certain degree of joy, sorrow, and pain, but becomes annihilated as soon
as this measure is exceeded. The question, therefore, is, not whether a
man is strong or weak, but whether he is able to endure the measure
of his sufferings. The suffering may be moral or physical; and in
my opinion it is just as absurd to call a man a coward who destroys
himself, as to call a man a coward who dies of a malignant fever."
"Paradox, all paradox!" exclaimed Albert. "Not so paradoxical as you
imagine," I replied. "You allow that we designate a disease as mortal
when nature is so severely attacked, and her strength so far exhausted,
that she cannot possibly recover her former condition under any change
that may take place.
"Now, my good friend, apply this to the mind; observe a man in
his natural, isolated condition; consider how ideas work, and how
impressions fasten on him, till at length a violent passion seizes him,
destroying all his powers of calm reflection, and utterly ruining him.
"It is in vain that a man of sound mind and cool temper understands the
condition of such a wretched being, in vain he counsels him. He can no
more communicate his own wisdom to him than a healthy man can instil his
strength into the invalid, by whose bedside he is seated."
Albert thought this too general. I reminded him of a girl who had
drowned herself a short time previously, and I related her history.
She was a good creature, who had grown up in the narrow sphere of
household industry and weekly appointed labour; one who knew no pleasure
beyond indulging in a walk on Sundays, arrayed in her best attire,
accompanied by her friends, or perhaps joining in the dance now and then
at some festival, and chatting away her spare hours with a neighbour,
discussing the scandal or the quarrels of the village, trifles
sufficient to occupy her heart. At length the warmth of her nature is
influenced by certain new and unknown wishes. Inflamed by the flatteries
of men, her former pleasures become by degrees insipid, till at length
she meets with a youth to whom she is attracted by an indescribable
feeling; upon him she now rests all her hopes; she forgets the world
around her; she sees, hears, desires nothing but him, and him only. He
alone occupies all her thoughts. Uncorrupted by the idle indulgence of
an enervating vanity, her affection moving steadily toward its object,
she hopes to become his, and to realise, in an everlasting union with
him, all that happiness which she sought, all that bliss for which
she longed. His repeated promises confirm her hopes: embraces and
endearments, which increase the ardour of her desires, overmaster her
soul. She floats in a dim, delusive anticipation of her happiness; and
her feelings become excited to their utmost tension. She stretches out
her arms finally to embrace the object of all her wishes and her lover
forsakes her. Stunned and bewildered, she stands upon a precipice. All
is darkness around her. No prospect, no hope, no consolation—forsaken
by him in whom her existence was centred! She sees nothing of the wide
world before her, thinks nothing of the many individuals who might
supply the void in her heart; she feels herself deserted, forsaken by
the world; and, blinded and impelled by the agony which wrings her soul,
she plunges into the deep, to end her sufferings in the broad embrace of
death. See here, Albert, the history of thousands; and tell me, is not
this a case of physical infirmity? Nature has no way to escape from the
labyrinth: her powers are exhausted: she can contend no longer, and the
poor soul must die.
"Shame upon him who can look on calmly, and exclaim, 'The foolish girl!
she should have waited; she should have allowed time to wear off the
impression; her despair would have been softened, and she would have
found another lover to comfort her.' One might as well say, 'The fool,
to die of a fever! why did he not wait till his strength was restored,
till his blood became calm? all would then have gone well, and he would
have been alive now.'"
Albert, who could not see the justice of the comparison, offered some
further objections, and, amongst others, urged that I had taken the
case of a mere ignorant girl. But how any man of sense, of more enlarged
views and experience, could be excused, he was unable to comprehend. "My
friend!" I exclaimed, "man is but man; and, whatever be the extent
of his reasoning powers, they are of little avail when passion rages
within, and he feels himself confined by the narrow limits of nature.
It were better, then—but we will talk of this some other time," I said,
and caught up my hat. Alas! my heart was full; and we parted without
conviction on either side. How rarely in this world do men understand
each other!
AUGUST 15.
There can be no doubt that in this world nothing is so indispensable as
love. I observe that Charlotte could not lose me without a pang, and the
very children have but one wish; that is, that I should visit them again
to-morrow. I went this afternoon to tune Charlotte's piano. But I could
not do it, for the little ones insisted on my telling them a story; and
Charlotte herself urged me to satisfy them. I waited upon them at tea,
and they are now as fully contented with me as with Charlotte; and
I told them my very best tale of the princess who was waited upon by
dwarfs. I improve myself by this exercise, and am quite surprised at the
impression my stories create. If I sometimes invent an incident which I
forget upon the next narration, they remind one directly that the story
was different before; so that I now endeavour to relate with exactness
the same anecdote in the same monotonous tone, which never changes. I
find by this, how much an author injures his works by altering them,
even though they be improved in a poetical point of view. The first
impression is readily received. We are so constituted that we believe
the most incredible things; and, once they are engraved upon the memory,
woe to him who would endeavour to efface them.
AUGUST 18.
Must it ever be thus,—that the source of our happiness must also be the
fountain of our misery? The full and ardent sentiment which animated
my heart with the love of nature, overwhelming me with a torrent of
delight, and which brought all paradise before me, has now become an
insupportable torment, a demon which perpetually pursues and harasses
me. When in bygone days I gazed from these rocks upon yonder mountains
across the river, and upon the green, flowery valley before me, and saw
all nature budding and bursting around; the hills clothed from foot
to peak with tall, thick forest trees; the valleys in all their varied
windings, shaded with the loveliest woods; and the soft river gliding
along amongst the lisping reeds, mirroring the beautiful clouds which
the soft evening breeze wafted across the sky,—when I heard the groves
about me melodious with the music of birds, and saw the million swarms
of insects dancing in the last golden beams of the sun, whose setting
rays awoke the humming beetles from their grassy beds, whilst the
subdued tumult around directed my attention to the ground, and I there
observed the arid rock compelled to yield nutriment to the dry moss,
whilst the heath flourished upon the barren sands below me, all this
displayed to me the inner warmth which animates all nature, and filled
and glowed within my heart. I felt myself exalted by this overflowing
fulness to the perception of the Godhead, and the glorious forms of
an infinite universe became visible to my soul! Stupendous mountains
encompassed me, abysses yawned at my feet, and cataracts fell headlong
down before me; impetuous rivers rolled through the plain, and rocks
and mountains resounded from afar. In the depths of the earth I saw
innumerable powers in motion, and multiplying to infinity; whilst
upon its surface, and beneath the heavens, there teemed ten thousand
varieties of living creatures. Everything around is alive with an
infinite number of forms; while mankind fly for security to their petty
houses, from the shelter of which they rule in their imaginations over
the wide-extended universe. Poor fool! in whose petty estimation all
things are little. From the inaccessible mountains, across the desert
which no mortal foot has trod, far as the confines of the unknown ocean,
breathes the spirit of the eternal Creator; and every atom to which he
has given existence finds favour in his sight. Ah, how often at that
time has the flight of a bird, soaring above my head, inspired me
with the desire of being transported to the shores of the immeasurable
waters, there to quaff the pleasures of life from the foaming goblet
of the Infinite, and to partake, if but for a moment even, with
the confined powers of my soul, the beatitude of that Creator who
accomplishes all things in himself, and through himself!
My dear friend, the bare recollection of those hours still consoles me.
Even this effort to recall those ineffable sensations, and give them
utterance, exalts my soul above itself, and makes me doubly feel the
intensity of my present anguish.
It is as if a curtain had been drawn from before my eyes, and, instead
of prospects of eternal life, the abyss of an ever open grave yawned
before me. Can we say of anything that it exists when all passes away,
when time, with the speed of a storm, carries all things onward,—and
our transitory existence, hurried along by the torrent, is either
swallowed up by the waves or dashed against the rocks? There is not a
moment but preys upon you,—and upon all around you, not a moment in
which you do not yourself become a destroyer. The most innocent walk
deprives of life thousands of poor insects: one step destroys the fabric
of the industrious ant, and converts a little world into chaos. No:
it is not the great and rare calamities of the world, the floods which
sweep away whole villages, the earthquakes which swallow up our towns,
that affect me. My heart is wasted by the thought of that destructive
power which lies concealed in every part of universal nature. Nature has
formed nothing that does not consume itself, and every object near
it: so that, surrounded by earth and air, and all the active powers, I
wander on my way with aching heart; and the universe is to me a fearful
monster, for ever devouring its own offspring.
AUGUST 21.
In vain do I stretch out my arms toward her when I awaken in the morning
from my weary slumbers. In vain do I seek for her at night in my bed,
when some innocent dream has happily deceived me, and placed her near me
in the fields, when I have seized her hand and covered it with countless
kisses. And when I feel for her in the half confusion of sleep, with the
happy sense that she is near, tears flow from my oppressed heart; and,
bereft of all comfort, I weep over my future woes.
AUGUST 22.
What a misfortune, Wilhelm! My active spirits have degenerated into
contented indolence. I cannot be idle, and yet I am unable to set to
work. I cannot think: I have no longer any feeling for the beauties of
nature, and books are distasteful to me. Once we give ourselves up, we
are totally lost. Many a time and oft I wish I were a common labourer;
that, awakening in the morning, I might have but one prospect, one
pursuit, one hope, for the day which has dawned. I often envy Albert