The Sorrows of Young Werther
when I see him buried in a heap of papers and parchments, and I fancy I
should be happy were I in his place. Often impressed with this feeling
I have been on the point of writing to you and to the minister, for the
appointment at the embassy, which you think I might obtain. I believe I
might procure it. The minister has long shown a regard for me, and has
frequently urged me to seek employment. It is the business of an
hour only. Now and then the fable of the horse recurs to me. Weary of
liberty, he suffered himself to be saddled and bridled, and was ridden
to death for his pains. I know not what to determine upon. For is not
this anxiety for change the consequence of that restless spirit which
would pursue me equally in every situation of life?
AUGUST 28.
If my ills would admit of any cure, they would certainly be cured here.
This is my birthday, and early in the morning I received a packet from
Albert. Upon opening it, I found one of the pink ribbons which Charlotte
wore in her dress the first time I saw her, and which I had several
times asked her to give me. With it were two volumes in duodecimo
of Wetstein's "Homer," a book I had often wished for, to save me the
inconvenience of carrying the large Ernestine edition with me upon my
walks. You see how they anticipate my wishes, how well they understand
all those little attentions of friendship, so superior to the costly
presents of the great, which are humiliating. I kissed the ribbon a
thousand times, and in every breath inhaled the remembrance of those
happy and irrevocable days which filled me with the keenest joy. Such,
Wilhelm, is our fate. I do not murmur at it: the flowers of life are but
visionary. How many pass away, and leave no trace behind—how few yield
any fruit—and the fruit itself, how rarely does it ripen! And yet there
are flowers enough! and is it not strange, my friend, that we should
suffer the little that does really ripen, to rot, decay, and perish
unenjoyed? Farewell! This is a glorious summer. I often climb into the
trees in Charlotte's orchard, and shake down the pears that hang on the
highest branches. She stands below, and catches them as they fall.
AUGUST 30.
Unhappy being that I am! Why do I thus deceive myself? What is to come
of all this wild, aimless, endless passion? I cannot pray except to her.
My imagination sees nothing but her: all surrounding objects are of no
account, except as they relate to her. In this dreamy state I enjoy many
happy hours, till at length I feel compelled to tear myself away from
her. Ah, Wilhelm, to what does not my heart often compel me! When I have
spent several hours in her company, till I feel completely absorbed by
her figure, her grace, the divine expression of her thoughts, my mind
becomes gradually excited to the highest excess, my sight grows dim,
my hearing confused, my breathing oppressed as if by the hand of a
murderer, and my beating heart seeks to obtain relief for my aching
senses. I am sometimes unconscious whether I really exist. If in such
moments I find no sympathy, and Charlotte does not allow me to enjoy
the melancholy consolation of bathing her hand with my tears, I feel
compelled to tear myself from her, when I either wander through the
country, climb some precipitous cliff, or force a path through the
trackless thicket, where I am lacerated and torn by thorns and briers;
and thence I find relief. Sometimes I lie stretched on the ground,
overcome with fatigue and dying with thirst; sometimes, late in the
night, when the moon shines above me, I recline against an aged tree
in some sequestered forest, to rest my weary limbs, when, exhausted
and worn, I sleep till break of day. O Wilhelm! the hermit's cell, his
sackcloth, and girdle of thorns would be luxury and indulgence compared
with what I suffer. Adieu! I see no end to this wretchedness except the
grave.
SEPTEMBER 3.
I must away. Thank you, Wilhelm, for determining my wavering purpose.
For a whole fortnight I have thought of leaving her. I must away.
She has returned to town, and is at the house of a friend. And then,
Albert—yes, I must go.
SEPTEMBER 10.
Oh, what a night, Wilhelm! I can henceforth bear anything. I shall never
see her again. Oh, why cannot I fall on your neck, and, with floods of
tears and raptures, give utterance to all the passions which distract my
heart! Here I sit gasping for breath, and struggling to compose myself.
I wait for day, and at sunrise the horses are to be at the door.
And she is sleeping calmly, little suspecting that she has seen me for
the last time. I am free. I have had the courage, in an interview of
two hours' duration, not to betray my intention. And O Wilhelm, what a
conversation it was!
Albert had promised to come to Charlotte in the garden immediately
after supper. I was upon the terrace under the tall chestnut trees, and
watched the setting sun. I saw him sink for the last time beneath this
delightful valley and silent stream. I had often visited the same
spot with Charlotte, and witnessed that glorious sight; and now—I was
walking up and down the very avenue which was so dear to me. A secret
sympathy had frequently drawn me thither before I knew Charlotte; and
we were delighted when, in our early acquaintance, we discovered that we
each loved the same spot, which is indeed as romantic as any that ever
captivated the fancy of an artist.
From beneath the chestnut trees, there is an extensive view. But I
remember that I have mentioned all this in a former letter, and have
described the tall mass of beech trees at the end, and how the avenue
grows darker and darker as it winds its way among them, till it ends
in a gloomy recess, which has all the charm of a mysterious solitude. I
still remember the strange feeling of melancholy which came over me the
first time I entered that dark retreat, at bright midday. I felt some
secret foreboding that it would, one day, be to me the scene of some
happiness or misery.
I had spent half an hour struggling between the contending thoughts of
going and returning, when I heard them coming up the terrace. I ran to
meet them. I trembled as I took her hand, and kissed it. As we reached
the top of the terrace, the moon rose from behind the wooded hill. We
conversed on many subjects, and, without perceiving it, approached the
gloomy recess. Charlotte entered, and sat down. Albert seated himself
beside her. I did the same, but my agitation did not suffer me to remain
long seated. I got up, and stood before her, then walked backward and
forward, and sat down again. I was restless and miserable. Charlotte
drew our attention to the beautiful effect of the moonlight, which threw
a silver hue over the terrace in front of us, beyond the beech trees.
It was a glorious sight, and was rendered more striking by the darkness
which surrounded the spot where we were. We remained for some time
silent, when Charlotte observed, "Whenever I walk by moonlight, it
brings to my remembrance all my beloved and departed friends, and I
am filled with thoughts of death and futurity. We shall live again,
Werther!" she continued, with a firm but feeling voice; "but shall we
know one another again—what do you think? what do you say?"
"Charlotte," I said, as I took her hand in mine, and my eyes filled with
tears, "we shall see each other again—here and hereafter we shall meet
again." I could say no more. Why, Wilhelm, should she put this question
to me, just at the moment when the fear of our cruel separation filled
my heart?
"And oh! do those departed ones know how we are employed here? do they
know when we are well and happy? do they know when we recall their
memories with the fondest love? In the silent hour of evening the shade
of my mother hovers around me; when seated in the midst of my children,
I see them assembled near me, as they used to assemble near her; and
then I raise my anxious eyes to heaven, and wish she could look down
upon us, and witness how I fulfil the promise I made to her in her last
moments, to be a mother to her children. With what emotion do I then
exclaim, 'Pardon, dearest of mothers, pardon me, if I do not adequately
supply your place! Alas! I do my utmost. They are clothed and fed; and,
still better, they are loved and educated. Could you but see, sweet
saint! the peace and harmony that dwells amongst us, you would glorify
God with the warmest feelings of gratitude, to whom, in your last hour,
you addressed such fervent prayers for our happiness.'" Thus did she
express herself; but O Wilhelm! who can do justice to her language? how
can cold and passionless words convey the heavenly expressions of the
spirit? Albert interrupted her gently. "This affects you too deeply,
my dear Charlotte. I know your soul dwells on such recollections with
intense delight; but I implore—" "O Albert!" she continued, "I am sure
you do not forget the evenings when we three used to sit at the little
round table, when papa was absent, and the little ones had retired. You
often had a good book with you, but seldom read it; the conversation of
that noble being was preferable to everything,—that beautiful,
bright, gentle, and yet ever-toiling woman. God alone knows how I have
supplicated with tears on my nightly couch, that I might be like her."
I threw myself at her feet, and, seizing her hand, bedewed it with
a thousand tears. "Charlotte!" I exclaimed, "God's blessing and your
mother's spirit are upon you." "Oh! that you had known her," she said,
with a warm pressure of the hand. "She was worthy of being known to
you." I thought I should have fainted: never had I received praise so
flattering. She continued, "And yet she was doomed to die in the flower
of her youth, when her youngest child was scarcely six months old. Her
illness was but short, but she was calm and resigned; and it was only
for her children, especially the youngest, that she felt unhappy. When
her end drew nigh, she bade me bring them to her. I obeyed. The younger
ones knew nothing of their approaching loss, while the elder ones were
quite overcome with grief. They stood around the bed; and she raised
her feeble hands to heaven, and prayed over them; then, kissing them in
turn, she dismissed them, and said to me, 'Be you a mother to them.'
I gave her my hand. 'You are promising much, my child,' she said: 'a
mother's fondness and a mother's care! I have often witnessed, by your
tears of gratitude, that you know what is a mother's tenderness: show it
to your brothers and sisters, and be dutiful and faithful to your
father as a wife; you will be his comfort.' She inquired for him. He
had retired to conceal his intolerable anguish,—he was heartbroken,
'Albert, you were in the room.' She heard some one moving: she inquired
who it was, and desired you to approach. She surveyed us both with a
look of composure and satisfaction, expressive of her conviction that
we should be happy,—happy with one another." Albert fell upon her neck,
and kissed her, and exclaimed, "We are so, and we shall be so!" Even
Albert, generally so tranquil, had quite lost his composure; and I was
excited beyond expression.
"And such a being," She continued, "was to leave us, Werther! Great God,
must we thus part with everything we hold dear in this world? Nobody
felt this more acutely than the children: they cried and lamented for
a long time afterward, complaining that men had carried away their dear
mamma."
Charlotte rose. It aroused me; but I continued sitting, and held her
hand. "Let us go," she said: "it grows late." She attempted to withdraw
her hand: I held it still. "We shall see each other again," I exclaimed:
"we shall recognise each other under every possible change! I am going,"
I continued, "going willingly; but, should I say for ever, perhaps I may