The Sorrows of Young Werther (51) by J.W. von Goethe

The Sorrows of Young Werther (51) by J.W. von Goethe

NOVEMBER 21.

She does not feel, she does not know, that she is preparing a poison
which will destroy us both; and I drink deeply of the draught which is
to prove my destruction. What mean those looks of kindness with which
she often–often? no, not often, but sometimes, regards me, that
complacency with which she hears the involuntary sentiments which
frequently escape me, and the tender pity for my sufferings which
appears in her countenance?

Yesterday, when I took leave she seized me by the hand, and said,
“Adieu, dear Werther.” Dear Werther! It was the first time she ever
called me dear: the sound sunk deep into my heart. I have repeated it a
hundred times; and last night, on going to bed, and talking to myself
of various things, I suddenly said, “Good night, dear Werther!” and then
could not but laugh at myself.

NOVEMBER 22

I cannot pray, “Leave her to me!” and yet she often seems to belong to
me. I cannot pray, “Give her to me!” for she is another’s. In this way
I affect mirth over my troubles; and, if I had time, I could compose a
whole litany of antitheses.

NOVEMBER 24.

She is sensible of my sufferings. This morning her look pierced my very
soul. I found her alone, and she was silent: she steadfastly surveyed
me. I no longer saw in her face the charms of beauty or the fire of
genius: these had disappeared. But I was affected by an expression much
more touching, a look of the deepest sympathy and of the softest pity.
Why was I afraid to throw myself at her feet? Why did I not dare to take
her in my arms, and answer her by a thousand kisses? She had recourse to
her piano for relief, and in a low and sweet voice accompanied the music
with delicious sounds. Her lips never appeared so lovely: they seemed
but just to open, that they might imbibe the sweet tones which issued
from the instrument, and return the heavenly vibration from her lovely
mouth. Oh! who can express my sensations? I was quite overcome, and,
bending down, pronounced this vow: “Beautiful lips, which the angels
guard, never will I seek to profane your purity with a kiss.” And
yet, my friend, oh, I wish–but my heart is darkened by doubt and
indecision–could I but taste felicity, and then die to expiate the sin!
What sin?

The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
To be continued

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