The Sorrows of Young Werther (52) by J.W. von Goethe

The Sorrows of Young Werther (52) by J.W. von Goethe

NOVEMBER 26.

Oftentimes I say to myself, “Thou alone art wretched: all other mortals
are happy, none are distressed like thee!” Then I read a passage in an
ancient poet, and I seem to understand my own heart. I have so much to
endure! Have men before me ever been so wretched?

NOVEMBER 30.

I shall never be myself again! Wherever I go, some fatality occurs to
distract me. Even to-day alas–for our destiny! alas for human nature!

About dinner-time I went to walk by the river-side, for I had no
appetite. Everything around seemed gloomy: a cold and damp easterly wind
blew from the mountains, and black, heavy clouds spread over the plain.
I observed at a distance a man in a tattered coat: he was wandering
among the rocks, and seemed to be looking for plants. When I approached,
he turned round at the noise; and I saw that he had an interesting
countenance in which a settled melancholy, strongly marked by
benevolence, formed the principal feature. His long black hair was
divided, and flowed over his shoulders. As his garb betokened a person
of the lower order, I thought he would not take it ill if I inquired
about his business; and I therefore asked what he was seeking. He
replied, with a deep sigh, that he was looking for flowers, and could
find none. “But it is not the season,” I observed, with a smile. “Oh,
there are so many flowers!” he answered, as he came nearer to me. “In my
garden there are roses and honeysuckles of two sorts: one sort was
given to me by my father! they grow as plentifully as weeds; I have been
looking for them these two days, and cannot find them. There are flowers
out there, yellow, blue, and red; and that centaury has a very pretty
blossom: but I can find none of them.” I observed his peculiarity, and
therefore asked him, with an air of indifference, what he intended to
do with his flowers. A strange smile overspread his countenance. Holding
his finger to his mouth, he expressed a hope that I would not betray
him; and he then informed me that he had promised to gather a nosegay
for his mistress. “That is right,” said I. “Oh!” he replied, “she
possesses many other things as well: she is very rich.” “And yet,” I
continued, “she likes your nosegays.” “Oh, she has jewels and crowns!”
he exclaimed. I asked who she was. “If the states-general would but pay
me,” he added, “I should be quite another man. Alas! there was a time
when I was so happy; but that is past, and I am now–” He raised his
swimming eyes to heaven. “And you were happy once?” I observed. “Ah,
would I were so still!” was his reply. “I was then as gay and contented
as a man can be.” An old woman, who was coming toward us, now called
out, “Henry, Henry! where are you? We have been looking for you
everywhere: come to dinner.” “Is he your son?” I inquired, as I went
toward her. “Yes,” she said: “he is my poor, unfortunate son. The Lord
has sent me a heavy affliction.” I asked whether he had been long in
this state. She answered, “He has been as calm as he is at present for
about six months. I thank Heaven that he has so far recovered: he was
for one whole year quite raving, and chained down in a madhouse. Now he
injures no one, but talks of nothing else than kings and queens. He used
to be a very good, quiet youth, and helped to maintain me; he wrote a
very fine hand; but all at once he became melancholy, was seized with a
violent fever, grew distracted, and is now as you see. If I were only to
tell you, sir–” I interrupted her by asking what period it was in which
he boasted of having been so happy. “Poor boy!” she exclaimed, with a
smile of compassion, “he means the time when he was completely deranged,
a time he never ceases to regret, when he was in the madhouse, and
unconscious of everything.” I was thunderstruck: I placed a piece of
money in her hand, and hastened away.

“You were happy!” I exclaimed, as I returned quickly to the town, “‘as
gay and contented as a man can be!'” God of heaven! and is this the
destiny of man? Is he only happy before he has acquired his reason, or
after he has lost it? Unfortunate being! And yet I envy your fate: I
envy the delusion to which you are a victim. You go forth with joy to
gather flowers for your princess,–in winter,–and grieve when you can
find none, and cannot understand why they do not grow. But I wander
forth without joy, without hope, without design; and I return as I came.
You fancy what a man you would be if the states general paid you. Happy
mortal, who can ascribe your wretchedness to an earthly cause! You
do not know, you do not feel, that in your own distracted heart and
disordered brain dwells the source of that unhappiness which all the
potentates on earth cannot relieve.

Let that man die unconsoled who can deride the invalid for undertaking
a journey to distant, healthful springs, where he often finds only a
heavier disease and a more painful death, or who can exult over the
despairing mind of a sinner, who, to obtain peace of conscience and an
alleviation of misery, makes a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre. Each
laborious step which galls his wounded feet in rough and untrodden paths
pours a drop of balm into his troubled soul, and the journey of many a
weary day brings a nightly relief to his anguished heart. Will you dare
call this enthusiasm, ye crowd of pompous declaimers? Enthusiasm! O God!
thou seest my tears. Thou hast allotted us our portion of misery: must
we also have brethren to persecute us, to deprive us of our consolation,
of our trust in thee, and in thy love and mercy? For our trust in the
virtue of the healing root, or in the strength of the vine, what is it
else than a belief in thee from whom all that surrounds us derives its
healing and restoring powers? Father, whom I know not,–who wert once
wont to fill my soul, but who now hidest thy face from me,–call me back
to thee; be silent no longer; thy silence shall not delay a soul which
thirsts after thee. What man, what father, could be angry with a son for
returning to him suddenly, for falling on his neck, and exclaiming, “I
am here again, my father! forgive me if I have anticipated my journey,
and returned before the appointed time! The world is everywhere the
same,–a scene of labour and pain, of pleasure and reward; but what does
it all avail? I am happy only where thou art, and in thy presence am I
content to suffer or enjoy.” And wouldst thou, heavenly Father, banish
such a child from thy presence?

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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