The Sorrows of Young Werther (56) by J.W. von Goethe
The Sorrows of Young Werther (56) by J.W. von Goethe
DECEMBER 15.
What is the matter with me, dear Wilhelm? I am afraid of myself! Is not
my love for her of the purest, most holy, and most brotherly nature? Has
my soul ever been sullied by a single sensual desire? but I will make no
protestations. And now, ye nightly visions, how truly have those mortals
understood you, who ascribe your various contradictory effects to some
invincible power! This night I tremble at the avowal–I held her in my
arms, locked in a close embrace: I pressed her to my bosom, and covered
with countless kisses those dear lips which murmured in reply soft
protestations of love. My sight became confused by the delicious
intoxication of her eyes. Heavens! is it sinful to revel again in such
happiness, to recall once more those rapturous moments with intense
delight? Charlotte! Charlotte! I am lost! My senses are bewildered, my
recollection is confused, mine eyes are bathed in tears–I am ill; and
yet I am well–I wish for nothing–I have no desires–it were better I
were gone.
Under the circumstances narrated above, a determination to quit
this world had now taken fixed possession of Werther’s soul. Since
Charlotte’s return, this thought had been the final object of all his
hopes and wishes; but he had resolved that such a step should not be
taken with precipitation, but with calmness and tranquillity, and with
the most perfect deliberation.
His troubles and internal struggles may be understood from the following
fragment, which was found, without any date, amongst his papers, and
appears to have formed the beginning of a letter to Wilhelm.
“Her presence, her fate, her sympathy for me, have power still to
extract tears from my withered brain.
“One lifts up the curtain, and passes to the other side,–that is
all! And why all these doubts and delays? Because we know not what is
behind–because there is no returning–and because our mind infers that
all is darkness and confusion, where we have nothing but uncertainty.”
His appearance at length became quite altered by the effect of his
melancholy thoughts; and his resolution was now finally and irrevocably
taken, of which the following ambiguous letter, which he addressed to
his friend, may appear to afford some proof.
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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