The Sorrows of Young Werther (65) by J.W. von Goethe
The Sorrows of Young Werther (65) by J.W. von Goethe
The whole force of these words fell upon the unfortunate Werther. Full
of despair, he threw himself at Charlotte’s feet, seized her hands, and
pressed them to his eyes and to his forehead. An apprehension of
his fatal project now struck her for the first time. Her senses were
bewildered: she held his hands, pressed them to her bosom; and, leaning
toward him with emotions of the tenderest pity, her warm cheek touched
his. They lost sight of everything. The world disappeared from their
eyes. He clasped her in his arms, strained her to his bosom, and covered
her trembling lips with passionate kisses. “Werther!” she cried with a
faint voice, turning herself away; “Werther!” and, with a feeble hand,
she pushed him from her. At length, with the firm voice of virtue, she
exclaimed, “Werther!” He resisted not, but, tearing himself from her
arms, fell on his knees before her. Charlotte rose, and, with disordered
grief, in mingled tones of love and resentment, she exclaimed, “It is
the last time, Werther! You shall never see me any more!” Then, casting
one last, tender look upon her unfortunate lover, she rushed into the
adjoining room, and locked the door. Werther held out his arms, but
did not dare to detain her. He continued on the ground, with his head
resting on the sofa, for half an hour, till he heard a noise which
brought him to his senses. The servant entered. He then walked up and
down the room; and, when he was again left alone, he went to Charlotte’s
door, and, in a low voice, said, “Charlotte, Charlotte! but one word
more, one last adieu!” She returned no answer. He stopped, and listened
and entreated; but all was silent. At length he tore himself from the
place, crying, “Adieu, Charlotte, adieu for ever!”
Werther ran to the gate of the town. The guards, who knew him, let him
pass in silence. The night was dark and stormy,–it rained and snowed.
He reached his own door about eleven. His servant, although seeing him
enter the house without his hat, did not venture to say anything; and;
as he undressed his master, he found that his clothes were wet. His hat
was afterward found on the point of a rock overhanging the valley; and
it is inconceivable how he could have climbed to the summit on such a
dark, tempestuous night without losing his life.
He retired to bed, and slept to a late hour. The next morning his
servant, upon being called to bring his coffee, found him writing. He
was adding, to Charlotte, what we here annex.
“For the last, last time I open these eyes. Alas! they will behold the
sun no more. It is covered by a thick, impenetrable cloud. Yes, Nature!
put on mourning: your child, your friend, your lover, draws near his
end! This thought, Charlotte, is without parallel; and yet it seems
like a mysterious dream when I repeat–this is my last day! The last!
Charlotte, no word can adequately express this thought. The last! To-day
I stand erect in all my strength to-morrow, cold and stark, I shall lie
extended upon the ground. To die! what is death? We do but dream in our
discourse upon it. I have seen many human beings die; but, so straitened
is our feeble nature, we have no clear conception of the beginning or
the end of our existence. At this moment I am my own–or rather I am
thine, thine, my adored! and the next we are parted, severed–perhaps
for ever! No, Charlotte, no! How can I, how can you, be annihilated? We
exist. What is annihilation? A mere word, an unmeaning sound that fixes
no impression on the mind. Dead, Charlotte! laid in the cold earth, in
the dark and narrow grave! I had a friend once who was everything to me
in early youth. She died. I followed her hearse; I stood by her grave
when the coffin was lowered; and when I heard the creaking of the cords
as they were loosened and drawn up, when the first shovelful of earth
was thrown in, and the coffin returned a hollow sound, which grew
fainter and fainter till all was completely covered over, I threw myself
on the ground; my heart was smitten, grieved, shattered, rent–but I
neither knew what had happened, nor what was to happen to me. Death!
the grave! I understand not the words.–Forgive, oh, forgive me!
Yesterday–ah, that day should have been the last of my life! Thou
angel! for the first time in my existence, I felt rapture glow within
my inmost soul. She loves, she loves me! Still burns upon my lips the
sacred fire they received from thine. New torrents of delight overwhelm
my soul. Forgive me, oh, forgive!
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
To be continued
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: -Die Leiden des jungen Werther, Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von