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The Sorrows of Young Werther (63) by J.W. von Goethe
“The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of Armin. He
remembers the death of his son, who fell in the days of his youth.
Carmor was near the hero, the chief of the echoing Galmal. Why burst the
sigh of Armin? he said. Is there a cause to mourn? The song comes with
its music to melt and please the soul. It is like soft mist that, rising
from a lake, pours on the silent vale; the green flowers are filled with
dew, but the sun returns in his strength, and the mist is gone. Why art
thou sad, O Armin, chief of sea-surrounded Gorma?
“Sad I am! nor small is my cause of woe! Carmor, thou hast lost no son;
thou hast lost no daughter of beauty. Colgar the valiant lives, and
Annira, fairest maid. The boughs of thy house ascend, O Carmor! but
Armin is the last of his race. Dark is thy bed, O Daura! deep thy sleep
in the tomb! When shalt thou wake with thy songs? with all thy voice of
music?
“Arise, winds of autumn, arise: blow along the heath. Streams of the
mountains, roar; roar, tempests in the groves of my oaks! Walk through
broken clouds, O moon! show thy pale face at intervals; bring to my mind
the night when all my children fell, when Arindal the mighty fell–when
Daura the lovely failed. Daura, my daughter, thou wert fair, fair as
the moon on Fura, white as the driven snow, sweet as the breathing gale.
Arindal, thy bow was strong, thy spear was swift on the field, thy look
was like mist on the wave, thy shield a red cloud in a storm! Armar,
renowned in war, came and sought Daura’s love. He was not long refused:
fair was the hope of their friends.
“Erath, son of Odgal, repined: his brother had been slain by Armar. He
came disguised like a son of the sea: fair was his cliff on the wave,
white his locks of age, calm his serious brow. Fairest of women, he
said, lovely daughter of Armin! a rock not distant in the sea bears
a tree on its side; red shines the fruit afar. There Armar waits for
Daura. I come to carry his love! she went she called on Armar. Nought
answered, but the son of the rock. Armar, my love, my love! why
tormentest thou me with fear? Hear, son of Arnart, hear! it is Daura who
calleth thee. Erath, the traitor, fled laughing to the land. She lifted
up her voice–she called for her brother and her father. Arindal! Armin!
none to relieve you, Daura.
“Her voice came over the sea. Arindal, my son, descended from the hill,
rough in the spoils of the chase. His arrows rattled by his side; his
bow was in his hand, five dark-gray dogs attended his steps. He saw
fierce Erath on the shore; he seized and bound him to an oak. Thick wind
the thongs of the hide around his limbs; he loads the winds with his
groans. Arindal ascends the deep in his boat to bring Daura to land.
Armar came in his wrath, and let fly the gray-feathered shaft. It sung,
it sunk in thy heart, O Arindal, my son! for Erath the traitor thou
diest. The oar is stopped at once: he panted on the rock, and expired.
What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy brother’s
blood. The boat is broken in twain. Armar plunges into the sea to rescue
his Daura, or die. Sudden a blast from a hill came over the waves; he
sank, and he rose no more.
“Alone, on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to complain;
frequent and loud were her cries. What could her father do? All night I
stood on the shore: I saw her by the faint beam of the moon. All night
I heard her cries. Loud was the wind; the rain beat hard on the hill.
Before morning appeared, her voice was weak; it died away like the
evening breeze among the grass of the rocks. Spent with grief, she
expired, and left thee, Armin, alone. Gone is my strength in war, fallen
my pride among women. When the storms aloft arise, when the north lifts
the wave on high, I sit by the sounding shore, and look on the fatal
rock.
“Often by the setting moon I see the ghosts of my children; half
viewless they walk in mournful conference together.”
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (62) by J.W. von Goethe
“I sit in my grief: I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream. Why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the hill when the loud winds arise my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth; he shall fear, but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma. “Such was thy song, Minona, softly blushing daughter of Torman. Our tears descended for Colma, and our souls were sad! Ullin came with his harp; he gave the song of Alpin.
The voice of Alpin was pleasant, the soul of Ryno was a beam of fire! But they had rested in the narrow house: their voice had ceased in Selma! Ullin had returned one day from the chase before the heroes fell. He heard their strife on the hill: their song was soft, but sad! They mourned the fall of Morar, first of mortal men! His soul was like the soul of Fingal: his sword like the sword of Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned: his sister’s eyes were full of tears. Minona’s eyes were full of tears, the sister of car-borne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin, like the moon in the west, when she foresees the shower, and hides her fair head in a cloud. I touched the harp with Ullin: the song of morning rose! “Ryno. The wind and the rain are past, calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant sun. Red through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead! Bent is his head of age: red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill? why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood as a wave on the lonely shore? “Alpin. My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead my voice for those that have passed away. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the vale. But thou shalt fall like Morar: the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more: thy bow shall lie in thy hall unstrung! “Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert: terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle as lightning in the field. Thy voice was as a stream after rain, like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm: they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath.
But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow. Thy face was like the sun after rain: like the moon in the silence of night: calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid. “Narrow is thy dwelling now! dark the place of thine abode! With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before! Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind, mark to the hunter’s eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar! thou art low indeed. Thou hast no mother to mourn thee, no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan. “Who on his staff is this? Who is this whose head is white with age, whose eyes are red with tears, who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee. He heard of thy fame in war, he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar’s renown, why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morar! Weep, but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead, low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice, no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell, thou bravest of men! thou conqueror in the field! but the field shall see thee no more, nor the dark wood be lightened with the splendour of thy steel. Thou has left no son. The song shall preserve thy name. Future times shall hear of thee they shall hear of the fallen Morar!
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (61) by J.W. von Goethe
“Star of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! thou liftest
thy unshorn head from thy cloud; thy steps are stately on thy hill. What
dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of
the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The
flies of evening are on their feeble wings: the hum of their course is
on the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost smile and
depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they bathe thy lovely hair.
Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the light of Ossian’s soul arise!
“And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed friends. Their
gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal comes like a
watery column of mist! his heroes are around: and see the bards of song,
gray-haired Ullin! stately Ryno! Alpin with the tuneful voice: the soft
complaint of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of
Selma’s feast! when we contended, like gales of spring as they fly along
the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass.
“Minona came forth in her beauty, with downcast look and tearful eye.
Her hair was flying slowly with the blast that rushed unfrequent from
the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful
voice. Oft had they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of
white-bosomed Colma. Colma left alone on the hill with all her voice of
song! Salgar promised to come! but the night descended around. Hear the
voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill!
“Colma. It is night: I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind
is heard on the mountain. The torrent is howling down the rock. No hut
receives me from the rain: forlorn on the hill of winds!
“Rise moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, arise! Lead me,
some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone! His
bow near him unstrung, his dogs panting around him! But here I must
sit alone by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar
aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar; why the
chief of the hill his promise? Here is the rock and here the tree! here
is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah!
whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father, with
thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes: we are not
foes, O Salgar!
“Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent awhile! let my
voice be heard around! let my wanderer hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who
calls. Here is the tree and the rock. Salgar, my love, I am here! Why
delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes forth. The flood is
bright in the vale. The rocks are gray on the steep. I see him not
on the brow. His dogs come not before him with tidings of his near
approach. Here I must sit alone!
“Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak
to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me: I am
alone! My soul is tormented with fears. Ah, they are dead! Their swords
are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain my
Salgar! Why, O Salgar, hast thou slain my brother! Dear were ye both to
me! what shall I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among
thousands! he was terrible in fight! Speak to me! hear my voice! hear
me, sons of my love! They are silent! silent for ever! Cold, cold, are
their breasts of clay! Oh, from the rock on the hill, from the top of
the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! Speak, I will not be
afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall
I find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer half
drowned in the storm!
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (60) by J.W. von Goethe
Charlotte was sitting alone. None of her family were near, and she gave
herself up to the reflections that silently took possession of her mind.
She was for ever united to a husband whose love and fidelity she had
proved, to whom she was heartily devoted, and who seemed to be a special
gift from Heaven to ensure her happiness. On the other hand, Werther had
become dear to her. There was a cordial unanimity of sentiment between
them from the very first hour of their acquaintance, and their long
association and repeated interviews had made an indelible impression
upon her heart. She had been accustomed to communicate to him every
thought and feeling which interested her, and his absence threatened to
open a void in her existence which it might be impossible to fill. How
heartily she wished that she might change him into her brother,–that
she could induce him to marry one of her own friends, or could
reestablish his intimacy with Albert.
She passed all her intimate friends in review before her mind, but found
something objectionable in each, and could decide upon none to whom she
would consent to give him.
Amid all these considerations she felt deeply but indistinctly that her
own real but unexpressed wish was to retain him for herself, and her
pure and amiable heart felt from this thought a sense of oppression
which seemed to forbid a prospect of happiness. She was wretched: a dark
cloud obscured her mental vision.
It was now half-past six o’clock, and she heard Werther’s step on the
stairs. She at once recognised his voice, as he inquired if she were at
home. Her heart beat audibly–we could almost say for the first time–at
his arrival. It was too late to deny herself; and, as he entered, she
exclaimed, with a sort of ill concealed confusion, “You have not kept
your word!” “I promised nothing,” he answered. “But you should have
complied, at least for my sake,” she continued. “I implore you, for both
our sakes.”
She scarcely knew what she said or did; and sent for some friends, who,
by their presence, might prevent her being left alone with Werther. He
put down some books he had brought with him, then made inquiries about
some others, until she began to hope that her friends might arrive
shortly, entertaining at the same time a desire that they might stay
away.
At one moment she felt anxious that the servant should remain in the
adjoining room, then she changed her mind. Werther, meanwhile, walked
impatiently up and down. She went to the piano, and determined not
to retire. She then collected her thoughts, and sat down quietly at
Werther’s side, who had taken his usual place on the sofa.
“Have you brought nothing to read?” she inquired. He had nothing. “There
in my drawer,” she continued, “you will find your own translation of
some of the songs of Ossian. I have not yet read them, as I have still
hoped to hear you recite them; but, for some time past, I have not been
able to accomplish such a wish.” He smiled, and went for the manuscript,
which he took with a shudder. He sat down; and, with eyes full of tears,
he began to read.
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (59) by J.W. von Goethe
About ten in the morning, Werther called his servant, and, whilst he
was dressing, told him that in a few days he intended to set out upon
a journey, and bade him therefore lay his clothes in order, and prepare
them for packing up, call in all his accounts, fetch home the books
he had lent, and give two months’ pay to the poor dependants who were
accustomed to receive from him a weekly allowance.
He breakfasted in his room, and then mounted his horse, and went to
visit the steward, who, however, was not at home. He walked pensively
in the garden, and seemed anxious to renew all the ideas that were most
painful to him.
The children did not suffer him to remain alone long. They followed him,
skipping and dancing before him, and told him, that after to-morrow and
tomorrow and one day more, they were to receive their Christmas gift
from Charlotte; and they then recounted all the wonders of which they
had formed ideas in their child imaginations. “Tomorrow and tomorrow,”
said he, “and one day more!” And he kissed them tenderly. He was going;
but the younger boy stopped him, to whisper something in his ear. He
told him that his elder brothers had written splendid New-Year’s wishes
so large! one for papa, and another for Albert and Charlotte, and one
for Werther; and they were to be presented early in the morning, on
New Year’s Day. This quite overcame him. He made each of the children
a present, mounted his horse, left his compliments for papa and mamma,
and, with tears in his eyes, rode away from the place.
He returned home about five o’clock, ordered his servant to keep up
his fire, desired him to pack his books and linen at the bottom of the
trunk, and to place his coats at the top. He then appears to have made
the following addition to the letter addressed to Charlotte:
“You do not expect me. You think I will obey you, and not visit you
again till Christmas Eve. O Charlotte, today or never! On Christmas Eve
you will hold this paper in your hand; you will tremble, and moisten it
with your tears. I will–I must! Oh, how happy I feel to be determined!”
In the meantime, Charlotte was in a pitiable state of mind. After her
last conversation with Werther, she found how painful to herself it
would be to decline his visits, and knew how severely he would suffer
from their separation.
She had, in conversation with Albert, mentioned casually that Werther
would not return before Christmas Eve; and soon afterward Albert went
on horseback to see a person in the neighbourhood, with whom he had to
transact some business which would detain him all night.
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (58) by J.W. von Goethe
Werther returned home, took the candle from his servant, and retired
to his room alone. He talked for some time with great earnestness to
himself, wept aloud, walked in a state of great excitement through his
chamber; till at length, without undressing, he threw himself on the
bed, where he was found by his servant at eleven o’clock, when the
latter ventured to enter the room, and take off his boots. Werther did
not prevent him, but forbade him to come in the morning till he should
ring.
On Monday morning, the 21st of December, he wrote to Charlotte the
following letter, which was found, sealed, on his bureau after his
death, and was given to her. I shall insert it in fragments; as it
appears, from several circumstances, to have been written in that
manner.
“It is all over, Charlotte: I am resolved to die! I make this
declaration deliberately and coolly, without any romantic passion, on
this morning of the day when I am to see you for the last time. At the
moment you read these lines, O best of women, the cold grave will hold
the inanimate remains of that restless and unhappy being who, in the
last moments of his existence, knew no pleasure so great as that of
conversing with you! I have passed a dreadful night or rather, let me
say, a propitious one; for it has given me resolution, it has fixed my
purpose. I am resolved to die. When I tore myself from you yesterday,
my senses were in tumult and disorder; my heart was oppressed, hope and
pleasure had fled from me for ever, and a petrifying cold had seized
my wretched being. I could scarcely reach my room. I threw myself on
my knees; and Heaven, for the last time, granted me the consolation of
shedding tears. A thousand ideas, a thousand schemes, arose within my
soul; till at length one last, fixed, final thought took possession of
my heart. It was to die. I lay down to rest; and in the morning, in the
quiet hour of awakening, the same determination was upon me. To die! It
is not despair: it is conviction that I have filled up the measure of
my sufferings, that I have reached my appointed term, and must sacrifice
myself for thee. Yes, Charlotte, why should I not avow it? One of us
three must die: it shall be Werther. O beloved Charlotte! this heart,
excited by rage and fury, has often conceived the horrid idea of
murdering your husband–you–myself! The lot is cast at length. And in
the bright, quiet evenings of summer, when you sometimes wander toward
the mountains, let your thoughts then turn to me: recollect how often
you have watched me coming to meet you from the valley; then bend your
eyes upon the churchyard which contains my grave, and, by the light of
the setting sun, mark how the evening breeze waves the tall grass
which grows above my tomb. I was calm when I began this letter, but the
recollection of these scenes makes me weep like a child.”
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (57) by J.W. von Goethe
DECEMBER 20.
I am grateful to your love, Wilhelm, for having repeated your advice so
seasonably. Yes, you are right: it is undoubtedly better that I should
depart. But I do not entirely approve your scheme of returning at
once to your neighbourhood; at least, I should like to make a little
excursion on the way, particularly as we may now expect a continued
frost, and consequently good roads. I am much pleased with your
intention of coming to fetch me; only delay your journey for a
fortnight, and wait for another letter from me. One should gather
nothing before it is ripe, and a fortnight sooner or later makes a great
difference. Entreat my mother to pray for her son, and tell her I beg
her pardon for all the unhappiness I have occasioned her. It has
ever been my fate to give pain to those whose happiness I should have
promoted. Adieu, my dearest friend. May every blessing of Heaven attend
you! Farewell.
We find it difficult to express the emotions with which Charlotte’s soul
was agitated during the whole of this time, whether in relation to her
husband or to her unfortunate friend; although we are enabled, by our
knowledge of her character, to understand their nature.
It is certain that she had formed a determination, by every means in
her power to keep Werther at a distance; and, if she hesitated in her
decision, it was from a sincere feeling of friendly pity, knowing how
much it would cost him, indeed, that he would find it almost impossible
to comply with her wishes. But various causes now urged her to be firm.
Her husband preserved a strict silence about the whole matter; and she
never made it a subject of conversation, feeling bound to prove to him
by her conduct that her sentiments agreed with his.
The same day, which was the Sunday before Christmas, after Werther had
written the last-mentioned letter to his friend, he came in the evening
to Charlotte’s house, and found her alone. She was busy preparing some
little gifts for her brothers and sisters, which were to be distributed
to them on Christmas Day. He began talking of the delight of
the children, and of that age when the sudden appearance of the
Christmas-tree, decorated with fruit and sweetmeats, and lighted up with
wax candles, causes such transports of joy. “You shall have a gift too,
if you behave well,” said Charlotte, hiding her embarrassment under
sweet smile. “And what do you call behaving well? What should I do, what
can I do, my dear Charlotte?” said he. “Thursday night,” she answered,
“is Christmas Eve. The children are all to be here, and my father too:
there is a present for each; do you come likewise, but do not come
before that time.” Werther started. “I desire you will not: it must be
so,” she continued. “I ask it of you as a favour, for my own peace and
tranquillity. We cannot go on in this manner any longer.” He turned away
his face walked hastily up and down the room, muttering indistinctly,
“We cannot go on in this manner any longer!” Charlotte, seeing the
violent agitation into which these words had thrown him, endeavoured
to divert his thoughts by different questions, but in vain. “No,
Charlotte!” he exclaimed; “I will never see you any more!” “And why so?”
she answered. “We may–we must see each other again; only let it be
with more discretion. Oh! why were you born with that excessive, that
ungovernable passion for everything that is dear to you?” Then, taking
his hand, she said, “I entreat of you to be more calm: your talents,
your understanding, your genius, will furnish you with a thousand
resources. Be a man, and conquer an unhappy attachment toward a creature
who can do nothing but pity you.” He bit his lips, and looked at her
with a gloomy countenance. She continued to hold his hand. “Grant me but
a moment’s patience, Werther,” she said. “Do you not see that you are
deceiving yourself, that you are seeking your own destruction? Why must
you love me, me only, who belong to another? I fear, I much fear, that
it is only the impossibility of possessing me which makes your desire
for me so strong.” He drew back his hand, whilst he surveyed her with a
wild and angry look. “‘Tis well!” he exclaimed, “’tis very well! Did not
Albert furnish you with this reflection? It is profound, a very profound
remark.” “A reflection that any one might easily make,” she answered;
“and is there not a woman in the whole world who is at liberty, and has
the power to make you happy? Conquer yourself: look for such a being,
and believe me when I say that you will certainly find her. I have long
felt for you, and for us all: you have confined yourself too long within
the limits of too narrow a circle. Conquer yourself; make an effort: a
short journey will be of service to you. Seek and find an object worthy
of your love; then return hither, and let us enjoy together all the
happiness of the most perfect friendship.”
“This speech,” replied Werther with a cold smile, “this speech should
be printed, for the benefit of all teachers. My dear Charlotte, allow me
but a short time longer, and all will be well.” “But however, Werther,”
she added, “do not come again before Christmas.” He was about to make
some answer, when Albert came in. They saluted each other coldly, and
with mutual embarrassment paced up and down the room. Werther made
some common remarks; Albert did the same, and their conversation soon
dropped. Albert asked his wife about some household matters; and,
finding that his commissions were not executed, he used some expressions
which, to Werther’s ear, savoured of extreme harshness. He wished to go,
but had not power to move; and in this situation he remained till eight
o’clock, his uneasiness and discontent continually increasing. At length
the cloth was laid for supper, and he took up his hat and stick. Albert
invited him to remain; but Werther, fancying that he was merely paying a
formal compliment, thanked him coldly, and left the house.
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
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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.
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (55) by J.W. von Goethe
DECEMBER 12.
Dear Wilhelm, I am reduced to the condition of those unfortunate
wretches who believe they are pursued by an evil spirit. Sometimes I am
oppressed, not by apprehension or fear, but by an inexpressible internal
sensation, which weighs upon my heart, and impedes my breath! Then
I wander forth at night, even in this tempestuous season, and feel
pleasure in surveying the dreadful scenes around me.
Yesterday evening I went forth. A rapid thaw had suddenly set in: I
had been informed that the river had risen, that the brooks had all
overflowed their banks, and that the whole vale of Walheim was under
water! Upon the stroke of twelve I hastened forth. I beheld a
fearful sight. The foaming torrents rolled from the mountains in the
moonlight,–fields and meadows, trees and hedges, were confounded
together; and the entire valley was converted into a deep lake, which
was agitated by the roaring wind! And when the moon shone forth, and
tinged the black clouds with silver, and the impetuous torrent at
my feet foamed and resounded with awful and grand impetuosity, I was
overcome by a mingled sensation of apprehension and delight. With
extended arms I looked down into the yawning abyss, and cried,
“Plunge!'” For a moment my senses forsook me, in the intense delight of
ending my sorrows and my sufferings by a plunge into that gulf! And then
I felt as if I were rooted to the earth, and incapable of seeking an end
to my woes! But my hour is not yet come: I feel it is not. O Wilhelm,
how willingly could I abandon my existence to ride the whirlwind, or to
embrace the torrent! and then might not rapture perchance be the portion
of this liberated soul?
I turned my sorrowful eyes toward a favourite spot, where I was
accustomed to sit with Charlotte beneath a willow after a fatiguing
walk. Alas! it was covered with water, and with difficulty I found even
the meadow. And the fields around the hunting-lodge, thought I. Has our
dear bower been destroyed by this unpitying storm? And a beam of past
happiness streamed upon me, as the mind of a captive is illumined by
dreams of flocks and herds and bygone joys of home! But I am free from
blame. I have courage to die! Perhaps I have,–but I still sit here,
like a wretched pauper, who collects fagots, and begs her bread from
door to door, that she may prolong for a few days a miserable existence
which she is unwilling to resign.
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (54) by J.W. von Goethe
DECEMBER 6.
How her image haunts me! Waking or asleep, she fills my entire soul!
Soon as I close my eyes, here, in my brain, where all the nerves of
vision are concentrated, her dark eyes are imprinted. Here–I do not
know how to describe it; but, if I shut my eyes, hers are immediately
before me: dark as an abyss they open upon me, and absorb my senses.
And what is man–that boasted demigod? Do not his powers fail when he
most requires their use? And whether he soar in joy, or sink in sorrow,
is not his career in both inevitably arrested? And, whilst he fondly
dreams that he is grasping at infinity, does he not feel compelled to
return to a consciousness of his cold, monotonous existence?
THE EDITOR TO THE READER.
It is a matter of extreme regret that we want original evidence of the
last remarkable days of our friend; and we are, therefore, obliged
to interrupt the progress of his correspondence, and to supply the
deficiency by a connected narration.
I have felt it my duty to collect accurate information from the mouths
of persons well acquainted with his history. The story is simple; and
all the accounts agree, except in some unimportant particulars. It is
true, that, with respect to the characters of the persons spoken of,
opinions and judgments vary.
We have only, then, to relate conscientiously the facts which our
diligent labour has enabled us to collect, to give the letters of the
deceased, and to pay particular attention to the slightest fragment from
his pen, more especially as it is so difficult to discover the real and
correct motives of men who are not of the common order.
Sorrow and discontent had taken deep root in Werther’s soul, and
gradually imparted their character to his whole being. The harmony of
his mind became completely disturbed; a perpetual excitement and mental
irritation, which weakened his natural powers, produced the saddest
effects upon him, and rendered him at length the victim of an exhaustion
against which he struggled with still more painful efforts than he had
displayed, even in contending with his other misfortunes. His mental
anxiety weakened his various good qualities; and he was soon converted
into a gloomy companion, always unhappy and unjust in his ideas, the
more wretched he became. This was, at least, the opinion of Albert’s
friends. They assert, moreover, that the character of Albert himself had
undergone no change in the meantime: he was still the same being whom
Werther had loved, honoured, and respected from the commencement. His
love for Charlotte was unbounded: he was proud of her, and desired that
she should be recognised by every one as the noblest of created beings.
Was he, however, to blame for wishing to avert from her every appearance
of suspicion? or for his unwillingness to share his rich prize with
another, even for a moment, and in the most innocent manner? It is
asserted that Albert frequently retired from his wife’s apartment during
Werther’s visits; but this did not arise from hatred or aversion to
his friend, but only from a feeling that his presence was oppressive to
Werther.
Charlotte’s father, who was confined to the house by indisposition, was
accustomed to send his carriage for her, that she might make excursions
in the neighbourhood. One day the weather had been unusually severe, and
the whole country was covered with snow.
Werther went for Charlotte the following morning, in order that, if
Albert were absent, he might conduct her home.
The beautiful weather produced but little impression on his troubled
spirit. A heavy weight lay upon his soul, deep melancholy had taken
possession of him, and his mind knew no change save from one painful
thought to another.
As he now never enjoyed internal peace, the condition of his fellow
creatures was to him a perpetual source of trouble and distress. He
believed he had disturbed the happiness of Albert and his wife; and,
whilst he censured himself strongly for this, he began to entertain a
secret dislike to Albert.
His thoughts were occasionally directed to this point. “Yes,” he would
repeat to himself, with ill-concealed dissatisfaction, “yes, this is,
after all, the extent of that confiding, dear, tender, and sympathetic
love, that calm and eternal fidelity! What do I behold but satiety and
indifference? Does not every frivolous engagement attract him more than
his charming and lovely wife? Does he know how to prize his happiness?
Can he value her as she deserves? He possesses her, it is true, I know
that, as I know much more, and I have become accustomed to the thought
that he will drive me mad, or, perhaps, murder me. Is his friendship
toward me unimpaired? Does he not view my attachment to Charlotte as
an infringement upon his rights, and consider my attention to her as a
silent rebuke to himself? I know, and indeed feel, that he dislikes me,
that he wishes for my absence, that my presence is hateful to him.”
He would often pause when on his way to visit Charlotte, stand still, as
though in doubt, and seem desirous of returning, but would nevertheless
proceed; and, engaged in such thoughts and soliloquies as we have
described, he finally reached the hunting-lodge, with a sort of
involuntary consent.
Upon one occasion he entered the house; and, inquiring for Charlotte,
he observed that the inmates were in a state of unusual confusion.
The eldest boy informed him that a dreadful misfortune had occurred
at Walheim,–that a peasant had been murdered! But this made little
impression upon him. Entering the apartment, he found Charlotte engaged
reasoning with her father, who, in spite of his infirmity, insisted on
going to the scene of the crime, in order to institute an inquiry. The
criminal was unknown; the victim had been found dead at his own door
that morning. Suspicions were excited: the murdered man had been in
the service of a widow, and the person who had previously filled the
situation had been dismissed from her employment.
As soon as Werther heard this, he exclaimed with great excitement,
“Is it possible! I must go to the spot–I cannot delay a moment!” He
hastened to Walheim. Every incident returned vividly to his remembrance;
and he entertained not the slightest doubt that that man was the
murderer to whom he had so often spoken, and for whom he entertained
so much regard. His way took him past the well-known lime trees, to the
house where the body had been carried; and his feelings were greatly
excited at the sight of the fondly recollected spot. That threshold
where the neighbours’ children had so often played together was stained
with blood; love and attachment, the noblest feelings of human nature,
had been converted into violence and murder. The huge trees stood there
leafless and covered with hoarfrost; the beautiful hedgerows which
surrounded the old churchyard wall were withered; and the gravestones,
half covered with snow, were visible through the openings.
As he approached the inn, in front of which the whole village was
assembled, screams were suddenly heard. A troop of armed peasants was
seen approaching, and every one exclaimed that the criminal had been
apprehended. Werther looked, and was not long in doubt. The prisoner
was no other than the servant, who had been formerly so attached to the
widow, and whom he had met prowling about, with that suppressed anger
and ill-concealed despair, which we have before described.
“What have you done, unfortunate man?” inquired Werther, as he advanced
toward the prisoner. The latter turned his eyes upon him in silence, and
then replied with perfect composure; “No one will now marry her, and
she will marry no one.” The prisoner was taken into the inn, and Werther
left the place. The mind of Werther was fearfully excited by this
shocking occurrence. He ceased, however, to be oppressed by his usual
feeling of melancholy, moroseness, and indifference to everything
that passed around him. He entertained a strong degree of pity for the
prisoner, and was seized with an indescribable anxiety to save him from
his impending fate. He considered him so unfortunate, he deemed his
crime so excusable, and thought his own condition so nearly similar,
that he felt convinced he could make every one else view the matter in
the light in which he saw it himself. He now became anxious to undertake
his defence, and commenced composing an eloquent speech for the
occasion; and, on his way to the hunting-lodge, he could not refrain
from speaking aloud the statement which he resolved to make to the
judge.
Upon his arrival, he found Albert had been before him: and he was a
little perplexed by this meeting; but he soon recovered himself, and
expressed his opinion with much warmth to the judge. The latter shook,
his head doubtingly; and although Werther urged his case with the utmost
zeal, feeling, and determination in defence of his client, yet, as we
may easily suppose, the judge was not much influenced by his appeal.
On the contrary, he interrupted him in his address, reasoned with
him seriously, and even administered a rebuke to him for becoming
the advocate of a murderer. He demonstrated, that, according to this
precedent, every law might be violated, and the public security utterly
destroyed. He added, moreover, that in such a case he could himself do
nothing, without incurring the greatest responsibility; that everything
must follow in the usual course, and pursue the ordinary channel.
Werther, however, did not abandon his enterprise, and even besought the
judge to connive at the flight of the prisoner. But this proposal
was peremptorily rejected. Albert, who had taken some part in the
discussion, coincided in opinion with the judge. At this Werther became
enraged, and took his leave in great anger, after the judge had more
than once assured him that the prisoner could not be saved.
The excess of his grief at this assurance may be inferred from a note we
have found amongst his papers, and which was doubtless written upon this
very occasion.
“You cannot be saved, unfortunate man! I see clearly that we cannot be
saved!”
Werther was highly incensed at the observations which Albert had made
to the judge in this matter of the prisoner. He thought he could detect
therein a little bitterness toward himself personally; and although,
upon reflection, it could not escape his sound judgment that their view
of the matter was correct, he felt the greatest possible reluctance to
make such an admission.
A memorandum of Werther’s upon this point, expressive of his general
feelings toward Albert, has been found amongst his papers.
“What is the use of my continually repeating that he is a good and
estimable man? He is an inward torment to me, and I am incapable of
being just toward him.”
One fine evening in winter, when the weather seemed inclined to thaw,
Charlotte and Albert were returning home together. The former looked
from time to time about her, as if she missed Werther’s company. Albert
began to speak of him, and censured him for his prejudices. He
alluded to his unfortunate attachment, and wished it were possible
to discontinue his acquaintance. “I desire it on our own account,” he
added; “and I request you will compel him to alter his deportment toward
you, and to visit you less frequently. The world is censorious, and I
know that here and there we are spoken of.” Charlotte made no reply,
and Albert seemed to feel her silence. At least, from that time he never
again spoke of Werther; and, when she introduced the subject, he allowed
the conversation to die away, or else he directed the discourse into
another channel.
The vain attempt Werther had made to save the unhappy murderer was the
last feeble glimmering of a flame about to be extinguished. He sank
almost immediately afterward into a state of gloom and inactivity, until
he was at length brought to perfect distraction by learning that he
was to be summoned as a witness against the prisoner, who asserted his
complete innocence.
His mind now became oppressed by the recollection of every misfortune
of his past life. The mortification he had suffered at the ambassador’s,
and his subsequent troubles, were revived in his memory. He became
utterly inactive. Destitute of energy, he was cut off from every pursuit
and occupation which compose the business of common life; and he became
a victim to his own susceptibility, and to his restless passion for the
most amiable and beloved of women, whose peace he destroyed. In this
unvarying monotony of existence his days were consumed; and his powers
became exhausted without aim or design, until they brought him to a
sorrowful end.
A few letters which he left behind, and which we here subjoin, afford
the best proofs of his anxiety of mind and of the depth of his passion,
as well as of his doubts and struggles, and of his weariness of life.
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (53) by J.W. von Goethe
DECEMBER 1.
Wilhelm, the man about whom I wrote to you--that man so enviable in his
misfortunes--was secretary to Charlotte's father; and an unhappy passion
for her which he cherished, concealed, and at length discovered, caused
him to be dismissed from his situation. This made him mad. Think, whilst
you peruse this plain narration, what an impression the circumstance has
made upon me! But it was related to me by Albert with as much calmness
as you will probably peruse it.
DECEMBER 4.
I implore your attention. It is all over with me. I can support this
state no longer. To-day I was sitting by Charlotte. She was playing
upon her piano a succession of delightful melodies, with such intense
expression! Her little sister was dressing her doll upon my lap. The
tears came into my eyes. I leaned down, and looked intently at her
wedding-ring: my tears fell--immediately she began to play that
favourite, that divine, air which has so often enchanted me. I felt
comfort from a recollection of the past, of those bygone days when that
air was familiar to me; and then I recalled all the sorrows and the
disappointments which I had since endured. I paced with hasty strides
through the room, my heart became convulsed with painful emotions. At
length I went up to her, and exclaimed With eagerness, "For Heaven's
sake, play that air no longer!" She stopped, and looked steadfastly at
me. She then said, with a smile which sunk deep into my heart, "Werther,
you are ill: your dearest food is distasteful to you. But go, I entreat
you, and endeavour to compose yourself." I tore myself away. God, thou
seest my torments, and wilt end them!
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
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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.
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