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The Sorrows of Young Werther (67) by J.W. von Goethe
Charlotte had slept little during the past night. All her apprehensions
were realised in a way that she could neither foresee nor avoid. Her
blood was boiling in her veins, and a thousand painful sensations rent
her pure heart. Was it the ardour of Werther’s passionate embraces that
she felt within her bosom? Was it anger at his daring? Was it the sad
comparison of her present condition with former days of innocence,
tranquillity, and self-confidence? How could she approach her husband,
and confess a scene which she had no reason to conceal, and which she
yet felt, nevertheless, unwilling to avow? They had preserved so long a
silence toward each other and should she be the first to break it by so
unexpected a discovery? She feared that the mere statement of Werther’s
visit would trouble him, and his distress would be heightened by her
perfect candour. She wished that he could see her in her true light, and
judge her without prejudice; but was she anxious that he should read her
inmost soul? On the other hand, could she deceive a being to whom all
her thoughts had ever been exposed as clearly as crystal, and from whom
no sentiment had ever been concealed? These reflections made her anxious
and thoughtful. Her mind still dwelt on Werther, who was now lost to
her, but whom she could not bring herself to resign, and for whom she
knew nothing was left but despair if she should be lost to him for ever.
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 (66) by J.W. von Goethe
“I knew that I was dear to you; I saw it in your first entrancing look,
knew it by the first pressure of your hand; but when I was absent from
you, when I saw Albert at your side, my doubts and fears returned.
“Do you remember the flowers you sent me, when, at that crowded
assembly, you could neither speak nor extend your hand to me? Half the
night I was on my knees before those flowers, and I regarded them as the
pledges of your love; but those impressions grew fainter, and were at
length effaced.
“Everything passes away; but a whole eternity could not extinguish the
living flame which was yesterday kindled by your lips, and which now
burns within me. She loves me! These arms have encircled her waist,
these lips have trembled upon hers. She is mine! Yes, Charlotte, you are
mine for ever!
“And what do they mean by saying Albert is your husband? He may be so
for this world; and in this world it is a sin to love you, to wish
to tear you from his embrace. Yes, it is a crime; and I suffer the
punishment, but I have enjoyed the full delight of my sin. I have
inhaled a balm that has revived my soul. From this hour you are mine;
yes, Charlotte, you are mine! I go before you. I go to my Father and to
your Father. I will pour out my sorrows before him, and he will give me
comfort till you arrive. Then will I fly to meet you. I will claim you,
and remain your eternal embrace, in the presence of the Almighty.
“I do not dream, I do not rave. Drawing nearer to the grave my
perceptions become clearer. We shall exist; we shall see each other
again; we shall behold your mother; I shall behold her, and expose to
her my inmost heart. Your mother–your image!”
About eleven o’clock Werther asked his servant if Albert had returned.
He answered, “Yes;” for he had seen him pass on horseback: upon which
Werther sent him the following note, unsealed:
“Be so good as to lend me your pistols for a journey. Adieu.”
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 (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.
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (64) by J.W. von Goethe
A torrent of tears which streamed from Charlotte's eyes and gave relief
to her bursting heart, stopped Werther's recitation. He threw down the
book, seized her hand, and wept bitterly. Charlotte leaned upon her
hand, and buried her face in her handkerchief: the agitation of both was
excessive. They felt that their own fate was pictured in the misfortunes
of Ossian's heroes, they felt this together, and their tears redoubled.
Werther supported his forehead on Charlotte's arm: she trembled, she
wished to be gone; but sorrow and sympathy lay like a leaden weight upon
her soul. She recovered herself shortly, and begged Werther, with broken
sobs, to leave her, implored him with the utmost earnestness to comply
with her request. He trembled; his heart was ready to burst: then,
taking up the book again, he recommenced reading, in a voice broken by
sobs.
"Why dost thou waken me, O spring? Thy voice woos me, exclaiming,
I refresh thee with heavenly dews; but the time of my decay is
approaching, the storm is nigh that shall whither my leaves. Tomorrow
the traveller shall come, he shall come, who beheld me in beauty: his
eye shall seek me in the field around, but he shall not find me."
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 (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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