The Sorrows of Young Werther (36) by J.W. von Goethe

The Sorrows of Young Werther (36) by J.W. von Goethe

JANUARY 8, 1772.

What beings are men, whose whole thoughts are occupied with form and
ceremony, who for years together devote their mental and physical
exertions to the task of advancing themselves but one step, and
endeavouring to occupy a higher place at the table. Not that such
persons would otherwise want employment: on the contrary, they give
themselves much trouble by neglecting important business for such petty
trifles. Last week a question of precedence arose at a sledging-party,
and all our amusement was spoiled.

The silly creatures cannot see that it is not place which constitutes
real greatness, since the man who occupies the first place but
seldom plays the principal part. How many kings are governed by their
ministers–how many ministers by their secretaries? Who, in such cases,
is really the chief? He, as it seems to me, who can see through the
others, and possesses strength or skill enough to make their power or
passions subservient to the execution of his own designs.

JANUARY 20.

I must write to you from this place, my dear Charlotte, from a small
room in a country inn, where I have taken shelter from a severe storm.
During my whole residence in that wretched place D–, where I lived
amongst strangers,–strangers, indeed, to this heart,–I never at any
time felt the smallest inclination to correspond with you; but in this
cottage, in this retirement, in this solitude, with the snow and hail
beating against my lattice-pane, you are my first thought. The instant
I entered, your figure rose up before me, and the remembrance! O my
Charlotte, the sacred, tender remembrance! Gracious Heaven! restore to
me the happy moment of our first acquaintance.

Could you but see me, my dear Charlotte, in the whirl of
dissipation,–how my senses are dried up, but my heart is at no time
full. I enjoy no single moment of happiness: all is vain–nothing
touches me. I stand, as it were, before the raree-show: I see the little
puppets move, and I ask whether it is not an optical illusion. I am
amused with these puppets, or, rather, I am myself one of them: but,
when I sometimes grasp my neighbour’s hand, I feel that it is not
natural; and I withdraw mine with a shudder. In the evening I say I will
enjoy the next morning’s sunrise, and yet I remain in bed: in the day I
promise to ramble by moonlight; and I, nevertheless, remain at home. I
know not why I rise, nor why I go to sleep.

The leaven which animated my existence is gone: the charm which cheered
me in the gloom of night, and aroused me from my morning slumbers, is
for ever fled.

I have found but one being here to interest me, a Miss B–. She
resembles you, my dear Charlotte, if any one can possibly resemble you.
“Ah!” you will say, “he has learned how to pay fine compliments.” And
this is partly true. I have been very agreeable lately, as it was not
in my power to be otherwise. I have, moreover, a deal of wit: and the
ladies say that no one understands flattery better, or falsehoods you
will add; since the one accomplishment invariably accompanies the
other. But I must tell you of Miss B–. She has abundance of soul,
which flashes from her deep blue eyes. Her rank is a torment to her, and
satisfies no one desire of her heart. She would gladly retire from
this whirl of fashion, and we often picture to ourselves a life of
undisturbed happiness in distant scenes of rural retirement: and then we
speak of you, my dear Charlotte; for she knows you, and renders homage
to your merits; but her homage is not exacted, but voluntary, she loves
you, and delights to hear you made the subject of conversation.

Oh, that I were sitting at your feet in your favourite little room, with
the dear children playing around us! If they became troublesome to you,
I would tell them some appalling goblin story; and they would crowd
round me with silent attention. The sun is setting in glory; his last
rays are shining on the snow, which covers the face of the country: the
storm is over, and I must return to my dungeon. Adieu!–Is Albert with
you? and what is he to you? God forgive the question.

The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
To be continued

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