The Sorrows of Young Werther (54) by J.W. von Goethe

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.
To be continued

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