The Sorrows of Young Werther (55) by J.W. von Goethe

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.
To be continued

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