The Sorrows of Young Werther and Selected Writings Read online

  “And it arises in all its glory. I see my departed friends assembled in Lora as in days of yore—Fingal, a moist column of mist, his heroes around him—here, there…see the bards! Gray Ullin, stately Ryno, Alpin—beloved singer—and thou, gentle-voiced Minona. How changed you are, my friends, since the festive days of Selma when, like spring zephyrs, we contended for our singing laurels, striving in turn to bend the weak, whispering reed!

  “Minona, in all her beauty, stepped forward, eyes downcast and filled with tears, hair flowing heavy in the inconstant wind blowing from the hill. She raised her beloved voice, and the souls of the heroes were bleak, for they had oft seen Salgar’s grave and the dark abode of white Colma—Colma, abandoned on the hill, Colma with her melodious voice. Salgar promised to come, but all around her night was falling. Hear Colma’s voice, as she sits on the hill alone!

  “COLMA: ‘Night has fallen. I am alone and lost on the storm-swept hill. The wind howls down the canyon; no hut protects me from the rain. I have been abandoned on this stormy hill.

  “‘Emerge, O moon, from thy cloud; stars of the night appear! Grant me a ray of light to guide me to the place where my beloved rests from the ardors of the hunt, his bow unstrung, his dogs snuffling around him. But I must needs sit here on the rocky banks of the stream, alone. Stream and storm roar, and I cannot hear the voice of my beloved.

  “‘Why does he hesitate, Salgar, my beloved? Has he forgot his promise? There is the rock, and there is the tree, and here is the rushing stream. Oh, where has my Salgar lost his way?

  “‘Thou didst promise to be here at nightfall. With thee I would flee, forsake father and brother—those two proud men! Our tribes have been enemies for so long, but thou and I, Salgar, we are not enemies.

  “‘Be silent a while, O wind; be silent for one small while, O stream, so that my voice may resound in the valley and my wanderer hear me. Salgar, it is I calling. Here is the tree and the rock, and I am here, Salgar, my beloved. Why dost thou tarry?

  “‘See…the moon appears, the river gleams in the valley, the rocks stand gray on the hillside—but I do not see him nor do his dogs herald his coming. Here must I sit alone.

  “‘But who lies down there on the heath? My beloved? My brother? Speak to me, O my friends! They do not reply, and my soul is fearful. Ah me—they are slain; their swords are red with blood. O my brother, my brother, why hast thou slain my beloved? O Salgar, my beloved, why hast thou slain my brother? I loved you both. Among a thousand on the hill, you were beautiful, and in combat, you were terrible. Answer me! Hear me, my beloveds! Alas…they are mute, forever silenced, their breasts cold as the earth.

  “‘Oh, speak, ye dead, from the rocks on the hill, from the top of the storm-swept mountain. Speak! I shall not shudder. Where did you go to your final rest? In which cave of the hill shall I find you? I hear no weak voice in the wind; no answer is wafted to me by the storm on the hill.

  “‘I sit in my misery, bathed in my tears, and wait doggedly for the morn. Dig the grave of the dead, my friends, but do not cover it until I am come. Like a dream, my life leaves me—how can I remain behind? Here, beside the stream in the echoing rocks, I shall dwell with my friends. When night falls on the hill, and the wind sweeps o’er the heath, let my spirit stand in the wind and mourn the death of my friend. The hunter in his covert hears me, hears my voice and loves it, for the voice that mourns my friends shall be sweet. I loved them both.’

  “That was thy song, O Minona, Torman’s gently blushing daughter. Our tears flowed for Colma, and our souls were darkened.

  “Ullin stepped forward with his harp and gave us Alpin’s song. Alpin’s voice was friendly, and Ryno’s soul was a fiery fount; but they have both been laid to rest already in the narrow confines of their house, and their voices have echoed away in Selma. Once, before the heroes had fallen, Ullin came back from the hunt and could hear their contest on the hill. Their song was gentle but sad. They were mourning the downfall of Morar, the first of the heroes. His soul was like Fingal’s, his sword like the sword of Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned his death, and the eyes of his sister Minona were filled with tears—Minona, sister of Morar, the magnificent. She stepped back from Ullin’s song like the moon in the west that foresees the rain and hides its lovely head in a cloud. With Ullin I accompanied Ryno’s lament on my harp.

  “RYNO: ‘Wind and rain have passed, the hour of noon is clear, and the clouds are parting. An inconstant sun shines fleetingly on the hill, and the mountain stream flows red in the valley. Sweet is thy murmuring, O stream, yet the voice that I hear is sweeter—Alpin’s voice, lamenting his dead. His head is bowed with age; red are his eyes from weeping. Alpin, glorious bard, where art thou, alone on the silenced hill? Why dost thou wail like the wind in the forest, like a wave on the far-off shores of the sea?’

  “ALPIN: ‘My tears, Ryno, are for the dead, and my voice is for the grave-dwellers. Thou art lithe on the mount, and among the sons of the heath, thou art beautiful. But thou wilt be slain like Morar, and the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills will forget thee; thy bow will lie unstrung in the great hall.

  “‘Thou wert swift as the deer on the hill, Morar, and terrible as night fires in the sky. Thy anger was like a storm, like sheet lightning across the heath. Thy voice was a forest stream after rainfall, was thunder in far-off hills. Many fell beneath thy right arm, and the flame of thy fury consumed them, but when thou didst return from battle, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy countenance was like the moon on a silent night; thy breast was as calm as the waters of a lake after the blustering wind dies down.

  “‘Narrow are the confines of thy house now; dark is thy abode. Three paces carry me across thy grave, thou who wert once so great—thy sole memorial now…four mossy stone markers. A leafless tree, tall grass that rustles in the wind, point out the grave of mighty Morar, the hunter—but no mother to mourn thee, no maiden with tears of love. Dead is she who gave thee birth; slain is the daughter of Morglan.

  “‘Who stands yonder, leaning on his staff? Who is he? His hair is hoary with age; his eyes are reddened from crying. It is thy father, Morar. Thou wert his only son. He knows all about thy fame in battle, about the enemy thou didst scatter; he has heard of Morar’s fame—alas, not of his wound! Weep, father of Morar, weep! But thy son cannot hear thee. The sleep of the dead is deep, and lowly is their pillow of dust. He pays no heed to thy voice; he will ne’er awaken to thy call. Oh, when will it be morning in his grave; when will it be time to bid the slumberer awaken?

  “‘Farewell, noblest of men, conqueror on the field of battle. Never again shall the field of battle see thee, nor the gloomy forest be brightened by the gleam of thy sword. Thou hast left no progeny. But our song shall keep thy name alive, and future times shall hear of Morar who was slain in battle.’

  “Loud was the grief of the heroes; loudest of all, though, was Armin’s heartbreaking sigh. For he was reminded of the death of his son who fell in the days of his youth. Carmor, chieftain of the echoing halls of Galmal, was sitting nearby. ‘Why does Armin’s sigh choke him?’ he asked. ‘What causes him so much grief? Song and voice should melt the heart and delight it. They are the gentle mist that rises from the lake and spreads into the valleys, and the blossoming trees are dampened by it. The sun, though, rises again in all its glory, and the mists are dispelled. Why art thou so wretched, Armin, chieftain of the sea-girt isle of Gorma?’

  “‘Wretched? That I am. And the cause of my grief is not negligible. Carmor, thou hast not lost a son; thou hast not been deprived of a daughter. Colgar the brave lives, and Annira, fairest of maidens. The branches of thy house blossom, Carmor, but Armin is the last of his race. Dark is thy bier, O Daura, stifling thy sleep in the grave. When shalt thou awaken with thy songs, with thy melodious voice? Rise, winds of autumn; rise and storm across the bleak heath! Forest streams, roar! Wail, thou tempests in the crowns of the pines! Move through the broken clouds, O moon; show and hide thy pale face alternately! Remind me of th
e dread night when my children perished, when mighty Arindal was slain, and beloved Daura died.

  “‘Daura, my daughter, thou wert fair as the moon on the hills of Fura; thou wert white as the driven snow and sweet as a zephyr. Arindal, thy bow was strong, and thy spear was fleet on the field. Thy gaze was as the fog on the waves; thy shield was a cloud of fire in the tempest.

  “‘Armar, famed warrior, came to woo Daura. She did not resist him long, and their friends wished them well.

  “‘Erath, son of Ogdal, was angry, for his brother lay slain by Armar. He came disguised as a mariner, his locks white with age, his stern features calm. His bark crossing the waters was a beautiful sight. “Loveliest of maidens,” he cried, “fair daughter of Armin—on yonder rock in the sea, not far off, where thou canst see the red fruit sparkling on the tree, Armar is waiting for thee. I come to guide his beloved across the turgid sea.”

  “‘Daura followed him and cried out to Armar. “Armar, my beloved, my beloved! Why dost thou frighten me? Hear me, O son of Armath! It is Daura crying out to thee!” Naught answered save the voice of the rocks.

  “‘Erath, the betrayer, fled laughing back to landward. Daura lifted her voice and cried out to father and brother, “Arindal! Armin! Is there no one to save Daura?”

  “‘Her voice came to them across the sea. Arindal, my son, descended the hillside, rough with the spoils of the hunt, his arrows rustling at his side. He carried his bow in his hand, and five gray-black dogs went with him. He saw bold Erath on the shore and took him and tied him to an oak, bound him firmly round his loins, and the captured man filled the air with his groaning.

  “‘Then Arindal walked into the waves with his boat to bring Daura back. Armar came and in his anger let fly his gray, feathered arrow. It hummed, but it sank into thy heart, Arindal, my son! Instead of Erath, the betrayer, thou didst fall. Arindal’s boat reached the rock; he sank down beside it and died. Her brother’s blood ran out at Daura’s feet. Oh, Daura, Daura, how terrible was thy grief!

  “‘The waves shattered the boat. Armar flung himself into the sea to save his Daura or die. A gust of wind from the hill struck hard at the waves and he sank, never to rise again.

  “‘Alone on the sea-washed rocks, I could hear the lament of my daughter. She cried loud and long, yet I could not save her. Throughout the night I stood on the shore. By the weak rays of the moon I could see her. Throughout the night I could hear her cry. Loud was the wind, and the rain hit sharply against the side of the mountain. By dawn her voice was weak; soon it died away like the air of evening between grasses that grow on stone. Bowed low with grief, she died, leaving Armin alone. Gone is my strength in battle, gone my prowess among women.

  “‘When the mountain storms come, and the north wind rears up the wave, I sit on the echoing shore and gaze across the sea at the terrible rock. Oft, by the light of a waning moon, I see the ghosts of my children. Twilit they wander side by side in a sad unity.’”

  A flood of tears streamed from Lotte’s eyes, relieving her oppressed heart and preventing Werther from continuing. He threw the papers aside, took her hand, and wept bitterly. Lotte rested her head on her other hand and covered her eyes with her handkerchief. What both felt at that moment was agonizing. They experienced their own misery in the fate of these noble people, they felt it together, and their tears flowed as one. Werther’s lips and eyes burned on Lotte’s arm. She was seized by a shivering. She wanted to leave the room, but pain and compassion left her numb. She breathed deeply in an effort to recover her composure and begged him, sobbing, to continue, implored him to do so with the whole force of heaven in her voice. Werther was trembling; he thought his heart would break. He took up the papers again and began to read in a broken voice, “Why dost thou awaken me, O zephyr of spring? Thou dost speak of love, saying, ‘I spread the dew with drops from heaven.’ But the time of my fading away is nigh; nigh is the storm that will defoliate me. And in the morn the wanderer will come; the wanderer will come who saw me in my glory. His eyes will seek me in the field but he will not find me….”

  The full force of the words rained down upon the unfortunate man. In his despair he threw himself on his knees before Lotte, took her hand, pressed it to his eyes, his forehead, and a hint of the terrible thing he was planning seemed to brush Lotte’s soul. She became confused and pressed his hand tightly against her breast and, with a plaintive motion, moved closer to him. Their burning cheeks touched, and the world ended for them. Werther wound his arms around Lotte, pressed her to him, and covered her trembling, stammering lips with passionate kisses. “Werther!” she cried, in a voice that was choked, turning from him, “Werther!” and with her weak hand, she pushed him away. “Werther!” she said, in a voice controlled by the noblest sentiments.

  He did nothing to resist her. He let her go and threw himself down insensibly at her feet. She managed to tear herself away and, in fearful confusion, trembling between love and anger, said, “This is the last time, Werther! You shall not see me again,” and with a look full of love at the miserable man, she rushed into the next room and locked the door. Werther stretched out his arms to her, but did not dare to stop her. He lay on the floor, his head resting against the side of the sofa, and remained like this for over half an hour, until a noise roused him. It was the maid, coming to set the table. He paced up and down the room and when he was alone again, walked over to the door of the room into which Lotte had fled and called softly, “Lotte…Lotte…only a word of farewell!” She was silent. He waited and begged and waited. Finally he tore himself away, crying, “Farewell, Lotte! Farewell forever!”

  At the city gates, the watchmen, who were accustomed to the sight of him, let him out silently. It was drizzling, a mixture of rain and snow, and it was nearly eleven when he rapped on the gates again. His servant noted that his master came home without his hat. He didn’t dare to mention the fact but undressed him silently. All his clothes were wet. The hat was found later on a rock that overlooks the valley from the precipitous side of a hill, and it is incredible that Werther could have climbed up it on a dark, wet night without falling out.

  He went to bed and slept for a long time. Next morning, when his servant answered his call for coffee, he found his master writing. He was adding the following to his letter to Lotte:

  “So, for the last time—yes, for the last time, I open these eyes. They shall not see the sun again. A dim, foggy day keeps them veiled. Very well then, mourn, O Nature—thy son, thy friend, thy beloved’s life is drawing to a close. Lotte, it is a feeling without parallel, yet to tell oneself, ‘This is the last morning,’ comes very close to one’s twilit dreams. The last. Lotte, I have no understanding of the word ‘last.’ Am I not sitting here with my whole strength, and tomorrow I am to lie stretched out limp on the floor? To die. What does it mean? Look—when we talk about death we are dreaming. I have seen many a man die, but man is so limited that he has no understanding for the beginning and end of his existence. Mine—still mine as yet—and yours! Yours, O my beloved! Then, one moment more, and separated…divorced from one another, perhaps forever? No, Lotte, no. How could I possibly perish? How could you pass away? You and I…we are! Perish? What does it mean? Again, nothing but a word. An empty sound with no feeling for my heart. Dead, Lotte—buried in the cold earth, so narrow, so dark. I had a sweetheart once who was my all in the days of my helpless youth. She died. I followed her bier and stood beside her grave as they let down the coffin—the ropes grating beneath it and snapping back up, the sound of the first spadeful of dirt tumbling down, and the dread casket giving off a dull tone, then a more muffled thud that became more and more muffled, until at last the coffin was covered. I sank down beside the grave, deeply moved, shattered, fearful, torn to the depths of my being, but I did not know what was the matter with me nor what was to befall me. Death. Grave. I have no understanding for the words.

  “Oh, forgive me, forgive me…yesterday. It should have been the last moment of my life. Oh, you angel! For the fir
st time—for the first time, a feeling of bliss burned without any doubt in the depths of me. She loves me! She loves me! The sacred fire that streamed to me from you still burns on my lips. A new, warm rapture is in my heart. Forgive me, forgive me!

  “Oh, I knew that you loved me, knew it when I met your first soulful glance, with the first pressure of your hand, and yet, when I was away from you, when I saw Albert at your side, I despaired again, in a fever of doubt.

  “Do you recall the flowers that you sent me when, in his irritating company, you could not say a word nor give me your hand? I knelt half the night before them; they put a seal upon your love for me. But alas, such impressions pass, just as the feeling of God’s mercy—a feeling that is bestowed on a man of faith in all its divine abundance in holy, visible portent—can cede gradually from his soul.

  “All such things are transient. But no eternity shall erase the glowing life that I experienced at your lips yesterday and that I feel within me now. She loves me. These arms have held her; these lips have trembled on hers; this mouth has stammered a few broken words against hers. She is mine. You are mine, Lotte, forever.

  “And what difference does it make that Albert is your husband? Husband—that’s a word for this world, and for this world it’s a sin that I love you and would wrench you out of his arms into mine. A sin? Very well then, and I punish myself for it. I have tasted this sin in all its divine rapture; I have sucked its balm and strength into my heart. From now on you are mine—mine, Lotte! I go on ahead to my Father. To Him I will complain, and He will comfort me until you come, and I fly to meet you and enfold you and remain at your side in the sight of Infinite God in one eternal embrace.

  “I do not dream; I do not think any more. Close to the grave, all grows lighter. We shall be. We shall see each other again. Your mother…I shall see her, find her, and oh, I shall unburden my whole heart to her. Your mother. Your image.”