The Sorrows of Young Werther and Selected Writings Read online

  At about eleven, Werther asked his servant if Albert had returned. The man said yes, he had seen him riding by on his horse. Werther then gave the man an open note containing the words, “Would you be so good as to lend me your pistols for a trip I am about to undertake? My very best regards.”

  Lotte had slept little during the preceding night. What she had dreaded had been decided for her in a way she could neither have dreamed nor feared. Her blood, which usually coursed so chastely and steadily through her veins, was in a feverish turmoil. A thousand confused sensations disturbed her. Was it the passion of Werther’s embrace that she felt in her breast? Was it resentment of his boldness? Or was it the result of an unpleasant comparison of her present condition with former days of completely unabashed innocence and carefree confidence in herself? How was she to meet her husband? There was nothing to hide, yet how was she to explain the scene to him? She didn’t dare to. They had been silent for such a long time on this subject—should she break the silence and make such an unexpected disclosure, perhaps at the wrong time? She feared that even the mention of Werther’s visit would make a disagreeable impression, and on top of that—this unexpected catastrophe! Could she hope that her husband would see things in their true light and accept what she had to say entirely without bias? And did she want him to look into her soul and read what was there? But then again, could she dissemble before a man to whom she had always been frank and clear as crystal, from whom she had never been able to keep any of her feelings secret? All these things troubled and embarrassed her. Again and again her thoughts reverted to Werther, who was lost to her, whom she could not abandon, yet, alas, had to abandon, to whom—once he had lost her—nothing was left.

  The estrangement which had closed in upon all three of them weighed heavily upon her now, but it was something she could not see clearly at the moment. Good, sensible people often withdraw from one another because of secret differences, each becoming absorbed by what he feels is right, and by the error of the other. Conditions then grow more and more complicated and exasperating, until it becomes impossible to undo the knot at the crucial moment on which everything depends. If only a fortunate intimacy had brought them closer again before this, if only they could have felt love and consideration for one another mutually, and confided in one another, Werther might have been saved.

  Another strange circumstance must be mentioned here. As we know from his letters, Werther had never made any secret of his longing to leave this world. Albert had argued the point with him often and had even discussed it with Lotte. Since such behavior was so distasteful to him, he had declared several times, with an irritability that was quite foreign to his character, that he doubted the seriousness of Werther’s inclination. One day he had even gone so far as to joke about it and had mentioned his skepticism to Lotte. On the one hand, this helped to calm her whenever she dwelled on the unhappy prospect; on the other hand, she was reluctant for the same reason to share with her husband the anxieties that were tormenting her now.

  Albert came home, and Lotte went to meet him in a state of self-conscious haste. He was not in good spirits. He had had to leave his business incompleted; the neighboring magistrate had turned out to be an inflexible, narrow-minded man. The bad roads had added to his irritation.

  He asked if there was any news. She replied, a little too hastily, that Werther had been there the evening before. He asked if there was any mail and received the reply that some letters and packets had been placed in his room. He went there, and Lotte was left alone. The presence of the man she loved and respected had made a fresh impression on her heart. The thought of his generosity, his love and kindness, had calmed her. She felt the urge to follow him, took her work and went into his room, something she did quite often. She found him unwrapping the packets and reading the contents. Several seemed to contain unpleasant news. She asked a few questions; he replied curtly and sat down at his desk to write.

  They were together like this for an hour, and Lotte’s spirits sank increasingly lower. She realized how difficult it was going to be to disclose to her husband what was oppressing her, even if he were in the best of moods, and she lapsed into a melancholy that became more and more frightening as she tried to hide it and fight down her tears.

  The appearance of Werther’s groom put her in a very embarrassing position. He handed the note to Albert, who turned to his wife and said casually, “Give him the pistols.” To the boy he said, “Tell your master that I wish him a pleasant journey.”

  The words fell like a thunderclap on Lotte’s ears. She swayed as she rose to her feet; she didn’t know what to do. Slowly she walked over to the wall and, with hands that trembled, took the pistols from the rack, dusted them, hesitated, and would have hesitated longer if Albert had not forced her with his questioning eyes to go on with what he had asked her to do. Incapable of uttering a word, she gave the unfortunate weapons to the boy, and when he had left the house, she picked up her work and went to her room in a state of the most indescribable anxiety. Her heart foretold all terror. At one moment, she was on the point of throwing herself at her husband’s feet and confessing everything—what had happened last night, her culpability, and her awful premonitions—then again she realized how futile that would be. The last thing she could hope for was that her husband would go over to see Werther.

  The table was set. A good friend, who had only come to enquire about something, stayed and made the conversation at table at least tolerable. Lotte forced herself to some semblance of self-control, conversed, and forgot herself.

  The servant brought Werther the weapons. He was delighted when he heard that Lotte had given them to the boy. He had bread and wine brought to him, told the boy to have his dinner, and sat down to write.

  “They have passed through your hands. You brushed the dust from them. You touched them. I kiss them a thousand times. The spirit of heaven favors my decision, and you, Lotte, hand me the weapon—you, from whom I wished to receive death and now receive it. Oh, how I questioned my boy! You trembled, he said, as you handed them to him. You said no farewell. Alas—no farewell! Have you closed your heart to me, because of that moment that bound me to you forever? Lotte, not a thousand years can erase that impression. And—I feel it—you cannot hate him who glows with his whole heart for you.”

  After dinner he ordered the boy to pack, tore up some papers, and went out and settled a few minor debts. He returned home; then, disregarding the rain, he went out again as far as the gate, from there into the Count’s garden, after which he wandered about the countryside. When night was falling he came home and wrote, “William, I have seen fields, wood, and sky for the last time. Farewell to you, too. Dear Mother, forgive me. Console her, William. God bless you both. All my affairs are in order. Farewell. We shall meet again under happier circumstances.

  “Albert, I have rewarded you poorly, but you will forgive me. I disturbed the peace of your household; I sowed distrust between you and Lotte. Farewell. It is my wish to terminate things. Ah, if only you could be made happy through my death! Albert, make my angel happy! And may God’s blessing be on you both.”

  He spent the rest of the evening going through his papers again, tore up many and threw them into the stove, sealed several packets and addressed them to William. The latter contained a few short articles and random observations, several of which I have seen. After having had the stove stoked once more at ten o’ clock and ordering a bottle of wine for himself, he sent his servant to bed. The boy’s room, like the bedrooms of the other domestics, was far off in the back of the house. He lay down with his clothes on in order to be ready to leave early the next morning, for his master had told him that the post chaise would be at the house before six.

  After eleven

  Everything is so still around me and so calm within my soul. I thank you, God, who gave this last moment of mine such warmth, such strength.

  I walk over to the window, my dearest one, and look out. Through the storm clouds flying by, I can
still see a few stars in the eternal sky. No, you will not fall. The Eternal One carries you in his heart, as he carries me. I can see the handle of the Big Dipper, my favorite of all the constellations. When I left you that night, as I walked out the gate, it stood in the sky facing me. In what a state of intoxication I have been often when I looked at it. Then I would lift my hand and make a sign of it, a sacred marker for my present bliss. And I still do! Oh, Lotte, what does not remind me of you? Are you not all around me, and haven’t I snatched all sorts of little things and held onto them like an insatiable child—things, my angel, that you touched?

  Beloved silhouette. I leave it to you, Lotte, and beg you to respect it. I have pressed thousands of impassioned kisses on it and waved it a thousand greetings when I left the house or returned.

  In another note I have asked your father to take care of my remains. There are two linden trees in the cemetery, back in a corner, near the field. That is where I wish to rest. He can—he will do it for his friend. Please ask him, too, to do so. It would be too much to expect a faithful Christian to lie beside a poor unfortunate like me. Oh, how I wish you could bury me by the wayside or in a lonely valley, so that priest and Levite might bless themselves as they pass the stone marker and the Samaritan could shed a tear there.

  Here, Lotte…see, it does not make me shudder to grasp the cold and terrible cup from which I shall drink the transport of death. You hand it to me, and I do not hesitate. All! All of it! Thus all the wishes and hopes I had of life are fulfilled…to knock so coldly, so rigidly, on the brazen gates of death.

  That I was granted the good fortune to die for you, Lotte, to sacrifice myself for you…I would die courageously, joyously, if only I could re-establish the repose and bliss of your existence. But oh, it has been granted to only a few noble men to shed their life’s blood for those they love and, by their death, kindle a new life for their friends.

  I want to be buried, Lotte, in the clothes I have on. You have touched them and made them sacred. I have asked your father, too, to do this for me. My soul floats over the coffin. Please let no one go through my pockets. The pale pink bow that you wore at your breast when I saw you for the first time with your children…kiss them a thousand times and tell them the fate of their unfortunate friend. The darlings…they are tumbling all around me. Ah, how I attached myself to you from the first moment and could not let go. This bow is to be buried with me. You gave it to me on my birthday. Oh, how greedily I absorbed it all, never thinking that the way would lead here. Be calm, I beseech you, be calm.

  It is loaded. The clock strikes midnight. So be it then, Lotte. Farewell. Farewell.

  A neighbor saw the flash of gunpowder and heard the shot, but since all remained silent, he paid no further heed to the occurrence.

  Next morning at six, the servant came into the room with a light. He found his master lying on the floor, the pistol, and the blood. He cried out, touched him—no response. Werther’s last breath was rattling in his throat. The boy ran for the doctor and for Albert. Lotte heard the bell, and a shiver ran through every member of her body. She woke her husband. They got up. The servant, sobbing and stammering, delivered his message. Lotte sank fainting to the ground at Albert’s feet.

  When the doctor arrived, he found the unfortunate man on the floor. There was no hope of saving him. His pulse could still be felt but all his limbs were paralyzed. He had shot himself in the head above the right eye, driving his brains out. Quite superfluously, the doctor undertook a bloodletting of one vein. The blood ran out; Werther was still breathing.

  The blood on the armchair was evidence of the fact that he had shot himself while sitting in front of his desk, then had slumped down and twisted himself convulsively out of the chair. He was lying on his back, against the window, fully clad in his blue coat and yellow vest, with his boots on.

  The house, the neighborhood, the whole town were filled with commotion. Albert came in. They laid Werther on the bed and bandaged his forehead. His face was already like that of the dead; he did not move a muscle. His breathing was terrible—weak at one moment, then a little stronger. They were waiting for the end to come.

  He had drunk only one glass of the wine. Emilia Galotti9 lay open on his lectern.

  There are no words to express Albert’s consternation or Lotte’s misery.

  The old judge came bursting in as soon as he heard the news. With the hot tears streaming down his cheeks, he kissed the dying man. His oldest sons soon followed him on foot. They fell on their knees beside the bed in attitudes of the wildest grief, kissing the dying man’s hand, his mouth. The oldest one, whom Werther had always loved best, clung to his lips as he expired and had to be forcefully removed. At twelve noon, Werther died. The presence of the judge and the arrangements he made silenced the crowd. That night, at about eleven, he had the body buried in the spot Werther had chosen. The old man and his sons walked behind the bier; Albert found himself incapable of doing so. They feared for Lotte’s life. Workmen carried the body. There was no priest in attendance.

  * Out of respect for this admirable man, this letter and one mentioned later are not included in this collection, in the belief that such indiscretions would be inexcusable, however grateful the reader might be.

  REFLECTIONS ON WERTHER

  The word Dichtung should not be understood in the sense of fabrication or as a collection of factual details, but as the revelation of higher truths…. [It was my] endeavor to present and express to the best of my ability the actual basic truths that controlled my life as I understood them…. We are of course prone to set forth and stress results and the past as we see it now, rather than the detailed events as they took place at the time…all this—belonging as it does to the narrator and to history—I have included here under the word Dichtung, so that I might employ the truths of which I am conscious to suit my ends.

  —GOETHE on the meaning of the word Dichtung

  Wetzlar, May to September 1772

  All my reflections and endeavors left my old resolve unchanged: to explore the inner and outer manifestations of nature and, in loving emulation, let them hold sway over me. As part of this reaction—which would not let me rest by day or night—I was confronted by two grand, indeed, I should say, gigantic conceptions. All I had to do was estimate their wealth to some extent and I would have already produced something significant. The life of Götz von Berlichingen falls into the older epoch, and the unfortunate flowering of the new is described in Werther….

  The decision to let my inner self rule me at will and permit all outside events to penetrate in a way characteristic of them drove me into the wonderful element in which Werther was conceived and written. I tried to release myself from all alien emotions, to look kindly upon what was going on around me and let all living things, beginning with man himself, affect me as deeply as possible, each in its own way. The result was a marvelous affinity with nature and a warm and heartfelt response—a harmony with all things—that made me capable of being deeply touched by every change, whether of place or region, of day or season, or by anything else. The eye of the painter was added to that of the poet. A beautiful landscape, enlivened by a friendly stream, heightened my inclination for solitude and favored my quiet but extensive observations. My departure from the family circle in Sesenheim1 and now, again, from my friends in Frankfurt and Darmstadt, had left an emptiness in my heart that I was unable to fill. I found myself therefore in the position where any attraction, as long as it appears in a semblance of disguise, succeeds in creeping up upon one unawares and can thwart all one’s best intentions.

  Having reached this stage of my undertaking, I can feel lighthearted about it for the first time, because it looks as if this book were going to be what it should be. It did not announce itself as anything independent but was intended rather to fill in gaps in the author’s life—to complete a few fragments and preserve the memory lost, the forgotten adventure. But what has already been done cannot and should not be repeated, and the poet t
oo would call upon the darkened powers of his soul in vain and demand to no avail that they re-establish those former pleasant circumstances that made his stay in the Lahn valley so beautiful. Fortunately the genius of inspiration saw to it for him at the right time and gave him, in the precious days of his youth, the impetus to hold fast and describe events just passed, and the boldness to publish what he had written at a propitious hour. I presume I need say no more. It must be clear to everyone that I am referring to that slim volume entitled Werther. From time to time I shall have something to say about the characters in it, as well as about the sentiments ascribed to them.

  Among the younger men assigned to the embassy who were preparing themselves for their future duties, there was one whom we referred to simply as “the betrothed.” He was notable for his calm, steadfast behavior and the clarity of his opinions, and his diligence made such a good impression on his superiors that he was promised a post in the very near future. This justified his engagement to a girl who suited his inclinations perfectly. After her mother’s death she had become the head of a numerous younger family and had been the sole comfort of her widowed father in his grief. Any future husband could hope to find the same comfort in her for himself and his children, and could expect the happiest conditions to prevail in his household. But everyone had to admit that, even without these selfish considerations, she was a highly desirable young lady. She was the type who, even though they cannot arouse violent passion, are so constituted as to excite general admiration. A slight, pretty figure; a wholesome nature and the joyous vitality that springs from it; and a way of doing, without self-consciousness, what had to be done daily—all were contained in her. I have always enjoyed such attributes and liked to join forces with those who were blessed with them; and even if I did not always find an opportunity to be of service to such persons, I much preferred to share with them the enjoyment of those innocent pleasures that are always easily accessible to young people and can be found without much effort or expense. Since it is, moreover, an established fact that women adorn themselves only for one another and never tire of growing fancier and fancier, I liked those females best who, with a simple neatness, gave their friend or fiancé the tacit assurance that they adorned themselves only for him and that a whole lifetime could be spent like this, without great fuss and expense.