The Sorrows of Young Werther and Selected Writings Read online

  But the maid came out of the barn. “Well,” she said, “how did the cake turn out? And how is your sister?” “All are well,” I said, pointing to the cake without looking up. She took it and grumbled, “What’s the matter with you today? Has Barbara looked at somebody else again? That’s going to be a nice marriage is all I can say, if you two go on like that.” Since she spoke in quite a loud voice, it brought the vicar to his window, and he wanted to know what was going on. She told him. I got up and turned toward him, again holding my hat before my face. He said a few friendly words and told me to stay, whereupon I walked over toward the garden. I was about to enter it when the vicar’s wife came into the yard and called out to me. The sun happened to be shining in my face. So I again made use of the advantage offered by my hat and greeted her with a bow. She went into the house after calling out to me not to leave without having partaken of some refreshment.

  I proceeded to walk up and down in the garden. Until now, everything had been a complete success; still, I drew a deep breath as I reflected that very soon the young people would be returning. But the mother came back quite unexpectedly and was about to ask me a question when she looked into my face, which I could no longer hide, and her words remained stuck in her throat. “I was expecting to find George,” she said after a little pause, “and whom do I find? Is it really you, young man? How many shapes do you have?”

  “Seriously speaking,” I replied, “only one; but in fun, as many as you like.”

  “I don’t want to spoil your fun,” she said, smiling. “Why don’t you go beyond the gardens toward the fields and stay there until noon? Then you can come back; meanwhile, I shall have paved the way for your little joke.”

  I did as she suggested, but when I had passed the hedges of the village gardens and was about to enter a field, I could see, to my embarrassment, some countryfolk coming toward me on the footpath. I therefore turned off in the direction of a small glade that crowned a nearby hill to hide there until the time agreed upon. Imagine my surprise when, on entering, I found myself in a clearing with benches, from each of which one had a very pretty view of the region. There was the village and the steeple, yonder lay Drusenheim, behind it the wooded Rhine islands, the Vosges Mountains opposite, and finally, the Strassburg Cathedral. All these varied, heavenly-light vistas were enclosed in bushy green frames. The result was the most delightful sight imaginable. I sat down on one of the benches and noticed, on one of the stoutest trees, a small board with the inscription, “Friederike’s Rest.” It never occurred to me that I might have come to disturb that rest, for the beauty of a burgeoning passion is that it is not conscious of its source nor can it have any idea of how it is going to end; and when it is happy and carefree, there can be no suspicion that one day it may do harm.

  I had scarcely time to look around me and was just losing myself in a sweet dreaminess when I heard someone coming. It was Friederike herself. “George,” she cried from afar, “what are you doing here?” “Not George,” I called out as I ran to meet her, “but one who begs to be forgiven.” She looked at me, astounded, but at once pulled herself together and, after drawing a deep breath, said, “You horrid man! How you startled me!”

  “My first masquerade drove me to the second,” I explained, “and the first would have been unpardonable if I had known to whom I was going. You will forgive me the second, I am sure, because it portrays a person to whom you are friendly.”

  Now her pale cheeks were suffused with the loveliest pink. “Well, I am certainly not going to treat you worse than George,” she said. “But let us sit down. I must confess that the shock has made me feel shaky.”

  I sat down beside her, deeply moved. “We know what happened up to this morning,” she said. “Your friend told us everything. Now you tell the rest.”

  I didn’t have to be urged twice, but described my repugnance for the figure I had cut the day before and my stormy departure from the house in such a droll fashion that she laughed heartily and enchantingly. Then I told her the rest, modestly yet passionately enough to pass for a declaration of love in narrative form. At the end, I celebrated the joy of finding her again by kissing her hand, and she let it rest in mine. The night before, on our moonlit walk, she had taken the burden of the conversation upon herself; now I did my share extravagantly. The joy of seeing her again, of being able to tell her everything I had had to hold back yesterday, was so great that in my talkativeness I did not notice that this time she was thoughtful and silent. Once or twice she drew a deep breath, and I begged her over and over again to forgive me for startling her. I don’t know how long we sat there, but suddenly we heard a voice crying, “Riekchen! Riekchen!” It was her sister.

  “This is going to make a wonderful story,” the dear girl said, suddenly blithe again. “She is coming up on my side,” she went on, leaning forward a little to hide me. “Turn away a bit so that she doesn’t recognize you at once.” Her sister walked into the clearing, but she was not alone. Weyland was with her, and both of them stood still as if petrified when they saw us.

  If we were to see a flame suddenly shoot forth from a peaceful rooftop or meet a monster with an outrageous deformity, we could not be more horrified than when we see with our own eyes something that we believe is morally impossible. “What is the meaning of this?” the older girl cried, with the haste of someone startled. “What does it mean…you and George…hand in hand…what am I supposed…”

  “My dear sister,” Friederike said very seriously, “the poor fellow…he has asked me to forgive him. He wants your forgiveness, too, but you must promise in advance that you will forgive him.”

  “I don’t understand. I don’t understand,” said her sister, shaking her head and looking at Weyland, who in his calm way stood there quietly watching the scene. Friederike got up, pulling me up after her.

  “Don’t hesitate!” she cried. “Forgiveness asked for and granted!”

  “And in truth, I need it,” I said, as I approached the girl.

  She stepped back, let out a loud scream, and blushed furiously; then she threw herself on the grass, laughing uproariously, and simply couldn’t get over it. Weyland smiled amiably and said, “You’re an excellent fellow!” Then he shook hands with me. Ordinarily he was not affectionate, so there was something hearty and refreshing about his handshake, yet he was chary with it, too.

  After a short pause to permit the two to recover their composure, we started back to the village. On our way I heard how this miraculous meeting had come about. Toward the end of their walk, Friederike had left the other two in order to rest in her favorite spot for a while before lunch, and when they had reached home, the girl’s mother had sent them to fetch her, because lunch was ready.

  Friederike’s sister was wild with glee, and when she heard that her mother already knew the secret, she cried, “Then all that is left is for Papa, my brother, the groom, and the maid to be tricked!” When we reached the garden hedge, she made Friederike walk on ahead to the house with Weyland. The maid was busy in the garden, and Olivia (we might just as well call the older sister that) cried out to her, “Listen! I have something to tell you!” Leaving me by the hedge, she went over to the girl. I saw them talking earnestly. Olivia was telling her that George had quarreled with Barbara and wanted to marry her. The maid didn’t seem averse to the idea, and now they called me over to confirm what had been said. The pretty girl—she was a trifle coarse—lowered her eyes and remained standing like that until I was quite close to her. But then, when she suddenly saw my strange face, she too let out a loud scream and ran off. Olivia told me to go after her and catch her, so that she should not run into the house and noise everything abroad, while she would go and see where her father was. On the way, she met the stableboy who was courting the maid. I meanwhile had caught the girl and was holding her fast. “Just think!” Olivia cried. “It’s all over between George and Barbara. He’s going to marry Lisa.”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking for a long time,”
the boy said and remained standing there, looking morose.

  I told the maid that all we wanted was to play the joke on the vicar. We walked over to the boy, who turned his back on us and tried to get away, but Lisa ran and fetched him back, and he too—when he realized that he had been duped—carried on in a wonderful fashion. Then all of us went up to the house together. The table was set; the vicar was already in the room. Olivia, who was holding onto me behind her, walked in the doorway and asked, “Papa, is it all right if George eats with us today? But you must let him keep his hat on.”

  “It makes no difference to me,” the old man said, “but why something so unusual? Has he hurt himself?”

  She dragged me forward, just as I was, with my hat on. “No,” she said, “but he has a brood of birds under it. They’d fly out and create a devilish uproar because they’re very wild birds.”

  The vicar didn’t resent the joke, although he couldn’t make out what it was all about. But then she took my hat off for me, bowed low and demanded that I do the same. The old man gave me a look, recognized me, but never lost his clerical dignity for a moment. “Well, well!” he said, raising a warning finger. “If it isn’t my bright young theologian! You certainly managed to change horses quickly, and overnight I’ve lost an assistant who only yesterday promised me faithfully that he would go up into the pulpit for me sometimes.” He laughed heartily, bade me welcome, and we sat down at table. Moses came in only much later. Being the youngest and rather spoiled, he had formed the habit of not hearing the stroke of twelve. Moreover, he paid little attention to those present, even when he spoke. In order to make sure he would be fooled, I was not seated between the sisters but at the end of the table, where George sometimes actually did sit. When Moses came in, my back was turned to him. He slapped me on the shoulder roughly and said, “Good appetite, George!” “Thank you, sir,” I replied. My strange voice, and then my face, startled him. “Isn’t it amazing?” cried Olivia.

  “Yes, indeed,” he replied, recovering quickly. “From the back you could take him for anybody.”

  He didn’t give me another glance but busied himself exclusively with swallowing the courses he had missed as fast as he could. Every now and then, he took it upon himself to get up from table and attend to something in yard or garden. During the dessert, the real George came in and enlivened the proceedings even more. Everyone teased him about his jealousy and declared that they didn’t approve at all of his having dressed me up to be his rival. But he was a modest fellow and quite adroit, and knew how to get his betrothed, me—his counterpart—and the young ladies, all mixed up in such a tipsy fashion that, in the end, nobody knew who was being talked about, and everyone was glad to let him enjoy his christening cake and glass of wine in peace.

  When the meal was over, there was talk of going for a walk, which wasn’t very well possible with me in my peasant garb. But already that morning, when they had discovered who had left the house in such a hurry, the girls had remembered that a perfectly good jacket, belonging to a cousin, was hanging in the clothes press, a coat in which he hunted when he was there. But I declined the offer, ostensibly making a joke of it, but inwardly with the vain emotion of not wanting to spoil, as the cousin, the good impression I had made as a peasant. The vicar had left the room to take his nap; his wife was busy with her household duties, as usual. My friend Weyland suggested that I tell a story, to which I at once agreed. We retired to a roomy summerhouse, and I told them a tale I have since written down called “The New Melusina.”1 It compares with “The New Paris”2 like a young man to a boy, and I would insert it here were I not afraid of interrupting the pleasant pastoral realism and simplicity that surround us now. Anyway, I succeeded in achieving the desired reward of a creator and raconteur of such tales—I aroused the curiosity of my listeners; held their attention and inspired them to seek an earlier solution to the impenetrable puzzle; dashed their expectations by putting something even more extraordinary in place of what was already strange; confused them; aroused pity and fear; worried them; touched them and in the end satisfied them emotionally by twisting what had looked serious into an ingenious and amusing joke, leaving their imaginations with the material to create new pictures, and their minds with food for thought.

  If anyone should one day find the tale in print and read it and doubt that it could have such an effect, he should reflect that man is really only qualified to make an impression in the present. Writing is a misuse of language; reading alone quietly is a sad substitute for talk. A man makes every impression he possibly can on others through his personality—the young most powerfully on the young—and that is where the purest effects are achieved. It is the young who enliven the world and don’t let it die, either morally or physically. From my father I inherited a certain pedagogic loquacity; from my mother the ability to represent clearly and gaily everything my imagination could evoke and grasp, to revive familiar fairy tales and invent new ones, invent them even as I talked. My father’s heritage often made me rather a trial to be with, for who likes to hear the opinions and convictions of others, especially of a young man whose judgment must seem inadequate because of the gaps in his experience? My mother, on the other hand, had equipped me rather well for sociability and conversation, and I soon discovered that the most insubstantial fairy tale holds a certain charm for the imagination, and the slightest content is often gratefully received.

  Through entertainment such as this, which cost me nothing, I made myself popular with children, excited and delighted young people and attracted the attention of older ones. But in the common run of society, I soon had to put a stop to such habits, and so deprived myself of a lively enjoyment and found the powers of my imagination curtailed. But both these parental gifts accompanied me throughout my entire life, with a third—the urge to express myself metaphorically and in parables. The brilliant and judicious Dr. Gall3 recognized these traits in me and declared that, according to his teaching, I was born to be a public speaker. This startled me somewhat, for if there was any truth in it, anything else I might undertake—since in my nation there simply was no forum for such a career—would unfortunately be a wrong profession!4

  When I had finished my tale in the summerhouse in Sesenheim—a story in which ordinary events and the improbable were pleasantly interwoven—I could see that the two young ladies, who had listened with unusual attentiveness, were enchanted by my strange invention. They begged me to write it down so that they might read it aloud among themselves and to others. I promised to do so, all the more happily because this gave me an excuse to visit them again, and the chance of a closer association. We parted company for a short while, and anyone could have feared that, after such a lively day, the evening might be dull. But my friend relieved me of this anxiety by suggesting that we leave right away. He was a very studious fellow, most conscientious about his work, and wanted to spend the night in Drusenheim in order to be in Strassburg early the next morning.

  We reached our quarters in silence: I, because my heart was dragging me back to Sesenheim; he, because something else was on his mind. When we had arrived at our destination, he told me about it. “It is really extraordinary,” he said, “that you should have hit upon just this tale. Didn’t you notice that it made a quite unusual impression?” “Of course I did,” I replied. “How could I help noticing that in some places the older girl laughed more than was called for and the younger one sat there shaking her head? And I also saw you looking at each other knowingly every now and then, and even you seemed disconcerted. I must say, it almost confused me, because the thought passed through my mind that perhaps it was improper to tell the good children such a grotesque tale and give them such a poor idea of men as they had to get from my adventurous hero.”

  “Not at all!” cried Weyland. “You haven’t guessed what I am talking about—and why should you? The dear children are not so unfamiliar with such things as you think. The society that surrounds them gives them food for all sorts of speculation, and there h
appens to be a married couple on the other side of the Rhine very like the one you described, only yours is exaggerated, of course, and more fey. He is just as big, coarse, and clumsy, and she is pretty and dainty enough for him to carry her on his hand—well, almost. And their situation, their story, fits your tale too, so exactly that the girls asked me quite seriously if you knew the people and were portraying them mischievously. I assured them that you were not, but I think it would be wise if you never transcribed the tale. We can find good enough excuses in delay and subterfuge.”

  I was very surprised, for I had not had any specific couple in mind, not on this side of the Rhine nor on the other! In fact, I wouldn’t have known how to explain whence I got the idea. I liked to pass my time inventing such amusing little stories. They had no connection with reality, and I felt that my listeners should accept them as such.5

  When I got back to my affairs in town, I could feel how everything irked me more than usual, for a person who is born active is prone to exaggerate his planning and overburden himself with work. And that can turn out well enough, until some physical or moral obstacle enters the picture and clarifies the discrepancy between strength and project.

  I was studying law as diligently as was necessary to pass my examinations with honors of sorts; the study of medicine attracted me because, although it did not completely reveal nature, it at least made me aware of it, and I was attached to it by association and habit; I had to spend some time and attention on sociabilities because quite a few families had shown me kindness, and everything could have gone on like this had it not been for the burden Herder had imposed on me. He had torn away the curtain that had hidden the poverty of German literature from me and had brutally destroyed quite a few of my prejudices. Only a few stars remained shining in my native sky because he had brushed away all the others as falling fragments shooting by. He had even spoiled my hopes and expectations of myself to such an extent that I began to doubt my own capabilities. At the same time he had swept me away with him onto the broad and glorious paths he liked to follow. He had brought his favorite writers to my attention—Swift and Hamann at the top of the list—and had roused me even more than he had depressed me. Add to all this the confusion of an incipient passion that, by threatening to consume me, was quite capable of distracting me from these preoccupations—not, however, of helping me to rise above them—and on top of that, a feeling of physical ill-being that threatened to choke me after every meal. I was able to rid myself of it only later when I stopped drinking a red wine which was served regularly at the pension where we ate, and which we enjoyed. This horrible feeling of discomfort had not plagued me in Sesenheim, with the result that I had been doubly gay there; however, as soon as I returned to my city diet, there it was again, to my profound irritation. All these things combined to make me thoughtful and morose, and my outer appearance probably reflected what was going on inside me.