The Sorrows of Young Werther and Selected Writings Read online

  How I regret that the sweetheart of my youth is no more; how I deplore the fact that I ever knew her! If I had not known her, I could say: “You are a fool. You are looking for something that does not exist.” But she was mine. I experienced the warmth of a heart and the nobility of a soul in whose presence I seemed to be more than I was because I was everything I possibly could be. Dear God, was there a facet of my soul then that was not alive? With her I could fully develop that wonderful feeling with which my heart embraces nature. Our relationship was a constant interplay of the most subtle perception, the keenest wit. Even its nuances, right down to occasional outbursts of mischievousness on her part, showed every indication of genius. And now! Alas, the years she was my senior took her to her grave before me. But I will never forget her—not her resolute mind nor her divine tolerance.

  A few days ago I met a young man called V., an ingenuous fellow with a very pleasant face. He has just left the university and doesn’t consider himself overly wise, yet thinks he knows more than most people. As far as I can make out, he seems to have been very diligent; in short, he is well informed. He had heard that I sketch a great deal and that I know Greek—staggering accomplishments in these parts—so he came to see me and unloaded his store of wisdom, everything from Batteux to Wood, and De Piles to Winckelmann; and assured me that he had read all of Sulzer’s Theory (Part One) and owned a manuscript of Heyne’s on “The Study of Antiquity.” I let him talk.

  I have also met another good fellow, the magistrate of this principality, a forthright, simple man. I have been told that it is perfectly delightful to see him with his children—he has nine! There is a lot of talk about his eldest daughter. He has asked me to visit them, and I shall do so as soon as I can. He resides in one of the Prince’s hunting lodges, an hour and a half from here. He was given permission to move there after the death of his wife made it too painful for him to remain at his official residence in town.

  Aside from these two, a few curious characters have crossed my path about whom everything is insufferable, especially their efforts to be friendly. Farewell! This letter should please you…it is strictly factual!

  May 22nd

  The illusion that life is but a dream has occurred to quite a few people, and I feel the same way about it. When I see the limitations imposed on man’s powers of action and inquiry and observe how all his efficiency is aimed at nothing but the satisfaction of his needs, which in turn has but one purpose—to prolong his miserable existence—and when I see how all his reassurance on certain aspects of his inquiries is little more than a dreamy resignation, in that he chooses to bedaub the walls of his prison with motley figures and bright prospects—all this, William, makes me mute. I turn in upon myself and find a world there, again more in a spirit of presentiment and dour longing than dramatically or with vitality. Then everything grows hazy in my mind and I go on smiling dreamily at the world.

  All learned schoolmasters and tutors are agreed that little children do not know what they want, but no one likes to admit that grown men stumble across this earth like children, not knowing whence they came nor whither they are going, and that a grown man can be just as poor at pursuing the higher aims of life and can be ruled, just like a child, by cookies, cake, and rod. To me all this is quite obvious.

  I am perfectly willing to admit—because I know very well what your answer will be—that those people are happiest who live for the moment, like children dragging their dolls around with them, dressing and undressing them, eying the cupboard where Mama keeps the cookies with the greatest respect and, when at long last they get what they want, stuff their cheeks full, chew, swallow, and cry, “More!” Happy creatures! And they are lucky, also, who know how to give high-sounding names to their shabby professions, even to their passions, passing them off as great achievements that will benefit humanity. Any man is well off who can do that. But he who is humble knows very well where it all ends and can see how neatly every contented citizen prunes his little garden to suit his idea of Paradise, with what perseverance even the unhappy man bears his burden, and how all of them have but one thing on their minds—to see the sun shine for one short moment more. Believe me, such a man remains silent and learns how to create his own world by himself, and is happy—as they are—to be alive. And however confused he may be, he always carries in his heart a sweet feeling of freedom in the knowledge that he can leave his prison whenever he likes.

  May 26th

  You know my old habit of settling down in a place that suits me and of taking refuge there, however primitive it may be. Well, I have found such a spot here.

  About an hour away there is a place called Wahlheim.* Its location on the top of a hill is quite unusual, and if you take the footpath that leads to the village, you suddenly find yourself overlooking the entire valley. At the inn a good woman, who is pleasant and lively in spite of her advanced years, serves wine, beer, and coffee; but the crowning glory of the place are two linden trees that stretch their wide branches over the little green in front of the church, which is surrounded by cottages, barns and farmyards. I don’t think I have ever before seen a place which was so secluded and in which I could feel so much at home. I have them bring a table and chair outside for me and there I sit, drinking coffee and reading Homer. When I came upon the place for the first time quite by chance on a beautiful afternoon, I found the spot deserted. Everyone was out in the fields. Only a boy, about four years old, was sitting on the grass, holding an infant of about six months pressed with both arms tightly to his chest between his feet, thereby forming a sort of armchair for the child. In spite of the alert way he was looking about him out of his dark eyes, he sat perfectly still. The sight amused me. I sat down on a plow that was standing nearby and began, with great enthusiasm, to sketch this little picture of brotherly devotion. I put in the fence, a barn door, and a few dilapidated wagon wheels—everything, just as it was—and found, after an hour had passed, that I had produced a very well-arranged and interesting drawing without really having contributed anything to it. This strengthened my decision to stick to nature in the future, for only nature is infinitely rich and capable of developing a great artist. There is much to be said for the advantage of rules and regulations, much the same things as can be said in praise of middle-class society—he who sticks to them will never produce anything that is bad or in poor taste, just as he who lets himself be molded by law, order, and prosperity will never become an intolerable neighbor or a striking scoundrel. On the other hand—and people can say what they like—rules and regulations ruin our true appreciation of nature and our powers to express it. Very well, say that I am being too harsh and that rules and regulations merely serve to curb us, cut down the rank vine, etc. Would you like me to give you an example? We can, for instance, apply what I have just said to love. A young man’s heart belongs to a certain girl. He spends every hour of the day with her and expends all his strength and his entire fortune on assuring her at every moment that he is all hers. Along comes a Philistine, an official, let us say, and says to him, “My dear young man, to love is human, but you must love properly. Arrange your time more circumspectly into time for work, and spend only your hours of recreation with your sweetheart. Count your money and give her a present out of whatever remains after paying for the necessities of life…there is nothing to be said against that, only don’t do it too often…for her birthday, let us say, or her nameday,” etc. If the fellow obeys, you have a worthy young man and I would be willing to advise any Prince to let him head a committee. But as far as love is concerned, that’s finished. And if he is an artist, the same applies to his art. Oh my dear friend, would you like to know why genius so rarely breaks its bonds, why it so seldom bursts upon us like a raging torrent to shatter our astounded souls? My friend, it is because of the sober gentlemen who reside on either side of the river, whose precious little summerhouses, tulip beds, and vegetable gardens would be ruined by it, and who know so well how to build dams and divert all such threatening d
anger in good time.

  May 27th

  I see that I was carried away by ecstasy, parable, and oratory and quite forgot to tell you more about the children. I must have sat for at least two hours, lost in contemplation of my work—the sketch I did yesterday will give you a somewhat fragmentary impression of it—when, with the approach of evening, a young woman came toward the children, who still hadn’t moved. She was carrying a basket on her arm and called out to them from a distance, “My, what a good boy you are, Philip!” She nodded to me. I returned her greeting, rose, walked over to her, and asked if she was their mother. She said she was and, giving the older boy a bun, picked up the baby and kissed him in a very pretty display of motherly love. “I told Philip to hold the little one,” she explained, “while I went to town with my older boy to get some white bread and sugar, and a small earthenware dish for the baby’s porridge.” I could see all the things she mentioned in her basket because the lid was up. “I want to make soup for my Hans this evening.” Hans was the name of the youngest child. “My oldest boy, the rascal, broke the dish yesterday while he was quarreling with Philip over what was left of the cereal.” I asked her where her oldest boy was, and she had just finished telling me that he was chasing a pair of geese in a nearby field, when he came running up to us with a hazel switch for his little brother. I went on chatting with the woman and learned that her husband had set out on a journey to Switzerland to claim an inheritance left him by a cousin. “They were going to cheat him of it,” she explained. “They didn’t reply to his letters so he had to go there himself. I hope nothing has happened to him. I have had no word from him since he left.” I found it difficult to part from the woman. I gave each of the children a penny and gave her one for the little boy, so she could treat him to some white bread with his soup when she went to town again. Then we parted.

  Let me tell you something, my dear fellow—when I no longer know how to contain myself, the sight of someone like that, who is content within the narrow confines of her existence, who knows how to get by from day to day, who, when she sees the leaves fall, thinks of nothing but that winter is coming…it stills the tumult in my heart.

  Since that day, I have visited Wahlheim often. The children have grown accustomed to me. I give them my sugar when I drink my coffee and share my bread and butter and sour milk with them in the evening. Every Sunday they get their penny, and if I don’t happen to be there after vespers, I leave word with the innkeeper to give it to them. They confide in me, all sorts of things, but what amuses me most is their wildness, and their simple outbursts of self-assertion when they are joined by other children from the village. It wasn’t easy to convince their mother that they were not annoying me in the least.

  May 30th

  What I said the other day about painting is true also of poetry. It is simply that one should recognize and try to express only what is excellent, and that is saying a great deal in a few words. Today I experienced something that, simply told, could be a beautiful idyll, but what is poetry, episode, and idyll? Must it always be patchwork when we participate in a revelation of nature?

  If you are expecting something very lofty and highly refined after this preamble, then you have been sadly misled again. Nothing more grandiose than a peasant lad produced this lively anticipation in me. I will tell the tale badly, as usual, and as usual you will say that I am exaggerating. It is Wahlheim again, always Wahlheim, where such unique things take place.

  A group of people were taking coffee under the linden trees. They did not appeal to me, so I made up an excuse for not joining them. A peasant boy came out of one of the neighboring cottages and busied himself fixing the plow which I sketched a few days ago. I liked his appearance so I accosted him and asked him some questions about himself. We were soon on quite friendly terms, and, as is usual with this type of person, he began to confide in me. He told me that he was in the service of a widow and that he was being treated well there. He talked on and on about her, singing her praises, and it wasn’t long before I realized that he was hopelessly in love with her. She was not young, he explained, and her first husband had treated her badly. She therefore did not want to marry again. From what he told it became quite clear how pretty and charming she was, and how much he wished that she would choose him to help her forget her first mistake. I would have to repeat what he said word for word really to convey to you his attraction to the woman, his love and devotion. Indeed, I would have to be a great poet to reproduce what he said, his attitude, the harmoniousness of his voice, the latent fire in his eyes, as spiritedly as I experienced them. But there are no words for the tenderness expressed by the man as a whole. Anything I might say would be clumsy in comparison. I was especially touched by his fear that I might come to the wrong conclusions about the relationship and doubt her propriety. It was charming to hear him speak of her appearance and figure, to which he was so strongly attracted although she was no longer young. I can recapture it only in the depths of my soul. Never in my life have I witnessed the driving forces of desire and passion so purely expressed. I will even go so far as to say that I have never seen them envisioned with so much chastity. Don’t be vexed if I tell you that I catch fire myself when I recall his innocence and honesty. The thought of his loyalty and tenderness follows me everywhere, and I feel faint with desire myself, as if his passion had been contagious.

  Of course I shall try to catch a glimpse of her as soon as possible, or rather, come to think of it, I don’t think I shall. I’ll do better to continue to visualize her through the eyes of her lover. Who knows…seen with my own, she might not look at all as I see her standing before me now, and why spoil the pretty picture?

  June 16th

  You want to know why I don’t write? You ask me that, you who are supposed to be a learned man? You should know without a word from me that I am well and…oh, let’s not beat about the bush. I have met someone who has touched my heart. I have…oh, I don’t know what I have!

  It is not going to be easy for me to tell you what happened chronologically—that I have met a most endearing creature. I am in high spirits and very happy, therefore no good at all for a factual accounting of affairs.

  An angel? Rubbish! That is what every man calls his beloved, isn’t it? Yet I am quite incapable of conveying to you how absolutely perfect she is and why she is so absolutely perfect. Let it suffice to say that she has captivated me.

  She is naïve yet very sensible; she is kind yet firm, and tranquillity personified as she goes about her daily tasks.

  And all I have just written is arrant nonsense and tiresome notions that really don’t give you a single one of her traits. Some other time—no, not some other time but right now I am going to tell you about it. If I don’t do it now, I never will. Because, to be quite frank, since I started writing to you I have put down my pen three times to see that my horse was saddled so that I could ride over to visit her. Although I swore to myself this morning that I would not go there today, I find myself constantly wandering over to the window to note how high the sun still stands in the sky.

  There. Nothing to be done about it. I simply had to go and see her, and here I am again, William. I shall have my supper now and write to you. What joy it is to see her surrounded by a swarm of charming, lively children, her eight brothers and sisters!

  If I go on like this, you won’t know much more when I am through than you did at the beginning. Very well, then, listen. I will do my best to give you the full details.

  I wrote to you not long ago that I had made the acquaintance of Magistrate S. and how he asked me to visit him soon at his retreat, or rather, in his little private kingdom. I didn’t do anything about it at the time and might never have gone if chance had not given me the opportunity to discover what a treasure lay hidden in that quiet spot.

  Some of our young people had arranged a dance in the country, and I decided to go. I asked one of the young ladies here—a nice, good-looking but rather insignificant girl—to go with me, and it w
as agreed that I order a carriage for us and her cousin and that we pick up Charlotte S. on the way. “You are going to meet a very pretty girl,” my partner told me, as we drove through a clearing to the lodge. “Watch out that you don’t fall in love with her,” her cousin said. “And why shouldn’t I fall in love with her?” I wanted to know. “Because she is engaged,” my partner explained, “to a very worthy man who is away just now on business. His father died and he has to attend to the settlement of a quite considerable estate.” The information did not make much impression on me.

  As we drove into the courtyard, the sun was low above the hills. It was oppressive, and the women were afraid that the leaden clouds gathering on the horizon presaged a thunderstorm. I pretended to know much more than I do about the weather and succeeded in reassuring the ladies, although I was beginning to wonder myself if our festivities were not going to be upset.

  I had already alighted from the carriage when a servant girl, who had come to the gate, begged us to wait a moment. “Miss Lotte” would be out right away. I walked across the courtyard toward the attractive house, and when I had gone up the steps and through a doorway, I came upon the most charming sight imaginable. Six children, from about eleven to two, were swarming around a very pretty girl of medium height. She had on a simple white dress with pale pink bows on the sleeves and at her breast, and she was holding a loaf of black bread and cutting a slice for every one of her little ones, according to their ages and appetites. She gave each his share with the most enchanting graciousness, and the children cried out their “thank you’s” to her absolutely at their ease, stretching out their little hands for their slice before she had even had a chance to cut it. Then they jumped off happily with their supper or, each according to his nature, walked away quietly in the direction of the courtyard to see the strange persons and the carriage in which their Lotte would soon drive away.