July 1st
My poor heart, which is worse off than many a heart wasting away on a sickbed, tells me what Lotte must mean to a sick person. She is going to spend a few days in town at the bedside of a worthy woman who, according to the doctor, is about to die. He wants Lotte at her side during the poor creature’s final hours.
Last week I went with Lotte to visit the rector of St.——, a little town in the mountains about an hour away. We arrived there at four o’clock. Lotte took her two sisters with her. As we drove into the courtyard of the rectory, which lies in the shade of two tall walnut trees, the old man was sitting on a bench outside the door, and when he set eyes on Lotte he seemed to come to life. He forgot to use his knobby cane and rose to come forward to greet her without it. She ran to him and saw to it that he sat down again by the simple expedient of sitting down beside him herself. She brought him greetings from her father and made a fuss of his horrid, dirty little youngest boy, the joy of his old age. You should have seen her, how she kept the old man amused, raising her voice so that his deaf ears might hear her; how she talked about robust young people who had died quite suddenly and praised Karlsbad to the skies and his decision to spend his summers there from now on. She elaborated on how much better she thought he looked and remarked that he seemed to have more strength than when she had seen him last. Meanwhile I paid my respects to the vicar’s wife.
The old man became more and more lively. Of course I had to admire the magnificent nut trees that were offering us such delightful shade, so he began, a little clumsy, to tell us their story.
“We don’t know who planted the old one,” he began. “Some say it was this clergyman, others say it was another. But the younger tree over there is as old as my wife, fifty in October. Her father planted it in the morning of the day she was born…she was born toward evening. He was my predecessor here, and I can’t tell you how much the tree meant to him. Naturally, it means just as much to me. My wife was sitting on a bench underneath it, twenty-seven years ago, when I walked into this yard for the first time, just a poor student.”
Lotte asked after his daughter. She was told that the girl had gone out to the workers in the field with Herr Schmidt, and the old man went on with his story—how the vicar had become fond of him, then his daughter, too; how he had been curate first, then vicar. He was scarcely done when his young daughter came through the garden with the aforementioned Herr Schmidt. She greeted Lotte warmly, and, I must say, she was attractive—a lively brunette with an excellent figure who would have understood very well how to help anyone pass a short stay in the country. Her admirer—Herr Schmidt quite obviously was just that—turned out to be a sensitive and quiet young man who did not seem to want to join in our conversation, although Lotte did her best to include him. What distressed me most about him was that I thought I could read in his expression that stubbornness and ill humor, rather than any limitations of the mind, prevented him from expressing himself. Unfortunately, this became very obvious later when we went for a walk, for whenever Friederike happened to walk with Lotte or me, the young man’s face—which was swarthy anyhow—darkened so visibly that Lotte plucked at my sleeve and gave me to understand I was paying too much attention to the girl. Now there is nothing that irritates me more than when people torment each other, especially when young people in the prime of their lives, who should be open to all joys, spoil the few good days they have with a dour mien and only find out too late that they have wasted something irretrievable. The whole thing rankled within me, and when we returned to the rectory toward evening and were seated around a table drinking milk, and the conversation turned to the joys and sorrows of life, I simply had to take over the conversation and hold forth against the moodiness of man.
“People often complain,” I said, “that there are too few good days and too many bad ones, and as far as I can see, they do so unjustly. If we always kept our hearts wide open to receive the good things God has in store for us daily, we would soon have strength enough to bear the bad when they come.”
“But our spirit is not ours to shape,” the vicar’s wife objected. “Think how much depends on our bodies. If we don’t feel well everything seems out of joint.”
I agreed with her. “So let us look upon moodiness as a sickness,” I replied, “and ask ourselves if there be not a cure for it.”
“That’s a thought,” Lotte said. “I for one believe that a great deal depends on us. I know that it does from my own experience. If something is bothering or depressing me, I get up and hum a few dance tunes, up and down the garden, and right away it is gone.”
“That’s just what I was trying to express,” I said. “Ill humor is like indolence, because it is a form of indolence. Our natures tend toward it. But if we can muster the strength to pull ourselves together, work can be made easy and we can find true pleasure in activity.”
Friederike was listening attentively, and now her young man interrupted me, declaring that one was not always in control of oneself, least of all of one’s feelings.
“But what we are talking about,” I explained, “is a disagreeable feeling, and everyone should be thankful to be rid of it. And no one knows how strong he is until he has tried. After all, if a man is ill, he goes to one doctor after another and puts up with any restrictions and the bitterest medicine to preserve his good health.”
I noticed that the good old man was straining to hear what was being said so he could take part in the discussion. I therefore raised my voice and addressed him. “Our sermons speak out against so many vices,” I said, “but I have never heard a word spoken from the pulpit against ill humor.”*
“The preachers in the cities should see to that,” the old man replied. “Our peasants are good-humored by nature. Still, it wouldn’t do any harm from time to time, and it would certainly be a good lesson for my wife—and for the magistrate!”
Everyone laughed, and the old man joined in the laughter, until a fit of coughing put an end to the discussion for a while. The young man picked up the thread again. “You called ill humor a vice,” he said. “Wouldn’t you say that was exaggerating?”
“Not at all,” I replied. “Anything that does harm to oneself or one’s neighbor deserves to be called a vice. Isn’t it sad enough that we cannot make each other happy? Must we rob one another of the pleasure every heart can sometimes provide for itself? Show me the person who is ill-humored yet good enough to bear it alone, without destroying the happiness around him. Isn’t ill humor actually an inner annoyance with our own unworthiness, a dislike of ourselves, and isn’t it somehow always connected with the envy that is egged on by our own foolish vanity? We see happy people whom we are not making happy, and we cannot bear it.”
Lotte smiled at me because she could see how the topic touched me, and a tear in Friederike’s eye spurred me on. “What wretches they are, those who take advantage of the power they have over the heart of another,” I said, “and rob him of the simple joys within him! Not all the gifts in the world nor any favor can compensate for a moment of one’s personal pleasure that has been made bitter by the envious ill temper of this tyrant of ours!”
My heart was full. Memories of things past brought the tears to my eyes too. “If only man would tell himself daily: You owe your friends nothing but to leave them their joys and increase their happiness by sharing it with them. Can you give them a little comfort when they are tormented by fear? And when the poor creature, whose soul you undermined in fairer days, is struggling with his last, fateful illness and lies there pitiful in his exhaustion, looking up at the sky, all feeling spent, the dew of death on his pale brow, and you stand by his deathbed like one damned, with the profound feeling that with everything in your power you can do nothing to help, and you are gripped by a dreadful fear and would give anything in the world if only you could imbue his perishing soul with one ounce of strength…”
As I spoke, the memory of such a scene overwhelmed me. I covered my face with my handkerchief and left the lit
tle group and was only able to control myself again when Lotte called out to me that we had to leave. On the way back, she scolded me for my too intense participation in all things going on around me and warned that it would lead to my ruination. I was, please, she begged, to think of myself. Angel! For you I have to live!
July 6th
She is with her dying friend constantly and is always the same: ever-present, ever lovely. Wherever her eyes fall, she eases pain and brings joy. Yesterday, she went for a walk with Marianne and little Amelia. I knew about it and met them, and all of us walked on together. About an hour and a half later we were approaching town again and we came to the spring that meant so much to me once and now means a thousand times more. Lotte sat down on the low stone wall; the rest of us stood around her. I looked about me, and the time that I was alone came to life again within me. “Beloved spring,” I thought, “since then I have not rested in thy cool aura. Sometimes, when hurrying by, I have not even given thee a glance.” I looked down and could see Amelia carefully carrying up a cup of water; I looked at Lotte and realized what she meant to me. Meanwhile, Amelia arrived with the cup and Marianne wanted to take it from her. “No,” the child said, with the sweetest expression, “no…Lotte, you must drink first.”
I was so entranced with the child’s candor and goodness that I could express it in no other way than by picking her up and kissing her fervently, whereupon she immediately squealed and began to cry. “You shouldn’t have done that,” Lotte said.
I was abashed.
“Come, Melly,” she said, taking the child by the hand and leading her down the steps. “Wash yourself in the fresh spring water quickly, and it won’t matter at all.” I stood there and watched the child rub her cheeks energetically with her little wet hands, so confident that the spring’s miraculous powers would wash away all impurity, and she would not have to fear the shame of growing an ugly mustache. Lotte said that was enough; still the child went on scrubbing her cheeks as if more could only be better than little. William, I assure you that I never attended a baptism with more reverence, and when Lotte came up the steps again I longed to throw myself at her feet, as one throws oneself down before a prophet who has just washed his people clean of sin.
That evening my heart so overflowed with joy that I could not resist describing the event to a gentleman, a sensible fellow who, I was therefore sure, had a good understanding of human nature. But that was a mistake. He was of the opinion that Lotte was wrong—children should never be misled. Such nonsense could lead to innumerable errors and superstitions, and a child could not be protected from such things early enough in life. It occurred to me suddenly that only a week ago the man had had one of his children baptized, so I let it pass, but in my heart I remained true to my belief: We should treat children as God treats us when He lets us go our way in a transport of delightful illusions.
July 8th
William, we are children! Have you any idea how one can pine for a glance from one’s beloved? We are children!
We visited Wahlheim—the ladies drove out—and on one of our walks I thought I could see in Lotte’s eyes…I am a fool! Forgive me. But you should see those eyes.
I cannot write long. I am so sleepy my eyelids are drooping, but listen…the ladies were getting into the carriage. Young W., Selstadt, Andran, and I were standing beside it, chatting about nothing in particular. I tried to catch Lotte’s eye. She was looking from one man to the other, but not at me, me, me, who alone stood there waiting for her glance. My heart was bidding her a thousand farewells, and she didn’t even see me! The carriage passed us, and there were tears in my eyes. I looked after her and could see her bonnet as she leaned out and turned to look at—at whom? And that, in brief, describes my uncertainty, and my consolation. Perhaps she did look back at me. Perhaps. Good night. Oh William, what a child I am!
July 10th
You should see what an idiot I am when she is mentioned in public. And when someone asks how I like her! Like her? I can’t abide the word. What kind of person could possibly “like” Lotte? What kind of person could possibly not be completely fulfilled by her? Like her! The other day someone asked me if I liked Ossian!5
Frau M. is very ill. I pray for her as I share Lotte’s anxiety. I see her only rarely, at the house of a friend, and today she told me something very strange.
Old M., it seems, is a miserly, avaricious fellow who has tormented his wife throughout their life together and forced her to live exceedingly modestly, but the good woman always managed somehow. The other day, when the doctor had declared that her last hour had come, she sent for her husband—Lotte was in the room—and addressed him thus:
“I have a confession to make that might prevent confusion and chagrin after my death. Until now I have kept house as frugally and properly as possible and I am sure you will forgive me for having deceived you these past thirty years. At the outset of our married life, you set aside a very modest sum for our household needs. As our mode of living expanded and business prospered, you could not be persuaded to increase my weekly household allowance to match our circumstances; in short—when we were most prosperous, you insisted that I manage on seven guilders a week. I accepted the seven guilders without demur and took the rest of what was needed out of our receipts, because I felt no one would ever suspect your wife of robbing the till. I never wasted any of it and would have gone to my rest happily now without mentioning it, were it not for the fact that whoever has to care for your household after me will not know how to manage, and you will insist, of course, that your wife always made do with the sum.”
Lotte and I then spoke about the incredible fatuousness of a man who does not become suspicious when his wife manages on seven guilders a household that obviously betrays the fact that twice as much is being spent. But I have known people who accepted the widow’s never-failing cruse of oil6 without surprise.
July 13th
No, I am not deceived—I can read true sympathy in her dark eyes. Yes, I feel…and here I know I can trust my heart…that she…dare I, can I express heaven in a few words? That she loves me.
Loves me. And how precious I have become to myself, how I—I can say this to you, who have understanding for such emotions—how I worship at my own altar since I know that she loves me!
Is this presumption or fact, I ask myself? I don’t know the man who, I fear, has a place in Lotte’s heart, yet when she speaks of her betrothed with so much warmth and love, then I am a man degraded, robbed of his honor, title, and sword.
July 16th
Oh, how wildly my blood courses through my veins when, by chance, my hand touches hers or our feet touch under the table! I start away as if from a fire, a mysterious power draws me back, and I become dizzy…and in her artlessness and innocence she has no idea how much such little intimacies torment me. When she puts her hand in mine in the course of a conversation and, absorbed by what we are talking about, draws closer to me, and the heavenly breath from her lips touches mine…then I feel I must sink to the ground as if struck by lightning. William, if ever I should presume to take advantage of this heaven on earth, this trust in me…you know what I mean. But I am not depraved. Weak, yes, weak God knows I am…and can this not be called depraved?
She is sacred to me. All lust is stilled in her presence. I can’t explain how I feel when I am with her. It is as if every nerve in my body were possessed by my soul. There is a certain melody…she plays it on the piano like an angel, so simply yet with so much spirit. It is her favorite song, and I am restored from all pain, confusion, and vagaries with the first note.
Nothing that has ever been said about the magic power of music seems improbable to me now. How that simple melody touches me! And how well she knows when she should play it, often at moments when I feel like blowing my brains out! Then all delusions and darkness within me are dispelled, and I breathe freely again.
July 18th
William, what is life worth without love? A magic lantern without light. All yo
u have to do is put in the light, and it produces the loveliest colored pictures on a white wall. And if there is nothing more to it than these oh, so transient phantoms, always it denotes happiness when we stand in front of it like naïve boys and are enchanted by the magical visions. Today an unavoidable gathering prevented me from visiting Lotte. What could I do? I sent over my servant, if only to have someone about me who had been near her! The impatience with which I waited for him and the joy, when I saw him return, are indescribable! I would have liked to embrace and kiss him, but was, of course, too ashamed.
They say that when the stone of Bonona is exposed to the rays of the sun it attracts them and shines for a while into the night. That was how the boy affected me. The idea that she had looked at his face, at his cheeks, at the buttons on his waistcoat and the collar of his jacket, made every one of these things sacred and invaluable to me. At that point I wouldn’t have let anyone have the boy for a thousand talers! I felt simply wonderful in his presence! Dear God, William, don’t laugh at me! Do you suppose it is illusory to be so happy?
July 19th
I shall see her today! When I awaken in the morning and look blithely into the sunlight, I cry out, “I shall see her today!” And I don’t have another wish for the next twenty-four hours. Everything—everything, I tell you—is lost in this one anticipation!
July 20th
I can’t agree with you that I should go to——with our ambassador. I don’t like subordination, and we know only too well that the man is obnoxious. My mother, you say, would like to see me actively employed. I have to laugh. Am I not actively employed now, and does it make any difference, really, whether I am sorting peas or lentils? Everything on earth can be reduced to a triviality and the man who, to please another, wears himself out for money, honor, what you will, is a fool.
Sorrows of Young Werther and Selected Writings (9781101635483) Page 5