Sorrows of Young Werther and Selected Writings (9781101635483)

by Goethe, Johannwolfgang Von; Hutter, Catherine (TRN)

  I could sense something mysterious, so I asked in a roundabout way, “And what does he want to do with the flowers?”

  A bright, tremulous smile crossed his face. “If the gentleman won’t give me away,” he said, putting a finger to his lips, “I promised my sweetheart a bouquet.”

  “Now there’s a good man!” I said.

  “Oh, she has many other things,” he replied. “She is rich.”

  “And yet she likes his nosegay,” I said.

  “Oh,” he countered, “she has jewels and a crown.”

  “What is her name?”

  “If the Netherlands would only pay me,” he said, “it would make a changed man of me. Yes, yes, there was a time when I was very well off. Now that’s all over and done with. Now I am…” He turned his moist eyes skyward to express the rest.

  “So he was once a happy man?” I asked.

  “Ah, if only I could be like that again,” he replied. “How happy I used to feel in those days—so merry, like a fish in water.”

  “Henry!” cried an old woman who now came up the path. “Henry, where are you? We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Come and eat.”

  “Is that your son?” I asked, stepping forward.

  “Indeed he is my poor son,” she said. “God has given me a heavy cross to bear.”

  “How long has he been that way?” I asked.

  “Quiet like that,” she said, “he has been only for the past six months. God be thanked that he is as he is now. The year before, he was a raving maniac and they had to keep him chained in the madhouse. Now he does no harm, but he is always troubled, his kings and emperors on his mind. He was such a good, quiet lad who helped toward my support and could write a pretty hand, but suddenly he became despondent and fell into a violent fever, and from that into raving madness, and now he is as you see him. If I were to tell you, sir—”

  I interrupted her flood of words with the question, “What sort of time was it that he praises so highly, when he was so happy, so content?”

  “The fool,” she cried, with a pitying smile. “He means the time he was deranged, the time he spent in the madhouse, when he didn’t know what was going on around him—that’s the time he is forever praising so highly.”

  It struck me like a thunderbolt. I pressed a coin into her hand and hurried away.

  “So that was when you were happy!” I cried aloud, as I hastened back to town. “When you felt like a fish in water!” Oh dear God in heaven, hast Thou made it man’s fate that he cannot be happy until he has found his reason and lost it again? Poor wretch! Yet how I envy him his dim mind, envy him pining away in his confusion. He goes out hopefully in the winter to pick flowers for his queen and grieves when he finds none and can’t grasp when he finds none…and I? I go out without hope in my heart, with no purpose, and return home as I went. He can see the man he would be if only the Netherlands would pay him. Fortunate fellow! He can ascribe his lack of bliss to an earthly hindrance. He doesn’t feel, he doesn’t even know, that his misery lies in his destroyed heart, in his disordered mind—a fate from which all the kings on earth cannot save him!

  The miserable wretch should perish who dares to mock a sick man journeying to a far-off healing spring that will only make his sickness worse and the rest of his days more painful; and so should he who looks down arrogantly on a man with a sorely afflicted heart who, to rid himself of his guilty conscience and cast off the sufferings of his soul, makes a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulcher. Every step he takes on an unbeaten track is balm to his fearful soul, and with every day of his journey endured, his heart rests lightened of many anxieties. And you dare to call it madness, you sophists on your downy cushions? Madness? O God, Thou dost see my tears. Why didst Thou, Who made man poor, have to give him brothers who would rob him even of the little he has, of the little faith he has in Thee, Thou all-loving God? For what is faith in a healing root or in the tears of the grapevine but faith in Thee, in that Thou hast imbued all that surrounds us with the powers of salvation and the forces that ease pain, of which we stand in hourly need. Father Whom I know not, Father Who once filled my whole soul but has turned His face from me now—call me unto Thee. Be silent no longer. Thy silence will not deter this thirsting soul. Could any man—could any father—be angry with a son who comes back unexpectedly and throws his arms around his neck, crying, “Here I am, returned to thee, my father. Be not angry that I interrupted my wanderings, which according to Thy will, I should have endured longer. The world is the same everywhere—in effort and work, in reward and joy—but what concern is it of mine? Only where Thou art can I be content. There I will suffer and rejoice.” Wouldst Thou, dear heavenly Father, cast out such a man?

  December 1st

  William! The fellow I wrote to you about, that fortunate unfortunate man, was once secretary to Lotte’s father, and his passionate love for her—which he nurtured, concealed, but finally disclosed, and because of which he was dismissed—drove him mad. Try to feel, as you read these dry words, with what derangement they filled me when Albert mentioned it to me just as casually as you read about it now.

  December 4th

  I beg of you…look…I am done for. I cannot endure it a moment longer. Today I was with her…she was sitting…she was playing the piano…different pieces, and with so much expression…with so much…with so much…What do you want me to do? Her little sister was sitting on my knee, dressing her doll. Tears rushed to my eyes. I leaned forward and suddenly could see nothing but Lotte’s wedding ring, and my tears flowed. And all of a sudden, as if by chance, she began to play that old, heavenly sweet melody, and I was consoled. And my soul was filled with the recollection of things past, of other times when I had listened to the song, and the dark intervals, the grief, the hopes dashed, and then…I started to pace the room, up and down, my heart stifled with the pressure of these memories. “For God’s sake,” I said, turning on her with a vehemence I could not control, “for God’s sake, stop!”

  She did and stared at me wide-eyed. “Werther,” she said, with a little smile that cut me to the quick, “Werther, you are ill. Your favorite things are repugnant to you. Go. I beg of you, go and try to calm down.” I tore myself away and…dear God, Thou seest my misery. Put an end to it, I beseech Thee!

  December 6th

  How the sight of her haunts me! Awake and dreaming, she fills my whole being. Here, when I close my eyes, here, behind my forehead, where we assemble our insight, I see her dark eyes. Here! I cannot express it adequately. I close my eyes and there they are…hers—like an abyss in front of me, inside me. They fill my whole mind.

  What is man, this exalted demigod? Doesn’t he lack power just when he needs it most? Whether he is uplifted by joy or engulfed by suffering, is he not stopped in both conditions and brought back to dull, cold consciousness just when he is ready to lose himself in the abundance of the infinite?

  EDITOR TO READER

  How I wish there was enough material left, covering our friend’s last strange days, so that it would not be necessary to interrupt with narrative the flow of the letters he left behind.

  I made a point of collecting precise reports from those who of necessity had a thorough knowledge of his story. It is simple, and except for a few details, all the accounts tally. Opinions differ only in accordance with the personalities and opinions of the characters involved.

  There is nothing left to do but relate conscientiously what we were able to find out as a result of our meticulous efforts and include, in their proper place, letters that the departed left behind, not overlooking the smallest evidence we may have come across, since it is very difficult to uncover the true motive of even a single action when it takes place among people who are not cut of conventional cloth.

  Ill humor and listlessness became more and more deeply rooted in Werther’s soul until finally they took possession of his entire personality. The harmony of his spirit was utterly destroyed, and an inner passion and vehemence that confused all the forces
of his nature resulted in the most objectionable effects, leaving him in the end with nothing but a feeling of exhaustion out of which he tried to rise with an even greater fear than he had felt when previously seeking to combat his misery. His anxiety destroyed all the remaining forces of his intellect, his liveliness, his wit; he became sorry company, waxing ever more unfortunate and unjust as he became increasingly unhappy. At any rate, that is what Albert’s friends say. They declare that Werther could no longer evaluate that decent, quiet man who had at last taken possession of a happiness long desired with the attitude that had to accompany it—the wish to preserve this happiness in the future—not Werther, who expended his all daily only to suffer starvation at nightfall. Albert, they say, underwent no such change. He was the same man Werther had known from the beginning and learned to appreciate and respect. He loved Lotte above all else; he was proud of her and liked to see everyone else recognize her as a paragon among women. Who can blame him if he did his best to avoid any traces of suspicion and had no desire to share his treasure with anyone, not even in the most innocent fashion? They admit that Albert often left his wife’s room when Werther was there—not, however, in hatred or antipathy toward his friend but because he could sense that his presence oppressed Werther.

  Lotte’s father was suffering from a complaint that confined him to his room. He sent his carriage for her, and she drove out to see him. It was a beautiful winter day; the first heavy snow had fallen and covered the whole countryside.

  Werther walked over on the following morning to accompany Lotte home in case Albert did not come for her. The clear weather had little effect on his dour mood. His heart was heavy, his unhappy view of things was deeply rooted in him, and his spirit could only pass from one painful thought to the next. Since he lived in a state of continual dissatisfaction with himself, the condition of others appeared to him as dubious and confused, too. He felt that he had disturbed the good relationship between Albert and Lotte and reproached himself on this score, and a secret resentment against Albert crept into his confusion.

  On his way to fetch Lotte, his mind reverted to this subject. Yes, yes, he told himself, his jaw set hard…there you have it—the ultimate, friendly, tender relationship that participates in everything, a quiet, lasting faithfulness! Satiation—that’s what it is! And indifference. Doesn’t every miserable bit of business he has to do attract him more than his precious wife? Does he appreciate his good fortune? Does he respect her as she deserves to be respected? He has her…all very well and good…he has her. I know he has her just as I know all sorts of things. I think I have become accustomed to the knowledge, but in the end, it will drive me mad and be the death of me. And has his friendship for me remained constant? Doesn’t he see an interference in his rights in my devotion to Lotte, and a silent reproach in my attentions? I know it, I can feel it—he doesn’t like to see me. He would like to see me go. My presence oppresses him.

  Werther walked fast, stopped often, stood still and seemed to want to turn back, but then he persevered and went steadily forward and with thoughts such as these and mumbling to himself, finally reached the lodge almost against his will.

  He walked up to the door, asked after the old man and Lotte, and found the house in quite a stir. The oldest boy told him that there had been a disaster in Wahlheim. A peasant had been murdered. The news had no particular effect on Werther. He went into the living room and found Lotte trying to talk her father out of going over to look into the matter in spite of his weak condition. The murderer was still unknown. The dead man had been found in front of his door early that morning. Suspicions centered on someone. The murdered man was the servant of a widow who had had another man in her service before him. This man had been dismissed under disagreeable circumstances.

  When Werther heard this, he became very agitated. “It couldn’t be!” he cried, and then, “I must go there at once!”

  He rushed over to Wahlheim, every memory alive in him, and there was no doubt in his mind that the young man with whom he had spoken several times and whom he had come to like so much had committed the crime.

  He had to pass under the linden trees to get to the inn where the body had been laid out and was horrified when he saw the beloved spot. Where the neighbor’s children had played once it was befouled with blood. Love and faithfulness—the most beautiful human emotions—had been transformed into violence and murder. The sturdy trees stood barren and thick with hoarfrost; the pretty hedges, arched over the low wall of the churchyard, were leafless; the snowcapped gravestones were visible through the gaps.

  As Werther approached the inn in front of which the whole village had assembled there was a sudden hubbub of voices. A group of armed men was approaching from a distance, shouting that they had the murderer. Werther saw him and at once his doubts were dispelled. It was the boy who had loved the widow so much, whom Werther had met some time ago in his tacit fury and despair.

  “What have you done, unhappy man?” Werther cried, walking up to the prisoner. The man looked at Werther quietly and was silent for a moment; then he said, “No one shall have her, and she shall have no one.” The men took the prisoner to the inn and Werther hurried away.

  The impact of this horrifying experience created a state of chaos in his mind. For a moment he was torn out of his grief, his despondency and indifference to things, and sympathy for the young man overwhelmed him. He was seized by an indescribable urge to save him. He could feel the man’s misery, even as a criminal—he felt the man was innocent; and he could put himself so wholeheartedly into the poor wretch’s position that he was sure he could make others feel the same way. He wanted to speak for the man; the liveliest defense rushed to his lips. He tore over to the lodge, and all the way there could not keep from muttering to himself what he was going to say to the judge.

  When he entered the room again, he found Albert present. For a moment this irritated him, but he soon regained control of himself and expounded to the judge how he felt about the crime. The old man shook his head several times, and although Werther set forth in the liveliest fashion and most passionately and truthfully anything and everything that one man could possibly say to excuse his neighbor, still, as is quite understandable, the judge remained unmoved. He didn’t even let Werther finish what he had to say, but disagreed heatedly and reproved him for defending a murderer. He explained that all law would be voided and the security of the state destroyed if Werther’s viewpoint were accepted, adding that he was in no position to do anything about it without taking grave responsibility upon himself. Everything would have to take its prescribed and orderly course.

  But Werther did not give up so easily. He begged the judge at least to look the other way if anyone should help the man to escape! The judge, of course, rejected him on this count too. Albert, who at last joined in the conversation, sided with the judge. Werther was outnumbered, and in a state of abject misery took himself off, after the judge had told him several times, “The man is doomed.”

  How deeply these words impressed Werther can be seen from a note found among his papers, words that must certainly have been written on that day: “You are doomed, my unfortunate friend. I can see it quite clearly—we are doomed.”

  Werther especially resented Albert’s final word in the matter, spoken in the presence of the judge, and thought he could detect resentment against himself in it, and even though, after giving the matter more thought, the fact could not have escaped him that both men were right, he still felt that he would be denying his innermost self if he admitted it.

  A note referring to this, which perhaps expresses Werther’s entire relationship to Albert, was found among his papers. “What good does it do me to tell myself again and again he is good, his behavior is impeccable…it tears me apart! I cannot be just!”

  Since it was a mild evening and a thaw had set in, Lotte and Albert walked home. On the way, she looked about her every now and then as if she missed Werther’s company. Albert began to talk about Werther r
eprovingly, accusing him of being unjust. He touched upon the young man’s passionate nature and said he wished Werther would go away. “I wish it for our sakes as well,” he said, “and I beg you, try to guide his attitude toward you into other channels. See to it that he visits us less often. People are beginning to notice, and I know that there has been talk about it.”

  Lotte was silent, and Albert seemed to feel her silence. At any rate, from then on, he never spoke of Werther in her presence, and if she mentioned him, he stopped talking or directed the conversation onto other topics.

  Werther’s vain effort to save the unfortunate man was the last flickering flame of a light that was dying. After it, he sank even deeper into pain and lassitude. He became especially overwrought when he heard that he might be asked to testify against the man, who now denied his guilt.

  Everything disagreeable that had ever happened to him in his active life—his grievance against the embassy, every failure that had hurt him—now ran rampant through his tormented mind. He let it justify his idleness; he felt cut off from all hope of ever again being able to regain a firm grip on life. Thus he finally drew closer to his sad end, lost in a fantastic sensitivity and infinite passion, in the eternal monotony of a sad intercourse with the gracious and beloved creature whose inner repose he disturbed, stormy in the powers that were left him, working them off with no goal, no prospects.

  A few letters he left behind bear witness to the confusion and tempestuousness of his restless activities and struggle, and of his weariness of life. We include them here.

  December 12th

  Dear William, I am in the condition in which those unfortunates who were believed to be possessed of evil spirits must have found themselves. Sometimes it takes hold of me—not fear, not desire, but an inner, unfathomable turmoil that threatens to burst the confines of my breast and choke me. Then I wander about in the dread nocturnal setting of this unfriendly season.