Please be so good as to tell my mother that I am conducting her business as best I can and that I will soon be sending her news. I have spoken to my aunt and have found her not at all the evil woman she was made out to be. She is a lively, excitable person with a heart of gold. I explained my mother’s concern about the portion of the inheritance that was withheld; she told me her reasons, the causes, and under what conditions she was prepared to give up all of it, more than we asked for.—In short, I don’t feel like writing about it now; tell my mother that everything is bound to turn out well. And, my dear friend, once again I have learned from this little piece of business that misunderstandings and neglect may cause more confusion in the world than do cunning and malice. At any rate, the last two are certainly more rare.
For the rest, I feel altogether well here. Solitude in this paradisiacal place is a precious balm to my heart, and this season of youth, with its abundance, warms my often-shuddering heart. Every tree, every hedge is a bouquet of blossoms and makes you want to turn into a May bug, so as to float in this sea of fragrances and draw all your nourishment from it.
The town itself is unpleasant; by contrast, it is surrounded by inexpressible natural beauty. This moved the late Count von M. to plant a garden on one of the hills that intersect one another in the most beautiful variety, forming the loveliest valleys. The garden is simple, and immediately on entering you sense that the plan was designed not by a scientific gardener but by a feeling heart that intended to enjoy itself here. I have already shed more than one tear for the deceased in the ruined little arbor that was his favorite spot and now is mine. Soon I will be the master of the garden; I enjoy the gardener’s favor even after only these few days, and he will not have done badly as a result.
MAY 10
A wonderful gaiety has seized my entire soul, like the sweet spring mornings I wholeheartedly enjoy. I am alone and glad to be alive in this place, which is made for souls like mine. I am so happy, dearest friend, so deeply immersed in the sense of calm existence that my art is suffering. I could not draw now, not a single stroke, and yet I have never been a greater painter than in these moments. When the vapor of this lovely valley rises around me and the midday sun rests on the impenetrable dark of my woods and only a few stray gleams steal into the inner sanctuary, then I lie in the high grass by the tumbling brook, and closer to the earth a thousand different little shoots grow distinct before my eyes; when closer to my heart I feel the teeming of the little world between the blades of grass, the countless, unfathomable shapes of the tiny worms, the tiny gnats, and feel the presence of the Almighty Who created us in His image, the breath of the All-loving Who in eternal bliss holds us hovering and keeps us; my friend! when the light fades around my eyes and the world around me and the heavens rest in my soul like the shape of a beloved—then I often yearn and think: Oh, could you express that, could you breathe into the paper everything that lives with such warmth and fullness in you that it might become the mirror of your soul, the way your soul is the mirror of unending God—my friend—but I am dying of this, I succumb to the force of the splendor of these displays.
MAY 12
I do not know whether deceitful spirits hover around this region or whether it is the warm, divine fantasy in my heart that makes everything around me appear like paradise. Just outside the town there is a well, a well that holds me spellbound like Melusine and her sisters.—You walk down a little hill and find yourself before a stone vault from which some twenty steps go down to where the clearest water spurts from marble blocks. The low wall above, which forms the surrounding enclosure, the tall trees that cast their shade all around, the coolness of the place; all this has something so attractive, so awesome about it. Not a day goes by that I do not sit there for an hour. The girls come from the town to fetch water, the most innocent occupation and the most essential, which in olden times the daughters of kings performed. When I sit there, the patriarchal idea comes to life so vividly around me; they are there, all our forebears, meeting others and courting at the well, while benevolent spirits hover over the fountains and the springs. Oh, anyone who does not experience the same feeling can never have refreshed himself at the coolness of the well after a strenuous walk on a summer day.
MAY 13
You ask me whether you should send me my books.—My dear, for God’s sake, I beg you, keep them away from me! I no longer want to be influenced, encouraged, inspired: this heart of mine rages enough by itself. I need a lullaby, and I have found that abundantly in my Homer. How often do I lull my rebellious blood to rest, for you have never seen anything so irregular, so impatient as this heart of mine. My dear, do I need to tell you, you who have so often been burdened with watching me swing from sorrow to ecstasy and from sweet melancholy to destructive passion? And I treat my little heart like a sick child; its every wish is granted. Don’t repeat what I say; there are people who would hold it against me.
MAY 15
The simple people of the town know me already and are fond of me, especially the children. At first, when I would go up to them and ask them in a friendly way about this and that, some of them thought I was making fun of them and dismissed me quite rudely. I didn’t let that bother me; but I felt very strongly something I’ve often noticed: persons of standing will always keep coldly distant from the common people, as if they were afraid to lose something through intimacy; and then there are those flighty creatures and nasty jokers who pretend to descend to their level in order to make these poor commoners feel their superiority all the more keenly.
I know well enough that we are not all equal nor can we be; but I believe that the person who feels it necessary to keep aloof from the so-called rabble in order to maintain his dignity is just as reprehensible as the coward who hides from his enemy lest he be defeated.
Not long ago I came to the well and found a young servant girl who had put her jug on the lowest step and was looking around to see whether a friend might come to help her lift it onto her head. I went down the steps and looked at her.—Would you like me to help you, my girl? I said.—She blushed deeply.—Oh no, sir! she said.—Let’s not stand on ceremony!—She adjusted her head cushion, and I helped her. She thanked me, and up the stairs she went.
MAY 17
I’ve made all sorts of acquaintances but as yet I have not found any real companionship. I do not know what it is about me that attracts others; so many of them like me and attach themselves to me, and then it hurts me when we walk only a short way together. If you want to know what the people here are like, I have to tell you: like people everywhere! The human race—it’s a uniform thing. Most people spend the greatest part of the time struggling to stay alive, and the little bit of freedom they have left makes them so anxious that they’ll look for any means to get rid of it. Oh, it is the lot of mankind!
But these are a very good kind of people! When at times I forget myself, at times enjoy with them the pleasures that are still granted to us humans—to joke and have fun openly and lightheartedly at a well-laid table, to arrange an outing or a dance and that kind of thing at just the right moment—all that has quite a good effect on me; only it must not occur to me that so many other forces lie dormant in me, all rotting away unused, which I must carefully conceal. Oh, it so constricts my heart.—And yet! to be misunderstood: that is the fate of our sort.
Alas, that the friend of my youth has gone! Alas, that I ever knew her!—I would say: you are a fool, you are looking for something that cannot be found on earth. But she was mine; I felt that heart, that great soul in whose presence I seemed to myself to be more than I was because I was everything I could be. Good God! At that time was there a single force in my soul left unused? Wasn’t I able to unfold before her all the wonderful emotion with which my heart embraces nature? Wasn’t our time together an endless weave of the subtlest feeling, the sharpest wit, whose variations even to the point of misbehavior bore the stamp of genius? And now!—Oh, her years that were a few more than mine led her to the grave bef
ore me. I shall never forget her, her steady mind and her divine tolerance.
A few days ago I made the acquaintance of V., an open-hearted young man with a pleasing set of features. He has just left the university, does not consider himself wise, and yet thinks that he knows more than others. He was diligent too, as I can tell from various signs; in short, he has a nice little store of knowledge. When he heard that I sketched a great deal and knew Greek (two sensations in this part of the country), he came to see me and unloaded his store of knowledge, from Batteau to Wood, from de Piles to Winckelmann, and assured me that he had read the first volume of Sulzer’s Theory from beginning to end and owned a manuscript by Heyne on the study of antiquity. I did not argue with him.
I have met another good man, the Prince’s district officer, a frank, guileless person. I’m told that it fills one’s soul with pleasure to see him with his children, of whom there are nine; people make a great to-do especially about his oldest daughter. He has invited me to visit him, and I will do so the first day I can. He lives in one of the Prince’s hunting lodges, an hour and a half from here, where he received permission to move after the death of his wife, since it was too painful for him to live at his official residence in town.
Otherwise, I’ve run across a couple of convoluted eccentrics, about whom everything is unendurable, the most unbearable being their demonstrations of friendship.
Farewell! You will like this letter, it is entirely factual.
MAY 22
That human life is but a dream is something that has already occurred to many, and this feeling forever haunts me as well. When I observe the narrow limits in which man’s powers of action and investigation are confined; when I see how all our activity aims at satisfying needs that once again have no purpose beyond prolonging our wretched existence; and that all our satisfaction with certain aspects of our investigations is only dreamy resignation, since we merely paint colored shapes and brilliant prospects on the walls that hold us captive—all this, Wilhelm, stuns me into silence. I turn back into myself and discover a world! Once again, more as intuition and dim craving than as distinct imagery and vital force. And then everything swims before my senses, and I go on, smiling dreamily into the world.
That children do not know why they want things—on this all high and mightily learned schoolmasters and tutors agree; but that, like children, adults also stumble through the world and, like children, do not know whence they come and whither they go, nor act to some true purpose any more than children do, and like them are ruled by cookies and cakes and birch rods—no one likes to think that, and yet to me it is palpable truth.
I’m quite willing to admit—because I know what you’re likely to want to say to me here, that those people are happiest who, like children, live for the moment, wander about with their dolls, dressing and undressing them, and keep a sharp eye on the cupboard where Mama has locked up the pastries, and when they finally get what they want, stuff their mouths with them and cry: More!—Those are happy creatures. And those others, too, are happy who give grand names to their paltry occupations or even to their passions and present them to the human race as gigantic accomplishments for its welfare and salvation.—Happy are they who can live this way! But those who in all humility realize the sum total, who see how neatly every contented citizen can shape his little garden into a paradise, and how tirelessly even the merest wretch, panting, makes his way beneath his burden, all of them equally determined to see the light of the sun one minute longer—yes, that man keeps still, and he creates his world out of himself, and he is happy as well because he is human. And then, confined as he is, he still always keeps in his heart the sweet sense of freedom, knowing that he can leave this prison whenever he chooses.
MAY 26
You’ve long known my habit of planting myself down, setting up a little hut at some cozy spot, and settling in there in the simplest manner. Here, too, I’ve once again come across a spot that attracted me.
About an hour’s ride from town there is a village called Wahlheim.† Its situation on a hill is enthralling, and if you go farther along on the footpath to the village, you get a sudden view over the entire valley. At the inn a good woman, pleasant and sprightly despite her age, sells wine, beer, and coffee; and what tops everything are two linden trees whose widespread limbs cover the little square in front of the church, which is surrounded by peasant cottages, barns, and homesteads. I have rarely found a spot so cozy, so homey, and I have my little table brought out from the inn, and my chair, drink my coffee there, and read my Homer. The first time, when one fine afternoon I chanced upon the spot under the linden trees, I found the place deserted. Everyone was out in the fields except a boy of about four who sat on the ground, holding an infant of about six months that sat between his feet; he was clasping the child to his chest with both arms, so that he served as a sort of armchair, and despite the liveliness with which his black eyes darted here and there, he kept perfectly still. I was charmed by the sight. I sat down on a plow that stood opposite them and was greatly delighted to sketch the pose of the two brothers. I put in the nearby hedge, a barn door, and some broken wagon wheels, everything the way each stood behind the other, and after an hour I found that I had produced a well-composed, very interesting drawing without having introduced the slightest bit of myself. This strengthened me in my resolve in future to stay exclusively with nature. It alone is infinitely rich, and it alone forms the great artist. Much can be said in favor of the rules, about the same that can be said in praise of bourgeois society. A man formed by them will never produce anything vapid or in poor taste, just as someone shaped by laws and decorum can never become an unbearable neighbor or a notorious villain; on the other hand, say what you will, rules will destroy the true feeling of nature and the genuine expression thereof. You say, That is too severe! It merely supplies limits, prunes the rampant vines, etc.—Dear friend, shall I give you a parable? It is here as with love. A young heart gives itself entirely to a girl, spends every waking hour of every day with her, squanders all his energies, his entire fortune, so as to let her know at every moment that he is fully devoted to her. And then along comes a philistine, a man in public office, and says to him, My fine young man! to love is human, but you must love in a human way! Plan the hours of your day, some hours for work, and leisure hours to devote to your girl. Calculate how much money you have, and I will not say no to your giving her a present from whatever is left over from your needs but not too often, let’s say for her birthday and for her name day, etc.—If the young man agrees, the result is a useful member of society, and I myself will advise any prince to give him a place on a council; except that there’s an end to his love, and if he is an artist, to his art. Oh, my friends! Why does the torrent of genius gush out so rarely, so rarely come rushing in on a spring tide to shatter your amazed soul?—Dear friends, these sedate gentlemen dwell on both banks of the stream, where their little summer houses, their tulip beds and cabbage patches would be ruined, and who therefore have the sense in good time to use dams and flood channels to ward off the impending threat of danger.
MAY 27
I have, I see, fallen into raptures, parables, and declamation, and as a result I have forgotten to tell you the rest of the story of the children. Completely immersed in my painterly mood, which I described to you in yesterday’s letter in a very fragmentary way, I sat on my plow for a good two hours. Then, toward evening, a young woman with a basket on her arm approaches the children, who have not stirred, and calls from a distance: Philipps, you’re a very good boy.—She greeted me, I thanked her, got to my feet, came closer and asked her if she was the children’s mother. She said she was, and as she gave the older boy half a roll, she lifted up the little one and kissed him with all a mother’s love.—I gave the little one to my Phillips to look after, she said, and went into town with my eldest to get some white bread and sugar and an earthenware porridge bowl.—I saw those things in the basket, as its lid had fallen open.—I want to cook some
soup tonight for Hans (that was the name of the youngest child); my big boy, that rascal, broke the bowl yesterday fighting with Philipps over the porridge crust.—I asked about the eldest, and she had hardly finished telling me that he was chasing a couple of geese around the meadow when he came racing up with a hazel switch for his middle brother. I chatted some more with the woman and learned that she was the schoolmaster’s daughter and that her husband had gone on a trip to Switzerland to retrieve some money inherited from a relative.—They wanted to cheat him out of it, she said, and did not answer any of his letters, so he’s gone there himself. If only he hasn’t had an accident! I haven’t heard from him.—It was hard for me to part from the woman; I gave each of the children a penny and gave her one for the youngest child too, to bring him a roll to eat with the soup the next time she went to town, and so we parted.
I tell you, my dear friend, when my mind will not rest, all my turmoil is soothed by the sight of such a creature who, calm and happy, moves through the narrow circle of her existence, making the best of things from one day to the next, watches the leaves fall, and thinks no more about it than that winter is coming.
Since that time I have often gone out there. The children are quite used to me; they get sugar when I drink coffee, and in the evening they share my bread and butter and sour milk. On Sundays they never lack for their penny, and if I’m not there after services, I’ve instructed the landlady to pay it out.
The Sufferings of Young Werther: A New Translation Page 2