The Sorrows of Young Werther and Selected Writings

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

  NOTE: Numbered notes are by the translator and are printed on pages 236–39. Goethe’s notes, marked by asterisks, are set at the foot of the appropriate page.

  * The reader need not take the trouble to look up the places that are mentioned here. It was considered necessary to change all real names that were found in the original manuscript.

  * We have found it necessary to suppress this part of the letter in order to give no cause for complaint, although actually no author could care very much about the opinion of one girl and a young, unstable man.

  * Here, too, the names of some authors have been omitted. Those of whom Lotte approved will surely know it in their hearts, if they have read this far, and the rest need not know anything about it.

  * We now have an excellent sermon on this topic by Lavater, among those on the Book of Jonah.

  BOOK TWO

  October 20th, 1771

  We arrived here yesterday. The ambassador is indisposed and will not be going out for a few days. If only he were not so unpleasant, things would be a great deal easier. But fate has many trials in store for me—I know it, I know it. However, let us not lose courage, for a light heart can bear all things. A light heart? I have to laugh. How could I write such words? Ah yes, a little lighter blood could make me the happiest man on earth! Come, come, Werther! How can you doubt your strength, your gifts, when others complacently parade their puny strength and talents? Dear God, who hath bestowed all this upon me, why didst Thou not withhold a half of it and give me instead faith in myself and a modest capacity for contentment?

  Patience! Patience! Things will improve. Because I want to assure you, my dear friend, you are right. Since I spend my days among people again and observe what they do and how they live, I find it much easier to live with myself. Since we mortals happen to be so constituted that we compare everything with ourselves and ourselves with everything around us, our happiness and our misery have to lie in the things with which we compare ourselves. Nothing is therefore more dangerous than solitude. Our imagination, forced by its very nature to unfold, nourished by the fantastic visions of poetry, gives shape to a whole order of creatures of which we are the lowliest, and everything around us seems to be more glorious, everyone else more perfect. And all this happens quite naturally. We feel so often that there is a great deal lacking in us and that our neighbor possesses just what we lack and, for good measure, we proceed to read into him our finer attributes, adding a bit of idealistic comfort to boot, and with that have rounded out a perfectly happy, fortunate man who is actually a figment of our imagination. If, on the other hand, we can make up our minds to go about our daily tasks, resigned to our failings and hardships, we often find that, in spite of our meanderings and procrastination, we have gone farther than quite a few others have gone with their sails unfurled and steering gear functioning. And, truly, it is a wonderful feeling when one manages somehow to keep up with one’s fellow men, or better still, outpaces them.

  November 26th

  All things considered, I am beginning to find life quite tolerable here. The best part of it is that I am kept sufficiently busy, and the many different types and the fresh personalities create a colorful spectacle that distracts me. I have met Count C. and have to admire him more and more daily. He is a man of true intellect, never aloof just because he happens to be more discerning than most people. He radiates friendliness and affection. He took an interest in me when I had to transact some business with him and says that he noticed, with the first words we exchanged, that we understood each other and he could speak with me as he could not speak with anyone else. I can’t praise his candor sufficiently. There is no truer, no greater pleasure imaginable than to enjoy the confidence of a truly great mind.

  December 24th

  The ambassador is causing me a lot of trouble. I saw it coming. He is the most punctilious fool imaginable; everything has to be done step by step—and long-winded! A man who is never satisfied with himself and can therefore never be satisfied. I like to work fast and let it go at that, but he is just as likely to return a paper to me and say, “It isn’t bad but I would go over it again. One can always find a better word, a more precise specification….” Then I could tell him to go to the devil. No “ands” nor “buts,” no conjunctions may be missing, and he is dead set against any inversions that sometimes slip out before I have caught them. And if I don’t let one sentence follow the next in the same singsong rhythm, he can’t follow the meaning at all. Really, working for such a man is misery!

  Count von C.’s friendship is the only compensation. The other day he told me quite frankly how dissatisfied he was with my ambassador’s procrastination and pedantry. People make things so difficult for themselves and for others; still, according to him, we have to resign ourselves to it, like a traveler who has to drive across a mountain. Of course the way would be easier and shorter if the mountain were not there, but the mountain is there and has to be crossed! I guess the old man notices too that the Count prefers my company, and that must annoy him; he never misses an opportunity to speak derogatively of the Count to me. I, of course, don’t let it pass, which only serves to make matters worse. Yesterday he really made me lose my temper, because I knew he was also referring to me. When it was a question of business matters, he declared, the Count did well enough. Things came easily to him, and his style was good, but like all belletrists he lacked erudition! Then he gave me a look as much as to say, “Did that strike home?” But it didn’t. I despise any man who can think and behave like that. I stood up to him and fought back, quite vehemently too. I said that the Count was a man who commanded respect, not only for his intellect but for his character as well. I had never known anyone, I said, who had succeeded so admirably in broadening his mind to include so many subjects and still be able to attend to the daily business of life. All of this was Greek to him, and I retired before I had to swallow any more of his déraisonnement.

  And it is all your fault, all of you who talked me into this straitjacket and gave me such a song and dance about having something to do! If the man who plants his potatoes and drives his wagon to town to sell his grain isn’t doing more than I am, I will gladly spend another ten years chained to the galleys as I am now!

  And the glittering misery, the boredom of the perfectly horrible people I meet here! Their social aspirations! In their efforts to gain the slightest precedence they can’t take their eyes off the next fellow. The most abject passions are displayed quite shamelessly. There is one woman, for instance, who can talk of nothing but her titles and her estates. One doesn’t have to know her to realize that she is a complete fool who flatters herself with paltry titles and has an inflated provincial pride. But the worst part of it is, she is actually nothing more than the daughter of a local magistrate. I cannot understand how people can be so insensitive as to prostitute themselves in such a vulgar fashion.

  Thus I notice daily, my dear friend, how foolish we are when we judge others by ourselves. And since I am so preoccupied with myself, and my heart is so tempestuous, I prefer to let others go their way—if only they would let me go mine!

  What irritates me most are the deplorable social conditions. I know as well as anyone else how necessary it is that there be differences in rank, and how much this is to my advantage. All I ask is that it should not stand in my way when there is a small chance of my enjoying myself, or a glimmer of hope that I may still know happiness on this earth. A few days ago, while I was out walking, I made the acquaintance of a Fräulein von B., a charming creature who has somehow managed to remain natural in spite of the formalities of life here. We enjoyed our conversation, and when we parted I asked for permission to call on her. She said that I might so unreservedly that I could scarcely wait for the proper time to elapse until I could visit her. She is not from these parts and lives with an aunt. I did not like the looks of the old lady. I paid her a great deal of attention; almost everything I said was directed at her. But in little less than half an hour I realized wha
t the young lady admitted later—that her dear aunt, with nothing but an inadequate fortune at her disposal and even less intellect, finds sustenance solely in her lineage and security only behind the ramparts of her rank, which is her castle, and takes pleasure in nothing but looking down her nose at the lower classes. In her youth she was beautiful and frittered her life away, at first by making many a young man miserable with her capriciousness; later, in her maturer years, she was completely under the thumb of an old army officer who, in return for having married her and a tolerable maintenance, was her companion in her bronze age, and died. Now, in her iron age, she finds herself alone and no one would pay her any heed if her niece were not so kind.

  January 8th, 1772

  How dreadful people are who have had nothing on their minds for years but formality, whose every effort and thought are bent toward moving one place higher up at table! And it is not because they have nothing better to do. Not at all! Important work piles up just because one is prevented from attending to it by a thousand vexations concerning rank and promotion. Last week there was a lot of such bickering on our sleigh ride and all the fun was spoiled.

  If only the fools would realize that the seating doesn’t really matter, that he who sits at the head of the table rarely plays the leading role. Many a king is ruled by his prime minister and many a minister by his secretary, and then who is first? I would say he who can see through all the others and has the forcefulness or cunning to use their powers and passions to further his own ends.

  January 20th

  I must write to you, dear Lotte, here in a humble peasant inn where I have taken shelter from a severe storm. When I am in that miserable little town of D., among strangers, with people who are totally alien to my heart, there isn’t a moment, not one, when my heart bids me write to you. But now, in this lowly house, in this solitude and confinement, with hail and snow pelting against the little window of my room, my first thoughts go out to you. When I entered I was overwhelmed by a vision of you, by my memories, oh Lotte—such sacred, such heartfelt memories! Dear God, this is my first moment of happiness since I left!

  If you could only see me, dearest—in a whirl of distraction, but how arid is my spirit! Not a heartfelt moment, not a blissful hour—nothing…nothing. Sometimes I feel as if I were standing in front of a peep show. I can see tiny men and horses maneuvering in front of me, and I ask myself if it is not an optical illusion. I join in the games, or rather, I should say that I let myself be manipulated like a puppet, and sometimes I touch my neighbor’s wooden hand and withdraw mine in horror. In the evening I decide to enjoy the sunrise, but in the morning I don’t bother to get up. During the day I look forward to an enjoyment of the moonlight; then at night I stay in my room. I don’t know why I get up or why I go to bed! The leaven that used to set my life in motion is lacking; the stimulus that kept me wide awake late into the night and woke me in the morning is gone.

  I have found only one sympathetic female here, a Fräulein von B. She is very like you, dear Lotte, if there can be any comparison. Oh, I can hear you say, “He is in a mood for paying a pretty compliment,” and you would not be entirely wrong. For some time now I have been behaving myself, because that seems to be the only thing to do. I have become quite a wit. The ladies say no one knows how to sing their praises like Werther (and to fabricate like him, they usually add, for there is no other way of doing it, you understand?). But I wanted to speak of Fräulein von B. She is a soulful creature who looks one straight in the eye. Hers are blue. Her rank is a burden to her that satisfies none of her aspirations. She longs to get away from all the hollow confusion around her, and we dream-talk many an hour away in blissfully serene, pastoral surroundings. We talk about you. How often she has to worship at your altar—doesn’t have to, does so willingly. She likes to hear me talk about you; she loves you.

  Ah, if only I were sitting at your feet in our cozy little room, with our little darlings romping around us! If they were making too much noise I would gather them around me and tell them an eerie fairy story to calm them down.

  The sun is setting magnificently behind a landscape glittering with snow. The storm has passed, and I—I have to lock myself in my cage again. Adieu. Is Albert with you? And how—oh, dear God, forgive me the question!

  February 8th

  For eight days now we have had the most terrible weather, and it does my heart good, because since I have been here we have not had a nice day that was not spoiled for me by someone. But if it rains and blusters, is chilly or thaws—ha! I tell myself that it can’t get worse inside than out, or if you like, the other way round, and that suits me. But if I see the sun rise in the morning, promising a fine day, I say to myself, “There they have another treasure to do each other out of.” There is nothing in this world, William, that they would not like to do each other out of—health, good repute, happiness, recreation—for the most part because they are foolish, narrow-minded, and dull-witted. You can listen to them with the best of open minds and come to no other conclusion. Sometimes I feel like falling on my knees and imploring them not to be so fanatically intent on cutting each other’s throats.

  February 17th

  I am afraid my ambassador and I are not going to be able to put up with each other much longer. The man is impossible! His working habits and way of doing business are so ridiculous that I simply cannot control myself and have to contradict him; and often I do a thing the way I feel it should be done, which of course never suits him. He complained about me at court the other day and the minister reprimanded me—gently enough, but all the same, it was a reprimand. I was about to hand in my resignation when I received a personal letter from him that makes me want to kneel down and worship this infinitely noble and wise mind.* He rebukes me for being overly sensitive, yet respects my exaggerated ideas on effectiveness, influencing others, and succeeding in business, as examples of youthful high spirits and in no way tries to suppress them. All he wants to do is tone them down and guide them into the correct channels, where they may have the right effect. Now I have the strength to carry on for another week and have come to an understanding with myself. Peace of mind and the ability to take pleasure in oneself are glorious things. Dear friend, if only the treasure were not as fragile as it is precious and beautiful!

  February 20th

  God bless you, my dear ones, and give you all the good days He denies me!

  I thank you, Albert, for having deceived me. I waited to be told the day of your wedding, and it was my intention, on that day, to go through the ceremony of taking the little silhouette I made of Lotte down from the wall and burying it with some other papers. Now you are united, and her picture is where it always has been. Very well, let it remain there. And why not? I know that I am with you too and have a place in Lotte’s heart that does you no harm. I would go so far as to say second place and I want to hold onto it—must hold onto it! I think if she forgot me, I would go mad. Albert, all hell lies in the very thought! Farewell, Albert; farewell, dear angel from heaven. Lotte, farewell.

  March 15th

  I have just had a very distressing experience that will drive me away from here. I am still foaming at the mouth! The devil take it! I can’t get over it, and it is your fault—you, who egged me on and drove me and tormented me to take a post that doesn’t suit me at all! So now I’m saddled with it and so are you! And don’t tell me again that it is my exaggerated ideas that ruin everything! Here, my dear sir, is the whole unvarnished story, properly told, just as any historian would let you have it.

  Count von C. is very fond of me. He singles me out—but you know all that. I have mentioned it a hundred times. I was invited to lunch there yesterday, and it happened to be the day on which the nobility from hereabout gathers at his house in the afternoon. I have never given them a thought, and it never occurred to me that we inferiors do not fit in. Very well. I lunched with the Count, and after lunch we walked up and down the great hall. I was conversing with him and Colonel B., who had joined u
s, when the time for the sociabilities drew near. Nothing was further from my mind. The first to enter was the oh, so honorable Lady von S. with her spouse and the little goose of a daughter the two of them managed to hatch—with her flat little chest and dear little waist laced tight—their aristocratic eyebrows raised, their noses turned up. Since I wholeheartedly detest the entire breed, I was anxious to take my leave and was only waiting for the Count to free himself from their miserable prattle, when my Fräulein von B. came in. The sight of her always cheers my heart a little, so I decided to stay and took up my stand behind her chair. It took me a little while to realize that she was not conversing with me as freely as usual; in fact, she was behaving toward me with quite some constraint. Then it was suddenly very noticeable. She couldn’t be like all the rest of them, I thought, and was hurt and wanted to leave, but then I stayed on because I wanted so much to give her a chance to absolve herself. I couldn’t believe her capable of such snobbery and still hoped to hear her speak a few pleasant words, and…oh, I don’t know what! Meanwhile, the hall had become quite crowded. There was Baron F., decked out in the complete regalia of Franz I’s coronation era; Privy Councilor R., here, in his official capacity, called Herr von R., with his deaf wife, etc. And let us not overlook S., shabbily dressed as usual. He mends his antiquated wardrobe with patches of new material. After that they came pouring in; I conversed with a few of my friends and found all of them rather laconic; but I could think of nothing and pay attention to no one but my friend, B. I didn’t notice the ladies at the other end of the room whispering to each other and how this spread to the men and how Frau von S. went over to the Count and spoke to him (I found out all this later from Fräulein B.) until finally the Count drew me over to one of the windows. “You know what charming conditions prevail here,” he said. “I notice that my guests are displeased to find you present. The last thing in the world I want—”