The Sorrows of Young Werther and Selected Writings

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

  “Don’t let yourself be misled because it looks like a poor old peasant house,” Weyland said, pointing out the house from a distance. “For that it’s all the younger inside.”

  We walked into the courtyard. The whole place appealed to me because it was what is called picturesque, a quality that enchants me in all Dutch works of art. The effect time produces on human handiwork was very evident. House, barn, and stables were in just that condition of deterioration in which, undecided between preservation and reconstruction, one fails to do the former without being able to make up one’s mind to attend to the latter.

  It was quiet; there was no one about, not in the village nor in the courtyard. We found the vicar alone—a slight, reserved, yet friendly man. His family was out in the fields. He bade us welcome and offered us refreshment, which we declined. My friend hurried off to find the girls and I remained alone with our host.

  “You are perhaps astonished,” he said, “to find me so poorly housed in a prosperous village, and in a quite lucrative office, but that is the result of a lack of decision. For a long time now the community, or I should say, those in high positions, have been promising to rebuild my house. Several plans have been made, studied, and altered, but none has been completely rejected or carried out. All this has taken so many years that I don’t know how to contain my impatience.”

  I said what I considered the correct thing to strengthen his hopes and encourage him in following the matter up. He went on, confidentially, to describe the persons on whom such matters depended, and although he was not a very good outliner of character, still I was able to get quite a good impression of how the whole business had come to a standstill. There was something unique about the man’s truthfulness. He spoke to me as if he had known me for ten years, yet there was nothing in his expression to let me think that he was paying any attention to me. At last, Weyland came in with the vicar’s wife, who seemed to see me with different eyes. Her features were regular, her expression highly intelligent. In her youth she must have been beautiful. She was tall and rather gaunt, but not more than went suitably with her age. From the back, she still looked quite young and attractive. Then her oldest daughter came storming gaily into the room. She asked after Friederike, as did the other two. The father declared he hadn’t seen her since all three of them had left. The daughter rushed out of the room again to look for her sister, the mother brought some refreshment, and Weyland continued his conversation with the couple, all of it about persons and situations that were known to all concerned, as is customary when acquaintances meet after a long separation and want to find out what has been going on among members of a quite large circle and take turns in exchanging information. I listened and soon found out what I could expect from this little group.

  The older daughter burst into the room again, agitated because she had not found her sister. She and her mother seemed worried about her and spoke reprovingly of this and that bad habit of hers, but her father said quietly, “Let her go. She’ll come back.” And just then she actually did appear, and truly a most adorable star rose into this pastoral sky with her coming. Both girls were still dressed “German,” as it was called, and this folk costume, which has almost disappeared, suited Friederike exceptionally well. A short, wide, circular skirt with a flounce, not so long but that it left her pretty little feet visible to the ankle; a tight, white bodice and black taffeta apron—there she stood on the borderline between peasant and town girl. Slender and light, she came into the room as if she had no weight to carry, and the heavy blond braids that hung down from her charming little head seemed almost too heavy for her delicate neck. She glanced brightly about with her blue eyes and stuck her little turned-up nose courageously into the air, as if there couldn’t possibly be a care in the world. Her straw hat hung on her arm. That was how I had the pleasure of seeing her first and recognizing her in all her charm and sweetness.

  I now began to play my part more moderately. I was a little ashamed to be deceiving such good people, whom I could go right on observing, for the girls picked up the conversation with élan. Every neighbor and relative was introduced all over again, and a swarm of uncles and aunts, cousins, people coming and going, godfathers and guests was presented to my imagination and made me feel at home in the liveliest of worlds. Every member of the family addressed a few words to me. The mother gave me a look every time she came in or went out, but Friederike was the first to start a conversation with me. When I picked up some music that was lying around and began to leaf through it, she asked me if I played. When I said yes, she begged me to play something for them. Her father, however, wouldn’t hear of it; he declared that the proper thing was to entertain one’s guests first with a piece or a song.

  Friederike played several pieces quite fluently, as people play who live in the country, and this on a piano that the schoolmaster was supposed to have tuned long ago, if he had had the time. Then she went on to sing a certain tender, sad song, but this she could not do at all. She stood up and, with a smile—or rather, with the serene, radiant expression she seemed to wear constantly—said, “If I sing badly, I cannot blame the piano and the schoolmaster. But let us go outside—then you can hear my Alsatian and Swiss songs. They sound much better.”

  During supper, I was absorbed with a revelation that had already struck me a while before and I became thoughtful and silent, although the liveliness of the older sister and charm of the younger girl served often enough to shake me out of my reflections. I was astonished beyond words to find myself actually in the Wakefield family! The father, of course, could not be compared with that admirable man, but then, where could one find his equal? On the other hand, all the dignity inherent in that good husband could be found in this man’s wife. You could not look at her without respecting yet fearing her at the same time. She displayed all the marks of a good upbringing—she was calm, poised, gay, and hospitable.

  The older daughter did not, perhaps, possess Olivia’s famed beauty, but she had a good figure and was lively, almost too lively. She busied herself with everything and helped her mother with whatever she was doing. To put Friederike in the place of Primrose’s Sophie was not difficult, for Sophie gets so little mention. All that is said of her is that she is amiable, and the girl certainly was that. Since a similarity of office and circumstances, wherever they turn up, have similar if not the same effect, quite a few things came up for discussion here that had occurred in the Primrose family. But when, in the end, a young son, whose arrival had been announced some time before and whose father was awaiting him impatiently, came bounding into the room and brashly sat down with us, paying practically no attention to his father’s guests, I could scarcely keep myself from crying, “Moses, you are here, too?”

  The conversation at table broadened my vision of the county and family circle as the talk centered upon all sorts of amusing things that had happened in one place or another. Friederike, who sat next to me, took this opportunity to describe to me the various places that apparently were worth visiting. Since one story invariably produces another, I was now better able to take part in the conversation and tell of similar events, and since no one was being sparing with the wine while all this was going on, I was in great danger of falling out of character. However, my cautious friend, Weyland, used the beautiful moonlight as an excuse to suggest a walk, an idea that was immediately popular. He gave the older girl his arm, I gave mine to the younger, and so we wandered across the wide pastures, the heavens above us more real than the earth below, which was lost in space all around us. But there was no moonlight in Friederike’s chatter. The clarity with which she spoke made day of night, and though she said nothing that might have indicated any sentiment, what she said was directed more than ever at me, as she introduced herself, the region, and her friends, from the viewpoint of how I would get to know them, because, she explained, she hoped that I would not be an exception but would visit them again, as every stranger had done who had ever come to see them.

  I f
ound it very pleasant to listen silently to her describe the small world in which she moved and to hear her speak of the people whom she especially esteemed. In this way she gave me a very clear and, at the same time, charming idea of her condition, and it had a quite miraculous effect on me. Suddenly I felt deeply chagrined that I had had no part in her life before and was embarrassingly envious of everything that had had the good fortune to surround her until now. I at once began to pay close attention—as if I had the right to do so—to any description of men, whether they turned up in the shape of neighbor, cousin, or godfather, and let my conjectures run wild. But how could I hope to uncover anything with no knowledge whatsoever of the situation? In the end, she became more and more talkative and I more and more silent. Listening to her was just too enjoyable, and since all I could do was hear her voice while her features, like the rest of the world, floated in the twilight, it was as if I were looking into her heart, and I found it very chaste as she laid it bare before me in her uninhibited chatter.

  When my traveling companion and I retired to the guest room that had been prepared for us, he at once began to joke complacently, very pleased with himself for having managed to surprise me so completely with this replica of the Primrose family. I agreed with him and expressed my gratitude. “Truly,” he said, “the fantasy is completely cast. The family is exactly like that one, and you can pass for Mr. Burchell. Furthermore, since we don’t need villains so badly in real life as we do in novels, I am perfectly willing to play the nephew and behave better than he!”

  I immediately changed the subject—pleasant as it was—and asked him before anything else, could he swear that he truly hadn’t given me away? He assured me he had not, and I could see that he was telling the truth. They had peppered him with questions, he said, about his jolly companion who ate with him in the same pension in Strassburg, of whom they had heard all sorts of conflicting reports. I then went on to another question: Had she ever been in love? Was she in love with anyone now? Was she engaged? He replied to all my questions in the negative. “I must say,” I declared, “such a blithe spirit by nature is unbelievable. If she had loved and lost and found herself again, or if she were betrothed, that I could grasp.”

  So we chatted far into the night, and I was wide awake with the dawn. The desire to see her again was uncontrollable, but as I was getting dressed, my accursed wardrobe, which I had so wantonly chosen to put on, shocked me. The further I progressed with my dressing, the more despicable I felt—after all, everything was based on this effect. I could have resigned myself to my hair, but after I had finally managed to ram myself into my borrowed gray, threadbare jacket, with its sleeves that were much too short, I saw how really impossible I looked; and I became even more desperate when I couldn’t get a full view of myself in the little mirror and each part of me that I could see looked more ridiculous than the rest.

  During this procedure of getting dressed, my friend had awakened and, with the satisfaction of a clear conscience, was looking about him from the protection of the pink silk comforter, filled with joyful hope for the day. I had already envied him his fine clothes draped over a chair, and if he had been my size, I would have decamped with them before his very eyes, changed outside and hurried into the garden, leaving him my accursed shell. He would have been good-natured enough to put on my apparel and the deception would have come to a jolly end in the early morning. But there could be no thought of that nor of any other suitable intervention. However, I was determined not to appear again in the shape that had made it possible for him to pass me off as an industrious and clever but poor student of theology to Friederike, who had chatted in such a friendly fashion with my disguised self the night before. There I stood, vexed and brooding, mustering all my inventive powers—alas, they had forsaken me. But then, when my comfortably outstretched friend, after having stared fixedly at me for a few moments, suddenly burst into uproarious laughter and cried, “No! But truly, you look ghastly!” I replied violently, “And I know what I am going to do about it. Farewell. You are going to have to excuse me.”

  “Are you mad?” he cried, jumping out of bed with the idea of stopping me, but I was already out the door and down the stairs. Leaving house and yard behind me, I headed for the inn. In no time, my horse was saddled and I galloped off to Drusenheim in a tearing bad temper, through that town, and onward.

  When I felt safe, I began to ride more slowly and realized only then how reluctant I was to withdraw. But I bowed to my fate, calmly recalled last night’s walk, and quietly nourished the hope that I would see Friederike again soon. But this calm was soon transformed into impatience again, and I decided to ride quickly into the city, change, take a fresh horse, and then—according to the reflections of my passion—I could be back in Sesenheim before lunch, or what was more probable, after lunch; at any rate, toward evening, and could beg to be forgiven.

  I was about to give my horse the spurs when another thought occurred to me, a splendid idea. The day before, in Drusenheim, I had noticed the innkeeper’s very neatly dressed son. Early this morning, busy with his rustic chores, he had greeted me from the farmyard. He was built like me and had fleetingly reminded me of myself. No sooner said than done! I had scarcely turned my horse around and I was in Drusenheim again. I rode to the stable and without much further ado made my suggestion to the boy—he was to lend me his clothes because I had a little joke planned in Sesenheim. I didn’t have to finish my story; he accepted my proposition gleefully and praised me for wanting to provide the “mamsells” with some fun. They were such good, kind girls, especially “Mamsell Riekchen,” and their parents liked things cheerful and gay too. He looked me over carefully, and since he could only take me for a poor fellow, judging by the way I was clad, he said, “If you want to get on the good side of them, you’re doing the right thing.” We had meanwhile come quite far along in my transformation, and he really shouldn’t have entrusted his best suit to me in exchange for what I had on, but he was a trusting fellow and, after all, he had my horse. Soon I was standing there, looking quite smart. I thrust out my chest, and my friend seemed pleased as he looked at his counterpart. “Very fine, brother,” he said, stretching out his hand, which I grasped firmly. “But I would advise you not to get too close to my girl. She might try to make up to you!”

  My hair had grown long again, and I was able to part it to resemble his, and looking at him again and again, I found it amusing to imitate his thicker eyebrows with a burnt cork and draw them closer together in the middle—in short, I made myself look as questionable as my project. As he handed me his beribboned hat, I asked him, “Isn’t there any errand you have to do at the parsonage that would allow me to announce myself in a natural fashion?” “There is,” he said, “but then you must wait two hours. We have a woman in labor here. I’ll offer to deliver the christening cake to the parson’s wife and you can take it over. Vanity must learn to endure hardships, and so must a prank!”

  I decided to wait, but the two hours that followed seemed interminable, and I was dying of impatience as the third dragged by before the cake came out of the oven. At last I had it, still warm, and hurried off with my credential in the most glorious sunshine, accompanied for a short while by my counterpart, who offered to come after me toward evening and bring my clothes. But I rejected his offer hastily and reserved the right to return his to him.

  I hadn’t gone far with my offering, which I was carrying wrapped in a clean napkin, when I saw my friend and the two girls in the distance, coming toward me. I felt uneasy, which somehow didn’t go well with the jacket I was wearing. Stopping to catch my breath, I tried to think what I should do; then I noticed that the terrain was to my advantage, for they were walking on the other side of the stream that, with the strip of meadow through which it flowed, kept the two footpaths quite wide apart. When they were abreast of me, Friederike, who had caught sight of me earlier, cried out, “George, what have you got there?” I was smart enough to raise my hat and let it cover my face as
I held the napkin with its contents high up in the air. “The christening cake!” she cried, when she saw it. “How is your sister?” “Very well,” I replied. I couldn’t speak their Alsatian dialect, but I did my best to speak in a foreign fashion. “Take it to the house,” said the oldest girl, “and if you can’t find Mother, give it to the maid. But wait for us; we won’t be long, do you hear?”

  I hurried on my way with a happy feeling, my hopes high that all would go well since the thing had started off so propitiously, and I soon reached the parsonage. I found no one there, not in house nor kitchen; I didn’t want to disturb the parson, who I felt must be busy in his study, so I sat down on a bench outside, next to the door, the cake at my side, and rammed my hat down on my face.

  I cannot remember ever having felt more pleased with myself. To be sitting on this threshold again, over which I had stumbled in such despair a short while before, to have seen her again and heard her sweet voice once more, so shortly after my despair had envisioned a long separation, to be expecting her at any moment, and my unmasking—a thought that made my heart beat fast, although in this ambiguous case, it was a disclosure of which I did not have to be ashamed and such a good joke, right away on entering, better than any laughed over the day before! Truly, love and need are the best masters! Here they were working hand in hand, and their apprentice had proved himself equal to them!