But now all was irrevocably lost. I had returned to an ordinary condition and I was sure that I had hurt Friederike and done her irreparable harm. Instead of being rid of Lucinda’s curse, it had struck back from my lips to my heart.
All this raced wildly through my blood—which was already excited by love, passion, wine, and dancing—and tormented me, confusing my thoughts so that, especially when compared with yesterday’s agreeable joys, I felt a profound despair. Fortunately the dawn was peeping through a slit in the shutters, and the rising sun, overcoming the powers of the night, put me back on my feet. Soon I was out of doors and quickly refreshed, if not completely restored.
Superstition, like a lot of other beliefs, loses much of its strength when, instead of flattering our vanity, it gets in its way and decides to give this frailty of ours a bad time. Then we can suddenly see quite clearly that our superstitions can be banished at will, and we let them go all the more readily when it is to our advantage. Just to see Friederike and to experience her love and the gaiety of her surroundings reproached me for harboring such sad night shades on such a happy day, and I thought I had dispelled them forever. Friederike was more close and confiding than ever, which made me deeply happy, and I was overjoyed when she offered to kiss me good-bye openly, as she did her friends and relatives.
In the city, a great deal of business and distraction awaited me, out of which I often joined my beloved in a correspondence that now became quite regular. In her letters too, she was always the same. She could tell something new or refer to facts I already knew a little about; she could describe things lightly or be fleetingly reflective—it was always as if she were coming, going, running, jumping, surefooted and light, with her pen too. I also enjoyed writing to her, and to imagine her good qualities present increased my attachment to her in her absence, making this type of conversation just as effective as a personal one—in fact, in time it meant more to me. I found it pleasanter and more precious.
For my superstition had been completely banished. It had been based on impressions made in earlier years, but the spirit of the day, the fleetness of youth, the intercourse with cold, rational men, all tended to discourage it, and it would not have been easy to find anyone in my surroundings who would not have dismissed my foible as ridiculous. But the sad part of it was that, as this madness fled, it left behind a true reflection of the condition in which young people always find themselves who, in their early attachments, cannot hope for a lasting union. It didn’t help me much to be rid of my error, because my common sense and reflective powers gave me an even worse time. My passion for the good girl grew the more I learned to value her, and the time was approaching when I would perhaps have to lose so much love and goodness forever.
We had been living thus as one for some time, quietly and very pleasantly, when friend Weyland played a joke on us by bringing The Vicar of Wakefield to Sesenheim. When someone mentioned reading aloud, he handed me the book as if there were nothing to it. I managed to control myself and read as freely and spiritedly as I could. The faces of my listeners soon brightened too, and they didn’t seem to mind at all having to make comparisons again. If they had found amusing counterparts for Raymond and Melusina, they now saw themselves in the mirror—and it was by no means an ugly picture. Nobody mentioned it specifically but no one could deny either that they were being presented with people who thought and felt as they did.
All people of quality, as they increase their knowledge, feel that they have to play dual roles on earth—a realistic and an ideal one—and the basis of everything noble can be found in this feeling. What is bestowed upon us as reality we experience only too vividly, but we seldom learn to see our ideal role clearly. A man may seek his higher destiny on earth or in heaven, in the present or in the future; still—and because of it—he remains inwardly prone to eternal hesitation, outwardly to ever disturbing impressions, until he finally decides to declare that what is right is what suits him.
Among the more pardonable efforts to achieve something noble or to compare oneself with a superior is the youthful urge to draw comparisons between oneself and the characters in a novel. This urge is quite innocent and—however much may be said against it—utterly harmless. It amuses us at times when we are in danger of perishing of boredom or would have to resort to a more passionate pastime.
How often one hears a litany of the harm done by the novel, and why it should be considered a misfortune when a good little girl or a handsome young man put themselves in the place of a character who is better or worse off than they! Is our middle-class life worth so much, or do man’s daily needs occupy him to such an extent, that he must reject all higher demands?
The use of historic-poetic Christian names in place of the names of saints, which has found its way into the German church, very often to the vexation of the priest who is baptizing the child, can doubtlessly be considered a minor side effect of romantic-poetic fiction. This trend—which may have nothing behind it but the urge to ennoble a child by giving it a melodious name—is praiseworthy, and this joining of a fictitious world with reality can even spread an enhancing glow over that person’s entire life. We would be insulting a beautiful child, whom we are pleased to name “Bertha,” if we had her baptized “Urselblandine!”7 Any educated person—to say nothing of a lover—would find his tongue tripping over such a name. A cold, one-sided world is not to blame when it spurns everything from the world of fantasy as ridiculous and reprehensible, but the thoughtful connoisseur of humankind knows how to estimate such things according to his sense of values.
For the two lovers on the banks of the Rhine, this comparison, which had been forced upon them by a joke, had the most delightful consequence. One doesn’t necessarily think about oneself when one looks into a mirror, but one is made aware of oneself and feels one’s own importance. The same applies to moral images, in which one recognizes one’s customs and inclinations, one’s habits and peculiarities, as in a silhouette, and tries with brotherly fervor to grasp and embrace them.
The habitude of being together became stronger and stronger; that I belonged to this circle was irrefutable. It had taken place without anyone’s asking how it was to end. And where are the parents who do not find it necessary to leave daughter or son in such a condition of uncertainty for a while, until something turns out to be for life, and better than any long-plotted plan could have produced?
They had complete faith in Friederike’s character and in my integrity, of which they had formed a favorable impression because of my peculiar abstinence from even the most innocent caress. We were left unobserved, which was customary anyway at the time, and it was left to us to wander across the countryside with much company or little, and to visit friends and neighbors as we pleased. On both banks of the Rhine—in Hagenau, Fort Louis, Philippsburg, in the Ortenau—I found those people scattered whom I had seen united in Sesenheim. In their homes, they were friendly hosts, hospitable, and so willing to open up to us kitchen, cellar, gardens, and vineyards—indeed, the entire region! The islands in the Rhine were often the goals of our boat rides. There we mercilessly tossed the cool inhabitants of that clear river into a pot or onto a grill or roasted them in spluttering fat, and we might have settled down happily there in some fisherman’s homely cottage if the horrible Rhine gnats had not chased us away. Once, when we had been driven home awkwardly and inopportunely ahead of time, I held forth in quite blasphemous terms, in front of Friederike’s good clerical father, on the insupportable disruption of a perfectly good picnic which had until then turned out so well in every respect, and our loving feelings for one another had seemed to grow with the success of the outing. I assured the vicar that these gnats alone could dissuade me from believing that a good and wise God had created the world. The pious old man called me to order sternly and explained that gnats and other insects had been created only after the fall of our first parents—or, if they had existed in Paradise, then certainly only to hum pleasantly, never to sting! I at once felt calmer,
for an angry man is easily pacified if he can be made to laugh. Still, I assured him that there really could have been no need for an angel with a flaming sword to drive the sinful couple out of the Garden of Eden; he was pleased to let me believe that huge gnats from the Tigris and Euphrates had done it. Thus I succeeded in making him laugh, for the good man could appreciate fun or, at least, knew how to let it pass.
More serious and uplifting, though, was the enjoyment of the various hours of the day and the seasons in the glorious countryside. One had only to give oneself up to the present in order to delight in the clarity of the pure sky, the glow of the rich earth, the mild evenings, the warm night beside or near one’s beloved. For months on end we were blessed with the clear air of mornings on which the sky presented itself in all its glory; the earth was drenched by a profuse dew, and, so that the drama might not be too simple, occasional clouds often towered above the far-off mountains. At times they would hover there for days, for weeks, without diminishing the clarity of the sky, and even the passing storms refreshed the land and glorified the green, glistening in the sunlight before it dried. A double rainbow in the sky—two colored seams on a dark gray, almost black strip of heaven—were more magnificent, more colorful, and stronger, but also more fleeting, than I had ever seen them.
In these surroundings the urge to write poetry awoke in me quite unexpectedly. I had not felt it for a long time. I composed several verses to melodies for Friederike. They would have made a nice little volume, but few are left. It should not be difficult to find them among the others.8
Since I had to return to the city often because of my strange studies and other circumstances, a new life was created for our love and it preserved us from all the unpleasantness that can ordinarily be the tiresome result of such a love affair. Separated from me, she lived for me in that she thought of something new with which to amuse me on my return. Separated from her, I busied myself on her behalf in order to appear new to her with some gift or idea when I saw her again. Painted ribbons had just come into style. I at once painted several for her and sent them to her, with a little poem, at a time when I had to stay away longer than I had anticipated.9 In order to keep my promise to her father to produce a new plan for the house, I persuaded a young architect to do the work for me. He seemed to enjoy doing it as a favor to me and even more in the expectation of receiving a good reception in such a friendly family. He finished off the ground plan and cross section of the house, didn’t forget yard and garden, and added a detailed but reasonable estimate of cost to make the execution of such an extensive project look easy and practical.
This evidence of our friendly efforts was most affectionately received, and since the vicar saw that we were pleased to serve him, he came forward with one more request—would we paint a chaise, which was all one color, with flowers and other decorative motifs? We were happy to oblige him and fetched paint, brushes, and other materials we might need from the apothecary and another shop in the next town. However, so that a Wakefield failure might not be missing, we noticed only when everything had been busily and very colorfully painted that we had used a defective varnish that would not dry. Sunshine, fresh air, clear or damp weather—nothing would make it behave as it should. Meanwhile, they had to use an old rattletrap, and there was nothing left for us to do but scrape off all the fine decoration again, which was much harder work than it had been to put it on. Our disgust with the job was heightened when the girls begged us for heaven’s sake to proceed slowly and carefully so as to preserve the paint underneath, which after our efforts never did regain its original high polish.
As with Dr. Primrose and his friendly family, such unpleasant little incidents did nothing to disturb the joy of our life, for we encountered all sorts of good fortune too, as did our friends and neighbors. Weddings and baptisms, the celebration when the framework of a new house was completed, inheritances and lottery winnings, were alternately announced and enjoyed by everyone. We gathered all joy together as communal property, and head and heart knew how to enhance it. It was not the first nor the last time that I found myself in a family or sociable circle at the very height of its flowering and, if I may flatter myself, helped to add something to the glow of such a period. On the other hand, I had to face the fact that such felicitous times don’t last and are quick to disappear.
But now our love was put to one more strange test. I like to call it a test, although it was not exactly that. The rustic family, whom I counted as my friends, had relatives in the city, people of good standing and repute, and comfortably off. The young city people often came to Sesenheim. The older ones, mothers and aunts who were less mobile, heard a lot about life in Sesenheim and of the increasing charm of the daughters, even of my influence. They consequently expressed a desire to meet me, and after I had visited them several times and been received well by them too, they decided that they wanted once to see all of us together, especially since they felt that they owed the Sesenheimers a friendly return invitation.
The arrangements took quite some time. The vicar’s wife didn’t find it easy to leave her household, Olivia had a horror of the city, into which she did not fit, and Friederike did not feel drawn there either. Thus the whole project was delayed until it was finally decided by the fact that I couldn’t get out into the country for a fortnight, and we preferred to see each other in the city, even under pressure, rather than not to meet at all. And so I found my girls—whom I was accustomed to seeing only in a rustic setting, against a backdrop of swaying trees, tumbling brooks, nodding field flowers, and a free horizon miles wide—for the first time in the rooms of a town house, which were large enough; still, they were hemmed in against a backdrop of wallpaper, mirrors, clocks, and figurines.
One’s relationship to one’s beloved is so decisive that one’s surroundings mean little, yet the spirit demands that they be fitting, natural, accustomed surroundings. With my animated response to all things present, I was unable to reconcile myself at once to the contradictions of the moment. The mother’s respectable, serene, and dignified behavior fitted perfectly into the new circle; she could not be told apart from the other women, but Olivia was as restless as a fish tossed up on shore. She was used to calling out to me in the garden or waving at me in the fields to come over when she had something special to tell me, and she did the same thing now, dragging me off to a window niche. She did it clumsily, with embarrassment, because she could sense that it was not the right thing to do—still, she did it. She had something of absolutely no importance to tell me, nothing that I did not know already—that she was utterly miserable, that she wished she were across the Rhine, yes, even in Turkey, for all she cared! Friederike, on the other hand, behaved quite remarkably under the circumstances. She didn’t fit in either, but it spoke for her character that, instead of trying to adapt herself to the situation, she unconsciously adapted the situation to herself. She behaved here just as she did in the country and knew how to enliven every moment. Without making a special effort, she set things in motion, thereby putting everyone at their ease, for it is really only boredom that makes people uneasy. And with that she fulfilled the wishes of the city aunts who had wanted, just once and from their own sofas, to witness rustic games and entertainment. And when everyone had had enough, the Sesenheimers looked at the wardrobe, jewelry, and all the other things that distinguished the French-dressed city women, and my girls admired it all without a trace of envy. With me too, Friederike made things easy for herself by treating me as she always did. She didn’t seem to single me out in any way except by directing any wishes she had at me rather than anyone else, therefore acknowledging me as her humble servant.
She used my obligingness on the following day with assurance, when she confided in me that the ladies would like to hear me read. Their daughters had spoken a lot about it, because in Sesenheim I read aloud whatever was requested, whenever desired. I was ready immediately and asked only for their silence and attention for a few hours. They agreed, and in one evening, wit
hout interruption, I read Hamlet in its entirety, trying to penetrate the true meaning of the drama as best I could, expressing myself animatedly and passionately as only the young can. I was greatly applauded. Every now and then, Friederike drew a deep breath, and her cheeks were suffused with pink. I knew these symptoms of a sensitive and deeply moved heart that remains outwardly blithe and tranquil, and they were the only reward I wanted. She joyfully accepted the thanks for the fact that she had suggested the reading and, in her gentle way, did not deny herself a little pride in having shone through me.
The visit was not intended to last long, but their departure was delayed. Friederike did what she could to be entertaining; so did I. But the rich resources that can be found in such abundance in the country are soon exhausted in the city, and the situation was made even more embarrassing because Olivia lost her composure entirely. The two sisters were the only ones in the entire company who dressed in the style we called “German.” Friederike had never thought of wearing anything else and felt she could pass this way anywhere; she made no comparisons. But Olivia found it unbearable to look like a maid in a society of such refinement. When she was in the country, she scarcely noticed how differently those who came from the city were dressed, and had no desire to dress like them, but in town she detested her country clothes. This, on top of all the other accomplishments of the city ladies and the hundred little incidents of a completely contrary milieu, created such a turmoil in her excitable little self that, to pacify her—which I did because Friederike asked me to—I had to pay her the most flattering attention. I was afraid there would be a dreadful scene. I could see the moment coming when she would throw herself at my feet, imploring me for heaven’s sake to save her from this situation. She was such a good girl when she could behave naturally, but pressures such as she was faced with here made her feel dreadfully ill at ease and in the end drove her to despair. So now I tried to hasten that which Olivia and her mother desired and to which Friederike was also not averse. I did not refrain from praising the latter’s behavior when compared with her sister’s. I told her how happy I was to see her unchanged and as free as the birds in the trees, even in these surroundings. She was sweet enough to reply that I was there, and she didn’t care where she was if only I was with her. At last I saw them off, and a load fell from me, for my feelings lay just between those of the two girls—I did not feel hysterically fearful like Olivia, but neither did I feel at ease like Friederike….
The Sorrows of Young Werther and Selected Writings Page 21