Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, the greatest of German poets, and
one of the most highly gifted men of the eighteenth century,
was born in 1749 at Frankfort-on-the-Main. He received his
early education from his father, who was an imperial
councillor, and in the year 1765 he went to the University of
Leipzig. Goethe's first great work was "Goetz von
Berlichingen" (see Vol. XVII). which was translated into
English by Sir Walter Scott. "The Sorrows of Young Werther"
("Die Leiden des jungen Werthers") was begun in 1772, when
Goethe was twenty-three years old, and was published
anonymously two years later. It immediately created an immense
sensation, made a round of the world, and was everywhere
either enthusiastically praised or severely condemned. It
became the fashion of young men to dress themselves in blue
coats and yellow breeches in imitation of the hero, and many
of them were moved to follow Werther's example as the simplest
way of settling their love affairs. Nevertheless, "Werther"
formed the real basis of Goethe's fame. It was the first
revelation to the world of the genius, which, a quarter of a
century later, was to give it "Faust" (Vol. XVI). The story is
frankly sentimental, but as such it is easily the best of the
sentimental novels of the eighteenth century. When, many years
later, Goethe was invited to an audience with Napoleon, the
emperor volunteered the information that he had read "Werther"
through six times. Goethe died in March, 1832, in his
eighty-fourth year.
_I.--"I Have Found an Angel"_
_May 4_. What a strange thing is the heart of man. To leave my dearest
friend, and yet to feel happy! I know you will forgive me, and I in
return will promise that I will no longer worry myself over every petty
stab of fortune. Poor Leonora! And yet I was not to blame. Was I in
fault that, while I was pleasantly entertained by the charms of her
sister, her feeble heart conceived a passion for me? And yet I am not
wholly blameless. Did I not encourage her emotion? Did I not--but what
is man that he dares so to accuse himself? Beyond doubt, the sufferings
of mankind would be far less did they but endure the present with
equanimity, instead of raking up the past for memories of sorrow.
A wonderful calm has come over me; I am alone, and feel that a spot like
this was created for the happiness of souls like mine. You ask if you
shall send me books; I pray you spare me. My heart craves for no
excitement; I need strains to soothe me, and I find them to perfection
in my Homer.
_May 17_. I have formed many acquaintances, but as yet have found no
friends. If you inquire what sort of people are here, I answer "the same
as everywhere." The human race is a monotonous affair. The majority
labours nearly all its time for mere subsistence, and is then so
distressed to have a small portion of freedom still unemployed that it
exerts even greater efforts to get rid of it.
I have just become acquainted with a very worthy person, the district
judge. They tell me how charming it is to see him in the midst of his
family of nine. His eldest daughter is much spoken of. He has invited me
to go and see him.
_June 16_. Why do I not write to you? You should have guessed that I was
pre-occupied; that, in a word, that I have made a friend who has won my
heart. I have found--I know not what. An angel? Nonsense! Everyone so
describes his mistress. And yet I cannot tell you how perfect she is, or
why so perfect. Between ourselves, I have been three times on the point
of throwing down my pen, ordering my horse, and riding out. And yet this
morning I determined not to ride to-day; and I keep running to the
window to see how high the sun is.
I could not restrain myself; go to her I must. I have just returned,
Wilhelm, and while I eat my supper I will write to you. I had already
made the acquaintance of her aunt, the judge's sister, and with her I
was going to accompany Charlotte to a ball given by some young people in
the neighbourhood. While we were on our way to fetch her, my companion
was loud in her praises of her niece's beauty and charm. "Take care,
however," she added, "that you do not lose your heart." "Why?" I asked.
"Because she is already betrothed to a most excellent man."
As the door opened, I saw before me the most charming sight that I have
ever beheld. Six children, of various ages, were running about the hall
and surrounding a lady of medium height, with a lovely figure, dressed
in a robe of simple white, trimmed with pink ribbons. She held a loaf of
brown bread, and was cutting slices for the little ones all round. She
apologised for not being quite ready, explaining that household duties
had made her forget the children's supper, which they always preferred
to take from her. I uttered some unmeaning compliment, but my whole soul
was absorbed by her air, her voice, her manner. You who know me can
imagine how I gazed upon her rich, dark eyes; how my soul gloated over
her warm lips and fresh glowing cheeks.
Never did I dance more lightly; I felt myself more than mortal, holding
this loveliest of creatures in my arms, flying with her as rapidly as
the wind, till I lost sight of every other object. And, oh, Wilhelm, I
vowed at that moment that no maiden whom I loved should ever waltz with
another than myself, if I went to perdition for it.
Returning from the ball, there was a most magnificent sunrise. Our
companions were asleep. Charlotte asked me if I did not wish to sleep
too, and begged me not to stand on ceremony. Looking deep into her eyes,
I answered, "As long as those eyes remain open, there is no fear for
mine." We continued awake until we reached her door. I left her, asking
her permission to call in the course of the day. She consented, and I
went Since then, sun, moon, and stars may pursue their course; I know
not whether it is day or night; the whole world is nothing to me.
_June 21_. My days are as happy as those reserved by God for His elect,
and whatever be my fate hereafter, I can never say that I have not
tasted joy--the purest joy of life. Little did I think when I selected
this spot for my home that all heaven lay within half a league of it.
How childish is man. To be disturbed about a mere look. We had been to
Walheim, but during our walk I thought I saw in Charlotte's eyes--I am a
fool, but forgive me. You should see her eyes. However, to be brief, as
the ladies were preparing to drive away I watched her eyes; they
wandered from one to another, but they did not alight on me--on me who
saw nothing but her. She noticed me not. The carriage drove off, and my
eyes filled with tears. Suddenly I saw Charlotte's bonnet leaning out of
the window, and she turned to look back--was it at me? I know not, and
in uncertainty is my consolation. Perhaps she turned to look at me.
Perhaps. Good-night. What a child I am!
_July 10_. Someone asked me the other day how I like her. How I _like_
her! What sort of creature must he be who merely likes Charlotte? Whose
entire being were not absolutely filled with her? Like her! One might as
well ask if I like Ossian.
_July 13_. No, I am not deceived. In her dark eyes I read a real
interest in me. Yes, I feel it, and I believe my own heart which tells
me--dare I say it?--that she loves me. How the idea exalts me in my own
eyes. And as you can understand my feelings, I may say to you, how I
honour myself because she loves me.
I do not know a man able to take my place in her heart; yet when she
speaks of Albert with so much warmth and affection, I feel like a
soldier who has been stripped of all his honours. Sometimes when we are
talking, in the eagerness of conversation she comes closer to me, and
her balmy breath reaches my lips, I feel that I could sink into the
earth for very joy. And yet, Wilhelm, if I know myself, and should ever
dare--you understand me--No, no; my heart is not so corrupt; it is weak,
but is not that a degree of corruption?
She is to me a sacred being; how her simplest song enchants me.
Sometimes, when I am ready to commit suicide, she sings some favourite
air, and instantly the gloom and madness are dispersed.
_July 24_. Yes, dear Charlotte. I will arrange everything. Only give me
more commissions; the more the better. One thing, however, I must
request you--use no more writing-sand with the letters you send me!
Today, I raised your letter to my lips, and it set my teeth on edge.
_II.--Bereft of Comfort_
_July 30_. Albert is arrived, and I must take my departure. Were he the
best of men, and I absolutely beneath him, I could not endure to see him
in possession of my perfect being. Enough! her betrothed is here. A fine
fellow, whom I cannot help liking. And he is so considerate; he has not
given Charlotte one kiss in my presence. Heaven reward him for it. He is
free from ill-humour, which you know is the fault I detest most. I do
not ask whether he may not now and then tease her with some little
jealousies, as I know that in his place I should not be entirely free
from such feelings.
_August 8_. I am amazed to see from my diary, which I have somewhat
neglected of late, how deliberately I have entangled myself, step by
step. But even though I see the result plainly, I have no thought of
acting with any greater prudence. And yet I feel that if only I knew
where to go, I would abandon everything and fly from this place.
And yet I feel that, if I were not a fool, I could enjoy life here most
delightfully. Admitted into this charming family, loved by the father as
a son, by his children as a second father, and by Charlotte!
Furthermore, Albert welcomes me with the heartiest affection, and loves
me, next to Charlotte, more than all the world.
_August 21_. In vain do I stretch out my arms towards her when I wake in
the morning. In vain do I seek for her when some innocent dream has
happily deceived me, and placed me near her in the fields when I have
seized her hand and covered it with kisses. Tears flow from my oppressed
heart; and, bereft of all comfort, I weep over my future woes.
_August 28_. This is my birthday, and early in the morning I received a
packet from Albert. I found within one of the pink ribbons which
Charlotte wore in her dress the first time I saw her, and which I had
often asked her to give me. With it were two volumes of Wetstein's
Homer, a book I had often wished for. How well they understood those
little attentions of friendship, so superior to costly presents, unhappy
being that I am. Why do I thus deceive myself? What is to be the outcome
of all this wild, aimless, endless passion? I cannot pray except to her.
Oh, Wilhelm, the hermit's cell, his sackcloth and girdle of thorns,
would be luxury and indulgence compared with what I have to suffer.
_October 20_. I have taken the plunge, and following your repeated
advice, I have taken a post with the ambassador. We arrived here
yesterday. If he were less peevish and morose all would be well. As it
is, he occasions me continual annoyance; he is the most punctilious
blockhead in the world. He does everything step by step, with the paltry
fussiness of an old woman; and he is a man whom it is impossible to
please, because he is never pleased with himself.
_January 20_. I have but one being here to interest me, my dear
Charlotte--a Miss B----. She resembles you, if indeed anyone can
possibly resemble you. "Ah," you will say, "he has learnt to pay fine
compliments." And this is partly true; I have been very agreeable
lately, as it was not in my power to be otherwise. But I must tell you
of Miss B----. She has abundance of soul, which flashes from her deep
blue eyes. Her rank is a torment to her, and satisfies no single desire
of her heart. She knows you, my dear Charlotte, as I have told her all
about you, and renders homage to your merits; but her homage is not
exacted, but voluntary--she loves you, and delights to hear you made the
subject of conversation. Adieu! Is Albert with you, and what is he to
you? Forgive the question.
_February 20_. I thank you, Albert, for having deceived me. I waited for
the news that your wedding-day was fixed, and I meant on that day to
remove Charlotte's picture from the wall, and bury it with some old
papers that I wish destroyed. You are now united, and the picture
remains. Well, let it remain. Why should it not?
_III.--"I Can Remain No Longer"_
_June 11_. Say what you will, I can remain here no longer. Why should I
remain? The prince is as gracious to me as anyone could be, and yet I am
not at my ease. There is, indeed, nothing in common between us; he is a
man of understanding, but quite of the ordinary kind. His conversation
gives me no more amusement than I should derive from an ordinary
well-written book. Whither am I going? I think it would be better for me
to visit the mines in----. But I am only deluding myself thus. You know
that I only want to be near my dear Charlotte once more. I smile at the
suggestion of my heart, but I obey its dictates.
_July 29_. Dear Wilhelm, my whole frame feels convulsed when I see
Albert put his arms round that slender waist. Oh, the very thought of
folding that dearest of heaven's creatures in one's arms.
And--shall I avow it? Why should I not?--she would have been happier
with me than with him. Albert is not the man to satisfy the wishes of
such a heart. He wants a certain sensibility; he wants--in short, their
hearts do not beat in unison. But, Wilhelm, he loves her with his whole
heart, and what does not such a love deserve?
_September 5_. Charlotte had written a letter to her husband in the
country, where he was detained on business. It began: "My dearest love,
return as soon as possible. I await you with a thousand raptures!"
A friend who arrived brought word that he could not return immediately.
Her letter fell into my hands. I read it, and smiled. She asked the
reason. "What a heavenly treasure is imagination," I exclaimed. "I
fancied for a moment that this was written to me." She paused, and
seemed displeased. I was silent.
_October 10_. Only to gaze into her dark eyes is to me a source of
happiness. And what grieves me is that Albert does not seem so happy as
he--as I--as he hoped to be--as I should have been--if--. I am no friend
to these pauses, but here I cannot express myself otherwise; and
probably I am explicit enough.
_October 19_. Alas the void--the fearful void which I feel in my bosom!
Sometimes I think, if I could only once press her to my heart, this
dreadful void would be filled.
_October 30_. A hundred times I have been on the point of embracing her.
Heavens! what a torment it is to see so much loveliness passing and
repassing before us, and yet not dare to touch it. And to touch is the
most natural of human instincts. Do not children touch everything that
they see?
_November 8_. Charlotte reproves me for my excesses with so much
tenderness and goodness. I have lately drunk more wine than usual.
"Don't do it," she said; "think of Charlotte." "Think of you," I
answered; "can such advice be necessary? Do I not ever think of you?"
She immediately changed the subject to prevent me pursuing it further.
My dear friend, my energies are all prostrated; she can do with me what
she pleases. Yesterday, when I took leave, she seized me by the hand,
and said, "Adieu, dear Werther!" It was the first time she had ever
called me "dear." I have repeated it a hundred times.
_IV.--"I am Resolved to Die"_
_November 24_. She is sensible of my sufferings. This morning her look
pierced my soul. I found her alone; she was silent, and only gazed
steadfastly at me. Oh, who can express my emotions? I was quite
overcome, and bending down, pronounced this vow to myself, "Beautiful
lips, which angels guard, never will I seek to profane your purity with
a kiss." And yet, oh, I wish--But, alas, my heart is darkened by doubt
and indecision. Could I but taste felicity, and then die to expiate the
sin. What sin?
_December 21_. I am lost. My senses are bewildered, my recollection is
confused, my eyes are bathed in tears. I am ill, and yet am well. I wish
for nothing; I have no desires; it were better I were gone. I saw
Charlotte to-day; she was busy preparing some little gifts for her
brothers and sisters, to be given to them on Christmas Day. "You shall
have a gift too," she said, "if you behave well." "And what do you call
behaving well?" I asked. "What should I do; what can I do?" "Thursday
night," she answered, "is Christmas Eve; the children are all to be
here, and my father too; there is a present for each of them. Do you
come likewise, but do not come before that time!"
I started. She must have seen my emotion, for she continued, hastily "I
desire that you will not. It must be so; I ask it of you as a favour,
for my own peace and tranquillity. We cannot go on in this manner any
longer!" It were idle to attempt to describe my emotions I was as if
paralysed; it was as if the sun had suddenly gone out. When I
recollected myself, Charlotte was trying to speak on some indifferent
topic. "No, Charlotte," I explained, "I understand you perfectly. I will
never see you again!"
_December 22_. It is all over, Charlotte; I am resolved to die. I make
this declaration deliberately and coolly, without any romantic passion,
on the morning of the day when I am to see you for the last time. At the
moment that you read these lines the cold grave will hold the remains of
that restless and unhappy being who, in his last moments of existence,
knew no pleasure so great as that of conversing with you.
When I tore myself from you yesterday my senses were in tumult and
disorder. I could scarcely reach my room. A thousand ideas floated
through my mind. At last one fixed, final thought took possession of my
heart. It was to die. Oh, beloved Charlotte, this heart, excited by rage
and fury, has often conceived the horrid idea of murdering your
husband--you--myself.
What do they mean by saying that Albert is your husband? He may be so
for this world, and in this world it is a sin to love you--to wish to
tear you from his embrace. Yes, it is a crime, and I suffer the
punishment--but I have enjoyed the full delight of my sin. I have
inhaled a balm that has revived my soul; from this hour you are mine;
yes, Charlotte, you are mine. I do not dream, I do not rave. Drawing
nearer to the grave my perceptions become clearer. We shall exist; we
shall see each other again.
I wish to be buried in the dress I wear at present; it has been made
sacred by your touch. How warmly I have loved you, Charlotte. Since the
first hour I saw you, how impossible have I found it to leave you. This
ribbon must be buried with me; it was a present from you on my birthday.
How confused it all appears. Little did I think then that I should
journey on this road. But peace, I pray you, peace.
Both my pistols are loaded. The clock strikes twelve. I say Amen.
Charlotte! Charlotte! Farewell! Farewell!
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