history, I found among all those who killed themselves no one who did
this deed with such greatness and freedom of mind, as the Emperor
Otho. He, having the worst of it as a general, but being by no means
reduced to extremities, resolves to quit the world for the benefit of
the empire, which, in some measure, already belongs to him, and for
the sake of sparing so many thousands. He has a cheerful supper with
his friends, and the next morning it is found that he has plunged a
sharp dagger into his heart. This deed alone seemed to me worthy of
imitation; and I was convinced that whoever could not act in this
like Otho, had no right to go voluntarily out of the world. By these
convictions, I freed myself not so much from the danger as from the
whim of suicide, which in those splendid times of peace, and with
an indolent youth, had managed to creep in. Among a considerable
collection of weapons, I possessed a handsome, well polished dagger.
This I laid every night by my bed, and before I extinguished the
candle, I tried whether I could succeed in plunging the sharp point
a couple of inches deep into my heart. Since I never could succeed
in this, I at last laughed myself out of the notion, threw off all
hypochondriacal fancies, and resolved to live. But to be able to do
this with cheerfulness, I was obliged to solve a poetical problem, by
which all that I had felt, thought, and fancied upon this important
point, should be reduced to words. For this purpose I collected the
elements which had been at work in me for a few years; I rendered
present to my mind the cases which had most afflicted and tormented me;
but nothing would come to a definite form; I lacked an event, a fable,
in which they could be overlooked.
[Side-note: Jerusalem's Death.]
All at once I heard the news of Jerusalem's death, and immediately
after the general report, the most accurate and circumstantial
description of the occurrence, and at this moment the plan of _Werther_
was formed, and the whole shot together from all sides, and became a
solid mass, just as water in a vessel, which stands upon the point of
freezing, is concerted into hard ice by the most gentle shake. To hold
fast this singular prize, to render present to myself, and to carry out
in all its parts a work of such important and various contents was the
more material to me, as I had again fallen into a painful situation,
which left me even less hope than those which had preceded it, and
foreboded only sadness, if not vexation.
It is always a misfortune to step into new relations to which one has
not been inured; we are often against our will lured into a false
sympathy, the incompleteness[6] of such positions troubles us, and yet
we see no means either of completing them or of removing them.
Frau von Laroche had married her eldest daughter at Frankfort, and
often came to visit her, but could not reconcile herself to the
position which she herself had chosen. Instead of feeling comfortable,
or endeavouring to make any alteration, she indulged in lamentations,
so that one was really forced to think that her daughter was unhappy;
although, as she wanted nothing, and her husband denied her nothing,
one could not well see in what her unhappiness properly consisted. In
the meanwhile I was well received in the house, and came into contact
with the whole circle, which consisted of persons who had partly
contributed to the marriage, partly wished for it a happy result.
The Dean of St. Leonhard, Dumeitz, conceived a confidence, nay, a
friendship for me. He was the first Catholic clergyman with whom I had
come into close contact, and who, because he was a clear-sighted man,
gave me beautiful and sufficient explanations of the faith, usages, and
external and internal relations of the oldest church. The figure of a
well-formed though not young lady, named Servières, I still accurately
remember. I likewise came into contact with the Alossina-Schweizer,
and other families, forming a connexion with the sons, which long
continued in the most friendly manner, and all at once found myself
domesticated in a strange circle, in the occupations, pleasures, and
even religious exercises of winch I was induced, nay, compelled to
take part. My former relation to the young wife, which was, properly
speaking, only that of a brother to a sister, was continued after
marriage; my age was suitable to her own; I was the only one in the
whole circle in whom she heard an echo of those intellectual tones to
which she had been accustomed from her youth. We lived on together
in a childish confidence, and although there was nothing impassioned
in our intercourse, it was tormenting enough, because she also could
not reconcile herself to her new circumstances, and although blessed
with the goods of fortune, had to act as the mother of several
step-children, being moreover transplanted from the cheerful vale of
Ehrenbreitstein and a joyous state of youth into a gloomily-situated
mercantile house. Amid so many new family connexions was I hemmed in,
without any real participation or co-operation. If they were satisfied
with each other, all seemed to go on as a matter of course; but most
of the parties concerned turned to me in cases of vexation, which by
my lively sympathy I generally rendered worse rather than better. In
a short time this situation became quite insupportable to me; all
the disgust at life which usually springs from such half-connexions,
seemed to burden me with double and three-fold weight, and a new strong
resolution was necessary to free myself from it.
Jerusalem's death, which was occasioned by his unhappy attachment to
the wife of his friend, shook me out of the dream, and, because I
not only visibly contemplated that which had occurred to him and me,
but something similar which befel me at the moment, also stirred me
to passionate emotion, I could not do otherwise than breathe into
that production, which I had just undertaken, all that warmth which
leaves no distinction between the poetical and the actual. I had
completely isolated myself, nay, prohibited the visits of my friends,
and internally also I put everything aside that did not immediately
belong to the subject. On the other hand, I embraced everything that
had any relation to my design, and repeated to myself my nearest life,
of the contents of which I had as yet made no practical use. Under such
circumstances, after such long and so many preparations in secret,
I wrote _Werther_ in four weeks without any scheme of the whole, or
treatment of any part, being previously put on paper.
[Side-note: Werther.]
The manuscript, which was now finished, lay before me as a rough
draught, with few corrections and alterations. It was stitched at once,
for the binding is to a written work of about the same use as the
frame is to a picture; one can much better see whether there is really
anything in it. Since I had written thus much, almost unconsciously,
like a somnambulist, I was myself astonished, now I went through
it, that I might alter and improve it in some respects. But in the
expectation that after some time, when I had seen it at a certain
distance, much would occur to me that would turn to the advantage
of the work, I gave it to my younger friends to read, upon whom it
produced an effect so much the greater, as, contrary to my usual
custom, I had told no one of it, nor discovered my design beforehand.
Yet here again it was the subject-matter which really produced the
effect, and in this respect they were in a frame of mind precisely the
reverse of my own; for by this composition, more than by any other, I
had freed myself from that stormy element, upon which, through my own
fault and that of others, through a mode of life both accidental and
chosen, through design and thoughtless precipitation, through obstinacy
and pliability, I had been driven about in the most violent manner. I
felt, as if after a general confession, once more happy and free, and
justified in beginning a new life.
The old nostrum had been of excellent service to me on this occasion.
But while I felt myself eased and enlightened by having turned reality
into poetry, my friends were led astray by my work, for they thought
that poetry ought to be turned into reality, that such a moral was to
be imitated, and that at any rate one ought to shoot oneself. What had
first happened here among a few, afterwards took place among the larger
public, and this little book, which had been so beneficial to me, was
decried as extremely injurious.
But all the evils and misfortunes which it may have produced were
nearly prevented by an accident, since even after its production it ran
the risk of being destroyed. The matter stood thus:--Merck had lately
returned from Petersburg; I had spoken to him but little, because he
was always occupied, and only told him, in the most general terms, of
that _Werther_ which lay next my heart. He once called upon me, and as
he did not seem very talkative, I asked him to listen to me. He seated
himself on the sofa, and I began to read the tale, letter by letter.
After I had gone on thus for a while, without gaining from him any
sign of admiration, I adopted a more pathetic strain,--but what were
my feelings, when at a pause which I made, he struck me down in the
most frightful manner, with "Good! that's very pretty," and withdrew
without adding anything more. I was quite beside myself, for, as I took
great pleasure in my works, but at first passed no judgment on them, I
here firmly believed that I had made a mistake in subject, tone, and
style--all of which were doubtful--and had produced something quite
inadmissible. Had a fire been at hand, I should at once have thrown
in the work; but I again plucked up courage, and passed many painful
days, until he at last assured me in confidence, that at that moment he
had been in the most frightful situation in which a man can be placed.
On this account, he said, he had neither seen nor heard anything, and
did not even know what the manuscript was about. In the meanwhile
the matter had been set right, as far as was possible, and Merck,
in the times of his energy, was just the man to accommodate himself
to anything monstrous; his humour returned, only it had grown still
more bitter than before. He blamed my design of rewriting _Werther_,
with the same expressions which he had used on a former occasion, and
desired to see it printed just as it was. A fair copy was made, which
did not remain long in my hands, for on the very day on which my sister
was married to George Schlosser, a letter from Weygand, of Leipzig,
chanced to arrive, in which he asked me for a manuscript; such a
coincidence I looked upon as a favourable omen. I sent off _Werther_,
and was very well satisfied, when the remuneration I received for it
was not entirely swallowed up by the debts which I had been forced to
contract on account of _Götz von Berlichingen._
[Side-note: Effect of Werther.]
The effect of this little book was great, nay immense, and chiefly
because it exactly hit the temper of the times. For as it requires
but a little match to blow up an immense mine, so the explosion
which followed my publication was mighty, from the circumstance that
the youthful world had already undermined itself; and the shock was
great, because all extravagant demands, unsatisfied passions, and
imaginary wrongs, were suddenly brought to an eruption. It cannot be
expected of the public that it should receive an intellectual work
intellectually. In fact, it was only the subject, the material part,
that was considered, as I had already found to be the case among my own
friends; while at the same time arose that old prejudice, associated
with the dignity of a printed book,--that it ought to have a moral aim.
But a true picture of life has none. It neither approves nor censures,
but developes sentiments and actions in their consequences, and thereby
enlightens and instructs.
Of the reviews I took little notice. I had completely washed my hands
of the matter, and the good folks might now try what they could make
of it. Yet my friends did not fail to collect these things, and as
they were already initiated into my views, to make merry with them.
The _Joys of Young Werther_, with which Nicolai came forth, gave us
occasion for many a jest. This otherwise excellent, meritorious,
and well-informed man, had already begun to depreciate and oppose
everything that did not accord with his own way of thinking, which,
as he was of a very narrow mind, he held to be the only correct way.
Against me, too, he must needs try his strength, and his pamphlet was
soon in our hands. The very delicate vignette, by Chodowiecki, gave
me much delight; as at that time I admired this artist extravagantly.
The jumbling medley itself was cut out of that rough household stuff,
which the human understanding, in its homely limits, takes especial
pains to make sufficiently coarse. Without perceiving that there was
nothing here to qualify, that Werther's youthful bloom, from the very
first, appears gnawed by the deadly worm, Nicolai allows my treatment
to pass current up to the two hundred and fourteenth page, and then,
when the desolate mortal is preparing for the fatal step, the acute
psychological physician contrives to palm upon his patient a pistol,
loaded with chickens' blood, from which a filthy spectacle, but happily
no mischief, arises. Charlotte becomes the wife of Werther, and the
whole affair ends to the satisfaction of everybody.
So much I can recall to memory, for the book never came before my
eyes again. I had cut out the vignette, and placed it among my most
favourite engravings. I then, by way of quiet, innocent revenge,
composed a little burlesque poem, "Nicolai at the grave of Werther:"
which, however, cannot be communicated. On this occasion, too, the
pleasure of giving everything a dramatic shape, was again predominant.
I wrote a prose dialogue between Charlotte and Werther, which was
tolerably comical; Werther bitterly complains that his deliverance
by chickens' blood has turned out so badly. His life is saved, it is
true, but he has shot his eyes out. He is now in despair at being
her husband, without being able to see her; for the complete view of
her person would to him be much dearer than all those pretty details
of which he could assure himself by the touch. Charlotte, as may be
imagined, has no great catch in a blind husband, and thus occasion is
given to abuse Nicolai pretty roundly, for interfering unasked in other
people's affairs. The whole was written in a good-natured spirit, and
painted, with prophetic forebodings, that unhappy, conceited humour
of Nicolai's, which led him to meddle with things beyond his compass,
which gave great annoyance both to himself and others, and by which,
eventually, in spite of his undoubted merits, he entirely destroyed
his literary reputation. The original of this _jeu d'esprit_ was
never copied, and has been lost sight of for years. I had a special
predilection for the little production. The pure ardent attachment
of the two young persons, was rather heightened than diminished by
the comico-tragic situation into which they were thus transposed. The
greatest tenderness prevailed throughout; and even my adversary was not
treated illnaturedly, but only humourously. I did not, however, let the
book itself speak quite so politely; in imitation of an old rhyme it
expressed itself thus:--
"By that conceited man--by _him_
I'm dangerous declar'd,
The heavy man, who cannot swim,
Is by the water scar'd,
That Berlin pack, priest-ridden lot--
Their ban I do not heed,
And those who understand me not
Should better learn to read."
[Side-note: Effect of Werther.]
Being prepared for all that might be alleged against _Werther_, I
found those attacks, numerous as they were, by no means annoying; but
I had no anticipation of the intolerable torment provided for me by
sympathizers and well-wishers. These, instead of saying anything civil
to me about my book just as it was, wished to know, one and all, what
was really true in it; at which I grew very angry, and often expressed
myself with great discourtesy. To answer this question, I should have
been obliged to pull to pieces and destroy the form of a work on which
I had so long pondered, with the view of giving a poetical unity to its
many elements; and in this operation, if the essential parts were not
destroyed, they would, at least, have been scattered and dispersed.
However, upon a closer consideration of the matter, I could not take
the public inquisitiveness in ill part. Jerusalem's fate had excited
great attention. An educated, amiable, blameless young man, the son of
one of the first theologians and authors, healthy and opulent, had at
once, without any known cause, destroyed himself. Every one asked how
this was possible, and when they heard of an unfortunate love affair,
the whole youth were excited, and as soon as it transpired that some
little annoyances had occurred to him in the higher circles, the middle
classes also became excited; indeed every one was anxious to learn
further particulars. Now _Werther_ appeared an exact delineation, as it
was thought, of the life and character of that young man. The locality
and person tallied, and the narrative was so very natural, that they
considered themselves fully informed and satisfied. But, on the other
hand, on closer examination, there was so much that did not fit, that
there arose, for those who sought the truth, an unmanageable business,
because a critical investigation must necessarily produce a hundred
doubts. The real groundwork of the affair was, however, not to be
fathomed, for all that I had interwoven of my own life and suffering
could not be deciphered, because, as an unobserved young man, I had
secretly, though not silently, pursued my course.
While engaged in my work, I was fully aware how highly that artist was
favoured who had an opportunity of composing a Venus from the study of
a variety of beauties. Accordingly I took leave to model my Charlotte
according to the shape and qualities of several pretty girls, although
the chief characteristics were taken from the one I loved best. The
inquisitive public could therefore discover similarities in various
ladies; and even to the ladies themselves it was not quite indifferent
to be taken for the right one. But these several Charlottes caused
me infinite trouble, because every one who only looked at me seemed
determined to know where the proper one really resided. I endeavoured
to save myself, like Nathan[7] with the three rings, by an expedient,
which, though it might suit higher beings, would not satisfy either the
believing or the reading public. I hoped after a time to be freed from
such tormenting inquiries, but they pursued me through my whole life.
I sought, on my travels, to escape them, by assuming an _incognito_,
but even this remedy was, to my disappointment, unavailing, and thus
the author of the little work, had he even done anything wrong and
mischievous, was sufficiently, I may say disproportionately, punished
by such unavoidable importunities.
Subjected to this kind of infliction, I was taught but too
unequivocally, that authors and their public are separated by an
immense gulf, of which, happily, neither of them have any conception.
The uselessness, therefore, of all prefaces I had long ago seen; for
the more pains a writer takes to render his views clear, the more
occasion he gives for embarrassment. Besides, an author may preface as
elaborately as he will, the public will always go on making precisely
those demands which he has endeavoured to avoid. With a kindred
peculiarity of readers, which (particularly with those who print their
judgments) seems remarkably comical, I was likewise soon acquainted.
They live, for instance, in the delusion that an author, in producing
anything, becomes their debtor; and he always falls short of what they
wished and expected of him, although before they had seen our work,
they had not the least notion that anything of the kind existed, or
was even possible. Independent of all this, it was now the greatest
fortune, or misfortune, that every one wished to make the acquaintance
of this strange young author, who had stepped forward so unexpectedly
and so boldly. They desired to see him, to speak to him, and, even
at a distance, to hear something from him; thus he had to undergo a
very considerable crowd, sometimes pleasant, sometimes disagreeable,
but always distracting. For enough works already begun lay before him,
nay, and would have given him abundance of work for some years, if he
could have kept to them with his old fervour; but he was drawn forth
from the quiet, the twilight, the obscurity, which alone can favour
pure creation, into the noise of daylight, where one is lost in others,
where one is led astray, alike by sympathy and by coldness, by praise
and by blame, because outward contact never accords with the epoch
of our inner culture, and therefore, as it cannot further us, must
necessarily injure us.
[Side-note: Dramatic Tendency.]
Yet more than by all the distractions of the day, the author was kept
from the elaboration and completion of greater works by the taste then
prevalent in this society for _dramatizing_ everything of importance
which occurred in actual life. What that technical expression (for
such it was in our inventive society) really meant, shall here be
explained. Excited by intellectual meetings on days of hilarity, we
were accustomed, in short extemporary performances, to communicate, in
fragments, all the materials we had collected towards the formation of
larger compositions. One single simple incident, a pleasantly _naïve_
or even silly word, a blunder, a paradox, a clever remark, personal
singularities or habits, nay, a peculiar expression, and whatever else
would occur in a gay and bustling life--took the form of a dialogue, a
catechism, a passing scene, or a drama,--often in prose, but oftener in
verse.
By this practice, carried on with genial passion, the really poetic
mode of thought was established. We allowed objects, events, persons,
to stand for themselves in all their bearings, our only endeavour
being to comprehend them clearly, and exhibit them vividly. Every
expression of approbation or disapprobation was to pass in living forms
before the eyes of the spectator. These productions might be called
animated epigrams, which, though without edges or points, were richly
furnished with marked and striking features. The _Jahrmarktsfest_
(Fair-festival) is an epigram of this kind, or rather a collection of
such epigrams. All the characters there introduced are meant for actual
living members of that society, or for persons at least connected and
in some degree known to it; but the meaning of the riddle remained
concealed to the greater part; all laughed and few knew that their own
marked peculiarities served as the jest. The prologue to _Bahrdt's
Newest Revelations_ may be looked upon as a document of another kind;
the smallest pieces are among the miscellaneous poems, a great many
have been destroyed or lost, and some that still exist do not admit
of being published. Those which appeared in print only increased the
excitement of the public, and curiosity about the author; those which
were handed about in manuscript entertained the immediate circle,
which was continually increasing. Doctor Bahrdt, then at Giessen, paid
me a visit, apparently courteous and confiding; he laughed over the
prologue, and wished to be placed on a friendly footing. But we young
people still continued to omit no opportunity at social festivals,
of sporting, in a malicious vein, at the peculiarities which we had
remarked in others, and successfully exhibited.
If now it was by no means displeasing to the young author to be stared
at as a literary meteor, he nevertheless sought, with glad modesty,
to testify his esteem for the most deserving men of his country,
among whom, before all others, the admirable Justus Möser claims
especial mention. The little essays on political subjects by this
incomparable man, had been printed some years before in the _Osnabrück
Intelligenzblätter_, and made known to me through Herder, who
overlooked nothing of worth that appeared in his time, especially if
in print. Moser's daughter, Frau von Voigt, was occupied in collecting
these scattered papers. We had scarcely patience to wait for their
publication, and I placed myself in communication with her, to assure
her, with sincere interest, that the essays, which, both in matter and
form, had been addressed only to a limited circle, would be useful and
beneficial everywhere. She and her father received these assurances
from a stranger, not altogether unknown, in the kindest manner, since
an anxiety which they had felt, was thus preliminarily removed.