Oh, what a night, Wilhelm! I can henceforth bear anything. I shall never
see her again. Oh, why cannot I fall on your neck, and, with floods of
tears and raptures, give utterance to all the passions which distract my
heart! Here I sit gasping for breath, and struggling to compose myself.
I wait for day, and at sunrise the horses are to be at the door.
And she is sleeping calmly, little suspecting that she has seen me for
the last time. I am free. I have had the courage, in an interview of
two hours' duration, not to betray my intention. And O Wilhelm, what a
conversation it was!
Albert had promised to come to Charlotte in the garden immediately
after supper. I was upon the terrace under the tall chestnut trees, and
watched the setting sun. I saw him sink for the last time beneath this
delightful valley and silent stream. I had often visited the same
spot with Charlotte, and witnessed that glorious sight; and now—I was
walking up and down the very avenue which was so dear to me. A secret
sympathy had frequently drawn me thither before I knew Charlotte; and
we were delighted when, in our early acquaintance, we discovered that we
each loved the same spot, which is indeed as romantic as any that ever
captivated the fancy of an artist.
From beneath the chestnut trees, there is an extensive view. But I
remember that I have mentioned all this in a former letter, and have
described the tall mass of beech trees at the end, and how the avenue
grows darker and darker as it winds its way among them, till it ends
in a gloomy recess, which has all the charm of a mysterious solitude. I
still remember the strange feeling of melancholy which came over me the
first time I entered that dark retreat, at bright midday. I felt some
secret foreboding that it would, one day, be to me the scene of some
happiness or misery.
I had spent half an hour struggling between the contending thoughts of
going and returning, when I heard them coming up the terrace. I ran to
meet them. I trembled as I took her hand, and kissed it. As we reached
the top of the terrace, the moon rose from behind the wooded hill. We
conversed on many subjects, and, without perceiving it, approached the
gloomy recess. Charlotte entered, and sat down. Albert seated himself
beside her. I did the same, but my agitation did not suffer me to remain
long seated. I got up, and stood before her, then walked backward and
forward, and sat down again. I was restless and miserable. Charlotte
drew our attention to the beautiful effect of the moonlight, which threw
a silver hue over the terrace in front of us, beyond the beech trees.
It was a glorious sight, and was rendered more striking by the darkness
which surrounded the spot where we were. We remained for some time
silent, when Charlotte observed, "Whenever I walk by moonlight, it
brings to my remembrance all my beloved and departed friends, and I
am filled with thoughts of death and futurity. We shall live again,
Werther!" she continued, with a firm but feeling voice; "but shall we
know one another again—what do you think? what do you say?"
"Charlotte," I said, as I took her hand in mine, and my eyes filled with
tears, "we shall see each other again—here and hereafter we shall meet
again." I could say no more. Why, Wilhelm, should she put this question
to me, just at the moment when the fear of our cruel separation filled
my heart?
"And oh! do those departed ones know how we are employed here? do they
know when we are well and happy? do they know when we recall their
memories with the fondest love? In the silent hour of evening the shade
of my mother hovers around me; when seated in the midst of my children,
I see them assembled near me, as they used to assemble near her; and
then I raise my anxious eyes to heaven, and wish she could look down
upon us, and witness how I fulfil the promise I made to her in her last
moments, to be a mother to her children. With what emotion do I then
exclaim, 'Pardon, dearest of mothers, pardon me, if I do not adequately
supply your place! Alas! I do my utmost. They are clothed and fed; and,
still better, they are loved and educated. Could you but see, sweet
saint! the peace and harmony that dwells amongst us, you would glorify
God with the warmest feelings of gratitude, to whom, in your last hour,
you addressed such fervent prayers for our happiness.'" Thus did she
express herself; but O Wilhelm! who can do justice to her language? how
can cold and passionless words convey the heavenly expressions of the
spirit? Albert interrupted her gently. "This affects you too deeply,
my dear Charlotte. I know your soul dwells on such recollections with
intense delight; but I implore—" "O Albert!" she continued, "I am sure
you do not forget the evenings when we three used to sit at the little
round table, when papa was absent, and the little ones had retired. You
often had a good book with you, but seldom read it; the conversation of
that noble being was preferable to everything,—that beautiful,
bright, gentle, and yet ever-toiling woman. God alone knows how I have
supplicated with tears on my nightly couch, that I might be like her."
I threw myself at her feet, and, seizing her hand, bedewed it with
a thousand tears. "Charlotte!" I exclaimed, "God's blessing and your
mother's spirit are upon you." "Oh! that you had known her," she said,
with a warm pressure of the hand. "She was worthy of being known to
you." I thought I should have fainted: never had I received praise so
flattering. She continued, "And yet she was doomed to die in the flower
of her youth, when her youngest child was scarcely six months old. Her
illness was but short, but she was calm and resigned; and it was only
for her children, especially the youngest, that she felt unhappy. When
her end drew nigh, she bade me bring them to her. I obeyed. The younger
ones knew nothing of their approaching loss, while the elder ones were
quite overcome with grief. They stood around the bed; and she raised
her feeble hands to heaven, and prayed over them; then, kissing them in
turn, she dismissed them, and said to me, 'Be you a mother to them.'
I gave her my hand. 'You are promising much, my child,' she said: 'a
mother's fondness and a mother's care! I have often witnessed, by your
tears of gratitude, that you know what is a mother's tenderness: show it
to your brothers and sisters, and be dutiful and faithful to your
father as a wife; you will be his comfort.' She inquired for him. He
had retired to conceal his intolerable anguish,—he was heartbroken,
'Albert, you were in the room.' She heard some one moving: she inquired
who it was, and desired you to approach. She surveyed us both with a
look of composure and satisfaction, expressive of her conviction that
we should be happy,—happy with one another." Albert fell upon her neck,
and kissed her, and exclaimed, "We are so, and we shall be so!" Even
Albert, generally so tranquil, had quite lost his composure; and I was
excited beyond expression.
"And such a being," She continued, "was to leave us, Werther! Great God,
must we thus part with everything we hold dear in this world? Nobody
felt this more acutely than the children: they cried and lamented for
a long time afterward, complaining that men had carried away their dear
mamma."
Charlotte rose. It aroused me; but I continued sitting, and held her
hand. "Let us go," she said: "it grows late." She attempted to withdraw
her hand: I held it still. "We shall see each other again," I exclaimed:
"we shall recognise each other under every possible change! I am going,"
I continued, "going willingly; but, should I say for ever, perhaps I may
not keep my word. Adieu, Charlotte; adieu, Albert. We shall meet again."
"Yes: tomorrow, I think," she answered with a smile. Tomorrow! how I
felt the word! Ah! she little thought, when she drew her hand away from
mine. They walked down the avenue. I stood gazing after them in the
moonlight. I threw myself upon the ground, and wept: I then sprang
up, and ran out upon the terrace, and saw, under the shade of the
linden-trees, her white dress disappearing near the garden-gate. I
stretched out my arms, and she vanished.