Last night I had to go out. We had a sudden thaw. I had heard that the river had overflowed its banks, all streams were swollen, and my beloved valley was inundated from Wahlheim down. It was after eleven. I ran outside. What a terrible spectacle, to see the turbulent flood in the moonlight, pouring down from the rocks to cover field, meadow, and hedgerow! Whichever way you looked, the broad valley was one stormy sea in a howling gale. And when the moon came out again above a black cloud, and the flood rushed by me with a dull roar in its gloriously frightening reflection, I was overcome by a great trembling and, once more, a yearning. With my arms open wide, I stood facing the abyss, breathing down, down, and was lost in the bliss of hurling my torment and suffering into it to be carried off foaming, like the waves…and couldn’t lift my feet from the ground to put an end to my misery! My time is not yet run out. I feel it. William, I would have given my life to be able to tear the clouds apart with the gale that was howling, and to grasp the floodwater itself! Ha! And will not this prisoner perhaps be granted such bliss one day? As I looked down, in my melancholy, at a spot where I had rested once with Lotte under a willow tree during a hot walk, it too had been inundated. And I had scarcely recognized the willow, William, when I had to think, what about her meadows? Her neighborhood? The lodge? Has our summerhouse been destroyed by the torrent? And the sunshine of the past fell upon me as a dream of herds, meadows, and honors falls upon a prisoner. I stood still. I don’t have to reproach myself, for I have the courage to die…I could have…and now I sit here like an old woman who gathers her firewood from broken-down hedges and begs her bread from door to door to prolong her fading, joyless existence one moment more….
December 14th
What would you call it, dearest friend…I am afraid of myself! Is not my love for her the most sacred, chaste, and brotherly love? Has my soul ever known a culpable desire? I have no wish to protest…and now, my dreams! Oh, how truly those men felt who ascribed our dreams to the contrary influences of strange powers! When I think of last night…I tremble to tell it…I held her in my arms, I pressed her to my heart, her adorable lips murmured love, and I covered them with endless kisses. My eyes were lost in the intoxication that lay in hers. Dear God, am I culpable because I can still feel the bliss I experienced then and recall it with a full heart? Lotte! Lotte! It is all over with me. My mind is in a state of confusion. For days now I can’t seem to come to my senses, and my eyes are constantly filled with tears. I am well nowhere and well everywhere. I wish for nothing, demand nothing. It would be best if I were to depart.
Under these conditions, the decision to leave this world took an even greater hold on Werther’s soul. Since his return to Lotte, it had always been his last hope, yet he told himself that he dare not act hastily. He wanted to take the step with the quietest determination possible.
His doubts, his battle with himself, shine forth clearly in a note that is probably the beginning of a letter to William. It was found among his papers with no date.
“Her presence, her fate, her participation in my destiny force the last tears from my parched brain.
“Oh, to be able to lift the curtain and step behind it! That is all there is to it—so why do I hesitate? Because no one knows what it looks like back there? Because no one ever returns? And because it is characteristic of our spirit to anticipate confusion and darkness in what we do not know?”
In the end, he became more and more attuned to the melancholy idea; his decision became fixed and irrevocable. The following ambiguous letter, written to his friend, attests to this.
December 20th
I can thank your love for me, William, for the fact that you understand me as you did. You are right; it would be best for me to leave. Your suggestion that I return to you does not wholly suit me; at any rate, I would like to go out of my way a little, especially since we can count on a long period of frost and good roads. But it suits me very well that you want to come and fetch me; only please let a fortnight pass and wait for one more letter from me. Nothing should be plucked until it is ripe, and a fortnight more or less can make quite a difference. Please ask my mother to pray for me and tell her that I beg her to forgive me for all the trouble I have caused her. It happened to be my fate to distress those to whom I should have brought joy. Farewell, best of friends! May all the blessings of heaven be yours! Farewell!
We scarcely dare to express in words what was going on in Lotte’s soul during this time, and what her feelings were toward her husband and her unfortunate friend, although we can come to a tacit conclusion from our knowledge of her character, and any sensitive feminine soul will be able to think as she did and feel with her.
This much is certain: she was determined to do her best to keep Werther at a distance, and any hesitancy on her part must be attributed to a sincere desire to spare him, since she knew what it would mean to him to stay away and realized that it was as good as impossible for him to do so. Yet she was more inclined, during this time, to go through with her intention. Her husband meanwhile said nothing at all about it, nor did she, all of which made her more determined than ever to express her agreement with his viewpoint, at least in her behavior.
On the same day on which Werther wrote the letter, just inserted, to his friend—it was the Sunday before Christmas—he visited Lotte in the evening and found her alone. She was busy arranging a few toys she had assembled for her brothers and sisters for Christmas. He spoke about the joy the children would experience and of the days when the unexpected opening of a door and the vision of a decorated Christmas tree with its wax candles, sugar candy, and apples could transport one into paradise. Lotte tried to hide her embarrassment behind a sweet smile. “There will be a present for you, too,” she said, “if you promise to be good. A pretty candle and something else.”
“And what do you call good?” he cried. “How can I be good, dearest Lotte?”
“Thursday evening,” she said, “is Christmas Eve. The children are coming, and my father, and all of them will receive their presents then. I want you to come, too, but not before.”
Werther was stunned.
“Please,” she went on, “that is how it is. I beg you, for the sake of my peace of mind, things can’t go on like this. They can’t.”
He turned away from her and began to pace up and down the room, muttering to himself under his breath, “Things can’t go on like this.” Lotte, who could feel the dread condition into which her words had thrown him, tried with questions about all sorts of things to distract him, but to no avail. “No, Lotte,” he said, “I shall not see you again.”
“But why?” she cried. “Werther…you may—you must come to see us again, only be more moderate. Oh, why did you have to be born with so much vehemence, with this fixed, uncontrollable passion for everything you touch? I implore you,” she went on, taking him by the hand, “practice moderation! Your mind—all your knowledge and talents…think of the happiness they can give you! Be more manly! Divert this tragic devotion from a human creature who can only pity you.”
His jaw set hard, he looked at her somberly. She held fast to his hand. “Think calmly, Werther,” she said, “for just one moment. Don’t you see that you are deceiving and ruining yourself on purpose? Why me, Werther? Why me of all people, who belongs to another? Why? I fear…I fear that it is just the impossibility of possessing me that makes your desire for me so fascinating.”
He drew his hand out of hers, and stared at her with a benumbed, resentful expression.
“Very clever!” he said. “Very clever. Are these perhaps Albert’s words? Very politic, very politic, indeed.”
“Anybody could say them,” she interrupted him. “Isn’t it possible that in this whole wide world there might be a girl who could fulfill the desires of your heart? Master yourself and seek her. I swear that you will find her. Oh, I have been anxious for a long time now, for you and for us, because of the limitation you have imposed on yourself. Try to win control over yourself. A journey might distract y
ou. Surely it would. Seek and find a worthy object of your affections and come back and let us enjoy the bliss of true friendship.”
With a cold smile he replied, “That would look well in print and should be recommended to all tutors. Dear Lotte, give me a small respite, and all will be well.”
“But just this one thing more, Werther—please do not come again before Christmas Eve.”
He was about to reply when Albert entered the room. The men exchanged frosty greetings and walked up and down beside each other in some embarrassment. Werther started a desultory conversation that soon petered out; Albert did the same; then he asked his wife about a few things she was supposed to have attended to, and when he heard that they had not been done, he said something that, to Werther, sounded cold, even harsh. He wanted to leave, but couldn’t seem to do so. He hesitated until eight o’clock, his discouragement and resentment increasing constantly. When he at last took up his hat and cane, the table was already set for supper. Albert asked him to stay, but Werther, who felt that the man’s heart wasn’t in the invitation, thanked him coldly and left.
He reached his house, took the candle from his servant, who wanted to light his way, and went to his room alone. There he wept, talked wildly to himself, paced savagely up and down, and at last threw himself fully dressed on his bed, where he was found at about eleven by his servant, who at last had dared to enter the room to ask his master whether he should not remove his boots. Werther let the man do it, then forbade the boy to enter his room the next morning until he was called.
Early on Monday morning, the twenty-first of December, Werther wrote the following letter to Lotte. It was found after his death, lying on his desk, sealed, and was brought to her. I have decided to insert it here, since it throws light on the conditions under which it was written.
Lotte, I have come to a decision. I want to die, and I am writing this without any romantic exaggeration on the morning of the day on which I shall see you for the last time. When you read these lines, my dearest one, the cool earth will already cover the rigid remains of your restless, unfortunate friend, who to his last hour knew no greater bliss than to converse with you. I have passed a terrible night, for it was the night that hardened my determination and settled it once and for all: I want to die. When I tore myself away from you yesterday, I was in a frightful state of rebellion against all that was oppressing me, and my hopeless, joyless existence beside you took me in its cold grip. I could scarcely reach my room. I threw myself on my knees, beside myself, and Thou, dear God, didst finally grant me the refreshment of the most bitter tears. A thousand blows, a thousand perspectives stormed through my soul, and in the end, there it stood—firm, whole, the last and only thought: I want to die. I went to bed, and now, in the morning, in the quietude of awakening, it still stands firm and strong in my heart: I want to die. I have come to a conclusion not of despair but of certainty. I sacrifice myself for you. Yes, Lotte, why should I remain silent? One of us three must go and I wish to be the one. Oh, my dearest one, the thought of murdering your husband…you…me, has often raged through my torn heart. So be it then. When you climb the hilltop on a beautiful summer’s evening, think of me. Think of how often I used to come walking up the valley, then glance at the churchyard and look at my grave; see how the wind causes the tall grass to wave in the light of the setting sun. I was so calm when I began to write this, and now—now I am crying like a child because I can see it all so vividly.
At about ten, Werther called his servant and, as he dressed, told him that in a few days he intended to go on a journey. The man should therefore lay out his clothes and get ready to pack them. He also gave orders to collect all outstanding accounts, pick up several books he had loaned to various people, and pay two months in advance to a few poor souls to whom he customarily gave a little something every week.
He had his meal served in his room. After he had eaten, he rode to the magistrate’s house, but found him not at home. Lost in thought, he walked up and down in the garden for a while, apparently wishing to burden himself with all the melancholy of remembrance.
The children didn’t leave him in peace for long. They followed him, jumped around him, chattering about how, after tomorrow and one more tomorrow and one more day after that, it would be time for them to fetch their Christmas presents from Lotte. They talked about all the marvelous things that came to their childlike minds.
“Tomorrow!” he cried. “And another tomorrow, and one more day!” Then he kissed all of them tenderly and was about to leave when the littlest one had to whisper something in his ear. He betrayed the fact that his older brother had already written their New Year greetings, so big! One for Papa, one for Albert and Lotte, and one for Herr Werther. Early on New Year’s Day they intended to distribute them. The news was too much for Werther. He gave each of the children something, mounted his horse, left greetings for the old gentleman, and rode off, his eyes blinded by tears.
He reached home again at about five and told the maid to stoke the fire and keep it going through the night. He ordered his servant to pack his books and linen in a trunk and fold his clothing. Then he must have written the following paragraph of his last letter to Lotte:
“You are not expecting me. You think I am going to obey and not come to see you until Christmas Eve. Ah Lotte, it has to be today or never! On Christmas Eve you will hold this note in your trembling hand and it will be bathed by your beloved tears. I shall do it. I have to do it. Oh, I feel so content in my determination.”
Lotte, meanwhile, had fallen into a strange state of mind. After her last talk with Werther, she had begun to realize how hard it would be for her to part with him and how much he would suffer if forced to leave her. She had mentioned casually, in Albert’s presence, that Werther was not going to put in an appearance again until Christmas Eve, and Albert had ridden off to see a neighbor on a business trip that necessitated his staying away overnight.
Lotte was alone, and she was thinking quietly about their dilemma. She saw herself tied forever to a man with whose love and loyalty she was by now thoroughly familiar. She was devoted to him; his serenity and reliability—attributes on which any good woman could build her life’s happiness—seemed heaven-sent. She realized only too well what part he would always play in her life, and that of her children. But Werther had come to mean a great deal to her. From the first moment of their acquaintance, the harmony of their spirits had been very evident, and her long association with him and several experiences they had shared had made indelible impressions on her heart. She was accustomed to sharing everything that interested her with him, and his loss threatened to tear a gap into her life that she feared could never again be closed. If only she could have turned him into a brother at this point, how happy it would have made her! Or if she could have married him off to one of her friends…. If only she could have hoped that there might be a chance of his former good relationship with Albert being restored!
She thought of every one of her friends, one after the other, and found something wrong with all of them. She begrudged him to each in turn.
As a result of these reflections she began to realize, without admitting it to herself too clearly, that it was her secret but sincere desire to keep him for herself. At the same time she told herself, more in an aside, that she couldn’t keep him; she had no right to. Her lovely spirit, usually so light and so easily able to help itself, suddenly felt the pressure of a melancholy to which all prospects of happiness were closed. She was depressed; a dark cloud obscured her vision.
It was half past six when she heard someone coming up the stairs and recognized Werther’s step, and his voice asking for her. Her heart began to beat wildly, and I think we are safe in assuming that she received him in such condition for the first time. She would have liked to tell the maid to say she was not in, and as he came into the room, she cried out, in something akin to passionate confusion, “You didn’t keep your promise!”
“I promised nothing,” was his reply
.
“Well, then at least you should have granted my request,” she said. “It was made to serve the peace of mind of both of us.”
Without knowing what she was saying or doing, she proceeded to send messages to two of her friends to come at once—anything so as not to be alone with Werther. He put down several books he had brought with him and spoke about a few others, while she was wishing at one moment that her friends would come and in the next that they would stay away. The maid came back with word that both girls regretted they were unable to come.
Lotte would have liked the maid to sit in the next room with whatever she might have to do, then decided against it. Werther was pacing up and down. Lotte went over to the piano and began to play a minuet, but she could not play fluently. She pulled herself together and tried to be casual as she sat down beside Werther, who had taken his usual seat on the sofa.
“Haven’t you brought anything to read?” she asked. He had not. “In my drawer over there is your translation of Ossian’s songs. I haven’t read them yet. I was always hoping to hear them from you, but there never seemed to be any time…we couldn’t seem to…”
He smiled, got up and fetched the songs. As he took them in his hands, he shivered, and as he looked at them, his eyes filled with tears. He sat down and read:8
“O star of night descendant! How fair is thy light in the west; how radiantly thy head rises above thy cloud, moving toward thy hill regally! What dost thou seek on the heath? The storm winds have subsided; from far off comes the murmur of the tumbling brook; surf plays on distant rock, and hum of evening insects swarms across the lea. O beautiful light, what dost thou seek? But thou dost only smile and leave, gaily encircled by riplets that lave thy lovely hair. Farewell, calm beam of light! Arise, O magnificent effulgence of Ossian’s soul!