The Sorrows of Young Werther and Selected Writings

  “I must apologize,” she said, “that you had to come in for me and that I am keeping the ladies waiting, but dressing, and all the little household duties that had to be attended to before leaving, made me forget to give my children their supper, and they don’t want anyone to give it to them but me.”

  I said something, a casual compliment, but all the while my whole being was absorbed with the sight of her, the sound of her voice, her behavior. When she ran into her room to fetch her gloves and fan, I barely had time to recover my composure. The little ones eyed me suspiciously with sidelong glances, and kept their distance. I went up to the youngest, the fairest child you could imagine. He drew away from me, but just then Lotte came out of her room and said, “Shake hands with your cousin, Louis,” and the boy did, quite naturally, and I could not resist kissing him heartily in spite of his runny little nose. “Cousin?” I said, holding out my hand to take hers. “Do I merit being a relative?” “Oh,” she said, with a bright smile, “we have so many cousins. It would be sad if you were the worst among them.” As she was leaving, she told Sophie, the next oldest, a girl of about eleven, to take good care of the children and best greetings to her father on his return from his ride. She asked the children to obey their sister, Sophie, just as they would obey her, and a few said they would, but one bright little blond girl of about six declared that it would not be like obeying her and “we should rather have you.” The two oldest boys had climbed up on the box, and when I interceded, were given permission to drive with us as far as the forest if they promised not to tease one another and held on tight.

  We had just settled down, and the women had finished greeting each other and exchanging the correct remarks about the others’ clothes and hats and given the people they were going to meet a thorough going-over, when Lotte asked the coachman to stop and let the boys off. They insisted on kissing her hand again, the older boy with a tenderness that seems to come naturally to boys of fifteen; the younger was much more impetuous and carefree about it. She sent her love to the little ones again, and we drove on.

  The cousin asked whether Lotte had read the book she had sent her recently. “No,” Lotte said, “I don’t like it. You may have it back. I didn’t like the one you sent me before that, either.” When I asked her what the books were, and she told me, I was astonished.* Altogether, I found that everything she said displayed a resolute character, and with every word she spoke I could see some new attraction in her and a fresh radiance in her face, which soon seemed free of all constraint, because she saw that I understood her.

  “When I was younger,” she said, “all I liked to read was novels. I can’t tell you how happy it used to make me when I could curl up in a corner on a Sunday and participate heart and soul in the joys and sorrows of some Miss Jenny2 or other. I must say that I still like to read that sort of thing, but since I seldom have the opportunity to read, it must be something I can really enjoy. And I like those writers best who help me find my world again, where the sort of things happen that happen all around me, and the story is as interesting and sympathetic as my own life at home, which may not be paradise but is, on the whole, a source of quite inexplicable joy to me.”

  I did my best to hide the emotions her words aroused in me. I didn’t succeed very well because, when I heard her speak casually and very candidly about The Vicar of Wakefield and about——* I was quite beside myself and told her all I knew of them, and only after quite some time had passed, and Lotte turned suddenly to address the others, did I notice that they had been sitting there goggle-eyed, as if they weren’t sitting there at all! The cousin looked down her nose at me several times, but I didn’t care.

  The conversation turned to the joy of dancing. “If a passion for dancing is sinful,” Lotte said, “then I cheerfully admit to it. I don’t know anything I would rather do than dance. When something is troubling me and I can sit down at my poor old piano—it needs tuning badly—and play a contredanse, everything is all right again.”

  I could not take my eyes off her dark eyes as she chattered; I could not look away from her animated mouth, her bonny cheeks; I was lost utterly in the infectious good spirits of everything she had to say, sometimes without even hearing the words with which she expressed it! That will give you some idea, since, after all, you know me well. In short, when we stopped in front of the pavilion I got out of the carriage like a dreamer, so lost in the twilit world around me that I scarcely noticed the music floating down to us from the illuminated ballroom.

  The cousin and Lotte’s partners, two gentlemen called Andran and N.N.—who can remember names?—met us at the entrance, appropriated their young ladies, and I led mine up the staircase.

  One minuet followed another, and I asked one young lady after another to dance with me and it was always the most unattractive ones, of course, who would not end the figure. Lotte and her partner opened a quadrille, and you can imagine how delighted I was when the time came for them to start a figure with us. You should see her dance! She is so completely absorbed by motion, she dances with her whole heart, body, and soul. The result is harmony, so carefree and natural, as if there were nothing to life but dancing, as if she never gave anything else a thought—and I am sure that in such moments everything else is gone from her mind.

  I asked her for the second contredanse. She replied that she could give me the third and with the most engaging frankness assured me that she liked to dance the allemande.3 “It is customary here,” she explained, “to dance the allemande with your escort. But my young man doesn’t waltz very well and won’t mind a bit if I relieve him of the obligation. Your partner can’t waltz either and doesn’t like to, so if you want to dance the allemande with me, why don’t you ask my partner for permission, and I will go and speak to your young lady about it?” This was agreed upon and our partners entertained each other while Lotte and I danced.

  So that is how it all began. For a while we were simply delighted with the interlacing of our arms as we danced together. How charming and fleeting was her every move! And when it was time for the waltz and the couples began revolving around each other like spheres there was quite a bit of confusion; at any rate, there was at first, because so few knew how to waltz. We were clever—we left the floor to the others, and when the clumsiest ones had had enough, we joined in and with Andran and his partner were the last couples on the floor. I can’t recall ever having felt so light. I was transported! To hold the dearest creature in the world in my arms and fly through the room with her until everything around me was lost and…William, to be frank, I swore to myself then and there that the girl whom I loved and to whom I therefore had certain rights should never waltz with anyone but me, and if it should prove to be my downfall! Can you understand me?

  We took a few turns around the ballroom to catch our breath; then she sat down. The oranges I had managed to procure for us—they were the last ones left—were most refreshing, except for the fact that I felt a stab in the region of my heart every time she graciously gave a piece to a greedy girl sitting next to her.

  During the third quadrille, we were the second couple. As we danced down the row I was conscious of nothing but her arm in mine and the look on her face, which was so frankly suffused with the purest pleasure. We passed a woman who had attracted my attention before because of the kindly expression on a face no longer young. She looked at Lotte, lifted a warning finger and, as we flew by, said the name “Albert” twice, with emphasis.

  “Who is Albert?” I asked. “If I may be so bold as to inquire.”

  Lotte was about to reply, when we had to separate for the figure eight, and I thought I could detect a certain reflectiveness in her features when our paths crossed again. “Why shouldn’t you know?” she said as she gave me her hand for the promenade. “Albert is a good man, and I suppose you might say I am engaged to him.” This, of course, should not have come as a surprise to me; the ladies had mentioned it on the way over. Still it came as a complete surprise because I had somehow not c
onnected it with her, who had now become so precious to me. At any rate, it served only to confuse me utterly. I became involved with the wrong couple, the result was chaos, and it took a great deal of Lotte’s presence of mind and a lot of pulling and readjusting to get all of us in orderly motion again.

  The lightning, which had been noticeable on the horizon for some time—I had tried to assure everyone that it was only heat lightning—became more and more violent, and the rumbling of thunder began to drown out the music long before the dance was over. Three of the ladies left the dance floor, their partners followed them, the restlessness became general, and the music stopped.

  If an accident or some disaster surprises us when we are enjoying ourselves, it naturally makes a stronger impression on us than usual, partly because of the contrast, which makes itself keenly felt, but also—and all the more strongly—because our sensibilities are open wide to all feeling and we can therefore be impressed more acutely. At any rate, I attribute the weird expressions and behavior of many of the women to this. The cleverest one very wisely sat down in a corner with her back to the window and held her hands over her ears; another fell on her knees in front of her and buried her head in the other’s lap; a third pushed her way unceremoniously between the two and threw her arms around her sister, the tears streaming from her eyes. Many of the ladies begged to be taken home; others, who knew even less what they were doing, didn’t have enough sense left to parry the impertinences of some of our young blades, who seemed anxious to intercept the prayers that rose to the lips of the frightened women and were actually meant for Heaven. A few of the gentlemen went downstairs to smoke their pipes in peace, and the rest were only too pleased to take advantage of the innkeeper’s good suggestion to move into a room where the windows were shuttered and draped. All of us had scarcely assembled, when Lotte busied herself with making a circle of chairs, and as soon as everyone had sat down at her request, she suggested that we play a game.

  I could see a few purse their lips and wriggle in happy anticipation of a smacking kiss as forfeit. “We are going to play numbers,” she said. “Now listen carefully! I will go around the circle from right to left and you will count in the same direction. Each one must say the next number when it is his turn and you must count fast, fast as lightning. Whoever hesitates or says the wrong number gets a box on the ears. And we will count to a thousand.”

  What an amusing sight it was! She walked the circle with her arms outstretched. “One,” said the first person she passed; the fellow next to him said, “Two”; the next girl, “Three”; and so on. Then she began to move faster, and someone missed…ptch!…a box on the ears. That made the fellow sitting next to him laugh…ptch!…he got one, too. And faster and faster. I was boxed on the ears twice, and with secret delight felt that she had boxed my ears harder than any of the others. General laughter and commotion broke up the game before she could count to a thousand.

  The storm was over. Those who wished to be alone withdrew, and I followed Lotte into the dance hall. On the way she said, “The game made them forget all about the weather.” I couldn’t think of anything to say, and she went on, “I was terribly frightened but as I pretended to be brave to encourage the others, I suddenly felt courageous.”

  We walked over to the window. It was still thundering in the distance, the blessed rain was falling on the land, and a most refreshing scent rose up to us with a rush of warm air. She stood there, leaning on her elbows, her gaze penetrating the countryside; she looked up at the sky, at me, and I could see tears in her eyes. She laid her hand on mine and said, “Klopstock.” I knew at once of what she was thinking—his magnificent ode4—and was lost in the emotions that this one word aroused in me. I bent down and kissed her hand, and now there were tears in my eyes too as I looked into hers again. Oh, noble poet, if you could have seen the adoration in those eyes! I hope I need never have to hear your name, so oft profaned, spoken again by any other lips!

  June 19th

  I don’t know how far I got in my last letter; all I know is that it was two o’clock when I finally went to bed and if I could have talked to you instead of having to write, I would probably have kept you up until dawn.

  I don’t think I have told you yet what happened on our way home from the dance and I don’t really feel like writing about it today, but I will.

  There was the most marvelous sunrise. The trees were wet, the fields refreshed, our chaperones nodding…. Lotte asked me if I didn’t want to close my eyes, too…. I should not stand on ceremony with her. “As long as I can look into your eyes,” I said, looking at her steadfastly, “there is no danger of my falling asleep.” And we stayed awake, both of us, until we arrived at her gate. The maid opened the door softly, and in reply to her query assured Lotte that her father and the children were well and still asleep. Then I left her, with the request that I might see her again that very day. She agreed, and I rode over to see her. Since then sun, moon, and stars can do what they will—I haven’t the faintest notion whether it is day or night. The world around me has vanished.

  June 21st

  I am experiencing the kind of happiness that God dispenses only to his saints. Whatever is yet to come, I shall never be able to say that I have not felt the greatest, the purest joy life can hold. You know my beloved Wahlheim. I have moved there bag and baggage. From Wahlheim I can be with Lotte in half an hour; in Wahlheim I can be myself and experience every happiness known to man.

  Who would have thought, when I chose Wahlheim as a goal for my walks, that it lay so close to heaven? How often I have seen on my wanderings, sometimes from a hillside, sometimes from the opposite side of the river, the hunting lodge that now houses all my desires.

  Dear William, I have given a great deal of thought to man’s desire for expansion and his urge to explore and roam the face of the earth, and then again, I think about his inner impetus to surrender willingly to the restrictions imposed by life and to travel in the rut of routine living, never giving a thought to what goes on to right or left.

  It is truly marvelous—when I came here first and looked down into the valley from this hilltop—how the entire region attracted me. There…a little forest land…oh, to lose oneself in its shade…. There, a mountaintop…oh, to see the panorama from it! The rolling hills and enchanting valleys…I yearned to lose myself in them.

  I would hurry down, but return home without having found what I had hoped to find. Distance is like the future. A vast twilit entity lies before us, our perception is lost in it and becomes as blurred as our eyesight, and we yearn, ah, we yearn to surrender all of our Self and let ourselves be filled to the brim with a single, tremendous, magnificent emotion, but alas…when we hurry to the spot, when There becomes Here, everything is as it was before and we are left standing in our poverty and constraint, our souls longing for the balm that has eluded us. Thus the most restless vagabond yearns in the end to return to his native land and find in his cottage, in the arms of his wife, with his children around him, and in the occupations that provide for them, the joys he sought vainly elsewhere.

  When I ride out to Wahlheim in the morning with the rising sun and pick some sweet young peas in the garden behind the inn and string them and read a little Homer as I do so; when I then go into the small kitchen and get a pan and melt some butter and put the pan on the fire to cook them and cover them and sit down beside them to toss them a little every now and then—I can feel so vividly how Penelope’s high-spirited suitors slaughtered oxen and swine and carved them up and roasted them. Nothing can fill me with such true, serene emotion as any features of ancient, primitive life like this. Thank God I know how to fit them into my life without conceit. Oh, how thankful I am that my heart can feel the simple, harmless joys of the man who brings to the table a head of cabbage he has grown himself, and in a single moment enjoys, not only the vegetable, but all the fine days and fresh mornings since he planted it, the mild evenings when he watered it, and the pleasure he felt while watching it grow.


  June 29th

  The day before yesterday the doctor from our town came out to the lodge and found me on the floor with several of Lotte’s children on top of me, the rest teasing me. He saw me tickling them and succeeding generally in creating an uproar. The doctor is a dogmatic puppet, constantly repleating his cuffs as he talks and pulling out a loose thread here and there. Of course, he found my behavior undignified for a man of my intellect. I could tell by the way he turned up his nose at the whole thing. I didn’t let it bother me, but as he went about his more sensible business, I rebuilt the children’s house of cards, which they had toppled; whereupon he went about town telling everyone that the magistrate’s children had always been wild, but now Werther was ruining them completely.

  Yes, dear William, nothing is dearer to me than children. As I watch them and see in everything they do the seed of all the virtue and strength they will one day need, when I recognize future steadfastness and firmness in their present obstinacy, good humor and the ability to pass lightly over the perils on this earth in their mischief, everything so unspoiled, everything still whole—then I want to repeat the Golden Rule of the teacher of mankind: “Unless ye become as one of these…” And then, my good friend, we treat the little creatures, who are our equals, and whom we should use as models, as our inferiors. They are not supposed to have a will of their own. Why not? Don’t we demand free will? What gives us the right to make such a decision? Because we are older and wiser? Dear God in Heaven, Thou dost look down upon old children and young children, and that’s all there is to it! And Thy Divine Son told us long ago which of them pleaseth Thee more. But they believe in Him and don’t hear Him; and that, too, is an old story. And they bring up their children to be like themselves and…farewell, William! I don’t want to ramble on about it.