Book One

How happy I am that I am gone! My dear friend, what a thing is the heart of man! To leave you, from whom I have been inseparable, whom I love so dearly, and yet to feel happy! I know you will forgive me. Have not other attachments been specially appointed by fate to torment a head like mine? Poor Leonora! and yet I was not to blame. Was it my fault, that, whilst the peculiar charms of her sister afforded me an agreeable entertainment, a passion for me was engendered in her feeble heart? And yet am I wholly blameless? Did I not encourage her emotions? Did I not feel charmed at those truly genuine expressions of nature, which, though but little mirthful in reality, so often amused us? Did I not—but oh! what is man, that he dares so to accuse himself? My dear friend I promise you I will improve; I will no longer, as has ever been my habit, continue to ruminate on every petty vexation which fortune may dispense; I will enjoy the present, and the past shall be for me the past. No doubt you are right, my best of friends, there would be far less suffering amongst mankind, if men—and God knows why they are so fashioned—did not employ their imaginations so assiduously in recalling the memory of past sorrow, instead of bearing their present lot with equanimity. Be kind enough to inform my mother that I shall attend to her business to the best of my ability, and shall give her the earliest information about it. I have seen my aunt, and find that she is very far from being the disagreeable person our friends allege her to be. She is a lively, cheerful woman, with the best of hearts. I explained to her my mother's wrongs with regard to that part of her portion which has been withheld from her. She told me the motives and reasons of her own conduct, and the terms on which she is willing to give up the whole, and to do more than we have asked. In short, I cannot write further upon this subject at present; only assure my mother that all will go on well. And I have again observed, my dear friend, in this trifling affair, that misunderstandings and neglect occasion more mischief in the world than even malice and wickedness. At all events, the two latter are of less frequent occurrence.

How happy I am to be gone! My dear friend, what a strange thing the human heart is! I have left you, though we were inseparable and I love you so dearly, and yet I feel happy! I know you will forgive me. Hasn't fate sent other attachments specifically to torment someone like me? Poor Leonora! And yet I was not to blame. Her sister's special charms gave me pleasant amusement, while love for me grew in Leonora's fragile heart. Was that my fault? And yet am I entirely blameless? Didn't I encourage her feelings? Wasn't I charmed by those truly natural expressions of feeling? Though hardly funny in themselves, her expressions so often amused us. Didn't I... But oh! How can anyone dare accuse himself like this? My dear friend, I promise you I will do better. I will no longer dwell on every little trouble fate may send me, as I have always done. I will enjoy the present, and let the past remain the past. You are surely right, my best friend. People would suffer far less if they did not use their imaginations so tirelessly to recall past sorrows. Instead, they could bear their present circumstances calmly. God knows why people are made this way. Please tell my mother I will handle her business as well as I can. I will let her know about it as soon as possible. I have seen my aunt. She is nothing like the unpleasant person our friends say she is. She is a lively, cheerful woman with the kindest of hearts. I explained how my mother had been wronged by having part of her share withheld. My aunt explained her motives and reasons for acting as she had. She also explained the terms on which she would give up the whole amount and do more than we asked. In short, I cannot write any more about the matter just now. Just assure my mother that everything will go well. And this small affair has reminded me again, my dear friend, of something I have noticed before. Misunderstandings and neglect cause more harm in the world than even malice and wickedness. At any rate, malice and wickedness are less common.

In other respects I am very well off here. Solitude in this terrestrial paradise is a genial balm to my mind, and the young spring cheers with its bounteous promises my oftentimes misgiving heart. Every tree, every bush, is full of flowers; and one might wish himself transformed into a butterfly, to float about in this ocean of perfume, and find his whole existence in it.

In other ways, I am very comfortable here. Solitude in this paradise on earth soothes my mind. And the new spring, with its generous promises, cheers my often doubtful heart. Every tree, every bush, is full of flowers. One might wish to become a butterfly, floating in this ocean of fragrance and finding one's whole existence in it.

The town itself is disagreeable; but then, all around, you find an inexpressible beauty of nature. This induced the late Count M to lay out a garden on one of the sloping hills which here intersect each other with the most charming variety, and form the most lovely valleys. The garden is simple; and it is easy to perceive, even upon your first entrance, that the plan was not designed by a scientific gardener, but by a man who wished to give himself up here to the enjoyment of his own sensitive heart. Many a tear have I already shed to the memory of its departed master in a summer-house which is now reduced to ruins, but was his favourite resort, and now is mine. I shall soon be master of the place. The gardener has become attached to me within the last few days, and he will lose nothing thereby.

The town itself is unpleasant, but the natural beauty all around it is beyond words. This beauty led the late Count M to create a garden on one of the sloping hills. Here the hills cross one another in delightful variety, forming the loveliest valleys. The garden is simple. From the moment you enter, you can see that no trained gardener designed it. Instead, its creator wanted a place where he could lose himself in the feelings of his own sensitive heart. I have already shed many tears in memory of the garden’s late owner in a summerhouse, now in ruins. It was his favorite retreat, and now it is mine. I shall soon be master of the place. The gardener has grown fond of me over the last few days, and he will lose nothing by it.

A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. I am alone, and feel the charm of existence in this spot, which was created for the bliss of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in the exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect my talents. I should be incapable of drawing a single stroke at the present moment; and yet I feel that I never was a greater artist than now. When, while the lovely valley teems with vapour around me, and the meridian sun strikes the upper surface of the impenetrable foliage of my trees, and but a few stray gleams steal into the inner sanctuary, I throw myself down among the tall grass by the trickling stream; and, as I lie close to the earth, a thousand unknown plants are noticed by me: when I hear the buzz of the little world among the stalks, and grow familiar with the countless indescribable forms of the insects and flies, then I feel the presence of the Almighty, who formed us in his own image, and the breath of that universal love which bears and sustains us, as it floats around us in an eternity of bliss; and then, my friend, when darkness overspreads my eyes, and heaven and earth seem to dwell in my soul and absorb its power, like the form of a beloved mistress, then I often think with longing, Oh, would I could describe these conceptions, could impress upon paper all that is living so full and warm within me, that it might be the mirror of my soul, as my soul is the mirror of the infinite God! O my friend—but it is too much for my strength—I sink under the weight of the splendour of these visions!

A wonderful peace has filled my whole soul, like these sweet spring mornings I enjoy with all my heart. I am alone and feel the joy of being alive in this place, made for the happiness of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in the exquisite feeling of simply existing in peace, that I neglect my talents. Right now, I could not draw a single line. And yet I feel I have never been a greater artist than I am now. Mist fills the lovely valley around me. The midday sun strikes the tops of my trees, whose dense leaves let only a few stray sunbeams into their sanctuary. At such times, I lie down in the tall grass beside the trickling stream. As I lie close to the earth, I notice a thousand plants I do not know. I hear the buzzing of the tiny world among the stems. I grow familiar with the countless, indescribable shapes of insects and flies. Then I feel the presence of the Almighty, who made us in his own image. I also feel the breath of the universal love that carries and sustains us, surrounding us in eternal bliss. Then, my friend, darkness spreads over my eyes. Heaven and earth seem to live within my soul and overwhelm its strength, like the image of a beloved woman. At such moments, I often think with longing: Oh, if only I could describe these visions! If only I could put on paper everything that lives so fully and warmly within me! Then the page might mirror my soul, just as my soul mirrors the infinite God! Oh, my friend, but the beauty of these visions is more than my strength can bear. I sink beneath their weight!

I know not whether some deceitful spirits haunt this spot, or whether it be the warm, celestial fancy in my own heart which makes everything around me seem like paradise. In front of the house is a fountain,—a fountain to which I am bound by a charm like Melusina and her sisters. Descending a gentle slope, you come to an arch, where, some twenty steps lower down, water of the clearest crystal gushes from the marble rock. The narrow wall which encloses it above, the tall trees which encircle the spot, and the coolness of the place itself,—everything imparts a pleasant but sublime impression. Not a day passes on which I do not spend an hour there. The young maidens come from the town to fetch water,—innocent and necessary employment, and formerly the occupation of the daughters of kings. As I take my rest there, the idea of the old patriarchal life is awakened around me. I see them, our old ancestors, how they formed their friendships and contracted alliances at the fountain-side; and I feel how fountains and streams were guarded by beneficent spirits. He who is a stranger to these sensations has never really enjoyed cool repose at the side of a fountain after the fatigue of a weary summer day.

I do not know whether some deceptive spirits haunt this spot. Or perhaps the warm, heavenly imagination in my own heart makes everything around me seem like paradise. In front of the house is a fountain. A spell binds me to the fountain, as it does Melusina and her sisters. Down a gentle slope, you reach an arch. About twenty steps farther down, crystal-clear water gushes from the marble rock. A low wall encloses the fountain above, and tall trees surround the spot. The wall, the trees, and the coolness of the place all create a pleasant yet awe-inspiring impression. Not a day passes without my spending an hour there. The young women come from town to fetch water. This innocent, necessary task was once the work of kings’ daughters. As I rest there, visions of the old patriarchal life come alive around me. I see our ancestors forming friendships and making alliances beside the fountain. And I feel how fountains and streams were protected by kindly spirits. Anyone unfamiliar with these feelings has never truly enjoyed resting in the cool beside a fountain after an exhausting summer day.

You ask if you shall send me books. My dear friend, I beseech you, for the love of God, relieve me from such a yoke! I need no more to be guided, agitated, heated. My heart ferments sufficiently of itself. I want strains to lull me, and I find them to perfection in my Homer. Often do I strive to allay the burning fever of my blood; and you have never witnessed anything so unsteady, so uncertain, as my heart. But need I confess this to you, my dear friend, who have so often endured the anguish of witnessing my sudden transitions from sorrow to immoderate joy, and from sweet melancholy to violent passions? I treat my poor heart like a sick child, and gratify its every fancy. Do not mention this again: there are people who would censure me for it.

You ask whether you should send me books. My dear friend, for the love of God, I beg you to spare me that burden! I no longer need to be guided, stirred up, or inflamed. My heart is already restless enough on its own. I want words to soothe me, and I find exactly what I need in my Homer. I often try to calm the burning fever in my blood. And you have never seen anything as unsteady or unpredictable as my heart. But must I admit this to you, my dear friend? You have so often suffered through watching my sudden shifts from sorrow to wild joy, from gentle melancholy to violent passions. I treat my poor heart like a sick child and give in to its every whim. Do not speak of this again. Some people would condemn me for indulging my heart.

The common people of the place know me already, and love me, particularly the children. When at first I associated with them, and inquired in a friendly tone about their various trifles, some fancied that I wished to ridicule them, and turned from me in exceeding ill-humour. I did not allow that circumstance to grieve me: I only felt most keenly what I have often before observed. Persons who can claim a certain rank keep themselves coldly aloof from the common people, as though they feared to lose their importance by the contact; whilst wanton idlers, and such as are prone to bad joking, affect to descend to their level, only to make the poor people feel their impertinence all the more keenly.

The ordinary people here already know and love me, especially the children. When I first spent time with them, I asked in a friendly way about their little concerns. Some thought I meant to make fun of them and turned away from me in a very bad mood. I did not let their reaction upset me. I only felt all the more keenly something I had often noticed before. People of a certain social standing keep a cold distance from ordinary people, as if contact might diminish their importance. Meanwhile, irresponsible idlers and people fond of cruel jokes pretend to come down to the common people's level. They do so only to make these poor people feel their disrespect all the more keenly.

I know very well that we are not all equal, nor can be so; but it is my opinion that he who avoids the common people, in order not to lose their respect, is as much to blame as a coward who hides himself from his enemy because he fears defeat.

I know very well that we are not all equal, nor can we be. But I believe a man who avoids ordinary people to keep their respect deserves just as much blame as a coward. The coward hides from his enemy because he fears defeat.

The other day I went to the fountain, and found a young servant-girl, who had set her pitcher on the lowest step, and looked around to see if one of her companions was approaching to place it on her head. I ran down, and looked at her. "Shall I help you, pretty lass?" said I. She blushed deeply. "Oh, sir!" she exclaimed. "No ceremony!" I replied. She adjusted her head-gear, and I helped her. She thanked me, and ascended the steps.

The other day I went to the fountain and found a young servant girl. She had set her pitcher on the lowest step. She looked around to see if a companion was coming to help lift the pitcher onto her head. I ran down and looked at her. "Can I help you, pretty girl?" I asked. She blushed deeply. "Oh, sir!" she exclaimed. "No need to be formal!" I replied. She adjusted her head covering, and I helped her lift the pitcher. She thanked me and went up the steps.

I have made all sorts of acquaintances, but have as yet found no society. I know not what attraction I possess for the people, so many of them like me, and attach themselves to me; and then I feel sorry when the road we pursue together goes only a short distance. If you inquire what the people are like here, I must answer, "The same as everywhere." The human race is but a monotonous affair. Most of them labour the greater part of their time for mere subsistence; and the scanty portion of freedom which remains to them so troubles them that they use every exertion to get rid of it. Oh, the destiny of man!

I have met all sorts of people, but I have not yet found companionship. I don't know what draws people to me. So many like me and grow attached to me. And then I feel sad when our shared journey lasts only a short while. If you ask what people are like here, I must answer, "The same as everywhere." The human race is such a monotonous affair. Most people spend most of their time working just to survive. And the little freedom they have left troubles them so much that they do everything they can to escape it. Oh, the fate of humankind!

But they are a right good sort of people. If I occasionally forget myself, and take part in the innocent pleasures which are not yet forbidden to the peasantry, and enjoy myself, for instance, with genuine freedom and sincerity, round a well-covered table, or arrange an excursion or a dance opportunely, and so forth, all this produces a good effect upon my disposition; only I must forget that there lie dormant within me so many other qualities which moulder uselessly, and which I am obliged to keep carefully concealed. Ah! this thought affects my spirits fearfully. And yet to be misunderstood is the fate of the like of us.

But they really are good people. Sometimes I forget myself and join in the innocent pleasures that peasants are still allowed to enjoy. If I do, it lifts my spirits. I might, for instance, enjoy a generous meal with genuine freedom and sincerity. Or I might arrange an outing or a dance when the time is right, and so on. But I must forget how many other qualities lie dormant within me, wasting away unused, qualities I must carefully hide. Ah! The thought of those hidden qualities weighs terribly on my spirits. And yet being misunderstood is the fate of people like us.

Alas, that the friend of my youth is gone! Alas, that I ever knew her! I might say to myself, "You are a dreamer to seek what is not to be found here below." But she has been mine. I have possessed that heart, that noble soul, in whose presence I seemed to be more than I really was, because I was all that I could be. Good heavens! did then a single power of my soul remain unexercised? In her presence could I not display, to its full extent, that mysterious feeling with which my heart embraces nature? Was not our intercourse a perpetual web of the finest emotions, of the keenest wit, the varieties of which, even in their very eccentricity, bore the stamp of genius? Alas! the few years by which she was my senior brought her to the grave before me. Never can I forget her firm mind or her heavenly patience.

Oh, that the friend of my youth is gone! Oh, that I ever knew her! I might tell myself, "You are a dreamer to seek what cannot be found in this world." But she was mine. I had her heart, her noble soul. In her presence, I seemed more than I really was, because I was all I could be. Good heavens! Was there a single power of my soul I did not use? Could I not fully express, in her presence, the mysterious feeling with which my heart embraces nature? Wasn't our time together a continuous weaving of the most delicate emotions and the sharpest wit? Didn't every variation of those emotions and that wit, even at their most eccentric, show the mark of genius? Oh, she was only a few years older, but those years brought her to the grave before me. I can never forget her strength of mind or her heavenly patience.

A few days ago I met a certain young V—, a frank, open fellow, with a most pleasing countenance. He has just left the university, does not deem himself overwise, but believes he knows more than other people. He has worked hard, as I can perceive from many circumstances, and, in short, possesses a large stock of information. When he heard that I am drawing a good deal, and that I know Greek (two wonderful things for this part of the country), he came to see me, and displayed his whole store of learning, from Batteaux to Wood, from De Piles to Winkelmann: he assured me he had read through the first part of Sultzer's theory, and also possessed a manuscript of Heyne's work on the study of the antique. I allowed it all to pass.

A few days ago I met a young man named V, a frank, open fellow with a very pleasant face. He has just left university. He does not think himself too wise, but believes he knows more than other people. I can tell from many things that he has worked hard. In short, he has a great deal of knowledge. When he heard that I draw a lot and know Greek, he came to see me. Those are two wonderful accomplishments in this part of the country. He showed off his entire store of learning, from Batteaux to Wood, from De Piles to Winkelmann. He assured me he had read the whole first part of Sultzer's theory. He also owned a manuscript of Heyne's work on the study of ancient art. I let it all pass.

I have become acquainted, also, with a very worthy person, the district judge, a frank and open-hearted man. I am told it is a most delightful thing to see him in the midst of his children, of whom he has nine. His eldest daughter especially is highly spoken of. He has invited me to go and see him, and I intend to do so on the first opportunity. He lives at one of the royal hunting-lodges, which can be reached from here in an hour and a half by walking, and which he obtained leave to inhabit after the loss of his wife, as it is so painful to him to reside in town and at the court.

I have also met the district judge, a very worthy man who is frank and open-hearted. I am told he is a delight to see among his nine children. People speak especially highly of his eldest daughter. He has invited me to visit him, and I intend to go at the first opportunity. He lives in one of the royal hunting lodges, an hour and a half’s walk from here. He received permission to live there after his wife’s death, because living in town and at court is so painful to him.

There have also come in my way a few other originals of a questionable sort, who are in all respects undesirable, and most intolerable in their demonstration of friendship. Good-bye. This letter will please you: it is quite historical.

I have also come across a few other eccentrics of a dubious kind. They are undesirable in every way, and their displays of friendship are utterly unbearable. Goodbye. This letter will please you: it is quite a chronicle.

That the life of man is but a dream, many a man has surmised heretofore; and I, too, am everywhere pursued by this feeling. When I consider the narrow limits within which our active and inquiring faculties are confined; when I see how all our energies are wasted in providing for mere necessities, which again have no further end than to prolong a wretched existence; and then that all our satisfaction concerning certain subjects of investigation ends in nothing better than a passive resignation, whilst we amuse ourselves painting our prison-walls with bright figures and brilliant landscapes,—when I consider all this, Wilhelm, I am silent. I examine my own being, and find there a world, but a world rather of imagination and dim desires, than of distinctness and living power. Then everything swims before my senses, and I smile and dream while pursuing my way through the world.

Many people have suspected before now that human life is only a dream. I too am haunted by this feeling everywhere. I think about the narrow limits placed on our ability to act and explore. I see how all our energy is spent meeting basic needs, which serve only to prolong a miserable existence. And I see how all the satisfaction we gain from certain lines of inquiry ends in nothing but passive acceptance. Meanwhile, we amuse ourselves by painting bright figures and brilliant landscapes on our prison walls. When I consider all this, Wilhelm, I fall silent. I look within myself and find a world. But it is a world of imagination and vague desires rather than clarity and living power. Then everything blurs before my senses, and I smile and dream as I make my way through the world.

All learned professors and doctors are agreed that children do not comprehend the cause of their desires; but that the grown-up should wander about this earth like children, without knowing whence they come, or whither they go, influenced as little by fixed motives, but guided like them by biscuits, sugar-plums, and the rod,—this is what nobody is willing to acknowledge; and yet I think it is palpable.

All learned professors and doctors agree that children do not understand why they want what they want. But adults wander this earth like children, not knowing where they come from or where they are going. Adults are just as little guided by settled motives as children are. Instead, like children, adults are led by cookies, sweets, and the rod. Nobody is willing to admit this, yet I think it is obvious.

I know what you will say in reply; for I am ready to admit that they are happiest, who, like children, amuse themselves with their playthings, dress and undress their dolls, and attentively watch the cupboard, where mamma has locked up her sweet things, and, when at last they get a delicious morsel, eat it greedily, and exclaim, "More!" These are certainly happy beings; but others also are objects of envy, who dignify their paltry employments, and sometimes even their passions, with pompous titles, representing them to mankind as gigantic achievements performed for their welfare and glory. But the man who humbly acknowledges the vanity of all this, who observes with what pleasure the thriving citizen converts his little garden into a paradise, and how patiently even the poor man pursues his weary way under his burden, and how all wish equally to behold the light of the sun a little longer,—yes, such a man is at peace, and creates his own world within himself; and he is also happy, because he is a man. And then, however limited his sphere, he still preserves in his bosom the sweet feeling of liberty, and knows that he can quit his prison whenever he likes.

I know what you will say in reply. I readily admit that the happiest people are those who amuse themselves like children with their toys. They dress and undress their dolls and carefully watch the cupboard where Mother has locked away her sweets. And when they finally get a delicious bite, they gobble it up and cry, "More!" These are certainly happy people. But others are also to be envied. They give grand titles to their trivial occupations, and sometimes even to their passions. They present these to the world as great achievements carried out for humanity’s well-being and glory. But consider the man who humbly admits how empty all this is. He sees how happily the prosperous citizen turns his little garden into a paradise. He sees how patiently even the poor man trudges along beneath his burden. And he sees how everyone wishes equally to see the sunlight a little longer. Yes, such a man is at peace and creates his own world within himself. He too is happy, because he is human. And however narrow his world, he still carries within him the sweet feeling of freedom. He knows he can leave his prison whenever he likes.

You know of old my ways of settling anywhere, of selecting a little cottage in some cosy spot, and of putting up in it with every inconvenience. Here, too, I have discovered such a snug, comfortable place, which possesses peculiar charms for me.

You’ve long known how I settle into a new place. I choose a little cottage in a cozy spot and put up with all its inconveniences. Here, too, I’ve found a snug, comfortable place with a special charm for me.

About a league from the town is a place called Walheim. (The reader need not take the trouble to look for the place thus designated. We have found it necessary to change the names given in the original.) It is delightfully situated on the side of a hill; and, by proceeding along one of the footpaths which lead out of the village, you can have a view of the whole valley. A good old woman lives there, who keeps a small inn. She sells wine, beer, and coffee, and is cheerful and pleasant notwithstanding her age. The chief charm of this spot consists in two linden-trees, spreading their enormous branches over the little green before the church, which is entirely surrounded by peasants' cottages, barns, and homesteads. I have seldom seen a place so retired and peaceable; and there often have my table and chair brought out from the little inn, and drink my coffee there, and read my Homer. Accident brought me to the spot one fine afternoon, and I found it perfectly deserted. Everybody was in the fields except a little boy about four years of age, who was sitting on the ground, and held between his knees a child about six months old: he pressed it to his bosom with both arms, which thus formed a sort of arm-chair; and, notwithstanding the liveliness which sparkled in its black eyes, it remained perfectly still. The sight charmed me. I sat down upon a plough opposite, and sketched with great delight this little picture of brotherly tenderness. I added the neighbouring hedge, the barn-door, and some broken cart-wheels, just as they happened to lie; and I found in about an hour that I had made a very correct and interesting drawing, without putting in the slightest thing of my own. This confirmed me in my resolution of adhering, for the future, entirely to nature. She alone is inexhaustible, and capable of forming the greatest masters. Much may be alleged in favour of rules, as much may be likewise advanced in favour of the laws of society: an artist formed upon them will never produce anything absolutely bad or disgusting; as a man who observes the laws, and obeys decorum, can never be an absolutely intolerable neighbour, nor a decided villain: but yet, say what you will of rules, they destroy the genuine feeling of nature, as well as its true expression. Do not tell me "that this is too hard, that they only restrain and prune superfluous branches, etc." My good friend, I will illustrate this by an analogy. These things resemble love. A warmhearted youth becomes strongly attached to a maiden: he spends every hour of the day in her company, wears out his health, and lavishes his fortune, to afford continual proof that he is wholly devoted to her. Then comes a man of the world, a man of place and respectability, and addresses him thus: "My good young friend, love is natural; but you must love within bounds. Divide your time: devote a portion to business, and give the hours of recreation to your mistress. Calculate your fortune; and out of the superfluity you may make her a present, only not too often,—on her birthday, and such occasions." Pursuing this advice, he may become a useful member of society, and I should advise every prince to give him an appointment; but it is all up with his love, and with his genius if he be an artist. O my friend! why is it that the torrent of genius so seldom bursts forth, so seldom rolls in full-flowing stream, overwhelming your astounded soul? Because, on either side of this stream, cold and respectable persons have taken up their abodes, and, forsooth, their summer-houses and tulip-beds would suffer from the torrent; wherefore they dig trenches, and raise embankments betimes, in order to avert the impending danger.

About a league from the town is a place called Walheim. (The reader need not bother looking for this place. We have found it necessary to change the names used in the original.) The village sits beautifully on a hillside. Follow one of the footpaths out of the village, and you can see the whole valley. A kind old woman lives there and runs a small inn. She sells wine, beer, and coffee, and remains cheerful and pleasant despite her age. The spot’s greatest charm is its two linden trees. Their enormous branches spread over the little green in front of the church. Peasants’ cottages, barns, and farmhouses surround the green completely. I have seldom seen such a secluded, peaceful place. I often have my table and chair brought outside from the little inn. There I drink my coffee and read my Homer. Chance brought me to the spot one fine afternoon, and I found it completely deserted. Everyone was in the fields except a little boy about four years old. He sat on the ground, holding a baby about six months old between his knees. With both arms, he pressed the baby to his chest, making a kind of armchair. Despite the liveliness sparkling in the baby’s black eyes, the baby stayed perfectly still. The sight charmed me. I sat on a plough opposite them and happily sketched this little scene of brotherly tenderness. I added the nearby hedge, the barn door, and some broken cart wheels, exactly as they lay. After about an hour, I found I had made a very accurate and interesting drawing. I had added nothing of my own. This confirmed my decision to follow nature alone from then on. Nature alone is inexhaustible and can shape the greatest masters. Much can be said in favor of rules, just as much can be said for society’s laws. An artist trained by rules will never produce anything entirely bad or disgusting. Likewise, someone who obeys the law and behaves properly can never be a completely unbearable neighbor or an outright villain. But say what you will about rules, they destroy our genuine feeling for nature and its true expression. Do not tell me "that this is too harsh, that rules only restrain and prune unnecessary branches, and so on." My good friend, let me explain with a comparison. These things are like love. A warmhearted young man falls deeply in love with a young woman. He spends every hour of the day with her. He ruins his health and spends his fortune to prove constantly that he is wholly devoted to her. Then along comes a worldly man, someone respectable with an established position, who tells him: "My good young friend, love is natural, but you must love within limits. Divide your time. Set aside some for business, and spend your leisure hours with your beloved. Work out how much money you have. From whatever is left over, you may buy her a present, but not too often. Save that for her birthday and similar occasions." By following this advice, the young man may become a useful member of society. I would advise every prince to give him a post. But his love is finished, and so is his genius, if he is an artist. Oh, my friend! Why does the torrent of genius so seldom burst forth? Why does it so seldom surge in full force, overwhelming your astonished soul? Because cold, respectable people have settled on both banks of the stream. And, of course, their summerhouses and tulip beds would suffer from the flood. So they dig trenches and build embankments well in advance to ward off the approaching danger.

I find I have fallen into raptures, declamation, and similes, and have forgotten, in consequence, to tell you what became of the children. Absorbed in my artistic contemplations, which I briefly described in my letter of yesterday, I continued sitting on the plough for two hours. Toward evening a young woman, with a basket on her arm, came running toward the children, who had not moved all that time. She exclaimed from a distance, "You are a good boy, Philip!" She gave me greeting: I returned it, rose, and approached her. I inquired if she were the mother of those pretty children. "Yes," she said; and, giving the eldest a piece of bread, she took the little one in her arms and kissed it with a mother's tenderness. "I left my child in Philip's care," she said, "whilst I went into the town with my eldest boy to buy some wheaten bread, some sugar, and an earthen pot." I saw the various articles in the basket, from which the cover had fallen. "I shall make some broth to-night for my little Hans (which was the name of the youngest): that wild fellow, the big one, broke my pot yesterday, whilst he was scrambling with Philip for what remained of the contents." I inquired for the eldest; and she had scarcely time to tell me that he was driving a couple of geese home from the meadow, when he ran up, and handed Philip an osier-twig. I talked a little longer with the woman, and found that she was the daughter of the schoolmaster, and that her husband was gone on a journey into Switzerland for some money a relation had left him. "They wanted to cheat him," she said, "and would not answer his letters; so he is gone there himself. I hope he has met with no accident, as I have heard nothing of him since his departure." I left the woman, with regret, giving each of the children a kreutzer, with an additional one for the youngest, to buy some wheaten bread for his broth when she went to town next; and so we parted. I assure you, my dear friend, when my thoughts are all in tumult, the sight of such a creature as this tranquillises my disturbed mind. She moves in a happy thoughtlessness within the confined circle of her existence; she supplies her wants from day to day; and, when she sees the leaves fall, they raise no other idea in her mind than that winter is approaching. Since that time I have gone out there frequently. The children have become quite familiar with me; and each gets a lump of sugar when I drink my coffee, and they share my milk and bread and butter in the evening. They always receive their kreutzer on Sundays, for the good woman has orders to give it to them when I do not go there after evening service. They are quite at home with me, tell me everything; and I am particularly amused with observing their tempers, and the simplicity of their behaviour, when some of the other village children are assembled with them.

I realize I have lost myself in raptures, grand speeches, and comparisons. As a result, I forgot to tell you what became of the children. I sat on the plough for two hours, absorbed in the thoughts about art I briefly described in yesterday’s letter. Toward evening, a young woman with a basket on her arm came running toward the children. They had not moved the whole time. From a distance, she called, "You are a good boy, Philip!" She greeted me, and I returned her greeting, stood up, and approached her. I asked if she was the mother of those lovely children. "Yes," she said. She gave the older child a piece of bread, then picked up the little one and kissed him tenderly. "I left my child in Philip’s care," she said, "while I went into town with my eldest boy. We went to buy some wheat bread, some sugar, and a clay pot." The basket’s cover had fallen off, and I could see the things she had bought. "I’ll make some broth tonight for my little Hans." Hans was the youngest child’s name. "That wild boy, the big one, broke my pot yesterday while he and Philip were fighting over the leftovers." I asked where her eldest was. She had barely told me he was driving two geese home from the meadow when he ran up. He handed Philip a willow twig. I talked a little longer with the woman and learned that she was the schoolmaster’s daughter. Her husband had gone to Switzerland to collect some money a relative had left him. "They wanted to cheat him," she said, "and wouldn’t answer his letters, so he went there himself. I hope he hasn’t had an accident, since I haven’t heard anything from him since he left." I was sorry to leave the woman. I gave each child a kreutzer, with an extra one for the youngest. The extra coin was for some wheat bread for his broth the next time she went into town. Then we parted. I assure you, my dear friend, when all my thoughts are in turmoil, seeing someone like her calms my troubled mind. She moves through the narrow circle of her life, happy and carefree. She meets her needs from day to day. When she sees the leaves fall, she thinks only that winter is coming. Since then, I have gone there often. The children have grown quite familiar with me. Each gets a lump of sugar when I drink my coffee. In the evening, they share my milk, bread, and butter. They always get their kreutzer on Sundays. I have instructed the good woman to give them their coins if I do not come after evening service. They are quite at ease with me and tell me everything. I especially enjoy watching their moods and their simple behavior when some of the other village children join them.

It has given me a deal of trouble to satisfy the anxiety of the mother, lest (as she says) "they should inconvenience the gentleman."

It has taken a lot of effort to ease the mother's anxiety. She worries, as she puts it, "they might bother the gentleman."

What I have lately said of painting is equally true with respect to poetry. It is only necessary for us to know what is really excellent, and venture to give it expression; and that is saying much in few words. To-day I have had a scene, which, if literally related, would, make the most beautiful idyl in the world. But why should I talk of poetry and scenes and idyls? Can we never take pleasure in nature without having recourse to art?

What I recently said about painting is just as true of poetry. We only need to recognize what is truly excellent and dare to express it. Those few words say a great deal. Today I witnessed a scene that, if told exactly as it happened, would make the world's most beautiful pastoral poem. But why should I talk about poetry and scenes and pastoral poems? Can we never enjoy nature without turning to art?

If you expect anything grand or magnificent from this introduction, you will be sadly mistaken. It relates merely to a peasant-lad, who has excited in me the warmest interest. As usual, I shall tell my story badly; and you, as usual, will think me extravagant. It is Walheim once more—always Walheim—which produces these wonderful phenomena.

If you expect anything grand or magnificent from this introduction, you will be sorely disappointed. My story is only about a peasant boy who has stirred the warmest interest in me. As usual, I will tell my story badly, and you, as usual, will think I’m getting carried away. Once again, Walheim is the source of these remarkable things. Always Walheim.

A party had assembled outside the house under the linden-trees, to drink coffee. The company did not exactly please me; and, under one pretext or another, I lingered behind.

A group had gathered outside the house under the linden trees to drink coffee. I wasn’t exactly pleased with the company, so I stayed behind, making one excuse or another.

A peasant came from an adjoining house, and set to work arranging some part of the same plough which I had lately sketched. His appearance pleased me; and I spoke to him, inquired about his circumstances, made his acquaintance, and, as is my wont with persons of that class, was soon admitted into his confidence. He said he was in the service of a young widow, who set great store by him. He spoke so much of his mistress, and praised her so extravagantly, that I could soon see he was desperately in love with her. "She is no longer young," he said: "and she was treated so badly by her former husband that she does not mean to marry again." From his account it was so evident what incomparable charms she possessed for him, and how ardently he wished she would select him to extinguish the recollection of her first husband's misconduct, that I should have to repeat his own words in order to describe the depth of the poor fellow's attachment, truth, and devotion. It would, in fact, require the gifts of a great poet to convey the expression of his features, the harmony of his voice, and the heavenly fire of his eye. No words can portray the tenderness of his every movement and of every feature: no effort of mine could do justice to the scene. His alarm lest I should misconceive his position with regard to his mistress, or question the propriety of her conduct, touched me particularly. The charming manner with which he described her form and person, which, without possessing the graces of youth, won and attached him to her, is inexpressible, and must be left to the imagination. I have never in my life witnessed or fancied or conceived the possibility of such intense devotion, such ardent affections, united with so much purity. Do not blame me if I say that the recollection of this innocence and truth is deeply impressed upon my very soul; that this picture of fidelity and tenderness haunts me everywhere; and that my own heart, as though enkindled by the flame, glows and burns within me.

A peasant came out of a neighboring house and began adjusting part of the plough I had recently sketched. I liked his appearance, so I spoke to him and asked about his life. We got to know each other. As often happens when I speak with people of his class, he soon began to confide in me. He said he worked for a young widow who valued him highly. He talked so much about his employer and praised her so lavishly that I soon saw he loved her desperately. "She is no longer young," he said. "And her former husband treated her so badly that she does not intend to marry again." His account made clear how incomparably charming he found her. It also showed how passionately he hoped she would choose him to erase the memory of her first husband's mistreatment. I would have to repeat his own words to describe the depth of the poor man's love, sincerity, and devotion. In fact, only a great poet could capture his expression, his musical voice, and the heavenly fire in his eyes. No words can convey the tenderness in his every movement and every feature. Nothing I could write would do the scene justice. I was especially touched by his fear that I might misunderstand his relationship with his employer or question her respectability. He spoke so charmingly of her figure and appearance that I cannot describe his words. Although she lacked the charms of youth, her looks had won his heart and held him devoted to her. I must leave his description to your imagination. Never in my life have I witnessed or imagined such intense devotion and passionate love joined with such purity. I had never even thought such feelings possible. Do not blame me if I say the memory of his innocence and sincerity is deeply imprinted on my soul. This image of faithfulness and tenderness follows me everywhere. And my own heart glows and burns within me, as though kindled by his flame.

I mean now to try and see her as soon as I can: or perhaps, on second thoughts, I had better not; it is better I should behold her through the eyes of her lover. To my sight, perhaps, she would not appear as she now stands before me; and why should I destroy so sweet a picture?

I now intend to try to see her as soon as I can. Or perhaps, on second thought, I had better not. I would be better off seeing her through her lover’s eyes. Perhaps she would not look to me as I now imagine her. And why should I spoil such a lovely picture?

"Why do I not write to you?" You lay claim to learning, and ask such a question. You should have guessed that I am well—that is to say—in a word, I have made an acquaintance who has won my heart: I have—I know not.

"Why don't I write to you?" You claim to be educated, yet you ask a question like that. You should have guessed that I'm well. That is to say, in short, I've met someone who has won my heart. I have, I don't know.

To give you a regular account of the manner in which I have become acquainted with the most amiable of women would be a difficult task. I am a happy and contented mortal, but a poor historian.

Giving you a clear account of how I came to know the most charming of women would be difficult. I am a happy and contented man, but a poor storyteller.

An angel! Nonsense! Everybody so describes his mistress; and yet I find it impossible to tell you how perfect she is, or why she is so perfect: suffice it to say she has captivated all my senses.

An angel! Nonsense! Everyone calls the woman he loves an angel. Yet I can't tell you how perfect she is or why she is so perfect. Let me just say that she has captivated all my senses.

So much simplicity with so much understanding—so mild, and yet so resolute—a mind so placid, and a life so active.

So much simplicity and so much understanding. So gentle, yet so determined. Such a calm mind and such an active life.

But all this is ugly balderdash, which expresses not a single character nor feature. Some other time—but no, not some other time, now, this very instant, will I tell you all about it. Now or never. Well, between ourselves, since I commenced my letter, I have been three times on the point of throwing down my pen, of ordering my horse, and riding out. And yet I vowed this morning that I would not ride to-day, and yet every moment I am rushing to the window to see how high the sun is.

But all this is awful nonsense. It captures not a single trait or feature. Some other time. But no, not some other time. Now, this very instant, I’ll tell you all about it. Now or never. Well, between ourselves, since I started this letter, I’ve three times nearly thrown down my pen. Each time, I’ve been ready to order my horse and ride out. And yet I vowed this morning that I wouldn’t ride today. And yet every moment I rush 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 whilst I am taking supper I will write to you. What a delight it was for my soul to see her in the midst of her dear, beautiful children,—eight brothers and sisters!

I couldn't hold myself back. I had to go to her. I've just returned, Wilhelm, and I'll write to you while I eat supper. What joy filled my soul when I saw her surrounded by her dear, beautiful children, her eight brothers and sisters!

But, if I proceed thus, you will be no wiser at the end of my letter than you were at the beginning. Attend, then, and I will compel myself to give you the details.

But if I go on like this, you’ll know no more when my letter ends than when it began. So listen, and I’ll force myself to give you the details.

I mentioned to you the other day that I had become acquainted with S—, the district judge, and that he had invited me to go and visit him in his retirement, or rather in his little kingdom. But I neglected going, and perhaps should never have gone, if chance had not discovered to me the treasure which lay concealed in that retired spot. Some of our young people had proposed giving a ball in the country, at which I consented to be present. I offered my hand for the evening to a pretty and agreeable, but rather commonplace, sort of girl from the immediate neighbourhood; and it was agreed that I should engage a carriage, and call upon Charlotte, with my partner and her aunt, to convey them to the ball. My companion informed me, as we drove along through the park to the hunting-lodge, that I should make the acquaintance of a very charming young lady. "Take care," added the aunt, "that you do not lose your heart." "Why?" said I. "Because she is already engaged to a very worthy man," she replied, "who is gone to settle his affairs upon the death of his father, and will succeed to a very considerable inheritance." This information possessed no interest for me. When we arrived at the gate, the sun was setting behind the tops of the mountains. The atmosphere was heavy; and the ladies expressed their fears of an approaching storm, as masses of low black clouds were gathering in the horizon. I relieved their anxieties by pretending to be weather-wise, although I myself had some apprehensions lest our pleasure should be interrupted.

I mentioned the other day that I had met S, the district judge. He had invited me to visit him in his secluded home, or rather in his little kingdom. But I put off the visit. Perhaps I would never have gone if chance had not revealed the treasure hidden in that quiet spot. Some of our young people had proposed holding a ball in the country, and I agreed to attend. I asked a pretty, pleasant, but rather ordinary girl from the immediate neighbourhood to be my partner for the evening. We agreed that I would hire a carriage. My partner and her aunt would come with me to pick up Charlotte and take them all to the ball. As we drove through the park towards the hunting lodge, my companion told me I would meet a very charming young lady. "Take care," her aunt added, "that you don't lose your heart." "Why?" I asked. "Because she is already engaged to a very worthy man," she replied. "He has gone away to settle his affairs after his father's death and will receive a very large inheritance." This news held no interest for me. When we reached the gate, the sun was setting behind the mountaintops. The air was heavy. Low, dark clouds were gathering on the horizon, and the ladies said they feared a storm was coming. I eased their worries by pretending to know about the weather. But I too was somewhat afraid that a storm might spoil our pleasure.

I alighted; and a maid came to the door, and requested us to wait a moment for her mistress. I walked across the court to a well-built house, and, ascending the flight of steps in front, opened the door, and saw before me the most charming spectacle I had ever witnessed. Six children, from eleven to two years old, were running about the hall, and surrounding a lady of middle height, with a lovely figure, dressed in a robe of simple white, trimmed with pink ribbons. She was holding a rye loaf in her hand, and was cutting slices for the little ones all around, in proportion to their age and appetite. She performed her task in a graceful and affectionate manner; each claimant awaiting his turn with outstretched hands, and boisterously shouting his thanks. Some of them ran away at once, to enjoy their evening meal; whilst others, of a gentler disposition, retired to the courtyard to see the strangers, and to survey the carriage in which their Charlotte was to drive away. "Pray forgive me for giving you the trouble to come for me, and for keeping the ladies waiting: but dressing, and arranging some household duties before I leave, had made me forget my children's supper; and they do not like to take it from any one but me." I uttered some indifferent compliment: but my whole soul was absorbed by her air, her voice, her manner; and I had scarcely recovered myself when she ran into her room to fetch her gloves and fan. The young ones threw inquiring glances at me from a distance; whilst I approached the youngest, a most delicious little creature. He drew back; and Charlotte, entering at the very moment, said, "Louis, shake hands with your cousin." The little fellow obeyed willingly; and I could not resist giving him a hearty kiss, notwithstanding his rather dirty face. "Cousin," said I to Charlotte, as I handed her down, "do you think I deserve the happiness of being related to you?" She replied, with a ready smile, "Oh! I have such a number of cousins, that I should be sorry if you were the most undeserving of them." In taking leave, she desired her next sister, Sophy, a girl about eleven years old, to take great care of the children, and to say good-bye to papa for her when he came home from his ride. She enjoined to the little ones to obey their sister Sophy as they would herself, upon which some promised that they would; but a little fair-haired girl, about six years old, looked discontented, and said, "But Sophy is not you, Charlotte; and we like you best." The two eldest boys had clambered up the carriage; and, at my request, she permitted them to accompany us a little way through the forest, upon their promising to sit very still, and hold fast.

I stepped out of the carriage. A maid came to the door and asked us to wait a moment for her mistress. I crossed the courtyard to a well-built house, climbed the front steps, and opened the door. Before me was the most charming sight I had ever seen. Six children, aged two to eleven, were running around the hall, surrounding a woman of medium height. She had a lovely figure and wore a simple white dress trimmed with pink ribbons. She held a loaf of rye bread and cut slices for the little ones gathered around her. Each child's slice suited their age and appetite. She did this with grace and affection. Each child waited with outstretched hands, then shouted their thanks with noisy enthusiasm. Some ran off at once to enjoy their supper. Others, who were quieter, went into the courtyard to look at the strangers. They also inspected the carriage that would take their Charlotte away. "Please forgive me for making you come for me and for keeping the ladies waiting. But getting dressed and seeing to some household duties before leaving made me forget my children's supper. And they don't like anyone but me to give it to them." I offered some ordinary compliment, but her presence, her voice, and her manner absorbed my whole soul. I had barely recovered when she ran into her room to fetch her gloves and fan. The children watched me curiously from a distance while I approached the youngest, an utterly delightful little creature. He drew back. Charlotte came in just then and said, "Louis, shake hands with your cousin." The little fellow willingly obeyed. I couldn't resist giving him a hearty kiss, despite his rather dirty face. "Cousin," I said to Charlotte as I helped her down the steps, "do you think I deserve the happiness of being related to you?" She answered with a quick smile, "Oh! I have so many cousins that I'd be sorry if you were the least deserving of them." Before leaving, she asked her next-youngest sister, Sophy, a girl of about eleven, to take great care of the children. She also asked Sophy to say goodbye to papa for her when he came home from his ride. She told the little ones to obey their sister Sophy just as they would obey her. Some promised to do so. But a little fair-haired girl of about six looked unhappy and said, "But Sophy isn't you, Charlotte. We like you best." The two oldest boys had climbed onto the carriage. At my request, Charlotte allowed them to come a little way through the forest with us. They had to promise to sit very still and hold on tight.

We were hardly seated, and the ladies had scarcely exchanged compliments, making the usual remarks upon each other's dress, and upon the company they expected to meet, when Charlotte stopped the carriage, and made her brothers get down. They insisted upon kissing her hands once more; which the eldest did with all the tenderness of a youth of fifteen, but the other in a lighter and more careless manner. She desired them again to give her love to the children, and we drove off.

We had hardly sat down, and the ladies had barely exchanged compliments about each other’s clothes and the expected company. Then Charlotte stopped the carriage and made her brothers get out. Both insisted on kissing her hands once more. The eldest did so with all the tenderness of a fifteen-year-old, but the other was more casual and carefree. She again asked her brothers to give her love to the children, and we drove off.

The aunt inquired of Charlotte whether she had finished the book she had last sent her. "No," said Charlotte; "I did not like it: you can have it again. And the one before was not much better." I was surprised, upon asking the title, to hear that it was ____. (We feel obliged to suppress the passage in the letter, to prevent any one from feeling aggrieved; although no author need pay much attention to the opinion of a mere girl, or that of an unsteady young man.)

The aunt asked Charlotte whether she had finished the last book she had sent her. "No," said Charlotte. "I didn’t like it. You can have it back. And the one before wasn’t much better." When I asked for the title, I was surprised to hear that the book was ____. (We feel obliged to leave out this passage from the letter to avoid offending anyone. Still, no author need pay much attention to the opinion of a mere girl or an unstable young man.)

I found penetration and character in everything she said: every expression seemed to brighten her features with new charms,—with new rays of genius,—which unfolded by degrees, as she felt herself understood.

I found insight and character in everything she said. Every expression seemed to light up her face with fresh charm and new flashes of genius. Her genius gradually revealed itself as she felt understood.

"When I was younger," she observed, "I loved nothing so much as romances. Nothing could equal my delight when, on some holiday, I could settle down quietly in a corner, and enter with my whole heart and soul into the joys or sorrows of some fictitious Leonora. I do not deny that they even possess some charms for me yet. But I read so seldom, that I prefer books suited exactly to my taste. And I like those authors best whose scenes describe my own situation in life,—and the friends who are about me, whose stories touch me with interest, from resembling my own homely existence,—which, without being absolutely paradise, is, on the whole, a source of indescribable happiness."

"When I was younger," she said, "I loved nothing more than novels. Nothing matched my delight when I could settle quietly in a corner on a holiday. I would lose myself, heart and soul, in the joys or sorrows of some fictional Leonora. I admit that these stories still have some charm for me. But I read so rarely that I prefer books that suit my taste exactly. And I like authors best when their scenes reflect my own life and the friends around me. Their stories move me because they resemble my own simple life. My life is not exactly paradise, but on the whole, it brings me more happiness than I can describe."

I endeavoured to conceal the emotion which these words occasioned, but it was of slight avail; for, when she had expressed so truly her opinion of "The Vicar of Wakefield," and of other works, the names of which I omit (Though the names are omitted, yet the authors mentioned deserve Charlotte's approbation, and will feel it in their hearts when they read this passage. It concerns no other person.), I could no longer contain myself, but gave full utterance to what I thought of it: and it was not until Charlotte had addressed herself to the two other ladies, that I remembered their presence, and observed them sitting mute with astonishment. The aunt looked at me several times with an air of raillery, which, however, I did not at all mind.

I tried to hide the emotion her words stirred in me, but with little success. She expressed her views on "The Vicar of Wakefield" so truly, along with other works whose names I leave out. (Though I omit the names, the authors mentioned deserve Charlotte's praise and will feel it in their hearts when they read this passage. This concerns no one else.) I could no longer hold back and said everything I thought about it. Only when Charlotte turned to the two other ladies did I remember they were there. I noticed they were sitting in astonished silence. The aunt gave me several teasing looks, but I did not mind them at all.

We talked of the pleasures of dancing. "If it is a fault to love it," said Charlotte, "I am ready to confess that I prize it above all other amusements. If anything disturbs me, I go to the piano, play an air to which I have danced, and all goes right again directly."

We talked about the pleasures of dancing. "If loving dancing is a fault," said Charlotte, "I freely admit I enjoy it more than any other pastime. If anything upsets me, I go to the piano and play a tune I have danced to. Then everything feels right again immediately."

You, who know me, can fancy how steadfastly I gazed upon her rich dark eyes during these remarks, how my very soul gloated over her warm lips and fresh, glowing cheeks, how I became quite lost in the delightful meaning of her words, so much so, that I scarcely heard the actual expressions. In short, I alighted from the carriage like a person in a dream, and was so lost to the dim world around me, that I scarcely heard the music which resounded from the illuminated ballroom.

You know me, so you can imagine how steadily I gazed into her deep, dark eyes as she spoke. My very soul delighted in her warm lips and fresh, glowing cheeks. I became so lost in the delightful meaning of her words that I barely heard the words themselves. In short, I stepped out of the carriage like someone in a dream. I was so unaware of the dim world around me that I barely heard the music from the brightly lit ballroom.

The two Messrs. Andran and a certain N. N. (I cannot trouble myself with the names), who were the aunt's and Charlotte's partners, received us at the carriage-door, and took possession of their ladies, whilst I followed with mine.

The two Andran gentlemen and a certain N. N. were the aunt's and Charlotte's partners. (I can't be bothered with the names.) The men met us at the carriage door and took charge of their ladies, while I followed with mine.

We commenced with a minuet. I led out one lady after another, and precisely those who were the most disagreeable could not bring themselves to leave off. Charlotte and her partner began an English country dance, and you must imagine my delight when it was their turn to dance the figure with us. You should see Charlotte dance. She dances with her whole heart and soul: her figure is all harmony, elegance, and grace, as if she were conscious of nothing else, and had no other thought or feeling; and, doubtless, for the moment, every other sensation is extinct.

We began with a minuet. I danced with one lady after another, and the most disagreeable were the very ones who couldn’t stop. Charlotte and her partner began an English country dance. Imagine my delight when their turn came to join us in the dance figure. You should see Charlotte dance. She dances with her whole heart and soul. Every movement is full of harmony, elegance, and grace, as if she were aware of nothing else. It is as if she had no other thought or feeling. And without doubt, for that moment, every other sensation disappears.

She was engaged for the second country dance, but promised me the third, and assured me, with the most agreeable freedom, that she was very fond of waltzing. "It is the custom here," she said, "for the previous partners to waltz together; but my partner is an indifferent waltzer, and will feel delighted if I save him the trouble. Your partner is not allowed to waltz, and, indeed, is equally incapable: but I observed during the country dance that you waltz well; so, if you will waltz with me, I beg you would propose it to my partner, and I will propose it to yours." We agreed, and it was arranged that our partners should mutually entertain each other.

She already had a partner for the second country dance, but promised me the third. With delightful openness, she assured me she loved waltzing. "The custom here," she said, "is for partners from the previous dance to waltz together. But my partner is a poor waltzer and will be delighted if I spare him the trouble. Your partner is not allowed to waltz, and she is just as poor at it anyway. But I noticed during the country dance that you waltz well. So, if you will waltz with me, please suggest the arrangement to my partner, and I will suggest it to yours." We agreed and arranged for our partners to keep each other company.

We set off, and, at first, delighted ourselves with the usual graceful motions of the arms. With what grace, with what ease, she moved! When the waltz commenced, and the dancers whirled around each other in the giddy maze, there was some confusion, owing to the incapacity of some of the dancers. We judiciously remained still, allowing the others to weary themselves; and, when the awkward dancers had withdrawn, we joined in, and kept it up famously together with one other couple,—Andran and his partner. 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 O Wilhelm, I vowed at that moment, that a maiden whom I loved, or for whom I felt the slightest attachment, never, never should waltz with any one else but with me, if I went to perdition for it!—you will understand this.

We began dancing, enjoying the usual graceful movements of our arms at first. How gracefully she moved, how easily! When the waltz began, the dancers spun around each other in a dizzying whirl. Some confusion followed because some of the dancers lacked skill. We wisely stood still and let the others tire themselves out. Once the awkward dancers had left the floor, we joined in. We danced wonderfully together, along with one other couple, Andran and his partner. Never had I danced so lightly. I felt more than human, holding this loveliest of creatures in my arms. We flew as fast as the wind, until everything else vanished from my sight. And oh, Wilhelm, at that moment I made a vow. Any girl I loved, or felt even the slightest affection for, would never, never waltz with anyone but me. Even if I went to hell for it! You will understand.

We took a few turns in the room to recover our breath. Charlotte sat down, and felt refreshed by partaking of some oranges which I had had secured,—the only ones that had been left; but at every slice which, from politeness, she offered to her neighbours, I felt as though a dagger went through my heart.

We walked around the room a few times to catch our breath. Charlotte sat down and felt refreshed after eating some oranges I had managed to save, the only ones left. But every time she politely offered a slice to someone nearby, I felt as though a dagger pierced my heart.

We were the second couple in the third country dance. As we were going down (and Heaven knows with what ecstasy I gazed at her arms and eyes, beaming with the sweetest feeling of pure and genuine enjoyment), we passed a lady whom I had noticed for her charming expression of countenance; although she was no longer young. She looked at Charlotte with a smile, then, holding up her finger in a threatening attitude, repeated twice in a very significant tone of voice the name of "Albert."

We were the second couple in the third country dance. As we moved down the line, Heaven knows how I gazed in ecstasy at her arms and eyes. They glowed with the sweetest feeling of pure, genuine enjoyment. We passed a woman whose charming expression I had noticed, although she was no longer young. She smiled at Charlotte, then raised her finger in warning and repeated the name "Albert" twice, very pointedly.

"Who is Albert," said I to Charlotte, "if it is not impertinent to ask?" She was about to answer, when we were obliged to separate, in order to execute a figure in the dance; and, as we crossed over again in front of each other, I perceived she looked somewhat pensive. "Why need I conceal it from you?" she said, as she gave me her hand for the promenade. "Albert is a worthy man, to whom I am engaged." Now, there was nothing new to me in this (for the girls had told me of it on the way); but it was so far new that I had not thought of it in connection with her whom, in so short a time, I had learned to prize so highly. Enough, I became confused, got out in the figure, and occasioned general confusion; so that it required all Charlotte's presence of mind to set me right by pulling and pushing me into my proper place.

"Who is Albert," I asked Charlotte, "if you don’t mind my asking?" She was about to answer, but we had to separate for a sequence in the dance. As we crossed in front of each other again, I noticed she looked somewhat thoughtful. "Why should I hide it from you?" she said, giving me her hand for the promenade. "Albert is a good man, and I am engaged to him." Now, this news was nothing new to me (the girls had told me on the way). But I had not connected the news with the woman I had come to value so highly in so little time. In short, I became confused, lost my place in the dance, and threw everyone into confusion. Charlotte needed all her presence of mind to get me back on track, pulling and pushing me into place.

The dance was not yet finished when the lightning which had for some time been seen in the horizon, and which I had asserted to proceed entirely from heat, grew more violent; and the thunder was heard above the music. When any distress or terror surprises us in the midst of our amusements, it naturally makes a deeper impression than at other times, either because the contrast makes us more keenly susceptible, or rather perhaps because our senses are then more open to impressions, and the shock is consequently stronger. To this cause I must ascribe the fright and shrieks of the ladies. One sagaciously sat down in a corner with her back to the window, and held her fingers to her ears; a second knelt down before her, and hid her face in her lap; a third threw herself between them, and embraced her sister with a thousand tears; some insisted on going home; others, unconscious of their actions, wanted sufficient presence of mind to repress the impertinence of their young partners, who sought to direct to themselves those sighs which the lips of our agitated beauties intended for heaven. Some of the gentlemen had gone down-stairs to smoke a quiet cigar, and the rest of the company gladly embraced a happy suggestion of the hostess to retire into another room which was provided with shutters and curtains. We had hardly got there, when Charlotte placed the chairs in a circle; and, when the company had sat down in compliance with her request, she forthwith proposed a round game.

The dance was still going when the lightning on the horizon grew more intense. It had been visible for some time, and I had insisted it was caused entirely by heat. Now thunder could be heard above the music. When distress or terror catches us in the middle of our pleasures, it naturally affects us more deeply than usual. Perhaps the contrast makes us more sensitive. Or perhaps, rather, our senses are more open to impressions at such moments, making the shock stronger. This must explain the ladies’ fright and screams. One wisely sat in a corner with her back to the window and her fingers in her ears. A second knelt before her and buried her face in the first woman’s lap. A third threw herself between them and embraced her sister, shedding a thousand tears. Some insisted on going home. Others, unaware of their own actions, lacked the presence of mind to restrain their young partners’ impudence. These young men tried to claim for themselves the sighs our trembling beauties meant for heaven. Some of the gentlemen had gone downstairs to smoke a quiet cigar. The rest of the company gladly accepted the hostess’s welcome suggestion to move into another room, fitted with shutters and curtains. We had hardly arrived when Charlotte arranged the chairs in a circle. Once everyone had sat down at her request, she immediately suggested a game for the whole group.

I noticed some of the company prepare their mouths and draw themselves up at the prospect of some agreeable forfeit. "Let us play at counting," said Charlotte. "Now, pay attention: I shall go round the circle from right to left; and each person is to count, one after the other, the number that comes to him, and must count fast; whoever stops or mistakes is to have a box on the ear, and so on, till we have counted a thousand." It was delightful to see the fun. She went round the circle with upraised arm. "One," said the first; "two," the second; "three," the third; and so on, till Charlotte went faster and faster. One made a mistake, instantly a box on the ear; and, amid the laughter that ensued, came another box; and so on, faster and faster. I myself came in for two. I fancied they were harder than the rest, and felt quite delighted. A general laughter and confusion put an end to the game long before we had counted as far as a thousand. The party broke up into little separate knots: the storm had ceased, and I followed Charlotte into the ballroom. On the way she said, "The game banished their fears of the storm." I could make no reply. "I myself," she continued, "was as much frightened as any of them; but by affecting courage, to keep up the spirits of the others, I forgot my apprehensions." We went to the window. It was still thundering at a distance: a soft rain was pouring down over the country, and filled the air around us with delicious odours. Charlotte leaned forward on her arm; her eyes wandered over the scene; she raised them to the sky, and then turned them upon me; they were moistened with tears; she placed her hand on mine and said, "Klopstock!" at once I remembered the magnificent ode which was in her thoughts: I felt oppressed with the weight of my sensations, and sank under them. It was more than I could bear. I bent over her hand, kissed it in a stream of delicious tears, and again looked up to her eyes. Divine Klopstock! why didst thou not see thy apotheosis in those eyes? And thy name so often profaned, would that I never heard it repeated!

I noticed some of the guests purse their lips and straighten up, expecting some pleasant penalty in the game. "Let us play a counting game," said Charlotte. "Now, pay attention: I will go around the circle from right to left. Each person must call out the next number in turn, and you must count quickly. Anyone who hesitates or makes a mistake gets a slap on the ear. We will keep going until we reach a thousand." It was delightful to watch the fun. She went around the circle with her arm raised. "One," said the first person. "Two," said the second. "Three," said the third. The counting continued as Charlotte moved faster and faster. Someone made a mistake and immediately got a slap on the ear. Amid the laughter that followed, someone else got a slap, and the game went on, faster and faster. I got two slaps myself. I imagined mine were harder than the others, and I was quite delighted. Everyone's laughter and confusion ended the game long before we reached a thousand. The guests split into little groups. The storm had stopped, and I followed Charlotte into the ballroom. On the way she said, "The game drove away their fear of the storm." I could not reply. "I was just as frightened as any of them," she continued. "But by pretending to be brave to keep everyone else's spirits up, I forgot my own fears." We went to the window. Thunder still rumbled in the distance. A gentle rain was falling over the countryside, filling the air around us with wonderful scents. Charlotte leaned forward, resting on her arm, and gazed out over the scene. She raised her eyes to the sky, then turned them toward me. Her eyes were wet with tears. She laid her hand on mine and said, "Klopstock!" At once I remembered the magnificent ode she was thinking of. My feelings overwhelmed me, and I gave way beneath their weight. It was more than I could bear. I bent over her hand and kissed it, weeping tears of joy, then looked up into her eyes again. Divine Klopstock! Why could you not have seen how those eyes raised you to a god? And your name, so often dishonored, how I wish I never heard it spoken again!

I no longer remember where I stopped in my narrative: I only know it was two in the morning when I went to bed; and if you had been with me, that I might have talked instead of writing to you, I should, in all probability, have kept you up till daylight.

I no longer remember where I left off in my story. I only know I went to bed at two in the morning. If you had been with me, I could have talked to you instead of writing. I would probably have kept you up until daylight.

I think I have not yet related what happened as we rode home from the ball, nor have I time to tell you now. It was a most magnificent sunrise: the whole country was refreshed, and the rain fell drop by drop from the trees in the forest. Our companions were asleep. Charlotte asked me if I did not wish to sleep also, and begged of me not to make any ceremony on her account. Looking steadfastly at her, I answered, "As long as I see those eyes open, there is no fear of my falling asleep." We both continued awake till we reached her door. The maid opened it softly, and assured her, in answer to her inquiries, that her father and the children were well, and still sleeping. I left her asking permission to visit her in the course of the day. She consented, and I went, and, since that time, sun, moon, and stars may pursue their course: I know not whether it is day or night; the whole world is nothing to me.

I don’t think I’ve told you yet what happened as we rode home from the ball. Nor do I have time to tell you now. The sunrise was magnificent. The whole countryside felt refreshed, and rain dripped from the forest trees. Our companions were asleep. Charlotte asked if I wanted to sleep too and urged me not to stay awake just to be polite. Looking steadily at her, I answered, "As long as I see those eyes open, there’s no danger of me falling asleep." We both stayed awake until we reached her door. The maid opened the door quietly. When Charlotte asked, the maid assured her that her father and the children were well and still asleep. Before leaving, I asked permission to visit her later that day. She agreed, and I visited her. Since then, the sun, moon, and stars may follow their courses. I don’t know whether it’s day or night. The whole world means nothing to me.

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. You know Walheim. I am now completely settled there. In that spot I am only half a league from Charlotte; and there I enjoy myself, and taste all the pleasure which can fall to the lot of man.

My days are as happy as those God reserves for his chosen people. Whatever my fate may be from now on, I can never say I have not known joy. I have known the purest joy in life. You know Walheim. I am now fully settled there. Here I am only half a league from Charlotte. And here I enjoy myself and experience all the pleasure a person can have.

Little did I imagine, when I selected Walheim for my pedestrian excursions, that all heaven lay so near it. How often in my wanderings from the hillside or from the meadows across the river, have I beheld this hunting-lodge, which now contains within it all the joy of my heart!

When I chose Walheim for my walks, I never imagined that all heaven lay so close by. How often I saw this hunting lodge while wandering along the hillside or through the meadows across the river! Now the lodge holds all the joy of my heart!

I have often, my dear Wilhelm, reflected on the eagerness men feel to wander and make new discoveries, and upon that secret impulse which afterward inclines them to return to their narrow circle, conform to the laws of custom, and embarrass themselves no longer with what passes around them.

My dear Wilhelm, I have often thought about how eager people are to wander and make new discoveries. I have also considered the hidden impulse that later draws them back to their small circle. It urges them to follow established customs and stop troubling themselves with what goes on around them.

It is so strange how, when I came here first, and gazed upon that lovely valley from the hillside, I felt charmed with the entire scene surrounding me. The little wood opposite—how delightful to sit under its shade! How fine the view from that point of rock! Then, that delightful chain of hills, and the exquisite valleys at their feet! Could I but wander and lose myself amongst them! I went, and returned without finding what I wished. Distance, my friend, is like futurity. A dim vastness is spread before our souls: the perceptions of our mind are as obscure as those of our vision; and we desire earnestly to surrender up our whole being, that it may be filled with the complete and perfect bliss of one glorious emotion. But alas! when we have attained our object, when the distant there becomes the present here, all is changed: we are as poor and circumscribed as ever, and our souls still languish for unattainable happiness.

It is so strange. When I first came here and looked down at that lovely valley, everything around me enchanted me. The little wood opposite, how delightful to sit in its shade! What a fine view from that rocky ledge! And then that lovely chain of hills, and the beautiful valleys at their feet! If only I could wander among them and lose myself! I went there and returned without finding what I wanted. Distance, my friend, is like the future. A dim vastness stretches before our souls. Our thoughts are as unclear as what we see. And we long to surrender our whole being to the complete, perfect bliss of one glorious feeling. But alas! Once we reach our goal, once the distant there becomes the present here, everything changes. We are as poor and limited as ever, and our souls still ache for happiness beyond our reach.

So does the restless traveller pant for his native soil, and find in his own cottage, in the arms of his wife, in the affections of his children, and in the labour necessary for their support, that happiness which he had sought in vain through the wide world.

So the restless traveler longs for his homeland. In his own cottage, he finds happiness in his wife’s arms and his children’s love. He finds happiness, too, in the work needed to support them. He had searched in vain for such happiness throughout the world.

When, in the morning at sunrise, I go out to Walheim, and with my own hands gather in the garden the pease which are to serve for my dinner, when I sit down to shell them, and read my Homer during the intervals, and then, selecting a saucepan from the kitchen, fetch my own butter, put my mess on the fire, cover it up, and sit down to stir it as occasion requires, I figure to myself the illustrious suitors of Penelope, killing, dressing, and preparing their own oxen and swine. Nothing fills me with a more pure and genuine sense of happiness than those traits of patriarchal life which, thank Heaven! I can imitate without affectation. Happy is it, indeed, for me that my heart is capable of feeling the same simple and innocent pleasure as the peasant whose table is covered with food of his own rearing, and who not only enjoys his meal, but remembers with delight the happy days and sunny mornings when he planted it, the soft evenings when he watered it, and the pleasure he experienced in watching its daily growth.

At sunrise, I go out to Walheim and gather peas in the garden with my own hands for dinner. I sit down to shell them, reading my Homer in between. Then I choose a saucepan from the kitchen, fetch my own butter, and put my meal on the fire. I cover the pan and sit down, stirring whenever needed. As I do all this, I picture Penelope’s illustrious suitors, slaughtering, butchering, and cooking their own oxen and pigs. Nothing gives me a purer, more genuine happiness than these ways of life from the days of the patriarchs. Thank Heaven, I can follow their example without pretending. How fortunate I am that my heart can feel the same simple, innocent pleasure as a peasant eating food he raised himself. The peasant not only enjoys his meal but remembers with delight the happy days and sunny mornings when he planted his food. He remembers the mild evenings when he watered his plants, and the pleasure of watching them grow each day.

The day before yesterday, the physician came from the town to pay a visit to the judge. He found me on the floor playing with Charlotte's children. Some of them were scrambling over me, and others romped with me; and, as I caught and tickled them, they made a great noise. The doctor is a formal sort of personage: he adjusts the plaits of his ruffles, and continually settles his frill whilst he is talking to you; and he thought my conduct beneath the dignity of a sensible man. I could perceive this by his countenance. But I did not suffer myself to be disturbed. I allowed him to continue his wise conversation, whilst I rebuilt the children's card houses for them as fast as they threw them down. He went about the town afterward, complaining that the judge's children were spoiled enough before, but that now Werther was completely ruining them.

The day before yesterday, the doctor came from town to visit the judge. He found me on the floor playing with Charlotte's children. Some were climbing over me, and others were playing with me. As I caught and tickled them, they made a great deal of noise. The doctor is a very formal man. He adjusts the folds of his ruffled cuffs and constantly straightens his frilled collar while talking to you. He thought my behavior was beneath the dignity of a sensible man. I could tell from his expression. But I did not let his disapproval bother me. I let him carry on with his wise conversation while I rebuilt the children's houses of cards. I rebuilt the houses as fast as the children knocked them down. Afterward, he went around town complaining that the judge's children had already been spoiled enough. But now, he said, Werther was completely ruining them.

Yes, my dear Wilhelm, nothing on this earth affects my heart so much as children. When I look on at their doings; when I mark in the little creatures the seeds of all those virtues and qualities which they will one day find so indispensable; when I behold in the obstinate all the future firmness and constancy of a noble character; in the capricious, that levity and gaiety of temper which will carry them lightly over the dangers and troubles of life, their whole nature simple and unpolluted,—then I call to mind the golden words of the Great Teacher of mankind, "Unless ye become like one of these!" And now, my friend, these children, who are our equals, whom we ought to consider as our models, we treat them as though they were our subjects. They are allowed no will of their own. And have we, then, none ourselves? Whence comes our exclusive right? Is it because we are older and more experienced? Great God! from the height of thy heaven thou beholdest great children and little children, and no others; and thy Son has long since declared which afford thee greatest pleasure. But they believe in him, and hear him not,—that, too, is an old story; and they train their children after their own image, etc.

Yes, my dear Wilhelm, nothing on earth touches my heart as deeply as children. I watch what they do. I see in these little creatures the beginnings of all the virtues and qualities they will one day find essential. In stubborn children, I see the future strength and determination of a noble character. In unpredictable children, I see the lightheartedness and cheerfulness that will carry them easily through life’s dangers and troubles. Their whole nature is simple and unspoiled. When I see all this, I remember the golden words of the Great Teacher of mankind: "Unless you become like one of these!" And yet, my friend, we treat these children as our subjects, though they are our equals and should be our examples. They are allowed no will of their own. But don’t we have wills of our own? Where does our exclusive right come from? Is it because we are older and more experienced? Great God! From high in your heaven, you see big children and little children, and no one else. And your Son told us long ago which children please you most. But people believe in him without listening to him. That, too, is an old story. And they raise their children in their own image, and so on.

Adieu, Wilhelm: I will not further bewilder myself with this subject.

Goodbye, Wilhelm. I won't confuse myself any further with this subject.

The consolation Charlotte can bring to an invalid I experience from my own heart, which suffers more from her absence than many a poor creature lingering on a bed of sickness. She is gone to spend a few days in the town with a very worthy woman, who is given over by the physicians, and wishes to have Charlotte near her in her last moments. I accompanied her last week on a visit to the Vicar of S—, a small village in the mountains, about a league hence. We arrived about four o'clock: Charlotte had taken her little sister with her. When we entered the vicarage court, we found the good old man sitting on a bench before the door, under the shade of two large walnut-trees. At the sight of Charlotte he seemed to gain new life, rose, forgot his stick, and ventured to walk toward her. She ran to him, and made him sit down again; then, placing herself by his side, she gave him a number of messages from her father, and then caught up his youngest child, a dirty, ugly little thing, the joy of his old age, and kissed it. I wish you could have witnessed her attention to this old man,—how she raised her voice on account of his deafness; how she told him of healthy young people, who had been carried off when it was least expected; praised the virtues of Carlsbad, and commended his determination to spend the ensuing summer there; and assured him that he looked better and stronger than he did when she saw him last. I, in the meantime, paid attention to his good lady. The old man seemed quite in spirits; and as I could not help admiring the beauty of the walnut-trees, which formed such an agreeable shade over our heads, he began, though with some little difficulty, to tell us their history. "As to the oldest," said he, "we do not know who planted it,—some say one clergyman, and some another: but the younger one, there behind us, is exactly the age of my wife, fifty years old next October; her father planted it in the morning, and in the evening she came into the world. My wife's father was my predecessor here, and I cannot tell you how fond he was of that tree; and it is fully as dear to me. Under the shade of that very tree, upon a log of wood, my wife was seated knitting, when I, a poor student, came into this court for the first time, just seven and twenty years ago." Charlotte inquired for his daughter. He said she was gone with Herr Schmidt to the meadows, and was with the haymakers. The old man then resumed his story, and told us how his predecessor had taken a fancy to him, as had his daughter likewise; and how he had become first his curate, and subsequently his successor. He had scarcely finished his story when his daughter returned through the garden, accompanied by the above-mentioned Herr Schmidt. She welcomed Charlotte affectionately, and I confess I was much taken with her appearance. She was a lively-looking, good-humoured brunette, quite competent to amuse one for a short time in the country. Her lover (for such Herr Schmidt evidently appeared to be) was a polite, reserved personage, and would not join our conversation, notwithstanding all Charlotte's endeavours to draw him out. I was much annoyed at observing, by his countenance, that his silence did not arise from want of talent, but from caprice and ill-humour. This subsequently became very evident, when we set out to take a walk, and Frederica joining Charlotte, with whom I was talking, the worthy gentleman's face, which was naturally rather sombre, became so dark and angry that Charlotte was obliged to touch my arm, and remind me that I was talking too much to Frederica. Nothing distresses me more than to see men torment each other; particularly when in the flower of their age, in the very season of pleasure, they waste their few short days of sunshine in quarrels and disputes, and only perceive their error when it is too late to repair it. This thought dwelt upon my mind; and in the evening, when we returned to the vicar's, and were sitting round the table with our bread and milk, the conversation turned on the joys and sorrows of the world, I could not resist the temptation to inveigh bitterly against ill-humour. "We are apt," said I, "to complain, but—with very little cause, that our happy days are few, and our evil days many. If our hearts were always disposed to receive the benefits Heaven sends us, we should acquire strength to support evil when it comes." "But," observed the vicar's wife, "we cannot always command our tempers, so much depends upon the constitution: when the body suffers, the mind is ill at ease." "I acknowledge that," I continued; "but we must consider such a disposition in the light of a disease, and inquire whether there is no remedy for it."

I know in my own heart how much comfort Charlotte can bring to someone who is ill. Her absence makes my heart suffer more than many a poor soul lingering on a sickbed. She has gone to spend a few days in town with a very worthy woman. The doctors have given up hope for this woman, who wants Charlotte near her in her final moments. Last week, I went with Charlotte to visit the Vicar of S—, a small mountain village about three miles away. We arrived at about four o'clock. Charlotte had brought her little sister. As we entered the vicarage courtyard, we found the good old man sitting on a bench outside the door. Two large walnut trees shaded him. At the sight of Charlotte, he seemed to come to life. He stood up, forgot his walking stick, and ventured toward her. She ran to him and made him sit down again. Then she sat beside him and passed on several messages from her father. Afterward, she picked up his youngest child, a dirty, ugly little thing, the joy of his old age, and kissed it. I wish you could have seen how attentively she cared for the old man. She raised her voice because he was deaf. She told him about healthy young people who had died when no one expected it. She praised the healing benefits of Carlsbad and encouraged his decision to spend the following summer there. She assured him that he looked better and stronger than when she had last seen him. Meanwhile, I gave my attention to his good wife. The old man seemed quite cheerful. I could not help admiring the beautiful walnut trees, which cast such pleasant shade over our heads. So he began, with some difficulty, to tell us their history. "As for the older tree," he said, "we do not know who planted it. Some say one clergyman, some another. But the younger tree, there behind us, is exactly my wife's age. She will be fifty next October. Her father planted it in the morning, and she was born that evening. My wife's father was the vicar here before me. I cannot tell you how fond he was of that tree, and it is just as dear to me. Twenty-seven years ago, I entered this courtyard for the first time, a poor student. My wife was sitting on a log beneath that very tree, knitting." Charlotte asked after his daughter. He said she had gone to the meadows with Herr Schmidt and was with the haymakers. The old man then returned to his story. He told us how his predecessor had taken a liking to him, and so had his predecessor's daughter. He had first become the old vicar's curate and later taken his place. He had barely finished when his daughter returned through the garden with Herr Schmidt. She greeted Charlotte warmly, and I confess that her appearance greatly attracted me. She was a lively, good-humored brunette, quite capable of keeping someone entertained for a short stay in the country. Her lover, for Herr Schmidt clearly seemed to be her lover, was polite and reserved. He would not join our conversation, despite all Charlotte's efforts to draw him out. His expression greatly annoyed me. I could see that his silence came not from a lack of intelligence, but from whim and bad temper. His bad temper became very clear when we went for a walk. I was talking with Charlotte when Frederica joined us. The worthy gentleman's face, naturally rather gloomy, grew so dark and angry that Charlotte had to touch my arm. She reminded me that I was talking too much to Frederica. Nothing troubles me more than seeing people torment one another, especially in the prime of life, their season of pleasure. They waste their few short days of sunshine in quarrels and arguments. Only when it is too late to make amends do they see their mistake. This thought stayed with me. That evening, we returned to the vicar's and sat around the table over bread and milk. When the conversation turned to the world's joys and sorrows, I could not resist speaking bitterly against bad temper. "We tend," I said, "to complain that our happy days are few and our unhappy days many. But we have very little reason to complain. If our hearts were always open to the blessings Heaven sends, we would gain strength to bear trouble when it comes." "But," the vicar's wife observed, "we cannot always control our moods. So much depends on our physical condition. When the body suffers, the mind is troubled." "I admit that," I continued. "But we must treat such a mood as an illness and ask whether there is a remedy."

"I should be glad to hear one," said Charlotte: "at least, I think very much depends upon ourselves; I know it is so with me. When anything annoys me, and disturbs my temper, I hasten into the garden, hum a couple of country dances, and it is all right with me directly." "That is what I meant," I replied; "ill-humour resembles indolence: it is natural to us; but if once we have courage to exert ourselves, we find our work run fresh from our hands, and we experience in the activity from which we shrank a real enjoyment." Frederica listened very attentively: and the young man objected, that we were not masters of ourselves, and still less so of our feelings. "The question is about a disagreeable feeling," I added, "from which every one would willingly escape, but none know their own power without trial. Invalids are glad to consult physicians, and submit to the most scrupulous regimen, the most nauseous medicines, in order to recover their health." I observed that the good old man inclined his head, and exerted himself to hear our discourse; so I raised my voice, and addressed myself directly to him. "We preach against a great many crimes," I observed, "but I never remember a sermon delivered against ill-humour." "That may do very well for your town clergymen," said he: "country people are never ill-humoured; though, indeed, it might be useful, occasionally, to my wife for instance, and the judge." We all laughed, as did he likewise very cordially, till he fell into a fit of coughing, which interrupted our conversation for a time. Herr Schmidt resumed the subject. "You call ill humour a crime," he remarked, "but I think you use too strong a term." "Not at all," I replied, "if that deserves the name which is so pernicious to ourselves and our neighbours. Is it not enough that we want the power to make one another happy, must we deprive each other of the pleasure which we can all make for ourselves? Show me the man who has the courage to hide his ill-humour, who bears the whole burden himself, without disturbing the peace of those around him. No: ill-humour arises from an inward consciousness of our own want of merit, from a discontent which ever accompanies that envy which foolish vanity engenders. We see people happy, whom we have not made so, and cannot endure the sight." Charlotte looked at me with a smile; she observed the emotion with which I spoke: and a tear in the eyes of Frederica stimulated me to proceed. "Woe unto those," I said, "who use their power over a human heart to destroy the simple pleasures it would naturally enjoy! All the favours, all the attentions, in the world cannot compensate for the loss of that happiness which a cruel tyranny has destroyed." My heart was full as I spoke. A recollection of many things which had happened pressed upon my mind, and filled my eyes with tears. "We should daily repeat to ourselves," I exclaimed, "that we should not interfere with our friends, unless to leave them in possession of their own joys, and increase their happiness by sharing it with them! But when their souls are tormented by a violent passion, or their hearts rent with grief, is it in your power to afford them the slightest consolation?

"I would be glad to hear one," said Charlotte. "At least, I think a great deal depends on ourselves. I know that is true for me. When something annoys me and spoils my mood, I hurry into the garden and hum a couple of country dances. I feel better right away." "That is what I meant," I replied. "A bad temper is like laziness. Both come naturally to us. But once we find the courage to make an effort, our work flows easily. We find real pleasure in the very activity we had dreaded." Frederica listened closely. The young man objected that we could not control ourselves, much less our feelings. "We are talking about an unpleasant feeling," I added, "that everyone would gladly escape. But no one knows their own strength without trying. Sick people gladly consult doctors and follow the strictest routines, taking the most disgusting medicines to recover their health." I noticed the good old man leaning his head forward, trying hard to hear our conversation. So I raised my voice and spoke directly to him. "We preach against a great many crimes," I said, "but I cannot remember ever hearing a sermon against bad temper." "That might be a good subject for your town clergymen," he said. "Country people are never bad-tempered. Though, now and then, such a sermon might help my wife, for instance, and the judge." We all laughed, and he laughed heartily with us until a coughing fit interrupted our conversation for a while. Herr Schmidt returned to the subject. "You call bad temper a crime," he said, "but I think that word is too strong." "Not at all," I replied, "if anything so harmful to ourselves and our neighbors deserves that name. Isn't it enough that we lack the power to make one another happy? Must we also rob each other of the pleasure we can all create for ourselves? Show me someone brave enough to hide his bad temper and bear the whole burden himself without disturbing anyone else's peace. No, bad temper comes from an inner awareness of our own lack of worth. It comes from the discontent that always accompanies the envy born of foolish vanity. We see happy people whose happiness we did not create, and we cannot bear the sight." Charlotte looked at me with a smile. She noticed how passionately I spoke, and a tear in Frederica's eyes urged me to go on. "Woe to those," I said, "who use their power over a human heart to destroy its natural, simple pleasures! All the favors and attention in the world cannot make up for the happiness destroyed by cruel tyranny." My heart was full as I spoke. Memories of many things that had happened crowded into my mind and brought tears to my eyes. "We should remind ourselves every day," I cried, "not to interfere with our friends' lives except to preserve their joys. We should add to their happiness by sharing it! But when a fierce passion torments their souls, or grief tears their hearts apart, can you offer even the slightest comfort?

"And when the last fatal malady seizes the being whose untimely grave you have prepared, when she lies languid and exhausted before you, her dim eyes raised to heaven, and the damp of death upon her pallid brow, there you stand at her bedside like a condemned criminal, with the bitter feeling that your whole fortune could not save her; and the agonising thought wrings you, that all your efforts are powerless to impart even a moment's strength to the departing soul, or quicken her with a transitory consolation."

"And when the final, fatal illness takes hold of the woman whose early grave you have prepared, she lies before you. She is weak and exhausted, her fading eyes turned toward heaven, the sweat of death on her pale forehead. Then you stand at her bedside like a condemned criminal, bitterly aware that all your wealth could not save her. And an agonizing thought torments you: all your efforts are powerless to give her departing soul even a moment’s strength. Nor can you offer her even a brief moment of comfort."

At these words the remembrance of a similar scene at which I had been once present fell with full force upon my heart. I buried my face in my handkerchief, and hastened from the room, and was only recalled to my recollection by Charlotte's voice, who reminded me that it was time to return home. With what tenderness she chid me on the way for the too eager interest I took in everything! She declared it would do me injury, and that I ought to spare myself. Yes, my angel! I will do so for your sake.

At these words, the memory of a similar scene I had once witnessed struck my heart with full force. I buried my face in my handkerchief and hurried from the room. Only Charlotte's voice brought me back to my senses, reminding me that it was time to go home. How tenderly she scolded me on the way for taking everything so much to heart! She said that caring so intensely would harm me and that I should spare myself. Yes, my angel! I will do so for your sake.

She is still with her dying friend, and is still the same bright, beautiful creature whose presence softens pain, and sheds happiness around whichever way she turns. She went out yesterday with her little sisters: I knew it, and went to meet them; and we walked together. In about an hour and a half we returned to the town. We stopped at the spring I am so fond of, and which is now a thousand times dearer to me than ever. Charlotte seated herself upon the low wall, and we gathered about her. I looked around, and recalled the time when my heart was unoccupied and free. "Dear fountain!" I said, "since that time I have no more come to enjoy cool repose by thy fresh stream: I have passed thee with careless steps, and scarcely bestowed a glance upon thee." I looked down, and observed Charlotte's little sister, Jane, coming up the steps with a glass of water. I turned toward Charlotte, and I felt her influence over me. Jane at the moment approached with the glass. Her sister, Marianne, wished to take it from her. "No!" cried the child, with the sweetest expression of face, "Charlotte must drink first."

She is still with her dying friend, and she is still the same bright, beautiful person. Her presence eases pain and spreads happiness wherever she goes. Yesterday she went out with her little sisters. I knew they were going out, so I went to meet them, and we walked together. About an hour and a half later, we returned to town. We stopped at the spring I love so much, now a thousand times dearer to me than ever. Charlotte sat on the low wall, and we gathered around her. I looked around and remembered when my heart was free and unattached. "Dear fountain!" I said, "since then, I have no longer come to rest in the cool beside your fresh stream. I have walked past you without a care, barely giving you a glance." I looked down and saw Charlotte's little sister, Jane, coming up the steps with a glass of water. I turned toward Charlotte and felt her influence over me. Just then, Jane came over with the glass. Her sister, Marianne, wanted to take it from her. "No!" the child cried, with the sweetest expression on her face, "Charlotte must drink first."

The affection and simplicity with which this was uttered so charmed me, that I sought to express my feelings by catching up the child and kissing her heartily. She was frightened, and began to cry. "You should not do that," said Charlotte: I felt perplexed. "Come, Jane," she continued, taking her hand, and leading her down the steps again, "it is no matter: wash yourself quickly in the fresh water." I stood and watched them; and when I saw the little dear rubbing her cheeks with her wet hands, in full belief that all the impurities contracted from my ugly beard would be washed off by the miraculous water, and how, though Charlotte said it would do, she continued still to wash with all her might, as though she thought too much were better than too little, I assure you, Wilhelm, I never attended a baptism with greater reverence; and, when Charlotte came up from the well, I could have prostrated myself as before the prophet of an Eastern nation.

The warmth and simplicity of those words charmed me so much that I picked up the child and kissed her heartily. I wanted to show how I felt, but she was frightened and began to cry. "You should not do that," said Charlotte. I felt confused. "Come, Jane," she continued, taking her hand and leading her back down the steps, "it's all right: wash yourself quickly in the fresh water." I stood watching them. The little dear rubbed her cheeks with wet hands. She firmly believed the miraculous water would wash away all the dirt left by my ugly beard. Though Charlotte said she had washed enough, she kept scrubbing with all her strength. She seemed to think too much washing was better than too little. I assure you, Wilhelm, I have never watched a baptism with greater reverence. And when Charlotte came up from the well, I could have bowed to the ground before her, as before the prophet of an Eastern nation.

In the evening I would not resist telling the story to a person who, I thought, possessed some natural feeling, because he was a man of understanding. But what a mistake I made. He maintained it was very wrong of Charlotte, that we should not deceive children, that such things occasioned countless mistakes and superstitions, from which we were bound to protect the young. It occurred to me then, that this very man had been baptised only a week before; so I said nothing further, but maintained the justice of my own convictions. We should deal with children as God deals with us, we are happiest under the influence of innocent delusions.

That evening, I couldn’t resist telling the story to a man I thought had some natural feeling because he was intelligent. But how wrong I was. He insisted that Charlotte had been very wrong and that we should not deceive children. Such things, he said, led to countless mistakes and superstitions, and we had a duty to protect children from them. Then I remembered that this very man had been baptized only a week earlier. So I said nothing more, but remained convinced that I was right. We should treat children as God treats us. We are happiest when we live under the influence of innocent illusions.

What a child is man that he should be so solicitous about a look! What a child is man! We had been to Walheim: the ladies went in a carriage; but during our walk I thought I saw in Charlotte's dark eyes—I am a fool—but forgive me! you should see them,—those eyes.—However, to be brief (for my own eyes are weighed down with sleep), you must know, when the ladies stepped into their carriage again, young W. Seldstadt, Andran, and I were standing about the door. They are a merry set of fellows, and they were all laughing and joking together. I watched Charlotte's eyes. They wandered from one to the other; but they did not light on me, on me, who stood there motionless, and who saw nothing but her! My heart bade her a thousand times adieu, but she noticed me not. The carriage drove off; and my eyes filled with tears. I looked after her: suddenly I saw Charlotte's bonnet leaning out of the window, and she turned to look back, was it at me? My dear friend, I know not; and in this uncertainty I find consolation. Perhaps she turned to look at me. Perhaps! Good-night—what a child I am!

What a child a man is to care so much about a glance! What a child a man is! We had been to Walheim. The ladies went in a carriage. But during our walk, I thought I saw something in Charlotte's dark eyes. I am a fool, but forgive me! You should see those eyes! Anyway, I’ll keep this brief, because my own eyes are heavy with sleep. When the ladies got back into their carriage, young W. Seldstadt, Andran, and I were standing around the door. They are a cheerful bunch, and they were all laughing and joking together. I watched Charlotte's eyes. Her gaze moved from one person to another, but never settled on me. On me, who stood there motionless and saw nothing but her! In my heart, I said goodbye to her a thousand times, but she did not notice me. The carriage drove off, and my eyes filled with tears. I watched her go. Suddenly, I saw Charlotte's bonnet as she leaned out of the window and turned to look back. Was she looking at me? My dear friend, I do not know, and I find comfort in not knowing. Perhaps she turned to look at me. Perhaps! Good night. What a child I am!

You should see how foolish I look in company when her name is mentioned, particularly when I am asked plainly how I like her. How I like her! I detest the phrase. What sort of creature must he be who merely liked Charlotte, whose whole heart and senses were not entirely absorbed by her. Like her! Some one asked me lately how I liked Ossian.

You should see how foolish I look around other people when her name comes up. Especially when someone asks me outright how I like her. How I like her! I hate the phrase. What kind of person could merely like Charlotte, without having his whole heart and all his senses entirely absorbed by her? Like her! Someone recently asked me how I liked Ossian.

Madame M— is very ill. I pray for her recovery, because Charlotte shares my sufferings. I see her occasionally at my friend's house, and to-day she has told me the strangest circumstance. Old M— is a covetous, miserly fellow, who has long worried and annoyed the poor lady sadly; but she has borne her afflictions patiently. A few days ago, when the physician informed us that her recovery was hopeless, she sent for her husband (Charlotte was present), and addressed him thus: "I have something to confess, which, after my decease, may occasion trouble and confusion. I have hitherto conducted your household as frugally and economically as possible, but you must pardon me for having defrauded you for thirty years. At the commencement of our married life, you allowed a small sum for the wants of the kitchen, and the other household expenses. When our establishment increased and our property grew larger, I could not persuade you to increase the weekly allowance in proportion: in short, you know, that, when our wants were greatest, you required me to supply everything with seven florins a week. I took the money from you without an observation, but made up the weekly deficiency from the money-chest; as nobody would suspect your wife of robbing the household bank. But I have wasted nothing, and should have been content to meet my eternal Judge without this confession, if she, upon whom the management of your establishment will devolve after my decease, would be free from embarrassment upon your insisting that the allowance made to me, your former wife, was sufficient."

Madame M. is very ill. I pray for her recovery because Charlotte shares my suffering. I see her occasionally at my friend's house, and today she told me the strangest story. Old M. is a greedy, miserly fellow who has long caused his poor wife great distress. But she has borne her troubles patiently. A few days ago, the doctor told us there was no hope of her recovery. She then sent for her husband and spoke to him. Charlotte was present. "I have something to confess that may cause trouble and confusion after my death. Until now, I have managed your household as economically as possible. But you must forgive me for having cheated you for thirty years. When we first married, you gave me a small allowance for food and other household expenses. As our household expanded and our wealth grew, I could not persuade you to increase the weekly allowance accordingly. In short, you know you expected me to provide everything with seven florins a week when our needs were greatest. I took the money from you without a word, but covered the weekly shortfall with money from the cash chest. After all, no one would suspect your wife of stealing from the household funds. But I have wasted nothing. I would have been content to face my eternal Judge without confessing, if my silence would cause no difficulty for the woman who manages your household after my death. But you would insist that the allowance you gave me, your former wife, had been enough."

I talked with Charlotte of the inconceivable manner in which men allow themselves to be blinded; how any one could avoid suspecting some deception, when seven florins only were allowed to defray expenses twice as great. But I have myself known people who believed, without any visible astonishment, that their house possessed the prophet's never-failing cruse of oil.

I talked with Charlotte about the baffling way people let themselves be blinded. How could anyone fail to suspect deception when only seven florins were provided to cover expenses twice that amount? But I myself have known people who believed, without showing any surprise, that their house held the prophet's ever-full jar of oil.

No, I am not deceived. In her dark eyes I read a genuine interest in me and in my fortunes. Yes, I feel it; and I may believe my own heart which tells me—dare I say it?—dare I pronounce the divine words?—that she loves me!

No, I am not mistaken. In her dark eyes, I see a genuine interest in me and in how my life unfolds. Yes, I feel it. And I can trust my own heart when it tells me. Dare I say it? Dare I speak those divine words? She loves me!

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 since she loves me!

She loves me! How the thought makes me rise in my own eyes! And since you understand my feelings, I can tell you how much I respect myself now that she loves me!

Is this presumption, or is it a consciousness of the truth? I do not know a man able to supplant me in the heart of Charlotte; and yet when she speaks of her betrothed with so much warmth and affection, I feel like the soldier who has been stripped of his honours and titles, and deprived of his sword.

Am I being arrogant, or do I know the truth? I know no man who could take my place in Charlotte’s heart. Yet when she speaks of her fiancé with such warmth and affection, I feel like a soldier stripped of his honors and titles and robbed of his sword.

How my heart beats when by accident I touch her finger, or my feet meet hers under the table! I draw back as if from a furnace; but a secret force impels me forward again, and my senses become disordered. Her innocent, unconscious heart never knows what agony these little familiarities inflict upon me. Sometimes when we are talking she lays her hand upon mine, and in the eagerness of conversation comes closer to me, and her balmy breath reaches my lips,—when I feel as if lightning had struck me, and that I could sink into the earth. And yet, Wilhelm, with all this heavenly confidence,—if I know myself, and should ever dare—you understand me. No, no! my heart is not so corrupt, it is weak, weak enough but is not that a degree of corruption?

How my heart pounds when I accidentally touch her finger, or my feet touch hers under the table! I pull back as if from a furnace. But a secret force draws me forward again, and my senses spin. Her innocent heart has no idea how much agony these small gestures of closeness cause me. Sometimes, as we talk, she rests her hand on mine. Caught up in the conversation, she moves closer, and her sweet breath reaches my lips. Then I feel as if lightning has struck me, and as if I could sink into the earth. And yet, Wilhelm, with all her heavenly trust in me, if I know myself, and if I ever dared... You understand me. No, no! My heart is not that corrupt. My heart is weak, very weak, but isn't weakness itself a kind of corruption?

She is to me a sacred being. All passion is still in her presence: I cannot express my sensations when I am near her. I feel as if my soul beat in every nerve of my body. There is a melody which she plays on the piano with angelic skill,—so simple is it, and yet so spiritual! It is her favourite air; and, when she plays the first note, all pain, care, and sorrow disappear from me in a moment.

To me, she is sacred. All passion falls quiet in her presence. I cannot describe what I feel when I am near her. I feel as if my soul beats in every nerve of my body. There is a melody she plays on the piano with angelic skill. The melody is so simple, yet so full of spirit! It is her favorite tune. And when she plays the first note, all my pain, worry, and sorrow vanish in an instant.

I believe every word that is said of the magic of ancient music. How her simple song enchants me! Sometimes, when I am ready to commit suicide, she sings that air; and instantly the gloom and madness which hung over me are dispersed, and I breathe freely again.

I believe every word people say about the magic of ancient music. How her simple song enchants me! Sometimes, when I am ready to kill myself, she sings that tune. Instantly, the gloom and madness hanging over me disappear, and I can breathe freely again.

Wilhelm, what is the world to our hearts without love? What is a magic-lantern without light? You have but to kindle the flame within, and the brightest figures shine on the white wall; and, if love only show us fleeting shadows, we are yet happy, when, like mere children, we behold them, and are transported with the splendid phantoms. I have not been able to see Charlotte to-day. I was prevented by company from which I could not disengage myself. What was to be done? I sent my servant to her house, that I might at least see somebody to-day who had been near her. Oh, the impatience with which I waited for his return! the joy with which I welcomed him! I should certainly have caught him in my arms, and kissed him, if I had not been ashamed.

Wilhelm, what is the world to our hearts without love? What is a magic lantern without light? You only have to light the flame inside, and the brightest images shine on the white wall. And even if love shows us only fleeting shadows, we are still happy. Like little children, we watch those shadows and are swept away by the splendid visions. I have not been able to see Charlotte today. I was kept busy by company I could not get away from. What could I do? I sent my servant to her house so I could at least see someone today who had been near her. Oh, how impatiently I waited for him to return! How joyfully I welcomed him! I would certainly have thrown my arms around him and kissed him if I had not felt ashamed.

It is said that the Bonona stone, when placed in the sun, attracts the rays, and for a time appears luminous in the dark. So was it with me and this servant. The idea that Charlotte's eyes had dwelt on his countenance, his cheek, his very apparel, endeared them all inestimably to me, so that at the moment I would not have parted from him for a thousand crowns. His presence made me so happy! Beware of laughing at me, Wilhelm. Can that be a delusion which makes us happy?

They say the Bonona stone draws in the sun’s rays when placed in sunlight, then glows briefly in the dark. So it was with me and this servant. Charlotte’s eyes had rested on his face, his cheek, even his clothes. The thought made them all priceless to me. So at that moment, I would not have parted with him for a thousand crowns. His presence made me so happy! Don’t you dare laugh at me, Wilhelm. Can something that makes us happy really be a delusion?

"I shall see her today!" I exclaim with delight, when I rise in the morning, and look out with gladness of heart at the bright, beautiful sun. "I shall see her today!" And then I have no further wish to form: all, all is included in that one thought.

"I’ll see her today!" I cry out with delight when I get up in the morning. My heart is full of joy as I look out at the bright, beautiful sun. "I’ll see her today!" And then I have nothing more to wish for. Everything, everything is contained in that one thought.

I cannot assent to your proposal that I should accompany the ambassador to ———. I do not love subordination; and we all know that he is a rough, disagreeable person to be connected with. You say my mother wishes me to be employed. I could not help laughing at that. Am I not sufficiently employed? And is it not in reality the same, whether I shell peas or count lentils? The world runs on from one folly to another; and the man who, solely from regard to the opinion of others, and without any wish or necessity of his own, toils after gold, honour, or any other phantom, is no better than a fool.

I cannot agree to your proposal that I should go with the ambassador to [...]. I do not like taking orders. And we all know he is a rude, unpleasant person to work with. You say my mother wants me to have a job. I could not help laughing at the idea. Am I not busy enough? And does it really make any difference whether I shell peas or count lentils? The world moves from one foolish pursuit to another. A man is no better than a fool if he chases gold, honor, or any other illusion solely to satisfy others' opinions, without any desire or need of his own.

You insist so much on my not neglecting my drawing, that it would be as well for me to say nothing as to confess how little I have lately done.

You insist so strongly that I shouldn't neglect my drawing. So I might as well say nothing as admit how little I've done lately.

I never felt happier, I never understood nature better, even down to the veriest stem or smallest blade of grass; and yet I am unable to express myself: my powers of execution are so weak, everything seems to swim and float before me, so that I cannot make a clear, bold outline. But I fancy I should succeed better if I had some clay or wax to model. I shall try, if this state of mind continues much longer, and will take to modelling, if I only knead dough.

I have never felt happier or understood nature better, down to the tiniest stem or blade of grass. Yet I cannot express myself. My ability to capture what I see is so weak. Everything seems to swim and float before me, so I cannot draw a clear, bold outline. But I think I might do better if I had some clay or wax to shape. If this state of mind lasts much longer, I will try modelling, even if I have to knead dough.

I have commenced Charlotte's portrait three times, and have as often disgraced myself. This is the more annoying, as I was formerly very happy in taking likenesses. I have since sketched her profile, and must content myself with that.

I have started Charlotte's portrait three times, and each time I have embarrassed myself. These failures are all the more frustrating because I used to be very good at capturing a likeness. I have since sketched her profile and must be content with that sketch.

Yes, dear Charlotte! I will order and arrange everything. Only give me more commissions, the more the better. One thing, however, I must request: use no more writing-sand with the dear notes you send me. Today I raised your letter hastily to my lips, and it set my teeth on edge.

Yes, dear Charlotte! I will organize and arrange everything. Just give me more tasks, the more the better. But I must ask one thing: stop using writing-sand to dry the ink on your dear notes. Today I hurriedly lifted your letter to my lips, and the sand set my teeth on edge.

I have often determined not to see her so frequently. But who could keep such a resolution? Every day I am exposed to the temptation, and promise faithfully that to-morrow I will really stay away: but, when tomorrow comes, I find some irresistible reason for seeing her; and, before I can account for it, I am with her again. Either she has said on the previous evening "You will be sure to call to-morrow,"—and who could stay away then?—or she gives me some commission, and I find it essential to take her the answer in person; or the day is fine, and I walk to Walheim; and, when I am there, it is only half a league farther to her. I am within the charmed atmosphere, and soon find myself at her side. My grandmother used to tell us a story of a mountain of loadstone. When any vessels came near it, they were instantly deprived of their ironwork: the nails flew to the mountain, and the unhappy crew perished amidst the disjointed planks.

I have often decided not to see her so often. But who could stick to such a decision? Every day I face the temptation and firmly promise that tomorrow I really will stay away. But when tomorrow comes, I find some irresistible reason to see her. Before I can explain how, I am with her again. Perhaps the evening before she said, "You’ll be sure to come tomorrow." Who could stay away then? Or she asks me to do something, and I decide I must bring her the answer in person. Or the weather is fine, and I walk to Walheim. Once I am there, she is only another half a league away. I am within her spell and soon find myself at her side. My grandmother used to tell us a story about a mountain of magnetic stone. Whenever ships came near the mountain, all their iron fittings were instantly torn away. The nails flew toward the mountain, and the unfortunate crews died among the planks as their ships fell apart.

Albert is arrived, and I must take my departure. Were he the best and noblest of men, and I in every respect his inferior, I could not endure to see him in possession of such a perfect being. Possession!—enough, Wilhelm: her betrothed is here,—a fine, worthy fellow, whom one cannot help liking. Fortunately I was not present at their meeting. It would have broken my heart! And he is so considerate: he has not given Charlotte one kiss in my presence. Heaven reward him for it! I must love him for the respect with which he treats her. He shows a regard for me, but for this I suspect I am more indebted to Charlotte than to his own fancy for me. Women have a delicate tact in such matters, and it should be so. They cannot always succeed in keeping two rivals on terms with each other; but, when they do, they are the only gainers.

Albert has arrived, and I must leave. Even if he were the best and noblest of men, and I were beneath him in every way, I could not bear to see him possess such a perfect being. Possess! Enough, Wilhelm: her fiancé is here, a fine, worthy man whom no one can help liking. Fortunately, I was not there when they met. Seeing their meeting would have broken my heart! And he is so considerate: he has not kissed Charlotte once in front of me. May heaven reward him for that kindness! I cannot help loving him for the respect he shows her. He seems to like me, but I suspect I owe his goodwill more to Charlotte than to his own liking for me. Women have a delicate touch in such matters, and that is as it should be. They cannot always keep two rivals on friendly terms. But when they do, the women are the only ones who benefit.

I cannot help esteeming Albert. The coolness of his temper contrasts strongly with the impetuosity of mine, which I cannot conceal. He has a great deal of feeling, and is fully sensible of the treasure he possesses in Charlotte. He is free from ill-humour, which you know is the fault I detest most.

I cannot help respecting Albert. His calm nature contrasts sharply with my impulsiveness, which I cannot hide. He feels deeply and fully appreciates the treasure he has in Charlotte. He is never bad-tempered, and you know I detest that fault most of all.

He regards me as a man of sense; and my attachment to Charlotte, and the interest I take in all that concerns her, augment his triumph and his love. I shall not inquire whether he may not at times tease her with some little jealousies; as I know, that, were I in his place, I should not be entirely free from such sensations.

He sees me as a sensible man. And my attachment to Charlotte, and my interest in everything concerning her, deepen his sense of triumph and his love. I won't ask whether he sometimes teases her with little displays of jealousy. For I know that, if I were in his place, I wouldn't be entirely free of such feelings.

But, be that as it may, my pleasure with Charlotte is over. Call it folly or infatuation, what signifies a name? The thing speaks for itself. Before Albert came, I knew all that I know now. I knew I could make no pretensions to her, nor did I offer any, that is, as far as it was possible, in the presence of so much loveliness, not to pant for its enjoyment. And now, behold me like a silly fellow, staring with astonishment when another comes in, and deprives me of my love.

But whatever the case, my happiness with Charlotte is over. Call it foolishness or infatuation. What does the name matter? The situation speaks for itself. Before Albert came, I knew all that I know now. I knew I had no claim to her, and I made none. At least, I held back as much as anyone could while longing to enjoy such beauty. And now look at me, like a fool, staring in astonishment when another man comes and takes my love away.

I bite my lips, and feel infinite scorn for those who tell me to be resigned, because there is no help for it. Let me escape from the yoke of such silly subterfuges! I ramble through the woods; and when I return to Charlotte, and find Albert sitting by her side in the summer-house in the garden, I am unable to bear it, behave like a fool, and commit a thousand extravagances. "For Heaven's sake," said Charlotte today, "let us have no more scenes like those of last night! You terrify me when you are so violent." Between ourselves, I am always away now when he visits her: and I feel delighted when I find her alone.

I bite my lips and feel endless contempt for those who tell me to accept what cannot be changed. Let me break free from such foolish excuses! I wander through the woods. When I return to Charlotte and find Albert sitting beside her in the garden’s summerhouse, I cannot bear the sight. I act like a fool and do a thousand outrageous things. "For Heaven's sake," Charlotte said today, "let’s have no more scenes like last night’s! You frighten me when you get so violent." Between ourselves, I always stay away now when he visits her. And I am delighted when I find her alone.

Believe me, dear Wilhelm, I did not allude to you when I spoke so severely of those who advise resignation to inevitable fate. I did not think it possible for you to indulge such a sentiment. But in fact you are right. I only suggest one objection. In this world one is seldom reduced to make a selection between two alternatives. There are as many varieties of conduct and opinion as there are turns of feature between an aquiline nose and a flat one.

Believe me, dear Wilhelm, I was not referring to you in my harsh words about accepting an unavoidable fate. Those words were aimed at people who advise others to accept it. I did not think you could hold such a view. But in fact, you are right. I have only one objection. In this world, we are rarely limited to just two choices. Ways of acting and thinking vary as much as noses do, from a hooked nose to a flat one.

You will, therefore, permit me to concede your entire argument, and yet contrive means to escape your dilemma.

So, allow me to accept your entire argument and still find a way out of your dilemma.

Your position is this, I hear you say: "Either you have hopes of obtaining Charlotte, or you have none. Well, in the first case, pursue your course, and press on to the fulfilment of your wishes. In the second, be a man, and shake off a miserable passion, which will enervate and destroy you." My dear friend, this is well and easily said.

I hear you saying: "Either you have some hope of winning Charlotte, or you have none. Well, if you have hope, keep going and work toward getting what you want. If you have none, be a man and shake off this miserable passion. It will weaken and destroy you." My dear friend, that advice sounds good and is easy to give.

But would you require a wretched being, whose life is slowly wasting under a lingering disease, to despatch himself at once by the stroke of a dagger? Does not the very disorder which consumes his strength deprive him of the courage to effect his deliverance?

But would you demand that a suffering man, slowly dying from a lingering illness, kill himself with a dagger? Doesn’t the very illness draining his strength also rob him of the courage to free himself?

You may answer me, if you please, with a similar analogy, "Who would not prefer the amputation of an arm to the periling of life by doubt and procrastination!" But I know not if I am right, and let us leave these comparisons.

You may reply, if you like, with a similar comparison. "Who would not prefer losing an arm to risking their life through doubt and delay!" But I don't know if I'm right. Let's leave these comparisons aside.

Enough! There are moments, Wilhelm, when I could rise up and shake it all off, and when, if I only knew where to go, I could fly from this place.

Enough! There are moments, Wilhelm, when I could get up and shake it all off. And in those moments, if I only knew where to go, I could flee this place.

My diary, which I have for some time neglected, came before me today; and I am amazed to see how deliberately I have entangled myself step by step. To have seen my position so clearly, and yet to have acted so like a child! Even still I behold the result plainly, and yet have no thought of acting with greater prudence.

Today I came across my diary, which I’ve neglected for some time. I’m amazed to see how deliberately I’ve tangled myself up, step by step. I saw my situation so clearly, and yet I acted like such a child! Even now I can clearly see the outcome, yet I have no intention of acting more carefully.

If I were not a fool, I could spend the happiest and most delightful life here. So many agreeable circumstances, and of a kind to ensure a worthy man's happiness, are seldom united. Alas! I feel it too sensibly,—the heart alone makes our happiness! To be admitted into this most charming family, to be loved by the father as a son, by the children as a father, and by Charlotte! then the noble Albert, who never disturbs my happiness by any appearance of ill-humour, receiving me with the heartiest affection, and loving me, next to Charlotte, better than all the world! Wilhelm, you would be delighted to hear us in our rambles, and conversations about Charlotte. Nothing in the world can be more absurd than our connection, and yet the thought of it often moves me to tears.

If I weren't a fool, I could live the happiest, most delightful life here. So many pleasant circumstances rarely come together, especially ones that could ensure a good man's happiness. Alas, I feel it all too deeply: the heart alone makes us happy! To be welcomed into this wonderful family! To be loved by the father as a son, by the children as a father, and by Charlotte! And then there is the noble Albert, who never spoils my happiness with any sign of bad temper. He welcomes me with the warmest affection and loves me more than anyone in the world except Charlotte! Wilhelm, you would be delighted to hear us on our walks, talking about Charlotte. Nothing in the world could be more absurd than our relationship. Yet thinking about our relationship often moves me to tears.

He tells me sometimes of her excellent mother; how, upon her death-bed, she had committed her house and children to Charlotte, and had given Charlotte herself in charge to him; how, since that time, a new spirit had taken possession of her; how, in care and anxiety for their welfare, she became a real mother to them; how every moment of her time was devoted to some labour of love in their behalf,—and yet her mirth and cheerfulness had never forsaken her. I walk by his side, pluck flowers by the way, arrange them carefully into a nosegay, then fling them into the first stream I pass, and watch them as they float gently away. I forget whether I told you that Albert is to remain here. He has received a government appointment, with a very good salary; and I understand he is in high favour at court. I have met few persons so punctual and methodical in business.

He sometimes tells me about her wonderful mother. On her deathbed, she entrusted her home and children to Charlotte, and Charlotte herself to him. He tells me how a new spirit took hold of Charlotte from then on. Through her care and concern for the children’s welfare, she became a true mother to them. Every moment of her time was devoted to some loving task for them. Yet she never lost her joy and cheerfulness. I walk beside him, picking flowers along the way and carefully arranging them into a bouquet. Then I toss the flowers into the first stream I pass and watch them float gently away. I forget whether I told you that Albert is staying here. He has received a government position with a very good salary. I understand he is highly regarded at court. I have met few people so punctual and methodical in their work.

Certainly Albert is the best fellow in the world. I had a strange scene with him yesterday. I went to take leave of him; for I took it into my head to spend a few days in these mountains, from where I now write to you. As I was walking up and down his room, my eye fell upon his pistols. "Lend me those pistols," said I, "for my journey." "By all means," he replied, "if you will take the trouble to load them; for they only hang there for form." I took down one of them; and he continued, "Ever since I was near suffering for my extreme caution, I will have nothing to do with such things." I was curious to hear the story. "I was staying," said he, "some three months ago, at a friend's house in the country. I had a brace of pistols with me, unloaded; and I slept without any anxiety. One rainy afternoon I was sitting by myself, doing nothing, when it occurred to me I do not know how that the house might be attacked, that we might require the pistols, that we might in short, you know how we go on fancying, when we have nothing better to do. I gave the pistols to the servant, to clean and load. He was playing with the maid, and trying to frighten her, when the pistol went off—God knows how!—the ramrod was in the barrel; and it went straight through her right hand, and shattered the thumb. I had to endure all the lamentation, and to pay the surgeon's bill; so, since that time, I have kept all my weapons unloaded. But, my dear friend, what is the use of prudence? We can never be on our guard against all possible dangers. However,"—now, you must know I can tolerate all men till they come to "however;"—for it is self-evident that every universal rule must have its exceptions. But he is so exceedingly accurate, that, if he only fancies he has said a word too precipitate, or too general, or only half true, he never ceases to qualify, to modify, and extenuate, till at last he appears to have said nothing at all. Upon this occasion, Albert was deeply immersed in his subject: I ceased to listen to him, and became lost in reverie. With a sudden motion, I pointed the mouth of the pistol to my forehead, over the right eye. "What do you mean?" cried Albert, turning back the pistol. "It is not loaded," said I. "And even if not," he answered with impatience, "what can you mean? I cannot comprehend how a man can be so mad as to shoot himself, and the bare idea of it shocks me."

Albert is certainly the best fellow in the world. I had a strange encounter with him yesterday. I went to say goodbye to him because I had decided to spend a few days in these mountains. I am writing to you from here now. As I walked up and down his room, I noticed his pistols. "Lend me those pistols," I said, "for my journey." "Of course," he replied, "if you will take the trouble to load them. They only hang there for show." I took down one of them, and he continued, "Ever since my extreme caution nearly brought me trouble, I want nothing to do with such things." I was curious to hear the story. "About three months ago," he said, "I was staying at a friend's house in the country. I had a pair of unloaded pistols with me, and I slept without any worries. One rainy afternoon, I was sitting alone, doing nothing, when a thought came to me. I don't know how. The house might be attacked, and we might need the pistols. In short, we might need to, well, you know how our imaginations run on when we have nothing better to do. I gave the pistols to the servant to clean and load. He was fooling around with the maid, trying to frighten her, when the pistol went off. God knows how! The ramrod was in the barrel. It went straight through her right hand and shattered her thumb. I had to put up with all the cries and complaints and pay the surgeon's bill. So, since then, I have kept all my weapons unloaded. But, my dear friend, what good is caution? We can never guard against every possible danger. However," Now, you must understand that I can put up with anyone until they reach "however." After all, every general rule obviously has its exceptions. But Albert is so terribly precise. If he even thinks he has spoken too hastily, too broadly, or only half truthfully, he never stops revising himself. He adds qualifications, adjusts his words, and softens his claims until he seems to have said nothing at all. On this occasion, Albert was deeply absorbed in his subject. I stopped listening and drifted into my own thoughts. With a sudden movement, I pointed the pistol's muzzle at my forehead, above my right eye. "What do you mean by that?" Albert cried, pushing the pistol away. "It isn't loaded," I said. "Even if it isn't," he replied impatiently, "what can you mean? I cannot understand how a man can be so mad as to shoot himself. The very idea shocks me."

"But why should any one," said I, "in speaking of an action, venture to pronounce it mad or wise, or good or bad? What is the meaning of all this? Have you carefully studied the secret motives of our actions? Do you understand—can you explain the causes which occasion them, and make them inevitable? If you can, you will be less hasty with your decision."

"But why should anyone," I said, "dare to call an action mad or wise, good or bad? What does all this mean? Have you carefully studied the hidden motives behind our actions? Do you understand what causes our actions and makes them inevitable? Can you explain those causes? If you can, you will be less quick to judge."

"But you will allow," said Albert; "that some actions are criminal, let them spring from whatever motives they may." I granted it, and shrugged my shoulders.

"But you must admit," Albert said, "that some actions are criminal, whatever the motives behind them." I agreed and shrugged my shoulders.

"But still, my good friend," I continued, "there are some exceptions here too. Theft is a crime; but the man who commits it from extreme poverty, with no design but to save his family from perishing, is he an object of pity, or of punishment? Who shall throw the first stone at a husband, who, in the heat of just resentment, sacrifices his faithless wife and her perfidious seducer? or at the young maiden, who, in her weak hour of rapture, forgets herself in the impetuous joys of love? Even our laws, cold and cruel as they are, relent in such cases, and withhold their punishment."

"But still, my good friend," I continued, "there are some exceptions here too. Theft is a crime. But what about a man who steals out of extreme poverty, only to save his family from starving? Does he deserve pity or punishment? Who should throw the first stone at a husband who kills his unfaithful wife and her treacherous seducer in a fit of justified anger? Or at a young woman who, in a moment of weakness and passion, loses herself in love's overwhelming pleasures? Even our laws, cold and cruel as they are, show mercy in such cases and impose no punishment."

"That is quite another thing," said Albert; "because a man under the influence of violent passion loses all power of reflection, and is regarded as intoxicated or insane."

"That is completely different," said Albert, "because a man overwhelmed by intense emotion loses all ability to think clearly. He is seen as drunk or insane."

"Oh! you people of sound understandings," I replied, smiling, "are ever ready to exclaim 'Extravagance, and madness, and intoxication!' You moral men are so calm and so subdued! You abhor the drunken man, and detest the extravagant; you pass by, like the Levite, and thank God, like the Pharisee, that you are not like one of them. I have been more than once intoxicated, my passions have always bordered on extravagance: I am not ashamed to confess it; for I have learned, by my own experience, that all extraordinary men, who have accomplished great and astonishing actions, have ever been decried by the world as drunken or insane. And in private life, too, is it not intolerable that no one can undertake the execution of a noble or generous deed, without giving rise to the exclamation that the doer is intoxicated or mad? Shame upon you, ye sages!"

"Oh! You people with such sound judgment," I replied, smiling, "are always ready to cry out, 'Wild excess, madness, drunkenness!' You moral people are so calm and so restrained! You loathe the drunk and despise anyone who goes to extremes. You pass by like the Levite and thank God, like the Pharisee, that you are not like them. I have been drunk more than once, and my passions have always bordered on excess. I am not ashamed to admit it. For I have learned from my own experience that the world has always condemned extraordinary people as drunk or insane. All those who have done great and astonishing things have faced that condemnation. And in private life, too, isn't it intolerable? No one can attempt a noble or generous deed without someone crying out that the person is drunk or mad. Shame on you, you wise people!"

"This is another of your extravagant humours," said Albert: "you always exaggerate a case, and in this matter you are undoubtedly wrong; for we were speaking of suicide, which you compare with great actions, when it is impossible to regard it as anything but a weakness. It is much easier to die than to bear a life of misery with fortitude."

"This is another of your extreme moods," said Albert: "you always exaggerate things, and you are undoubtedly wrong about suicide. We were talking about suicide, and you compare it to great deeds. But suicide cannot be seen as anything but weakness. It is much easier to die than to face a miserable life with courage."

I was on the point of breaking off the conversation, for nothing puts me so completely out of patience as the utterance of a wretched commonplace when I am talking from my inmost heart. However, I composed myself, for I had often heard the same observation with sufficient vexation; and I answered him, therefore, with a little warmth, "You call this a weakness—beware of being led astray by appearances. When a nation, which has long groaned under the intolerable yoke of a tyrant, rises at last and throws off its chains, do you call that weakness? The man who, to rescue his house from the flames, finds his physical strength redoubled, so that he lifts burdens with ease, which, in the absence of excitement, he could scarcely move; he who, under the rage of an insult, attacks and puts to flight half a score of his enemies, are such persons to be called weak? My good friend, if resistance be strength, how can the highest degree of resistance be a weakness?"

I was about to end the conversation. Nothing makes me lose patience so completely as hearing some miserable cliché when I am speaking from the heart. Still, I calmed myself, since I had often heard the same remark and been thoroughly annoyed by it. So I answered him with some feeling, "You call this weakness. Be careful not to let appearances mislead you. When a nation has long suffered under a tyrant’s unbearable rule, it finally rises and throws off its chains. Do you call that uprising weakness? A man trying to save his house from a fire finds his strength doubled. In his excitement, he easily lifts loads he could barely move when calm. Another man, enraged by an insult, attacks ten of his enemies and drives them away. Are men like these to be called weak? My good friend, if resistance is strength, how can the greatest degree of resistance be weakness?"

Albert looked steadfastly at me, and said, "Pray forgive me, but I do not see that the examples you have adduced bear any relation to the question." "Very likely," I answered; "for I have often been told that my style of illustration borders a little on the absurd. But let us see if we cannot place the matter in another point of view, by inquiring what can be a man's state of mind who resolves to free himself from the burden of life,—a burden often so pleasant to bear,—for we cannot otherwise reason fairly upon the subject.

Albert looked steadily at me and said, "Please forgive me, but I don't see how your examples relate to the question." "Very likely," I answered. "I've often been told that my way of illustrating a point borders on the absurd. But let's see if we can look at the matter from another angle. Let's ask what state of mind a man must be in to decide to free himself from life's burden. That burden is often so pleasant to bear. Unless we consider his state of mind, we cannot discuss the subject fairly.

"Human nature," I continued, "has its limits. It is able to endure a certain degree of joy, sorrow, and pain, but becomes annihilated as soon as this measure is exceeded. The question, therefore, is, not whether a man is strong or weak, but whether he is able to endure the measure of his sufferings. The suffering may be moral or physical; and in my opinion it is just as absurd to call a man a coward who destroys himself, as to call a man a coward who dies of a malignant fever."

"Human nature," I continued, "has its limits. We can bear a certain amount of joy, sorrow, and pain, but exceeding that limit destroys us. So the question is not whether a man is strong or weak. The question is whether he can bear the extent of his suffering. The suffering may be emotional or physical. In my opinion, calling a man a coward for killing himself is just as absurd as calling him a coward for dying of a deadly fever."

"Paradox, all paradox!" exclaimed Albert. "Not so paradoxical as you imagine," I replied. "You allow that we designate a disease as mortal when nature is so severely attacked, and her strength so far exhausted, that she cannot possibly recover her former condition under any change that may take place.

"Paradoxes, all of it!" Albert exclaimed. "Not as paradoxical as you think," I replied. "You agree that we call a disease fatal when nature is attacked so severely and her strength is so exhausted. Then she cannot possibly return to her former state, no matter what changes may occur.

"Now, my good friend, apply this to the mind; observe a man in his natural, isolated condition; consider how ideas work, and how impressions fasten on him, till at length a violent passion seizes him, destroying all his powers of calm reflection, and utterly ruining him.

"Now, my good friend, apply this to the mind. Observe a man in his natural state, alone. Consider how ideas work and how impressions take hold of him, until a violent passion finally seizes him. That passion destroys all his ability to think calmly and ruins him completely.

"It is in vain that a man of sound mind and cool temper understands the condition of such a wretched being, in vain he counsels him. He can no more communicate his own wisdom to him than a healthy man can instil his strength into the invalid, by whose bedside he is seated."

"A calm, clear-headed man may understand the condition of someone so miserable, but his understanding is useless. His advice is useless too. He can no more pass on his wisdom than a healthy man can give strength to a sick person at whose bedside he sits."

Albert thought this too general. I reminded him of a girl who had drowned herself a short time previously, and I related her history.

Albert thought this was too general. I reminded him of a girl who had drowned herself recently, and I told him her story.

She was a good creature, who had grown up in the narrow sphere of household industry and weekly appointed labour; one who knew no pleasure beyond indulging in a walk on Sundays, arrayed in her best attire, accompanied by her friends, or perhaps joining in the dance now and then at some festival, and chatting away her spare hours with a neighbour, discussing the scandal or the quarrels of the village, trifles sufficient to occupy her heart. At length the warmth of her nature is influenced by certain new and unknown wishes. Inflamed by the flatteries of men, her former pleasures become by degrees insipid, till at length she meets with a youth to whom she is attracted by an indescribable feeling; upon him she now rests all her hopes; she forgets the world around her; she sees, hears, desires nothing but him, and him only. He alone occupies all her thoughts. Uncorrupted by the idle indulgence of an enervating vanity, her affection moving steadily toward its object, she hopes to become his, and to realise, in an everlasting union with him, all that happiness which she sought, all that bliss for which she longed. His repeated promises confirm her hopes: embraces and endearments, which increase the ardour of her desires, overmaster her soul. She floats in a dim, delusive anticipation of her happiness; and her feelings become excited to their utmost tension. She stretches out her arms finally to embrace the object of all her wishes and her lover forsakes her. Stunned and bewildered, she stands upon a precipice. All is darkness around her. No prospect, no hope, no consolation—forsaken by him in whom her existence was centred! She sees nothing of the wide world before her, thinks nothing of the many individuals who might supply the void in her heart; she feels herself deserted, forsaken by the world; and, blinded and impelled by the agony which wrings her soul, she plunges into the deep, to end her sufferings in the broad embrace of death. See here, Albert, the history of thousands; and tell me, is not this a case of physical infirmity? Nature has no way to escape from the labyrinth: her powers are exhausted: she can contend no longer, and the poor soul must die.

She was a good person who had grown up in the narrow world of housework and regular weekly duties. Her only pleasures were Sunday walks with friends, dressed in her best clothes, or perhaps an occasional dance at a festival. She spent her spare hours chatting with a neighbor about village scandals and quarrels. These small things were enough to fill her heart. At last, new and unfamiliar desires stir her warm nature. Men's flattery inflames her feelings, and her old pleasures gradually lose their appeal. Then she meets a young man who draws her to him through a feeling she cannot describe. She places all her hopes in him and forgets the world around her. She sees, hears, and desires nothing but him. He alone fills all her thoughts. Her love has not been corrupted by the empty indulgence of vanity that weakens the spirit. Her affection moves steadily toward him, and she hopes to become his. She hopes their lasting union will bring all the happiness she has sought, all the bliss she has longed for. His repeated promises strengthen her hopes. His embraces and tender words deepen her desire and overwhelm her soul. She drifts in a hazy, deceptive vision of future happiness, her feelings stretched to their utmost limit. At last she reaches out to embrace the man she longs for, and her lover abandons her. Stunned and bewildered, she stands at the edge of a cliff. Everything around her is dark. She has no future, no hope, no comfort. The man around whom her whole life revolved has abandoned her! She sees nothing of the wide world before her. She gives no thought to the many people who might fill the emptiness in her heart. She feels deserted, abandoned by the world. Blinded and driven by the agony tearing at her soul, she plunges into the depths. She seeks to end her suffering in death's wide embrace. Here, Albert, is the story of thousands. Tell me, isn't this a case of physical weakness? Nature can find no way out of the maze. Her strength is exhausted. She can struggle no longer, and the poor soul must die.

"Shame upon him who can look on calmly, and exclaim, 'The foolish girl! she should have waited; she should have allowed time to wear off the impression; her despair would have been softened, and she would have found another lover to comfort her.' One might as well say, 'The fool, to die of a fever! why did he not wait till his strength was restored, till his blood became calm? all would then have gone well, and he would have been alive now.'"

"Shame on anyone who can look on calmly and say, 'The foolish girl! She should have waited. She should have let time wear away her feelings. Her despair would have eased, and she would have found another lover to comfort her.' You might as well say, 'The fool, dying of a fever! Why didn't he wait until his strength returned and his blood calmed down? Then all would have been well, and he would still be alive now.'"

Albert, who could not see the justice of the comparison, offered some further objections, and, amongst others, urged that I had taken the case of a mere ignorant girl. But how any man of sense, of more enlarged views and experience, could be excused, he was unable to comprehend. "My friend!" I exclaimed, "man is but man; and, whatever be the extent of his reasoning powers, they are of little avail when passion rages within, and he feels himself confined by the narrow limits of nature. It were better, then—but we will talk of this some other time," I said, and caught up my hat. Alas! my heart was full; and we parted without conviction on either side. How rarely in this world do men understand each other!

Albert could not see why the comparison was fair, and he raised some further objections. Among other things, he argued that I had chosen the case of a girl who was simply ignorant. But he could not understand how a sensible man with broader views and more experience could be excused. "My friend!" I exclaimed, "a man is only human. However strong his powers of reason, they are little help when passion rages inside him. He feels trapped within the narrow limits of human nature. It would be better, then... but we will talk about this another time," I said, and grabbed my hat. Alas! My heart was full, and we parted without either of us having convinced the other. How rarely people in this world understand one another!

There can be no doubt that in this world nothing is so indispensable as love. I observe that Charlotte could not lose me without a pang, and the very children have but one wish; that is, that I should visit them again to-morrow. I went this afternoon to tune Charlotte's piano. But I could not do it, for the little ones insisted on my telling them a story; and Charlotte herself urged me to satisfy them. I waited upon them at tea, and they are now as fully contented with me as with Charlotte; and I told them my very best tale of the princess who was waited upon by dwarfs. I improve myself by this exercise, and am quite surprised at the impression my stories create. If I sometimes invent an incident which I forget upon the next narration, they remind one directly that the story was different before; so that I now endeavour to relate with exactness the same anecdote in the same monotonous tone, which never changes. I find by this, how much an author injures his works by altering them, even though they be improved in a poetical point of view. The first impression is readily received. We are so constituted that we believe the most incredible things; and, once they are engraved upon the memory, woe to him who would endeavour to efface them.

There is no doubt that nothing in this world is as essential as love. I can see that Charlotte could not lose me without pain. Even the children have only one wish: that I come back tomorrow. I went this afternoon to tune Charlotte's piano. But I could not do it because the little ones insisted that I tell them a story. Charlotte herself urged me to please them. I served them tea, and they are now as happy with me as they are with Charlotte. I told them my very best story about the princess who was served by dwarfs. Telling stories helps me improve, and I am quite surprised by the impression my stories make. If I invent a detail and forget it the next time, the children immediately remind me that the story was different before. So now I try to tell exactly the same story in the same unchanging, monotonous tone. This shows me how much authors damage their work by changing it, even when the changes improve its poetic qualities. We readily accept a first impression. We are made to believe the most incredible things. And once those things are fixed in our memory, woe to anyone who tries to erase them.

Must it ever be thus,—that the source of our happiness must also be the fountain of our misery? The full and ardent sentiment which animated my heart with the love of nature, overwhelming me with a torrent of delight, and which brought all paradise before me, has now become an insupportable torment, a demon which perpetually pursues and harasses me. When in bygone days I gazed from these rocks upon yonder mountains across the river, and upon the green, flowery valley before me, and saw all nature budding and bursting around; the hills clothed from foot to peak with tall, thick forest trees; the valleys in all their varied windings, shaded with the loveliest woods; and the soft river gliding along amongst the lisping reeds, mirroring the beautiful clouds which the soft evening breeze wafted across the sky,—when I heard the groves about me melodious with the music of birds, and saw the million swarms of insects dancing in the last golden beams of the sun, whose setting rays awoke the humming beetles from their grassy beds, whilst the subdued tumult around directed my attention to the ground, and I there observed the arid rock compelled to yield nutriment to the dry moss, whilst the heath flourished upon the barren sands below me, all this displayed to me the inner warmth which animates all nature, and filled and glowed within my heart. I felt myself exalted by this overflowing fulness to the perception of the Godhead, and the glorious forms of an infinite universe became visible to my soul! Stupendous mountains encompassed me, abysses yawned at my feet, and cataracts fell headlong down before me; impetuous rivers rolled through the plain, and rocks and mountains resounded from afar. In the depths of the earth I saw innumerable powers in motion, and multiplying to infinity; whilst upon its surface, and beneath the heavens, there teemed ten thousand varieties of living creatures. Everything around is alive with an infinite number of forms; while mankind fly for security to their petty houses, from the shelter of which they rule in their imaginations over the wide-extended universe. Poor fool! in whose petty estimation all things are little. From the inaccessible mountains, across the desert which no mortal foot has trod, far as the confines of the unknown ocean, breathes the spirit of the eternal Creator; and every atom to which he has given existence finds favour in his sight. Ah, how often at that time has the flight of a bird, soaring above my head, inspired me with the desire of being transported to the shores of the immeasurable waters, there to quaff the pleasures of life from the foaming goblet of the Infinite, and to partake, if but for a moment even, with the confined powers of my soul, the beatitude of that Creator who accomplishes all things in himself, and through himself!

Must it always be this way? Must the source of our happiness also be the source of our misery? My deep, passionate love of nature once filled my heart with a flood of delight. It brought all of paradise before me. Now that same feeling has become an unbearable torment, a demon that constantly pursues and harasses me. In those days, I would look out from these rocks toward the mountains across the river. Before me lay the green, flowering valley, with all of nature budding and bursting into life around me. Tall, thick forest trees covered the hills from foot to peak. The loveliest woods shaded every winding turn of the valleys. The gentle river glided among whispering reeds, reflecting beautiful clouds carried across the sky by the soft evening breeze. The woods around me rang with birdsong. I saw millions of swarming insects dancing in the sun’s last golden beams. The setting sun woke humming beetles from their grassy beds. Meanwhile, the quiet bustle around me drew my attention to the ground. There I saw barren rock forced to nourish dry moss, while heather flourished on the barren sands below me. All these sights revealed the inner warmth that gives life to all of nature. That warmth filled my heart and glowed within me. I felt this overflowing richness lift me toward an awareness of God. The glorious forms of an infinite universe became visible to my soul! Towering mountains surrounded me, vast chasms opened at my feet, and waterfalls plunged headlong before me. Rushing rivers swept through the plain, and rocks and mountains echoed in the distance. Deep within the earth, I saw countless forces at work, multiplying without end. Meanwhile, on the earth’s surface, beneath the heavens, ten thousand kinds of living creatures swarmed. Everything around us teems with life in countless forms. Yet people flee for safety to their little houses. From that shelter, they imagine they rule over the vast universe. Poor fool! Everything seems small to someone whose judgment is so small. The spirit of the eternal Creator breathes from the unreachable mountains, across deserts no human foot has touched. It reaches as far as the edges of the unknown ocean. Every atom he has brought into existence finds favor in his sight. Ah, how often in those days did a bird soaring overhead stir a longing in me! I longed to be carried to the shores of those boundless waters. There I could drink life’s pleasures from the foaming cup of the Infinite. Even with my soul’s limited powers, I longed to share, if only for a moment, the bliss of the Creator. He accomplishes all things within himself and through himself!

My dear friend, the bare recollection of those hours still consoles me. Even this effort to recall those ineffable sensations, and give them utterance, exalts my soul above itself, and makes me doubly feel the intensity of my present anguish.

My dear friend, just remembering those hours still comforts me. Even trying to recall those feelings beyond words and express them lifts my soul beyond itself. And that effort makes me feel my present pain twice as deeply.

It is as if a curtain had been drawn from before my eyes, and, instead of prospects of eternal life, the abyss of an ever open grave yawned before me. Can we say of anything that it exists when all passes away, when time, with the speed of a storm, carries all things onward,—and our transitory existence, hurried along by the torrent, is either swallowed up by the waves or dashed against the rocks? There is not a moment but preys upon you,—and upon all around you, not a moment in which you do not yourself become a destroyer. The most innocent walk deprives of life thousands of poor insects: one step destroys the fabric of the industrious ant, and converts a little world into chaos. No: it is not the great and rare calamities of the world, the floods which sweep away whole villages, the earthquakes which swallow up our towns, that affect me. My heart is wasted by the thought of that destructive power which lies concealed in every part of universal nature. Nature has formed nothing that does not consume itself, and every object near it: so that, surrounded by earth and air, and all the active powers, I wander on my way with aching heart; and the universe is to me a fearful monster, for ever devouring its own offspring.

It is as if a curtain had been pulled away from my eyes. Instead of the promise of eternal life, I see the depths of an ever-open grave yawning before me. Can we say that anything exists when everything passes away? Time carries all things onward as swiftly as a storm. Our brief existence is swept along by the torrent, either swallowed by the waves or dashed against the rocks. Every moment preys on you and everything around you. And every moment, you yourself become a destroyer. Even the most innocent walk kills thousands of poor insects. One step destroys the hardworking ant’s home and turns a little world into chaos. No, it is not the world’s great and rare disasters that move me. It is not the floods that sweep away whole villages or the earthquakes that swallow our towns. My heart is worn away by the thought of the destructive power hidden in every part of nature. Nature has made nothing that does not consume itself and everything near it. So, surrounded by earth and air and all the forces at work, I wander on with an aching heart. To me, the universe is a terrifying monster, forever devouring its own offspring.

In vain do I stretch out my arms toward her when I awaken in the morning from my weary slumbers. In vain do I seek for her at night in my bed, when some innocent dream has happily deceived me, and placed her near me in the fields, when I have seized her hand and covered it with countless kisses. And when I feel for her in the half confusion of sleep, with the happy sense that she is near, tears flow from my oppressed heart; and, bereft of all comfort, I weep over my future woes.

In vain I reach out for her when I wake in the morning from my restless sleep. In vain I search for her in my bed at night, after some innocent dream has brought me happiness. In the dream, she was beside me in the fields, and I took her hand and covered it with countless kisses. And when I reach for her, still half asleep, happily certain she is near, tears rise from my heavy heart. With no comfort left, I weep over the sorrows that lie ahead.

What a misfortune, Wilhelm! My active spirits have degenerated into contented indolence. I cannot be idle, and yet I am unable to set to work. I cannot think: I have no longer any feeling for the beauties of nature, and books are distasteful to me. Once we give ourselves up, we are totally lost. Many a time and oft I wish I were a common labourer; that, awakening in the morning, I might have but one prospect, one pursuit, one hope, for the day which has dawned. I often envy Albert when I see him buried in a heap of papers and parchments, and I fancy I should be happy were I in his place. Often impressed with this feeling I have been on the point of writing to you and to the minister, for the appointment at the embassy, which you think I might obtain. I believe I might procure it. The minister has long shown a regard for me, and has frequently urged me to seek employment. It is the business of an hour only. Now and then the fable of the horse recurs to me. Weary of liberty, he suffered himself to be saddled and bridled, and was ridden to death for his pains. I know not what to determine upon. For is not this anxiety for change the consequence of that restless spirit which would pursue me equally in every situation of life?

What a misfortune, Wilhelm! My restless energy has turned into contented laziness. I cannot bear to be idle, yet I cannot bring myself to work. I cannot think. I no longer feel the beauty of nature, and books have become unpleasant to me. Once we give up on ourselves, we are completely lost. So often I wish I were an ordinary laborer. Then, when I woke each morning, I would have just one prospect, one task, one hope for the day. I often envy Albert when I see him buried in piles of papers and parchments. I imagine I would be happy in his place. This feeling has often brought me close to writing to you and the minister about the post at the embassy. You think I could get the post, and I believe I could too. The minister has long thought well of me and has often urged me to find employment. The whole business would take only an hour. Now and then I remember the fable of the horse. Tired of freedom, he let himself be saddled and bridled, only to be ridden to death for his trouble. I do not know what to decide. For isn't this longing for change caused by my restless spirit, which would follow me in any circumstances?

If my ills would admit of any cure, they would certainly be cured here. This is my birthday, and early in the morning I received a packet from Albert. Upon opening it, I found one of the pink ribbons which Charlotte wore in her dress the first time I saw her, and which I had several times asked her to give me. With it were two volumes in duodecimo of Wetstein's "Homer," a book I had often wished for, to save me the inconvenience of carrying the large Ernestine edition with me upon my walks. You see how they anticipate my wishes, how well they understand all those little attentions of friendship, so superior to the costly presents of the great, which are humiliating. I kissed the ribbon a thousand times, and in every breath inhaled the remembrance of those happy and irrevocable days which filled me with the keenest joy. Such, Wilhelm, is our fate. I do not murmur at it: the flowers of life are but visionary. How many pass away, and leave no trace behind—how few yield any fruit—and the fruit itself, how rarely does it ripen! And yet there are flowers enough! and is it not strange, my friend, that we should suffer the little that does really ripen, to rot, decay, and perish unenjoyed? Farewell! This is a glorious summer. I often climb into the trees in Charlotte's orchard, and shake down the pears that hang on the highest branches. She stands below, and catches them as they fall.

If my suffering could be cured at all, it would certainly be cured here. Today is my birthday, and early this morning I received a package from Albert. Inside was one of the pink ribbons Charlotte wore on her dress when I first saw her. I had asked her several times to give me the ribbon. Along with it were two small volumes of Wetstein's "Homer," a book I had often wished for. I wanted to avoid carrying the large Ernestine edition on my walks. You see how they anticipate my wishes and understand all those little acts of friendship. Such kindnesses are far better than the expensive gifts of the powerful, which leave us feeling humiliated. I kissed the ribbon a thousand times. With every breath, I breathed in the memory of those happy days that could never return. Those memories filled me with the sharpest joy. Such, Wilhelm, is our fate. I do not complain about it. Life's flowers are only an illusion. How many fade away without leaving a trace! How few bear any fruit, and how rarely the fruit itself ripens! And yet there are flowers enough! Isn't it strange, my friend, that we let the little fruit that does ripen rot, decay, and perish without enjoying it? Farewell! This is a glorious summer. I often climb the trees in Charlotte's orchard and shake down the pears hanging from the highest branches. She stands below and catches them as they fall.

Unhappy being that I am! Why do I thus deceive myself? What is to come of all this wild, aimless, endless passion? I cannot pray except to her. My imagination sees nothing but her: all surrounding objects are of no account, except as they relate to her. In this dreamy state I enjoy many happy hours, till at length I feel compelled to tear myself away from her. Ah, Wilhelm, to what does not my heart often compel me! When I have spent several hours in her company, till I feel completely absorbed by her figure, her grace, the divine expression of her thoughts, my mind becomes gradually excited to the highest excess, my sight grows dim, my hearing confused, my breathing oppressed as if by the hand of a murderer, and my beating heart seeks to obtain relief for my aching senses. I am sometimes unconscious whether I really exist. If in such moments I find no sympathy, and Charlotte does not allow me to enjoy the melancholy consolation of bathing her hand with my tears, I feel compelled to tear myself from her, when I either wander through the country, climb some precipitous cliff, or force a path through the trackless thicket, where I am lacerated and torn by thorns and briers; and thence I find relief. Sometimes I lie stretched on the ground, overcome with fatigue and dying with thirst; sometimes, late in the night, when the moon shines above me, I recline against an aged tree in some sequestered forest, to rest my weary limbs, when, exhausted and worn, I sleep till break of day. O Wilhelm! the hermit's cell, his sackcloth, and girdle of thorns would be luxury and indulgence compared with what I suffer. Adieu! I see no end to this wretchedness except the grave.

What an unhappy creature I am! Why do I deceive myself like this? What will come of this wild, aimless, endless passion? I can pray only to her. My imagination sees nothing but her. Everything around me means nothing unless it relates to her. In this dreamlike state, I spend many happy hours until I finally feel forced to tear myself away from her. Ah, Wilhelm, what my heart often drives me to do! After several hours with her, I feel completely absorbed by her appearance, her grace, and her beautifully expressed thoughts. My mind gradually reaches a fever pitch. My vision blurs, my hearing becomes confused, and I struggle to breathe, as if a murderer were gripping my throat. My pounding heart struggles to relieve my aching senses. Sometimes I no longer know whether I really exist. If I find no sympathy at such moments, and Charlotte will not let me bathe her hand in tears, I must leave. She denies me that sad comfort, and I feel forced to tear myself away. Then I wander through the countryside, climb a steep cliff, or force my way through dense, pathless undergrowth. There, thorns and brambles cut and tear my skin, and through this I find relief. Sometimes I lie stretched out on the ground, overcome with exhaustion and dying of thirst. Sometimes, late at night, with the moon shining above me, I lean against an old tree in a secluded forest. I rest my weary limbs there and, exhausted and worn out, sleep until dawn. Oh, Wilhelm! A hermit's cell, his coarse sackcloth, and his belt of thorns would be luxurious comforts compared with my suffering. Farewell! I see no end to this misery except the grave.

I must away. Thank you, Wilhelm, for determining my wavering purpose. For a whole fortnight I have thought of leaving her. I must away. She has returned to town, and is at the house of a friend. And then, Albert—yes, I must go.

I must leave. Thank you, Wilhelm, for helping me make up my mind. For two whole weeks I have thought about leaving her. I must leave. She has returned to town and is staying at a friend’s house. And then there is Albert. Yes, I must go.

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.

Oh, what a night, Wilhelm! From now on, I can bear anything. I will never see her again. Oh, why can’t I throw my arms around your neck and pour out all the feelings tearing my heart apart? Why can’t I express them in floods of tears and bursts of joy? Here I sit, gasping for breath and struggling to calm myself. I am waiting for daylight, and at sunrise the horses will 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!

And she is sleeping peacefully, hardly suspecting that she has seen me for the last time. I am free. During our two-hour conversation, I had the courage not to reveal my intention. And oh, Wilhelm, what a conversation we had!

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.

Albert had promised to meet Charlotte in the garden right after supper. I stood on the terrace beneath the tall chestnut trees and watched the setting sun. For the last time, I saw it sink below this lovely valley and quiet stream. I had often visited the same spot with Charlotte and watched that glorious sight. And now I was walking up and down the very tree-lined path I loved so much. Some hidden connection had often drawn me there before I knew Charlotte. Early in our friendship, we were delighted to discover that we both loved the same spot. It is as romantic as any place that has ever captured an artist’s imagination.

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.

There is a wide view from beneath the chestnut trees. But I remember mentioning all this in an earlier letter. I described the tall cluster of beech trees at the end. I also described how the tree-lined path grows darker and darker as it winds among them. The path ends in a shadowy retreat with all the charm of a mysterious, secluded place. I still remember the strange sadness that came over me when I first entered that dark retreat in bright midday. I had some hidden sense that one day the retreat would be the setting for some happiness or misery for me.

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?"

I had spent half an hour torn between 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 talked about many things and, without noticing, approached the shadowy recess. Charlotte went in and sat down. Albert sat beside her. I sat down too, but I was too agitated to stay seated for long. I got up and stood before her, then paced back and forth and sat down again. I was restless and miserable. Charlotte pointed out the beautiful moonlight, which cast a silver glow over the terrace before us, beyond the beech trees. The sight was glorious, and the darkness surrounding us made it even more striking. We sat in silence for a while. Then Charlotte said, "Whenever I walk by moonlight, I remember all my dear friends who have died. I am filled with thoughts of death and the life to come. We shall live again, Werther!" she continued, her voice firm but full of feeling. "But will 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?

"Charlotte," I said, taking her hand in mine as my eyes filled with tears, "we’ll see each other again. We’ll meet again in this life and the next." I could say no more. Why, Wilhelm, should she ask me this question just 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."

"And oh! Do those who have died know what we are doing here? Do they know when we are well and happy? Do they know when we remember them with the deepest love? In the quiet evening hours, my mother's spirit hovers around me. When I sit among my children, I see them gathered around me, just as they once gathered around her. Then I lift my anxious eyes to heaven and wish she could look down on us. I wish she could see how I keep the promise I made in her final moments: to mother her children. With such emotion I cry out, 'Forgive me, dearest mother, forgive me if I cannot properly take your place! Alas! I do all I can. The children are clothed and fed. Better still, they are loved and educated. If only you could see, sweet saint, the peace and harmony among us! You would praise God with the deepest gratitude. In your final hour, you prayed to him so fervently for our happiness.'" That was how she spoke. But oh, Wilhelm! Who could do justice to her words? How can cold, unfeeling words convey the heavenly expression of her spirit? Albert gently interrupted her. "These memories move you too deeply, my dear Charlotte. I know you find intense joy in dwelling on them. But I beg you..." "Oh, Albert!" she continued. "I am sure you remember the evenings when the three of us sat at the little round table. Papa was away, and the little ones had gone to bed. You often brought a good book, but you seldom read it. Talking with that noble woman was better than anything else. She was beautiful, bright, gentle, and yet always working. God alone knows how I have wept in bed at night, praying 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.

I threw myself at her feet and seized her hand, covering it with a thousand tears. "Charlotte!" I cried. "God's blessing and your mother's spirit are with you." "Oh, I wish you had known her," she said, squeezing my hand warmly. "She was worthy of your friendship." I thought I would faint. I had never received such flattering praise. She continued, "And yet she was doomed to die in the prime of her youth. Her youngest child was barely six months old. Her illness was short, but she was calm and accepted her fate. She grieved only for her children, especially the youngest. As her death approached, she asked me to bring them to her. I obeyed. The younger children knew nothing of the loss awaiting them, while the older ones were overwhelmed with grief. They stood around the bed. She raised her weak hands to heaven and prayed over them. Then she kissed each child, sent them away, and said to me, 'Be a mother to them.' I gave her my hand. 'You are promising a great deal, my child,' she said. 'A mother's love and a mother's care! Your tears of gratitude have often shown me that you understand a mother's tenderness. Show that tenderness to your brothers and sisters. Be devoted and faithful to your father as a wife would be. You will be his comfort.' She asked for him. He had withdrawn to hide his unbearable anguish. He was heartbroken. Albert, you were in the room. She heard someone moving, asked who was there, and asked you to come closer. She looked at us both calmly and with satisfaction. Her expression showed her conviction that we would be happy, happy together." Albert threw his arms around her neck, kissed her, and exclaimed, "We are, and we will be!" Even Albert, usually so calm, had completely lost his composure. And I was stirred beyond words.

"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."

"And someone like her," she continued, "had to leave us, Werther! Great God, must we lose everything we hold dear in this world? No one felt this loss more deeply than the children. They cried and grieved for a long time afterward, complaining that men had taken away their dear mama."

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.

Charlotte stood up. Her movement stirred me, but I stayed seated and held her hand. "Let’s go," she said. "It’s getting late." She tried to pull her hand away, but I kept holding it. "We’ll see each other again," I cried. "We’ll recognize each other, no matter how we change! I’m leaving," I continued, "and I’m leaving willingly. But if I say forever, perhaps I may not keep my word. Goodbye, Charlotte. Goodbye, Albert. We’ll meet again." "Yes, tomorrow, I think," she answered with a smile. Tomorrow! How deeply I felt that word! Ah, how little she knew as she pulled her hand away from mine. Charlotte and Albert walked down the avenue. I stood watching them in the moonlight. I threw myself on the ground and wept. Then I sprang up and ran out onto the terrace. Beneath the linden trees, I saw her white dress disappearing near the garden gate. I stretched out my arms, and she vanished.