Book Two

We arrived here yesterday. The ambassador is indisposed, and will not go out for some days. If he were less peevish and morose, all would be well. I see but too plainly that Heaven has destined me to severe trials; but courage! a light heart may bear anything. A light heart! I smile to find such a word proceeding from my pen. A little more lightheartedness would render me the happiest being under the sun. But must I despair of my talents and faculties, whilst others of far inferior abilities parade before me with the utmost self-satisfaction? Gracious Providence, to whom I owe all my powers, why didst thou not withhold some of those blessings I possess, and substitute in their place a feeling of self-confidence and contentment?

We arrived here yesterday. The ambassador is unwell and will not go out for a few days. If he were less irritable and gloomy, all would be well. I see all too clearly that Heaven has destined me for harsh trials. But take courage! A light heart may bear anything. A light heart! I smile to find myself writing those words. A little more lightheartedness would make me the happiest person under the sun. But must I lose faith in my talents and abilities? Others with far less ability parade before me, utterly pleased with themselves. Gracious Providence, I owe all my powers to you. Why did you not hold back some of the gifts you gave me? Why did you not give me self-confidence and contentment instead?

But patience! all will yet be well; for I assure you, my dear friend, you were right: since I have been obliged to associate continually with other people, and observe what they do, and how they employ themselves, I have become far better satisfied with myself. For we are so constituted by nature, that we are ever prone to compare ourselves with others; and our happiness or misery depends very much on the objects and persons around us. On this account, nothing is more dangerous than solitude: there our imagination, always disposed to rise, taking a new flight on the wings of fancy, pictures to us a chain of beings of whom we seem the most inferior. All things appear greater than they really are, and all seem superior to us. This operation of the mind is quite natural: we so continually feel our own imperfections, and fancy we perceive in others the qualities we do not possess, attributing to them also all that we enjoy ourselves, that by this process we form the idea of a perfect, happy man,—a man, however, who only exists in our own imagination.

But be patient! All will still turn out well. I assure you, my dear friend, you were right. Since I have had to spend time constantly with others, I have watched what they do and how they occupy themselves. As a result, I have become much more satisfied with myself. By nature, we are always inclined to compare ourselves with others. And our happiness or misery depends greatly on the things and people around us. For this reason, nothing is more dangerous than solitude. When we are alone, our imagination is always ready to soar, taking fresh flight on the wings of fantasy. It pictures a whole chain of beings, among whom we seem the lowest. Everything seems greater than it really is, and everything seems superior to us. This way of thinking is quite natural. We are so constantly aware of our own shortcomings and imagine we see in others the qualities we lack. We also credit others with all the qualities we ourselves possess. In this way, we create the idea of a perfect, happy man. Yet such a man exists only in our imagination.

But when, in spite of weakness and disappointments, we set to work in earnest, and persevere steadily, we often find, that, though obliged continually to tack, we make more way than others who have the assistance of wind and tide; and, in truth, there can be no greater satisfaction than to keep pace with others or outstrip them in the race.

But when we work seriously and steadily despite weakness and disappointments, we often find we make more progress than others. We may have to keep changing course, while others have the wind and tide helping them along. Yet we often keep pace with them or pull ahead. And truly, nothing is more satisfying than keeping up with others or overtaking them in the race.

November 26.

November 26.

I begin to find my situation here more tolerable, considering all circumstances. I find a great advantage in being much occupied; and the number of persons I meet, and their different pursuits, create a varied entertainment for me. I have formed the acquaintance of the Count C— and I esteem him more and more every day. He is a man of strong understanding and great discernment; but, though he sees farther than other people, he is not on that account cold in his manner, but capable of inspiring and returning the warmest affection. He appeared interested in me on one occasion, when I had to transact some business with him. He perceived, at the first word, that we understood each other, and that he could converse with me in a different tone from what he used with others. I cannot sufficiently esteem his frank and open kindness to me. It is the greatest and most genuine of pleasures to observe a great mind in sympathy with our own.

Considering all the circumstances, I am beginning to find my situation here more bearable. Keeping busy helps me a great deal. The many people I meet and their different interests give me a variety of things to enjoy. I have come to know Count C, and my respect for him grows every day. He has a powerful mind and keen judgment. But although he sees further than others, his manner is not cold. He can inspire and return the warmest affection. He showed an interest in me once when I had some business to discuss with him. From my first words, he saw that we understood each other. He also realized he could speak to me differently than he did to others. I cannot value his open, straightforward kindness to me highly enough. There is no greater or more genuine pleasure than finding a great mind in sympathy with our own.

As I anticipated, the ambassador occasions me infinite annoyance. He is the most punctilious blockhead under heaven. He does everything step by step, with the trifling minuteness of an old woman; and he is a man whom it is impossible to please, because he is never pleased with himself. I like to do business regularly and cheerfully, and, when it is finished, to leave it. But he constantly returns my papers to me, saying, "They will do," but recommending me to look over them again, as "one may always improve by using a better word or a more appropriate particle." I then lose all patience, and wish myself at the devil's. Not a conjunction, not an adverb, must be omitted: he has a deadly antipathy to all those transpositions of which I am so fond; and, if the music of our periods is not tuned to the established, official key, he cannot comprehend our meaning. It is deplorable to be connected with such a fellow.

As I expected, the ambassador causes me endless annoyance. He is the most fussy, rule-bound blockhead under heaven. He does everything step by step, fussing over every tiny detail like an old woman. And he is impossible to please because he is never pleased with himself. I like to work in an orderly, cheerful way and leave the work alone once it is finished. But he constantly sends my papers back, saying, "They will do," while recommending that I review them again. His reason is that "one can always improve things with a better word or a more suitable connecting word." Then I lose all patience and wish I were in hell. Not a conjunction, not an adverb, may be left out. He utterly detests all the changes in word order that I love so much. And if the music of our sentences is not tuned to the standard official key, he cannot understand our meaning. It is miserable to have to work with such a fellow.

My acquaintance with the Count C— is the only compensation for such an evil. He told me frankly, the other day, that he was much displeased with the difficulties and delays of the ambassador; that people like him are obstacles, both to themselves and to others. "But," added he, "one must submit, like a traveller who has to ascend a mountain: if the mountain was not there, the road would be both shorter and pleasanter; but there it is, and he must get over it."

Knowing Count C is the only compensation for such a misery. The other day, he told me frankly how unhappy he was with the ambassador’s difficulties and delays. People like the ambassador, he said, stand in their own way and everyone else’s. "But," he added, "we must accept it, like a traveler who has to climb a mountain. If the mountain were not there, the road would be both shorter and more pleasant. But the mountain is there, and the traveler must get over it."

The old man perceives the count's partiality for me: this annoys him, and, he seizes every opportunity to depreciate the count in my hearing. I naturally defend him, and that only makes matters worse. Yesterday he made me indignant, for he also alluded to me. "The count," he said, "is a man of the world, and a good man of business: his style is good, and he writes with facility; but, like other geniuses, he has no solid learning." He looked at me with an expression that seemed to ask if I felt the blow. But it did not produce the desired effect: I despise a man who can think and act in such a manner. However, I made a stand, and answered with not a little warmth. The count, I said, was a man entitled to respect, alike for his character and his acquirements. I had never met a person whose mind was stored with more useful and extensive knowledge,—who had, in fact, mastered such an infinite variety of subjects, and who yet retained all his activity for the details of ordinary business. This was altogether beyond his comprehension; and I took my leave, lest my anger should be too highly excited by some new absurdity of his.

The old man sees that the count favors me. His preference annoys the old man, who takes every opportunity to put the count down in front of me. Naturally, I defend the count, and my defense only makes matters worse. Yesterday the old man outraged me, because his remarks were aimed at me too. "The count," he said, "knows the world and is good at business. He has a good writing style and writes with ease. But, like other geniuses, he has no solid grounding in learning." He looked at me as if to ask whether I felt the blow. But his remark did not have the effect he wanted. I despise a man who can think and act that way. Still, I stood my ground and answered quite heatedly. I said the count deserved respect for both his character and his knowledge. I had never met anyone with such broad and useful knowledge. In fact, he had mastered an endless variety of subjects, yet still had energy for all the details of everyday business. The old man could not understand any of this. I left before another absurd remark of his could make me too angry.

And you are to blame for all this, you who persuaded me to bend my neck to this yoke by preaching a life of activity to me. If the man who plants vegetables, and carries his corn to town on market-days, is not more usefully employed than I am, then let me work ten years longer at the galleys to which I am now chained.

And you are to blame for all this. You persuaded me to bow my neck under this yoke by preaching the value of an active life. If the man who grows vegetables and takes his grain to town on market days isn't doing more useful work than I am, then let me work ten more years in the galleys I'm chained to now.

Oh, the brilliant wretchedness, the weariness, that one is doomed to witness among the silly people whom we meet in society here! The ambition of rank! How they watch, how they toil, to gain precedence! What poor and contemptible passions are displayed in their utter nakedness! We have a woman here, for example, who never ceases to entertain the company with accounts of her family and her estates. Any stranger would consider her a silly being, whose head was turned by her pretensions to rank and property; but she is in reality even more ridiculous, the daughter of a mere magistrate's clerk from this neighbourhood. I cannot understand how human beings can so debase themselves.

Oh, the glittering misery and boredom we are doomed to witness among the foolish people in society here! Their hunger for rank! How they watch and struggle to get ahead of one another! What petty, contemptible passions they lay bare! We have a woman here, for example, who never stops telling everyone about her family and her estates. Any stranger would think her a foolish woman whose claims to rank and wealth had gone to her head. But she is actually even more ridiculous. She is the daughter of a mere magistrate's clerk from this area. I cannot understand how people can lower themselves so far.

Every day I observe more and more the folly of judging of others by ourselves; and I have so much trouble with myself, and my own heart is in such constant agitation, that I am well content to let others pursue their own course, if they only allow me the same privilege.

Every day I see more clearly how foolish it is to judge others by our own standards. I have so much trouble with myself, and my heart is constantly restless. So I am quite content to let others go their own way, if they allow me the same freedom.

What provokes me most is the unhappy extent to which distinctions of rank are carried. I know perfectly well how necessary are inequalities of condition, and I am sensible of the advantages I myself derive therefrom; but I would not have these institutions prove a barrier to the small chance of happiness which I may enjoy on this earth.

What angers me most is how far people take distinctions of social rank. I know perfectly well that differences in social standing are necessary. And I recognize the advantages I gain from them. But I would not want these social structures to block my small chance of happiness on this earth.

I have lately become acquainted with a Miss B—, a very agreeable girl, who has retained her natural manners in the midst of artificial life. Our first conversation pleased us both equally; and, at taking leave, I requested permission to visit her. She consented in so obliging a manner, that I waited with impatience for the arrival of the happy moment. She is not a native of this place, but resides here with her aunt. The countenance of the old lady is not prepossessing. I paid her much attention, addressing the greater part of my conversation to her; and, in less than half an hour, I discovered what her niece subsequently acknowledged to me, that her aged aunt, having but a small fortune, and a still smaller share of understanding, enjoys no satisfaction except in the pedigree of her ancestors, no protection save in her noble birth, and no enjoyment but in looking from her castle over the heads of the humble citizens. She was, no doubt, handsome in her youth, and in her early years probably trifled away her time in rendering many a poor youth the sport of her caprice: in her riper years she has submitted to the yoke of a veteran officer, who, in return for her person and her small independence, has spent with her what we may designate her age of brass. He is dead; and she is now a widow, and deserted. She spends her iron age alone, and would not be approached, except for the loveliness of her niece.

I recently met a Miss B, a very pleasant young woman who has stayed natural in an artificial society. We both enjoyed our first conversation equally. As we said goodbye, I asked permission to visit her. She agreed so graciously that I could hardly wait for the happy moment to arrive. She is not from this town but lives here with her aunt. The old lady's face is uninviting. I paid her plenty of attention and directed most of my conversation to her. Within half an hour, I discovered something her niece later admitted to me. Her elderly aunt has little money and even less intelligence. Her only satisfaction comes from her ancestry, and her only protection comes from her noble birth. Her only pleasure is looking down from her castle over the heads of ordinary citizens. She was undoubtedly beautiful in her youth. In those early years, she probably amused herself by making many a poor young man the plaything of her whims. In her mature years, she submitted to the yoke of a veteran officer. In exchange for her person and her modest fortune, he shared what we might call her age of brass. He is dead, and she is now a widow, abandoned by everyone. She spends her iron age alone, and no one would come near her were it not for her lovely niece.

What beings are men, whose whole thoughts are occupied with form and ceremony, who for years together devote their mental and physical exertions to the task of advancing themselves but one step, and endeavouring to occupy a higher place at the table. Not that such persons would otherwise want employment: on the contrary, they give themselves much trouble by neglecting important business for such petty trifles. Last week a question of precedence arose at a sledging-party, and all our amusement was spoiled.

What strange creatures men are, with their thoughts entirely consumed by formalities and ceremony! For years, they devote all their mental and physical effort to moving up just one step in society. They struggle to get a better seat at the table. Not that these people would otherwise have nothing to do. On the contrary, they make life harder for themselves by neglecting important business for such petty matters. Last week, a dispute over who should take precedence at a sleighing party spoiled all our fun.

The silly creatures cannot see that it is not place which constitutes real greatness, since the man who occupies the first place but seldom plays the principal part. How many kings are governed by their ministers—how many ministers by their secretaries? Who, in such cases, is really the chief? He, as it seems to me, who can see through the others, and possesses strength or skill enough to make their power or passions subservient to the execution of his own designs.

These fools cannot see that rank does not make someone truly great. After all, the man with the highest rank rarely plays the leading role. How many kings are ruled by their ministers, and how many ministers by their secretaries? In such cases, who is really in charge? To my mind, the man who sees through the others. He has enough strength or skill to turn their power or passions to his own purposes.

I must write to you from this place, my dear Charlotte, from a small room in a country inn, where I have taken shelter from a severe storm. During my whole residence in that wretched place D—, where I lived amongst strangers,—strangers, indeed, to this heart,—I never at any time felt the smallest inclination to correspond with you; but in this cottage, in this retirement, in this solitude, with the snow and hail beating against my lattice-pane, you are my first thought. The instant I entered, your figure rose up before me, and the remembrance! O my Charlotte, the sacred, tender remembrance! Gracious Heaven! restore to me the happy moment of our first acquaintance.

I must write to you from here, my dear Charlotte, from a small room in a country inn. I have taken shelter here from a fierce storm. Throughout my stay in that miserable place D—, I lived among strangers. They were strangers to my heart, too. I never once felt the slightest desire to write to you there. But here in this cottage, in this quiet solitude, you are my first thought. Snow and hail beat against my window. The instant I came in, your image appeared before me, and the memories returned! Oh, my Charlotte, those sacred, tender memories! Dear Heaven! Give me back that happy moment when we first met.

Could you but see me, my dear Charlotte, in the whirl of dissipation,—how my senses are dried up, but my heart is at no time full. I enjoy no single moment of happiness: all is vain—nothing touches me. I stand, as it were, before the raree-show: I see the little puppets move, and I ask whether it is not an optical illusion. I am amused with these puppets, or, rather, I am myself one of them: but, when I sometimes grasp my neighbour's hand, I feel that it is not natural; and I withdraw mine with a shudder. In the evening I say I will enjoy the next morning's sunrise, and yet I remain in bed: in the day I promise to ramble by moonlight; and I, nevertheless, remain at home. I know not why I rise, nor why I go to sleep.

If only you could see me, my dear Charlotte, caught in this whirl of empty pleasures. My senses are numb, but my heart is never full. I do not enjoy a single moment of happiness. All is pointless, and nothing moves me. I feel as though I am standing before a peep show. I watch the little puppets move and wonder whether the sight is an optical illusion. The puppets amuse me, or rather, I am one of them myself. But sometimes, when I take my neighbor's hand, the touch feels unnatural, and I pull my hand away with a shudder. In the evening, I say I will enjoy the next morning's sunrise, yet I stay in bed. During the day, I promise to wander in the moonlight, but I stay at home instead. I do not know why I get up or why I go to sleep.

The leaven which animated my existence is gone: the charm which cheered me in the gloom of night, and aroused me from my morning slumbers, is for ever fled.

The spark that gave my life energy is gone. The magic that comforted me in the dark of night and woke me each morning is gone forever.

I have found but one being here to interest me, a Miss B—. She resembles you, my dear Charlotte, if any one can possibly resemble you. "Ah!" you will say, "he has learned how to pay fine compliments." And this is partly true. I have been very agreeable lately, as it was not in my power to be otherwise. I have, moreover, a deal of wit: and the ladies say that no one understands flattery better, or falsehoods you will add; since the one accomplishment invariably accompanies the other. But I must tell you of Miss B—. She has abundance of soul, which flashes from her deep blue eyes. Her rank is a torment to her, and satisfies no one desire of her heart. She would gladly retire from this whirl of fashion, and we often picture to ourselves a life of undisturbed happiness in distant scenes of rural retirement: and then we speak of you, my dear Charlotte; for she knows you, and renders homage to your merits; but her homage is not exacted, but voluntary, she loves you, and delights to hear you made the subject of conversation.

I have found only one person here who interests me, a Miss B. She resembles you, my dear Charlotte, if anyone can possibly resemble you. "Ah!" you will say, "he has learned how to give elegant compliments." And you are partly right. I have been very charming lately, since I could not help being so. I also have plenty of wit. And the ladies say no one is better at flattery, or at lying, you will add. After all, those two talents always go together. But I must tell you about Miss B. She has a rich inner life that shines through her deep blue eyes. Her social rank torments her and fulfills none of her heart's desires. She would gladly leave this whirl of fashionable society. We often imagine a life of undisturbed happiness in some distant, quiet countryside. And then we talk about you, my dear Charlotte. For she knows you and admires your good qualities. But her admiration is freely given, not demanded. She loves you and is delighted whenever you are the subject of conversation.

Oh, that I were sitting at your feet in your favourite little room, with the dear children playing around us! If they became troublesome to you, I would tell them some appalling goblin story; and they would crowd round me with silent attention. The sun is setting in glory; his last rays are shining on the snow, which covers the face of the country: the storm is over, and I must return to my dungeon. Adieu!—Is Albert with you? and what is he to you? God forgive the question.

Oh, how I wish I were sitting at your feet in your favorite little room, with the dear children playing around us! If the children started bothering you, I would tell them some terrifying goblin story. Then they would gather around me and listen in silence. The sun is setting in glory. Its last rays shine on the snow that covers the countryside. The storm is over, and I must return to my dungeon. Goodbye! Is Albert with you? And what is he to you? God forgive me for asking.

For a week past we have had the most wretched weather: but this to me is a blessing; for, during my residence here, not a single fine day has beamed from the heavens, but has been lost to me by the intrusion of somebody. During the severity of rain, sleet, frost, and storm, I congratulate myself that it cannot be worse indoors than abroad, nor worse abroad than it is within doors; and so I become reconciled. When the sun rises bright in the morning, and promises a glorious day, I never omit to exclaim, "There, now, they have another blessing from Heaven, which they will be sure to destroy: they spoil everything,—health, fame, happiness, amusement; and they do this generally through folly, ignorance, or imbecility, and always, according to their own account, with the best intentions!" I could often beseech them, on my bended knees, to be less resolved upon their own destruction.

We have had miserable weather for the past week, but to me, this is a blessing. Since I came here, not a single fine day has escaped being ruined for me by someone intruding. In the worst rain, sleet, frost, and storms, I tell myself that indoors cannot be worse than outdoors. Nor can outdoors be worse than indoors, and so I make my peace with the weather. When the sun rises brightly and promises a glorious day, I always exclaim, "There, now, they have another blessing from Heaven. They are sure to ruin it. They spoil everything: health, reputation, happiness, pleasure. They generally do so through foolishness, ignorance, or stupidity, and always, by their own account, with the best intentions!" Often I could beg them on my knees to be less determined to destroy themselves.

I fear that my ambassador and I shall not continue much longer together. He is really growing past endurance. He transacts his business in so ridiculous a manner, that I am often compelled to contradict him, and do things my own way; and then, of course, he thinks them very ill done. He complained of me lately on this account at court; and the minister gave me a reprimand,—a gentle one it is true, but still a reprimand. In consequence of this, I was about to tender my resignation, when I received a letter, to which I submitted with great respect, on account of the high, noble, and generous spirit which dictated it. He endeavoured to soothe my excessive sensibility, paid a tribute to my extreme ideas of duty, of good example, and of perseverance in business, as the fruit of my youthful ardour, an impulse which he did not seek to destroy, but only to moderate, that it might have proper play and be productive of good. So now I am at rest for another week, and no longer at variance with myself. Content and peace of mind are valuable things: I could wish, my dear friend, that these precious jewels were less transitory.

I fear the ambassador and I will not stay together much longer. He is really becoming unbearable. He handles his business so absurdly that I often have to contradict him and do things my own way. Then, of course, he thinks I have done everything badly. He recently complained about me at court over this, and the minister reprimanded me. The reprimand was gentle, certainly, but it was still a reprimand. Because of this, I was about to resign when I received a letter. I accepted its advice with great respect because of the lofty, noble, and generous spirit behind it. The minister tried to calm my excessive sensitivity. He praised my demanding ideas about duty, setting a good example, and persistence in work as products of youthful enthusiasm. He did not want to destroy that enthusiasm, only to temper it so it could find proper expression and do good. So now I am at peace for another week, and no longer in conflict with myself. Contentment and peace of mind are valuable things. I wish, my dear friend, that these precious jewels did not fade so quickly.

God bless you, my dear friends, and may he grant you that happiness which he denies to me!

God bless you, my dear friends. May he give you the happiness he denies me!

I thank you, Albert, for having deceived me. I waited for the news that your wedding-day was fixed; and I intended on that day, with solemnity, to take down Charlotte's profile from the wall, and to bury it with some other papers I possess. You are now united, and her picture still remains here. Well, let it remain! Why should it not? I know that I am still one of your society, that I still occupy a place uninjured in Charlotte's heart, that I hold the second place therein; and I intend to keep it. Oh, I should become mad if she could forget! Albert, that thought is hell! Farewell, Albert farewell, angel of heaven farewell, Charlotte!

Thank you, Albert, for deceiving me. I waited to hear that your wedding date had been set. On that day, I planned to solemnly take Charlotte's profile portrait down from the wall. Then I would bury it with some other papers I own. You are married now, and her picture is still here. Well, let it stay! Why shouldn't it? I know I am still part of your circle. I know my place in Charlotte's heart is unchanged. I hold second place there, and I intend to keep it. Oh, I would go mad if she could forget! Albert, that thought is hell! Goodbye, Albert! Goodbye, angel of heaven! Goodbye, Charlotte!

I have just had a sad adventure, which will drive me away from here. I lose all patience!—Death!—It is not to be remedied; and you alone are to blame, for you urged and impelled me to fill a post for which I was by no means suited. I have now reason to be satisfied, and so have you! But, that you may not again attribute this fatality to my impetuous temper, I send you, my dear sir, a plain and simple narration of the affair, as a mere chronicler of facts would describe it.

I have just had an unhappy experience that will drive me away from here. I have lost all patience! Death! Nothing can be done about it, and you alone are to blame. You urged and pushed me to take a position I was not at all suited for. Now I have reason to be satisfied, and so do you! But I don't want you to blame this disaster on my impulsive temper again. So, my dear sir, I am sending you a plain, simple account of what happened. I will describe the events as someone merely recording the facts would.

The Count of O— likes and distinguishes me. It is well known, and I have mentioned this to you a hundred times. Yesterday I dined with him. It is the day on which the nobility are accustomed to assemble at his house in the evening. I never once thought of the assembly, nor that we subalterns did not belong to such society. Well, I dined with the count; and, after dinner, we adjourned to the large hall. We walked up and down together: and I conversed with him, and with Colonel B—, who joined us; and in this manner the hour for the assembly approached. God knows, I was thinking of nothing, when who should enter but the honourable Lady accompanied by her noble husband and their silly, scheming daughter, with her small waist and flat neck; and, with disdainful looks and a haughty air they passed me by. As I heartily detest the whole race, I determined upon going away; and only waited till the count had disengaged himself from their impertinent prattle, to take leave, when the agreeable Miss B— came in. As I never meet her without experiencing a heartfelt pleasure, I stayed and talked to her, leaning over the back of her chair, and did not perceive, till after some time, that she seemed a little confused, and ceased to answer me with her usual ease of manner. I was struck with it. "Heavens!" I said to myself, "can she, too, be like the rest?" I felt annoyed, and was about to withdraw; but I remained, notwithstanding, forming excuses for her conduct, fancying she did not mean it, and still hoping to receive some friendly recognition. The rest of the company now arrived. There was the Baron F—, in an entire suit that dated from the coronation of Francis I.; the Chancellor N—, with his deaf wife; the shabbily-dressed I—, whose old-fashioned coat bore evidence of modern repairs: this crowned the whole. I conversed with some of my acquaintances, but they answered me laconically. I was engaged in observing Miss B—, and did not notice that the women were whispering at the end of the room, that the murmur extended by degrees to the men, that Madame S— addressed the count with much warmth (this was all related to me subsequently by Miss B—); till at length the count came up to me, and took me to the window. "You know our ridiculous customs," he said. "I perceive the company is rather displeased at your being here. I would not on any account—" "I beg your excellency's pardon!" I exclaimed. "I ought to have thought of this before, but I know you will forgive this little inattention. I was going," I added, "some time ago, but my evil genius detained me." And I smiled and bowed, to take my leave. He shook me by the hand, in a manner which expressed everything. I hastened at once from the illustrious assembly, sprang into a carriage, and drove to M—. I contemplated the setting sun from the top of the hill, and read that beautiful passage in Homer, where Ulysses is entertained by the hospitable herdsmen. This was indeed delightful.

The Count of O likes me and treats me with special favor. Everyone knows this, and I have mentioned it to you a hundred times. Yesterday I dined with him. On that day each week, the nobility gather at his house in the evening. I never once thought of the gathering, or remembered that we junior officials did not belong in such company. Well, I dined with the count, and afterward we went into the large hall. We walked up and down together, talking with Colonel B, who had joined us. As we talked, the hour for the gathering drew near. God knows, I was thinking of nothing in particular. Then who should enter but the honorable Lady, accompanied by her noble husband and their silly, scheming daughter. The daughter had a tiny waist and a flat neck. With scornful looks and a haughty air, the family passed me by. Since I heartily detest the whole breed, I decided to leave. I waited only for the count to escape their rude chatter so I could say goodbye. Just then, the charming Miss B came in. Since seeing her always gives me heartfelt pleasure, I stayed and talked to her, leaning over her chair. Only after some time did I notice that she seemed a little flustered. She no longer answered me with her usual ease. Her manner startled me. "Heavens!" I said to myself, "can she, too, be like the rest?" I felt annoyed and was about to leave. But I stayed, making excuses for her behavior. I imagined she meant no harm and still hoped for some sign of friendliness. The rest of the guests now arrived. There was Baron F, wearing a whole suit that dated back to the coronation of Francis I. There was Chancellor N, with his deaf wife. Then came the shabbily dressed I, whose old-fashioned coat showed signs of recent repairs. That was the crowning touch. I spoke with some acquaintances, but their answers were brief. I was watching Miss B and did not notice the women whispering at the far end of the room. Nor did I notice the murmuring gradually spreading to the men, or Madame S speaking heatedly to the count. Miss B told me all of this afterward. At last, the count came over and led me to the window. "You know our ridiculous customs," he said. "I can see that the guests are rather displeased to find you here. I would not for anything want to..." "I beg your excellency's pardon!" I exclaimed. "I should have thought of this before, but I know you will forgive my little oversight. I meant to leave," I added, "some time ago, but my evil genius kept me here." I smiled and bowed to say goodbye. He shook my hand in a way that said everything. I hurried out of that illustrious gathering, sprang into a carriage, and drove to M. From the hilltop, I watched the setting sun. I read that beautiful passage in Homer where Ulysses is welcomed by the hospitable herdsmen. That was truly delightful.

I returned home to supper in the evening. But few persons were assembled in the room. They had turned up a corner of the table-cloth, and were playing at dice. The good-natured A— came in. He laid down his hat when he saw me, approached me, and said in a low tone, "You have met with a disagreeable adventure." "I!" I exclaimed. "The count obliged you to withdraw from the assembly!" "Deuce take the assembly!" said I. "I was very glad to be gone." "I am delighted," he added, "that you take it so lightly. I am only sorry that it is already so much spoken of." The circumstance then began to pain me. I fancied that every one who sat down, and even looked at me, was thinking of this incident; and my heart became embittered.

I returned home for supper that evening. Only a few people were in the room. They had folded back a corner of the tablecloth and were playing dice. The good-natured A came in. When he saw me, he put down his hat, came over, and spoke quietly. "You've had an unpleasant experience." "Me!" I exclaimed. "The count made you leave the gathering!" "To hell with the gathering!" I said. "I was very glad to leave." "I'm delighted," he added, "that you're taking it so lightly. I'm only sorry that so many people are already talking about what happened." Then the incident began to trouble me. I imagined that everyone who sat down, or even looked at me, was thinking about what had happened. And my heart filled with bitterness.

And now I could plunge a dagger into my bosom, when I hear myself everywhere pitied, and observe the triumph of my enemies, who say that this is always the case with vain persons, whose heads are turned with conceit, who affect to despise forms and such petty, idle nonsense.

And now I could plunge a dagger into my chest when I hear people everywhere pitying me. I see my enemies gloating, saying this is always what happens to vain people whose pride goes to their heads. Such people pretend to despise formalities and all that petty, pointless nonsense.

Say what you will of fortitude, but show me the man who can patiently endure the laughter of fools, when they have obtained an advantage over him. 'Tis only when their nonsense is without foundation that one can suffer it without complaint.

Say what you like about strength of character. But show me a man who can patiently endure fools laughing at him when they have the upper hand. Only when their nonsense has no basis can anyone put up with it without complaint.

March 16.

March 16.

Everything conspires against me. I met Miss B— walking to-day. I could not help joining her; and, when we were at a little distance from her companions, I expressed my sense of her altered manner toward me. "O Werther!" she said, in a tone of emotion, "you, who know my heart, how could you so ill interpret my distress? What did I not suffer for you, from the moment you entered the room! I foresaw it all, a hundred times was I on the point of mentioning it to you. I knew that the S——s and T——s, with their husbands, would quit the room, rather than remain in your company. I knew that the count would not break with them: and now so much is said about it." "How!" I exclaimed, and endeavoured to conceal my emotion; for all that Adelin had mentioned to me yesterday recurred to me painfully at that moment. "Oh, how much it has already cost me!" said this amiable girl, while her eyes filled with tears. I could scarcely contain myself, and was ready to throw myself at her feet. "Explain yourself!" I cried. Tears flowed down her cheeks. I became quite frantic. She wiped them away, without attempting to conceal them. "You know my aunt," she continued; "she was present: and in what light does she consider the affair! Last night, and this morning, Werther, I was compelled to listen to a lecture upon my acquaintance with you. I have been obliged to hear you condemned and depreciated; and I could not—I dared not—say much in your defence."

Everything conspires against me. I met Miss B while she was out walking today. I could not help joining her. When we were a little way from her companions, I told her I felt her attitude toward me had changed. "Oh, Werther!" she said, her voice full of emotion. "You know my heart. How could you misunderstand my distress so badly? How I suffered for you from the moment you entered the room! I saw everything coming. A hundred times I nearly warned you. I knew the S's and T's, with their husbands, would leave the room rather than stay in your company. I knew the count would not risk a falling-out with them. And now people are saying so much about the incident." "What!" I cried, trying to hide my distress. Everything Adelin had told me yesterday came painfully back to me at that moment. "Oh, how much this has already cost me!" the kind girl said, her eyes filling with tears. I could hardly control myself and was ready to throw myself at her feet. "Tell me what you mean!" I cried. Tears ran down her cheeks. I became frantic. She wiped her tears away without trying to hide them. "You know my aunt," she continued. "She was there, and you can imagine how she sees the whole affair! Last night and again this morning, Werther, I had to listen to a lecture about my friendship with you. I have had to hear you condemned and belittled. And I could not, I dared not, say much in your defense."

Every word she uttered was a dagger to my heart. She did not feel what a mercy it would have been to conceal everything from me. She told me, in addition, all the impertinence that would be further circulated, and how the malicious would triumph; how they would rejoice over the punishment of my pride, over my humiliation for that want of esteem for others with which I had often been reproached. To hear all this, Wilhelm, uttered by her in a voice of the most sincere sympathy, awakened all my passions; and I am still in a state of extreme excitement. I wish I could find a man to jeer me about this event. I would sacrifice him to my resentment. The sight of his blood might possibly be a relief to my fury. A hundred times have I seized a dagger, to give ease to this oppressed heart. Naturalists tell of a noble race of horses that instinctively open a vein with their teeth, when heated and exhausted by a long course, in order to breathe more freely. I am often tempted to open a vein, to procure for myself everlasting liberty.

Every word she spoke was a dagger to my heart. She did not realize how merciful it would have been to keep everything from me. She also told me about all the insulting talk that would follow, and how the malicious would triumph. They would rejoice to see my pride punished and to see me humiliated for my lack of respect for others. I had often been criticized for that lack of respect. Hearing all this from her, Wilhelm, in a voice full of genuine sympathy, stirred every passion in me. I am still in a state of extreme agitation. I wish I could find a man who would mock me over this incident. I would sacrifice him to my anger. The sight of his blood might possibly ease my fury. A hundred times I have seized a dagger to relieve my burdened heart. Naturalists describe a noble breed of horses that instinctively bite open a vein when overheated and exhausted after running far. They do this to breathe more freely. I am often tempted to open a vein to gain everlasting freedom for myself.

I have tendered my resignation to the court. I hope it will be accepted, and you will forgive me for not having previously consulted you. It is necessary I should leave this place. I know all you will urge me to stay, and therefore I beg you will soften this news to my mother. I am unable to do anything for myself: how, then, should I be competent to assist others? It will afflict her that I should have interrupted that career which would have made me first a privy councillor, and then minister, and that I should look behind me, in place of advancing. Argue as you will, combine all the reasons which should have induced me to remain, I am going: that is sufficient. But, that you may not be ignorant of my destination, I may mention that the Prince of —— is here. He is much pleased with my company; and, having heard of my intention to resign, he has invited me to his country house, to pass the spring months with him. I shall be left completely my own master; and, as we agree on all subjects but one, I shall try my fortune, and accompany him.

I have submitted my resignation to the court. I hope it will be accepted, and I hope you will forgive me for not consulting you beforehand. I must leave this place. I know all the arguments you will use to persuade me to stay. So I beg you to break the news gently to my mother. I cannot do anything for myself, so how could I be capable of helping others? My mother will be distressed that I have interrupted my career. It would have made me first a privy councillor and then a minister. She will be distressed that I am looking back instead of moving forward. Argue as much as you like. Put together all the reasons that should have persuaded me to stay. I am leaving, and that is enough. But so you know where I am going, I should mention that the Prince of ____ is here. He enjoys my company very much. When he heard that I intended to resign, he invited me to spend the spring months at his country house. I will be completely free to do as I please. And since we agree on every subject but one, I will take my chances and go with him.

Thanks for both your letters. I delayed my reply, and withheld this letter, till I should obtain an answer from the court. I feared my mother might apply to the minister to defeat my purpose. But my request is granted, my resignation is accepted. I shall not recount with what reluctance it was accorded, nor relate what the minister has written: you would only renew your lamentations. The crown prince has sent me a present of five and twenty ducats; and, indeed, such goodness has affected me to tears. For this reason I shall not require from my mother the money for which I lately applied.

Thank you for both your letters. I put off replying and held back this letter until I heard from the court. I feared my mother might ask the minister to prevent my resignation. But my request has been granted, and my resignation has been accepted. I won't describe how reluctantly it was accepted or tell you what the minister wrote. You would only start lamenting again. The crown prince has sent me a gift of twenty-five ducats. His kindness has moved me to tears. So I won't need the money I recently asked my mother for.

I leave this place to-morrow; and, as my native place is only six miles from the high road, I intend to visit it once more, and recall the happy dreams of my childhood. I shall enter at the same gate through which I came with my mother, when, after my father's death, she left that delightful retreat to immure herself in your melancholy town. Adieu, my dear friend: you shall hear of my future career.

I leave here tomorrow. Since my hometown is only six miles from the main road, I plan to visit once more. I want to relive the happy dreams of my childhood. I'll enter through the same gate my mother and I passed through after my father's death. She was leaving that lovely retreat to shut herself away in your gloomy town. Goodbye, my dear friend. I'll write to you about the course my life takes.

I have paid my visit to my native place with all the devotion of a pilgrim, and have experienced many unexpected emotions. Near the great elm tree, which is a quarter of a league from the village, I got out of the carriage, and sent it on before, that alone, and on foot, I might enjoy vividly and heartily all the pleasure of my recollections. I stood there under that same elm which was formerly the term and object of my walks. How things have since changed! Then, in happy ignorance, I sighed for a world I did not know, where I hoped to find every pleasure and enjoyment which my heart could desire; and now, on my return from that wide world, O my friend, how many disappointed hopes and unsuccessful plans have I brought back!

I have visited my hometown with all the devotion of a pilgrim and felt many unexpected emotions. Near the great elm tree, a quarter of a league from the village, I got out of the carriage. I sent the carriage ahead so I could walk alone and fully, deeply enjoy all the pleasure of my memories. I stood beneath the same elm that had once been the destination and farthest point of my walks. How things have changed since then! Back then, in happy ignorance, I longed for a world I did not know. In that world, I hoped to find every pleasure and delight my heart could desire. And now I have returned from that wide world. Oh, my friend, how many disappointed hopes and failed plans I have brought back!

As I contemplated the mountains which lay stretched out before me, I thought how often they had been the object of my dearest desires. Here used I to sit for hours together with my eyes bent upon them, ardently longing to wander in the shade of those woods, to lose myself in those valleys, which form so delightful an object in the distance. With what reluctance did I leave this charming spot; when my hour of recreation was over, and my leave of absence expired! I drew near to the village: all the well-known old summerhouses and gardens were recognised again; I disliked the new ones, and all other alterations which had taken place. I entered the village, and all my former feelings returned. I cannot, my dear friend, enter into details, charming as were my sensations: they would be dull in the narration. I had intended to lodge in the market-place, near our old house. As soon as I entered, I perceived that the schoolroom, where our childhood had been taught by that good old woman, was converted into a shop. I called to mind the sorrow, the heaviness, the tears, and oppression of heart, which I experienced in that confinement. Every step produced some particular impression. A pilgrim in the Holy Land does not meet so many spots pregnant with tender recollections, and his soul is hardly moved with greater devotion. One incident will serve for illustration. I followed the course of a stream to a farm, formerly a delightful walk of mine, and paused at the spot, where, when boys, we used to amuse ourselves making ducks and drakes upon the water. I recollected so well how I used formerly to watch the course of that same stream, following it with inquiring eagerness, forming romantic ideas of the countries it was to pass through; but my imagination was soon exhausted: while the water continued flowing farther and farther on, till my fancy became bewildered by the contemplation of an invisible distance. Exactly such, my dear friend, so happy and so confined, were the thoughts of our good ancestors. Their feelings and their poetry were fresh as childhood. And, when Ulysses talks of the immeasurable sea and boundless earth, his epithets are true, natural, deeply felt, and mysterious. Of what importance is it that I have learned, with every schoolboy, that the world is round? Man needs but little earth for enjoyment, and still less for his final repose.

As I looked at the mountains stretching out before me, I remembered how often I had longed for them. I used to sit here for hours, gazing at them. I longed to wander in the shade of those woods and lose myself in those valleys, so lovely from afar. How reluctantly I left this charming spot when my free hour was over and my leave had ended! I approached the village and recognized all the familiar old summerhouses and gardens. I disliked the new ones and all the other changes that had been made. I entered the village, and all my old feelings returned. My dear friend, I cannot describe everything I felt, lovely as those feelings were. The account would be dull. I had planned to stay in the market square, near our old house. As soon as I entered the village, I saw that our old schoolroom had become a shop. There, that good old woman had taught us as children. I remembered the sorrow, heaviness, tears, and aching heart I had known while confined there. Every step stirred a particular feeling. A pilgrim in the Holy Land finds fewer places filled with tender memories. His soul is hardly moved by greater devotion. One incident will show you what I mean. I followed a stream to a farm, along what had once been a favorite walk of mine. I stopped where we boys used to amuse ourselves by skipping stones across the water. I remembered so clearly how I used to watch that same stream. I followed its course with eager curiosity, imagining romantic lands it would pass through. But my imagination soon reached its limits, while the water kept flowing farther and farther. At last, my mind lost its way as I tried to picture a distance I could not see. The thoughts of our good ancestors, my dear friend, were just like that, so happy and so limited. Their feelings and poetry were as fresh as childhood. And when Ulysses speaks of the immeasurable sea and boundless earth, his descriptions are true, natural, deeply felt, and mysterious. What does it matter that I have learned, like every schoolboy, that the world is round? A person needs only a little earth for happiness, and still less for a final resting place.

I am at present with the prince at his hunting lodge. He is a man with whom one can live happily. He is honest and unaffected. There are, however, some strange characters about him, whom I cannot at all understand. They do not seem vicious, and yet they do not carry the appearance of thoroughly honest men. Sometimes I am disposed to believe them honest, and yet I cannot persuade myself to confide in them. It grieves me to hear the prince occasionally talk of things which he has only read or heard of, and always with the same view in which they have been represented by others.

I am staying with the prince at his hunting lodge. He is a man one can live happily with. He is honest and unpretentious. But there are some strange people around him whom I cannot understand at all. They do not seem wicked, yet they do not seem entirely honest either. Sometimes I am inclined to think them honest, but I still cannot bring myself to trust them. It saddens me when the prince talks about things he has only read about or heard of. He always presents those things from the same point of view as the people he learned about them from.

He values my understanding and talents more highly than my heart, but I am proud of the latter only. It is the sole source of everything of our strength, happiness, and misery. All the knowledge I possess every one else can acquire, but my heart is exclusively my own.

He values my intelligence and talents more than my heart, but my heart alone makes me proud. The heart is the only source of all our strength, happiness, and misery. Anyone else can gain all the knowledge I have, but my heart belongs to me alone.

I have had a plan in my head of which I did not intend to speak to you until it was accomplished: now that it has failed, I may as well mention it. I wished to enter the army, and had long been desirous of taking the step. This, indeed, was the chief reason for my coming here with the prince, as he is a general in the service. I communicated my design to him during one of our walks together. He disapproved of it, and it would have been actual madness not to have listened to his reasons.

I had a plan I did not intend to tell you about until I had carried it out. Now that the plan has failed, I may as well mention it. I wanted to join the army and had wanted to do so for a long time. In fact, joining the army was my main reason for coming here with the prince, who is a general. I told him about my plan during one of our walks together. He disapproved, and it would have been sheer madness not to listen to his reasons.

Say what you will, I can remain here no longer. Why should I remain? Time hangs heavy upon my hands. The prince is as gracious to me as any one could be, and yet I am not at my ease. There is, indeed, nothing in common between us. He is a man of understanding, but quite of the ordinary kind. His conversation affords me no more amusement than I should derive from the perusal of a well-written book. I shall remain here a week longer, and then start again on my travels. My drawings are the best things I have done since I came here. The prince has a taste for the arts, and would improve if his mind were not fettered by cold rules and mere technical ideas. I often lose patience, when, with a glowing imagination, I am giving expression to art and nature, he interferes with learned suggestions, and uses at random the technical phraseology of artists.

Say what you like, I can’t stay here any longer. Why should I stay? Time drags on, and I have nothing to do. The prince is as kind to me as anyone could be, yet I don’t feel at ease. We really have nothing in common. He is intelligent, but his intelligence is quite ordinary. His conversation gives me no more pleasure than reading a well-written book. I’ll stay another week, then set off on my travels again. My drawings are the best work I’ve done since I arrived here. The prince has a taste for art. His taste would improve if his mind weren’t restricted by cold rules and purely technical ideas. I often lose patience when I’m expressing my thoughts about art and nature, my imagination full of life. He interrupts with scholarly suggestions and throws around artists’ technical terms at random.

Once more I am a wanderer, a pilgrim, through the world. But what else are you!

Once again, I am a wanderer, a pilgrim traveling through the world. But what else are you!

Whither am I going? I will tell you in confidence. I am obliged to continue a fortnight longer here, and then I think it would be better for me to visit the mines in—. But I am only deluding myself thus. The fact is, I wish to be near Charlotte again, that is all. I smile at the suggestions of my heart, and obey its dictates.

Where am I going? I’ll tell you in confidence. I have to stay here for another two weeks. Then I think it would be better for me to visit the mines in ... But I’m only fooling myself with these plans. The truth is, I want to be near Charlotte again, that is all. I smile at what my heart suggests, and I do as it tells me.

No, no! it is yet well all is well! I her husband! O God, who gave me being, if thou hadst destined this happiness for me, my whole life would have been one continual thanksgiving! But I will not murmur—forgive these tears, forgive these fruitless wishes. She—my wife! Oh, the very thought of folding that dearest of Heaven's creatures in my arms! Dear Wilhelm, my whole frame feels convulsed when I see Albert put his arms around her slender waist!

No, no! All is still well, all is well! Me, her husband! Oh God, you gave me life! If you had meant this happiness for me, my whole life would have been one continuous prayer of thanks! But I will not complain. Forgive these tears, forgive these hopeless wishes. She, my wife! Oh, the very thought of holding that dearest of Heaven’s creatures in my arms! Dear Wilhelm, my whole body shudders when I see Albert put his arms around her slender waist!

And shall I avow it? Why should I not, Wilhelm? She would have been happier with me than with him. Albert is not the man to satisfy the wishes of such a heart. He wants a certain sensibility; he wants—in short, their hearts do not beat in unison. How often, my dear friend, I'm reading a passage from some interesting book, when my heart and Charlotte's seemed to meet, and in a hundred other instances when our sentiments were unfolded by the story of some fictitious character, have I felt that we were made for each other! But, dear Wilhelm, he loves her with his whole soul; and what does not such a love deserve?

And should I admit it? Why shouldn’t I, Wilhelm? She would have been happier with me than with him. Albert is not the man to meet the needs of a heart like hers. He lacks a certain sensitivity. He lacks... In short, their hearts do not beat together. How often, my dear friend, have I read a passage from an interesting book and felt my heart meet Charlotte’s! And in a hundred other moments, a fictional character’s story brought our feelings into the open. How often, in those moments, have I felt we were made for each other! But, dear Wilhelm, he loves her with his whole soul. And what doesn’t a love like that deserve?

I have been interrupted by an insufferable visit. I have dried my tears, and composed my thoughts. Adieu, my best friend!

An unbearable visit interrupted me. I have dried my tears and gathered my thoughts. Goodbye, my best friend!

I am not alone unfortunate. All men are disappointed in their hopes, and deceived in their expectations. I have paid a visit to my good old woman under the lime-trees. The eldest boy ran out to meet me: his exclamation of joy brought out his mother, but she had a very melancholy look. Her first word was, "Alas! dear sir, my little John is dead." He was the youngest of her children. I was silent. "And my husband has returned from Switzerland without any money; and, if some kind people had not assisted him, he must have begged his way home. He was taken ill with fever on his journey." I could answer nothing, but made the little one a present. She invited me to take some fruit: I complied, and left the place with a sorrowful heart.

I am not the only one who is unhappy. All people see their hopes disappointed and their expectations prove false. I visited my good old woman under the lime trees. Her eldest boy ran out to meet me. His joyful cry brought his mother outside, but she looked very sad. Her first words were, "Oh, dear sir, my little John is dead." He was her youngest child. I said nothing. "And my husband has come back from Switzerland without any money. If some kind people had not helped him, he would have had to beg his way home. He fell ill with a fever on the journey." I could find nothing to say, but gave the little one a present. She invited me to have some fruit. I accepted and left with a heavy heart.

My sensations are constantly changing. Sometimes a happy prospect opens before me; but alas! it is only for a moment; and then, when I am lost in reverie, I cannot help saying to myself, "If Albert were to die?—Yes, she would become—and I should be"—and so I pursue a chimera, till it leads me to the edge of a precipice at which I shudder.

My feelings are constantly changing. Sometimes a happy future opens up before me. But sadly, the vision lasts only a moment. Then, when I am lost in daydreams, I cannot help saying to myself, "If Albert were to die? Yes, she would become... and I would be..." And so I chase a fantasy until it leads me to the edge of a cliff, where I shudder.

When I pass through the same gate, and walk along the same road which first conducted me to Charlotte, my heart sinks within me at the change that has since taken place. All, all, is altered! No sentiment, no pulsation of my heart, is the same. My sensations are such as would occur to some departed prince whose spirit should return to visit the superb palace which he had built in happy times, adorned with costly magnificence, and left to a beloved son, but whose glory he should find departed, and its halls deserted and in ruins.

When I pass through the same gate and follow the same road that first led me to Charlotte, my heart sinks. I think of how much has changed since then. Everything, everything has changed! Not one feeling, not one beat of my heart is the same. I feel like some dead prince whose spirit returns to visit the splendid palace he built in happier times. He would have decorated the palace with costly splendor and left it to a beloved son. But on returning, he would find its glory gone and its halls deserted and in ruins.

I sometimes cannot understand how she can love another, how she dares love another, when I love nothing in this world so completely, so devotedly, as I love her, when I know only her, and have no other possession.

Sometimes I can't understand how she can love someone else, or how she dares to. How can she, when I love nothing in this world as completely and devotedly as I love her? How can she, when I know only her and have nothing else?

It is even so! As nature puts on her autumn tints it becomes autumn with me and around me. My leaves are sere and yellow, and the neighbouring trees are divested of their foliage. Do you remember my writing to you about a peasant boy shortly after my arrival here? I have just made inquiries about him in Walheim. They say he has been dismissed from his service, and is now avoided by every one. I met him yesterday on the road, going to a neighbouring village. I spoke to him, and he told me his story. It interested me exceedingly, as you will easily understand when I repeat it to you. But why should I trouble you? Why should I not reserve all my sorrow for myself? Why should I continue to give you occasion to pity and blame me? But no matter: this also is part of my destiny.

So it is! As nature takes on her autumn colors, autumn comes within me and all around me. My leaves are dry and yellow, and the nearby trees have lost their leaves. Do you remember the peasant boy I wrote to you about shortly after I arrived here? I have just asked about him in Walheim. People say he has been dismissed from his job, and everyone now avoids him. I met him yesterday on the road as he was heading to a nearby village. I spoke to him, and he told me his story. His story interested me deeply, as you will easily understand when I tell it to you. But why should I trouble you? Why shouldn't I keep all my sorrow to myself? Why should I keep giving you reasons to pity and blame me? But no matter: this too is part of my fate.

At first the peasant lad answered my inquiries with a sort of subdued melancholy, which seemed to me the mark of a timid disposition; but, as we grew to understand each other, he spoke with less reserve, and openly confessed his faults, and lamented his misfortune. I wish, my dear friend, I could give proper expression to his language. He told me with a sort of pleasurable recollection, that, after my departure, his passion for his mistress increased daily, until at last he neither knew what he did nor what he said, nor what was to become of him. He could neither eat nor drink nor sleep: he felt a sense of suffocation; he disobeyed all orders, and forgot all commands involuntarily; he seemed as if pursued by an evil spirit, till one day, knowing that his mistress had gone to an upper chamber, he had followed, or, rather, been drawn after her. As she proved deaf to his entreaties, he had recourse to violence. He knows not what happened; but he called God to witness that his intentions to her were honourable, and that he desired nothing more sincerely than that they should marry, and pass their lives together. When he had come to this point, he began to hesitate, as if there was something which he had not courage to utter, till at length he acknowledged with some confusion certain little confidences she had encouraged, and liberties she had allowed. He broke off two or three times in his narration, and assured me most earnestly that he had no wish to make her bad, as he termed it, for he loved her still as sincerely as ever; that the tale had never before escaped his lips, and was only now told to convince me that he was not utterly lost and abandoned. And here, my dear friend, I must commence the old song which you know I utter eternally. If I could only represent the man as he stood, and stands now before me, could I only give his true expressions, you would feel compelled to sympathise in his fate. But enough: you, who know my misfortune and my disposition, can easily comprehend the attraction which draws me toward every unfortunate being, but particularly toward him whose story I have recounted.

At first, the young peasant answered my questions with a quiet sadness that seemed to me a sign of shyness. But as we came to understand each other, he spoke more freely. He openly admitted his faults and mourned his misfortune. My dear friend, I wish I could properly convey his words. He seemed to take some pleasure in remembering what he told me. After I left, his passion for his mistress grew stronger every day. At last, he no longer knew what he was doing or saying, or what would become of him. He could neither eat nor drink nor sleep. He felt as though he were suffocating. Without meaning to, he disobeyed all orders and forgot all instructions. He felt as if an evil spirit were chasing him. Then one day, knowing his mistress had gone to an upstairs room, he followed her. Or rather, he felt drawn after her. When she would not listen to his pleas, he turned to violence. He does not know what happened. But he called God to witness that his intentions toward her were honorable. He wanted nothing more sincerely than to marry her and spend their lives together. At this point, he began to hesitate, as if he lacked the courage to say something. At last, with some embarrassment, he admitted that she had encouraged certain small intimacies and allowed him certain liberties. He broke off his story two or three times. He assured me with great earnestness that he had no wish to make her look bad, as he put it. He still loved her as sincerely as ever. He had never told anyone the story before. He was telling me now only to convince me that he was not utterly lost and beyond hope. And here, my dear friend, I must return to the old refrain you know I repeat endlessly. If only I could show you the man as he stood before me, and as I still see him now. If only I could convey his exact words, you would be moved to sympathize with his fate. But enough. You know my misfortune and my nature. You can easily understand what draws me toward every unfortunate person, but especially toward the man whose story I have told.

On perusing this letter a second time, I find I have omitted the conclusion of my tale; but it is easily supplied. She became reserved toward him, at the instigation of her brother who had long hated him, and desired his expulsion from the house, fearing that his sister's second marriage might deprive his children of the handsome fortune they expected from her; as she is childless. He was dismissed at length; and the whole affair occasioned so much scandal, that the mistress dared not take him back, even if she had wished it. She has since hired another servant, with whom, they say, her brother is equally displeased, and whom she is likely to marry; but my informant assures me that he himself is determined not to survive such a catastrophe.

Reading this letter a second time, I see I left out the end of my story. But I can easily add it. She grew distant toward him at her brother's urging. Her brother had long hated him and wanted him out of the house. He feared his sister's second marriage might cost his children the considerable fortune they expected to inherit from her. She has no children. The servant was finally dismissed. The whole affair caused such a scandal that his mistress dared not take him back, even if she wanted to. She has since hired another servant. People say her brother is just as unhappy with the new servant, whom she is likely to marry. But the dismissed servant, who told me this story, assures me he is determined not to survive such a catastrophe.

This story is neither exaggerated nor embellished: indeed, I have weakened and impaired it in the narration, by the necessity of using the more refined expressions of society.

This story is neither exaggerated nor embellished. In fact, I have weakened it in the telling by having to use the polite language society expects.

This love, then, this constancy, this passion, is no poetical fiction. It is actual, and dwells in its greatest purity amongst that class of mankind whom we term rude, uneducated. We are the educated, not the perverted. But read this story with attention, I implore you. I am tranquil to-day, for I have been employed upon this narration: you see by my writing that I am not so agitated as usual. I read and re-read this tale, Wilhelm: it is the history of your friend! My fortune has been and will be similar; and I am neither half so brave nor half so determined as the poor wretch with whom I hesitate to compare myself.

So this love, this faithfulness, this passion is no poet’s invention. It is real, and exists in its purest form among those we call rough and uneducated. We are the educated ones, not the corrupted ones. But please, I beg you, read this story carefully. I am calm today because I have been busy writing this account. You can see from my writing that I am less agitated than usual. I read this story over and over, Wilhelm. It is your friend’s story! My fate has been, and will be, like his. Yet I am not half as brave or half as determined as that poor soul. I hesitate to compare myself to him.

Charlotte had written a letter to her husband in the country, where he was detained by business. It commenced, "My dearest love, return as soon as possible: I await you with a thousand raptures." A friend who arrived, brought word, that, for certain reasons, he could not return immediately. Charlotte's letter was not forwarded, and the same evening it fell into my hands. I read it, and smiled. She asked the reason. "What a heavenly treasure is imagination:" I exclaimed; "I fancied for a moment that this was written to me." She paused, and seemed displeased. I was silent.

Charlotte had written a letter to her husband, who was away in the country on business. It began, "My dearest love, come back as soon as possible: I wait for you with overwhelming joy." A friend arrived with news that, for certain reasons, her husband could not return right away. Charlotte's letter was not sent, and that same evening it fell into my hands. I read the letter and smiled. She asked why. "What a heavenly treasure imagination is!" I exclaimed. "For a moment, I imagined you had written this letter to me." She paused and seemed displeased. I said nothing.

It cost me much to part with the blue coat which I wore the first time I danced with Charlotte. But I could not possibly wear it any longer. But I have ordered a new one, precisely similar, even to the collar and sleeves, as well as a new waistcoat and pantaloons.

It was hard to part with the blue coat I wore the first time I danced with Charlotte. But I could not possibly wear it any longer. But I have ordered a new coat exactly like the old one, right down to the collar and sleeves. I have also ordered a new vest and trousers.

But it does not produce the same effect upon me. I know not how it is, but I hope in time I shall like it better.

But it doesn't have the same effect on me. I don't know why, but I hope I'll like it better with time.

She has been absent for some days. She went to meet Albert. To-day I visited her: she rose to receive me, and I kissed her hand most tenderly.

She has been away for some days. She went to meet Albert. Today I visited her. She stood up to greet me, and I kissed her hand very tenderly.

A canary at the moment flew from a mirror, and settled upon her shoulder. "Here is a new friend," she observed, while she made him perch upon her hand: "he is a present for the children. What a dear he is! Look at him! When I feed him, he flutters with his wings, and pecks so nicely. He kisses me, too, only look!"

Just then, a canary flew from a mirror and landed on her shoulder. "Here is a new friend," she said, letting him perch on her hand. "He is a gift for the children. What a sweet little bird! Look at him! When I feed him, he flutters his wings and pecks so gently. He kisses me, too. Just look!"

She held the bird to her mouth; and he pressed her sweet lips with so much fervour that he seemed to feel the excess of bliss which he enjoyed.

She held the bird to her mouth. He pressed against her sweet lips so eagerly that he seemed overwhelmed by his own joy.

"He shall kiss you too," she added; and then she held the bird toward me. His little beak moved from her mouth to mine, and the delightful sensation seemed like the forerunner of the sweetest bliss.

"He'll kiss you too," she added. Then she held the bird toward me. His little beak moved from her mouth to mine. The delightful sensation seemed like a promise of the sweetest bliss.

"A kiss," I observed, "does not seem to satisfy him: he wishes for food, and seems disappointed by these unsatisfactory endearments."

"A kiss," I said, "doesn't seem to satisfy him. He wants food and seems disappointed by these signs of affection that leave him unsatisfied."

"But he eats out of my mouth," she continued, and extended her lips to him containing seed; and she smiled with all the charm of a being who has allowed an innocent participation of her love.

"But he eats from my mouth," she continued, and held her lips out to him with seed between them. And she smiled with all the charm of someone who has let another innocently share in her love.

I turned my face away. She should not act thus. She ought not to excite my imagination with such displays of heavenly innocence and happiness, nor awaken my heart from its slumbers, in which it dreams of the worthlessness of life! And why not? Because she knows how much I love her.

I turned away. She should not behave like that. She should not stir my imagination with such displays of heavenly innocence and happiness. Nor should she wake my heart from its sleep, where it dreams of life's worthlessness! And why not? Because she knows how much I love her.

It makes me wretched, Wilhelm, to think that there should be men incapable of appreciating the few things which possess a real value in life. You remember the walnut trees at S—, under which I used to sit with Charlotte, during my visits to the worthy old vicar. Those glorious trees, the very sight of which has so often filled my heart with joy, how they adorned and refreshed the parsonage yard, with their wide-extended branches! and how pleasing was our remembrance of the good old pastor, by whose hands they were planted so many years ago: The schoolmaster has frequently mentioned his name. He had it from his grandfather. He must have been a most excellent man; and, under the shade of those old trees, his memory was ever venerated by me. The schoolmaster informed us yesterday, with tears in his eyes, that those trees had been felled. Yes, cut to the ground! I could, in my wrath, have slain the monster who struck the first stroke. And I must endure this!—I, who, if I had had two such trees in my own court, and one had died from old age, should have wept with real affliction. But there is some comfort left, such a thing is sentiment, the whole village murmurs at the misfortune; and I hope the vicar's wife will soon find, by the cessation of the villagers' presents, how much she has wounded the feelings of the neighborhhood. It was she who did it, the wife of the present incumbent (our good old man is dead), a tall, sickly creature who is so far right to disregard the world, as the world totally disregards her. The silly being affects to be learned, pretends to examine the canonical books, lends her aid toward the new-fashioned reformation of Christendom, moral and critical, and shrugs up her shoulders at the mention of Lavater's enthusiasm. Her health is destroyed, on account of which she is prevented from having any enjoyment here below. Only such a creature could have cut down my walnut trees! I can never pardon it. Hear her reasons. The falling leaves made the court wet and dirty; the branches obstructed the light; boys threw stones at the nuts when they were ripe, and the noise affected her nerves; and disturbed her profound meditations, when she was weighing the difficulties of Kennicot, Semler, and Michaelis. Finding that all the parish, particularly the old people, were displeased, I asked "why they allowed it?" "Ah, sir!" they replied, "when the steward orders, what can we poor peasants do?" But one thing has happened well. The steward and the vicar (who, for once, thought to reap some advantage from the caprices of his wife) intended to divide the trees between them. The revenue-office, being informed of it, revived an old claim to the ground where the trees had stood, and sold them to the best bidder. There they still lie on the ground. If I were the sovereign, I should know how to deal with them all, vicar, steward, and revenue-office. Sovereign, did I say? I should, in that case, care little about the trees that grew in the country.

It makes me miserable, Wilhelm, to think some men cannot appreciate the few things in life that truly matter. You remember the walnut trees at S, where I used to sit with Charlotte when visiting the good old vicar. Those magnificent trees so often filled my heart with joy just at the sight of them! How their spreading branches beautified and cooled the parsonage yard! And how fondly we remembered the good old pastor who had planted them so many years before. The schoolmaster has often mentioned his name, which he learned from his grandfather. The pastor must have been a truly excellent man. Under the shade of those old trees, I always honored his memory. Yesterday, the schoolmaster told us, with tears in his eyes, that those trees had been cut down. Yes, cut to the ground! In my rage, I could have killed the monster who struck the first blow. And I must put up with this! If I had owned two such trees in my courtyard, and one had died of old age, I would have wept with genuine grief. But there is some comfort left, such is the power of feeling. The whole village is grumbling about the loss. I hope the vicar's wife will soon discover how deeply she has hurt the neighborhood when the villagers stop bringing gifts. She was the one responsible, the wife of the present vicar. Our good old man is dead. She is a tall, sickly creature. She is right to disregard the world, at least in this respect: the world disregards her completely. The foolish woman puts on a show of learning and pretends to study the books of the Bible. She helps with the fashionable moral and critical reform of Christendom, and shrugs at any mention of Lavater's enthusiasm. Her health is ruined, and so she can enjoy nothing in this world. Only such a creature could have cut down my walnut trees! I can never forgive her. Listen to her reasons. The falling leaves made the courtyard wet and dirty. The branches blocked the light. Boys threw stones at the ripe nuts, and the noise upset her nerves. Their noise also disturbed her deep reflections as she weighed the difficulties raised by Kennicot, Semler, and Michaelis. When I found that the whole parish, especially the old people, was unhappy, I asked, "Why did you allow it?" "Ah, sir!" they replied, "when the steward gives an order, what can we poor peasants do?" But one thing has turned out well. The steward and the vicar intended to divide the trees between them. For once, the vicar had hoped to gain something from his wife's whims. When the revenue office heard about their plan, it revived an old claim to the land where the trees had stood. Then the office sold the trees to the highest bidder. The trees are still lying there on the ground. If I were the sovereign, I would know how to deal with them all: vicar, steward, and revenue office. Sovereign, did I say? In that case, I would care little about the trees growing in the country.

Only to gaze upon her dark eyes is to me a source of happiness! And what grieves me, is, that Albert does not seem so happy as he—hoped to be—as I should have been—if—I am no friend to these pauses, but here I cannot express it otherwise; and probably I am explicit enough.

Just looking into her dark eyes makes me happy! What saddens me is that Albert doesn't seem as happy as he... hoped to be... as I would have been... if... I don't like these pauses, but here I can't express myself any other way. And I've probably made myself clear enough.

Ossian has superseded Homer in my heart. To what a world does the illustrious bard carry me! To wander over pathless wilds, surrounded by impetuous whirlwinds, where, by the feeble light of the moon, we see the spirits of our ancestors; to hear from the mountain-tops, mid the roar of torrents, their plaintive sounds issuing from deep caverns, and the sorrowful lamentations of a maiden who sighs and expires on the mossy tomb of the warrior by whom she was adored. I meet this bard with silver hair; he wanders in the valley; he seeks the footsteps of his fathers, and, alas! he finds only their tombs. Then, contemplating the pale moon, as she sinks beneath the waves of the rolling sea, the memory of bygone days strikes the mind of the hero, days when approaching danger invigorated the brave, and the moon shone upon his bark laden with spoils, and returning in triumph. When I read in his countenance deep sorrow, when I see his dying glory sink exhausted into the grave, as he inhales new and heart-thrilling delight from his approaching union with his beloved, and he casts a look on the cold earth and the tall grass which is so soon to cover him, and then exclaims, "The traveller will come,—he will come who has seen my beauty, and he will ask, 'Where is the bard, where is the illustrious son of Fingal?' He will walk over my tomb, and will seek me in vain!" Then, O my friend, I could instantly, like a true and noble knight, draw my sword, and deliver my prince from the long and painful languor of a living death, and dismiss my own soul to follow the demigod whom my hand had set free!

Ossian has taken Homer’s place in my heart. What a world this great bard carries me into! I wander through trackless wilderness, surrounded by fierce whirlwinds. In the faint moonlight, we see the spirits of our ancestors. From the mountaintops, amid roaring torrents, I hear their mournful voices rising from deep caves. I hear, too, the sorrowful cries of a young woman. She sighs and dies on the mossy tomb of the warrior who adored her. I meet this silver-haired bard wandering through the valley. He searches for traces of his ancestors, but alas, he finds only their tombs. Then he watches the pale moon sink beneath the waves of the rolling sea. Memories of past days flood the hero’s mind. In those days, approaching danger gave the brave new strength. The moon shone on his boat as he returned in triumph, loaded with spoils. I read deep sorrow in his face. I see his fading glory sink, exhausted, into the grave. Yet the thought of soon joining his beloved fills him with fresh delight that thrills his heart. He looks at the cold earth and the tall grass that will soon cover him. Then he cries, "The traveller will come. He will come who has seen my beauty, and he will ask, 'Where is the bard? Where is the great son of Fingal?' He will walk over my tomb and search for me in vain!" Then, my friend, I could draw my sword at once, like a true and noble knight. I could free my prince from the long, painful weariness of a living death. And I could send my own soul after the demigod my hand had set free!

Alas! the void the fearful void, which I feel in my bosom! Sometimes I think, if I could only once but once, press her to my heart, this dreadful void would be filled.

Oh, the emptiness, the terrible emptiness I feel in my chest! Sometimes I think, if I could hold her to my heart just once, only once, this dreadful emptiness would disappear.

Yes, I feel certain, Wilhelm, and every day I become more certain, that the existence of any being whatever is of very little consequence. A friend of Charlotte's called to see her just now. I withdrew into a neighbouring apartment, and took up a book; but, finding I could not read, I sat down to write. I heard them converse in an undertone: they spoke upon indifferent topics, and retailed the news of the town. One was going to be married; another was ill, very ill, she had a dry cough, her face was growing thinner daily, and she had occasional fits. "N— is very unwell too," said Charlotte. "His limbs begin to swell already," answered the other; and my lively imagination carried me at once to the beds of the infirm. There I see them struggling against death, with all the agonies of pain and horror; and these women, Wilhelm, talk of all this with as much indifference as one would mention the death of a stranger. And when I look around the apartment where I now am—when I see Charlotte's apparel lying before me, and Albert's writings, and all those articles of furniture which are so familiar to me, even to the very inkstand which I am using,—when I think what I am to this family—everything. My friends esteem me; I often contribute to their happiness, and my heart seems as if it could not beat without them; and yet—-if I were to die, if I were to be summoned from the midst of this circle, would they feel—or how long would they feel the void which my loss would make in their existence? How long! Yes, such is the frailty of man, that even there, where he has the greatest consciousness of his own being, where he makes the strongest and most forcible impression, even in the memory, in the heart, of his beloved, there also he must perish,—vanish,—and that quickly.

Yes, I feel certain, Wilhelm, and every day I grow more certain that any being’s existence matters very little. A friend of Charlotte’s came to see her just now. I went into the next room and picked up a book. But I found I could not read, so I sat down to write. I heard them talking quietly about ordinary things, sharing news of the town. One person was getting married. Another was ill, very ill. She had a dry cough, her face grew thinner every day, and she sometimes had fits. "N is very unwell too," said Charlotte. "His limbs are already beginning to swell," her friend answered. My vivid imagination immediately carried me to the beds of the sick. There I see them struggling against death, suffering all the agonies of pain and terror. And these women, Wilhelm, talk about all this as casually as someone might mention a stranger’s death. And when I look around the room where I am now, I see Charlotte’s clothes and Albert’s papers before me. I see all the furniture so familiar to me, down to the very inkstand I am using. Then I think about what I mean to this family: everything. My friends value me. I often add to their happiness, and I feel as if my heart could not beat without them. And yet, if I died, if I were called away from this circle, would they feel the emptiness I left? Or how long would they feel that emptiness in their lives? How long! Yes, human beings are so fragile. Even where we feel our own existence most strongly, where we make the deepest and most powerful impression, we must disappear. Even in the memory, in the heart, of the person we love, we must perish, vanish, and quickly.

I could tear open my bosom with vexation to think how little we are capable of influencing the feelings of each other. No one can communicate to me those sensations of love, joy, rapture, and delight which I do not naturally possess; and, though my heart may glow with the most lively affection, I cannot make the happiness of one in whom the same warmth is not inherent.

I could tear open my chest in frustration at how little we can influence each other’s feelings. No one can give me feelings of love, joy, ecstasy, and delight that I do not naturally possess. And though my heart may glow with the deepest affection, I cannot make someone happy who lacks that same warmth.

I possess so much, but my love for her absorbs it all. I possess so much, but without her I have nothing.

I have so much, but my love for her consumes it all. I have so much, but without her I have nothing.

One hundred times have I been on the point of embracing her. Heavens! what a torment it is to see so much loveliness passing and repassing before us, and yet not dare to lay hold of it! And laying hold is the most natural of human instincts. Do not children touch everything they see? And I!

A hundred times I have been about to embrace her. Heavens! What torture to see such beauty passing back and forth before us, yet not dare to reach for it! And reaching for what we see is the most natural human instinct. Don’t children touch everything they see? And I!

Witness, Heaven, how often I lie down in my bed with a wish, and even a hope, that I may never awaken again. And in the morning, when I open my eyes, I behold the sun once more, and am wretched. If I were whimsical, I might blame the weather, or an acquaintance, or some personal disappointment, for my discontented mind; and then this insupportable load of trouble would not rest entirely upon myself. But, alas! I feel it too sadly. I am alone the cause of my own woe, am I not? Truly, my own bosom contains the source of all my sorrow, as it previously contained the source of all my pleasure. Am I not the same being who once enjoyed an excess of happiness, who, at every step, saw paradise open before him, and whose heart was ever expanded toward the whole world? And this heart is now dead, no sentiment can revive it; my eyes are dry; and my senses, no more refreshed by the influence of soft tears, wither and consume my brain. I suffer much, for I have lost the only charm of life: that active, sacred power which created worlds around me,—it is no more. When I look from my window at the distant hills, and behold the morning sun breaking through the mists, and illuminating the country around, which is still wrapped in silence, whilst the soft stream winds gently through the willows, which have shed their leaves; when glorious nature displays all her beauties before me, and her wondrous prospects are ineffectual to extract one tear of joy from my withered heart, I feel that in such a moment I stand like a reprobate before heaven, hardened, insensible, and unmoved. Oftentimes do I then bend my knee to the earth, and implore God for the blessing of tears, as the desponding labourer in some scorching climate prays for the dews of heaven to moisten his parched corn.

Heaven, bear witness to how often I lie down in bed wishing, even hoping, never to wake again. And in the morning, when I open my eyes, I see the sun again and feel miserable. If I were given to passing fancies, I might blame the weather, an acquaintance, or some personal disappointment for my unhappiness. Then the burden of this unbearable suffering would not fall entirely on me. But, alas, I feel the truth all too painfully. I alone cause my own misery, don’t I? Truly, my own heart holds the source of all my sorrow, just as it once held all my joy. Am I not the same person who once knew overwhelming happiness? Did I not see paradise opening before me at every step, my heart always reaching out to the whole world? And now my heart is dead. No feeling can bring it back to life. My eyes are dry. My senses, no longer refreshed by gentle tears, wither and burn away my mind. I suffer deeply because I have lost the only thing that made life beautiful. That living, sacred power that created worlds around me is gone. I look out my window at the distant hills. I see the morning sun breaking through the mist and lighting up the countryside, still wrapped in silence. The gentle stream winds softly through the willows, which have lost their leaves. Yet when glorious nature shows me all her beauty, those wondrous views cannot draw one joyful tear from my withered heart. At such moments, I feel I stand before heaven like a condemned sinner, hardened, unfeeling, and unmoved. Often, then, I kneel on the ground and beg God for the blessing of tears. I pray as a despairing farmer in a scorching land prays for heaven’s dew to moisten his parched grain.

But I feel that God does not grant sunshine or rain to our importunate entreaties. And oh, those bygone days, whose memory now torments me! why were they so fortunate? Because I then waited with patience for the blessings of the Eternal, and received his gifts with the grateful feelings of a thankful heart.

But I feel that God does not send sunshine or rain in response to our persistent pleas. And oh, those days gone by! Their memory torments me now. Why were those days so happy? Because back then I waited patiently for the blessings of the Eternal and received his gifts with a grateful heart.

Charlotte has reproved me for my excesses, with so much tenderness and goodness! I have lately been in the habit of drinking more wine than heretofore. "Don't do it," she said. "Think of Charlotte!" "Think of you!" I answered; "need you bid me do so? Think of you—I do not think of you: you are ever before my soul! This very morning I sat on the spot where, a few days ago, you descended from the carriage, and—" She immediately changed the subject to prevent me from pursuing it farther. My dear friend, my energies are all prostrated: she can do with me what she pleases.

Charlotte has scolded me for my excesses with such tenderness and kindness! Lately, I have been drinking more wine than I used to. "Don't do it," she said. "Think of Charlotte!" "Think of you!" I answered. "Do you need to tell me to do that? Think of you? I don't think of you. You are always before my soul! Just this morning, I sat where you stepped out of the carriage a few days ago, and..." She immediately changed the subject to stop me from saying more. My dear friend, all my strength is gone. She can do whatever she pleases with me.

I thank you, Wilhelm, for your cordial sympathy, for your excellent advice; and I implore you to be quiet. Leave me to my sufferings. In spite of my wretchedness, I have still strength enough for endurance. I revere religion—you know I do. I feel that it can impart strength to the feeble and comfort to the afflicted, but does it affect all men equally? Consider this vast universe: you will see thousands for whom it has never existed, thousands for whom it will never exist, whether it be preached to them, or not; and must it, then, necessarily exist for me? Does not the Son of God himself say that they are his whom the Father has given to him? Have I been given to him? What if the Father will retain me for himself, as my heart sometimes suggests? I pray you, do not misinterpret this. Do not extract derision from my harmless words. I pour out my whole soul before you. Silence were otherwise preferable to me, but I need not shrink from a subject of which few know more than I do myself. What is the destiny of man, but to fill up the measure of his sufferings, and to drink his allotted cup of bitterness? And if that same cup proved bitter to the God of heaven, under a human form, why should I affect a foolish pride, and call it sweet? Why should I be ashamed of shrinking at that fearful moment, when my whole being will tremble between existence and annihilation, when a remembrance of the past, like a flash of lightning, will illuminate the dark gulf of futurity, when everything shall dissolve around me, and the whole world vanish away? Is not this the voice of a creature oppressed beyond all resource, self-deficient, about to plunge into inevitable destruction, and groaning deeply at its inadequate strength, "My God! my God! why hast thou forsaken me?" And should I feel ashamed to utter the same expression? Should I not shudder at a prospect which had its fears, even for him who folds up the heavens like a garment?

Thank you, Wilhelm, for your heartfelt sympathy and excellent advice. But I beg you to say no more. Leave me to my suffering. Despite my misery, I still have the strength to endure. I deeply respect religion, as you know. I feel that religion can strengthen the weak and comfort those who suffer. But does religion affect everyone equally? Look at this vast universe. You will see thousands for whom religion has never existed, and thousands for whom it never will. That remains true whether religion is preached to them or not. Must religion, then, necessarily exist for me? Doesn't the Son of God himself say that those whom the Father has given him belong to him? Have I been given to him? What if the Father means to keep me for himself, as my heart sometimes suggests? Please do not misunderstand me. Do not read mockery into my harmless words. I am opening my whole soul to you. Otherwise, I would rather remain silent. But I need not shy away from a subject that few understand better than I do. What is human destiny but to endure our full measure of suffering and drink our allotted cup of bitterness? And if that same cup tasted bitter to the God of heaven in human form, why pretend otherwise? Why should I be foolishly proud and call the cup sweet? Why should I be ashamed to shrink back at that terrifying moment, when my whole being trembles between existence and annihilation? At that moment, a memory of the past will light up the dark gulf of the future like lightning. Everything around me will dissolve, and the whole world will vanish. Isn't the cry, "My God! my God! why have you forsaken me?" the voice of a creature crushed beyond help? Isn't it the voice of someone unable to sustain himself, about to plunge into inevitable destruction? Doesn't that creature groan deeply because his strength is not enough? And should I be ashamed to utter the same words? Shouldn't I shudder at a prospect that frightened even him who folds up the heavens like a garment?

She does not feel, she does not know, that she is preparing a poison which will destroy us both; and I drink deeply of the draught which is to prove my destruction. What mean those looks of kindness with which she often—often? no, not often, but sometimes, regards me, that complacency with which she hears the involuntary sentiments which frequently escape me, and the tender pity for my sufferings which appears in her countenance?

She does not feel or know that she is preparing a poison that will destroy us both. And I drink deeply of the poison that will destroy me. What do her kind looks mean, the looks she gives me so often? Often? No, not often, but sometimes. What does her pleasure mean as she listens to the feelings I so often let slip without meaning to? And what does the tender pity for my suffering in her face mean?

Yesterday, when I took leave she seized me by the hand, and said, "Adieu, dear Werther." Dear Werther! It was the first time she ever called me dear: the sound sunk deep into my heart. I have repeated it a hundred times; and last night, on going to bed, and talking to myself of various things, I suddenly said, "Good night, dear Werther!" and then could not but laugh at myself.

Yesterday, as I was saying goodbye, she took my hand and said, "Goodbye, dear Werther." Dear Werther! She had never called me dear before. The sound of those words sank deep into my heart. I have repeated them a hundred times. Last night, as I was going to bed, I was talking to myself about various things. Suddenly I said, "Good night, dear Werther!" Then I couldn't help laughing at myself.

I cannot pray, "Leave her to me!" and yet she often seems to belong to me. I cannot pray, "Give her to me!" for she is another's. In this way I affect mirth over my troubles; and, if I had time, I could compose a whole litany of antitheses.

I cannot pray, "Let her stay mine!" Yet she often seems to belong to me. I cannot pray, "Give her to me!" because she belongs to someone else. In this way, I pretend to laugh at my troubles. And if I had time, I could write a whole litany of contradictions.

She is sensible of my sufferings. This morning her look pierced my very soul. I found her alone, and she was silent: she steadfastly surveyed me. I no longer saw in her face the charms of beauty or the fire of genius: these had disappeared. But I was affected by an expression much more touching, a look of the deepest sympathy and of the softest pity. Why was I afraid to throw myself at her feet? Why did I not dare to take her in my arms, and answer her by a thousand kisses? She had recourse to her piano for relief, and in a low and sweet voice accompanied the music with delicious sounds. Her lips never appeared so lovely: they seemed but just to open, that they might imbibe the sweet tones which issued from the instrument, and return the heavenly vibration from her lovely mouth. Oh! who can express my sensations? I was quite overcome, and, bending down, pronounced this vow: "Beautiful lips, which the angels guard, never will I seek to profane your purity with a kiss." And yet, my friend, oh, I wish—but my heart is darkened by doubt and indecision—could I but taste felicity, and then die to expiate the sin! What sin?

She knows how much I suffer. This morning, her gaze pierced my soul. I found her alone, and she said nothing. She looked steadily at me. I no longer saw beauty’s charm or the fire of genius in her face. Both had vanished. But her expression moved me far more deeply, with its profound sympathy and tender pity. Why was I afraid to throw myself at her feet? Why didn’t I dare take her in my arms and answer her with a thousand kisses? She turned to her piano for relief and sang sweetly along in a soft, low voice. Her lips had never looked so lovely. They seemed to part only to drink in the instrument’s sweet notes and send those heavenly vibrations from her lovely mouth. Oh, who can describe what I felt? I was completely overwhelmed. Bending down, I made this vow: "Beautiful lips, guarded by angels, I will never seek to stain your purity with a kiss." And yet, my friend, oh, I wish. But doubt and indecision darken my heart. If only I could taste such happiness, then die to atone for the sin! What sin?

Oftentimes I say to myself, "Thou alone art wretched: all other mortals are happy, none are distressed like thee!" Then I read a passage in an ancient poet, and I seem to understand my own heart. I have so much to endure! Have men before me ever been so wretched?

I often say to myself, "You alone are miserable. Everyone else is happy. No one suffers like you!" Then I read a passage by an ancient poet, and I seem to understand my own heart. I have so much to endure! Have people before me ever been so miserable?

I shall never be myself again! Wherever I go, some fatality occurs to distract me. Even to-day alas—for our destiny! alas for human nature!

I’ll never be myself again! Wherever I go, some misfortune unsettles me. Even today! Oh, our fate! Oh, human nature!

About dinner-time I went to walk by the river-side, for I had no appetite. Everything around seemed gloomy: a cold and damp easterly wind blew from the mountains, and black, heavy clouds spread over the plain. I observed at a distance a man in a tattered coat: he was wandering among the rocks, and seemed to be looking for plants. When I approached, he turned round at the noise; and I saw that he had an interesting countenance in which a settled melancholy, strongly marked by benevolence, formed the principal feature. His long black hair was divided, and flowed over his shoulders. As his garb betokened a person of the lower order, I thought he would not take it ill if I inquired about his business; and I therefore asked what he was seeking. He replied, with a deep sigh, that he was looking for flowers, and could find none. "But it is not the season," I observed, with a smile. "Oh, there are so many flowers!" he answered, as he came nearer to me. "In my garden there are roses and honeysuckles of two sorts: one sort was given to me by my father! they grow as plentifully as weeds; I have been looking for them these two days, and cannot find them. There are flowers out there, yellow, blue, and red; and that centaury has a very pretty blossom: but I can find none of them." I observed his peculiarity, and therefore asked him, with an air of indifference, what he intended to do with his flowers. A strange smile overspread his countenance. Holding his finger to his mouth, he expressed a hope that I would not betray him; and he then informed me that he had promised to gather a nosegay for his mistress. "That is right," said I. "Oh!" he replied, "she possesses many other things as well: she is very rich." "And yet," I continued, "she likes your nosegays." "Oh, she has jewels and crowns!" he exclaimed. I asked who she was. "If the states-general would but pay me," he added, "I should be quite another man. Alas! there was a time when I was so happy; but that is past, and I am now—" He raised his swimming eyes to heaven. "And you were happy once?" I observed. "Ah, would I were so still!" was his reply. "I was then as gay and contented as a man can be." An old woman, who was coming toward us, now called out, "Henry, Henry! where are you? We have been looking for you everywhere: come to dinner." "Is he your son?" I inquired, as I went toward her. "Yes," she said: "he is my poor, unfortunate son. The Lord has sent me a heavy affliction." I asked whether he had been long in this state. She answered, "He has been as calm as he is at present for about six months. I thank Heaven that he has so far recovered: he was for one whole year quite raving, and chained down in a madhouse. Now he injures no one, but talks of nothing else than kings and queens. He used to be a very good, quiet youth, and helped to maintain me; he wrote a very fine hand; but all at once he became melancholy, was seized with a violent fever, grew distracted, and is now as you see. If I were only to tell you, sir—" I interrupted her by asking what period it was in which he boasted of having been so happy. "Poor boy!" she exclaimed, with a smile of compassion, "he means the time when he was completely deranged, a time he never ceases to regret, when he was in the madhouse, and unconscious of everything." I was thunderstruck: I placed a piece of money in her hand, and hastened away.

Around dinnertime, I went for a walk by the river because I had no appetite. Everything around me seemed gloomy. A cold, damp east wind blew from the mountains, and heavy black clouds spread over the plain. In the distance, I noticed a man in a tattered coat. He was wandering among the rocks and seemed to be looking for plants. As I approached, he heard me and turned around. His face caught my attention. A deep, lasting sadness was its most striking feature, but there was great kindness in it too. His long black hair was parted and fell over his shoulders. His clothes suggested he was of the lower class. So I thought he would not mind if I asked what he was doing. I asked what he was looking for. With a deep sigh, he said he was looking for flowers but could find none. "But flowers aren't in season," I said with a smile. "Oh, there are so many flowers!" he answered, coming closer. "In my garden there are roses and two kinds of honeysuckle. My father gave me one kind! They grow as thickly as weeds. I've been looking for them for two days and can't find them. There are flowers out there, yellow, blue, and red. And that centaury has a very pretty flower, but I can't find any of them." I noticed his strange manner, so I asked, as though casually, what he meant to do with his flowers. A strange smile spread across his face. He put a finger to his lips and said he hoped I would not betray him. Then he told me he had promised to gather a bouquet for his beloved. "That's right," I said. "Oh!" he replied. "She has many other things as well. She's very rich." "And yet," I continued, "she likes your bouquets." "Oh, she has jewels and crowns!" he exclaimed. I asked who she was. "If only the states-general would pay me," he added, "I would be quite a different man. Alas! There was a time when I was so happy. But those days are gone, and now I am..." He raised his tear-filled eyes to heaven. "And you were happy once?" I asked. "Ah, if only I were still happy!" he replied. "Back then, I was as cheerful and content as a man can be." An old woman was coming toward us. She called out, "Henry, Henry! Where are you? We've been looking for you everywhere. Come to dinner." "Is he your son?" I asked, walking toward her. "Yes," she said. "He's my poor, unfortunate son. The Lord has sent me a heavy burden." I asked whether he had been in this condition for long. "He's been as calm as he is now for about six months," she answered. "I thank Heaven that he's recovered so much. For a whole year, he was completely out of his mind and chained down in an asylum. Now he harms no one, but he talks of nothing except kings and queens. He used to be a very good, quiet young man and helped support me. He had very fine handwriting. But suddenly he became deeply sad, came down with a violent fever, and lost his mind. And now he's as you see him. If I were only to tell you, sir..." I interrupted her to ask which period he meant when he spoke so proudly of having been happy. "Poor boy!" she exclaimed with a pitying smile. "He means the time when he was completely out of his mind. He never stops longing for those days, when he was in the asylum and unaware of everything." I was stunned. I put a coin in her hand and hurried away.

"You were happy!" I exclaimed, as I returned quickly to the town, "'as gay and contented as a man can be!'" God of heaven! and is this the destiny of man? Is he only happy before he has acquired his reason, or after he has lost it? Unfortunate being! And yet I envy your fate: I envy the delusion to which you are a victim. You go forth with joy to gather flowers for your princess,—in winter,—and grieve when you can find none, and cannot understand why they do not grow. But I wander forth without joy, without hope, without design; and I return as I came. You fancy what a man you would be if the states general paid you. Happy mortal, who can ascribe your wretchedness to an earthly cause! You do not know, you do not feel, that in your own distracted heart and disordered brain dwells the source of that unhappiness which all the potentates on earth cannot relieve.

"You were happy!" I cried as I hurried back to town. "'As cheerful and content as a man can be!'" God in heaven! Is this man's fate? Is he happy only before he gains his reason, or after he loses it? You poor soul! And yet I envy your fate. I envy the delusion that holds you captive. You go out joyfully to gather flowers for your princess, in winter. You grieve when you find none and cannot understand why flowers do not grow. But I wander without joy, without hope, without purpose. And I return just as I left. You imagine what a man you would be if the states general paid you. How lucky you are to blame your misery on an earthly cause! You do not know or feel that the source of your unhappiness lies in your troubled heart and disordered mind. All the rulers on earth cannot relieve that unhappiness.

Let that man die unconsoled who can deride the invalid for undertaking a journey to distant, healthful springs, where he often finds only a heavier disease and a more painful death, or who can exult over the despairing mind of a sinner, who, to obtain peace of conscience and an alleviation of misery, makes a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre. Each laborious step which galls his wounded feet in rough and untrodden paths pours a drop of balm into his troubled soul, and the journey of many a weary day brings a nightly relief to his anguished heart. Will you dare call this enthusiasm, ye crowd of pompous declaimers? Enthusiasm! O God! thou seest my tears. Thou hast allotted us our portion of misery: must we also have brethren to persecute us, to deprive us of our consolation, of our trust in thee, and in thy love and mercy? For our trust in the virtue of the healing root, or in the strength of the vine, what is it else than a belief in thee from whom all that surrounds us derives its healing and restoring powers? Father, whom I know not,—who wert once wont to fill my soul, but who now hidest thy face from me,—call me back to thee; be silent no longer; thy silence shall not delay a soul which thirsts after thee. What man, what father, could be angry with a son for returning to him suddenly, for falling on his neck, and exclaiming, "I am here again, my father! forgive me if I have anticipated my journey, and returned before the appointed time! The world is everywhere the same,—a scene of labour and pain, of pleasure and reward; but what does it all avail? I am happy only where thou art, and in thy presence am I content to suffer or enjoy." And wouldst thou, heavenly Father, banish such a child from thy presence?

Let anyone who mocks a sick person die without comfort. The sick person travels to distant healing springs, often only to find worse illness and a more painful death. Let anyone who gloats over a sinner’s despair meet the same fate. The sinner makes a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre to ease his conscience and relieve his misery. Each painful step along rough, untrodden paths scrapes his wounded feet, yet soothes his troubled soul a little. The journey through many weary days brings his anguished heart relief each night. Do you dare call such devotion fanaticism, you crowd of pompous speechmakers? Fanaticism! O God! You see my tears. You have given us our share of misery. Must our fellow human beings also persecute us? Must they rob us of our comfort, our trust in you, and our faith in your love and mercy? We trust in the power of a healing root or the strength of the vine. What is such trust but belief in you, who gives everything around us its power to heal and restore? Father, I do not know you. You once filled my soul, but now you hide your face from me. Call me back to you. Be silent no longer. Your silence will not hold back a soul that thirsts for you. What man, what father, could be angry with a son for suddenly returning to him? Could he be angry when his son throws his arms around his neck and cries, "I am here again, Father! Forgive me if I have cut my journey short and returned before the appointed time! The world is the same everywhere, a place of work and pain, of pleasure and reward. But what good is any of it? I am happy only where you are. In your presence, I am content to suffer or to enjoy life." And would you, heavenly Father, banish such a child from your presence?

Wilhelm, the man about whom I wrote to you—that man so enviable in his misfortunes—was secretary to Charlotte's father; and an unhappy passion for her which he cherished, concealed, and at length discovered, caused him to be dismissed from his situation. This made him mad. Think, whilst you peruse this plain narration, what an impression the circumstance has made upon me! But it was related to me by Albert with as much calmness as you will probably peruse it.

Wilhelm, the man I wrote to you about was secretary to Charlotte's father. He was so enviable in his misfortunes. He secretly nursed an unhappy love for her, and when his feelings finally came to light, he was dismissed. Losing his position drove him mad. As you read this plain account, think how deeply these events have affected me! Yet Albert told me the story as calmly as you will probably read it.

I implore your attention. It is all over with me. I can support this state no longer. To-day I was sitting by Charlotte. She was playing upon her piano a succession of delightful melodies, with such intense expression! Her little sister was dressing her doll upon my lap. The tears came into my eyes. I leaned down, and looked intently at her wedding-ring: my tears fell—immediately she began to play that favourite, that divine, air which has so often enchanted me. I felt comfort from a recollection of the past, of those bygone days when that air was familiar to me; and then I recalled all the sorrows and the disappointments which I had since endured. I paced with hasty strides through the room, my heart became convulsed with painful emotions. At length I went up to her, and exclaimed With eagerness, "For Heaven's sake, play that air no longer!" She stopped, and looked steadfastly at me. She then said, with a smile which sunk deep into my heart, "Werther, you are ill: your dearest food is distasteful to you. But go, I entreat you, and endeavour to compose yourself." I tore myself away. God, thou seest my torments, and wilt end them!

I beg you to listen. It is all over for me. I can no longer bear to live like this. Today I was sitting beside Charlotte. She was playing one beautiful melody after another on her piano, with such intense feeling! Her little sister was dressing her doll in my lap. Tears filled my eyes. I leaned down and stared at Charlotte’s wedding ring. My tears fell. Immediately she began to play my favorite, that heavenly tune that has so often enchanted me. Memories of the past comforted me, of those days long ago when the tune was familiar to me. Then I remembered all the sorrows and disappointments I had endured since. I paced quickly across the room, my heart gripped by painful emotions. At last I went up to her and cried urgently, "For heaven’s sake, stop playing that tune!" She stopped and looked steadily at me. Then, with a smile that sank deep into my heart, she said, "Werther, you are ill. Even your favorite food tastes unpleasant to you. But please go and try to calm yourself." I tore myself away. God, you see my torments, and you will end them!

How her image haunts me! Waking or asleep, she fills my entire soul! Soon as I close my eyes, here, in my brain, where all the nerves of vision are concentrated, her dark eyes are imprinted. Here—I do not know how to describe it; but, if I shut my eyes, hers are immediately before me: dark as an abyss they open upon me, and absorb my senses.

How her image haunts me! Awake or asleep, she fills my whole soul! As soon as I close my eyes, her dark eyes are imprinted here in my brain. They appear where all the nerves of sight come together. I do not know how to describe it. But if I close my eyes, hers are immediately before me. Dark as an abyss, her eyes open before me and swallow up my senses.

And what is man—that boasted demigod? Do not his powers fail when he most requires their use? And whether he soar in joy, or sink in sorrow, is not his career in both inevitably arrested? And, whilst he fondly dreams that he is grasping at infinity, does he not feel compelled to return to a consciousness of his cold, monotonous existence?

And what is man, this much-praised demigod? Don’t his powers fail him when he needs them most? And whether he soars with joy or sinks into sorrow, isn’t he inevitably stopped short in either state? And while he happily dreams of reaching for infinity, isn’t he forced back into awareness of his cold, monotonous existence?

It is a matter of extreme regret that we want original evidence of the last remarkable days of our friend; and we are, therefore, obliged to interrupt the progress of his correspondence, and to supply the deficiency by a connected narration.

We deeply regret the lack of firsthand evidence about our friend's last remarkable days. We must therefore interrupt his letters and fill the gap with a continuous account.

I have felt it my duty to collect accurate information from the mouths of persons well acquainted with his history. The story is simple; and all the accounts agree, except in some unimportant particulars. It is true, that, with respect to the characters of the persons spoken of, opinions and judgments vary.

I felt it was my duty to gather accurate information directly from people who knew his history well. The story is simple, and all the accounts agree, except on some minor details. Still, opinions and judgments about the character of the people mentioned do vary.

We have only, then, to relate conscientiously the facts which our diligent labour has enabled us to collect, to give the letters of the deceased, and to pay particular attention to the slightest fragment from his pen, more especially as it is so difficult to discover the real and correct motives of men who are not of the common order.

All that remains, then, is to report faithfully the facts we have gathered through careful work. We must present the dead man's letters and pay close attention to even the smallest fragment he wrote. This care is especially important because the true motives of men who are out of the ordinary are so difficult to discover.

Sorrow and discontent had taken deep root in Werther's soul, and gradually imparted their character to his whole being. The harmony of his mind became completely disturbed; a perpetual excitement and mental irritation, which weakened his natural powers, produced the saddest effects upon him, and rendered him at length the victim of an exhaustion against which he struggled with still more painful efforts than he had displayed, even in contending with his other misfortunes. His mental anxiety weakened his various good qualities; and he was soon converted into a gloomy companion, always unhappy and unjust in his ideas, the more wretched he became. This was, at least, the opinion of Albert's friends. They assert, moreover, that the character of Albert himself had undergone no change in the meantime: he was still the same being whom Werther had loved, honoured, and respected from the commencement. His love for Charlotte was unbounded: he was proud of her, and desired that she should be recognised by every one as the noblest of created beings. Was he, however, to blame for wishing to avert from her every appearance of suspicion? or for his unwillingness to share his rich prize with another, even for a moment, and in the most innocent manner? It is asserted that Albert frequently retired from his wife's apartment during Werther's visits; but this did not arise from hatred or aversion to his friend, but only from a feeling that his presence was oppressive to Werther.

Sorrow and discontent had taken deep root in Werther's soul and gradually shaped his whole being. His mind lost all its balance. Constant agitation and mental strain weakened his natural abilities and had the saddest effects on him. At last, he fell victim to exhaustion. He fought this exhaustion with even more painful effort than he had put into facing his other misfortunes. His anxiety weakened his many good qualities, and he soon became a gloomy companion. As he grew more miserable, his thoughts became increasingly unhappy and unfair. This, at least, was the opinion of Albert's friends. They also insist that Albert's character had not changed during this time. He was still the same man Werther had loved, honored, and respected from the beginning. His love for Charlotte knew no bounds. He was proud of her and wanted everyone to recognize her as the noblest of all created beings. But was he to blame for wanting to protect her from even the appearance of anything suspicious? Or for refusing to share his precious prize with another, even for a moment and in the most innocent way? It is said that Albert often left his wife's room during Werther's visits. But he did not leave out of hatred or dislike for his friend. He left only because he felt that his presence weighed on Werther.

Charlotte's father, who was confined to the house by indisposition, was accustomed to send his carriage for her, that she might make excursions in the neighbourhood. One day the weather had been unusually severe, and the whole country was covered with snow.

Charlotte's father was kept at home by illness. He regularly sent his carriage for her so she could take trips around the neighbourhood. One day, the weather had been unusually harsh, and the whole countryside was covered in snow.

Werther went for Charlotte the following morning, in order that, if Albert were absent, he might conduct her home.

Werther went to get Charlotte the next morning so he could take her home if Albert was away.

The beautiful weather produced but little impression on his troubled spirit. A heavy weight lay upon his soul, deep melancholy had taken possession of him, and his mind knew no change save from one painful thought to another.

The beautiful weather did little to ease his troubled spirit. A heavy weight lay on his soul. Deep sadness had taken hold of him, and his mind moved only from one painful thought to another.

As he now never enjoyed internal peace, the condition of his fellow creatures was to him a perpetual source of trouble and distress. He believed he had disturbed the happiness of Albert and his wife; and, whilst he censured himself strongly for this, he began to entertain a secret dislike to Albert.

Because he now never felt at peace within himself, other people's circumstances constantly troubled and distressed him. He believed he had disrupted the happiness of Albert and his wife. And while he blamed himself harshly for disrupting their happiness, he began to feel a secret dislike for Albert.

His thoughts were occasionally directed to this point. "Yes," he would repeat to himself, with ill-concealed dissatisfaction, "yes, this is, after all, the extent of that confiding, dear, tender, and sympathetic love, that calm and eternal fidelity! What do I behold but satiety and indifference? Does not every frivolous engagement attract him more than his charming and lovely wife? Does he know how to prize his happiness? Can he value her as she deserves? He possesses her, it is true, I know that, as I know much more, and I have become accustomed to the thought that he will drive me mad, or, perhaps, murder me. Is his friendship toward me unimpaired? Does he not view my attachment to Charlotte as an infringement upon his rights, and consider my attention to her as a silent rebuke to himself? I know, and indeed feel, that he dislikes me, that he wishes for my absence, that my presence is hateful to him."

His thoughts sometimes turned to this subject. "Yes," he would tell himself, barely hiding his dissatisfaction, "yes, so this is all that trusting, dear, tender, understanding love amounts to. This is all that steady, eternal faithfulness amounts to! What do I see but boredom and indifference? Doesn't every trivial activity interest him more than his charming, lovely wife? Does he know how to appreciate his happiness? Can he value her as she deserves? He has her, it's true. I know that, just as I know much more. And I've grown used to the thought that he will drive me mad or perhaps murder me. Is his friendship with me unchanged? Doesn't he see my attachment to Charlotte as a violation of his rights? Doesn't he see my attention to her as a silent criticism of himself? I know, and indeed feel, that he dislikes me, that he wants me gone, that he hates my presence."

He would often pause when on his way to visit Charlotte, stand still, as though in doubt, and seem desirous of returning, but would nevertheless proceed; and, engaged in such thoughts and soliloquies as we have described, he finally reached the hunting-lodge, with a sort of involuntary consent.

On his way to visit Charlotte, he would often stop and stand still, as though unsure. He seemed to want to turn back, but would go on anyway. Lost in the thoughts and conversations with himself we have described, he finally reached the hunting lodge. He did so with a kind of unwilling acceptance.

Upon one occasion he entered the house; and, inquiring for Charlotte, he observed that the inmates were in a state of unusual confusion. The eldest boy informed him that a dreadful misfortune had occurred at Walheim,—that a peasant had been murdered! But this made little impression upon him. Entering the apartment, he found Charlotte engaged reasoning with her father, who, in spite of his infirmity, insisted on going to the scene of the crime, in order to institute an inquiry. The criminal was unknown; the victim had been found dead at his own door that morning. Suspicions were excited: the murdered man had been in the service of a widow, and the person who had previously filled the situation had been dismissed from her employment.

On one occasion, he entered the house and asked for Charlotte. He noticed that the household was in unusual confusion. The eldest boy told him that something terrible had happened at Walheim. A peasant had been murdered! But the news made little impression on him. He entered the room and found Charlotte trying to reason with her father. Despite his poor health, her father insisted on going to the scene of the crime to begin an investigation. The killer was unknown. The victim had been found dead at his own door that morning. Suspicions had arisen. The murdered man had worked for a widow, and the man who had held the job before him had been dismissed.

As soon as Werther heard this, he exclaimed with great excitement, "Is it possible! I must go to the spot—I cannot delay a moment!" He hastened to Walheim. Every incident returned vividly to his remembrance; and he entertained not the slightest doubt that that man was the murderer to whom he had so often spoken, and for whom he entertained so much regard. His way took him past the well-known lime trees, to the house where the body had been carried; and his feelings were greatly excited at the sight of the fondly recollected spot. That threshold where the neighbours' children had so often played together was stained with blood; love and attachment, the noblest feelings of human nature, had been converted into violence and murder. The huge trees stood there leafless and covered with hoarfrost; the beautiful hedgerows which surrounded the old churchyard wall were withered; and the gravestones, half covered with snow, were visible through the openings.

As soon as Werther heard this, he cried out in great excitement, "Can it be true? I must go there. I cannot wait another moment!" He hurried to Walheim. Every detail came vividly back to him. He had no doubt at all that the murderer was the man he had spoken to so often and deeply respected. His route led past the familiar lime trees to the house where the body had been taken. Seeing the place he remembered so fondly stirred powerful feelings in him. The doorstep where the neighbours' children had so often played together was stained with blood. Love and affection, the noblest human feelings, had turned into violence and murder. The huge trees stood bare and covered in frost. The beautiful hedgerows around the old churchyard wall had withered. Through the gaps, he could see the gravestones, half covered in snow.

As he approached the inn, in front of which the whole village was assembled, screams were suddenly heard. A troop of armed peasants was seen approaching, and every one exclaimed that the criminal had been apprehended. Werther looked, and was not long in doubt. The prisoner was no other than the servant, who had been formerly so attached to the widow, and whom he had met prowling about, with that suppressed anger and ill-concealed despair, which we have before described.

As he approached the inn, where the whole village had gathered outside, screams suddenly rang out. A group of armed peasants came into view, and everyone cried out that the criminal had been caught. Werther looked and soon recognized the prisoner. He was the servant who had once been so devoted to the widow. Werther had met him prowling around, holding back his anger and barely hiding his despair, as we described earlier.

"What have you done, unfortunate man?" inquired Werther, as he advanced toward the prisoner. The latter turned his eyes upon him in silence, and then replied with perfect composure; "No one will now marry her, and she will marry no one." The prisoner was taken into the inn, and Werther left the place. The mind of Werther was fearfully excited by this shocking occurrence. He ceased, however, to be oppressed by his usual feeling of melancholy, moroseness, and indifference to everything that passed around him. He entertained a strong degree of pity for the prisoner, and was seized with an indescribable anxiety to save him from his impending fate. He considered him so unfortunate, he deemed his crime so excusable, and thought his own condition so nearly similar, that he felt convinced he could make every one else view the matter in the light in which he saw it himself. He now became anxious to undertake his defence, and commenced composing an eloquent speech for the occasion; and, on his way to the hunting-lodge, he could not refrain from speaking aloud the statement which he resolved to make to the judge.

"What have you done, you unfortunate man?" Werther asked as he approached the prisoner. The prisoner looked at him in silence, then replied with perfect calm. "No one will marry her now, and she will marry no one." The prisoner was taken into the inn, and Werther left. The shocking event left Werther deeply agitated. Yet he no longer felt weighed down by his usual sadness, bitterness, and indifference to everything around him. He felt great pity for the prisoner and an indescribable anxiety to save him from his approaching fate. Werther saw the prisoner as so unfortunate and his crime as so excusable. He also thought his own situation was so similar to the prisoner's. For these reasons, he felt certain he could make everyone else see the matter as he did. He now became eager to defend the prisoner and began composing an eloquent speech for the occasion. On his way to the hunting lodge, he could not help rehearsing aloud the statement he intended to make to the judge.

Upon his arrival, he found Albert had been before him: and he was a little perplexed by this meeting; but he soon recovered himself, and expressed his opinion with much warmth to the judge. The latter shook his head doubtingly; and although Werther urged his case with the utmost zeal, feeling, and determination in defence of his client, yet, as we may easily suppose, the judge was not much influenced by his appeal. On the contrary, he interrupted him in his address, reasoned with him seriously, and even administered a rebuke to him for becoming the advocate of a murderer. He demonstrated, that, according to this precedent, every law might be violated, and the public security utterly destroyed. He added, moreover, that in such a case he could himself do nothing, without incurring the greatest responsibility; that everything must follow in the usual course, and pursue the ordinary channel.

When he arrived, he found Albert already there. The meeting left him a little unsettled, but he soon recovered and spoke passionately to the judge. The judge shook his head doubtfully. Although Werther defended his client with the greatest zeal, feeling, and determination, his appeal had little effect on the judge. This was hardly surprising. Instead, the judge interrupted him, argued seriously with him, and even scolded him for defending a murderer. He explained that such a precedent would allow every law to be broken and completely destroy public safety. He added that, in such a case, he could do nothing himself without taking on the gravest responsibility. Everything had to follow the usual course and go through the proper channels.

Werther, however, did not abandon his enterprise, and even besought the judge to connive at the flight of the prisoner. But this proposal was peremptorily rejected. Albert, who had taken some part in the discussion, coincided in opinion with the judge. At this Werther became enraged, and took his leave in great anger, after the judge had more than once assured him that the prisoner could not be saved.

Werther, however, did not give up his efforts. He even begged the judge to turn a blind eye and let the prisoner escape. But the judge firmly rejected the proposal. Albert had taken some part in the discussion and agreed with the judge. Albert’s agreement enraged Werther. The judge told Werther more than once that the prisoner could not be saved, and Werther left in great anger.

The excess of his grief at this assurance may be inferred from a note we have found amongst his papers, and which was doubtless written upon this very occasion.

A note we found among his papers suggests how deeply he grieved at this assurance. He undoubtedly wrote the note on that very occasion.

"You cannot be saved, unfortunate man! I see clearly that we cannot be saved!"

"You can't be saved, you poor man! I can see clearly that we can't be saved!"

Werther was highly incensed at the observations which Albert had made to the judge in this matter of the prisoner. He thought he could detect therein a little bitterness toward himself personally; and although, upon reflection, it could not escape his sound judgment that their view of the matter was correct, he felt the greatest possible reluctance to make such an admission.

Werther was furious at the comments Albert had made to the judge about the prisoner. He thought he sensed a little bitterness toward him personally in Albert’s words. Yet, on reflection, his sound judgment could not deny that their view of the matter was correct. Even so, he was as reluctant as he could possibly be to admit they were right.

A memorandum of Werther's upon this point, expressive of his general feelings toward Albert, has been found amongst his papers.

A note by Werther on this subject has been found among his papers. It expresses his general feelings toward Albert.

"What is the use of my continually repeating that he is a good and estimable man? He is an inward torment to me, and I am incapable of being just toward him."

"What good does it do to keep saying he is a good man who deserves respect? He torments me inside, and I can't be fair to him."

One fine evening in winter, when the weather seemed inclined to thaw, Charlotte and Albert were returning home together. The former looked from time to time about her, as if she missed Werther's company. Albert began to speak of him, and censured him for his prejudices. He alluded to his unfortunate attachment, and wished it were possible to discontinue his acquaintance. "I desire it on our own account," he added; "and I request you will compel him to alter his deportment toward you, and to visit you less frequently. The world is censorious, and I know that here and there we are spoken of." Charlotte made no reply, and Albert seemed to feel her silence. At least, from that time he never again spoke of Werther; and, when she introduced the subject, he allowed the conversation to die away, or else he directed the discourse into another channel.

One fine winter evening, when the weather seemed likely to turn warmer, Charlotte and Albert were walking home together. Charlotte looked around from time to time, as if she missed Werther’s company. Albert began speaking about Werther and criticized his prejudices. He mentioned Werther’s unhappy attachment and wished they could stop seeing him. "I want this for our own sake," he added. "And I ask you to make him change his behavior toward you and visit you less often. People are quick to judge, and I know some people are talking about us." Charlotte said nothing, and Albert seemed affected by her silence. At least, from then on, he never spoke of Werther again. When she brought Werther up, Albert let the conversation fade or changed the subject.

The vain attempt Werther had made to save the unhappy murderer was the last feeble glimmering of a flame about to be extinguished. He sank almost immediately afterward into a state of gloom and inactivity, until he was at length brought to perfect distraction by learning that he was to be summoned as a witness against the prisoner, who asserted his complete innocence.

Werther’s failed attempt to save the unfortunate murderer was the last faint flicker of a flame about to go out. Almost immediately afterward, he sank into gloom and inactivity. Eventually, he became completely distraught on learning he would be called to testify against the prisoner, who claimed complete innocence.

His mind now became oppressed by the recollection of every misfortune of his past life. The mortification he had suffered at the ambassador's, and his subsequent troubles, were revived in his memory. He became utterly inactive. Destitute of energy, he was cut off from every pursuit and occupation which compose the business of common life; and he became a victim to his own susceptibility, and to his restless passion for the most amiable and beloved of women, whose peace he destroyed. In this unvarying monotony of existence his days were consumed; and his powers became exhausted without aim or design, until they brought him to a sorrowful end.

His mind now grew heavy with memories of every misfortune in his past life. He remembered the humiliation he had suffered at the ambassador's and the troubles that followed. He became completely inactive. With no energy, he could no longer take part in any of the pursuits and tasks of everyday life. He fell victim to his own sensitivity and his restless passion for the most lovable and beloved of women. He destroyed her peace. His days passed in the same unchanging routine. His strength drained away without aim or purpose, until his fading powers brought him to a sorrowful end.

A few letters which he left behind, and which we here subjoin, afford the best proofs of his anxiety of mind and of the depth of his passion, as well as of his doubts and struggles, and of his weariness of life.

He left behind a few letters, which we include below. These letters offer the clearest evidence of his anxiety and the depth of his passion, as well as his doubts, struggles, and weariness of life.

Dear Wilhelm, I am reduced to the condition of those unfortunate wretches who believe they are pursued by an evil spirit. Sometimes I am oppressed, not by apprehension or fear, but by an inexpressible internal sensation, which weighs upon my heart, and impedes my breath! Then I wander forth at night, even in this tempestuous season, and feel pleasure in surveying the dreadful scenes around me.

Dear Wilhelm, I am now like those poor souls who believe an evil spirit is pursuing them. Sometimes I am overwhelmed, not by worry or fear, but by a feeling inside me that I cannot describe. It weighs on my heart and makes it hard to breathe! Then I wander out at night, even in this stormy season, and take pleasure in the dreadful scenes around me.

Yesterday evening I went forth. A rapid thaw had suddenly set in: I had been informed that the river had risen, that the brooks had all overflowed their banks, and that the whole vale of Walheim was under water! Upon the stroke of twelve I hastened forth. I beheld a fearful sight. The foaming torrents rolled from the mountains in the moonlight,—fields and meadows, trees and hedges, were confounded together; and the entire valley was converted into a deep lake, which was agitated by the roaring wind! And when the moon shone forth, and tinged the black clouds with silver, and the impetuous torrent at my feet foamed and resounded with awful and grand impetuosity, I was overcome by a mingled sensation of apprehension and delight. With extended arms I looked down into the yawning abyss, and cried, "Plunge!'" For a moment my senses forsook me, in the intense delight of ending my sorrows and my sufferings by a plunge into that gulf! And then I felt as if I were rooted to the earth, and incapable of seeking an end to my woes! But my hour is not yet come: I feel it is not. O Wilhelm, how willingly could I abandon my existence to ride the whirlwind, or to embrace the torrent! and then might not rapture perchance be the portion of this liberated soul?

Yesterday evening I went out. A rapid thaw had suddenly begun. I had heard that the river had risen and all the streams had overflowed their banks. The whole valley of Walheim was underwater! At the stroke of midnight, I hurried out. I saw a terrifying sight. Foaming torrents rushed down from the mountains in the moonlight. Fields and meadows, trees and hedges, all merged together. The entire valley had become a deep lake, churned by the roaring wind! Then the moon emerged and edged the black clouds with silver. At my feet, the rushing water foamed and thundered with terrifying, magnificent force. The sight overwhelmed me with a mixture of fear and delight. With my arms outstretched, I looked down into the gaping depths and cried, "Plunge!" For a moment, I lost my senses. I felt intense delight at the thought of ending my sorrows and suffering by plunging into those depths! And then I felt as if I were rooted to the ground, unable to seek an end to my misery! But my time has not yet come. I feel that it has not. Oh, Wilhelm, how gladly I would give up my life to ride the whirlwind or embrace the raging waters! And then might joy perhaps await my freed soul?

I turned my sorrowful eyes toward a favourite spot, where I was accustomed to sit with Charlotte beneath a willow after a fatiguing walk. Alas! it was covered with water, and with difficulty I found even the meadow. And the fields around the hunting-lodge, thought I. Has our dear bower been destroyed by this unpitying storm? And a beam of past happiness streamed upon me, as the mind of a captive is illumined by dreams of flocks and herds and bygone joys of home! But I am free from blame. I have courage to die! Perhaps I have,—but I still sit here, like a wretched pauper, who collects fagots, and begs her bread from door to door, that she may prolong for a few days a miserable existence which she is unwilling to resign.

I turned my sorrowful eyes toward a favorite spot beneath a willow. Charlotte and I used to sit there after a tiring walk. Alas! The spot was underwater, and I could barely make out even the meadow. And what of the fields around the hunting lodge, I thought. Has this merciless storm destroyed our dear shady retreat? A ray of past happiness shone on me, like dreams lighting up a prisoner's mind. Such dreams bring back flocks and herds and the lost joys of home! But I am not to blame. I have the courage to die! Perhaps I do, but I still sit here like a wretched beggar woman. She gathers firewood and begs for bread from door to door to prolong her miserable life a few more days. She is unwilling to give that life up.

What is the matter with me, dear Wilhelm? I am afraid of myself! Is not my love for her of the purest, most holy, and most brotherly nature? Has my soul ever been sullied by a single sensual desire? but I will make no protestations. And now, ye nightly visions, how truly have those mortals understood you, who ascribe your various contradictory effects to some invincible power! This night I tremble at the avowal—I held her in my arms, locked in a close embrace: I pressed her to my bosom, and covered with countless kisses those dear lips which murmured in reply soft protestations of love. My sight became confused by the delicious intoxication of her eyes. Heavens! is it sinful to revel again in such happiness, to recall once more those rapturous moments with intense delight? Charlotte! Charlotte! I am lost! My senses are bewildered, my recollection is confused, mine eyes are bathed in tears—I am ill; and yet I am well—I wish for nothing—I have no desires—it were better I were gone.

What is wrong with me, dear Wilhelm? I am afraid of myself! Isn’t my love for her utterly pure, holy, and brotherly? Has a single lustful desire ever stained my soul? But I will make no claims about my innocence. And now, dreams of the night, how well people have understood you! They have traced your many conflicting effects to some irresistible power. Last night, I tremble to admit, I held her tightly in my arms. I pressed her to my chest and covered her dear lips with countless kisses. Those lips answered with soft declarations of love. My vision blurred as the sweetness of her eyes intoxicated me. Heavens! Is it a sin to enjoy such happiness again, to recall those moments of ecstasy with intense delight? Charlotte! Charlotte! I am lost! My senses are in turmoil, my memory is confused, and my eyes are full of tears. I am ill, and yet I am well. I wish for nothing. I have no desires. It would be better if I were gone.

Under the circumstances narrated above, a determination to quit this world had now taken fixed possession of Werther's soul. Since Charlotte's return, this thought had been the final object of all his hopes and wishes; but he had resolved that such a step should not be taken with precipitation, but with calmness and tranquillity, and with the most perfect deliberation.

In the circumstances described above, the decision to end his life had taken firm hold of Werther's soul. Since Charlotte's return, ending his life had been the ultimate aim of all his hopes and wishes. But he had resolved not to act hastily. He would take that step calmly and peacefully, after the most careful consideration.

His troubles and internal struggles may be understood from the following fragment, which was found, without any date, amongst his papers, and appears to have formed the beginning of a letter to Wilhelm.

His troubles and inner struggles may be understood from the following fragment, found undated among his papers. The fragment appears to have been the beginning of a letter to Wilhelm.

"Her presence, her fate, her sympathy for me, have power still to extract tears from my withered brain.

"Her presence, her fate, and her sympathy for me can still draw tears from my withered mind.

"One lifts up the curtain, and passes to the other side,—that is all! And why all these doubts and delays? Because we know not what is behind—because there is no returning—and because our mind infers that all is darkness and confusion, where we have nothing but uncertainty."

"You lift the curtain and pass to the other side. That is all! And why all these doubts and delays? Because we don't know what's behind the curtain. Because there is no coming back. And because our minds assume all is darkness and confusion where we have nothing but uncertainty."

His appearance at length became quite altered by the effect of his melancholy thoughts; and his resolution was now finally and irrevocably taken, of which the following ambiguous letter, which he addressed to his friend, may appear to afford some proof.

Over time, his melancholy thoughts changed his appearance completely. And he had now made his final, irreversible decision. The following ambiguous letter to his friend may offer some evidence of that decision.

I am grateful to your love, Wilhelm, for having repeated your advice so seasonably. Yes, you are right: it is undoubtedly better that I should depart. But I do not entirely approve your scheme of returning at once to your neighbourhood; at least, I should like to make a little excursion on the way, particularly as we may now expect a continued frost, and consequently good roads. I am much pleased with your intention of coming to fetch me; only delay your journey for a fortnight, and wait for another letter from me. One should gather nothing before it is ripe, and a fortnight sooner or later makes a great difference. Entreat my mother to pray for her son, and tell her I beg her pardon for all the unhappiness I have occasioned her. It has ever been my fate to give pain to those whose happiness I should have promoted. Adieu, my dearest friend. May every blessing of Heaven attend you! Farewell.

Wilhelm, I am grateful for your love and for repeating your advice at just the right time. Yes, you are right. It is certainly better for me to leave. But I do not entirely agree with your plan for me to return to your area at once. At least, I would like to take a short trip along the way. We can now expect a lasting frost, so the roads should be good. I am very glad you intend to come and get me. Only put off your journey for two weeks, and wait for another letter from me. Nothing should be gathered before it is ripe, and two weeks sooner or later makes a great difference. Ask my mother to pray for her son. Tell her I beg her forgiveness for all the unhappiness I have caused her. It has always been my fate to hurt those whose happiness I should have helped to bring about. Goodbye, my dearest friend. May every blessing of Heaven be with you! Farewell.

We find it difficult to express the emotions with which Charlotte's soul was agitated during the whole of this time, whether in relation to her husband or to her unfortunate friend; although we are enabled, by our knowledge of her character, to understand their nature.

We find it difficult to describe the feelings that troubled Charlotte throughout this time. Those feelings concerned both her husband and her unfortunate friend. Yet our knowledge of her character allows us to understand them.

It is certain that she had formed a determination, by every means in her power to keep Werther at a distance; and, if she hesitated in her decision, it was from a sincere feeling of friendly pity, knowing how much it would cost him, indeed, that he would find it almost impossible to comply with her wishes. But various causes now urged her to be firm. Her husband preserved a strict silence about the whole matter; and she never made it a subject of conversation, feeling bound to prove to him by her conduct that her sentiments agreed with his.

She had certainly decided to do everything in her power to keep Werther at a distance. If she hesitated, her hesitation came from genuine sympathy for him as a friend. She knew how much pain her wishes would cause him, and how nearly impossible he would find following them. But several things now pushed her to stand firm. Her husband said nothing at all about the matter, and she never brought it up. She felt she had to show him through her actions that her feelings agreed with his.

The same day, which was the Sunday before Christmas, after Werther had written the last-mentioned letter to his friend, he came in the evening to Charlotte's house, and found her alone. She was busy preparing some little gifts for her brothers and sisters, which were to be distributed to them on Christmas Day. He began talking of the delight of the children, and of that age when the sudden appearance of the Christmas-tree, decorated with fruit and sweetmeats, and lighted up with wax candles, causes such transports of joy. "You shall have a gift too, if you behave well," said Charlotte, hiding her embarrassment under sweet smile. "And what do you call behaving well? What should I do, what can I do, my dear Charlotte?" said he. "Thursday night," she answered, "is Christmas Eve. The children are all to be here, and my father too: there is a present for each; do you come likewise, but do not come before that time." Werther started. "I desire you will not: it must be so," she continued. "I ask it of you as a favour, for my own peace and tranquillity. We cannot go on in this manner any longer." He turned away his face, walked hastily up and down the room, muttering indistinctly, "We cannot go on in this manner any longer!" Charlotte, seeing the violent agitation into which these words had thrown him, endeavoured to divert his thoughts by different questions, but in vain. "No, Charlotte!" he exclaimed; "I will never see you any more!" "And why so?" she answered. "We may—we must see each other again; only let it be with more discretion. Oh! why were you born with that excessive, that ungovernable passion for everything that is dear to you?" Then, taking his hand, she said, "I entreat of you to be more calm: your talents, your understanding, your genius, will furnish you with a thousand resources. Be a man, and conquer an unhappy attachment toward a creature who can do nothing but pity you." He bit his lips, and looked at her with a gloomy countenance. She continued to hold his hand. "Grant me but a moment's patience, Werther," she said. "Do you not see that you are deceiving yourself, that you are seeking your own destruction? Why must you love me, me only, who belong to another? I fear, I much fear, that it is only the impossibility of possessing me which makes your desire for me so strong." He drew back his hand, whilst he surveyed her with a wild and angry look. "'Tis well!" he exclaimed, "'tis very well! Did not Albert furnish you with this reflection? It is profound, a very profound remark." "A reflection that any one might easily make," she answered; "and is there not a woman in the whole world who is at liberty, and has the power to make you happy? Conquer yourself: look for such a being, and believe me when I say that you will certainly find her. I have long felt for you, and for us all: you have confined yourself too long within the limits of too narrow a circle. Conquer yourself; make an effort: a short journey will be of service to you. Seek and find an object worthy of your love; then return hither, and let us enjoy together all the happiness of the most perfect friendship."

That same day was the Sunday before Christmas. After writing the letter to his friend mentioned above, Werther visited Charlotte's house that evening and found her alone. She was preparing little gifts for her brothers and sisters, to be given to them on Christmas Day. He began talking about the children's delight. He spoke of the age when the sudden appearance of a Christmas tree brings such overwhelming joy. The tree would be decorated with fruit and sweets and lit with wax candles. "You'll have a gift too, if you behave well," Charlotte said, hiding her embarrassment behind a sweet smile. "And what do you call behaving well? What should I do, what can I do, my dear Charlotte?" he asked. "Thursday night is Christmas Eve," she answered. "The children will all be here, and my father too. There's a present for everyone. Come too, but don't come before then." Werther gave a start. "I ask you not to. It must be this way," she continued. "I'm asking you as a favor, for my own peace of mind. We cannot go on like this any longer." He turned his face away and paced quickly around the room, muttering indistinctly, "We cannot go on like this any longer!" Charlotte saw how deeply her words had upset him. She tried to distract him with various questions, but nothing helped. "No, Charlotte!" he cried. "I will never see you again!" "Why not?" she answered. "We may see each other again. We must, only we must be more careful. Oh, why were you born with such excessive, uncontrollable passion for everything dear to you?" Then she took his hand and said, "I beg you to be calmer. Your talents, your intelligence, your genius will give you a thousand ways to occupy yourself. Be a man, and overcome this unhappy attachment to someone who can only pity you." He bit his lips and looked at her darkly. She kept holding his hand. "Give me just a moment's patience, Werther," she said. "Don't you see that you're deceiving yourself, that you're seeking your own destruction? Why must you love me, and only me, when I belong to someone else? I fear, I truly fear, that you want me so strongly only because you cannot have me." He pulled his hand away and stared at her with a wild, angry look. "Very well!" he cried. "Very well indeed! Didn't Albert give you that idea? It's profound, a very profound observation." "An observation anyone could easily make," she answered. "And isn't there a woman anywhere in the world who is free and could make you happy? Master your feelings. Look for such a woman, and believe me when I say you will certainly find her. I have long felt for you, and for us all. You have kept yourself within too narrow a circle for too long. Master your feelings. Make an effort. A short journey will do you good. Seek and find someone worthy of your love. Then come back, and let us share all the happiness of the most perfect friendship."

"This speech," replied Werther with a cold smile, "this speech should be printed, for the benefit of all teachers. My dear Charlotte, allow me but a short time longer, and all will be well." "But however, Werther," she added, "do not come again before Christmas." He was about to make some answer, when Albert came in. They saluted each other coldly, and with mutual embarrassment paced up and down the room. Werther made some common remarks; Albert did the same, and their conversation soon dropped. Albert asked his wife about some household matters; and, finding that his commissions were not executed, he used some expressions which, to Werther's ear, savoured of extreme harshness. He wished to go, but had not power to move; and in this situation he remained till eight o'clock, his uneasiness and discontent continually increasing. At length the cloth was laid for supper, and he took up his hat and stick. Albert invited him to remain; but Werther, fancying that he was merely paying a formal compliment, thanked him coldly, and left the house.

"That speech," Werther replied with a cold smile, "that speech should be printed for the benefit of all teachers. My dear Charlotte, just give me a little more time, and all will be well." "But still, Werther," she added, "do not come again before Christmas." He was about to answer when Albert came in. The two men greeted each other coldly and paced up and down the room, both embarrassed. Werther made some small talk, and Albert did the same, but their conversation soon died away. Albert asked his wife about some household matters. When he found that his instructions had not been carried out, some of his words sounded extremely harsh to Werther. Werther wanted to leave but could not bring himself to move. He stayed until eight o'clock, growing more uneasy and dissatisfied all the time. At last, the table was set for supper, and he picked up his hat and walking stick. Albert invited him to stay. But Werther thought the invitation was merely a formality, so he thanked Albert coldly and left the house.

Werther returned home, took the candle from his servant, and retired to his room alone. He talked for some time with great earnestness to himself, wept aloud, walked in a state of great excitement through his chamber; till at length, without undressing, he threw himself on the bed, where he was found by his servant at eleven o'clock, when the latter ventured to enter the room, and take off his boots. Werther did not prevent him, but forbade him to come in the morning till he should ring.

Werther returned home, took the candle from his servant, and went to his room alone. He spoke to himself with great intensity for some time, wept aloud, and paced his room in great agitation. At last, without undressing, he threw himself onto the bed. His servant found him there at eleven o’clock, when he dared to enter the room and remove Werther’s boots. Werther let him, but told him not to come in the morning until he rang.

On Monday morning, the 21st of December, he wrote to Charlotte the following letter, which was found, sealed, on his bureau after his death, and was given to her. I shall insert it in fragments; as it appears, from several circumstances, to have been written in that manner.

On Monday morning, December 21, he wrote the following letter to Charlotte. After his death, the letter was found sealed on his desk and given to her. I will present the letter in parts, since several details suggest he wrote it that way.

"It is all over, Charlotte: I am resolved to die! I make this declaration deliberately and coolly, without any romantic passion, on this morning of the day when I am to see you for the last time. At the moment you read these lines, O best of women, the cold grave will hold the inanimate remains of that restless and unhappy being who, in the last moments of his existence, knew no pleasure so great as that of conversing with you! I have passed a dreadful night or rather, let me say, a propitious one; for it has given me resolution, it has fixed my purpose. I am resolved to die. When I tore myself from you yesterday, my senses were in tumult and disorder; my heart was oppressed, hope and pleasure had fled from me for ever, and a petrifying cold had seized my wretched being. I could scarcely reach my room. I threw myself on my knees; and Heaven, for the last time, granted me the consolation of shedding tears. A thousand ideas, a thousand schemes, arose within my soul; till at length one last, fixed, final thought took possession of my heart. It was to die. I lay down to rest; and in the morning, in the quiet hour of awakening, the same determination was upon me. To die! It is not despair: it is conviction that I have filled up the measure of my sufferings, that I have reached my appointed term, and must sacrifice myself for thee. Yes, Charlotte, why should I not avow it? One of us three must die: it shall be Werther. O beloved Charlotte! this heart, excited by rage and fury, has often conceived the horrid idea of murdering your husband—you—myself! The lot is cast at length. And in the bright, quiet evenings of summer, when you sometimes wander toward the mountains, let your thoughts then turn to me: recollect how often you have watched me coming to meet you from the valley; then bend your eyes upon the churchyard which contains my grave, and, by the light of the setting sun, mark how the evening breeze waves the tall grass which grows above my tomb. I was calm when I began this letter, but the recollection of these scenes makes me weep like a child."

"It is all over, Charlotte: I have decided to die! I say this calmly and deliberately, without any romantic passion. It is the morning of the day when I will see you for the last time. When you read these lines, best of women, my lifeless body will lie in the cold grave. I have been restless and unhappy. Yet in my final moments, no pleasure was greater than talking with you! I have had a dreadful night, or rather, a welcome one. For the night has given me resolve and made my purpose firm. I have decided to die. When I tore myself away from you yesterday, my senses were in turmoil. My heart felt crushed, hope and pleasure had left me forever, and a numbing cold had seized my wretched body. I could barely reach my room. I fell to my knees. For the last time, Heaven gave me the comfort of tears. A thousand thoughts, a thousand plans, rose within me. At last, one final, unshakable thought took hold of my heart: to die. I lay down to rest. In the morning, in the quiet moment of waking, I still had the same resolve. To die! This is not despair. I am convinced that I have suffered all I was meant to suffer. I have reached my appointed end and must sacrifice myself for you. Yes, Charlotte, why should I not admit it? One of the three of us must die: Werther will be the one. Oh, beloved Charlotte! In rage and fury, my heart has often imagined the horrible act of murdering your husband, you, myself! At last, the choice is made. And on bright, quiet summer evenings, when you sometimes wander toward the mountains, turn your thoughts to me. Remember how often you watched me coming from the valley to meet you. Then look toward the churchyard where I am buried. In the light of the setting sun, watch the evening breeze stir the tall grass above my grave. I was calm when I began this letter, but remembering these scenes makes me weep like a child."

About ten in the morning, Werther called his servant, and, whilst he was dressing, told him that in a few days he intended to set out upon a journey, and bade him therefore lay his clothes in order, and prepare them for packing up, call in all his accounts, fetch home the books he had lent, and give two months' pay to the poor dependants who were accustomed to receive from him a weekly allowance.

At about ten in the morning, Werther called his servant. While getting dressed, he told the servant he planned to leave on a journey in a few days. So he asked the servant to sort his clothes and get them ready for packing. He also asked him to collect all his bills and bring back the books he had lent out. Finally, the servant was to give two months’ pay to the poor people Werther supported with a weekly allowance.

He breakfasted in his room, and then mounted his horse, and went to visit the steward, who, however, was not at home. He walked pensively in the garden, and seemed anxious to renew all the ideas that were most painful to him.

He ate breakfast in his room, then got on his horse and rode to visit the steward. But the steward was not at home. He walked thoughtfully in the garden and seemed eager to bring back all the thoughts that pained him most.

The children did not suffer him to remain alone long. They followed him, skipping and dancing before him, and told him, that after to-morrow and tomorrow and one day more, they were to receive their Christmas gift from Charlotte; and they then recounted all the wonders of which they had formed ideas in their child imaginations. "Tomorrow and tomorrow," said he, "and one day more!" And he kissed them tenderly. He was going; but the younger boy stopped him, to whisper something in his ear. He told him that his elder brothers had written splendid New-Year's wishes so large! one for papa, and another for Albert and Charlotte, and one for Werther; and they were to be presented early in the morning, on New Year's Day. This quite overcame him. He made each of the children a present, mounted his horse, left his compliments for papa and mamma, and, with tears in his eyes, rode away from the place.

The children did not let him stay alone for long. They followed him, skipping and dancing ahead of him. They told him Charlotte would give them their Christmas gifts after tomorrow, and tomorrow, and one more day. Then they described all the wonders they had dreamed up in their childish imaginations. "Tomorrow and tomorrow," he said, "and one more day!" And he kissed them tenderly. He was about to leave, but the younger boy stopped him to whisper something in his ear. The boy told him his older brothers had written wonderful New Year's wishes in such big letters! There was one for Papa, another for Albert and Charlotte, and one for Werther. The wishes would be presented early on New Year's morning. Hearing this completely overwhelmed him. He gave each child a present, mounted his horse, and left his greetings for Papa and Mamma. Then, with tears in his eyes, he rode away.

He returned home about five o'clock, ordered his servant to keep up his fire, desired him to pack his books and linen at the bottom of the trunk, and to place his coats at the top. He then appears to have made the following addition to the letter addressed to Charlotte:

He returned home around five o'clock and ordered his servant to keep the fire burning. He asked the servant to pack his books and linen at the bottom of the trunk, with his coats on top. He then appears to have added the following to his letter to Charlotte:

"You do not expect me. You think I will obey you, and not visit you again till Christmas Eve. O Charlotte, today or never! On Christmas Eve you will hold this paper in your hand; you will tremble, and moisten it with your tears. I will—I must! Oh, how happy I feel to be determined!"

"You're not expecting me. You think I'll do as you ask and not visit you again until Christmas Eve. Oh, Charlotte, today or never! On Christmas Eve, you'll hold this paper in your hand. You'll tremble and wet the paper with your tears. I will. I must! Oh, how happy I am to have made up my mind!"

In the meantime, Charlotte was in a pitiable state of mind. After her last conversation with Werther, she found how painful to herself it would be to decline his visits, and knew how severely he would suffer from their separation.

Meanwhile, Charlotte was deeply distressed. After her last conversation with Werther, she realized how painful refusing his visits would be for her. She also knew how much he would suffer from their separation.

She had, in conversation with Albert, mentioned casually that Werther would not return before Christmas Eve; and soon afterward Albert went on horseback to see a person in the neighbourhood, with whom he had to transact some business which would detain him all night.

In conversation with Albert, she had casually mentioned that Werther would not return before Christmas Eve. Soon afterward, Albert rode out to see someone nearby. He had some business to handle with this person, and the business would keep him there all night.

Charlotte was sitting alone. None of her family were near, and she gave herself up to the reflections that silently took possession of her mind. She was for ever united to a husband whose love and fidelity she had proved, to whom she was heartily devoted, and who seemed to be a special gift from Heaven to ensure her happiness. On the other hand, Werther had become dear to her. There was a cordial unanimity of sentiment between them from the very first hour of their acquaintance, and their long association and repeated interviews had made an indelible impression upon her heart. She had been accustomed to communicate to him every thought and feeling which interested her, and his absence threatened to open a void in her existence which it might be impossible to fill. How heartily she wished that she might change him into her brother,—that she could induce him to marry one of her own friends, or could reestablish his intimacy with Albert.

Charlotte sat alone. None of her family were nearby, and she let herself drift into the thoughts quietly filling her mind. She was bound for life to a husband whose love and faithfulness she had come to trust. She was deeply devoted to him. He seemed a special gift from Heaven, sent to ensure her happiness. Yet Werther had also become dear to her. From the moment they met, they had shared a warm understanding and felt alike about things. Their long friendship and frequent meetings had left a lasting mark on her heart. She had grown used to sharing with him every thought and feeling that mattered to her. His absence threatened to leave an emptiness in her life that might be impossible to fill. How deeply she wished she could turn him into her brother. If only she could persuade him to marry one of her friends, or restore his close friendship with Albert.

She passed all her intimate friends in review before her mind, but found something objectionable in each, and could decide upon none to whom she would consent to give him.

She thought through all her close friends, but found something to object to in each of them. She could not choose anyone she would agree to give him to.

Amid all these considerations she felt deeply but indistinctly that her own real but unexpressed wish was to retain him for herself, and her pure and amiable heart felt from this thought a sense of oppression which seemed to forbid a prospect of happiness. She was wretched: a dark cloud obscured her mental vision.

Through all these thoughts, she felt deeply, but not clearly, that she truly wanted to keep him for herself. She had never put this wish into words. The thought weighed on her pure and loving heart and seemed to rule out any hope of happiness. She was miserable. A dark cloud obscured her view of everything.

It was now half-past six o'clock, and she heard Werther's step on the stairs. She at once recognised his voice, as he inquired if she were at home. Her heart beat audibly—we could almost say for the first time—at his arrival. It was too late to deny herself; and, as he entered, she exclaimed, with a sort of ill concealed confusion, "You have not kept your word!" "I promised nothing," he answered. "But you should have complied, at least for my sake," she continued. "I implore you, for both our sakes."

It was now six thirty, and she heard Werther's footsteps on the stairs. She immediately recognized his voice as he asked whether she was home. Her heart beat audibly at his arrival. We could almost say this was the first time. It was too late to pretend she was out. As he entered, she exclaimed, barely hiding her confusion, "You haven't kept your word!" "I promised nothing," he answered. "But you should have done as I asked, at least for my sake," she continued. "I beg you, for both our sakes."

She scarcely knew what she said or did; and sent for some friends, who, by their presence, might prevent her being left alone with Werther. He put down some books he had brought with him, then made inquiries about some others, until she began to hope that her friends might arrive shortly, entertaining at the same time a desire that they might stay away.

She barely knew what she was saying or doing. She sent for some friends so their presence might keep her from being alone with Werther. He set down some books he had brought, then asked about some others. As he did so, she began to hope her friends would arrive soon, while also wishing they would stay away.

At one moment she felt anxious that the servant should remain in the adjoining room, then she changed her mind. Werther, meanwhile, walked impatiently up and down. She went to the piano, and determined not to retire. She then collected her thoughts, and sat down quietly at Werther's side, who had taken his usual place on the sofa.

For a moment, she was anxious to have the servant stay in the next room. Then she changed her mind. Meanwhile, Werther paced impatiently back and forth. She went to the piano and decided not to leave. Then she gathered her thoughts and sat down quietly beside Werther, who had taken his usual place on the sofa.

"Have you brought nothing to read?" she inquired. He had nothing. "There in my drawer," she continued, "you will find your own translation of some of the songs of Ossian. I have not yet read them, as I have still hoped to hear you recite them; but, for some time past, I have not been able to accomplish such a wish." He smiled, and went for the manuscript, which he took with a shudder. He sat down; and, with eyes full of tears, he began to read.

"Did you bring anything to read?" she asked. He had nothing. "In my drawer," she continued, "you’ll find your own translation of some of the songs of Ossian. I haven’t read them yet because I kept hoping to hear you read them aloud. But for some time now, I haven’t been able to make that happen." He smiled and went to get the manuscript. He shuddered as he picked it up. He sat down and, with his eyes full of tears, began to read.

"Star of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! thou liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud; thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings: the hum of their course is on the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they bathe thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the light of Ossian's soul arise!

"Star of falling night! Your light is beautiful in the west! You lift your head, with its uncut hair, from your cloud. You walk with dignity on your hill. What do you see on the plain? The stormy winds have died down. The murmur of the rushing stream comes from far away. Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The evening flies are out on their weak wings. Their hum fills the field. What do you see, beautiful light? But you smile and leave. The waves gather joyfully around you. They bathe your lovely hair. Farewell, silent ray of light! Let the light of Ossian's soul rise!"

"And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal comes like a watery column of mist! his heroes are around: and see the bards of song, gray-haired Ullin! stately Ryno! Alpin with the tuneful voice: the soft complaint of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of Selma's feast! when we contended, like gales of spring as they fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass.

"And it rises in all its strength! I see my departed friends. They gather on Lora, as they did in years gone by. Fingal comes like a column of watery mist! His heroes surround him. And look at the bards: gray-haired Ullin! Majestic Ryno! Alpin with his melodious voice! Minona with her gentle lament! How you have changed, my friends, since the days of Selma's feast! Back then, we competed like spring winds sweeping along the hill, each in turn bending the faintly whispering grass.

"Minona came forth in her beauty, with downcast look and tearful eye. Her hair was flying slowly with the blast that rushed unfrequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful voice. Oft had they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma. Colma left alone on the hill with all her voice of song! Salgar promised to come! but the night descended around. Hear the voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill!

"Minona stepped forward in her beauty, her gaze lowered and her eyes full of tears. Her hair drifted slowly in the gusts that swept down from the hill now and then. The heroes' souls grew sad when she lifted her voice in song. Often they had seen Salgar's grave, the dark resting place of Colma with her pale breast. Colma was left alone on the hill, singing with all her voice! Salgar had promised to come! But night fell around her. Hear Colma's voice as she sat alone on the hill!

"Colma. It is night: I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard on the mountain. The torrent is howling down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain: forlorn on the hill of winds!

"Colma. It is night. I am alone and abandoned on the stormy hill. The wind whistles on the mountain. The torrent howls down the rocks. No hut shelters me from the rain. I am abandoned on the windswept hill!

"Rise moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone! His bow near him unstrung, his dogs panting around him! But here I must sit alone by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar; why the chief of the hill his promise? Here is the rock and here the tree! here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father, with thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes: we are not foes, O Salgar!

"Rise, moon, from behind your clouds! Stars of the night, come out! Let some light lead me to where my love rests alone after the hunt! His bow lies unstrung beside him, and his dogs pant around him! But I must sit here alone by the rock beside the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar loudly. I cannot hear my love’s voice! Why does my Salgar delay? Why does the chief of the hill delay keeping his promise? Here is the rock, and here is the tree! Here is the roaring stream! You promised to be here at nightfall. Ah! Where has my Salgar gone? With you I would flee from my father, and with you from my proud brother. Our families have long been enemies. But we are not enemies, Salgar!"

"Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent awhile! let my voice be heard around! let my wanderer hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree and the rock. Salgar, my love, I am here! Why delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are gray on the steep. I see him not on the brow. His dogs come not before him with tidings of his near approach. Here I must sit alone!

"Be still for a little while, wind! Stream, be silent for a while! Let my voice be heard all around! Let my wanderer hear me! Salgar! Colma is calling you. Here are the tree and the rock. Salgar, my love, I am here! Why are you taking so long to come? Look! The calm moon is coming out. The river shines in the valley. The rocks are gray on the steep slope. I do not see him on the hilltop. His dogs do not run ahead of him to signal that he is near. Here I must sit alone!

"Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me: I am alone! My soul is tormented with fears. Ah, they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar! Why, O Salgar, hast thou slain my brother! Dear were ye both to me! what shall I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among thousands! he was terrible in fight! Speak to me! hear my voice! hear me, sons of my love! They are silent! silent for ever! Cold, cold, are their breasts of clay! Oh, from the rock on the hill, from the top of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! Speak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer half drowned in the storm!

"Who is lying on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak to me, my friends! They give Colma no reply. Speak to me! I am alone! My soul is tormented by fear. Ah, they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight. Oh, my brother! My brother! Why did you kill my Salgar? Why, Salgar, did you kill my brother? You were both dear to me! What can I say in your praise? Salgar, you were handsome among thousands on the hill! My brother was fearsome in battle! Speak to me! Hear my voice! Hear me, you whom I loved! They are silent! Silent forever! Their lifeless chests are cold, so cold! Oh, spirits of the dead, speak from the rock on the hill, from the top of the windy cliff! Speak, I will not be afraid! Where have you gone to rest? In what cave on the hill will I find the dead? No faint voice comes on the wind. No answer rises, half drowned by the storm!"

"I sit in my grief: I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream. Why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the hill when the loud winds arise my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth; he shall fear, but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma.

"I sit in grief, waiting in tears for morning! Build the tomb, friends of the dead. Do not close the tomb until Colma comes. My life slips away like a dream. Why should I stay behind? Here I will rest with my friends, beside the stream by the echoing rock. When night falls on the hill and strong winds rise, my ghost will stand in the storm. My ghost will mourn the death of my friends. The hunter will hear my voice from his shelter. He will be afraid, but he will love my voice! For my voice will be sweet as I mourn my friends. Colma's friends were dear to her.

"Such was thy song, Minona, softly blushing daughter of Torman. Our tears descended for Colma, and our souls were sad! Ullin came with his harp; he gave the song of Alpin. The voice of Alpin was pleasant, the soul of Ryno was a beam of fire! But they had rested in the narrow house: their voice had ceased in Selma! Ullin had returned one day from the chase before the heroes fell. He heard their strife on the hill: their song was soft, but sad! They mourned the fall of Morar, first of mortal men! His soul was like the soul of Fingal: his sword like the sword of Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned: his sister's eyes were full of tears. Minona's eyes were full of tears, the sister of car-borne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin, like the moon in the west, when she foresees the shower, and hides her fair head in a cloud. I touched the harp with Ullin: the song of morning rose!

"That was your song, Minona, gently blushing daughter of Torman. Our tears fell for Colma, and our souls were sad! Ullin came with his harp and sang the song of Alpin. Alpin's voice was sweet, and Ryno's soul was a beam of fire! But both had come to rest in the grave. Their voices had fallen silent in Selma! One day, before the heroes fell, Ullin had returned from the hunt. He heard their conflict on the hill. Their song was gentle but sad! They mourned the death of Morar, the greatest of mortal men! His soul was like Fingal's soul. His sword was like Oscar's sword. But Morar fell, and his father mourned. His sister's eyes were full of tears. Minona's eyes were full of tears, for she was the sister of Morar, who rode in a chariot. She withdrew from Ullin's song like the moon in the west. The moon foresees the rain and hides her lovely head in a cloud. I played the harp with Ullin. The song of morning rose!"

"Ryno. The wind and the rain are past, calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant sun. Red through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead! Bent is his head of age: red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill? why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood as a wave on the lonely shore?

"Ryno. The wind and rain have passed, and noon is calm. The clouds have parted in the sky. The sun flickers over the green hills. The hill stream flows red down through the rocky valley. Your murmuring is sweet, stream! But the voice I hear is sweeter still. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning the dead! His aged head is bowed, and his tearful eye is red. Alpin, you son of song, why are you alone on the silent hill? Why do you lament like a gust through the woods, like a wave on the lonely shore?

"Alpin. My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead my voice for those that have passed away. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the vale. But thou shalt fall like Morar: the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more: thy bow shall lie in thy hall unstrung!

"Alpin. My tears, Ryno, are for the dead! My voice is for those who have passed away. You stand tall on the hill, handsome among the sons of the valley. But you will fall like Morar. A mourner will sit on your tomb. The hills will know you no more. Your bow will lie unstrung in your hall!

"Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert: terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle as lightning in the field. Thy voice was as a stream after rain, like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm: they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow. Thy face was like the sun after rain: like the moon in the silence of night: calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.

"You were swift, Morar, like a deer in the wilderness, and terrifying as a fiery meteor. Your anger was like a storm. Your sword in battle was like lightning in the field. Your voice was like a stream after rain, like thunder on distant hills. Many fell at your hand. They were consumed in the flames of your anger. But when you returned from war, how peaceful your brow was. Your face was like the sun after rain, like the moon in the silence of night. It was as calm as the surface of a lake when the roaring wind has died down.

"Narrow is thy dwelling now! dark the place of thine abode! With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before! Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar! thou art low indeed. Thou hast no mother to mourn thee, no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

"How narrow your home is now! How dark the place where you rest! In three steps I walk around your grave, you who were once so great! Four stones with moss-covered tops are your only memorial. A tree with barely a leaf and long grass whistling in the wind show hunters the mighty Morar's grave. Morar! How low you lie now. You have no mother to mourn you, no young woman to shed tears of love for you. The woman who gave birth to you is dead. The daughter of Morglan has fallen.

"Who on his staff is this? Who is this whose head is white with age, whose eyes are red with tears, who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee. He heard of thy fame in war, he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's renown, why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morar! Weep, but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead, low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice, no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell, thou bravest of men! thou conqueror in the field! but the field shall see thee no more, nor the dark wood be lightened with the splendour of thy steel. Thou has left no son. The song shall preserve thy name. Future times shall hear of thee they shall hear of the fallen Morar!

"Who is this leaning on his staff? Whose hair is white with age, whose eyes are red with tears, who trembles with every step? He is your father, O Morar! Your father, who had no son but you. He heard of your fame in war. He heard how your enemies scattered. He heard of Morar's glory. Why did he not hear of your wound? Weep, father of Morar! Weep, but your son cannot hear you. The dead sleep deeply, their pillows low in the dust. He will never hear your voice again, never wake at your call. When will morning come to the grave and call the sleeper to wake? Farewell, bravest of men! Conqueror on the battlefield! But the battlefield will see you no more. Nor will the dark woods shine again with the splendor of your sword. You have left no son. The song will keep your name alive. Future generations will hear of you. They will hear of the fallen Morar!"

"The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of Armin. He remembers the death of his son, who fell in the days of his youth. Carmor was near the hero, the chief of the echoing Galmal. Why burst the sigh of Armin? he said. Is there a cause to mourn? The song comes with its music to melt and please the soul. It is like soft mist that, rising from a lake, pours on the silent vale; the green flowers are filled with dew, but the sun returns in his strength, and the mist is gone. Why art thou sad, O Armin, chief of sea-surrounded Gorma?

"Everyone’s grief rose, but Armin’s deep sigh stood out most. He remembers the death of his son, who fell in his youth. Carmor stood near the hero, the chief of echoing Galmal. Why do you sigh so deeply, Armin? he asked. Is there a reason to mourn? The song and its music come to move and delight the soul. The song is like a soft mist rising from a lake and spreading over the silent valley. The green flowers are filled with dew, but the sun returns in its strength, and the mist disappears. Why are you sad, Armin, chief of Gorma, surrounded by the sea?

"Sad I am! nor small is my cause of woe! Carmor, thou hast lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter of beauty. Colgar the valiant lives, and Annira, fairest maid. The boughs of thy house ascend, O Carmor! but Armin is the last of his race. Dark is thy bed, O Daura! deep thy sleep in the tomb! When shalt thou wake with thy songs? with all thy voice of music?

"I am sad! And I have great reason to grieve! Carmor, you have lost no son. You have lost no beautiful daughter. Brave Colgar lives, and so does Annira, the fairest young woman. The branches of your family rise, Carmor! But Armin is the last of his line. Your bed is dark, Daura! Your sleep in the tomb is deep! When will you wake with your songs, with all the music in your voice?

"Arise, winds of autumn, arise: blow along the heath. Streams of the mountains, roar; roar, tempests in the groves of my oaks! Walk through broken clouds, O moon! show thy pale face at intervals; bring to my mind the night when all my children fell, when Arindal the mighty fell—when Daura the lovely failed. Daura, my daughter, thou wert fair, fair as the moon on Fura, white as the driven snow, sweet as the breathing gale. Arindal, thy bow was strong, thy spear was swift on the field, thy look was like mist on the wave, thy shield a red cloud in a storm! Armar, renowned in war, came and sought Daura's love. He was not long refused: fair was the hope of their friends.

"Rise, autumn winds, rise. Blow across the heath. Roar, mountain streams. Roar, storms, through my oak groves! Move through the broken clouds, moon! Show your pale face now and then. Remind me of the night when all my children fell, when mighty Arindal fell, when lovely Daura died. Daura, my daughter, you were beautiful, beautiful as the moon on Fura, white as windblown snow, sweet as the breeze. Arindal, your bow was strong. Your spear was swift in battle. Your gaze was like mist on the waves, your shield like a red cloud in a storm! Armar, famous in war, came seeking Daura's love. She did not refuse him for long. Their friends had bright hopes."

"Erath, son of Odgal, repined: his brother had been slain by Armar. He came disguised like a son of the sea: fair was his cliff on the wave, white his locks of age, calm his serious brow. Fairest of women, he said, lovely daughter of Armin! a rock not distant in the sea bears a tree on its side; red shines the fruit afar. There Armar waits for Daura. I come to carry his love! she went she called on Armar. Nought answered, but the son of the rock. Armar, my love, my love! why tormentest thou me with fear? Hear, son of Arnart, hear! it is Daura who calleth thee. Erath, the traitor, fled laughing to the land. She lifted up her voice—she called for her brother and her father. Arindal! Armin! none to relieve you, Daura.

"Erath, son of Odgal, grieved: his brother had been killed by Armar. He came disguised as a sailor. His cliff on the waves was beautiful, his aging hair white, his solemn face calm. Most beautiful of women, he said, lovely daughter of Armin! A rock not far out at sea has a tree growing on its side. Its red fruit shines in the distance. There Armar waits for Daura. I have come to bring him the woman he loves! She went and called to Armar. Nothing answered but the echo from the rock. Armar, my love, my love! Why do you torment me with fear? Listen, son of Arnart, listen! Daura is calling you. Erath, the traitor, fled laughing to the shore. She raised her voice and called for her brother and her father. Arindal! Armin! There is no one to help you, Daura."

"Her voice came over the sea. Arindal, my son, descended from the hill, rough in the spoils of the chase. His arrows rattled by his side; his bow was in his hand, five dark-gray dogs attended his steps. He saw fierce Erath on the shore; he seized and bound him to an oak. Thick wind the thongs of the hide around his limbs; he loads the winds with his groans. Arindal ascends the deep in his boat to bring Daura to land. Armar came in his wrath, and let fly the gray-feathered shaft. It sung, it sunk in thy heart, O Arindal, my son! for Erath the traitor thou diest. The oar is stopped at once: he panted on the rock, and expired. What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy brother's blood. The boat is broken in twain. Armar plunges into the sea to rescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a blast from a hill came over the waves; he sank, and he rose no more.

"Her voice carried across the sea. Arindal, my son, came down from the hill, rugged in the skins of animals he had hunted. His arrows rattled at his side. He held his bow, and five dark-gray dogs followed him. He saw fierce Erath on the shore. He seized him and tied him to an oak. Leather straps wound tightly around Erath's limbs, and his groans filled the wind. Arindal set out across the deep water in his boat to bring Daura ashore. Armar came in anger and fired the gray-feathered arrow. The arrow whistled and pierced your heart, O Arindal, my son! You die in place of Erath the traitor. The oar stopped at once. Arindal gasped on the rock and died. How great is your grief, O Daura, as your brother's blood pours around your feet! The boat broke in two. Armar plunged into the sea to rescue his Daura or die. Suddenly, a gust from a hill swept over the waves. He sank and never rose again."

"Alone, on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to complain; frequent and loud were her cries. What could her father do? All night I stood on the shore: I saw her by the faint beam of the moon. All night I heard her cries. Loud was the wind; the rain beat hard on the hill. Before morning appeared, her voice was weak; it died away like the evening breeze among the grass of the rocks. Spent with grief, she expired, and left thee, Armin, alone. Gone is my strength in war, fallen my pride among women. When the storms aloft arise, when the north lifts the wave on high, I sit by the sounding shore, and look on the fatal rock.

"Alone on the rock battered by the sea, my daughter could be heard crying out in sorrow, loudly and often. What could her father do? All night I stood on the shore. I saw her in the faint moonlight. All night I heard her cries. The wind roared, and the rain beat hard on the hill. Before dawn, her voice grew weak. Her voice faded like the evening breeze among the grass on the rocks. Exhausted by grief, she died and left you, Armin, alone. My strength in battle is gone, and so is my pride among women. When storms rise overhead, when the north wind lifts the waves high, I sit beside the roaring sea. I look at the rock where she died.

"Often by the setting moon I see the ghosts of my children; half viewless they walk in mournful conference together."

"Often, in the light of the setting moon, I see the ghosts of my children. Half visible, they walk together, speaking mournfully to one another."

A torrent of tears which streamed from Charlotte's eyes and gave relief to her bursting heart, stopped Werther's recitation. He threw down the book, seized her hand, and wept bitterly. Charlotte leaned upon her hand, and buried her face in her handkerchief: the agitation of both was excessive. They felt that their own fate was pictured in the misfortunes of Ossian's heroes, they felt this together, and their tears redoubled. Werther supported his forehead on Charlotte's arm: she trembled, she wished to be gone; but sorrow and sympathy lay like a leaden weight upon her soul. She recovered herself shortly, and begged Werther, with broken sobs, to leave her, implored him with the utmost earnestness to comply with her request. He trembled; his heart was ready to burst: then, taking up the book again, he recommenced reading, in a voice broken by sobs.

A flood of tears streamed from Charlotte's eyes, easing her bursting heart and stopping Werther as he read aloud. He threw down the book, seized her hand, and wept bitterly. Charlotte rested her head on her hand and buried her face in her handkerchief. Both were deeply shaken. Both felt that the misfortunes of Ossian's heroes reflected their own fate. They shared this feeling, and their tears flowed even harder. Werther rested his forehead on Charlotte's arm. She trembled and wanted to leave, but sorrow and sympathy weighed like lead on her soul. She soon regained her composure and, between sobs, begged Werther to leave her. She pleaded with him as earnestly as she could to do as she asked. He trembled, his heart ready to burst. Then he picked up the book again and resumed reading, his voice breaking with sobs.

"Why dost thou waken me, O spring? Thy voice woos me, exclaiming, I refresh thee with heavenly dews; but the time of my decay is approaching, the storm is nigh that shall whither my leaves. Tomorrow the traveller shall come, he shall come, who beheld me in beauty: his eye shall seek me in the field around, but he shall not find me."

"Why do you wake me, spring? Your voice draws me in, saying, 'I refresh you with heavenly dew.' But the time of my decay is drawing near. The storm that will wither my leaves is close. Tomorrow the traveller will come, he will come, the one who saw me in my beauty. He will look for me in the surrounding field, but he will not find me."

The whole force of these words fell upon the unfortunate Werther. Full of despair, he threw himself at Charlotte's feet, seized her hands, and pressed them to his eyes and to his forehead. An apprehension of his fatal project now struck her for the first time. Her senses were bewildered: she held his hands, pressed them to her bosom; and, leaning toward him with emotions of the tenderest pity, her warm cheek touched his. They lost sight of everything. The world disappeared from their eyes. He clasped her in his arms, strained her to his bosom, and covered her trembling lips with passionate kisses. "Werther!" she cried with a faint voice, turning herself away; "Werther!" and, with a feeble hand, she pushed him from her. At length, with the firm voice of virtue, she exclaimed, "Werther!" He resisted not, but, tearing himself from her arms, fell on his knees before her. Charlotte rose, and, with disordered grief, in mingled tones of love and resentment, she exclaimed, "It is the last time, Werther! You shall never see me any more!" Then, casting one last, tender look upon her unfortunate lover, she rushed into the adjoining room, and locked the door. Werther held out his arms, but did not dare to detain her. He continued on the ground, with his head resting on the sofa, for half an hour, till he heard a noise which brought him to his senses. The servant entered. He then walked up and down the room; and, when he was again left alone, he went to Charlotte's door, and, in a low voice, said, "Charlotte, Charlotte! but one word more, one last adieu!" She returned no answer. He stopped, and listened and entreated; but all was silent. At length he tore himself from the place, crying, "Adieu, Charlotte, adieu for ever!"

The full force of these words struck the unfortunate Werther. In despair, he threw himself at Charlotte's feet, seized her hands, and pressed them against his eyes and forehead. For the first time, she feared what he was planning to do. Her senses reeled. She held his hands and pressed them to her chest. Then she leaned toward him with the tenderest pity, and her warm cheek touched his. They lost sight of everything. The world disappeared before their eyes. He clasped her in his arms, pulled her tightly against his chest, and covered her trembling lips with passionate kisses. "Werther!" she cried faintly, turning away. "Werther!" With a weak hand, she pushed him away. At last, with the firm voice of moral resolve, she cried, "Werther!" He did not resist. Instead, he tore himself from her arms and fell to his knees before her. Charlotte rose, overcome with grief. In a voice filled with both love and anger, she cried, "This is the last time, Werther! You will never see me again!" Then she gave her unfortunate lover one last, tender look, rushed into the next room, and locked the door. Werther held out his arms but did not dare to stop her. He stayed on the floor, his head resting on the sofa, for half an hour. Then a noise brought him to his senses. The servant came in. Werther began pacing the room. When he was alone again, he went to Charlotte's door and said quietly, "Charlotte, Charlotte! Just one more word, one last goodbye!" She gave no answer. He paused, listened, and pleaded, but all was silent. At last he tore himself away, crying, "Goodbye, Charlotte, goodbye forever!"

Werther ran to the gate of the town. The guards, who knew him, let him pass in silence. The night was dark and stormy,—it rained and snowed. He reached his own door about eleven. His servant, although seeing him enter the house without his hat, did not venture to say anything; and; as he undressed his master, he found that his clothes were wet. His hat was afterward found on the point of a rock overhanging the valley; and it is inconceivable how he could have climbed to the summit on such a dark, tempestuous night without losing his life.

Werther ran to the town gate. The guards knew him and let him pass in silence. The night was dark and stormy, with rain and snow. He reached his own door around eleven. Although his servant saw him enter the house without his hat, he did not dare say anything. As the servant helped Werther undress, he found that his clothes were wet. Werther’s hat was later found on the tip of a rock overlooking the valley. It is impossible to imagine how he could have climbed to the top that dark, stormy night without being killed.

He retired to bed, and slept to a late hour. The next morning his servant, upon being called to bring his coffee, found him writing. He was adding, to Charlotte, what we here annex.

He went to bed and slept late. The next morning, he called for his servant to bring his coffee. The servant found him writing. He was adding the following words to his letter to Charlotte.

"For the last, last time I open these eyes. Alas! they will behold the sun no more. It is covered by a thick, impenetrable cloud. Yes, Nature! put on mourning: your child, your friend, your lover, draws near his end! This thought, Charlotte, is without parallel; and yet it seems like a mysterious dream when I repeat—this is my last day! The last! Charlotte, no word can adequately express this thought. The last! To-day I stand erect in all my strength to-morrow, cold and stark, I shall lie extended upon the ground. To die! what is death? We do but dream in our discourse upon it. I have seen many human beings die; but, so straitened is our feeble nature, we have no clear conception of the beginning or the end of our existence. At this moment I am my own—or rather I am thine, thine, my adored! and the next we are parted, severed—perhaps for ever! No, Charlotte, no! How can I, how can you, be annihilated? We exist. What is annihilation? A mere word, an unmeaning sound that fixes no impression on the mind. Dead, Charlotte! laid in the cold earth, in the dark and narrow grave! I had a friend once who was everything to me in early youth. She died. I followed her hearse; I stood by her grave when the coffin was lowered; and when I heard the creaking of the cords as they were loosened and drawn up, when the first shovelful of earth was thrown in, and the coffin returned a hollow sound, which grew fainter and fainter till all was completely covered over, I threw myself on the ground; my heart was smitten, grieved, shattered, rent—but I neither knew what had happened, nor what was to happen to me. Death! the grave! I understand not the words.—Forgive, oh, forgive me! Yesterday—ah, that day should have been the last of my life! Thou angel! for the first time in my existence, I felt rapture glow within my inmost soul. She loves, she loves me! Still burns upon my lips the sacred fire they received from thine. New torrents of delight overwhelm my soul. Forgive me, oh, forgive!

"For the last, the very last time, I open my eyes. Alas! My eyes will never see the sun again. The sun is hidden behind a thick cloud that no light can penetrate. Yes, Nature! Dress in mourning: your child, your friend, your lover is nearing his end! There is no thought like this, Charlotte. Yet repeating these words feels like a mysterious dream: this is my last day! The last! Charlotte, no words can fully express this thought. The last! Today I stand tall, with all my strength. Tomorrow I will lie stretched out on the ground, cold and stiff. To die! What is death? When we talk about death, we are only dreaming. I have seen many people die. But our frail human nature is so limited that we cannot clearly grasp our existence's beginning or end. At this moment I belong to myself. Or rather, I belong to you, to you, my adored one! And the next moment we are parted, torn apart, perhaps forever! No, Charlotte, no! How can I, how can you, cease to exist? We exist. What does it mean to cease to exist? These are only words, meaningless sounds that leave no impression on the mind. Dead, Charlotte! Laid in the cold earth, in the dark and narrow grave! I once had a friend who meant everything to me when I was young. She died. I followed her hearse. I stood by her grave as her coffin was lowered. I heard the ropes creak as they were loosened and pulled up. Then the first shovelful of earth fell, and the coffin gave a hollow sound. The sound grew fainter and fainter until the coffin was completely covered. I threw myself on the ground. My heart was struck with grief, shattered, torn apart. But I understood neither what had happened nor what would happen to me. Death! The grave! I do not understand the words. Forgive me, oh, forgive me! Yesterday, ah, that day should have been the last of my life! You angel! For the first time in my life, I felt pure joy glow in the depths of my soul. She loves me, she loves me! The sacred fire your lips gave mine still burns on my lips. Fresh waves of delight overwhelm my soul. Forgive me, oh, forgive me!"

"I knew that I was dear to you; I saw it in your first entrancing look, knew it by the first pressure of your hand; but when I was absent from you, when I saw Albert at your side, my doubts and fears returned.

"I knew you cared deeply for me. I could see it in your first captivating look and feel it in your first squeeze of my hand. But when I was away from you, when I saw Albert beside you, my doubts and fears returned.

"Do you remember the flowers you sent me, when, at that crowded assembly, you could neither speak nor extend your hand to me? Half the night I was on my knees before those flowers, and I regarded them as the pledges of your love; but those impressions grew fainter, and were at length effaced.

"Do you remember the flowers you sent me at that crowded gathering? You could neither speak to me nor offer me your hand there. I spent half the night on my knees before those flowers, seeing them as promises of your love. But those impressions grew fainter and eventually disappeared.

"Everything passes away; but a whole eternity could not extinguish the living flame which was yesterday kindled by your lips, and which now burns within me. She loves me! These arms have encircled her waist, these lips have trembled upon hers. She is mine! Yes, Charlotte, you are mine for ever!

"Everything passes away. But not even an eternity could put out the living flame your lips lit yesterday. That flame now burns within me. She loves me! These arms have wrapped around her waist. These lips have trembled against hers. She is mine! Yes, Charlotte, you are mine forever!

"And what do they mean by saying Albert is your husband? He may be so for this world; and in this world it is a sin to love you, to wish to tear you from his embrace. Yes, it is a crime; and I suffer the punishment, but I have enjoyed the full delight of my sin. I have inhaled a balm that has revived my soul. From this hour you are mine; yes, Charlotte, you are mine! I go before you. I go to my Father and to your Father. I will pour out my sorrows before him, and he will give me comfort till you arrive. Then will I fly to meet you. I will claim you, and remain your eternal embrace, in the presence of the Almighty.

"And what do they mean when they say Albert is your husband? He may be your husband in this world. And in this world, loving you and wanting to tear you from his arms is a sin. Yes, my love is a crime, and I suffer the punishment. But I have enjoyed the full delight of my sin. I have breathed in a balm that has brought my soul back to life. From this moment on, you are mine. Yes, Charlotte, you are mine! I go ahead of you. I go to my Father and your Father. I will pour out my sorrows to him, and he will comfort me until you arrive. Then I will fly to meet you. I will claim you and stay in your embrace forever, in the presence of the Almighty.

"I do not dream, I do not rave. Drawing nearer to the grave my perceptions become clearer. We shall exist; we shall see each other again; we shall behold your mother; I shall behold her, and expose to her my inmost heart. Your mother—your image!"

"I am not dreaming. I am not delirious. As I draw closer to the grave, I see more clearly. We will go on existing. We will see each other again. We will see your mother. I will see her and open my heart to her completely. Your mother, the very image of you!"

About eleven o'clock Werther asked his servant if Albert had returned. He answered, "Yes;" for he had seen him pass on horseback: upon which Werther sent him the following note, unsealed:

At about eleven o'clock, Werther asked his servant if Albert had returned. The servant answered, "Yes," because he had seen Albert ride past on horseback. Werther then sent his servant with the following note, unsealed:

"Be so good as to lend me your pistols for a journey. Adieu."

"Please lend me your pistols for a trip. Goodbye."

Charlotte had slept little during the past night. All her apprehensions were realised in a way that she could neither foresee nor avoid. Her blood was boiling in her veins, and a thousand painful sensations rent her pure heart. Was it the ardour of Werther's passionate embraces that she felt within her bosom? Was it anger at his daring? Was it the sad comparison of her present condition with former days of innocence, tranquillity, and self-confidence? How could she approach her husband, and confess a scene which she had no reason to conceal, and which she yet felt, nevertheless, unwilling to avow? They had preserved so long a silence toward each other and should she be the first to break it by so unexpected a discovery? She feared that the mere statement of Werther's visit would trouble him, and his distress would be heightened by her perfect candour. She wished that he could see her in her true light, and judge her without prejudice; but was she anxious that he should read her inmost soul? On the other hand, could she deceive a being to whom all her thoughts had ever been exposed as clearly as crystal, and from whom no sentiment had ever been concealed? These reflections made her anxious and thoughtful. Her mind still dwelt on Werther, who was now lost to her, but whom she could not bring herself to resign, and for whom she knew nothing was left but despair if she should be lost to him for ever.

Charlotte had slept little the night before. All her fears had come true in a way she could neither foresee nor prevent. Her blood boiled in her veins, and a thousand painful feelings tore at her pure heart. Was she feeling the heat of Werther's passionate embraces in her heart? Was she angry at his boldness? Was she painfully comparing her present situation with her former days of innocence, peace, and self-confidence? How could she face her husband and tell him about the scene? She had no reason to hide what had happened, yet she felt unwilling to admit it. They had kept silent with each other for so long. Should she be the first to break that silence with so unexpected a revelation? She feared that simply mentioning Werther's visit would trouble her husband. Being completely honest would only deepen his distress. She wanted him to see her as she truly was and judge her without prejudice. But did she want him to read her deepest thoughts? Yet how could she deceive someone to whom all her thoughts had always been as clear as crystal? She had never hidden a single feeling from him. These thoughts left her anxious and troubled. Her mind still lingered on Werther, who was now lost to her, but whom she could not bear to give up. She knew that nothing but despair remained for him if he were to lose her forever.

A recollection of that mysterious estrangement which had lately subsisted between herself and Albert, and which she could never thoroughly understand, was now beyond measure painful to her. Even the prudent and the good have before now hesitated to explain their mutual differences, and have dwelt in silence upon their imaginary grievances, until circumstances have become so entangled, that in that critical juncture, when a calm explanation would have saved all parties, an understanding was impossible. And thus if domestic confidence had been earlier established between them, if love and kind forbearance had mutually animated and expanded their hearts, it might not, perhaps, even yet have been too late to save our friend.

Remembering the mysterious distance that had recently grown between her and Albert now caused her unbearable pain. She had never fully understood that distance. Even sensible, good people have hesitated to discuss their differences and silently brooded over imagined wrongs. Their problems have then grown so tangled that, at the crucial moment, reaching an understanding was impossible. Yet a calm discussion at that moment would have saved everyone involved. And so, if they had built trust at home sooner, things might have been different. If love and patient kindness had warmed and opened both their hearts, perhaps our friend could still have been saved.

But we must not forget one remarkable circumstance. We may observe from the character of Werther's correspondence, that he had never affected to conceal his anxious desire to quit this world. He had often discussed the subject with Albert; and, between the latter and Charlotte, it had not unfrequently formed a topic of conversation. Albert was so opposed to the very idea of such an action, that, with a degree of irritation unusual in him, he had more than once given Werther to understand that he doubted the seriousness of his threats, and not only turned them into ridicule, but caused Charlotte to share his feelings of incredulity. Her heart was thus tranquillised when she felt disposed to view the melancholy subject in a serious point of view, though she never communicated to her husband the apprehensions she sometimes experienced.

But we must not forget one remarkable detail. We can see from Werther's letters that he had never tried to hide his desperate wish to leave this world. He had often discussed the subject with Albert. Albert and Charlotte had also talked about it quite often. Albert was so opposed to the very idea of suicide that he reacted with unusual irritation. More than once, he had let Werther know that he doubted his threats were serious. He not only mocked the threats but also led Charlotte to share his doubts. Albert's disbelief thus calmed her heart whenever she was inclined to take the troubling subject seriously. Yet she never told her husband about the fears she sometimes felt.

Albert, upon his return, was received by Charlotte with ill-concealed embarrassment. He was himself out of humour; his business was unfinished; and he had just discovered that the neighbouring official with whom he had to deal, was an obstinate and narrow-minded personage. Many things had occurred to irritate him.

When Albert returned, Charlotte greeted him with embarrassment she could barely hide. He was in a bad mood himself. His business was unfinished. And he had just discovered that the neighboring official he had to deal with was stubborn and narrow-minded. Many things had happened to irritate him.

He inquired whether anything had happened during his absence, and Charlotte hastily answered that Werther had been there on the evening previously. He then inquired for his letters, and was answered that several packages had been left in his study. He thereon retired, leaving Charlotte alone.

He asked whether anything had happened while he was away. Charlotte quickly answered that Werther had been there the previous evening. He then asked for his letters and was told that several packages had been left in his study. He then went to his study, leaving Charlotte alone.

The presence of the being she loved and honoured produced a new impression on her heart. The recollection of his generosity, kindness, and affection had calmed her agitation: a secret impulse prompted her to follow him; she took her work and went to his study, as was often her custom. He was busily employed opening and reading his letters. It seemed as if the contents of some were disagreeable. She asked some questions: he gave short answers, and sat down to write.

Being near the man she loved and respected stirred a new feeling in her heart. Remembering his generosity, kindness, and affection had calmed her distress. A hidden impulse urged her to follow him. She took her work and went to his study, as she often did. He was busy opening and reading his letters. Some of the letters seemed to contain unpleasant news. She asked a few questions. He gave short answers and sat down to write.

Several hours passed in this manner, and Charlotte's feelings became more and more melancholy. She felt the extreme difficulty of explaining to her husband, under any circumstances, the weight that lay upon her heart; and her depression became every moment greater, in proportion as she endeavoured to hide her grief, and to conceal her tears.

Several hours passed like this, and Charlotte grew sadder and sadder. She felt how hard it would be, under any circumstances, to explain her heavy heart to her husband. And the more she tried to hide her grief and tears, the deeper her sadness grew with every moment.

The arrival of Werther's servant occasioned her the greatest embarrassment. He gave Albert a note, which the latter coldly handed to his wife, saying, at the same time, "Give him the pistols. I wish him a pleasant journey," he added, turning to the servant. These words fell upon Charlotte like a thunderstroke: she rose from her seat half-fainting, and unconscious of what she did. She walked mechanically toward the wall, took down the pistols with a trembling hand, slowly wiped the dust from them, and would have delayed longer, had not Albert hastened her movements by an impatient look. She then delivered the fatal weapons to the servant, without being able to utter a word. As soon as he had departed, she folded up her work, and retired at once to her room, her heart overcome with the most fearful forebodings. She anticipated some dreadful calamity. She was at one moment on the point of going to her husband, throwing herself at his feet, and acquainting him with all that had happened on the previous evening, that she might acknowledge her fault, and explain her apprehensions; then she saw that such a step would be useless, as she would certainly be unable to induce Albert to visit Werther. Dinner was served; and a kind friend whom she had persuaded to remain assisted to sustain the conversation, which was carried on by a sort of compulsion, till the events of the morning were forgotten.

The arrival of Werther's servant made her feel deeply awkward. He gave Albert a note, which Albert coldly handed to his wife, saying, "Give him the pistols." Turning to the servant, he added, "I wish him a pleasant journey." These words struck Charlotte like a thunderbolt. She rose from her seat, almost fainting and unaware of what she was doing. She walked mechanically toward the wall and took down the pistols with a trembling hand. She slowly wiped the dust from them. She would have delayed longer, but Albert hurried her with an impatient look. Then she handed the fatal weapons to the servant, unable to say a word. As soon as he left, she folded up her work and went straight to her room. Her heart was overwhelmed with terrifying fears. She expected some dreadful disaster. At one point, she almost went to her husband to throw herself at his feet. She would tell him all that had happened the previous evening, admitting her fault and explaining her fears. Then she realized that doing so would be useless, since she certainly could not persuade Albert to visit Werther. Dinner was served. A kind friend whom Charlotte had persuaded to stay helped keep the conversation going. The conversation felt forced, but continued until the events of the morning were forgotten.

When the servant brought the pistols to Werther, the latter received them with transports of delight upon hearing that Charlotte had given them to him with her own hand. He ate some bread, drank some wine, sent his servant to dinner, and then sat down to write as follows:

When the servant brought Werther the pistols, Werther was overjoyed to hear that Charlotte had handed them over herself. He ate some bread, drank some wine, and sent his servant to dinner. Then he sat down to write the following:

"They have been in your hands you wiped the dust from them. I kiss them a thousand times—you have touched them. Yes, Heaven favours my design, and you, Charlotte, provide me with the fatal instruments. It was my desire to receive my death from your hands, and my wish is gratified. I have made inquiries of my servant. You trembled when you gave him the pistols, but you bade me no adieu. Wretched, wretched that I am—not one farewell! How could you shut your heart against me in that hour which makes you mine for ever? Charlotte, ages cannot efface the impression—I feel you cannot hate the man who so passionately loves you!"

"You held them in your hands and wiped the dust off them. I kiss them a thousand times. You have touched them. Yes, Heaven favors my plan, and you, Charlotte, give me the weapons that will kill me. I wanted to receive my death from your hands, and my wish has come true. I have asked my servant about it. You trembled when you gave him the pistols, but you sent me no goodbye. Miserable, miserable that I am, not a single farewell! How could you close your heart to me at the very hour that makes you mine forever? Charlotte, even ages cannot erase the impression. I feel you cannot hate the man who loves you so passionately!"

After dinner he called his servant, desired him to finish the packing up, destroyed many papers, and then went out to pay some trifling debts. He soon returned home, then went out again, notwithstanding the rain, walked for some time in the count's garden, and afterward proceeded farther into the country. Toward evening he came back once more, and resumed his writing.

After dinner he called his servant and asked him to finish packing. He destroyed many papers, then went out to pay some small debts. He soon returned home, then went out again despite the rain. He walked for some time in the count's garden, then went farther into the countryside. Toward evening he came back once more and continued writing.

"Wilhelm, I have for the last time beheld the mountains, the forests, and the sky. Farewell! And you, my dearest mother, forgive me! Console her, Wilhelm. God bless you! I have settled all my affairs! Farewell! We shall meet again, and be happier than ever."

"Wilhelm, I have seen the mountains, the forests, and the sky for the last time. Goodbye! And you, my dearest mother, forgive me! Comfort her, Wilhelm. God bless you! I have put all my affairs in order! Goodbye! We will meet again and be happier than ever."

"I have requited you badly, Albert; but you will forgive me. I have disturbed the peace of your home. I have sowed distrust between you. Farewell! I will end all this wretchedness. And oh, that my death may render you happy! Albert, Albert! make that angel happy, and the blessing of Heaven be upon you!"

"I have repaid you badly, Albert, but you will forgive me. I have disturbed the peace of your home. I have planted distrust between you. Goodbye! I will end all this misery. And oh, may my death make you happy! Albert, Albert! Make that angel happy, and may Heaven bless you!"

He spent the rest of the evening in arranging his papers: he tore and burned a great many; others he sealed up, and directed to Wilhelm. They contained some detached thoughts and maxims, some of which I have perused. At ten o'clock he ordered his fire to be made up, and a bottle of wine to be brought to him. He then dismissed his servant, whose room, as well as the apartments of the rest of the family, was situated in another part of the house. The servant lay down without undressing, that he might be the sooner ready for his journey in the morning, his master having informed him that the post-horses would be at the door before six o'clock.

He spent the rest of the evening sorting his papers. He tore up and burned a great many, then sealed others and addressed them to Wilhelm. The sealed papers contained scattered thoughts and maxims, some of which I have read. At ten o'clock he ordered someone to build up his fire and bring him a bottle of wine. He then sent his servant away. The servant's room, like the rooms of the rest of the family, was in another part of the house. The servant lay down without undressing so he could be ready sooner for his journey in the morning. His master had told him the post-horses would be at the door before six o'clock.

"Past eleven o'clock! All is silent around me, and my soul is calm. I thank thee, O God, that thou bestowest strength and courage upon me in these last moments! I approach the window, my dearest of friends; and through the clouds, which are at this moment driven rapidly along by the impetuous winds, I behold the stars which illumine the eternal heavens. No, you will not fall, celestial bodies: the hand of the Almighty supports both you and me! I have looked for the last time upon the constellation of the Greater Bear: it is my favourite star; for when I bade you farewell at night, Charlotte, and turned my steps from your door, it always shone upon me. With what rapture have I at times beheld it! How often have I implored it with uplifted hands to witness my felicity! and even still—But what object is there, Charlotte, which fails to summon up your image before me? Do you not surround me on all sides? and have I not, like a child, treasured up every trifle which you have consecrated by your touch?

"Past eleven o'clock! All is silent around me, and my soul is calm. I thank you, O God, for giving me strength and courage in these last moments! I go to the window, my dearest friend. Fierce winds are driving the clouds swiftly past. Through the clouds, I see the stars lighting up the eternal heavens. No, you will not fall, heavenly bodies. The hand of the Almighty holds both you and me! I have looked for the last time at the constellation of the Greater Bear. It is my favorite star. Whenever I said goodnight to you, Charlotte, and walked away from your door, it always shone down on me. What joy I have sometimes felt as I gazed at it! How often I have raised my hands and begged it to witness my happiness! And even now... But what object, Charlotte, does not bring your image to mind? Do you not surround me on all sides? And have I not, like a child, treasured every little thing made sacred by your touch?

"Your profile, which was so dear to me, I return to you; and I pray you to preserve it. Thousands of kisses have I imprinted upon it, and a thousand times has it gladdened my heart on departing from and returning to my home.

"I'm returning your profile portrait, which was so dear to me. Please keep it safe. I have kissed the portrait thousands of times. A thousand times, it has filled my heart with joy as I left home and returned.

"I have implored your father to protect my remains. At the corner of the churchyard, looking toward the fields, there are two lime-trees—there I wish to lie. Your father can, and doubtless will, do this much for his friend. Implore it of him. But perhaps pious Christians will not choose that their bodies should be buried near the corpse of a poor, unhappy wretch like me. Then let me be laid in some remote valley, or near the highway, where the priest and Levite may bless themselves as they pass by my tomb, whilst the Samaritan will shed a tear for my fate.

"I have begged your father to protect my remains. At the corner of the churchyard, facing the fields, stand two lime-trees. That is where I wish to be buried. Your father can, and surely will, do this much for his friend. Beg him to grant my wish. But perhaps devout Christians will not want their bodies buried near the corpse of a poor, unhappy wretch like me. Then let me be buried in some remote valley, or beside the main road. There the priest and Levite may bless themselves as they pass my grave, while the Samaritan weeps for my fate."

"See, Charlotte, I do not shudder to take the cold and fatal cup, from which I shall drink the draught of death. Your hand presents it to me, and I do not tremble. All, all is now concluded: the wishes and the hopes of my existence are fulfilled. With cold, unflinching hand I knock at the brazen portals of Death. Oh, that I had enjoyed the bliss of dying for you! how gladly would I have sacrificed myself for you; Charlotte! And could I but restore peace and joy to your bosom, with what resolution, with what joy, would I not meet my fate! But it is the lot of only a chosen few to shed their blood for their friends, and by their death to augment, a thousand times, the happiness of those by whom they are beloved.

"Look, Charlotte, I do not shudder as I take the cold, deadly cup from which I will drink death. Your hand offers me the cup, and I do not tremble. All, all is now over. All the wishes and hopes of my life are fulfilled. With a cold, steady hand, I knock at the bronze gates of Death. Oh, if only I had known the joy of dying for you! How gladly I would have sacrificed myself for you, Charlotte! And if only I could bring peace and joy back to your heart! How firmly, how joyfully I would face my fate! But only a chosen few are granted the chance to shed their blood for their friends. Through their deaths, those few increase a thousandfold the happiness of those who love them.

"I wish, Charlotte, to be buried in the dress I wear at present: it has been rendered sacred by your touch. I have begged this favour of your father. My spirit soars above my sepulchre. I do not wish my pockets to be searched. The knot of pink ribbon which you wore on your bosom the first time I saw you, surrounded by the children—Oh, kiss them a thousand times for me, and tell them the fate of their unhappy friend! I think I see them playing around me. The dear children! How warmly have I been attached to you, Charlotte! Since the first hour I saw you, how impossible have I found it to leave you. This ribbon must be buried with me: it was a present from you on my birthday. How confused it all appears! Little did I then think that I should journey this road. But peace! I pray you, peace!

"Charlotte, I want to be buried in the clothes I am wearing now. Your touch has made them sacred. I have asked your father for this favor. My spirit soars above my grave. I do not want my pockets searched. The knot of pink ribbon you wore on your chest when I first saw you, surrounded by the children. Oh, kiss them a thousand times for me, and tell them what happened to their unhappy friend! I feel as though I can see them playing around me. The dear children! How deeply I have loved you, Charlotte! From the first moment I saw you, I found it impossible to leave you. This ribbon must be buried with me. You gave it to me on my birthday. How confused everything seems! Little did I think then that I would go down this road. But peace! Please, I beg you, peace!"

"They are loaded—the clock strikes twelve. I say amen. Charlotte, Charlotte! farewell, farewell!"

"They are loaded. The clock strikes twelve. I say amen. Charlotte, Charlotte! Goodbye, goodbye!"

A neighbour saw the flash, and heard the report of the pistol; but, as everything remained quiet, he thought no more of it.

A neighbour saw the flash and heard the pistol shot. But because everything stayed quiet, he gave the shot no further thought.

In the morning, at six o'clock, the servant went into Werther's room with a candle. He found his master stretched upon the floor, weltering in his blood, and the pistols at his side. He called, he took him in his arms, but received no answer. Life was not yet quite extinct. The servant ran for a surgeon, and then went to fetch Albert. Charlotte heard the ringing of the bell: a cold shudder seized her. She wakened her husband, and they both rose. The servant, bathed in tears faltered forth the dreadful news. Charlotte fell senseless at Albert's feet.

At six o'clock in the morning, the servant entered Werther's room with a candle. He found his master stretched out on the floor in a pool of blood, with the pistols beside him. The servant called to him and took him in his arms, but Werther did not answer. Werther was still barely alive. The servant ran for a surgeon, then went to fetch Albert. Charlotte heard the bell ring, and a cold shudder ran through her. She woke her husband, and both got up. Through his tears, the servant struggled to tell them the dreadful news. Charlotte fainted at Albert's feet.

When the surgeon came to the unfortunate Werther, he was still lying on the floor; and his pulse beat, but his limbs were cold. The bullet, entering the forehead, over the right eye, had penetrated the skull. A vein was opened in his right arm: the blood came, and he still continued to breathe.

When the surgeon arrived, the unfortunate Werther was still lying on the floor. His pulse was beating, but his limbs were cold. The bullet had entered his forehead above his right eye and pierced his skull. A vein in his right arm was opened. Blood flowed, and he continued to breathe.

From the blood which flowed from the chair, it could be inferred that he had committed the rash act sitting at his bureau, and that he afterward fell upon the floor. He was found lying on his back near the window. He was in full-dress costume.

The blood flowing from the chair suggested he had committed the rash act while sitting at his desk. The blood also suggested he had then fallen to the floor. He was found lying on his back near the window. He was dressed in formal clothes.

The house, the neighbourhood, and the whole town were immediately in commotion. Albert arrived. They had laid Werther on the bed: his head was bound up, and the paleness of death was upon his face. His limbs were motionless; but he still breathed, at one time strongly, then weaker—his death was momently expected.

The house, the neighborhood, and the whole town were immediately thrown into turmoil. Albert arrived. They had laid Werther on the bed. His head was bandaged, and his face was deathly pale. His limbs were motionless, but he was still breathing, sometimes strongly, then more weakly. He was expected to die at any moment.

He had drunk only one glass of the wine. "Emilia Galotti" lay open upon his bureau.

He had drunk only one glass of the wine. "Emilia Galotti" lay open on his desk.

I shall say nothing of Albert's distress, or of Charlotte's grief.

I will say nothing about Albert's distress or Charlotte's grief.

The old steward hastened to the house immediately upon hearing the news: he embraced his dying friend amid a flood of tears. His eldest boys soon followed him on foot. In speechless sorrow they threw themselves on their knees by the bedside, and kissed his hands and face. The eldest, who was his favourite, hung over him till he expired; and even then he was removed by force. At twelve o'clock Werther breathed his last. The presence of the steward, and the precautions he had adopted, prevented a disturbance; and that night, at the hour of eleven, he caused the body to be interred in the place which Werther had selected for himself.

The old steward rushed to the house as soon as he heard the news. Weeping, he embraced his dying friend. His eldest boys soon followed him on foot. Speechless with grief, they fell to their knees beside the bed and kissed Werther’s hands and face. The eldest boy, Werther’s favorite, stayed bent over him until he died. Even then, the boy had to be pulled away by force. At twelve o’clock, Werther breathed his last. The steward’s presence and the precautions he had taken prevented a disturbance. That night, at eleven o’clock, the steward had Werther’s body buried in the place Werther had chosen for himself.

The steward and his sons followed the corpse to the grave. Albert was unable to accompany them. Charlotte's life was despaired of. The body was carried by labourers. No priest attended.

The steward and his sons followed the body to the grave. Albert was unable to go with them. There was no hope that Charlotte would survive. Laborers carried the body. No priest attended.