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.
NOVEMBER 15.
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?
NOVEMBER 21.
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?
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.