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.
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.
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.
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 etfects 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.
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.
Werther went for Charlotte the following morning, in order that,
if Albert were absent, he might conduct her home.
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.
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.
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."
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.
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.
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 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.
"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.
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.
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.
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.
"You cannot be saved, unfortunate man! I see clearly that we
cannot 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.
A memorandum of Werther's upon this point, expressive of his general
feelings toward Albert, has been found amongst his papers.
"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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
DECEMBER 12.
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.
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?
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.
DECEMBER 15.
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.
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.
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.
"Her presence, her fate, her sympathy for me, have power still to
extract tears from my withered brain.
"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."
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.