Unhappy being that I am! Why do I thus deceive myself? What is
to come of all this wild, aimless, endless passion? I cannot pray
except to her. My imagination sees nothing but her: all surrounding
objects are of no account, except as they relate to her. In this
dreamy state I enjoy many happy hours, till at length I feel
compelled to tear myself away from her. Ah, Wilhelm, to what
does not my heart often compel me! When I have spent several hours
in her company, till I feel completely absorbed by her figure, her
grace, the divine expression of her thoughts, my mind becomes
gradually excited to the highest excess, my sight grows dim, my
hearing confused, my breathing oppressed as if by the hand of a
murderer, and my beating heart seeks to obtain relief for my aching
senses. I am sometimes unconscious whether I really exist. If
in such moments I find no sympathy, and Charlotte does not allow
me to enjoy the melancholy consolation of bathing her hand with
my tears, I feel compelled to tear myself from her, when I either
wander through the country, climb some precipitous cliff, or force
a path through the trackless thicket, where I am lacerated and
torn by thorns and briers; and thence I find relief. Sometimes I
lie stretched on the ground, overcome with fatigue and dying with
thirst; sometimes, late in the night, when the moon shines above
me, I recline against an aged tree in some sequestered forest, to
rest my weary limbs, when, exhausted and worn, I sleep till break
of day. O Wilhelm! the hermit's cell, his sackcloth, and girdle
of thorns would be luxury and indulgence compared with what I suffer.
Adieu! I see no end to this wretchedness except the grave.
SEPTEMBER 3.
I must away. Thank you, Wilhelm, for determining my wavering
purpose. For a whole fortnight I have thought of leaving her. I
must away. She has returned to town, and is at the house of a
friend. And then, Albert -- yes, I must go.