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.
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.
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.
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 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.