Delphi Collected Works of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe \(Illustrated\) pdfdrive com

DECEMBER 1.

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.

DECEMBER 4.

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.

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God, thou seest my torments, and wilt end them!

DECEMBER 6.

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.

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?