BOOK ONE

MAY 4, 1771

HOW HAPPY I am to be away! Dearest friend, what a thing it is, the human heart! To leave you, whom I love so much, from whom I was inseparable, and yet to be happy! I know you will forgive me. Weren’t my other attachments especially chosen by fate just to torment a heart like mine? Poor Leonore! And yet I was innocent. Was it my fault that while her sister’s willful charms were keeping me so pleasantly entertained, passion formed in her poor heart? And yet—am I entirely innocent? Didn’t I nourish her feelings? Didn’t I delight in those genuine expressions of her nature that so often made us laugh, though they were not laughable at all? Didn’t I—oh what is man that he is allowed to complain about himself! I will, my dear friend, I promise you, I will improve, I will not chew over the bit of woe that fate presents us with, the way I have always done; I will enjoy the present and let bygones be bygones. Certainly, you’re right, dearest friend, there would be less pain among men if—God knows why they’re constructed so!—they did not so busily employ their bustling imagination to summon up memories of old woes rather than accept an indifferent present.

Please be so good as to tell my mother that I am conducting her business as best I can and that I will soon be sending her news. I have spoken to my aunt and have found her not at all the evil woman she was made out to be. She is a lively, excitable person with a heart of gold. I explained my mother’s concern about the portion of the inheritance that was withheld; she told me her reasons, the causes, and under what conditions she was prepared to give up all of it, more than we asked for.—In short, I don’t feel like writing about it now; tell my mother that everything is bound to turn out well. And, my dear friend, once again I have learned from this little piece of business that misunderstandings and neglect may cause more confusion in the world than do cunning and malice. At any rate, the last two are certainly more rare.

For the rest, I feel altogether well here. Solitude in this paradisiacal place is a precious balm to my heart, and this season of youth, with its abundance, warms my often-shuddering heart. Every tree, every hedge is a bouquet of blossoms and makes you want to turn into a May bug, so as to float in this sea of fragrances and draw all your nourishment from it.

The town itself is unpleasant; by contrast, it is surrounded by inexpressible natural beauty. This moved the late Count von M. to plant a garden on one of the hills that intersect one another in the most beautiful variety, forming the loveliest valleys. The garden is simple, and immediately on entering you sense that the plan was designed not by a scientific gardener but by a feeling heart that intended to enjoy itself here. I have already shed more than one tear for the deceased in the ruined little arbor that was his favorite spot and now is mine. Soon I will be the master of the garden; I enjoy the gardener’s favor even after only these few days, and he will not have done badly as a result.

MAY 10

A wonderful gaiety has seized my entire soul, like the sweet spring mornings I wholeheartedly enjoy. I am alone and glad to be alive in this place, which is made for souls like mine. I am so happy, dearest friend, so deeply immersed in the sense of calm existence that my art is suffering. I could not draw now, not a single stroke, and yet I have never been a greater painter than in these moments. When the vapor of this lovely valley rises around me and the midday sun rests on the impenetrable dark of my woods and only a few stray gleams steal into the inner sanctuary, then I lie in the high grass by the tumbling brook, and closer to the earth a thousand different little shoots grow distinct before my eyes; when closer to my heart I feel the teeming of the little world between the blades of grass, the countless, unfathomable shapes of the tiny worms, the tiny gnats, and feel the presence of the Almighty Who created us in His image, the breath of the All-loving Who in eternal bliss holds us hovering and keeps us; my friend! when the light fades around my eyes and the world around me and the heavens rest in my soul like the shape of a beloved—then I often yearn and think: Oh, could you express that, could you breathe into the paper everything that lives with such warmth and fullness in you that it might become the mirror of your soul, the way your soul is the mirror of unending God—my friend—but I am dying of this, I succumb to the force of the splendor of these displays.

MAY 12

I do not know whether deceitful spirits hover around this region or whether it is the warm, divine fantasy in my heart that makes everything around me appear like paradise. Just outside the town there is a well, a well that holds me spellbound like Melusine and her sisters.—You walk down a little hill and find yourself before a stone vault from which some twenty steps go down to where the clearest water spurts from marble blocks. The low wall above, which forms the surrounding enclosure, the tall trees that cast their shade all around, the coolness of the place; all this has something so attractive, so awesome about it. Not a day goes by that I do not sit there for an hour. The girls come from the town to fetch water, the most innocent occupation and the most essential, which in olden times the daughters of kings performed. When I sit there, the patriarchal idea comes to life so vividly around me; they are there, all our forebears, meeting others and courting at the well, while benevolent spirits hover over the fountains and the springs. Oh, anyone who does not experience the same feeling can never have refreshed himself at the coolness of the well after a strenuous walk on a summer day.

MAY 13

You ask me whether you should send me my books.—My dear, for God’s sake, I beg you, keep them away from me! I no longer want to be influenced, encouraged, inspired: this heart of mine rages enough by itself. I need a lullaby, and I have found that abundantly in my Homer. How often do I lull my rebellious blood to rest, for you have never seen anything so irregular, so impatient as this heart of mine. My dear, do I need to tell you, you who have so often been burdened with watching me swing from sorrow to ecstasy and from sweet melancholy to destructive passion? And I treat my little heart like a sick child; its every wish is granted. Don’t repeat what I say; there are people who would hold it against me.

MAY 15

The simple people of the town know me already and are fond of me, especially the children. At first, when I would go up to them and ask them in a friendly way about this and that, some of them thought I was making fun of them and dismissed me quite rudely. I didn’t let that bother me; but I felt very strongly something I’ve often noticed: persons of standing will always keep coldly distant from the common people, as if they were afraid to lose something through intimacy; and then there are those flighty creatures and nasty jokers who pretend to descend to their level in order to make these poor commoners feel their superiority all the more keenly.

I know well enough that we are not all equal nor can we be; but I believe that the person who feels it necessary to keep aloof from the so-called rabble in order to maintain his dignity is just as reprehensible as the coward who hides from his enemy lest he be defeated.

Not long ago I came to the well and found a young servant girl who had put her jug on the lowest step and was looking around to see whether a friend might come to help her lift it onto her head. I went down the steps and looked at her.—Would you like me to help you, my girl? I said.—She blushed deeply.—Oh no, sir! she said.—Let’s not stand on ceremony!—She adjusted her head cushion, and I helped her. She thanked me, and up the stairs she went.

MAY 17

I’ve made all sorts of acquaintances but as yet I have not found any real companionship. I do not know what it is about me that attracts others; so many of them like me and attach themselves to me, and then it hurts me when we walk only a short way together. If you want to know what the people here are like, I have to tell you: like people everywhere! The human race—it’s a uniform thing. Most people spend the greatest part of the time struggling to stay alive, and the little bit of freedom they have left makes them so anxious that they’ll look for any means to get rid of it. Oh, it is the lot of mankind!

But these are a very good kind of people! When at times I forget myself, at times enjoy with them the pleasures that are still granted to us humans—to joke and have fun openly and lightheartedly at a well-laid table, to arrange an outing or a dance and that kind of thing at just the right moment—all that has quite a good effect on me; only it must not occur to me that so many other forces lie dormant in me, all rotting away unused, which I must carefully conceal. Oh, it so constricts my heart.—And yet! to be misunderstood: that is the fate of our sort.

Alas, that the friend of my youth has gone! Alas, that I ever knew her!—I would say: you are a fool, you are looking for something that cannot be found on earth. But she was mine; I felt that heart, that great soul in whose presence I seemed to myself to be more than I was because I was everything I could be. Good God! At that time was there a single force in my soul left unused? Wasn’t I able to unfold before her all the wonderful emotion with which my heart embraces nature? Wasn’t our time together an endless weave of the subtlest feeling, the sharpest wit, whose variations even to the point of misbehavior bore the stamp of genius? And now!—Oh, her years that were a few more than mine led her to the grave before me. I shall never forget her, her steady mind and her divine tolerance.

A few days ago I made the acquaintance of V., an open-hearted young man with a pleasing set of features. He has just left the university, does not consider himself wise, and yet thinks that he knows more than others. He was diligent too, as I can tell from various signs; in short, he has a nice little store of knowledge. When he heard that I sketched a great deal and knew Greek (two sensations in this part of the country), he came to see me and unloaded his store of knowledge, from Batteau to Wood, from de Piles to Winckelmann, and assured me that he had read the first volume of Sulzer’s Theory from beginning to end and owned a manuscript by Heyne on the study of antiquity. I did not argue with him.

I have met another good man, the Prince’s district officer, a frank, guileless person. I’m told that it fills one’s soul with pleasure to see him with his children, of whom there are nine; people make a great to-do especially about his oldest daughter. He has invited me to visit him, and I will do so the first day I can. He lives in one of the Prince’s hunting lodges, an hour and a half from here, where he received permission to move after the death of his wife, since it was too painful for him to live at his official residence in town.

Otherwise, I’ve run across a couple of convoluted eccentrics, about whom everything is unendurable, the most unbearable being their demonstrations of friendship.

Farewell! You will like this letter, it is entirely factual.

MAY 22

That human life is but a dream is something that has already occurred to many, and this feeling forever haunts me as well. When I observe the narrow limits in which man’s powers of action and investigation are confined; when I see how all our activity aims at satisfying needs that once again have no purpose beyond prolonging our wretched existence; and that all our satisfaction with certain aspects of our investigations is only dreamy resignation, since we merely paint colored shapes and brilliant prospects on the walls that hold us captive—all this, Wilhelm, stuns me into silence. I turn back into myself and discover a world! Once again, more as intuition and dim craving than as distinct imagery and vital force. And then everything swims before my senses, and I go on, smiling dreamily into the world.

That children do not know why they want things—on this all high and mightily learned schoolmasters and tutors agree; but that, like children, adults also stumble through the world and, like children, do not know whence they come and whither they go, nor act to some true purpose any more than children do, and like them are ruled by cookies and cakes and birch rods—no one likes to think that, and yet to me it is palpable truth.

I’m quite willing to admit—because I know what you’re likely to want to say to me here, that those people are happiest who, like children, live for the moment, wander about with their dolls, dressing and undressing them, and keep a sharp eye on the cupboard where Mama has locked up the pastries, and when they finally get what they want, stuff their mouths with them and cry: More!—Those are happy creatures. And those others, too, are happy who give grand names to their paltry occupations or even to their passions and present them to the human race as gigantic accomplishments for its welfare and salvation.—Happy are they who can live this way! But those who in all humility realize the sum total, who see how neatly every contented citizen can shape his little garden into a paradise, and how tirelessly even the merest wretch, panting, makes his way beneath his burden, all of them equally determined to see the light of the sun one minute longer—yes, that man keeps still, and he creates his world out of himself, and he is happy as well because he is human. And then, confined as he is, he still always keeps in his heart the sweet sense of freedom, knowing that he can leave this prison whenever he chooses.

MAY 26

You’ve long known my habit of planting myself down, setting up a little hut at some cozy spot, and settling in there in the simplest manner. Here, too, I’ve once again come across a spot that attracted me.

About an hour’s ride from town there is a village called Wahlheim.† Its situation on a hill is enthralling, and if you go farther along on the footpath to the village, you get a sudden view over the entire valley. At the inn a good woman, pleasant and sprightly despite her age, sells wine, beer, and coffee; and what tops everything are two linden trees whose widespread limbs cover the little square in front of the church, which is surrounded by peasant cottages, barns, and homesteads. I have rarely found a spot so cozy, so homey, and I have my little table brought out from the inn, and my chair, drink my coffee there, and read my Homer. The first time, when one fine afternoon I chanced upon the spot under the linden trees, I found the place deserted. Everyone was out in the fields except a boy of about four who sat on the ground, holding an infant of about six months that sat between his feet; he was clasping the child to his chest with both arms, so that he served as a sort of armchair, and despite the liveliness with which his black eyes darted here and there, he kept perfectly still. I was charmed by the sight. I sat down on a plow that stood opposite them and was greatly delighted to sketch the pose of the two brothers. I put in the nearby hedge, a barn door, and some broken wagon wheels, everything the way each stood behind the other, and after an hour I found that I had produced a well-composed, very interesting drawing without having introduced the slightest bit of myself. This strengthened me in my resolve in future to stay exclusively with nature. It alone is infinitely rich, and it alone forms the great artist. Much can be said in favor of the rules, about the same that can be said in praise of bourgeois society. A man formed by them will never produce anything vapid or in poor taste, just as someone shaped by laws and decorum can never become an unbearable neighbor or a notorious villain; on the other hand, say what you will, rules will destroy the true feeling of nature and the genuine expression thereof. You say, That is too severe! It merely supplies limits, prunes the rampant vines, etc.—Dear friend, shall I give you a parable? It is here as with love. A young heart gives itself entirely to a girl, spends every waking hour of every day with her, squanders all his energies, his entire fortune, so as to let her know at every moment that he is fully devoted to her. And then along comes a philistine, a man in public office, and says to him, My fine young man! to love is human, but you must love in a human way! Plan the hours of your day, some hours for work, and leisure hours to devote to your girl. Calculate how much money you have, and I will not say no to your giving her a present from whatever is left over from your needs but not too often, let’s say for her birthday and for her name day, etc.—If the young man agrees, the result is a useful member of society, and I myself will advise any prince to give him a place on a council; except that there’s an end to his love, and if he is an artist, to his art. Oh, my friends! Why does the torrent of genius gush out so rarely, so rarely come rushing in on a spring tide to shatter your amazed soul?—Dear friends, these sedate gentlemen dwell on both banks of the stream, where their little summer houses, their tulip beds and cabbage patches would be ruined, and who therefore have the sense in good time to use dams and flood channels to ward off the impending threat of danger.

MAY 27

I have, I see, fallen into raptures, parables, and declamation, and as a result I have forgotten to tell you the rest of the story of the children. Completely immersed in my painterly mood, which I described to you in yesterday’s letter in a very fragmentary way, I sat on my plow for a good two hours. Then, toward evening, a young woman with a basket on her arm approaches the children, who have not stirred, and calls from a distance: Philipps, you’re a very good boy.—She greeted me, I thanked her, got to my feet, came closer and asked her if she was the children’s mother. She said she was, and as she gave the older boy half a roll, she lifted up the little one and kissed him with all a mother’s love.—I gave the little one to my Phillips to look after, she said, and went into town with my eldest to get some white bread and sugar and an earthenware porridge bowl.—I saw those things in the basket, as its lid had fallen open.—I want to cook some soup tonight for Hans (that was the name of the youngest child); my big boy, that rascal, broke the bowl yesterday fighting with Philipps over the porridge crust.—I asked about the eldest, and she had hardly finished telling me that he was chasing a couple of geese around the meadow when he came racing up with a hazel switch for his middle brother. I chatted some more with the woman and learned that she was the schoolmaster’s daughter and that her husband had gone on a trip to Switzerland to retrieve some money inherited from a relative.—They wanted to cheat him out of it, she said, and did not answer any of his letters, so he’s gone there himself. If only he hasn’t had an accident! I haven’t heard from him.—It was hard for me to part from the woman; I gave each of the children a penny and gave her one for the youngest child too, to bring him a roll to eat with the soup the next time she went to town, and so we parted.

I tell you, my dear friend, when my mind will not rest, all my turmoil is soothed by the sight of such a creature who, calm and happy, moves through the narrow circle of her existence, making the best of things from one day to the next, watches the leaves fall, and thinks no more about it than that winter is coming.

Since that time I have often gone out there. The children are quite used to me; they get sugar when I drink coffee, and in the evening they share my bread and butter and sour milk. On Sundays they never lack for their penny, and if I’m not there after services, I’ve instructed the landlady to pay it out.

They confide in me, tell me this and that, and I am particularly delighted by their passions and their naïve outbursts of desire when they are with some of the other village children.

It has taken considerable effort on my part to alleviate their mother’s concern that they might be inconveniencing the gentleman.

MAY 30

What I told you about painting a few days ago certainly holds true for poetry as well; all that matters is to recognize what is excellent and dare to express it, and that, of course, is saying a lot in a few words. I was present at a scene today which, perfectly copied, would make the most beautiful idyll in the world; but then, what is the sense of poetry and scenes and idylls? If we are to take pleasure in a natural phenomenon, must it always be tinkered with?

If you are expecting something lofty and refined from this introduction, you will once again be cruelly deceived; it is nothing more than a peasant boy who has inspired such lively sympathy in me.—As usual, I will tell the tale badly, and you will, as usual, I think, find that I’ve exaggerated; again it is Wahlheim, and always Wahlheim, that produces these rarities.

There was a party of people outside under the linden trees, drinking coffee. Because they were not quite suitable, I found some pretext to stay away.

A peasant boy came out of a neighboring house and busied himself fixing something on the plow that I sketched a few days ago. Since I liked his manner, I spoke to him and asked about his circumstances; we were soon acquainted and, as usually happens when I’m with this sort of person, were soon on familiar terms. He told me that he worked for a widow and that she treated him very well. He said so much about her and praised her so highly that I soon realized he was devoted to her, body and soul. She was no longer young, he said; she had been ill-treated by her first husband and had no wish to marry again, and his way of speaking revealed so clearly how beautiful, how alluring he found her and how fervently he wished she might choose him to wipe out the memory of her first husband’s failings, that I would have to repeat his speech word for word to make you feel the pure affection, the love and devotion of this man. Yes, I would need the gifts of the greatest poet to reproduce vividly the expressiveness of his gestures, the melodiousness of his voice, the hidden fire in his glance, all at the same time. No, words cannot express the tenderness that imbued his whole being and expression; anything more I could add would only be clumsy. I was especially moved by his fear that I might form the wrong opinion about his relation to her and doubt the propriety of her conduct. How charming it was to hear him speak of her figure, her body, which had such a powerful attraction for him and captivated him even though it lacked the charms of youth—this I can reproduce only in my innermost soul. Never in my life have I seen urgent desire and hot, ardent craving in such purity: indeed I can say, a purity such as I have never conceived or dreamed of. Do not scold me if I tell you that when I remember this innocence and truth, my innermost soul glows and that the image of his loyalty and tenderness pursues me everywhere and that, as if I myself had caught its fire, I yearn and languish.

Now I must try to see her for myself as soon as possible or rather—now that I think about it—I want to avoid doing so. It is better for me to see her through the eyes of her lover; it may be that in my own eyes she would not appear as she stands before me now, and why should I spoil this beautiful image?

JUNE 16

Why haven’t I written to you?—You ask, and yet you consider yourself a man of some learning? You ought to guess that I’m well, and indeed—in a word, I have made an acquaintance who has won my heart. I have—I don’t know.

To tell you in an orderly fashion how I came to know one of the loveliest creatures will be a hard task. I’m full of joy and hence not a good chronicler.

An angel—bah! Everyone says that about his beloved, right? And yet I am quite unable to tell you how perfect she is and why she is perfect; it’s enough to say that she has captivated all my senses.

So much simplicity together with so much understanding, so much goodness together with such steadfastness, and calmness of soul in the midst of real life and activity.—

All I’ve told you about her is disgusting twaddle, tiresome abstractions that express not one single trait of her true self. Some other time—No, not some other time, I want to tell you right now. If I don’t, I never will. For, just between us, since I started to write, I have three times been on the point of putting down my pen, saddling my horse, and riding out to see her. And yet I swore this morning not to ride out, and yet every minute I go to the window to see how high the sun still is.—

I could not resist, I had to go and see her. Here I am again, Wilhelm, I’ll have my evening bread and butter and write to you. How my soul delights to see her amid those dear, lively children, her eight brothers and sisters!—

If I continue in this vein, you won’t be any wiser at the end than you were at the beginning. So listen, I’ll force myself to go into detail.

I recently wrote to you about meeting District Officer S. and how he invited me to visit him soon at his hermitage, or rather, his little kingdom. I neglected to do so, and perhaps I would never have gone had chance not disclosed the treasure that lies hidden in that quiet place.

Our young people had organized a ball in the country, which I agreed to attend. I offered to escort a local girl who is pleasant, pretty, but otherwise of little account, and it was decided that I should hire a carriage, drive out to the place where the party was to be held, along with my dance partner and her cousin, and on the way pick up Charlotte S.—You are going to meet a very pretty girl, said my companion as we drove to the hunting lodge through the wide, cleared woods.—Be careful, her cousin added, that you don’t fall in love!—Why is that? I said.—She is already engaged, she replied, to a very good man, who is away on a trip. He has gone to put his affairs in order, because his father has died, and he means to apply for a good position.—The information left me quite indifferent.

The sun was still a quarter of an hour from setting behind the hills when we arrived at the courtyard gate. The air was sultry, and the women expressed their concern about a thunderstorm that seemed to be gathering at the horizon in grayish-white, sullen little clouds. I duped their fears with a pretense at meteorological expertise, although I too was beginning to suspect that our party would suffer a blow.

I got down from the carriage, and a maid who came to the gate asked us to wait a moment, Miss Lotte would be with us shortly. I walked across the yard to the handsome house, and when I had gone up the front steps and entered the doorway, I caught sight of the most charming spectacle that I have ever witnessed. In the vestibule six children from eleven to two years old crowded around a girl with a lovely figure, of medium height, wearing a simple white dress with pink ribbons on her sleeves and at her breast. She was holding a loaf of black bread and cutting off a slice for each of the little ones surrounding her, in proportion to their age and appetite, giving it to each one with such kindness, each shouting out so unaffectedly their: Thank you! after having reached up for so long with their little hands even before the slice had been cut, and now, delighted with supper, either dashing off or, if they were of a quieter nature, walking calmly toward the courtyard gate to see the strange persons and the carriage in which their Lotte was to drive off.—I beg your pardon, she said, that I made you come in and kept the ladies waiting. What with getting dressed and all sorts of instructions for the household during my absence, I forgot to give my children their supper, and they will have their bread sliced by no one else but me.—I paid her a trifling compliment, my entire soul rested on her figure, the sound of her voice, her demeanor. I just had time to recover from my surprise when she ran into the parlor to fetch her gloves and fan. Off at a distance the little ones threw me sidelong glances, and I went up to the youngest, a child with the most attractive features. He drew back just as Lotte came to the door, saying, Louis, shake hands with your cousin.—The lad did so very freely, and I could not resist giving him a heartfelt kiss despite his little runny nose.—Cousin? I said, while giving her my hand, Do you think I deserve the good fortune of being your relative?—Oh, she said, with an easy smile, our network of cousins is very extensive, and I should be sorry if you were the worst of them.—As she prepared to leave, she instructed Sophie, the next-older sister, a girl of about eleven, to keep a watchful eye on the children and to greet Papa when he returned from his ride. She told the little ones to obey their sister Sophie as if she were Lotte herself, which several of them expressly promised to do. A pert little blonde, however, about six years old, said: But you aren’t her, Lotte, we like you better.—The two oldest boys had climbed up on the coach, and at my request she allowed them to ride with us to the edge of the woods as long as they promised not to tease one another and to hold on tight.

We had hardly settled in, the women greeting one another, commenting by turns on the other’s outfits, especially their hats, and giving the expected guests a thorough going-over, when Lotte had the coachman stop and her brothers dismount; once again, they were eager to kiss her hand, the eldest doing just that with all the tenderness a fifteen-year-old can command, the other with much vigor and exuberance. She had them send her love to the little ones once more, and we drove on.

My partner’s cousin asked whether she had finished the book she had recently sent her.—No, Lotte said, I don’t care for it; you can have it back. And the one before that was no better.—I was astonished when, on asking what books they were, she replied:†——I found so strong a personality expressed in everything she said, with every word I saw new charms, new gleams of intelligence flashing from her features, which gradually appeared to blossom with delight because she sensed that I understood her.

When I was younger, she said, there was nothing I loved so much as novels. God knows how happy I was when on Sunday I could curl up in a corner and share wholeheartedly in the joys and sorrows of a Miss Jenny. Now, I won’t deny that this kind of writing still holds a certain charm for me. But since I have so little time to read, it has to be something completely to my taste. And I do love best of all that author in whom I rediscover my own world, in whose books things happen the way they do all around me, and whose story is as interesting and heartfelt as my own domestic life, which, of course, is no paradise and yet all in all is a source of inexpressible happiness.

I made an effort to conceal my emotions at these words. Of course I did not get very far; for when I heard her speak in passing with such perceptiveness about The Vicar of Wakefield and about‡ —— ,I was beside myself and said everything I had to say, and it was only after some time, when Lotte directed the conversation to the others, that I noticed that all the while they had sat there staring with wide-open eyes, as if they were not sitting there at all. My partner’s cousin looked down her nose at me more than once, but that was of no concern to me.

The conversation turned to the joy of dancing.—If this passion is a fault, said Lotte, I gladly confess to you that I know nothing better than dancing. And when something is troubling me and I drum out a country dance on my out-of-tune piano, all is well again.

How I feasted on her black eyes during this conversation! How my entire soul was drawn to her animated lips and her fresh, glowing cheeks! How completely immersed I was in the splendid sense of her conversation, so that at times I did not even hear the words with which she expressed herself!—You have some idea of this because you know me. In a word, when we came to a halt at the ballroom house, I got out of the carriage as if in a dream, and I was so lost in my dreams in the midst of the twilit world that I hardly registered the music pealing down to us from the brightly lit hall.

The two gentlemen, Audran and a certain party—who can remember all their names!—who were the cousin’s and Lotte’s escorts, met us at the carriage, they took charge of their ladies, and I led mine up the stairs.

We weaved around one another in minuets; I asked one lady after the other to dance, and it was precisely the most unattractive ones who could not manage to give me their hand and bring the dance to an end. Lotte and her partner began an English country dance, and you can imagine my delight when it was her turn to begin the figure with us. You should see her dance! You see, she is so absorbed in it with her heart and soul, her whole body one harmony, so carefree, so natural, as if this were the only thing in the world, as if she thought or felt nothing else; and in such moments everything else surely does vanish from her mind.

I asked her for the second country dance; she promised me the third, and with the most charming frankness in the world assured me that she adored dancing this German variation.—It’s the custom here, she continued, that every couple that belongs together remain together for the German dance, but my partner waltzes badly and is grateful to me if I relieve him of this chore. Your lady doesn’t know how to and doesn’t like to, and I saw when you danced the country dance that you waltz well; if you’re willing to be my partner for the waltz, go and ask my partner for leave, and I will speak to your lady.—I gave her my hand upon it, and it was arranged that while we danced, our partners would entertain one another.

So it began! and for a while we were delighted with the various ways our arms intertwined. How charming she was, how nimbly she moved! And now, as we began the waltz and, like the heavenly spheres, circled around one another, there was, of course, a good deal of confusion at first, because few were adept. We were clever and let them exhaust themselves, and once the clumsiest ones had left the floor, we moved in and, together with one other couple, Audran and his partner, carried on valiantly. Never have I danced so effortlessly. I was no longer a mere mortal. To hold the loveliest creature in my arms and to fly with her like the wind, so that everything else around me vanished, and—Wilhelm, to be honest, I vowed to myself that a girl whom I loved, to whom I was attached, should never waltz with anyone but me, even if it were to cost me my life. You understand what I mean!

We took a few turns around the ballroom to catch our breath. Then she sat down, and the oranges I had set aside and that were now the only ones left had a good effect, though with each little segment she politely offered to a greedy neighbor, a pang went through my heart.

At the third country dance, we were the second pair. As we danced through the line and I, God knows with how much bliss, hung on her arm and eyes, which were full of the most genuine expression of the frankest, purest pleasure, we encountered a woman whom I had noticed earlier for the gentle expression on her aging face. Smiling, she looks at Lotte, lifts a minatory finger and, as we fly past, twice utters the name Albert very meaningfully.

Who is Albert? I said to Lotte, if I may ask.—She was about to answer when we had to separate in order to move into the great figure eight, and it seemed to me that I saw signs of pensiveness on her forehead as we crossed in front of one another.—Why should I hide it from you, she said as she gave me her hand for the promenade, Albert is a fine man to whom I am as good as engaged.—Now that was not news to me (for the girls had told me on the way), and yet it was entirely new because I had not yet thought of it in connection with the woman who in so short a time had become so precious to me. Enough, I became confused, lost count, and came in between the wrong couple, so that everything went awry, and it took all of Lotte’s presence of mind and tugging and pulling quickly to restore order.

The dance was not yet over when the lightning that we had long seen flashing on the horizon and that I had always pretended was only summer lightning began to grow far more pronounced and thunder drowned out the music. Three ladies broke out of the line, followed by their partners; the confusion became general, and the music stopped. It is natural, when a misfortune or something terrible takes us by surprise while we are enjoying ourselves, that the impression it makes on us is stronger than usual, partly because of the contrast, which we feel so vividly, partly, and even more, because our senses are open to perception and therefore take in an impression all the more readily. I must attribute to these causes the amazing grimaces that I saw on some of the ladies’ faces. The smartest one sat in a corner, her back to the window, and covered her ears. Another knelt in front of her and hid her face in this lady’s lap. A third pressed herself between them and embraced her sisters amid a thousand tears. Some wanted to go home; others, who knew even less what they were doing, lacked the presence of mind to control the impertinences of our young gourmands who seemed to be very busy snatching from the lips of those harassed beauties all the anxious prayers intended for heaven. Some of our gentlemen had gone downstairs to smoke their pipes in peace, and the rest of the company did not refuse when the landlady had the clever idea of showing us to a room with shutters and curtains. No sooner had we arrived there than Lotte busied herself arranging a circle of chairs, requesting the company to take seats, and proposing the rules of a game.

I saw several young men pursing their lips and stretching their limbs in the hope of a juicy forfeit.—We’re going to play at counting, she said. Now pay attention! I am going to go around the circle from right to left, and you must count, also going around, each with the number of your turn, and that has to go like wildfire, and whoever hesitates or makes a mistake gets a slap in the face, and so on up to one thousand.—It was fun to watch. She went around the circle with an outstretched arm. One, the first began; his neighbor, two; the next one, three; and so on. Then she began to move more and more quickly. Then someone made a mistake: smack! A slap, and amid the laughter the next one too: smack! And faster and faster. I myself was hit twice, and it was with intense pleasure that I believed I noticed that these slaps were harder than the ones she handed out to the others. General laughter and commotion broke up the game before the company had counted to one thousand. Those who were most intimate drew each other aside, the thunderstorm had passed, and I followed Lotte back to the dance floor. On the way she said: The slaps made them forget the storm and everything else!—There was nothing I could say.—I was, she continued, one of those most afraid, and by pretending to be brave, so as to encourage the others, I grew brave.—We walked over to the window. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a splendid rain was falling on the land, and the most refreshing scent rose up to us in the fullness of a rush of warm air. She stood leaning on her elbows, her gaze penetrating the scene; she looked up at the sky and at me, I could see tears in her eyes, she put her hand on mine and said, Klopstock!—I immediately recalled the splendid ode that was in her thoughts, and I sank into the flood of feelings that she poured over me with this byword. I could not bear it, I bowed over her hand and kissed it as I wept the most blissful tears. And looked again into her eyes—Noble poet! If you had but seen yourself idolized in this glance—and now I never want to hear your name, so often blasphemed, ever mentioned again!

JUNE 19

I no longer remember where I stopped in my story; I do know that it was two o’clock in the morning when I went to bed and that if I had been able to harangue you with it, instead of writing, I might have kept you up until dawn.

I have not yet told you what happened on the way home from the ball, and I don’t have time to tell you today either. It was the most glorious sunrise. All around us the dripping trees and the refreshed fields! The women in the party nodded off. She asked me if I would not want to join the group, no need to worry about her.—As long as I see these eyes open, I said, looking at her steadily, there’s no danger of that.—And both of us held out until we reached her gate, which the maid opened quietly for her and in answer to her questions, assured her that her father and the little ones were well and still asleep. Thereupon I took leave of her with the request that I might see her again the very same day; she granted it, and I went; and since then, sun, moon, and stars can quietly go about their business, I don’t know whether it’s day or night, the whole world around me vanishes.

JUNE 21

I am living such happy days as God reserves for His saints; and no matter what happens to me, I cannot say that I have not tasted the joys, the purest joys of life.—You know my Wahlheim; I’m fully settled in; from here I’m only half an hour from Lotte; that is where I am in touch with myself and with all the happiness granted to man.

Had I imagined when I chose Wahlheim as the goal of my walks that it lay so close to heaven! How often on my wide wanderings have I seen the hunting lodge that now contains all my desires, either from the hillside or across the river from the meadow!

Dear Wilhelm, I have thought about this and that, about man’s desire to expand, make new discoveries, roam; and then again on his inner drive to submit willingly to limitations, to carry on in the rut of habit, looking neither right nor left.

It is marvelous how I came here and gazed down from the hills into the beautiful valley, how everything all around me attracted me—The little stand of trees over there!—Oh, if you could only mingle in its shade!—There the hilltop!—Oh, if you could see over the whole wide region from up there!—The enchained hills and the gentle valleys!—Oh, if I could lose myself in them!—I hurried to be there, and returned, and had not found what I had hoped to find. Oh, distance is like the future! A vast twilit whole looms before our soul, our feeling blurs in it like our eyesight, and we long, oh, to surrender our whole being, to let ourselves be filled to the brim, blissfully, with a single, great, glorious emotion.—And alas! when we rush to be there, when there becomes here, everything is as it was before, and we stand there as poor and limited as before, and our soul craves the balm that has slipped away.

Thus, in the end, the most restless vagabond longs once more for his homeland, and in his cottage, at his wife’s breast, in the circle of his children, in the occupations that provide for them, he finds the bliss that he sought in vain in the whole wide world.

When mornings at sunrise I leave for my Wahlheim, and in the garden of the inn I pick my own sugar peas, sit down, snip off their strings, and in between read my Homer; when in the little kitchen I choose a saucepan, baste the peapods with a little butter, set them on the fire, cover them, and sit there to shake the pan from time to time; then I feel vividly how Penelope’s boisterous suitors slaughter, carve up, and roast oxen and swine. Nothing fills me with such serene, genuine feeling as the features of patriarchal life, which, thank God, I can weave into my way of life without affectation.

How happy I am that my heart can feel the simple, innocent bliss of the man who brings to his table the head of cabbage he has grown himself and who now, in a single moment, enjoys not only the cabbage but all the fine days, the beautiful morning he planted it, the lovely evenings he watered it, and the pleasure he took in watching it grow continuously—all rolled into one.

JUNE 29

The day before yesterday the doctor came from town to see the District Officer, and he found me on the floor with Lotte’s children, several of them clambering over my back and others teasing me while I tickled them and set off a great hullabaloo. The doctor, a very dogmatic marionette who adjusts his cuffs while speaking and ceaselessly plucks at a ruffle, found my behavior beneath the dignity of a civilized man; I could see as much from his nose. But I did not let myself be bothered in the least, I let him discourse on very sensible topics, and I rebuilt the children’s houses of cards whenever they knocked them down. Whereupon he went about town complaining: as if the District Officer’s children weren’t wild enough, Werther was now spoiling them altogether.

Yes, dear Wilhelm, the children are of all things on earth closest to my heart. When I watch them and see in these small beings the seeds of all the virtues, all the powers they will one day need so urgently; when I glimpse future steadfastness and firmness of character in their stubbornness and in their playfulness, good humor and the ease they’ll need to slide over life’s dangers, when I see all of it so unspoiled, so intact!—I repeat over and over again the golden words of the teacher of mankind: Unless you become as little children! and yet, dear friend, they, who are our equals, whom we ought to consider our models, these we treat as inferiors. They should not have a will of their own!—Are we then without one? And wherein does our privilege lie?—Because we are older and more intelligent!—Good God, from Your heaven You see old children and young children and nothing more; and Your son long ago proclaimed which ones give You greater joy. But they believe in Him and do not hear Him—that, too, is nothing new!—and fashion their children on their own model and—Adieu, Wilhelm! I’m not in the mood to blather on about it any longer.

JULY 1

My own poor heart, which suffers more than many who languish on their sickbeds, shows me what Lotte must mean to an invalid. She will be spending a few days in town with a good woman whose end, according to her doctors, is near and who in her final hours wants Lotte at her side. Last week I went with Lotte to visit the pastor of St. ——, a little village an hour away in the mountains. We arrived around four o’clock. Lotte had brought along her little sister. As we entered the courtyard of the parsonage, shaded by two tall walnut trees, the good old man was seated on a bench in front of the door; and when he saw Lotte, it was as if he had come to life, forgetting his knotty stick and venturing to stand up to go toward her. She ran over to him and made him sit back down by sitting beside him, bringing warm greetings from her father, and then cuddling his naughty, dirty youngest boy, the little treasure of his old age. You should have seen her keeping the old man occupied, raising her voice to make herself heard by his half-deaf ears while telling him about strapping young people who had died unexpectedly and about the excellence of Carlsbad, praising his decision to spend the next summer there, and how much better she thought he looked, much more lively than the last time she’d seen him. Meanwhile I paid my respects to the pastor’s wife. The old man became quite animated, and as I could not help admiring the beautiful walnut trees that cast their shade over us so pleasantly, he began to tell us their story, although somewhat clumsily.—The old one, he said, we do not know who planted it; some say this pastor, others say a different one. But the younger tree there in the back is as old as my wife, fifty in October. Her father planted it the morning of the day she was born toward evening. He was my predecessor in office, and I can’t tell you how much he loved the tree; of course, it means just as much to me. My wife was sitting under it on a log and knitting when I came into the yard for the first time as a poor student, twenty-seven years ago.—Lotte asked about his daughter: the reply was that she had gone with Herr Schmidt to the hands in the field, and the old man continued his story: how he had won the affection of his predecessor and of his daughter as well, and how he had become first his curate and then his successor. The story had barely ended when the pastor’s daughter, with the aforementioned Herr Schmidt, came in through the garden; she greeted Lotte with genuine warmth, and I must say, I found her quite attractive: a vivacious, well-built brunette, who might have been quite entertaining company during a brief stay in the country. Her suitor (for Herr Schmidt immediately presented himself as such) was a refined though quiet man who would not join in our conversation, although Lotte was always quick to draw him in. What troubled me most was that I seemed to notice from his expression that it was stubbornness and ill humor more than limited intelligence that prevented him from taking part. Unfortunately, this became all too evident; for when Friederike went walking with Lotte and from time to time with me, the gentleman’s face, which was swarthy to begin with, darkened so visibly that it was time for Lotte to pluck my sleeve and let me know that I had been too friendly toward Friederike. Now there is nothing that irritates me more than when people torment one another, especially when young people in the prime of life, who could be most open to all life’s joys, ruin the few good days for each other with antics and realize only too late that they have squandered something irreplaceable. That nettled me, and after we had returned to the parsonage toward evening and were eating curdled milk at the table and the conversation turned to the joys and sufferings of the world, I could not help picking up the thread and speaking out very bluntly against bad moods.—People often complain, I began—for the most part unjustly, I think—that there are so few good days and so many bad ones. If our hearts were always open to enjoy the good that God puts before us each day, we would also be strong enough to endure the bad whenever it comes.—But we have no control over our feelings, replied the pastor’s wife; so much depends on our bodies. When we do not feel well, nothing seems right.—I granted her that.—Well, then, I continued, let’s consider moodiness as a sickness and ask if there is no cure for it.—That sounds reasonable, said Lotte: at least, I think a lot depends on ourselves. I know it does with me. If something annoys me and is apt to make me ill-tempered, I jump up and sing a few country dances up and down the garden, and it’s gone right away.—That’s what I meant to say, I added: bad moods are just the same as laziness, for they are a sort of laziness. Our natures are prone to it, and yet, if we just once summon up the strength to pull ourselves together, work flies from our hands, and we find real pleasure in being active.—Friederike listened very attentively, and her young man objected that we are not masters of ourselves and least of all able to dictate our feelings.—Here it is a question of an unpleasant feeling, I replied, which surely everyone would gladly be rid of; and no one knows the extent of his powers until he has tested them. Certainly, a sick man will consult all the doctors, and he will not reject the greatest deprivation, the harshest medicines, to regain the health he desires.—I noticed that the good old man was straining to take part in our conversation. I raised my voice and turned to address him. They preach sermons against so many vices, I said; I have never yet heard anyone inveighing against bad moods from the pulpit.†—That’s a job for city pastors, he said. Peasants are not ill-humored; and yet it would do no harm now and again, as a lesson at least for my wife and for the District Officer.—We all laughed, and he laughed heartily along with us until attacked by a coughing fit, which interrupted our conversation for a while; then the young man spoke up again: You called bad moods a vice; I think that’s an exaggeration.—Not at all, I replied, if whatever harms ourselves and our neighbors deserves this name. Isn’t it enough that we cannot make each other happy, must we also rob each other of the pleasure that every heart is still able to grant itself from time to time? And show me the man who is ill-tempered and yet is good enough to hide it, to bear it alone, without destroying the joy all around him! Isn’t it rather an inner dissatisfaction with our own unworthiness, a displeasure with ourselves forever tied to envy that is stimulated by foolish vanity? We see happy people whom we are not making happy, and that is unbearable.—Lotte smiled at me as she saw the passion with which I spoke, and a tear in Friederike’s eyes spurred me on.—Woe unto them, I said, who use the power they have over another’s heart to rob it of the simple joys that naturally burgeon from it. All the gifts, all the favors the world can bestow cannot replace an instant of pleasure in oneself that our tyrant’s envious discontent has turned to bile.

At that moment my whole heart was full; the memory of so much in the past pressed against my soul, and tears came to my eyes.

If we would only say to ourselves each day, I cried out: We can do nothing for our friends but let their joys abide and increase their happiness by enjoying it with them. When their innermost soul is tormented by an anxious passion or shattered by grief, are you able to give them a drop of comfort?

And when the final, most frightening sickness befalls the creature you undermined when she was in flower, and now she lies there in the most pitiable exhaustion, her eyes lifted insensibly toward heaven, death sweat alternating on her pallid brow, you stand before her bed like a damned soul, with the most intense feeling that with all your resources you can do nothing, and you experience an internal spasm of fear, and you would gladly give everything to be able to impart to this dying creature a drop of comfort, a spark of courage.

With these words I was overwhelmed by the memory of such a scene at which I had been present. I put my handkerchief to my eyes and left the party, and only Lotte’s voice, which called to me to say that it was time to leave brought me to my senses. And how she scolded me on the way back about my excessive emotional involvement in everything, and how that would lead to my destruction! That I ought to spare myself!—Oh, you angel! For your sake I must live!

JULY 6

She is always with her dying friend and is always the same, always the fully attentive, lovely creature, who, wherever she turns, relieves pain and makes people happy. Last night she went for a walk with Marianne and little Amalie; I knew about it and met them, and we walked together. After an hour and a half we turned back toward the town and came upon the well that is so dear to me and is now a thousand times dearer. Lotte sat down on the low wall, and we stood in front of her. I looked around, oh! and the time when my heart was so alone came alive again before me.—Beloved well, I said, since that time I have not rested beside your coolness, and sometimes, when hurrying by, I did not even take notice of you.—I looked down and saw that Amalie, climbing up, was fully occupied with a glass of water.—I looked at Lotte and felt everything that she means to me. At that moment Amalie arrived with a glass. Marianne wanted to take it from her.—No! the child cried out with the sweetest expression, No, dear Lotte, you must drink first! I was so enchanted by the truth, the goodness, with which the child cried that out that I could not express my emotion except to lift her up and kiss her soundly, so that she began to scream and weep at once.—You’ve acted badly, said Lotte.—I was struck.—Come, Amalie, she continued, as she took her hand and led her down the steps, wash it off in the fresh well water, hurry, hurry, then it won’t matter.—I stood there and watched with what zeal the little girl rubbed her cheeks with her little wet hands, with what faith that this well of wonders must wash away all pollution and remove the disgrace of getting an ugly beard. I heard Lotte say: That’s enough! and still the child went on eagerly washing herself as if more were better than less—I tell you, Wilhelm, I never felt greater reverence when attending a baptism; and when Lotte came back up, I would have happily thrown myself at her feet as before a prophet whose blessing had washed away the sins of a nation.

That evening the joy in my heart led me to describe the incident to a man whom I believed to have human feelings because he is intelligent; but with what results? He said that it was very wrong of Lotte; one should not fool children into believing things that are not true; that sort of thing would give rise to countless errors and superstitions, from which children must be protected at an early age.—At that point it occurred to me that the same man had had a child baptized a week before, so I let it pass and in my heart remained faithful to the truth: we ought to fare with children as God fares with us, Who makes us happiest when He lets us stumble about in our amiable delusions.

JULY 8

How childish we are! How greedy we can be for a glance! How childish we are!—We had gone to Wahlheim. The ladies drove out, and during our walks I thought I saw in Lotte’s dark eyes—I am a fool, forgive me! you should see them, those eyes!—To be brief (for I am so sleepy that my eyes are closing), behold, the ladies got in, and standing around the young W.’s carriage were Selstadt, Audran, and I. The ladies chatted through the carriage door with the fellows, who of course were easy and breezy enough.—I sought Lotte’s eyes: oh, her glance went from one to the other! But it did not fall on me! me! me! the only one standing there who lives wholly in submission to her!—My heart bade her a thousand adieus! And she did not look at me! The carriage drove on, and there were tears in my eyes. I watched her go, and saw Lotte’s bonnet leaning out the carriage door, and she turned around in order to look back, ah! at me?—Dear friend! I am adrift in this uncertainty; this is my comfort: perhaps she did turn around to look at me! Perhaps!—Good night! Oh, how childish I am!

JULY 10

The foolish figure I cut when I’m in company and her name is mentioned—you should see me! Especially when others ask me how I like her—Like? I hate this word to death. What sort of person must it be who likes Lotte, whose senses, whose heart she does not completely fill? Like! Recently someone asked me how I liked Ossian!

JULY 11

Frau M. is in a very bad way; I pray for her life because I share Lotte’s suffering. Occasionally I see her at my friend’s, a lady, and today she told me an amazing thing.—Old Herr M. is a stingy, grasping lout who during their life together kept his wife on a short leash and harassed her grievously, but she always knew how to manage. A few days ago, when the doctor told her that she did not have long to live, she sent for her husband—Lotte was in the room—and spoke to him thus: I must confess something that could cause confusion and aggravation after my death. I have always kept house as properly and thriftily as possible, but you will forgive me that for these thirty years I have gone behind your back. At the beginning of our marriage you fixed a small sum to cover the kitchen and other domestic expenses. As our household grew larger, and our business expanded, you could not be persuaded to increase my weekly allowance accordingly; in short, you know that in the times when our expenses were greatest, you insisted that I get by on seven gulden a week. I took that money without complaint, and at the end of each week I made up what was needed from the till, since no one would suspect your wife of helping herself to the receipts. I wasted nothing, and I would have been content to meet my maker without confessing, except that the woman who has to manage your household after I’m gone won’t be able to do it, and you could always insist that your first wife managed to make do with her allowance.

I discussed with Lotte the unbelievable self-deception of the human mind, that a man should never suspect that something else is involved when his wife makes do with seven gulden for expenses that evidently amount to almost twice that sum. But I myself have known people who would have accepted the prophet’s perpetual cruet of oil in their houses and never been surprised.

JULY 13

No, I am not deceiving myself! I read in her black eyes genuine concern for me and what may befall me! Yes, I feel, and in this I know I may trust my heart, that she—oh may I, can I express heaven in these words—that she loves me!

Loves me!—And how I begin to value myself, how I—I can certainly tell you, you understand such things—how I worship myself ever since she has come to love me!

Is this presumption or a correct sense of our real relationship?—I do not know the man whose place in Lotte’s heart could make me afraid. And yet—when she speaks about her fiancé with such warmth, such love—I feel like a man deprived of all his honors and titles and stripped of his sword.

JULY 16

Oh, what a thrill I feel running through my veins when my finger inadvertently touches hers, when our feet meet under the table! I pull back as if from fire, and a secret force draws me forward again—all my senses grow dizzy.—Oh! and her innocence, her naïve soul does not suspect how much these little intimacies torment me. When in conversation she actually lays her hand on mine and when, to heighten our exchange, she moves closer to me so that her divine breath brushes my lips—I feel as if I’m sinking away, as if struck by lightning.—And, Wilhelm! if ever I dared . . . this heaven, this trust—! You understand me. No, my heart is not so depraved! Weak! Weak enough!—And isn’t that depravity?—

She is sacred to me. All lust falls silent in her presence. I never know what I feel when I am near her; it is as if my soul ran every which way through all my nerves.—There is a tune that she plays on the piano with the touch of an angel, so simple and so soulful! It is her favorite song, she needs only to strike the first note, and I am cured of all my pain, confusion, and gloom.

No claim of the old magic power of music is implausible to me. How this simple song affects me! And she knows just when to introduce it, often at moments when I feel like putting a gun to my head! The confusion and darkness of my soul disperse, and I breathe freely again.

JULY 18

Wilhelm, what is the world to our heart without love! What a magic lantern is without light! No sooner have you set the little lamp inside than the most colorful pictures glow on your white screen! And if it were nothing more than that—fleeting phantoms—we are always happy when we stand before them like expectant boys and are charmed by these wondrous apparitions.

Today I could not see Lotte: an unavoidable social gathering kept me away. What was to be done? I sent my servant to her, just to have someone around me who had been near her today. How impatiently I waited for him, how joyously I welcomed him back! I would have liked to clasp his head and kiss him if I hadn’t been embarrassed.

There is a story about the Bonona stone, which when placed in the sun, attracts its rays and for a while glows at night. So it was for me with this fellow. The feeling that her eyes had rested on his face, his cheeks, the buttons of his jacket, the collar of his overcoat made all of these so sacred, so valuable to me! In that moment I wouldn’t have parted from him for a thousand thalers. His presence made me so happy.—God forbid that you laugh at me. Wilhelm, can these be phantoms if we feel so happy?

JULY 19

I’m going to see her! I exclaim in the morning when I wake up and with serene good cheer look out at the glorious sun; I’m going to see her! and then, for the entire day, I have no other wish. Everything, everything is consumed by this one prospect.

JULY 20

I cannot yet accept your idea that I ought to go with the ambassador to ***. I do not like being anyone’s subordinate, and we all know that on top of this the man is odious. You say that my mother would like to see me actively employed; that made me laugh. Am I not now actively employed? and when you come down to it, isn’t it the same whether I count peas or lentils? Everything in the world ends up as the same paltry rubbish, and anyone who works himself to the bone to please others, for money or honor or whatever else, without its being his own passion, his own necessity, is a perfect fool.

JULY 24

Since it is so important to you that I not neglect my drawing, I would much prefer to skip the whole subject than tell you how little I’ve been doing.

I’ve never been happier, my feeling for nature, right down to the smallest pebble, the smallest blade of grass, has never been more complete and more intense, and yet—I don’t know how to express myself, my power of depiction is so weak, everything swims and wavers so before my soul that I cannot seize an outline; but I imagine that if I had clay or wax, I could probably shape it. I will surely take clay, if this continues, and knead it: and even if it should turn out to be mud pies!

I’ve begun Lotte’s portrait three times, and three times I’ve made a mess of it. That depresses me all the more because not long ago I was very good at doing likenesses. Instead I did a silhouette of her, and that will have to do.

JULY 26

Yes, dear Lotte, I will fetch everything and order everything; only charge me with more errands, and often. I ask one thing: Stop strewing sand on the little notes you send me. Today I hastily pressed one to my lips, and my teeth crackled.

JULY 26

I’ve resolved more than once not to see her so often. Yes, but who could keep to that! Every day I succumb to temptation, and I swear a sacred promise to myself: Tomorrow you will stay away, and when tomorrow comes, again I find an irresistible reason, and before I know it, I am at her house. Either the previous evening she said: You’re coming tomorrow, aren’t you?—then who could stay away? Or she asks me to run an errand, and I consider it only proper to deliver the answer in person; or the day is simply too beautiful, I walk to Wahlheim, and once I’m there, it’s just another half-hour to her place—I am too close to her aura—whoosh! and I’m there. My grandmother used to tell a story about a magnetic mountain: ships that sailed too close were suddenly stripped of all their ironwork, the nails flew to the mountain, and the poor wretches foundered in the crash of the collapsing planks.

JULY 30

Albert has arrived, and I shall leave; even if he were the best, the noblest of men, one to whom I’d be ready to subordinate myself in every way, it would still be unbearable to see him take possession of such perfection—Possession!—Enough, Wilhelm, the fiancé is here! A fine, dear man, whom one cannot help but like. Fortunately I was not present at his arrival! It would have rent my heart. And he is so honorable and has not kissed Lotte even once in my presence. May God reward him for that! I have to love him for the regard he shows her. He means well by me, and I assume that is Lotte’s doing more than his own feeling: for in this matter women have a delicate sense, and they are right: if they can keep two admirers on good terms with one another, they will always have the advantage, no matter how rarely that succeeds.

Meanwhile, I cannot deprive Albert of my esteem. His calm exterior stands in sharp contrast to my natural restlessness, which cannot be concealed. He is a man of feeling and knows what a treasure he has in Lotte. He appears to have few bad moods, and you know that is the sin in a person that I hate more than any other.

He considers me a person of sensibility; and my affection for Lotte, my sincere pleasure in all her actions, heightens his triumph, and he loves her all the more for it. Whether he torments her at times with little jabs of jealousy is a subject I shall not explore; at any rate, in his place I would not be wholly safe from this devil.

Be that as it may! My joy in being with Lotte is gone. Shall I call that foolishness or delusion?—Why does it need a name! The thing explains itself!—I knew everything that I now know before Albert came; I knew that I had no claim on her, nor did I make one—that is, insofar as it is possible to feel no desire in the presence of such loveliness.—And now this fool is wide-eyed with surprise when another man actually appears and takes the girl away from him.

I grit my teeth and scoff at my misery, and I would scoff doubly and triply at those who would say I ought to submit, since nothing can be done.—Get these scarecrows away from me!—I roam through the woods, and when I come to Lotte’s and find Albert sitting with her under the arbor in the little garden, and I cannot go on, I become boisterously foolish and play pranks and do a lot of confused stuff.—For God’s sake, Lotte said to me today, please, not another scene like the one last night! You are frightful when you’re so merry.—Between you and me, I wait for the moment when he is busy with something; whoosh! I’m there, and I’m always happy when I find her alone.

AUGUST 8

I beg your pardon, dear Wilhelm, I certainly did not mean you when I called people intolerable who demand our submission to an unavoidable fate. I truly did not think that you could be of a similar mind. And basically you’re right. Only one thing, my good friend: In this world it is seldom a matter of either-or; feelings and actions display as many shadings as the gradations between a hawk nose and a turned-up one.

And so you won’t be offended if I concede your entire argument and still search for a way to slip in between the either and the or.

Either, you say, you have hopes of winning Lotte, or you have none. Fine, in the first case, try to bring them to a conclusion, try to seize the fulfillment of your wishes: in the other case, be a man and try to rid yourself of a miserable passion that must consume all your powers.—My dear friend! That is well said—and easily said.

And can you require of the unfortunate man whose life is inexorably ebbing away by degrees from an insidious disease, can you require of him that he put an end to his torment once and for all with the thrust of a dagger? And does not the disease that is consuming his strength at the same time rob him of the courage to free himself?

Of course you could answer with a similar analogy: Who would not rather cut off his arm than risk his life through dallying and delay?—I don’t know!—And we don’t want to nip at each other with analogies. Enough.—Yes, Wilhelm, there are moments when I feel a fit of the courage to spring up and shake it all off and then—if only I knew where to, I think I would go.

EVENING

My diary, which I have neglected for some time, fell into my hands again today, and I am amazed at how knowingly I went into all this, step by step! How I have always seen my situation so clearly and yet have acted like a child; even now I see it so clearly, and still there is no sign of improvement.

AUGUST 10

I could be leading the best, the happiest life if I weren’t a fool. Wonderful circumstances such as those in which I now find myself do not easily come together to delight a man’s soul. Oh, it is so certain that it is our heart alone that makes for happiness.—To be a member of the charming family, to be loved by her father as a son, by the little ones as a father, and by Lotte!—then the honorable Albert, who never disturbs my happiness with moody behavior; who accepts me with sincere friendship; for whom, next to Lotte, I am the dearest person in the world.—Wilhelm, it is a joy to hear us when we go for a walk, speaking to one another of Lotte: nothing in the world has been invented that is more ridiculous than this relationship, and yet it often brings tears to my eyes when he tells me about her honest, virtuous mother: how on her deathbed she handed her house and her children over to Lotte and gave Lotte into his care; and how since that time a quite different spirit has inspired Lotte, how she, in her concern for the household and in her seriousness, had become a true mother, how not a moment of her time passes without active love, without work, and yet despite this, her good cheer, her blitheness have never left her.—I walk along beside him and pluck flowers by the roadside, piece them very carefully into a bouquet and—toss them into the stream that flows by and gaze after them as the current carries them gently downstream.—I don’t know whether I’ve written to you that Albert will remain here and will receive a position with a nice income from the Court, where he is very well liked. I have rarely seen his equal for orderly and diligent competence in business.

AUGUST 12

Surely Albert is the best man in all creation. Yesterday the two of us had a remarkable scene. I went to say good-bye to him, for I was overcome by the desire to ride into the mountains, whence I’m now writing to you; and while pacing up and down in his room, I caught sight of his pistols.—Lend me the pistols, I said, for my trip.—As you like, he said, if you will take the trouble of loading them; in my house they hang only for show.—I took one down, and he continued: Ever since my caution played such a nasty trick on me, I don’t want to have anything more to do with them.—I was curious to know the story—For some three months, he began, I was staying with a friend in the country, had a brace of unloaded small pistols, and slept peacefully. One rainy afternoon, I was sitting around idly, and it occurred to me, I don’t know why, that we could be attacked, we could have need of the pistols and could—you know how it is.—I gave them to a servant to clean and load; and he fooled around with the maids, meant to frighten them, and God knows how, the weapon went off, and since the ramrod was still lodged in the barrel, he shot the ramrod into the ball of one of the girls’ right hand and shattered her thumb. Then there was her wailing to be put up with, and besides, I had to pay for the treatment, and since that time I keep all weapons unloaded. Oh my dear fellow, what is caution? When it comes to danger, you live and learn! True, but—Now you know that I am very fond of the man, up until his True, but; for isn’t it self-evident that every general statement admits of exceptions? But the man is so eager to justify himself! When he thinks he’s said something in haste, a generality, a half-truth, he won’t stop limiting, modifying, and adding on and taking back, until finally there’s nothing left of the statement. And on this occasion he became deeply enmeshed in his subject: I finally stopped listening altogether, fell into a black mood, and with an abrupt gesture pressed the mouth of the pistol to my forehead over my right eye.—Ugh! said Albert and took the pistol from me, What is that supposed to mean?—It’s not loaded, I said.—Even so, what is that? he replied impatiently. I cannot imagine that a man can be so foolish as to shoot himself; the mere thought fills me with revulsion.

Why is it that you people, I exclaimed, whenever you speak about anything, immediately find yourself saying: this is foolish, this is clever, this is good, this is bad! And what is that supposed to mean? Have you investigated the deeper circumstances of an action to that end? Are you able to explain the causes definitively, why it happened, why it had to happen? If you had done so, you would not be so hasty with your judgments.

You will grant me, said Albert, that certain actions are vicious however they occur, whatever motives are adduced.

I shrugged and conceded the point.—Still, my dear fellow, I continued, here, too, there are some exceptions. It is true, stealing is a vice; but the man who sets out to steal to save himself and his family from imminent starvation: does he deserve pity or punishment? Who will cast the first stone against the husband who, in righteous anger, makes short shrift of his unfaithful wife and her worthless seducer? Against the girl who, in an hour of ecstasy, gives herself over to the irresistible joys of love? Even our laws, these cold-blooded pedants, can be moved to withhold their punishment.

That is something completely different, replied Albert, because a man swept away by passion loses all his powers of reason and is viewed as a drunkard or a madman.

Oh, you rationalists! I exclaimed, smiling. Passion! Drunkenness! Madness! You stand there, so calmly, without any understanding, you moral men! You chide the drinker, despise the man bereft of his senses, pass by like the priest, thank God like the Pharisee that He did not make you as one of these. I have been drunk more than once, my passions were never far from madness, and I regret neither: for in my own measure I have learned to grasp how all extraordinary men who have achieved something great, something seemingly impossible, have inevitably been derided as drunkards or madmen.

But even in ordinary life it is intolerable to hear what is shouted after almost everyone who has committed a halfway free, noble, unanticipated deed: the man is drunk, he’s crazy! Shame on you, you men of sobriety! Shame on you, you wise men!

Those are some more of your quirky notions, said Albert, you exaggerate everything, and in this case, at least, you are quite wrong when you compare suicide, which is the subject under discussion, with great deeds: since it cannot be regarded as anything but a weakness. There can be no question that it is easier to die than to endure steadfastly a life of torment.

I was about to break off; for no argument makes me lose my composure more quickly than the introduction of some vacuous commonplace when I am speaking from the bottom of my heart. But I pulled myself together, because I had often heard it and had more often become angry on hearing it, and I responded with some vehemence: You call that weakness? I beg of you, don’t be misled by appearances. A people groaning under the unbearable yoke of a tyrant, do you call them weak when they finally rise up and break their chains? A man who, terror-stricken when he sees his house on fire, feels all his strength at its peak and easily carries away loads that he can barely move when he is composed; someone who, infuriated by an insult, attacks six men and overpowers them—should these men be called weak? And, my good man, if exertion is strength, why should extreme exertion be the reverse?—Albert looked at me and said: No offense, but the examples you give seem not at all relevant.—That may be, I said, I have often been criticized for combining ideas sometimes to the point of blathering. So let us see whether we can find a different way to imagine the state of mind of the man who decides to cast off what is normally the pleasant burden of life. After all, only to the degree that we sympathize do we have the right to speak about a subject. Human nature, I continued, has its limits: it can endure joy, sorrow, pain up to a certain degree, and it perishes the minute it is exceeded. Here, then, the question is not whether one is weak or strong but rather whether one can endure the measure of one’s suffering—be it moral or physical; and I find it just as odd to say that the man who takes his own life is a coward as it would be improper to call the man who dies from a malignant fever a coward. Paradoxical! Very paradoxical! exclaimed Albert.—Not so much as you think, I replied. Grant me this: we call it a sickness unto death when human nature is so assaulted that its forces are partly consumed, partly so lamed that it is no longer able to recover, through no fortunate turn of events able to restore the normal circulation of life.

Now, my dear friend, let us apply that to the mind. Look at a man within his limitations, the way impressions affect him, ideas become entrenched in him, until finally a growing passion robs him of all his powers of calm reflection and destroys him.

It is futile for the composed, rational man to appraise the condition of the unhappy person, futile to cheer him up! Just as a healthy man who stands at the bed of a sick person cannot impart to him the least part of his powers.

For Albert that was all too general. I reminded him of a girl who had recently been found in the water, dead, and repeated her story to him.—A young thing, who grew up in the narrow circle of domestic occupations, specific weekly chores, who knew no further prospect of pleasure than, say, strolling through town of a Sunday with girls like her, in a pretty outfit pieced together over time, perhaps going to dances on all the major holidays, and for the rest chatting away her spare hours with a neighbor with all the liveliness of genuine participation about the cause of a quarrel or about some calumny, and now her fiery nature has finally come to feel more burning needs, which are heightened by the flatteries of men; bit by bit her former pleasures become distasteful, until finally she meets a man to whom she is irresistibly drawn by a strange new feeling, and now she puts all her hopes in him, forgets the world around her, hears nothing, sees nothing, feels nothing but him, her one and only, longs only for him, her one and only. Unspoiled by the vapid pleasures of a fickle vanity, her desire moves directly toward its goal, she wants to become his, bound to him for all eternity, she wants to encounter all the happiness she lacks, enjoy the union of all the joys she longs for. A repeated promise that seals the certainty of all her hopes, bold caresses that increase her desires, wholly captivate her soul; she hovers in a muffled awareness, a premonition of all the joys, she is in a state of extreme tension, finally she stretches out her arms to embrace all her desires—and her lover abandons her.—Paralyzed, out of her senses, she stands before an abyss; darkness is all around her, no prospect, no consolation, no intimation of a future! for he has abandoned her, the man in whom alone she felt her being. She does not see the great world that lies before her, the many men who could make up her loss, she feels herself alone, abandoned by the whole world—and blindly, cornered by the terrible need of her heart, she plunges down to stifle all her pains in the death that envelops her all around.—Look, Albert; that is the story of so many people! and tell me, isn’t it the same with sickness? Nature finds no way out of the maze of these tangled and conflicting forces, and the man or woman must die.

Woe to him who can look on and say: Foolish girl! Had she only waited, had let time work its wonders, her despair would have subsided, another would certainly have come forward to comfort her.—That’s the same as if someone were to say: The fool, dies of a fever! Had he waited until his strength had returned, his humors improved, the tumult of his blood calmed down: everything would have been well, and he would be alive to this day!

Albert, who was still not persuaded by the comparison, made a few further objections, among them this one: I had spoken only of an ignorant girl; but how an intelligent man, who was not so limited, who commanded a wide view of many relationships, might be excused was something he could not conceive.—My friend, I exclaimed, a man is a man, and the modicum of reason he might have counts for little or nothing when passion rages and the limits of human being press against him! Rather—Another time for that, I said, and reached for my hat. Oh, my heart was so full—and we parted without having understood one another. As in this world no one readily understands the other.

AUGUST 15

There is no doubt that in this world nothing but love makes another person indispensable. I can tell from Lotte that she would not like to lose me, and the children have no other idea than that I’ll be back the following day. I went today to tune Lotte’s piano, but I could not get to it because the children pestered me to tell them a story, and Lotte herself said that I should do what they wanted. I sliced their bread for supper, which they now accept almost as gladly from me as from Lotte, and told them my favorite story of the princess whose servants were hands. I learn a lot from this, I assure you, and I am amazed at the impression it makes on them. There are times when I have to invent some crucial detail, which by the second telling I’ve forgotten, and then they immediately say, it was different last time, so that now I practice reciting to them like clockwork, with an unvarying singsong intonation. From this I’ve learned how an author will inevitably do harm to his book in a second, revised version of his story, even though it may now be so much better poetically. The first impression finds us willing, and man is so constituted that he can be persuaded of the most outlandish things; but these details also attach themselves firmly, and woe to him who now wants to scrap them and extirpate them.

AUGUST 18

Does it have to be this way, that whatever it is that makes a man blissfully happy in turn becomes the source of his misery?

The full, warm feeling of my heart for living nature, which flooded me with such joy, which turned the world around me into a paradise, has now become an unbearable torturer, a tormenting spirit that pursues me wherever I turn. When, looking out from these rocks across the river to those hills, I used to survey the fruitful valley and was aware of the sprouting and swelling of all that surrounded me; when I saw those hills clothed from foot to peak with tall, closely ranked trees, saw those valleys with their many turnings shaded by the loveliest woods and the gentle stream gliding between the lisping reeds and mirroring the lovely clouds that the gentle evening winds rocked, as in a cradle, across the sky; when I heard the birds around me lend life to the forest while a million swarms of gnats boldly danced in the last red rays of the sun, whose final quivering glance roused the humming beetle from the grass, and the whirring and weaving around me made me look to the ground and to the moss that wrests its nourishment from these hard rocks, and the shrubbery that grows along the barren sand dunes revealed to me the innermost glowing sacred life of nature: how my warm heart enfolded all that, how I felt like a god among the overflowing abundance, and the glorious shapes of the infinite world entered and quickened my soul. Enormous mountains surrounded me, chasms lay before me, and swollen brooks plunged downward, streams rushed beneath me, and woods and mountains resounded; and I saw them, all the unfathomable forces, entwined in their hustle and bustle in the depths of the earth; and now, above the earth and under the skies swarm all the species of the manifold creatures, and everything, everything is populated with a thousand shapes; and then men shelter together in their little houses and build their nests and think they govern the whole wide world! Poor fool, who thinks so little of everything because you are so little.—From the inaccessible mountains across the deserts where no one has set foot, to the ends of the unexplored oceans wafts the spirit of the eternally creative One, delighting in every speck of dust that senses it and lives.—Oh, then, how often did I long to have the wings of the crane soaring above me to fly to the shores of the uncharted oceans, to drink that surging joy of life from the foaming beaker of infinity, and to feel for even a moment in the confined power of my breast a drop of the bliss of that Being that brings forth everything in and through Itself.

My brother, the very memory of those hours makes me glad. Even the effort of summoning up and expressing once again those ineffable feelings lifts my soul and makes me feel twice over the fear of the condition that now enfolds me.

It is as if a curtain had been drawn back from my soul, and the spectacle of infinite life is transformed before my eyes into the abyss of an ever-open grave. Can you say: This is what is! since everything passes, since everything rolls on with the swiftness of a passing storm, so rarely does the entire force of its existence last, oh! torn along into the river and submerged and shattered on the rocks? There is no moment that does not consume you and those near and dear to you, no moment when you are not a destroyer, must be one; the most innocent stroll costs the lives of thousands and thousands of tiny creatures; one footstep shatters the laboriously erected structures of the ant and pounds a tiny world into a miserable grave. Ha! I am not moved by the great, rare disasters of this world, those floods that wash away your villages, those earthquakes that swallow your cities; my heart is undermined by the destructive force that is concealed in the totality of nature; which has never created a thing that has not destroyed its neighbor or itself. And so I stagger about in fear! heaven and earth and their interweaving forces around me: I see nothing but an eternally devouring, eternally regurgitating monster.

AUGUST 21

In vain I stretch out my arms to her in the morning when I wake dazed from oppressive dreams, in vain I seek her in the night in my bed when a happy, innocent dream has deceived me into thinking that I am sitting beside her on the meadow, holding her hand, and covering it with a thousand kisses. Oh, when then, half dizzy with sleep, I grope my way toward her and wake myself—a river of tears breaks from my anxious heart, and disconsolate, I weep as I face a dark and gloomy future.

AUGUST 22

It is a catastrophe, Wilhelm, my powers of action have been jangled into a restless indolence; I cannot be idle, and yet I cannot do anything either. I have no power of imagination, no feeling for nature, and books repel me. When we are inadequate in ourselves, everything seems inadequate to us. I swear to you, sometimes I wish I were a day laborer, if only on waking in the morning I could have a clear view of the day to come, a striving, a hope. Often I envy Albert, whom I see up to his ears in screeds, and I imagine how content I’d be in his place! More than once I’ve been tempted to write to you and the minister to apply for the position with the embassy, which, as you assure me, I would not be refused. I myself believe that to be true. The minister has been fond of me for a long time, and for a long time he has urged me to devote myself to some occupation or other; and for an hour at a time I’m inclined to do so. But then, when I think it over and am reminded of the fable of the horse that, having grown impatient of its freedom, asks to be saddled and harnessed and is ridden until it falls—I don’t know what I ought to do.—And, my dear friend! isn’t my longing for a change of condition an inner, discontented impatience that will follow me wherever I go?

AUGUST 28

It’s true, if my sickness could be cured, these people would cure it. Today is my birthday, and early in the morning I received a little package from Albert. When I opened it, I immediately caught sight of one of the pink ribbons that Lotte wore the first time I saw her and for which I had asked her several times since. There were two small volumes in duodecimo, the little Wetstein Homer, an edition that I’d so often longed for, so that I would not have to drag the Ernesti volume on my walks. You see! This is how they anticipate my wishes, this is how they contrive all the little favors of friendship that are a thousand times more valuable than those dazzling gifts that serve only to crush us with the giver’s vanity. I kiss this ribbon a thousand times, and with every breath I draw I drink in the memory of the bliss with which those few, happy, irretrievable days glutted me. Wilhelm, this is how things are, and I’m not complaining: the flowers of life are only fleeting apparitions! How many fade without leaving a trace behind, how few bear fruit, and how few of these fruits ripen! And yet enough remain; and yet—Oh, my brother!—can we neglect ripened fruit, spurn it, allow it to rot unenjoyed?

Farewell! It is a glorious summer; I often sit in the fruit trees in Lotte’s orchard with the long, spiked pole, and fetch the pears from the treetop. She stands below and takes them when I hand them down to her.

AUGUST 30

Wretched creature! Are you not a fool? Aren’t you deluding yourself? What is the meaning of this raging, endless passion? I have no prayers other than those directed to her; no shape appears to my imagination other than hers, and I see everything in the world around me only in relation to her. And that gives me many happy hours—until I must once again tear myself away from her! Oh Wilhelm! the things my heart often urges me to do!—When I have sat beside her for two or three hours and feasted on her figure, her demeanor, the heavenly expression of her words, and all my senses are gradually stretched to the breaking point, when it grows dark before my eyes, when I can hardly hear and my throat feels seized by an assassin, then my wildly beating heart seeks to release my plagued senses and only increases their confusion—Wilhelm, often I do not know whether I belong to this world! And—except when, from time to time, melancholy gets the better of me and Lotte allows me the miserable solace of weeping tears of anguish over her hand—then I must leave, must go away! and then I roam far and wide over the fields; then my joy lies in climbing a steep mountain, hacking a path through an impassable forest, through hedges that hurt me, through thorns that tear at me! Then I feel a little better! A little! And when, on my way, I sometimes lie down from weariness and thirst, sometimes in the deep of night, when the full moon stands high above me, I sit on a gnarled tree in the lonely forest so as to give my torn soles some relief and then fall into a slumber in an exhausted calm at the first glow of dawn! Oh Wilhelm! the lonely dwelling of a cell, the hair shirt, and a girdle of thorns would be the balm for which my soul languishes. Adieu! I see no end to this misery except the grave.

SEPTEMBER 3

I must go away! I thank you, Wilhelm, for making my wavering decision definite. For two weeks now I have harbored the thought of leaving her. I must go away. She is in town again, visiting a friend, a lady. And Albert—and—I must go away!

SEPTEMBER 10

What a night that was! Wilhelm! Now I can live through anything. I shall never see her again! Oh, that I cannot throw my arms around your neck and with a thousand tears and ecstasies, my dear friend, express the feelings that assail my heart. Here I sit, gasp for breath, try to calm myself, wait for morning, and the horses have been ordered for dawn.

Ah, she is sleeping peacefully and has no idea that she will never see me again. I have torn myself away, and I was strong enough not to betray my intentions during a conversation that lasted two hours. And, good God, what a conversation!

Albert had promised to be in the garden with Lotte immediately after the evening meal. I stood on the terrace under the tall chestnut trees and kept my eyes on the sun, which was now setting for me for the last time over the lovely valley, over the gentle stream. How many times had I stood here with her, watching the same glorious spectacle, and now—I paced back and forth along the avenue of trees that was so dear to me; a secret sympathy had so often held me here, even before I knew Lotte, and how happy we were when, at the beginning of our acquaintance, we discovered our shared affection for this spot, which truly is one of the most romantic I have ever seen produced in art.

First, you have the distant prospect between the chestnut trees—Ah, I remember, I have already written you, I think, a lot about it, how high walls of beeches finally enclose you, and how an abutting grove makes the avenue ever darker, until finally everything ends in an enclosed small spot around which hover all the thrills of solitude. I still feel the sense of secrecy I experienced when I entered for the first time one day at high noon; I dimly felt what a stage that could become for bliss and for pain.

For about half an hour I had been savoring the devastating, sweet thoughts of parting, of meeting again, when I heard them coming up to the terrace. I ran to meet them, and with a chill I took her hand and kissed it. We had just arrived at the top when the moon rose behind the bush-covered hill; we spoke of many things, and without being aware of it, we approached the dark little garden house. Lotte entered and sat down, Albert beside her, and I as well; but my restlessness did not let me sit for long; I stood, went over to her, paced back and forth, sat down again: I was in an anxious state. She called our attention to the fine effect of the moonlight, which at the end of the high walls of beech trees lit up the entire terrace before us: a glorious sight, all the more striking because deep dusk encircled us. We were quiet, and after a while she began: I never walk in the moonlight, never, without being reminded of those dear to me who have died, without being overcome by the feeling of death, of what’s to come. We shall be! she continued in a voice full of the most glorious feeling; but, Werther, shall we find one another again? Know one another again? What do you feel? What do you say?

Lotte, I said, as I took her hand in mine and as my eyes filled with tears, we shall see each other again! Here and there we shall see each other again!—I could not continue—Wilhelm, did she have to ask me that just when my heart was full of this fearful departure! And if the dear departed know about us, she continued, if they sense, when all is well with us, that we think of them with warm love? Oh! The figure of my mother forever hovers nearby when I sit in the quiet of an evening amid her children, amid my children, and they are gathered around me as they were gathered around her. Then, when I look heavenward with a tear of longing and wish that she could look in on us for a moment and see how I keep the promise I made her at the hour of her death: to be the mother of her children. With what emotion I exclaim: Forgive me, dearest, if I am not to them what you were to them. Ah! I do everything I can; they are clothed, fed, and, ah, what is more, cared for and loved. If you could see the harmony between us, dear saint! with the most ardent thanks you would glorify God whom you asked for the welfare of your children with your last, most bitter tears.

She said that! Oh, Wilhelm, who can repeat what she said! How can the cold, dead letter represent this divine blossoming of the spirit! Albert gently interrupted her: This affects you too strongly, dear Lotte! I know that your soul is deeply attached to these ideas, but I beg of you.—Oh, Albert, she said, I know you haven’t forgotten the evenings when all of us sat at the little round table when Papa was traveling and we had put the little ones to bed. Often you had a good book, and you so rarely got to read anything—wasn’t the company of this glorious soul greater than anything else? This beautiful, gentle, cheerful woman, always busy! God knows the tears with which I so often threw myself on the bed before Him: that He make me be like her.

Lotte! I cried, as I threw myself before her, took her hand, and moistened it with a thousand tears, Lotte! God’s blessing rests upon you, and so does your mother’s spirit!—If you had known her, she said, as she squeezed my hand—she was worth your knowing her!—I thought I would faint. Never before had a grander, prouder sentence been uttered about me—and she continued: and this woman had to die in her prime, when her youngest son was not yet six months old! Her illness was not a long one; she was quiet, resigned, in pain only for her children, especially the little one. As the end approached, she said to me: Bring them to me, and I brought them in, the little ones, who did not understand, and the older ones, who were beside themselves, how they stood around her bed, and how she lifted her hands and prayed over them and she kissed them one by one and she sent them away and said to me: Be their mother!—I gave her my hand as a pledge.—You promise a lot, my daughter, she said, a mother’s heart and a mother’s eye. I have often seen by your tears of gratitude that you feel what these things mean. Have them for your brothers and sisters, and for your father have the loyalty and obedience of a wife. You will comfort him.—She asked for him, he had gone out to conceal from us the unbearable grief that he felt, the man was utterly broken.

Albert, you were in the room. She heard footsteps and inquired and asked that you come to her, and how she looked at you and me, with her comforted, calm gaze, seeing that we were happy, would be happy together.—Albert threw his arms around her neck and kissed her and cried: We are! We shall be!—Albert, the calm one, had completely lost his composure, and I was no longer conscious of myself.

Werther, she began, that this woman should have passed away! God! when I think sometimes how we allow the loveliest thing in life to be carried off, and no one feels that so keenly as the children, who went on bewailing that the Black Men had carried Mama off.

She stood, and I was aroused and shaken, remained seated, and held her hand.—We should leave, she said, it’s time.—She wanted to pull her hand back, and I grasped it more tightly.—We will meet again, I cried, we will find each other, we will know each other among all the shapes. I’m going, I continued, I go willingly, and yet, although I should have said forever, I could not bear it. Farewell, Lotte! Farewell, Albert! We will meet again.—Tomorrow, I think, she replied jokingly.—I felt that tomorrow! Oh, she did not know, when she took her hand from mine.—They went out along the tree-lined avenue, I stood, gazed after them in the moonlight, and threw myself on the ground and wept and wept and jumped up and ran out onto the terrace and still saw below in the shadow of the tall linden trees her white dress shimmering at the garden door, I stretched out my arms, and it vanished.