But now this heart is dead; no ecstasy flows from it any more. My eyes are dry, and my mind, no longer laved by refreshing tears, describes fearful furrows on my brow. I suffer much, for I have lost what was my singular joy in life—the sacred, invigorating power with which I could create worlds around me.
It is gone. When I look out my window at the far distant hills and see the morning sun breaking through the mists that lie upon them and flooding the peaceful meadows with its light, the gentle river winding toward me between leafless willows—when all magnificent nature stands still before my eyes like a glossy picture, and all this glory is incapable of pumping one ounce of bliss from heart to brain—then the whole poor fellow that I am become stands before God like an exhausted fountainhead, a leaky pail run dry. Often I have thrown myself on the ground and begged God to give me tears, as a plowman begs for rain when the sky is leaden above him and his parched earth.
But oh, I can feel it. God gives no rain or sunshine in answer to our tempestuous pleas, and those bygone days, the memory of which torments me now, why were they so blissful if not because I waited then in patience for His grace and received the bliss He chose to bestow upon me with a whole and deeply grateful heart?
November 8th
She reproached me for my excessiveness—but so sweetly! My excessiveness—that I sometimes let a glass of wine lead me to drink a bottle! “Don’t do it,” she said. “Think of Lotte.” “Think!” I said. “Do you have to tell me that? I think—I don’t think—you are in my mind constantly. Today I sat down where you got out of the carriage the other day….” She spoke hastily of something else to stop me from pursuing the topic further. My dear friend, I am done for! She can do with me what she will.
November 15th
Thank you, William, for your sympathy and well-meant advice, and don’t worry, please. Let me suffer it through to the end. With all my weariness of spirit, I still have the strength left to persevere. I respect our religion; you know that. I feel that it is a staff for many a weary man and a comfort to him who is pining away. Only—can religion, must religion mean the same thing to every man? When you look at our vast world, you see thousands to whom it does not mean these things, thousands to whom it never will, whether it be preached to them or not. Must it therefore mean these things to me? Doesn’t the son of God Himself say that those will be with Him whom His Father gives unto Him?
But what if my Father wants to keep me for Himself, which is what my heart tells me? I beg of you, do not interpret this falsely; do not see ridicule in these innocent words. In them I lay my soul at your feet, or I would better have remained silent. I don’t like to speak about things of which everyone else knows just as little as I do. What else is it but the fate of man to suffer his destined measure and drink his full cup to the end? And if the cup that the good Lord in heaven has put to his lips be too bitter, why should I put on airs and pretend that it is sweet?
And why should I not feel ashamed in those dread moments when I tremble between being and not-being, when the past shines like a flash of lightning above the dark abyss of the future and everything around me sinks down, and the world comes to an end? Is mine not the voice of a man cowering within himself, a man who has lost himself, hurtling inexorably downhill, who must cry out from the innermost depths of his vainly struggling forces, “My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?” And why should I be ashamed to thus cry out—why should I dread this moment since it was not even spared Him who can roll back the heavens like a cloth?
November 21st
She doesn’t see, she doesn’t feel, that she is preparing a poison that will destroy her and me, and with voluptuous delight I drink the cup she hands me to the last dregs, and to my ruination. What is the meaning of that kindly look that she so often—often?…no, not often, but sometimes gives me, the graciousness with which she sometimes accepts a chance expression of my feelings for her, the compassion for what I am enduring, that is written on her brow?
Yesterday, as I was leaving, she gave me her hand and said, “Adieu, dear Werther.” Dear Werther! It was the first time she called me “dear” and I felt it to the core of me. I have repeated it to myself over and over again, and last night, when I was about to retire and was talking all sorts of things over in my mind, I suddenly said out loud, “Good night, dear Werther!” and had to laugh at myself.
November 22nd
I cannot pray “Let her remain mine,” yet often it seems to me that she is mine. I cannot pray “Give her to me,” for she belongs to another. Thus I mock my pain. Were I really to let myself go, a whole litany of antitheses would be the result.
November 24th
She knows how I suffer. Today her eyes looked deep into my heart. I found her alone. I said nothing, and she looked at me. And I no longer saw her loveliness nor the radiance of her wonderful spirit. All that had disappeared from before my eyes. Instead I had a far more glorious vision. I saw her face filled with an expression of the most intimate sympathy, the sweetest compassion.
Why couldn’t I throw myself at her feet? Why couldn’t I counter with an embrace and a thousand kisses? She escaped to the piano and sang to her own accompaniment in her sweet, low voice, and so melodiously. Never were her chaste lips more enchanting. It was as though they parted thirsty for the sweet tones that swelled forth from the instrument and only a furtive echo escaped them. Ah me, if only I could explain it to you! I offered no more resistance. I bowed my head and vowed that never would I presume to kiss those lips, o’er which celestial spirits hover…and yet…I want to kiss them. Ha! You see? That is what stands before my soul like a bulkhead—such bliss, and then…down, down, to atone for such a sin…. A sin?
November 26th
Sometimes I tell myself my fate is unique. Consider all other men fortunate, I tell myself; no one has ever suffered like you. Then I read a poet of ancient times, and it is as though I were looking deep into my own heart. I have to suffer much. Oh, has any human heart before me ever been so wretched?
November 30th
It seems that I am not going to be permitted to recover, no doubt about it. Wherever I go I encounter something that upsets me utterly. Today—oh, fate, oh, humankind!
At noon I was walking along the river. I didn’t feel like eating. It was a dreary day. A raw wind was blowing down from the mountains and gray rain clouds were rolling into the valley. Ahead of me, I could see a man in a shabby green coat, scrambling about among the rocks. I thought he was gathering herbs. As I drew nearer, and he, hearing me, turned around, I found myself looking into a most interesting face.
Its main expression was a quiet sadness; otherwise it betrayed nothing but candor and honesty. His black hair was pinned up in two rolls; the rest hung in one thick braid down his back. Since, judging by his dress, he seemed to be a man of humble origin, I decided that he would not take offense if I chose to comment on what he was doing, so I asked him what he was looking for. With a deep sigh, he replied, “I am looking for flowers, but can find none.”
“This is not the season for them,” I said, smiling.
“But there are so many flowers,” he replied, moving down to my level. “I have roses in my garden, and honeysuckle, two kinds. My father gave me one. They grow like weeds. I have been looking for them for two days and cannot find them. And outside there are always flowers, yellow ones, blue and red ones—and centaury has such a pretty blossom. I can’t find any of them.”
I could sense something mysterious, so I asked in a roundabout way, “And what does he want to do with the flowers?”
A bright, tremulous smile crossed his face. “If the gentleman won’t give me away,” he said, putting a finger to his lips, “I promised my sweetheart a bouquet.”
“Now there’s a good man!” I said.
“Oh, she has many other things,” he replied. “She is rich.”
“And yet she likes his nosegay,” I said.
“Oh,” he countered, “she has jewels and a crown.”
“What is her name?”
“If the Netherlands would only pay me,” he said, “it would make a changed man of me. Yes, yes, there was a time when I was very well off. Now that’s all over
