With a cold smile he replied, “That would look well in print and should be recommended to all tutors. Dear Lotte, give me a small respite, and all will be well.”
“But just this one thing more, Werther—please do not come again before Christmas Eve.”
He was about to reply when Albert entered the room. The men exchanged frosty greetings and walked up and down beside each other in some embarrassment. Werther started a desultory conversation that soon petered out; Albert did the same; then he asked his wife about a few things she was supposed to have attended to, and when he heard that they had not been done, he said something that, to Werther, sounded cold, even harsh. He wanted to leave, but couldn’t seem to do so. He hesitated until eight o’clock, his discouragement and resentment increasing constantly. When he at last took up his hat and cane, the table was already set for supper. Albert asked him to stay, but Werther, who felt that the man’s heart wasn’t in the invitation, thanked him coldly and left.
He reached his house, took the candle from his servant, who wanted to light his way, and went to his room alone. There he wept, talked wildly to himself, paced savagely up and down, and at last threw himself fully dressed on his bed, where he was found at about eleven by his servant, who at last had dared to enter the room to ask his master whether he should not remove his boots. Werther let the man do it, then forbade the boy to enter his room the next morning until he was called.
Early on Monday morning, the twenty-first of December, Werther wrote the following letter to Lotte. It was found after his death, lying on his desk, sealed, and was brought to her. I have decided to insert it here, since it throws light on the conditions under which it was written.
Lotte, I have come to a decision. I want to die, and I am writing this without any romantic exaggeration on the morning of the day on which I shall see you for the last time. When you read these lines, my dearest one, the cool earth will already cover the rigid remains of your restless, unfortunate friend, who to his last hour knew no greater bliss than to converse with you. I have passed a terrible night, for it was the night that hardened my determination and settled it once and for all: I want to die. When I tore myself away from you yesterday, I was in a frightful state of rebellion against all that was oppressing me, and my hopeless, joyless existence beside you took me in its cold grip.
I could scarcely reach my room. I threw myself on my knees, beside myself, and Thou, dear God, didst finally grant me the refreshment of the most bitter tears. A thousand blows, a thousand perspectives stormed through my soul, and in the end, there it stood—firm, whole, the last and only thought: I want to die. I went to bed, and now, in the morning, in the quietude of awakening, it still stands firm and strong in my heart: I want to die. I have come to a conclusion not of despair but of certainty.
I sacrifice myself for you. Yes, Lotte, why should I remain silent? One of us three must go and I wish to be the one. Oh, my dearest one, the thought of murdering your husband…you…me, has often raged through my torn heart. So be it then. When you climb the hilltop on a beautiful summer’s evening, think of me. Think of how often I used to come walking up the valley, then glance at the churchyard and look at my grave; see how the wind causes the tall grass to wave in the light of the setting sun. I was so calm when I began to write this, and now—now I am crying like a child because I can see it all so vividly.
At about ten, Werther called his servant and, as he dressed, told him that in a few days he intended to go on a journey. The man should therefore lay out his clothes and get ready to pack them. He also gave orders to collect all outstanding accounts, pick up several books he had loaned to various people, and pay two months in advance to a few poor souls to whom he customarily gave a little something every week.
He had his meal served in his room. After he had eaten, he rode to the magistrate’s house, but found him not at home. Lost in thought, he walked up and down in the garden for a while, apparently wishing to burden himself with all the melancholy of remembrance.
The children didn’t leave him in peace for long. They followed him, jumped around him, chattering about how, after tomorrow and one more tomorrow and one more day after that, it would be time for them to fetch their Christmas presents from Lotte. They talked about all the marvelous things that came to their childlike minds.
“Tomorrow!” he cried. “And another tomorrow, and one more day!” Then he kissed all of them tenderly and was about to leave when the littlest one had to whisper something in his ear. He betrayed the fact that his older brother had already written their New Year greetings, so big! One for Papa, one for Albert and Lotte, and one for Herr Werther. Early on New Year’s Day they intended to distribute them. The news was too much for Werther. He gave each of the children something, mounted his horse, left greetings for the old gentleman, and rode off, his eyes blinded by tears.
He reached home again at about five and told the maid to stoke the fire and keep it going through the night. He ordered his servant to pack his books and linen in a trunk and fold his clothing. Then he must have written the following paragraph of his last letter to Lotte:
“You are not expecting me. You think I am going to obey and not come to see you until Christmas Eve. Ah Lotte, it has to be today or never! On Christmas Eve you will hold this note in your trembling hand and it will be bathed by your beloved tears. I shall do it. I have to do it. Oh, I feel so content in my determination.”
Lotte, meanwhile, had fallen into a strange state of mind. After her last talk with Werther, she had begun to realize how hard it would be for her to part with him and how much he would suffer if forced to leave her. She had mentioned casually, in Albert’s presence, that Werther was not going to put in an appearance again until Christmas Eve, and Albert had ridden off to see a neighbor on a business trip that necessitated his staying away overnight.
Lotte was alone, and she was thinking quietly about their dilemma. She saw herself tied forever to a man with whose love and loyalty she was by now thoroughly familiar. She was devoted to him; his serenity and reliability—attributes on which any good woman could build her life’s happiness—seemed heaven-sent. She realized only too well what part he would always play in her life, and that of her children. But Werther had come to mean a great deal to her. From the first moment of their acquaintance, the harmony of their spirits had been very evident, and her long association with him and several experiences they had shared had made indelible impressions on her heart.
She was accustomed to sharing everything that interested her with him, and his loss threatened to tear a gap into her life that she feared could never again be closed. If only she could have turned him into a brother at this point, how happy it would have made her! Or if she could have married him off to one of her friends…. If only she could have hoped that there might be a chance of his former good relationship with Albert being restored!
She thought of every one of her friends, one after the other, and found something wrong with all of them. She begrudged him to each in turn.
As a result of these reflections she began to realize, without admitting it to herself too clearly, that it was her secret but sincere desire to keep him for herself. At the same time she told herself, more in an aside, that she couldn’t keep him; she had no right to. Her lovely spirit, usually so light and so easily able to help itself, suddenly felt the pressure of a melancholy to which all prospects of happiness were closed. She was depressed; a dark cloud obscured her vision.
It was half past six when she heard someone coming up the stairs and recognized Werther’s step, and his voice asking for her. Her heart began to beat wildly, and I think we are safe in assuming that she received him in such condition for the first time. She would have liked to tell the maid to say she was not in, and as he came into the room, she cried out, in something akin to passionate confusion, “You didn’t keep your promise!”
“I promised nothing,” was his reply.
“Well, then at least you should have granted my request,” she said. “It was made to serve the peace of mind of both of us.”
Without knowing what she
