“Loud was the grief of the heroes; loudest of all, though, was Armin’s heartbreaking sigh. For he was reminded of the death of his son who fell in the days of his youth. Carmor, chieftain of the echoing halls of Galmal, was sitting nearby. ‘Why does Armin’s sigh choke him?’ he asked. ‘What causes him so much grief? Song and voice should melt the heart and delight it. They are the gentle mist that rises from the lake and spreads into the valleys, and the blossoming trees are dampened by it. The sun, though, rises again in all its glory, and the mists are dispelled. Why art thou so wretched, Armin, chieftain of the sea-girt isle of Gorma?’
“‘Wretched? That I am. And the cause of my grief is not negligible. Carmor, thou hast not lost a son; thou hast not been deprived of a daughter. Colgar the brave lives, and Annira, fairest of maidens. The branches of thy house blossom, Carmor, but Armin is the last of his race. Dark is thy bier, O Daura, stifling thy sleep in the grave. When shalt thou awaken with thy songs, with thy melodious voice? Rise, winds of autumn; rise and storm across the bleak heath! Forest streams, roar! Wail, thou tempests in the crowns of the pines! Move through the broken clouds, O moon; show and hide thy pale face alternately! Remind me of the dread night when my children perished, when mighty Arindal was slain, and beloved Daura died.
“‘Daura, my daughter, thou wert fair as the moon on the hills of Fura; thou wert white as the driven snow and sweet as a zephyr. Arindal, thy bow was strong, and thy spear was fleet on the field. Thy gaze was as the fog on the waves; thy shield was a cloud of fire in the tempest.
“‘Armar, famed warrior, came to woo Daura. She did not resist him long, and their friends wished them well.
“‘Erath, son of Ogdal, was angry, for his brother lay slain by Armar. He came disguised as a mariner, his locks white with age, his stern features calm. His bark crossing the waters was a beautiful sight. “Loveliest of maidens,” he cried, “fair daughter of Armin—on yonder rock in the sea, not far off, where thou canst see the red fruit sparkling on the tree, Armar is waiting for thee. I come to guide his beloved across the turgid sea.”
“‘Daura followed him and cried out to Armar. “Armar, my beloved, my beloved! Why dost thou frighten me? Hear me, O son of Armath! It is Daura crying out to thee!” Naught answered save the voice of the rocks.
“‘Erath, the betrayer, fled laughing back to landward. Daura lifted her voice and cried out to father and brother, “Arindal! Armin! Is there no one to save Daura?”
“‘Her voice came to them across the sea. Arindal, my son, descended the hillside, rough with the spoils of the hunt, his arrows rustling at his side. He carried his bow in his hand, and five gray-black dogs went with him. He saw bold Erath on the shore and took him and tied him to an oak, bound him firmly round his loins, and the captured man filled the air with his groaning.
“‘Then Arindal walked into the waves with his boat to bring Daura back. Armar came and in his anger let fly his gray, feathered arrow. It hummed, but it sank into thy heart, Arindal, my son! Instead of Erath, the betrayer, thou didst fall. Arindal’s boat reached the rock; he sank down beside it and died. Her brother’s blood ran out at Daura’s feet. Oh, Daura, Daura, how terrible was thy grief!
“‘The waves shattered the boat. Armar flung himself into the sea to save his Daura or die. A gust of wind from the hill struck hard at the waves and he sank, never to rise again.
“‘Alone on the sea-washed rocks, I could hear the lament of my daughter. She cried loud and long, yet I could not save her. Throughout the night I stood on the shore. By the weak rays of the moon I could see her. Throughout the night I could hear her cry. Loud was the wind, and the rain hit sharply against the side of the mountain.
By dawn her voice was weak; soon it died away like the air of evening between grasses that grow on stone. Bowed low with grief, she died, leaving Armin alone. Gone is my strength in battle, gone my prowess among women.
“‘When the mountain storms come, and the north wind rears up the wave, I sit on the echoing shore and gaze across the sea at the terrible rock. Oft, by the light of a waning moon, I see the ghosts of my children. Twilit they wander side by side in a sad unity.’”
A flood of tears streamed from Lotte’s eyes, relieving her oppressed heart and preventing Werther from continuing. He threw the papers aside, took her hand, and wept bitterly. Lotte rested her head on her other hand and covered her eyes with her handkerchief. What both felt at that moment was agonizing. They experienced their own misery in the fate of these noble people, they felt it together, and their tears flowed as one.
Werther’s lips and eyes burned on Lotte’s arm. She was seized by a shivering. She wanted to leave the room, but pain and compassion left her numb. She breathed deeply in an effort to recover her composure and begged him, sobbing, to continue, implored him to do so with the whole force of heaven in her voice. Werther was trembling; he thought his heart would break. He took up the papers again and began to read in a broken voice, “Why dost thou awaken me, O zephyr of spring? Thou dost speak of love, saying, ‘I spread the dew with drops from heaven.’ But the time of my fading away is nigh; nigh is the storm that will defoliate me. And in the morn the wanderer will come; the wanderer will come who saw me in my glory. His eyes will seek me in the field but he will not find me….”
The full force of the words rained down upon the unfortunate man. In his despair he threw himself on his knees before Lotte, took her hand, pressed it to his eyes, his forehead, and a hint of the terrible thing he was planning seemed to brush Lotte’s soul. She became confused and pressed his hand tightly against her breast and, with a plaintive motion, moved closer to him. Their burning cheeks touched, and the world ended for them. Werther wound his arms around Lotte, pressed her to him, and covered her trembling, stammering lips with passionate kisses. “Werther!” she cried, in a voice that was choked, turning from him, “Werther!” and with her weak hand, she pushed him away. “Werther!” she said, in a voice controlled by the noblest sentiments.
He did nothing to resist her. He let her go and threw himself down insensibly at her feet. She managed to tear herself away and, in fearful confusion, trembling between love and anger, said, “This is the last time, Werther! You shall not see me again,” and with a look full of love at the miserable man, she rushed into the next room and locked the door. Werther stretched out his arms to her, but did not dare to stop her. He lay on the floor, his head resting against the side of the sofa, and remained like this for over half an hour, until a noise roused him. It was the maid, coming to set the table. He paced up and down the room and when he was alone again, walked over to the door of the room into which Lotte had fled and called softly, “Lotte…Lotte…only a word of farewell!” She was silent. He waited and begged and waited. Finally he tore himself away, crying, “Farewell, Lotte! Farewell forever!”
At the city gates, the watchmen, who were accustomed to the sight of him, let him out silently. It was drizzling, a mixture of rain and snow, and it was nearly eleven when he rapped on the gates again. His servant noted that his master came home without his hat. He didn’t dare to mention the fact but undressed him silently. All his clothes were wet. The hat was found later on a rock that overlooks the valley from the precipitous side of a hill, and it is incredible that Werther could have climbed up it on a dark, wet night without falling out.
He went to bed and slept for a long time. Next morning, when his servant answered his call for coffee, he found his master writing. He was adding the following to his letter to Lotte:
“So, for the last time—yes, for the last time, I open these eyes. They shall not see the sun again. A dim, foggy day keeps them veiled. Very well then, mourn, O Nature—thy son, thy friend, thy beloved’s life is drawing to a close. Lotte, it is a feeling without parallel, yet to tell oneself, ‘This is the last morning,’ comes very close to one’s twilit dreams. The last.
Lotte, I have no understanding of the word ‘last.’ Am I not sitting here with my whole strength, and tomorrow I am to lie stretched
