Again, nothing but a word. An empty sound with no feeling for my heart. Dead, Lotte—buried in the cold earth, so narrow, so dark. I had a sweetheart once who was my all in the days of my helpless youth. She died. I followed her bier and stood beside her grave as they let down the coffin—the ropes grating beneath it and snapping back up, the sound of the first spadeful of dirt tumbling down, and the dread casket giving off a dull tone, then a more muffled thud that became more and more muffled, until at last the coffin was covered. I sank down beside the grave, deeply moved, shattered, fearful, torn to the depths of my being, but I did not know what was the matter with me nor what was to befall me. Death. Grave. I have no understanding for the words.
“Oh, forgive me, forgive me…yesterday. It should have been the last moment of my life. Oh, you angel! For the first time—for the first time, a feeling of bliss burned without any doubt in the depths of me. She loves me! She loves me! The sacred fire that streamed to me from you still burns on my lips. A new, warm rapture is in my heart. Forgive me, forgive me!
“Oh, I knew that you loved me, knew it when I met your first soulful glance, with the first pressure of your hand, and yet, when I was away from you, when I saw Albert at your side, I despaired again, in a fever of doubt.
“Do you recall the flowers that you sent me when, in his irritating company, you could not say a word nor give me your hand? I knelt half the night before them; they put a seal upon your love for me. But alas, such impressions pass, just as the feeling of God’s mercy—a feeling that is bestowed on a man of faith in all its divine abundance in holy, visible portent—can cede gradually from his soul.
“All such things are transient. But no eternity shall erase the glowing life that I experienced at your lips yesterday and that I feel within me now. She loves me. These arms have held her; these lips have trembled on hers; this mouth has stammered a few broken words against hers. She is mine. You are mine, Lotte, forever.
“And what difference does it make that Albert is your husband? Husband—that’s a word for this world, and for this world it’s a sin that I love you and would wrench you out of his arms into mine. A sin? Very well then, and I punish myself for it. I have tasted this sin in all its divine rapture; I have sucked its balm and strength into my heart. From now on you are mine—mine, Lotte! I go on ahead to my Father. To Him I will complain, and He will comfort me until you come, and I fly to meet you and enfold you and remain at your side in the sight of Infinite God in one eternal embrace.
“I do not dream; I do not think any more. Close to the grave, all grows lighter. We shall be. We shall see each other again. Your mother…I shall see her, find her, and oh, I shall unburden my whole heart to her. Your mother. Your image.”
At about eleven, Werther asked his servant if Albert had returned. The man said yes, he had seen him riding by on his horse. Werther then gave the man an open note containing the words, “Would you be so good as to lend me your pistols for a trip I am about to undertake? My very best regards.”
Lotte had slept little during the preceding night. What she had dreaded had been decided for her in a way she could neither have dreamed nor feared. Her blood, which usually coursed so chastely and steadily through her veins, was in a feverish turmoil. A thousand confused sensations disturbed her. Was it the passion of Werther’s embrace that she felt in her breast? Was it resentment of his boldness? Or was it the result of an unpleasant comparison of her present condition with former days of completely unabashed innocence and carefree confidence in herself? How was she to meet her husband?
There was nothing to hide, yet how was she to explain the scene to him? She didn’t dare to. They had been silent for such a long time on this subject—should she break the silence and make such an unexpected disclosure, perhaps at the wrong time? She feared that even the mention of Werther’s visit would make a disagreeable impression, and on top of that—this unexpected catastrophe! Could she hope that her husband would see things in their true light and accept what she had to say entirely without bias?
And did she want him to look into her soul and read what was there? But then again, could she dissemble before a man to whom she had always been frank and clear as crystal, from whom she had never been able to keep any of her feelings secret? All these things troubled and embarrassed her. Again and again her thoughts reverted to Werther, who was lost to her, whom she could not abandon, yet, alas, had to abandon, to whom—once he had lost her—nothing was left.
The estrangement which had closed in upon all three of them weighed heavily upon her now, but it was something she could not see clearly at the moment. Good, sensible people often withdraw from one another because of secret differences, each becoming absorbed by what he feels is right, and by the error of the other. Conditions then grow more and more complicated and exasperating, until it becomes impossible to undo the knot at the crucial moment on which everything depends. If only a fortunate intimacy had brought them closer again before this, if only they could have felt love and consideration for one another mutually, and confided in one another, Werther might have been saved.
Another strange circumstance must be mentioned here. As we know from his letters, Werther had never made any secret of his longing to leave this world. Albert had argued the point with him often and had even discussed it with Lotte. Since such behavior was so distasteful to him, he had declared several times, with an irritability that was quite foreign to his character, that he doubted the seriousness of Werther’s inclination. One day he had even gone so far as to joke about it and had mentioned his skepticism to Lotte. On the one hand, this helped to calm her whenever she dwelled on the unhappy prospect; on the other hand, she was reluctant for the same reason to share with her husband the anxieties that were tormenting her now.
Albert came home, and Lotte went to meet him in a state of self-conscious haste. He was not in good spirits. He had had to leave his business incompleted; the neighboring magistrate had turned out to be an inflexible, narrow-minded man. The bad roads had added to his irritation.
He asked if there was any news. She replied, a little too hastily, that Werther had been there the evening before. He asked if there was any mail and received the reply that some letters and packets had been placed in his room. He went there, and Lotte was left alone. The presence of the man she loved and respected had made a fresh impression on her heart. The thought of his generosity, his love and kindness, had calmed her. She felt the urge to follow him, took her work and went into his room, something she did quite often. She found him unwrapping the packets and reading the contents. Several seemed to contain unpleasant news. She asked a few questions; he replied curtly and sat down at his desk to write.
They were together like this for an hour, and Lotte’s spirits sank increasingly lower. She realized how difficult it was going to be to disclose to her husband what was oppressing her, even if he were in the best of moods, and she lapsed into a melancholy that became more and more frightening as she tried to hide it and fight down her tears.
The appearance of Werther’s groom put her in a very embarrassing position. He handed the note to Albert, who turned to his wife and said casually, “Give him the pistols.” To the boy he said, “Tell your master that I wish him a pleasant journey.”
The words fell like a thunderclap on Lotte’s ears. She swayed as she rose to her feet; she didn’t know what to do. Slowly she walked over to the wall and, with hands that trembled, took the pistols from the rack, dusted them, hesitated, and would have hesitated longer if Albert had not forced her with his questioning eyes to go on with what he had asked her to do.
Incapable of uttering a word, she gave the unfortunate weapons to the boy, and when he had left the house, she picked up her work and went
