J.W. von Goethe (1749–1832). The Sorrows of Werther. |
The Harvard Classics Shelf of
Fiction. 1917. |
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Book I: Paras.
1–49 |
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MAY 4. HOW happy I am that I am gone! My dear friend, what a
thing is the heart of man! To leave you, from whom I have been
inseparable, whom I love so dearly, and yet to feel happy! I know
you will forgive me. Have not other attachments been specially
appointed by fate to torment a head like mine? Poor Leonora! and yet
I was not to blame. Was it my fault, that, whilst the peculiar
charms of her sister afforded me an agreeable entertainment, a
passion for me was engendered in her feeble heart? And yet am I
wholly blameless? Did I not encourage her emotions? Did I not feel
charmed at those truly genuine expressions of nature, which, though
but little mirthful in reality, so often amused us? Did I not—but
oh! what is man, that he dares so to accuse himself? My dear friend,
I promise you I will improve; I will no longer, as has ever been my
habit, continue to ruminate on every petty vexation which fortune
may dispense; I will enjoy the present, and the past shall be for me
the past. No doubt you are right, my best of friends, there would be
far less suffering amongst mankind, if men—and God knows why they
are so fashioned—did not employ their imaginations so assiduously in
recalling the memory of past sorrow, instead of bearing their
present lot with equanimity. |
1 |
Be kind enough to inform my mother that I shall
attend to her business to the best of my ability, and shall attend
her the earliest information about it. I have seen my aunt, and find
that she is very far from being the disagreeable person our friends
allege her to be. She is a lively, cheerful woman, with the best of
hearts. I explained to her my mother’s wrongs with regard to that
part of her portion which has been withheld from her. She told me
the motives and reasons of her own conduct, and the terms on which
she is willing to give up the whole, and to do more than we have
asked. In short, I cannot write further upon this subject at
present; only assure my mother that all will go on well. And I have
again observed, my dear friend, in this trifling affair, that
misunderstandings and neglect occasion more mischief in the world
than even malice and wickedness. At all events, the two latter are
of less frequent occurrence. |
2 |
In other respects I am very well off here. Solitude
in this terrestrial paradise is a genial balm to my mind, and the
young spring cheers with its bounteous promises my oftentimes
misgiving heart. Every tree, every bush, is full of flowers; and one
might wish himself transformed into a butterfly, to float about in
this ocean of perfume, and find his whole existence in it. |
3 |
The town itself is disagreeable; but then, all
around, you find an inexpressible beauty of Nature. This induced the
late Count M—— to lay out a garden on one of the sloping hills which
here intersect each other with the most charming variety, and form
the most lovely valleys. The garden is simple; and it is easy to
perceive, even upon your first entrance, that the plan was not
designed by a scientific gardener, but by a man who wished to give
himself up here to the enjoyment of his own sensitive heart Many a
tear have I already shed to the memory of its departed master in a
summer-house which is now reduced to ruins, but was his favourite
resort, and now is mine. I shall soon be master of the place. The
gardener has become attached to me within the last few days, and he
will lose nothing thereby. |
4 |
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MAY 10. A wonderful
serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet
mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. I am alone,
and feel the charm of existence in this spot, which was created for
the bliss of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so
absorbed in the exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I
neglect my talents. I should be incapable of drawing a single stroke
at the present moment; and yet I feel that I never was a greater
artist than now. When, while the lovely valley teems with vapour
around me, and the meridian sun strikes the upper surface of the
impenetrable foliage of my trees, and but a few stray gleams steal
into the inner sanctuary, I throw myself down among the tall grass
by the trickling stream; and as I lie close to the earth, a thousand
unknown plants are noticed by me: when I hear the buzz of the little
world among the stalks, and grow familiar with the countless
indescribable forms of the insects and flies, then I feel the
presence of the Almighty, who formed us in his own image, and the
breath of that universal love which bears and sustains us, as it
floats around us in an eternity of bliss; and then, my friend, when
darkness overspreads my eyes, and heaven and earth seem to dwell in
my soul and absorb its power, like the form of a beloved
mistress,—then I often think with longing, Oh, would I could
describe these conceptions, could impress upon paper all that is
living so full and warm within me, that it might be the mirror of my
soul, as my soul is the mirror of the infinite God! O my friend—but
it is too much for my strength—I sink under the weight of the
splendour of these visions! |
5 |
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MAY 12. I know not
whether some deceitful spirits haunt this spot, or whether it be the
warm, celestial fancy in my own heart which makes everything around
me seem like paradise. In front of the house is a fountain,—a
fountain to which I am bound by a charm like Melusina and her
sisters. Descending a gentle slope, you come to an arch, where, some
twenty steps lower down, water of the clearest crystal gushes from
the marble rock. The narrow wall which encloses it above, the tall
trees which encircle the spot, and the coolness of the place
itself,—everything imparts a pleasant but sublime impression. Not a
day passes on which I do not spend an hour there. The young maidens
come from the town to fetch water,—innocent and necessary
employment, and formerly the occupation of the daughters of kings.
As I take my rest there, the idea of the old patriarchal life is
awakened around me. I see them, our old ancestors, how they formed
their friendships and contracted alliances at the fountain-side; and
I feel how fountains and streams were guarded by beneficent spirits.
He who is a stranger to these sensations has never really enjoyed
cool repose at the side of a fountain after the fatigue of a weary
summer day. |
6 |
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MAY 13. You ask if
you shall send me books. My dear friend, I beseech you, for the love
of God, relieve me from such a yoke! I need no more to be guided,
agitated, heated. My heart ferments sufficiently of itself. I want
strains to lull me, and I find them to perfection in my Homer. Often
do I strive to allay the burning fever of my blood; and you have
never witnessed anything so unsteady, so uncertain, as my heart. But
need I confess this to you, my dear friend, who have so often
endured the anguish of witnessing my sudden transitions from sorrow
to immoderate joy, and from sweet melancholy to violent passions? I
treat my poor heart like a sick child, and gratify its every fancy.
Do not mention this again: there are people who would censure me for
it. |
7 |
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MAY 15. The common
people of the place know me already, and love me, particularly the
children. When at first I associated with them, and inquired in a
friendly tone about their various trifles, some fancied that I
wished to ridicule them, and turned from me in exceeding ill-humour.
I did not allow that circumstance to grieve me: I only felt most
keenly what I have often before observed. Persons who can claim a
certain rank keep themselves coldly aloof from the common people, as
though they feared to lose their importance by the contact; whilst
wanton idlers, and such as are prone to bad joking, affect to
descend to their level, only to make the poor people feel their
impertinence all the more keenly. |
8 |
I know very well that we are not all equal, nor can
be so; but it is my opinion that he who avoids the common people, in
order not to lose their respect, is as much to blame as a coward who
hides himself from his enemy because he fears defeat. |
9 |
The other day I went to the fountain, and found a
young servant-girl, who had set her pitcher on the lowest step, and
looked round to see if one of her companions was approaching to
place it on her head. I ran down, and looked at her. “Shall I help
you, pretty lass?” said I. She blushed deeply. “Oh, sir!” she
exclaimed. “No ceremony!” I replied. She adjusted her head-gear, and
I helped her. She thanked me, and ascended the steps. |
10 |
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MAY 17. I have made
all sorts of acquaintances, but have as yet found no society. I knew
not what attraction I possess for the people, so many of them like
me, and attach themselves to me; and then I feel sorry when the road
we pursue together goes only a short distance. If you inquire what
the people are like here, I must answer, “The same as everywhere.”
The human race is but a monotonous affair. Most of them labour the
greater part of their time for mere subsistence; and the scanty
portion of freedom which remains to them so troubles them that they
use every exertion to get rid of it. Oh, the destiny of man! |
11 |
But they are a right good sort of people. If I
occasionally forget myself, and take part in the innocent pleasures
which are not yet forbidden to the peasantry, and enjoy myself, for
instance, with genuine freedom and sincerity, round a well-covered
table, or arrange an excursion or a dance opportunely, and so forth,
all this produces a good effect upon my disposition; only I must
forget that there lie dormant within me so many other qualities
which moulder uselessly, and which I am obliged to keep carefully
concealed. Ah! this thought affects my spirits fearfully. And yet to
be misunderstood is the fate of the like of us. |
12 |
Alas, that the friend of my youth is gone! Alas,
that I ever knew her! I might say to myself, “You are a dreamer to
seek what is not to be found here below.” But she has been mine. I
have possessed that heart, that noble soul, in whose presence I
seemed to be more than I really was, because I was all that I could
be. Good heavens! did then a single power of my soul remain
unexercised? In her presence could I not display, to its full
extent, that mysterious feeling with which my heart embraces Nature?
Was not our intercourse a perpetual web of the finest emotions, of
the keenest wit, the varieties of which, even in their very
eccentricity, bore the stamp of genius? Alas! the few years by which
she was my senior brought her to the grave before me. Never can I
forget her firm mind or her heavenly patience. |
13 |
A few days ago I met a certain young V——, a frank,
open fellow, with a most pleasing countenance. He has just left the
university, does not deem himself over-wise, but believes he knows
more than other people. He has worked hard, as I can perceive from
many circumstances, and, in short, possesses a large stock of
information. When he heard that I am drawing a good deal, and that I
know Greek (two wonderful things for this part of the country), he
came to see me, and displayed his whole store of learning, from
Batteaux to Wood, from De Piles to Winkelmann: he assured me he had
read through the first part of Sultzer’s theory, and also possessed
a manuscript of Heyne’s work on the study of the antique. I allowed
it all to pass. |
14 |
I have become acquainted, also, with a very worthy
person, the district judge, a frank and open-hearted man. I am told
it is a most delightful thing to see him in the midst of his
children, of whom he has nine. His eldest daughter especially is
highly spoken of. He has invited me to go and see him, and I intend
to do so on the first opportunity. He lives at one of the royal
hunting-lodges, which can be reached from here in an hour and a half
by walking, and which he obtained leave to inhabit after the loss of
his wife, as it is so painful to him to reside in town and at the
court. |
15 |
There have also come in my way a few other originals
of a questionable sort, who are in all respects undesirable, and
most intolerable in their demonstrations of friendship. Good-by.
This letter will please you; it is quite historical. |
16 |
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MAY 22. That the life
of man is but a dream, many a man has surmised heretofore; and I,
too, am everywhere pursued by this feeling. When I consider the
narrow limits within which our active and inquiring faculties are
confined; when I see how all our energies are wasted in providing
for mere necessities, which again have no further end than to
prolong a wretched existence; and then that all our satisfaction
concerning certain subjects of investigation ends in nothing better
than a passive resignation, whilst we amuse ourselves painting our
prison-walls with bright figures and brilliant landscapes,—when I
consider all this, Wilhelm, I am silent. I examine my own being and
find there a world, but a world rather of imagination and dim
desires, than of distinctness and living power. Then everything
swims before my senses, and I smile and dream while pursuing my way
through the world. |
17 |
All learned professors and doctors are agreed that
children do not comprehend the cause of their desires; but that the
grown-up should wander about this earth like children, without
knowing whence they come, or whither they go, influenced as little
by fixed motives, but guided like them by biscuits, sugar-plums, and
the rod,—this is what nobody is willing to acknowledge; and yet I
think it is palpable. |
18 |
I know what you say in reply; for I am ready to
admit that they are happiest, who, like children, amuse themselves
with their play-things, dress and undress their dolls, and
attentively watch the cupboard, where mamma has locked up her sweet
things, and, when at last they get a delicious morsel, eat it
greedily, and exclaim, “More!” These are certainly happy beings; but
others also are objects of envy, who dignify their paltry
employments, and sometimes even their passions, with pompous titles,
representing them to mankind as gigantic achievements performed for
their welfare and glory. But the man who humbly acknowledges the
vanity of all this, who observes with what pleasure the thriving
citizen converts his little garden into a paradise, and how
patiently even the poor man pursues his weary way under his burden,
and how all wish equally to behold the light of the sun a little
longer,—yes, such a man is at peace, and creates his own world
within himself; and he is also happy, because he is a man. And then,
however limited his sphere, he still preserves in his bosom the
sweet feeling of liberty, and knows that he can quit his prison
whenever he likes. |
19 |
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MAY 26. You know of
old my ways of settling anywhere, of selecting a little cottage in
some cosey spot, and of putting up in it with every inconvenience.
Here, too, I have discovered such a snug, comfortable place, which
possesses peculiar charms for me. |
20 |
About a league from the town is a place called
Walheim. 1 It is
delightfully situated on the side of a hill; and by proceeding along
one of the footpaths which lead out of the village, you can have a
view of the whole valley. A good old woman lives there, who keeps a
small inn. She sells wine, beer, and coffee, and is cheerful and
pleasant notwithstanding her age. The chief charm of this spot
consists in two linden-trees, spreading their enormous branches over
the little green before the church, which is entirely surrounded by
peasants’ cottages, barns, and homesteads. I have seldom seen a
place so retired and peaceable; and there often have my table and
chair brought out from the little inn, and drink my coffee there,
and read my Homer. Accident brought me to the spot one fine
afternoon, and I found it perfectly deserted. Everybody was in the
fields except a little boy about four years of age, who was sitting
on the ground, and held between his knees a child about six months
old; he pressed it to his bosom with both arms, which thus formed a
sort of armchair; and notwithstanding the liveliness which sparkled
in its black eyes, it remained perfectly still. The sight charmed
me. I sat down upon a plough opposite, and sketched with great
delight this little picture of brotherly tenderness. I added the
neighbouring hedge, the barn-door, and some broken cart-wheels, just
as they happened to lie; and I found in about an hour that I had
made a very correct and interesting drawing, without putting in the
slightest thing of my own. This confirmed me in my resolution of
adhering, for the future, entirely to Nature. She alone is
inexhaustible, and capable of forming the greatest masters. Much may
be alleged in favour of rules; as much may be likewise advanced in
favour of the laws of society: an artist formed upon them will never
produce anything absolutely bad or disgusting; as a man who observes
the laws and obeys decorum can never be an absolutely intolerable
neighbour nor a decided villain: but yet, say what you will of
rules, they destroy the genuine feeling of Nature, as well as its
true expression. Do not tell me “that this is too hard, that they
only restrain and prune superfluous branches, etc.” My good friend,
I will illustrate this by an analogy. These things resemble love. A
warm-hearted youth becomes strongly attached to a maiden: he spends
every hour of the day in her company, wears out his health, and
lavishes his fortune, to afford continual proof that he is wholly
devoted to her. Then comes a man of the world, a man of place and
respectability, and addresses him thus: “My good young friend, love
is natural; but you must love within bounds. Divide your time:
devote a portion to business, and give the hours of recreation to
your mistress. Calculate your fortune; and out of the superfluity
you may make her a present, only not too often,—on her birthday, and
such occasions.” Pursuing this advice, he may become a useful member
of society, and I should advise every prince to give him an
appointment; but it is all up with his love, and with his genius if
he be an artist. O my friend! why is it that the torrent of genius
so seldom bursts forth, so seldom rolls in full-flowing stream,
overwhelming your astounded soul? Because, on either side of this
stream, cold and respectable persons have taken up their abodes,
and, forsooth, their summer-houses and tulip-beds would suffer from
the torrent; wherefore they dig trenches, and raise embankments
betimes, in order to avert the impending danger. |
21 |
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May 27. I find I have fallen into
raptures, declamation, and similes, and have forgotten, in
consequence, to tell you what became of the children. Absorbed in my
artistic contemplations, which I briefly described in my letter of
yesterday, I continued sitting on the plough for two hours. Towards
evening a young woman, with a basket on her arm, came running
towards the children, who had not moved all that time. She exclaimed
from a distance, “You are a good boy, Philip!” She gave me greeting:
I returned it, rose, and approached her. I inquired if she were the
mother of those pretty children. “Yes,” she said; and, giving the
eldest a piece of bread, she took the little one in her arms and
kissed it with a mother’s tenderness. “I left my child in Philip’s
care,” she said, “whilst I went into the town with my eldest boy to
buy some wheaten bread, some sugar, and an earthen pot.” I saw the
various articles in the basket, from which the cover had fallen. “I
shall make some broth to-night for my little Hans (which was the
name of the youngest): that wild fellow, the big one, broke my pot
yesterday, whilst he was scrambling with Philip for what remained of
the contents.” I inquired for the eldest; and she had scarcely time
to tell me that he was driving a couple of geese home from the
meadow, when he ran up, and handed Philip an osier-twig. I talked a
little longer with the woman, and found that she was the daughter of
the schoolmaster, and that her husband was gone on a journey into
Switzerland for some money a relation had left him. “They wanted to
cheat him,” she said, “and would not answer his letters; so he is
gone there himself. I hope he has met with no accident, as I have
heard nothing of him since his departure.” I left the woman with
regret, giving each of the children a kreutzer, with an additional
one for the youngest, to buy some wheaten bread for his broth when
she went to town next; and so we parted. |
22 |
I assure you, my dear friend, when my thoughts are
all in tumult, the sight of such a creature as this tranquillises my
disturbed mind. She moves in a happy thoughtlessness within the
confined circle of her existence; she supplies her wants from day to
day; and when she sees the leaves fall, they raise no other idea in
her mind than that winter is approaching. |
23 |
Since that time I have gone out there frequently.
The children have become quite familiar with me; and each gets a
lump of sugar when I drink my coffee, and they share my milk and
bread and butter in the evening. They always receive their kreutzer
on Sundays, for the good woman has orders to give it to them when I
do not go there after evening service. |
24 |
They are quite at home with me, tell me everything;
and I am particularly amused with observing their tempers, and the
simplicity of their behaviour, when some of the other village
children are assembled with them. |
25 |
It has given me a deal of trouble to satisfy the
anxiety of the mother, lest (as she says) “they should inconvenience
the gentleman.” |
26 |
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May 30. What I have lately said of
painting is equally true with respect to poetry. It is only
necessary for us to know what is really excellent, and venture to
give it expression; and that is saying much in few words. To-day I
have had a scene which, if literally related, would make the most
beautiful idyl in the world. But why should I talk of poetry and
scenes and idyls? Can we never take pleasure in Nature without
having recourse to art? |
27 |
If you expect anything grand or magnificent from
this introduction, you will be sadly mistaken. It relates merely to
a peasant-lad, who has excited in me the warmest interest. As usual,
I shall tell my story badly; and you, as usual, will think me
extravagant. It is Walheim once more—always Walheim—which produces
these wonderful phenomena. |
28 |
A party had assembled outside the house under the
linden-trees, to drink coffee. The company did not exactly please
me; and, under one pretext or another, I lingered behind. |
29 |
A peasant came from an adjoining house, and set to
work arranging some part of the same plough which I had lately
sketched. His appearance pleased me; and I spoke to him, inquired
about his circumstances, made his acquaintance, and, as is my wont
with persons of that class, was soon admitted into his confidence.
He said he was in the service of a young widow, who set great store
by him. He spoke so much of his mistress, and praised her so
extravagantly, that I could soon see he was desperately in love with
her. “She is no longer young,” he said; “and she was treated so
badly by her former husband that she does not mean to marry again.”
From his account it was so evident what incomparable charms she
possessed for him, and how ardently he wished she would select him
to extinguish the recollection of her first husband’s misconduct,
that I should have to repeat his own words in order to describe the
depth of the poor fellow’s attachment, truth, and devotion. It
would, in fact, require the gifts of a great poet to convey the
expression of his features, the harmony of his voice, and the
heavenly fire of his eye. No words can portray the tenderness of his
every movement and of every feature; no effort of mine could do
justice to the scene. His alarm lest I should misconceive his
position with regard to his mistress, or question the propriety of
her conduct, touched me particularly. The charming manner with which
he described her form and person, which, without possessing the
graces of youth, won and attached him to her, is inexpressible, and
must be left to the imagination. I have never in my life witnessed
or fancied or conceived the possibility of such intense devotion,
such ardent affections, united with so much purity. Do not blame me
if I say that the recollection of this innocence and truth is deeply
impressed upon my very soul; that this picture of fidelity and
tenderness haunts me everywhere: and that my own heart, as though
enkindled by the flame, glows and burns within me. |
30 |
I mean now to try and see her as soon as I can: or
perhaps, on second thoughts, I had better not; it is better I should
behold her through the eyes of her lover. To my sight, perhaps, she
would not appear as she now stands before me; and why should I
destroy so sweet a picture? |
31 |
|
JUNE 16. “Why do I not write to you?” You
lay claim to learning, and ask such a question. You should have
guessed that I am well—that is to say—in a word, I have made an
acquaintance who has won my heart: I have—I know not. |
32 |
To give you a regular account of the manner in which
I have become acquainted with the most amiable of women would be a
difficult task. I am a happy and contented mortal, but a poor
historian. |
33 |
An angel! Nonsense! Everybody so describes his
mistress; and yet I find it impossible to tell you how perfect she
is, or why she is so perfect: suffice it to say she has captivated
all my senses. |
34 |
So much simplicity with so much understanding—so
mild, and yet so resolute—a mind so placid, and a life so active. |
35 |
But all this is ugly balderdash, which expresses not
a single character nor feature. Some other time—but no, not some
other time, now, this very instant, will I tell you all about it.
Now or never. Well, between ourselves, since I commenced my letter,
I have been three times on the point of throwing down my pen, of
ordering my horse, and riding out. And yet I vowed this morning that
I would not ride to-day, and yet every moment I am rushing to the
window to see how high the sun is. |
36 |
|
I could not restrain myself—go to her I must. I have
just returned, Wilhelm; and whilst I am taking supper, I will write
to you. What a delight it was for my soul to see her in the midst of
her dear, beautiful children,—eight brothers and sisters! |
37 |
But if I proceed thus, you will be no wiser at the
end of my letter than you were at the beginning. Attend, then, and I
will compel myself to give you the details. |
38 |
I mentioned to you the other day that I had become
acquainted with S——, the district judge, and that he had invited me
to go and visit him in his retirement, or rather in his little
kingdom. But I neglected going, and perhaps should never have gone,
if chance had not discovered to me the treasure which lay concealed
in that retired spot. Some of our young people had proposed giving a
ball in the country, at which I consented to be present. I offered
my hand for the evening to a pretty and agreeable, but rather
commonplace, sort of girl from the immediate neighbourhood; and it
was agreed that I should engage a carriage, and call upon Charlotte,
with my partner and her aunt, to convey them to the ball. My
companion informed me, as we drove along through the park to the
hunting-lodge, that I should make the acquaintance of a very
charming young lady. “Take care,” added the aunt, “that you do not
lose your heart.” “Why?” said I. “Because she is already engaged to
a very worthy man,” she replied, “who is gone to settle his affairs
upon the death of his father, and will succeed to a very
considerable inheritance.” This information possessed no interest
for me. When we arrived at the gate, the sun was setting behind the
tops of the mountains. The atmosphere was heavy; and the ladies
expressed their fears of an approaching storm, as masses of low
black clouds were gathering in the horizon. I relieved their
anxieties by pretending to be weather-wise, although I myself had
some apprehensions lest our pleasure should be interrupted. |
39 |
I alighted; and a maid came to the door, and
requested us to wait a moment for her mistress. I walked across the
court to a well-built house, and, ascending the flight of steps in
front, opened the door, and saw before me the most charming
spectacle I had ever witnessed. Six children, from eleven to two
years old, were running about the hall, and surrounding a lady of
middle height, with a lovely figure, dressed in a robe of simple
white, trimmed with pink ribbons. She was holding a rye loaf in her
hand, and was cutting slices for the little ones all round, in
proportion to their age and appetite. She performed her task in a
graceful and affectionate manner; each claimant awaiting his turn
with outstretched hands, and boisterously shouting his thanks. Some
of them ran away at once, to enjoy their evening meal; whilst
others, of a gentler disposition, retired to the courtyard to see
the strangers, and to survey the carriage in which their Charlotte
was to drive away. “Pray forgive me for giving you the trouble to
come for me, and for keeping the ladies waiting: but dressing, and
arranging some household duties before I leave, had made me forget
my children’s supper; and they do not like to take it from any one
but me.” I uttered some indifferent compliment: but my whole soul
was absorbed by her air, her voice, her manner; and I had scarcely
recovered myself when she ran into her room to fetch her gloves and
fan. The young ones threw inquiring glances at me from a distance;
whilst I approached the youngest, a most delicious little creature.
He drew back; and Charlotte, entering at the very moment, said,
“Louis, shake hands with your cousin.” The little fellow obeyed
willingly; and I could not resist giving him a hearty kiss,
notwithstanding his rather dirty face. “Cousin,” said I to
Charlotte, as I handed her down, “do you think I deserve the
happiness of being related to you?” She replied, with a ready smile,
“Oh! I have such a number of cousins that I should be sorry if you
were the most undeserving of them.” In taking leave, she desired her
next sister, Sophy, a girl about eleven years old, to take great
care of the children, and to say good-by to papa for her when he
came home from his ride. She enjoined to the little ones to obey
their sister Sophy as they would herself, upon which some promised
that they would; but a little fair-haired girl, about six years old,
looked discontented, and said, “But Sophy is not you, Charlotte; and
we like you best.” The two eldest boys had clambered up the
carriage; and, at my request, she permitted them to accompany us a
little way through the forest, upon their promising to sit very
still, and hold fast. |
40 |
We were hardly seated, and the ladies had scarcely
exchanged compliments, making the usual remarks upon each other’s
dress, and upon the company they expected to meet, when Charlotte
stopped the carriage, and made her brothers get down. They insisted
upon kissing her hands once more; which the eldest did with all the
tenderness of a youth of fifteen, but the other in a lighter and
more careless manner. She desired them again to give her love to the
children, and we drove off. |
41 |
The aunt inquired of Charlotte whether she had
finished the book she had last sent her. “No,” said Charlotte; “I
did not like it: you can have it again. And the one before was not
much better.” I was surprised, upon asking the title, to hear that
it was ——. 2 I
found penetration and character in everything she said: every
expression seemed to brighten her features with new charms, with new
rays of genius, which unfolded by degrees, as she felt herself
understood. |
42 |
“When I was younger,” she observed, “I loved nothing
so much as romances. Nothing could equal my delight when, on some
holiday, I could settle down quietly in a corner, and enter with my
whole heart and soul into the joys or sorrows of some fictitious
Leonora. I do not deny that they even possess some charms for me
yet. But I read so seldom that I prefer books suited exactly to my
taste. And I like those authors best whose scenes describe my own
situation in life,—and the friends who are about me whose stories
touch me with interest, from resembling my own homely
existence,—which, without being absolutely paradise, is, on the
whole, a source of indescribable happiness.” |
43 |
I endeavoured to conceal the emotion which these
words occasioned, but it was of slight avail; for when she had
expressed so truly her opinion of “The Vicar of Wakefield,” and of
other works, the names of which I omit, 3 I
could no longer contain myself, but gave full utterance to what I
thought of it; and it was not until Charlotte had addressed herself
to the two other ladies, that I remembered their presence, and
observed them sitting mute with astonishment. The aunt looked at me
several times with an air of raillery, which, however, I did not at
all mind. |
44 |
We talked of the pleasures of dancing. “If it is a
fault to love it,” said Charlotte, “I am ready to confess that I
prize it above all other amusements. If anything disturbs me, I go
to the piano, play an air to which I have danced, and all goes right
again directly.” |
45 |
You, who know me, can fancy how steadfastly I gazed
upon her rich dark eyes during these remarks, how my very soul
gloated over her warm lips and fresh, glowing cheeks, how I became
quite lost in the delightful meaning of her words,—so much so, that
I scarcely heard the actual expressions. In short, I alighted from
the carriage like a person in a dream, and was so lost to the dim
world around me that I scarcely heard the music which resounded from
the illuminated ball-room. |
46 |
The two Messrs. Andran and a certain N. N. (I cannot
trouble myself with the names), who were the aunt’s and Charlotte’s
partners, received us at the carriage-door, and took possession of
their ladies, whilst I followed with mine. |
47 |
We commenced with a minuet. I led out one lady after
another, and precisely those who were the most disagreeable could
not bring themselves to leave off. Charlotte and her partner began
an English country dance, and you must imagine my delight when it
was their turn to dance the figure with us. |
48 |
You should see Charlotte dance. She dances with her
whole heart and soul: her figure is all harmony, elegance, and
grace, as if she were conscious of nothing else, and had no other
thought or feeling; and, doubtless, for the moment every other
sensation is extinct. |
49 |
Note 1. The reader need not
take the trouble to look for the place thus designated. We have
found it necessary to change the names given in the
original. [back] |
Note 2. We feel obliged to
suppress the passage in the letter, to prevent any one from feeling
aggrieved; although no author need pay much attention to the opinion
of a mere girl, or that of an unsteady young man. [back] |
Note 3. Though the names are
omitted, yet the authors mentioned deserve Charlotte’s approbation,
and will feel it in their hearts when they read this passage. It
concerns no other person. [back] |
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