The Sorrows Of Young Werther - May Letters By JW Von Goethe

Welcome to Restful Journeys.

In this track I will be reading a romance story titled The Sorrows of Young Werther by J.

W.

Van Gogh.

I will be reading The Letters from the Month of May from Book 1.

In this story,

Through passionate letters to a friend,

Young artist Werther recounts his enchantment with a fictional village and its simple peasants.

There he meets Charlotte,

A beautiful young woman caring for her siblings,

And falls deeply in love despite knowing she's engaged to another man.

As their friendship deepens and circumstances shift,

Werther's unrequited passion becomes an unbearable torment that demands resolution.

Before we begin,

Find a comfortable place to sit or lie down and relax.

Take a few moments to clear your mind and allow yourself to listen to these words.

Let's begin The Sorrows of Young Werther,

The Letters from the Month of May.

Preface.

I have carefully collected whatever I have been able to learn of the story of poor Werther,

And here present it to you,

Knowing that you will thank me for it.

To his spirit and character,

You cannot refuse your admiration and love.

To his fate,

You will not deny your tears.

And though,

Good soul,

Who sufferest the same distress as he endured once,

Draw comfort from his sorrows,

And let this little book be thy friend,

If,

Owing to fortune or through thine own fault,

Thou canst not find a dearer companion.

Book One,

May Fourth.

How happy I am that I am gone!

My dear friend,

What a thing it 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 specifically appointed by fate to torment a head like mine?

Poor Leona!

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 have 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 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.

Be kind enough to inform my mother that I shall attend to her business to the best of my ability,

And shall give 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 what 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 my 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,

And yet,

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 the ocean of perfume,

And to find his whole existence in it.

The town itself is disagreeable,

But then,

All round,

You find an inexpressibly 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 I have already shed to the memory of his departed master in a summer house,

Which is now reduced to ruins,

But was his favorite resort,

And now is mine.

I shall soon be the master of the place.

The gardener has become attached to me within the last few days,

And he will lose nothing thereby.

May 10.

A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my 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 tims with vapor around me,

And the meridian sun strikes the upper surface of the impenetrable foliage of my trees,

And but a few stray gleams still 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 insects and flies,

Then I feel the presence of the Almighty,

Who formed us in His own image,

And the breadth 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 I might find the mirror of my soul,

As my soul is the mirror of the Infinite God.

Oh,

My friend,

But it is too much for my strength.

I sink under the weight of the splendor of these visions.

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 here,

The idea of the old patriarchal life is awakened around me.

I see them,

Our old ancestors,

How they formed their relationships 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 response at the sight of a fountain after the fatigue of a weary summer day.

May 13th.

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,

Heeded.

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.

May 15th.

The common people of this 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 humor.

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 contact.

Whilst wanton idlers,

And such are prone to bad joking,

Affect a descent to their level,

Only to make the poor people feel their impertinence all the more keenly.

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.

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 around 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 headgear,

And I helped her.

She thanked me,

And descended the steps.

May 17.

I have made all sorts of acquaintances,

But have as yet to found no society.

I know 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 labor 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!

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 an 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.

Alas,

That the friend of my youth is gone!

Alas,

That I never knew her!

I might seek 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 which 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 I could 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,

Before 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.

A few days ago I met a certain young V,

A frank open fellow,

With the most pleasing countenance.

He has just left the university,

Does not deem himself otherwise,

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 Battenau to Wood,

From De Pijls to Winkelmann.

He assured me he had read through the first part of the Sultzer's theory,

And also possessed a manuscript of Heinz's work on the study of the antique.

I allowed it all to pass.

I have become acquainted also with a very worthy person,

A 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 to leave to inhabit after the loss of his wife,

As it is so painful to him to reside in his town and at the court.

There have also come in my way a few other originals of a questionable sort,

Who are all in the respects of undesirable and most intolerable in their demonstration of friendship.

Good-bye.

This letter will please you.

It is quite historical.

May 22.

That the life of a man is but a dream.

Many a man has surmised hitherto,

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 feel 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 this world.

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.

I know what you say and reply,

For I am ready to admit that they are happiest,

Who,

Like children,

Amuse themselves with their playful things,

Dress and undress their dolls,

And attentively watch the cupboard where Mama has locked up their sweet things,

And when,

At last,

They get a delicious morsel,

Eat it greedily,

And exclaim,

More!

These are certainly happy things,

But others 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 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 fear,

He still preserves in his bosom the sweet feeling of liberty,

And knows that he cannot quit his prison whenever he likes.

May 26.

You know of my old ways of settling anywhere,

In selecting a little cottage in some cozy spot,

And putting up in it with every inconvenience.

Here,

Too,

I discovered such a snug,

Comfortable place,

Which possesses peculiar charms for me.

About a league from this town is a place called Walheim.

The reader need not take the trouble to look up this place thus designated,

We have found it necessary to change the names given in the original.

It is delightfully situated on the side of a hill,

And,

By proceeding along one of the footpaths which lead out from 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 of 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 peaceful,

And there often have my table and chair sprawled out from the little inn,

And drink my coffee there,

And read my Homer.

Accident brought me to this 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 the 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 neighboring hedge,

The barn door,

And some broken cartwheels,

Just as they happened to lie.

And I sat down 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 favor of rules,

As much may be likewise advanced in favor 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 neighbor,

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 is an artist.

O my friend,

Why is it that the torrent of genius so seldom bursts forth,

So seldom rolls in full-flowing stream,

Overwhelmingly your astounded soul?

Because,

On either side of the stream,

Cold,

Irrespectable persons have taken up their abodes,

And,

In the midst of it,

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.

May 27.

I find I have fallen into raptures,

Declamation,

And smiles,

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.

Toward evening,

A young woman with a basket in her arm came running toward the children,

Who had not moved all that time.

She exclaimed from a distance,

You are a good boy,

Philip.

She gave me a 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 the 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 wheat and 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 tonight 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 its contents.

I inquired for the eldest,

And she scarcely timed 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 a 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 has gone there for 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 wheat and bread for his broth when she went to town next.

And so we parted.

I assure you,

My dear friend,

When my thoughts are all in tumult,

The sight of such a creature as this tranquilizes 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.

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.

They are quite at home with me,

Tell me everything,

And I am particularly amused with observing their tempers and the simplicity of their behavior when some of the other village children are assembled with them.

It has given me a deal of trouble to satisfy the anxiety of the mother,

Lest,

As she says,

They should inconvenience the gentlemen.

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.

Today I have had a scene which,

If literally related,

Would make the most beautiful idol in the world.

But why should I talk of poetry and scenes and idols?

Can we never take pleasure in nature without having recourse to art?

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 Wellheim,

Once more.

Always Wellheim,

Which produces these wonderful phenomena.

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.

A peasant came from the adjoining house and set to work arranging some parts 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 this account it was 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 expressions 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.

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?

That concludes the letters for the month of May from Book One.

I hope that you have enjoyed these letters,

And continue to enjoy them as I continue through different tracks.

Thank you so much for listening.

I hope that you have become relaxed,

And possibly fallen asleep.