Chapter 20

But the magistrates simply told me they had nothing to do with such statements, and that I seemed a most impudent rascal to trump up such things against my master.

I was conducted back to the very prison from which I had escaped, and my situation seemed more irremediable than ever. How great, therefore, was my astonishment, at the assizes when my case was called, to find neither Mr. Falkland, nor Mr. Forester, nor any individual to appear against me. I, who had come to the bar with the sentence of death already ringing in my ears, to be told I was free to go whithersoever I pleased!

I was not, however, yet free of Mr. Falkland. I was kidnapped by Gines and an accomplice, and carried to an inn, and here Mr. Falkland commanded me to sign a paper declaring that the charge I had alleged against him at Bow Street was false, malicious, and groundless. On my refusal, he told me that he would exercise a power that should grind me to atoms.

The impression of that memorable meeting on my understanding is indelible. The deathlike weakness and decay of Mr. Falkland, his misery and rage, his haggard, emaciated, and fleshless visage, are still before me.

There was to be no peace or happiness for me. Wherever I went, sooner or later, Gines found me, and any new acquaintances turned from me with loathing after they had read the handbills containing my "Wonderful and Surprising History." This man followed me from place to place, blasting my reputation.

I now formed my resolution and carried it into execution. At all costs I would free myself from this overpowering tyranny.

I set out for the chief town of the county in which Mr. Falkland lived, and there laid a formal charge of murder before the principal magistrate.

After an interval of three days, I met Mr. Falkland in the presence of the magistrate. It was now the appearance of a ghost before me. He was brought in in a chair, unable to stand, fatigued and almost destroyed by the journey he had just taken.

Until that moment my breast was steeled to pity; it was now too late to draw back.

I told my story plainly, declared the nobility of Mr. Falkland's character, and admitted that my own proceedings now seemed to me a dreadful mistake.

When I had finished, Mr. Falkland rose from his seat, and, to my infinite astonishment, threw himself into my arms.

"Williams," said he, "you have conquered. All that I most ardently desired is for ever frustrated. I have spent a life of the basest cruelty to cover one act of momentary passion. And now"--turning to the magistrate--"do with me as you please. I am prepared to suffer all the vengeance of the law."

He survived this dreadful scene but three days, and I feel, and always shall feel, that I have been his murderer. I began these memoirs to vindicate my character. I have now no character that I wish to vindicate.

* * * * *

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE

The Sorrows of Young Werther

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, the greatest of German poets, and one of the most highly gifted men of the eighteenth century, was born in 1749 at Frankfort-on-the-Main. He received his early education from his father, who was an imperial councillor, and in the year 1765 he went to the University of Leipzig. Goethe's first great work was "Goetz von Berlichingen" (see Vol. XVII). which was translated into English by Sir Walter Scott. "The Sorrows of Young Werther" ("Die Leiden des jungen Werthers") was begun in 1772, when Goethe was twenty-three years old, and was published anonymously two years later. It immediately created an immense sensation, made a round of the world, and was everywhere either enthusiastically praised or severely condemned. It became the fashion of young men to dress themselves in blue coats and yellow breeches in imitation of the hero, and many of them were moved to follow Werther's example as the simplest way of settling their love affairs. Nevertheless, "Werther" formed the real basis of Goethe's fame. It was the first revelation to the world of the genius, which, a quarter of a century later, was to give it "Faust" (Vol. XVI). The story is frankly sentimental, but as such it is easily the best of the sentimental novels of the eighteenth century. When, many years later, Goethe was invited to an audience with Napoleon, the emperor volunteered the information that he had read "Werther" through six times. Goethe died in March, 1832, in his eighty-fourth year.

_I.--"I Have Found an Angel"_

_May 4_. What a strange thing is the heart of man. To leave my dearest friend, and yet to feel happy! I know you will forgive me, and I in return will promise that I will no longer worry myself over every petty stab of fortune. Poor Leonora! And yet I was not to blame. Was I in fault that, while I was pleasantly entertained by the charms of her sister, her feeble heart conceived a passion for me? And yet I am not wholly blameless. Did I not encourage her emotion? Did I not--but what is man that he dares so to accuse himself? Beyond doubt, the sufferings of mankind would be far less did they but endure the present with equanimity, instead of raking up the past for memories of sorrow.

A wonderful calm has come over me; I am alone, and feel that a spot like this was created for the happiness of souls like mine. You ask if you shall send me books; I pray you spare me. My heart craves for no excitement; I need strains to soothe me, and I find them to perfection in my Homer.

_May 17_. I have formed many acquaintances, but as yet have found no friends. If you inquire what sort of people are here, I answer "the same as everywhere." The human race is a monotonous affair. The majority labours nearly all its time for mere subsistence, and is then so distressed to have a small portion of freedom still unemployed that it exerts even greater efforts to get rid of it.

I have just become acquainted with a very worthy person, the district judge. They tell me how charming it is to see him in the midst of his family of nine. His eldest daughter is much spoken of. He has invited me to go and see him.

_June 16_. Why do I not write to you? You should have guessed that I was pre-occupied; that, in a word, that I have made a friend who has won my heart. I have found--I know not what. An angel? Nonsense! Everyone so describes his mistress. And yet I cannot tell you how perfect she is, or why so perfect. Between ourselves, I have been three times on the point of throwing down my pen, ordering my horse, and riding out. And yet this morning I determined not to ride to-day; and I keep running to the window to see how high the sun is.

I could not restrain myself; go to her I must. I have just returned, Wilhelm, and while I eat my supper I will write to you. I had already made the acquaintance of her aunt, the judge's sister, and with her I was going to accompany Charlotte to a ball given by some young people in the neighbourhood. While we were on our way to fetch her, my companion was loud in her praises of her niece's beauty and charm. "Take care, however," she added, "that you do not lose your heart." "Why?" I asked. "Because she is already betrothed to a most excellent man."

As the door opened, I saw before me the most charming sight that I have ever beheld. Six children, of various ages, were running about the hall and surrounding a lady of medium height, with a lovely figure, dressed in a robe of simple white, trimmed with pink ribbons. She held a loaf of brown bread, and was cutting slices for the little ones all round. She apologised for not being quite ready, explaining that household duties had made her forget the children's supper, which they always preferred to take from her. I uttered some unmeaning compliment, but my whole soul was absorbed by her air, her voice, her manner. You who know me can imagine how I gazed upon her rich, dark eyes; how my soul gloated over her warm lips and fresh glowing cheeks.

Never did I dance more lightly; I felt myself more than mortal, holding this loveliest of creatures in my arms, flying with her as rapidly as the wind, till I lost sight of every other object. And, oh, Wilhelm, I vowed at that moment that no maiden whom I loved should ever waltz with another than myself, if I went to perdition for it.

Returning from the ball, there was a most magnificent sunrise. Our companions were asleep. Charlotte asked me if I did not wish to sleep too, and begged me not to stand on ceremony. Looking deep into her eyes, I answered, "As long as those eyes remain open, there is no fear for mine." We continued awake until we reached her door. I left her, asking her permission to call in the course of the day. She consented, and I went Since then, sun, moon, and stars may pursue their course; I know not whether it is day or night; the whole world is nothing to me.

_June 21_. My days are as happy as those reserved by God for His elect, and whatever be my fate hereafter, I can never say that I have not tasted joy--the purest joy of life. Little did I think when I selected this spot for my home that all heaven lay within half a league of it.

How childish is man. To be disturbed about a mere look. We had been to Walheim, but during our walk I thought I saw in Charlotte's eyes--I am a fool, but forgive me. You should see her eyes. However, to be brief, as the ladies were preparing to drive away I watched her eyes; they wandered from one to another, but they did not alight on me--on me who saw nothing but her. She noticed me not. The carriage drove off, and my eyes filled with tears. Suddenly I saw Charlotte's bonnet leaning out of the window, and she turned to look back--was it at me? I know not, and in uncertainty is my consolation. Perhaps she turned to look at me. Perhaps. Good-night. What a child I am!

_July 10_. Someone asked me the other day how I like her. How I _like_ her! What sort of creature must he be who merely likes Charlotte? Whose entire being were not absolutely filled with her? Like her! One might as well ask if I like Ossian.

_July 13_. No, I am not deceived. In her dark eyes I read a real interest in me. Yes, I feel it, and I believe my own heart which tells me--dare I say it?--that she loves me. How the idea exalts me in my own eyes. And as you can understand my feelings, I may say to you, how I honour myself because she loves me.

I do not know a man able to take my place in her heart; yet when she speaks of Albert with so much warmth and affection, I feel like a soldier who has been stripped of all his honours. Sometimes when we are talking, in the eagerness of conversation she comes closer to me, and her balmy breath reaches my lips, I feel that I could sink into the earth for very joy. And yet, Wilhelm, if I know myself, and should ever dare--you understand me--No, no; my heart is not so corrupt; it is weak, but is not that a degree of corruption?

She is to me a sacred being; how her simplest song enchants me. Sometimes, when I am ready to commit suicide, she sings some favourite air, and instantly the gloom and madness are dispersed.

_July 24_. Yes, dear Charlotte. I will arrange everything. Only give me more commissions; the more the better. One thing, however, I must request you--use no more writing-sand with the letters you send me! Today, I raised your letter to my lips, and it set my teeth on edge.

_II.--Bereft of Comfort_

_July 30_. Albert is arrived, and I must take my departure. Were he the best of men, and I absolutely beneath him, I could not endure to see him in possession of my perfect being. Enough! her betrothed is here. A fine fellow, whom I cannot help liking. And he is so considerate; he has not given Charlotte one kiss in my presence. Heaven reward him for it. He is free from ill-humour, which you know is the fault I detest most. I do not ask whether he may not now and then tease her with some little jealousies, as I know that in his place I should not be entirely free from such feelings.

_August 8_. I am amazed to see from my diary, which I have somewhat neglected of late, how deliberately I have entangled myself, step by step. But even though I see the result plainly, I have no thought of acting with any greater prudence. And yet I feel that if only I knew where to go, I would abandon everything and fly from this place.

And yet I feel that, if I were not a fool, I could enjoy life here most delightfully. Admitted into this charming family, loved by the father as a son, by his children as a second father, and by Charlotte! Furthermore, Albert welcomes me with the heartiest affection, and loves me, next to Charlotte, more than all the world.

_August 21_. In vain do I stretch out my arms towards her when I wake in the morning. In vain do I seek for her when some innocent dream has happily deceived me, and placed me near her in the fields when I have seized her hand and covered it with kisses. Tears flow from my oppressed heart; and, bereft of all comfort, I weep over my future woes.

_August 28_. This is my birthday, and early in the morning I received a packet from Albert. I found within one of the pink ribbons which Charlotte wore in her dress the first time I saw her, and which I had often asked her to give me. With it were two volumes of Wetstein's Homer, a book I had often wished for. How well they understood those little attentions of friendship, so superior to costly presents, unhappy being that I am. Why do I thus deceive myself? What is to be the outcome of all this wild, aimless, endless passion? I cannot pray except to her. Oh, Wilhelm, the hermit's cell, his sackcloth and girdle of thorns, would be luxury and indulgence compared with what I have to suffer.

_October 20_. I have taken the plunge, and following your repeated advice, I have taken a post with the ambassador. We arrived here yesterday. If he were less peevish and morose all would be well. As it is, he occasions me continual annoyance; he is the most punctilious blockhead in the world. He does everything step by step, with the paltry fussiness of an old woman; and he is a man whom it is impossible to please, because he is never pleased with himself.

_January 20_. I have but one being here to interest me, my dear Charlotte--a Miss B----. She resembles you, if indeed anyone can possibly resemble you. "Ah," you will say, "he has learnt to pay fine compliments." And this is partly true; I have been very agreeable lately, as it was not in my power to be otherwise. But I must tell you of Miss B----. She has abundance of soul, which flashes from her deep blue eyes. Her rank is a torment to her, and satisfies no single desire of her heart. She knows you, my dear Charlotte, as I have told her all about you, and renders homage to your merits; but her homage is not exacted, but voluntary--she loves you, and delights to hear you made the subject of conversation. Adieu! Is Albert with you, and what is he to you? Forgive the question.

_February 20_. I thank you, Albert, for having deceived me. I waited for the news that your wedding-day was fixed, and I meant on that day to remove Charlotte's picture from the wall, and bury it with some old papers that I wish destroyed. You are now united, and the picture remains. Well, let it remain. Why should it not?

_III.--"I Can Remain No Longer"_

_June 11_. Say what you will, I can remain here no longer. Why should I remain? The prince is as gracious to me as anyone could be, and yet I am not at my ease. There is, indeed, nothing in common between us; he is a man of understanding, but quite of the ordinary kind. His conversation gives me no more amusement than I should derive from an ordinary well-written book. Whither am I going? I think it would be better for me to visit the mines in----. But I am only deluding myself thus. You know that I only want to be near my dear Charlotte once more. I smile at the suggestion of my heart, but I obey its dictates.

_July 29_. Dear Wilhelm, my whole frame feels convulsed when I see Albert put his arms round that slender waist. Oh, the very thought of folding that dearest of heaven's creatures in one's arms.

And--shall I avow it? Why should I not?--she would have been happier with me than with him. Albert is not the man to satisfy the wishes of such a heart. He wants a certain sensibility; he wants--in short, their hearts do not beat in unison. But, Wilhelm, he loves her with his whole heart, and what does not such a love deserve?

_September 5_. Charlotte had written a letter to her husband in the country, where he was detained on business. It began: "My dearest love, return as soon as possible. I await you with a thousand raptures!"

A friend who arrived brought word that he could not return immediately. Her letter fell into my hands. I read it, and smiled. She asked the reason. "What a heavenly treasure is imagination," I exclaimed. "I fancied for a moment that this was written to me." She paused, and seemed displeased. I was silent.

_October 10_. Only to gaze into her dark eyes is to me a source of happiness. And what grieves me is that Albert does not seem so happy as he--as I--as he hoped to be--as I should have been--if--. I am no friend to these pauses, but here I cannot express myself otherwise; and probably I am explicit enough.

_October 19_. Alas the void--the fearful void which I feel in my bosom! Sometimes I think, if I could only once press her to my heart, this dreadful void would be filled.

_October 30_. A hundred times I have been on the point of embracing her. Heavens! what a torment it is to see so much loveliness passing and repassing before us, and yet not dare to touch it. And to touch is the most natural of human instincts. Do not children touch everything that they see?

_November 8_. Charlotte reproves me for my excesses with so much tenderness and goodness. I have lately drunk more wine than usual. "Don't do it," she said; "think of Charlotte." "Think of you," I answered; "can such advice be necessary? Do I not ever think of you?" She immediately changed the subject to prevent me pursuing it further. My dear friend, my energies are all prostrated; she can do with me what she pleases. Yesterday, when I took leave, she seized me by the hand, and said, "Adieu, dear Werther!" It was the first time she had ever called me "dear." I have repeated it a hundred times.

_IV.--"I am Resolved to Die"_

_November 24_. She is sensible of my sufferings. This morning her look pierced my soul. I found her alone; she was silent, and only gazed steadfastly at me. Oh, who can express my emotions? I was quite overcome, and bending down, pronounced this vow to myself, "Beautiful lips, which angels guard, never will I seek to profane your purity with a kiss." And yet, oh, I wish--But, alas, my heart is darkened by doubt and indecision. Could I but taste felicity, and then die to expiate the sin. What sin?

_December 21_. I am lost. My senses are bewildered, my recollection is confused, my eyes are bathed in tears. I am ill, and yet am well. I wish for nothing; I have no desires; it were better I were gone. I saw Charlotte to-day; she was busy preparing some little gifts for her brothers and sisters, to be given to them on Christmas Day. "You shall have a gift too," she said, "if you behave well." "And what do you call behaving well?" I asked. "What should I do; what can I do?" "Thursday night," she answered, "is Christmas Eve; the children are all to be here, and my father too; there is a present for each of them. Do you come likewise, but do not come before that time!"

I started. She must have seen my emotion, for she continued, hastily "I desire that you will not. It must be so; I ask it of you as a favour, for my own peace and tranquillity. We cannot go on in this manner any longer!" It were idle to attempt to describe my emotions I was as if paralysed; it was as if the sun had suddenly gone out. When I recollected myself, Charlotte was trying to speak on some indifferent topic. "No, Charlotte," I explained, "I understand you perfectly. I will never see you again!"

_December 22_. It is all over, Charlotte; I am resolved to die. I make this declaration deliberately and coolly, without any romantic passion, on the morning of the day when I am to see you for the last time. At the moment that you read these lines the cold grave will hold the remains of that restless and unhappy being who, in his last moments of existence, knew no pleasure so great as that of conversing with you.

When I tore myself from you yesterday my senses were in tumult and disorder. I could scarcely reach my room. A thousand ideas floated through my mind. At last one fixed, final thought took possession of my heart. It was to die. Oh, beloved Charlotte, this heart, excited by rage and fury, has often conceived the horrid idea of murdering your husband--you--myself.

What do they mean by saying that Albert is your husband? He may be so for this world, and in this world it is a sin to love you--to wish to tear you from his embrace. Yes, it is a crime, and I suffer the punishment--but I have enjoyed the full delight of my sin. I have inhaled a balm that has revived my soul; from this hour you are mine; yes, Charlotte, you are mine. I do not dream, I do not rave. Drawing nearer to the grave my perceptions become clearer. We shall exist; we shall see each other again.

I wish to be buried in the dress I wear at present; it has been made sacred by your touch. How warmly I have loved you, Charlotte. Since the first hour I saw you, how impossible have I found it to leave you. This ribbon must be buried with me; it was a present from you on my birthday. How confused it all appears. Little did I think then that I should journey on this road. But peace, I pray you, peace.

Both my pistols are loaded. The clock strikes twelve. I say Amen. Charlotte! Charlotte! Farewell! Farewell!

* * * * *

Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship

Goethe's prestige was enormously increased by the publication in 1796 of "Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship" ("Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre"). Representing the fruit of twenty years' labour, it was, like "Faust," written in fragments during the ripest period of his intellectual activity. The story of "Wilhelm Meister" is by no means exciting, but, as a gallery of portraits and repository of wise observation, it is more characteristic of the genius of its author than any other of his prose works. It is more mellow than "Werther," and the action moves slower. Incident follows incident in a leisurely fashion. The keen psychological analysis in the story is assumed to have been derived from Goethe's own experience. "Wilhelm Meister" was dramatised and produced at Leipzig a few years ago, but with no marked success.

_I.--On the Road_

The moment was now at hand to which poor Mariana had been looking forward as to the last of her life. Wilhelm Meister, the man she loved, was departing on a long journey in connection with his father's business; a disagreeable lover was threatening to come.

"I am miserable," she exclaimed, "miserable for life! I love him, and he loves me; yet I see that we must part, and know not how I shall survive it. Wilhelm is poor, and can do nothing for me--"

Darkness had scarcely come on when Wilhelm glided forth to her house; he carried with him a letter in which he entreated her to marry him forthwith, saying that he would abandon his father's business, and earn his living on the stage, to which he had always been strongly drawn. This he could do with certainty, as he was well acquainted with Serlo, manager of a theatre in a town at some distance.