december 1.
wilhelm, the man about whom i wrote to you -- that man so enviable in his misfortunes -- was secretary to charlotte's father; and an unhappy passion for her which he cherished, concealed, and at length discovered, caused him to be dismissed from his situation. this made him mad. think, whilst you peruse this plain narration, what an impression the circumstance has made upon me! but it was related to me by albert with as much calmness as you will probably peruse it.
december 4.
i implore your attention. it is all over with me. i can support this state no longer. to-day i was sitting by charlotte. she was playing upon her piano a succession of delightful melodies, with such intense expression! her little sister was dressing her doll upon my lap. the tears came into my eyes. i leaned down, and looked intently at her wedding-ring: my tears fell -- immediately she began to play that favourite, that divine, air which has so often enchanted me. i felt comfort from a recollection of the past, of those bygone days when that air was familiar to me; and then i recalled all the sorrows and the disappointments which i had since endured. i paced with hasty strides through the room, my heart became convulsed with painful emotions. at length i went up to her, and exclaimed with eagerness, "for heaven's sake, play that air no longer!" she stopped, and looked steadfastly at me. she then said, with a smile which sunk deep into my heart, "werther, you are ill: your dearest food is distasteful to you. but go, i entreat you, and endeavour to compose yourself." i tore myself away. god, thou seest my torments, and wilt end them!
december 6.
how her image haunts me! waking or asleep, she fills my entire soul! soon as i close my eyes, here, in my brain, where all the nerves of vision are concentrated, her dark eyes are imprinted. here -- i do not know how to describe it; but, if i shut my eyes, hers are immediately before me: dark as an abyss they open upon me, and absorb my senses.
and what is man -- that boasted demigod? do not his powers fail when he most requires their use? and whether he soar in joy, or sink in sorrow, is not his career in both inevitably arrested? and, whilst he fondly dreams that he is grasping at infinity, does he not feel compelled to return to a consciousness of his cold, monotonous existence?
