My acquaintance with the Count C-- is the only compensation forsuch an evil. He told me frankly, the other day, that he was muchdispleased with the difficulties and delays of the ambassador;that people like him are obstacles, both to themselves and toothers. "But," added he, "one must submit, like a traveller whohas to ascend a mountain: if the mountain was not there, the roadwould be both shorter and pleasanter; but there it is, and he mustget over it."。，
。， The old steward hastened to the house immediately upon hearing thenews: he embraced his dying friend amid a flood of tears. Hiseldest boys soon followed him on foot. In speechless sorrow theythrew themselves on their knees by the bedside, and kissed hishands and face. The eldest, who was his favourite, hung over himtill he expired; and even then he was removed by force. At twelveo'clock Werther breathed his last. The presence of the steward,and the precautions he had adopted, prevented a disturbance; andthat night, at the hour of eleven, he caused the body to be interredin the place which Werther had selected for himself.
He values my understanding and talents more highly than my heart,but I am proud of the latter only. It is the sole source ofeverything of our strength, happiness, and misery. All the knowledgeI possess every one else can acquire, but my heart is exclusivelymy own.。， I have made all sorts of acquaintances, but have as yet found nosociety. I know not what attraction I possess for the people, somany of them like me, and attach themselves to me; and then I feelsorry when the road we pursue together goes only a short distance.If you inquire what the people are like here, I must answer, "Thesame as everywhere." The human race is but a monotonous affair.Most of them labour the greater part of their time for meresubsistence; and the scanty portion of freedom which remains tothem so troubles them that they use every exertion to get rid ofit. Oh, the destiny of man!
This love, then, this constancy, this passion, is no poeticalfiction. It is actual, and dwells in its greatest purity amongstthat class of mankind whom we term rude, uneducated. We are theeducated, not the perverted. But read this story with attention,I implore you. I am tranquil to-day, for I have been employedupon this narration: you see by my writing that I am not so agitatedas usual. I read and re-read this tale, Wilhelm: it is the historyof your friend! My fortune has been and will be similar; and Iam neither half so brave nor half so determined as the poor wretchwith whom I hesitate to compare myself.。， AUGUST 28.
Unhappy being that I am! Why do I thus deceive myself? What isto come of all this wild, aimless, endless passion? I cannot prayexcept to her. My imagination sees nothing but her: all surroundingobjects are of no account, except as they relate to her. In thisdreamy state I enjoy many happy hours, till at length I feelcompelled to tear myself away from her. Ah, Wilhelm, to whatdoes not my heart often compel me! When I have spent several hoursin her company, till I feel completely absorbed by her figure, hergrace, the divine expression of her thoughts, my mind becomesgradually excited to the highest excess, my sight grows dim, myhearing confused, my breathing oppressed as if by the hand of amurderer, and my beating heart seeks to obtain relief for my achingsenses. I am sometimes unconscious whether I really exist. Ifin such moments I find no sympathy, and Charlotte does not allowme to enjoy the melancholy consolation of bathing her hand withmy tears, I feel compelled to tear myself from her, when I eitherwander through the country, climb some precipitous cliff, or forcea path through the trackless thicket, where I am lacerated andtorn by thorns and briers; and thence I find relief. Sometimes Ilie stretched on the ground, overcome with fatigue and dying withthirst; sometimes, late in the night, when the moon shines aboveme, I recline against an aged tree in some sequestered forest, torest my weary limbs, when, exhausted and worn, I sleep till breakof day. O Wilhelm! the hermit's cell, his sackcloth, and girdleof thorns would be luxury and indulgence compared with what I suffer.Adieu! I see no end to this wretchedness except the grave.。， "But still, my good friend," I continued, "there are some exceptionshere too. Theft is a crime; but the man who commits it from extremepoverty, with no design but to save his family from perishing, ishe an object of pity, or of punishment? Who shall throw the firststone at a husband, who, in the heat of just resentment, sacrificeshis faithless wife and her perfidious seducer? or at the youngmaiden, who, in her weak hour of rapture, forgets herself in theimpetuous joys of love? Even our laws, cold and cruel as theyare, relent in such cases, and withhold their punishment."
。， About ten in the morning, Werther called his servant, and, whilsthe was dressing, told him that in a few days he intended to setout upon a journey, and bade him therefore lay his clothes inorder, and prepare them for packing up, call in all his accounts,fetch home the books he had lent, and give two months' pay to thepoor dependants who were accustomed to receive from him a weeklyallowance.
At one moment she felt anxious that the servant should remain inthe adjoining room, then she changed her mind. Werther, meanwhile,walked impatiently up and down. She went to the piano, anddetermined not to retire. She then collected her thoughts, andsat down quietly at Werther's side, who had taken his usual placeon the sofa.。， SEPTEMBER 12.