 I am grateful to your love, Wilhelm, for having repeated your advice so seasonably. Yes, you are right. It is undoubtedly better that I should depart. But I do not entirely approve your scheme of returning at once to your neighborhood. At least I should like to make a little excursion on the way, particularly as we may now expect a continued frost and consequently good roads. I am much pleased with your intention of coming to fetch me. Need to lay your journey for a fortnight and wait for another letter from me. One should gather nothing before it is ripe, and a fortnight sooner or later makes a great difference. And treat my mother to pray for her son, and tell her I beg her pardon for all the unhappiness I have occasioned her. It has ever been my fate to give pain to those whose happiness I should have promoted. Adieu, my dearest friend, may every blessing of heaven attend you. Farewell. We find it difficult to express the emotions with which Charlotte's soul was agitated during the whole of this time, whether in relation to her husband or to her unfortunate friend, although we are enabled by our knowledge of her character to understand their nature. It is certain that she had formed a determination by every means in her power to keep Verta at a distance, and if she hesitated in her decision it was from a sincere feeling of friendly pity, knowing how much it would cost him, indeed, that he would find it almost impossible to comply with her wishes. But various causes now urged her to be firm. Her husband preserved a strict silence about the whole matter, and she never made it a subject of conversation, feeling bound to prove to him by her conduct that her sentiments agreed with his. The same day which was the Sunday before Christmas, after Verta had written the last mentioned letter to his friend, he came in the evening to Charlotte's house and found her alone. She was busy preparing some little gifts for her brothers and sisters which were to be distributed to them on Christmas Day. He began talking of the delight of the children, and of that age when the sudden appearance of the Christmas tree, decorated with fruit and sweet meats, and lighted up with wax candles, causes such transports of joy. You shall have a gift too if you behave well, said Charlotte, hiding her embarrassment under sweet smile. And what do you call behaving well? What should I do? What can I do, my dear Charlotte? said he. Thursday night, she answered, is Christmas Eve. The children are all to be here, and my father too. There is a present for each. Do you come likewise, but do not come before that time? Verta started. I desire you will not. It must be so, she continued. I ask it of you as a favor for my own peace and tranquility. We cannot go on in this manner any longer. He turned away his face and walked hastily up and down the room, muttering indistinctly. We cannot go on in this manner any longer. Charlotte, seeing the violent agitation into which these words had thrown him, endeavored to divert his thoughts by different questions, but in vain. No, Charlotte, he exclaimed, I will never see you any more. And why so, she answered, We may, we must see each other again. Only let it be with more discretion. Oh, why were you born with that excessive, that unforgivable passion for everything that is dear to you? Then taking his hand, she said, I entreat of you to be more calm. Your talents, your understanding, your genius, will furnish you with a thousand resources. Be a man and conquer an unhappy attachment toward a creature who can do nothing but pity you. He bit his lips and looked at her with gloomy countenance. She continued to hold his hand. Grant me but a moment's patience, Verta, she said. Do you not see that you are deceiving yourself? That you are seeking your own destruction? Why must you love me, me only, who belong to another? I fear, I much fear, that it is only the impossibility of possessing me which makes your desire for me so strong. He drew back his hand, whilst he surveyed her with a wild and angry look. Tis well, he exclaimed. Tis very well. Did not Albert furnish you with this reflection? It is profound, a very profound remark. A reflection that anyone might easily make, she answered. And is there not a woman in the whole world who is at liberty and has the power to make you happy? Conquer yourself, look for such a being, and believe me when I say that you will certainly find her. I have long felt for you, and for us all. You have confined yourself too long within the limits of too narrow a circle. Conquer yourself, make an effort. A short journey will be of service to you. Seek and find an object worthy of your love. Then return hither and let us enjoy together all the happiness of the most perfect friendship. This speech, replied Virta with a cold smile, this speech should be printed, for the benefit of all teachers. My dear Charlotte, allow me but a short time longer, and all will be well. But however, Virta, she added, do not come again before Christmas. He was about to make some answer when Albert came in. They saluted each other coldly and with mutual embarrassment paced up and down the room. Virta made some common remarks, Albert did the same, and their conversation soon dropped. Albert asked his wife about some household matters, and finding that his commissions were not executed, he used some expressions which, Virta's ear, savored of extreme harshness. He wished to go, but had not power to move, and in this situation he remained till eight o'clock, his uneasiness and discontent continually increasing. At length the cloth was laid for supper, and he took up his hat and stick. Albert invited him to remain, but Virta, fancying that he was merely paying a formal compliment, thanked him coldly and left the house. Virta returned home, took the candle from his servant, and retired to his room alone. He talked for some time with great earnestness to himself, wept aloud, walked in a state of great excitement through his chamber, till at length without undressing he threw himself onto the bed, where he was found by his servant at eleven o'clock, when the latter ventured to enter the room and took off his boots. Virta did not prevent him, but forbade him to come in the morning till he should ring. On Monday morning, the twenty-first of December, he wrote to Charlotte the following letter, which was found, sealed on his bureau after his death, and was given to her. I shall insert it in fragments, as it appears from several circumstances, to have been written in that manner. It is all over, Charlotte. I am resolved to die. I make this declaration deliberately and coolly, without any romantic passion, on this morning of the day when I am to see you for the last time. At the moment you read these lines, O best of women, the cold grave will hold the inanimate remains of that restless and unhappy being, who, in the last moments of his existence, knew no pleasure so great as that of conversing with you. I have passed a dreadful night, or rather, let me say, a propitious one, for it has given me resolution. It has fixed my purpose. I am resolved to die. When I tore myself from you yesterday, my senses were in tumult and disorder, my heart was oppressed, hope and pleasure had fled from me for ever, and a petrifying cold had seized my wretched being. I could scarcely reach my room. I threw myself on my knees, and heaven, for the last time, granted me the consolation of shedding tears. A thousand ideas, a thousand schemes arose within my soul, till at length one last fixed final thought took possession of my heart. It was to die. I lay down to rest, and in the morning, in the quiet hour of awakening, the same determination was upon me, to die. It is not to spare. It is conviction that I have filled up the measure of my sufferings, that I have reached my appointed term, and must sacrifice myself for thee. Yes, Charlotte, why should I not avow it? One of us three must die. It shall be verta. O beloved Charlotte, this heart, excited by rage and fury, has often conceived the horrid idea of murdering your husband, you, myself. The lot is cast at length, and in the bright quiet evenings of summer, when you sometimes wander toward the mountains, let your thoughts then turn to me. Recollect how often you have watched me coming to meet you from the valley, then bend your eyes upon the churchyard which contains my grave, and by the light of the setting sun, mark how the evening breeze waves the tall grass which grows above my tomb. I was calm when I began this letter, but the recollection of these scenes makes me weep like a child. About ten in the morning, verta called his servant, and whilst he was dressing, told him that in a few days he intended to set out upon a journey, and bade him therefore lay his clothes in order, and prepare them for packing up. Call in all his accounts, fetch home the books he had lent, and give two months pay to the poor dependents who were accustomed to receive from him a weekly allowance. He breakfasted in his room, and then mounted his horse, and went to visit the steward who, however, was not at home. He walked pensively in the garden and seemed anxious to renew all the ideas that were most painful to him. The children did not suffer him to remain alone long. They followed him, skipping and dancing before him, and told him that after tomorrow, and tomorrow, and one day more, they were to receive their Christmas gift from Charlotte, and they then recounted all the wonders of which they had formed ideas in their child imaginations. Tomorrow and tomorrow, said he, and one day more. And he kissed them tenderly. He was going, but the younger boy stopped him to whisper something in his ear. He told him that his elder brothers had written splendid New Year's wishes so large, one for Papa, and another for Albert and Charlotte, and one for Virta, and they were to be presented early in the morning on New Year's Day. This quite overcame him. He made each of the children a present, mounted his horse, left his compliments for Papa and Mama, and, with tears in his eyes, rode away from the place. He returned home about five o'clock, ordered his servant to keep up his fire, desired him to pack his books and linen at the bottom of the trunk, and to place his coats at the top. He then appears to have made the following addition to the letter addressed to Charlotte. You did not expect me. You think I will obey you and not visit you again till Christmas Eve. Oh, Charlotte, today or never. On Christmas Eve you will hold this paper in your hand. You will tremble and moisten it with your tears. I will. I must. Oh, how happy I feel to be determined. In the meantime, Charlotte was in a pitable state of mind. After her last conversation with Virta, she found how painful to herself it would be to decline his visits, and knew how severely he would suffer from their separation. She had, in conversation with Albert, mentioned casually that Virta would not return before Christmas Eve, and soon afterward Albert went on horseback to see a person in the neighborhood, with whom he had to transact some business which would detain him all night. Charlotte was sitting alone. None of her family were near, and she gave herself up to the reflections that silently took possession of her mind. She was forever united to a husband whose love and fidelity she had proved, to whom she was heartily devoted, and whose seemed to be a special gift from heaven to ensure her happiness. On the other hand, Virta had become dear to her. There was a cordial unanimity of sentiment between them from the very first hour of their acquaintance, and their long association and repeated interviews had made an indelible impression upon her heart. She had been accustomed to communicate to him every thought and feeling which interested her, and his absence threatened to open a void in her existence which it might be impossible to fill. How heartily she wished that she might change him into her brother, that she could induce him to marry one of her own friends, or could re-establish his intimacy with Albert. She passed all her intimate friends in review before her mind, but found something objectionable in each, and could decide upon none to whom she would consent to give him. Amid all these considerations she felt deeply but indistinctly that her own real but unexpressed wish was to retain him for herself, and her pure and amiable heart felt from this thought a sense of oppression which seemed to forbid a prospect of happiness. She was wretched, a dark cloud obscured her mental vision. It was now half past six o'clock, and she heard Virta's step on the stairs. She at once recognized his voice as he inquired if she were at home. Her heart beat audibly. We could almost say for the first time at his arrival. It was too late to deny herself, and as he entered she exclaimed, with a sort of ill-concealed confusion, You have not kept your word. I promised nothing, he answered, but you should have complied. At least for my sake, she continued, I implore you, for both are sakes. She scarcely knew what she said or did, and sent for some friends who, by their presence, might prevent her being left alone with Virta. He put down some books he had brought with him, then made inquiries about some others, until she began to hope that her friends might arrive shortly, entertaining at the same time a desire that they might stay away. At one moment she felt anxious that the servant should remain in the adjoining room. Then she changed her mind. Virta, meanwhile, walked impatiently up and down. She went to the piano and determined not to retire. She then collected her thoughts and sat down quietly at Virta's side, who had taken his usual place on the sofa. Have you brought nothing to read, she inquired? He had nothing. There, in my drawer, she continued, you will find your own translation of some of the songs of Ocean. I have not yet read them, as I have still hoped to hear you recite them, but for some time past I have not been able to accomplish such a wish. He smiled and went for the manuscript, which he took with a shutter. He sat down and, with eyes full of tears, he began to read. Star of descending night, fair is thy light in the west. Thou liptest thy unshorne head from thy cloud. Thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings. The hum of their course is on the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee. They bathe thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam. Let the light of Ocean's soul arise. And it does arise in its strength. I behold my departed friends. Their gathering is on Laura, as in the days of other years. Fengal comes like a watery column of mist. His heroes are around. And see the bards of song, gray-haired Olin, stately Rhino, Alpin with the tuneful voice, the soft complaint of Minona. How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of Selma's feast, when we contended like gales of spring as they fly along the hill and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass? Minona came forth in her beauty, with downcast look and tearful eye. Her hair was flying slowly with the blast that rushed unfrequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful voice. Oft had they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of white bosom coma. Coma left alone on the hill with all her voice of song. Salgar promised to come, but the night descended around. Hear the voice of coma when she sat alone on the hill. Coma, it is night, I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard on the mountain. The torrent is howling down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain, forlorn on the hill of winds. Rise, moon, from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night arise. Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone. His bow near him unstrung, his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love. Why delays my Salgar? Why the chief of the hill has promised? Here is the rock and here the tree. Here is the roaring stream. Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah, whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father. With thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes. We are not foes, O Salgar. Cease a little while, O wind. Stream, be thou silent a while. Let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer hear me. Salgar! It is Colma who calls. Here is the tree and the rock. Salgar, my love, I am here. Why delayest thou thy coming? Low, the calm moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the veil. The rocks are gray on the steep. I see him not on the brow. His dogs come not before him with tidings of his near approach. Here I must sit alone. Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak to me, O my friends. To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me. I am alone. My soul is tormented with fears. Ah, they are dead. Their swords are red from the fight. Oh, my brother, my brother, why hast thou slain my Salgar? Why, O Salgar, hast thou slain my brother? Dear, were ye both to me? What shall I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among thousands. He was terrible in fight. Speak to me. Hear my voice. Hear me, sons of my love. They are silent, silent forever. Cold, cold are their breasts of clay. Oh, from the rock on the hill, from the top of the windy steep, Speak, ye ghosts of the dead. Speak, I will not be afraid. Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale. No answer half drowned in the storm. I sit in my grief. I wait for mourning in my tears. Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream. Why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, By the stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the hill, when the loud winds arise, My ghosts shall stand in the blast, And mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth. He shall fear, but love my voice. For sweet shall my voice be for my friends. Pleasant were her friends to Colma. Such was thy song, Manona, Softly blushing daughter of Tormund. Our tears descended for Colma, And our souls were sad. Ullin came with his harp. He gave the song of Alpen. The voice of Alpen was pleasant. The soul of Rhino was a beam of fire. But they had rested in the narrow house. Their voice had ceased in Selma. Ullin had returned one day from the chase before the heroes fell. He heard their strife on the hill. Their song was soft, but sad. They mourned the fall of Morer, first of mortal men. His soul was like the soul of Fengal. His sword was like the sword of Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned. His sister's eyes were full of tears. Manona's eyes were full of tears. The sister of car-born Morer. She retired from the song of Ullin, like the moon in the west, when she foresees the shower, and hides her fair head in a cloud. I touched the harp of Ullin, the song of morning rose. Rhino, the wind and the rain are past. Calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant sun. Red through the stony veil comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream. But more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpen, the son of Song, mourning for the dead. Bent is his head of age, read his tearful eye. Alpen, thou son of Song, why alone on the silent hill? Why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood as a wave on the lonely shore? Alpen, my tears, O Rhino, are for the dead. My voice for those that have passed away. Tall thou art on the hill, fair among the sons of the veil. But thou shalt fall like Morer. The mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more. Thy bow shall lie in thy hall unstrung. Thou wert swift, O Morer, as a row on a desert, terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle as lightning in the field. Thy voice was as a stream after rain, like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm. They were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow. Thy face was like the sun after rain, like the moon in the silence of night. Calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid. Narrow is thy dwelling now. Dark the place of thine abode. With three steps I compass thy grave. O thou who was so great before. Four stones with their heads of moss are the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce alief, long grass which whistles in the wind, marked to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morer. Morer, thou art low indeed. Thou hast no mother to mourn thee, no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglin. Who on his staff is this? Who is this whose head is white with age, whose eyes are red with tears, who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morer, the father of no son but thee. He heard of thy fame in war. He heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morer's renown. Why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morer. Weep, but thy son hath he not. Deep is the sleep of the dead, low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice, no more awake at thy call. When shall it be mourn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell, thou bravest of men, thou conqueror in the field. But the field shall see thee no more, nor the dark wood be lightened with the splendor of thy steel. Thou hast left no son. The song shall preserve thy name. Future times shall hear of thee, they shall hear of the fallen Morer. The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of Arman. He remembers the death of his son, who fell in the days of his youth. Carmer was near the hero, the chief of the echoing gallmaw. Why burst the sigh of Arman, he said? Is there a cause to mourn? The song comes with its music to melt and please the soul. It is like soft mist that rising from a lake pours on the silent veil. The green flowers are filled with dew, but the sun returns in his strength and the mist is gone. Why art thou sad, O Arman, chief of sea-surrounded Gorma? Sad I am, nor small is my cause of woe. Carmer, thou hast lost no son, thou hast lost no daughter of beauty. Colgar, the valiant lives, and Anara, Ferris made. The boughs of thy house ascend, O Carmer, but Arman is the last of his race. Dark is thy bed, Odara, deep thy sleep in the tomb. Whence shalt thou wake with thy songs, with all thy voice of music? Arise, winds of autumn, arise, blow along the heath. Streams of the mountains roar, roar tempests in the groves of my oaks. Walk through broken clouds, O moon, show thy pale face at intervals. Bring to my mind the night when all my children fell, when Arundale the mighty fell, when Dara the lovely failed. Dara, my daughter, thou wert fair, fair as the moon on furra, white as the driven snow, sweet as the breathing gale. Arundale, thy bowl was strong, thy spear was swift on the field. Thy look was like mist on the wave, thy shield a red cloud on the storm. Armar, renowned in war, came and sought Dara's love. He was not long refused, fair was the hope of their friends. Erath, son of Oldgall, repined. His brother had been slain by Armar. He came disguised like a son of the sea. Fair was his cliff on the wave, white his locks of age, calm his serious brow. Fairest of women, he said, lovely daughter of Arman. A rock not distant in the sea bears a tree on its side. Red shines the fruit afar. Their Armar waits for Dara. I come to carry his love. She went, she called on Armar. Not answered, but the son of the rock. Armar, my love, my love, why tormentest thou me with fear? Here, son of Arnart, here it is Dara who calleth thee. Erath, the traitor, fled laughing to the land. She lifted up her voice. She called for her brother and her father. Arondale, Arman, none to relieve you, Dara. Her voice came over the sea. Arondale, my son, descended from the hill, rough in the spoils of the chase. His arrows rattled by his side. His foal was in his hand. Five dark grey dogs attended his steps. He saw fierce Erath on the shore. He seized and bound him to an oak. Thick whined the thongs of the hide around his limbs. He loads the winds with his groans. Erondale ascends the deep in his boat to bring Dara to land. Armar came in his wrath, and let fly the grey-feathered shaft. It sung, it sunk in thy heart, O Arondale, my son. Armar came in his wrath, and let fly the grey-feathered shaft. It sung, it sunk in thy heart, O Arondale, my son. For Erath, the traitor, thou dyest. The aura stopped at once. He panted on the rock and expired. What is thy grief, O Dara, when round thy feet is poured thy brother's blood? The boat is broken in twain. Armar plunges into the sea to rescue his Dara, or die. Sudden a blast from a hill came over the waves. He sank, and he rose no more. Alone, on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to complain. Frequent and loud were her cries. What could her father do? All night I stood on the shore. I saw her by the faint beam of the moon. All night I heard her cries. Loud was the wind. The rain beat hard on the hill. Before morning appeared, her voice was weak. It died away like the evening breeze among the grass of the rocks. Spent with grief she expired and left the armen alone. Gone is my strength in war, fallen my pride among women. When the storms aloft arise, when the north lifts the wave on high, I sit by the sounding shore and look on the fatal rock. Often by the setting moon I see the ghosts of my children. Half-viewless they walk in mournful conference together. A torrent of tears which streamed from Charlotte's eyes and gave relief to her bursting heart stopped Verta's recitation. He threw down the book, seized her hand, and wept bitterly. Charlotte leaned upon her hand and buried her face in her handkerchief. The agitation of both was excessive. They felt that their own fate was pictured in the misfortunes of Ocean's heroes. They felt this together, and their tears redoubled. Verta supported his forehead on Charlotte's arm. She trembled. She wished to be gone. But sorrow and sympathy lay like a leaden weight upon her soul. She recovered herself shortly and begged Verta, with broken sobs, to leave her, implored him with the utmost earnestness to comply with her request. He trembled. His heart was ready to burst. Then, taking up the book again, he recommenced reading in a voice broken by sobs. Why dost thou awaken me, O Spring? Thy voice woos me, exclaiming, I refresh thee with heavenly dues. But the time of my decay is approaching. The storm is nigh that shall wither my leaves. Tomorrow the traveller shall come. He shall come, who beheld me in beauty. His eyes shall seek me in the field around, but he shall not find me. The whole force of these words fell upon the unfortunate Verta. Full of despair he threw himself at Charlotte's feet, seized her hands, and pressed them to his eyes and to his forehead. An apprehension of his fatal project now struck her for the first time. Her senses were bewildered. She held his hands, pressed them to her bosom, and leaning toward him with the emotions of the tenderest pity her warm cheek touched his. They lost sight of everything. The world disappeared from their eyes. He clasped her in his arms, strained her to his bosom, and covered her trembling lips with passionate kisses. Verta, she cried with a faint voice turning herself away. Verta! And with a feeble hand she pushed him from her. At length, with the firm voice of virtue, she exclaimed, Verta! He resisted not, but tearing himself from her arms fell on his knees before her. Charlotte rose, and with disordered grief in mingled tones of love and resentment, she exclaimed, It is the last time, Verta, you shall never see me any more. Then, casting one last tender look upon her unfortunate lover, she rushed into the adjoining room and locked the door. Verta held out his arms, but did not dare to detain her. He continued on the ground, with his head resting on the sofa, for half an hour, till he heard a noise which brought him to his senses. The servant entered. He then walked up and down the room, and when he was again left alone, he went to Charlotte's door, and in a low voice said, Charlotte, Charlotte! But one word more, one last adieu. She returned no answer. He stopped and listened and entreated, but all was silent. At length he tore himself from the place, crying, Adieu, Charlotte! Adieu, forever! End of Section 12 Section 13 Of the Sorrows of Young Verta This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Barry Eads The Sorrows of Young Verta by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Section 13 December 20 Part 3 Verta ran to the gate of the town. The guards who knew him let him pass in silence. The night was dark and stormy. It rained and snowed. He reached his own door about eleven. His servant, although seeing him enter the house without his hat, did not venture to say anything. And as he undressed his master, he found that his clothes were wet. His hat was afterward found on the point of a rock overhanging the valley, and it is inconceivable how he could have climbed to the summit on such a dark, tempestuous night without losing his life. He retired to bed and slept to a late hour. The next morning his servant, upon being called to bring his coffee, found him writing. He was adding to Charlotte what we hear annex. For the last, last time I open these eyes. Alas, they will behold the sun no more. It is covered by a thick impenetrable cloud. Yes, nature, putting on morning. Your child, your friend, your lover, draws near his end. This thought, Charlotte, is without parallel, and yet it seems like a mysterious dream when I repeat. This is my last day. The last. Charlotte, no word can adequately express this thought. The last. Today I stand erect in all my strength. Tomorrow, cold and stark, I shall lie extended upon the ground. To die. What is death? We do but dream in our discourse upon it. I have seen many human beings die. But so straightened is our feeble nature, we have no clear conception of the beginning or the end of our existence. At this moment I am my own, or rather I am thine. Thine, my adored, and the next we are parted, severed, perhaps forever. No, Charlotte, no. How can I? How can you be annihilated? We exist. What is annihilation? A mere word, an unmeaning sound that fixes no impression on the mind. Dead, Charlotte, laid in the cold earth in the dark and narrow grave. I had a friend once who was everything to me in early youth. She died. I followed her hearse. I stood by her grave when the coffin was lowered. And when I heard the creaking of the cords as they were loosened and drawn up, when the first shovelful of earth was thrown in, and the coffin returned a hollow sound, which grew fainter and fainter till all was completely covered over. I threw myself on the ground. My heart was smitten, grieved, shattered, rent. But I neither knew what had happened nor what was to happen to me. Death, the grave. I understood not the words. Forgive, oh, forgive me. Yesterday. Ah, that day should have been the last of my life. Thou angel, for the first time in my existence I felt rapture glow within my inmost soul. She loves. She loves me. Still burns upon my lips the sacred fire they received from nine. New torrents of delight overwhelm my soul. Forgive me. Oh, forgive. I knew that I was dear to you. I saw it in your first entrancing look, knew it by the first pressure of your hand. But when I was absent from you, when I saw Albert at your side, my doubts and fears returned. Do you remember the flowers you sent me? When at that crowded assembly you could neither speak nor extend your hand to me? Half the night I was on my knees before those flowers. I regarded them as the pledges of your love. But those impressions grew fainter and were at length effaced. Everything passes away, but a whole eternity could not extinguish the living flame which was yesterday kindled by your lips and which now burns within me. She loves me. These arms have encircled her waist. These lips have trembled upon hers. She is mine. Yes, Charlotte. You are mine forever. And what do they mean by saying 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 go before you. I go to my father and to your father. I will pour out my sorrows before him, and he will give me comfort till you arrive. Then I will fly to meet you. I will claim you, and remain your eternal embrace in the presence of the Almighty. I do not dream. I do not rave. Drawing near to the grave my perceptions become clearer. We shall exist. We shall see each other again. We shall behold your mother. I shall behold her and expose to her my inmost heart. Your mother, your image. About eleven o'clock Verta asked his servant if Albert had returned. He answered, Yes. He had seen him pass on horseback, upon which Verta sent him the following note unsealed. Be so good as to lend me your pistols for a journey. A do. Charlotte had slept little during the past night. All her apprehensions were realized in a way that she could neither foresee nor avoid. Her blood was boiling in her veins, and a thousand painful sensations rent her pure heart. Was it the ardour of Verta's passionate embraces that she felt within her bosom? Was it anger at his daring? Was it the sad comparison of her present condition with former days of innocence, tranquility, and self-confidence? How could she approach her husband and confess a scene which she had no reason to conceal, and which she yet felt, nevertheless, unwilling to avow? They had preserved so long a silence toward each other, and should she be the first to break it by so unexpected a discovery? She feared that the mere statement of Verta's visit would trouble him, and his distress would be heightened by her perfect candor. She wished that he could see her in her true light, and judge her without prejudice. But was she anxious that he should read her inmost soul? On the other hand, could she deceive a being to whom all her thoughts had ever been exposed as clearly as crystal, and from whom no sentiment had ever been concealed? These reflections made her anxious and thoughtful. Her mind still dwelt on Verta, who was now lost to her, but whom she could not bring herself to resign, and for whom she knew nothing was left but despair, if she should be lost to him forever. A recollection of that mysterious estrangement which had lately subsisted between herself and Albert, and which she could never thoroughly understand, was now beyond measure painful to her. Even the prudent and the good had before now hesitated to explain their mutual differences, and had dwelt in silence upon their imaginary grievances, until circumstances had become so entangled that in that critical juncture when a calm explanation would have saved all parties, and understanding was impossible. And thus, if domestic confidence had been earlier established between them, if love and kind forbearance had mutually animated and expanded their hearts, it might not, perhaps, even yet have been too late to save our friend. But we must not forget one remarkable circumstance. We may observe from the character of Verta's correspondence that he had never affected to conceal his anxious desire to quit this world. He had often discussed the subject with Albert, and between the latter and Charlotte it had not unfrequently formed a topic of conversation. Albert was so opposed to the very idea of such an action that with a degree of irritation unusual in him, he had more than once given Verta to understand that he doubted the seriousness of his threats, and not only turned them into ridicule, but caused Charlotte to share his feelings of incredulity. Her heart was thus tranquilized when she felt disposed to view the melancholy subject in a serious point of view, though she never communicated to her husband the apprehensions she sometimes experienced. Albert, upon his return, was received by Charlotte with ill-concealed embarrassment. He was himself out of humor. His business was unfinished, and he had just discovered that the neighboring official with whom he had to deal was an obstinate and narrow-minded personage. Many things had occurred to irritate him. He inquired whether anything had happened during his absence, and Charlotte hastily answered that Verta had been there on the evening previously. He then inquired for his letters, and was answered that several packages had been left in his study. He thereon retired, leaving Charlotte alone. The presence of the being she loved and honored produced a new impression on her heart. The recollection of his generosity, kindness, and affection had calmed her agitation. A secret impulse prompted her to follow him. She took her work and went to his study, as was often her custom. He was busily employed opening and reading his letters. It seemed as if the contents of some were disagreeable. She asked some questions, he gave short answers, and sat down to write. Several hours passed in this manner, and Charlotte's feelings became more and more melancholy. She felt the extreme difficulty of explaining to her husband, under any circumstances, the weight that lay upon her heart. And her depression became every moment greater, in proportion as she endeavored to hide her grief and to conceal her tears. The arrival of Verta's servant occasioned her the greatest embarrassment. He gave Albert a note, which the latter coldly handed to his wife, saying at the same time, give him the pistols, I wish him a pleasant journey, he added to the servant. These words fell upon Charlotte like a thunder stroke. She rose from her seat half-fainting and unconscious of what she did. She walked mechanically toward the wall, took down the pistols with a trembling hand, slowly wiped the dust from them, and would have delayed longer had not Albert hastened her movements by an impatient look. She then delivered the fatal weapons to the servant without being able to utter a word. As soon as he had departed, she folded up her work and retired at once to her room, her heart overcome with the most fearful forebodings. She anticipated some dreadful calamity. She was at one moment on the point of going to her husband, throwing herself at his feet, and acquainting him with all that had happened on the previous evening, that she might acknowledge her fault and explain her apprehensions. Then she saw that such a step would be useless, as she would certainly be unable to induce Albert to visit Verta. Dinner was served, and a kind friend whom she had persuaded to remain assisted to sustain the conversation, which was carried on by a sort of compulsion, till the events of the morning were forgotten. When the servant brought the pistols to Verta, the latter received them with transports of delight upon hearing that Charlotte had given them to him with her own hand. He ate some bread, drank some wine, sent his servant to dinner, and then sat down to write as follows. They have been in your hands. You wiped the dust from them. I kissed them a thousand times. You have touched them. Yes, heaven favours my design, and you, Charlotte, provide me with the fatal instruments. It was my desire to receive my death from your hands, and my wish is gratified. I have made inquiries of my servant. You trembled when you gave him the pistols, but you bade me no adieu. Wretched, wretched that I am, not one farewell. How could you shut your heart against me in that hour which makes you mine forever? Charlotte ages cannot efface the impression. I feel you cannot hate the man who so passionately loves you. After dinner he called his servant, desired him to finish the packing up, destroyed many papers, and then went out to pay some trifling debts. He soon returned home, then went out again, notwithstanding the rain, walked for some time in the Count's garden, and afterward proceeded farther into the country. Toward evening he came back once more and resumed his writing. Wilhelm, I have for the last time beheld the mountains, the forests, and the sky. Farewell. And you, my dearest mother, forgive me. Consol, her Wilhelm. God bless you. I have settled all my affairs. Farewell. We shall meet again and be happier than ever. I have requited you badly, Albert, but you will forgive me. I have disturbed the peace of your home. I have so distrust between you. Farewell. I will end all this wretchedness, and owe that my death may render you happy. Albert, Albert, make that angel happy, and the blessing of heaven be upon you. He spent the rest of the evening in arranging his papers. He tore and burned a great many, others he sealed up and directed to Wilhelm. They contained some detached thoughts and maxims, some of which I have perused. At ten o'clock he ordered his fire to be made up, and a bottle of wine to be brought to him. He then dismissed his servant, whose room, as well as the apartments of the rest of the family, was situated in another part of the house. The servant lay down without undressing, that he might be the sooner ready for his journey in the morning, his master having informed him that the post-horses would be at the door before six o'clock. Past eleven o'clock, all is silent around me, and my soul is calm. I thank thee, O God, that thou bestowest strength and courage upon me in these last moments. I approach the window, my dearest friends, and through the clouds, which are at this moment driven rapidly along by the impetuous winds, I behold the stars which illumine the eternal heavens. No, you will not fall, celestial bodies, the hand of the Almighty supports both you and me. I have looked for the last time upon the constellation of the greater bear. It is my favorite star, for when I bade you farewell at night, Charlotte, and turn my steps from your door, it always shone upon me. With what rapture have I at times beheld it? How often have I implored it with uplifted hands to witness my felicity? And even still, by what object is there, Charlotte, which fails to summon up your image before me? Do you not surround me on all sides, and have I not, like a child, treasured up every trifle which you have consecrated by your touch? Your profile which was so dear to me, I return to you, and I pray you to preserve it. Thousands of kisses which I imparted upon it, and a thousand times has it gladdened my heart on departing from and returning to my home. I have implored your Father to protect my remains. At the corner of the churchyard, looking toward the fields, there are two lime trees. There I wish to lie. Your Father can, and doubtless will, do this much for his friend, implored of him. But perhaps pious Christians will not choose that their body should be buried near the corpse of a poor unhappy wretch like me. Then let me be laid in some remote valley or near the highway, where the priest and Levite may bless themselves as they pass by my tomb, whilst the Samaritan will shed a tear from my fate. See, Charlotte, I do not shudder to take the cold and fatal cup, from which I shall drink the draught of death. Your hand presents it to me, and I do not tremble. All, all is now concluded. The wishes and the hopes of my existence are fulfilled. With cold, unflinching hand I knock at the brazen portals of death. O that I have enjoyed the bliss of dying for you! How gladly would I have sacrificed myself for you, Charlotte! And could I but restore peace and joy to your bosom? With what resolution, with what joy, would I not meet my fate? But it is the lot of only a chosen few to shed their blood for their friends, and by their death to augment a thousand times the happiness of those by whom they are beloved. I wish, Charlotte, to be buried in the dress I wear at present. It has been rendered sacred by your touch. I have begged this favour of your father. My spirit soars above my supple-cur. I do not wish my pockets to be searched. The knot of pink ribbon which you wore on your bosom the first time I saw you, surrounded by the children. O kiss them a thousand times for me, and tell them the fate of their unhappy friend. I think I see them playing around me. The dear children, how warmly have I been attached to 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 then think that I should journey this road. But peace, I pray you peace. They are loaded. The clock strikes twelve. I say amen. Charlotte, Charlotte, farewell, farewell. A neighbour saw the flash and heard the report of the pistol. But as everything remained quiet he thought no more of it. In the morning at six o'clock the servant went to Virta's room with a candle. He found his master stretched upon the floor, weltering in his blood and the pistols at his side. He called. He took him in his arms but received no answer. Life was not yet quite extinct. The servant ran for a surgeon and then went forth to Fetch Albert. Charlotte heard the ringing of the bell. A cold shudder seized her. She wakened her husband and they both rose. The servant, bathed in tears, faltered forth the dreadful news. Charlotte fell senseless at Albert's feet. When the surgeon came to the unfortunate Virta he was still lying on the floor and his pulse beat but his limbs were cold. The bullet entering the forehead over the right eye had penetrated the skull. A vein was opened in his right arm, the blood came and he still continued to breathe. From the blood which flowed from the chair it could be inferred that he had committed the rash act sitting at his bureau and that he afterward fell upon the floor. He was found lying on his back near the window. He was in full dress costume. The house, the neighborhood and the whole town were immediately in commotion. Albert arrived. They had laid Virta on the bed. His head was bound up and the paleness of death was upon his face. His limbs were motionless but he still breathed. At one time strongly then weaker. His death was momently expected. He had drunk only one glass of the wine. Amelia Galati lay open upon his bureau. I shall say nothing of Albert's distress or of Charlotte's grief. The old steward hastened to the door immediately upon hearing the news. He embraced his dying friend amid a flood of tears. His eldest boy soon followed him on foot. In speechless sorrow they threw themselves on their knees by the bedside and kissed his hands and face. The eldest who was his favorite hung over him till he expired and even then he was removed by force. At twelve o'clock Virta breathed his last. The presence of the steward and the precautions he had adopted prevented a disturbance. And that night at the hour of eleven he caused the body to be interred in the place which Virta had selected for himself. The steward and his sons followed the corpse to the grave. Albert was unable to accompany them. Charlotte's life was disparate of. The body was carried by laborers. No priest attended. End of Section Thirteen. End of The Sorrows of Young Virta by Johann Wolfgang Van Goethe