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Johann Wolfgang Goethe

THE SUFFERINGS OF YOUNG WERTHER

Novel

I have carefully collected everything that I managed to find out about the history of poor Werther, I offer it to your attention and I think that you will be grateful to me for it. You will be imbued with love and respect for his mind and heart and shed tears over his fate.

And you, poor fellow, who have fallen under the same temptation, draw strength from his suffering, and let this book be your friend if, by the will of fate or through your own fault, you do not find yourself a closer friend.

BOOK ONE

How happy I am that I left! Priceless friend, what is the human heart? I love you so much, we were inseparable, and now we have separated, and I am happy! I know you will forgive me for this. After all, all my other attachments seemed to be deliberately created in order to disturb my soul. Poor Leonora! And yet I have nothing to do with it! Is it my fault that passion grew in the heart of the poor girl while I was entertained by the wayward charms of her sister! And yet - am I completely innocent here? Did I not feed her passion? Wasn’t I pleased with such sincere expressions of feelings, at which we often laughed, although there was nothing funny in them, did I... Oh, dare a person judge himself! But I will try to improve, I promise you, my dear friend, that I will try, and I will not, as usual, torment myself because of every minor trouble that fate presents to us; I will enjoy the present, and let the past remain the past. Of course, you are right, my dear, people - who knows why they were created this way - people would suffer much less if they did not so diligently develop the power of imagination in themselves, if they did not endlessly remember past troubles, but would live harmless present.

Do not refuse the courtesy to inform my mother that I faithfully fulfilled her instructions and will soon write to her about it. I visited my aunt, and she turned out to be not at all the vixen that we portray her as. She is a cheerful woman of sanguine disposition and kindest soul. I explained to her my mother’s grievances regarding the delay in our share of the inheritance; my aunt gave me her reasons and arguments and named the conditions under which she agrees to give up everything and even moreover what we claim. However, I don’t want to expand on this now; tell your mother that everything will be alright. I, my dear, have once again become convinced in this trifling matter that omissions and deep-rooted prejudices bring more turmoil into the world than deceit and malice. In any case, the latter are much less common.

In general, I have a great life here. Loneliness is an excellent medicine for my soul in this paradise, and the young season generously warms my heart, which is often cold in our world. Every tree, every bush blooms in lush colors, and you want to be May beetle to swim in the sea of fragrances and be satisfied with them.

The city itself is not very attractive, but the nature all around is incredibly beautiful. This prompted the late Count von M. to lay out a garden on one of the hills, located in picturesque disorder and forming charming valleys. The garden is quite simple, and from the very first steps it is clear that it was not planned by a learned gardener, but by a sensitive person who sought the joys of solitude. More than once I have mourned the deceased, sitting in a dilapidated gazebo - his, and now my favorite corner. Soon I will become the complete owner of this garden; The gardener managed to become attached to me in a few days, and he won’t have to regret it.

My soul is illuminated with an unearthly joy, like these wonderful spring mornings, which I enjoy with my whole heart. I am completely alone and blissful in this land, as if created for people like me. I am so happy, my friend, so intoxicated by the feeling of peace, that my art suffers from it. I couldn't make a single stroke, but I've never been like this great artist like in these moments. When steam rises from my sweet valley and the midday sun stands over the impenetrable thicket of the dark forest and only a rare ray slips into its holy of holies, and I lie in the tall grass by a fast stream and, clinging to the ground, I see thousands of all kinds of blades of grass and feel how close in my heart there is a tiny world that scurries between the stems, I observe these innumerable, incomprehensible varieties of worms and midges and I feel the closeness of the Almighty, who created us in his own image, the spirit of the all-loving, who destined us to soar in eternal bliss, when my gaze is clouded and everything around me and the sky above me are imprinted in my soul, like the image of a beloved - then, dear friend, I am often tormented by the thought: “Ah! How to express, how to breathe into a drawing what lives so fully, so reverently in me, to capture the reflection of my soul, as my soul is a reflection of the eternal God! My friend... But no! I am unable to do this; the greatness of these phenomena overwhelms me.

I don’t know whether deceptive spirits inhabit these places, or whether my own ardent imagination turns everything around into paradise. Now there is a spring outside the town, and to this spring I am chained by magical spells, like Melusina and her sisters. Going down the hill, you come straight to deep cave, where twenty steps lead, and there below a transparent spring emerges from a marble rock. At the top there is a low fence enclosing the pond, a grove of tall trees all around, a cool, shady twilight - there is something alluring and mysterious in all this. Every day I sit there for at least an hour. And city girls come there to get water - a simple and necessary thing; the king’s daughters did not disdain it in the old days.

Sitting there, I vividly imagine patriarchal life: I seem to see with my own eyes how all of them, our forefathers, met and wooed their wives at the well and how beneficent spirits hovered around springs and wells. Only those who have not had the opportunity to enjoy the coolness of a spring after a tiring walk on a hot summer day will not understand me!

You are asking if you should send me my books. Dear friend, for God's sake, save me from them! I no longer want to be guided, encouraged, inspired, my heart is agitated enough on its own: I need a lullaby, and there is no other like my Homer. Often I try to lull my rebellious blood; No wonder you have never met anything more changeable, more fickle than my heart! Dear friend, do I have to convince you of this, when so many times you have had to endure the transitions of my mood from despondency to unbridled dreams, from tender sadness to destructive ardor! That is why I cherish my poor heart like a sick child; nothing is denied to it. Don't reveal this! There will be people who will reproach me for this.

Ordinary people Our town already knows and loves me, especially the children. I did something sad

Johann Goethe

Suffering young Werther

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Book one

How happy I am that I left! Priceless friend, what is the human heart? I love you so much, we were inseparable, and now we have separated, and I am happy! I know you will forgive me for this. After all, all my other attachments seemed to be deliberately created in order to disturb my soul. Poor Leonora! And yet I have nothing to do with it! Is it my fault that passion grew in the heart of the poor girl while I was entertained by the wayward charms of her sister! And yet, am I completely innocent here? Did I not feed her passion? Wasn’t I pleased with such sincere expressions of feelings, at which we often laughed, although there was nothing funny in them, did I... Oh, dare a person judge himself! But I will try to improve, I promise you, my dear friend, that I will try, and I will not, as usual, torment myself because of every minor trouble that fate presents to us; I will enjoy the present, and let the past remain the past. Of course, you are right, my dear, people - who knows why they were created this way - people would suffer much less if they did not so diligently develop the power of imagination in themselves, if they did not endlessly remember past troubles, but would live harmless present.

Do not refuse the courtesy to inform my mother that I faithfully fulfilled her instructions and will soon write to her about it. I visited my aunt, and she turned out to be not at all the vixen that we portray her as. She is a cheerful woman of sanguine disposition and the kindest soul. I explained to her my mother’s grievances regarding the delay in our share of the inheritance; my aunt gave me her reasons and arguments and named the conditions under which she agrees to give out everything and even more than what we claim. However, I don’t want to expand on this now; tell your mother that everything will be alright. I, my dear, have once again become convinced in this trifling matter that omissions and deep-rooted prejudices bring more turmoil into the world than deceit and malice. In any case, the latter are much less common.

In general, I have a great life here. Loneliness is an excellent medicine for my soul in this paradise, and the young season generously warms my heart, which is often cold in our world. Every tree, every bush blooms in lush colors, and you want to be a cockchafer to swim in the sea of fragrances and be saturated with them.

My soul is illuminated with an unearthly joy, like these wonderful spring mornings, which I enjoy with my whole heart. I am completely alone and blissful in this land, as if created for people like me. I am so happy, my friend, so intoxicated by the feeling of peace, that my art suffers from it. I could not have made a single stroke, and I have never been such a great artist as in these moments. When steam rises from my sweet valley and the midday sun stands over the impenetrable thicket of the dark forest and only a rare ray slips into its holy of holies, and I lie in the tall grass by a fast stream and, clinging to the ground, I see thousands of all kinds of blades of grass and feel how close in my heart there is a tiny world that scurries between the stems, I observe these innumerable, incomprehensible varieties of worms and midges and I feel the closeness of the Almighty, who created us in his own image, the spirit of the all-loving, who destined us to soar in eternal bliss, when my gaze is clouded and everything around me and the sky above me are imprinted in my soul, like the image of a beloved - then, dear friend, I am often tormented by the thought: “Ah! How to express, how to breathe into a drawing what lives so fully, so reverently in me, to capture the reflection of my soul, as my soul is a reflection of the eternal God! My friend... But no! I am unable to do this; the greatness of these phenomena overwhelms me.

I don’t know whether deceptive spirits inhabit these places, or whether my own ardent imagination turns everything around into paradise. Now there is a spring outside the town, and to this spring I am chained by magical spells, like Melusina and her sisters. Having gone down the hill, you find yourself straight into a deep cave, where twenty steps lead, and there below, a transparent spring emerges from the marble rock. At the top there is a low fence enclosing the pond, a grove of tall trees all around, cool, shady twilight - there is something alluring and mysterious in all this. Every day I sit there for at least an hour. And city girls come there to get water - a simple and necessary thing; the king’s daughters did not disdain it in the old days.

The ordinary people of our town already know and love me, especially the children. I made a sad discovery. At first, when I approached them and asked them kindly about this and that, many thought that I wanted to laugh at them, and rather rudely brushed me off. But I did not lose heart, I only felt even more vividly how true one of my old observations was: people with a certain position in the world will always alienate the common people, as if afraid to humiliate themselves by being close to them; and there are also such frivolous and evil mischievous people who, for the sake of appearance, condescend to the poor people, in order to only show off more and more in front of them.

I know very well that we are unequal and cannot be equal; However, I maintain that the one who considers it necessary to shun the so-called mob for fear of losing his dignity deserves no less blasphemy than a coward who hides from the enemy for fear of being defeated.

Recently I came to the source and saw how a young maid put a full jug on the bottom step, and she looked around to see if some friend was coming to help her lift the jug onto her head. I went downstairs and looked at her.

- Can I help you, girl? – I asked.

She blushed all over.

- What are you talking about, sir! – she objected.

- Don't stand on ceremony!

She straightened the circle on her head, and I helped her. She thanked him and went up the stairs.

I made a lot of acquaintances, but I have not yet found a society of my own. I myself don’t understand what is attractive about me to people: many people like me, I become dear to many, and I feel sorry when our paths diverge. If you ask what people are like here, I will have to answer: “Like everywhere else!” The destiny of the human race is the same everywhere! For the most part, people work all day long just to get by, and if they have a little freedom left, they are so afraid of it that they look for some way to get rid of it. This is the purpose of man!

However, the people here are very nice: it is extremely useful for me to forget myself sometimes, to enjoy with others the joys given to people, to joke simply and sincerely at the abundantly furnished table, by the way, to organize skating, dancing, and the like; Just don’t remember at the same time that there are other, uselessly dying, forces hidden within me, which I am forced to carefully hide. Alas, how painfully this makes my heart ache! But what can you do! To be misunderstood is our lot.

Oh, why is the friend of my youth gone! Why was I destined to recognize her! I could have said, “You fool! You are striving for something that you cannot find on earth!” But I had her, because I felt what a heart she had, what a big soul; with her I myself seemed greater than I was, because I was everything that I could be. Good God! All the powers of my soul were in action, and in front of her, in front of my friend, I fully revealed the wonderful ability of my heart to commune with nature. Our meetings gave rise to a continuous exchange of the subtlest sensations, the sharpest thoughts, so much so that any of their shades, any jokes bore the stamp of genius. And now! Alas, she was years older than me and went to her grave earlier. I will never forget her, never forget her bright mind and angelic forgiveness!

The other day I met with a certain F., a sociable young man of surprisingly pleasant appearance. He just left the university, and although he does not consider himself a sage, he still thinks that he knows more than others. True, it is clear from everything that he studied diligently: one way or another, he has a decent education. Having heard that I draw a lot and speak Greek (two unusual phenomena in these places), he hastened to introduce himself to me and flaunted a wealth of knowledge from Batte to Wood, from Peel to Winckelmann and assured me that he had read the entire first part of Sulzer’s “Theory” and that he had Heine’s manuscript on the study of antiquity. I took it all on faith.

I met another excellent, simple and warm-hearted person, the princely chief minister. They say your soul rejoices when you see him with his children, and he has nine of them; His eldest daughter is especially praised. He invited me and I will visit him soon. He lives an hour and a half away from here in the princely hunting house, where he received permission to move after the death of his wife, because it was too difficult for him to stay in the city in a government apartment.

In addition, I have met several originalistic fools in whom everything is unbearable, and most unbearable of all is their friendly outpourings.

Goodbye! You will like the letter for its purely narrative character.

Many already thought that human life– just a dream, this feeling doesn’t leave me either. I am speechless, Wilhelm, when I observe how narrowly the creative and cognitive powers of man are limited, when I see that all activity comes down to satisfying needs, which in turn have only one goal - to prolong our miserable existence, and peace of mind in other scientific matters - just the powerless humility of dreamers who paint the walls of their dungeon with bright figures and attractive views. I go inside and open the whole world! But also more likely in forebodings and vague lusts than in living, full-blooded images. And then everything blurs before my eyes, and I live, as if in a dream, smiling at the world.

All the most learned school and home teachers agree that children do not know why they want something; but that adults, no better than children, groping the earth and also do not know where they came from and where they are going, just as they do not see a definite purpose in their actions, and that they are also controlled with the help of cookies, cakes and rods - no one agrees with this doesn’t want to agree, but in my opinion, this is quite obvious.

I hasten to confess to you, remembering your views, that I consider lucky those who live without thinking, like children, babysit their doll, dress and undress it and touchingly walk around the closet where mother locked the cake, and when she gets to the sweet thing, she gobbles it up on both cheeks and shouts: “More!” Happy creatures! Life is also good for those who give magnificent names to their insignificant occupations and even their passions and present them to the human race as grandiose feats in the name of its benefit and prosperity.

Bless the one who can be like that! But if anyone in his humility understands what the price of all this is, who sees how diligently every prosperous tradesman trims his garden into paradise and how patiently even the unfortunate, bending under the burden, trudges his way and everyone equally longs to see the light of our the sun - whoever understands all this is silent and builds his own world within himself and is happy just because he is a man. And also because, despite all his helplessness, in his soul he retains a sweet feeling of freedom and the consciousness that he can break out of this prison whenever he wishes.

About an hour from the city there is a village called Valheim. It is very picturesquely spread out along the hillside, and when you walk towards the village from the top along a walking path, a view of the entire valley opens up before your eyes. The old woman, the owner of the tavern, helpful and efficient, despite her years, serves wine, beer, coffee; and what is most pleasant is that two linden trees with their spreading branches completely cover a small church square, surrounded on all sides by peasant houses, barns and courtyards. I have rarely seen a more comfortable, secluded place: they bring me a table and chair from the tavern, and I sit there, drink coffee and read Homer.

The first time I accidentally found myself under the linden trees on a clear afternoon, the square was completely deserted. Everyone was working in the field, only a boy of about four years old was sitting on the ground and with both hands he was pressing to his chest another, six-month-old child who was sitting on his lap, so that the older one seemed to serve as a chair for the baby, and although his black eyes sparkled very provocatively from side to side, he sat he doesn't move.

I was amused by this spectacle: I sat down on the plow opposite them, and with the greatest pleasure I captured this touching scene. I also drew a nearby fence, a barn gate, several broken wheels, everything as it was actually located, and, after working for an hour, I saw that I had a slender and very interesting drawing, to which I added absolutely nothing of my own. This strengthened my intention not to deviate from nature in any way. She alone is inexhaustibly rich, she alone improves great artist. Much can be said in favor of established rules, much the same as is said in praise of public order. A person brought up on the rules will never create anything tasteless and worthless, just as a person who follows the laws and orders of society will never be an obnoxious neighbor or an inveterate villain. But no matter what they tell me, all sorts of rules kill the feeling of nature and the ability to truthfully depict it! You say: “This is too harsh! Strict rules only curb, prune wild shoots, etc.”

Can I give you a comparison, dear friend? Here the situation is the same as with love. Imagine a young man who is attached to a girl with all his heart, spends whole days next to her, wastes all his strength, all his fortune, in order to prove to her every moment how selflessly devoted he is to her. And suddenly a certain philistine, an official holding a prominent position, appears and says to the lover: “Dear young man! It is human nature to love, but we must love like a human being! Know how to manage your time: devote your assigned hours to work, and your leisure hours to your beloved girl. Calculate your fortune, and with what remains of your immediate needs, you are not forbidden to give her gifts, just not often, but, say, for her birthday, name day, etc.” If the young man obeys, he will become an efficient young man, and I will be the first to recommend that any sovereign appoint him to the college, but then his love will come to an end, and if he is an artist, then his art will end. My friends! Why does the spring of genius so rarely flow, why does it so rarely overflow in a torrent, shaking your confused souls? My dear friends, because on both banks live sensible gentlemen whose gazebos, vegetable gardens and flower beds with tulips would be washed away without a trace, and therefore they manage to prevent danger in advance with the help of diversion channels and dams.

I see that I got carried away with comparisons, got lost in recitation and forgot to tell you what happened next to the kids. I sat on the plow for two hours, immersed in creative thoughts, very incoherently set out in my letter yesterday. Suddenly, at dusk, a young woman appears with a basket on her hand, hurries to the children, who have not moved the whole time, and already from afar shouts: “Well done, Philips!” She wished me good evening, I thanked her, stood up, came closer and asked if these were her children. She answered in the affirmative, gave the eldest a piece of a bun, and took the baby in her arms and kissed him with maternal tenderness. “I told Phillips to hold the baby, and I went with the elder into the city to buy white bread, sugar and a clay bowl for porridge. (All this could be seen in the basket from which the lid had fallen.) I need to cook Hans (that was the little one’s name) soup for dinner; and my eldest, the spoiled one, argued with Philips yesterday over scrapings of porridge and broke the bowl.” I asked where the eldest was, and before she had time to answer that he was chasing geese in the meadow, he came skipping and brought his brother a walnut twig. I continued to question the woman and learned that she was the daughter of a teacher and that her husband had gone to Switzerland to receive an inheritance after a deceased relative. “They wanted to bypass him,” she explained, “they didn’t even answer his letters, so he went on his own. If only nothing bad happened to him! We haven’t heard anything about him.” I barely got rid of her, gave each of the boys a kreuzer, gave another kreuzer to the mother so that she could bring the little one a roll for the soup from the city, and with that we parted.

Believe me, priceless friend, when my feelings rush out, their excitement is best pacified by the example of such a being who obediently wanders through the tight circle of his existence, interrupts from day to day, watches the leaves fall, and sees in it only one thing - that winter will come soon.

From that day on, I began to visit the village often. The children are completely used to me; when I drink coffee, they get sugar, at dinner I give them bread and butter and curdled milk. On Sunday they always receive a kreuzer, and if I am not there after mass, the owner of the tavern is ordered to give them coins once and for all. Children trustingly tell me all sorts of things. What especially amuses me about them is the play of passions, the simple-minded persistence of desires when other village children join them. It took me a lot of work to convince their mother that they were not bothering me.

Everything that I recently said about painting can, without a doubt, be applied to poetry; here it is important to recognize what is perfect and find the courage to express it in words - these few have said a lot. Today I observed a scene that simply needs to be described to create the most wonderful idyll in the world.

Oh, what does poetry, stage, idyll have to do with it? Is it really impossible to connect with natural phenomena without labels?

If, after such a preface, you expect something sublime and refined, you will again be cruelly deceived; Just a peasant boy made such a strong impression on me. As always, I will tell a bad story, and you, as always, will find that I am getting carried away. The birthplace of these miracles is Valheim again, still the same Valheim.

The whole crowd gathered to drink coffee under the linden trees. I didn’t like it, and I made a plausible excuse and moved away from it. A peasant guy came out of a nearby house and began to repair the same plow that I had copied the other day. I liked the look of the young man, and I started talking to him, asking him about his life; We soon met and, as always happens with this kind of people, we even became friends. He told me that he was an employee of a widow and she treated him very well. He talked so much about her and praised her so much that I immediately realized that he was devoted to her body and soul. According to him, she is no longer a young woman, her first husband treated her badly, and she does not want to get married again; from his story it was absolutely clear that there was no one in the world more beautiful than her, dearer to him, that he only dreams of becoming her chosen one and making her forget the misdeeds of her first husband, but I would have to repeat everything word for word to give you an idea of the purity of feeling, the love and devotion of this person. Moreover, I would need a gift greatest poet to capture the expressiveness of his gestures, the sonority of his voice, and the hidden fire in his eyes. No, no words can describe the tenderness that breathed through his entire being: no matter what I say, it will all come out rude and awkward. What especially touched me about him was his fear that I would misinterpret their relationship and doubt her good character. Only in the recesses of my soul can I again feel how touchingly he spoke about her posture, about her body, devoid of youthful charm, but powerfully attractive and captivating for him. In my life I have never seen, nor even imagined, an unrelenting desire, a fiery passionate attraction in such untouched purity.

Don’t be angry if I confess to you that the memory of such sincerity and spontaneity of feelings shakes me to the depths of my soul and the image of this faithful and tender love haunts me everywhere and I myself seem to be inflamed by it, I languish and burn.

I’ll try to see this woman as soon as possible, however, on second thought, it’s probably better to refrain from doing so. It is better to see her through the eyes of a lover; Perhaps, to my own eyes, she will appear completely different from what is pictured to me now, but why spoil a beautiful vision?

Why don’t I write to you, you ask, and you are also considered a scientist. I could have guessed myself that I was quite healthy and even... in a word, I made an acquaintance that vividly touched my heart... I’m afraid to say, but it seems that I...

I don’t know if I can describe in order how I became acquainted with one of the most beautiful creatures in the world. I am happy and contented, which means I am not fit to be a sober narrator.

What a combination of simplicity and intelligence, kindness and firmness, peace of mind and the liveliness of an active nature! All these words are just vulgar nonsense, empty abstract chatter that does not reflect a single feature of her being. Another time... no, not another, but now, this very minute, I’ll tell you everything! If not now, I will never get it together. Between you and me, three times already I had the urge to put down my pen, saddle my horse and go there. In the morning I promised myself to stay at home, and every minute I go to the window and see how long until the evening...

I couldn’t control myself, I couldn’t resist and went to her. Now I have returned, I will dine on bread and butter and write to you, Wilhelm. What a pleasure it is for me to see her surrounded by eight sweet, playful children, her brothers and sisters!

If I continue like this, you won’t fully understand anything. Listen! I will make an effort and tell you everything in the smallest detail.

I recently wrote to you that I met Amtman S. and he invited me to visit his secluded monastery, or rather, his small kingdom. I neglected this invitation and probably would not have visited him if I had not accidentally discovered a treasure hidden in this secluded corner.

Our youth started organizing a country ball, in which I willingly took part. I offered myself as a gentleman to one nice, pretty, but, however, colorless girl, and it was decided that I would pick up my lady and her cousin in the carriage, that on the way we would capture Charlotte S. and go together to the holiday. “Now you will see a beauty,” said my companion as we approached the hunting house through a wide forest clearing. “Just be careful not to fall in love!” – the cousin picked up. “Why?” – I asked. “She has already been betrothed for a very good man“, she answered, “he is away now, he went to put his affairs in order after the death of his father and get a solid position.” This information made little impression on me.

The sun had not yet disappeared behind the mountain range when we arrived at the gate. It was very stuffy, and the ladies were worried whether a thunderstorm would gather, because puffy white clouds were gathering all around on the horizon. I calmed their fears with pseudo-scientific arguments, although I myself began to fear that our holiday would not go off without interference.

I got out of the carriage, and the maid who opened the gate asked me to wait a minute: Mamzel Lotchen would be ready now. I entered the courtyard, in the depths of which stood a beautiful building, went up to the porch, and when I crossed the threshold of the front door, the most charming sight I had ever seen appeared before me.

In the hallway, six children from eleven to two years old surrounded a slender, average-sized girl in a simple white dress with pink bows on the chest and sleeves. She held a loaf of black bread in her hands, cut off a piece for the kids around her, according to their age and appetite, and affectionately gave it to each one, and each one stretched out his little hand and shouted “thank you” long before the bread was cut off, and then they all hopped joyfully they ran away with their dinner, while others, the quieter ones, quietly walked to the gate to look at the strangers and at the carriage in which their Lotchen would leave. “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable and kept the ladies waiting,” she said. “I got busy getting dressed and taking care of the house while I was away and forgot to feed the kids, and they only want dinner from my hands.” I muttered some banal courtesy, while I wholeheartedly admired her appearance, voice, movements, and barely had time to recover from the surprise before she ran into the next room for gloves and a fan. The children stood aside, looking sideways at me, then I resolutely headed towards the youngest, very pretty baby. He was just about to pull away when Lotte came in and said: “Louis, give your uncle a pen!” The boy immediately obeyed, and I couldn’t resist kissing him, despite his snotty nose. “Uncle? – I asked, giving her my hand. “Do you consider me worthy to be your relatives?” “Well, we have an extensive relationship,” she objected with a playful smile, “will you really turn out to be worse than others?” As she walked, she instructed her sister Sophie, a girl about eleven years old, to take good care of the children and bow to dad when he returned home from his horseback ride. She ordered the kids to listen to their sister Sophie, just like her, which almost all of them firmly promised. Only one fair-haired little girl of about six objected: “No, it’s not all the same, Lotchen, we love you more!”

“The world kills the kindest, the gentlest and the strongest indiscriminately. And if you are neither one nor the other and not the third, then you can be sure that your turn will come, just not so soon.”

E. Hemingway "Gertrude Stein"

“For the poet there is not a single historical person; he wants to depict his moral world”

In her memoirs, M. Shaginyan describes how in her youth she experienced unhappy love and attempted suicide. She was pumped out and placed in the hospital for a while. Her nanny, looking for a way to calm her down, said: “Look how many women there are here. Where are the men who die of love?

“The Sorrows of Young Werther” is a small book. Having written it, the twenty-five-year-old author “woke up world famous” the next day.
“Werther” was read everywhere. And in Germany, and in France, and in Russia. Napoleon Bonaparte took her with him on his Egyptian campaign.

“The action of this story was great, one might say enormous, mainly because it came at a time when just one piece of smoldering tinder is enough to detonate a large mine, so here the explosion that occurred among the readership was so great because the young world I’ve already undermined my own foundations.” (V. Belinsky)

What is this book about? About love? About suffering? About life and death? About personality and society? And about this, and about the other, and about the third.

But what caused such unprecedented interest in her? Attention to the inner world of a person. Creating a three-dimensional image of the hero. Detail of the image, psychologism, depth of penetration into the character. For the 18th century, all this was a first. (The same thing happened in the painting of that time. From the local writing of Giotto - to the detailing of the Dutch, where every petal, drop on the hand, tenderness of a smile is visible.)

The Sorrows of Young Werther was a great step towards realism in both German and European literature of the 18th century. Already some sketches of the burgher family life(Lotta surrounded by her sisters and brothers) seemed like a revelation at the time: after all, the question of whether philistinism is worthy of being the subject of artistic representation was just being resolved. Even more disturbing was the portrayal of the swaggering nobility in the novel.

The epistolary genre in which the novel is written is one of the components of success and interest in the novel. A novel in the letters of a young man who died of love. This alone took the breath away of readers (and especially female readers) of that time.

In his old age, Goethe wrote about the novel: “Here is the creation that I nourished with the blood of my own heart. There is so much internal stuff put into it, taken from my own soul, felt and rethought..."
Indeed, the novel is based on personal emotional drama writer. IN
Wetzler played out Goethe's unhappy romance with Charlotte Buff (Kästner).
A sincere friend of her fiancé, Goethe loved her, and Charlotte, although she rejected his love, did not remain indifferent to him. All three knew this. One day
Kestner received a note: “He is gone, Kestner, when you receive these lines, know that he is gone...”

Based on my own heartfelt experience and weaving into my experiences the story of the suicide of another unhappy lover - the secretary of the Breunschweig embassy at the Weizler Court Chamber, young
Jerusalem, Goethe and created “The Sorrows of Young Werther”.

“I carefully collected everything that I managed to find out about the history of the poor
Werther..." wrote Goethe, and was sure that readers "will be imbued with love and respect for his mind and heart, and will shed tears over his fate."

“Invaluable friend, what is the human heart? I love you so much. We were inseparable...and now we parted..." Goethe created his works in line with the philosophical constructs of Rousseau and especially Herder, so revered by him. Due to his own artistic perception of the world and refracting Herder’s thoughts in his work, he wrote both poetry and prose only “from the fullness of feeling” (“feeling is everything”).

But his hero dies not only from unhappy love, but also from discord with the society around him. This conflict is “ordinary.” It testifies to the unusualness and originality of a person. Without conflict there is no hero. The hero himself creates the conflict.

Some critics see the main reason for Werther’s suicide in his incredible discord with the entire bourgeois-aristocratic society, and his unhappy love is regarded only as the last straw that confirmed his decision to leave this world. I just can't agree with this statement.
It seems to me that the novel should be considered primarily as lyrical work, in which there is a tragedy of the heart, of love, even if divided, but unable to unite the lovers. Yes, it is undoubtedly necessary to take into account Werther’s disappointment in society, his rejection of this society, the incomprehensibility of himself, and hence the tragedy of the loneliness of the individual in society. But we should not forget that the cause of suicide is Werther’s hopeless love for Lotte. Really,
Werther initially becomes disillusioned with society, not with life. And it is impossible not to share this opinion. The fact that he seeks to break off his relationship with a society alien to him and despised by him does not mean that he does not see any meaning and joy in life. After all, he is able to enjoy nature, communication with people who do not wear masks and behave naturally. His rejection of society does not come from a conscious protest, but from a purely emotional and spiritual rejection. This is not a revolution, but youthful maximalism, the desire for goodness, the logic of the world, which is characteristic of, perhaps, everyone in youth, so one should not exaggerate his criticism of society. Werther is not against society as a society, but against its forms, which conflict with the naturalness of the young soul.

In Werther's tragedy the love is primary, and the social is secondary. With what feeling did he, even in his first letters, describe the surrounding area and nature: “My soul is illuminated with unearthly joy, like these spring mornings, which I enjoy with all my heart. I am completely alone and blissful in this land, as if created for people like me. I am so happy, my friend, so intoxicated by the feeling of peace...I am often tormented by the thought: “Ah! How to express, how to breathe into a drawing what is so full, what lives so reverently in me, to give a reflection of my soul, as my soul is a reflection of the eternal God!

He writes that either “deceptive spirits, or one’s own ardent imagination” turns everything around into paradise. Agree, it is very difficult to name
Werther is a man disillusioned with life. Complete harmony with nature and ourselves. What kind of suicide are we talking about here? Yes, he is cut off from society. But he’s not burdened by this, it’s already in the past. Not finding understanding in society, seeing its countless vices, Werther refuses it. Society is disharmonious for Werther, nature is harmonious. He sees beauty and harmony in nature, as well as in everything that has not lost its naturalness.

Love for Lotte makes Werther the happiest of people. He writes
Wilhelm: “I am experiencing such happy days that the Lord reserves for his holy saints, and no matter what happens to me, I do not dare to say that I have not known the joys, the purest joys of life.” Love for Lotte elevates Werther. He enjoys the happiness of communicating with Lotte and nature. He is happy to know that she and her brothers and sisters need him. Thoughts about the insignificance of society, which once overwhelmed him, do not at all darken his boundless happiness.

Only after the arrival of Albert, Lotte's fiancé, does Werther realize that he is losing Lotte forever. And by losing her, he loses EVERYTHING. Critical view
Werther's attitude to society does not prevent him from living, and only the collapse of love, a dead end
“soulful and loving” leads him to the end. Often in critical articles Lotte is called Werther's only joy. In my opinion, this is not entirely true.
Lotte, Werther’s love for her, managed to fill his entire soul, his entire world.
She became not his only joy, but ALL! And the more tragic is the fate awaiting him.

Werther understands that he must leave. He is unable to look at happiness
Albert and next to him feel his suffering even more acutely. Werther, with pain in his heart, decides to leave, hoping, if not for healing, then at least to drown out the pain. Having abandoned for a while my belief about the meaninglessness of any activity in such a society, he enters service at the embassy, in the hope that at least the work will bring peace and tranquility to his soul. But bitter disappointment awaits him. Everything that he had previously observed from the sidelines and condemned - aristocratic arrogance, egoism, veneration for rank - now surrounded him with a terrible wall.

After being insulted by Count von K., he leaves the service. An infected society cannot become a cure for the passion that torments it. (Can there be such a medicine at all? Especially for such a subtle and sensitive person as Werther.) Society, on the contrary, like a poison, poisons Werther’s soul. And here, perhaps, only here can society be accused of direct involvement in Werther’s suicide. We must not forget that Werther should not be considered as real person and identify with Goethe himself.
Werther - literary image, and therefore, in my opinion, it is impossible to talk about how his fate would have developed if he had seen the need for his activities for society. So, society is unable to give him either happiness or even peace of mind. Werther cannot extinguish the flame of love for Lotte. He still suffers, suffers immensely. That's when thoughts of suicide begin to come to him. There is no longer any light or joy in his letters to Wilhelm, they are becoming darker and darker. Werther writes: “Why should what constitutes a person’s happiness at the same time be a source of suffering?
My powerful and ardent love for living nature, which filled me with such bliss, turning the entire world around me into paradise, has now become my torment and, like a cruel demon, haunts me on all paths...
It was as if a curtain had been lifted before me and the spectacle of endless life turned for me into the abyss of an ever-open grave.”

Reading about Werther’s suffering, one involuntarily asks the question: what is love for him? For Werther this is happiness. He wants to swim in it endlessly. But happiness is sometimes moments. And love is bliss, and pain, and torment, and suffering. He cannot withstand such mental stress.

Werther returns to Lotte. He himself realizes that he is moving with inexorable speed towards the abyss, but he sees no other way. Despite the doom of his situation, sometimes hope awakens in him: “Some changes are happening in me every minute. Sometimes life smiles on me again, alas! Just for a moment!...” Werther is becoming more and more like a madman. His meetings with Lotte bring him both happiness and inexorable pain: “As soon as I look into her black eyes, I feel better…” “How I suffer! Oh, were people really so unhappy before me?

The thought of suicide increasingly takes hold of Werther and he thinks more and more that this is the only way to get rid of his suffering. He himself, as it were, convinces himself of the necessity of this act. This is clearly evidenced by his letters to Wilhelm: “God knows how often I go to bed with the desire, and sometimes with the hope of never waking up, in the morning I open my eyes, see the sun and fall into melancholy.” December 8th.

“No, no, I’m not destined to come to my senses. At every step I encounter phenomena that throw me off balance. And today! Oh rock! O people!
December 1st.

“I am a lost man! My mind is clouded, I haven’t been myself for a week now, my eyes are full of tears. I feel equally bad and equally good everywhere. I don't want anything, I don't ask for anything. It’s better for me to leave completely.” December 14.

Even before the last meeting with Lotte, Werther decides to commit suicide: “Oh, how I feel at peace that I have decided.”

IN last meeting with Lotte, Werther is firmly convinced that she loves him. And now nothing scares him anymore. He is full of hope, he is sure that there, in heaven, he and Lotte will unite and “will remain in each other’s arms forever in the face of the eternal.” So Werther dies because of his tragic love.

Reflections on suicide in Goethe's novel appear long before his hero comes up with the idea of committing suicide. This happens when Werther catches the eye of Albert's pistols. In a conversation, Werther puts a pistol to his head as a joke, to which Albert reacts extremely negatively: “I can’t even imagine how a person can reach such madness as to shoot himself: the very thought disgusts me.” To this
Werther objects to him that one cannot condemn a suicide without knowing the reasons for such a decision. Albert says that nothing can justify suicide; here he strictly adheres to church morality, arguing that suicide
- this is an undoubted weakness: it is much easier to die than to endure martyrdom. Werther has a completely different opinion on this matter. He talks about the limit of human mental strength, comparing it with the limit of human nature: “A person can endure joy, grief, pain only to a certain extent, and when this degree is exceeded, he perishes. So the question is not whether he is strong or weak, but whether he can endure the extent of his suffering, regardless of mental or physical strength, and, in my opinion, it is just as wild to say: a coward who takes his own life is as well as to call him a coward a man dying of a malignant fever." Deadly disease Vereter transfers a person, his physical exhaustion, to the spiritual sphere. He says
Albert: “Look at the man with his withdrawn inner world: how impressions act on him, how obsessive thoughts take root in him, until an ever-growing passion deprives him of all self-control and leads him to death.” Werther believes that, undoubtedly, only a strong person can decide to commit suicide, and he compares it with a people who rebelled and broke their chains.

How did Goethe himself feel about suicide? Of course, he treated his hero with great love and regret. (After all, in many ways
Werther - himself). In the preface, he calls on those who have fallen “to the same temptation to draw strength from its suffering.” He in no way condemns Werther's actions. But at the same time, in my opinion, he does not consider suicide to be the act of a brave person. Although he does not make any final verdicts in the novel, but rather presents two points of view, it can be assumed (based on his own fate) that his fate
Werther was one of the possible ones. But he chose life and creativity. After all
Goethe, in addition to happy and unhappy love, also knew the agony and joy of writing a line.

The motif of love in Goethe’s work never ceased, just like love itself. In addition, he always returned to his youth love stories. After all, he wrote “Faust” when he was no longer a young man, and Margarita was in many ways a reflection of Friederike Brion, whom he loved in his youth and whom he was afraid to marry at one time because he did not want to give up his freedom (hence Margarita’s tragedy in “ Faust"). So for him, love and youth were the “engine” of creativity. After all, when love ends, creativity ends.

It is no coincidence that poets shoot themselves after thirty. Lilya Brik wrote: “Volodya didn’t know how he could live when he wasn’t young.” (Of course, it’s not just about age, but about the youth of the soul and preserving the energy of love. Goethe himself last fell in love, according to his biographers, at the age of 74 with a seventeen-year-old girl). Anyone who has run out of this energy of love and who is not a poet can commit suicide. Who doesn’t have the divine gift to pour it all out into lines?

LIST OF REFERENCES USED

Goethe “The Sorrows of Young Werther” BVL, Moscow, 1980

I. Mirimsky “On the German classics” Moscow, 1957, his article “The Sorrows of Young Werther” intro. article for Georg's novel
Lukács, 1939

V. Belinsky “On Goethe” Collected works. Volume 3 Goslitizdat, M., 1950

Wilmant "Goethe" GIHL., 1956

A. Pushkin PSS, vol. 7, Academy of Sciences of the USSR, M., 1949.

The sentimental novel in epistolary form was written in 1774. The work became the second literary success of the great German writer. Goethe's first success came after the drama "Götz von Berlichingen". The first edition of the novel instantly becomes a bestseller. A revised edition was published in the late 1780s.

To some extent, “The Sorrows of Young Werther” can be called an autobiographical novel: the writer spoke about his love for Charlotte Buff, whom he met in 1772. However, Werther’s beloved was not based on Charlotte Buff, but on Maximilian von Laroche, one of the writer’s acquaintances. Tragic ending The novel was inspired by Goethe's death of his friend, who was in love with a married woman.

In psychology, the Werther syndrome or effect is usually called a wave of suicides committed for imitative purposes. A suicide described in popular literature, cinema, or widely covered in the media can trigger a wave of suicides. This phenomenon was first recorded after the publication of Goethe’s novel. The book was read in many European countries, after which some young people, imitating the hero of the novel, committed suicide. In many countries, authorities were forced to ban the distribution of the book.

The term “Werther effect” appeared only in the mid-1970s thanks to the American sociologist David Philipps, who studied the phenomenon. As in Goethe's novel, those most susceptible to the effect are those who were in the same age group with the one whose “feat” was chosen to be imitated, that is, if the first suicide was an elderly person, his “followers” will also be elderly people. The method of suicide will also be copied in most cases.

A young man named Werther, who comes from a poor family, wants to be alone and moves to a small town. Werther has a penchant for poetry and painting. He enjoys reading Homer, talking to the people of the city, and drawing. Once at a youth ball, Werther met Charlotte (Lotta) S., the daughter of a princely leader. Lotta, being the eldest, replaced her brothers and sisters deceased mother. The girl had to grow up too early. That is why she is distinguished not only by her attractiveness, but also by her independence of judgment. Werther falls in love with Lotte on the very first day of their acquaintance. Young people have similar tastes and characters. From now on, Werther tries to spend every free minute with an unusual girl.

Unfortunately, the love of a sentimental young man is doomed to numerous sufferings. Charlotte already has a fiancé, Albert, who left the city for a short time to get a job. Returning, Albert learns that he has a rival. However, Lotte's fiancé turns out to be more reasonable than her suitor. He is not jealous of his bride for his new admirer, finding it quite natural that it is simply impossible not to fall in love with such a beautiful and intelligent girl as Charlotte. Werther begins to have attacks of jealousy and despair. Albert tries in every possible way to calm his opponent, reminding him that every action of a person must be reasonable, even if madness is dictated by passion.

On his birthday, Werther receives a gift from Lotte's fiancé. Albert sent him a bow from his bride's dress, in which Werther first saw her. The young man takes this as a hint that it is high time for him to leave the girl alone, and then goes to say goodbye to her. Werther again moves to another city, where he gets a job as an official under the envoy. The main character does not like life in a new place. Class prejudices are too strong in this city.

Seal of bad luck
Werther is constantly reminded of his ignoble origins, and his boss turns out to be overly picky. However, soon the young man makes new friends - Count von K. and the girl B., who is very similar to Charlotte. Werther talks a lot with his new friend, tells her about his love for Lotte. But soon young man I had to leave this city too.

Werther goes to his homeland, believing that it will be there that he will feel better. Not finding peace here either, he goes to the city where his beloved lives. Lotte and Albert had already gotten married by that time. Family happiness ends after Werther returns. The couple begins to quarrel. Charlotte sympathizes with the young man, but cannot help him. Werther increasingly begins to think about death. He does not want to live away from Lotte and at the same time cannot be near her. In the end, Werther writes farewell letter, and then takes his own life by shooting himself in his room. Charlotte and Albert are grieving their loss.

Characteristics

The main character of the novel is independent enough to receive a decent education, despite his low origin. He finds it very easily common language with people and place in society. However, the young man definitely lacks common sense. Moreover, in one of his conversations with Albert, Werther argues that an excess of common sense is not needed at all.

All my life main character, being a dreamer and romantic, was in search of an ideal, which he found in Lotte. As it turns out, the ideal already belongs to someone. Werther does not want to put up with this. He chooses to die. Although she had many rare virtues, Charlotte was not perfect. It was made ideal by Werther himself, who needed the existence of a supernatural being.

Incomparable Charlotte

It is no coincidence that the author notes that Werther and Lotte are similar in their tastes and characters. However, there is one fundamental difference. Unlike Werther, Charlotte is less impulsive and more restrained. The girl's mind dominates her feelings. Lotte is engaged to Albert, and no passion can make the bride forget her promise to the groom.

Charlotte took on the role of mother of the family early, despite the fact that she did not yet have her own children. Responsibility for someone else's life made the girl more mature. Lotta knows in advance that she will have to answer for every action. She perceives Werther, rather, as a child, one of her brothers. Even if Charlotte had not had Albert in her life, she would hardly have accepted the advances of her ardent admirer. In her future life partner, Lotta is looking for stability, not boundless passion.

The ideal Charlotte has found for herself an equally ideal spouse: both belong to the upper strata of society, and both are distinguished by their composure and restraint. Albert's prudence does not allow him to fall into despair when meeting a potential opponent. He probably doesn't consider Werther a competitor. Albert is confident that his smart and prudent bride, like himself, will never exchange her groom for a crazy man who can so easily fall in love and do crazy things.

Despite everything, Albert is no stranger to sympathy and pity. He does not try to rudely remove Werther from his bride, hoping that the unfortunate rival, sooner or later, will come to his senses. The bow sent to Werther for his birthday becomes a hint that it is time to stop dreaming and take life as it is.

Composition of the novel

Goethe chose one of the most popular literary genres of the 18th century. The work was divided into 2 parts: letters from the protagonist (the main part) and additions to these letters, entitled “From the publisher to the reader” (thanks to the additions, readers become aware of Werther’s death). In the letters, the main character addresses his friend Wilhelm. The young man strives to talk not about the events of his life, but about the feelings associated with them.

To some extent, “The Sorrows of Young Werther” can be called an autobiographical novel: the writer spoke about his love for Charlotte Buff, whom he met in 1772. However, Werther’s beloved was not based on Charlotte Buff, but on Maximilian von Laroche, one of the writer’s acquaintances. The tragic ending of the novel was inspired by Goethe's death of his friend, who was in love with a married woman.

In psychology, the Werther syndrome or effect is usually called a wave of suicides committed for imitative purposes. A suicide described in popular literature, cinema, or widely covered in the media can trigger a wave of suicides. This phenomenon was first recorded after the publication of Goethe’s novel. The book was read in many European countries, after which some young people, imitating the hero of the novel, committed suicide. In many countries, authorities were forced to ban the distribution of the book.

The term “Werther effect” appeared only in the mid-1970s thanks to the American sociologist David Philipps, who studied the phenomenon. As in Goethe’s novel, those most susceptible to the effect are those who were in the same age group as the one whose “feat” was chosen to be imitated, that is, if the first suicide was an elderly person, his “followers” will also be elderly people. The method of suicide will also be copied in most cases.

A young man named Werther, who comes from a poor family, wants to be alone and moves to a small town. Werther has a penchant for poetry and painting. He enjoys reading Homer, talking to the people of the city, and drawing. Once at a youth ball, Werther met Charlotte (Lotta) S., the daughter of a princely leader. Lotta, being the eldest, replaced her brothers and sisters' deceased mother. The girl had to grow up too early. That is why she is distinguished not only by her attractiveness, but also by her independence of judgment. Werther falls in love with Lotte on the very first day of their acquaintance. Young people have similar tastes and characters. From now on, Werther tries to spend every free minute with an unusual girl.

Seal of bad luck
Werther is constantly reminded of his ignoble origins, and his boss turns out to be overly picky. However, soon the young man makes new friends - Count von K. and the girl B., who is very similar to Charlotte. Werther talks a lot with his new friend, telling her about his love for Lotte. But soon the young man had to leave this city too.

Werther goes to his homeland, believing that it will be there that he will feel better. Not finding peace here either, he goes to the city where his beloved lives. Lotte and Albert had already gotten married by that time. Family happiness ends after Werther returns. The couple begins to quarrel. Charlotte sympathizes with the young man, but cannot help him. Werther increasingly begins to think about death. He does not want to live away from Lotte and at the same time cannot be near her. In the end, Werther writes a farewell letter and then takes his own life by shooting himself in his room. Charlotte and Albert are grieving their loss.

Characteristics

The main character of the novel is independent enough to receive a decent education, despite his low origin. He very easily finds a common language with people and a place in society. However, the young man definitely lacks common sense. Moreover, in one of his conversations with Albert, Werther argues that an excess of common sense is not needed at all.

All his life, the main character, being a dreamer and romantic, was in search of an ideal, which he found in Lotte. As it turns out, the ideal already belongs to someone. Werther does not want to put up with this. He chooses to die. Although she had many rare virtues, Charlotte was not perfect. It was made ideal by Werther himself, who needed the existence of a supernatural being.