and call it sweet?  Why should I be ashamed of shrinking at that fearful moment, when my whole being will tremble between existence and annihilation, when a remembrance of the past, like a flash of lightning, will illuminate the dark gulf of futurity, when everything shall dissolve around me, and the whole world vanish away?  Is not this the voice of a creature oppressed beyond all resource, self-deficient, about to plunge into inevitable destruction, and groaning deeply at its inadequate strength, “My God! my God! why hast thou forsaken me?” And should I feel ashamed to utter the same expression?  Should I not shudder at a prospect which had its fears, even for him who folds up the heavens like a garment?

November 21.

She does not feel, she does not know, that she is preparing a poison which will destroy us both; and I drink deeply of the draught which is to prove my destruction.  What mean those looks of kindness with which she often —­ often? no, not often, but sometimes, regards me, that complacency with which she hears the involuntary sentiments which frequently escape me, and the tender pity for my sufferings which appears in her countenance?

Yesterday, when I took leave she seized me by the hand, and said, “Adieu, dear Werther.”  Dear Werther!  It was the first time she ever called me dear:  the sound sunk deep into my heart.  I have repeated it a hundred times; and last night, on going to bed, and talking to myself of various things, I suddenly said, “Good night, dear Werther!” and then could not but laugh at myself.

NOVEMBER 22

I cannot pray, “Leave her to me !” and yet she often seems to belong to me.  I cannot pray, “Give her to me!” for she is another’s.  In this way I affect mirth over my troubles; and, if I had time, I could compose a whole litany of antitheses.

November 24.

She is sensible of my sufferings.  This morning her look pierced my very soul.  I found her alone, and she was silent:  she steadfastly surveyed me.  I no longer saw in her face the charms of beauty or the fire of genius:  these had disappeared.  But I was affected by an expression much more touching, a look of the deepest sympathy and of the softest pity.  Why was I afraid to throw myself at her feet?  Why did I not dare to take her in my arms, and answer her by a thousand kisses?  She had recourse to her piano for relief, and in a low and sweet voice accompanied the music with delicious sounds.  Her lips never appeared so lovely:  they seemed but just to open, that they might imbibe the sweet tones which issued from the instrument, and return the heavenly vibration from her lovely mouth.  Oh! who can express my sensations?  I was quite overcome, and, bending down, pronounced this vow:  “Beautiful lips, which the angels guard, never will I seek to profane your purity with a kiss.”  And yet, my friend, oh, I wish —­ but my heart is darkened by doubt and indecision —­ could I but taste felicity, and then die to expiate the sin!  What sin?