II.—­Bereft of Comfort

July 30.  Albert is arrived, and I must take my departure.  Were he the best of men, and I absolutely beneath him, I could not endure to see him in possession of my perfect being.  Enough! her betrothed is here.  A fine fellow, whom I cannot help liking.  And he is so considerate; he has not given Charlotte one kiss in my presence.  Heaven reward him for it.  He is free from ill-humour, which you know is the fault I detest most.  I do not ask whether he may not now and then tease her with some little jealousies, as I know that in his place I should not be entirely free from such feelings.

August 8.  I am amazed to see from my diary, which I have somewhat neglected of late, how deliberately I have entangled myself, step by step.  But even though I see the result plainly, I have no thought of acting with any greater prudence.  And yet I feel that if only I knew where to go, I would abandon everything and fly from this place.

And yet I feel that, if I were not a fool, I could enjoy life here most delightfully.  Admitted into this charming family, loved by the father as a son, by his children as a second father, and by Charlotte!  Furthermore, Albert welcomes me with the heartiest affection, and loves me, next to Charlotte, more than all the world.

August 21.  In vain do I stretch out my arms towards her when I wake in the morning.  In vain do I seek for her when some innocent dream has happily deceived me, and placed me near her in the fields when I have seized her hand and covered it with kisses.  Tears flow from my oppressed heart; and, bereft of all comfort, I weep over my future woes.

August 28.  This is my birthday, and early in the morning I received a packet from Albert.  I found within one of the pink ribbons which Charlotte wore in her dress the first time I saw her, and which I had often asked her to give me.  With it were two volumes of Wetstein’s Homer, a book I had often wished for.  How well they understood those little attentions of friendship, so superior to costly presents, unhappy being that I am.  Why do I thus deceive myself?  What is to be the outcome of all this wild, aimless, endless passion?  I cannot pray except to her.  Oh, Wilhelm, the hermit’s cell, his sackcloth and girdle of thorns, would be luxury and indulgence compared with what I have to suffer.

October 20.  I have taken the plunge, and following your repeated advice, I have taken a post with the ambassador.  We arrived here yesterday.  If he were less peevish and morose all would be well.  As it is, he occasions me continual annoyance; he is the most punctilious blockhead in the world.  He does everything step by step, with the paltry fussiness of an old woman; and he is a man whom it is impossible to please, because he is never pleased with himself.