少年维特的烦恼 英文版 The Sorrows of Young Werther
歌德 Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
JUNE 21.
My days are as happy as those reserved by God for his elect; and,whatever be my fate hereafter, I can never say that I have nottasted joy, -- the purest joy of life. You know Walheim. I amnow completely settled there. In that spot I am only half a leaguefrom Charlotte; and there I enjoy myself, and taste all the pleasurewhich can fall to the lot of man.
Little did I imagine, when I selected Walheim for my pedestrianexcursions, that all heaven lay so near it. How often in mywanderings from the hillside or from the meadows across the river,have I beheld this hunting-lodge, which now contains within it allthe joy of my heart!
I have often, my dear Wilhelm, reflected on the eagerness men feelto wander and make new discoveries, and upon that secret impulsewhich afterward inclines them to return to their narrow circle,conform to the laws of custom, and embarrass themselves no longerwith what passes around them.
It is so strange how, when I came here first, and gazed upon thatlovely valley from the hillside, I felt charmed with the entirescene surrounding me. The little wood opposite -- how delightfulto sit under its shade! How fine the view from that point ofrock! Then, that delightful chain of hills, and the exquisitevalleys at their feet! Could I but wander and lose myself amongstthem! I went, and returned without finding what I wished. Distance,my friend, is like futurity. A dim vastness is spread before oursouls: the perceptions of our mind are as obscure as those of ourvision; and we desire earnestly to surrender up our whole being,that it may be filled with the complete and perfect bliss of oneglorious emotion. But alas! when we have attained our object,when the distant there becomes the present here, all is changed:we are as poor and circumscribed as ever, and our souls stilllanguish for unattainable happiness.
So does the restless traveller pant for his native soil, and findin his own cottage, in the arms of his wife, in the affections ofhis children, and in the labour necessary for their support, thathappiness which he had sought in vain through the wide world.
When, in the morning at sunrise, I go out to Walheim, and with myown hands gather in the garden the pease which are to serve formy dinner, when I sit down to shell them, and read my Homer duringthe intervals, and then, selecting a saucepan from the kitchen,fetch my own butter, put my mess on the fire, cover it up, and sitdown to stir it as occasion requires, I figure to myself theillustrious suitors of Penelope, killing, dressing, and preparingtheir own oxen and swine. Nothing fills me with a more pure andgenuine sense of happiness than those traits of patriarchal lifewhich, thank Heaven! I can imitate without affectation. Happy isit, indeed, for me that my heart is capable of feeling the samesimple and innocent pleasure as the peasant whose table is coveredwith food of his own rearing, and who not only enjoys his meal, butremembers with delight the happy days and sunny mornings when heplanted it, the soft evenings when he watered it, and the pleasurehe experienced in watching its daily growth.