On May 4, 1771.
How glad I am to be gone! Ah, my friend, what is the human heart! To leave you, whom I love so much, from whom I was inseparable, and be content! I know you will forgive me. Were not all my other relationships as if chosen by fate to afflict a heart like mine? Poor Eleanor! And yet I was innocent! Could I do anything if, while your sister's stubborn charm gave me such pleasant company, a passion was kindled in my poor heart? And yet... am I totally innocent? Did I not feed her feelings? Did I not revel in that creature's sincere expressions, expressions that so often made us laugh, though in reality they were so unworthy of laughter? I didn't... Oh, what is man, to dare to whine about himself! I do, dear friend, I promise you that I want to correct myself, I will never again, as I have always done, drink to the last drop the evils that fate has in store for us. I want to enjoy the present and the past will be passed on to me. It is clear, dearest, that you are right. Men's pains would be less acute if they didn't... God knows why they're made like this! Being so assiduously occupied with fantasy, calling back the memory of past ills, instead of making the present bearable...
You're so good to me that I'm sure you won't have a problem telling my mom I'm trying to get busy. in the best possible way from her business and that I will soon give her news about her progress. I spoke to my aunt and I have not even come close to finding the bad woman people try to make of her. She is lively and impetuous, owner of the best of hearts. I exposed my mother's complaints about her taking part of the inheritance, she gave me her reasons, you reasons and the conditions under which it is ready to give us everything, and even more than us we complain... In short, I don't like to keep writing about it; tell my mother that everything will end well. In this insignificant business I have only proved once more, my dear, that misunderstandings and indolence perhaps cause more mistakes in the world than cleverness and malice. In any case, the last two are, of course, rarer.
Besides, I'm feeling pretty good around here. The solitude of these paradisiacal meadows is a delicious balm for my chest, and this time of youth warms my heart so often quivering with all its fullness. Each tree, each bush is a bunch of flowers, and we would love to transform into a beetle to flutter in this sea of perfumes and be able to suck up all your food.
The city itself is unpleasant, but on the outskirts nature is unspeakably beautiful. That's what led the late Count of M... to plant a garden on one of those hills, which succeed each other with such variety, forming valleys full of delight. The garden is simple, and as soon as you enter, you feel that your sketch was not drawn up by a gardener who masters science, but with a sensitive heart, who wanted to delight and enjoy the yourself. A tear has already consecrated his memory, in a ruined pavilion that was his favorite place and is now mine as well. Soon I will be lord of the garden; the gardener already sympathizes with me just for the coexistence of these few days and he won't be happy if I stay there permanently.
The sufferings of young Werther,
Goethe.
