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LETTER LXXIII.
December 4.
IT is all over, my dear friend; I can support this state no
longer. To-day I was sitting by Charlotte; she was playing on her
harpsichord, with an expression it is impossible for me to
describe to you. Her little sister was dressing her doll upon my
lap; the tears came into my eyes; I leaned down and looked
intently at her wedding-ring; my tears fell -- immediately she
began to play the favourite, the divine air which has always
enchanted me. -- I felt comforted by it; but soon it recalled to
my mind the times that are past -- Grief! disappointed hopes! --
I began to walk with hasty strides about the room -- I was
choaked -- At length I went up to her, and with eagerness said,
"For heaven's sake, play that no longer." She stopped, looked
stedfastly at me, and said, with a smile that sunk {174} deep
into my heart, "Werter, you are indeed very ill: your most
favourite food disgusts you. Pray go, and try to compose
yourself." -- I tore myself from her. -- Great God! thou seest my
torments, and thou wilt put an end to them!
