“No one can help me,” sighed Moritz, shaking his head mournfully. “I am lost, irremediably lost!” “No one is lost who will save himself. He who is wrecked by a storm and tossed upon the raging sea, ought to be upon the watch for a plank by which he can save himself. He must keep his eyes open, and not let his arms hang idly; for if he allows himself to be swallowed up he becomes a self-murderer, who, like Erostratus, destroyed the holy temple, and gained eternal fame through eternal shame.” “What are you saying?” cried Moritz, “you, the author of ‘Werther,’ of that immortal work which has drunk the tears of the whole world, and has become the Holy Testament for unhappy souls!” “Rather say for lovers,” replied Goethe, “and add also those troubled spirits who think themselves poetical when they whine and howl; who cry over misfortune if Fate denies them the toy which their vanity, their ambition, or their amorousness, had chosen. Do not burden me with what I am not guilty of; do not say that wine is a poison, because it is not good for the sick. It is intended for well people; it animates and inspires them to fresh vigor. Now please to consider yourself well, and not ill.” “I am ill, indeed I am ill,” sighed Moritz. “Oh! continue to regard me with those eyes, which shine like stars into my benighted soul. I feel like one who has long wandered through the desert, his feet burnt with the sand, his hair scorched with the sun, and, exhausted with hunger and thirst, feels death approaching. Suddenly he discovers a green oasis, and a being with outstretched arms calling to him with a soft, angel-like voice: ‘Come, save thyself in my arms; feel that thou art not alone in the desert, for I am with thee, and will sustain thee!’” “And I say it to you from the bottom of my heart,” said Goethe, affectionately. “Yes, here is one, who is only too happy to aid you, who can sympathize with every sorrow, because he has himself felt it in his own breast, who may even say of himself, like Ovid: ‘Nothing human is strange to me.’ If I can aid you, say so, and I will willingly do it.” “No, you cannot,” murmured Moritz. “At least confide your grief to me; that is an alleviation.” “Oh, how kind and generous you are!” Moritz said, pressing the hand of his new-made friend to his bosom. “How much good it does me to listen to you, and look at your beautiful face! I believed myself steeled against every thing that could happen to mortals; that the fool which I would be had killed within me the higher man. I was almost proud to have succeeded in deceiving men; that they mistook my grotesque mask for my real face; that they point the finger at me, and laugh, saying to each other: ‘That is a fool, an original, whom Nature herself has chosen as a kind of court fool to society.’ No one has understood the cry of distress of my soul. Those who laughed at the comical fellow by day, little dreamed of the anguish and misery in which he sighed away the night.”