XX.
Albert and Charlotte.
The walls of my room are hung with engravings and pictures, which adorn it greatly. I should much like to submit them to the reader's inspection, that they might amuse him along the road we have to traverse before we reach my bureau. But it is as impossible to describe a picture well, as to paint one from a description.
What an emotion he would feel in contemplating the first drawing that presents itself! He would see the unhappy Charlotte,[1] slowly, and with a trembling hand, wiping Albert's pistols. Dark forebodings, and all the agony of hopeless, inconsolable love, are imprinted on her features, while
- ↑ Vide Werther, chapter xxviii
