What a misfortune, Wilhelm! My active spirits have degenerated into
contented indolence. I cannot be idle, and yet I am unable to set to
work. I cannot think: I have no longer any feeling for the beauties of
nature, and books are distasteful to me. Once we give ourselves up, we
are totally lost. Many a time and oft I wish I were a common labourer;
that, awakening in the morning, I might have but one prospect, one
pursuit, one hope, for the day which has dawned. I often envy Albert
when I see him buried in a heap of papers and parchments, and I fancy I
should be happy were I in his place. Often impressed with this feeling
I have been on the point of writing to you and to the minister, for the
appointment at the embassy, which you think I might obtain. I believe I
might procure it. The minister has long shown a regard for me, and has
frequently urged me to seek employment. It is the business of an
hour only. Now and then the fable of the horse recurs to me. Weary of
liberty, he suffered himself to be saddled and bridled, and was ridden
to death for his pains. I know not what to determine upon. For is not
this anxiety for change the consequence of that restless spirit which
would pursue me equally in every situation of life?