1For a long time now I have been stuck in the city, and indeed in a state of shock. 1I am deeply troubled by the long and stubborn illness of Titius Aristo, whom I both admire and love in a special way. 1For there is no one more serious, more upright, more learned than he, so that it seems to me that not one man but literature itself and all the liberal arts are facing the utmost danger in one man. 2How expert he is in both private and public law! 2How much history, how many precedents, how much antiquity he commands! 2There is nothing you might wish to learn which he could not teach; 2to me at any rate, whenever I am looking for something obscure, he is a treasure-house.
3Then again, what trustworthiness there is in his conversation, what authority, how restrained and dignified his hesitation! 3What is there that he does not know at once? 3And yet often he hesitates and doubts, because of the conflict of reasons, which with keen and great judgement he traces back to their origin and first causes, distinguishes and weighs. 4Besides, how sparing he is in his diet, how moderate in his dress! 4I often look at his bedroom itself and his very bed as a kind of image of old-fashioned frugality. 5These qualities are crowned by a greatness of mind which refers nothing to display, everything to conscience, and seeks the reward of a good deed not from the talk of the people but from the deed itself.
6In short, you will not easily compare with this man any of those who parade their pursuit of wisdom by their outward appearance. 6He does not, indeed, haunt the gymnasia or the colonnades, nor does he entertain the leisure of others and his own with long disputations, but he is engaged in public life and business, helping many with his advocacy and more with his counsel. 7Yet he would yield first place to none of them in purity, piety, justice, and even courage. 7You would marvel, if you were there, with what patience he endures this very illness, how he resists pain, how he puts off thirst, how he lets the incredible heat of his fevers pass, motionless and covered up.
8Recently he called me and a few others whom he especially loves, and asked us to consult the doctors about the outcome of his illness, so that if it were incurable he might depart from life of his own accord; 8but if it were merely difficult and long, he would resist and remain: for he must yield to the prayers of his wife, yield to his daughter's tears, yield even to us his friends, so as not to desert our hopes, if only they were not vain, by a voluntary death. 10This I consider especially hard and worthy of particular praise. 10For to rush to death on some impulse and instinct is something shared with many, but to deliberate and weigh its reasons, and to take up or lay aside the plan of life or death as reason has advised, is the mark of a mighty spirit.
11And the doctors indeed promise us a good outcome: it remains for a god to assent to their promises and at last release me from this anxiety; 11once freed from it, I shall return to my Laurentine house, that is, to my books and writing-tablets and studious leisure. 11For now, sitting by his bed, I have no time to read or write anything, and anxious as I am I have no wish to. 12You have what I fear, what I hope, what I even plan for the future: you in turn write to me what you have done, what you are doing and what you want to do, but in happier letters.
12It will be no small comfort in my distress if you have nothing to complain of. 12Farewell.