[For the source of this and the other eighteen letters of this period, for which there is no earlier authority than LB., see App. 8 and 9.]
Erasmus expresses deep concern for his friend Servatius, who appears troubled and withdrawn. He pleads with Servatius to confide in him, emphasizing their close friendship and his willingness to share both joy and sorrow. Erasmus offers his support and urges Servatius not to suffer alone.
Erasmus of Rotterdam to his Servatius, Greetings. Although I, who desire to console you, am myself more in need of consolation—both because there seems no kind of calamity left that I do not experience daily, and because for a long time now I have found nothing in all the world more vexing and bitter than your miseries alone—yet my extraordinary love for you, my sweetest Servatius, has brought it about that, forgetful of my own, I strive to heal your sorrow. For you say there is something—I know not what—that you bear with great difficulty, that miserably afflicts you, that finally renders life unpleasant for you. This, even if you were silent, the appearance of your brow and body proclaims. For where has that usual and most pleasing cheerfulness of countenance gone, that former grace of form, the liveliness of your eyes? From where has this rather joyless downcast gaze arisen? From where has this constant, uncharacteristic silence been born, from where this sickly look upon your face? Truly, as the poet says, > You may detect the torments of a mind hiding in a sick body, you may detect its joys too; the face takes on its appearance from either state. It is certain, then, my Servatius, that there is something which troubles you, which robs you of your former well-being. But what am I to do now? Console you or be angry? For why do you hide your pain from me, as if we do not know each other intimately? For you are so deep of spirit that you do not entrust it even to your most devoted friend, that you have no faith even in the most faithful; do you not know that a fire covered over burns more fiercely? Do you then wish to bear the straits of your breast alone? Do you then wish to perish by your own will and, in doing so, kill one who loves you most dearly? Ah, what an impious spirit, O what an inhuman mind! Is this the use you make of that Menedemus from Terence, to torment yourself? Woe is me, unhappy! And what else, I beseech you, am I to do for you, my soul? You know for certain that you are dearer to me than this life of mine; you know there is no task so difficult and hard that I would not willingly undertake it for you; you know that no one is more faithful to you than I; you know, finally, how miserably your pain has always pained me. And what remains, my Servatius, what reason is there for you to withdraw and hide yourself in the manner of a snail? I truly suspect what is the case: you have not yet convinced yourself that I am most loving of you. Therefore, I beseech you by those things which are sweetest to you in life, by our love which is supreme, if you have any care for your own welfare, if you wish me to live safe and sound, do not with such zeal conceal your mind, but lay down whatever you have in trusting ears. I will indeed help you in whatever way, either by aid or by counsel. But if I can provide neither, it will yet be sweet to rejoice with you, to weep with you, to live with you, to die with you. Farewell, my Servatius, and take care for your well-being.