Desiderius Erasmus to Thomas More
...And now to less scholarly matters. (Forgive me
for switching to code so abruptly. Plain Latin
is less than ideal for my purposes here;
subordinate clauses, the ablative case,
and Ciceronian syntactic purity
might well be my best gifts and the source of my fame,
but, like roses, they wound all too readily. What
would become of us two if this ill-tempered world,
ever harsh in its laughter, ever eager to pry
into private affairs, like Pandora, discovered
the lines I am writing to you? Pandemonium!
So indulge my fanatically eschatological
tendencies and write your reply to this postscript
using cipher as well, in the name of Saint Socrates.)
Sweetest Thomas, you don’t know how restless I am,
how unquiet my dreams are, how deeply I sigh
in my solitude, draining the blood from my heart,
without you by my side. Like a library ransacked
by marauders and ruffians, the orderly shelves
of my mind have all tumbled and splintered apart.
My translations of scripture, my mirrors for princes,
my orations and letters to kings, and my proverbs
have all become cluttered, confounded, confused
ever since I met you. For so long I had thought
that I’d finally neutered and starved out my heart,
but now in rebellion it rattles its cage.
I can’t think, I can’t reason, I can’t talk myself out
of this lovesickness. Thomas, I can’t even pray.
All I do is think back on the evening we met
at the house of—who was it? I hardly remember...
some studious bishop or baron, perhaps—
and recall how our eyes met across the oak table
upon which lay pewter plates laden with fish
(for the day was a Friday, and our host was most pious).
When I first saw your eyes, stern and gray like Athena’s,
I forgot all the miseries that minister to
a penniless traveling bookworm like me:
the perils of English, the waterlogged weather,
the stench that rose up from the Thames, the bad roads,
and even the bitterness of Albion’s ale
seemed sweeter to me in that moment. I wanted
to say something to you, to find out your name
and perhaps tell you mine (beggarly though, as yet,
were the honors attached to it)—but talk of philosophy
hindered me until supper was nearly concluded.
I still cherish our first conversation, although
I worry the walloping Cupid had given me
must’ve rattled my reason and made my tongue babble
some strange sort of nonsense. I returned to the inn
I was staying in then for tuppence a day,
and neither the cold, nor the bedbugs, nor hoots
of drunkards downstairs and of owls outside
gave me trouble that night: I thought only of you.
Do you see now how hopeless I am? You know well
I trust little in fairy tales, cults, and odd legends
of mystical finger-bones and magical brambles,
so I won’t like an unlettered pilgrim devote
fervent prayers to Jude, patron saint of lost causes;
I won’t parrot the pagans of noble antiquity
and light perfumy candles in hopes of his help.
No, I know that I should go directly to God,
hammer hard on his door and then fall to my knees,
and beg him to give me my reason again.
But the spiteful thing is, dearest friend, I don’t want to.
I admit it: I’d rather forget all my learning
and never again see my sophistry printed
by Manutius or Froben or anyone else,
than put out the fire you’ve set in my soul.
I would rather sail back—back to England's gray skies,
to its thorn-studded language, its mistrust of strangers,
its fox-cunning prelates and wolfish patricians,
its smoke-blackened towns and its watery wine—
just to spend endless days with you talking of all
that is worthy of talking of. Until the last trumpet
we’d sit under the mulberry tree in your garden
and discourse of the soul and its thousands of follies,
the Greek way of loving, the feats of the Romans,
utopian lands, the Platonic ideal,
the obsolete flaws of scholastic theology,
and anything else we might think of. Meanwhile
the burgundy berries above us would wink
like droplets of blood, and a cold northern wind
would trouble the green saw-toothed leaves on the branches,
but we wouldn’t mind. We’d join hands and keep warm.
Why, look how I prattle and rave. Like a madman
or mystic, I dream up impossible visions and let
my poor heart beat time to their fanciful drums;
like a poet, I think that if only I sing of it
the beloved illusion might become flesh and blood.
Please don’t pity me, Thomas, if you don’t feel the same.
Simply burn this epistle and let us remain
friends in spirit and letters until Judgment Day:
I would rather be cured of ill humors than humored.
Anyway, write to me. Though a poor substitute
for the sound of your voice and low laughter, I long
for your handwriting too, and your devilish epigrams.
Send my love to your wife, and my prayers for her health.
God be with you, my friend.
Totus tuus,
ERASMVS