A lthough I am coming to you to-morrow, yet I cannot refrain, my dearest Fronto, from writing some answer, however trifling, to a letter so friendly, so delightful, so felicitous as yours. But what am I to love first? feel grateful first for what? Shall I not mention this first, that, occupied though you are with such important pursuits at home and business no less important outside, you nevertheless made a point of going to see our friend Julianus1 chiefly—for I were ungrateful if I did not realize this— on my account. But, you will say, there is not much in that. Yet it does amount to much, if you count in all the rest, your staying there so long, having so protracted a talk, a talk, too, about me, or something to cheer him up in his illness, your making a sick man more comfortable in himself, a friend more friendly to me; then again, your writing out for me a detailed account of all this, giving in your letter most welcome news of Julianus himself, the kindest of words, the most wholesome of counsels! Why should I try to dissemble before you what, do what I will, I can never dissemble? At any rate, the very fact of your writing me so long a letter, when I was to come to you to-morrow—that, I confess, was to me the most gratifying thing of all; in that did I think myself above all men most blest, for by it you have shewn me in the most marked and the sweetest way how much you make of me, and how great is the confidence you have in my friendship. What shall I say more except I love you deservedly? But why do I say deservedly? Would that I could love you as you deserve! Aye, and that is why I am often full of wrath and indignation against you when away, because you make it impossible for me to love you as I wish, that is, for my soul to follow your love up to its supreme height.
With respect to Herodes proceed with what you say, I beseech you: as our Quintus2 has it, prevail with persevering persistence. Herodes loves you, and I am doing my best in that quarter, and assuredly he who does not love you neither sees with his eyes nor understands with his heart: of ears I say nothing, for the ears of all hearers have passed under the yoke and are slaves of your voice. To me this day seems, and will seem, longer than a spring day, and the coming night more tedious than a night in winter. For as I desire intensely to greet my Fronto, so I long above all to embrace the writer of this last letter.
I have written this to you hurriedly because Maecianus3 was pressing, and it was right that your brother should return to you in good time. I beseech you, therefore, if you find any solecism or confusion of thought or shaky letter herein, put it down to haste. For though I am desperately fond of you as a friend, at the same time I must not forget that I ought to shew no less respect to my master than love to my friend. Farewell, my Fronto, dearest and beyond all things sweetest to me.
The Sota4 of Ennius, which you have returned, seems to be on clearer paper, in a more handsome volume and a prettier hand than before. Let Gracchus5 bide with the cask of new wine until we come. There is no risk of Gracchus fermenting out6 meanwhile along with the wine. Fare ever well, my sweetest soul.
Marcus Aurelius to Fronto
? 140–143 A.D.
His own Caesar to his master.