... Lesbia illa,
Illa Lesbia, quam Catullus unam
Plus quam se atque suos amavit omnes.
_Extract from a letter written by Clodia, the wife of Metellus Celer,
to her friend Portia in Athens_
We arrived at Baiae yesterday evening. I am most thankful the journey
is over, because Metellus is a most trying traveller. He started, of
course, by making a scene directly he saw my luggage. I had scarcely
taken anything, only what was absolutely indispensable, and I got it
all into eight boxes; but men never know how much room clothes take up.
As it is, I have got nothing to wear at all. But as soon as Metellus
saw the litters with my poor luggage in them he lost his temper, and
during the whole journey he threw my extravagance at me. Needless to
say, he took far more things than I did. Men think because their
clothes are cheap and cost nothing, and because a toga lasts them
four or five years, we ought to be able to do the same. But it’s no
use discussing that with a husband. No husband in the world has ever
understood, or ever will understand, how expensive our clothes are.
We found the villa looking very clean and fresh; and it is a great
blessing to get away from Rome. I never mean to go back there as long
as I live; especially after what has happened. I suppose you have heard
all about it, but I want you to know the truth, as everybody in Rome
is telling horrible lies about me and giving a wrong complexion to the
whole story, especially Lalage, who is a spiteful cat, and is sure to
write and tell you all about it.
Well, of course I’ve known Catullus for years. We were almost brought
up together. He was always in and out of the house. He used to amuse
me; Metellus liked him, and we were both very kind to him. I used to
think he was thoroughly nice. He was so sympathetic when my sparrow
died, and quite understood what a shock that was, and what a state of
despair I was in. By the way, I’ve got a new sparrow now. It’s quite
tame. I’ve called it Julius. We used, in fact, to see a great deal of
Catullus. We were useful to him, too, because he met a great many
clever and important people at our house; and when we first knew him
nobody had ever heard of him. It only shows what a mistake it is to be
kind to people. After a time he began to give himself airs, and treated
the house as if it belonged to him. He complained of the food and the
wine. He insisted upon my sending away Balbus, the best slave I have
ever had. He made Metellus buy some old Falernian from a cousin of his
(that disreputable Rufinus who lost all his money at Capua last year).
The fact was, his head was turned. People flattered him (Lalage, of
course, told him he was wonderful), and he began really to think he
was a real poet, a genius, and I don’t know what, and he became quite
insufferable. He began to meddle with my affairs, and to dictate to me
about my friends. But it was when I got to know Julius Caesar that the
crisis came.
Of course you know as well as I do that nobody could possibly be _in
love_ with Julius Caesar. He is _quite_ bald now, and I think--in fact,
I always did think--most tiresome. I never could understand what people
saw in him. And, oh, what a bore he used to be when he told me about
his campaigns, and drew imaginary plans on the table with his finger!
But of course I was _obliged_ to be civil to him because of Metellus
and my brother Clodius, to whom he has been useful. Directly he began
coming to our house--and he came very often, he had to see Metellus
on business constantly--Catullus became quite mad. He lost his head,
and I had to arrange for them not to meet, which was most annoying and
inconvenient, as they both came every day, and sometimes twice a day.
I know I ought to have taken steps at once to put an end to all that
nonsense. But I was foolishly kind-hearted for a time, and gave way
weakly. It was a great mistake.
The crisis came the other day. I had arranged a supper party, really
a divine party. Just Pollio, Julius Caesar, Marcus Tullius Cicero,
Lavinia, Lalage, and a few others. I didn’t tell Catullus, as I thought
he wouldn’t quite do (apart from Julius Caesar being there), as I had
invited Bassianus, who is a _real_ professional poet, and writes the
most beautiful things about the moonlight, memory, and broken hearts.
His verses quite make me cry sometimes. They are far better than
Catullus’s, which I confess I can’t read at all. But Metellus says it’s
unfair to compare an amateur like Catullus with a _real_ writer like
Bassianus.
Somebody told Catullus about the supper, I suspect it was Lalage--she
is jealous of me, and Catullus made up to her years ago and then left
her. He came to me and made a scene, and said he was coming too. Then
he tried to find out who else was coming, and I refused to tell him. He
said: “Of course, you have asked Julius Caesar,” and I said: “It’s not
your business; I shall ask the people I choose to my own house without
consulting you.” Then he said a lot of horribly unfair things about
Julius Caesar, and a lot of absurd things about me; only I managed to
calm him more or less. All this happened in the afternoon, and he went
away really quite repentant and meek. He always was easy to manage
if one had time, and I told him Cicero had praised his verses, which
soothed him, although it wasn’t true. He never could resist flattery.
The supper began very well. Julius Caesar was, I must say, brilliant.
He can be really clever and pleasant sometimes, and he talked to me the
whole time, and this made Lalage very angry; she was between Metellus
and Bassianus, and she bored them. Then suddenly in the middle of
supper, just as I was beginning to feel more or less happy about it
all, Catullus walked in, very flushed and excited. I saw at once he had
been drinking. He was given a place between Cicero and Lavinia, and
opposite me and Julius Caesar; and no sooner had he settled himself
on his couch than he began to monopolize the conversation. He talked
at the top of his voice. He was rather amusing at first, and Cicero
answered him back, and for a time everything went well; but I was
dreadfully uneasy, as I felt certain something would happen, and there
was a dangerous look in his eye. Besides which he drank off a great
bowl of wine and water (with very little water in it), and grew more
and more flushed and excited. He didn’t pay any attention to Julius
Caesar at all, and talked across to me as though Julius Caesar hadn’t
been there. But Julius Caesar didn’t seem to notice that Catullus was
being rude, and he turned to me and really was charming. He said, among
other things, that the only woman he had ever seen who could compare
with me for wearing clothes _properly_ was Cleopatra, but that she was
dowdy in comparison with me. He said, too, that I was the only woman
he had ever met who had any real grasp of the fiscal question. This
made Catullus mad; and he asked Lavinia in a loud whisper, which we all
heard, who the gentleman sitting opposite might be who was slightly
bald. I was dreadfully uncomfortable, because Julius Caesar can’t bear
any allusions to his baldness (it’s so silly, as if it mattered to us),
and he turned red in the face.
Then Catullus began to chaff Cicero about his verses, but as Cicero
knows him very well it didn’t much matter, he knew he didn’t mean it
really. To make a diversion, I proposed that Bassianus should sing us a
song. But Catullus broke in and said: “Rather than that I will recite a
poem.”
I was very angry, and spoke my mind. I said I thought it was most rash
and daring for an amateur to recite before professionals like Cicero
and Bassianus. I was really frightened, because Catullus’s verses are
either terribly long and serious--I have never been able to listen when
he reads them out; in fact, I always used to ask him to read to me when
I wanted to add up my bills mentally--or else they are short and quite
_impossible_.
He then turned scarlet, and said something about drawing-room
poetasters who wrote stuff fit for women, and, looking at Caesar, he
recited a short poem which was _dreadful_. I didn’t understand it all,
but I felt--and I am sure every one else felt--that he meant to be
rude. I sent him a small note by a slave, telling him that if he did
not know how to behave he had better leave the house. But I looked as
if I hadn’t noticed anything, and tried to treat it all as a joke. But
every one felt hot and uncomfortable.
I then ignored Catullus altogether, and devoted my whole attention to
Julius Caesar. I suppose it was that which really made him lose all his
self-control. He entirely forgot himself. He got up and said that, as
the company did not like comic verse, he had written a serious poem,
which he was quite certain would interest them. He had no wish, he
said (and for once in his life he was modest!), to rival such great
writers of verse, such masters of music and passion, as were Cicero
and Bassianus, but his verse, although it could not rival theirs in
art and inspiration, had at least the merit of truth and sincerity. He
said (and he almost shouted this) he was a plain man, who expressed
in the simplest possible words what were the common experiences of
every one, from the Senator to the man in the street. (So vulgar!) He
said his verses were about a woman (how could I ever have thought he
was a gentleman!) who was far-famed for her beauty, and still better
known for her heartlessness. She heightened her wickedness by the
supreme coquetry of pretending to be virtuous. She professed virtue
and practised vice. (He always was coarse.) He would not name her;
he would call her by a name which was colourless, namely, Lesbia. (Of
course every one knew he had written verses to me under that name!)
Then, looking me straight in the face, he recited a poem which was
_quite_, _quite_ impossible, with a _horrible_ word in it (at least
Lalage said it was horrible). Pollio came to the rescue, and said that
Catullus was ill, and dragged him out of the room. And in a way it was
true, for he was quite tipsy, and tears were rolling down his cheeks;
and I do hate drunken men, but, above all, I hate coarseness.
The next day all Rome knew the poem by heart. And it was a cowardly,
blackguard thing to do, and I shall _never_ speak to him again as long
as I live, and I shall _never_, _never_ let him come into my house
again. Not being a gentleman he can’t know what one feels about those
kind of things. He is thoroughly second-rate and coarse to the core,
although he oughtn’t to be. Of course, I really don’t care a bit. Only
if Lalage writes and tells you about it, don’t believe a word she says.
I hate Catullus. I must stop now.
Your loving
CLODIA.
_P.S._--Lalage had the impertinence to say that I ought to make
allowance for men of genius. As if Catullus was a genius! I asked
Cicero (who likes him) if his poetry was really good, and he said that,
to be honest, it was a _bad_ imitation of Calvus’s and his own, only
that it was very good for an amateur.
_P.P.S._--Julius Caesar is coming to stay with us next Saturday, if he
can get away. Don’t forget the Persian silk, the palest shade, six and
a half yards.