The Woman of Andros and The Ides of March (20 page)

Here he brought his mouth close to my ear: ‘You know my admiration for our master. Nevertheless, I say to you: a man who cannot formulate a more pointed, a more piquant case against him has not yet begun to reflect. . . . No, no, I think there is no doubt about it: Catullus has conjured up some grounds for sexual jealousy.’

Here he waved his hands in the air: ‘Catullus is both a man and a child. It must be seen to be believed. You heard what Cicero said when he first read the love poems? No? ‘This Catullus is the only man in Rome who takes passion seriously; he will probably be the last.’

Catullus to Clodia.

[
September 20.
]

My soul, soul of my soul, life of my life, I have slept all day.

Oh, to be able to sleep until [
Friday
]. It is torture to be awake and not beside you; it is starvation to be asleep and not beside you. At dark I went out with Attius – another torture, to be thinking only of you and yet not to talk of you. It is midnight. I have written and written and torn up what I have written. Oh, the sweetness, the wildness of love, what tongue can tell it? Why must I attempt it; why was I born to be hunted by demons to tell of it?

Forget, oh forget the cutting things we have said to one another. The passion which is our joy is also our furious enemy. It is the vengeance of the Gods that we cannot be forever
one
and totally
one.
It is the rage of the soul that there is a body and the rage of the body that there is a soul. But oh! let us succeed where so few have succeeded. Let us burn the two into one; and oh, Claudillina, let us efface whatever the past held; let us stamp it out. Believe me, it no longer exists. Be proud; refuse to remember it; it is within your power to ignore it. Resolve every morning to be each morning’s new Claudilla.

I kiss you to hide my eyes from you. I hold you. I kiss you. I kiss you. I kiss you.

Pompeia to Clodia.

[
September 21.
]

Here’s a letter from him to you. It’s a perfectly horrible letter and I’m ashamed to forward it.

Anyway! So you see I
can
come. But don’t thank
me.
Why didn’t you tell him from the beginning that that poet would be there? Sometimes I think that all my husband thinks about is poetry. Almost every night he reads it aloud to me in bed. Last night it was Lucretius. All about atoms, atoms, atoms. He doesn’t read it; he knows it by heart. Oh, dear, he’s such a strange man. This week I simply adore him, but he’s such a strange man. Clodiola, I’ve just heard Cicero’s nickname for him. Isn’t that simply
death-defying!
I’ve never laughed so in my life. [
It is hard to know which of Cicero’s soubriquets for Caesar so convulsed the Dictator’s wife. It may have been simply
The Dominie,
or it may have been one of several complicated compound Greek epithets:
The Autophidias,
or
The Man who lived as though he were shaping his own honorific sepulchral monument; the Benevolent Strangler –
which reflects his contemporaries’ bewilderment at Caesar’s wholesale pardon of his enemies and his deeply disturbing failure to display the least resentment against them; or
‘No-body-here-but-smoke’
a phrase from Aristophanes’s
The Wasps,
where a man imprisoned in his house by his son gives this answer when he is discovered trying to escape by the chimney.
]

I tried on the dress. It’s marvelous. I’m going to wear the Etruscan tiara and I’m having gold beads sewn on the skirt, very thick at the bottom and gradually thinning out until there are none at the waist. I don’t know whether the sumptuary laws permit it and I’m not going to ask.

Did you see me give you the sign during the Foundation Day
ballet?
When I pull the lobe of my right ear that’s a message to you. Of course, I don’t dare turn my head to right or left. Even though he’s two miles away, doing all that marching up and down and shouting gibberish I know that he’s got his eyes glued on me.

I’m learning my piece for the you-know-what [
the Mysteries of the Good Goddess
]. Darling, I have simply no memory. All that oldfashioned language.
He
helps me with it. Madam President said that since he’s Supreme Pontiff he’s allowed to know
certain parts
of it. The awful parts, of course not; do you suppose any wife has ever told her husband about
them?
I suppose not.

I hear that Aunt Julia’s coming to your dinner, too. She’s going to stay with us. This time I’ll make her tell me about the days of those earlier civil wars when they had to eat snakes and toads and when she and my grandmother killed lots of men. It must be a very
odd
feeling to
kill
a man!

Hugs.

[
Enclosure
] Caesar to Clodia.

The Dictator’s respects to the Most Noble Lady. The Dictator has deferred the engagement that prevented his presence and accepts the invitation of the Most Noble Publius Claudius Pulcher and the Most Noble Lady. He also requests their permission to invite the Spanish Commissioner and the Deputation of Twelve to her house following the dinner.

The Dictator understands that the Greek mime Eros is performing before the Most Noble Lady’s guests. The performance of this mime is of the highest artistry. It is reported, however, that it is accompanied by a considerable degree of obscenity, particularly in the composition called ‘Aphrodite and Hephaestus.’ It is unsuitable that the generals and administrators from Spain and the remoter districts of the Republic carry back to their posts the impression that the diversions of the capital are of such a character. The Dictator requests that the Most Noble Lady call the attention of the artist to this observation of the Dictator.

The Dictator sends his thanks to the Most Noble Lady and requests that during the earlier part of the evening she waive the protocol which it is customary to observe in his presence.

Cicero from his villa at Tusculum to Atticus in Greece.

[
September 26.
]

Only the Muses, my Pomponius, can console us for the loss of all the things we have valued. We have become slaves, but even a slave can sing. I have reversed the procedure of Odysseus: to save himself and his associates from destruction he deafened his ears to the sirens; I, however, have given all my attention to the Muses in order to drown out the death rattle of the Republic and the expiring groans of liberty.

I do not agree with you: I lay the general suffocation to the charge of one man.

The patient at the point of death called in this doctor who restored in him every faculty but the will and promptly bound him to himself as his personal slave. I entertained for a time the hope that the doctor would rejoice in his patient’s restoration and release him to the full exercise of his independence. That hope has dwindled.

So let us cultivate the muses; that is one freedom no man can take from us.

The doctor himself takes an interest in the melodies that arise from this universal jail. He has sent me a sheaf of verses by this Catullus you speak of. I have known the young man for some time and am even addressed in one of the poems. I have known this poem for a year, but by the Gods, I am not certain as to whether it is addressed to me in admiration or in derision. I am sufficiently grateful that he does not call me pander nor pickpocket – playful attributions which few of his friends escape.

I do not share Caesar’s unbounded enthusiasm. For some of these poems I have not so much an admiration as a weakness. Those which are based upon Greek models we may call the most brilliant translations we have yet seen; when they depart from Greek prototypes we are confronted with some strange matter.

These poems are in Latin but they are not Roman. Catullus comes from over the border and prepares us for that adulteration of our language and our forms of thought which must inevitably overwhelm us. The poems to Clodia, and particularly those commemorating the death of her sparrow, are not without grace, but they have their comical side. I am told that they are already scrawled across the walls of the Baths and that there is no Syrian sausage vendor who has not committed them to memory. The sparrow! We are told that it often perched in Clodia’s bosom – a much-traveled thoroughfare, only occasionally available to birds. Well, let us have Anacreontic threnodies on this bird and impassioned exhortations to kisses beyond counting – but what do I find? A rapid transition, or rather no transition, and we are talking about death; and by Hercules, the commonplaces of stoic philosophy are richly marshaled.

Soles occidere et redire possunt;

Nobis cum semel brevis lux occisus est

Nox est perpetua et una dormienda.

[
A translation is given in II-B.
]

That is high and mournful music. I am having it cut into the wall of the pergola that looks toward the setting sun; – but where is the sparrow and where are the kisses? An indefensible disproportion joins the beginnings and the ends of those poems. That is neither Greek nor Roman. A secret train of thought, an association of ideas beneath the surface of the lines, is operating in the poet’s mind. It is Clodia’s death, it is his own, that is figured in that of the sparrow.

If we are to be condemned to a poetry based on buried trains of thought, my dear Pomponius, we shall soon be at the mercy of the unintelligible parading about among us as a superior mode of sensibility. It is true that our minds are a market place in which the slave brushes against the sage, or an untended garden where the weed springs beside the rose. At any moment a trivial thought may leap and associate itself with the sublime which in turn may be illustrated or interrupted by the homeliest detail of daily life. This is incoherence; this is the barbarian within us all and from which Homer and the great writers of six hundred years have worked to free us.

I am to meet this poet at a dinner which Clodia is giving in a few days. Caesar will be there. I intend so to direct the conversation that this truth will be made clear to them. The maintenance of categories is the health not only of literature, but of the State.

Report from the Dictator’s Secret Police: concerning Gaius Valerius Catullus.

[
September 22
.]

[
These reports were submitted daily. They included intercepted letters, conversations engaged in or overheard, and accounts of persons or the activities of persons whose names were often forwarded to the police by the Dictator.
]

Subject 642: Gaius Valerius Catullus, son of Gaius, grandson of Titus; gentleman from the region of Verona. Age: 29. Resides at the Aemilian Draughts and Swimming Club. Frequents: Ficinius Mela; the brothers Pollio; Cornelius Nepos; Lucius Calco; Mamilius Torquatus; Horbatius Cinna; the Lady Clodia Pulcher.

The papers in this subject’s rooms have been examined. They include family and personal letters and in large quantity material of poetry.

Subject shows no political interests and it is assumed that inquiries in regard to him may be dropped.

[
Notation by the Dictator:
‘Reports on subject 642 will be continued. A transcript of all documents found in Subject’s lodgings will be forwarded as soon as possible.’

The following papers were then placed before the Dictator.
]

Catullus’s Mother to Catullus.

Your father has taken on many new duties in the town. He is busy from morning to night. The crops have not been what was expected. This is due to the many storms. Ipsitha had a very bad cold but is better. Your dogs are well. Victor is pretty old now. He sleeps by the fire most of the time now at my feet.

We heard from Cecinnius’s agent that you had not been well. You do not tell us such things in your letters. Your father is distressed. You know what a good doctor we have here and what care would be devoted to you. We beg you to come to us.

All Verona knows your poems by heart. Why do you never send them to us? Cecinnius’s wife brought over twenty of them to us. It is strange that we must receive from a neighbor’s hand the one you wrote about your dear brother’s death. Your father carries it with him wherever he goes. It is hard to speak of it. It is very beautiful.

I pray daily that the Immortal Gods may protect you. I am well. Write us when you can. August 12.

Clodia to Catullus.

[
The preceding spring.
]

It is too boring to have to deal with an hysterical child.

Never try to see me again.

I will not be spoken to in such a fashion. I have broken no promises, for I made none.

I shall live as I choose.

Allius to Catullus.

Here’s the key. No one will disturb you. My uncle uses the rooms sometime, but he has gone to Ravenna. ‘Oh, Love, ruler of Gods and men.’

Anonymous Letter [written by Clodius Pulcher, but in a woman’s hand] to Caesar’s wife.

It has been reported to me, great and noble lady, that you have accepted an invitation to dine at the house of Clodius Pulcher tomorrow night. I would not take up the time of one who fills with such distinction so lofty a place did I not have information to impart to you which you could not obtain elsewhere.

This is a letter of warning for which I think you will not be ungrateful. I know to my great sorrow that Clodius Pulcher bears toward you a sentiment which has long passed the bounds of admiration. He who hitherto has never known what it is to love, who – alas! – has caused more suffering than joy to our sex has at last been humbled by that God who spares no one. It is not likely that he will ever declare his passion to you; the respect he bears to your immortal husband will and must prevent that; but it may be that what he feels may break even the restraints of duty and honour.

Do not attempt to ascertain who I am. One of my motives in writing to you I cannot hope to conceal: it is jealousy – jealousy that you hold undisputed sway in a heart where once I thought myself beloved. Soon after writing this letter I shall put an end to an existence which has lost its reason for being. Let my dying words warn you that even your noble nature would not be able to reform one who has dissipated his golden promise in thoughtless disorder; even you cannot recall him from the influence of that most wicked woman, his sister; even you cannot avenge the wrongs he has done to our sex. He believes that you could reclaim him to virtue and to public usefulness. He is deceived; even you, great lady, could not do that.