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| Clodia Illustration by George Barbier |
C L O D I A
Impure Woman
by Marcel Schwob
She was a daughter of Appius Claudius Pulcher, consul. When only a few years old she was distinguished among her brothers and sisters by the burning brightness of her large eyes. Tertia, her older sister, married early, and the youngest submitted herself entirely to Clodia’s caprices. Her brothers, Appius and Caius, were already greedy for leather frogs, nutshell chariots and other toys; later they grew avaricious for silver sesterces. Pretty and feminine, Clodius became the companion of his sisters, and Clodia persuaded him to don a long-sleeved tunic, a little cap with golden strings, and a supple girdle. Then they tossed a flame colored veil over him, carrying him away to their own chamber, where he remained with all three. Clodia was his favorite, but he took also the innocence of Tertia and of the youngest girl. When Clodia was eighteen her father died. Appius, her brother, then ruled the domain from their palace on Mount Palatin, while Caius prepared for public life. Delicate and beardless, Clodius remained with his sisters, who were both called Clodia. They took him secretly to the baths with them, buying the silence of the slave attendants for a few gold pieces. Clodius was treated like his sisters in their presence. Such were their pleasures before marriage.
The youngest married Lucullus, who took her to Asia where he was fighting in the wars against Mithridates. Por husband, Clodia chose her cousin Metellus, a dull, honest man. In those spendthrift times he preserved a spirit frugal and dour, and Clodia could not abide his simple rusticity. She was just beginning to dream of new things for her dear Clodius when Caesar’s disapproval came to dampen their pleasure, for Clodia guessed he might compel them to separate. To evade this she made Pomponius Atticus bring Cicero to see her. Hers was a tittering, flirtatious circle. Around her were found such men as Licinius Calvus; young Curion (nicknamed “Girlie”); Sextius Clodius who followed the races; Ignatius and his band; and Catullus of Verona and Caelius Rufus who were both in love with her. While they recounted the latest scandals about Caesar and Mamurra, Clodia’s husband sat silent in his chair. Elected proconsul, Metellus departed at once for Cisalpine Gaul, leaving Clodia in Rome with her sister-in-law, Murcia. Cicero was soon thoroughly charmed by Clodia’s big blazing eyes. He dreamed of divorcing Terrentia, his wife, supposing Clodia would leave her husband and come to him in that event. But Terrentia discovered the design, promptly terrifying Cicero with her discov¬ ery and its possible consequences until he dropped all association with Clodius and Clodia.
Meanwhile Clodius had busied himself making love to Pompeia, Cresar’s wife. On the night celebrating the divinity of their patron goddess, women only were permitted in Cgesar’s house, for Caesar was praetor and Pompeia alone offered the sacrifice. Disguised in the feminine garments of a zither player (just as his sister used to dress him) Clodius made his way to Pompeia, but a slave recognized him and Pompeia’s mother gave the alarm. The scandal was soon public. Clodius attempted to defend himself by vowing he had spent the night with Cicero, but Terrentia forced her husband’s denial and Cicero testified against Clodius.
Thereafter Clodius had no place among the nobles. Now past thirty, his sister was more ardent than ever. Clodius, she thought, might be adopted by some plebeian and so become a tribune of the people. Metellus, now returned to Rome, saw through her schemes and mocked her with them. In these days when she had no Clodius, she let herself be loved by Catullus. Metellus seemed odious to her. Resolved to be rid of him, she met him one day as he returned from the senate, presenting him a cup to quench his thirst. Metellus drank and fell dead, and Clodia was free. Then she fled her husband’s house, shutting herself up at once with Clodius on Mount Palatin, where the youngest sister came to join them after deserting her husband, Lucullus. They resumed their old manner of life, all three, and unleashed their spite.
When he turned plebeian Clodius was known almost from the first as a tribune of the people, for notwithstanding his feminine graces, he had a strong, penetrating voice. He obtained Cicero’s exile, destroyed the statesman’s house before his eyes and swore ruin and death to all his friends. Then serving as proconsul in Gaul, Caesar was powerless to interfere. Through Pompey, Cicero gained new influences during the following year, thus contriving to have himself recalled, whereupon the fury of the young commoner leaped to extremes. He first launched a violent attack against Cicero’s friend, Milon, who was then hinting at ambitions for the consulate. Apostle of night, Clodius tried to murder Milon after overpowering his torchbearers, but the scandal of that scene marked the end of the young plebeian’s popularity, for obscene songs about Clodius and Clodia were soon sung in the streets, while Cicero denounced them both in a violent discourse, comparing Clodia to Medea and Clymenestra. The rage of the brother and sister ended by consuming them. Clodius was killed in the dark by guardian slaves while attempting to burn Milon’s house.
Clodia was desperate. She took and rejected Catullus, Cadius Rufus and Ignatius, but she loved only her brother Clodius. It was for him she had poisoned her husband, for him she hired the incendiaries. When he died the object of her life vanished, though she remained beautiful and passionate. She had a country villa on the road to Ostia, a summer place with gardens on the Tiber, and another at Baja. In that last resort she sought refuge, endeavoring to find distraction through lascivious dancing with her women. But it was not enough. Her spirit was filled with the stupors of Clodius, whom she saw forever beardless and feminine. She recalled a time long ago when he had been captured by Sicilian pirates, and how they had used his soft body. She remembered a certain tavern where she had gone with him; how the doorway had been scribbled over with words written in charcoal, what a stench had come from the men who drank there, and how their chests were matted with hair.
Rome attracted her again. At early dusk she walked through the wide squares and thoroughfares, the blazing insolence of her eyes unchanged. Nothing now appeased her though she tried all . . . even standing in the rain and sleeping in the mud. She bathed in the deep caverns where slaves gambled at dice. She was known in those cellars frequented by scullions and teamsters. She waited on the curb for any man who passed. She perished towards the morning of a suffocating night, after a strange return to a house that had once been her own. Sorry because he had given her so much as a quarterns, a workman trapped her at dawn in an obscure alley, and strangled her to get his money back. He threw her body, with her large eyes still open, into the yellow waters of the Tiber.
Marcel Schwob
Imaginary Lives
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