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.