The Last of the Wine (11 page)

I
F SO FAR I
have mentioned none of my suitors by name, you will understand why. Only their numbers had been pleasing to me in some degree, as a mark of success, as if so many trophies had been awarded me for my looks; and even so, the crowns I had won for running had pleased me more, being a thing in which my father had not excelled before me. Yet I was civil to them, even to the most foolish, out of regard for my good name; so that people said I was not spoiled by admiration, which was as I wished.

I only once broke this rule. Kritias, after I became the fashion, decided to approach me seriously, with an epigram offering to drown himself in my unfathomed eyes, and all the usual procedure. Him I turned my back on without speaking; and, as people were looking, he never came again.

Charmides had been courting me for some months. It was he indeed whose attentions had first launched me upon success. He was extremely handsome (except that he stood badly, for lack of exercise) and of the highest birth; influential, rich, and generally accomplished. I thought more than once that it would have been convenient if I could have taken to him; for if he had been my accepted suitor, the rest would immediately have retired. You may wonder why this had begun to seem so desirable to me; which brings me to Polymedes.

Polymedes was even richer than Charmides, but lacked both his breeding and his wit. Charmides, who had many love-affairs and could afford to wait, made himself always graceful and pleasant, thinking that after comparing him with the rest over some time, I would turn to him in the end. But Polymedes may, I suppose, have been in love with me as such people understand it. If you had wanted to typify the kind of lover my father had warned me to despise, you need have looked no further than Polymedes. I felt sure that if I had behaved in the most infamous manner, soliciting gifts from him in return for my favour, or if he had watched me insult in public some honourable old man, he would not only have gone on desiring me, but at my command would have lain down in the dust for me to walk on. At all events, his antics had got beyond a joke. I could scarcely pass a wall near my home without finding “Long life to the beautiful Alexias” flourished all over it. Our sleep was broken by his serenades; for in accordance with his nature, he hired twice as many musicians as anyone else. Whereas Charmides would bring a flute and lyre and sing quietly in a way which, I must admit, was pleasing, Polymedes made such a din that the neighbours started to shout, and I had to apologise to my mother in the morning. I did not care to discuss it with her; but I could not endure her to think I countenanced Polymedes. To my relief she took it lightly, only telling me not to let him come again because the noise woke the baby; and this message I gave him, hoping it would shame him into retreat. But he seemed delighted at my speaking to him, even for this. And as if my wishes were nothing at all to him, as if I were some image of gold or silver for which he was bidding against the rest, two days later he excelled even himself. For when I came back from exercise, quite early in the day, and was approaching the house, I saw him lying prone on the front steps, where he looked to have been already for some time.

I had heard of lovers pressing their suit in this fashion, but had really thought it only happened in comic plays. A number of little boys had stopped to look, and were wondering aloud where he had got drunk in the morning. Even as I paused, our neighbour Phalinos came up and, leaning over him officiously, asked if he had been taken ill. I saw Polymedes roll his eyes and guessed what kind of reply he must have made, for Phalinos went off muttering and shaking his head. I could picture the slaves inside chattering together and wondering what they had better do. Just then Polymedes heaved himself up on one arm like a wounded man, looking round, either for me or for someone to admire him. I drew back behind a porch and slipped away.

I ran round to the mews where the stables were, and took Phoenix out, not calling the groom in case he knew what was going on. It had come to something, I thought, when I could not face our own slaves. I mounted, barefoot as I was, and rode off, angry almost to tears. It was a matter where my uncle Strymon might have helped me, if he had been a different man; but I could not stomach the humiliation of asking him. It was bad enough that he might easily come to call, and see it for himself.

But as I came into the Street of the Herm-Makers, I saw in the middle of it the only man in the world whom, that morning, it could give me pleasure to meet He was disputing with someone, and, not wanting to interrupt him, I drew rein while still some distance off.

The other man was no one I knew. Sokrates had got into conversation with some ordinary citizen, as he often did; and I could see at once that the man was getting warm. It was all very well when Sokrates asked these people questions about their trade, for he listened very humbly to all they told him; and if he showed them in the end some wider application of their own knowledge, it was by letting them think it was they who had taught it to him. But sometimes they turned out the kind of man who dislikes being made to think, and then there was trouble.

This man looked like the inferior sort of statuary who sets up as a Herm-maker; a ham-handed fellow, covered with the white dust of his trade; and the conversation had got to a point when it sounded rather like the kind of row you can hear going on in a stonemason’s yard. It may be that Sokrates was reliving his youth a little. As I looked, the man gave a bawl of rage and set upon him. I saw that he had seized him by the hair, and was shaking him about. I kicked Phoenix hard and he charged forward, making everyone in the street scramble out of his way. While I was coming up I could not see that Sokrates did much to help himself; but he was still talking. Reaching them I called out to the man to let go; on which Phoenix, hearing me shout, reared up of his own accord and brandished his hoofs at the fellow’s head, as my father had taught him to do in battle. I was very much surprised, but managed to keep my seat, and to pull him aside from Sokrates. The man, whom I had had no time to think about, made off.

As soon as I had quieted Phoenix I jumped down. Sokrates moved out of the horse’s way and I thought he had staggered. I threw my arms quickly round him, asking if he was hurt. His body was as firm as rock, and I felt a fool. “My dear boy,” he said blinking at me, “what are you trying to do to my reputation? It is one thing to have my hair torn out in the cause of reason; it will be quite another tomorrow, when everyone is saying, ‘Look at that old rascal, who outmarched all his rivals by hiring a bully to attack him, and is now the only man in the City who can claim that the beautiful Alexias embraced him in the street.’”

“If that were true!” I said laughing. “Cruel Sokrates, to mock me with such happiness!” The odd nature of our meeting had taken all my shyness away. I asked him what had caused the man to fall upon him. “He was maintaining to a number of people that the Egyptians are barbarians because they worship beasts and birds as gods. I said we ought to enquire first whether they really did so. He had just led himself up to admitting that to worship a man-shaped image, really believing that the god resembles a man, is more impious than to worship divine wisdom in the shape of a hawk. At this point he became angry; you would have supposed he had something to gain by thinking every Egyptian more barbarous than himself.”

“Your head is bleeding,” I said, and wiped it with the corner of my cloak. Just then I saw a metic’s son I knew by sight, and gave him something to take Phoenix home for me; for people were gathering to stare at him, as they do if you lead a good horse in the City. “Now, Sokrates,” I said, “I shall walk with you wherever you are going, for how will you shake me off? The whole town would denounce your inconstancy, after what has been between us.” And I gave him the side of my eye, as Agathon would have done.

He said nothing, but as we began walking, I saw he was laughing to himself. Presently he said, “Don’t imagine, dear Alexias, that I laugh out of foolhardiness, like a man reckless of his danger. But who would recognise in the accomplished beauty, who is drawing looks of hatred and envy upon me from every side, the shy lad who stood at the back, and ducked behind someone’s shoulder whenever he felt in danger of being spoken to?”—“With you, Sokrates,” I said, ceasing to laugh, “I always feel the same.” He looked at me and said, “Well, I believe you. For something is troubling you; yet when it comes to bringing it out, this charming boldness is only skin-deep after all. Or perhaps it is a matter of love? Naturally in that case a novice like me could scarcely help you.”

“You know if it were I should be at your door before daybreak with it, like all the rest. But it’s only a matter of a suitor; and you would call me cold, as you did before, chasing me away without giving me any chance to prove to you whether I am cold or not.” I had heard Kallikles talk to him like this, and it had seemed to amuse him.

“Is this suitor,” he said, “Polymedes by any chance? You and he have not fallen out, have you?”—“Fallen out!” I cried. “I have scarcely spoken to the man. You can’t have been supposing, Sokrates …”—“Naturally in a case like this you will find foolish people saying that the suitor would never have gone so far without incitement, even if without reward. But I see they have been unjust to you.” I was so much hurt by this that, losing my head, I said I had had enough of it all, and was thinking of slipping off if I could to join the Army in Sicily. He said, “Steady, my friend. Be what you would like to seem; that’s a man’s best shield against tongues. Calm yourself, and tell me what the particular trouble is.”

When I had done he said, “I see I was wrong to let you send your horse home, for I imagine you were in a hurry to ask some friend for his advice and help; Charmides, for instance?” I denied this with indignation, indeed with too much. It was true that I had not been going to Charmides; but as I rode I had begun thinking, “I won’t seek his help, and be in debt to him; but, when I have shown I can take care of myself, it might do no harm to be seen in his company once or twice.” I said, however, “Charmides is waiting for that very thing. If this is love and the behaviour of lovers, give me the enemy in battle.”

I spoke in anger, for my heart was sore. The truth is that I was getting to an age when one wishes for love, and has one’s own ideas of what it ought to be; and I was ceasing to believe that what I sought was anywhere to be found.

“By the way,” Sokrates asked, “what do you dislike so much about Polymedes? He looks undistinguished, of course, compared with a man like Charmides, and his father made his money in leather. Is it his vulgarity, or what?”—“No, Sokrates. That too I daresay; but in himself he is base. He tried first to buy me with gifts; not flowers or a hare, but the kind of thing we can’t afford at home. Then he sent word that he was dying, to make me take him out of pity; and now, what is surely as low as a man can go, he is willing I should do it simply to keep him quiet. If I were to lose my father and mother and all I have, if I were disgraced even before the City so that people turned from me in the street, he would be glad of it, if it put me within his reach. And this he calls love.” I had spoken too vehemently, but Sokrates still looked at me kindly; so coming at last to what had been behind the rest, I said, “I shall always think worse of myself for having been his choice.”

He shook his head. “You are wrong, my boy, if you think he is seeking a kindred spirit. He is looking for what he lacks, being limp of soul, and not wishing to know that the good must first be wrought with toil out of a man’s own self, like the statue from the block. So now I think you need the advice of someone who understands these questions.”

I was about to say, “Whose, Sokrates?” when a great noise of hammering reminded us that we were approaching the Street of the Armourers. Since the news from Sicily, they were busy again. We turned aside, to be heard without shouting. “I suppose,” Sokrates said, “you will be ordering armour for yourself before another year is up, so fast time flies. Where will you go for it?”—“To Pistias, if I can afford his price. He’s very dear; nine or ten minas for a horseman’s suit.”—“So much? I suppose you will get a gold device on the breastbone for that?”—“From Pistias? Not if you gave him twelve; he won’t touch them.”—“Kephalos would make you something to catch the eye.”—“Well, but Sokrates, I might need to fight in it.” He laughed, and paused. “I see,” he said, “that you are a judge of value, though so young. Perhaps you can tell me, then, who am getting too old to know much of such matters, what price one ought to pay for a true and honourable lover?” I wondered what he could take me for, and answered at once that one ought not to pay anything.

He looked at me searchingly, and nodded his head. “An answer worthy, Alexias, of your father’s son. Yet many things have their price which are not upon the market. Let us see if this is one of them. If we come into the company of such a lover, it seems to me that one of three things will happen. Either he will succeed in making us his equal in honour; or, if he fails both to do this and to free himself from love, seeking to please us he will become less good than he was; or, if he is of stronger mind, remembering what is due to the gods and to his own soul, he will be master of himself, and go away. Or can you see some other conclusion than these?”

“I don’t think, Sokrates,” I said, “that there can be another.”

“So, then, it now appears, does it not, that the price of an honourable lover is to be honourable ourselves, and that we shall neither get him nor keep him, if we offer anything less?”—“It seems so, certainly,” said I, thinking it kind of him to be at so much pains to keep my mind from my troubles. “And thus,” he said, “we find that what we thought was to be had for love turns out the costliest of all. You are fortunate, Alexias; for I think it is still within your means. But see, we are walking past our destination.”

We had just passed the portico of the Archon King, and were outside Taureas’ palaestra. Not wishing to trouble him with my company out of season, I asked if he was meeting a friend. “Yes, if I can find him. But don’t go, Alexias. I am only looking for him to put your case before him. He happens to be much better qualified than I to help you.”