“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.”
I knew his modesty; but having resolved to deal with Polymedes at once, I did not feel eager to spend the rest of the morning being improved by Protagoras or some other venerable Sophist; so I assured Sokrates that he himself had done me as much good as anyone could, except a god. “Oh?” he said. “Yet I believe you don’t consider me infallible; I noticed just now that you thought more of Pistias’ opinion than of mine.”—“Only about armour, Sokrates. Pistias is an armourer, after all.”—“Just so. Wait, then, while I fetch my friend. He is usually wrestling here about this time.”—“Wrestling?” I said staring; Protagoras was reckoned to be at least eighty years old. “Who is this friend, Sokrates? I thought …”—“Wait in the garden,” he said; and then just as he was turning to go, “We will try Lysis, son of Demokrates.”