Scene
I was going from the Academy straight to the Lyceum, intending to take
the outer road, which is close under the wall. When I came to the
postern gate of the city, which is by the fountain of Panops, I fell
in with Hippothales, the son of Hieronymus, and Ctesippus the
Paeanian, and a company of young men who were standing with them.
Hippothales, seeing me approach, asked whence I came and whither I was
going.
I am going, I replied, from the Academy straight to the Lyceum.
Then come straight to us, he said, and put in here; you may as well.
Who are you, I said; and where am I to come?
He showed me an enclosed space and an open door over against the wall.
And there, he said, is the building at which we all meet: and a goodly
company we are.
And what is this building, I asked; and what sort of entertainment
have you?
The building, he replied, is a newly erected Palaestra; and the
entertainment is generally conversation, to which you are welcome.
Thank you, I said; and is there any teacher there?
Yes, he said, your old friend and admirer, Miccus.
Indeed, I replied; he is a very eminent professor.
Are you disposed, he said, to go with me and see them?
Yes, I said; but I should like to know first, what is expected of me,
and who is the favourite among you?
Some persons have one favourite, Socrates, and some another, he said.
And who is yours? I asked: tell me that, Hippothales.
At this he blushed; and I said to him, O Hippothales, thou son of
Hieronymus! do not say that you are, or that you are not, in love; the
confession is too late; for I see that you are not only in love, but
are already far gone in your love. Simple and foolish as I am, the
Gods have given me the power of understanding affections of this kind.
Whereupon he blushed more and more.
Ctesippus said: I like to see you blushing, Hippothales, and
hesitating to tell Socrates the name; when, if he were with you but
for a very short time, you would have plagued him to death by talking
about nothing else. Indeed, Socrates, he has literally deafened us,
and stopped our ears with the praises of Lysis; and if he is a little
intoxicated, there is every likelihood that we may have our sleep
murdered with a cry of Lysis. His performances in prose are bad
enough, but nothing at all in comparison with his verse; and when he
drenches us with his poems and other compositions, it is really too
bad; and worse still is his manner of singing them to his love; he has
a voice which is truly appalling, and we cannot help hearing him: and
now having a question put to him by you, behold he is blushing.
Who is Lysis? I said: I suppose that he must be young; for the name
does not recall any one to me.
Why, he said, his father being a very well known man, he retains his
patronymic, and is not as yet commonly called by his own name; but,
although you do not know his name, I am sure that you must know his
face, for that is quite enough to distinguish him.
But tell me whose son he is, I said.
He is the eldest son of Democrates, of the deme of Aexone.
Ah, Hippothales, I said; what a noble and really perfect love you have
found! I wish that you would favour me with the exhibition which you
have been making to the rest of the company, and then I shall be able
to judge whether you know what a lover ought to say about his love,
either to the youth himself, or to others.
Nay, Socrates, he said; you surely do not attach any importance to
what he is saying.
Do you mean, I said, that you disown the love of the person whom he
says that you love?
No; but I deny that I make verses or address compositions to him.
He is not in his right mind, said Ctesippus; he is talking nonsense,
and is stark mad.