by Laurie Gray
I let my body fall back onto the bed. “No. Thank you, Leda. I’ll be fine.” I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. The wine was relaxing me and telling me that perhaps I really would be all right. Socrates would come home and talk to me of desires. Until he returned I would deliberate more on this question. What is it that I desire?
7
MY FIRST DAY of marriage was the first day of my life I had nothing to do—no cooking, no cleaning, no weaving, no planting, no tending to the animals, no caring for Father. Nothing. I asked myself a hundred times what I should do. What could I do? I paced about the room, imploring the gods for a sign.
Then suddenly it occurred to me. I am married to the wisest man in the world. I will ask Socrates, and he will tell me what I am to do. I will do what my husband tells me to do. This will surely please the gods and Socrates. This resolution brought great relief. I lay down on the bed and offered myself up to sleep. My dreams carried me out of Socrates’ room, away from Xanthippe’s house, back to my own bed where I slept soundly.
When I awoke, the lamp on the table at the foot of Socrates’ bed shone brightly upon a plate of ripe olives, goat cheese and barley bread. Beside the food were two jars, one of water and one of wine. I poured myself a cup of water. I am not welcome at Xanthippe’s table. Am I to eat alone from now on? I studied the food before me. It certainly looked delicious. Probably the finest in the house. Who brought me this beautiful meal? Certainly not Xanthippe.
At the thought of Xanthippe, fear completely replaced my loneliness. Perhaps Xanthippe had prepared my supper—an enticing presentation laced with poison. Are my suspicions merely wishful thinking? What do I desire? Nothing. I stared at the plate, lost in my indifference.
I was still staring at the plate when Socrates returned.
“Good evening, Myrto,” he said with a smile. “May I join you?”
I nodded. Socrates pulled the other chair up beside me and poured himself a glass of wine.
“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked.
I shook my head.
Socrates frowned. “Is there something you need?”
I nodded and took a deep breath to summon my courage. “I have food and drink and a place to rest. But I have nothing to do. What would you have me do?”
Socrates shrugged. “Do what you like.” He tipped his wine glass toward me before taking a drink.
“Socrates, you are my husband. You are the wisest of all men. I would like for you to tell me what I should do.” I drank from my cup, wishing it were wine rather than water.
“I am your husband, this is true. But why do you call me wise?”
I drank the rest of my water and thought about the stories I’d heard. “Everyone says that the priestess of Apollo in Delphi told Chaerophon that you are the wisest of all men. The Delphic Oracle cannot lie.”
Socrates laughed and poured himself some more wine. I slid my glass toward him, and he filled it as well. “Just because the Oracle cannot lie, does not mean those who hear the truth will understand it.”
“You speak in riddles,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t understand.”
“Have you heard of Croesus, the mighty king of Lydia who consulted the Oracle because he wished to wage war on Persia?” Socrates took a piece of bread and some cheese.
I nodded. “Everyone knows this history.”
“And what did the priestess tell him?”
“That Croesus would destroy a great kingdom,” I replied.
“Exactly,” said Socrates. “So what did Croesus do?”
“He attacked Persia,” I said.
“And did he destroy the great kingdom of Persia?” Socrates asked.
“No,” I replied. “The great kingdom he destroyed was his own.”
Socrates nodded. “Have some food and I will tell you exactly what Chaerophon told me.” Socrates pushed the plate toward me.
I drank most of my wine before taking a handful of olives and placing them in my mouth one at a time. The flesh fell easily away from each pit as I bit down. I collected the pits between my cheek and gum, sucking the salty brine completely from every one.
“Chaerophon was my friend from youth,” Socrates began. “He always was so impulsive. I have no idea what possessed him to travel to Delphi and waste an audience with the priestess to inquire about my supposed wisdom.”
I put my hand to my mouth, curling my fingers around my lips and sliding the pits out of my mouth into my cupped hand. When my mouth was clear, I asked, “You did not send him?”
Socrates leaned back in his chair and laughed. “My dear, I have always known that I am not wise. I had no idea he was going. It was only after he returned and began spreading slander about my supposed wisdom that I asked him to tell me exactly what he had asked the Oracle.” Socrates paused for another bite of cheese and bread.
“So what was Chaerophon’s question?” I asked.
“Chaerophon intended to ask if I possessed true wisdom, but as he approached the great temple of Apollo, excitement overtook him.”
“I’ve heard that the Oracle in Delphi is as big as the Parthenon here in Athens,” I said, trying to imagine how terrifying it would be to stand so close to a god and live to tell about it.
Socrates nodded. “Chaerophon said he read the three great inscriptions as he passed through the gates: ‘Know Thyself,’ ‘All Things in Moderation,’ and ‘Promises Lead to Perdition.’ He felt open to hearing and understanding the truth. But then when he entered the cell of the god, it was so narrow that the walls pressed in upon him.” Socrates filled both of our cups with wine before he continued.
“Inside the great temple of Apollo, behind the confining cell, the priestess stood in a small underground crypt filled with smoke. She was chewing laurel leaves and speaking in a terrifying frenzy to the man in line before him. Chaerophon trembled with the most tremendous fear. He was still quite overwhelmed when they summoned him for his audience. So when it was his turn, he did not ask if I possessed true wisdom. Instead, he asked, ‘Is any man wiser than Socrates?’”
“And what did the priestess say?” I asked.
“Of course, Chaerophon could not understand a word she said. But the priests interpreted her utterances to say, ‘No one is wiser.’”
“So you are the wisest man of all!” I exclaimed.
Socrates shook his head. “That’s what Chaerophon thought, too, but that’s not what the Oracle said. The Oracle did not say that I was wise, only that no one was wiser.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” I asked.
“For a long time I pondered this,” Socrates replied. “I’ve spent years investigating the wisdom of everyone with a reputation for being wise. I examine each man and especially those who believe themselves to be wise. And do you know what I’ve found?”
I shook my head.
“That not one of these men can explain anything worthwhile. I’ve talked to politicians and poets, philosophers and teachers. The more they try to explain what they know, the more obvious it becomes that they do not really know. There are so many questions they cannot answer about what they profess to know. Yet each remains adamant about his own knowledge. They all think they know something when they do not.”
“Isn’t there anyone who is wise?” I asked.
Socrates shook his head. “All of the human wisdom I’ve found has been worth little or nothing. If I am wise in any way, it’s only because I at least understand that I know nothing.”
“So what about all of the men you questioned who were supposed to be wise?”
“Well,” Socrates said with a sad smile, “they still call themselves wise.” Then his eyes sparkled as he looked into mine. “And they aren’t very fond of me.” He held my gaze for a moment before I looked away.
We continued eating in silence. Finally, I decided to ask him again. “Even if you are not wise, you are still my husband. What is it that you would have me do each day?”
“Do what you like,” Socrates replied.
/> “How can I do what I like?” I asked. “I am a prisoner in this room, afraid to set foot in Xanthippe’s house and with nowhere else to go outside this house.”
Socrates took my hand in his. “You are not a prisoner in this house, Myrto. You are free to come and go as you please. Where do you want to go? What do you want to spend your days doing?”
Tears filled my eyes and rolled down my cheeks.
“There is nowhere,” I said, shaking my head. “There is nothing.”
Socrates brought my hand to his lips. “There is everywhere and everything. If you wish, tomorrow you may come with me.”
8
SOCRATES AWAKENED ME before dawn. “Myrto,” he said gently shaking me. “Do you wish to join me today?”
I sat up and rubbed the dreams from my eyes. “I do,” I said, my words swallowed up in a yawn. I stretched my arms and yawned again.
Socrates captured my hand in his and pulled me gently toward him. The warmth of his breath sent a pleasant tremble through my body as he kissed my forehead. “Please dress and meet me in the courtyard,” Socrates said. He smiled, released my hand, and left the room.
Lamprocles and Socrates were both waiting when I entered the enclosed patio. Bird songs filled the chilly morning air. Mountain crickets hummed and distant pond frogs crooned their accompaniment. A gentle breeze beckoned me to step into the unknown.
Lamprocles broke the spell with an awkward greeting. “Morning, Myrto.” He was holding a torch in one hand and a satchel in the other. The torch illuminated his wavy hair and the fuzzy wisps of his first whiskers.
I nodded and murmured a polite response. Socrates wrapped a cloak around my shoulders and turned me toward the gate. “Shall we?” he said, motioning to Lamprocles to lead the way.
I could hardly believe it. I was going to spend the day in the Agora and taste the daily activity of Athens’ marketplace. Respectable women know only the flurry of festival days. What husband has ever invited his wife to share the wonder of an average day? Is it even allowed? Socrates strolled along between Lamprocles and me as if I were just another son.
“Is there anything that you would like to discuss as we walk?” Socrates asked, looking first to me and then to Lamprocles. I shook my head and leaned back to catch a glimpse of Lamprocles.
“No, Father,” Lamprocles replied.
“Very well,” Socrates said. “Then let us think about wisdom. Does either of you know what wisdom is?”
Lamprocles shuffled his feet in the dusty road, turning up a large stone. He kicked it in the opposite direction, but somehow I felt as if it were directed at me.
“Myrto,” said Socrates, “what is wisdom?”
I wanted desperately to give the right answer so that Lamprocles would think well of me and Socrates would be proud of me. What could it possibly be? Did Socrates give me a clue last night?
“Last night you told me that you are not wise,” I ventured. “So I suppose wisdom must be something that you do not possess.”
Socrates laughed aloud. “Excellent start, my dear! Don’t you agree, Lamprocles?” Socrates’ left hand caught my right hand, raising it to his lips. His kiss of approval ran up my arm and moved my own lips to smile.
“It’s a start, but I cannot agree that you do not possess wisdom, Father,” replied Lamprocles. “Your wisdom is your understanding that you know nothing.”
“Ah, I see,” said Socrates, gently releasing my hand. “So wisdom is a kind of understanding?”
“Yes,” said Lamprocles. “It must be so.”
Socrates again turned to me. “Would you agree, Myrto?”
“I would agree that I am not wise,” I said, “because I do not understand. You say you are not wise, but Lamprocles and your students believe you are wise and hope to learn wisdom from you.” Somewhere ahead the sound of squeals and scurrying hooves brought to life my own feelings of confusion.
“She’s got a point, my boy,” said Socrates. “Perhaps we must first discuss whether wisdom is a kind of knowledge that can be taught.”
Lamprocles grumbled something under his breath and found another stone to kick as we walked along the path. I looked past him to the deep purple saturating the eastern sky with hope for a new day.
“And if it can be taught, who is wise enough to teach it?” continued Socrates.
“Only the gods are truly wise,” Lamprocles replied.
Socrates turned back to me. “What do you think, Myrto?”
The questions swirled in my brain. What do I think? What an odd idea. I can think. Do my thoughts even matter? The road crested atop the small hill allowing us to see a scruffy drover with his herd of grunting pigs on their way to the market before us.
“I agree with Lamprocles,” I said.
“Agreement does not require thought,” retorted Lamprocles. “Father asked you what you think. You can’t just agree.”
The harshness of these words pricked my heart. I walked on, silenced by the shame of my confusion. Socrates combed his fingers through his beard, but did not say a word. They both waited for my reply.
“I don’t know,” I said finally.
“Then you must think about what it is you do not know and ask a question aimed to find out,” replied Lamprocles.
There is so much I do not know. How can I think about all of it? I pondered this as I watched the road ahead. Though the sky was still mostly dark, I could see the swine overtaking a long-bearded farmer carrying a cage of chickens in each hand. The drover’s dog barked and circled to herd the pigs, but it was herding them right into the farmer who was shouting unimaginable curses.
I, too, felt like cursing. Sacred Athena! I don’t know! And my husband won’t tell me! Instead, he claims to know nothing! Gradually a question formed in my mind. “Socrates says he knows nothing, but isn’t that something?” I looked from Socrates’ serene smile to Lamprocles’ furrowed brow.
Lamprocles stared at Socrates, who again remained silent. “It may be something, but it is not wisdom. I think it is experience. Don’t you have experience, Father? More experience than Myrto and I combined!”
“I’ve certainly lived longer,” conceded Socrates. “I have been a sculptor and a soldier, a husband and a father. These experiences are different than yours, but I can’t say that they are more.”
“But you can share your experiences with us and we can learn from them, right?” asked Lamprocles.
“That’s an interesting thought,” said Socrates, and Lamprocles looked pleased. “I wonder if one can truly learn from another’s experience.”
“Isn’t that the basis of all apprenticeships?” Lamprocles asked. “A young man learns his trade from an experienced blacksmith or cobbler or ship maker.”
“It seems to me that the young apprentice learns from his own observation of the master and his own experience working with the master,” Socrates countered. “Who would you hold accountable for what the apprentice learns?
“Why, the master, of course,” replied Lamprocles.
“Can the master somehow transfer his experience to the apprentice?” asked Socrates.
“No, of course not,” replied Lamprocles. “The young apprentice must gain his own experience.”
“So then the young apprentice is responsible for his own experience, what he chooses to study and think and learn for himself?” asked Socrates.
“Yes,” agreed Lamprocles.
Socrates reached out for my hand and pulled me back into the conversation. “Myrto, do you think the same is true of teachers and students?”
“I would suppose so,” I replied.
“Is there a question that you can ask that would help you discover what you think?” Socrates prodded.
I shrugged.
“Teachers teach, right?” said Lamprocles.
I nodded.
“What do students do?” asked Lamprocles.
“Students learn?” I offered timidly.
“And which is more important?” Lamprocles probed f
urther. “Which is the objective—teaching or learning?”
“Learning,” I said, this time with more conviction.
“And who does the learning?” Lamprocles asked.
“Students,” I replied.
“Precisely!” exclaimed Socrates. “This is why I have never claimed to be a teacher or charged fathers for the time I spend with their sons. I cannot teach anyone anything. I can only help him,” Socrates paused and looked me directly in the eyes, “or her, to learn.”
We entered Athens at the break of dawn. As we passed through the city gate, the noisy business of living surrounded us. Donkey carts overflowing with produce impeded foot traffic on the narrow streets. Gentlemen dressed in their best white mantels pressed onward, careful to avoid the mud and manure. A group of soldiers talked brusquely and laughed loudly, shields and spears clattering.
Our conversation succumbed to the raucous crowd. In the midst of the noise, I felt a strange quiet within me. Each breath brought a different sweet or pungent odor of city life. My body absorbed the chaotic energy and surged with excitement. Regardless of what lay ahead, at that moment, for the first time in my life, I desired to be exactly where I was.
9
WE FLOWED WITH the stream of people from the constricted roadways into the openness of the Agora. A sea of men flooded the marketplace. I stayed close to Socrates and searched the multitudes for other women. Aside from the girls selling flowers and several women selling bread, there were none.
We walked past the fish vendors and away from the crowd. Beneath a bay tree, a small group of men sat chatting. They shouted greetings as we approached.
“Good morning, Socrates!” said one, jumping to his feet and rushing to meet us. The breadth of his forehead matched the breadth of his shoulders. He nodded toward Lamprocles, then turned to me with a look of wonder. Lamprocles returned the nod and went on to greet the others.
“Allow me to introduce you to Myrto, daughter of Lysimachus,” said Socrates.
“Granddaughter of Aristides the Just?” the man inquired.