The Golden Mean - Annabel Lyon [105]
“In philosophy,” Alexander says.
I turn away from the glibness in my student’s voice, the smooth amusement. I want at this moment to bury my face in my books the way Little Pythias once buried her face in her mother’s breast, obliterating the world thereby.
“Lysimachus used to say the same thing,” Alexander says. “That it was in my nature to excel in all things, and anyone who stood in my way was thwarting the will of the gods.”
“I don’t think that’s quite what I’m saying, is it?”
“Not quite.” Alexander smiles. “Lysimachus flourishes, these days.”
“Does he?”
“I’ve promoted him to my personal bodyguard. Oh, the face! You don’t approve?”
“Not for me to approve or disapprove. Only—”
“Only?” He leans forward.
“Only I would have thought he had all the preconditions to pursue the kind of excellence I’m describing to you. A well-rounded man, an athlete, an artist, a lively mind, just the mind to appreciate the innate superiority of the contemplative life. Not to mention the means, the leisure. I’m pragmatic enough to know that’s a necessary part of the equation.”
“I have the same qualities, don’t I?”
“If your father left you an impression of a Macedonian king having time for leisure, you weren’t paying very close attention.”
“Don’t avoid the question.”
“You have the same qualities. No. You have these qualities superlatively. You know it. You know I don’t flatter you. Have I ever?”
“Wouldn’t love you if you did.” Before an awkwardness can grow up he says, “I should retire to one of my father’s estates and spend my time in a comfortable chair, drinking water and considering the wonder of creation?”
“Not too comfortable a chair. My father’s estate is in Stageira, by the way.” I make sure he looks at me. “I never lived there as an adult.”
“A self-made man.”
“That can be hard to pull off. Harder than you know.”
He laughs. “You think your life is perfect. You think everyone should want to be you. All our years together, you’ve made your theories out of the accidents of your own life. You’ve built a whole philosophy around the virtue of being you. Seashells are worthy of study because you love to swim. Violence should be offstage because you never got to leave the tent at Chaeronea. The best government is rule by the middle class because you come from the middle class. Life should be spent in quiet contemplation because life never offered you more.”
“Tell me what more is.”
“There’s a whole world more.” His eyes go big. “You could travel with me, you know. I’m not staying here. I’m going east, and east, and east again. I’m going as far as anyone’s ever gone and then farther. Animals no one’s ever seen. Oceans no one’s ever swum in. New plants, new people, new stars. Mine for the taking. Yours, too. I’ll make sure you’re comfortable. We’ll carry you in a palanquin, cushions, scribes, wagons groaning with all the specimens you’ll collect. You’ll never even notice the army. We’ll just be clearing the way forward for you. To make the unknown known, isn’t that the greatest virtue, the greatest happiness? Isn’t that exactly what we’re talking about?”
“You conflate pleasure and happiness, real enduring happiness. A few thrills, a few sensations. Your first woman, your first elephant, your first spicy meal, your first hangover, your first ascent of a mountain no man’s ever climbed, and your first view from the top to the other side. You want to string together a life of thrills.”
“Teach me better, then. Come with my army. Come with me. You’ve been a father to me. Don’t orphan me twice.”
“You worked on that line.”
“I never please you. Not when I’m polished and not when I’m dull. Yes, I worked on that line. Is that so terrible? We’re not so different after all, you and me. We both work for what we want.