THE APOLOGY
How you, O Athenians, have been affected by my accusers, I cannot tell; but I know that
they almost made me forget who I was—so persuasively did they speak; and yet they
have hardly uttered a word of truth. But of the many falsehoods told by them, there was
one which quite amazed me;—I mean when they said that you should be upon your
guard and not allow yourselves to be deceived by the force of my eloquence. To say this,
when they were certain to be detected as soon as I opened my lips and proved myself to
be anything but a great speaker, did indeed appear to me most shameless—unless by the
force of eloquence they mean the force of truth; for is such is their meaning, I admit that
I am eloquent. But in how different a way from theirs! Well, as I was saying, they have
scarcely spoken the truth at all; but from me you shall hear the whole truth: not,
however, delivered after their manner in a set oration duly ornamented with words and
phrases. No, by heaven! but I shall use the words and arguments which occur to me at
the moment; for I am confident in the justice of my cause (Or, I am certain that I am
right in taking this course.): at my time of life I ought not to be appearing before you, O
men of Athens, in the character of a juvenile orator—let no one expect it of me. And I
must beg of you to grant me a favour:—If I defend myself in my accustomed manner,
and you hear me using the words which I have been in the habit of using in the agora, at
the tables of the money-changers, or anywhere else, I would ask you not to be surprised,
and not to interrupt me on this account. For I am more than seventy years of age, and
appearing now for the first time in a court of law, I am quite a stranger to the language
of the place; and therefore I would have you regard me as if I were really a stranger,
whom you would excuse if he spoke in his native tongue, and after the fashion of his
country:—Am I making an unfair request of you? Never mind the manner, which may or
may not be good; but think only of the truth of my words, and give heed to that: let the
speaker speak truly and the judge decide justly.
And first, I have to reply to the older charges and to my first accusers, and then I will go
on to the later ones. For of old I have had many accusers, who have accused me falsely to
you during many years; and I am more afraid of them than of Anytus and his associates,
who are dangerous, too, in their own way. But far more dangerous are the others, who
began when you were children, and took possession of your minds with their falsehoods,
telling of one Socrates, a wise man, who speculated about the heaven above, and
searched into the earth beneath, and made the worse appear the better cause. The
disseminators of this tale are the accusers whom I dread; for their hearers are apt to
fancy that such enquirers do not believe in the existence of the gods. And they are many,
and their charges against me are of ancient date, and they were made by them in the
days when you were more impressible than you are now—in childhood, or it may have
been in youth—and the cause when heard went by default, for there was none to answer.
And hardest of all, I do not know and cannot tell the names of my accusers; unless in the
chance case of a Comic poet. All who from envy and malice have persuaded you—some
of them having first convinced themselves—all this class of men are most difficult to
deal with; for I cannot have them up here, and cross-examine them, and therefore I
must simply fight with shadows in my own defence, and argue when there is no one who
answers. I will ask you then to assume with me, as I was saying, that my opponents are
of two kinds; one recent, the other ancient: and I hope that you will see the propriety of
my answering the latter first, for these accusations you heard long before the others, and
much oftener.
Well, then, I must make my defence, and endeavour to clear away in a short time, a
slander which has lasted a long time. May I succeed, if to succeed be for my good and
yours, or likely to avail me in my cause! The task is not an easy one; I quite understand
the nature of it. And so leaving the event with God, in obedience to the law I will now
make my defence.
I will begin at the beginning, and ask what is the accusation which has given rise to the
slander of me, and in fact has encouraged Meletus to proof this charge against me. Well,
what do the slanderers say? They shall be my prosecutors, and I will sum up their words
in an affidavit: 'Socrates is an evil-doer, and a curious person, who searches into things
under the earth and in heaven, and he makes the worse appear the better cause; and he
teaches the aforesaid doctrines to others.' Such is the nature of the accusation: it is just
what you have yourselves seen in the comedy of Aristophanes (Aristoph., Clouds.), who
has introduced a man whom he calls Socrates, going about and saying that he walks in
air, and talking a deal of nonsense concerning matters of which I do not pretend to know
either much or little—not that I mean to speak disparagingly of any one who is a student
of natural philosophy. I should be very sorry if Meletus could bring so grave a charge
against me. But the simple truth is, O Athenians, that I have nothing to do with physical
speculations. Very many of those here present are witnesses to the truth of this, and to
them I appeal. Speak then, you who have heard me, and tell your neighbours whether
any of you have ever known me hold forth in few words or in many upon such
matters...You hear their answer. And from what they say of this part of the charge you
will be able to judge of the truth of the rest.
As little foundation is there for the report that I am a teacher, and take money; this
accusation has no more truth in it than the other. Although, if a man were really able to
instruct mankind, to receive money for giving instruction would, in my opinion, be an
honour to him. There is Gorgias of Leontium, and Prodicus of Ceos, and Hippias of Elis,
who go the round of the cities, and are able to persuade the young men to leave their
own citizens by whom they might be taught for nothing, and come to them whom they
not only pay, but are thankful if they may be allowed to pay them. There is at this time a
Parian philosopher residing in Athens, of whom I have heard; and I came to hear of him
in this way:—I came across a man who has spent a world of money on the Sophists,
Callias, the son of Hipponicus, and knowing that he had sons, I asked him: 'Callias,' I
said, 'if your two sons were foals or calves, there would be no difficulty in finding some
one to put over them; we should hire a trainer of horses, or a farmer probably, who
would improve and perfect them in their own proper virtue and excellence; but as they
are human beings, whom are you thinking of placing over them? Is there any one who
understands human and political virtue? You must have thought about the matter, for
you have sons; is there any one?' 'There is,' he said. 'Who is he?' said I; 'and of what
country? and what does he charge?' 'Evenus the Parian,' he replied; 'he is the man, and
his charge is five minae.' Happy is Evenus, I said to myself, if he really has this wisdom,
and teaches at such a moderate charge. Had I the same, I should have been very proud
and conceited; but the truth is that I have no knowledge of the kind.
I dare say, Athenians, that some one among you will reply, 'Yes, Socrates, but what is the
origin of these accusations which are brought against you; there must have been
something strange which you have been doing? All these rumours and this talk about
you would never have arisen if you had been like other men: tell us, then, what is the
cause of them, for we should be sorry to judge hastily of you.' Now I regard this as a fair
challenge, and I will endeavour to explain to you the reason why I am called wise and
have such an evil fame. Please to attend then. And although some of you may think that
I am joking, I declare that I will tell you the entire truth. Men of Athens, this reputation
of mine has come of a certain sort of wisdom which I possess. If you ask me what kind of
wisdom, I reply, wisdom such as may perhaps be attained by man, for to that extent I
am inclined to believe that I am wise; whereas the persons of whom I was speaking have
a superhuman wisdom which I may fail to describe, because I have it not myself; and he
who says that I have, speaks falsely, and is taking away my character. And here, O men
of Athens, I must beg you not to interrupt me, even if I seem to say something
extravagant. For the word which I will speak is not mine. I will refer you to a witness
who is worthy of credit; that witness shall be the God of Delphi—he will tell you about
my wisdom, if I have any, and of what sort it is. You must have known Chaerephon; he
was early a friend of mine, and also a friend of yours, for he shared in the recent exile of
the people, and returned with you. Well, Chaerephon, as you know, was very impetuous
in all his doings, and he went to Delphi and boldly asked the oracle to tell him whether—
as I was saying, I must beg you not to interrupt—he asked the oracle to tell him whether
anyone was wiser than I was, and the Pythian prophetess answered, that there was no
man wiser. Chaerephon is dead himself; but his brother, who is in court, will confirm
the truth of what I am saying.
Why do I mention this? Because I am going to explain to you why I have such an evil
name. When I heard the answer, I said to myself, What can the god mean? and what is
the interpretation of his riddle? for I know that I have no wisdom, small or great. What
then can he mean when he says that I am the wisest of men? And yet he is a god, and
cannot lie; that would be against his nature. After long consideration, I thought of a
method of trying the question. I reflected that if I could only find a man wiser than
myself, then I might go to the god with a refutation in my hand. I should say to him,
'Here is a man who is wiser than I am; but you said that I was the wisest.' Accordingly I
went to one who had the reputation of wisdom, and observed him—his name I need not
mention; he was a politician whom I selected for examination—and the result was as
follows: When I began to talk with him, I could not help thinking that he was not really
wise, although he was thought wise by many, and still wiser by himself; and thereupon I
tried to explain to him that he thought himself wise, but was not really wise; and the
consequence was that he hated me, and his enmity was shared by several who were
present and heard me. So I left him, saying to myself, as I went away: Well, although I
do not suppose that either of us knows anything really beautiful and good, I am better
off than he is,— for he knows nothing, and thinks that he knows; I neither know nor
think that I know. In this latter particular, then, I seem to have slightly the advantage of
him. Then I went to another who had still higher pretensions to wisdom, and my
conclusion was exactly the same. Whereupon I made another enemy of him, and of
many others besides him.
Then I went to one man after another, being not unconscious of the enmity which I
provoked, and I lamented and feared this: but necessity was laid upon me,—the word of
God, I thought, ought to be considered first. And I said to myself, Go I must to all who
appear to know, and find out the meaning of the oracle. And I swear to you, Athenians,
by the dog I swear! —for I must tell you the truth—the result of my mission was just this:
I found that the men most in repute were all but the most foolish; and that others less
esteemed were really wiser and better. I will tell you the tale of my wanderings and of
the 'Herculean' labours, as I may call them, which I endured only to find at last the
oracle irrefutable. After the politicians, I went to the poets; tragic, dithyrambic, and all
sorts. And there, I said to myself, you will be instantly detected; now you will find out
that you are more ignorant than they are. Accordingly, I took them some of the most
elaborate passages in their own writings, and asked what was the meaning of them—
thinking that they would teach me something. Will you believe me? I am almost
ashamed to confess the truth, but I must say that there is hardly a person present who
would not have talked better about their poetry than they did themselves. Then I knew
that not by wisdom do poets write poetry, but by a sort of genius and inspiration; they
are like diviners or soothsayers who also say many fine things, but do not understand
the meaning of them. The poets appeared to me to be much in the same case; and I
further observed that upon the strength of their poetry they believed themselves to be
the wisest of men in other things in which they were not wise. So I departed, conceiving
myself to be superior to them for the same reason that I was superior to the politicians.
At last I went to the artisans. I was conscious that I knew nothing at all, as I may say,
and I was sure that they knew many fine things; and here I was not mistaken, for they
did know many things of which I was ignorant, and in this they certainly were wiser
than I was. But I observed that even the good artisans fell into the same error as the
poets;—because they were good workmen they thought that they also knew all sorts of
high matters, and this defect in them overshadowed their wisdom; and therefore I asked
myself on behalf of the oracle, whether I would like to be as I was, neither having their
knowledge nor their ignorance, or like them in both; and I made answer to myself and to
the oracle that I was better off as I was.
This inquisition has led to my having many enemies of the worst and most dangerous
kind, and has given occasion also to many calumnies. And I am called wise, for my
hearers always imagine that I myself possess the wisdom which I find wanting in others:
but the truth is, O men of Athens, that God only is wise; and by his answer he intends to
show that the wisdom of men is worth little or nothing; he is not speaking of Socrates,
he is only using my name by way of illustration, as if he said, He, O men, is the wisest,
who, like Socrates, knows that his wisdom is in truth worth nothing. And so I go about
the world, obedient to the god, and search and make enquiry into the wisdom of any
one, whether citizen or stranger, who appears to be wise; and if he is not wise, then in
vindication of the oracle I show him that he is not wise; and my occupation quite
absorbs me, and I have no time to give either to any public matter of interest or to any
concern of my own, but I am in utter poverty by reason of my devotion to the god.
There is another thing:—young men of the richer classes, who have not much to do,
come about me of their own accord; they like to hear the pretenders examined, and they
often imitate me, and proceed to examine others; there are plenty of persons, as they
quickly discover, who think that they know something, but really know little or nothing;
and then those who are examined by them instead of being angry with themselves are
angry with me: This confounded Socrates, they say; this villainous misleader of youth!—
and then if somebody asks them, Why, what evil does he practise or teach? they do not
know, and cannot tell; but in order that they may not appear to be at a loss, they repeat
the ready-made charges which are used against all philosophers about teaching things
up in the clouds and under the earth, and having no gods, and making the worse appear
the better cause; for they do not like to confess that their pretence of knowledge has
been detected— which is the truth; and as they are numerous and ambitious and
energetic, and are drawn up in battle array and have persuasive tongues, they have filled
your ears with their loud and inveterate calumnies. And this is the reason why my three
accusers, Meletus and Anytus and Lycon, have set upon me; Meletus, who has a quarrel
with me on behalf of the poets; Anytus, on behalf of the craftsmen and politicians;
Lycon, on behalf of the rhetoricians: and as I said at the beginning, I cannot expect to
get rid of such a mass of calumny all in a moment. And this, O men of Athens, is the
truth and the whole truth; I have concealed nothing, I have dissembled nothing. And
yet, I know that my plainness of speech makes them hate me, and what is their hatred
but a proof that I am speaking the truth?—Hence has arisen the prejudice against me;
and this is the reason of it, as you will find out either in this or in any future enquiry.
I have said enough in my defence against the first class of my accusers; I turn to the
second class. They are headed by Meletus, that good man and true lover of his country,
as he calls himself. Against these, too, I must try to make a defence:—Let their affidavit
be read: it contains something of this kind: It says that Socrates is a doer of evil, who
corrupts the youth; and who does not believe in the gods of the state, but has other new
divinities of his own. Such is the charge; and now let us examine the particular counts.
He says that I am a doer of evil, and corrupt the youth; but I say, O men of Athens, that
Meletus is a doer of evil, in that he pretends to be in earnest when he is only in jest, and
is so eager to bring men to trial from a pretended zeal and interest about matters in
which he really never had the smallest interest. And the truth of this I will endeavour to
prove to you.
Come hither, Meletus, and let me ask a question of you. You think a great deal about the
improvement of youth?
Yes, I do.
Tell the judges, then, who is their improver; for you must know, as you have taken the
pains to discover their corrupter, and are citing and accusing me before them. Speak,
then, and tell the judges who their improver is.—Observe, Meletus, that you are silent,
and have nothing to say. But is not this rather disgraceful, and a very considerable proof
of what I was saying, that you have no interest in the matter? Speak up, friend, and tell
us who their improver is.
The laws.
But that, my good sir, is not my meaning. I want to know who the person is, who, in the
first place, knows the laws.
The judges, Socrates, who are present in court.
What, do you mean to say, Meletus, that they are able to instruct and improve youth?
Certainly they are.
What, all of them, or some only and not others?
All of them.
By the goddess Here, that is good news! There are plenty of improvers, then. And what
do you say of the audience,—do they improve them?
Yes, they do.
And the senators?
Yes, the senators improve them.
But perhaps the members of the assembly corrupt them?—or do they too improve them?
They improve them.
Then every Athenian improves and elevates them; all with the exception of myself; and I
alone am their corrupter? Is that what you affirm?
That is what I stoutly affirm.
I am very unfortunate if you are right. But suppose I ask you a question: How about
horses? Does one man do them harm and all the world good? Is not the exact opposite
the truth? One man is able to do them good, or at least not many;—the trainer of horses,
that is to say, does them good, and others who have to do with them rather injure them?
Is not that true, Meletus, of horses, or of any other animals? Most assuredly it is;
whether you and Anytus say yes or no. Happy indeed would be the condition of youth if
they had one corrupter only, and all the rest of the world were their improvers. But you,
Meletus, have sufficiently shown that you never had a thought about the young: your
carelessness is seen in your not caring about the very things which you bring against me.
And now, Meletus, I will ask you another question—by Zeus I will: Which is better, to
live among bad citizens, or among good ones? Answer, friend, I say; the question is one
which may be easily answered. Do not the good do their neighbours good, and the bad
do them evil?
Certainly.
And is there anyone who would rather be injured than benefited by those who live with
him? Answer, my good friend, the law requires you to answer— does any one like to be
injured?
Certainly not.
And when you accuse me of corrupting and deteriorating the youth, do you allege that I
corrupt them intentionally or unintentionally?
Intentionally, I say.
But you have just admitted that the good do their neighbours good, and the evil do them
evil. Now, is that a truth which your superior wisdom has recognized thus early in life,
and am I, at my age, in such darkness and ignorance as not to know that if a man with
whom I have to live is corrupted by me, I am very likely to be harmed by him; and yet I
corrupt him, and intentionally, too—so you say, although neither I nor any other human
being is ever likely to be convinced by you. But either I do not corrupt them, or I corrupt
them unintentionally; and on either view of the case you lie. If my offence is
unintentional, the law has no cognizance of unintentional offences: you ought to have
taken me privately, and warned and admonished me; for if I had been better advised, I
should have left off doing what I only did unintentionally—no doubt I should; but you
would have nothing to say to me and refused to teach me. And now you bring me up in
this court, which is a place not of instruction, but of punishment.
It will be very clear to you, Athenians, as I was saying, that Meletus has no care at all,
great or small, about the matter. But still I should like to know, Meletus, in what I am
affirmed to corrupt the young. I suppose you mean, as I infer from your indictment, that
I teach them not to acknowledge the gods which the state acknowledges, but some other
new divinities or spiritual agencies in their stead. These are the lessons by which I
corrupt the youth, as you say.
Yes, that I say emphatically.
Then, by the gods, Meletus, of whom we are speaking, tell me and the court, in
somewhat plainer terms, what you mean! for I do not as yet understand whether you
affirm that I teach other men to acknowledge some gods, and therefore that I do believe
in gods, and am not an entire atheist—this you do not lay to my charge,—but only you
say that they are not the same gods which the city recognizes—the charge is that they are
different gods. Or, do you mean that I am an atheist simply, and a teacher of atheism?
I mean the latter—that you are a complete atheist.
What an extraordinary statement! Why do you think so, Meletus? Do you mean that I do
not believe in the godhead of the sun or moon, like other men?
I assure you, judges, that he does not: for he says that the sun is stone, and the moon
earth.
Friend Meletus, you think that you are accusing Anaxagoras: and you have but a bad
opinion of the judges, if you fancy them illiterate to such a degree as not to know that
these doctrines are found in the books of Anaxagoras the Clazomenian, which are full of
them. And so, forsooth, the youth are said to be taught them by Socrates, when there are
not unfrequently exhibitions of them at the theatre (Probably in allusion to
Aristophanes who caricatured, and to Euripides who borrowed the notions of
Anaxagoras, as well as to other dramatic poets.) (price of admission one drachma at the
most); and they might pay their money, and laugh at Socrates if he pretends to father
these extraordinary views. And so, Meletus, you really think that I do not believe in any
god?
I swear by Zeus that you believe absolutely in none at all.
Nobody will believe you, Meletus, and I am pretty sure that you do not believe yourself. I
cannot help thinking, men of Athens, that Meletus is reckless and impudent, and that he
has written this indictment in a spirit of mere wantonness and youthful bravado. Has he
not compounded a riddle, thinking to try me? He said to himself:—I shall see whether
the wise Socrates will discover my facetious contradiction, or whether I shall be able to
deceive him and the rest of them. For he certainly does appear to me to contradict
himself in the indictment as much as if he said that Socrates is guilty of not believing in
the gods, and yet of believing in them—but this is not like a person who is in earnest.
I should like you, O men of Athens, to join me in examining what I conceive to be his
inconsistency; and do you, Meletus, answer. And I must remind the audience of my
request that they would not make a disturbance if I speak in my accustomed manner:
Did ever man, Meletus, believe in the existence of human things, and not of human
beings?...I wish, men of Athens, that he would answer, and not be always trying to get
up an interruption. Did ever any man believe in horsemanship, and not in horses? or in
flute-playing, and not in flute-players? No, my friend; I will answer to you and to the
court, as you refuse to answer for yourself. There is no man who ever did. But now
please to answer the next question: Can a man believe in spiritual and divine agencies,
and not in spirits or demigods?
He cannot.
How lucky I am to have extracted that answer, by the assistance of the court! But then
you swear in the indictment that I teach and believe in divine or spiritual agencies (new
or old, no matter for that); at any rate, I believe in spiritual agencies,—so you say and
swear in the affidavit; and yet if I believe in divine beings, how can I help believing in
spirits or demigods;—must I not? To be sure I must; and therefore I may assume that
your silence gives consent. Now what are spirits or demigods? Are they not either gods
or the sons of gods?
Certainly they are.
But this is what I call the facetious riddle invented by you: the demigods or spirits are
gods, and you say first that I do not believe in gods, and then again that I do believe in
gods; that is, if I believe in demigods. For if the demigods are the illegitimate sons of
gods, whether by the nymphs or by any other mothers, of whom they are said to be the
sons—what human being will ever believe that there are no gods if they are the sons of
gods? You might as well affirm the existence of mules, and deny that of horses and
asses. Such nonsense, Meletus, could only have been intended by you to make trial of
me. You have put this into the indictment because you had nothing real of which to
accuse me. But no one who has a particle of understanding will ever be convinced by you
that the same men can believe in divine and superhuman things, and yet not believe that
there are gods and demigods and heroes.
I have said enough in answer to the charge of Meletus: any elaborate defence is
unnecessary, but I know only too well how many are the enmities which I have incurred,
and this is what will be my destruction if I am destroyed;—not Meletus, nor yet Anytus,
but the envy and detraction of the world, which has been the death of many good men,
and will probably be the death of many more; there is no danger of my being the last of
them.
Some one will say: And are you not ashamed, Socrates, of a course of life which is likely
to bring you to an untimely end? To him I may fairly answer: There you are mistaken: a
man who is good for anything ought not to calculate the chance of living or dying; he
ought only to consider whether in doing anything he is doing right or wrong—acting the
part of a good man or of a bad. Whereas, upon your view, the heroes who fell at Troy
were not good for much, and the son of Thetis above all, who altogether despised danger
in comparison with disgrace; and when he was so eager to slay Hector, his goddess
mother said to him, that if he avenged his companion Patroclus, and slew Hector, he
would die himself—'Fate,' she said, in these or the like words, 'waits for you next after
Hector;' he, receiving this warning, utterly despised danger and death, and instead of
fearing them, feared rather to live in dishonour, and not to avenge his friend. 'Let me die
forthwith,' he replies, 'and be avenged of my enemy, rather than abide here by the
beaked ships, a laughing-stock and a burden of the earth.' Had Achilles any thought of
death and danger? For wherever a man's place is, whether the place which he has
chosen or that in which he has been placed by a commander, there he ought to remain
in the hour of danger; he should not think of death or of anything but of disgrace. And
this, O men of Athens, is a true saying.
Strange, indeed, would be my conduct, O men of Athens, if I who, when I was ordered
by the generals whom you chose to command me at Potidaea and Amphipolis and
Delium, remained where they placed me, like any other man, facing death—if now,
when, as I conceive and imagine, God orders me to fulfil the philosopher's mission of
searching into myself and other men, I were to desert my post through fear of death, or
any other fear; that would indeed be strange, and I might justly be arraigned in court for
denying the existence of the gods, if I disobeyed the oracle because I was afraid of death,
fancying that I was wise when I was not wise. For the fear of death is indeed the
pretence of wisdom, and not real wisdom, being a pretence of knowing the unknown;
and no one knows whether death, which men in their fear apprehend to be the greatest
evil, may not be the greatest good. Is not this ignorance of a disgraceful sort, the
ignorance which is the conceit that a man knows what he does not know? And in this
respect only I believe myself to differ from men in general, and may perhaps claim to be
wiser than they are:—that whereas I know but little of the world below, I do not suppose
that I know: but I do know that injustice and disobedience to a better, whether God or
man, is evil and dishonourable, and I will never fear or avoid a possible good rather than
a certain evil. And therefore if you let me go now, and are not convinced by Anytus, who
said that since I had been prosecuted I must be put to death; (or if not that I ought never
to have been prosecuted at all); and that if I escape now, your sons will all be utterly
ruined by listening to my words—if you say to me, Socrates, this time we will not mind
Anytus, and you shall be let off, but upon one condition, that you are not to enquire and
speculate in this way any more, and that if you are caught doing so again you shall die;—
if this was the condition on which you let me go, I should reply: Men of Athens, I honour
and love you; but I shall obey God rather than you, and while I have life and strength I
shall never cease from the practice and teaching of philosophy, exhorting any one whom
I meet and saying to him after my manner: You, my friend,—a citizen of the great and
mighty and wise city of Athens,—are you not ashamed of heaping up the greatest
amount of money and honour and reputation, and caring so little about wisdom and
truth and the greatest improvement of the soul, which you never regard or heed at all?
And if the person with whom I am arguing, says: Yes, but I do care; then I do not leave
him or let him go at once; but I proceed to interrogate and examine and cross-examine
him, and if I think that he has no virtue in him, but only says that he has, I reproach him
with undervaluing the greater, and overvaluing the less. And I shall repeat the same
words to every one whom I meet, young and old, citizen and alien, but especially to the
citizens, inasmuch as they are my brethren. For know that this is the command of God;
and I believe that no greater good has ever happened in the state than my service to the
God. For I do nothing but go about persuading you all, old and young alike, not to take
thought for your persons or your properties, but first and chiefly to care about the
greatest improvement of the soul. I tell you that virtue is not given by money, but that
from virtue comes money and every other good of man, public as well as private. This is
my teaching, and if this is the doctrine which corrupts the youth, I am a mischievous
person. But if any one says that this is not my teaching, he is speaking an untruth.
Wherefore, O men of Athens, I say to you, do as Anytus bids or not as Anytus bids, and
either acquit me or not; but whichever you do, understand that I shall never alter my
ways, not even if I have to die many times.
Men of Athens, do not interrupt, but hear me; there was an understanding between us
that you should hear me to the end: I have something more to say, at which you may be
inclined to cry out; but I believe that to hear me will be good for you, and therefore I beg
that you will not cry out. I would have you know, that if you kill such an one as I am, you
will injure yourselves more than you will injure me. Nothing will injure me, not Meletus
nor yet Anytus—they cannot, for a bad man is not permitted to injure a better than
himself. I do not deny that Anytus may, perhaps, kill him, or drive him into exile, or
deprive him of civil rights; and he may imagine, and others may imagine, that he is
inflicting a great injury upon him: but there I do not agree. For the evil of doing as he is
doing—the evil of unjustly taking away the life of another—is greater far.
And now, Athenians, I am not going to argue for my own sake, as you may think, but for
yours, that you may not sin against the God by condemning me, who am his gift to you.
For if you kill me you will not easily find a successor to me, who, if I may use such a
ludicrous figure of speech, am a sort of gadfly, given to the state by God; and the state is
a great and noble steed who is tardy in his motions owing to his very size, and requires
to be stirred into life. I am that gadfly which God has attached to the state, and all day
long and in all places am always fastening upon you, arousing and persuading and
reproaching you. You will not easily find another like me, and therefore I would advise
you to spare me. I dare say that you may feel out of temper (like a person who is
suddenly awakened from sleep), and you think that you might easily strike me dead as
Anytus advises, and then you would sleep on for the remainder of your lives, unless God
in his care of you sent you another gadfly. When I say that I am given to you by God, the
proof of my mission is this:—if I had been like other men, I should not have neglected all
my own concerns or patiently seen the neglect of them during all these years, and have
been doing yours, coming to you individually like a father or elder brother, exhorting
you to regard virtue; such conduct, I say, would be unlike human nature. If I had gained
anything, or if my exhortations had been paid, there would have been some sense in my
doing so; but now, as you will perceive, not even the impudence of my accusers dares to
say that I have ever exacted or sought pay of any one; of that they have no witness. And I
have a sufficient witness to the truth of what I say—my poverty.
Some one may wonder why I go about in private giving advice and busying myself with
the concerns of others, but do not venture to come forward in public and advise the
state. I will tell you why. You have heard me speak at sundry times and in divers places
of an oracle or sign which comes to me, and is the divinity which Meletus ridicules in the
indictment. This sign, which is a kind of voice, first began to come to me when I was a
child; it always forbids but never commands me to do anything which I am going to do.
This is what deters me from being a politician. And rightly, as I think. For I am certain,
O men of Athens, that if I had engaged in politics, I should have perished long ago, and
done no good either to you or to myself. And do not be offended at my telling you the
truth: for the truth is, that no man who goes to war with you or any other multitude,
honestly striving against the many lawless and unrighteous deeds which are done in a
state, will save his life; he who will fight for the right, if he would live even for a brief
space, must have a private station and not a public one.
I can give you convincing evidence of what I say, not words only, but what you value far
more—actions. Let me relate to you a passage of my own life which will prove to you that
I should never have yielded to injustice from any fear of death, and that 'as I should have
refused to yield' I must have died at once. I will tell you a tale of the courts, not very
interesting perhaps, but nevertheless true. The only office of state which I ever held, O
men of Athens, was that of senator: the tribe Antiochis, which is my tribe, had the
presidency at the trial of the generals who had not taken up the bodies of the slain after
the battle of Arginusae; and you proposed to try them in a body, contrary to law, as you
all thought afterwards; but at the time I was the only one of the Prytanes who was
opposed to the illegality, and I gave my vote against you; and when the orators
threatened to impeach and arrest me, and you called and shouted, I made up my mind
that I would run the risk, having law and justice with me, rather than take part in your
injustice because I feared imprisonment and death. This happened in the days of the
democracy. But when the oligarchy of the Thirty was in power, they sent for me and four
others into the rotunda, and bade us bring Leon the Salaminian from Salamis, as they
wanted to put him to death. This was a specimen of the sort of commands which they
were always giving with the view of implicating as many as possible in their crimes; and
then I showed, not in word only but in deed, that, if I may be allowed to use such an
expression, I cared not a straw for death, and that my great and only care was lest I
should do an unrighteous or unholy thing. For the strong arm of that oppressive power
did not frighten me into doing wrong; and when we came out of the rotunda the other
four went to Salamis and fetched Leon, but I went quietly home. For which I might have
lost my life, had not the power of the Thirty shortly afterwards come to an end. And
many will witness to my words.
Now do you really imagine that I could have survived all these years, if I had led a public
life, supposing that like a good man I had always maintained the right and had made
justice, as I ought, the first thing? No indeed, men of Athens, neither I nor any other
man. But I have been always the same in all my actions, public as well as private, and
never have I yielded any base compliance to those who are slanderously termed my
disciples, or to any other. Not that I have any regular disciples. But if any one likes to
come and hear me while I am pursuing my mission, whether he be young or old, he is
not excluded. Nor do I converse only with those who pay; but any one, whether he be
rich or poor, may ask and answer me and listen to my words; and whether he turns out
to be a bad man or a good one, neither result can be justly imputed to me; for I never
taught or professed to teach him anything. And if any one says that he has ever learned
or heard anything from me in private which all the world has not heard, let me tell you
that he is lying.
But I shall be asked, Why do people delight in continually conversing with you? I have
told you already, Athenians, the whole truth about this matter: they like to hear the
cross-examination of the pretenders to wisdom; there is amusement in it. Now this duty
of cross-examining other men has been imposed upon me by God; and has been
signified to me by oracles, visions, and in every way in which the will of divine power
was ever intimated to any one. This is true, O Athenians, or, if not true, would be soon
refuted. If I am or have been corrupting the youth, those of them who are now grown up
and have become sensible that I gave them bad advice in the days of their youth should
come forward as accusers, and take their revenge; or if they do not like to come
themselves, some of their relatives, fathers, brothers, or other kinsmen, should say what
evil their families have suffered at my hands. Now is their time. Many of them I see in
the court. There is Crito, who is of the same age and of the same deme with myself, and
there is Critobulus his son, whom I also see. Then again there is Lysanias of Sphettus,
who is the father of Aeschines—he is present; and also there is Antiphon of Cephisus,
who is the father of Epigenes; and there are the brothers of several who have associated
with me. There is Nicostratus the son of Theosdotides, and the brother of Theodotus
(now Theodotus himself is dead, and therefore he, at any rate, will not seek to stop him);
and there is Paralus the son of Demodocus, who had a brother Theages; and
Adeimantus the son of Ariston, whose brother Plato is present; and Aeantodorus, who is
the brother of Apollodorus, whom I also see. I might mention a great many others, some
of whom Meletus should have produced as witnesses in the course of his speech; and let
him still produce them, if he has forgotten—I will make way for him. And let him say, if
he has any testimony of the sort which he can produce. Nay, Athenians, the very
opposite is the truth. For all these are ready to witness on behalf of the corrupter, of the
injurer of their kindred, as Meletus and Anytus call me; not the corrupted youth only—
there might have been a motive for that—but their uncorrupted elder relatives. Why
should they too support me with their testimony? Why, indeed, except for the sake of
truth and justice, and because they know that I am speaking the truth, and that Meletus
is a liar.
Well, Athenians, this and the like of this is all the defence which I have to offer. Yet a
word more. Perhaps there may be some one who is offended at me, when he calls to
mind how he himself on a similar, or even a less serious occasion, prayed and entreated
the judges with many tears, and how he produced his children in court, which was a
moving spectacle, together with a host of relations and friends; whereas I, who am
probably in danger of my life, will do none of these things. The contrast may occur to his
mind, and he may be set against me, and vote in anger because he is displeased at me on
this account. Now if there be such a person among you,—mind, I do not say that there
is,—to him I may fairly reply: My friend, I am a man, and like other men, a creature of
flesh and blood, and not 'of wood or stone,' as Homer says; and I have a family, yes, and
sons, O Athenians, three in number, one almost a man, and two others who are still
young; and yet I will not bring any of them hither in order to petition you for an
acquittal. And why not? Not from any self-assertion or want of respect for you. Whether
I am or am not afraid of death is another question, of which I will not now speak. But,
having regard to public opinion, I feel that such conduct would be discreditable to
myself, and to you, and to the whole state. One who has reached my years, and who has
a name for wisdom, ought not to demean himself. Whether this opinion of me be
deserved or not, at any rate the world has decided that Socrates is in some way superior
to other men. And if those among you who are said to be superior in wisdom and
courage, and any other virtue, demean themselves in this way, how shameful is their
conduct! I have seen men of reputation, when they have been condemned, behaving in
the strangest manner: they seemed to fancy that they were going to suffer something
dreadful if they died, and that they could be immortal if you only allowed them to live;
and I think that such are a dishonour to the state, and that any stranger coming in
would have said of them that the most eminent men of Athens, to whom the Athenians
themselves give honour and command, are no better than women. And I say that these
things ought not to be done by those of us who have a reputation; and if they are done,
you ought not to permit them; you ought rather to show that you are far more disposed
to condemn the man who gets up a doleful scene and makes the city ridiculous, than
him who holds his peace.
But, setting aside the question of public opinion, there seems to be something wrong in
asking a favour of a judge, and thus procuring an acquittal, instead of informing and
convincing him. For his duty is, not to make a present of justice, but to give judgment;
and he has sworn that he will judge according to the laws, and not according to his own
good pleasure; and we ought not to encourage you, nor should you allow yourselves to
be encouraged, in this habit of perjury—there can be no piety in that. Do not then
require me to do what I consider dishonourable and impious and wrong, especially now,
when I am being tried for impiety on the indictment of Meletus. For if, O men of Athens,
by force of persuasion and entreaty I could overpower your oaths, then I should be
teaching you to believe that there are no gods, and in defending should simply convict
myself of the charge of not believing in them. But that is not so—far otherwise. For I do
believe that there are gods, and in a sense higher than that in which any of my accusers
believe in them. And to you and to God I commit my cause, to be determined by you as
is best for you and me.
...
There are many reasons why I am not grieved, O men of Athens, at the vote of
condemnation. I expected it, and am only surprised that the votes are so nearly equal;
for I had thought that the majority against me would have been far larger; but now, had
thirty votes gone over to the other side, I should have been acquitted. And I may say, I
think, that I have escaped Meletus. I may say more; for without the assistance of Anytus
and Lycon, any one may see that he would not have had a fifth part of the votes, as the
law requires, in which case he would have incurred a fine of a thousand drachmae.
And so he proposes death as the penalty. And what shall I propose on my part, O men of
Athens? Clearly that which is my due. And what is my due? What return shall be made
to the man who has never had the wit to be idle during his whole life; but has been
careless of what the many care for— wealth, and family interests, and military offices,
and speaking in the assembly, and magistracies, and plots, and parties. Reflecting that I
was really too honest a man to be a politician and live, I did not go where I could do no
good to you or to myself; but where I could do the greatest good privately to every one of
you, thither I went, and sought to persuade every man among you that he must look to
himself, and seek virtue and wisdom before he looks to his private interests, and look to
the state before he looks to the interests of the state; and that this should be the order
which he observes in all his actions. What shall be done to such an one? Doubtless some
good thing, O men of Athens, if he has his reward; and the good should be of a kind
suitable to him. What would be a reward suitable to a poor man who is your benefactor,
and who desires leisure that he may instruct you? There can be no reward so fitting as
maintenance in the Prytaneum, O men of Athens, a reward which he deserves far more
than the citizen who has won the prize at Olympia in the horse or chariot race, whether
the chariots were drawn by two horses or by many. For I am in want, and he has
enough; and he only gives you the appearance of happiness, and I give you the reality.
And if I am to estimate the penalty fairly, I should say that maintenance in the
Prytaneum is the just return.
Perhaps you think that I am braving you in what I am saying now, as in what I said
before about the tears and prayers. But this is not so. I speak rather because I am
convinced that I never intentionally wronged any one, although I cannot convince you—
the time has been too short; if there were a law at Athens, as there is in other cities, that
a capital cause should not be decided in one day, then I believe that I should have
convinced you. But I cannot in a moment refute great slanders; and, as I am convinced
that I never wronged another, I will assuredly not wrong myself. I will not say of myself
that I deserve any evil, or propose any penalty. Why should I? because I am afraid of the
penalty of death which Meletus proposes? When I do not know whether death is a good
or an evil, why should I propose a penalty which would certainly be an evil? Shall I say
imprisonment? And why should I live in prison, and be the slave of the magistrates of
the year—of the Eleven? Or shall the penalty be a fine, and imprisonment until the fine
is paid? There is the same objection. I should have to lie in prison, for money I have
none, and cannot pay. And if I say exile (and this may possibly be the penalty which you
will affix), I must indeed be blinded by the love of life, if I am so irrational as to expect
that when you, who are my own citizens, cannot endure my discourses and words, and
have found them so grievous and odious that you will have no more of them, others are
likely to endure me. No indeed, men of Athens, that is not very likely. And what a life
should I lead, at my age, wandering from city to city, ever changing my place of exile,
and always being driven out! For I am quite sure that wherever I go, there, as here, the
young men will flock to me; and if I drive them away, their elders will drive me out at
their request; and if I let them come, their fathers and friends will drive me out for their
sakes.
Some one will say: Yes, Socrates, but cannot you hold your tongue, and then you may go
into a foreign city, and no one will interfere with you? Now I have great difficulty in
making you understand my answer to this. For if I tell you that to do as you say would be
a disobedience to the God, and therefore that I cannot hold my tongue, you will not
believe that I am serious; and if I say again that daily to discourse about virtue, and of
those other things about which you hear me examining myself and others, is the greatest
good of man, and that the unexamined life is not worth living, you are still less likely to
believe me. Yet I say what is true, although a thing of which it is hard for me to persuade
you. Also, I have never been accustomed to think that I deserve to suffer any harm. Had
I money I might have estimated the offence at what I was able to pay, and not have been
much the worse. But I have none, and therefore I must ask you to proportion the fine to
my means. Well, perhaps I could afford a mina, and therefore I propose that penalty:
Plato, Crito, Critobulus, and Apollodorus, my friends here, bid me say thirty minae, and
they will be the sureties. Let thirty minae be the penalty; for which sum they will be
ample security to you.
...
Not much time will be gained, O Athenians, in return for the evil name which you will
get from the detractors of the city, who will say that you killed Socrates, a wise man; for
they will call me wise, even although I am not wise, when they want to reproach you. If
you had waited a little while, your desire would have been fulfilled in the course of
nature. For I am far advanced in years, as you may perceive, and not far from death. I
am speaking now not to all of you, but only to those who have condemned me to death.
And I have another thing to say to them: you think that I was convicted because I had no
words of the sort which would have procured my acquittal—I mean, if I had thought fit
to leave nothing undone or unsaid. Not so; the deficiency which led to my conviction
was not of words— certainly not. But I had not the boldness or impudence or inclination
to address you as you would have liked me to do, weeping and wailing and lamenting,
and saying and doing many things which you have been accustomed to hear from
others, and which, as I maintain, are unworthy of me. I thought at the time that I ought
not to do anything common or mean when in danger: nor do I now repent of the style of
my defence; I would rather die having spoken after my manner, than speak in your
manner and live. For neither in war nor yet at law ought I or any man to use every way
of escaping death. Often in battle there can be no doubt that if a man will throw away his
arms, and fall on his knees before his pursuers, he may escape death; and in other
dangers there are other ways of escaping death, if a man is willing to say and do
anything. The difficulty, my friends, is not to avoid death, but to avoid unrighteousness;
for that runs faster than death. I am old and move slowly, and the slower runner has
overtaken me, and my accusers are keen and quick, and the faster runner, who is
unrighteousness, has overtaken them. And now I depart hence condemned by you to
suffer the penalty of death,—they too go their ways condemned by the truth to suffer the
penalty of villainy and wrong; and I must abide by my award—let them abide by theirs. I
suppose that these things may be regarded as fated,—and I think that they are well.
And now, O men who have condemned me, I would fain prophesy to you; for I am about
to die, and in the hour of death men are gifted with prophetic power. And I prophesy to
you who are my murderers, that immediately after my departure punishment far heavier
than you have inflicted on me will surely await you. Me you have killed because you
wanted to escape the accuser, and not to give an account of your lives. But that will not
be as you suppose: far otherwise. For I say that there will be more accusers of you than
there are now; accusers whom hitherto I have restrained: and as they are younger they
will be more inconsiderate with you, and you will be more offended at them. If you think
that by killing men you can prevent some one from censuring your evil lives, you are
mistaken; that is not a way of escape which is either possible or honourable; the easiest
and the noblest way is not to be disabling others, but to be improving yourselves. This is
the prophecy which I utter before my departure to the judges who have condemned me.
Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would like also to talk with you about the thing
which has come to pass, while the magistrates are busy, and before I go to the place at
which I must die. Stay then a little, for we may as well talk with one another while there
is time. You are my friends, and I should like to show you the meaning of this event
which has happened to me. O my judges—for you I may truly call judges—I should like
to tell you of a wonderful circumstance. Hitherto the divine faculty of which the internal
oracle is the source has constantly been in the habit of opposing me even about trifles, if
I was going to make a slip or error in any matter; and now as you see there has come
upon me that which may be thought, and is generally believed to be, the last and worst
evil. But the oracle made no sign of opposition, either when I was leaving my house in
the morning, or when I was on my way to the court, or while I was speaking, at anything
which I was going to say; and yet I have often been stopped in the middle of a speech,
but now in nothing I either said or did touching the matter in hand has the oracle
opposed me. What do I take to be the explanation of this silence? I will tell you. It is an
intimation that what has happened to me is a good, and that those of us who think that
death is an evil are in error. For the customary sign would surely have opposed me had I
been going to evil and not to good.
Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that there is great reason to hope that
death is a good; for one of two things—either death is a state of nothingness and utter
unconsciousness, or, as men say, there is a change and migration of the soul from this
world to another. Now if you suppose that there is no consciousness, but a sleep like the
sleep of him who is undisturbed even by dreams, death will be an unspeakable gain. For
if a person were to select the night in which his sleep was undisturbed even by dreams,
and were to compare with this the other days and nights of his life, and then were to tell
us how many days and nights he had passed in the course of his life better and more
pleasantly than this one, I think that any man, I will not say a private man, but even the
great king will not find many such days or nights, when compared with the others. Now
if death be of such a nature, I say that to die is gain; for eternity is then only a single
night. But if death is the journey to another place, and there, as men say, all the dead
abide, what good, O my friends and judges, can be greater than this? If indeed when the
pilgrim arrives in the world below, he is delivered from the professors of justice in this
world, and finds the true judges who are said to give judgment there, Minos and
Rhadamanthus and Aeacus and Triptolemus, and other sons of God who were righteous
in their own life, that pilgrimage will be worth making. What would not a man give if he
might converse with Orpheus and Musaeus and Hesiod and Homer? Nay, if this be true,
let me die again and again. I myself, too, shall have a wonderful interest in there
meeting and conversing with Palamedes, and Ajax the son of Telamon, and any other
ancient hero who has suffered death through an unjust judgment; and there will be no
small pleasure, as I think, in comparing my own sufferings with theirs. Above all, I shall
then be able to continue my search into true and false knowledge; as in this world, so
also in the next; and I shall find out who is wise, and who pretends to be wise, and is
not. What would not a man give, O judges, to be able to examine the leader of the great
Trojan expedition; or Odysseus or Sisyphus, or numberless others, men and women too!
What infinite delight would there be in conversing with them and asking them
questions! In another world they do not put a man to death for asking questions:
assuredly not. For besides being happier than we are, they will be immortal, if what is
said is true.
Wherefore, O judges, be of good cheer about death, and know of a certainty, that no evil
can happen to a good man, either in life or after death. He and his are not neglected by
the gods; nor has my own approaching end happened by mere chance. But I see clearly
that the time had arrived when it was better for me to die and be released from trouble;
wherefore the oracle gave no sign. For which reason, also, I am not angry with my
condemners, or with my accusers; they have done me no harm, although they did not
mean to do me any good; and for this I may gently blame them.
Still I have a favour to ask of them. When my sons are grown up, I would ask you, O my
friends, to punish them; and I would have you trouble them, as I have troubled you, if
they seem to care about riches, or anything, more than about virtue; or if they pretend to
be something when they are really nothing,—then reprove them, as I have reproved you,
for not caring about that for which they ought to care, and thinking that they are
something when they are really nothing. And if you do this, both I and my sons will have
received justice at your hands.
The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways—I to die, and you to live. Which
is better God only knows.
CRITO
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Crito.
SCENE: The Prison of Socrates.
SOCRATES: Why have you come at this hour, Crito? it must be quite early.
CRITO: Yes, certainly.
SOCRATES: What is the exact time?
CRITO: The dawn is breaking.
SOCRATES: I wonder that the keeper of the prison would let you in.
CRITO: He knows me because I often come, Socrates; moreover. I have done him a
kindness.
SOCRATES: And are you only just arrived?
CRITO: No, I came some time ago.
SOCRATES: Then why did you sit and say nothing, instead of at once awakening me?
CRITO: I should not have liked myself, Socrates, to be in such great trouble and unrest
as you are—indeed I should not: I have been watching with amazement your peaceful
slumbers; and for that reason I did not awake you, because I wished to minimize the
pain. I have always thought you to be of a happy disposition; but never did I see
anything like the easy, tranquil manner in which you bear this calamity.
SOCRATES: Why, Crito, when a man has reached my age he ought not to be repining at
the approach of death.
CRITO: And yet other old men find themselves in similar misfortunes, and age does not
prevent them from repining.
SOCRATES: That is true. But you have not told me why you come at this early hour.
CRITO: I come to bring you a message which is sad and painful; not, as I believe, to
yourself, but to all of us who are your friends, and saddest of all to me.
SOCRATES: What? Has the ship come from Delos, on the arrival of which I am to die?
CRITO: No, the ship has not actually arrived, but she will probably be here to-day, as
persons who have come from Sunium tell me that they have left her there; and therefore
to-morrow, Socrates, will be the last day of your life.
SOCRATES: Very well, Crito; if such is the will of God, I am willing; but my belief is that
there will be a delay of a day.
CRITO: Why do you think so?
SOCRATES: I will tell you. I am to die on the day after the arrival of the ship?
CRITO: Yes; that is what the authorities say.
SOCRATES: But I do not think that the ship will be here until to-morrow; this I infer
from a vision which I had last night, or rather only just now, when you fortunately
allowed me to sleep.
CRITO: And what was the nature of the vision?
SOCRATES: There appeared to me the likeness of a woman, fair and comely, clothed in
bright raiment, who called to me and said: O Socrates,
'The third day hence to fertile Phthia shalt thou go.' (Homer, Il.)
CRITO: What a singular dream, Socrates!
SOCRATES: There can be no doubt about the meaning, Crito, I think.
CRITO: Yes; the meaning is only too clear. But, oh! my beloved Socrates, let me entreat
you once more to take my advice and escape. For if you die I shall not only lose a friend
who can never be replaced, but there is another evil: people who do not know you and
me will believe that I might have saved you if I had been willing to give money, but that I
did not care. Now, can there be a worse disgrace than this—that I should be thought to
value money more than the life of a friend? For the many will not be persuaded that I
wanted you to escape, and that you refused.
SOCRATES: But why, my dear Crito, should we care about the opinion of the many?
Good men, and they are the only persons who are worth considering, will think of these
things truly as they occurred.
CRITO: But you see, Socrates, that the opinion of the many must be regarded, for what
is now happening shows that they can do the greatest evil to any one who has lost their
good opinion.
SOCRATES: I only wish it were so, Crito; and that the many could do the greatest evil;
for then they would also be able to do the greatest good— and what a fine thing this
would be! But in reality they can do neither; for they cannot make a man either wise or
foolish; and whatever they do is the result of chance.
CRITO: Well, I will not dispute with you; but please to tell me, Socrates, whether you are
not acting out of regard to me and your other friends: are you not afraid that if you
escape from prison we may get into trouble with the informers for having stolen you
away, and lose either the whole or a great part of our property; or that even a worse evil
may happen to us? Now, if you fear on our account, be at ease; for in order to save you,
we ought surely to run this, or even a greater risk; be persuaded, then, and do as I say.
SOCRATES: Yes, Crito, that is one fear which you mention, but by no means the only
one.
CRITO: Fear not—there are persons who are willing to get you out of prison at no great
cost; and as for the informers they are far from being exorbitant in their demands—a
little money will satisfy them. My means, which are certainly ample, are at your service,
and if you have a scruple about spending all mine, here are strangers who will give you
the use of theirs; and one of them, Simmias the Theban, has brought a large sum of
money for this very purpose; and Cebes and many others are prepared to spend their
money in helping you to escape. I say, therefore, do not hesitate on our account, and do
not say, as you did in the court (compare Apol.), that you will have a difficulty in
knowing what to do with yourself anywhere else. For men will love you in other places to
which you may go, and not in Athens only; there are friends of mine in Thessaly, if you
like to go to them, who will value and protect you, and no Thessalian will give you any
trouble. Nor can I think that you are at all justified, Socrates, in betraying your own life
when you might be saved; in acting thus you are playing into the hands of your enemies,
who are hurrying on your destruction. And further I should say that you are deserting
your own children; for you might bring them up and educate them; instead of which you
go away and leave them, and they will have to take their chance; and if they do not meet
with the usual fate of orphans, there will be small thanks to you. No man should bring
children into the world who is unwilling to persevere to the end in their nurture and
education. But you appear to be choosing the easier part, not the better and manlier,
which would have been more becoming in one who professes to care for virtue in all his
actions, like yourself. And indeed, I am ashamed not only of you, but of us who are your
friends, when I reflect that the whole business will be attributed entirely to our want of
courage. The trial need never have come on, or might have been managed differently;
and this last act, or crowning folly, will seem to have occurred through our negligence
and cowardice, who might have saved you, if we had been good for anything; and you
might have saved yourself, for there was no difficulty at all. See now, Socrates, how sad
and discreditable are the consequences, both to us and you. Make up your mind then, or
rather have your mind already made up, for the time of deliberation is over, and there is
only one thing to be done, which must be done this very night, and if we delay at all will
be no longer practicable or possible; I beseech you therefore, Socrates, be persuaded by
me, and do as I say.
SOCRATES: Dear Crito, your zeal is invaluable, if a right one; but if wrong, the greater
the zeal the greater the danger; and therefore we ought to consider whether I shall or
shall not do as you say. For I am and always have been one of those natures who must be
guided by reason, whatever the reason may be which upon reflection appears to me to
be the best; and now that this chance has befallen me, I cannot repudiate my own
words: the principles which I have hitherto honoured and revered I still honour, and
unless we can at once find other and better principles, I am certain not to agree with
you; no, not even if the power of the multitude could inflict many more imprisonments,
confiscations, deaths, frightening us like children with hobgoblin terrors (compare
Apol.). What will be the fairest way of considering the question? Shall I return to your
old argument about the opinions of men?—we were saying that some of them are to be
regarded, and others not. Now were we right in maintaining this before I was
condemned? And has the argument which was once good now proved to be talk for the
sake of talking—mere childish nonsense? That is what I want to consider with your help,
Crito:—whether, under my present circumstances, the argument appears to be in any
way different or not; and is to be allowed by me or disallowed. That argument, which, as
I believe, is maintained by many persons of authority, was to the effect, as I was saying,
that the opinions of some men are to be regarded, and of other men not to be regarded.
Now you, Crito, are not going to die to-morrow—at least, there is no human probability
of this, and therefore you are disinterested and not liable to be deceived by the
circumstances in which you are placed. Tell me then, whether I am right in saying that
some opinions, and the opinions of some men only, are to be valued, and that other
opinions, and the opinions of other men, are not to be valued. I ask you whether I was
right in maintaining this?
CRITO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: The good are to be regarded, and not the bad?
CRITO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the opinions of the wise are good, and the opinions of the unwise are
evil?
CRITO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And what was said about another matter? Is the pupil who devotes himself
to the practice of gymnastics supposed to attend to the praise and blame and opinion of
every man, or of one man only—his physician or trainer, whoever he may be?
CRITO: Of one man only.
SOCRATES: And he ought to fear the censure and welcome the praise of that one only,
and not of the many?
CRITO: Clearly so.
SOCRATES: And he ought to act and train, and eat and drink in the way which seems
good to his single master who has understanding, rather than according to the opinion
of all other men put together?
CRITO: True.
SOCRATES: And if he disobeys and disregards the opinion and approval of the one, and
regards the opinion of the many who have no understanding, will he not suffer evil?
CRITO: Certainly he will.
SOCRATES: And what will the evil be, whither tending and what affecting, in the
disobedient person?
CRITO: Clearly, affecting the body; that is what is destroyed by the evil.
SOCRATES: Very good; and is not this true, Crito, of other things which we need not
separately enumerate? In questions of just and unjust, fair and foul, good and evil,
which are the subjects of our present consultation, ought we to follow the opinion of the
many and to fear them; or the opinion of the one man who has understanding? ought we
not to fear and reverence him more than all the rest of the world: and if we desert him
shall we not destroy and injure that principle in us which may be assumed to be
improved by justice and deteriorated by injustice;—there is such a principle?
CRITO: Certainly there is, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Take a parallel instance:—if, acting under the advice of those who have no
understanding, we destroy that which is improved by health and is deteriorated by
disease, would life be worth having? And that which has been destroyed is—the body?
CRITO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Could we live, having an evil and corrupted body?
CRITO: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: And will life be worth having, if that higher part of man be destroyed,
which is improved by justice and depraved by injustice? Do we suppose that principle,
whatever it may be in man, which has to do with justice and injustice, to be inferior to
the body?
CRITO: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: More honourable than the body?
CRITO: Far more.
SOCRATES: Then, my friend, we must not regard what the many say of us: but what he,
the one man who has understanding of just and unjust, will say, and what the truth will
say. And therefore you begin in error when you advise that we should regard the opinion
of the many about just and unjust, good and evil, honorable and dishonorable.—'Well,'
some one will say, 'but the many can kill us.'
CRITO: Yes, Socrates; that will clearly be the answer.
SOCRATES: And it is true; but still I find with surprise that the old argument is
unshaken as ever. And I should like to know whether I may say the same of another
proposition—that not life, but a good life, is to be chiefly valued?
CRITO: Yes, that also remains unshaken.
SOCRATES: And a good life is equivalent to a just and honorable one—that holds also?
CRITO: Yes, it does.
SOCRATES: From these premisses I proceed to argue the question whether I ought or
ought not to try and escape without the consent of the Athenians: and if I am clearly
right in escaping, then I will make the attempt; but if not, I will abstain. The other
considerations which you mention, of money and loss of character and the duty of
educating one's children, are, I fear, only the doctrines of the multitude, who would be
as ready to restore people to life, if they were able, as they are to put them to death—and
with as little reason. But now, since the argument has thus far prevailed, the only
question which remains to be considered is, whether we shall do rightly either in
escaping or in suffering others to aid in our escape and paying them in money and
thanks, or whether in reality we shall not do rightly; and if the latter, then death or any
other calamity which may ensue on my remaining here must not be allowed to enter into
the calculation.
CRITO: I think that you are right, Socrates; how then shall we proceed?
SOCRATES: Let us consider the matter together, and do you either refute me if you can,
and I will be convinced; or else cease, my dear friend, from repeating to me that I ought
to escape against the wishes of the Athenians: for I highly value your attempts to
persuade me to do so, but I may not be persuaded against my own better judgment. And
now please to consider my first position, and try how you can best answer me.
CRITO: I will.
SOCRATES: Are we to say that we are never intentionally to do wrong, or that in one
way we ought and in another way we ought not to do wrong, or is doing wrong always
evil and dishonorable, as I was just now saying, and as has been already acknowledged
by us? Are all our former admissions which were made within a few days to be thrown
away? And have we, at our age, been earnestly discoursing with one another all our life
long only to discover that we are no better than children? Or, in spite of the opinion of
the many, and in spite of consequences whether better or worse, shall we insist on the
truth of what was then said, that injustice is always an evil and dishonour to him who
acts unjustly? Shall we say so or not?
CRITO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then we must do no wrong?
CRITO: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: Nor when injured injure in return, as the many imagine; for we must injure
no one at all? (E.g. compare Rep.)
CRITO: Clearly not.
SOCRATES: Again, Crito, may we do evil?
CRITO: Surely not, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And what of doing evil in return for evil, which is the morality of the
many—is that just or not?
CRITO: Not just.
SOCRATES: For doing evil to another is the same as injuring him?
CRITO: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to any one, whatever
evil we may have suffered from him. But I would have you consider, Crito, whether you
really mean what you are saying. For this opinion has never been held, and never will be
held, by any considerable number of persons; and those who are agreed and those who
are not agreed upon this point have no common ground, and can only despise one
another when they see how widely they differ. Tell me, then, whether you agree with and
assent to my first principle, that neither injury nor retaliation nor warding off evil by evil
is ever right. And shall that be the premiss of our argument? Or do you decline and
dissent from this? For so I have ever thought, and continue to think; but, if you are of
another opinion, let me hear what you have to say. If, however, you remain of the same
mind as formerly, I will proceed to the next step.
CRITO: You may proceed, for I have not changed my mind.
SOCRATES: Then I will go on to the next point, which may be put in the form of a
question:—Ought a man to do what he admits to be right, or ought he to betray the
right?
CRITO: He ought to do what he thinks right.
SOCRATES: But if this is true, what is the application? In leaving the prison against the
will of the Athenians, do I wrong any? or rather do I not wrong those whom I ought least
to wrong? Do I not desert the principles which were acknowledged by us to be just—
what do you say?
CRITO: I cannot tell, Socrates, for I do not know.
SOCRATES: Then consider the matter in this way:—Imagine that I am about to play
truant (you may call the proceeding by any name which you like), and the laws and the
government come and interrogate me: 'Tell us, Socrates,' they say; 'what are you about?
are you not going by an act of yours to overturn us—the laws, and the whole state, as far
as in you lies? Do you imagine that a state can subsist and not be overthrown, in which
the decisions of law have no power, but are set aside and trampled upon by individuals?'
What will be our answer, Crito, to these and the like words? Any one, and especially a
rhetorician, will have a good deal to say on behalf of the law which requires a sentence to
be carried out. He will argue that this law should not be set aside; and shall we reply,
'Yes; but the state has injured us and given an unjust sentence.' Suppose I say that?
CRITO: Very good, Socrates.
SOCRATES: 'And was that our agreement with you?' the law would answer; 'or were you
to abide by the sentence of the state?' And if I were to express my astonishment at their
words, the law would probably add: 'Answer, Socrates, instead of opening your eyes—
you are in the habit of asking and answering questions. Tell us,—What complaint have
you to make against us which justifies you in attempting to destroy us and the state? In
the first place did we not bring you into existence? Your father married your mother by
our aid and begat you. Say whether you have any objection to urge against those of us
who regulate marriage?' None, I should reply. 'Or against those of us who after birth
regulate the nurture and education of children, in which you also were trained? Were
not the laws, which have the charge of education, right in commanding your father to
train you in music and gymnastic?' Right, I should reply. 'Well then, since you were
brought into the world and nurtured and educated by us, can you deny in the first place
that you are our child and slave, as your fathers were before you? And if this is true you
are not on equal terms with us; nor can you think that you have a right to do to us what
we are doing to you. Would you have any right to strike or revile or do any other evil to
your father or your master, if you had one, because you have been struck or reviled by
him, or received some other evil at his hands?—you would not say this? And because we
think right to destroy you, do you think that you have any right to destroy us in return,
and your country as far as in you lies? Will you, O professor of true virtue, pretend that
you are justified in this? Has a philosopher like you failed to discover that our country is
more to be valued and higher and holier far than mother or father or any ancestor, and
more to be regarded in the eyes of the gods and of men of understanding? also to be
soothed, and gently and reverently entreated when angry, even more than a father, and
either to be persuaded, or if not persuaded, to be obeyed? And when we are punished by
her, whether with imprisonment or stripes, the punishment is to be endured in silence;
and if she lead us to wounds or death in battle, thither we follow as is right; neither may
any one yield or retreat or leave his rank, but whether in battle or in a court of law, or in
any other place, he must do what his city and his country order him; or he must change
their view of what is just: and if he may do no violence to his father or mother, much less
may he do violence to his country.' What answer shall we make to this, Crito? Do the
laws speak truly, or do they not?
CRITO: I think that they do.
SOCRATES: Then the laws will say: 'Consider, Socrates, if we are speaking truly that in
your present attempt you are going to do us an injury. For, having brought you into the
world, and nurtured and educated you, and given you and every other citizen a share in
every good which we had to give, we further proclaim to any Athenian by the liberty
which we allow him, that if he does not like us when he has become of age and has seen
the ways of the city, and made our acquaintance, he may go where he pleases and take
his goods with him. None of us laws will forbid him or interfere with him. Any one who
does not like us and the city, and who wants to emigrate to a colony or to any other city,
may go where he likes, retaining his property. But he who has experience of the manner
in which we order justice and administer the state, and still remains, has entered into an
implied contract that he will do as we command him. And he who disobeys us is, as we
maintain, thrice wrong: first, because in disobeying us he is disobeying his parents;
secondly, because we are the authors of his education; thirdly, because he has made an
agreement with us that he will duly obey our commands; and he neither obeys them nor
convinces us that our commands are unjust; and we do not rudely impose them, but give
him the alternative of obeying or convincing us;—that is what we offer, and he does
neither.
'These are the sort of accusations to which, as we were saying, you, Socrates, will be
exposed if you accomplish your intentions; you, above all other Athenians.' Suppose
now I ask, why I rather than anybody else? they will justly retort upon me that I above
all other men have acknowledged the agreement. 'There is clear proof,' they will say,
'Socrates, that we and the city were not displeasing to you. Of all Athenians you have
been the most constant resident in the city, which, as you never leave, you may be
supposed to love (compare Phaedr.). For you never went out of the city either to see the
games, except once when you went to the Isthmus, or to any other place unless when
you were on military service; nor did you travel as other men do. Nor had you any
curiosity to know other states or their laws: your affections did not go beyond us and our
state; we were your especial favourites, and you acquiesced in our government of you;
and here in this city you begat your children, which is a proof of your satisfaction.
Moreover, you might in the course of the trial, if you had liked, have fixed the penalty at
banishment; the state which refuses to let you go now would have let you go then. But
you pretended that you preferred death to exile (compare Apol.), and that you were not
unwilling to die. And now you have forgotten these fine sentiments, and pay no respect
to us the laws, of whom you are the destroyer; and are doing what only a miserable slave
would do, running away and turning your back upon the compacts and agreements
which you made as a citizen. And first of all answer this very question: Are we right in
saying that you agreed to be governed according to us in deed, and not in word only? Is
that true or not?' How shall we answer, Crito? Must we not assent?
CRITO: We cannot help it, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then will they not say: 'You, Socrates, are breaking the covenants and
agreements which you made with us at your leisure, not in any haste or under any
compulsion or deception, but after you have had seventy years to think of them, during
which time you were at liberty to leave the city, if we were not to your mind, or if our
covenants appeared to you to be unfair. You had your choice, and might have gone
either to Lacedaemon or Crete, both which states are often praised by you for their good
government, or to some other Hellenic or foreign state. Whereas you, above all other
Athenians, seemed to be so fond of the state, or, in other words, of us her laws (and who
would care about a state which has no laws?), that you never stirred out of her; the halt,
the blind, the maimed, were not more stationary in her than you were. And now you run
away and forsake your agreements. Not so, Socrates, if you will take our advice; do not
make yourself ridiculous by escaping out of the city.
'For just consider, if you transgress and err in this sort of way, what good will you do
either to yourself or to your friends? That your friends will be driven into exile and
deprived of citizenship, or will lose their property, is tolerably certain; and you yourself,
if you fly to one of the neighbouring cities, as, for example, Thebes or Megara, both of
which are well governed, will come to them as an enemy, Socrates, and their
government will be against you, and all patriotic citizens will cast an evil eye upon you as
a subverter of the laws, and you will confirm in the minds of the judges the justice of
their own condemnation of you. For he who is a corrupter of the laws is more than likely
to be a corrupter of the young and foolish portion of mankind. Will you then flee from
well-ordered cities and virtuous men? and is existence worth having on these terms? Or
will you go to them without shame, and talk to them, Socrates? And what will you say to
them? What you say here about virtue and justice and institutions and laws being the
best things among men? Would that be decent of you? Surely not. But if you go away
from well-governed states to Crito's friends in Thessaly, where there is great disorder
and licence, they will be charmed to hear the tale of your escape from prison, set off with
ludicrous particulars of the manner in which you were wrapped in a goatskin or some
other disguise, and metamorphosed as the manner is of runaways; but will there be no
one to remind you that in your old age you were not ashamed to violate the most sacred
laws from a miserable desire of a little more life? Perhaps not, if you keep them in a
good temper; but if they are out of temper you will hear many degrading things; you will
live, but how?—as the flatterer of all men, and the servant of all men; and doing what?—
eating and drinking in Thessaly, having gone abroad in order that you may get a dinner.
And where will be your fine sentiments about justice and virtue? Say that you wish to
live for the sake of your children—you want to bring them up and educate them—will
you take them into Thessaly and deprive them of Athenian citizenship? Is this the
benefit which you will confer upon them? Or are you under the impression that they will
be better cared for and educated here if you are still alive, although absent from them;
for your friends will take care of them? Do you fancy that if you are an inhabitant of
Thessaly they will take care of them, and if you are an inhabitant of the other world that
they will not take care of them? Nay; but if they who call themselves friends are good for
anything, they will—to be sure they will.
'Listen, then, Socrates, to us who have brought you up. Think not of life and children
first, and of justice afterwards, but of justice first, that you may be justified before the
princes of the world below. For neither will you nor any that belong to you be happier or
holier or juster in this life, or happier in another, if you do as Crito bids. Now you depart
in innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil; a victim, not of the laws, but of men. But
if you go forth, returning evil for evil, and injury for injury, breaking the covenants and
agreements which you have made with us, and wronging those whom you ought least of
all to wrong, that is to say, yourself, your friends, your country, and us, we shall be angry
with you while you live, and our brethren, the laws in the world below, will receive you
as an enemy; for they will know that you have done your best to destroy us. Listen, then,
to us and not to Crito.'
This, dear Crito, is the voice which I seem to hear murmuring in my ears, like the sound
of the flute in the ears of the mystic; that voice, I say, is humming in my ears, and
prevents me from hearing any other. And I know that anything more which you may say
will be vain. Yet speak, if you have anything to say.
CRITO: I have nothing to say, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Leave me then, Crito, to fulfil the will of God, and to follow whither he
leads.
CHARMIDES, OR TEMPERANCE
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, who is the narrator, Charmides, Chaerephon,
Critias.
SCENE: The Palaestra of Taureas, which is near the Porch of the King Archon.
Yesterday evening I returned from the army at Potidaea, and having been a good while
away, I thought that I should like to go and look at my old haunts. So I went into the
palaestra of Taureas, which is over against the temple adjoining the porch of the King
Archon, and there I found a number of persons, most of whom I knew, but not all. My
visit was unexpected, and no sooner did they see me entering than they saluted me from
afar on all sides; and Chaerephon, who is a kind of madman, started up and ran to me,
seizing my hand, and saying, How did you escape, Socrates?—(I should explain that an
engagement had taken place at Potidaea not long before we came away, of which the
news had only just reached Athens.)
You see, I replied, that here I am.
There was a report, he said, that the engagement was very severe, and that many of our
acquaintance had fallen.
That, I replied, was not far from the truth.
I suppose, he said, that you were present.
I was.
Then sit down, and tell us the whole story, which as yet we have only heard imperfectly.
I took the place which he assigned to me, by the side of Critias the son of Callaeschrus,
and when I had saluted him and the rest of the company, I told them the news from the
army, and answered their several enquiries.
Then, when there had been enough of this, I, in my turn, began to make enquiries about
matters at home—about the present state of philosophy, and about the youth. I asked
whether any of them were remarkable for wisdom or beauty, or both. Critias, glancing at
the door, invited my attention to some youths who were coming in, and talking noisily to
one another, followed by a crowd. Of the beauties, Socrates, he said, I fancy that you will
soon be able to form a judgment. For those who are just entering are the advanced guard
of the great beauty, as he is thought to be, of the day, and he is likely to be not far off
himself.
Who is he, I said; and who is his father?
Charmides, he replied, is his name; he is my cousin, and the son of my uncle Glaucon: I
rather think that you know him too, although he was not grown up at the time of your
departure.
Certainly, I know him, I said, for he was remarkable even then when he was still a child,
and I should imagine that by this time he must be almost a young man.
You will see, he said, in a moment what progress he has made and what he is like. He
had scarcely said the word, when Charmides entered.
Now you know, my friend, that I cannot measure anything, and of the beautiful, I am
simply such a measure as a white line is of chalk; for almost all young persons appear to
be beautiful in my eyes. But at that moment, when I saw him coming in, I confess that I
was quite astonished at his beauty and stature; all the world seemed to be enamoured of
him; amazement and confusion reigned when he entered; and a troop of lovers followed
him. That grown-up men like ourselves should have been affected in this way was not
surprising, but I observed that there was the same feeling among the boys; all of them,
down to the very least child, turned and looked at him, as if he had been a statue.
Chaerephon called me and said: What do you think of him, Socrates? Has he not a
beautiful face?
Most beautiful, I said.
But you would think nothing of his face, he replied, if you could see his naked form: he is
absolutely perfect.
And to this they all agreed.
By Heracles, I said, there never was such a paragon, if he has only one other slight
addition.
What is that? said Critias.
If he has a noble soul; and being of your house, Critias, he may be expected to have this.
He is as fair and good within, as he is without, replied Critias.
Then, before we see his body, should we not ask him to show us his soul, naked and
undisguised? he is just of an age at which he will like to talk.
That he will, said Critias, and I can tell you that he is a philosopher already, and also a
considerable poet, not in his own opinion only, but in that of others.
That, my dear Critias, I replied, is a distinction which has long been in your family, and
is inherited by you from Solon. But why do you not call him, and show him to us? for
even if he were younger than he is, there could be no impropriety in his talking to us in
the presence of you, who are his guardian and cousin.
Very well, he said; then I will call him; and turning to the attendant, he said, Call
Charmides, and tell him that I want him to come and see a physician about the illness of
which he spoke to me the day before yesterday. Then again addressing me, he added: He
has been complaining lately of having a headache when he rises in the morning: now
why should you not make him believe that you know a cure for the headache?
Why not, I said; but will he come?
He will be sure to come, he replied.
He came as he was bidden, and sat down between Critias and me. Great amusement was
occasioned by every one pushing with might and main at his neighbour in order to make
a place for him next to themselves, until at the two ends of the row one had to get up and
the other was rolled over sideways. Now I, my friend, was beginning to feel awkward;
my former bold belief in my powers of conversing with him had vanished. And when
Critias told him that I was the person who had the cure, he looked at me in such an
indescribable manner, and was just going to ask a question. And at that moment all the
people in the palaestra crowded about us, and, O rare! I caught a sight of the inwards of
his garment, and took the flame. Then I could no longer contain myself. I thought how
well Cydias understood the nature of love, when, in speaking of a fair youth, he warns
some one 'not to bring the fawn in the sight of the lion to be devoured by him,' for I felt
that I had been overcome by a sort of wild-beast appetite. But I controlled myself, and
when he asked me if I knew the cure of the headache, I answered, but with an effort, that
I did know.
And what is it? he said.
I replied that it was a kind of leaf, which required to be accompanied by a charm, and if
a person would repeat the charm at the same time that he used the cure, he would be
made whole; but that without the charm the leaf would be of no avail.
Then I will write out the charm from your dictation, he said.
With my consent? I said, or without my consent?
With your consent, Socrates, he said, laughing.
Very good, I said; and are you quite sure that you know my name?
I ought to know you, he replied, for there is a great deal said about you among my
companions; and I remember when I was a child seeing you in company with my cousin
Critias.
I am glad to find that you remember me, I said; for I shall now be more at home with
you and shall be better able to explain the nature of the charm, about which I felt a
difficulty before. For the charm will do more, Charmides, than only cure the headache. I
dare say that you have heard eminent physicians say to a patient who comes to them
with bad eyes, that they cannot cure his eyes by themselves, but that if his eyes are to be
cured, his head must be treated; and then again they say that to think of curing the head
alone, and not the rest of the body also, is the height of folly. And arguing in this way
they apply their methods to the whole body, and try to treat and heal the whole and the
part together. Did you ever observe that this is what they say?
Yes, he said.
And they are right, and you would agree with them?
Yes, he said, certainly I should.
His approving answers reassured me, and I began by degrees to regain confidence, and
the vital heat returned. Such, Charmides, I said, is the nature of the charm, which I
learned when serving with the army from one of the physicians of the Thracian king
Zamolxis, who are said to be so skilful that they can even give immortality. This
Thracian told me that in these notions of theirs, which I was just now mentioning, the
Greek physicians are quite right as far as they go; but Zamolxis, he added, our king, who
is also a god, says further, 'that as you ought not to attempt to cure the eyes without the
head, or the head without the body, so neither ought you to attempt to cure the body
without the soul; and this,' he said, 'is the reason why the cure of many diseases is
unknown to the physicians of Hellas, because they are ignorant of the whole, which
ought to be studied also; for the part can never be well unless the whole is well.' For all
good and evil, whether in the body or in human nature, originates, as he declared, in the
soul, and overflows from thence, as if from the head into the eyes. And therefore if the
head and body are to be well, you must begin by curing the soul; that is the first thing.
And the cure, my dear youth, has to be effected by the use of certain charms, and these
charms are fair words; and by them temperance is implanted in the soul, and where
temperance is, there health is speedily imparted, not only to the head, but to the whole
body. And he who taught me the cure and the charm at the same time added a special
direction: 'Let no one,' he said, 'persuade you to cure the head, until he has first given
you his soul to be cured by the charm. For this,' he said, 'is the great error of our day in
the treatment of the human body, that physicians separate the soul from the body.' And
he added with emphasis, at the same time making me swear to his words, 'Let no one,
however rich, or noble, or fair, persuade you to give him the cure, without the charm.'
Now I have sworn, and I must keep my oath, and therefore if you will allow me to apply
the Thracian charm first to your soul, as the stranger directed, I will afterwards proceed
to apply the cure to your head. But if not, I do not know what I am to do with you, my
dear Charmides.
Critias, when he heard this, said: The headache will be an unexpected gain to my young
relation, if the pain in his head compels him to improve his mind: and I can tell you,
Socrates, that Charmides is not only pre-eminent in beauty among his equals, but also in
that quality which is given by the charm; and this, as you say, is temperance?
Yes, I said.
Then let me tell you that he is the most temperate of human beings, and for his age
inferior to none in any quality.
Yes, I said, Charmides; and indeed I think that you ought to excel others in all good
qualities; for if I am not mistaken there is no one present who could easily point out two
Athenian houses, whose union would be likely to produce a better or nobler scion than
the two from which you are sprung. There is your father's house, which is descended
from Critias the son of Dropidas, whose family has been commemorated in the
panegyrical verses of Anacreon, Solon, and many other poets, as famous for beauty and
virtue and all other high fortune: and your mother's house is equally distinguished; for
your maternal uncle, Pyrilampes, is reputed never to have found his equal, in Persia at
the court of the great king, or on the continent of Asia, in all the places to which he went
as ambassador, for stature and beauty; that whole family is not a whit inferior to the
other. Having such ancestors you ought to be first in all things, and, sweet son of
Glaucon, your outward form is no dishonour to any of them. If to beauty you add
temperance, and if in other respects you are what Critias declares you to be, then, dear
Charmides, blessed art thou, in being the son of thy mother. And here lies the point; for
if, as he declares, you have this gift of temperance already, and are temperate enough, in
that case you have no need of any charms, whether of Zamolxis or of Abaris the
Hyperborean, and I may as well let you have the cure of the head at once; but if you have
not yet acquired this quality, I must use the charm before I give you the medicine.
Please, therefore, to inform me whether you admit the truth of what Critias has been
saying;—have you or have you not this quality of temperance?
Charmides blushed, and the blush heightened his beauty, for modesty is becoming in
youth; he then said very ingenuously, that he really could not at once answer, either yes,
or no, to the question which I had asked: For, said he, if I affirm that I am not
temperate, that would be a strange thing for me to say of myself, and also I should give
the lie to Critias, and many others who think as he tells you, that I am temperate: but, on
the other hand, if I say that I am, I shall have to praise myself, which would be ill
manners; and therefore I do not know how to answer you.
I said to him: That is a natural reply, Charmides, and I think that you and I ought
together to enquire whether you have this quality about which I am asking or not; and
then you will not be compelled to say what you do not like; neither shall I be a rash
practitioner of medicine: therefore, if you please, I will share the enquiry with you, but I
will not press you if you would rather not.
There is nothing which I should like better, he said; and as far as I am concerned you
may proceed in the way which you think best.
I think, I said, that I had better begin by asking you a question; for if temperance abides
in you, you must have an opinion about her; she must give some intimation of her
nature and qualities, which may enable you to form a notion of her. Is not that true?
Yes, he said, that I think is true.
You know your native language, I said, and therefore you must be able to tell what you
feel about this.
Certainly, he said.
In order, then, that I may form a conjecture whether you have temperance abiding in
you or not, tell me, I said, what, in your opinion, is Temperance?
At first he hesitated, and was very unwilling to answer: then he said that he thought
temperance was doing things orderly and quietly, such things for example as walking in
the streets, and talking, or anything else of that nature. In a word, he said, I should
answer that, in my opinion, temperance is quietness.
Are you right, Charmides? I said. No doubt some would affirm that the quiet are the
temperate; but let us see whether these words have any meaning; and first tell me
whether you would not acknowledge temperance to be of the class of the noble and
good?
Yes.
But which is best when you are at the writing-master's, to write the same letters quickly
or quietly?
Quickly.
And to read quickly or slowly?
Quickly again.
And in playing the lyre, or wrestling, quickness or sharpness are far better than
quietness and slowness?
Yes.
And the same holds in boxing and in the pancratium?
Certainly.
And in leaping and running and in bodily exercises generally, quickness and agility are
good; slowness, and inactivity, and quietness, are bad?
That is evident.
Then, I said, in all bodily actions, not quietness, but the greatest agility and quickness, is
noblest and best?
Yes, certainly.
And is temperance a good?
Yes.
Then, in reference to the body, not quietness, but quickness will be the higher degree of
temperance, if temperance is a good?
True, he said.
And which, I said, is better—facility in learning, or difficulty in learning?
Facility.
Yes, I said; and facility in learning is learning quickly, and difficulty in learning is
learning quietly and slowly?
True.
And is it not better to teach another quickly and energetically, rather than quietly and
slowly?
Yes.
And which is better, to call to mind, and to remember, quickly and readily, or quietly
and slowly?
The former.
And is not shrewdness a quickness or cleverness of the soul, and not a quietness?
True.
And is it not best to understand what is said, whether at the writing-master's or the
music-master's, or anywhere else, not as quietly as possible, but as quickly as possible?
Yes.
And in the searchings or deliberations of the soul, not the quietest, as I imagine, and he
who with difficulty deliberates and discovers, is thought worthy of praise, but he who
does so most easily and quickly?
Quite true, he said.
And in all that concerns either body or soul, swiftness and activity are clearly better than
slowness and quietness?
Clearly they are.
Then temperance is not quietness, nor is the temperate life quiet,— certainly not upon
this view; for the life which is temperate is supposed to be the good. And of two things,
one is true,—either never, or very seldom, do the quiet actions in life appear to be better
than the quick and energetic ones; or supposing that of the nobler actions, there are as
many quiet, as quick and vehement: still, even if we grant this, temperance will not be
acting quietly any more than acting quickly and energetically, either in walking or
talking or in anything else; nor will the quiet life be more temperate than the unquiet,
seeing that temperance is admitted by us to be a good and noble thing, and the quick
have been shown to be as good as the quiet.
I think, he said, Socrates, that you are right.
Then once more, Charmides, I said, fix your attention, and look within; consider the
effect which temperance has upon yourself, and the nature of that which has the effect.
Think over all this, and, like a brave youth, tell me—What is temperance?
After a moment's pause, in which he made a real manly effort to think, he said: My
opinion is, Socrates, that temperance makes a man ashamed or modest, and that
temperance is the same as modesty.
Very good, I said; and did you not admit, just now, that temperance is noble?
Yes, certainly, he said.
And the temperate are also good?
Yes.
And can that be good which does not make men good?
Certainly not.
And you would infer that temperance is not only noble, but also good?
That is my opinion.
Well, I said; but surely you would agree with Homer when he says,
'Modesty is not good for a needy man'?
Yes, he said; I agree.
Then I suppose that modesty is and is not good?
Clearly.
But temperance, whose presence makes men only good, and not bad, is always good?
That appears to me to be as you say.
And the inference is that temperance cannot be modesty—if temperance is a good, and if
modesty is as much an evil as a good?
All that, Socrates, appears to me to be true; but I should like to know what you think
about another definition of temperance, which I just now remember to have heard from
some one, who said, 'That temperance is doing our own business.' Was he right who
affirmed that?
You monster! I said; this is what Critias, or some philosopher has told you.
Some one else, then, said Critias; for certainly I have not.
But what matter, said Charmides, from whom I heard this?
No matter at all, I replied; for the point is not who said the words, but whether they are
true or not.
There you are in the right, Socrates, he replied.
To be sure, I said; yet I doubt whether we shall ever be able to discover their truth or
falsehood; for they are a kind of riddle.
What makes you think so? he said.
Because, I said, he who uttered them seems to me to have meant one thing, and said
another. Is the scribe, for example, to be regarded as doing nothing when he reads or
writes?
I should rather think that he was doing something.
And does the scribe write or read, or teach you boys to write or read, your own names
only, or did you write your enemies' names as well as your own and your friends'?
As much one as the other.
And was there anything meddling or intemperate in this?
Certainly not.
And yet if reading and writing are the same as doing, you were doing what was not your
own business?
But they are the same as doing.
And the healing art, my friend, and building, and weaving, and doing anything whatever
which is done by art,—these all clearly come under the head of doing?
Certainly.
And do you think that a state would be well ordered by a law which compelled every
man to weave and wash his own coat, and make his own shoes, and his own flask and
strigil, and other implements, on this principle of every one doing and performing his
own, and abstaining from what is not his own?
I think not, he said.
But, I said, a temperate state will be a well-ordered state.
Of course, he replied.
Then temperance, I said, will not be doing one's own business; not at least in this way,
or doing things of this sort?
Clearly not.
Then, as I was just now saying, he who declared that temperance is a man doing his own
business had another and a hidden meaning; for I do not think that he could have been
such a fool as to mean this. Was he a fool who told you, Charmides?
Nay, he replied, I certainly thought him a very wise man.
Then I am quite certain that he put forth his definition as a riddle, thinking that no one
would know the meaning of the words 'doing his own business.'
I dare say, he replied.
And what is the meaning of a man doing his own business? Can you tell me?
Indeed, I cannot; and I should not wonder if the man himself who used this phrase did
not understand what he was saying. Whereupon he laughed slyly, and looked at Critias.
Critias had long been showing uneasiness, for he felt that he had a reputation to
maintain with Charmides and the rest of the company. He had, however, hitherto
managed to restrain himself; but now he could no longer forbear, and I am convinced of
the truth of the suspicion which I entertained at the time, that Charmides had heard this
answer about temperance from Critias. And Charmides, who did not want to answer
himself, but to make Critias answer, tried to stir him up. He went on pointing out that
he had been refuted, at which Critias grew angry, and appeared, as I thought, inclined to
quarrel with him; just as a poet might quarrel with an actor who spoiled his poems in
repeating them; so he looked hard at him and said—
Do you imagine, Charmides, that the author of this definition of temperance did not
understand the meaning of his own words, because you do not understand them?
Why, at his age, I said, most excellent Critias, he can hardly be expected to understand;
but you, who are older, and have studied, may well be assumed to know the meaning of
them; and therefore, if you agree with him, and accept his definition of temperance, I
would much rather argue with you than with him about the truth or falsehood of the
definition.
I entirely agree, said Critias, and accept the definition.
Very good, I said; and now let me repeat my question—Do you admit, as I was just now
saying, that all craftsmen make or do something?
I do.
And do they make or do their own business only, or that of others also?
They make or do that of others also.
And are they temperate, seeing that they make not for themselves or their own business
only?
Why not? he said.
No objection on my part, I said, but there may be a difficulty on his who proposes as a
definition of temperance, 'doing one's own business,' and then says that there is no
reason why those who do the business of others should not be temperate.
Nay (The English reader has to observe that the word 'make' (Greek), in Greek, has also
the sense of 'do' (Greek).), said he; did I ever acknowledge that those who do the
business of others are temperate? I said, those who make, not those who do.
What! I asked; do you mean to say that doing and making are not the same?
No more, he replied, than making or working are the same; thus much I have learned
from Hesiod, who says that 'work is no disgrace.' Now do you imagine that if he had
meant by working and doing such things as you were describing, he would have said
that there was no disgrace in them—for example, in the manufacture of shoes, or in
selling pickles, or sitting for hire in a house of ill-fame? That, Socrates, is not to be
supposed: but I conceive him to have distinguished making from doing and work; and,
while admitting that the making anything might sometimes become a disgrace, when
the employment was not honourable, to have thought that work was never any disgrace
at all. For things nobly and usefully made he called works; and such makings he called
workings, and doings; and he must be supposed to have called such things only man's
proper business, and what is hurtful, not his business: and in that sense Hesiod, and any
other wise man, may be reasonably supposed to call him wise who does his own work.
O Critias, I said, no sooner had you opened your mouth, than I pretty well knew that you
would call that which is proper to a man, and that which is his own, good; and that the
makings (Greek) of the good you would call doings (Greek), for I am no stranger to the
endless distinctions which Prodicus draws about names. Now I have no objection to
your giving names any signification which you please, if you will only tell me what you
mean by them. Please then to begin again, and be a little plainer. Do you mean that this
doing or making, or whatever is the word which you would use, of good actions, is
temperance?
I do, he said.
Then not he who does evil, but he who does good, is temperate?
Yes, he said; and you, friend, would agree.
No matter whether I should or not; just now, not what I think, but what you are saying,
is the point at issue.
Well, he answered; I mean to say, that he who does evil, and not good, is not temperate;
and that he is temperate who does good, and not evil: for temperance I define in plain
words to be the doing of good actions.
And you may be very likely right in what you are saying; but I am curious to know
whether you imagine that temperate men are ignorant of their own temperance?
I do not think so, he said.
And yet were you not saying, just now, that craftsmen might be temperate in doing
another's work, as well as in doing their own?
I was, he replied; but what is your drift?
I have no particular drift, but I wish that you would tell me whether a physician who
cures a patient may do good to himself and good to another also?
I think that he may.
And he who does so does his duty?
Yes.
And does not he who does his duty act temperately or wisely?
Yes, he acts wisely.
But must the physician necessarily know when his treatment is likely to prove beneficial,
and when not? or must the craftsman necessarily know when he is likely to be benefited,
and when not to be benefited, by the work which he is doing?
I suppose not.
Then, I said, he may sometimes do good or harm, and not know what he is himself
doing, and yet, in doing good, as you say, he has done temperately or wisely. Was not
that your statement?
Yes.
Then, as would seem, in doing good, he may act wisely or temperately, and be wise or
temperate, but not know his own wisdom or temperance?
But that, Socrates, he said, is impossible; and therefore if this is, as you imply, the
necessary consequence of any of my previous admissions, I will withdraw them, rather
than admit that a man can be temperate or wise who does not know himself; and I am
not ashamed to confess that I was in error. For self-knowledge would certainly be
maintained by me to be the very essence of knowledge, and in this I agree with him who
dedicated the inscription, 'Know thyself!' at Delphi. That word, if I am not mistaken, is
put there as a sort of salutation which the god addresses to those who enter the temple;
as much as to say that the ordinary salutation of 'Hail!' is not right, and that the
exhortation 'Be temperate!' would be a far better way of saluting one another. The
notion of him who dedicated the inscription was, as I believe, that the god speaks to
those who enter his temple, not as men speak; but, when a worshipper enters, the first
word which he hears is 'Be temperate!' This, however, like a prophet he expresses in a
sort of riddle, for 'Know thyself!' and 'Be temperate!' are the same, as I maintain, and as
the letters imply (Greek), and yet they may be easily misunderstood; and succeeding
sages who added 'Never too much,' or, 'Give a pledge, and evil is nigh at hand,' would
appear to have so misunderstood them; for they imagined that 'Know thyself!' was a
piece of advice which the god gave, and not his salutation of the worshippers at their
first coming in; and they dedicated their own inscription under the idea that they too
would give equally useful pieces of advice. Shall I tell you, Socrates, why I say all this?
My object is to leave the previous discussion (in which I know not whether you or I are
more right, but, at any rate, no clear result was attained), and to raise a new one in
which I will attempt to prove, if you deny, that temperance is self-knowledge.
Yes, I said, Critias; but you come to me as though I professed to know about the
questions which I ask, and as though I could, if I only would, agree with you. Whereas
the fact is that I enquire with you into the truth of that which is advanced from time to
time, just because I do not know; and when I have enquired, I will say whether I agree
with you or not. Please then to allow me time to reflect.
Reflect, he said.
I am reflecting, I replied, and discover that temperance, or wisdom, if implying a
knowledge of anything, must be a science, and a science of something.
Yes, he said; the science of itself.
Is not medicine, I said, the science of health?
True.
And suppose, I said, that I were asked by you what is the use or effect of medicine, which
is this science of health, I should answer that medicine is of very great use in producing
health, which, as you will admit, is an excellent effect.
Granted.
And if you were to ask me, what is the result or effect of architecture, which is the
science of building, I should say houses, and so of other arts, which all have their
different results. Now I want you, Critias, to answer a similar question about
temperance, or wisdom, which, according to you, is the science of itself. Admitting this
view, I ask of you, what good work, worthy of the name wise, does temperance or
wisdom, which is the science of itself, effect? Answer me.
That is not the true way of pursuing the enquiry, Socrates, he said; for wisdom is not like
the other sciences, any more than they are like one another: but you proceed as if they
were alike. For tell me, he said, what result is there of computation or geometry, in the
same sense as a house is the result of building, or a garment of weaving, or any other
work of any other art? Can you show me any such result of them? You cannot.
That is true, I said; but still each of these sciences has a subject which is different from
the science. I can show you that the art of computation has to do with odd and even
numbers in their numerical relations to themselves and to each other. Is not that true?
Yes, he said.
And the odd and even numbers are not the same with the art of computation?
They are not.
The art of weighing, again, has to do with lighter and heavier; but the art of weighing is
one thing, and the heavy and the light another. Do you admit that?
Yes.
Now, I want to know, what is that which is not wisdom, and of which wisdom is the
science?
You are just falling into the old error, Socrates, he said. You come asking in what
wisdom or temperance differs from the other sciences, and then you try to discover
some respect in which they are alike; but they are not, for all the other sciences are of
something else, and not of themselves; wisdom alone is a science of other sciences, and
of itself. And of this, as I believe, you are very well aware: and that you are only doing
what you denied that you were doing just now, trying to refute me, instead of pursuing
the argument.
And what if I am? How can you think that I have any other motive in refuting you but
what I should have in examining into myself? which motive would be just a fear of my
unconsciously fancying that I knew something of which I was ignorant. And at this
moment I pursue the argument chiefly for my own sake, and perhaps in some degree
also for the sake of my other friends. For is not the discovery of things as they truly are,
a good common to all mankind?
Yes, certainly, Socrates, he said.
Then, I said, be cheerful, sweet sir, and give your opinion in answer to the question
which I asked, never minding whether Critias or Socrates is the person refuted; attend
only to the argument, and see what will come of the refutation.
I think that you are right, he replied; and I will do as you say.
Tell me, then, I said, what you mean to affirm about wisdom.
I mean to say that wisdom is the only science which is the science of itself as well as of
the other sciences.
But the science of science, I said, will also be the science of the absence of science.
Very true, he said.
Then the wise or temperate man, and he only, will know himself, and be able to examine
what he knows or does not know, and to see what others know and think that they know
and do really know; and what they do not know, and fancy that they know, when they do
not. No other person will be able to do this. And this is wisdom and temperance and
self-knowledge—for a man to know what he knows, and what he does not know. That is
your meaning?
Yes, he said.
Now then, I said, making an offering of the third or last argument to Zeus the Saviour,
let us begin again, and ask, in the first place, whether it is or is not possible for a person
to know that he knows and does not know what he knows and does not know; and in the
second place, whether, if perfectly possible, such knowledge is of any use.
That is what we have to consider, he said.
And here, Critias, I said, I hope that you will find a way out of a difficulty into which I
have got myself. Shall I tell you the nature of the difficulty?
By all means, he replied.
Does not what you have been saying, if true, amount to this: that there must be a single
science which is wholly a science of itself and of other sciences, and that the same is also
the science of the absence of science?
Yes.
But consider how monstrous this proposition is, my friend: in any parallel case, the
impossibility will be transparent to you.
How is that? and in what cases do you mean?
In such cases as this: Suppose that there is a kind of vision which is not like ordinary
vision, but a vision of itself and of other sorts of vision, and of the defect of them, which
in seeing sees no colour, but only itself and other sorts of vision: Do you think that there
is such a kind of vision?
Certainly not.
Or is there a kind of hearing which hears no sound at all, but only itself and other sorts
of hearing, or the defects of them?
There is not.
Or take all the senses: can you imagine that there is any sense of itself and of other
senses, but which is incapable of perceiving the objects of the senses?
I think not.
Could there be any desire which is not the desire of any pleasure, but of itself, and of all
other desires?
Certainly not.
Or can you imagine a wish which wishes for no good, but only for itself and all other
wishes?
I should answer, No.
Or would you say that there is a love which is not the love of beauty, but of itself and of
other loves?
I should not.
Or did you ever know of a fear which fears itself or other fears, but has no object of fear?
I never did, he said.
Or of an opinion which is an opinion of itself and of other opinions, and which has no
opinion on the subjects of opinion in general?
Certainly not.
But surely we are assuming a science of this kind, which, having no subject-matter, is a
science of itself and of the other sciences?
Yes, that is what is affirmed.
But how strange is this, if it be indeed true: we must not however as yet absolutely deny
the possibility of such a science; let us rather consider the matter.
You are quite right.
Well then, this science of which we are speaking is a science of something, and is of a
nature to be a science of something?
Yes.
Just as that which is greater is of a nature to be greater than something else? (Socrates is
intending to show that science differs from the object of science, as any other relative
differs from the object of relation. But where there is comparison—greater, less, heavier,
lighter, and the like—a relation to self as well as to other things involves an absolute
contradiction; and in other cases, as in the case of the senses, is hardly conceivable. The
use of the genitive after the comparative in Greek, (Greek), creates an unavoidable
obscurity in the translation.)
Yes.
Which is less, if the other is conceived to be greater?
To be sure.
And if we could find something which is at once greater than itself, and greater than
other great things, but not greater than those things in comparison of which the others
are greater, then that thing would have the property of being greater and also less than
itself?
That, Socrates, he said, is the inevitable inference.
Or if there be a double which is double of itself and of other doubles, these will be
halves; for the double is relative to the half?
That is true.
And that which is greater than itself will also be less, and that which is heavier will also
be lighter, and that which is older will also be younger: and the same of other things;
that which has a nature relative to self will retain also the nature of its object: I mean to
say, for example, that hearing is, as we say, of sound or voice. Is that true?
Yes.
Then if hearing hears itself, it must hear a voice; for there is no other way of hearing.
Certainly.
And sight also, my excellent friend, if it sees itself must see a colour, for sight cannot see
that which has no colour.
No.
Do you remark, Critias, that in several of the examples which have been recited the
notion of a relation to self is altogether inadmissible, and in other cases hardly
credible—inadmissible, for example, in the case of magnitudes, numbers, and the like?
Very true.
But in the case of hearing and sight, or in the power of self-motion, and the power of
heat to burn, this relation to self will be regarded as incredible by some, but perhaps not
by others. And some great man, my friend, is wanted, who will satisfactorily determine
for us, whether there is nothing which has an inherent property of relation to self, or
some things only and not others; and whether in this class of self-related things, if there
be such a class, that science which is called wisdom or temperance is included. I
altogether distrust my own power of determining these matters: I am not certain
whether there is such a science of science at all; and even if there be, I should not
acknowledge this to be wisdom or temperance, until I can also see whether such a
science would or would not do us any good; for I have an impression that temperance is
a benefit and a good. And therefore, O son of Callaeschrus, as you maintain that
temperance or wisdom is a science of science, and also of the absence of science, I will
request you to show in the first place, as I was saying before, the possibility, and in the
second place, the advantage, of such a science; and then perhaps you may satisfy me
that you are right in your view of temperance.
Critias heard me say this, and saw that I was in a difficulty; and as one person when
another yawns in his presence catches the infection of yawning from him, so did he
seem to be driven into a difficulty by my difficulty. But as he had a reputation to
maintain, he was ashamed to admit before the company that he could not answer my
challenge or determine the question at issue; and he made an unintelligible attempt to
hide his perplexity. In order that the argument might proceed, I said to him, Well then
Critias, if you like, let us assume that there is this science of science; whether the
assumption is right or wrong may hereafter be investigated. Admitting the existence of
it, will you tell me how such a science enables us to distinguish what we know or do not
know, which, as we were saying, is self-knowledge or wisdom: so we were saying?
Yes, Socrates, he said; and that I think is certainly true: for he who has this science or
knowledge which knows itself will become like the knowledge which he has, in the same
way that he who has swiftness will be swift, and he who has beauty will be beautiful, and
he who has knowledge will know. In the same way he who has that knowledge which is
self-knowing, will know himself.
I do not doubt, I said, that a man will know himself, when he possesses that which has
self-knowledge: but what necessity is there that, having this, he should know what he
knows and what he does not know?
Because, Socrates, they are the same.
Very likely, I said; but I remain as stupid as ever; for still I fail to comprehend how this
knowing what you know and do not know is the same as the knowledge of self.
What do you mean? he said.
This is what I mean, I replied: I will admit that there is a science of science;—can this do
more than determine that of two things one is and the other is not science or
knowledge?
No, just that.
But is knowledge or want of knowledge of health the same as knowledge or want of
knowledge of justice?
Certainly not.
The one is medicine, and the other is politics; whereas that of which we are speaking is
knowledge pure and simple.
Very true.
And if a man knows only, and has only knowledge of knowledge, and has no further
knowledge of health and justice, the probability is that he will only know that he knows
something, and has a certain knowledge, whether concerning himself or other men.
True.
Then how will this knowledge or science teach him to know what he knows? Say that he
knows health;—not wisdom or temperance, but the art of medicine has taught it to
him;—and he has learned harmony from the art of music, and building from the art of
building,—neither, from wisdom or temperance: and the same of other things.
That is evident.
How will wisdom, regarded only as a knowledge of knowledge or science of science, ever
teach him that he knows health, or that he knows building?
It is impossible.
Then he who is ignorant of these things will only know that he knows, but not what he
knows?
True.
Then wisdom or being wise appears to be not the knowledge of the things which we do
or do not know, but only the knowledge that we know or do not know?
That is the inference.
Then he who has this knowledge will not be able to examine whether a pretender knows
or does not know that which he says that he knows: he will only know that he has a
knowledge of some kind; but wisdom will not show him of what the knowledge is?
Plainly not.
Neither will he be able to distinguish the pretender in medicine from the true physician,
nor between any other true and false professor of knowledge. Let us consider the matter
in this way: If the wise man or any other man wants to distinguish the true physician
from the false, how will he proceed? He will not talk to him about medicine; and that, as
we were saying, is the only thing which the physician understands.
True.
And, on the other hand, the physician knows nothing of science, for this has been
assumed to be the province of wisdom.
True.
And further, since medicine is science, we must infer that he does not know anything of
medicine.
Exactly.
Then the wise man may indeed know that the physician has some kind of science or
knowledge; but when he wants to discover the nature of this he will ask, What is the
subject-matter? For the several sciences are distinguished not by the mere fact that they
are sciences, but by the nature of their subjects. Is not that true?
Quite true.
And medicine is distinguished from other sciences as having the subject-matter of
health and disease?
Yes.
And he who would enquire into the nature of medicine must pursue the enquiry into
health and disease, and not into what is extraneous?
True.
And he who judges rightly will judge of the physician as a physician in what relates to
these?
He will.
He will consider whether what he says is true, and whether what he does is right, in
relation to health and disease?
He will.
But can any one attain the knowledge of either unless he have a knowledge of medicine?
He cannot.
No one at all, it would seem, except the physician can have this knowledge; and
therefore not the wise man; he would have to be a physician as well as a wise man.
Very true.
Then, assuredly, wisdom or temperance, if only a science of science, and of the absence
of science or knowledge, will not be able to distinguish the physician who knows from
one who does not know but pretends or thinks that he knows, or any other professor of
anything at all; like any other artist, he will only know his fellow in art or wisdom, and
no one else.
That is evident, he said.
But then what profit, Critias, I said, is there any longer in wisdom or temperance which
yet remains, if this is wisdom? If, indeed, as we were supposing at first, the wise man
had been able to distinguish what he knew and did not know, and that he knew the one
and did not know the other, and to recognize a similar faculty of discernment in others,
there would certainly have been a great advantage in being wise; for then we should
never have made a mistake, but have passed through life the unerring guides of
ourselves and of those who are under us; and we should not have attempted to do what
we did not know, but we should have found out those who knew, and have handed the
business over to them and trusted in them; nor should we have allowed those who were
under us to do anything which they were not likely to do well; and they would be likely
to do well just that of which they had knowledge; and the house or state which was
ordered or administered under the guidance of wisdom, and everything else of which
wisdom was the lord, would have been well ordered; for truth guiding, and error having
been eliminated, in all their doings, men would have done well, and would have been
happy. Was not this, Critias, what we spoke of as the great advantage of wisdom—to
know what is known and what is unknown to us?
Very true, he said.
And now you perceive, I said, that no such science is to be found anywhere.
I perceive, he said.
May we assume then, I said, that wisdom, viewed in this new light merely as a
knowledge of knowledge and ignorance, has this advantage:—that he who possesses
such knowledge will more easily learn anything which he learns; and that everything will
be clearer to him, because, in addition to the knowledge of individuals, he sees the
science, and this also will better enable him to test the knowledge which others have of
what he knows himself; whereas the enquirer who is without this knowledge may be
supposed to have a feebler and weaker insight? Are not these, my friend, the real
advantages which are to be gained from wisdom? And are not we looking and seeking
after something more than is to be found in her?
That is very likely, he said.
That is very likely, I said; and very likely, too, we have been enquiring to no purpose; as I
am led to infer, because I observe that if this is wisdom, some strange consequences
would follow. Let us, if you please, assume the possibility of this science of sciences, and
further admit and allow, as was originally suggested, that wisdom is the knowledge of
what we know and do not know. Assuming all this, still, upon further consideration, I
am doubtful, Critias, whether wisdom, such as this, would do us much good. For we
were wrong, I think, in supposing, as we were saying just now, that such wisdom
ordering the government of house or state would be a great benefit.
How so? he said.
Why, I said, we were far too ready to admit the great benefits which mankind would
obtain from their severally doing the things which they knew, and committing the things
of which they are ignorant to those who were better acquainted with them.
Were we not right in making that admission?
I think not.
How very strange, Socrates!
By the dog of Egypt, I said, there I agree with you; and I was thinking as much just now
when I said that strange consequences would follow, and that I was afraid we were on
the wrong track; for however ready we may be to admit that this is wisdom, I certainly
cannot make out what good this sort of thing does to us.
What do you mean? he said; I wish that you could make me understand what you mean.
I dare say that what I am saying is nonsense, I replied; and yet if a man has any feeling
of what is due to himself, he cannot let the thought which comes into his mind pass
away unheeded and unexamined.
I like that, he said.
Hear, then, I said, my own dream; whether coming through the horn or the ivory gate, I
cannot tell. The dream is this: Let us suppose that wisdom is such as we are now
defining, and that she has absolute sway over us; then each action will be done
according to the arts or sciences, and no one professing to be a pilot when he is not, or
any physician or general, or any one else pretending to know matters of which he is
ignorant, will deceive or elude us; our health will be improved; our safety at sea, and
also in battle, will be assured; our coats and shoes, and all other instruments and
implements will be skilfully made, because the workmen will be good and true. Aye, and
if you please, you may suppose that prophecy, which is the knowledge of the future, will
be under the control of wisdom, and that she will deter deceivers and set up the true
prophets in their place as the revealers of the future. Now I quite agree that mankind,
thus provided, would live and act according to knowledge, for wisdom would watch and
prevent ignorance from intruding on us. But whether by acting according to knowledge
we shall act well and be happy, my dear Critias,— this is a point which we have not yet
been able to determine.
Yet I think, he replied, that if you discard knowledge, you will hardly find the crown of
happiness in anything else.
But of what is this knowledge? I said. Just answer me that small question. Do you mean
a knowledge of shoemaking?
God forbid.
Or of working in brass?
Certainly not.
Or in wool, or wood, or anything of that sort?
No, I do not.
Then, I said, we are giving up the doctrine that he who lives according to knowledge is
happy, for these live according to knowledge, and yet they are not allowed by you to be
happy; but I think that you mean to confine happiness to particular individuals who live
according to knowledge, such for example as the prophet, who, as I was saying, knows
the future. Is it of him you are speaking or of some one else?
Yes, I mean him, but there are others as well.
Yes, I said, some one who knows the past and present as well as the future, and is
ignorant of nothing. Let us suppose that there is such a person, and if there is, you will
allow that he is the most knowing of all living men.
Certainly he is.
Yet I should like to know one thing more: which of the different kinds of knowledge
makes him happy? or do all equally make him happy?
Not all equally, he replied.
But which most tends to make him happy? the knowledge of what past, present, or
future thing? May I infer this to be the knowledge of the game of draughts?
Nonsense about the game of draughts.
Or of computation?
No.
Or of health?
That is nearer the truth, he said.
And that knowledge which is nearest of all, I said, is the knowledge of what?
The knowledge with which he discerns good and evil.
Monster! I said; you have been carrying me round in a circle, and all this time hiding
from me the fact that the life according to knowledge is not that which makes men act
rightly and be happy, not even if knowledge include all the sciences, but one science
only, that of good and evil. For, let me ask you, Critias, whether, if you take away this,
medicine will not equally give health, and shoemaking equally produce shoes, and the
art of the weaver clothes?—whether the art of the pilot will not equally save our lives at
sea, and the art of the general in war?
Quite so.
And yet, my dear Critias, none of these things will be well or beneficially done, if the
science of the good be wanting.
True.
But that science is not wisdom or temperance, but a science of human advantage; not a
science of other sciences, or of ignorance, but of good and evil: and if this be of use, then
wisdom or temperance will not be of use.
And why, he replied, will not wisdom be of use? For, however much we assume that
wisdom is a science of sciences, and has a sway over other sciences, surely she will have
this particular science of the good under her control, and in this way will benefit us.
And will wisdom give health? I said; is not this rather the effect of medicine? Or does
wisdom do the work of any of the other arts,—do they not each of them do their own
work? Have we not long ago asseverated that wisdom is only the knowledge of
knowledge and of ignorance, and of nothing else?
That is obvious.
Then wisdom will not be the producer of health.
Certainly not.
The art of health is different.
Yes, different.
Nor does wisdom give advantage, my good friend; for that again we have just now been
attributing to another art.
Very true.
How then can wisdom be advantageous, when giving no advantage?
That, Socrates, is certainly inconceivable.
You see then, Critias, that I was not far wrong in fearing that I could have no sound
notion about wisdom; I was quite right in depreciating myself; for that which is
admitted to be the best of all things would never have seemed to us useless, if I had been
good for anything at an enquiry. But now I have been utterly defeated, and have failed to
discover what that is to which the imposer of names gave this name of temperance or
wisdom. And yet many more admissions were made by us than could be fairly granted;
for we admitted that there was a science of science, although the argument said No, and
protested against us; and we admitted further, that this science knew the works of the
other sciences (although this too was denied by the argument), because we wanted to
show that the wise man had knowledge of what he knew and did not know; also we
nobly disregarded, and never even considered, the impossibility of a man knowing in a
sort of way that which he does not know at all; for our assumption was, that he knows
that which he does not know; than which nothing, as I think, can be more irrational.
And yet, after finding us so easy and good-natured, the enquiry is still unable to discover
the truth; but mocks us to a degree, and has gone out of its way to prove the inutility of
that which we admitted only by a sort of supposition and fiction to be the true definition
of temperance or wisdom: which result, as far as I am concerned, is not so much to be
lamented, I said. But for your sake, Charmides, I am very sorry—that you, having such
beauty and such wisdom and temperance of soul, should have no profit or good in life
from your wisdom and temperance. And still more am I grieved about the charm which
I learned with so much pain, and to so little profit, from the Thracian, for the sake of a
thing which is nothing worth. I think indeed that there is a mistake, and that I must be a
bad enquirer, for wisdom or temperance I believe to be really a great good; and happy
are you, Charmides, if you certainly possess it. Wherefore examine yourself, and see
whether you have this gift and can do without the charm; for if you can, I would rather
advise you to regard me simply as a fool who is never able to reason out anything; and to
rest assured that the more wise and temperate you are, the happier you will be.
Charmides said: I am sure that I do not know, Socrates, whether I have or have not this
gift of wisdom and temperance; for how can I know whether I have a thing, of which
even you and Critias are, as you say, unable to discover the nature?—(not that I believe
you.) And further, I am sure, Socrates, that I do need the charm, and as far as I am
concerned, I shall be willing to be charmed by you daily, until you say that I have had
enough.
Very good, Charmides, said Critias; if you do this I shall have a proof of your
temperance, that is, if you allow yourself to be charmed by Socrates, and never desert
him at all.
You may depend on my following and not deserting him, said Charmides: if you who are
my guardian command me, I should be very wrong not to obey you.
And I do command you, he said.
Then I will do as you say, and begin this very day.
You sirs, I said, what are you conspiring about?
We are not conspiring, said Charmides, we have conspired already.
And are you about to use violence, without even going through the forms of justice?
Yes, I shall use violence, he replied, since he orders me; and therefore you had better
consider well.
But the time for consideration has passed, I said, when violence is employed; and you,
when you are determined on anything, and in the mood of violence, are irresistible.
Do not you resist me then, he said.
I will not resist you, I replied.
Laches, or Courage
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Lysimachus, son of Aristides. Melesias, son of
Thucydides. Their sons. Nicias, Laches, Socrates.
LYSIMACHUS: You have seen the exhibition of the man fighting in armour, Nicias and
Laches, but we did not tell you at the time the reason why my friend Melesias and I
asked you to go with us and see him. I think that we may as well confess what this was,
for we certainly ought not to have any reserve with you. The reason was, that we were
intending to ask your advice. Some laugh at the very notion of advising others, and when
they are asked will not say what they think. They guess at the wishes of the person who
asks them, and answer according to his, and not according to their own, opinion. But as
we know that you are good judges, and will say exactly what you think, we have taken
you into our counsels. The matter about which I am making all this preface is as follows:
Melesias and I have two sons; that is his son, and he is named Thucydides, after his
grandfather; and this is mine, who is also called after his grandfather, Aristides. Now,
we are resolved to take the greatest care of the youths, and not to let them run about as
they like, which is too often the way with the young, when they are no longer children,
but to begin at once and do the utmost that we can for them. And knowing you to have
sons of your own, we thought that you were most likely to have attended to their
training and improvement, and, if perchance you have not attended to them, we may
remind you that you ought to have done so, and would invite you to assist us in the
fulfilment of a common duty. I will tell you, Nicias and Laches, even at the risk of being
tedious, how we came to think of this. Melesias and I live together, and our sons live
with us; and now, as I was saying at first, we are going to confess to you. Both of us often
talk to the lads about the many noble deeds which our own fathers did in war and
peace—in the management of the allies, and in the administration of the city; but
neither of us has any deeds of his own which he can show. The truth is that we are
ashamed of this contrast being seen by them, and we blame our fathers for letting us be
spoiled in the days of our youth, while they were occupied with the concerns of others;
and we urge all this upon the lads, pointing out to them that they will not grow up to
honour if they are rebellious and take no pains about themselves; but that if they take
pains they may, perhaps, become worthy of the names which they bear. They, on their
part, promise to comply with our wishes; and our care is to discover what studies or
pursuits are likely to be most improving to them. Some one commended to us the art of
fighting in armour, which he thought an excellent accomplishment for a young man to
learn; and he praised the man whose exhibition you have seen, and told us to go and see
him. And we determined that we would go, and get you to accompany us; and we were
intending at the same time, if you did not object, to take counsel with you about the
education of our sons. That is the matter which we wanted to talk over with you; and we
hope that you will give us your opinion about this art of fighting in armour, and about
any other studies or pursuits which may or may not be desirable for a young man to
learn. Please to say whether you agree to our proposal.
NICIAS: As far as I am concerned, Lysimachus and Melesias, I applaud your purpose,
and will gladly assist you; and I believe that you, Laches, will be equally glad.
LACHES: Certainly, Nicias; and I quite approve of the remark which Lysimachus made
about his own father and the father of Melesias, and which is applicable, not only to
them, but to us, and to every one who is occupied with public affairs. As he says, such
persons are too apt to be negligent and careless of their own children and their private
concerns. There is much truth in that remark of yours, Lysimachus. But why, instead of
consulting us, do you not consult our friend Socrates about the education of the youths?
He is of the same deme with you, and is always passing his time in places where the
youth have any noble study or pursuit, such as you are enquiring after.
LYSIMACHUS: Why, Laches, has Socrates ever attended to matters of this sort?
LACHES: Certainly, Lysimachus.
NICIAS: That I have the means of knowing as well as Laches; for quite lately he supplied
me with a teacher of music for my sons,—Damon, the disciple of Agathocles, who is a
most accomplished man in every way, as well as a musician, and a companion of
inestimable value for young men at their age.
LYSIMACHUS: Those who have reached my time of life, Socrates and Nicias and
Laches, fall out of acquaintance with the young, because they are generally detained at
home by old age; but you, O son of Sophroniscus, should let your fellow demesman have
the benefit of any advice which you are able to give. Moreover I have a claim upon you as
an old friend of your father; for I and he were always companions and friends, and to the
hour of his death there never was a difference between us; and now it comes back to me,
at the mention of your name, that I have heard these lads talking to one another at
home, and often speaking of Socrates in terms of the highest praise; but I have never
thought to ask them whether the son of Sophroniscus was the person whom they meant.
Tell me, my boys, whether this is the Socrates of whom you have often spoken?
SON: Certainly, father, this is he.
LYSIMACHUS: I am delighted to hear, Socrates, that you maintain the name of your
father, who was a most excellent man; and I further rejoice at the prospect of our family
ties being renewed.
LACHES: Indeed, Lysimachus, you ought not to give him up; for I can assure you that I
have seen him maintaining, not only his father's, but also his country's name. He was
my companion in the retreat from Delium, and I can tell you that if others had only been
like him, the honour of our country would have been upheld, and the great defeat would
never have occurred.
LYSIMACHUS: That is very high praise which is accorded to you, Socrates, by faithful
witnesses and for actions like those which they praise. Let me tell you the pleasure
which I feel in hearing of your fame; and I hope that you will regard me as one of your
warmest friends. You ought to have visited us long ago, and made yourself at home with
us; but now, from this day forward, as we have at last found one another out, do as I
say—come and make acquaintance with me, and with these young men, that I may
continue your friend, as I was your father's. I shall expect you to do so, and shall venture
at some future time to remind you of your duty. But what say you of the matter of which
we were beginning to speak—the art of fighting in armour? Is that a practice in which
the lads may be advantageously instructed?
SOCRATES: I will endeavour to advise you, Lysimachus, as far as I can in this matter,
and also in every way will comply with your wishes; but as I am younger and not so
experienced, I think that I ought certainly to hear first what my elders have to say, and
to learn of them, and if I have anything to add, then I may venture to give my opinion to
them as well as to you. Suppose, Nicias, that one or other of you begin.
NICIAS: I have no objection, Socrates; and my opinion is that the acquirement of this
art is in many ways useful to young men. It is an advantage to them that among the
favourite amusements of their leisure hours they should have one which tends to
improve and not to injure their bodily health. No gymnastics could be better or harder
exercise; and this, and the art of riding, are of all arts most befitting to a freeman; for
they only who are thus trained in the use of arms are the athletes of our military
profession, trained in that on which the conflict turns. Moreover in actual battle, when
you have to fight in a line with a number of others, such an acquirement will be of some
use, and will be of the greatest whenever the ranks are broken and you have to fight
singly, either in pursuit, when you are attacking some one who is defending himself, or
in flight, when you have to defend yourself against an assailant. Certainly he who
possessed the art could not meet with any harm at the hands of a single person, or
perhaps of several; and in any case he would have a great advantage. Further, this sort of
skill inclines a man to the love of other noble lessons; for every man who has learned
how to fight in armour will desire to learn the proper arrangement of an army, which is
the sequel of the lesson: and when he has learned this, and his ambition is once fired, he
will go on to learn the complete art of the general. There is no difficulty in seeing that
the knowledge and practice of other military arts will be honourable and valuable to a
man; and this lesson may be the beginning of them. Let me add a further advantage,
which is by no means a slight one,—that this science will make any man a great deal
more valiant and self-possessed in the field. And I will not disdain to mention, what by
some may be thought to be a small matter;—he will make a better appearance at the
right time; that is to say, at the time when his appearance will strike terror into his
enemies. My opinion then, Lysimachus, is, as I say, that the youths should be instructed
in this art, and for the reasons which I have given. But Laches may take a different view;
and I shall be very glad to hear what he has to say.
LACHES: I should not like to maintain, Nicias, that any kind of knowledge is not to be
learned; for all knowledge appears to be a good: and if, as Nicias and as the teachers of
the art affirm, this use of arms is really a species of knowledge, then it ought to be
learned; but if not, and if those who profess to teach it are deceivers only; or if it be
knowledge, but not of a valuable sort, then what is the use of learning it? I say this,
because I think that if it had been really valuable, the Lacedaemonians, whose whole life
is passed in finding out and practising the arts which give them an advantage over other
nations in war, would have discovered this one. And even if they had not, still these
professors of the art would certainly not have failed to discover that of all the Hellenes
the Lacedaemonians have the greatest interest in such matters, and that a master of the
art who was honoured among them would be sure to make his fortune among other
nations, just as a tragic poet would who is honoured among ourselves; which is the
reason why he who fancies that he can write a tragedy does not go about itinerating in
the neighbouring states, but rushes hither straight, and exhibits at Athens; and this is
natural. Whereas I perceive that these fighters in armour regard Lacedaemon as a
sacred inviolable territory, which they do not touch with the point of their foot; but they
make a circuit of the neighbouring states, and would rather exhibit to any others than to
the Spartans; and particularly to those who would themselves acknowledge that they are
by no means firstrate in the arts of war. Further, Lysimachus, I have encountered a good
many of these gentlemen in actual service, and have taken their measure, which I can
give you at once; for none of these masters of fence have ever been distinguished in
war,—there has been a sort of fatality about them; while in all other arts the men of note
have been always those who have practised the art, they appear to be a most unfortunate
exception. For example, this very Stesilaus, whom you and I have just witnessed
exhibiting in all that crowd and making such great professions of his powers, I have seen
at another time making, in sober truth, an involuntary exhibition of himself, which was
a far better spectacle. He was a marine on board a ship which struck a transport vessel,
and was armed with a weapon, half spear, half scythe; the singularity of this weapon was
worthy of the singularity of the man. To make a long story short, I will only tell you what
happened to this notable invention of the scythe spear. He was fighting, and the scythe
was caught in the rigging of the other ship, and stuck fast; and he tugged, but was
unable to get his weapon free. The two ships were passing one another. He first ran
along his own ship holding on to the spear; but as the other ship passed by and drew
him after as he was holding on, he let the spear slip through his hand until he retained
only the end of the handle. The people in the transport clapped their hands, and laughed
at his ridiculous figure; and when some one threw a stone, which fell on the deck at his
feet, and he quitted his hold of the scythe-spear, the crew of his own trireme also burst
out laughing; they could not refrain when they beheld the weapon waving in the air,
suspended from the transport. Now I do not deny that there may be something in such
an art, as Nicias asserts, but I tell you my experience; and, as I said at first, whether this
be an art of which the advantage is so slight, or not an art at all, but only an imposition,
in either case such an acquirement is not worth having. For my opinion is, that if the
professor of this art be a coward, he will be likely to become rash, and his character will
be only more notorious; or if he be brave, and fail ever so little, other men will be on the
watch, and he will be greatly traduced; for there is a jealousy of such pretenders; and
unless a man be pre-eminent in valour, he cannot help being ridiculous, if he says that
he has this sort of skill. Such is my judgment, Lysimachus, of the desirableness of this
art; but, as I said at first, ask Socrates, and do not let him go until he has given you his
opinion of the matter.
LYSIMACHUS: I am going to ask this favour of you, Socrates; as is the more necessary
because the two councillors disagree, and some one is in a manner still needed who will
decide between them. Had they agreed, no arbiter would have been required. But as
Laches has voted one way and Nicias another, I should like to hear with which of our
two friends you agree.
SOCRATES: What, Lysimachus, are you going to accept the opinion of the majority?
LYSIMACHUS: Why, yes, Socrates; what else am I to do?
SOCRATES: And would you do so too, Melesias? If you were deliberating about the
gymnastic training of your son, would you follow the advice of the majority of us, or the
opinion of the one who had been trained and exercised under a skilful master?
MELESIAS: The latter, Socrates; as would surely be reasonable.
SOCRATES: His one vote would be worth more than the vote of all us four?
MELESIAS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And for this reason, as I imagine,—because a good decision is based on
knowledge and not on numbers?
MELESIAS: To be sure.
SOCRATES: Must we not then first of all ask, whether there is any one of us who has
knowledge of that about which we are deliberating? If there is, let us take his advice,
though he be one only, and not mind the rest; if there is not, let us seek further counsel.
Is this a slight matter about which you and Lysimachus are deliberating? Are you not
risking the greatest of your possessions? For children are your riches; and upon their
turning out well or ill depends the whole order of their father's house.
MELESIAS: That is true.
SOCRATES: Great care, then, is required in this matter?
MELESIAS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Suppose, as I was just now saying, that we were considering, or wanting to
consider, who was the best trainer. Should we not select him who knew and had
practised the art, and had the best teachers?
MELESIAS: I think that we should.
SOCRATES: But would there not arise a prior question about the nature of the art of
which we want to find the masters?
MELESIAS: I do not understand.
SOCRATES: Let me try to make my meaning plainer then. I do not think that we have as
yet decided what that is about which we are consulting, when we ask which of us is or is
not skilled in the art, and has or has not had a teacher of the art.
NICIAS: Why, Socrates, is not the question whether young men ought or ought not to
learn the art of fighting in armour?
SOCRATES: Yes, Nicias; but there is also a prior question, which I may illustrate in this
way: When a person considers about applying a medicine to the eyes, would you say that
he is consulting about the medicine or about the eyes?
NICIAS: About the eyes.
SOCRATES: And when he considers whether he shall set a bridle on a horse and at what
time, he is thinking of the horse and not of the bridle?
NICIAS: True.
SOCRATES: And in a word, when he considers anything for the sake of another thing,
he thinks of the end and not of the means?
NICIAS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And when you call in an adviser, you should see whether he too is skilful in
the accomplishment of the end which you have in view?
NICIAS: Most true.
SOCRATES: And at present we have in view some knowledge, of which the end is the
soul of youth?
NICIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And we are enquiring, Which of us is skilful or successful in the treatment
of the soul, and which of us has had good teachers?
LACHES: Well but, Socrates; did you never observe that some persons, who have had no
teachers, are more skilful than those who have, in some things?
SOCRATES: Yes, Laches, I have observed that; but you would not be very willing to trust
them if they only professed to be masters of their art, unless they could show some proof
of their skill or excellence in one or more works.
LACHES: That is true.
SOCRATES: And therefore, Laches and Nicias, as Lysimachus and Melesias, in their
anxiety to improve the minds of their sons, have asked our advice about them, we too
should tell them who our teachers were, if we say that we have had any, and prove them
to be in the first place men of merit and experienced trainers of the minds of youth and
also to have been really our teachers. Or if any of us says that he has no teacher, but that
he has works of his own to show; then he should point out to them what Athenians or
strangers, bond or free, he is generally acknowledged to have improved. But if he can
show neither teachers nor works, then he should tell them to look out for others; and
not run the risk of spoiling the children of friends, and thereby incurring the most
formidable accusation which can be brought against any one by those nearest to him. As
for myself, Lysimachus and Melesias, I am the first to confess that I have never had a
teacher of the art of virtue; although I have always from my earliest youth desired to
have one. But I am too poor to give money to the Sophists, who are the only professors
of moral improvement; and to this day I have never been able to discover the art myself,
though I should not be surprised if Nicias or Laches may have discovered or learned it;
for they are far wealthier than I am, and may therefore have learnt of others. And they
are older too; so that they have had more time to make the discovery. And I really
believe that they are able to educate a man; for unless they had been confident in their
own knowledge, they would never have spoken thus decidedly of the pursuits which are
advantageous or hurtful to a young man. I repose confidence in both of them; but I am
surprised to find that they differ from one another. And therefore, Lysimachus, as
Laches suggested that you should detain me, and not let me go until I answered, I in
turn earnestly beseech and advise you to detain Laches and Nicias, and question them. I
would have you say to them: Socrates avers that he has no knowledge of the matter—he
is unable to decide which of you speaks truly; neither discoverer nor student is he of
anything of the kind. But you, Laches and Nicias, should each of you tell us who is the
most skilful educator whom you have ever known; and whether you invented the art
yourselves, or learned of another; and if you learned, who were your respective teachers,
and who were their brothers in the art; and then, if you are too much occupied in
politics to teach us yourselves, let us go to them, and present them with gifts, or make
interest with them, or both, in the hope that they may be induced to take charge of our
children and of yours; and then they will not grow up inferior, and disgrace their
ancestors. But if you are yourselves original discoverers in that field, give us some proof
of your skill. Who are they who, having been inferior persons, have become under your
care good and noble? For if this is your first attempt at education, there is a danger that
you may be trying the experiment, not on the 'vile corpus' of a Carian slave, but on your
own sons, or the sons of your friend, and, as the proverb says, 'break the large vessel in
learning to make pots.' Tell us then, what qualities you claim or do not claim. Make
them tell you that, Lysimachus, and do not let them off.
LYSIMACHUS: I very much approve of the words of Socrates, my friends; but you,
Nicias and Laches, must determine whether you will be questioned, and give an
explanation about matters of this sort. Assuredly, I and Melesias would be greatly
pleased to hear you answer the questions which Socrates asks, if you will: for I began by
saying that we took you into our counsels because we thought that you would have
attended to the subject, especially as you have children who, like our own, are nearly of
an age to be educated. Well, then, if you have no objection, suppose that you take
Socrates into partnership; and do you and he ask and answer one another's questions:
for, as he has well said, we are deliberating about the most important of our concerns. I
hope that you will see fit to comply with our request.
NICIAS: I see very clearly, Lysimachus, that you have only known Socrates' father, and
have no acquaintance with Socrates himself: at least, you can only have known him
when he was a child, and may have met him among his fellow-wardsmen, in company
with his father, at a sacrifice, or at some other gathering. You clearly show that you have
never known him since he arrived at manhood.
LYSIMACHUS: Why do you say that, Nicias?
NICIAS: Because you seem not to be aware that any one who has an intellectual affinity
to Socrates and enters into conversation with him is liable to be drawn into an
argument; and whatever subject he may start, he will be continually carried round and
round by him, until at last he finds that he has to give an account both of his present and
past life; and when he is once entangled, Socrates will not let him go until he has
completely and thoroughly sifted him. Now I am used to his ways; and I know that he
will certainly do as I say, and also that I myself shall be the sufferer; for I am fond of his
conversation, Lysimachus. And I think that there is no harm in being reminded of any
wrong thing which we are, or have been, doing: he who does not fly from reproof will be
sure to take more heed of his after-life; as Solon says, he will wish and desire to be
learning so long as he lives, and will not think that old age of itself brings wisdom. To
me, to be cross-examined by Socrates is neither unusual nor unpleasant; indeed, I knew
all along that where Socrates was, the argument would soon pass from our sons to
ourselves; and therefore, I say that for my part, I am quite willing to discourse with
Socrates in his own manner; but you had better ask our friend Laches what his feeling
may be.
LACHES: I have but one feeling, Nicias, or (shall I say?) two feelings, about discussions.
Some would think that I am a lover, and to others I may seem to be a hater of discourse;
for when I hear a man discoursing of virtue, or of any sort of wisdom, who is a true man
and worthy of his theme, I am delighted beyond measure: and I compare the man and
his words, and note the harmony and correspondence of them. And such an one I deem
to be the true musician, attuned to a fairer harmony than that of the lyre, or any
pleasant instrument of music; for truly he has in his own life a harmony of words and
deeds arranged, not in the Ionian, or in the Phrygian mode, nor yet in the Lydian, but in
the true Hellenic mode, which is the Dorian, and no other. Such an one makes me merry
with the sound of his voice; and when I hear him I am thought to be a lover of discourse;
so eager am I in drinking in his words. But a man whose actions do not agree with his
words is an annoyance to me; and the better he speaks the more I hate him, and then I
seem to be a hater of discourse. As to Socrates, I have no knowledge of his words, but of
old, as would seem, I have had experience of his deeds; and his deeds show that free and
noble sentiments are natural to him. And if his words accord, then I am of one mind
with him, and shall be delighted to be interrogated by a man such as he is, and shall not
be annoyed at having to learn of him: for I too agree with Solon, 'that I would fain grow
old, learning many things.' But I must be allowed to add 'of the good only.' Socrates
must be willing to allow that he is a good teacher, or I shall be a dull and uncongenial
pupil: but that the teacher is younger, or not as yet in repute—anything of that sort is of
no account with me. And therefore, Socrates, I give you notice that you may teach and
confute me as much as ever you like, and also learn of me anything which I know. So
high is the opinion which I have entertained of you ever since the day on which you were
my companion in danger, and gave a proof of your valour such as only the man of merit
can give. Therefore, say whatever you like, and do not mind about the difference of our
ages.
SOCRATES: I cannot say that either of you show any reluctance to take counsel and
advise with me.
LYSIMACHUS: But this is our proper business; and yours as well as ours, for I reckon
you as one of us. Please then to take my place, and find out from Nicias and Laches what
we want to know, for the sake of the youths, and talk and consult with them: for I am
old, and my memory is bad; and I do not remember the questions which I am going to
ask, or the answers to them; and if there is any interruption I am quite lost. I will
therefore beg of you to carry on the proposed discussion by your selves; and I will listen,
and Melesias and I will act upon your conclusions.
SOCRATES: Let us, Nicias and Laches, comply with the request of Lysimachus and
Melesias. There will be no harm in asking ourselves the question which was first
proposed to us: 'Who have been our own instructors in this sort of training, and whom
have we made better?' But the other mode of carrying on the enquiry will bring us
equally to the same point, and will be more like proceeding from first principles. For if
we knew that the addition of something would improve some other thing, and were able
to make the addition, then, clearly, we must know how that about which we are advising
may be best and most easily attained. Perhaps you do not understand what I mean.
Then let me make my meaning plainer in this way. Suppose we knew that the addition of
sight makes better the eyes which possess this gift, and also were able to impart sight to
the eyes, then, clearly, we should know the nature of sight, and should be able to advise
how this gift of sight may be best and most easily attained; but if we knew neither what
sight is, nor what hearing is, we should not be very good medical advisers about the eyes
or the ears, or about the best mode of giving sight and hearing to them.
LACHES: That is true, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And are not our two friends, Laches, at this very moment inviting us to
consider in what way the gift of virtue may be imparted to their sons for the
improvement of their minds?
LACHES: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then must we not first know the nature of virtue? For how can we advise
any one about the best mode of attaining something of which we are wholly ignorant?
LACHES: I do not think that we can, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then, Laches, we may presume that we know the nature of virtue?
LACHES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And that which we know we must surely be able to tell?
LACHES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: I would not have us begin, my friend, with enquiring about the whole of
virtue; for that may be more than we can accomplish; let us first consider whether we
have a sufficient knowledge of a part; the enquiry will thus probably be made easier to
us.
LACHES: Let us do as you say, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then which of the parts of virtue shall we select? Must we not select that to
which the art of fighting in armour is supposed to conduce? And is not that generally
thought to be courage?
LACHES: Yes, certainly.
SOCRATES: Then, Laches, suppose that we first set about determining the nature of
courage, and in the second place proceed to enquire how the young men may attain this
quality by the help of studies and pursuits. Tell me, if you can, what is courage.
LACHES: Indeed, Socrates, I see no difficulty in answering; he is a man of courage who
does not run away, but remains at his post and fights against the enemy; there can be no
mistake about that.
SOCRATES: Very good, Laches; and yet I fear that I did not express myself clearly; and
therefore you have answered not the question which I intended to ask, but another.
LACHES: What do you mean, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I will endeavour to explain; you would call a man courageous who remains
at his post, and fights with the enemy?
LACHES: Certainly I should.
SOCRATES: And so should I; but what would you say of another man, who fights flying,
instead of remaining?
LACHES: How flying?
SOCRATES: Why, as the Scythians are said to fight, flying as well as pursuing; and as
Homer says in praise of the horses of Aeneas, that they knew 'how to pursue, and fly
quickly hither and thither'; and he passes an encomium on Aeneas himself, as having a
knowledge of fear or flight, and calls him 'an author of fear or flight.'
LACHES: Yes, Socrates, and there Homer is right: for he was speaking of chariots, as
you were speaking of the Scythian cavalry, who have that way of fighting; but the heavyarmed
Greek fights, as I say, remaining in his rank.
SOCRATES: And yet, Laches, you must except the Lacedaemonians at Plataea, who,
when they came upon the light shields of the Persians, are said not to have been willing
to stand and fight, and to have fled; but when the ranks of the Persians were broken,
they turned upon them like cavalry, and won the battle of Plataea.
LACHES: That is true.
SOCRATES: That was my meaning when I said that I was to blame in having put my
question badly, and that this was the reason of your answering badly. For I meant to ask
you not only about the courage of heavy-armed soldiers, but about the courage of
cavalry and every other style of soldier; and not only who are courageous in war, but
who are courageous in perils by sea, and who in disease, or in poverty, or again in
politics, are courageous; and not only who are courageous against pain or fear, but
mighty to contend against desires and pleasures, either fixed in their rank or turning
upon their enemy. There is this sort of courage—is there not, Laches?
LACHES: Certainly, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And all these are courageous, but some have courage in pleasures, and
some in pains: some in desires, and some in fears, and some are cowards under the
same conditions, as I should imagine.
LACHES: Very true.
SOCRATES: Now I was asking about courage and cowardice in general. And I will begin
with courage, and once more ask, What is that common quality, which is the same in all
these cases, and which is called courage? Do you now understand what I mean?
LACHES: Not over well.
SOCRATES: I mean this: As I might ask what is that quality which is called quickness,
and which is found in running, in playing the lyre, in speaking, in learning, and in many
other similar actions, or rather which we possess in nearly every action that is worth
mentioning of arms, legs, mouth, voice, mind;—would you not apply the term quickness
to all of them?
LACHES: Quite true.
SOCRATES: And suppose I were to be asked by some one: What is that common quality,
Socrates, which, in all these uses of the word, you call quickness? I should say the
quality which accomplishes much in a little time—whether in running, speaking, or in
any other sort of action.
LACHES: You would be quite correct.
SOCRATES: And now, Laches, do you try and tell me in like manner, What is that
common quality which is called courage, and which includes all the various uses of the
term when applied both to pleasure and pain, and in all the cases to which I was just
now referring?
LACHES: I should say that courage is a sort of endurance of the soul, if I am to speak of
the universal nature which pervades them all.
SOCRATES: But that is what we must do if we are to answer the question. And yet I
cannot say that every kind of endurance is, in my opinion, to be deemed courage. Hear
my reason: I am sure, Laches, that you would consider courage to be a very noble
quality.
LACHES: Most noble, certainly.
SOCRATES: And you would say that a wise endurance is also good and noble?
LACHES: Very noble.
SOCRATES: But what would you say of a foolish endurance? Is not that, on the other
hand, to be regarded as evil and hurtful?
LACHES: True.
SOCRATES: And is anything noble which is evil and hurtful?
LACHES: I ought not to say that, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then you would not admit that sort of endurance to be courage— for it is
not noble, but courage is noble?
LACHES: You are right.
SOCRATES: Then, according to you, only the wise endurance is courage?
LACHES: True.
SOCRATES: But as to the epithet 'wise,'—wise in what? In all things small as well as
great? For example, if a man shows the quality of endurance in spending his money
wisely, knowing that by spending he will acquire more in the end, do you call him
courageous?
LACHES: Assuredly not.
SOCRATES: Or, for example, if a man is a physician, and his son, or some patient of his,
has inflammation of the lungs, and begs that he may be allowed to eat or drink
something, and the other is firm and refuses; is that courage?
LACHES: No; that is not courage at all, any more than the last.
SOCRATES: Again, take the case of one who endures in war, and is willing to fight, and
wisely calculates and knows that others will help him, and that there will be fewer and
inferior men against him than there are with him; and suppose that he has also
advantages of position; would you say of such a one who endures with all this wisdom
and preparation, that he, or some man in the opposing army who is in the opposite
circumstances to these and yet endures and remains at his post, is the braver?
LACHES: I should say that the latter, Socrates, was the braver.
SOCRATES: But, surely, this is a foolish endurance in comparison with the other?
LACHES: That is true.
SOCRATES: Then you would say that he who in an engagement of cavalry endures,
having the knowledge of horsemanship, is not so courageous as he who endures, having
no such knowledge?
LACHES: So I should say.
SOCRATES: And he who endures, having a knowledge of the use of the sling, or the
bow, or of any other art, is not so courageous as he who endures, not having such a
knowledge?
LACHES: True.
SOCRATES: And he who descends into a well, and dives, and holds out in this or any
similar action, having no knowledge of diving, or the like, is, as you would say, more
courageous than those who have this knowledge?
LACHES: Why, Socrates, what else can a man say?
SOCRATES: Nothing, if that be what he thinks.
LACHES: But that is what I do think.
SOCRATES: And yet men who thus run risks and endure are foolish, Laches, in
comparison of those who do the same things, having the skill to do them.
LACHES: That is true.
SOCRATES: But foolish boldness and endurance appeared before to be base and hurtful
to us.
LACHES: Quite true.
SOCRATES: Whereas courage was acknowledged to be a noble quality.
LACHES: True.
SOCRATES: And now on the contrary we are saying that the foolish endurance, which
was before held in dishonour, is courage.
LACHES: Very true.
SOCRATES: And are we right in saying so?
LACHES: Indeed, Socrates, I am sure that we are not right.
SOCRATES: Then according to your statement, you and I, Laches, are not attuned to the
Dorian mode, which is a harmony of words and deeds; for our deeds are not in
accordance with our words. Any one would say that we had courage who saw us in
action, but not, I imagine, he who heard us talking about courage just now.
LACHES: That is most true.
SOCRATES: And is this condition of ours satisfactory?
LACHES: Quite the reverse.
SOCRATES: Suppose, however, that we admit the principle of which we are speaking to
a certain extent.
LACHES: To what extent and what principle do you mean?
SOCRATES: The principle of endurance. We too must endure and persevere in the
enquiry, and then courage will not laugh at our faint-heartedness in searching for
courage; which after all may, very likely, be endurance.
LACHES: I am ready to go on, Socrates; and yet I am unused to investigations of this
sort. But the spirit of controversy has been aroused in me by what has been said; and I
am really grieved at being thus unable to express my meaning. For I fancy that I do
know the nature of courage; but, somehow or other, she has slipped away from me, and
I cannot get hold of her and tell her nature.
SOCRATES: But, my dear friend, should not the good sportsman follow the track, and
not be lazy?
LACHES: Certainly, he should.
SOCRATES: And shall we invite Nicias to join us? he may be better at the sport than we
are. What do you say?
LACHES: I should like that.
SOCRATES: Come then, Nicias, and do what you can to help your friends, who are
tossing on the waves of argument, and at the last gasp: you see our extremity, and may
save us and also settle your own opinion, if you will tell us what you think about
courage.
NICIAS: I have been thinking, Socrates, that you and Laches are not defining courage in
the right way; for you have forgotten an excellent saying which I have heard from your
own lips.
SOCRATES: What is it, Nicias?
NICIAS: I have often heard you say that 'Every man is good in that in which he is wise,
and bad in that in which he is unwise.'
SOCRATES: That is certainly true, Nicias.
NICIAS: And therefore if the brave man is good, he is also wise.
SOCRATES: Do you hear him, Laches?
LACHES: Yes, I hear him, but I do not very well understand him.
SOCRATES: I think that I understand him; and he appears to me to mean that courage
is a sort of wisdom.
LACHES: What can he possibly mean, Socrates?
SOCRATES: That is a question which you must ask of himself.
LACHES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Tell him then, Nicias, what you mean by this wisdom; for you surely do not
mean the wisdom which plays the flute?
NICIAS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: Nor the wisdom which plays the lyre?
NICIAS: No.
SOCRATES: But what is this knowledge then, and of what?
LACHES: I think that you put the question to him very well, Socrates; and I would like
him to say what is the nature of this knowledge or wisdom.
NICIAS: I mean to say, Laches, that courage is the knowledge of that which inspires fear
or confidence in war, or in anything.
LACHES: How strangely he is talking, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Why do you say so, Laches?
LACHES: Why, surely courage is one thing, and wisdom another.
SOCRATES: That is just what Nicias denies.
LACHES: Yes, that is what he denies; but he is so silly.
SOCRATES: Suppose that we instruct instead of abusing him?
NICIAS: Laches does not want to instruct me, Socrates; but having been proved to be
talking nonsense himself, he wants to prove that I have been doing the same.
LACHES: Very true, Nicias; and you are talking nonsense, as I shall endeavour to show.
Let me ask you a question: Do not physicians know the dangers of disease? or do the
courageous know them? or are the physicians the same as the courageous?
NICIAS: Not at all.
LACHES: No more than the husbandmen who know the dangers of husbandry, or than
other craftsmen, who have a knowledge of that which inspires them with fear or
confidence in their own arts, and yet they are not courageous a whit the more for that.
SOCRATES: What is Laches saying, Nicias? He appears to be saying something of
importance.
NICIAS: Yes, he is saying something, but it is not true.
SOCRATES: How so?
NICIAS: Why, because he does not see that the physician's knowledge only extends to
the nature of health and disease: he can tell the sick man no more than this. Do you
imagine, Laches, that the physician knows whether health or disease is the more terrible
to a man? Had not many a man better never get up from a sick bed? I should like to
know whether you think that life is always better than death. May not death often be the
better of the two?
LACHES: Yes certainly so in my opinion.
NICIAS: And do you think that the same things are terrible to those who had better die,
and to those who had better live?
LACHES: Certainly not.
NICIAS: And do you suppose that the physician or any other artist knows this, or any
one indeed, except he who is skilled in the grounds of fear and hope? And him I call the
courageous.
SOCRATES: Do you understand his meaning, Laches?
LACHES: Yes; I suppose that, in his way of speaking, the soothsayers are courageous.
For who but one of them can know to whom to die or to live is better? And yet Nicias,
would you allow that you are yourself a soothsayer, or are you neither a soothsayer nor
courageous?
NICIAS: What! do you mean to say that the soothsayer ought to know the grounds of
hope or fear?
LACHES: Indeed I do: who but he?
NICIAS: Much rather I should say he of whom I speak; for the soothsayer ought to know
only the signs of things that are about to come to pass, whether death or disease, or loss
of property, or victory, or defeat in war, or in any sort of contest; but to whom the
suffering or not suffering of these things will be for the best, can no more be decided by
the soothsayer than by one who is no soothsayer.
LACHES: I cannot understand what Nicias would be at, Socrates; for he represents the
courageous man as neither a soothsayer, nor a physician, nor in any other character,
unless he means to say that he is a god. My opinion is that he does not like honestly to
confess that he is talking nonsense, but that he shuffles up and down in order to conceal
the difficulty into which he has got himself. You and I, Socrates, might have practised a
similar shuffle just now, if we had only wanted to avoid the appearance of inconsistency.
And if we had been arguing in a court of law there might have been reason in so doing;
but why should a man deck himself out with vain words at a meeting of friends such as
this?
SOCRATES: I quite agree with you, Laches, that he should not. But perhaps Nicias is
serious, and not merely talking for the sake of talking. Let us ask him just to explain
what he means, and if he has reason on his side we will agree with him; if not, we will
instruct him.
LACHES: Do you, Socrates, if you like, ask him: I think that I have asked enough.
SOCRATES: I do not see why I should not; and my question will do for both of us.
LACHES: Very good.
SOCRATES: Then tell me, Nicias, or rather tell us, for Laches and I are partners in the
argument: Do you mean to affirm that courage is the knowledge of the grounds of hope
and fear?
NICIAS: I do.
SOCRATES: And not every man has this knowledge; the physician and the soothsayer
have it not; and they will not be courageous unless they acquire it—that is what you were
saying?
NICIAS: I was.
SOCRATES: Then this is certainly not a thing which every pig would know, as the
proverb says, and therefore he could not be courageous.
NICIAS: I think not.
SOCRATES: Clearly not, Nicias; not even such a big pig as the Crommyonian sow would
be called by you courageous. And this I say not as a joke, but because I think that he who
assents to your doctrine, that courage is the knowledge of the grounds of fear and hope,
cannot allow that any wild beast is courageous, unless he admits that a lion, or a
leopard, or perhaps a boar, or any other animal, has such a degree of wisdom that he
knows things which but a few human beings ever know by reason of their difficulty. He
who takes your view of courage must affirm that a lion, and a stag, and a bull, and a
monkey, have equally little pretensions to courage.
LACHES: Capital, Socrates; by the gods, that is truly good. And I hope, Nicias, that you
will tell us whether these animals, which we all admit to be courageous, are really wiser
than mankind; or whether you will have the boldness, in the face of universal opinion, to
deny their courage.
NICIAS: Why, Laches, I do not call animals or any other things which have no fear of
dangers, because they are ignorant of them, courageous, but only fearless and senseless.
Do you imagine that I should call little children courageous, which fear no dangers
because they know none? There is a difference, to my way of thinking, between
fearlessness and courage. I am of opinion that thoughtful courage is a quality possessed
by very few, but that rashness and boldness, and fearlessness, which has no forethought,
are very common qualities possessed by many men, many women, many children, many
animals. And you, and men in general, call by the term 'courageous' actions which I call
rash;—my courageous actions are wise actions.
LACHES: Behold, Socrates, how admirably, as he thinks, he dresses himself out in
words, while seeking to deprive of the honour of courage those whom all the world
acknowledges to be courageous.
NICIAS: Not so, Laches, but do not be alarmed; for I am quite willing to say of you and
also of Lamachus, and of many other Athenians, that you are courageous and therefore
wise.
LACHES: I could answer that; but I would not have you cast in my teeth that I am a
haughty Aexonian.
SOCRATES: Do not answer him, Laches; I rather fancy that you are not aware of the
source from which his wisdom is derived. He has got all this from my friend Damon, and
Damon is always with Prodicus, who, of all the Sophists, is considered to be the best
puller to pieces of words of this sort.
LACHES: Yes, Socrates; and the examination of such niceties is a much more suitable
employment for a Sophist than for a great statesman whom the city chooses to preside
over her.
SOCRATES: Yes, my sweet friend, but a great statesman is likely to have a great
intelligence. And I think that the view which is implied in Nicias' definition of courage is
worthy of examination.
LACHES: Then examine for yourself, Socrates.
SOCRATES: That is what I am going to do, my dear friend. Do not, however, suppose I
shall let you out of the partnership; for I shall expect you to apply your mind, and join
with me in the consideration of the question.
LACHES: I will if you think that I ought.
SOCRATES: Yes, I do; but I must beg of you, Nicias, to begin again. You remember that
we originally considered courage to be a part of virtue.
NICIAS: Very true.
SOCRATES: And you yourself said that it was a part; and there were many other parts,
all of which taken together are called virtue.
NICIAS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Do you agree with me about the parts? For I say that justice, temperance,
and the like, are all of them parts of virtue as well as courage. Would you not say the
same?
NICIAS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Well then, so far we are agreed. And now let us proceed a step, and try to
arrive at a similar agreement about the fearful and the hopeful: I do not want you to be
thinking one thing and myself another. Let me then tell you my own opinion, and if I am
wrong you shall set me right: in my opinion the terrible and the hopeful are the things
which do or do not create fear, and fear is not of the present, nor of the past, but is of
future and expected evil. Do you not agree to that, Laches?
LACHES: Yes, Socrates, entirely.
SOCRATES: That is my view, Nicias; the terrible things, as I should say, are the evils
which are future; and the hopeful are the good or not evil things which are future. Do
you or do you not agree with me?
NICIAS: I agree.
SOCRATES: And the knowledge of these things you call courage?
NICIAS: Precisely.
SOCRATES: And now let me see whether you agree with Laches and myself as to a third
point.
NICIAS: What is that?
SOCRATES: I will tell you. He and I have a notion that there is not one knowledge or
science of the past, another of the present, a third of what is likely to be best and what
will be best in the future; but that of all three there is one science only: for example,
there is one science of medicine which is concerned with the inspection of health equally
in all times, present, past, and future; and one science of husbandry in like manner,
which is concerned with the productions of the earth in all times. As to the art of the
general, you yourselves will be my witnesses that he has an excellent foreknowledge of
the future, and that he claims to be the master and not the servant of the soothsayer,
because he knows better what is happening or is likely to happen in war: and
accordingly the law places the soothsayer under the general, and not the general under
the soothsayer. Am I not correct in saying so, Laches?
LACHES: Quite correct.
SOCRATES: And do you, Nicias, also acknowledge that the same science has
understanding of the same things, whether future, present, or past?
NICIAS: Yes, indeed Socrates; that is my opinion.
SOCRATES: And courage, my friend, is, as you say, a knowledge of the fearful and of the
hopeful?
NICIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the fearful, and the hopeful, are admitted to be future goods and future
evils?
NICIAS: True.
SOCRATES: And the same science has to do with the same things in the future or at any
time?
NICIAS: That is true.
SOCRATES: Then courage is not the science which is concerned with the fearful and
hopeful, for they are future only; courage, like the other sciences, is concerned not only
with good and evil of the future, but of the present and past, and of any time?
NICIAS: That, as I suppose, is true.
SOCRATES: Then the answer which you have given, Nicias, includes only a third part of
courage; but our question extended to the whole nature of courage: and according to
your view, that is, according to your present view, courage is not only the knowledge of
the hopeful and the fearful, but seems to include nearly every good and evil without
reference to time. What do you say to that alteration in your statement?
NICIAS: I agree, Socrates.
SOCRATES: But then, my dear friend, if a man knew all good and evil, and how they are,
and have been, and will be produced, would he not be perfect, and wanting in no virtue,
whether justice, or temperance, or holiness? He would possess them all, and he would
know which were dangers and which were not, and guard against them whether they
were supernatural or natural; and he would provide the good, as he would know how to
deal both with gods or men.
NICIAS: I think, Socrates, that there is a great deal of truth in what you say.
SOCRATES: But then, Nicias, courage, according to this new definition of yours, instead
of being a part of virtue only, will be all virtue?
NICIAS: It would seem so.
SOCRATES: But we were saying that courage is one of the parts of virtue?
NICIAS: Yes, that was what we were saying.
SOCRATES: And that is in contradiction with our present view?
NICIAS: That appears to be the case.
SOCRATES: Then, Nicias, we have not discovered what courage is.
NICIAS: We have not.
LACHES: And yet, friend Nicias, I imagined that you would have made the discovery,
when you were so contemptuous of the answers which I made to Socrates. I had very
great hopes that you would have been enlightened by the wisdom of Damon.
NICIAS: I perceive, Laches, that you think nothing of having displayed your ignorance
of the nature of courage, but you look only to see whether I have not made a similar
display; and if we are both equally ignorant of the things which a man who is good for
anything should know, that, I suppose, will be of no consequence. You certainly appear
to me very like the rest of the world, looking at your neighbour and not at yourself. I am
of opinion that enough has been said on the subject which we have been discussing; and
if anything has been imperfectly said, that may be hereafter corrected by the help of
Damon, whom you think to laugh down, although you have never seen him, and with
the help of others. And when I am satisfied myself, I will freely impart my satisfaction to
you, for I think that you are very much in want of knowledge.
LACHES: You are a philosopher, Nicias; of that I am aware: nevertheless I would
recommend Lysimachus and Melesias not to take you and me as advisers about the
education of their children; but, as I said at first, they should ask Socrates and not let
him off; if my own sons were old enough, I would have asked him myself.
NICIAS: To that I quite agree, if Socrates is willing to take them under his charge. I
should not wish for any one else to be the tutor of Niceratus. But I observe that when I
mention the matter to him he recommends to me some other tutor and refuses himself.
Perhaps he may be more ready to listen to you, Lysimachus.
LYSIMACHUS: He ought, Nicias: for certainly I would do things for him which I would
not do for many others. What do you say, Socrates—will you comply? And are you ready
to give assistance in the improvement of the youths?
SOCRATES: Indeed, Lysimachus, I should be very wrong in refusing to aid in the
improvement of anybody. And if I had shown in this conversation that I had a
knowledge which Nicias and Laches have not, then I admit that you would be right in
inviting me to perform this duty; but as we are all in the same perplexity, why should
one of us be preferred to another? I certainly think that no one should; and under these
circumstances, let me offer you a piece of advice (and this need not go further than
ourselves). I maintain, my friends, that every one of us should seek out the best teacher
whom he can find, first for ourselves, who are greatly in need of one, and then for the
youth, regardless of expense or anything. But I cannot advise that we remain as we are.
And if any one laughs at us for going to school at our age, I would quote to them the
authority of Homer, who says, that
'Modesty is not good for a needy man.'
Let us then, regardless of what may be said of us, make the education of the youths our
own education.
LYSIMACHUS: I like your proposal, Socrates; and as I am the oldest, I am also the most
eager to go to school with the boys. Let me beg a favour of you: Come to my house tomorrow
at dawn, and we will advise about these matters. For the present, let us make an
end of the conversation.
SOCRATES: I will come to you to-morrow, Lysimachus, as you propose, God willing.
Lysis, or Friendship
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, who is the narrator, Menexenus,
Hippothales, Lysis, Ctesippus.
SCENE: A newly-erected Palaestra outside the walls of Athens.
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.
O Hippothales, I said, if you have ever made any verses or songs in honour of your
favourite, I do not want to hear them; but I want to know the purport of them, that I
may be able to judge of your mode of approaching your fair one.
Ctesippus will be able to tell you, he said; for if, as he avers, the sound of my words is
always dinning in his ears, he must have a very accurate knowledge and recollection of
them.
Yes, indeed, said Ctesippus; I know only too well; and very ridiculous the tale is: for
although he is a lover, and very devotedly in love, he has nothing particular to talk about
to his beloved which a child might not say. Now is not that ridiculous? He can only
speak of the wealth of Democrates, which the whole city celebrates, and grandfather
Lysis, and the other ancestors of the youth, and their stud of horses, and their victory at
the Pythian games, and at the Isthmus, and at Nemea with four horses and single
horses—these are the tales which he composes and repeats. And there is greater twaddle
still. Only the day before yesterday he made a poem in which he described the
entertainment of Heracles, who was a connexion of the family, setting forth how in
virtue of this relationship he was hospitably received by an ancestor of Lysis; this
ancestor was himself begotten of Zeus by the daughter of the founder of the deme. And
these are the sort of old wives' tales which he sings and recites to us, and we are obliged
to listen to him.
When I heard this, I said: O ridiculous Hippothales! how can you be making and singing
hymns in honour of yourself before you have won?
But my songs and verses, he said, are not in honour of myself, Socrates.
You think not? I said.
Nay, but what do you think? he replied.
Most assuredly, I said, those songs are all in your own honour; for if you win your
beautiful love, your discourses and songs will be a glory to you, and may be truly
regarded as hymns of praise composed in honour of you who have conquered and won
such a love; but if he slips away from you, the more you have praised him, the more
ridiculous you will look at having lost this fairest and best of blessings; and therefore the
wise lover does not praise his beloved until he has won him, because he is afraid of
accidents. There is also another danger; the fair, when any one praises or magnifies
them, are filled with the spirit of pride and vain-glory. Do you not agree with me?
Yes, he said.
And the more vain-glorious they are, the more difficult is the capture of them?
I believe you.
What should you say of a hunter who frightened away his prey, and made the capture of
the animals which he is hunting more difficult?
He would be a bad hunter, undoubtedly.
Yes; and if, instead of soothing them, he were to infuriate them with words and songs,
that would show a great want of wit: do you not agree.
Yes.
And now reflect, Hippothales, and see whether you are not guilty of all these errors in
writing poetry. For I can hardly suppose that you will affirm a man to be a good poet
who injures himself by his poetry.
Assuredly not, he said; such a poet would be a fool. And this is the reason why I take you
into my counsels, Socrates, and I shall be glad of any further advice which you may have
to offer. Will you tell me by what words or actions I may become endeared to my love?
That is not easy to determine, I said; but if you will bring your love to me, and will let me
talk with him, I may perhaps be able to show you how to converse with him, instead of
singing and reciting in the fashion of which you are accused.
There will be no difficulty in bringing him, he replied; if you will only go with Ctesippus
into the Palaestra, and sit down and talk, I believe that he will come of his own accord;
for he is fond of listening, Socrates. And as this is the festival of the Hermaea, the young
men and boys are all together, and there is no separation between them. He will be sure
to come: but if he does not, Ctesippus with whom he is familiar, and whose relation
Menexenus is his great friend, shall call him.
That will be the way, I said. Thereupon I led Ctesippus into the Palaestra, and the rest
followed.
Upon entering we found that the boys had just been sacrificing; and this part of the
festival was nearly at an end. They were all in their white array, and games at dice were
going on among them. Most of them were in the outer court amusing themselves; but
some were in a corner of the Apodyterium playing at odd and even with a number of
dice, which they took out of little wicker baskets. There was also a circle of lookers-on;
among them was Lysis. He was standing with the other boys and youths, having a crown
upon his head, like a fair vision, and not less worthy of praise for his goodness than for
his beauty. We left them, and went over to the opposite side of the room, where, finding
a quiet place, we sat down; and then we began to talk. This attracted Lysis, who was
constantly turning round to look at us—he was evidently wanting to come to us. For a
time he hesitated and had not the courage to come alone; but first of all, his friend
Menexenus, leaving his play, entered the Palaestra from the court, and when he saw
Ctesippus and myself, was going to take a seat by us; and then Lysis, seeing him,
followed, and sat down by his side; and the other boys joined. I should observe that
Hippothales, when he saw the crowd, got behind them, where he thought that he would
be out of sight of Lysis, lest he should anger him; and there he stood and listened.
I turned to Menexenus, and said: Son of Demophon, which of you two youths is the
elder?
That is a matter of dispute between us, he said.
And which is the nobler? Is that also a matter of dispute?
Yes, certainly.
And another disputed point is, which is the fairer?
The two boys laughed.
I shall not ask which is the richer of the two, I said; for you are friends, are you not?
Certainly, they replied.
And friends have all things in common, so that one of you can be no richer than the
other, if you say truly that you are friends.
They assented. I was about to ask which was the juster of the two, and which was the
wiser of the two; but at this moment Menexenus was called away by some one who came
and said that the gymnastic-master wanted him. I supposed that he had to offer
sacrifice. So he went away, and I asked Lysis some more questions. I dare say, Lysis, I
said, that your father and mother love you very much.
Certainly, he said.
And they would wish you to be perfectly happy.
Yes.
But do you think that any one is happy who is in the condition of a slave, and who
cannot do what he likes?
I should think not indeed, he said.
And if your father and mother love you, and desire that you should be happy, no one can
doubt that they are very ready to promote your happiness.
Certainly, he replied.
And do they then permit you to do what you like, and never rebuke you or hinder you
from doing what you desire?
Yes, indeed, Socrates; there are a great many things which they hinder me from doing.
What do you mean? I said. Do they want you to be happy, and yet hinder you from doing
what you like? for example, if you want to mount one of your father's chariots, and take
the reins at a race, they will not allow you to do so—they will prevent you?
Certainly, he said, they will not allow me to do so.
Whom then will they allow?
There is a charioteer, whom my father pays for driving.
And do they trust a hireling more than you? and may he do what he likes with the
horses? and do they pay him for this?
They do.
But I dare say that you may take the whip and guide the mule-cart if you like;—they will
permit that?
Permit me! indeed they will not.
Then, I said, may no one use the whip to the mules?
Yes, he said, the muleteer.
And is he a slave or a free man?
A slave, he said.
And do they esteem a slave of more value than you who are their son? And do they
entrust their property to him rather than to you? and allow him to do what he likes,
when they prohibit you? Answer me now: Are you your own master, or do they not even
allow that?
Nay, he said; of course they do not allow it.
Then you have a master?
Yes, my tutor; there he is.
And is he a slave?
To be sure; he is our slave, he replied.
Surely, I said, this is a strange thing, that a free man should be governed by a slave. And
what does he do with you?
He takes me to my teachers.
You do not mean to say that your teachers also rule over you?
Of course they do.
Then I must say that your father is pleased to inflict many lords and masters on you. But
at any rate when you go home to your mother, she will let you have your own way, and
will not interfere with your happiness; her wool, or the piece of cloth which she is
weaving, are at your disposal: I am sure that there is nothing to hinder you from
touching her wooden spathe, or her comb, or any other of her spinning implements.
Nay, Socrates, he replied, laughing; not only does she hinder me, but I should be beaten
if I were to touch one of them.
Well, I said, this is amazing. And did you ever behave ill to your father or your mother?
No, indeed, he replied.
But why then are they so terribly anxious to prevent you from being happy, and doing as
you like?—keeping you all day long in subjection to another, and, in a word, doing
nothing which you desire; so that you have no good, as would appear, out of their great
possessions, which are under the control of anybody rather than of you, and have no use
of your own fair person, which is tended and taken care of by another; while you, Lysis,
are master of nobody, and can do nothing?
Why, he said, Socrates, the reason is that I am not of age.
I doubt whether that is the real reason, I said; for I should imagine that your father
Democrates, and your mother, do permit you to do many things already, and do not wait
until you are of age: for example, if they want anything read or written, you, I presume,
would be the first person in the house who is summoned by them.
Very true.
And you would be allowed to write or read the letters in any order which you please, or
to take up the lyre and tune the notes, and play with the fingers, or strike with the
plectrum, exactly as you please, and neither father nor mother would interfere with you.
That is true, he said.
Then what can be the reason, Lysis, I said, why they allow you to do the one and not the
other?
I suppose, he said, because I understand the one, and not the other.
Yes, my dear youth, I said, the reason is not any deficiency of years, but a deficiency of
knowledge; and whenever your father thinks that you are wiser than he is, he will
instantly commit himself and his possessions to you.
I think so.
Aye, I said; and about your neighbour, too, does not the same rule hold as about your
father? If he is satisfied that you know more of housekeeping than he does, will he
continue to administer his affairs himself, or will he commit them to you?
I think that he will commit them to me.
Will not the Athenian people, too, entrust their affairs to you when they see that you
have wisdom enough to manage them?
Yes.
And oh! let me put another case, I said: There is the great king, and he has an eldest son,
who is the Prince of Asia;—suppose that you and I go to him and establish to his
satisfaction that we are better cooks than his son, will he not entrust to us the
prerogative of making soup, and putting in anything that we like while the pot is boiling,
rather than to the Prince of Asia, who is his son?
To us, clearly.
And we shall be allowed to throw in salt by handfuls, whereas the son will not be allowed
to put in as much as he can take up between his fingers?
Of course.
Or suppose again that the son has bad eyes, will he allow him, or will he not allow him,
to touch his own eyes if he thinks that he has no knowledge of medicine?
He will not allow him.
Whereas, if he supposes us to have a knowledge of medicine, he will allow us to do what
we like with him—even to open the eyes wide and sprinkle ashes upon them, because he
supposes that we know what is best?
That is true.
And everything in which we appear to him to be wiser than himself or his son he will
commit to us?
That is very true, Socrates, he replied.
Then now, my dear Lysis, I said, you perceive that in things which we know every one
will trust us,—Hellenes and barbarians, men and women,—and we may do as we please
about them, and no one will like to interfere with us; we shall be free, and masters of
others; and these things will be really ours, for we shall be benefited by them. But in
things of which we have no understanding, no one will trust us to do as seems good to
us—they will hinder us as far as they can; and not only strangers, but father and mother,
and the friend, if there be one, who is dearer still, will also hinder us; and we shall be
subject to others; and these things will not be ours, for we shall not be benefited by
them. Do you agree?
He assented.
And shall we be friends to others, and will any others love us, in as far as we are useless
to them?
Certainly not.
Neither can your father or mother love you, nor can anybody love anybody else, in so far
as they are useless to them?
No.
And therefore, my boy, if you are wise, all men will be your friends and kindred, for you
will be useful and good; but if you are not wise, neither father, nor mother, nor kindred,
nor any one else, will be your friends. And in matters of which you have as yet no
knowledge, can you have any conceit of knowledge?
That is impossible, he replied.
And you, Lysis, if you require a teacher, have not yet attained to wisdom.
True.
And therefore you are not conceited, having nothing of which to be conceited.
Indeed, Socrates, I think not.
When I heard him say this, I turned to Hippothales, and was very nearly making a
blunder, for I was going to say to him: That is the way, Hippothales, in which you should
talk to your beloved, humbling and lowering him, and not as you do, puffing him up and
spoiling him. But I saw that he was in great excitement and confusion at what had been
said, and I remembered that, although he was in the neighbourhood, he did not want to
be seen by Lysis; so upon second thoughts I refrained.
In the meantime Menexenus came back and sat down in his place by Lysis; and Lysis, in
a childish and affectionate manner, whispered privately in my ear, so that Menexenus
should not hear: Do, Socrates, tell Menexenus what you have been telling me.
Suppose that you tell him yourself, Lysis, I replied; for I am sure that you were
attending.
Certainly, he replied.
Try, then, to remember the words, and be as exact as you can in repeating them to him,
and if you have forgotten anything, ask me again the next time that you see me.
I will be sure to do so, Socrates; but go on telling him something new, and let me hear,
as long as I am allowed to stay.
I certainly cannot refuse, I said, since you ask me; but then, as you know, Menexenus is
very pugnacious, and therefore you must come to the rescue if he attempts to upset me.
Yes, indeed, he said; he is very pugnacious, and that is the reason why I want you to
argue with him.
That I may make a fool of myself?
No, indeed, he said; but I want you to put him down.
That is no easy matter, I replied; for he is a terrible fellow—a pupil of Ctesippus. And
there is Ctesippus himself: do you see him?
Never mind, Socrates, you shall argue with him.
Well, I suppose that I must, I replied.
Hereupon Ctesippus complained that we were talking in secret, and keeping the feast to
ourselves.
I shall be happy, I said, to let you have a share. Here is Lysis, who does not understand
something that I was saying, and wants me to ask Menexenus, who, as he thinks, is
likely to know.
And why do you not ask him? he said.
Very well, I said, I will; and do you, Menexenus, answer. But first I must tell you that I
am one who from my childhood upward have set my heart upon a certain thing. All
people have their fancies; some desire horses, and others dogs; and some are fond of
gold, and others of honour. Now, I have no violent desire of any of these things; but I
have a passion for friends; and I would rather have a good friend than the best cock or
quail in the world: I would even go further, and say the best horse or dog. Yea, by the
dog of Egypt, I should greatly prefer a real friend to all the gold of Darius, or even to
Darius himself: I am such a lover of friends as that. And when I see you and Lysis, at
your early age, so easily possessed of this treasure, and so soon, he of you, and you of
him, I am amazed and delighted, seeing that I myself, although I am now advanced in
years, am so far from having made a similar acquisition, that I do not even know in what
way a friend is acquired. But I want to ask you a question about this, for you have
experience: tell me then, when one loves another, is the lover or the beloved the friend;
or may either be the friend?
Either may, I should think, be the friend of either.
Do you mean, I said, that if only one of them loves the other, they are mutual friends?
Yes, he said; that is my meaning.
But what if the lover is not loved in return? which is a very possible case.
Yes.
Or is, perhaps, even hated? which is a fancy which sometimes is entertained by lovers
respecting their beloved. Nothing can exceed their love; and yet they imagine either that
they are not loved in return, or that they are hated. Is not that true?
Yes, he said, quite true.
In that case, the one loves, and the other is loved?
Yes.
Then which is the friend of which? Is the lover the friend of the beloved, whether he be
loved in return, or hated; or is the beloved the friend; or is there no friendship at all on
either side, unless they both love one another?
There would seem to be none at all.
Then this notion is not in accordance with our previous one. We were saying that both
were friends, if one only loved; but now, unless they both love, neither is a friend.
That appears to be true.
Then nothing which does not love in return is beloved by a lover?
I think not.
Then they are not lovers of horses, whom the horses do not love in return; nor lovers of
quails, nor of dogs, nor of wine, nor of gymnastic exercises, who have no return of love;
no, nor of wisdom, unless wisdom loves them in return. Or shall we say that they do love
them, although they are not beloved by them; and that the poet was wrong who sings—
'Happy the man to whom his children are dear, and steeds having single hoofs, and dogs
of chase, and the stranger of another land'?
I do not think that he was wrong.
You think that he is right?
Yes.
Then, Menexenus, the conclusion is, that what is beloved, whether loving or hating, may
be dear to the lover of it: for example, very young children, too young to love, or even
hating their father or mother when they are punished by them, are never dearer to them
than at the time when they are being hated by them.
I think that what you say is true.
And, if so, not the lover, but the beloved, is the friend or dear one?
Yes.
And the hated one, and not the hater, is the enemy?
Clearly.
Then many men are loved by their enemies, and hated by their friends, and are the
friends of their enemies, and the enemies of their friends. Yet how absurd, my dear
friend, or indeed impossible is this paradox of a man being an enemy to his friend or a
friend to his enemy.
I quite agree, Socrates, in what you say.
But if this cannot be, the lover will be the friend of that which is loved?
True.
And the hater will be the enemy of that which is hated?
Certainly.
Yet we must acknowledge in this, as in the preceding instance, that a man may be the
friend of one who is not his friend, or who may be his enemy, when he loves that which
does not love him or which even hates him. And he may be the enemy of one who is not
his enemy, and is even his friend: for example, when he hates that which does not hate
him, or which even loves him.
That appears to be true.
But if the lover is not a friend, nor the beloved a friend, nor both together, what are we
to say? Whom are we to call friends to one another? Do any remain?
Indeed, Socrates, I cannot find any.
But, O Menexenus! I said, may we not have been altogether wrong in our conclusions?
I am sure that we have been wrong, Socrates, said Lysis. And he blushed as he spoke, the
words seeming to come from his lips involuntarily, because his whole mind was taken
up with the argument; there was no mistaking his attentive look while he was listening.
I was pleased at the interest which was shown by Lysis, and I wanted to give Menexenus
a rest, so I turned to him and said, I think, Lysis, that what you say is true, and that, if
we had been right, we should never have gone so far wrong; let us proceed no further in
this direction (for the road seems to be getting troublesome), but take the other path
into which we turned, and see what the poets have to say; for they are to us in a manner
the fathers and authors of wisdom, and they speak of friends in no light or trivial
manner, but God himself, as they say, makes them and draws them to one another; and
this they express, if I am not mistaken, in the following words:—
'God is ever drawing like towards like, and making them acquainted.'
I dare say that you have heard those words.
Yes, he said; I have.
And have you not also met with the treatises of philosophers who say that like must love
like? they are the people who argue and write about nature and the universe.
Very true, he replied.
And are they right in saying this?
They may be.
Perhaps, I said, about half, or possibly, altogether, right, if their meaning were rightly
apprehended by us. For the more a bad man has to do with a bad man, and the more
nearly he is brought into contact with him, the more he will be likely to hate him, for he
injures him; and injurer and injured cannot be friends. Is not that true?
Yes, he said.
Then one half of the saying is untrue, if the wicked are like one another?
That is true.
But the real meaning of the saying, as I imagine, is, that the good are like one another,
and friends to one another; and that the bad, as is often said of them, are never at unity
with one another or with themselves; for they are passionate and restless, and anything
which is at variance and enmity with itself is not likely to be in union or harmony with
any other thing. Do you not agree?
Yes, I do.
Then, my friend, those who say that the like is friendly to the like mean to intimate, if I
rightly apprehend them, that the good only is the friend of the good, and of him only;
but that the evil never attains to any real friendship, either with good or evil. Do you
agree?
He nodded assent.
Then now we know how to answer the question 'Who are friends?' for the argument
declares 'That the good are friends.'
Yes, he said, that is true.
Yes, I replied; and yet I am not quite satisfied with this answer. By heaven, and shall I
tell you what I suspect? I will. Assuming that like, inasmuch as he is like, is the friend of
like, and useful to him—or rather let me try another way of putting the matter: Can like
do any good or harm to like which he could not do to himself, or suffer anything from
his like which he would not suffer from himself? And if neither can be of any use to the
other, how can they be loved by one another? Can they now?
They cannot.
And can he who is not loved be a friend?
Certainly not.
But say that the like is not the friend of the like in so far as he is like; still the good may
be the friend of the good in so far as he is good?
True.
But then again, will not the good, in so far as he is good, be sufficient for himself?
Certainly he will. And he who is sufficient wants nothing— that is implied in the word
sufficient.
Of course not.
And he who wants nothing will desire nothing?
He will not.
Neither can he love that which he does not desire?
He cannot.
And he who loves not is not a lover or friend?
Clearly not.
What place then is there for friendship, if, when absent, good men have no need of one
another (for even when alone they are sufficient for themselves), and when present have
no use of one another? How can such persons ever be induced to value one another?
They cannot.
And friends they cannot be, unless they value one another?
Very true.
But see now, Lysis, whether we are not being deceived in all this—are we not indeed
entirely wrong?
How so? he replied.
Have I not heard some one say, as I just now recollect, that the like is the greatest enemy
of the like, the good of the good?—Yes, and he quoted the authority of Hesiod, who says:
'Potter quarrels with potter, bard with bard, Beggar with beggar;'
and of all other things he affirmed, in like manner, 'That of necessity the most like are
most full of envy, strife, and hatred of one another, and the most unlike, of friendship.
For the poor man is compelled to be the friend of the rich, and the weak requires the aid
of the strong, and the sick man of the physician; and every one who is ignorant, has to
love and court him who knows.' And indeed he went on to say in grandiloquent
language, that the idea of friendship existing between similars is not the truth, but the
very reverse of the truth, and that the most opposed are the most friendly; for that
everything desires not like but that which is most unlike: for example, the dry desires
the moist, the cold the hot, the bitter the sweet, the sharp the blunt, the void the full, the
full the void, and so of all other things; for the opposite is the food of the opposite,
whereas like receives nothing from like. And I thought that he who said this was a
charming man, and that he spoke well. What do the rest of you say?
I should say, at first hearing, that he is right, said Menexenus.
Then we are to say that the greatest friendship is of opposites?
Exactly.
Yes, Menexenus; but will not that be a monstrous answer? and will not the all-wise
eristics be down upon us in triumph, and ask, fairly enough, whether love is not the very
opposite of hate; and what answer shall we make to them—must we not admit that they
speak the truth?
We must.
They will then proceed to ask whether the enemy is the friend of the friend, or the friend
the friend of the enemy?
Neither, he replied.
Well, but is a just man the friend of the unjust, or the temperate of the intemperate, or
the good of the bad?
I do not see how that is possible.
And yet, I said, if friendship goes by contraries, the contraries must be friends.
They must.
Then neither like and like nor unlike and unlike are friends.
I suppose not.
And yet there is a further consideration: may not all these notions of friendship be
erroneous? but may not that which is neither good nor evil still in some cases be the
friend of the good?
How do you mean? he said.
Why really, I said, the truth is that I do not know; but my head is dizzy with thinking of
the argument, and therefore I hazard the conjecture, that 'the beautiful is the friend,' as
the old proverb says. Beauty is certainly a soft, smooth, slippery thing, and therefore of a
nature which easily slips in and permeates our souls. For I affirm that the good is the
beautiful. You will agree to that?
Yes.
This I say from a sort of notion that what is neither good nor evil is the friend of the
beautiful and the good, and I will tell you why I am inclined to think so: I assume that
there are three principles—the good, the bad, and that which is neither good nor bad.
You would agree—would you not?
I agree.
And neither is the good the friend of the good, nor the evil of the evil, nor the good of the
evil;—these alternatives are excluded by the previous argument; and therefore, if there
be such a thing as friendship or love at all, we must infer that what is neither good nor
evil must be the friend, either of the good, or of that which is neither good nor evil, for
nothing can be the friend of the bad.
True.
But neither can like be the friend of like, as we were just now saying.
True.
And if so, that which is neither good nor evil can have no friend which is neither good
nor evil.
Clearly not.
Then the good alone is the friend of that only which is neither good nor evil.
That may be assumed to be certain.
And does not this seem to put us in the right way? Just remark, that the body which is in
health requires neither medical nor any other aid, but is well enough; and the healthy
man has no love of the physician, because he is in health.
He has none.
But the sick loves him, because he is sick?
Certainly.
And sickness is an evil, and the art of medicine a good and useful thing?
Yes.
But the human body, regarded as a body, is neither good nor evil?
True.
And the body is compelled by reason of disease to court and make friends of the art of
medicine?
Yes.
Then that which is neither good nor evil becomes the friend of good, by reason of the
presence of evil?
So we may infer.
And clearly this must have happened before that which was neither good nor evil had
become altogether corrupted with the element of evil—if itself had become evil it would
not still desire and love the good; for, as we were saying, the evil cannot be the friend of
the good.
Impossible.
Further, I must observe that some substances are assimilated when others are present
with them; and there are some which are not assimilated: take, for example, the case of
an ointment or colour which is put on another substance.
Very good.
In such a case, is the substance which is anointed the same as the colour or ointment?
What do you mean? he said.
This is what I mean: Suppose that I were to cover your auburn locks with white lead,
would they be really white, or would they only appear to be white?
They would only appear to be white, he replied.
And yet whiteness would be present in them?
True.
But that would not make them at all the more white, notwithstanding the presence of
white in them—they would not be white any more than black?
No.
But when old age infuses whiteness into them, then they become assimilated, and are
white by the presence of white.
Certainly.
Now I want to know whether in all cases a substance is assimilated by the presence of
another substance; or must the presence be after a peculiar sort?
The latter, he said.
Then that which is neither good nor evil may be in the presence of evil, but not as yet
evil, and that has happened before now?
Yes.
And when anything is in the presence of evil, not being as yet evil, the presence of good
arouses the desire of good in that thing; but the presence of evil, which makes a thing
evil, takes away the desire and friendship of the good; for that which was once both good
and evil has now become evil only, and the good was supposed to have no friendship
with the evil?
None.
And therefore we say that those who are already wise, whether Gods or men, are no
longer lovers of wisdom; nor can they be lovers of wisdom who are ignorant to the
extent of being evil, for no evil or ignorant person is a lover of wisdom. There remain
those who have the misfortune to be ignorant, but are not yet hardened in their
ignorance, or void of understanding, and do not as yet fancy that they know what they
do not know: and therefore those who are the lovers of wisdom are as yet neither good
nor bad. But the bad do not love wisdom any more than the good; for, as we have
already seen, neither is unlike the friend of unlike, nor like of like. You remember that?
Yes, they both said.
And so, Lysis and Menexenus, we have discovered the nature of friendship— there can
be no doubt of it: Friendship is the love which by reason of the presence of evil the
neither good nor evil has of the good, either in the soul, or in the body, or anywhere.
They both agreed and entirely assented, and for a moment I rejoiced and was satisfied
like a huntsman just holding fast his prey. But then a most unaccountable suspicion
came across me, and I felt that the conclusion was untrue. I was pained, and said, Alas!
Lysis and Menexenus, I am afraid that we have been grasping at a shadow only.
Why do you say so? said Menexenus.
I am afraid, I said, that the argument about friendship is false: arguments, like men, are
often pretenders.
How do you mean? he asked.
Well, I said; look at the matter in this way: a friend is the friend of some one; is he not?
Certainly he is.
And has he a motive and object in being a friend, or has he no motive and object?
He has a motive and object.
And is the object which makes him a friend, dear to him, or neither dear nor hateful to
him?
I do not quite follow you, he said.
I do not wonder at that, I said. But perhaps, if I put the matter in another way, you will
be able to follow me, and my own meaning will be clearer to myself. The sick man, as I
was just now saying, is the friend of the physician—is he not?
Yes.
And he is the friend of the physician because of disease, and for the sake of health?
Yes.
And disease is an evil?
Certainly.
And what of health? I said. Is that good or evil, or neither?
Good, he replied.
And we were saying, I believe, that the body being neither good nor evil, because of
disease, that is to say because of evil, is the friend of medicine, and medicine is a good:
and medicine has entered into this friendship for the sake of health, and health is a
good.
True.
And is health a friend, or not a friend?
A friend.
And disease is an enemy?
Yes.
Then that which is neither good nor evil is the friend of the good because of the evil and
hateful, and for the sake of the good and the friend?
Clearly.
Then the friend is a friend for the sake of the friend, and because of the enemy?
That is to be inferred.
Then at this point, my boys, let us take heed, and be on our guard against deceptions. I
will not again repeat that the friend is the friend of the friend, and the like of the like,
which has been declared by us to be an impossibility; but, in order that this new
statement may not delude us, let us attentively examine another point, which I will
proceed to explain: Medicine, as we were saying, is a friend, or dear to us for the sake of
health?
Yes.
And health is also dear?
Certainly.
And if dear, then dear for the sake of something?
Yes.
And surely this object must also be dear, as is implied in our previous admissions?
Yes.
And that something dear involves something else dear?
Yes.
But then, proceeding in this way, shall we not arrive at some first principle of friendship
or dearness which is not capable of being referred to any other, for the sake of which, as
we maintain, all other things are dear, and, having there arrived, we shall stop?
True.
My fear is that all those other things, which, as we say, are dear for the sake of another,
are illusions and deceptions only, but where that first principle is, there is the true ideal
of friendship. Let me put the matter thus: Suppose the case of a great treasure (this may
be a son, who is more precious to his father than all his other treasures); would not the
father, who values his son above all things, value other things also for the sake of his
son? I mean, for instance, if he knew that his son had drunk hemlock, and the father
thought that wine would save him, he would value the wine?
He would.
And also the vessel which contains the wine?
Certainly.
But does he therefore value the three measures of wine, or the earthen vessel which
contains them, equally with his son? Is not this rather the true state of the case? All his
anxiety has regard not to the means which are provided for the sake of an object, but to
the object for the sake of which they are provided. And although we may often say that
gold and silver are highly valued by us, that is not the truth; for there is a further object,
whatever it may be, which we value most of all, and for the sake of which gold and all
our other possessions are acquired by us. Am I not right?
Yes, certainly.
And may not the same be said of the friend? That which is only dear to us for the sake of
something else is improperly said to be dear, but the truly dear is that in which all these
so-called dear friendships terminate.
That, he said, appears to be true.
And the truly dear or ultimate principle of friendship is not for the sake of any other or
further dear.
True.
Then we have done with the notion that friendship has any further object. May we then
infer that the good is the friend?
I think so.
And the good is loved for the sake of the evil? Let me put the case in this way: Suppose
that of the three principles, good, evil, and that which is neither good nor evil, there
remained only the good and the neutral, and that evil went far away, and in no way
affected soul or body, nor ever at all that class of things which, as we say, are neither
good nor evil in themselves;—would the good be of any use, or other than useless to us?
For if there were nothing to hurt us any longer, we should have no need of anything that
would do us good. Then would be clearly seen that we did but love and desire the good
because of the evil, and as the remedy of the evil, which was the disease; but if there had
been no disease, there would have been no need of a remedy. Is not this the nature of
the good—to be loved by us who are placed between the two, because of the evil? but
there is no use in the good for its own sake.
I suppose not.
Then the final principle of friendship, in which all other friendships terminated, those, I
mean, which are relatively dear and for the sake of something else, is of another and a
different nature from them. For they are called dear because of another dear or friend.
But with the true friend or dear, the case is quite the reverse; for that is proved to be
dear because of the hated, and if the hated were away it would be no longer dear.
Very true, he replied: at any rate not if our present view holds good.
But, oh! will you tell me, I said, whether if evil were to perish, we should hunger any
more, or thirst any more, or have any similar desire? Or may we suppose that hunger
will remain while men and animals remain, but not so as to be hurtful? And the same of
thirst and the other desires,— that they will remain, but will not be evil because evil has
perished? Or rather shall I say, that to ask what either will be then or will not be is
ridiculous, for who knows? This we do know, that in our present condition hunger may
injure us, and may also benefit us:—Is not that true?
Yes.
And in like manner thirst or any similar desire may sometimes be a good and sometimes
an evil to us, and sometimes neither one nor the other?
To be sure.
But is there any reason why, because evil perishes, that which is not evil should perish
with it?
None.
Then, even if evil perishes, the desires which are neither good nor evil will remain?
Clearly they will.
And must not a man love that which he desires and affects?
He must.
Then, even if evil perishes, there may still remain some elements of love or friendship?
Yes.
But not if evil is the cause of friendship: for in that case nothing will be the friend of any
other thing after the destruction of evil; for the effect cannot remain when the cause is
destroyed.
True.
And have we not admitted already that the friend loves something for a reason? and at
the time of making the admission we were of opinion that the neither good nor evil loves
the good because of the evil?
Very true.
But now our view is changed, and we conceive that there must be some other cause of
friendship?
I suppose so.
May not the truth be rather, as we were saying just now, that desire is the cause of
friendship; for that which desires is dear to that which is desired at the time of desiring
it? and may not the other theory have been only a long story about nothing?
Likely enough.
But surely, I said, he who desires, desires that of which he is in want?
Yes.
And that of which he is in want is dear to him?
True.
And he is in want of that of which he is deprived?
Certainly.
Then love, and desire, and friendship would appear to be of the natural or congenial.
Such, Lysis and Menexenus, is the inference.
They assented.
Then if you are friends, you must have natures which are congenial to one another?
Certainly, they both said.
And I say, my boys, that no one who loves or desires another would ever have loved or
desired or affected him, if he had not been in some way congenial to him, either in his
soul, or in his character, or in his manners, or in his form.
Yes, yes, said Menexenus. But Lysis was silent.
Then, I said, the conclusion is, that what is of a congenial nature must be loved.
It follows, he said.
Then the lover, who is true and no counterfeit, must of necessity be loved by his love.
Lysis and Menexenus gave a faint assent to this; and Hippothales changed into all
manner of colours with delight.
Here, intending to revise the argument, I said: Can we point out any difference between
the congenial and the like? For if that is possible, then I think, Lysis and Menexenus,
there may be some sense in our argument about friendship. But if the congenial is only
the like, how will you get rid of the other argument, of the uselessness of like to like in as
far as they are like; for to say that what is useless is dear, would be absurd? Suppose,
then, that we agree to distinguish between the congenial and the like—in the
intoxication of argument, that may perhaps be allowed.
Very true.
And shall we further say that the good is congenial, and the evil uncongenial to every
one? Or again that the evil is congenial to the evil, and the good to the good; and that
which is neither good nor evil to that which is neither good nor evil?
They agreed to the latter alternative.
Then, my boys, we have again fallen into the old discarded error; for the unjust will be
the friend of the unjust, and the bad of the bad, as well as the good of the good.
That appears to be the result.
But again, if we say that the congenial is the same as the good, in that case the good and
he only will be the friend of the good.
True.
But that too was a position of ours which, as you will remember, has been already
refuted by ourselves.
We remember.
Then what is to be done? Or rather is there anything to be done? I can only, like the wise
men who argue in courts, sum up the arguments:—If neither the beloved, nor the lover,
nor the like, nor the unlike, nor the good, nor the congenial, nor any other of whom we
spoke—for there were such a number of them that I cannot remember all—if none of
these are friends, I know not what remains to be said.
Here I was going to invite the opinion of some older person, when suddenly we were
interrupted by the tutors of Lysis and Menexenus, who came upon us like an evil
apparition with their brothers, and bade them go home, as it was getting late. At first, we
and the by-standers drove them off; but afterwards, as they would not mind, and only
went on shouting in their barbarous dialect, and got angry, and kept calling the boys—
they appeared to us to have been drinking rather too much at the Hermaea, which made
them difficult to manage—we fairly gave way and broke up the company.
I said, however, a few words to the boys at parting: O Menexenus and Lysis, how
ridiculous that you two boys, and I, an old boy, who would fain be one of you, should
imagine ourselves to be friends—this is what the by- standers will go away and say—and
as yet we have not been able to discover what is a friend!
EUTHYPHRO
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Euthyphro.
SCENE: The Porch of the King Archon.
EUTHYPHRO: Why have you left the Lyceum, Socrates? and what are you doing in the
Porch of the King Archon? Surely you cannot be concerned in a suit before the King, like
myself?
SOCRATES: Not in a suit, Euthyphro; impeachment is the word which the Athenians use.
EUTHYPHRO: What! I suppose that some one has been prosecuting you, for I cannot
believe that you are the prosecutor of another.
SOCRATES: Certainly not.
EUTHYPHRO: Then some one else has been prosecuting you?
SOCRATES: Yes.
EUTHYPHRO: And who is he?
SOCRATES: A young man who is little known, Euthyphro; and I hardly know him: his
name is Meletus, and he is of the deme of Pitthis. Perhaps you may remember his
appearance; he has a beak, and long straight hair, and a beard which is ill grown.
EUTHYPHRO: No, I do not remember him, Socrates. But what is the charge which he
brings against you?
SOCRATES: What is the charge? Well, a very serious charge, which shows a good deal of
character in the young man, and for which he is certainly not to be despised. He says he
knows how the youth are corrupted and who are their corruptors. I fancy that he must
be a wise man, and seeing that I am the reverse of a wise man, he has found me out,
and is going to accuse me of corrupting his young friends. And of this our mother the
state is to be the judge. Of all our political men he is the only one who seems to me to
begin in the right way, with the cultivation of virtue in youth; like a good husbandman,
he makes the young shoots his first care, and clears away us who are the destroyers of
them. This is only the first step; he will afterwards attend to the elder branches; and if he
goes on as he has begun, he will be a very great public benefactor.
EUTHYPHRO: I hope that he may; but I rather fear, Socrates, that the opposite will turn
out to be the truth. My opinion is that in attacking you he is simply aiming a blow at the
foundation of the state. But in what way does he say that you corrupt the young?
SOCRATES: He brings a wonderful accusation against me, which at first hearing excites
surprise: he says that I am a poet or maker of gods, and that I invent new gods and deny
the existence of old ones; this is the ground of his indictment.
EUTHYPHRO: I understand, Socrates; he means to attack you about the familiar sign
which occasionally, as you say, comes to you. He thinks that you are a neologian, and he
is going to have you up before the court for this. He knows that such a charge is readily
received by the world, as I myself know too well; for when I speak in the assembly about
divine things, and foretell the future to them, they laugh at me and think me a madman.
Yet every word that I say is true. But they are jealous of us all; and we must be brave and
go at them.
SOCRATES: Their laughter, friend Euthyphro, is not a matter of much consequence. For a
man may be thought wise; but the Athenians, I suspect, do not much trouble themselves
about him until he begins to impart his wisdom to others, and then for some reason or
other, perhaps, as you say, from jealousy, they are angry.
EUTHYPHRO: I am never likely to try their temper in this way.
SOCRATES: I dare say not, for you are reserved in your behaviour, and seldom impart
your wisdom. But I have a benevolent habit of pouring out myself to everybody, and
would even pay for a listener, and I am afraid that the Athenians may think me too
talkative. Now if, as I was saying, they would only laugh at me, as you say that they
laugh at you, the time might pass gaily enough in the court; but perhaps they may be in
earnest, and then what the end will be you soothsayers only can predict.
EUTHYPHRO: I dare say that the affair will end in nothing, Socrates, and that you will win
your cause; and I think that I shall win my own.
SOCRATES: And what is your suit, Euthyphro? are you the pursuer or the defendant?
EUTHYPHRO: I am the pursuer.
SOCRATES: Of whom?
EUTHYPHRO: You will think me mad when I tell you.
SOCRATES: Why, has the fugitive wings?
EUTHYPHRO: Nay, he is not very volatile at his time of life.
SOCRATES: Who is he?
EUTHYPHRO: My father.
SOCRATES: Your father! my good man?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And of what is he accused?
EUTHYPHRO: Of murder, Socrates.
SOCRATES: By the powers, Euthyphro! how little does the common herd know of the
nature of right and truth. A man must be an extraordinary man, and have made great
strides in wisdom, before he could have seen his way to bring such an action.
EUTHYPHRO: Indeed, Socrates, he must.
SOCRATES: I suppose that the man whom your father murdered was one of your
relatives—clearly he was; for if he had been a stranger you would never have thought of
prosecuting him.
EUTHYPHRO: I am amused, Socrates, at your making a distinction between one who is a
relation and one who is not a relation; for surely the pollution is the same in either case,
if you knowingly associate with the murderer when you ought to clear yourself and him
by proceeding against him. The real question is whether the murdered man has been
justly slain. If justly, then your duty is to let the matter alone; but if unjustly, then even if
the murderer lives under the same roof with you and eats at the same table, proceed
against him. Now the man who is dead was a poor dependant of mine who worked for
us as a field labourer on our farm in Naxos, and one day in a fit of drunken passion he
got into a quarrel with one of our domestic servants and slew him. My father bound him
hand and foot and threw him into a ditch, and then sent to Athens to ask of a diviner
what he should do with him. Meanwhile he never attended to him and took no care
about him, for he regarded him as a murderer; and thought that no great harm would
be done even if he did die. Now this was just what happened. For such was the effect of
cold and hunger and chains upon him, that before the messenger returned from the
diviner, he was dead. And my father and family are angry with me for taking the part of
the murderer and prosecuting my father. They say that he did not kill him, and that if he
did, the dead man was but a murderer, and I ought not to take any notice, for that a son
is impious who prosecutes a father. Which shows, Socrates, how little they know what
the gods think about piety and impiety.
SOCRATES: Good heavens, Euthyphro! and is your knowledge of religion and of things
pious and impious so very exact, that, supposing the circumstances to be as you state
them, you are not afraid lest you too may be doing an impious thing in bringing an
action against your father?
EUTHYPHRO: The best of Euthyphro, and that which distinguishes him, Socrates, from
other men, is his exact knowledge of all such matters. What should I be good for
without it?
SOCRATES: Rare friend! I think that I cannot do better than be your disciple. Then before
the trial with Meletus comes on I shall challenge him, and say that I have always had a
great interest in religious questions, and now, as he charges me with rash imaginations
and innovations in religion, I have become your disciple. You, Meletus, as I shall say to
him, acknowledge Euthyphro to be a great theologian, and sound in his opinions; and if
you approve of him you ought to approve of me, and not have me into court; but if you
disapprove, you should begin by indicting him who is my teacher, and who will be the
ruin, not of the young, but of the old; that is to say, of myself whom he instructs, and of
his old father whom he admonishes and chastises. And if Meletus refuses to listen to
me, but will go on, and will not shift the indictment from me to you, I cannot do better
than repeat this challenge in the court.
EUTHYPHRO: Yes, indeed, Socrates; and if he attempts to indict me I am mistaken if I do
not find a flaw in him; the court shall have a great deal more to say to him than to me.
SOCRATES: And I, my dear friend, knowing this, am desirous of becoming your disciple.
For I observe that no one appears to notice you—not even this Meletus; but his sharp
eyes have found me out at once, and he has indicted me for impiety. And therefore, I
adjure you to tell me the nature of piety and impiety, which you said that you knew so
well, and of murder, and of other offences against the gods. What are they? Is not piety
in every action always the same? and impiety, again—is it not always the opposite of
piety, and also the same with itself, having, as impiety, one notion which includes
whatever is impious?
EUTHYPHRO: To be sure, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And what is piety, and what is impiety?
EUTHYPHRO: Piety is doing as I am doing; that is to say, prosecuting any one who is
guilty of murder, sacrilege, or of any similar crime—whether he be your father or
mother, or whoever he may be—that makes no difference; and not to prosecute them is
impiety. And please to consider, Socrates, what a notable proof I will give you of the
truth of my words, a proof which I have already given to others:—of the principle, I
mean, that the impious, whoever he may be, ought not to go unpunished. For do not
men regard Zeus as the best and most righteous of the gods?—and yet they admit that
he bound his father (Cronos) because he wickedly devoured his sons, and that he too
had punished his own father (Uranus) for a similar reason, in a nameless manner. And
yet when I proceed against my father, they are angry with me. So inconsistent are they
in their way of talking when the gods are concerned, and when I am concerned.
SOCRATES: May not this be the reason, Euthyphro, why I am charged with impiety—that
I cannot away with these stories about the gods? and therefore I suppose that people
think me wrong. But, as you who are well informed about them approve of them, I
cannot do better than assent to your superior wisdom. What else can I say, confessing
as I do, that I know nothing about them? Tell me, for the love of Zeus, whether you
really believe that they are true.
EUTHYPHRO: Yes, Socrates; and things more wonderful still, of which the world is in
ignorance.
SOCRATES: And do you really believe that the gods fought with one another, and had
dire quarrels, battles, and the like, as the poets say, and as you may see represented in
the works of great artists? The temples are full of them; and notably the robe of Athene,
which is carried up to the Acropolis at the great Panathenaea, is embroidered with them.
Are all these tales of the gods true, Euthyphro?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes, Socrates; and, as I was saying, I can tell you, if you would like to hear
them, many other things about the gods which would quite amaze you.
SOCRATES: I dare say; and you shall tell me them at some other time when I have
leisure. But just at present I would rather hear from you a more precise answer, which
you have not as yet given, my friend, to the question, What is 'piety'? When asked, you
only replied, Doing as you do, charging your father with murder.
EUTHYPHRO: And what I said was true, Socrates.
SOCRATES: No doubt, Euthyphro; but you would admit that there are many other pious
acts?
EUTHYPHRO: There are.
SOCRATES: Remember that I did not ask you to give me two or three examples of piety,
but to explain the general idea which makes all pious things to be pious. Do you not
recollect that there was one idea which made the impious impious, and the pious pious?
EUTHYPHRO: I remember.
SOCRATES: Tell me what is the nature of this idea, and then I shall have a standard to
which I may look, and by which I may measure actions, whether yours or those of any
one else, and then I shall be able to say that such and such an action is pious, such
another impious.
EUTHYPHRO: I will tell you, if you like.
SOCRATES: I should very much like.
EUTHYPHRO: Piety, then, is that which is dear to the gods, and impiety is that which is
not dear to them.
SOCRATES: Very good, Euthyphro; you have now given me the sort of answer which I
wanted. But whether what you say is true or not I cannot as yet tell, although I make no
doubt that you will prove the truth of your words.
EUTHYPHRO: Of course.
SOCRATES: Come, then, and let us examine what we are saying. That thing or person
which is dear to the gods is pious, and that thing or person which is hateful to the gods
is impious, these two being the extreme opposites of one another. Was not that said?
EUTHYPHRO: It was.
SOCRATES: And well said?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes, Socrates, I thought so; it was certainly said.
SOCRATES: And further, Euthyphro, the gods were admitted to have enmities and
hatreds and differences?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes, that was also said.
SOCRATES: And what sort of difference creates enmity and anger? Suppose for example
that you and I, my good friend, differ about a number; do differences of this sort make
us enemies and set us at variance with one another? Do we not go at once to arithmetic,
and put an end to them by a sum?
EUTHYPHRO: True.
SOCRATES: Or suppose that we differ about magnitudes, do we not quickly end the
differences by measuring?
EUTHYPHRO: Very true.
SOCRATES: And we end a controversy about heavy and light by resorting to a weighing
machine?
EUTHYPHRO: To be sure.
SOCRATES: But what differences are there which cannot be thus decided, and which
therefore make us angry and set us at enmity with one another? I dare say the answer
does not occur to you at the moment, and therefore I will suggest that these enmities
arise when the matters of difference are the just and unjust, good and evil, honourable
and dishonourable. Are not these the points about which men differ, and about which
when we are unable satisfactorily to decide our differences, you and I and all of us
quarrel, when we do quarrel? (Compare Alcib.)
EUTHYPHRO: Yes, Socrates, the nature of the differences about which we quarrel is such
as you describe.
SOCRATES: And the quarrels of the gods, noble Euthyphro, when they occur, are of a
like nature?
EUTHYPHRO: Certainly they are.
SOCRATES: They have differences of opinion, as you say, about good and evil, just and
unjust, honourable and dishonourable: there would have been no quarrels among them,
if there had been no such differences—would there now?
EUTHYPHRO: You are quite right.
SOCRATES: Does not every man love that which he deems noble and just and good, and
hate the opposite of them?
EUTHYPHRO: Very true.
SOCRATES: But, as you say, people regard the same things, some as just and others as
unjust,—about these they dispute; and so there arise wars and fightings among them.
EUTHYPHRO: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then the same things are hated by the gods and loved by the gods, and are
both hateful and dear to them?
EUTHYPHRO: True.
SOCRATES: And upon this view the same things, Euthyphro, will be pious and also
impious?
EUTHYPHRO: So I should suppose.
SOCRATES: Then, my friend, I remark with surprise that you have not answered the
question which I asked. For I certainly did not ask you to tell me what action is both
pious and impious: but now it would seem that what is loved by the gods is also hated
by them. And therefore, Euthyphro, in thus chastising your father you may very likely be
doing what is agreeable to Zeus but disagreeable to Cronos or Uranus, and what is
acceptable to Hephaestus but unacceptable to Here, and there may be other gods who
have similar differences of opinion.
EUTHYPHRO: But I believe, Socrates, that all the gods would be agreed as to the
propriety of punishing a murderer: there would be no difference of opinion about that.
SOCRATES: Well, but speaking of men, Euthyphro, did you ever hear any one arguing
that a murderer or any sort of evil-doer ought to be let off?
EUTHYPHRO: I should rather say that these are the questions which they are always
arguing, especially in courts of law: they commit all sorts of crimes, and there is nothing
which they will not do or say in their own defence.
SOCRATES: But do they admit their guilt, Euthyphro, and yet say that they ought not to
be punished?
EUTHYPHRO: No; they do not.
SOCRATES: Then there are some things which they do not venture to say and do: for
they do not venture to argue that the guilty are to be unpunished, but they deny their
guilt, do they not?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then they do not argue that the evil-doer should not be punished, but they
argue about the fact of who the evil-doer is, and what he did and when?
EUTHYPHRO: True.
SOCRATES: And the gods are in the same case, if as you assert they quarrel about just
and unjust, and some of them say while others deny that injustice is done among them.
For surely neither God nor man will ever venture to say that the doer of injustice is not
to be punished?
EUTHYPHRO: That is true, Socrates, in the main.
SOCRATES: But they join issue about the particulars—gods and men alike; and, if they
dispute at all, they dispute about some act which is called in question, and which by
some is affirmed to be just, by others to be unjust. Is not that true?
EUTHYPHRO: Quite true.
SOCRATES: Well then, my dear friend Euthyphro, do tell me, for my better instruction
and information, what proof have you that in the opinion of all the gods a servant who
is guilty of murder, and is put in chains by the master of the dead man, and dies
because he is put in chains before he who bound him can learn from the interpreters of
the gods what he ought to do with him, dies unjustly; and that on behalf of such an one
a son ought to proceed against his father and accuse him of murder. How would you
show that all the gods absolutely agree in approving of his act? Prove to me that they
do, and I will applaud your wisdom as long as I live.
EUTHYPHRO: It will be a difficult task; but I could make the matter very clear indeed to
you.
SOCRATES: I understand; you mean to say that I am not so quick of apprehension as the
judges: for to them you will be sure to prove that the act is unjust, and hateful to the
gods.
EUTHYPHRO: Yes indeed, Socrates; at least if they will listen to me.
SOCRATES: But they will be sure to listen if they find that you are a good speaker. There
was a notion that came into my mind while you were speaking; I said to myself: 'Well,
and what if Euthyphro does prove to me that all the gods regarded the death of the serf
as unjust, how do I know anything more of the nature of piety and impiety? for granting
that this action may be hateful to the gods, still piety and impiety are not adequately
defined by these distinctions, for that which is hateful to the gods has been shown to be
also pleasing and dear to them.' And therefore, Euthyphro, I do not ask you to prove
this; I will suppose, if you like, that all the gods condemn and abominate such an action.
But I will amend the definition so far as to say that what all the gods hate is impious,
and what they love pious or holy; and what some of them love and others hate is both
or neither. Shall this be our definition of piety and impiety?
EUTHYPHRO: Why not, Socrates?
SOCRATES: Why not! certainly, as far as I am concerned, Euthyphro, there is no reason
why not. But whether this admission will greatly assist you in the task of instructing me
as you promised, is a matter for you to consider.
EUTHYPHRO: Yes, I should say that what all the gods love is pious and holy, and the
opposite which they all hate, impious.
SOCRATES: Ought we to enquire into the truth of this, Euthyphro, or simply to accept
the mere statement on our own authority and that of others? What do you say?
EUTHYPHRO: We should enquire; and I believe that the statement will stand the test of
enquiry.
SOCRATES: We shall know better, my good friend, in a little while. The point which I
should first wish to understand is whether the pious or holy is beloved by the gods
because it is holy, or holy because it is beloved of the gods.
EUTHYPHRO: I do not understand your meaning, Socrates.
SOCRATES: I will endeavour to explain: we, speak of carrying and we speak of being
carried, of leading and being led, seeing and being seen. You know that in all such cases
there is a difference, and you know also in what the difference lies?
EUTHYPHRO: I think that I understand.
SOCRATES: And is not that which is beloved distinct from that which loves?
EUTHYPHRO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Well; and now tell me, is that which is carried in this state of carrying
because it is carried, or for some other reason?
EUTHYPHRO: No; that is the reason.
SOCRATES: And the same is true of what is led and of what is seen?
EUTHYPHRO: True.
SOCRATES: And a thing is not seen because it is visible, but conversely, visible because it
is seen; nor is a thing led because it is in the state of being led, or carried because it is in
the state of being carried, but the converse of this. And now I think, Euthyphro, that my
meaning will be intelligible; and my meaning is, that any state of action or passion
implies previous action or passion. It does not become because it is becoming, but it is
in a state of becoming because it becomes; neither does it suffer because it is in a state
of suffering, but it is in a state of suffering because it suffers. Do you not agree?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Is not that which is loved in some state either of becoming or suffering?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the same holds as in the previous instances; the state of being loved
follows the act of being loved, and not the act the state.
EUTHYPHRO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And what do you say of piety, Euthyphro: is not piety, according to your
definition, loved by all the gods?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Because it is pious or holy, or for some other reason?
EUTHYPHRO: No, that is the reason.
SOCRATES: It is loved because it is holy, not holy because it is loved?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And that which is dear to the gods is loved by them, and is in a state to be
loved of them because it is loved of them?
EUTHYPHRO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then that which is dear to the gods, Euthyphro, is not holy, nor is that which
is holy loved of God, as you affirm; but they are two different things.
EUTHYPHRO: How do you mean, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I mean to say that the holy has been acknowledged by us to be loved of
God because it is holy, not to be holy because it is loved.
EUTHYPHRO: Yes.
SOCRATES: But that which is dear to the gods is dear to them because it is loved by
them, not loved by them because it is dear to them.
EUTHYPHRO: True.
SOCRATES: But, friend Euthyphro, if that which is holy is the same with that which is dear
to God, and is loved because it is holy, then that which is dear to God would have been
loved as being dear to God; but if that which is dear to God is dear to him because
loved by him, then that which is holy would have been holy because loved by him. But
now you see that the reverse is the case, and that they are quite different from one
another. For one (theophiles) is of a kind to be loved cause it is loved, and the other
(osion) is loved because it is of a kind to be loved. Thus you appear to me, Euthyphro,
when I ask you what is the essence of holiness, to offer an attribute only, and not the
essence—the attribute of being loved by all the gods. But you still refuse to explain to
me the nature of holiness. And therefore, if you please, I will ask you not to hide your
treasure, but to tell me once more what holiness or piety really is, whether dear to the
gods or not (for that is a matter about which we will not quarrel); and what is impiety?
EUTHYPHRO: I really do not know, Socrates, how to express what I mean. For somehow
or other our arguments, on whatever ground we rest them, seem to turn round and walk
away from us.
SOCRATES: Your words, Euthyphro, are like the handiwork of my ancestor Daedalus; and
if I were the sayer or propounder of them, you might say that my arguments walk away
and will not remain fixed where they are placed because I am a descendant of his. But
now, since these notions are your own, you must find some other gibe, for they
certainly, as you yourself allow, show an inclination to be on the move.
EUTHYPHRO: Nay, Socrates, I shall still say that you are the Daedalus who sets
arguments in motion; not I, certainly, but you make them move or go round, for they
would never have stirred, as far as I am concerned.
SOCRATES: Then I must be a greater than Daedalus: for whereas he only made his own
inventions to move, I move those of other people as well. And the beauty of it is, that I
would rather not. For I would give the wisdom of Daedalus, and the wealth of Tantalus,
to be able to detain them and keep them fixed. But enough of this. As I perceive that
you are lazy, I will myself endeavour to show you how you might instruct me in the
nature of piety; and I hope that you will not grudge your labour. Tell me, then—Is not
that which is pious necessarily just?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And is, then, all which is just pious? or, is that which is pious all just, but that
which is just, only in part and not all, pious?
EUTHYPHRO: I do not understand you, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And yet I know that you are as much wiser than I am, as you are younger.
But, as I was saying, revered friend, the abundance of your wisdom makes you lazy.
Please to exert yourself, for there is no real difficulty in understanding me. What I mean I
may explain by an illustration of what I do not mean. The poet (Stasinus) sings—
'Of Zeus, the author and creator of all these things, You will not tell: for where there is
fear there is also reverence.'
Now I disagree with this poet. Shall I tell you in what respect?
EUTHYPHRO: By all means.
SOCRATES: I should not say that where there is fear there is also reverence; for I am sure
that many persons fear poverty and disease, and the like evils, but I do not perceive that
they reverence the objects of their fear.
EUTHYPHRO: Very true.
SOCRATES: But where reverence is, there is fear; for he who has a feeling of reverence
and shame about the commission of any action, fears and is afraid of an ill reputation.
EUTHYPHRO: No doubt.
SOCRATES: Then we are wrong in saying that where there is fear there is also reverence;
and we should say, where there is reverence there is also fear. But there is not always
reverence where there is fear; for fear is a more extended notion, and reverence is a part
of fear, just as the odd is a part of number, and number is a more extended notion than
the odd. I suppose that you follow me now?
EUTHYPHRO: Quite well.
SOCRATES: That was the sort of question which I meant to raise when I asked whether
the just is always the pious, or the pious always the just; and whether there may not be
justice where there is not piety; for justice is the more extended notion of which piety is
only a part. Do you dissent?
EUTHYPHRO: No, I think that you are quite right.
SOCRATES: Then, if piety is a part of justice, I suppose that we should enquire what part?
If you had pursued the enquiry in the previous cases; for instance, if you had asked me
what is an even number, and what part of number the even is, I should have had no
difficulty in replying, a number which represents a figure having two equal sides. Do you
not agree?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes, I quite agree.
SOCRATES: In like manner, I want you to tell me what part of justice is piety or holiness,
that I may be able to tell Meletus not to do me injustice, or indict me for impiety, as I am
now adequately instructed by you in the nature of piety or holiness, and their opposites.
EUTHYPHRO: Piety or holiness, Socrates, appears to me to be that part of justice which
attends to the gods, as there is the other part of justice which attends to men.
SOCRATES: That is good, Euthyphro; yet still there is a little point about which I should
like to have further information, What is the meaning of 'attention'? For attention can
hardly be used in the same sense when applied to the gods as when applied to other
things. For instance, horses are said to require attention, and not every person is able to
attend to them, but only a person skilled in horsemanship. Is it not so?
EUTHYPHRO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: I should suppose that the art of horsemanship is the art of attending to
horses?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Nor is every one qualified to attend to dogs, but only the huntsman?
EUTHYPHRO: True.
SOCRATES: And I should also conceive that the art of the huntsman is the art of
attending to dogs?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes.
SOCRATES: As the art of the oxherd is the art of attending to oxen?
EUTHYPHRO: Very true.
SOCRATES: In like manner holiness or piety is the art of attending to the gods?—that
would be your meaning, Euthyphro?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And is not attention always designed for the good or benefit of that to
which the attention is given? As in the case of horses, you may observe that when
attended to by the horseman's art they are benefited and improved, are they not?
EUTHYPHRO: True.
SOCRATES: As the dogs are benefited by the huntsman's art, and the oxen by the art of
the oxherd, and all other things are tended or attended for their good and not for their
hurt?
EUTHYPHRO: Certainly, not for their hurt.
SOCRATES: But for their good?
EUTHYPHRO: Of course.
SOCRATES: And does piety or holiness, which has been defined to be the art of
attending to the gods, benefit or improve them? Would you say that when you do a
holy act you make any of the gods better?
EUTHYPHRO: No, no; that was certainly not what I meant.
SOCRATES: And I, Euthyphro, never supposed that you did. I asked you the question
about the nature of the attention, because I thought that you did not.
EUTHYPHRO: You do me justice, Socrates; that is not the sort of attention which I mean.
SOCRATES: Good: but I must still ask what is this attention to the gods which is called
piety?
EUTHYPHRO: It is such, Socrates, as servants show to their masters.
SOCRATES: I understand—a sort of ministration to the gods.
EUTHYPHRO: Exactly.
SOCRATES: Medicine is also a sort of ministration or service, having in view the
attainment of some object—would you not say of health?
EUTHYPHRO: I should.
SOCRATES: Again, there is an art which ministers to the ship-builder with a view to the
attainment of some result?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes, Socrates, with a view to the building of a ship.
SOCRATES: As there is an art which ministers to the house-builder with a view to the
building of a house?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And now tell me, my good friend, about the art which ministers to the gods:
what work does that help to accomplish? For you must surely know if, as you say, you
are of all men living the one who is best instructed in religion.
EUTHYPHRO: And I speak the truth, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Tell me then, oh tell me—what is that fair work which the gods do by the
help of our ministrations?
EUTHYPHRO: Many and fair, Socrates, are the works which they do.
SOCRATES: Why, my friend, and so are those of a general. But the chief of them is easily
told. Would you not say that victory in war is the chief of them?
EUTHYPHRO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Many and fair, too, are the works of the husbandman, if I am not mistaken;
but his chief work is the production of food from the earth?
EUTHYPHRO: Exactly.
SOCRATES: And of the many and fair things done by the gods, which is the chief or
principal one?
EUTHYPHRO: I have told you already, Socrates, that to learn all these things accurately
will be very tiresome. Let me simply say that piety or holiness is learning how to please
the gods in word and deed, by prayers and sacrifices. Such piety is the salvation of
families and states, just as the impious, which is unpleasing to the gods, is their ruin and
destruction.
SOCRATES: I think that you could have answered in much fewer words the chief
question which I asked, Euthyphro, if you had chosen. But I see plainly that you are not
disposed to instruct me—clearly not: else why, when we reached the point, did you turn
aside? Had you only answered me I should have truly learned of you by this time the
nature of piety. Now, as the asker of a question is necessarily dependent on the
answerer, whither he leads I must follow; and can only ask again, what is the pious, and
what is piety? Do you mean that they are a sort of science of praying and sacrificing?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes, I do.
SOCRATES: And sacrificing is giving to the gods, and prayer is asking of the gods?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Upon this view, then, piety is a science of asking and giving?
EUTHYPHRO: You understand me capitally, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Yes, my friend; the reason is that I am a votary of your science, and give my
mind to it, and therefore nothing which you say will be thrown away upon me. Please
then to tell me, what is the nature of this service to the gods? Do you mean that we
prefer requests and give gifts to them?
EUTHYPHRO: Yes, I do.
SOCRATES: Is not the right way of asking to ask of them what we want?
EUTHYPHRO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And the right way of giving is to give to them in return what they want of us.
There would be no meaning in an art which gives to any one that which he does not
want.
EUTHYPHRO: Very true, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then piety, Euthyphro, is an art which gods and men have of doing business
with one another?
EUTHYPHRO: That is an expression which you may use, if you like.
SOCRATES: But I have no particular liking for anything but the truth. I wish, however,
that you would tell me what benefit accrues to the gods from our gifts. There is no
doubt about what they give to us; for there is no good thing which they do not give; but
how we can give any good thing to them in return is far from being equally clear. If they
give everything and we give nothing, that must be an affair of business in which we have
very greatly the advantage of them.
EUTHYPHRO: And do you imagine, Socrates, that any benefit accrues to the gods from
our gifts?
SOCRATES: But if not, Euthyphro, what is the meaning of gifts which are conferred by us
upon the gods?
EUTHYPHRO: What else, but tributes of honour; and, as I was just now saying, what
pleases them?
SOCRATES: Piety, then, is pleasing to the gods, but not beneficial or dear to them?
EUTHYPHRO: I should say that nothing could be dearer.
SOCRATES: Then once more the assertion is repeated that piety is dear to the gods?
EUTHYPHRO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And when you say this, can you wonder at your words not standing firm, but
walking away? Will you accuse me of being the Daedalus who makes them walk away,
not perceiving that there is another and far greater artist than Daedalus who makes
them go round in a circle, and he is yourself; for the argument, as you will perceive,
comes round to the same point. Were we not saying that the holy or pious was not the
same with that which is loved of the gods? Have you forgotten?
EUTHYPHRO: I quite remember.
SOCRATES: And are you not saying that what is loved of the gods is holy; and is not this
the same as what is dear to them—do you see?
EUTHYPHRO: True.
SOCRATES: Then either we were wrong in our former assertion; or, if we were right then,
we are wrong now.
EUTHYPHRO: One of the two must be true.
SOCRATES: Then we must begin again and ask, What is piety? That is an enquiry which I
shall never be weary of pursuing as far as in me lies; and I entreat you not to scorn me,
but to apply your mind to the utmost, and tell me the truth. For, if any man knows, you
are he; and therefore I must detain you, like Proteus, until you tell. If you had not
certainly known the nature of piety and impiety, I am confident that you would never, on
behalf of a serf, have charged your aged father with murder. You would not have run
such a risk of doing wrong in the sight of the gods, and you would have had too much
respect for the opinions of men. I am sure, therefore, that you know the nature of piety
and impiety. Speak out then, my dear Euthyphro, and do not hide your knowledge.
EUTHYPHRO: Another time, Socrates; for I am in a hurry, and must go now.
SOCRATES: Alas! my companion, and will you leave me in despair? I was hoping that
you would instruct me in the nature of piety and impiety; and then I might have cleared
myself of Meletus and his indictment. I would have told him that I had been enlightened
by Euthyphro, and had given up rash innovations and speculations, in which I indulged
only through ignorance, and that now I am about to lead a better life.
THE END
MENEXENUS
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates and Menexenus.
SOCRATES: Whence come you, Menexenus? Are you from the Agora?
MENEXENUS: Yes, Socrates; I have been at the Council.
SOCRATES: And what might you be doing at the Council? And yet I need hardly ask, for I
see that you, believing yourself to have arrived at the end of education and of
philosophy, and to have had enough of them, are mounting upwards to things higher
still, and, though rather young for the post, are intending to govern us elder men, like
the rest of your family, which has always provided some one who kindly took care of us.
MENEXENUS: Yes, Socrates, I shall be ready to hold office, if you allow and advise that I
should, but not if you think otherwise. I went to the council chamber because I heard
that the Council was about to choose some one who was to speak over the dead. For
you know that there is to be a public funeral?
SOCRATES: Yes, I know. And whom did they choose?
MENEXENUS: No one; they delayed the election until tomorrow, but I believe that either
Archinus or Dion will be chosen.
SOCRATES: O Menexenus! Death in battle is certainly in many respects a noble thing.
The dead man gets a fine and costly funeral, although he may have been poor, and an
elaborate speech is made over him by a wise man who has long ago prepared what he
has to say, although he who is praised may not have been good for much. The speakers
praise him for what he has done and for what he has not done—that is the beauty of
them—and they steal away our souls with their embellished words; in every conceivable
form they praise the city; and they praise those who died in war, and all our ancestors
who went before us; and they praise ourselves also who are still alive, until I feel quite
elevated by their laudations, and I stand listening to their words, Menexenus, and
become enchanted by them, and all in a moment I imagine myself to have become a
greater and nobler and finer man than I was before. And if, as often happens, there are
any foreigners who accompany me to the speech, I become suddenly conscious of
having a sort of triumph over them, and they seem to experience a corresponding
feeling of admiration at me, and at the greatness of the city, which appears to them,
when they are under the influence of the speaker, more wonderful than ever. This
consciousness of dignity lasts me more than three days, and not until the fourth or fifth
day do I come to my senses and know where I am; in the meantime I have been living in
the Islands of the Blest. Such is the art of our rhetoricians, and in such manner does the
sound of their words keep ringing in my ears.
MENEXENUS: You are always making fun of the rhetoricians, Socrates; this time,
however, I am inclined to think that the speaker who is chosen will not have much to
say, for he has been called upon to speak at a moment's notice, and he will be
compelled almost to improvise.
SOCRATES: But why, my friend, should he not have plenty to say? Every rhetorician has
speeches ready made; nor is there any difficulty in improvising that sort of stuff. Had the
orator to praise Athenians among Peloponnesians, or Peloponnesians among Athenians,
he must be a good rhetorician who could succeed and gain credit. But there is no
difficulty in a man's winning applause when he is contending for fame among the
persons whom he is praising.
MENEXENUS: Do you think not, Socrates?
SOCRATES: Certainly 'not.'
MENEXENUS: Do you think that you could speak yourself if there should be a necessity,
and if the Council were to choose you?
SOCRATES: That I should be able to speak is no great wonder, Menexenus, considering
that I have an excellent mistress in the art of rhetoric,—she who has made so many
good speakers, and one who was the best among all the Hellenes—Pericles, the son of
Xanthippus.
MENEXENUS: And who is she? I suppose that you mean Aspasia.
SOCRATES: Yes, I do; and besides her I had Connus, the son of Metrobius, as a master,
and he was my master in music, as she was in rhetoric. No wonder that a man who has
received such an education should be a finished speaker; even the pupil of very inferior
masters, say, for example, one who had learned music of Lamprus, and rhetoric of
Antiphon the Rhamnusian, might make a figure if he were to praise the Athenians
among the Athenians.
MENEXENUS: And what would you be able to say if you had to speak?
SOCRATES: Of my own wit, most likely nothing; but yesterday I heard Aspasia
composing a funeral oration about these very dead. For she had been told, as you were
saying, that the Athenians were going to choose a speaker, and she repeated to me the
sort of speech which he should deliver, partly improvising and partly from previous
thought, putting together fragments of the funeral oration which Pericles spoke, but
which, as I believe, she composed.
MENEXENUS: And can you remember what Aspasia said?
SOCRATES: I ought to be able, for she taught me, and she was ready to strike me
because I was always forgetting.
MENEXENUS: Then why will you not rehearse what she said?
SOCRATES: Because I am afraid that my mistress may be angry with me if I publish her
speech.
MENEXENUS: Nay, Socrates, let us have the speech, whether Aspasia's or any one else's,
no matter. I hope that you will oblige me.
SOCRATES: But I am afraid that you will laugh at me if I continue the games of youth in
old age.
MENEXENUS: Far otherwise, Socrates; let us by all means have the speech.
SOCRATES: Truly I have such a disposition to oblige you, that if you bid me dance naked
I should not like to refuse, since we are alone. Listen then: If I remember rightly, she
began as follows, with the mention of the dead:— (Thucyd.)
There is a tribute of deeds and of words. The departed have already had the first, when
going forth on their destined journey they were attended on their way by the state and
by their friends; the tribute of words remains to be given to them, as is meet and by law
ordained. For noble words are a memorial and a crown of noble actions, which are given
to the doers of them by the hearers. A word is needed which will duly praise the dead
and gently admonish the living, exhorting the brethren and descendants of the departed
to imitate their virtue, and consoling their fathers and mothers and the survivors, if any,
who may chance to be alive of the previous generation. What sort of a word will this be,
and how shall we rightly begin the praises of these brave men? In their life they rejoiced
their own friends with their valour, and their death they gave in exchange for the
salvation of the living. And I think that we should praise them in the order in which
nature made them good, for they were good because they were sprung from good
fathers. Wherefore let us first of all praise the goodness of their birth; secondly, their
nurture and education; and then let us set forth how noble their actions were, and how
worthy of the education which they had received.
And first as to their birth. Their ancestors were not strangers, nor are these their
descendants sojourners only, whose fathers have come from another country; but they
are the children of the soil, dwelling and living in their own land. And the country which
brought them up is not like other countries, a stepmother to her children, but their own
true mother; she bore them and nourished them and received them, and in her bosom
they now repose. It is meet and right, therefore, that we should begin by praising the
land which is their mother, and that will be a way of praising their noble birth.
The country is worthy to be praised, not only by us, but by all mankind; first, and above
all, as being dear to the Gods. This is proved by the strife and contention of the Gods
respecting her. And ought not the country which the Gods praise to be praised by all
mankind? The second praise which may be fairly claimed by her, is that at the time when
the whole earth was sending forth and creating diverse animals, tame and wild, she our
mother was free and pure from savage monsters, and out of all animals selected and
brought forth man, who is superior to the rest in understanding, and alone has justice
and religion. And a great proof that she brought forth the common ancestors of us and
of the departed, is that she provided the means of support for her offspring. For as a
woman proves her motherhood by giving milk to her young ones (and she who has no
fountain of milk is not a mother), so did this our land prove that she was the mother of
men, for in those days she alone and first of all brought forth wheat and barley for
human food, which is the best and noblest sustenance for man, whom she regarded as
her true offspring. And these are truer proofs of motherhood in a country than in a
woman, for the woman in her conception and generation is but the imitation of the
earth, and not the earth of the woman. And of the fruit of the earth she gave a
plenteous supply, not only to her own, but to others also; and afterwards she made the
olive to spring up to be a boon to her children, and to help them in their toils. And when
she had herself nursed them and brought them up to manhood, she gave them Gods to
be their rulers and teachers, whose names are well known, and need not now be
repeated. They are the Gods who first ordered our lives, and instructed us in the arts for
the supply of our daily needs, and taught us the acquisition and use of arms for the
defence of the country.
Thus born into the world and thus educated, the ancestors of the departed lived and
made themselves a government, which I ought briefly to commemorate. For
government is the nurture of man, and the government of good men is good, and of
bad men bad. And I must show that our ancestors were trained under a good
government, and for this reason they were good, and our contemporaries are also good,
among whom our departed friends are to be reckoned. Then as now, and indeed always,
from that time to this, speaking generally, our government was an aristocracy—a form
of government which receives various names, according to the fancies of men, and is
sometimes called democracy, but is really an aristocracy or government of the best
which has the approval of the many. For kings we have always had, first hereditary and
then elected, and authority is mostly in the hands of the people, who dispense offices
and power to those who appear to be most deserving of them. Neither is a man rejected
from weakness or poverty or obscurity of origin, nor honoured by reason of the
opposite, as in other states, but there is one principle—he who appears to be wise and
good is a governor and ruler. The basis of this our government is equality of birth; for
other states are made up of all sorts and unequal conditions of men, and therefore their
governments are unequal; there are tyrannies and there are oligarchies, in which the one
party are slaves and the others masters. But we and our citizens are brethren, the
children all of one mother, and we do not think it right to be one another's masters or
servants; but the natural equality of birth compels us to seek for legal equality, and to
recognize no superiority except in the reputation of virtue and wisdom.
And so their and our fathers, and these, too, our brethren, being nobly born and having
been brought up in all freedom, did both in their public and private capacity many
noble deeds famous over the whole world. They were the deeds of men who thought
that they ought to fight both against Hellenes for the sake of Hellenes on behalf of
freedom, and against barbarians in the common interest of Hellas. Time would fail me to
tell of their defence of their country against the invasion of Eumolpus and the Amazons,
or of their defence of the Argives against the Cadmeians, or of the Heracleids against
the Argives; besides, the poets have already declared in song to all mankind their glory,
and therefore any commemoration of their deeds in prose which we might attempt
would hold a second place. They already have their reward, and I say no more of them;
but there are other worthy deeds of which no poet has worthily sung, and which are still
wooing the poet's muse. Of these I am bound to make honourable mention, and shall
invoke others to sing of them also in lyric and other strains, in a manner becoming the
actors. And first I will tell how the Persians, lords of Asia, were enslaving Europe, and
how the children of this land, who were our fathers, held them back. Of these I will speak
first, and praise their valour, as is meet and fitting. He who would rightly estimate them
should place himself in thought at that time, when the whole of Asia was subject to the
third king of Persia. The first king, Cyrus, by his valour freed the Persians, who were his
countrymen, and subjected the Medes, who were their lords, and he ruled over the rest
of Asia, as far as Egypt; and after him came his son, who ruled all the accessible part of
Egypt and Libya; the third king was Darius, who extended the land boundaries of the
empire to Scythia, and with his fleet held the sea and the islands. None presumed to be
his equal; the minds of all men were enthralled by him—so many and mighty and
warlike nations had the power of Persia subdued. Now Darius had a quarrel against us
and the Eretrians, because, as he said, we had conspired against Sardis, and he sent
500,000 men in transports and vessels of war, and 300 ships, and Datis as commander,
telling him to bring the Eretrians and Athenians to the king, if he wished to keep his
head on his shoulders. He sailed against the Eretrians, who were reputed to be amongst
the noblest and most warlike of the Hellenes of that day, and they were numerous, but
he conquered them all in three days; and when he had conquered them, in order that no
one might escape, he searched the whole country after this manner: his soldiers, coming
to the borders of Eretria and spreading from sea to sea, joined hands and passed
through the whole country, in order that they might be able to tell the king that no one
had escaped them. And from Eretria they went to Marathon with a like intention,
expecting to bind the Athenians in the same yoke of necessity in which they had bound
the Eretrians. Having effected one-half of their purpose, they were in the act of
attempting the other, and none of the Hellenes dared to assist either the Eretrians or the
Athenians, except the Lacedaemonians, and they arrived a day too late for the battle;
but the rest were panic-stricken and kept quiet, too happy in having escaped for a time.
He who has present to his mind that conflict will know what manner of men they were
who received the onset of the barbarians at Marathon, and chastened the pride of the
whole of Asia, and by the victory which they gained over the barbarians first taught
other men that the power of the Persians was not invincible, but that hosts of men and
the multitude of riches alike yield to valour. And I assert that those men are the fathers
not only of ourselves, but of our liberties and of the liberties of all who are on the
continent, for that was the action to which the Hellenes looked back when they ventured
to fight for their own safety in the battles which ensued: they became disciples of the
men of Marathon. To them, therefore, I assign in my speech the first place, and the
second to those who fought and conquered in the sea fights at Salamis and Artemisium;
for of them, too, one might have many things to say—of the assaults which they
endured by sea and land, and how they repelled them. I will mention only that act of
theirs which appears to me to be the noblest, and which followed that of Marathon and
came nearest to it; for the men of Marathon only showed the Hellenes that it was
possible to ward off the barbarians by land, the many by the few; but there was no proof
that they could be defeated by ships, and at sea the Persians retained the reputation of
being invincible in numbers and wealth and skill and strength. This is the glory of the
men who fought at sea, that they dispelled the second terror which had hitherto
possessed the Hellenes, and so made the fear of numbers, whether of ships or men, to
cease among them. And so the soldiers of Marathon and the sailors of Salamis became
the schoolmasters of Hellas; the one teaching and habituating the Hellenes not to fear
the barbarians at sea, and the others not to fear them by land. Third in order, for the
number and valour of the combatants, and third in the salvation of Hellas, I place the
battle of Plataea. And now the Lacedaemonians as well as the Athenians took part in the
struggle; they were all united in this greatest and most terrible conflict of all; wherefore
their virtues will be celebrated in times to come, as they are now celebrated by us. But at
a later period many Hellenic tribes were still on the side of the barbarians, and there was
a report that the great king was going to make a new attempt upon the Hellenes, and
therefore justice requires that we should also make mention of those who crowned the
previous work of our salvation, and drove and purged away all barbarians from the sea.
These were the men who fought by sea at the river Eurymedon, and who went on the
expedition to Cyprus, and who sailed to Egypt and divers other places; and they should
be gratefully remembered by us, because they compelled the king in fear for himself to
look to his own safety instead of plotting the destruction of Hellas.
And so the war against the barbarians was fought out to the end by the whole city on
their own behalf, and on behalf of their countrymen. There was peace, and our city was
held in honour; and then, as prosperity makes men jealous, there succeeded a jealousy
of her, and jealousy begat envy, and so she became engaged against her will in a war
with the Hellenes. On the breaking out of war, our citizens met the Lacedaemonians at
Tanagra, and fought for the freedom of the Boeotians; the issue was doubtful, and was
decided by the engagement which followed. For when the Lacedaemonians had gone
on their way, leaving the Boeotians, whom they were aiding, on the third day after the
battle of Tanagra, our countrymen conquered at Oenophyta, and righteously restored
those who had been unrighteously exiled. And they were the first after the Persian war
who fought on behalf of liberty in aid of Hellenes against Hellenes; they were brave
men, and freed those whom they aided, and were the first too who were honourably
interred in this sepulchre by the state. Afterwards there was a mighty war, in which all
the Hellenes joined, and devastated our country, which was very ungrateful of them; and
our countrymen, after defeating them in a naval engagement and taking their leaders,
the Spartans, at Sphagia, when they might have destroyed them, spared their lives, and
gave them back, and made peace, considering that they should war with the fellowcountrymen
only until they gained a victory over them, and not because of the private
anger of the state destroy the common interest of Hellas; but that with barbarians they
should war to the death. Worthy of praise are they also who waged this war, and are
here interred; for they proved, if any one doubted the superior prowess of the Athenians
in the former war with the barbarians, that their doubts had no foundation—showing by
their victory in the civil war with Hellas, in which they subdued the other chief state of
the Hellenes, that they could conquer single-handed those with whom they had been
allied in the war against the barbarians. After the peace there followed a third war, which
was of a terrible and desperate nature, and in this many brave men who are here
interred lost their lives—many of them had won victories in Sicily, whither they had gone
over the seas to fight for the liberties of the Leontines, to whom they were bound by
oaths; but, owing to the distance, the city was unable to help them, and they lost heart
and came to misfortune, their very enemies and opponents winning more renown for
valour and temperance than the friends of others. Many also fell in naval engagements
at the Hellespont, after having in one day taken all the ships of the enemy, and defeated
them in other naval engagements. And what I call the terrible and desperate nature of
the war, is that the other Hellenes, in their extreme animosity towards the city, should
have entered into negotiations with their bitterest enemy, the king of Persia, whom they,
together with us, had expelled;—him, without us, they again brought back, barbarian
against Hellenes, and all the hosts, both of Hellenes and barbarians, were united against
Athens. And then shone forth the power and valour of our city. Her enemies had
supposed that she was exhausted by the war, and our ships were blockaded at Mitylene.
But the citizens themselves embarked, and came to the rescue with sixty other ships,
and their valour was confessed of all men, for they conquered their enemies and
delivered their friends. And yet by some evil fortune they were left to perish at sea, and
therefore are not interred here. Ever to be remembered and honoured are they, for by
their valour not only that sea- fight was won for us, but the entire war was decided by
them, and through them the city gained the reputation of being invincible, even though
attacked by all mankind. And that reputation was a true one, for the defeat which came
upon us was our own doing. We were never conquered by others, and to this day we are
still unconquered by them; but we were our own conquerors, and received defeat at our
own hands. Afterwards there was quiet and peace abroad, but there sprang up war at
home; and, if men are destined to have civil war, no one could have desired that his city
should take the disorder in a milder form. How joyful and natural was the reconciliation
of those who came from the Piraeus and those who came from the city; with what
moderation did they order the war against the tyrants in Eleusis, and in a manner how
unlike what the other Hellenes expected! And the reason of this gentleness was the
veritable tie of blood, which created among them a friendship as of kinsmen, faithful not
in word only, but in deed. And we ought also to remember those who then fell by one
another's hands, and on such occasions as these to reconcile them with sacrifices and
prayers, praying to those who have power over them, that they may be reconciled even
as we are reconciled. For they did not attack one another out of malice or enmity, but
they were unfortunate. And that such was the fact we ourselves are witnesses, who are
of the same race with them, and have mutually received and granted forgiveness of
what we have done and suffered. After this there was perfect peace, and the city had
rest; and her feeling was that she forgave the barbarians, who had severely suffered at
her hands and severely retaliated, but that she was indignant at the ingratitude of the
Hellenes, when she remembered how they had received good from her and returned
evil, having made common cause with the barbarians, depriving her of the ships which
had once been their salvation, and dismantling our walls, which had preserved their own
from falling. She thought that she would no longer defend the Hellenes, when enslaved
either by one another or by the barbarians, and did accordingly. This was our feeling,
while the Lacedaemonians were thinking that we who were the champions of liberty had
fallen, and that their business was to subject the remaining Hellenes. And why should I
say more? for the events of which I am speaking happened not long ago and we can all
of us remember how the chief peoples of Hellas, Argives and Boeotians and Corinthians,
came to feel the need of us, and, what is the greatest miracle of all, the Persian king
himself was driven to such extremity as to come round to the opinion, that from this
city, of which he was the destroyer, and from no other, his salvation would proceed.
And if a person desired to bring a deserved accusation against our city, he would find
only one charge which he could justly urge—that she was too compassionate and too
favourable to the weaker side. And in this instance she was not able to hold out or keep
her resolution of refusing aid to her injurers when they were being enslaved, but she
was softened, and did in fact send out aid, and delivered the Hellenes from slavery, and
they were free until they afterwards enslaved themselves. Whereas, to the great king she
refused to give the assistance of the state, for she could not forget the trophies of
Marathon and Salamis and Plataea; but she allowed exiles and volunteers to assist him,
and they were his salvation. And she herself, when she was compelled, entered into the
war, and built walls and ships, and fought with the Lacedaemonians on behalf of the
Parians. Now the king fearing this city and wanting to stand aloof, when he saw the
Lacedaemonians growing weary of the war at sea, asked of us, as the price of his alliance
with us and the other allies, to give up the Hellenes in Asia, whom the Lacedaemonians
had previously handed over to him, he thinking that we should refuse, and that then he
might have a pretence for withdrawing from us. About the other allies he was mistaken,
for the Corinthians and Argives and Boeotians, and the other states, were quite willing
to let them go, and swore and covenanted, that, if he would pay them money, they
would make over to him the Hellenes of the continent, and we alone refused to give
them up and swear. Such was the natural nobility of this city, so sound and healthy was
the spirit of freedom among us, and the instinctive dislike of the barbarian, because we
are pure Hellenes, having no admixture of barbarism in us. For we are not like many
others, descendants of Pelops or Cadmus or Egyptus or Danaus, who are by nature
barbarians, and yet pass for Hellenes, and dwell in the midst of us; but we are pure
Hellenes, uncontaminated by any foreign element, and therefore the hatred of the
foreigner has passed unadulterated into the life-blood of the city. And so,
notwithstanding our noble sentiments, we were again isolated, because we were
unwilling to be guilty of the base and unholy act of giving up Hellenes to barbarians.
And we were in the same case as when we were subdued before; but, by the favour of
Heaven, we managed better, for we ended the war without the loss of our ships or walls
or colonies; the enemy was only too glad to be quit of us. Yet in this war we lost many
brave men, such as were those who fell owing to the ruggedness of the ground at the
battle of Corinth, or by treason at Lechaeum. Brave men, too, were those who delivered
the Persian king, and drove the Lacedaemonians from the sea. I remind you of them,
and you must celebrate them together with me, and do honour to their memories.
Such were the actions of the men who are here interred, and of others who have died
on behalf of their country; many and glorious things I have spoken of them, and there
are yet many more and more glorious things remaining to be told—many days and
nights would not suffice to tell of them. Let them not be forgotten, and let every man
remind their descendants that they also are soldiers who must not desert the ranks of
their ancestors, or from cowardice fall behind. Even as I exhort you this day, and in all
future time, whenever I meet with any of you, shall continue to remind and exhort you,
O ye sons of heroes, that you strive to be the bravest of men. And I think that I ought
now to repeat what your fathers desired to have said to you who are their survivors,
when they went out to battle, in case anything happened to them. I will tell you what I
heard them say, and what, if they had only speech, they would fain be saying, judging
from what they then said. And you must imagine that you hear them saying what I now
repeat to you:—
'Sons, the event proves that your fathers were brave men; for we might have lived
dishonourably, but have preferred to die honourably rather than bring you and your
children into disgrace, and rather than dishonour our own fathers and forefathers;
considering that life is not life to one who is a dishonour to his race, and that to such a
one neither men nor Gods are friendly, either while he is on the earth or after death in
the world below. Remember our words, then, and whatever is your aim let virtue be the
condition of the attainment of your aim, and know that without this all possessions and
pursuits are dishonourable and evil. For neither does wealth bring honour to the owner,
if he be a coward; of such a one the wealth belongs to another, and not to himself. Nor
does beauty and strength of body, when dwelling in a base and cowardly man, appear
comely, but the reverse of comely, making the possessor more conspicuous, and
manifesting forth his cowardice. And all knowledge, when separated from justice and
virtue, is seen to be cunning and not wisdom; wherefore make this your first and last
and constant and all-absorbing aim, to exceed, if possible, not only us but all your
ancestors in virtue; and know that to excel you in virtue only brings us shame, but that
to be excelled by you is a source of happiness to us. And we shall most likely be
defeated, and you will most likely be victors in the contest, if you learn so to order your
lives as not to abuse or waste the reputation of your ancestors, knowing that to a man
who has any self-respect, nothing is more dishonourable than to be honoured, not for
his own sake, but on account of the reputation of his ancestors. The honour of parents is
a fair and noble treasure to their posterity, but to have the use of a treasure of wealth
and honour, and to leave none to your successors, because you have neither money nor
reputation of your own, is alike base and dishonourable. And if you follow our precepts
you will be received by us as friends, when the hour of destiny brings you hither; but if
you neglect our words and are disgraced in your lives, no one will welcome or receive
you. This is the message which is to be delivered to our children.
'Some of us have fathers and mothers still living, and we would urge them, if, as is likely,
we shall die, to bear the calamity as lightly as possible, and not to condole with one
another; for they have sorrows enough, and will not need any one to stir them up. While
we gently heal their wounds, let us remind them that the Gods have heard the chief part
of their prayers; for they prayed, not that their children might live for ever, but that they
might be brave and renowned. And this, which is the greatest good, they have attained.
A mortal man cannot expect to have everything in his own life turning out according to
his will; and they, if they bear their misfortunes bravely, will be truly deemed brave
fathers of the brave. But if they give way to their sorrows, either they will be suspected
of not being our parents, or we of not being such as our panegyrists declare. Let not
either of the two alternatives happen, but rather let them be our chief and true
panegyrists, who show in their lives that they are true men, and had men for their sons.
Of old the saying, "Nothing too much," appeared to be, and really was, well said. For he
whose happiness rests with himself, if possible, wholly, and if not, as far as is possible,—
who is not hanging in suspense on other men, or changing with the vicissitude of their
fortune,—has his life ordered for the best. He is the temperate and valiant and wise; and
when his riches come and go, when his children are given and taken away, he will
remember the proverb— "Neither rejoicing overmuch nor grieving overmuch," for he
relies upon himself. And such we would have our parents to be—that is our word and
wish, and as such we now offer ourselves, neither lamenting overmuch, nor fearing
overmuch, if we are to die at this time. And we entreat our fathers and mothers to retain
these feelings throughout their future life, and to be assured that they will not please us
by sorrowing and lamenting over us. But, if the dead have any knowledge of the living,
they will displease us most by making themselves miserable and by taking their
misfortunes too much to heart, and they will please us best if they bear their loss lightly
and temperately. For our life will have the noblest end which is vouchsafed to man, and
should be glorified rather than lamented. And if they will direct their minds to the care
and nurture of our wives and children, they will soonest forget their misfortunes, and
live in a better and nobler way, and be dearer to us.
'This is all that we have to say to our families: and to the state we would say—Take care
of our parents and of our sons: let her worthily cherish the old age of our parents, and
bring up our sons in the right way. But we know that she will of her own accord take
care of them, and does not need any exhortation of ours.'
This, O ye children and parents of the dead, is the message which they bid us deliver to
you, and which I do deliver with the utmost seriousness. And in their name I beseech
you, the children, to imitate your fathers, and you, parents, to be of good cheer about
yourselves; for we will nourish your age, and take care of you both publicly and privately
in any place in which one of us may meet one of you who are the parents of the dead.
And the care of you which the city shows, you know yourselves; for she has made
provision by law concerning the parents and children of those who die in war; the
highest authority is specially entrusted with the duty of watching over them above all
other citizens, and they will see that your fathers and mothers have no wrong done to
them. The city herself shares in the education of the children, desiring as far as it is
possible that their orphanhood may not be felt by them; while they are children she is a
parent to them, and when they have arrived at man's estate she sends them to their
several duties, in full armour clad; and bringing freshly to their minds the ways of their
fathers, she places in their hands the instruments of their fathers' virtues; for the sake of
the omen, she would have them from the first begin to rule over their own houses
arrayed in the strength and arms of their fathers. And as for the dead, she never ceases
honouring them, celebrating in common for all rites which become the property of each;
and in addition to this, holding gymnastic and equestrian contests, and musical festivals
of every sort. She is to the dead in the place of a son and heir, and to their sons in the
place of a father, and to their parents and elder kindred in the place of a guardian—ever
and always caring for them. Considering this, you ought to bear your calamity the more
gently; for thus you will be most endeared to the dead and to the living, and your
sorrows will heal and be healed. And now do you and all, having lamented the dead in
common according to the law, go your ways.
You have heard, Menexenus, the oration of Aspasia the Milesian.
MENEXENUS: Truly, Socrates, I marvel that Aspasia, who is only a woman, should be able
to compose such a speech; she must be a rare one.
SOCRATES: Well, if you are incredulous, you may come with me and hear her.
MENEXENUS: I have often met Aspasia, Socrates, and know what she is like.
SOCRATES: Well, and do you not admire her, and are you not grateful for her speech?
MENEXENUS: Yes, Socrates, I am very grateful to her or to him who told you, and still
more to you who have told me.
SOCRATES: Very good. But you must take care not to tell of me, and then at some future
time I will repeat to you many other excellent political speeches of hers.
MENEXENUS: Fear not, only let me hear them, and I will keep the secret.
SOCRATES: Then I will keep my promise.
LESSER HIPPIAS
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Eudicus, Socrates, Hippias.
EUDICUS: Why are you silent, Socrates, after the magnificent display which
Hippias has been making? Why do you not either refute his words, if he
seems to you to have been wrong in any point, or join with us in commending
him? There is the more reason why you should speak, because we are now
alone, and the audience is confined to those who may fairly claim to take
part in a philosophical discussion.
SOCRATES: I should greatly like, Eudicus, to ask Hippias the meaning of
what he was saying just now about Homer. I have heard your father,
Apemantus, declare that the Iliad of Homer is a finer poem than the Odyssey
in the same degree that Achilles was a better man than Odysseus; Odysseus,
he would say, is the central figure of the one poem and Achilles of the
other. Now, I should like to know, if Hippias has no objection to tell me,
what he thinks about these two heroes, and which of them he maintains to be
the better; he has already told us in the course of his exhibition many
things of various kinds about Homer and divers other : I am sure that
Hippias will be delighted to answer anything which
you would like to ask; tell me, Hippias, if Socrates asks you a question,
will you answer him?
HIPPIAS: Indeed, Eudicus, I should be strangely inconsistent if I refused
to answer Socrates, when at each Olympic festival, as I went up from my
house at Elis to the temple of Olympia, where all the Hellenes were
assembled, I continually professed my willingness to perform any of the
exhibitions which I had prepared, and to answer any questions which any one
had to ask.
SOCRATES: Truly, Hippias, you are to be congratulated, if at every Olympic
festival you have such an encouraging opinion of your own wisdom when you
go up to the temple. I doubt whether any muscular hero would be so
fearless and confident in offering his body to the combat at Olympia, as
you are in offering your mind.
HIPPIAS: And with good reason, Socrates; for since the day when I first
entered the lists at Olympia I have never found any man who was my superior
in anything. (Compare Gorgias.)
SOCRATES: What an ornament, Hippias, will the reputation of your wisdom be
to the city of Elis and to your parents! But to return: what say you of
Odysseus and Achilles? Which is the better of the two? and in what
particular does either surpass the other? For when you were exhibiting and
there was company in the room, though I could not follow you, I did not
like to ask what you meant, because a crowd of people were present, and I
was afraid that the question might interrupt your exhibition. But now that
there are not so many of us, and my friend Eudicus bids me ask, I wish you
would tell me what you were saying about these two heroes, so that I may
clearly understand; how did you distinguish them?
HIPPIAS: I shall have much pleasure, Socrates, in explaining to you more
clearly than I could in public my views about these and also about other
heroes. I say that Homer intended Achilles to be the bravest of the men
who went to Troy, Nestor the wisest, and Odysseus the wiliest.
SOCRATES: O rare Hippias, will you be so good as not to laugh, if I find a
difficulty in following you, and repeat my questions several times over?
Please to answer me kindly and gently.
HIPPIAS: I should be greatly ashamed of myself, Socrates, if I, who teach
others and take money of them, could not, when I was asked by you, answer
in a civil and agreeable manner.
SOCRATES: Thank you: the fact is, that I seemed to understand what you
meant when you said that the poet intended Achilles to be the bravest of
men, and also that he intended Nestor to be the wisest; but when you said
that he meant Odysseus to be the wiliest, I must confess that I could not
understand what you were saying. Will you tell me, and then I shall
perhaps understand you better; has not Homer made Achilles wily?
HIPPIAS: Certainly not, Socrates; he is the most straight-forward of
mankind, and when Homer introduces them talking with one another in the
passage called the Prayers, Achilles is supposed by the poet to say to
Odysseus:-
'Son of Laertes, sprung from heaven, crafty Odysseus, I will speak out
plainly the word which I intend to carry out in act, and which will, I
believe, be accomplished. For I hate him like the gates of death who
thinks one thing and says another. But I will speak that which shall be
accomplished.'
Now, in these verses he clearly indicates the character of the two men; he
shows Achilles to be true and simple, and Odysseus to be wily and false;
for he supposes Achilles to be addressing Odysseus in these lines.
SOCRATES: Now, Hippias, I think that I understand your meaning; when you
say that Odysseus is wily, you clearly mean that he is false?
HIPPIAS: Exactly so, Socrates; it is the character of Odysseus, as he is
represented by Homer in many passages both of the Iliad and Odyssey.
SOCRATES: And Homer must be presumed to have meant that the true man is
not the same as the false?
HIPPIAS: Of course, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And is that your own opinion, Hippias?
HIPPIAS: Certainly; how can I have any other?
SOCRATES: Well, then, as there is no possibility of asking Homer what he
meant in these verses of his, let us leave him; but as you show a
willingness to take up his cause, and your opinion agrees with what you
declare to be his, will you answer on behalf of yourself and him?
HIPPIAS: I will; ask shortly anything which you like.
SOCRATES: Do you say that the false, like the sick, have no power to do
things, or that they have the power to do things?
HIPPIAS: I should say that they have power to do many things, and in
particular to deceive mankind.
SOCRATES: Then, according to you, they are both powerful and wily, are
they not?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And are they wily, and do they deceive by reason of their
simplicity and folly, or by reason of their cunning and a certain sort of
prudence?
HIPPIAS: By reason of their cunning and prudence, most certainly.
SOCRATES: Then they are prudent, I suppose?
HIPPIAS: So they are-very.
SOCRATES: And if they are prudent, do they know or do they not know what
they do?
HIPPIAS: Of course, they know very well; and that is why they do mischief
to others.
SOCRATES: And having this knowledge, are they ignorant, or are they wise?
HIPPIAS: Wise, certainly; at least, in so far as they can deceive.
SOCRATES: Stop, and let us recall to mind what you are saying; are you not
saying that the false are powerful and prudent and knowing and wise in
those things about which they are false?
HIPPIAS: To be sure.
SOCRATES: And the true differ from the false-the true and the false are
the very opposite of each other?
HIPPIAS: That is my view.
SOCRATES: Then, according to your view, it would seem that the false are
to be ranked in the class of the powerful and wise?
HIPPIAS: Assuredly.
SOCRATES: And when you say that the false are powerful and wise in so far
as they are false, do you mean that they have or have not the power of
uttering their falsehoods if they like?
HIPPIAS: I mean to say that they have the power.
SOCRATES: In a word, then, the false are they who are wise and have the
power to speak falsely?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then a man who has not the power of speaking falsely and is
ignorant cannot be false?
HIPPIAS: You are right.
SOCRATES: And every man has power who does that which he wishes at the
time when he wishes. I am not speaking of any special case in which he is
prevented by disease or something of that sort, but I am speaking
generally, as I might say of you, that you are able to write my name when
you like. Would you not call a man able who could do that?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And tell me, Hippias, are you not a skilful calculator and
arithmetician?
HIPPIAS: Yes, Socrates, assuredly I am.
SOCRATES: And if some one were to ask you what is the sum of 3 multiplied
by 700, you would tell him the true answer in a moment, if you pleased?
HIPPIAS: certainly I should.
SOCRATES: Is not that because you are the wisest and ablest of men in
these matters?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And being as you are the wisest and ablest of men in these
matters of calculation, are you not also the best?
HIPPIAS: To be sure, Socrates, I am the best.
SOCRATES: And therefore you would be the most able to tell the truth about
these matters, would you not?
HIPPIAS: Yes, I should.
SOCRATES: And could you speak falsehoods about them equally well? I must
beg, Hippias, that you will answer me with the same frankness and
magnanimity which has hitherto characterized you. If a person were to ask
you what is the sum of 3 multiplied by 700, would not you be the best and
most consistent teller of a falsehood, having always the power of speaking
falsely as you have of speaking truly, about these same matters, if you
wanted to tell a falsehood, and not to answer truly? Would the ignorant
man be better able to tell a falsehood in matters of calculation than you
would be, if you chose? Might he not sometimes stumble upon the truth,
when he wanted to tell a lie, because he did not know, whereas you who are
the wise man, if you wanted to tell a lie would always and consistently
lie?
HIPPIAS: Yes, there you are quite right.
SOCRATES: Does the false man tell lies about other things, but not about
number, or when he is making a calculation?
HIPPIAS: To be sure; he would tell as many lies about number as about
other things.
SOCRATES: Then may we further assume, Hippias, that there are men who are
false about calculation and number?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Who can they be? For you have already admitted that he who is
false must have the ability to be false: you said, as you will remember,
that he who is unable to be false will not be false?
HIPPIAS: Yes, I remember; it was so said.
SOCRATES: And were you not yourself just now shown to be best able to
speak falsely about calculation?
HIPPIAS: Yes; that was another thing which was said.
SOCRATES: And are you not likewise said to speak truly about calculation?
HIPPIAS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then the same person is able to speak both falsely and truly
about calculation? And that person is he who is good at calculation-the
arithmetician?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Who, then, Hippias, is discovered to be false at calculation?
Is he not the good man? For the good man is the able man, and he is the
true man.
HIPPIAS: That is evident.
SOCRATES: Do you not see, then, that the same man is false and also true
about the same matters? And the true man is not a whit better than the
false; for indeed he is the same with him and not the very opposite, as you
were just now imagining.
HIPPIAS: Not in that instance, clearly.
SOCRATES: Shall we examine other instances?
HIPPIAS: Certainly, if you are disposed.
SOCRATES: Are you not also skilled in geometry?
HIPPIAS: I am.
SOCRATES: Well, and does not the same hold in that science also? Is not
the same person best able to speak falsely or to speak truly about
diagrams; and he is-the geometrician?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: He and no one else is good at it?
HIPPIAS: Yes, he and no one else.
SOCRATES: Then the good and wise geometer has this double power in the
highest degree; and if there be a man who is false about diagrams the good
man will be he, for he is able to be false; whereas the bad is unable, and
for this reason is not false, as has been admitted.
HIPPIAS: True.
SOCRATES: Once more-let us examine a third case; that of the astronomer,
in whose art, again, you, Hippias, profess to be a still greater proficient
than in the preceding-do you not?
HIPPIAS: Yes, I am.
SOCRATES: And does not the same hold of astronomy?
HIPPIAS: True, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And in astronomy, too, if any man be able to speak falsely he
will be the good astronomer, but he who is not able will not speak falsely,
for he has no knowledge.
HIPPIAS: Clearly not.
SOCRATES: Then in astronomy also, the same man will be true and false?
HIPPIAS: It would seem so.
SOCRATES: And now, Hippias, consider the question at large about all the
sciences, and see whether the same principle does not always hold. I know
that in most arts you are the wisest of men, as I have heard you boasting
in the agora at the tables of the money-changers, when you were setting
forth the great and enviable stores of your wisdom; and you said that upon
one occasion, when you went to the Olympic games, all that you had on your
person was made by yourself. You began with your ring, which was of your
own workmanship, and you said that you could engrave rings; and you had
another seal which was also of your own workmanship, and a strigil and an
oil flask, which you had made yourself; you said also that you had made the
shoes which you had on your feet, and the cloak and the short tunic; but
what appeared to us all most extraordinary and a proof of singular art, was
the girdle of your tunic, which, you said, was as fine as the most costly
Persian fabric, and of your own weaving; moreover, you told us that you had
brought with you poems, epic, tragic, and dithyrambic, as well as prose
writings of the most various kinds; and you said that your skill was also
pre-eminent in the arts which I was just now mentioning, and in the true
principles of rhythm and harmony and of orthography; and if I remember
rightly, there were a great many other accomplishments in which you
excelled. I have forgotten to mention your art of memory, which you regard
as your special glory, and I dare say that I have forgotten many other
things; but, as I was saying, only look to your own arts-and there are
plenty of them-and to those of others; and tell me, having regard to the
admissions which you and I have made, whether you discover any department
of art or any description of wisdom or cunning, whichever name you use, in
which the true and false are different and not the same: tell me, if you
can, of any. But you cannot.
HIPPIAS: Not without consideration, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Nor will consideration help you, Hippias, as I believe; but then
if I am right, remember what the consequence will be.
HIPPIAS: I do not know what you mean, Socrates.
SOCRATES: I suppose that you are not using your art of memory, doubtless
because you think that such an accomplishment is not needed on the present
occasion. I will therefore remind you of what you were saying: were you
not saying that Achilles was a true man, and Odysseus false and wily?
HIPPIAS: I was.
SOCRATES: And now do you perceive that the same person has turned out to
be false as well as true? If Odysseus is false he is also true, and if
Achilles is true he is also false, and so the two men are not opposed to
one another, but they are alike.
HIPPIAS: O Socrates, you are always weaving the meshes of an argument,
selecting the most difficult point, and fastening upon details instead of
grappling with the matter in hand as a whole. Come now, and I will
demonstrate to you, if you will allow me, by many satisfactory proofs, that
Homer has made Achilles a better man than Odysseus, and a truthful man too;
and that he has made the other crafty, and a teller of many untruths, and
inferior to Achilles. And then, if you please, you shall make a speech on
the other side, in order to prove that Odysseus is the better man; and this
may be compared to mine, and then the company will know which of us is the
better speaker.
SOCRATES: O Hippias, I do not doubt that you are wiser than I am. But I
have a way, when anybody else says anything, of giving close attention to
him, especially if the speaker appears to me to be a wise man. Having a
desire to understand, I question him, and I examine and analyse and put
together what he says, in order that I may understand; but if the speaker
appears to me to be a poor hand, I do not interrogate him, or trouble
myself about him, and you may know by this who they are whom I deem to be
wise men, for you will see that when I am talking with a wise man, I am
very attentive to what he says; and I ask questions of him, in order that I
may learn, and be improved by him. And I could not help remarking while
you were speaking, that when you recited the verses in which Achilles, as
you argued, attacks Odysseus as a deceiver, that you must be strangely
mistaken, because Odysseus, the man of wiles, is never found to tell a lie;
but Achilles is found to be wily on your own showing. At any rate he
speaks falsely; for first he utters these words, which you just now
repeated,-
'He is hateful to me even as the gates of death who thinks one thing and
says another:'-
And then he says, a little while afterwards, he will not be persuaded by
Odysseus and Agamemnon, neither will he remain at Troy; but, says he,-
'To-morrow, when I have offered sacrifices to Zeus and all the Gods, having
loaded my ships well, I will drag them down into the deep; and then you
shall see, if you have a mind, and if such things are a care to you, early
in the morning my ships sailing over the fishy Hellespont, and my men
eagerly plying the oar; and, if the illustrious shaker of the earth gives
me a good voyage, on the third day I shall reach the fertile Phthia.'
And before that, when he was reviling Agamemnon, he said,-
'And now to Phthia I will go, since to return home in the beaked ships is
far better, nor am I inclined to stay here in dishonour and amass wealth
and riches for you.'
But although on that occasion, in the presence of the whole army, he spoke
after this fashion, and on the other occasion to his companions, he appears
never to have made any preparation or attempt to draw down the ships, as if
he had the least intention of sailing home; so nobly regardless was he of
the truth. Now I, Hippias, originally asked you the question, because I
was in doubt as to which of the two heroes was intended by the poet to be
the best, and because I thought that both of them were the best, and that
it would be difficult to decide which was the better of them, not only in
respect of truth and falsehood, but of virtue generally, for even in this
matter of speaking the truth they are much upon a par.
HIPPIAS: There you are wrong, Socrates; for in so far as Achilles speaks
falsely, the falsehood is obviously unintentional. He is compelled against
his will to remain and rescue the army in their misfortune. But when
Odysseus speaks falsely he is voluntarily and intentionally false.
SOCRATES: You, sweet Hippias, like Odysseus, are a deceiver yourself.
HIPPIAS: Certainly not, Socrates; what makes you say so?
SOCRATES: Because you say that Achilles does not speak falsely from
design, when he is not only a deceiver, but besides being a braggart, in
Homer's description of him is so cunning, and so far superior to Odysseus
in lying and pretending, that he dares to contradict himself, and Odysseus
does not find him out; at any rate he does not appear to say anything to
him which would imply that he perceived his falsehood.
HIPPIAS: What do you mean, Socrates?
SOCRATES: Did you not observe that afterwards, when he is speaking to
Odysseus, he says that he will sail away with the early dawn; but to Ajax
he tells quite a different story?
HIPPIAS: Where is that?
SOCRATES: Where he says,-
'I will not think about bloody war until the son of warlike Priam,
illustrious Hector, comes to the tents and ships of the Myrmidons,
slaughtering the Argives, and burning the ships with fire; and about my
tent and dark ship, I suspect that Hector, although eager for the battle,
will nevertheless stay his hand.'
Now, do you really think, Hippias, that the son of Thetis, who had been the
pupil of the sage Cheiron, had such a bad memory, or would have carried the
art of lying to such an extent (when he had been assailing liars in the
most violent terms only the instant before) as to say to Odysseus that he
would sail away, and to Ajax that he would remain, and that he was not
rather practising upon the simplicity of Odysseus, whom he regarded as an
ancient, and thinking that he would get the better of him by his own
cunning and falsehood?
HIPPIAS: No, I do not agree with you, Socrates; but I believe that
Achilles is induced to say one thing to Ajax, and another to Odysseus in
the innocence of his heart, whereas Odysseus, whether he speaks falsely or
truly, speaks always with a purpose.
SOCRATES: Then Odysseus would appear after all to be better than Achilles?
HIPPIAS: Certainly not, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Why, were not the voluntary liars only just now shown to be
better than the involuntary?
HIPPIAS: And how, Socrates, can those who intentionally err, and
voluntarily and designedly commit iniquities, be better than those who err
and do wrong involuntarily? Surely there is a great excuse to be made for
a man telling a falsehood, or doing an injury or any sort of harm to
another in ignorance. And the laws are obviously far more severe on those
who lie or do evil, voluntarily, than on those who do evil involuntarily.
SOCRATES: You see, Hippias, as I have already told you, how pertinacious I
am in asking questions of wise men. And I think that this is the only good
point about me, for I am full of defects, and always getting wrong in some
way or other. My deficiency is proved to me by the fact that when I meet
one of you who are famous for wisdom, and to whose wisdom all the Hellenes
are witnesses, I am found out to know nothing. For speaking generally, I
hardly ever have the same opinion about anything which you have, and what
proof of ignorance can be greater than to differ from wise men? But I have
one singular good quality, which is my salvation; I am not ashamed to
learn, and I ask and enquire, and am very grateful to those who answer me,
and never fail to give them my grateful thanks; and when I learn a thing I
never deny my teacher, or pretend that the lesson is a discovery of my own;
but I praise his wisdom, and proclaim what I have learned from him. And
now I cannot agree in what you are saying, but I strongly disagree. Well,
I know that this is my own fault, and is a defect in my character, but I
will not pretend to be more than I am; and my opinion, Hippias, is the very
contrary of what you are saying. For I maintain that those who hurt or
injure mankind, and speak falsely and deceive, and err voluntarily, are
better far than those who do wrong involuntarily. Sometimes, however, I am
of the opposite opinion; for I am all abroad in my ideas about this matter,
a condition obviously occasioned by ignorance. And just now I happen to be
in a crisis of my disorder at which those who err voluntarily appear to me
better than those who err involuntarily. My present state of mind is due
to our previous argument, which inclines me to believe that in general
those who do wrong involuntarily are worse than those who do wrong
voluntarily, and therefore I hope that you will be good to me, and not
refuse to heal me; for you will do me a much greater benefit if you cure my
soul of ignorance, than you would if you were to cure my body of disease.
I must, however, tell you beforehand, that if you make a long oration to me
you will not cure me, for I shall not be able to follow you; but if you
will answer me, as you did just now, you will do me a great deal of good,
and I do not think that you will be any the worse yourself. And I have
some claim upon you also, O son of Apemantus, for you incited me to
converse with Hippias; and now, if Hippias will not answer me, you must
entreat him on my behalf.
EUDICUS: But I do not think, Socrates, that Hippias will require any
entreaty of mine; for he has already said that he will refuse to answer no
man.-Did you not say so, Hippias?
HIPPIAS: Yes, I did; but then, Eudicus, Socrates is always troublesome in
an argument, and appears to be dishonest. (Compare Gorgias; Republic.)
SOCRATES: Excellent Hippias, I do not do so intentionally (if I did, it
would show me to be a wise man and a master of wiles, as you would argue),
but unintentionally, and therefore you must pardon me; for, as you say, he
who is unintentionally dishonest should be pardoned.
EUDICUS: Yes, Hippias, do as he says; and for our sake, and also that you
may not belie your profession, answer whatever Socrates asks you.
HIPPIAS: I will answer, as you request me; and do you ask whatever you
like.
SOCRATES: I am very desirous, Hippias, of examining this question, as to
which are the better-those who err voluntarily or involuntarily? And if
you will answer me, I think that I can put you in the way of approaching
the subject: You would admit, would you not, that there are good runners?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And there are bad runners?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And he who runs well is a good runner, and he who runs ill is a
bad runner?
HIPPIAS: Very true.
SOCRATES: And he who runs slowly runs ill, and he who runs quickly runs
well?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then in a race, and in running, swiftness is a good, and
slowness is an evil quality?
HIPPIAS: To be sure.
SOCRATES: Which of the two then is a better runner? He who runs slowly
voluntarily, or he who runs slowly involuntarily?
HIPPIAS: He who runs slowly voluntarily.
SOCRATES: And is not running a species of doing?
HIPPIAS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And if a species of doing, a species of action?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then he who runs badly does a bad and dishonourable action in a
race?
HIPPIAS: Yes; a bad action, certainly.
SOCRATES: And he who runs slowly runs badly?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then the good runner does this bad and disgraceful action
voluntarily, and the bad involuntarily?
HIPPIAS: That is to be inferred.
SOCRATES: Then he who involuntarily does evil actions, is worse in a race
than he who does them voluntarily?
HIPPIAS: Yes, in a race.
SOCRATES: Well, but at a wrestling match-which is the better wrestler, he
who falls voluntarily or involuntarily?
HIPPIAS: He who falls voluntarily, doubtless.
SOCRATES: And is it worse or more dishonourable at a wrestling match, to
fall, or to throw another?
HIPPIAS: To fall.
SOCRATES: Then, at a wrestling match, he who voluntarily does base and
dishonourable actions is a better wrestler than he who does them
involuntarily?
HIPPIAS: That appears to be the truth.
SOCRATES: And what would you say of any other bodily exercise-is not he
who is better made able to do both that which is strong and that which is
weak-that which is fair and that which is foul?-so that when he does bad
actions with the body, he who is better made does them voluntarily, and he
who is worse made does them involuntarily.
HIPPIAS: Yes, that appears to be true about strength.
SOCRATES: And what do you say about grace, Hippias? Is not he who is
better made able to assume evil and disgraceful figures and postures
voluntarily, as he who is worse made assumes them involuntarily?
HIPPIAS: True.
SOCRATES: Then voluntary ungracefulness comes from excellence of the
bodily frame, and involuntary from the defect of the bodily frame?
HIPPIAS: True.
SOCRATES: And what would you say of an unmusical voice; would you prefer
the voice which is voluntarily or involuntarily out of tune?
HIPPIAS: That which is voluntarily out of tune.
SOCRATES: The involuntary is the worse of the two?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And would you choose to possess goods or evils?
HIPPIAS: Goods.
SOCRATES: And would you rather have feet which are voluntarily or
involuntarily lame?
HIPPIAS: Feet which are voluntarily lame.
SOCRATES: But is not lameness a defect or deformity?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And is not blinking a defect in the eyes?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And would you rather always have eyes with which you might
voluntarily blink and not see, or with which you might involuntarily blink?
HIPPIAS: I would rather have eyes which voluntarily blink.
SOCRATES: Then in your own case you deem that which voluntarily acts ill,
better than that which involuntarily acts ill?
HIPPIAS: Yes, certainly, in cases such as you mention.
SOCRATES: And does not the same hold of ears, nostrils, mouth, and of all
the senses-those which involuntarily act ill are not to be desired, as
being defective; and those which voluntarily act ill are to be desired as
being good?
HIPPIAS: I agree.
SOCRATES: And what would you say of instruments;-which are the better
sort of instruments to have to do with?-those with which a man acts ill
voluntarily or involuntarily? For example, had a man better have a rudder
with which he will steer ill, voluntarily or involuntarily?
HIPPIAS: He had better have a rudder with which he will steer ill
voluntarily.
SOCRATES: And does not the same hold of the bow and the lyre, the flute
and all other things?
HIPPIAS: Very true.
SOCRATES: And would you rather have a horse of such a temper that you may
ride him ill voluntarily or involuntarily?
HIPPIAS: I would rather have a horse which I could ride ill voluntarily.
SOCRATES: That would be the better horse?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then with a horse of better temper, vicious actions would be
produced voluntarily; and with a horse of bad temper involuntarily?
HIPPIAS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And that would be true of a dog, or of any other animal?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And is it better to possess the mind of an archer who
voluntarily or involuntarily misses the mark?
HIPPIAS: Of him who voluntarily misses.
SOCRATES: This would be the better mind for the purposes of archery?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then the mind which involuntarily errs is worse than the mind
which errs voluntarily?
HIPPIAS: Yes, certainly, in the use of the bow.
SOCRATES: And what would you say of the art of medicine;-has not the mind
which voluntarily works harm to the body, more of the healing art?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then in the art of medicine the voluntary is better than the
involuntary?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Well, and in lute-playing and in flute-playing, and in all arts
and sciences, is not that mind the better which voluntarily does what is
evil and dishonourable, and goes wrong, and is not the worse that which
does so involuntarily?
HIPPIAS: That is evident.
SOCRATES: And what would you say of the characters of slaves? Should we
not prefer to have those who voluntarily do wrong and make mistakes, and
are they not better in their mistakes than those who commit them
involuntarily?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And should we not desire to have our own minds in the best state
possible?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And will our minds be better if they do wrong and make mistakes
voluntarily or involuntarily?
HIPPIAS: O, Socrates, it would be a monstrous thing to say that those who
do wrong voluntarily are better than those who do wrong involuntarily!
SOCRATES: And yet that appears to be the only inference.
HIPPIAS: I do not think so.
SOCRATES: But I imagined, Hippias, that you did. Please to answer once
more: Is not justice a power, or knowledge, or both? Must not justice, at
all events, be one of these?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: But if justice is a power of the soul, then the soul which has
the greater power is also the more just; for that which has the greater
power, my good friend, has been proved by us to be the better.
HIPPIAS: Yes, that has been proved.
SOCRATES: And if justice is knowledge, then the wiser will be the juster
soul, and the more ignorant the more unjust?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: But if justice be power as well as knowledge-then will not the
soul which has both knowledge and power be the more just, and that which is
the more ignorant be the more unjust? Must it not be so?
HIPPIAS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: And is not the soul which has the greater power and wisdom also
better, and better able to do both good and evil in every action?
HIPPIAS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: The soul, then, which acts ill, acts voluntarily by power and
art-and these either one or both of them are elements of justice?
HIPPIAS: That seems to be true.
SOCRATES: And to do injustice is to do ill, and not to do injustice is to
do well?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And will not the better and abler soul when it does wrong, do
wrong voluntarily, and the bad soul involuntarily?
HIPPIAS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: And the good man is he who has the good soul, and the bad man is
he who has the bad?
HIPPIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then the good man will voluntarily do wrong, and the bad man
involuntarily, if the good man is he who has the good soul?
HIPPIAS: Which he certainly has.
SOCRATES: Then, Hippias, he who voluntarily does wrong and disgraceful
things, if there be such a man, will be the good man?
HIPPIAS: There I cannot agree with you.
SOCRATES: Nor can I agree with myself, Hippias; and yet that seems to be
the conclusion which, as far as we can see at present, must follow from our
argument. As I was saying before, I am all abroad, and being in perplexity
am always changing my opinion. Now, that I or any ordinary man should
wander in perplexity is not surprising; but if you wise men also wander,
and we cannot come to you and rest from our wandering, the matter begins to
be serious both to us and to you
ION
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Ion.
SOCRATES: Welcome, Ion. Are you from your native city of Ephesus?
ION: No, Socrates; but from Epidaurus, where I attended the festival of Asclepius.
SOCRATES: And do the Epidaurians have contests of rhapsodes at the festival?
ION: O yes; and of all sorts of musical performers.
SOCRATES: And were you one of the competitors—and did you succeed?
ION: I obtained the first prize of all, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Well done; and I hope that you will do the same for us at the Panathenaea.
ION: And I will, please heaven.
SOCRATES: I often envy the profession of a rhapsode, Ion; for you have always to wear
fine clothes, and to look as beautiful as you can is a part of your art. Then, again, you are
obliged to be continually in the company of many good poets; and especially of Homer,
who is the best and most divine of them; and to understand him, and not merely learn
his words by rote, is a thing greatly to be envied. And no man can be a rhapsode who
does not understand the meaning of the poet. For the rhapsode ought to interpret the
mind of the poet to his hearers, but how can he interpret him well unless he knows what
he means? All this is greatly to be envied.
ION: Very true, Socrates; interpretation has certainly been the most laborious part of my
art; and I believe myself able to speak about Homer better than any man; and that
neither Metrodorus of Lampsacus, nor Stesimbrotus of Thasos, nor Glaucon, nor any
one else who ever was, had as good ideas about Homer as I have, or as many.
SOCRATES: I am glad to hear you say so, Ion; I see that you will not refuse to acquaint
me with them.
ION: Certainly, Socrates; and you really ought to hear how exquisitely I render Homer. I
think that the Homeridae should give me a golden crown.
SOCRATES: I shall take an opportunity of hearing your embellishments of him at some
other time. But just now I should like to ask you a question: Does your art extend to
Hesiod and Archilochus, or to Homer only?
ION: To Homer only; he is in himself quite enough.
SOCRATES: Are there any things about which Homer and Hesiod agree?
ION: Yes; in my opinion there are a good many.
SOCRATES: And can you interpret better what Homer says, or what Hesiod says, about
these matters in which they agree?
ION: I can interpret them equally well, Socrates, where they agree.
SOCRATES: But what about matters in which they do not agree?—for example, about
divination, of which both Homer and Hesiod have something to say,—
ION: Very true:
SOCRATES: Would you or a good prophet be a better interpreter of what these two
poets say about divination, not only when they agree, but when they disagree?
ION: A prophet.
SOCRATES: And if you were a prophet, would you not be able to interpret them when
they disagree as well as when they agree?
ION: Clearly.
SOCRATES: But how did you come to have this skill about Homer only, and not about
Hesiod or the other poets? Does not Homer speak of the same themes which all other
poets handle? Is not war his great argument? and does he not speak of human society
and of intercourse of men, good and bad, skilled and unskilled, and of the gods
conversing with one another and with mankind, and about what happens in heaven and
in the world below, and the generations of gods and heroes? Are not these the themes
of which Homer sings?
ION: Very true, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And do not the other poets sing of the same?
ION: Yes, Socrates; but not in the same way as Homer.
SOCRATES: What, in a worse way?
ION: Yes, in a far worse.
SOCRATES: And Homer in a better way?
ION: He is incomparably better.
SOCRATES: And yet surely, my dear friend Ion, in a discussion about arithmetic, where
many people are speaking, and one speaks better than the rest, there is somebody who
can judge which of them is the good speaker?
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: And he who judges of the good will be the same as he who judges of the
bad speakers?
ION: The same.
SOCRATES: And he will be the arithmetician?
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: Well, and in discussions about the wholesomeness of food, when many
persons are speaking, and one speaks better than the rest, will he who recognizes the
better speaker be a different person from him who recognizes the worse, or the same?
ION: Clearly the same.
SOCRATES: And who is he, and what is his name?
ION: The physician.
SOCRATES: And speaking generally, in all discussions in which the subject is the same
and many men are speaking, will not he who knows the good know the bad speaker
also? For if he does not know the bad, neither will he know the good when the same
topic is being discussed.
ION: True.
SOCRATES: Is not the same person skilful in both?
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: And you say that Homer and the other poets, such as Hesiod and
Archilochus, speak of the same things, although not in the same way; but the one
speaks well and the other not so well?
ION: Yes; and I am right in saying so.
SOCRATES: And if you knew the good speaker, you would also know the inferior
speakers to be inferior?
ION: That is true.
SOCRATES: Then, my dear friend, can I be mistaken in saying that Ion is equally skilled in
Homer and in other poets, since he himself acknowledges that the same person will be a
good judge of all those who speak of the same things; and that almost all poets do
speak of the same things?
ION: Why then, Socrates, do I lose attention and go to sleep and have absolutely no
ideas of the least value, when any one speaks of any other poet; but when Homer is
mentioned, I wake up at once and am all attention and have plenty to say?
SOCRATES: The reason, my friend, is obvious. No one can fail to see that you speak of
Homer without any art or knowledge. If you were able to speak of him by rules of art,
you would have been able to speak of all other poets; for poetry is a whole.
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: And when any one acquires any other art as a whole, the same may be said
of them. Would you like me to explain my meaning, Ion?
ION: Yes, indeed, Socrates; I very much wish that you would: for I love to hear you wise
men talk.
SOCRATES: O that we were wise, Ion, and that you could truly call us so; but you
rhapsodes and actors, and the poets whose verses you sing, are wise; whereas I am a
common man, who only speak the truth. For consider what a very commonplace and
trivial thing is this which I have said—a thing which any man might say: that when a man
has acquired a knowledge of a whole art, the enquiry into good and bad is one and the
same. Let us consider this matter; is not the art of painting a whole?
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: And there are and have been many painters good and bad?
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: And did you ever know any one who was skilful in pointing out the
excellences and defects of Polygnotus the son of Aglaophon, but incapable of criticizing
other painters; and when the work of any other painter was produced, went to sleep and
was at a loss, and had no ideas; but when he had to give his opinion about Polygnotus,
or whoever the painter might be, and about him only, woke up and was attentive and
had plenty to say?
ION: No indeed, I have never known such a person.
SOCRATES: Or did you ever know of any one in sculpture, who was skilful in expounding
the merits of Daedalus the son of Metion, or of Epeius the son of Panopeus, or of
Theodorus the Samian, or of any individual sculptor; but when the works of sculptors in
general were produced, was at a loss and went to sleep and had nothing to say?
ION: No indeed; no more than the other.
SOCRATES: And if I am not mistaken, you never met with any one among flute-players
or harp-players or singers to the harp or rhapsodes who was able to discourse of
Olympus or Thamyras or Orpheus, or Phemius the rhapsode of Ithaca, but was at a loss
when he came to speak of Ion of Ephesus, and had no notion of his merits or defects?
ION: I cannot deny what you say, Socrates. Nevertheless I am conscious in my own self,
and the world agrees with me in thinking that I do speak better and have more to say
about Homer than any other man. But I do not speak equally well about others—tell me
the reason of this.
SOCRATES: I perceive, Ion; and I will proceed to explain to you what I imagine to be the
reason of this. The gift which you possess of speaking excellently about Homer is not an
art, but, as I was just saying, an inspiration; there is a divinity moving you, like that
contained in the stone which Euripides calls a magnet, but which is commonly known as
the stone of Heraclea. This stone not only attracts iron rings, but also imparts to them a
similar power of attracting other rings; and sometimes you may see a number of pieces
of iron and rings suspended from one another so as to form quite a long chain: and all
of them derive their power of suspension from the original stone. In like manner the
Muse first of all inspires men herself; and from these inspired persons a chain of other
persons is suspended, who take the inspiration. For all good poets, epic as well as lyric,
compose their beautiful poems not by art, but because they are inspired and possessed.
And as the Corybantian revellers when they dance are not in their right mind, so the lyric
poets are not in their right mind when they are composing their beautiful strains: but
when falling under the power of music and metre they are inspired and possessed; like
Bacchic maidens who draw milk and honey from the rivers when they are under the
influence of Dionysus but not when they are in their right mind. And the soul of the lyric
poet does the same, as they themselves say; for they tell us that they bring songs from
honeyed fountains, culling them out of the gardens and dells of the Muses; they, like the
bees, winging their way from flower to flower. And this is true. For the poet is a light and
winged and holy thing, and there is no invention in him until he has been inspired and is
out of his senses, and the mind is no longer in him: when he has not attained to this
state, he is powerless and is unable to utter his oracles. Many are the noble words in
which poets speak concerning the actions of men; but like yourself when speaking
about Homer, they do not speak of them by any rules of art: they are simply inspired to
utter that to which the Muse impels them, and that only; and when inspired, one of
them will make dithyrambs, another hymns of praise, another choral strains, another
epic or iambic verses—and he who is good at one is not good at any other kind of
verse: for not by art does the poet sing, but by power divine. Had he learned by rules of
art, he would have known how to speak not of one theme only, but of all; and therefore
God takes away the minds of poets, and uses them as his ministers, as he also uses
diviners and holy prophets, in order that we who hear them may know them to be
speaking not of themselves who utter these priceless words in a state of
unconsciousness, but that God himself is the speaker, and that through them he is
conversing with us. And Tynnichus the Chalcidian affords a striking instance of what I
am saying: he wrote nothing that any one would care to remember but the famous
paean which is in every one's mouth, one of the finest poems ever written, simply an
invention of the Muses, as he himself says. For in this way the God would seem to
indicate to us and not allow us to doubt that these beautiful poems are not human, or
the work of man, but divine and the work of God; and that the poets are only the
interpreters of the Gods by whom they are severally possessed. Was not this the lesson
which the God intended to teach when by the mouth of the worst of poets he sang the
best of songs? Am I not right, Ion?
ION: Yes, indeed, Socrates, I feel that you are; for your words touch my soul, and I am
persuaded that good poets by a divine inspiration interpret the things of the Gods to us.
SOCRATES: And you rhapsodists are the interpreters of the poets?
ION: There again you are right.
SOCRATES: Then you are the interpreters of interpreters?
ION: Precisely.
SOCRATES: I wish you would frankly tell me, Ion, what I am going to ask of you: When
you produce the greatest effect upon the audience in the recitation of some striking
passage, such as the apparition of Odysseus leaping forth on the floor, recognized by
the suitors and casting his arrows at his feet, or the description of Achilles rushing at
Hector, or the sorrows of Andromache, Hecuba, or Priam,—are you in your right mind?
Are you not carried out of yourself, and does not your soul in an ecstasy seem to be
among the persons or places of which you are speaking, whether they are in Ithaca or in
Troy or whatever may be the scene of the poem?
ION: That proof strikes home to me, Socrates. For I must frankly confess that at the tale
of pity my eyes are filled with tears, and when I speak of horrors, my hair stands on end
and my heart throbs.
SOCRATES: Well, Ion, and what are we to say of a man who at a sacrifice or festival,
when he is dressed in holiday attire, and has golden crowns upon his head, of which
nobody has robbed him, appears weeping or panic-stricken in the presence of more
than twenty thousand friendly faces, when there is no one despoiling or wronging
him;—is he in his right mind or is he not?
ION: No indeed, Socrates, I must say that, strictly speaking, he is not in his right mind.
SOCRATES: And are you aware that you produce similar effects on most of the
spectators?
ION: Only too well; for I look down upon them from the stage, and behold the various
emotions of pity, wonder, sternness, stamped upon their countenances when I am
speaking: and I am obliged to give my very best attention to them; for if I make them
cry I myself shall laugh, and if I make them laugh I myself shall cry when the time of
payment arrives.
SOCRATES: Do you know that the spectator is the last of the rings which, as I am saying,
receive the power of the original magnet from one another? The rhapsode like yourself
and the actor are intermediate links, and the poet himself is the first of them. Through
all these the God sways the souls of men in any direction which he pleases, and makes
one man hang down from another. Thus there is a vast chain of dancers and masters
and under- masters of choruses, who are suspended, as if from the stone, at the side of
the rings which hang down from the Muse. And every poet has some Muse from whom
he is suspended, and by whom he is said to be possessed, which is nearly the same
thing; for he is taken hold of. And from these first rings, which are the poets, depend
others, some deriving their inspiration from Orpheus, others from Musaeus; but the
greater number are possessed and held by Homer. Of whom, Ion, you are one, and are
possessed by Homer; and when any one repeats the words of another poet you go to
sleep, and know not what to say; but when any one recites a strain of Homer you wake
up in a moment, and your soul leaps within you, and you have plenty to say; for not by
art or knowledge about Homer do you say what you say, but by divine inspiration and
by possession; just as the Corybantian revellers too have a quick perception of that
strain only which is appropriated to the God by whom they are possessed, and have
plenty of dances and words for that, but take no heed of any other. And you, Ion, when
the name of Homer is mentioned have plenty to say, and have nothing to say of others.
You ask, 'Why is this?' The answer is that you praise Homer not by art but by divine
inspiration.
ION: That is good, Socrates; and yet I doubt whether you will ever have eloquence
enough to persuade me that I praise Homer only when I am mad and possessed; and if
you could hear me speak of him I am sure you would never think this to be the case.
SOCRATES: I should like very much to hear you, but not until you have answered a
question which I have to ask. On what part of Homer do you speak well?—not surely
about every part.
ION: There is no part, Socrates, about which I do not speak well: of that I can assure you.
SOCRATES: Surely not about things in Homer of which you have no knowledge?
ION: And what is there in Homer of which I have no knowledge?
SOCRATES: Why, does not Homer speak in many passages about arts? For example,
about driving; if I can only remember the lines I will repeat them.
ION: I remember, and will repeat them.
SOCRATES: Tell me then, what Nestor says to Antilochus, his son, where he bids him be
careful of the turn at the horserace in honour of Patroclus.
ION: 'Bend gently,' he says, 'in the polished chariot to the left of them, and urge the
horse on the right hand with whip and voice; and slacken the rein. And when you are at
the goal, let the left horse draw near, yet so that the nave of the well-wrought wheel
may not even seem to touch the extremity; and avoid catching the stone (Il.).'
SOCRATES: Enough. Now, Ion, will the charioteer or the physician be the better judge of
the propriety of these lines?
ION: The charioteer, clearly.
SOCRATES: And will the reason be that this is his art, or will there be any other reason?
ION: No, that will be the reason.
SOCRATES: And every art is appointed by God to have knowledge of a certain work; for
that which we know by the art of the pilot we do not know by the art of medicine?
ION: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: Nor do we know by the art of the carpenter that which we know by the art
of medicine?
ION: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: And this is true of all the arts;—that which we know with one art we do not
know with the other? But let me ask a prior question: You admit that there are
differences of arts?
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: You would argue, as I should, that when one art is of one kind of knowledge
and another of another, they are different?
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: Yes, surely; for if the subject of knowledge were the same, there would be
no meaning in saying that the arts were different,—if they both gave the same
knowledge. For example, I know that here are five fingers, and you know the same. And
if I were to ask whether I and you became acquainted with this fact by the help of the
same art of arithmetic, you would acknowledge that we did?
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: Tell me, then, what I was intending to ask you,—whether this holds
universally? Must the same art have the same subject of knowledge, and different arts
other subjects of knowledge?
ION: That is my opinion, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then he who has no knowledge of a particular art will have no right
judgment of the sayings and doings of that art?
ION: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then which will be a better judge of the lines which you were reciting from
Homer, you or the charioteer?
ION: The charioteer.
SOCRATES: Why, yes, because you are a rhapsode and not a charioteer.
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the art of the rhapsode is different from that of the charioteer?
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: And if a different knowledge, then a knowledge of different matters?
ION: True.
SOCRATES: You know the passage in which Hecamede, the concubine of Nestor, is
described as giving to the wounded Machaon a posset, as he says,
'Made with Pramnian wine; and she grated cheese of goat's milk with a grater of bronze,
and at his side placed an onion which gives a relish to drink (Il.).'
Now would you say that the art of the rhapsode or the art of medicine was better able
to judge of the propriety of these lines?
ION: The art of medicine.
SOCRATES: And when Homer says,
'And she descended into the deep like a leaden plummet, which, set in the horn of ox
that ranges in the fields, rushes along carrying death among the ravenous fishes (Il.),'—
will the art of the fisherman or of the rhapsode be better able to judge whether these
lines are rightly expressed or not?
ION: Clearly, Socrates, the art of the fisherman.
SOCRATES: Come now, suppose that you were to say to me: 'Since you, Socrates, are
able to assign different passages in Homer to their corresponding arts, I wish that you
would tell me what are the passages of which the excellence ought to be judged by the
prophet and prophetic art'; and you will see how readily and truly I shall answer you. For
there are many such passages, particularly in the Odyssee; as, for example, the passage
in which Theoclymenus the prophet of the house of Melampus says to the suitors:—
'Wretched men! what is happening to you? Your heads and your faces and your limbs
underneath are shrouded in night; and the voice of lamentation bursts forth, and your
cheeks are wet with tears. And the vestibule is full, and the court is full, of ghosts
descending into the darkness of Erebus, and the sun has perished out of heaven, and an
evil mist is spread abroad (Od.).'
And there are many such passages in the Iliad also; as for example in the description of
the battle near the rampart, where he says:—
'As they were eager to pass the ditch, there came to them an omen: a soaring eagle,
holding back the people on the left, bore a huge bloody dragon in his talons, still living
and panting; nor had he yet resigned the strife, for he bent back and smote the bird
which carried him on the breast by the neck, and he in pain let him fall from him to the
ground into the midst of the multitude. And the eagle, with a cry, was borne afar on the
wings of the wind (Il.).'
These are the sort of things which I should say that the prophet ought to consider and
determine.
ION: And you are quite right, Socrates, in saying so.
SOCRATES: Yes, Ion, and you are right also. And as I have selected from the Iliad and
Odyssee for you passages which describe the office of the prophet and the physician
and the fisherman, do you, who know Homer so much better than I do, Ion, select for
me passages which relate to the rhapsode and the rhapsode's art, and which the
rhapsode ought to examine and judge of better than other men.
ION: All passages, I should say, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Not all, Ion, surely. Have you already forgotten what you were saying? A
rhapsode ought to have a better memory.
ION: Why, what am I forgetting?
SOCRATES: Do you not remember that you declared the art of the rhapsode to be
different from the art of the charioteer?
ION: Yes, I remember.
SOCRATES: And you admitted that being different they would have different subjects of
knowledge?
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then upon your own showing the rhapsode, and the art of the rhapsode, will
not know everything?
ION: I should exclude certain things, Socrates.
SOCRATES: You mean to say that you would exclude pretty much the subjects of the
other arts. As he does not know all of them, which of them will he know?
ION: He will know what a man and what a woman ought to say, and what a freeman and
what a slave ought to say, and what a ruler and what a subject.
SOCRATES: Do you mean that a rhapsode will know better than the pilot what the ruler
of a sea-tossed vessel ought to say?
ION: No; the pilot will know best.
SOCRATES: Or will the rhapsode know better than the physician what the ruler of a sick
man ought to say?
ION: He will not.
SOCRATES: But he will know what a slave ought to say?
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: Suppose the slave to be a cowherd; the rhapsode will know better than the
cowherd what he ought to say in order to soothe the infuriated cows?
ION: No, he will not.
SOCRATES: But he will know what a spinning-woman ought to say about the working of
wool?
ION: No.
SOCRATES: At any rate he will know what a general ought to say when exhorting his
soldiers?
ION: Yes, that is the sort of thing which the rhapsode will be sure to know.
SOCRATES: Well, but is the art of the rhapsode the art of the general?
ION: I am sure that I should know what a general ought to say.
SOCRATES: Why, yes, Ion, because you may possibly have a knowledge of the art of the
general as well as of the rhapsode; and you may also have a knowledge of
horsemanship as well as of the lyre: and then you would know when horses were well or
ill managed. But suppose I were to ask you: By the help of which art, Ion, do you know
whether horses are well managed, by your skill as a horseman or as a performer on the
lyre—what would you answer?
ION: I should reply, by my skill as a horseman.
SOCRATES: And if you judged of performers on the lyre, you would admit that you
judged of them as a performer on the lyre, and not as a horseman?
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: And in judging of the general's art, do you judge of it as a general or a
rhapsode?
ION: To me there appears to be no difference between them.
SOCRATES: What do you mean? Do you mean to say that the art of the rhapsode and of
the general is the same?
ION: Yes, one and the same.
SOCRATES: Then he who is a good rhapsode is also a good general?
ION: Certainly, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And he who is a good general is also a good rhapsode?
ION: No; I do not say that.
SOCRATES: But you do say that he who is a good rhapsode is also a good general.
ION: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And you are the best of Hellenic rhapsodes?
ION: Far the best, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And are you the best general, Ion?
ION: To be sure, Socrates; and Homer was my master.
SOCRATES: But then, Ion, what in the name of goodness can be the reason why you,
who are the best of generals as well as the best of rhapsodes in all Hellas, go about as a
rhapsode when you might be a general? Do you think that the Hellenes want a
rhapsode with his golden crown, and do not want a general?
ION: Why, Socrates, the reason is, that my countrymen, the Ephesians, are the servants
and soldiers of Athens, and do not need a general; and you and Sparta are not likely to
have me, for you think that you have enough generals of your own.
SOCRATES: My good Ion, did you never hear of Apollodorus of Cyzicus?
ION: Who may he be?
SOCRATES: One who, though a foreigner, has often been chosen their general by the
Athenians: and there is Phanosthenes of Andros, and Heraclides of Clazomenae, whom
they have also appointed to the command of their armies and to other offices, although
aliens, after they had shown their merit. And will they not choose Ion the Ephesian to be
their general, and honour him, if he prove himself worthy? Were not the Ephesians
originally Athenians, and Ephesus is no mean city? But, indeed, Ion, if you are correct in
saying that by art and knowledge you are able to praise Homer, you do not deal fairly
with me, and after all your professions of knowing many glorious things about Homer,
and promises that you would exhibit them, you are only a deceiver, and so far from
exhibiting the art of which you are a master, will not, even after my repeated entreaties,
explain to me the nature of it. You have literally as many forms as Proteus; and now you
go all manner of ways, twisting and turning, and, like Proteus, become all manner of
people at once, and at last slip away from me in the disguise of a general, in order that
you may escape exhibiting your Homeric lore. And if you have art, then, as I was saying,
in falsifying your promise that you would exhibit Homer, you are not dealing fairly with
me. But if, as I believe, you have no art, but speak all these beautiful words about Homer
unconsciously under his inspiring influence, then I acquit you of dishonesty, and shall
only say that you are inspired. Which do you prefer to be thought, dishonest or
inspired?
ION: There is a great difference, Socrates, between the two alternatives; and inspiration
is by far the nobler.
SOCRATES: Then, Ion, I shall assume the nobler alternative; and attribute to you in your
praises of Homer inspiration, and not art.
THE END
GORGIAS
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Callicles, Socrates, Chaerephon, Gorgias, Polus.
SCENE: The house of Callicles.
CALLICLES: The wise man, as the proverb says, is late for a fray, but not for a feast.
SOCRATES: And are we late for a feast?
CALLICLES: Yes, and a delightful feast; for Gorgias has just been exhibiting to us many
fine things.
SOCRATES: It is not my fault, Callicles; our friend Chaerephon is to blame; for he would
keep us loitering in the Agora.
CHAEREPHON: Never mind, Socrates; the misfortune of which I have been the cause I
will also repair; for Gorgias is a friend of mine, and I will make him give the exhibition
again either now, or, if you prefer, at some other time.
CALLICLES: What is the matter, Chaerephon—does Socrates want to hear Gorgias?
CHAEREPHON: Yes, that was our intention in coming.
CALLICLES: Come into my house, then; for Gorgias is staying with me, and he shall
exhibit to you.
SOCRATES: Very good, Callicles; but will he answer our questions? for I want to hear
from him what is the nature of his art, and what it is which he professes and teaches; he
may, as you (Chaerephon) suggest, defer the exhibition to some other time.
CALLICLES: There is nothing like asking him, Socrates; and indeed to answer questions is
a part of his exhibition, for he was saying only just now, that any one in my house might
put any question to him, and that he would answer.
SOCRATES: How fortunate! will you ask him, Chaerephon—?
CHAEREPHON: What shall I ask him?
SOCRATES: Ask him who he is.
CHAEREPHON: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: I mean such a question as would elicit from him, if he had been a maker of
shoes, the answer that he is a cobbler. Do you understand?
CHAEREPHON: I understand, and will ask him: Tell me, Gorgias, is our friend Callicles
right in saying that you undertake to answer any questions which you are asked?
GORGIAS: Quite right, Chaerephon: I was saying as much only just now; and I may add,
that many years have elapsed since any one has asked me a new one.
CHAEREPHON: Then you must be very ready, Gorgias.
GORGIAS: Of that, Chaerephon, you can make trial.
POLUS: Yes, indeed, and if you like, Chaerephon, you may make trial of me too, for I
think that Gorgias, who has been talking a long time, is tired.
CHAEREPHON: And do you, Polus, think that you can answer better than Gorgias?
POLUS: What does that matter if I answer well enough for you?
CHAEREPHON: Not at all:—and you shall answer if you like.
POLUS: Ask:—
CHAEREPHON: My question is this: If Gorgias had the skill of his brother Herodicus,
what ought we to call him? Ought he not to have the name which is given to his
brother?
POLUS: Certainly.
CHAEREPHON: Then we should be right in calling him a physician?
POLUS: Yes.
CHAEREPHON: And if he had the skill of Aristophon the son of Aglaophon, or of his
brother Polygnotus, what ought we to call him?
POLUS: Clearly, a painter.
CHAEREPHON: But now what shall we call him—what is the art in which he is skilled.
POLUS: O Chaerephon, there are many arts among mankind which are experimental,
and have their origin in experience, for experience makes the days of men to proceed
according to art, and inexperience according to chance, and different persons in
different ways are proficient in different arts, and the best persons in the best arts. And
our friend Gorgias is one of the best, and the art in which he is a proficient is the
noblest.
SOCRATES: Polus has been taught how to make a capital speech, Gorgias; but he is not
fulfilling the promise which he made to Chaerephon.
GORGIAS: What do you mean, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I mean that he has not exactly answered the question which he was asked.
GORGIAS: Then why not ask him yourself?
SOCRATES: But I would much rather ask you, if you are disposed to answer: for I see,
from the few words which Polus has uttered, that he has attended more to the art which
is called rhetoric than to dialectic.
POLUS: What makes you say so, Socrates?
SOCRATES: Because, Polus, when Chaerephon asked you what was the art which Gorgias
knows, you praised it as if you were answering some one who found fault with it, but
you never said what the art was.
POLUS: Why, did I not say that it was the noblest of arts?
SOCRATES: Yes, indeed, but that was no answer to the question: nobody asked what
was the quality, but what was the nature, of the art, and by what name we were to
describe Gorgias. And I would still beg you briefly and clearly, as you answered
Chaerephon when he asked you at first, to say what this art is, and what we ought to call
Gorgias: Or rather, Gorgias, let me turn to you, and ask the same question,—what are we
to call you, and what is the art which you profess?
GORGIAS: Rhetoric, Socrates, is my art.
SOCRATES: Then I am to call you a rhetorician?
GORGIAS: Yes, Socrates, and a good one too, if you would call me that which, in
Homeric language, 'I boast myself to be.'
SOCRATES: I should wish to do so.
GORGIAS: Then pray do.
SOCRATES: And are we to say that you are able to make other men rhetoricians?
GORGIAS: Yes, that is exactly what I profess to make them, not only at Athens, but in all
places.
SOCRATES: And will you continue to ask and answer questions, Gorgias, as we are at
present doing, and reserve for another occasion the longer mode of speech which Polus
was attempting? Will you keep your promise, and answer shortly the questions which
are asked of you?
GORGIAS: Some answers, Socrates, are of necessity longer; but I will do my best to make
them as short as possible; for a part of my profession is that I can be as short as any
one.
SOCRATES: That is what is wanted, Gorgias; exhibit the shorter method now, and the
longer one at some other time.
GORGIAS: Well, I will; and you will certainly say, that you never heard a man use fewer
words.
SOCRATES: Very good then; as you profess to be a rhetorician, and a maker of
rhetoricians, let me ask you, with what is rhetoric concerned: I might ask with what is
weaving concerned, and you would reply (would you not?), with the making of
garments?
GORGIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And music is concerned with the composition of melodies?
GORGIAS: It is.
SOCRATES: By Here, Gorgias, I admire the surpassing brevity of your answers.
GORGIAS: Yes, Socrates, I do think myself good at that.
SOCRATES: I am glad to hear it; answer me in like manner about rhetoric: with what is
rhetoric concerned?
GORGIAS: With discourse.
SOCRATES: What sort of discourse, Gorgias?—such discourse as would teach the sick
under what treatment they might get well?
GORGIAS: No.
SOCRATES: Then rhetoric does not treat of all kinds of discourse?
GORGIAS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: And yet rhetoric makes men able to speak?
GORGIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And to understand that about which they speak?
GORGIAS: Of course.
SOCRATES: But does not the art of medicine, which we were just now mentioning, also
make men able to understand and speak about the sick?
GORGIAS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then medicine also treats of discourse?
GORGIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Of discourse concerning diseases?
GORGIAS: Just so.
SOCRATES: And does not gymnastic also treat of discourse concerning the good or evil
condition of the body?
GORGIAS: Very true.
SOCRATES: And the same, Gorgias, is true of the other arts:—all of them treat of
discourse concerning the subjects with which they severally have to do.
GORGIAS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: Then why, if you call rhetoric the art which treats of discourse, and all the
other arts treat of discourse, do you not call them arts of rhetoric?
GORGIAS: Because, Socrates, the knowledge of the other arts has only to do with some
sort of external action, as of the hand; but there is no such action of the hand in rhetoric
which works and takes effect only through the medium of discourse. And therefore I am
justified in saying that rhetoric treats of discourse.
SOCRATES: I am not sure whether I entirely understand you, but I dare say I shall soon
know better; please to answer me a question:—you would allow that there are arts?
GORGIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: As to the arts generally, they are for the most part concerned with doing,
and require little or no speaking; in painting, and statuary, and many other arts, the
work may proceed in silence; and of such arts I suppose you would say that they do not
come within the province of rhetoric.
GORGIAS: You perfectly conceive my meaning, Socrates.
SOCRATES: But there are other arts which work wholly through the medium of
language, and require either no action or very little, as, for example, the arts of
arithmetic, of calculation, of geometry, and of playing draughts; in some of these speech
is pretty nearly co-extensive with action, but in most of them the verbal element is
greater—they depend wholly on words for their efficacy and power: and I take your
meaning to be that rhetoric is an art of this latter sort?
GORGIAS: Exactly.
SOCRATES: And yet I do not believe that you really mean to call any of these arts
rhetoric; although the precise expression which you used was, that rhetoric is an art
which works and takes effect only through the medium of discourse; and an adversary
who wished to be captious might say, 'And so, Gorgias, you call arithmetic rhetoric.' But
I do not think that you really call arithmetic rhetoric any more than geometry would be
so called by you.
GORGIAS: You are quite right, Socrates, in your apprehension of my meaning.
SOCRATES: Well, then, let me now have the rest of my answer:—seeing that rhetoric is
one of those arts which works mainly by the use of words, and there are other arts
which also use words, tell me what is that quality in words with which rhetoric is
concerned:—Suppose that a person asks me about some of the arts which I was
mentioning just now; he might say, 'Socrates, what is arithmetic?' and I should reply to
him, as you replied to me, that arithmetic is one of those arts which take effect through
words. And then he would proceed to ask: 'Words about what?' and I should reply,
Words about odd and even numbers, and how many there are of each. And if he asked
again: 'What is the art of calculation?' I should say, That also is one of the arts which is
concerned wholly with words. And if he further said, 'Concerned with what?' I should
say, like the clerks in the assembly, 'as aforesaid' of arithmetic, but with a difference, the
difference being that the art of calculation considers not only the quantities of odd and
even numbers, but also their numerical relations to themselves and to one another. And
suppose, again, I were to say that astronomy is only words—he would ask, 'Words about
what, Socrates?' and I should answer, that astronomy tells us about the motions of the
stars and sun and moon, and their relative swiftness.
GORGIAS: You would be quite right, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And now let us have from you, Gorgias, the truth about rhetoric: which you
would admit (would you not?) to be one of those arts which act always and fulfil all their
ends through the medium of words?
GORGIAS: True.
SOCRATES: Words which do what? I should ask. To what class of things do the words
which rhetoric uses relate?
GORGIAS: To the greatest, Socrates, and the best of human things.
SOCRATES: That again, Gorgias is ambiguous; I am still in the dark: for which are the
greatest and best of human things? I dare say that you have heard men singing at feasts
the old drinking song, in which the singers enumerate the goods of life, first health,
beauty next, thirdly, as the writer of the song says, wealth honestly obtained.
GORGIAS: Yes, I know the song; but what is your drift?
SOCRATES: I mean to say, that the producers of those things which the author of the
song praises, that is to say, the physician, the trainer, the money-maker, will at once
come to you, and first the physician will say: 'O Socrates, Gorgias is deceiving you, for
my art is concerned with the greatest good of men and not his.' And when I ask, Who
are you? he will reply, 'I am a physician.' What do you mean? I shall say. Do you mean
that your art produces the greatest good? 'Certainly,' he will answer, 'for is not health
the greatest good? What greater good can men have, Socrates?' And after him the
trainer will come and say, 'I too, Socrates, shall be greatly surprised if Gorgias can show
more good of his art than I can show of mine.' To him again I shall say, Who are you,
honest friend, and what is your business? 'I am a trainer,' he will reply, 'and my business
is to make men beautiful and strong in body.' When I have done with the trainer, there
arrives the money-maker, and he, as I expect, will utterly despise them all. 'Consider
Socrates,' he will say, 'whether Gorgias or any one else can produce any greater good
than wealth.' Well, you and I say to him, and are you a creator of wealth? 'Yes,' he
replies. And who are you? 'A money-maker.' And do you consider wealth to be the
greatest good of man? 'Of course,' will be his reply. And we shall rejoin: Yes; but our
friend Gorgias contends that his art produces a greater good than yours. And then he
will be sure to go on and ask, 'What good? Let Gorgias answer.' Now I want you,
Gorgias, to imagine that this question is asked of you by them and by me; What is that
which, as you say, is the greatest good of man, and of which you are the creator?
Answer us.
GORGIAS: That good, Socrates, which is truly the greatest, being that which gives to
men freedom in their own persons, and to individuals the power of ruling over others in
their several states.
SOCRATES: And what would you consider this to be?
GORGIAS: What is there greater than the word which persuades the judges in the courts,
or the senators in the council, or the citizens in the assembly, or at any other political
meeting?—if you have the power of uttering this word, you will have the physician your
slave, and the trainer your slave, and the money-maker of whom you talk will be found
to gather treasures, not for himself, but for you who are able to speak and to persuade
the multitude.
SOCRATES: Now I think, Gorgias, that you have very accurately explained what you
conceive to be the art of rhetoric; and you mean to say, if I am not mistaken, that
rhetoric is the artificer of persuasion, having this and no other business, and that this is
her crown and end. Do you know any other effect of rhetoric over and above that of
producing persuasion?
GORGIAS: No: the definition seems to me very fair, Socrates; for persuasion is the chief
end of rhetoric.
SOCRATES: Then hear me, Gorgias, for I am quite sure that if there ever was a man who
entered on the discussion of a matter from a pure love of knowing the truth, I am such a
one, and I should say the same of you.
GORGIAS: What is coming, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I will tell you: I am very well aware that I do not know what, according to
you, is the exact nature, or what are the topics of that persuasion of which you speak,
and which is given by rhetoric; although I have a suspicion about both the one and the
other. And I am going to ask— what is this power of persuasion which is given by
rhetoric, and about what? But why, if I have a suspicion, do I ask instead of telling you?
Not for your sake, but in order that the argument may proceed in such a manner as is
most likely to set forth the truth. And I would have you observe, that I am right in asking
this further question: If I asked, 'What sort of a painter is Zeuxis?' and you said, 'The
painter of figures,' should I not be right in asking, 'What kind of figures, and where do
you find them?'
GORGIAS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And the reason for asking this second question would be, that there are
other painters besides, who paint many other figures?
GORGIAS: True.
SOCRATES: But if there had been no one but Zeuxis who painted them, then you would
have answered very well?
GORGIAS: Quite so.
SOCRATES: Now I want to know about rhetoric in the same way;—is rhetoric the only art
which brings persuasion, or do other arts have the same effect? I mean to say—Does he
who teaches anything persuade men of that which he teaches or not?
GORGIAS: He persuades, Socrates,—there can be no mistake about that.
SOCRATES: Again, if we take the arts of which we were just now speaking:— do not
arithmetic and the arithmeticians teach us the properties of number?
GORGIAS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And therefore persuade us of them?
GORGIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then arithmetic as well as rhetoric is an artificer of persuasion?
GORGIAS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: And if any one asks us what sort of persuasion, and about what, —we shall
answer, persuasion which teaches the quantity of odd and even; and we shall be able to
show that all the other arts of which we were just now speaking are artificers of
persuasion, and of what sort, and about what.
GORGIAS: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then rhetoric is not the only artificer of persuasion?
GORGIAS: True.
SOCRATES: Seeing, then, that not only rhetoric works by persuasion, but that other arts
do the same, as in the case of the painter, a question has arisen which is a very fair one:
Of what persuasion is rhetoric the artificer, and about what?—is not that a fair way of
putting the question?
GORGIAS: I think so.
SOCRATES: Then, if you approve the question, Gorgias, what is the answer?
GORGIAS: I answer, Socrates, that rhetoric is the art of persuasion in courts of law and
other assemblies, as I was just now saying, and about the just and unjust.
SOCRATES: And that, Gorgias, was what I was suspecting to be your notion; yet I would
not have you wonder if by-and-by I am found repeating a seemingly plain question; for I
ask not in order to confute you, but as I was saying that the argument may proceed
consecutively, and that we may not get the habit of anticipating and suspecting the
meaning of one another's words; I would have you develope your own views in your
own way, whatever may be your hypothesis.
GORGIAS: I think that you are quite right, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then let me raise another question; there is such a thing as 'having learned'?
GORGIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And there is also 'having believed'?
GORGIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And is the 'having learned' the same as 'having believed,' and are learning
and belief the same things?
GORGIAS: In my judgment, Socrates, they are not the same.
SOCRATES: And your judgment is right, as you may ascertain in this way:— If a person
were to say to you, 'Is there, Gorgias, a false belief as well as a true?'—you would reply,
if I am not mistaken, that there is.
GORGIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Well, but is there a false knowledge as well as a true?
GORGIAS: No.
SOCRATES: No, indeed; and this again proves that knowledge and belief differ.
GORGIAS: Very true.
SOCRATES: And yet those who have learned as well as those who have believed are
persuaded?
GORGIAS: Just so.
SOCRATES: Shall we then assume two sorts of persuasion,—one which is the source of
belief without knowledge, as the other is of knowledge?
GORGIAS: By all means.
SOCRATES: And which sort of persuasion does rhetoric create in courts of law and other
assemblies about the just and unjust, the sort of persuasion which gives belief without
knowledge, or that which gives knowledge?
GORGIAS: Clearly, Socrates, that which only gives belief.
SOCRATES: Then rhetoric, as would appear, is the artificer of a persuasion which creates
belief about the just and unjust, but gives no instruction about them?
GORGIAS: True.
SOCRATES: And the rhetorician does not instruct the courts of law or other assemblies
about things just and unjust, but he creates belief about them; for no one can be
supposed to instruct such a vast multitude about such high matters in a short time?
GORGIAS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: Come, then, and let us see what we really mean about rhetoric; for I do not
know what my own meaning is as yet. When the assembly meets to elect a physician or
a shipwright or any other craftsman, will the rhetorician be taken into counsel? Surely
not. For at every election he ought to be chosen who is most skilled; and, again, when
walls have to be built or harbours or docks to be constructed, not the rhetorician but the
master workman will advise; or when generals have to be chosen and an order of battle
arranged, or a position taken, then the military will advise and not the rhetoricians: what
do you say, Gorgias? Since you profess to be a rhetorician and a maker of rhetoricians, I
cannot do better than learn the nature of your art from you. And here let me assure you
that I have your interest in view as well as my own. For likely enough some one or other
of the young men present might desire to become your pupil, and in fact I see some,
and a good many too, who have this wish, but they would be too modest to question
you. And therefore when you are interrogated by me, I would have you imagine that you
are interrogated by them. 'What is the use of coming to you, Gorgias?' they will say—
'about what will you teach us to advise the state?—about the just and unjust only, or
about those other things also which Socrates has just mentioned?' How will you answer
them?
GORGIAS: I like your way of leading us on, Socrates, and I will endeavour to reveal to
you the whole nature of rhetoric. You must have heard, I think, that the docks and the
walls of the Athenians and the plan of the harbour were devised in accordance with the
counsels, partly of Themistocles, and partly of Pericles, and not at the suggestion of the
builders.
SOCRATES: Such is the tradition, Gorgias, about Themistocles; and I myself heard the
speech of Pericles when he advised us about the middle wall.
GORGIAS: And you will observe, Socrates, that when a decision has to be given in such
matters the rhetoricians are the advisers; they are the men who win their point.
SOCRATES: I had that in my admiring mind, Gorgias, when I asked what is the nature of
rhetoric, which always appears to me, when I look at the matter in this way, to be a
marvel of greatness.
GORGIAS: A marvel, indeed, Socrates, if you only knew how rhetoric comprehends and
holds under her sway all the inferior arts. Let me offer you a striking example of this. On
several occasions I have been with my brother Herodicus or some other physician to see
one of his patients, who would not allow the physician to give him medicine, or apply
the knife or hot iron to him; and I have persuaded him to do for me what he would not
do for the physician just by the use of rhetoric. And I say that if a rhetorician and a
physician were to go to any city, and had there to argue in the Ecclesia or any other
assembly as to which of them should be elected state-physician, the physician would
have no chance; but he who could speak would be chosen if he wished; and in a contest
with a man of any other profession the rhetorician more than any one would have the
power of getting himself chosen, for he can speak more persuasively to the multitude
than any of them, and on any subject. Such is the nature and power of the art of
rhetoric! And yet, Socrates, rhetoric should be used like any other competitive art, not
against everybody,—the rhetorician ought not to abuse his strength any more than a
pugilist or pancratiast or other master of fence;—because he has powers which are more
than a match either for friend or enemy, he ought not therefore to strike, stab, or slay
his friends. Suppose a man to have been trained in the palestra and to be a skilful
boxer,—he in the fulness of his strength goes and strikes his father or mother or one of
his familiars or friends; but that is no reason why the trainers or fencing-masters should
be held in detestation or banished from the city;—surely not. For they taught their art
for a good purpose, to be used against enemies and evil-doers, in self-defence not in
aggression, and others have perverted their instructions, and turned to a bad use their
own strength and skill. But not on this account are the teachers bad, neither is the art in
fault, or bad in itself; I should rather say that those who make a bad use of the art are to
blame. And the same argument holds good of rhetoric; for the rhetorician can speak
against all men and upon any subject,—in short, he can persuade the multitude better
than any other man of anything which he pleases, but he should not therefore seek to
defraud the physician or any other artist of his reputation merely because he has the
power; he ought to use rhetoric fairly, as he would also use his athletic powers. And if
after having become a rhetorician he makes a bad use of his strength and skill, his
instructor surely ought not on that account to be held in detestation or banished. For he
was intended by his teacher to make a good use of his instructions, but he abuses them.
And therefore he is the person who ought to be held in detestation, banished, and put
to death, and not his instructor.
SOCRATES: You, Gorgias, like myself, have had great experience of disputations, and you
must have observed, I think, that they do not always terminate in mutual edification, or
in the definition by either party of the subjects which they are discussing; but
disagreements are apt to arise —somebody says that another has not spoken truly or
clearly; and then they get into a passion and begin to quarrel, both parties conceiving
that their opponents are arguing from personal feeling only and jealousy of themselves,
not from any interest in the question at issue. And sometimes they will go on abusing
one another until the company at last are quite vexed at themselves for ever listening to
such fellows. Why do I say this? Why, because I cannot help feeling that you are now
saying what is not quite consistent or accordant with what you were saying at first about
rhetoric. And I am afraid to point this out to you, lest you should think that I have some
animosity against you, and that I speak, not for the sake of discovering the truth, but
from jealousy of you. Now if you are one of my sort, I should like to cross-examine you,
but if not I will let you alone. And what is my sort? you will ask. I am one of those who
are very willing to be refuted if I say anything which is not true, and very willing to refute
any one else who says what is not true, and quite as ready to be refuted as to refute; for
I hold that this is the greater gain of the two, just as the gain is greater of being cured of
a very great evil than of curing another. For I imagine that there is no evil which a man
can endure so great as an erroneous opinion about the matters of which we are
speaking; and if you claim to be one of my sort, let us have the discussion out, but if you
would rather have done, no matter;—let us make an end of it.
GORGIAS: I should say, Socrates, that I am quite the man whom you indicate; but,
perhaps, we ought to consider the audience, for, before you came, I had already given a
long exhibition, and if we proceed the argument may run on to a great length. And
therefore I think that we should consider whether we may not be detaining some part of
the company when they are wanting to do something else.
CHAEREPHON: You hear the audience cheering, Gorgias and Socrates, which shows their
desire to listen to you; and for myself, Heaven forbid that I should have any business on
hand which would take me away from a discussion so interesting and so ably
maintained.
CALLICLES: By the gods, Chaerephon, although I have been present at many discussions,
I doubt whether I was ever so much delighted before, and therefore if you go on
discoursing all day I shall be the better pleased.
SOCRATES: I may truly say, Callicles, that I am willing, if Gorgias is.
GORGIAS: After all this, Socrates, I should be disgraced if I refused, especially as I have
promised to answer all comers; in accordance with the wishes of the company, then, do
you begin. and ask of me any question which you like.
SOCRATES: Let me tell you then, Gorgias, what surprises me in your words; though I
dare say that you may be right, and I may have misunderstood your meaning. You say
that you can make any man, who will learn of you, a rhetorician?
GORGIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Do you mean that you will teach him to gain the ears of the multitude on
any subject, and this not by instruction but by persuasion?
GORGIAS: Quite so.
SOCRATES: You were saying, in fact, that the rhetorician will have greater powers of
persuasion than the physician even in a matter of health?
GORGIAS: Yes, with the multitude,—that is.
SOCRATES: You mean to say, with the ignorant; for with those who know he cannot be
supposed to have greater powers of persuasion.
GORGIAS: Very true.
SOCRATES: But if he is to have more power of persuasion than the physician, he will
have greater power than he who knows?
GORGIAS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Although he is not a physician:—is he?
GORGIAS: No.
SOCRATES: And he who is not a physician must, obviously, be ignorant of what the
physician knows.
GORGIAS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: Then, when the rhetorician is more persuasive than the physician, the
ignorant is more persuasive with the ignorant than he who has knowledge?—is not that
the inference?
GORGIAS: In the case supposed:—yes.
SOCRATES: And the same holds of the relation of rhetoric to all the other arts; the
rhetorician need not know the truth about things; he has only to discover some way of
persuading the ignorant that he has more knowledge than those who know?
GORGIAS: Yes, Socrates, and is not this a great comfort?—not to have learned the other
arts, but the art of rhetoric only, and yet to be in no way inferior to the professors of
them?
SOCRATES: Whether the rhetorician is or not inferior on this account is a question which
we will hereafter examine if the enquiry is likely to be of any service to us; but I would
rather begin by asking, whether he is or is not as ignorant of the just and unjust, base
and honourable, good and evil, as he is of medicine and the other arts; I mean to say,
does he really know anything of what is good and evil, base or honourable, just or
unjust in them; or has he only a way with the ignorant of persuading them that he not
knowing is to be esteemed to know more about these things than some one else who
knows? Or must the pupil know these things and come to you knowing them before he
can acquire the art of rhetoric? If he is ignorant, you who are the teacher of rhetoric will
not teach him—it is not your business; but you will make him seem to the multitude to
know them, when he does not know them; and seem to be a good man, when he is not.
Or will you be unable to teach him rhetoric at all, unless he knows the truth of these
things first? What is to be said about all this? By heavens, Gorgias, I wish that you would
reveal to me the power of rhetoric, as you were saying that you would.
GORGIAS: Well, Socrates, I suppose that if the pupil does chance not to know them, he
will have to learn of me these things as well.
SOCRATES: Say no more, for there you are right; and so he whom you make a
rhetorician must either know the nature of the just and unjust already, or he must be
taught by you.
GORGIAS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Well, and is not he who has learned carpentering a carpenter?
GORGIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And he who has learned music a musician?
GORGIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And he who has learned medicine is a physician, in like manner? He who has
learned anything whatever is that which his knowledge makes him.
GORGIAS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And in the same way, he who has learned what is just is just?
GORGIAS: To be sure.
SOCRATES: And he who is just may be supposed to do what is just?
GORGIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And must not the just man always desire to do what is just?
GORGIAS: That is clearly the inference.
SOCRATES: Surely, then, the just man will never consent to do injustice?
GORGIAS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: And according to the argument the rhetorician must be a just man?
GORGIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And will therefore never be willing to do injustice?
GORGIAS: Clearly not.
SOCRATES: But do you remember saying just now that the trainer is not to be accused
or banished if the pugilist makes a wrong use of his pugilistic art; and in like manner, if
the rhetorician makes a bad and unjust use of his rhetoric, that is not to be laid to the
charge of his teacher, who is not to be banished, but the wrong-doer himself who made
a bad use of his rhetoric—he is to be banished—was not that said?
GORGIAS: Yes, it was.
SOCRATES: But now we are affirming that the aforesaid rhetorician will never have done
injustice at all?
GORGIAS: True.
SOCRATES: And at the very outset, Gorgias, it was said that rhetoric treated of discourse,
not (like arithmetic) about odd and even, but about just and unjust? Was not this said?
GORGIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: I was thinking at the time, when I heard you saying so, that rhetoric, which is
always discoursing about justice, could not possibly be an unjust thing. But when you
added, shortly afterwards, that the rhetorician might make a bad use of rhetoric I noted
with surprise the inconsistency into which you had fallen; and I said, that if you thought,
as I did, that there was a gain in being refuted, there would be an advantage in going on
with the question, but if not, I would leave off. And in the course of our investigations,
as you will see yourself, the rhetorician has been acknowledged to be incapable of
making an unjust use of rhetoric, or of willingness to do injustice. By the dog, Gorgias,
there will be a great deal of discussion, before we get at the truth of all this.
POLUS: And do even you, Socrates, seriously believe what you are now saying about
rhetoric? What! because Gorgias was ashamed to deny that the rhetorician knew the just
and the honourable and the good, and admitted that to any one who came to him
ignorant of them he could teach them, and then out of this admission there arose a
contradiction—the thing which you dearly love, and to which not he, but you, brought
the argument by your captious questions—(do you seriously believe that there is any
truth in all this?) For will any one ever acknowledge that he does not know, or cannot
teach, the nature of justice? The truth is, that there is great want of manners in bringing
the argument to such a pass.
SOCRATES: Illustrious Polus, the reason why we provide ourselves with friends and
children is, that when we get old and stumble, a younger generation may be at hand to
set us on our legs again in our words and in our actions: and now, if I and Gorgias are
stumbling, here are you who should raise us up; and I for my part engage to retract any
error into which you may think that I have fallen-upon one condition:
POLUS: What condition?
SOCRATES: That you contract, Polus, the prolixity of speech in which you indulged at
first.
POLUS: What! do you mean that I may not use as many words as I please?
SOCRATES: Only to think, my friend, that having come on a visit to Athens, which is the
most free-spoken state in Hellas, you when you got there, and you alone, should be
deprived of the power of speech—that would be hard indeed. But then consider my
case:—shall not I be very hardly used, if, when you are making a long oration, and
refusing to answer what you are asked, I am compelled to stay and listen to you, and
may not go away? I say rather, if you have a real interest in the argument, or, to repeat
my former expression, have any desire to set it on its legs, take back any statement
which you please; and in your turn ask and answer, like myself and Gorgias—refute and
be refuted: for I suppose that you would claim to know what Gorgias knows—would you
not?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And you, like him, invite any one to ask you about anything which he
pleases, and you will know how to answer him?
POLUS: To be sure.
SOCRATES: And now, which will you do, ask or answer?
POLUS: I will ask; and do you answer me, Socrates, the same question which Gorgias, as
you suppose, is unable to answer: What is rhetoric?
SOCRATES: Do you mean what sort of an art?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: To say the truth, Polus, it is not an art at all, in my opinion.
POLUS: Then what, in your opinion, is rhetoric?
SOCRATES: A thing which, as I was lately reading in a book of yours, you say that you
have made an art.
POLUS: What thing?
SOCRATES: I should say a sort of experience.
POLUS: Does rhetoric seem to you to be an experience?
SOCRATES: That is my view, but you may be of another mind.
POLUS: An experience in what?
SOCRATES: An experience in producing a sort of delight and gratification.
POLUS: And if able to gratify others, must not rhetoric be a fine thing?
SOCRATES: What are you saying, Polus? Why do you ask me whether rhetoric is a fine
thing or not, when I have not as yet told you what rhetoric is?
POLUS: Did I not hear you say that rhetoric was a sort of experience?
SOCRATES: Will you, who are so desirous to gratify others, afford a slight gratification to
me?
POLUS: I will.
SOCRATES: Will you ask me, what sort of an art is cookery?
POLUS: What sort of an art is cookery?
SOCRATES: Not an art at all, Polus.
POLUS: What then?
SOCRATES: I should say an experience.
POLUS: In what? I wish that you would explain to me.
SOCRATES: An experience in producing a sort of delight and gratification, Polus.
POLUS: Then are cookery and rhetoric the same?
SOCRATES: No, they are only different parts of the same profession.
POLUS: Of what profession?
SOCRATES: I am afraid that the truth may seem discourteous; and I hesitate to answer,
lest Gorgias should imagine that I am making fun of his own profession. For whether or
no this is that art of rhetoric which Gorgias practises I really cannot tell:—from what he
was just now saying, nothing appeared of what he thought of his art, but the rhetoric
which I mean is a part of a not very creditable whole.
GORGIAS: A part of what, Socrates? Say what you mean, and never mind me.
SOCRATES: In my opinion then, Gorgias, the whole of which rhetoric is a part is not an
art at all, but the habit of a bold and ready wit, which knows how to manage mankind:
this habit I sum up under the word 'flattery'; and it appears to me to have many other
parts, one of which is cookery, which may seem to be an art, but, as I maintain, is only an
experience or routine and not an art:—another part is rhetoric, and the art of attiring
and sophistry are two others: thus there are four branches, and four different things
answering to them. And Polus may ask, if he likes, for he has not as yet been informed,
what part of flattery is rhetoric: he did not see that I had not yet answered him when he
proceeded to ask a further question: Whether I do not think rhetoric a fine thing? But I
shall not tell him whether rhetoric is a fine thing or not, until I have first answered, 'What
is rhetoric?' For that would not be right, Polus; but I shall be happy to answer, if you will
ask me, What part of flattery is rhetoric?
POLUS: I will ask and do you answer? What part of flattery is rhetoric?
SOCRATES: Will you understand my answer? Rhetoric, according to my view, is the ghost
or counterfeit of a part of politics.
POLUS: And noble or ignoble?
SOCRATES: Ignoble, I should say, if I am compelled to answer, for I call what is bad
ignoble: though I doubt whether you understand what I was saying before.
GORGIAS: Indeed, Socrates, I cannot say that I understand myself.
SOCRATES: I do not wonder, Gorgias; for I have not as yet explained myself, and our
friend Polus, colt by name and colt by nature, is apt to run away. (This is an
untranslatable play on the name 'Polus,' which means 'a colt.')
GORGIAS: Never mind him, but explain to me what you mean by saying that rhetoric is
the counterfeit of a part of politics.
SOCRATES: I will try, then, to explain my notion of rhetoric, and if I am mistaken, my
friend Polus shall refute me. We may assume the existence of bodies and of souls?
GORGIAS: Of course.
SOCRATES: You would further admit that there is a good condition of either of them?
GORGIAS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Which condition may not be really good, but good only in appearance? I
mean to say, that there are many persons who appear to be in good health, and whom
only a physician or trainer will discern at first sight not to be in good health.
GORGIAS: True.
SOCRATES: And this applies not only to the body, but also to the soul: in either there
may be that which gives the appearance of health and not the reality?
GORGIAS: Yes, certainly.
SOCRATES: And now I will endeavour to explain to you more clearly what I mean: The
soul and body being two, have two arts corresponding to them: there is the art of
politics attending on the soul; and another art attending on the body, of which I know
no single name, but which may be described as having two divisions, one of them
gymnastic, and the other medicine. And in politics there is a legislative part, which
answers to gymnastic, as justice does to medicine; and the two parts run into one
another, justice having to do with the same subject as legislation, and medicine with the
same subject as gymnastic, but with a difference. Now, seeing that there are these four
arts, two attending on the body and two on the soul for their highest good; flattery
knowing, or rather guessing their natures, has distributed herself into four shams or
simulations of them; she puts on the likeness of some one or other of them, and
pretends to be that which she simulates, and having no regard for men's highest
interests, is ever making pleasure the bait of the unwary, and deceiving them into the
belief that she is of the highest value to them. Cookery simulates the disguise of
medicine, and pretends to know what food is the best for the body; and if the physician
and the cook had to enter into a competition in which children were the judges, or men
who had no more sense than children, as to which of them best understands the
goodness or badness of food, the physician would be starved to death. A flattery I deem
this to be and of an ignoble sort, Polus, for to you I am now addressing myself, because
it aims at pleasure without any thought of the best. An art I do not call it, but only an
experience, because it is unable to explain or to give a reason of the nature of its own
applications. And I do not call any irrational thing an art; but if you dispute my words, I
am prepared to argue in defence of them.
Cookery, then, I maintain to be a flattery which takes the form of medicine; and tiring, in
like manner, is a flattery which takes the form of gymnastic, and is knavish, false,
ignoble, illiberal, working deceitfully by the help of lines, and colours, and enamels, and
garments, and making men affect a spurious beauty to the neglect of the true beauty
which is given by gymnastic.
I would rather not be tedious, and therefore I will only say, after the manner of the
geometricians (for I think that by this time you will be able to follow)
as tiring : gymnastic :: cookery : medicine;
or rather,
as tiring : gymnastic :: sophistry : legislation;
and
as cookery : medicine :: rhetoric : justice.
And this, I say, is the natural difference between the rhetorician and the sophist, but by
reason of their near connection, they are apt to be jumbled up together; neither do they
know what to make of themselves, nor do other men know what to make of them. For if
the body presided over itself, and were not under the guidance of the soul, and the soul
did not discern and discriminate between cookery and medicine, but the body was
made the judge of them, and the rule of judgment was the bodily delight which was
given by them, then the word of Anaxagoras, that word with which you, friend Polus, are
so well acquainted, would prevail far and wide: 'Chaos' would come again, and cookery,
health, and medicine would mingle in an indiscriminate mass. And now I have told you
my notion of rhetoric, which is, in relation to the soul, what cookery is to the body. I may
have been inconsistent in making a long speech, when I would not allow you to
discourse at length. But I think that I may be excused, because you did not understand
me, and could make no use of my answer when I spoke shortly, and therefore I had to
enter into an explanation. And if I show an equal inability to make use of yours, I hope
that you will speak at equal length; but if I am able to understand you, let me have the
benefit of your brevity, as is only fair: And now you may do what you please with my
answer.
POLUS: What do you mean? do you think that rhetoric is flattery?
SOCRATES: Nay, I said a part of flattery; if at your age, Polus, you cannot remember,
what will you do by-and-by, when you get older?
POLUS: And are the good rhetoricians meanly regarded in states, under the idea that
they are flatterers?
SOCRATES: Is that a question or the beginning of a speech?
POLUS: I am asking a question.
SOCRATES: Then my answer is, that they are not regarded at all.
POLUS: How not regarded? Have they not very great power in states?
SOCRATES: Not if you mean to say that power is a good to the possessor.
POLUS: And that is what I do mean to say.
SOCRATES: Then, if so, I think that they have the least power of all the citizens.
POLUS: What! are they not like tyrants? They kill and despoil and exile any one whom
they please.
SOCRATES: By the dog, Polus, I cannot make out at each deliverance of yours, whether
you are giving an opinion of your own, or asking a question of me.
POLUS: I am asking a question of you.
SOCRATES: Yes, my friend, but you ask two questions at once.
POLUS: How two questions?
SOCRATES: Why, did you not say just now that the rhetoricians are like tyrants, and that
they kill and despoil or exile any one whom they please?
POLUS: I did.
SOCRATES: Well then, I say to you that here are two questions in one, and I will answer
both of them. And I tell you, Polus, that rhetoricians and tyrants have the least possible
power in states, as I was just now saying; for they do literally nothing which they will, but
only what they think best.
POLUS: And is not that a great power?
SOCRATES: Polus has already said the reverse.
POLUS: Said the reverse! nay, that is what I assert.
SOCRATES: No, by the great—what do you call him?—not you, for you say that power is
a good to him who has the power.
POLUS: I do.
SOCRATES: And would you maintain that if a fool does what he thinks best, this is a
good, and would you call this great power?
POLUS: I should not.
SOCRATES: Then you must prove that the rhetorician is not a fool, and that rhetoric is an
art and not a flattery—and so you will have refuted me; but if you leave me unrefuted,
why, the rhetoricians who do what they think best in states, and the tyrants, will have
nothing upon which to congratulate themselves, if as you say, power be indeed a good,
admitting at the same time that what is done without sense is an evil.
POLUS: Yes; I admit that.
SOCRATES: How then can the rhetoricians or the tyrants have great power in states,
unless Polus can refute Socrates, and prove to him that they do as they will?
POLUS: This fellow—
SOCRATES: I say that they do not do as they will;—now refute me.
POLUS: Why, have you not already said that they do as they think best?
SOCRATES: And I say so still.
POLUS: Then surely they do as they will?
SOCRATES: I deny it.
POLUS: But they do what they think best?
SOCRATES: Aye.
POLUS: That, Socrates, is monstrous and absurd.
SOCRATES: Good words, good Polus, as I may say in your own peculiar style; but if you
have any questions to ask of me, either prove that I am in error or give the answer
yourself.
POLUS: Very well, I am willing to answer that I may know what you mean.
SOCRATES: Do men appear to you to will that which they do, or to will that further end
for the sake of which they do a thing? when they take medicine, for example, at the
bidding of a physician, do they will the drinking of the medicine which is painful, or the
health for the sake of which they drink?
POLUS: Clearly, the health.
SOCRATES: And when men go on a voyage or engage in business, they do not will that
which they are doing at the time; for who would desire to take the risk of a voyage or
the trouble of business?—But they will, to have the wealth for the sake of which they go
on a voyage.
POLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And is not this universally true? If a man does something for the sake of
something else, he wills not that which he does, but that for the sake of which he does
it.
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And are not all things either good or evil, or intermediate and indifferent?
POLUS: To be sure, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Wisdom and health and wealth and the like you would call goods, and their
opposites evils?
POLUS: I should.
SOCRATES: And the things which are neither good nor evil, and which partake
sometimes of the nature of good and at other times of evil, or of neither, are such as
sitting, walking, running, sailing; or, again, wood, stones, and the like:—these are the
things which you call neither good nor evil?
POLUS: Exactly so.
SOCRATES: Are these indifferent things done for the sake of the good, or the good for
the sake of the indifferent?
POLUS: Clearly, the indifferent for the sake of the good.
SOCRATES: When we walk we walk for the sake of the good, and under the idea that it is
better to walk, and when we stand we stand equally for the sake of the good?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And when we kill a man we kill him or exile him or despoil him of his goods,
because, as we think, it will conduce to our good?
POLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Men who do any of these things do them for the sake of the good?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And did we not admit that in doing something for the sake of something
else, we do not will those things which we do, but that other thing for the sake of which
we do them?
POLUS: Most true.
SOCRATES: Then we do not will simply to kill a man or to exile him or to despoil him of
his goods, but we will to do that which conduces to our good, and if the act is not
conducive to our good we do not will it; for we will, as you say, that which is our good,
but that which is neither good nor evil, or simply evil, we do not will. Why are you silent,
Polus? Am I not right?
POLUS: You are right.
SOCRATES: Hence we may infer, that if any one, whether he be a tyrant or a rhetorician,
kills another or exiles another or deprives him of his property, under the idea that the
act is for his own interests when really not for his own interests, he may be said to do
what seems best to him?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: But does he do what he wills if he does what is evil? Why do you not
answer?
POLUS: Well, I suppose not.
SOCRATES: Then if great power is a good as you allow, will such a one have great power
in a state?
POLUS: He will not.
SOCRATES: Then I was right in saying that a man may do what seems good to him in a
state, and not have great power, and not do what he wills?
POLUS: As though you, Socrates, would not like to have the power of doing what
seemed good to you in the state, rather than not; you would not be jealous when you
saw any one killing or despoiling or imprisoning whom he pleased, Oh, no!
SOCRATES: Justly or unjustly, do you mean?
POLUS: In either case is he not equally to be envied?
SOCRATES: Forbear, Polus!
POLUS: Why 'forbear'?
SOCRATES: Because you ought not to envy wretches who are not to be envied, but only
to pity them.
POLUS: And are those of whom I spoke wretches?
SOCRATES: Yes, certainly they are.
POLUS: And so you think that he who slays any one whom he pleases, and justly slays
him, is pitiable and wretched?
SOCRATES: No, I do not say that of him: but neither do I think that he is to be envied.
POLUS: Were you not saying just now that he is wretched?
SOCRATES: Yes, my friend, if he killed another unjustly, in which case he is also to be
pitied; and he is not to be envied if he killed him justly.
POLUS: At any rate you will allow that he who is unjustly put to death is wretched, and
to be pitied?
SOCRATES: Not so much, Polus, as he who kills him, and not so much as he who is justly
killed.
POLUS: How can that be, Socrates?
SOCRATES: That may very well be, inasmuch as doing injustice is the greatest of evils.
POLUS: But is it the greatest? Is not suffering injustice a greater evil?
SOCRATES: Certainly not.
POLUS: Then would you rather suffer than do injustice?
SOCRATES: I should not like either, but if I must choose between them, I would rather
suffer than do.
POLUS: Then you would not wish to be a tyrant?
SOCRATES: Not if you mean by tyranny what I mean.
POLUS: I mean, as I said before, the power of doing whatever seems good to you in a
state, killing, banishing, doing in all things as you like.
SOCRATES: Well then, illustrious friend, when I have said my say, do you reply to me.
Suppose that I go into a crowded Agora, and take a dagger under my arm. Polus, I say
to you, I have just acquired rare power, and become a tyrant; for if I think that any of
these men whom you see ought to be put to death, the man whom I have a mind to kill
is as good as dead; and if I am disposed to break his head or tear his garment, he will
have his head broken or his garment torn in an instant. Such is my great power in this
city. And if you do not believe me, and I show you the dagger, you would probably
reply: Socrates, in that sort of way any one may have great power—he may burn any
house which he pleases, and the docks and triremes of the Athenians, and all their other
vessels, whether public or private— but can you believe that this mere doing as you
think best is great power?
POLUS: Certainly not such doing as this.
SOCRATES: But can you tell me why you disapprove of such a power?
POLUS: I can.
SOCRATES: Why then?
POLUS: Why, because he who did as you say would be certain to be punished.
SOCRATES: And punishment is an evil?
POLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And you would admit once more, my good sir, that great power is a benefit
to a man if his actions turn out to his advantage, and that this is the meaning of great
power; and if not, then his power is an evil and is no power. But let us look at the matter
in another way:—do we not acknowledge that the things of which we were speaking,
the infliction of death, and exile, and the deprivation of property are sometimes a good
and sometimes not a good?
POLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: About that you and I may be supposed to agree?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Tell me, then, when do you say that they are good and when that they are
evil—what principle do you lay down?
POLUS: I would rather, Socrates, that you should answer as well as ask that question.
SOCRATES: Well, Polus, since you would rather have the answer from me, I say that they
are good when they are just, and evil when they are unjust.
POLUS: You are hard of refutation, Socrates, but might not a child refute that statement?
SOCRATES: Then I shall be very grateful to the child, and equally grateful to you if you
will refute me and deliver me from my foolishness. And I hope that refute me you will,
and not weary of doing good to a friend.
POLUS: Yes, Socrates, and I need not go far or appeal to antiquity; events which
happened only a few days ago are enough to refute you, and to prove that many men
who do wrong are happy.
SOCRATES: What events?
POLUS: You see, I presume, that Archelaus the son of Perdiccas is now the ruler of
Macedonia?
SOCRATES: At any rate I hear that he is.
POLUS: And do you think that he is happy or miserable?
SOCRATES: I cannot say, Polus, for I have never had any acquaintance with him.
POLUS: And cannot you tell at once, and without having an acquaintance with him,
whether a man is happy?
SOCRATES: Most certainly not.
POLUS: Then clearly, Socrates, you would say that you did not even know whether the
great king was a happy man?
SOCRATES: And I should speak the truth; for I do not know how he stands in the matter
of education and justice.
POLUS: What! and does all happiness consist in this?
SOCRATES: Yes, indeed, Polus, that is my doctrine; the men and women who are gentle
and good are also happy, as I maintain, and the unjust and evil are miserable.
POLUS: Then, according to your doctrine, the said Archelaus is miserable?
SOCRATES: Yes, my friend, if he is wicked.
POLUS: That he is wicked I cannot deny; for he had no title at all to the throne which he
now occupies, he being only the son of a woman who was the slave of Alcetas the
brother of Perdiccas; he himself therefore in strict right was the slave of Alcetas; and if
he had meant to do rightly he would have remained his slave, and then, according to
your doctrine, he would have been happy. But now he is unspeakably miserable, for he
has been guilty of the greatest crimes: in the first place he invited his uncle and master,
Alcetas, to come to him, under the pretence that he would restore to him the throne
which Perdiccas has usurped, and after entertaining him and his son Alexander, who was
his own cousin, and nearly of an age with him, and making them drunk, he threw them
into a waggon and carried them off by night, and slew them, and got both of them out
of the way; and when he had done all this wickedness he never discovered that he was
the most miserable of all men, and was very far from repenting: shall I tell you how he
showed his remorse? he had a younger brother, a child of seven years old, who was the
legitimate son of Perdiccas, and to him of right the kingdom belonged; Archelaus,
however, had no mind to bring him up as he ought and restore the kingdom to him;
that was not his notion of happiness; but not long afterwards he threw him into a well
and drowned him, and declared to his mother Cleopatra that he had fallen in while
running after a goose, and had been killed. And now as he is the greatest criminal of all
the Macedonians, he may be supposed to be the most miserable and not the happiest
of them, and I dare say that there are many Athenians, and you would be at the head of
them, who would rather be any other Macedonian than Archelaus!
SOCRATES: I praised you at first, Polus, for being a rhetorician rather than a reasoner.
And this, as I suppose, is the sort of argument with which you fancy that a child might
refute me, and by which I stand refuted when I say that the unjust man is not happy.
But, my good friend, where is the refutation? I cannot admit a word which you have
been saying.
POLUS: That is because you will not; for you surely must think as I do.
SOCRATES: Not so, my simple friend, but because you will refute me after the manner
which rhetoricians practise in courts of law. For there the one party think that they refute
the other when they bring forward a number of witnesses of good repute in proof of
their allegations, and their adversary has only a single one or none at all. But this kind of
proof is of no value where truth is the aim; a man may often be sworn down by a
multitude of false witnesses who have a great air of respectability. And in this argument
nearly every one, Athenian and stranger alike, would be on your side, if you should bring
witnesses in disproof of my statement;—you may, if you will, summon Nicias the son of
Niceratus, and let his brothers, who gave the row of tripods which stand in the precincts
of Dionysus, come with him; or you may summon Aristocrates, the son of Scellius, who is
the giver of that famous offering which is at Delphi; summon, if you will, the whole
house of Pericles, or any other great Athenian family whom you choose;— they will all
agree with you: I only am left alone and cannot agree, for you do not convince me;
although you produce many false witnesses against me, in the hope of depriving me of
my inheritance, which is the truth. But I consider that nothing worth speaking of will
have been effected by me unless I make you the one witness of my words; nor by you,
unless you make me the one witness of yours; no matter about the rest of the world. For
there are two ways of refutation, one which is yours and that of the world in general; but
mine is of another sort—let us compare them, and see in what they differ. For, indeed,
we are at issue about matters which to know is honourable and not to know disgraceful;
to know or not to know happiness and misery—that is the chief of them. And what
knowledge can be nobler? or what ignorance more disgraceful than this? And therefore
I will begin by asking you whether you do not think that a man who is unjust and doing
injustice can be happy, seeing that you think Archelaus unjust, and yet happy? May I
assume this to be your opinion?
POLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: But I say that this is an impossibility—here is one point about which we are
at issue:—very good. And do you mean to say also that if he meets with retribution and
punishment he will still be happy?
POLUS: Certainly not; in that case he will be most miserable.
SOCRATES: On the other hand, if the unjust be not punished, then, according to you, he
will be happy?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: But in my opinion, Polus, the unjust or doer of unjust actions is miserable in
any case,—more miserable, however, if he be not punished and does not meet with
retribution, and less miserable if he be punished and meets with retribution at the hands
of gods and men.
POLUS: You are maintaining a strange doctrine, Socrates.
SOCRATES: I shall try to make you agree with me, O my friend, for as a friend I regard
you. Then these are the points at issue between us—are they not? I was saying that to
do is worse than to suffer injustice?
POLUS: Exactly so.
SOCRATES: And you said the opposite?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: I said also that the wicked are miserable, and you refuted me?
POLUS: By Zeus, I did.
SOCRATES: In your own opinion, Polus.
POLUS: Yes, and I rather suspect that I was in the right.
SOCRATES: You further said that the wrong-doer is happy if he be unpunished?
POLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And I affirm that he is most miserable, and that those who are punished are
less miserable—are you going to refute this proposition also?
POLUS: A proposition which is harder of refutation than the other, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Say rather, Polus, impossible; for who can refute the truth?
POLUS: What do you mean? If a man is detected in an unjust attempt to make himself a
tyrant, and when detected is racked, mutilated, has his eyes burned out, and after
having had all sorts of great injuries inflicted on him, and having seen his wife and
children suffer the like, is at last impaled or tarred and burned alive, will he be happier
than if he escape and become a tyrant, and continue all through life doing what he likes
and holding the reins of government, the envy and admiration both of citizens and
strangers? Is that the paradox which, as you say, cannot be refuted?
SOCRATES: There again, noble Polus, you are raising hobgoblins instead of refuting me;
just now you were calling witnesses against me. But please to refresh my memory a
little; did you say—'in an unjust attempt to make himself a tyrant'?
POLUS: Yes, I did.
SOCRATES: Then I say that neither of them will be happier than the other, —neither he
who unjustly acquires a tyranny, nor he who suffers in the attempt, for of two miserables
one cannot be the happier, but that he who escapes and becomes a tyrant is the more
miserable of the two. Do you laugh, Polus? Well, this is a new kind of refutation,—when
any one says anything, instead of refuting him to laugh at him.
POLUS: But do you not think, Socrates, that you have been sufficiently refuted, when
you say that which no human being will allow? Ask the company.
SOCRATES: O Polus, I am not a public man, and only last year, when my tribe were
serving as Prytanes, and it became my duty as their president to take the votes, there
was a laugh at me, because I was unable to take them. And as I failed then, you must
not ask me to count the suffrages of the company now; but if, as I was saying, you have
no better argument than numbers, let me have a turn, and do you make trial of the sort
of proof which, as I think, is required; for I shall produce one witness only of the truth of
my words, and he is the person with whom I am arguing; his suffrage I know how to
take; but with the many I have nothing to do, and do not even address myself to them.
May I ask then whether you will answer in turn and have your words put to the proof?
For I certainly think that I and you and every man do really believe, that to do is a
greater evil than to suffer injustice: and not to be punished than to be punished.
POLUS: And I should say neither I, nor any man: would you yourself, for example, suffer
rather than do injustice?
SOCRATES: Yes, and you, too; I or any man would.
POLUS: Quite the reverse; neither you, nor I, nor any man.
SOCRATES: But will you answer?
POLUS: To be sure, I will; for I am curious to hear what you can have to say.
SOCRATES: Tell me, then, and you will know, and let us suppose that I am beginning at
the beginning: which of the two, Polus, in your opinion, is the worst?—to do injustice or
to suffer?
POLUS: I should say that suffering was worst.
SOCRATES: And which is the greater disgrace?—Answer.
POLUS: To do.
SOCRATES: And the greater disgrace is the greater evil?
POLUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: I understand you to say, if I am not mistaken, that the honourable is not the
same as the good, or the disgraceful as the evil?
POLUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: Let me ask a question of you: When you speak of beautiful things, such as
bodies, colours, figures, sounds, institutions, do you not call them beautiful in reference
to some standard: bodies, for example, are beautiful in proportion as they are useful, or
as the sight of them gives pleasure to the spectators; can you give any other account of
personal beauty?
POLUS: I cannot.
SOCRATES: And you would say of figures or colours generally that they were beautiful,
either by reason of the pleasure which they give, or of their use, or of both?
POLUS: Yes, I should.
SOCRATES: And you would call sounds and music beautiful for the same reason?
POLUS: I should.
SOCRATES: Laws and institutions also have no beauty in them except in so far as they
are useful or pleasant or both?
POLUS: I think not.
SOCRATES: And may not the same be said of the beauty of knowledge?
POLUS: To be sure, Socrates; and I very much approve of your measuring beauty by the
standard of pleasure and utility.
SOCRATES: And deformity or disgrace may be equally measured by the opposite
standard of pain and evil?
POLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then when of two beautiful things one exceeds in beauty, the measure of
the excess is to be taken in one or both of these; that is to say, in pleasure or utility or
both?
POLUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: And of two deformed things, that which exceeds in deformity or disgrace,
exceeds either in pain or evil—must it not be so?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: But then again, what was the observation which you just now made, about
doing and suffering wrong? Did you not say, that suffering wrong was more evil, and
doing wrong more disgraceful?
POLUS: I did.
SOCRATES: Then, if doing wrong is more disgraceful than suffering, the more disgraceful
must be more painful and must exceed in pain or in evil or both: does not that also
follow?
POLUS: Of course.
SOCRATES: First, then, let us consider whether the doing of injustice exceeds the
suffering in the consequent pain: Do the injurers suffer more than the injured?
POLUS: No, Socrates; certainly not.
SOCRATES: Then they do not exceed in pain?
POLUS: No.
SOCRATES: But if not in pain, then not in both?
POLUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: Then they can only exceed in the other?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: That is to say, in evil?
POLUS: True.
SOCRATES: Then doing injustice will have an excess of evil, and will therefore be a
greater evil than suffering injustice?
POLUS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: But have not you and the world already agreed that to do injustice is more
disgraceful than to suffer?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And that is now discovered to be more evil?
POLUS: True.
SOCRATES: And would you prefer a greater evil or a greater dishonour to a less one?
Answer, Polus, and fear not; for you will come to no harm if you nobly resign yourself
into the healing hand of the argument as to a physician without shrinking, and either
say 'Yes' or 'No' to me.
POLUS: I should say 'No.'
SOCRATES: Would any other man prefer a greater to a less evil?
POLUS: No, not according to this way of putting the case, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then I said truly, Polus, that neither you, nor I, nor any man, would rather do
than suffer injustice; for to do injustice is the greater evil of the two.
POLUS: That is the conclusion.
SOCRATES: You see, Polus, when you compare the two kinds of refutations, how unlike
they are. All men, with the exception of myself, are of your way of thinking; but your
single assent and witness are enough for me,—I have no need of any other, I take your
suffrage, and am regardless of the rest. Enough of this, and now let us proceed to the
next question; which is, Whether the greatest of evils to a guilty man is to suffer
punishment, as you supposed, or whether to escape punishment is not a greater evil, as
I supposed. Consider:—You would say that to suffer punishment is another name for
being justly corrected when you do wrong?
POLUS: I should.
SOCRATES: And would you not allow that all just things are honourable in so far as they
are just? Please to reflect, and tell me your opinion.
POLUS: Yes, Socrates, I think that they are.
SOCRATES: Consider again:—Where there is an agent, must there not also be a patient?
POLUS: I should say so.
SOCRATES: And will not the patient suffer that which the agent does, and will not the
suffering have the quality of the action? I mean, for example, that if a man strikes, there
must be something which is stricken?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And if the striker strikes violently or quickly, that which is struck will he
struck violently or quickly?
POLUS: True.
SOCRATES: And the suffering to him who is stricken is of the same nature as the act of
him who strikes?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And if a man burns, there is something which is burned?
POLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And if he burns in excess or so as to cause pain, the thing burned will be
burned in the same way?
POLUS: Truly.
SOCRATES: And if he cuts, the same argument holds—there will be something cut?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And if the cutting be great or deep or such as will cause pain, the cut will be
of the same nature?
POLUS: That is evident.
SOCRATES: Then you would agree generally to the universal proposition which I was just
now asserting: that the affection of the patient answers to the affection of the agent?
POLUS: I agree.
SOCRATES: Then, as this is admitted, let me ask whether being punished is suffering or
acting?
POLUS: Suffering, Socrates; there can be no doubt of that.
SOCRATES: And suffering implies an agent?
POLUS: Certainly, Socrates; and he is the punisher.
SOCRATES: And he who punishes rightly, punishes justly?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And therefore he acts justly?
POLUS: Justly.
SOCRATES: Then he who is punished and suffers retribution, suffers justly?
POLUS: That is evident.
SOCRATES: And that which is just has been admitted to be honourable?
POLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then the punisher does what is honourable, and the punished suffers what
is honourable?
POLUS: True.
SOCRATES: And if what is honourable, then what is good, for the honourable is either
pleasant or useful?
POLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then he who is punished suffers what is good?
POLUS: That is true.
SOCRATES: Then he is benefited?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Do I understand you to mean what I mean by the term 'benefited'? I mean,
that if he be justly punished his soul is improved.
POLUS: Surely.
SOCRATES: Then he who is punished is delivered from the evil of his soul?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And is he not then delivered from the greatest evil? Look at the matter in
this way:—In respect of a man's estate, do you see any greater evil than poverty?
POLUS: There is no greater evil.
SOCRATES: Again, in a man's bodily frame, you would say that the evil is weakness and
disease and deformity?
POLUS: I should.
SOCRATES: And do you not imagine that the soul likewise has some evil of her own?
POLUS: Of course.
SOCRATES: And this you would call injustice and ignorance and cowardice, and the like?
POLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: So then, in mind, body, and estate, which are three, you have pointed out
three corresponding evils—injustice, disease, poverty?
POLUS: True.
SOCRATES: And which of the evils is the most disgraceful?—Is not the most disgraceful
of them injustice, and in general the evil of the soul?
POLUS: By far the most.
SOCRATES: And if the most disgraceful, then also the worst?
POLUS: What do you mean, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I mean to say, that is most disgraceful has been already admitted to be most
painful or hurtful, or both.
POLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And now injustice and all evil in the soul has been admitted by us to be
most disgraceful?
POLUS: It has been admitted.
SOCRATES: And most disgraceful either because most painful and causing excessive
pain, or most hurtful, or both?
POLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And therefore to be unjust and intemperate, and cowardly and ignorant, is
more painful than to be poor and sick?
POLUS: Nay, Socrates; the painfulness does not appear to me to follow from your
premises.
SOCRATES: Then, if, as you would argue, not more painful, the evil of the soul is of all
evils the most disgraceful; and the excess of disgrace must be caused by some
preternatural greatness, or extraordinary hurtfulness of the evil.
POLUS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: And that which exceeds most in hurtfulness will be the greatest of evils?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then injustice and intemperance, and in general the depravity of the soul,
are the greatest of evils?
POLUS: That is evident.
SOCRATES: Now, what art is there which delivers us from poverty? Does not the art of
making money?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And what art frees us from disease? Does not the art of medicine?
POLUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: And what from vice and injustice? If you are not able to answer at once, ask
yourself whither we go with the sick, and to whom we take them.
POLUS: To the physicians, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And to whom do we go with the unjust and intemperate?
POLUS: To the judges, you mean.
SOCRATES: —Who are to punish them?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And do not those who rightly punish others, punish them in accordance with
a certain rule of justice?
POLUS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: Then the art of money-making frees a man from poverty; medicine from
disease; and justice from intemperance and injustice?
POLUS: That is evident.
SOCRATES: Which, then, is the best of these three?
POLUS: Will you enumerate them?
SOCRATES: Money-making, medicine, and justice.
POLUS: Justice, Socrates, far excels the two others.
SOCRATES: And justice, if the best, gives the greatest pleasure or advantage or both?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: But is the being healed a pleasant thing, and are those who are being healed
pleased?
POLUS: I think not.
SOCRATES: A useful thing, then?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Yes, because the patient is delivered from a great evil; and this is the
advantage of enduring the pain—that you get well?
POLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And would he be the happier man in his bodily condition, who is healed, or
who never was out of health?
POLUS: Clearly he who was never out of health.
SOCRATES: Yes; for happiness surely does not consist in being delivered from evils, but
in never having had them.
POLUS: True.
SOCRATES: And suppose the case of two persons who have some evil in their bodies,
and that one of them is healed and delivered from evil, and another is not healed, but
retains the evil—which of them is the most miserable?
POLUS: Clearly he who is not healed.
SOCRATES: And was not punishment said by us to be a deliverance from the greatest of
evils, which is vice?
POLUS: True.
SOCRATES: And justice punishes us, and makes us more just, and is the medicine of our
vice?
POLUS: True.
SOCRATES: He, then, has the first place in the scale of happiness who has never had vice
in his soul; for this has been shown to be the greatest of evils.
POLUS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: And he has the second place, who is delivered from vice?
POLUS: True.
SOCRATES: That is to say, he who receives admonition and rebuke and punishment?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then he lives worst, who, having been unjust, has no deliverance from
injustice?
POLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: That is, he lives worst who commits the greatest crimes, and who, being the
most unjust of men, succeeds in escaping rebuke or correction or punishment; and this,
as you say, has been accomplished by Archelaus and other tyrants and rhetoricians and
potentates? (Compare Republic.)
POLUS: True.
SOCRATES: May not their way of proceeding, my friend, be compared to the conduct of
a person who is afflicted with the worst of diseases and yet contrives not to pay the
penalty to the physician for his sins against his constitution, and will not be cured,
because, like a child, he is afraid of the pain of being burned or cut:—Is not that a
parallel case?
POLUS: Yes, truly.
SOCRATES: He would seem as if he did not know the nature of health and bodily vigour;
and if we are right, Polus, in our previous conclusions, they are in a like case who strive
to evade justice, which they see to be painful, but are blind to the advantage which
ensues from it, not knowing how far more miserable a companion a diseased soul is
than a diseased body; a soul, I say, which is corrupt and unrighteous and unholy. And
hence they do all that they can to avoid punishment and to avoid being released from
the greatest of evils; they provide themselves with money and friends, and cultivate to
the utmost their powers of persuasion. But if we, Polus, are right, do you see what
follows, or shall we draw out the consequences in form?
POLUS: If you please.
SOCRATES: Is it not a fact that injustice, and the doing of injustice, is the greatest of
evils?
POLUS: That is quite clear.
SOCRATES: And further, that to suffer punishment is the way to be released from this
evil?
POLUS: True.
SOCRATES: And not to suffer, is to perpetuate the evil?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: To do wrong, then, is second only in the scale of evils; but to do wrong and
not to be punished, is first and greatest of all?
POLUS: That is true.
SOCRATES: Well, and was not this the point in dispute, my friend? You deemed
Archelaus happy, because he was a very great criminal and unpunished: I, on the other
hand, maintained that he or any other who like him has done wrong and has not been
punished, is, and ought to be, the most miserable of all men; and that the doer of
injustice is more miserable than the sufferer; and he who escapes punishment, more
miserable than he who suffers.—Was not that what I said?
POLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And it has been proved to be true?
POLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Well, Polus, but if this is true, where is the great use of rhetoric? If we admit
what has been just now said, every man ought in every way to guard himself against
doing wrong, for he will thereby suffer great evil?
POLUS: True.
SOCRATES: And if he, or any one about whom he cares, does wrong, he ought of his
own accord to go where he will be immediately punished; he will run to the judge, as he
would to the physician, in order that the disease of injustice may not be rendered
chronic and become the incurable cancer of the soul; must we not allow this
consequence, Polus, if our former admissions are to stand:—is any other inference
consistent with them?
POLUS: To that, Socrates, there can be but one answer.
SOCRATES: Then rhetoric is of no use to us, Polus, in helping a man to excuse his own
injustice, that of his parents or friends, or children or country; but may be of use to any
one who holds that instead of excusing he ought to accuse—himself above all, and in
the next degree his family or any of his friends who may be doing wrong; he should
bring to light the iniquity and not conceal it, that so the wrong-doer may suffer and be
made whole; and he should even force himself and others not to shrink, but with closed
eyes like brave men to let the physician operate with knife or searing iron, not regarding
the pain, in the hope of attaining the good and the honourable; let him who has done
things worthy of stripes, allow himself to be scourged, if of bonds, to be bound, if of a
fine, to be fined, if of exile, to be exiled, if of death, to die, himself being the first to
accuse himself and his own relations, and using rhetoric to this end, that his and their
unjust actions may be made manifest, and that they themselves may be delivered from
injustice, which is the greatest evil. Then, Polus, rhetoric would indeed be useful. Do you
say 'Yes' or 'No' to that?
POLUS: To me, Socrates, what you are saying appears very strange, though probably in
agreement with your premises.
SOCRATES: Is not this the conclusion, if the premises are not disproven?
POLUS: Yes; it certainly is.
SOCRATES: And from the opposite point of view, if indeed it be our duty to harm
another, whether an enemy or not—I except the case of self-defence— then I have to be
upon my guard—but if my enemy injures a third person, then in every sort of way, by
word as well as deed, I should try to prevent his being punished, or appearing before
the judge; and if he appears, I should contrive that he should escape, and not suffer
punishment: if he has stolen a sum of money, let him keep what he has stolen and
spend it on him and his, regardless of religion and justice; and if he have done things
worthy of death, let him not die, but rather be immortal in his wickedness; or, if this is
not possible, let him at any rate be allowed to live as long as he can. For such purposes,
Polus, rhetoric may be useful, but is of small if of any use to him who is not intending to
commit injustice; at least, there was no such use discovered by us in the previous
discussion.
CALLICLES: Tell me, Chaerephon, is Socrates in earnest, or is he joking?
CHAEREPHON: I should say, Callicles, that he is in most profound earnest; but you may
well ask him.
CALLICLES: By the gods, and I will. Tell me, Socrates, are you in earnest, or only in jest?
For if you are in earnest, and what you say is true, is not the whole of human life turned
upside down; and are we not doing, as would appear, in everything the opposite of
what we ought to be doing?
SOCRATES: O Callicles, if there were not some community of feelings among mankind,
however varying in different persons—I mean to say, if every man's feelings were
peculiar to himself and were not shared by the rest of his species—I do not see how we
could ever communicate our impressions to one another. I make this remark because I
perceive that you and I have a common feeling. For we are lovers both, and both of us
have two loves apiece:—I am the lover of Alcibiades, the son of Cleinias, and of
philosophy; and you of the Athenian Demus, and of Demus the son of Pyrilampes. Now,
I observe that you, with all your cleverness, do not venture to contradict your favourite
in any word or opinion of his; but as he changes you change, backwards and forwards.
When the Athenian Demus denies anything that you are saying in the assembly, you go
over to his opinion; and you do the same with Demus, the fair young son of Pyrilampes.
For you have not the power to resist the words and ideas of your loves; and if a person
were to express surprise at the strangeness of what you say from time to time when
under their influence, you would probably reply to him, if you were honest, that you
cannot help saying what your loves say unless they are prevented; and that you can only
be silent when they are. Now you must understand that my words are an echo too, and
therefore you need not wonder at me; but if you want to silence me, silence philosophy,
who is my love, for she is always telling me what I am now telling you, my friend; neither
is she capricious like my other love, for the son of Cleinias says one thing to-day and
another thing to-morrow, but philosophy is always true. She is the teacher at whose
words you are now wondering, and you have heard her yourself. Her you must refute,
and either show, as I was saying, that to do injustice and to escape punishment is not
the worst of all evils; or, if you leave her word unrefuted, by the dog the god of Egypt, I
declare, O Callicles, that Callicles will never be at one with himself, but that his whole life
will be a discord. And yet, my friend, I would rather that my lyre should be
inharmonious, and that there should be no music in the chorus which I provided; aye, or
that the whole world should be at odds with me, and oppose me, rather than that I
myself should be at odds with myself, and contradict myself.
CALLICLES: O Socrates, you are a regular declaimer, and seem to be running riot in the
argument. And now you are declaiming in this way because Polus has fallen into the
same error himself of which he accused Gorgias:—for he said that when Gorgias was
asked by you, whether, if some one came to him who wanted to learn rhetoric, and did
not know justice, he would teach him justice, Gorgias in his modesty replied that he
would, because he thought that mankind in general would be displeased if he answered
'No'; and then in consequence of this admission, Gorgias was compelled to contradict
himself, that being just the sort of thing in which you delight. Whereupon Polus laughed
at you deservedly, as I think; but now he has himself fallen into the same trap. I cannot
say very much for his wit when he conceded to you that to do is more dishonourable
than to suffer injustice, for this was the admission which led to his being entangled by
you; and because he was too modest to say what he thought, he had his mouth
stopped. For the truth is, Socrates, that you, who pretend to be engaged in the pursuit
of truth, are appealing now to the popular and vulgar notions of right, which are not
natural, but only conventional. Convention and nature are generally at variance with one
another: and hence, if a person is too modest to say what he thinks, he is compelled to
contradict himself; and you, in your ingenuity perceiving the advantage to be thereby
gained, slyly ask of him who is arguing conventionally a question which is to be
determined by the rule of nature; and if he is talking of the rule of nature, you slip away
to custom: as, for instance, you did in this very discussion about doing and suffering
injustice. When Polus was speaking of the conventionally dishonourable, you assailed
him from the point of view of nature; for by the rule of nature, to suffer injustice is the
greater disgrace because the greater evil; but conventionally, to do evil is the more
disgraceful. For the suffering of injustice is not the part of a man, but of a slave, who
indeed had better die than live; since when he is wronged and trampled upon, he is
unable to help himself, or any other about whom he cares. The reason, as I conceive, is
that the makers of laws are the majority who are weak; and they make laws and
distribute praises and censures with a view to themselves and to their own interests; and
they terrify the stronger sort of men, and those who are able to get the better of them,
in order that they may not get the better of them; and they say, that dishonesty is
shameful and unjust; meaning, by the word injustice, the desire of a man to have more
than his neighbours; for knowing their own inferiority, I suspect that they are too glad of
equality. And therefore the endeavour to have more than the many, is conventionally
said to be shameful and unjust, and is called injustice (compare Republic), whereas
nature herself intimates that it is just for the better to have more than the worse, the
more powerful than the weaker; and in many ways she shows, among men as well as
among animals, and indeed among whole cities and races, that justice consists in the
superior ruling over and having more than the inferior. For on what principle of justice
did Xerxes invade Hellas, or his father the Scythians? (not to speak of numberless other
examples). Nay, but these are the men who act according to nature; yes, by Heaven, and
according to the law of nature: not, perhaps, according to that artificial law, which we
invent and impose upon our fellows, of whom we take the best and strongest from their
youth upwards, and tame them like young lions,— charming them with the sound of the
voice, and saying to them, that with equality they must be content, and that the equal is
the honourable and the just. But if there were a man who had sufficient force, he would
shake off and break through, and escape from all this; he would trample under foot all
our formulas and spells and charms, and all our laws which are against nature: the slave
would rise in rebellion and be lord over us, and the light of natural justice would shine
forth. And this I take to be the sentiment of Pindar, when he says in his poem, that
'Law is the king of all, of mortals as well as of immortals;'
this, as he says,
'Makes might to be right, doing violence with highest hand; as I infer from the deeds of
Heracles, for without buying them—' (Fragm. Incert. 151 (Bockh).)
—I do not remember the exact words, but the meaning is, that without buying them,
and without their being given to him, he carried off the oxen of Geryon, according to
the law of natural right, and that the oxen and other possessions of the weaker and
inferior properly belong to the stronger and superior. And this is true, as you may
ascertain, if you will leave philosophy and go on to higher things: for philosophy,
Socrates, if pursued in moderation and at the proper age, is an elegant accomplishment,
but too much philosophy is the ruin of human life. Even if a man has good parts, still, if
he carries philosophy into later life, he is necessarily ignorant of all those things which a
gentleman and a person of honour ought to know; he is inexperienced in the laws of the
State, and in the language which ought to be used in the dealings of man with man,
whether private or public, and utterly ignorant of the pleasures and desires of mankind
and of human character in general. And people of this sort, when they betake
themselves to politics or business, are as ridiculous as I imagine the politicians to be,
when they make their appearance in the arena of philosophy. For, as Euripides says,
'Every man shines in that and pursues that, and devotes the greatest portion of the day
to that in which he most excels,' (Antiope, fragm. 20 (Dindorf).)
but anything in which he is inferior, he avoids and depreciates, and praises the opposite
from partiality to himself, and because he thinks that he will thus praise himself. The true
principle is to unite them. Philosophy, as a part of education, is an excellent thing, and
there is no disgrace to a man while he is young in pursuing such a study; but when he is
more advanced in years, the thing becomes ridiculous, and I feel towards philosophers
as I do towards those who lisp and imitate children. For I love to see a little child, who is
not of an age to speak plainly, lisping at his play; there is an appearance of grace and
freedom in his utterance, which is natural to his childish years. But when I hear some
small creature carefully articulating its words, I am offended; the sound is disagreeable,
and has to my ears the twang of slavery. So when I hear a man lisping, or see him
playing like a child, his behaviour appears to me ridiculous and unmanly and worthy of
stripes. And I have the same feeling about students of philosophy; when I see a youth
thus engaged,—the study appears to me to be in character, and becoming a man of
liberal education, and him who neglects philosophy I regard as an inferior man, who will
never aspire to anything great or noble. But if I see him continuing the study in later life,
and not leaving off, I should like to beat him, Socrates; for, as I was saying, such a one,
even though he have good natural parts, becomes effeminate. He flies from the busy
centre and the market-place, in which, as the poet says, men become distinguished; he
creeps into a corner for the rest of his life, and talks in a whisper with three or four
admiring youths, but never speaks out like a freeman in a satisfactory manner. Now I,
Socrates, am very well inclined towards you, and my feeling may be compared with that
of Zethus towards Amphion, in the play of Euripides, whom I was mentioning just now:
for I am disposed to say to you much what Zethus said to his brother, that you, Socrates,
are careless about the things of which you ought to be careful; and that you
'Who have a soul so noble, are remarkable for a puerile exterior; Neither in a court of
justice could you state a case, or give any reason or proof, Or offer valiant counsel on
another's behalf.'
And you must not be offended, my dear Socrates, for I am speaking out of good-will
towards you, if I ask whether you are not ashamed of being thus defenceless; which I
affirm to be the condition not of you only but of all those who will carry the study of
philosophy too far. For suppose that some one were to take you, or any one of your
sort, off to prison, declaring that you had done wrong when you had done no wrong,
you must allow that you would not know what to do:—there you would stand giddy and
gaping, and not having a word to say; and when you went up before the Court, even if
the accuser were a poor creature and not good for much, you would die if he were
disposed to claim the penalty of death. And yet, Socrates, what is the value of
'An art which converts a man of sense into a fool,'
who is helpless, and has no power to save either himself or others, when he is in the
greatest danger and is going to be despoiled by his enemies of all his goods, and has to
live, simply deprived of his rights of citizenship?—he being a man who, if I may use the
expression, may be boxed on the ears with impunity. Then, my good friend, take my
advice, and refute no more:
'Learn the philosophy of business, and acquire the reputation of wisdom. But leave to
others these niceties,'
whether they are to be described as follies or absurdities:
'For they will only Give you poverty for the inmate of your dwelling.'
Cease, then, emulating these paltry splitters of words, and emulate only the man of
substance and honour, who is well to do.
SOCRATES: If my soul, Callicles, were made of gold, should I not rejoice to discover one
of those stones with which they test gold, and the very best possible one to which I
might bring my soul; and if the stone and I agreed in approving of her training, then I
should know that I was in a satisfactory state, and that no other test was needed by me.
CALLICLES: What is your meaning, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I will tell you; I think that I have found in you the desired touchstone.
CALLICLES: Why?
SOCRATES: Because I am sure that if you agree with me in any of the opinions which my
soul forms, I have at last found the truth indeed. For I consider that if a man is to make a
complete trial of the good or evil of the soul, he ought to have three qualities—
knowledge, good-will, outspokenness, which are all possessed by you. Many whom I
meet are unable to make trial of me, because they are not wise as you are; others are
wise, but they will not tell me the truth, because they have not the same interest in me
which you have; and these two strangers, Gorgias and Polus, are undoubtedly wise men
and my very good friends, but they are not outspoken enough, and they are too
modest. Why, their modesty is so great that they are driven to contradict themselves,
first one and then the other of them, in the face of a large company, on matters of the
highest moment. But you have all the qualities in which these others are deficient,
having received an excellent education; to this many Athenians can testify. And you are
my friend. Shall I tell you why I think so? I know that you, Callicles, and Tisander of
Aphidnae, and Andron the son of Androtion, and Nausicydes of the deme of Cholarges,
studied together: there were four of you, and I once heard you advising with one
another as to the extent to which the pursuit of philosophy should be carried, and, as I
know, you came to the conclusion that the study should not be pushed too much into
detail. You were cautioning one another not to be overwise; you were afraid that too
much wisdom might unconsciously to yourselves be the ruin of you. And now when I
hear you giving the same advice to me which you then gave to your most intimate
friends, I have a sufficient evidence of your real good- will to me. And of the frankness
of your nature and freedom from modesty I am assured by yourself, and the assurance
is confirmed by your last speech. Well then, the inference in the present case clearly is,
that if you agree with me in an argument about any point, that point will have been
sufficiently tested by us, and will not require to be submitted to any further test. For you
could not have agreed with me, either from lack of knowledge or from superfluity of
modesty, nor yet from a desire to deceive me, for you are my friend, as you tell me
yourself. And therefore when you and I are agreed, the result will be the attainment of
perfect truth. Now there is no nobler enquiry, Callicles, than that which you censure me
for making,—What ought the character of a man to be, and what his pursuits, and how
far is he to go, both in maturer years and in youth? For be assured that if I err in my own
conduct I do not err intentionally, but from ignorance. Do not then desist from advising
me, now that you have begun, until I have learned clearly what this is which I am to
practise, and how I may acquire it. And if you find me assenting to your words, and
hereafter not doing that to which I assented, call me 'dolt,' and deem me unworthy of
receiving further instruction. Once more, then, tell me what you and Pindar mean by
natural justice: Do you not mean that the superior should take the property of the
inferior by force; that the better should rule the worse, the noble have more than the
mean? Am I not right in my recollection?
CALLICLES: Yes; that is what I was saying, and so I still aver.
SOCRATES: And do you mean by the better the same as the superior? for I could not
make out what you were saying at the time—whether you meant by the superior the
stronger, and that the weaker must obey the stronger, as you seemed to imply when
you said that great cities attack small ones in accordance with natural right, because
they are superior and stronger, as though the superior and stronger and better were the
same; or whether the better may be also the inferior and weaker, and the superior the
worse, or whether better is to be defined in the same way as superior:—this is the point
which I want to have cleared up. Are the superior and better and stronger the same or
different?
CALLICLES: I say unequivocally that they are the same.
SOCRATES: Then the many are by nature superior to the one, against whom, as you
were saying, they make the laws?
CALLICLES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then the laws of the many are the laws of the superior?
CALLICLES: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then they are the laws of the better; for the superior class are far better, as
you were saying?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And since they are superior, the laws which are made by them are by nature
good?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And are not the many of opinion, as you were lately saying, that justice is
equality, and that to do is more disgraceful than to suffer injustice?—is that so or not?
Answer, Callicles, and let no modesty be found to come in the way; do the many think,
or do they not think thus?—I must beg of you to answer, in order that if you agree with
me I may fortify myself by the assent of so competent an authority.
CALLICLES: Yes; the opinion of the many is what you say.
SOCRATES: Then not only custom but nature also affirms that to do is more disgraceful
than to suffer injustice, and that justice is equality; so that you seem to have been wrong
in your former assertion, when accusing me you said that nature and custom are
opposed, and that I, knowing this, was dishonestly playing between them, appealing to
custom when the argument is about nature, and to nature when the argument is about
custom?
CALLICLES: This man will never cease talking nonsense. At your age, Socrates, are you
not ashamed to be catching at words and chuckling over some verbal slip? do you not
see—have I not told you already, that by superior I mean better: do you imagine me to
say, that if a rabble of slaves and nondescripts, who are of no use except perhaps for
their physical strength, get together, their ipsissima verba are laws?
SOCRATES: Ho! my philosopher, is that your line?
CALLICLES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: I was thinking, Callicles, that something of the kind must have been in your
mind, and that is why I repeated the question,—What is the superior? I wanted to know
clearly what you meant; for you surely do not think that two men are better than one, or
that your slaves are better than you because they are stronger? Then please to begin
again, and tell me who the better are, if they are not the stronger; and I will ask you,
great Sir, to be a little milder in your instructions, or I shall have to run away from you.
CALLICLES: You are ironical.
SOCRATES: No, by the hero Zethus, Callicles, by whose aid you were just now saying
many ironical things against me, I am not:—tell me, then, whom you mean, by the
better?
CALLICLES: I mean the more excellent.
SOCRATES: Do you not see that you are yourself using words which have no meaning
and that you are explaining nothing?—will you tell me whether you mean by the better
and superior the wiser, or if not, whom?
CALLICLES: Most assuredly, I do mean the wiser.
SOCRATES: Then according to you, one wise man may often be superior to ten
thousand fools, and he ought to rule them, and they ought to be his subjects, and he
ought to have more than they should. This is what I believe that you mean (and you
must not suppose that I am word-catching), if you allow that the one is superior to the
ten thousand?
CALLICLES: Yes; that is what I mean, and that is what I conceive to be natural justice—
that the better and wiser should rule and have more than the inferior.
SOCRATES: Stop there, and let me ask you what you would say in this case: Let us
suppose that we are all together as we are now; there are several of us, and we have a
large common store of meats and drinks, and there are all sorts of persons in our
company having various degrees of strength and weakness, and one of us, being a
physician, is wiser in the matter of food than all the rest, and he is probably stronger
than some and not so strong as others of us—will he not, being wiser, be also better
than we are, and our superior in this matter of food?
CALLICLES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Either, then, he will have a larger share of the meats and drinks, because he
is better, or he will have the distribution of all of them by reason of his authority, but he
will not expend or make use of a larger share of them on his own person, or if he does,
he will be punished; —his share will exceed that of some, and be less than that of
others, and if he be the weakest of all, he being the best of all will have the smallest
share of all, Callicles:—am I not right, my friend?
CALLICLES: You talk about meats and drinks and physicians and other nonsense; I am
not speaking of them.
SOCRATES: Well, but do you admit that the wiser is the better? Answer 'Yes' or 'No.'
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And ought not the better to have a larger share?
CALLICLES: Not of meats and drinks.
SOCRATES: I understand: then, perhaps, of coats—the skilfullest weaver ought to have
the largest coat, and the greatest number of them, and go about clothed in the best and
finest of them?
CALLICLES: Fudge about coats!
SOCRATES: Then the skilfullest and best in making shoes ought to have the advantage
in shoes; the shoemaker, clearly, should walk about in the largest shoes, and have the
greatest number of them?
CALLICLES: Fudge about shoes! What nonsense are you talking?
SOCRATES: Or, if this is not your meaning, perhaps you would say that the wise and
good and true husbandman should actually have a larger share of seeds, and have as
much seed as possible for his own land?
CALLICLES: How you go on, always talking in the same way, Socrates!
SOCRATES: Yes, Callicles, and also about the same things.
CALLICLES: Yes, by the Gods, you are literally always talking of cobblers and fullers and
cooks and doctors, as if this had to do with our argument.
SOCRATES: But why will you not tell me in what a man must be superior and wiser in
order to claim a larger share; will you neither accept a suggestion, nor offer one?
CALLICLES: I have already told you. In the first place, I mean by superiors not cobblers or
cooks, but wise politicians who understand the administration of a state, and who are
not only wise, but also valiant and able to carry out their designs, and not the men to
faint from want of soul.
SOCRATES: See now, most excellent Callicles, how different my charge against you is
from that which you bring against me, for you reproach me with always saying the
same; but I reproach you with never saying the same about the same things, for at one
time you were defining the better and the superior to be the stronger, then again as the
wiser, and now you bring forward a new notion; the superior and the better are now
declared by you to be the more courageous: I wish, my good friend, that you would tell
me, once for all, whom you affirm to be the better and superior, and in what they are
better?
CALLICLES: I have already told you that I mean those who are wise and courageous in
the administration of a state—they ought to be the rulers of their states, and justice
consists in their having more than their subjects.
SOCRATES: But whether rulers or subjects will they or will they not have more than
themselves, my friend?
CALLICLES: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: I mean that every man is his own ruler; but perhaps you think that there is
no necessity for him to rule himself; he is only required to rule others?
CALLICLES: What do you mean by his 'ruling over himself'?
SOCRATES: A simple thing enough; just what is commonly said, that a man should be
temperate and master of himself, and ruler of his own pleasures and passions.
CALLICLES: What innocence! you mean those fools,—the temperate?
SOCRATES: Certainly:—any one may know that to be my meaning.
CALLICLES: Quite so, Socrates; and they are really fools, for how can a man be happy
who is the servant of anything? On the contrary, I plainly assert, that he who would truly
live ought to allow his desires to wax to the uttermost, and not to chastise them; but
when they have grown to their greatest he should have courage and intelligence to
minister to them and to satisfy all his longings. And this I affirm to be natural justice and
nobility. To this however the many cannot attain; and they blame the strong man
because they are ashamed of their own weakness, which they desire to conceal, and
hence they say that intemperance is base. As I have remarked already, they enslave the
nobler natures, and being unable to satisfy their pleasures, they praise temperance and
justice out of their own cowardice. For if a man had been originally the son of a king, or
had a nature capable of acquiring an empire or a tyranny or sovereignty, what could be
more truly base or evil than temperance—to a man like him, I say, who might freely be
enjoying every good, and has no one to stand in his way, and yet has admitted custom
and reason and the opinion of other men to be lords over him?—must not he be in a
miserable plight whom the reputation of justice and temperance hinders from giving
more to his friends than to his enemies, even though he be a ruler in his city? Nay,
Socrates, for you profess to be a votary of the truth, and the truth is this:—that luxury
and intemperance and licence, if they be provided with means, are virtue and
happiness—all the rest is a mere bauble, agreements contrary to nature, foolish talk of
men, nothing worth. (Compare Republic.)
SOCRATES: There is a noble freedom, Callicles, in your way of approaching the
argument; for what you say is what the rest of the world think, but do not like to say.
And I must beg of you to persevere, that the true rule of human life may become
manifest. Tell me, then:—you say, do you not, that in the rightly-developed man the
passions ought not to be controlled, but that we should let them grow to the utmost
and somehow or other satisfy them, and that this is virtue?
CALLICLES: Yes; I do.
SOCRATES: Then those who want nothing are not truly said to be happy?
CALLICLES: No indeed, for then stones and dead men would be the happiest of all.
SOCRATES: But surely life according to your view is an awful thing; and indeed I think
that Euripides may have been right in saying,
'Who knows if life be not death and death life;'
and that we are very likely dead; I have heard a philosopher say that at this moment we
are actually dead, and that the body (soma) is our tomb (sema (compare Phaedr.)), and
that the part of the soul which is the seat of the desires is liable to be tossed about by
words and blown up and down; and some ingenious person, probably a Sicilian or an
Italian, playing with the word, invented a tale in which he called the soul—because of its
believing and make-believe nature—a vessel (An untranslatable pun,—dia to pithanon
te kai pistikon onomase pithon.), and the ignorant he called the uninitiated or leaky, and
the place in the souls of the uninitiated in which the desires are seated, being the
intemperate and incontinent part, he compared to a vessel full of holes, because it can
never be satisfied. He is not of your way of thinking, Callicles, for he declares, that of all
the souls in Hades, meaning the invisible world (aeides), these uninitiated or leaky
persons are the most miserable, and that they pour water into a vessel which is full of
holes out of a colander which is similarly perforated. The colander, as my informer
assures me, is the soul, and the soul which he compares to a colander is the soul of the
ignorant, which is likewise full of holes, and therefore incontinent, owing to a bad
memory and want of faith. These notions are strange enough, but they show the
principle which, if I can, I would fain prove to you; that you should change your mind,
and, instead of the intemperate and insatiate life, choose that which is orderly and
sufficient and has a due provision for daily needs. Do I make any impression on you, and
are you coming over to the opinion that the orderly are happier than the intemperate?
Or do I fail to persuade you, and, however many tales I rehearse to you, do you continue
of the same opinion still?
CALLICLES: The latter, Socrates, is more like the truth.
SOCRATES: Well, I will tell you another image, which comes out of the same school:—Let
me request you to consider how far you would accept this as an account of the two lives
of the temperate and intemperate in a figure:— There are two men, both of whom have
a number of casks; the one man has his casks sound and full, one of wine, another of
honey, and a third of milk, besides others filled with other liquids, and the streams which
fill them are few and scanty, and he can only obtain them with a great deal of toil and
difficulty; but when his casks are once filled he has no need to feed them any more, and
has no further trouble with them or care about them. The other, in like manner, can
procure streams, though not without difficulty; but his vessels are leaky and unsound,
and night and day he is compelled to be filling them, and if he pauses for a moment, he
is in an agony of pain. Such are their respective lives:—And now would you say that the
life of the intemperate is happier than that of the temperate? Do I not convince you that
the opposite is the truth?
CALLICLES: You do not convince me, Socrates, for the one who has filled himself has no
longer any pleasure left; and this, as I was just now saying, is the life of a stone: he has
neither joy nor sorrow after he is once filled; but the pleasure depends on the
superabundance of the influx.
SOCRATES: But the more you pour in, the greater the waste; and the holes must be large
for the liquid to escape.
CALLICLES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: The life which you are now depicting is not that of a dead man, or of a
stone, but of a cormorant; you mean that he is to be hungering and eating?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And he is to be thirsting and drinking?
CALLICLES: Yes, that is what I mean; he is to have all his desires about him, and to be
able to live happily in the gratification of them.
SOCRATES: Capital, excellent; go on as you have begun, and have no shame; I, too, must
disencumber myself of shame: and first, will you tell me whether you include itching and
scratching, provided you have enough of them and pass your life in scratching, in your
notion of happiness?
CALLICLES: What a strange being you are, Socrates! a regular mob-orator.
SOCRATES: That was the reason, Callicles, why I scared Polus and Gorgias, until they
were too modest to say what they thought; but you will not be too modest and will not
be scared, for you are a brave man. And now, answer my question.
CALLICLES: I answer, that even the scratcher would live pleasantly.
SOCRATES: And if pleasantly, then also happily?
CALLICLES: To be sure.
SOCRATES: But what if the itching is not confined to the head? Shall I pursue the
question? And here, Callicles, I would have you consider how you would reply if
consequences are pressed upon you, especially if in the last resort you are asked,
whether the life of a catamite is not terrible, foul, miserable? Or would you venture to
say, that they too are happy, if they only get enough of what they want?
CALLICLES: Are you not ashamed, Socrates, of introducing such topics into the
argument?
SOCRATES: Well, my fine friend, but am I the introducer of these topics, or he who says
without any qualification that all who feel pleasure in whatever manner are happy, and
who admits of no distinction between good and bad pleasures? And I would still ask,
whether you say that pleasure and good are the same, or whether there is some
pleasure which is not a good?
CALLICLES: Well, then, for the sake of consistency, I will say that they are the same.
SOCRATES: You are breaking the original agreement, Callicles, and will no longer be a
satisfactory companion in the search after truth, if you say what is contrary to your real
opinion.
CALLICLES: Why, that is what you are doing too, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then we are both doing wrong. Still, my dear friend, I would ask you to
consider whether pleasure, from whatever source derived, is the good; for, if this be true,
then the disagreeable consequences which have been darkly intimated must follow, and
many others.
CALLICLES: That, Socrates, is only your opinion.
SOCRATES: And do you, Callicles, seriously maintain what you are saying?
CALLICLES: Indeed I do.
SOCRATES: Then, as you are in earnest, shall we proceed with the argument?
CALLICLES: By all means. (Or, 'I am in profound earnest.')
SOCRATES: Well, if you are willing to proceed, determine this question for me:—There is
something, I presume, which you would call knowledge?
CALLICLES: There is.
SOCRATES: And were you not saying just now, that some courage implied knowledge?
CALLICLES: I was.
SOCRATES: And you were speaking of courage and knowledge as two things different
from one another?
CALLICLES: Certainly I was.
SOCRATES: And would you say that pleasure and knowledge are the same, or not the
same?
CALLICLES: Not the same, O man of wisdom.
SOCRATES: And would you say that courage differed from pleasure?
CALLICLES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Well, then, let us remember that Callicles, the Acharnian, says that pleasure
and good are the same; but that knowledge and courage are not the same, either with
one another, or with the good.
CALLICLES: And what does our friend Socrates, of Foxton, say—does he assent to this, or
not?
SOCRATES: He does not assent; neither will Callicles, when he sees himself truly. You will
admit, I suppose, that good and evil fortune are opposed to each other?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And if they are opposed to each other, then, like health and disease, they
exclude one another; a man cannot have them both, or be without them both, at the
same time?
CALLICLES: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: Take the case of any bodily affection:—a man may have the complaint in his
eyes which is called ophthalmia?
CALLICLES: To be sure.
SOCRATES: But he surely cannot have the same eyes well and sound at the same time?
CALLICLES: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: And when he has got rid of his ophthalmia, has he got rid of the health of
his eyes too? Is the final result, that he gets rid of them both together?
CALLICLES: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: That would surely be marvellous and absurd?
CALLICLES: Very.
SOCRATES: I suppose that he is affected by them, and gets rid of them in turns?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And he may have strength and weakness in the same way, by fits?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Or swiftness and slowness?
CALLICLES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And does he have and not have good and happiness, and their opposites,
evil and misery, in a similar alternation? (Compare Republic.)
CALLICLES: Certainly he has.
SOCRATES: If then there be anything which a man has and has not at the same time,
clearly that cannot be good and evil—do we agree? Please not to answer without
consideration.
CALLICLES: I entirely agree.
SOCRATES: Go back now to our former admissions.—Did you say that to hunger, I mean
the mere state of hunger, was pleasant or painful?
CALLICLES: I said painful, but that to eat when you are hungry is pleasant.
SOCRATES: I know; but still the actual hunger is painful: am I not right?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And thirst, too, is painful?
CALLICLES: Yes, very.
SOCRATES: Need I adduce any more instances, or would you agree that all wants or
desires are painful?
CALLICLES: I agree, and therefore you need not adduce any more instances.
SOCRATES: Very good. And you would admit that to drink, when you are thirsty, is
pleasant?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And in the sentence which you have just uttered, the word 'thirsty' implies
pain?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the word 'drinking' is expressive of pleasure, and of the satisfaction of
the want?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: There is pleasure in drinking?
CALLICLES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: When you are thirsty?
SOCRATES: And in pain?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Do you see the inference:—that pleasure and pain are simultaneous, when
you say that being thirsty, you drink? For are they not simultaneous, and do they not
affect at the same time the same part, whether of the soul or the body?—which of them
is affected cannot be supposed to be of any consequence: Is not this true?
CALLICLES: It is.
SOCRATES: You said also, that no man could have good and evil fortune at the same
time?
CALLICLES: Yes, I did.
SOCRATES: But you admitted, that when in pain a man might also have pleasure?
CALLICLES: Clearly.
SOCRATES: Then pleasure is not the same as good fortune, or pain the same as evil
fortune, and therefore the good is not the same as the pleasant?
CALLICLES: I wish I knew, Socrates, what your quibbling means.
SOCRATES: You know, Callicles, but you affect not to know.
CALLICLES: Well, get on, and don't keep fooling: then you will know what a wiseacre you
are in your admonition of me.
SOCRATES: Does not a man cease from his thirst and from his pleasure in drinking at the
same time?
CALLICLES: I do not understand what you are saying.
GORGIAS: Nay, Callicles, answer, if only for our sakes;—we should like to hear the
argument out.
CALLICLES: Yes, Gorgias, but I must complain of the habitual trifling of Socrates; he is
always arguing about little and unworthy questions.
GORGIAS: What matter? Your reputation, Callicles, is not at stake. Let Socrates argue in
his own fashion.
CALLICLES: Well, then, Socrates, you shall ask these little peddling questions, since
Gorgias wishes to have them.
SOCRATES: I envy you, Callicles, for having been initiated into the great mysteries before
you were initiated into the lesser. I thought that this was not allowable. But to return to
our argument:—Does not a man cease from thirsting and from the pleasure of drinking
at the same moment?
CALLICLES: True.
SOCRATES: And if he is hungry, or has any other desire, does he not cease from the
desire and the pleasure at the same moment?
CALLICLES: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then he ceases from pain and pleasure at the same moment?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: But he does not cease from good and evil at the same moment, as you have
admitted: do you still adhere to what you said?
CALLICLES: Yes, I do; but what is the inference?
SOCRATES: Why, my friend, the inference is that the good is not the same as the
pleasant, or the evil the same as the painful; there is a cessation of pleasure and pain at
the same moment; but not of good and evil, for they are different. How then can
pleasure be the same as good, or pain as evil? And I would have you look at the matter
in another light, which could hardly, I think, have been considered by you when you
identified them: Are not the good good because they have good present with them, as
the beautiful are those who have beauty present with them?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And do you call the fools and cowards good men? For you were saying just
now that the courageous and the wise are the good—would you not say so?
CALLICLES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And did you never see a foolish child rejoicing?
CALLICLES: Yes, I have.
SOCRATES: And a foolish man too?
CALLICLES: Yes, certainly; but what is your drift?
SOCRATES: Nothing particular, if you will only answer.
CALLICLES: Yes, I have.
SOCRATES: And did you ever see a sensible man rejoicing or sorrowing?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Which rejoice and sorrow most—the wise or the foolish?
CALLICLES: They are much upon a par, I think, in that respect.
SOCRATES: Enough: And did you ever see a coward in battle?
CALLICLES: To be sure.
SOCRATES: And which rejoiced most at the departure of the enemy, the coward or the
brave?
CALLICLES: I should say 'most' of both; or at any rate, they rejoiced about equally.
SOCRATES: No matter; then the cowards, and not only the brave, rejoice?
CALLICLES: Greatly.
SOCRATES: And the foolish; so it would seem?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And are only the cowards pained at the approach of their enemies, or are
the brave also pained?
CALLICLES: Both are pained.
SOCRATES: And are they equally pained?
CALLICLES: I should imagine that the cowards are more pained.
SOCRATES: And are they not better pleased at the enemy's departure?
CALLICLES: I dare say.
SOCRATES: Then are the foolish and the wise and the cowards and the brave all pleased
and pained, as you were saying, in nearly equal degree; but are the cowards more
pleased and pained than the brave?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: But surely the wise and brave are the good, and the foolish and the
cowardly are the bad?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then the good and the bad are pleased and pained in a nearly equal
degree?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then are the good and bad good and bad in a nearly equal degree, or have
the bad the advantage both in good and evil? (i.e. in having more pleasure and more
pain.)
CALLICLES: I really do not know what you mean.
SOCRATES: Why, do you not remember saying that the good were good because good
was present with them, and the evil because evil; and that pleasures were goods and
pains evils?
CALLICLES: Yes, I remember.
SOCRATES: And are not these pleasures or goods present to those who rejoice—if they
do rejoice?
CALLICLES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then those who rejoice are good when goods are present with them?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And those who are in pain have evil or sorrow present with them?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And would you still say that the evil are evil by reason of the presence of
evil?
CALLICLES: I should.
SOCRATES: Then those who rejoice are good, and those who are in pain evil?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: The degrees of good and evil vary with the degrees of pleasure and of pain?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Have the wise man and the fool, the brave and the coward, joy and pain in
nearly equal degrees? or would you say that the coward has more?
CALLICLES: I should say that he has.
SOCRATES: Help me then to draw out the conclusion which follows from our
admissions; for it is good to repeat and review what is good twice and thrice over, as
they say. Both the wise man and the brave man we allow to be good?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the foolish man and the coward to be evil?
CALLICLES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And he who has joy is good?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And he who is in pain is evil?
CALLICLES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: The good and evil both have joy and pain, but, perhaps, the evil has more of
them?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then must we not infer, that the bad man is as good and bad as the good,
or, perhaps, even better?—is not this a further inference which follows equally with the
preceding from the assertion that the good and the pleasant are the same:—can this be
denied, Callicles?
CALLICLES: I have been listening and making admissions to you, Socrates; and I remark
that if a person grants you anything in play, you, like a child, want to keep hold and will
not give it back. But do you really suppose that I or any other human being denies that
some pleasures are good and others bad?
SOCRATES: Alas, Callicles, how unfair you are! you certainly treat me as if I were a child,
sometimes saying one thing, and then another, as if you were meaning to deceive me.
And yet I thought at first that you were my friend, and would not have deceived me if
you could have helped. But I see that I was mistaken; and now I suppose that I must
make the best of a bad business, as they said of old, and take what I can get out of
you.—Well, then, as I understand you to say, I may assume that some pleasures are
good and others evil?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: The beneficial are good, and the hurtful are evil?
CALLICLES: To be sure.
SOCRATES: And the beneficial are those which do some good, and the hurtful are those
which do some evil?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Take, for example, the bodily pleasures of eating and drinking, which we
were just now mentioning—you mean to say that those which promote health, or any
other bodily excellence, are good, and their opposites evil?
CALLICLES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And in the same way there are good pains and there are evil pains?
CALLICLES: To be sure.
SOCRATES: And ought we not to choose and use the good pleasures and pains?
CALLICLES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: But not the evil?
CALLICLES: Clearly.
SOCRATES: Because, if you remember, Polus and I have agreed that all our actions are to
be done for the sake of the good;—and will you agree with us in saying, that the good is
the end of all our actions, and that all our actions are to be done for the sake of the
good, and not the good for the sake of them?—will you add a third vote to our two?
CALLICLES: I will.
SOCRATES: Then pleasure, like everything else, is to be sought for the sake of that which
is good, and not that which is good for the sake of pleasure?
CALLICLES: To be sure.
SOCRATES: But can every man choose what pleasures are good and what are evil, or
must he have art or knowledge of them in detail?
CALLICLES: He must have art.
SOCRATES: Let me now remind you of what I was saying to Gorgias and Polus; I was
saying, as you will not have forgotten, that there were some processes which aim only at
pleasure, and know nothing of a better and worse, and there are other processes which
know good and evil. And I considered that cookery, which I do not call an art, but only
an experience, was of the former class, which is concerned with pleasure, and that the
art of medicine was of the class which is concerned with the good. And now, by the god
of friendship, I must beg you, Callicles, not to jest, or to imagine that I am jesting with
you; do not answer at random and contrary to your real opinion—for you will observe
that we are arguing about the way of human life; and to a man who has any sense at all,
what question can be more serious than this?—whether he should follow after that way
of life to which you exhort me, and act what you call the manly part of speaking in the
assembly, and cultivating rhetoric, and engaging in public affairs, according to the
principles now in vogue; or whether he should pursue the life of philosophy;—and in
what the latter way differs from the former. But perhaps we had better first try to
distinguish them, as I did before, and when we have come to an agreement that they
are distinct, we may proceed to consider in what they differ from one another, and
which of them we should choose. Perhaps, however, you do not even now understand
what I mean?
CALLICLES: No, I do not.
SOCRATES: Then I will explain myself more clearly: seeing that you and I have agreed
that there is such a thing as good, and that there is such a thing as pleasure, and that
pleasure is not the same as good, and that the pursuit and process of acquisition of the
one, that is pleasure, is different from the pursuit and process of acquisition of the other,
which is good—I wish that you would tell me whether you agree with me thus far or
not—do you agree?
CALLICLES: I do.
SOCRATES: Then I will proceed, and ask whether you also agree with me, and whether
you think that I spoke the truth when I further said to Gorgias and Polus that cookery in
my opinion is only an experience, and not an art at all; and that whereas medicine is an
art, and attends to the nature and constitution of the patient, and has principles of
action and reason in each case, cookery in attending upon pleasure never regards either
the nature or reason of that pleasure to which she devotes herself, but goes straight to
her end, nor ever considers or calculates anything, but works by experience and routine,
and just preserves the recollection of what she has usually done when producing
pleasure. And first, I would have you consider whether I have proved what I was saying,
and then whether there are not other similar processes which have to do with the soul—
some of them processes of art, making a provision for the soul's highest interest—
others despising the interest, and, as in the previous case, considering only the pleasure
of the soul, and how this may be acquired, but not considering what pleasures are good
or bad, and having no other aim but to afford gratification, whether good or bad. In my
opinion, Callicles, there are such processes, and this is the sort of thing which I term
flattery, whether concerned with the body or the soul, or whenever employed with a
view to pleasure and without any consideration of good and evil. And now I wish that
you would tell me whether you agree with us in this notion, or whether you differ.
CALLICLES: I do not differ; on the contrary, I agree; for in that way I shall soonest bring
the argument to an end, and shall oblige my friend Gorgias.
SOCRATES: And is this notion true of one soul, or of two or more?
CALLICLES: Equally true of two or more.
SOCRATES: Then a man may delight a whole assembly, and yet have no regard for their
true interests?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Can you tell me the pursuits which delight mankind—or rather, if you would
prefer, let me ask, and do you answer, which of them belong to the pleasurable class,
and which of them not? In the first place, what say you of flute-playing? Does not that
appear to be an art which seeks only pleasure, Callicles, and thinks of nothing else?
CALLICLES: I assent.
SOCRATES: And is not the same true of all similar arts, as, for example, the art of playing
the lyre at festivals?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And what do you say of the choral art and of dithyrambic poetry?—are not
they of the same nature? Do you imagine that Cinesias the son of Meles cares about
what will tend to the moral improvement of his hearers, or about what will give pleasure
to the multitude?
CALLICLES: There can be no mistake about Cinesias, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And what do you say of his father, Meles the harp-player? Did he perform
with any view to the good of his hearers? Could he be said to regard even their
pleasure? For his singing was an infliction to his audience. And of harp-playing and
dithyrambic poetry in general, what would you say? Have they not been invented wholly
for the sake of pleasure?
CALLICLES: That is my notion of them.
SOCRATES: And as for the Muse of Tragedy, that solemn and august personage—what
are her aspirations? Is all her aim and desire only to give pleasure to the spectators, or
does she fight against them and refuse to speak of their pleasant vices, and willingly
proclaim in word and song truths welcome and unwelcome?—which in your judgment is
her character?
CALLICLES: There can be no doubt, Socrates, that Tragedy has her face turned towards
pleasure and the gratification of the audience.
SOCRATES: And is not that the sort of thing, Callicles, which we were just now describing
as flattery?
CALLICLES: Quite true.
SOCRATES: Well now, suppose that we strip all poetry of song and rhythm and metre,
there will remain speech? (Compare Republic.)
CALLICLES: To be sure.
SOCRATES: And this speech is addressed to a crowd of people?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then poetry is a sort of rhetoric?
CALLICLES: True.
SOCRATES: And do not the poets in the theatres seem to you to be rhetoricians?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then now we have discovered a sort of rhetoric which is addressed to a
crowd of men, women, and children, freemen and slaves. And this is not much to our
taste, for we have described it as having the nature of flattery.
CALLICLES: Quite true.
SOCRATES: Very good. And what do you say of that other rhetoric which addresses the
Athenian assembly and the assemblies of freemen in other states? Do the rhetoricians
appear to you always to aim at what is best, and do they seek to improve the citizens by
their speeches, or are they too, like the rest of mankind, bent upon giving them
pleasure, forgetting the public good in the thought of their own interest, playing with
the people as with children, and trying to amuse them, but never considering whether
they are better or worse for this?
CALLICLES: I must distinguish. There are some who have a real care of the public in what
they say, while others are such as you describe.
SOCRATES: I am contented with the admission that rhetoric is of two sorts; one, which is
mere flattery and disgraceful declamation; the other, which is noble and aims at the
training and improvement of the souls of the citizens, and strives to say what is best,
whether welcome or unwelcome, to the audience; but have you ever known such a
rhetoric; or if you have, and can point out any rhetorician who is of this stamp, who is
he?
CALLICLES: But, indeed, I am afraid that I cannot tell you of any such among the orators
who are at present living.
SOCRATES: Well, then, can you mention any one of a former generation, who may be
said to have improved the Athenians, who found them worse and made them better,
from the day that he began to make speeches? for, indeed, I do not know of such a
man.
CALLICLES: What! did you never hear that Themistocles was a good man, and Cimon
and Miltiades and Pericles, who is just lately dead, and whom you heard yourself?
SOCRATES: Yes, Callicles, they were good men, if, as you said at first, true virtue consists
only in the satisfaction of our own desires and those of others; but if not, and if, as we
were afterwards compelled to acknowledge, the satisfaction of some desires makes us
better, and of others, worse, and we ought to gratify the one and not the other, and
there is an art in distinguishing them,—can you tell me of any of these statesmen who
did distinguish them?
CALLICLES: No, indeed, I cannot.
SOCRATES: Yet, surely, Callicles, if you look you will find such a one. Suppose that we
just calmly consider whether any of these was such as I have described. Will not the
good man, who says whatever he says with a view to the best, speak with a reference to
some standard and not at random; just as all other artists, whether the painter, the
builder, the shipwright, or any other look all of them to their own work, and do not
select and apply at random what they apply, but strive to give a definite form to it? The
artist disposes all things in order, and compels the one part to harmonize and accord
with the other part, until he has constructed a regular and systematic whole; and this is
true of all artists, and in the same way the trainers and physicians, of whom we spoke
before, give order and regularity to the body: do you deny this?
CALLICLES: No; I am ready to admit it.
SOCRATES: Then the house in which order and regularity prevail is good; that in which
there is disorder, evil?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the same is true of a ship?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the same may be said of the human body?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And what would you say of the soul? Will the good soul be that in which
disorder is prevalent, or that in which there is harmony and order?
CALLICLES: The latter follows from our previous admissions.
SOCRATES: What is the name which is given to the effect of harmony and order in the
body?
CALLICLES: I suppose that you mean health and strength?
SOCRATES: Yes, I do; and what is the name which you would give to the effect of
harmony and order in the soul? Try and discover a name for this as well as for the other.
CALLICLES: Why not give the name yourself, Socrates?
SOCRATES: Well, if you had rather that I should, I will; and you shall say whether you
agree with me, and if not, you shall refute and answer me. 'Healthy,' as I conceive, is the
name which is given to the regular order of the body, whence comes health and every
other bodily excellence: is that true or not?
CALLICLES: True.
SOCRATES: And 'lawful' and 'law' are the names which are given to the regular order
and action of the soul, and these make men lawful and orderly:—and so we have
temperance and justice: have we not?
CALLICLES: Granted.
SOCRATES: And will not the true rhetorician who is honest and understands his art have
his eye fixed upon these, in all the words which he addresses to the souls of men, and in
all his actions, both in what he gives and in what he takes away? Will not his aim be to
implant justice in the souls of his citizens and take away injustice, to implant temperance
and take away intemperance, to implant every virtue and take away every vice? Do you
not agree?
CALLICLES: I agree.
SOCRATES: For what use is there, Callicles, in giving to the body of a sick man who is in
a bad state of health a quantity of the most delightful food or drink or any other
pleasant thing, which may be really as bad for him as if you gave him nothing, or even
worse if rightly estimated. Is not that true?
CALLICLES: I will not say No to it.
SOCRATES: For in my opinion there is no profit in a man's life if his body is in an evil
plight—in that case his life also is evil: am I not right?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: When a man is in health the physicians will generally allow him to eat when
he is hungry and drink when he is thirsty, and to satisfy his desires as he likes, but when
he is sick they hardly suffer him to satisfy his desires at all: even you will admit that?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And does not the same argument hold of the soul, my good sir? While she is
in a bad state and is senseless and intemperate and unjust and unholy, her desires
ought to be controlled, and she ought to be prevented from doing anything which does
not tend to her own improvement.
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Such treatment will be better for the soul herself?
CALLICLES: To be sure.
SOCRATES: And to restrain her from her appetites is to chastise her?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then restraint or chastisement is better for the soul than intemperance or
the absence of control, which you were just now preferring?
CALLICLES: I do not understand you, Socrates, and I wish that you would ask some one
who does.
SOCRATES: Here is a gentleman who cannot endure to be improved or to subject
himself to that very chastisement of which the argument speaks!
CALLICLES: I do not heed a word of what you are saying, and have only answered
hitherto out of civility to Gorgias.
SOCRATES: What are we to do, then? Shall we break off in the middle?
CALLICLES: You shall judge for yourself.
SOCRATES: Well, but people say that 'a tale should have a head and not break off in the
middle,' and I should not like to have the argument going about without a head
(compare Laws); please then to go on a little longer, and put the head on.
CALLICLES: How tyrannical you are, Socrates! I wish that you and your argument would
rest, or that you would get some one else to argue with you.
SOCRATES: But who else is willing?—I want to finish the argument.
CALLICLES: Cannot you finish without my help, either talking straight on, or questioning
and answering yourself?
SOCRATES: Must I then say with Epicharmus, 'Two men spoke before, but now one shall
be enough'? I suppose that there is absolutely no help. And if I am to carry on the
enquiry by myself, I will first of all remark that not only I but all of us should have an
ambition to know what is true and what is false in this matter, for the discovery of the
truth is a common good. And now I will proceed to argue according to my own notion.
But if any of you think that I arrive at conclusions which are untrue you must interpose
and refute me, for I do not speak from any knowledge of what I am saying; I am an
enquirer like yourselves, and therefore, if my opponent says anything which is of force, I
shall be the first to agree with him. I am speaking on the supposition that the argument
ought to be completed; but if you think otherwise let us leave off and go our ways.
GORGIAS: I think, Socrates, that we should not go our ways until you have completed
the argument; and this appears to me to be the wish of the rest of the company; I myself
should very much like to hear what more you have to say.
SOCRATES: I too, Gorgias, should have liked to continue the argument with Callicles, and
then I might have given him an 'Amphion' in return for his 'Zethus'; but since you,
Callicles, are unwilling to continue, I hope that you will listen, and interrupt me if I seem
to you to be in error. And if you refute me, I shall not be angry with you as you are with
me, but I shall inscribe you as the greatest of benefactors on the tablets of my soul.
CALLICLES: My good fellow, never mind me, but get on.
SOCRATES: Listen to me, then, while I recapitulate the argument:—Is the pleasant the
same as the good? Not the same. Callicles and I are agreed about that. And is the
pleasant to be pursued for the sake of the good? or the good for the sake of the
pleasant? The pleasant is to be pursued for the sake of the good. And that is pleasant at
the presence of which we are pleased, and that is good at the presence of which we are
good? To be sure. And we are good, and all good things whatever are good when some
virtue is present in us or them? That, Callicles, is my conviction. But the virtue of each
thing, whether body or soul, instrument or creature, when given to them in the best way
comes to them not by chance but as the result of the order and truth and art which are
imparted to them: Am I not right? I maintain that I am. And is not the virtue of each
thing dependent on order or arrangement? Yes, I say. And that which makes a thing
good is the proper order inhering in each thing? Such is my view. And is not the soul
which has an order of her own better than that which has no order? Certainly. And the
soul which has order is orderly? Of course. And that which is orderly is temperate?
Assuredly. And the temperate soul is good? No other answer can I give, Callicles dear;
have you any?
CALLICLES: Go on, my good fellow.
SOCRATES: Then I shall proceed to add, that if the temperate soul is the good soul, the
soul which is in the opposite condition, that is, the foolish and intemperate, is the bad
soul. Very true.
And will not the temperate man do what is proper, both in relation to the gods and to
men;—for he would not be temperate if he did not? Certainly he will do what is proper.
In his relation to other men he will do what is just; and in his relation to the gods he will
do what is holy; and he who does what is just and holy must be just and holy? Very true.
And must he not be courageous? for the duty of a temperate man is not to follow or to
avoid what he ought not, but what he ought, whether things or men or pleasures or
pains, and patiently to endure when he ought; and therefore, Callicles, the temperate
man, being, as we have described, also just and courageous and holy, cannot be other
than a perfectly good man, nor can the good man do otherwise than well and perfectly
whatever he does; and he who does well must of necessity be happy and blessed, and
the evil man who does evil, miserable: now this latter is he whom you were
applauding—the intemperate who is the opposite of the temperate. Such is my position,
and these things I affirm to be true. And if they are true, then I further affirm that he
who desires to be happy must pursue and practise temperance and run away from
intemperance as fast as his legs will carry him: he had better order his life so as not to
need punishment; but if either he or any of his friends, whether private individual or city,
are in need of punishment, then justice must be done and he must suffer punishment, if
he would be happy. This appears to me to be the aim which a man ought to have, and
towards which he ought to direct all the energies both of himself and of the state, acting
so that he may have temperance and justice present with him and be happy, not
suffering his lusts to be unrestrained, and in the never-ending desire satisfy them
leading a robber's life. Such a one is the friend neither of God nor man, for he is
incapable of communion, and he who is incapable of communion is also incapable of
friendship. And philosophers tell us, Callicles, that communion and friendship and
orderliness and temperance and justice bind together heaven and earth and gods and
men, and that this universe is therefore called Cosmos or order, not disorder or misrule,
my friend. But although you are a philosopher you seem to me never to have observed
that geometrical equality is mighty, both among gods and men; you think that you
ought to cultivate inequality or excess, and do not care about geometry.—Well, then,
either the principle that the happy are made happy by the possession of justice and
temperance, and the miserable miserable by the possession of vice, must be refuted, or,
if it is granted, what will be the consequences? All the consequences which I drew
before, Callicles, and about which you asked me whether I was in earnest when I said
that a man ought to accuse himself and his son and his friend if he did anything wrong,
and that to this end he should use his rhetoric—all those consequences are true. And
that which you thought that Polus was led to admit out of modesty is true, viz., that, to
do injustice, if more disgraceful than to suffer, is in that degree worse; and the other
position, which, according to Polus, Gorgias admitted out of modesty, that he who
would truly be a rhetorician ought to be just and have a knowledge of justice, has also
turned out to be true.
And now, these things being as we have said, let us proceed in the next place to
consider whether you are right in throwing in my teeth that I am unable to help myself
or any of my friends or kinsmen, or to save them in the extremity of danger, and that I
am in the power of another like an outlaw to whom any one may do what he likes,—he
may box my ears, which was a brave saying of yours; or take away my goods or banish
me, or even do his worst and kill me; a condition which, as you say, is the height of
disgrace. My answer to you is one which has been already often repeated, but may as
well be repeated once more. I tell you, Callicles, that to be boxed on the ears wrongfully
is not the worst evil which can befall a man, nor to have my purse or my body cut open,
but that to smite and slay me and mine wrongfully is far more disgraceful and more evil;
aye, and to despoil and enslave and pillage, or in any way at all to wrong me and mine,
is far more disgraceful and evil to the doer of the wrong than to me who am the
sufferer. These truths, which have been already set forth as I state them in the previous
discussion, would seem now to have been fixed and riveted by us, if I may use an
expression which is certainly bold, in words which are like bonds of iron and adamant;
and unless you or some other still more enterprising hero shall break them, there is no
possibility of denying what I say. For my position has always been, that I myself am
ignorant how these things are, but that I have never met any one who could say
otherwise, any more than you can, and not appear ridiculous. This is my position still,
and if what I am saying is true, and injustice is the greatest of evils to the doer of
injustice, and yet there is if possible a greater than this greatest of evils (compare
Republic), in an unjust man not suffering retribution, what is that defence of which the
want will make a man truly ridiculous? Must not the defence be one which will avert the
greatest of human evils? And will not the worst of all defences be that with which a man
is unable to defend himself or his family or his friends? —and next will come that which
is unable to avert the next greatest evil; thirdly that which is unable to avert the third
greatest evil; and so of other evils. As is the greatness of evil so is the honour of being
able to avert them in their several degrees, and the disgrace of not being able to avert
them. Am I not right Callicles?
CALLICLES: Yes, quite right.
SOCRATES: Seeing then that there are these two evils, the doing injustice and the
suffering injustice—and we affirm that to do injustice is a greater, and to suffer injustice
a lesser evil—by what devices can a man succeed in obtaining the two advantages, the
one of not doing and the other of not suffering injustice? must he have the power, or
only the will to obtain them? I mean to ask whether a man will escape injustice if he has
only the will to escape, or must he have provided himself with the power?
CALLICLES: He must have provided himself with the power; that is clear.
SOCRATES: And what do you say of doing injustice? Is the will only sufficient, and will
that prevent him from doing injustice, or must he have provided himself with power and
art; and if he have not studied and practised, will he be unjust still? Surely you might say,
Callicles, whether you think that Polus and I were right in admitting the conclusion that
no one does wrong voluntarily, but that all do wrong against their will?
CALLICLES: Granted, Socrates, if you will only have done.
SOCRATES: Then, as would appear, power and art have to be provided in order that we
may do no injustice?
CALLICLES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And what art will protect us from suffering injustice, if not wholly, yet as far
as possible? I want to know whether you agree with me; for I think that such an art is the
art of one who is either a ruler or even tyrant himself, or the equal and companion of
the ruling power.
CALLICLES: Well said, Socrates; and please to observe how ready I am to praise you
when you talk sense.
SOCRATES: Think and tell me whether you would approve of another view of mine: To
me every man appears to be most the friend of him who is most like to him—like to like,
as ancient sages say: Would you not agree to this?
CALLICLES: I should.
SOCRATES: But when the tyrant is rude and uneducated, he may be expected to fear any
one who is his superior in virtue, and will never be able to be perfectly friendly with him.
CALLICLES: That is true.
SOCRATES: Neither will he be the friend of any one who is greatly his inferior, for the
tyrant will despise him, and will never seriously regard him as a friend.
CALLICLES: That again is true.
SOCRATES: Then the only friend worth mentioning, whom the tyrant can have, will be
one who is of the same character, and has the same likes and dislikes, and is at the same
time willing to be subject and subservient to him; he is the man who will have power in
the state, and no one will injure him with impunity:—is not that so?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And if a young man begins to ask how he may become great and
formidable, this would seem to be the way—he will accustom himself, from his youth
upward, to feel sorrow and joy on the same occasions as his master, and will contrive to
be as like him as possible?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And in this way he will have accomplished, as you and your friends would
say, the end of becoming a great man and not suffering injury?
CALLICLES: Very true.
SOCRATES: But will he also escape from doing injury? Must not the very opposite be
true,—if he is to be like the tyrant in his injustice, and to have influence with him? Will
he not rather contrive to do as much wrong as possible, and not be punished?
CALLICLES: True.
SOCRATES: And by the imitation of his master and by the power which he thus acquires
will not his soul become bad and corrupted, and will not this be the greatest evil to him?
CALLICLES: You always contrive somehow or other, Socrates, to invert everything: do
you not know that he who imitates the tyrant will, if he has a mind, kill him who does
not imitate him and take away his goods?
SOCRATES: Excellent Callicles, I am not deaf, and I have heard that a great many times
from you and from Polus and from nearly every man in the city, but I wish that you
would hear me too. I dare say that he will kill him if he has a mind—the bad man will kill
the good and true.
CALLICLES: And is not that just the provoking thing?
SOCRATES: Nay, not to a man of sense, as the argument shows: do you think that all our
cares should be directed to prolonging life to the uttermost, and to the study of those
arts which secure us from danger always; like that art of rhetoric which saves men in
courts of law, and which you advise me to cultivate?
CALLICLES: Yes, truly, and very good advice too.
SOCRATES: Well, my friend, but what do you think of swimming; is that an art of any
great pretensions?
CALLICLES: No, indeed.
SOCRATES: And yet surely swimming saves a man from death, and there are occasions
on which he must know how to swim. And if you despise the swimmers, I will tell you of
another and greater art, the art of the pilot, who not only saves the souls of men, but
also their bodies and properties from the extremity of danger, just like rhetoric. Yet his
art is modest and unpresuming: it has no airs or pretences of doing anything
extraordinary, and, in return for the same salvation which is given by the pleader,
demands only two obols, if he brings us from Aegina to Athens, or for the longer
voyage from Pontus or Egypt, at the utmost two drachmae, when he has saved, as I was
just now saying, the passenger and his wife and children and goods, and safely
disembarked them at the Piraeus,—this is the payment which he asks in return for so
great a boon; and he who is the master of the art, and has done all this, gets out and
walks about on the sea-shore by his ship in an unassuming way. For he is able to reflect
and is aware that he cannot tell which of his fellow-passengers he has benefited, and
which of them he has injured in not allowing them to be drowned. He knows that they
are just the same when he has disembarked them as when they embarked, and not a
whit better either in their bodies or in their souls; and he considers that if a man who is
afflicted by great and incurable bodily diseases is only to be pitied for having escaped,
and is in no way benefited by him in having been saved from drowning, much less he
who has great and incurable diseases, not of the body, but of the soul, which is the
more valuable part of him; neither is life worth having nor of any profit to the bad man,
whether he be delivered from the sea, or the law-courts, or any other devourer;—and so
he reflects that such a one had better not live, for he cannot live well. (Compare
Republic.)
And this is the reason why the pilot, although he is our saviour, is not usually conceited,
any more than the engineer, who is not at all behind either the general, or the pilot, or
any one else, in his saving power, for he sometimes saves whole cities. Is there any
comparison between him and the pleader? And if he were to talk, Callicles, in your
grandiose style, he would bury you under a mountain of words, declaring and insisting
that we ought all of us to be engine-makers, and that no other profession is worth
thinking about; he would have plenty to say. Nevertheless you despise him and his art,
and sneeringly call him an engine-maker, and you will not allow your daughters to
marry his son, or marry your son to his daughters. And yet, on your principle, what
justice or reason is there in your refusal? What right have you to despise the enginemaker,
and the others whom I was just now mentioning? I know that you will say, 'I am
better, and better born.' But if the better is not what I say, and virtue consists only in a
man saving himself and his, whatever may be his character, then your censure of the
engine-maker, and of the physician, and of the other arts of salvation, is ridiculous. O my
friend! I want you to see that the noble and the good may possibly be something
different from saving and being saved:—May not he who is truly a man cease to care
about living a certain time?—he knows, as women say, that no man can escape fate, and
therefore he is not fond of life; he leaves all that with God, and considers in what way he
can best spend his appointed term;—whether by assimilating himself to the constitution
under which he lives, as you at this moment have to consider how you may become as
like as possible to the Athenian people, if you mean to be in their good graces, and to
have power in the state; whereas I want you to think and see whether this is for the
interest of either of us;—I would not have us risk that which is dearest on the acquisition
of this power, like the Thessalian enchantresses, who, as they say, bring down the moon
from heaven at the risk of their own perdition. But if you suppose that any man will
show you the art of becoming great in the city, and yet not conforming yourself to the
ways of the city, whether for better or worse, then I can only say that you are mistaken,
Callides; for he who would deserve to be the true natural friend of the Athenian Demus,
aye, or of Pyrilampes' darling who is called after them, must be by nature like them, and
not an imitator only. He, then, who will make you most like them, will make you as you
desire, a statesman and orator: for every man is pleased when he is spoken to in his own
language and spirit, and dislikes any other. But perhaps you, sweet Callicles, may be of
another mind. What do you say?
CALLICLES: Somehow or other your words, Socrates, always appear to me to be good
words; and yet, like the rest of the world, I am not quite convinced by them. (Compare
Symp.: 1 Alcib.)
SOCRATES: The reason is, Callicles, that the love of Demus which abides in your soul is
an adversary to me; but I dare say that if we recur to these same matters, and consider
them more thoroughly, you may be convinced for all that. Please, then, to remember
that there are two processes of training all things, including body and soul; in the one,
as we said, we treat them with a view to pleasure, and in the other with a view to the
highest good, and then we do not indulge but resist them: was not that the distinction
which we drew?
CALLICLES: Very true.
SOCRATES: And the one which had pleasure in view was just a vulgar flattery:—was not
that another of our conclusions?
CALLICLES: Be it so, if you will have it.
SOCRATES: And the other had in view the greatest improvement of that which was
ministered to, whether body or soul?
CALLICLES: Quite true.
SOCRATES: And must we not have the same end in view in the treatment of our city and
citizens? Must we not try and make them as good as possible? For we have already
discovered that there is no use in imparting to them any other good, unless the mind of
those who are to have the good, whether money, or office, or any other sort of power,
be gentle and good. Shall we say that?
CALLICLES: Yes, certainly, if you like.
SOCRATES: Well, then, if you and I, Callicles, were intending to set about some public
business, and were advising one another to undertake buildings, such as walls, docks or
temples of the largest size, ought we not to examine ourselves, first, as to whether we
know or do not know the art of building, and who taught us?—would not that be
necessary, Callicles?
CALLICLES: True.
SOCRATES: In the second place, we should have to consider whether we had ever
constructed any private house, either of our own or for our friends, and whether this
building of ours was a success or not; and if upon consideration we found that we had
had good and eminent masters, and had been successful in constructing many fine
buildings, not only with their assistance, but without them, by our own unaided skill—in
that case prudence would not dissuade us from proceeding to the construction of public
works. But if we had no master to show, and only a number of worthless buildings or
none at all, then, surely, it would be ridiculous in us to attempt public works, or to advise
one another to undertake them. Is not this true?
CALLICLES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And does not the same hold in all other cases? If you and I were physicians,
and were advising one another that we were competent to practise as state-physicians,
should I not ask about you, and would you not ask about me, Well, but how about
Socrates himself, has he good health? and was any one else ever known to be cured by
him, whether slave or freeman? And I should make the same enquiries about you. And if
we arrived at the conclusion that no one, whether citizen or stranger, man or woman,
had ever been any the better for the medical skill of either of us, then, by Heaven,
Callicles, what an absurdity to think that we or any human being should be so silly as to
set up as state-physicians and advise others like ourselves to do the same, without
having first practised in private, whether successfully or not, and acquired experience of
the art! Is not this, as they say, to begin with the big jar when you are learning the
potter's art; which is a foolish thing?
CALLICLES: True.
SOCRATES: And now, my friend, as you are already beginning to be a public character,
and are admonishing and reproaching me for not being one, suppose that we ask a few
questions of one another. Tell me, then, Callicles, how about making any of the citizens
better? Was there ever a man who was once vicious, or unjust, or intemperate, or
foolish, and became by the help of Callicles good and noble? Was there ever such a
man, whether citizen or stranger, slave or freeman? Tell me, Callicles, if a person were to
ask these questions of you, what would you answer? Whom would you say that you had
improved by your conversation? There may have been good deeds of this sort which
were done by you as a private person, before you came forward in public. Why will you
not answer?
CALLICLES: You are contentious, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Nay, I ask you, not from a love of contention, but because I really want to
know in what way you think that affairs should be administered among us—whether,
when you come to the administration of them, you have any other aim but the
improvement of the citizens? Have we not already admitted many times over that such
is the duty of a public man? Nay, we have surely said so; for if you will not answer for
yourself I must answer for you. But if this is what the good man ought to effect for the
benefit of his own state, allow me to recall to you the names of those whom you were
just now mentioning, Pericles, and Cimon, and Miltiades, and Themistocles, and ask
whether you still think that they were good citizens.
CALLICLES: I do.
SOCRATES: But if they were good, then clearly each of them must have made the
citizens better instead of worse?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And, therefore, when Pericles first began to speak in the assembly, the
Athenians were not so good as when he spoke last?
CALLICLES: Very likely.
SOCRATES: Nay, my friend, 'likely' is not the word; for if he was a good citizen, the
inference is certain.
CALLICLES: And what difference does that make?
SOCRATES: None; only I should like further to know whether the Athenians are
supposed to have been made better by Pericles, or, on the contrary, to have been
corrupted by him; for I hear that he was the first who gave the people pay, and made
them idle and cowardly, and encouraged them in the love of talk and money.
CALLICLES: You heard that, Socrates, from the laconising set who bruise their ears.
SOCRATES: But what I am going to tell you now is not mere hearsay, but well known
both to you and me: that at first, Pericles was glorious and his character unimpeached
by any verdict of the Athenians—this was during the time when they were not so
good—yet afterwards, when they had been made good and gentle by him, at the very
end of his life they convicted him of theft, and almost put him to death, clearly under
the notion that he was a malefactor.
CALLICLES: Well, but how does that prove Pericles' badness?
SOCRATES: Why, surely you would say that he was a bad manager of asses or horses or
oxen, who had received them originally neither kicking nor butting nor biting him, and
implanted in them all these savage tricks? Would he not be a bad manager of any
animals who received them gentle, and made them fiercer than they were when he
received them? What do you say?
CALLICLES: I will do you the favour of saying 'yes.'
SOCRATES: And will you also do me the favour of saying whether man is an animal?
CALLICLES: Certainly he is.
SOCRATES: And was not Pericles a shepherd of men?
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And if he was a good political shepherd, ought not the animals who were his
subjects, as we were just now acknowledging, to have become more just, and not more
unjust?
CALLICLES: Quite true.
SOCRATES: And are not just men gentle, as Homer says?—or are you of another mind?
CALLICLES: I agree.
SOCRATES: And yet he really did make them more savage than he received them, and
their savageness was shown towards himself; which he must have been very far from
desiring.
CALLICLES: Do you want me to agree with you?
SOCRATES: Yes, if I seem to you to speak the truth.
CALLICLES: Granted then.
SOCRATES: And if they were more savage, must they not have been more unjust and
inferior?
CALLICLES: Granted again.
SOCRATES: Then upon this view, Pericles was not a good statesman?
CALLICLES: That is, upon your view.
SOCRATES: Nay, the view is yours, after what you have admitted. Take the case of Cimon
again. Did not the very persons whom he was serving ostracize him, in order that they
might not hear his voice for ten years? and they did just the same to Themistocles,
adding the penalty of exile; and they voted that Miltiades, the hero of Marathon, should
be thrown into the pit of death, and he was only saved by the Prytanis. And yet, if they
had been really good men, as you say, these things would never have happened to
them. For the good charioteers are not those who at first keep their place, and then,
when they have broken-in their horses, and themselves become better charioteers, are
thrown out—that is not the way either in charioteering or in any profession.—What do
you think?
CALLICLES: I should think not.
SOCRATES: Well, but if so, the truth is as I have said already, that in the Athenian State
no one has ever shown himself to be a good statesman— you admitted that this was
true of our present statesmen, but not true of former ones, and you preferred them to
the others; yet they have turned out to be no better than our present ones; and
therefore, if they were rhetoricians, they did not use the true art of rhetoric or of flattery,
or they would not have fallen out of favour.
CALLICLES: But surely, Socrates, no living man ever came near any one of them in his
performances.
SOCRATES: O, my dear friend, I say nothing against them regarded as the serving-men
of the State; and I do think that they were certainly more serviceable than those who are
living now, and better able to gratify the wishes of the State; but as to transforming
those desires and not allowing them to have their way, and using the powers which they
had, whether of persuasion or of force, in the improvement of their fellow citizens, which
is the prime object of the truly good citizen, I do not see that in these respects they
were a whit superior to our present statesmen, although I do admit that they were more
clever at providing ships and walls and docks, and all that. You and I have a ridiculous
way, for during the whole time that we are arguing, we are always going round and
round to the same point, and constantly misunderstanding one another. If I am not
mistaken, you have admitted and acknowledged more than once, that there are two
kinds of operations which have to do with the body, and two which have to do with the
soul: one of the two is ministerial, and if our bodies are hungry provides food for them,
and if they are thirsty gives them drink, or if they are cold supplies them with garments,
blankets, shoes, and all that they crave. I use the same images as before intentionally, in
order that you may understand me the better. The purveyor of the articles may provide
them either wholesale or retail, or he may be the maker of any of them,— the baker, or
the cook, or the weaver, or the shoemaker, or the currier; and in so doing, being such as
he is, he is naturally supposed by himself and every one to minister to the body. For
none of them know that there is another art—an art of gymnastic and medicine which is
the true minister of the body, and ought to be the mistress of all the rest, and to use
their results according to the knowledge which she has and they have not, of the real
good or bad effects of meats and drinks on the body. All other arts which have to do
with the body are servile and menial and illiberal; and gymnastic and medicine are, as
they ought to be, their mistresses. Now, when I say that all this is equally true of the
soul, you seem at first to know and understand and assent to my words, and then a little
while afterwards you come repeating, Has not the State had good and noble citizens?
and when I ask you who they are, you reply, seemingly quite in earnest, as if I had asked,
Who are or have been good trainers?—and you had replied, Thearion, the baker,
Mithoecus, who wrote the Sicilian cookery-book, Sarambus, the vintner: these are
ministers of the body, first-rate in their art; for the first makes admirable loaves, the
second excellent dishes, and the third capital wine;—to me these appear to be the exact
parallel of the statesmen whom you mention. Now you would not be altogether pleased
if I said to you, My friend, you know nothing of gymnastics; those of whom you are
speaking to me are only the ministers and purveyors of luxury, who have no good or
noble notions of their art, and may very likely be filling and fattening men's bodies and
gaining their approval, although the result is that they lose their original flesh in the
long run, and become thinner than they were before; and yet they, in their simplicity,
will not attribute their diseases and loss of flesh to their entertainers; but when in after
years the unhealthy surfeit brings the attendant penalty of disease, he who happens to
be near them at the time, and offers them advice, is accused and blamed by them, and if
they could they would do him some harm; while they proceed to eulogize the men who
have been the real authors of the mischief. And that, Callicles, is just what you are now
doing. You praise the men who feasted the citizens and satisfied their desires, and
people say that they have made the city great, not seeing that the swollen and ulcerated
condition of the State is to be attributed to these elder statesmen; for they have filled
the city full of harbours and docks and walls and revenues and all that, and have left no
room for justice and temperance. And when the crisis of the disorder comes, the people
will blame the advisers of the hour, and applaud Themistocles and Cimon and Pericles,
who are the real authors of their calamities; and if you are not careful they may assail
you and my friend Alcibiades, when they are losing not only their new acquisitions, but
also their original possessions; not that you are the authors of these misfortunes of
theirs, although you may perhaps be accessories to them. A great piece of work is
always being made, as I see and am told, now as of old; about our statesmen. When the
State treats any of them as malefactors, I observe that there is a great uproar and
indignation at the supposed wrong which is done to them; 'after all their many services
to the State, that they should unjustly perish,'—so the tale runs. But the cry is all a lie; for
no statesman ever could be unjustly put to death by the city of which he is the head.
The case of the professed statesman is, I believe, very much like that of the professed
sophist; for the sophists, although they are wise men, are nevertheless guilty of a
strange piece of folly; professing to be teachers of virtue, they will often accuse their
disciples of wronging them, and defrauding them of their pay, and showing no gratitude
for their services. Yet what can be more absurd than that men who have become just
and good, and whose injustice has been taken away from them, and who have had
justice implanted in them by their teachers, should act unjustly by reason of the injustice
which is not in them? Can anything be more irrational, my friends, than this? You,
Callicles, compel me to be a mob-orator, because you will not answer.
CALLICLES: And you are the man who cannot speak unless there is some one to answer?
SOCRATES: I suppose that I can; just now, at any rate, the speeches which I am making
are long enough because you refuse to answer me. But I adjure you by the god of
friendship, my good sir, do tell me whether there does not appear to you to be a great
inconsistency in saying that you have made a man good, and then blaming him for
being bad?
CALLICLES: Yes, it appears so to me.
SOCRATES: Do you never hear our professors of education speaking in this inconsistent
manner?
CALLICLES: Yes, but why talk of men who are good for nothing?
SOCRATES: I would rather say, why talk of men who profess to be rulers, and declare
that they are devoted to the improvement of the city, and nevertheless upon occasion
declaim against the utter vileness of the city: —do you think that there is any difference
between one and the other? My good friend, the sophist and the rhetorician, as I was
saying to Polus, are the same, or nearly the same; but you ignorantly fancy that rhetoric
is a perfect thing, and sophistry a thing to be despised; whereas the truth is, that
sophistry is as much superior to rhetoric as legislation is to the practice of law, or
gymnastic to medicine. The orators and sophists, as I am inclined to think, are the only
class who cannot complain of the mischief ensuing to themselves from that which they
teach others, without in the same breath accusing themselves of having done no good
to those whom they profess to benefit. Is not this a fact?
CALLICLES: Certainly it is.
SOCRATES: If they were right in saying that they make men better, then they are the
only class who can afford to leave their remuneration to those who have been benefited
by them. Whereas if a man has been benefited in any other way, if, for example, he has
been taught to run by a trainer, he might possibly defraud him of his pay, if the trainer
left the matter to him, and made no agreement with him that he should receive money
as soon as he had given him the utmost speed; for not because of any deficiency of
speed do men act unjustly, but by reason of injustice.
CALLICLES: Very true.
SOCRATES: And he who removes injustice can be in no danger of being treated unjustly:
he alone can safely leave the honorarium to his pupils, if he be really able to make them
good—am I not right? (Compare Protag.)
CALLICLES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then we have found the reason why there is no dishonour in a man
receiving pay who is called in to advise about building or any other art?
CALLICLES: Yes, we have found the reason.
SOCRATES: But when the point is, how a man may become best himself, and best
govern his family and state, then to say that you will give no advice gratis is held to be
dishonourable?
CALLICLES: True.
SOCRATES: And why? Because only such benefits call forth a desire to requite them, and
there is evidence that a benefit has been conferred when the benefactor receives a
return; otherwise not. Is this true?
CALLICLES: It is.
SOCRATES: Then to which service of the State do you invite me? determine for me. Am I
to be the physician of the State who will strive and struggle to make the Athenians as
good as possible; or am I to be the servant and flatterer of the State? Speak out, my
good friend, freely and fairly as you did at first and ought to do again, and tell me your
entire mind.
CALLICLES: I say then that you should be the servant of the State.
SOCRATES: The flatterer? well, sir, that is a noble invitation.
CALLICLES: The Mysian, Socrates, or what you please. For if you refuse, the
consequences will be—
SOCRATES: Do not repeat the old story—that he who likes will kill me and get my
money; for then I shall have to repeat the old answer, that he will be a bad man and will
kill the good, and that the money will be of no use to him, but that he will wrongly use
that which he wrongly took, and if wrongly, basely, and if basely, hurtfully.
CALLICLES: How confident you are, Socrates, that you will never come to harm! you
seem to think that you are living in another country, and can never be brought into a
court of justice, as you very likely may be brought by some miserable and mean person.
SOCRATES: Then I must indeed be a fool, Callicles, if I do not know that in the Athenian
State any man may suffer anything. And if I am brought to trial and incur the dangers of
which you speak, he will be a villain who brings me to trial—of that I am very sure, for
no good man would accuse the innocent. Nor shall I be surprised if I am put to death.
Shall I tell you why I anticipate this?
CALLICLES: By all means.
SOCRATES: I think that I am the only or almost the only Athenian living who practises
the true art of politics; I am the only politician of my time. Now, seeing that when I
speak my words are not uttered with any view of gaining favour, and that I look to what
is best and not to what is most pleasant, having no mind to use those arts and graces
which you recommend, I shall have nothing to say in the justice court. And you might
argue with me, as I was arguing with Polus:—I shall be tried just as a physician would be
tried in a court of little boys at the indictment of the cook. What would he reply under
such circumstances, if some one were to accuse him, saying, 'O my boys, many evil
things has this man done to you: he is the death of you, especially of the younger ones
among you, cutting and burning and starving and suffocating you, until you know not
what to do; he gives you the bitterest potions, and compels you to hunger and thirst.
How unlike the variety of meats and sweets on which I feasted you!' What do you
suppose that the physician would be able to reply when he found himself in such a
predicament? If he told the truth he could only say, 'All these evil things, my boys, I did
for your health,' and then would there not just be a clamour among a jury like that? How
they would cry out!
CALLICLES: I dare say.
SOCRATES: Would he not be utterly at a loss for a reply?
CALLICLES: He certainly would.
SOCRATES: And I too shall be treated in the same way, as I well know, if I am brought
before the court. For I shall not be able to rehearse to the people the pleasures which I
have procured for them, and which, although I am not disposed to envy either the
procurers or enjoyers of them, are deemed by them to be benefits and advantages. And
if any one says that I corrupt young men, and perplex their minds, or that I speak evil of
old men, and use bitter words towards them, whether in private or public, it is useless
for me to reply, as I truly might:—'All this I do for the sake of justice, and with a view to
your interest, my judges, and to nothing else.' And therefore there is no saying what
may happen to me.
CALLICLES: And do you think, Socrates, that a man who is thus defenceless is in a good
position?
SOCRATES: Yes, Callicles, if he have that defence, which as you have often
acknowledged he should have—if he be his own defence, and have never said or done
anything wrong, either in respect of gods or men; and this has been repeatedly
acknowledged by us to be the best sort of defence. And if any one could convict me of
inability to defend myself or others after this sort, I should blush for shame, whether I
was convicted before many, or before a few, or by myself alone; and if I died from want
of ability to do so, that would indeed grieve me. But if I died because I have no powers
of flattery or rhetoric, I am very sure that you would not find me repining at death. For
no man who is not an utter fool and coward is afraid of death itself, but he is afraid of
doing wrong. For to go to the world below having one's soul full of injustice is the last
and worst of all evils. And in proof of what I say, if you have no objection, I should like to
tell you a story.
CALLICLES: Very well, proceed; and then we shall have done.
SOCRATES: Listen, then, as story-tellers say, to a very pretty tale, which I dare say that
you may be disposed to regard as a fable only, but which, as I believe, is a true tale, for I
mean to speak the truth. Homer tells us (Il.), how Zeus and Poseidon and Pluto divided
the empire which they inherited from their father. Now in the days of Cronos there
existed a law respecting the destiny of man, which has always been, and still continues
to be in Heaven,—that he who has lived all his life in justice and holiness shall go, when
he is dead, to the Islands of the Blessed, and dwell there in perfect happiness out of the
reach of evil; but that he who has lived unjustly and impiously shall go to the house of
vengeance and punishment, which is called Tartarus. And in the time of Cronos, and
even quite lately in the reign of Zeus, the judgment was given on the very day on which
the men were to die; the judges were alive, and the men were alive; and the
consequence was that the judgments were not well given. Then Pluto and the
authorities from the Islands of the Blessed came to Zeus, and said that the souls found
their way to the wrong places. Zeus said: 'I shall put a stop to this; the judgments are not
well given, because the persons who are judged have their clothes on, for they are alive;
and there are many who, having evil souls, are apparelled in fair bodies, or encased in
wealth or rank, and, when the day of judgment arrives, numerous witnesses come
forward and testify on their behalf that they have lived righteously. The judges are awed
by them, and they themselves too have their clothes on when judging; their eyes and
ears and their whole bodies are interposed as a veil before their own souls. All this is a
hindrance to them; there are the clothes of the judges and the clothes of the judged.—
What is to be done? I will tell you:—In the first place, I will deprive men of the
foreknowledge of death, which they possess at present: this power which they have
Prometheus has already received my orders to take from them: in the second place, they
shall be entirely stripped before they are judged, for they shall be judged when they are
dead; and the judge too shall be naked, that is to say, dead—he with his naked soul
shall pierce into the other naked souls; and they shall die suddenly and be deprived of
all their kindred, and leave their brave attire strewn upon the earth—conducted in this
manner, the judgment will be just. I knew all about the matter before any of you, and
therefore I have made my sons judges; two from Asia, Minos and Rhadamanthus, and
one from Europe, Aeacus. And these, when they are dead, shall give judgment in the
meadow at the parting of the ways, whence the two roads lead, one to the Islands of the
Blessed, and the other to Tartarus. Rhadamanthus shall judge those who come from
Asia, and Aeacus those who come from Europe. And to Minos I shall give the primacy,
and he shall hold a court of appeal, in case either of the two others are in any doubt:—
then the judgment respecting the last journey of men will be as just as possible.'
From this tale, Callicles, which I have heard and believe, I draw the following
inferences:—Death, if I am right, is in the first place the separation from one another of
two things, soul and body; nothing else. And after they are separated they retain their
several natures, as in life; the body keeps the same habit, and the results of treatment or
accident are distinctly visible in it: for example, he who by nature or training or both,
was a tall man while he was alive, will remain as he was, after he is dead; and the fat man
will remain fat; and so on; and the dead man, who in life had a fancy to have flowing
hair, will have flowing hair. And if he was marked with the whip and had the prints of the
scourge, or of wounds in him when he was alive, you might see the same in the dead
body; and if his limbs were broken or misshapen when he was alive, the same
appearance would be visible in the dead. And in a word, whatever was the habit of the
body during life would be distinguishable after death, either perfectly, or in a great
measure and for a certain time. And I should imagine that this is equally true of the soul,
Callicles; when a man is stripped of the body, all the natural or acquired affections of the
soul are laid open to view.— And when they come to the judge, as those from Asia
come to Rhadamanthus, he places them near him and inspects them quite impartially,
not knowing whose the soul is: perhaps he may lay hands on the soul of the great king,
or of some other king or potentate, who has no soundness in him, but his soul is
marked with the whip, and is full of the prints and scars of perjuries and crimes with
which each action has stained him, and he is all crooked with falsehood and imposture,
and has no straightness, because he has lived without truth. Him Rhadamanthus
beholds, full of all deformity and disproportion, which is caused by licence and luxury
and insolence and incontinence, and despatches him ignominiously to his prison, and
there he undergoes the punishment which he deserves.
Now the proper office of punishment is twofold: he who is rightly punished ought either
to become better and profit by it, or he ought to be made an example to his fellows,
that they may see what he suffers, and fear and become better. Those who are improved
when they are punished by gods and men, are those whose sins are curable; and they
are improved, as in this world so also in another, by pain and suffering; for there is no
other way in which they can be delivered from their evil. But they who have been guilty
of the worst crimes, and are incurable by reason of their crimes, are made examples; for,
as they are incurable, the time has passed at which they can receive any benefit. They
get no good themselves, but others get good when they behold them enduring for ever
the most terrible and painful and fearful sufferings as the penalty of their sins—there
they are, hanging up as examples, in the prison-house of the world below, a spectacle
and a warning to all unrighteous men who come thither. And among them, as I
confidently affirm, will be found Archelaus, if Polus truly reports of him, and any other
tyrant who is like him. Of these fearful examples, most, as I believe, are taken from the
class of tyrants and kings and potentates and public men, for they are the authors of the
greatest and most impious crimes, because they have the power. And Homer witnesses
to the truth of this; for they are always kings and potentates whom he has described as
suffering everlasting punishment in the world below: such were Tantalus and Sisyphus
and Tityus. But no one ever described Thersites, or any private person who was a villain,
as suffering everlasting punishment, or as incurable. For to commit the worst crimes, as I
am inclined to think, was not in his power, and he was happier than those who had the
power. No, Callicles, the very bad men come from the class of those who have power
(compare Republic). And yet in that very class there may arise good men, and worthy of
all admiration they are, for where there is great power to do wrong, to live and to die
justly is a hard thing, and greatly to be praised, and few there are who attain to this.
Such good and true men, however, there have been, and will be again, at Athens and in
other states, who have fulfilled their trust righteously; and there is one who is quite
famous all over Hellas, Aristeides, the son of Lysimachus. But, in general, great men are
also bad, my friend.
As I was saying, Rhadamanthus, when he gets a soul of the bad kind, knows nothing
about him, neither who he is, nor who his parents are; he knows only that he has got
hold of a villain; and seeing this, he stamps him as curable or incurable, and sends him
away to Tartarus, whither he goes and receives his proper recompense. Or, again, he
looks with admiration on the soul of some just one who has lived in holiness and truth;
he may have been a private man or not; and I should say, Callicles, that he is most likely
to have been a philosopher who has done his own work, and not troubled himself with
the doings of other men in his lifetime; him Rhadamanthus sends to the Islands of the
Blessed. Aeacus does the same; and they both have sceptres, and judge; but Minos
alone has a golden sceptre and is seated looking on, as Odysseus in Homer declares
that he saw him:
'Holding a sceptre of gold, and giving laws to the dead.'
Now I, Callicles, am persuaded of the truth of these things, and I consider how I shall
present my soul whole and undefiled before the judge in that day. Renouncing the
honours at which the world aims, I desire only to know the truth, and to live as well as I
can, and, when I die, to die as well as I can. And, to the utmost of my power, I exhort all
other men to do the same. And, in return for your exhortation of me, I exhort you also
to take part in the great combat, which is the combat of life, and greater than every
other earthly conflict. And I retort your reproach of me, and say, that you will not be
able to help yourself when the day of trial and judgment, of which I was speaking,
comes upon you; you will go before the judge, the son of Aegina, and, when he has got
you in his grip and is carrying you off, you will gape and your head will swim round, just
as mine would in the courts of this world, and very likely some one will shamefully box
you on the ears, and put upon you any sort of insult.
Perhaps this may appear to you to be only an old wife's tale, which you will contemn.
And there might be reason in your contemning such tales, if by searching we could find
out anything better or truer: but now you see that you and Polus and Gorgias, who are
the three wisest of the Greeks of our day, are not able to show that we ought to live any
life which does not profit in another world as well as in this. And of all that has been
said, nothing remains unshaken but the saying, that to do injustice is more to be
avoided than to suffer injustice, and that the reality and not the appearance of virtue is
to be followed above all things, as well in public as in private life; and that when any one
has been wrong in anything, he is to be chastised, and that the next best thing to a man
being just is that he should become just, and be chastised and punished; also that he
should avoid all flattery of himself as well as of others, of the few or of the many: and
rhetoric and any other art should be used by him, and all his actions should be done
always, with a view to justice.
Follow me then, and I will lead you where you will be happy in life and after death, as
the argument shows. And never mind if some one despises you as a fool, and insults
you, if he has a mind; let him strike you, by Zeus, and do you be of good cheer, and do
not mind the insulting blow, for you will never come to any harm in the practice of
virtue, if you are a really good and true man. When we have practised virtue together,
we will apply ourselves to politics, if that seems desirable, or we will advise about
whatever else may seem good to us, for we shall be better able to judge then. In our
present condition we ought not to give ourselves airs, for even on the most important
subjects we are always changing our minds; so utterly stupid are we! Let us, then, take
the argument as our guide, which has revealed to us that the best way of life is to
practise justice and every virtue in life and death. This way let us go; and in this exhort
all men to follow, not in the way to which you trust and in which you exhort me to
follow you; for that way, Callicles, is nothing worth.
THE END
PROTAGORAS
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, who is the narrator of the Dialogue to his
Companion. Hippocrates, Alcibiades and Critias. Protagoras, Hippias and Prodicus
(Sophists). Callias, a wealthy Athenian.
SCENE: The House of Callias.
COMPANION: Where do you come from, Socrates? And yet I need hardly ask the
question, for I know that you have been in chase of the fair Alcibiades. I saw him the day
before yesterday; and he had got a beard like a man,—and he is a man, as I may tell you
in your ear. But I thought that he was still very charming.
SOCRATES: What of his beard? Are you not of Homer's opinion, who says
'Youth is most charming when the beard first appears'?
And that is now the charm of Alcibiades.
COMPANION: Well, and how do matters proceed? Have you been visiting him, and was
he gracious to you?
SOCRATES: Yes, I thought that he was very gracious; and especially to-day, for I have
just come from him, and he has been helping me in an argument. But shall I tell you a
strange thing? I paid no attention to him, and several times I quite forgot that he was
present.
COMPANION: What is the meaning of this? Has anything happened between you and
him? For surely you cannot have discovered a fairer love than he is; certainly not in this
city of Athens.
SOCRATES: Yes, much fairer.
COMPANION: What do you mean—a citizen or a foreigner?
SOCRATES: A foreigner.
COMPANION: Of what country?
SOCRATES: Of Abdera.
COMPANION: And is this stranger really in your opinion a fairer love than the son of
Cleinias?
SOCRATES: And is not the wiser always the fairer, sweet friend?
COMPANION: But have you really met, Socrates, with some wise one?
SOCRATES: Say rather, with the wisest of all living men, if you are willing to accord that
title to Protagoras.
COMPANION: What! Is Protagoras in Athens?
SOCRATES: Yes; he has been here two days.
COMPANION: And do you just come from an interview with him?
SOCRATES: Yes; and I have heard and said many things.
COMPANION: Then, if you have no engagement, suppose that you sit down and tell me
what passed, and my attendant here shall give up his place to you.
SOCRATES: To be sure; and I shall be grateful to you for listening.
COMPANION: Thank you, too, for telling us.
SOCRATES: That is thank you twice over. Listen then:—
Last night, or rather very early this morning, Hippocrates, the son of Apollodorus and
the brother of Phason, gave a tremendous thump with his staff at my door; some one
opened to him, and he came rushing in and bawled out: Socrates, are you awake or
asleep?
I knew his voice, and said: Hippocrates, is that you? and do you bring any news?
Good news, he said; nothing but good.
Delightful, I said; but what is the news? and why have you come hither at this unearthly
hour?
He drew nearer to me and said: Protagoras is come.
Yes, I replied; he came two days ago: have you only just heard of his arrival?
Yes, by the gods, he said; but not until yesterday evening.
At the same time he felt for the truckle-bed, and sat down at my feet, and then he said:
Yesterday quite late in the evening, on my return from Oenoe whither I had gone in
pursuit of my runaway slave Satyrus, as I meant to have told you, if some other matter
had not come in the way;—on my return, when we had done supper and were about to
retire to rest, my brother said to me: Protagoras is come. I was going to you at once, and
then I thought that the night was far spent. But the moment sleep left me after my
fatigue, I got up and came hither direct.
I, who knew the very courageous madness of the man, said: What is the matter? Has
Protagoras robbed you of anything?
He replied, laughing: Yes, indeed he has, Socrates, of the wisdom which he keeps from
me.
But, surely, I said, if you give him money, and make friends with him, he will make you as
wise as he is himself.
Would to heaven, he replied, that this were the case! He might take all that I have, and
all that my friends have, if he pleased. But that is why I have come to you now, in order
that you may speak to him on my behalf; for I am young, and also I have never seen nor
heard him; (when he visited Athens before I was but a child;) and all men praise him,
Socrates; he is reputed to be the most accomplished of speakers. There is no reason why
we should not go to him at once, and then we shall find him at home. He lodges, as I
hear, with Callias the son of Hipponicus: let us start.
I replied: Not yet, my good friend; the hour is too early. But let us rise and take a turn in
the court and wait about there until day-break; when the day breaks, then we will go.
For Protagoras is generally at home, and we shall be sure to find him; never fear.
Upon this we got up and walked about in the court, and I thought that I would make
trial of the strength of his resolution. So I examined him and put questions to him. Tell
me, Hippocrates, I said, as you are going to Protagoras, and will be paying your money
to him, what is he to whom you are going? and what will he make of you? If, for
example, you had thought of going to Hippocrates of Cos, the Asclepiad, and were
about to give him your money, and some one had said to you: You are paying money to
your namesake Hippocrates, O Hippocrates; tell me, what is he that you give him
money? how would you have answered?
I should say, he replied, that I gave money to him as a physician.
And what will he make of you?
A physician, he said.
And if you were resolved to go to Polycleitus the Argive, or Pheidias the Athenian, and
were intending to give them money, and some one had asked you: What are Polycleitus
and Pheidias? and why do you give them this money?—how would you have answered?
I should have answered, that they were statuaries.
And what will they make of you?
A statuary, of course.
Well now, I said, you and I are going to Protagoras, and we are ready to pay him money
on your behalf. If our own means are sufficient, and we can gain him with these, we shall
be only too glad; but if not, then we are to spend the money of your friends as well.
Now suppose, that while we are thus enthusiastically pursuing our object some one
were to say to us: Tell me, Socrates, and you Hippocrates, what is Protagoras, and why
are you going to pay him money,—how should we answer? I know that Pheidias is a
sculptor, and that Homer is a poet; but what appellation is given to Protagoras? how is
he designated?
They call him a Sophist, Socrates, he replied.
Then we are going to pay our money to him in the character of a Sophist?
Certainly.
But suppose a person were to ask this further question: And how about yourself? What
will Protagoras make of you, if you go to see him?
He answered, with a blush upon his face (for the day was just beginning to dawn, so that
I could see him): Unless this differs in some way from the former instances, I suppose
that he will make a Sophist of me.
By the gods, I said, and are you not ashamed at having to appear before the Hellenes in
the character of a Sophist?
Indeed, Socrates, to confess the truth, I am.
But you should not assume, Hippocrates, that the instruction of Protagoras is of this
nature: may you not learn of him in the same way that you learned the arts of the
grammarian, or musician, or trainer, not with the view of making any of them a
profession, but only as a part of education, and because a private gentleman and
freeman ought to know them?
Just so, he said; and that, in my opinion, is a far truer account of the teaching of
Protagoras.
I said: I wonder whether you know what you are doing?
And what am I doing?
You are going to commit your soul to the care of a man whom you call a Sophist. And
yet I hardly think that you know what a Sophist is; and if not, then you do not even
know to whom you are committing your soul and whether the thing to which you
commit yourself be good or evil.
I certainly think that I do know, he replied.
Then tell me, what do you imagine that he is?
I take him to be one who knows wise things, he replied, as his name implies.
And might you not, I said, affirm this of the painter and of the carpenter also: Do not
they, too, know wise things? But suppose a person were to ask us: In what are the
painters wise? We should answer: In what relates to the making of likenesses, and
similarly of other things. And if he were further to ask: What is the wisdom of the
Sophist, and what is the manufacture over which he presides?—how should we answer
him?
How should we answer him, Socrates? What other answer could there be but that he
presides over the art which makes men eloquent?
Yes, I replied, that is very likely true, but not enough; for in the answer a further question
is involved: Of what does the Sophist make a man talk eloquently? The player on the
lyre may be supposed to make a man talk eloquently about that which he makes him
understand, that is about playing the lyre. Is not that true?
Yes.
Then about what does the Sophist make him eloquent? Must not he make him eloquent
in that which he understands?
Yes, that may be assumed.
And what is that which the Sophist knows and makes his disciple know?
Indeed, he said, I cannot tell.
Then I proceeded to say: Well, but are you aware of the danger which you are incurring?
If you were going to commit your body to some one, who might do good or harm to it,
would you not carefully consider and ask the opinion of your friends and kindred, and
deliberate many days as to whether you should give him the care of your body? But
when the soul is in question, which you hold to be of far more value than the body, and
upon the good or evil of which depends the well-being of your all,—about this you
never consulted either with your father or with your brother or with any one of us who
are your companions. But no sooner does this foreigner appear, than you instantly
commit your soul to his keeping. In the evening, as you say, you hear of him, and in the
morning you go to him, never deliberating or taking the opinion of any one as to
whether you ought to intrust yourself to him or not;—you have quite made up your
mind that you will at all hazards be a pupil of Protagoras, and are prepared to expend all
the property of yourself and of your friends in carrying out at any price this
determination, although, as you admit, you do not know him, and have never spoken
with him: and you call him a Sophist, but are manifestly ignorant of what a Sophist is;
and yet you are going to commit yourself to his keeping.
When he heard me say this, he replied: No other inference, Socrates, can be drawn from
your words.
I proceeded: Is not a Sophist, Hippocrates, one who deals wholesale or retail in the food
of the soul? To me that appears to be his nature.
And what, Socrates, is the food of the soul?
Surely, I said, knowledge is the food of the soul; and we must take care, my friend, that
the Sophist does not deceive us when he praises what he sells, like the dealers
wholesale or retail who sell the food of the body; for they praise indiscriminately all their
goods, without knowing what are really beneficial or hurtful: neither do their customers
know, with the exception of any trainer or physician who may happen to buy of them. In
like manner those who carry about the wares of knowledge, and make the round of the
cities, and sell or retail them to any customer who is in want of them, praise them all
alike; though I should not wonder, O my friend, if many of them were really ignorant of
their effect upon the soul; and their customers equally ignorant, unless he who buys of
them happens to be a physician of the soul. If, therefore, you have understanding of
what is good and evil, you may safely buy knowledge of Protagoras or of any one; but if
not, then, O my friend, pause, and do not hazard your dearest interests at a game of
chance. For there is far greater peril in buying knowledge than in buying meat and drink:
the one you purchase of the wholesale or retail dealer, and carry them away in other
vessels, and before you receive them into the body as food, you may deposit them at
home and call in any experienced friend who knows what is good to be eaten or
drunken, and what not, and how much, and when; and then the danger of purchasing
them is not so great. But you cannot buy the wares of knowledge and carry them away
in another vessel; when you have paid for them you must receive them into the soul and
go your way, either greatly harmed or greatly benefited; and therefore we should
deliberate and take counsel with our elders; for we are still young—too young to
determine such a matter. And now let us go, as we were intending, and hear Protagoras;
and when we have heard what he has to say, we may take counsel of others; for not only
is Protagoras at the house of Callias, but there is Hippias of Elis, and, if I am not
mistaken, Prodicus of Ceos, and several other wise men.
To this we agreed, and proceeded on our way until we reached the vestibule of the
house; and there we stopped in order to conclude a discussion which had arisen
between us as we were going along; and we stood talking in the vestibule until we had
finished and come to an understanding. And I think that the door-keeper, who was a
eunuch, and who was probably annoyed at the great inroad of the Sophists, must have
heard us talking. At any rate, when we knocked at the door, and he opened and saw us,
he grumbled: They are Sophists—he is not at home; and instantly gave the door a
hearty bang with both his hands. Again we knocked, and he answered without opening:
Did you not hear me say that he is not at home, fellows? But, my friend, I said, you need
not be alarmed; for we are not Sophists, and we are not come to see Callias, but we
want to see Protagoras; and I must request you to announce us. At last, after a good
deal of difficulty, the man was persuaded to open the door.
When we entered, we found Protagoras taking a walk in the cloister; and next to him, on
one side, were walking Callias, the son of Hipponicus, and Paralus, the son of Pericles,
who, by the mother's side, is his half- brother, and Charmides, the son of Glaucon. On
the other side of him were Xanthippus, the other son of Pericles, Philippides, the son of
Philomelus; also Antimoerus of Mende, who of all the disciples of Protagoras is the most
famous, and intends to make sophistry his profession. A train of listeners followed him;
the greater part of them appeared to be foreigners, whom Protagoras had brought with
him out of the various cities visited by him in his journeys, he, like Orpheus, attracting
them his voice, and they following (Compare Rep.). I should mention also that there
were some Athenians in the company. Nothing delighted me more than the precision of
their movements: they never got into his way at all; but when he and those who were
with him turned back, then the band of listeners parted regularly on either side; he was
always in front, and they wheeled round and took their places behind him in perfect
order.
After him, as Homer says (Od.), 'I lifted up my eyes and saw' Hippias the Elean sitting in
the opposite cloister on a chair of state, and around him were seated on benches
Eryximachus, the son of Acumenus, and Phaedrus the Myrrhinusian, and Andron the son
of Androtion, and there were strangers whom he had brought with him from his native
city of Elis, and some others: they were putting to Hippias certain physical and
astronomical questions, and he, ex cathedra, was determining their several questions to
them, and discoursing of them.
Also, 'my eyes beheld Tantalus (Od.);' for Prodicus the Cean was at Athens: he had been
lodged in a room which, in the days of Hipponicus, was a storehouse; but, as the house
was full, Callias had cleared this out and made the room into a guest-chamber. Now
Prodicus was still in bed, wrapped up in sheepskins and bedclothes, of which there
seemed to be a great heap; and there was sitting by him on the couches near, Pausanias
of the deme of Cerameis, and with Pausanias was a youth quite young, who is certainly
remarkable for his good looks, and, if I am not mistaken, is also of a fair and gentle
nature. I thought that I heard him called Agathon, and my suspicion is that he is the
beloved of Pausanias. There was this youth, and also there were the two Adeimantuses,
one the son of Cepis, and the other of Leucolophides, and some others. I was very
anxious to hear what Prodicus was saying, for he seems to me to be an all-wise and
inspired man; but I was not able to get into the inner circle, and his fine deep voice
made an echo in the room which rendered his words inaudible.
No sooner had we entered than there followed us Alcibiades the beautiful, as you say,
and I believe you; and also Critias the son of Callaeschrus.
On entering we stopped a little, in order to look about us, and then walked up to
Protagoras, and I said: Protagoras, my friend Hippocrates and I have come to see you.
Do you wish, he said, to speak with me alone, or in the presence of the company?
Whichever you please, I said; you shall determine when you have heard the purpose of
our visit.
And what is your purpose? he said.
I must explain, I said, that my friend Hippocrates is a native Athenian; he is the son of
Apollodorus, and of a great and prosperous house, and he is himself in natural ability
quite a match for anybody of his own age. I believe that he aspires to political eminence;
and this he thinks that conversation with you is most likely to procure for him. And now
you can determine whether you would wish to speak to him of your teaching alone or in
the presence of the company.
Thank you, Socrates, for your consideration of me. For certainly a stranger finding his
way into great cities, and persuading the flower of the youth in them to leave company
of their kinsmen or any other acquaintances, old or young, and live with him, under the
idea that they will be improved by his conversation, ought to be very cautious; great
jealousies are aroused by his proceedings, and he is the subject of many enmities and
conspiracies. Now the art of the Sophist is, as I believe, of great antiquity; but in ancient
times those who practised it, fearing this odium, veiled and disguised themselves under
various names, some under that of poets, as Homer, Hesiod, and Simonides, some, of
hierophants and prophets, as Orpheus and Musaeus, and some, as I observe, even under
the name of gymnastic-masters, like Iccus of Tarentum, or the more recently celebrated
Herodicus, now of Selymbria and formerly of Megara, who is a first-rate Sophist. Your
own Agathocles pretended to be a musician, but was really an eminent Sophist; also
Pythocleides the Cean; and there were many others; and all of them, as I was saying,
adopted these arts as veils or disguises because they were afraid of the odium which
they would incur. But that is not my way, for I do not believe that they effected their
purpose, which was to deceive the government, who were not blinded by them; and as
to the people, they have no understanding, and only repeat what their rulers are pleased
to tell them. Now to run away, and to be caught in running away, is the very height of
folly, and also greatly increases the exasperation of mankind; for they regard him who
runs away as a rogue, in addition to any other objections which they have to him; and
therefore I take an entirely opposite course, and acknowledge myself to be a Sophist
and instructor of mankind; such an open acknowledgement appears to me to be a
better sort of caution than concealment. Nor do I neglect other precautions, and
therefore I hope, as I may say, by the favour of heaven that no harm will come of the
acknowledgment that I am a Sophist. And I have been now many years in the
profession—for all my years when added up are many: there is no one here present of
whom I might not be the father. Wherefore I should much prefer conversing with you, if
you want to speak with me, in the presence of the company.
As I suspected that he would like to have a little display and glorification in the presence
of Prodicus and Hippias, and would gladly show us to them in the light of his admirers, I
said: But why should we not summon Prodicus and Hippias and their friends to hear us?
Very good, he said.
Suppose, said Callias, that we hold a council in which you may sit and discuss.—This was
agreed upon, and great delight was felt at the prospect of hearing wise men talk; we
ourselves took the chairs and benches, and arranged them by Hippias, where the other
benches had been already placed. Meanwhile Callias and Alcibiades got Prodicus out of
bed and brought in him and his companions.
When we were all seated, Protagoras said: Now that the company are assembled,
Socrates, tell me about the young man of whom you were just now speaking.
I replied: I will begin again at the same point, Protagoras, and tell you once more the
purport of my visit: this is my friend Hippocrates, who is desirous of making your
acquaintance; he would like to know what will happen to him if he associates with you. I
have no more to say.
Protagoras answered: Young man, if you associate with me, on the very first day you will
return home a better man than you came, and better on the second day than on the
first, and better every day than you were on the day before.
When I heard this, I said: Protagoras, I do not at all wonder at hearing you say this; even
at your age, and with all your wisdom, if any one were to teach you what you did not
know before, you would become better no doubt: but please to answer in a different
way—I will explain how by an example. Let me suppose that Hippocrates, instead of
desiring your acquaintance, wished to become acquainted with the young man
Zeuxippus of Heraclea, who has lately been in Athens, and he had come to him as he
has come to you, and had heard him say, as he has heard you say, that every day he
would grow and become better if he associated with him: and then suppose that he
were to ask him, 'In what shall I become better, and in what shall I grow?'—Zeuxippus
would answer, 'In painting.' And suppose that he went to Orthagoras the Theban, and
heard him say the same thing, and asked him, 'In what shall I become better day by
day?' he would reply, 'In flute-playing.' Now I want you to make the same sort of answer
to this young man and to me, who am asking questions on his account. When you say
that on the first day on which he associates with you he will return home a better man,
and on every day will grow in like manner,—in what, Protagoras, will he be better? and
about what?
When Protagoras heard me say this, he replied: You ask questions fairly, and I like to
answer a question which is fairly put. If Hippocrates comes to me he will not experience
the sort of drudgery with which other Sophists are in the habit of insulting their pupils;
who, when they have just escaped from the arts, are taken and driven back into them by
these teachers, and made to learn calculation, and astronomy, and geometry, and music
(he gave a look at Hippias as he said this); but if he comes to me, he will learn that which
he comes to learn. And this is prudence in affairs private as well as public; he will learn
to order his own house in the best manner, and he will be able to speak and act for the
best in the affairs of the state.
Do I understand you, I said; and is your meaning that you teach the art of politics, and
that you promise to make men good citizens?
That, Socrates, is exactly the profession which I make.
Then, I said, you do indeed possess a noble art, if there is no mistake about this; for I will
freely confess to you, Protagoras, that I have a doubt whether this art is capable of
being taught, and yet I know not how to disbelieve your assertion. And I ought to tell
you why I am of opinion that this art cannot be taught or communicated by man to
man. I say that the Athenians are an understanding people, and indeed they are
esteemed to be such by the other Hellenes. Now I observe that when we are met
together in the assembly, and the matter in hand relates to building, the builders are
summoned as advisers; when the question is one of ship-building, then the ship-wrights;
and the like of other arts which they think capable of being taught and learned. And if
some person offers to give them advice who is not supposed by them to have any skill
in the art, even though he be good-looking, and rich, and noble, they will not listen to
him, but laugh and hoot at him, until either he is clamoured down and retires of himself;
or if he persist, he is dragged away or put out by the constables at the command of the
prytanes. This is their way of behaving about professors of the arts. But when the
question is an affair of state, then everybody is free to have a say—carpenter, tinker,
cobbler, sailor, passenger; rich and poor, high and low—any one who likes gets up, and
no one reproaches him, as in the former case, with not having learned, and having no
teacher, and yet giving advice; evidently because they are under the impression that this
sort of knowledge cannot be taught. And not only is this true of the state, but of
individuals; the best and wisest of our citizens are unable to impart their political
wisdom to others: as for example, Pericles, the father of these young men, who gave
them excellent instruction in all that could be learned from masters, in his own
department of politics neither taught them, nor gave them teachers; but they were
allowed to wander at their own free will in a sort of hope that they would light upon
virtue of their own accord. Or take another example: there was Cleinias the younger
brother of our friend Alcibiades, of whom this very same Pericles was the guardian; and
he being in fact under the apprehension that Cleinias would be corrupted by Alcibiades,
took him away, and placed him in the house of Ariphron to be educated; but before six
months had elapsed, Ariphron sent him back, not knowing what to do with him. And I
could mention numberless other instances of persons who were good themselves, and
never yet made any one else good, whether friend or stranger. Now I, Protagoras,
having these examples before me, am inclined to think that virtue cannot be taught. But
then again, when I listen to your words, I waver; and am disposed to think that there
must be something in what you say, because I know that you have great experience, and
learning, and invention. And I wish that you would, if possible, show me a little more
clearly that virtue can be taught. Will you be so good?
That I will, Socrates, and gladly. But what would you like? Shall I, as an elder, speak to
you as younger men in an apologue or myth, or shall I argue out the question?
To this several of the company answered that he should choose for himself.
Well, then, he said, I think that the myth will be more interesting.
Once upon a time there were gods only, and no mortal creatures. But when the time
came that these also should be created, the gods fashioned them out of earth and fire
and various mixtures of both elements in the interior of the earth; and when they were
about to bring them into the light of day, they ordered Prometheus and Epimetheus to
equip them, and to distribute to them severally their proper qualities. Epimetheus said
to Prometheus: 'Let me distribute, and do you inspect.' This was agreed, and Epimetheus
made the distribution. There were some to whom he gave strength without swiftness,
while he equipped the weaker with swiftness; some he armed, and others he left
unarmed; and devised for the latter some other means of preservation, making some
large, and having their size as a protection, and others small, whose nature was to fly in
the air or burrow in the ground; this was to be their way of escape. Thus did he
compensate them with the view of preventing any race from becoming extinct. And
when he had provided against their destruction by one another, he contrived also a
means of protecting them against the seasons of heaven; clothing them with close hair
and thick skins sufficient to defend them against the winter cold and able to resist the
summer heat, so that they might have a natural bed of their own when they wanted to
rest; also he furnished them with hoofs and hair and hard and callous skins under their
feet. Then he gave them varieties of food,—herb of the soil to some, to others fruits of
trees, and to others roots, and to some again he gave other animals as food. And some
he made to have few young ones, while those who were their prey were very prolific;
and in this manner the race was preserved. Thus did Epimetheus, who, not being very
wise, forgot that he had distributed among the brute animals all the qualities which he
had to give,—and when he came to man, who was still unprovided, he was terribly
perplexed. Now while he was in this perplexity, Prometheus came to inspect the
distribution, and he found that the other animals were suitably furnished, but that man
alone was naked and shoeless, and had neither bed nor arms of defence. The appointed
hour was approaching when man in his turn was to go forth into the light of day; and
Prometheus, not knowing how he could devise his salvation, stole the mechanical arts of
Hephaestus and Athene, and fire with them (they could neither have been acquired nor
used without fire), and gave them to man. Thus man had the wisdom necessary to the
support of life, but political wisdom he had not; for that was in the keeping of Zeus, and
the power of Prometheus did not extend to entering into the citadel of heaven, where
Zeus dwelt, who moreover had terrible sentinels; but he did enter by stealth into the
common workshop of Athene and Hephaestus, in which they used to practise their
favourite arts, and carried off Hephaestus' art of working by fire, and also the art of
Athene, and gave them to man. And in this way man was supplied with the means of
life. But Prometheus is said to have been afterwards prosecuted for theft, owing to the
blunder of Epimetheus.
Now man, having a share of the divine attributes, was at first the only one of the animals
who had any gods, because he alone was of their kindred; and he would raise altars and
images of them. He was not long in inventing articulate speech and names; and he also
constructed houses and clothes and shoes and beds, and drew sustenance from the
earth. Thus provided, mankind at first lived dispersed, and there were no cities. But the
consequence was that they were destroyed by the wild beasts, for they were utterly
weak in comparison of them, and their art was only sufficient to provide them with the
means of life, and did not enable them to carry on war against the animals: food they
had, but not as yet the art of government, of which the art of war is a part. After a while
the desire of self-preservation gathered them into cities; but when they were gathered
together, having no art of government, they evil intreated one another, and were again
in process of dispersion and destruction. Zeus feared that the entire race would be
exterminated, and so he sent Hermes to them, bearing reverence and justice to be the
ordering principles of cities and the bonds of friendship and conciliation. Hermes asked
Zeus how he should impart justice and reverence among men:—Should he distribute
them as the arts are distributed; that is to say, to a favoured few only, one skilled
individual having enough of medicine or of any other art for many unskilled ones? 'Shall
this be the manner in which I am to distribute justice and reverence among men, or shall
I give them to all?' 'To all,' said Zeus; 'I should like them all to have a share; for cities
cannot exist, if a few only share in the virtues, as in the arts. And further, make a law by
my order, that he who has no part in reverence and justice shall be put to death, for he
is a plague of the state.'
And this is the reason, Socrates, why the Athenians and mankind in general, when the
question relates to carpentering or any other mechanical art, allow but a few to share in
their deliberations; and when any one else interferes, then, as you say, they object, if he
be not of the favoured few; which, as I reply, is very natural. But when they meet to
deliberate about political virtue, which proceeds only by way of justice and wisdom, they
are patient enough of any man who speaks of them, as is also natural, because they
think that every man ought to share in this sort of virtue, and that states could not exist
if this were otherwise. I have explained to you, Socrates, the reason of this phenomenon.
And that you may not suppose yourself to be deceived in thinking that all men regard
every man as having a share of justice or honesty and of every other political virtue, let
me give you a further proof, which is this. In other cases, as you are aware, if a man says
that he is a good flute- player, or skilful in any other art in which he has no skill, people
either laugh at him or are angry with him, and his relations think that he is mad and go
and admonish him; but when honesty is in question, or some other political virtue, even
if they know that he is dishonest, yet, if the man comes publicly forward and tells the
truth about his dishonesty, then, what in the other case was held by them to be good
sense, they now deem to be madness. They say that all men ought to profess honesty
whether they are honest or not, and that a man is out of his mind who says anything
else. Their notion is, that a man must have some degree of honesty; and that if he has
none at all he ought not to be in the world.
I have been showing that they are right in admitting every man as a counsellor about
this sort of virtue, as they are of opinion that every man is a partaker of it. And I will now
endeavour to show further that they do not conceive this virtue to be given by nature,
or to grow spontaneously, but to be a thing which may be taught; and which comes to a
man by taking pains. No one would instruct, no one would rebuke, or be angry with
those whose calamities they suppose to be due to nature or chance; they do not try to
punish or to prevent them from being what they are; they do but pity them. Who is so
foolish as to chastise or instruct the ugly, or the diminutive, or the feeble? And for this
reason. Because he knows that good and evil of this kind is the work of nature and of
chance; whereas if a man is wanting in those good qualities which are attained by study
and exercise and teaching, and has only the contrary evil qualities, other men are angry
with him, and punish and reprove him—of these evil qualities one is impiety, another
injustice, and they may be described generally as the very opposite of political virtue. In
such cases any man will be angry with another, and reprimand him,—clearly because he
thinks that by study and learning, the virtue in which the other is deficient may be
acquired. If you will think, Socrates, of the nature of punishment, you will see at once
that in the opinion of mankind virtue may be acquired; no one punishes the evil-doer
under the notion, or for the reason, that he has done wrong, —only the unreasonable
fury of a beast acts in that manner. But he who desires to inflict rational punishment
does not retaliate for a past wrong which cannot be undone; he has regard to the
future, and is desirous that the man who is punished, and he who sees him punished,
may be deterred from doing wrong again. He punishes for the sake of prevention,
thereby clearly implying that virtue is capable of being taught. This is the notion of all
who retaliate upon others either privately or publicly. And the Athenians, too, your own
citizens, like other men, punish and take vengeance on all whom they regard as evil
doers; and hence, we may infer them to be of the number of those who think that virtue
may be acquired and taught. Thus far, Socrates, I have shown you clearly enough, if I am
not mistaken, that your countrymen are right in admitting the tinker and the cobbler to
advise about politics, and also that they deem virtue to be capable of being taught and
acquired.
There yet remains one difficulty which has been raised by you about the sons of good
men. What is the reason why good men teach their sons the knowledge which is gained
from teachers, and make them wise in that, but do nothing towards improving them in
the virtues which distinguish themselves? And here, Socrates, I will leave the apologue
and resume the argument. Please to consider: Is there or is there not some one quality
of which all the citizens must be partakers, if there is to be a city at all? In the answer to
this question is contained the only solution of your difficulty; there is no other. For if
there be any such quality, and this quality or unity is not the art of the carpenter, or the
smith, or the potter, but justice and temperance and holiness and, in a word, manly
virtue—if this is the quality of which all men must be partakers, and which is the very
condition of their learning or doing anything else, and if he who is wanting in this,
whether he be a child only or a grown-up man or woman, must be taught and punished,
until by punishment he becomes better, and he who rebels against instruction and
punishment is either exiled or condemned to death under the idea that he is incurable—
if what I am saying be true, good men have their sons taught other things and not this,
do consider how extraordinary their conduct would appear to be. For we have shown
that they think virtue capable of being taught and cultivated both in private and public;
and, notwithstanding, they have their sons taught lesser matters, ignorance of which
does not involve the punishment of death: but greater things, of which the ignorance
may cause death and exile to those who have no training or knowledge of them—aye,
and confiscation as well as death, and, in a word, may be the ruin of families—those
things, I say, they are supposed not to teach them,—not to take the utmost care that
they should learn. How improbable is this, Socrates!
Education and admonition commence in the first years of childhood, and last to the very
end of life. Mother and nurse and father and tutor are vying with one another about the
improvement of the child as soon as ever he is able to understand what is being said to
him: he cannot say or do anything without their setting forth to him that this is just and
that is unjust; this is honourable, that is dishonourable; this is holy, that is unholy; do this
and abstain from that. And if he obeys, well and good; if not, he is straightened by
threats and blows, like a piece of bent or warped wood. At a later stage they send him
to teachers, and enjoin them to see to his manners even more than to his reading and
music; and the teachers do as they are desired. And when the boy has learned his letters
and is beginning to understand what is written, as before he understood only what was
spoken, they put into his hands the works of great poets, which he reads sitting on a
bench at school; in these are contained many admonitions, and many tales, and praises,
and encomia of ancient famous men, which he is required to learn by heart, in order
that he may imitate or emulate them and desire to become like them. Then, again, the
teachers of the lyre take similar care that their young disciple is temperate and gets into
no mischief; and when they have taught him the use of the lyre, they introduce him to
the poems of other excellent poets, who are the lyric poets; and these they set to music,
and make their harmonies and rhythms quite familiar to the children's souls, in order
that they may learn to be more gentle, and harmonious, and rhythmical, and so more
fitted for speech and action; for the life of man in every part has need of harmony and
rhythm. Then they send them to the master of gymnastic, in order that their bodies may
better minister to the virtuous mind, and that they may not be compelled through
bodily weakness to play the coward in war or on any other occasion. This is what is done
by those who have the means, and those who have the means are the rich; their children
begin to go to school soonest and leave off latest. When they have done with masters,
the state again compels them to learn the laws, and live after the pattern which they
furnish, and not after their own fancies; and just as in learning to write, the writingmaster
first draws lines with a style for the use of the young beginner, and gives him the
tablet and makes him follow the lines, so the city draws the laws, which were the
invention of good lawgivers living in the olden time; these are given to the young man,
in order to guide him in his conduct whether he is commanding or obeying; and he who
transgresses them is to be corrected, or, in other words, called to account, which is a
term used not only in your country, but also in many others, seeing that justice calls
men to account. Now when there is all this care about virtue private and public, why,
Socrates, do you still wonder and doubt whether virtue can be taught? Cease to wonder,
for the opposite would be far more surprising.
But why then do the sons of good fathers often turn out ill? There is nothing very
wonderful in this; for, as I have been saying, the existence of a state implies that virtue is
not any man's private possession. If so —and nothing can be truer—then I will further
ask you to imagine, as an illustration, some other pursuit or branch of knowledge which
may be assumed equally to be the condition of the existence of a state. Suppose that
there could be no state unless we were all flute-players, as far as each had the capacity,
and everybody was freely teaching everybody the art, both in private and public, and
reproving the bad player as freely and openly as every man now teaches justice and the
laws, not concealing them as he would conceal the other arts, but imparting them—for
all of us have a mutual interest in the justice and virtue of one another, and this is the
reason why every one is so ready to teach justice and the laws;—suppose, I say, that
there were the same readiness and liberality among us in teaching one another fluteplaying,
do you imagine, Socrates, that the sons of good flute-players would be more
likely to be good than the sons of bad ones? I think not. Would not their sons grow up
to be distinguished or undistinguished according to their own natural capacities as
flute-players, and the son of a good player would often turn out to be a bad one, and
the son of a bad player to be a good one, all flute-players would be good enough in
comparison of those who were ignorant and unacquainted with the art of flute-playing?
In like manner I would have you consider that he who appears to you to be the worst of
those who have been brought up in laws and humanities, would appear to be a just man
and a master of justice if he were to be compared with men who had no education, or
courts of justice, or laws, or any restraints upon them which compelled them to practise
virtue— with the savages, for example, whom the poet Pherecrates exhibited on the
stage at the last year's Lenaean festival. If you were living among men such as the manhaters
in his Chorus, you would be only too glad to meet with Eurybates and
Phrynondas, and you would sorrowfully long to revisit the rascality of this part of the
world. You, Socrates, are discontented, and why? Because all men are teachers of virtue,
each one according to his ability; and you say Where are the teachers? You might as
well ask, Who teaches Greek? For of that too there will not be any teachers found. Or
you might ask, Who is to teach the sons of our artisans this same art which they have
learned of their fathers? He and his fellow-workmen have taught them to the best of
their ability,—but who will carry them further in their arts? And you would certainly have
a difficulty, Socrates, in finding a teacher of them; but there would be no difficulty in
finding a teacher of those who are wholly ignorant. And this is true of virtue or of
anything else; if a man is better able than we are to promote virtue ever so little, we
must be content with the result. A teacher of this sort I believe myself to be, and above
all other men to have the knowledge which makes a man noble and good; and I give my
pupils their money's-worth, and even more, as they themselves confess. And therefore I
have introduced the following mode of payment:—When a man has been my pupil, if he
likes he pays my price, but there is no compulsion; and if he does not like, he has only to
go into a temple and take an oath of the value of the instructions, and he pays no more
than he declares to be their value.
Such is my Apologue, Socrates, and such is the argument by which I endeavour to show
that virtue may be taught, and that this is the opinion of the Athenians. And I have also
attempted to show that you are not to wonder at good fathers having bad sons, or at
good sons having bad fathers, of which the sons of Polycleitus afford an example, who
are the companions of our friends here, Paralus and Xanthippus, but are nothing in
comparison with their father; and this is true of the sons of many other artists. As yet I
ought not to say the same of Paralus and Xanthippus themselves, for they are young
and there is still hope of them.
Protagoras ended, and in my ear
'So charming left his voice, that I the while Thought him still speaking; still stood fixed to
hear (Borrowed by Milton, "Paradise Lost".).'
At length, when the truth dawned upon me, that he had really finished, not without
difficulty I began to collect myself, and looking at Hippocrates, I said to him: O son of
Apollodorus, how deeply grateful I am to you for having brought me hither; I would not
have missed the speech of Protagoras for a great deal. For I used to imagine that no
human care could make men good; but I know better now. Yet I have still one very small
difficulty which I am sure that Protagoras will easily explain, as he has already explained
so much. If a man were to go and consult Pericles or any of our great speakers about
these matters, he might perhaps hear as fine a discourse; but then when one has a
question to ask of any of them, like books, they can neither answer nor ask; and if any
one challenges the least particular of their speech, they go ringing on in a long
harangue, like brazen pots, which when they are struck continue to sound unless some
one puts his hand upon them; whereas our friend Protagoras can not only make a good
speech, as he has already shown, but when he is asked a question he can answer briefly;
and when he asks he will wait and hear the answer; and this is a very rare gift. Now I,
Protagoras, want to ask of you a little question, which if you will only answer, I shall be
quite satisfied. You were saying that virtue can be taught;—that I will take upon your
authority, and there is no one to whom I am more ready to trust. But I marvel at one
thing about which I should like to have my mind set at rest. You were speaking of Zeus
sending justice and reverence to men; and several times while you were speaking,
justice, and temperance, and holiness, and all these qualities, were described by you as if
together they made up virtue. Now I want you to tell me truly whether virtue is one
whole, of which justice and temperance and holiness are parts; or whether all these are
only the names of one and the same thing: that is the doubt which still lingers in my
mind.
There is no difficulty, Socrates, in answering that the qualities of which you are speaking
are the parts of virtue which is one.
And are they parts, I said, in the same sense in which mouth, nose, and eyes, and ears,
are the parts of a face; or are they like the parts of gold, which differ from the whole and
from one another only in being larger or smaller?
I should say that they differed, Socrates, in the first way; they are related to one another
as the parts of a face are related to the whole face.
And do men have some one part and some another part of virtue? Or if a man has one
part, must he also have all the others?
By no means, he said; for many a man is brave and not just, or just and not wise.
You would not deny, then, that courage and wisdom are also parts of virtue?
Most undoubtedly they are, he answered; and wisdom is the noblest of the parts.
And they are all different from one another? I said.
Yes.
And has each of them a distinct function like the parts of the face;—the eye, for
example, is not like the ear, and has not the same functions; and the other parts are
none of them like one another, either in their functions, or in any other way? I want to
know whether the comparison holds concerning the parts of virtue. Do they also differ
from one another in themselves and in their functions? For that is clearly what the simile
would imply.
Yes, Socrates, you are right in supposing that they differ.
Then, I said, no other part of virtue is like knowledge, or like justice, or like courage, or
like temperance, or like holiness?
No, he answered.
Well then, I said, suppose that you and I enquire into their natures. And first, you would
agree with me that justice is of the nature of a thing, would you not? That is my opinion:
would it not be yours also?
Mine also, he said.
And suppose that some one were to ask us, saying, 'O Protagoras, and you, Socrates,
what about this thing which you were calling justice, is it just or unjust?'—and I were to
answer, just: would you vote with me or against me?
With you, he said.
Thereupon I should answer to him who asked me, that justice is of the nature of the just:
would not you?
Yes, he said.
And suppose that he went on to say: 'Well now, is there also such a thing as holiness?'—
we should answer, 'Yes,' if I am not mistaken?
Yes, he said.
Which you would also acknowledge to be a thing—should we not say so?
He assented.
'And is this a sort of thing which is of the nature of the holy, or of the nature of the
unholy?' I should be angry at his putting such a question, and should say, 'Peace, man;
nothing can be holy if holiness is not holy.' What would you say? Would you not answer
in the same way?
Certainly, he said.
And then after this suppose that he came and asked us, 'What were you saying just
now? Perhaps I may not have heard you rightly, but you seemed to me to be saying that
the parts of virtue were not the same as one another.' I should reply, 'You certainly
heard that said, but not, as you imagine, by me; for I only asked the question;
Protagoras gave the answer.' And suppose that he turned to you and said, 'Is this true,
Protagoras? and do you maintain that one part of virtue is unlike another, and is this
your position?'—how would you answer him?
I could not help acknowledging the truth of what he said, Socrates.
Well then, Protagoras, we will assume this; and now supposing that he proceeded to say
further, 'Then holiness is not of the nature of justice, nor justice of the nature of holiness,
but of the nature of unholiness; and holiness is of the nature of the not just, and
therefore of the unjust, and the unjust is the unholy': how shall we answer him? I should
certainly answer him on my own behalf that justice is holy, and that holiness is just; and I
would say in like manner on your behalf also, if you would allow me, that justice is either
the same with holiness, or very nearly the same; and above all I would assert that justice
is like holiness and holiness is like justice; and I wish that you would tell me whether I
may be permitted to give this answer on your behalf, and whether you would agree with
me.
He replied, I cannot simply agree, Socrates, to the proposition that justice is holy and
that holiness is just, for there appears to me to be a difference between them. But what
matter? if you please I please; and let us assume, if you will I, that justice is holy, and that
holiness is just.
Pardon me, I replied; I do not want this 'if you wish' or 'if you will' sort of conclusion to
be proven, but I want you and me to be proven: I mean to say that the conclusion will
be best proven if there be no 'if.'
Well, he said, I admit that justice bears a resemblance to holiness, for there is always
some point of view in which everything is like every other thing; white is in a certain way
like black, and hard is like soft, and the most extreme opposites have some qualities in
common; even the parts of the face which, as we were saying before, are distinct and
have different functions, are still in a certain point of view similar, and one of them is like
another of them. And you may prove that they are like one another on the same
principle that all things are like one another; and yet things which are like in some
particular ought not to be called alike, nor things which are unlike in some particular,
however slight, unlike.
And do you think, I said in a tone of surprise, that justice and holiness have but a small
degree of likeness?
Certainly not; any more than I agree with what I understand to be your view.
Well, I said, as you appear to have a difficulty about this, let us take another of the
examples which you mentioned instead. Do you admit the existence of folly?
I do.
And is not wisdom the very opposite of folly?
That is true, he said.
And when men act rightly and advantageously they seem to you to be temperate?
Yes, he said.
And temperance makes them temperate?
Certainly.
And they who do not act rightly act foolishly, and in acting thus are not temperate?
I agree, he said.
Then to act foolishly is the opposite of acting temperately?
He assented.
And foolish actions are done by folly, and temperate actions by temperance?
He agreed.
And that is done strongly which is done by strength, and that which is weakly done, by
weakness?
He assented.
And that which is done with swiftness is done swiftly, and that which is done with
slowness, slowly?
He assented again.
And that which is done in the same manner, is done by the same; and that which is done
in an opposite manner by the opposite?
He agreed.
Once more, I said, is there anything beautiful?
Yes.
To which the only opposite is the ugly?
There is no other.
And is there anything good?
There is.
To which the only opposite is the evil?
There is no other.
And there is the acute in sound?
True.
To which the only opposite is the grave?
There is no other, he said, but that.
Then every opposite has one opposite only and no more?
He assented.
Then now, I said, let us recapitulate our admissions. First of all we admitted that
everything has one opposite and not more than one?
We did so.
And we admitted also that what was done in opposite ways was done by opposites?
Yes.
And that which was done foolishly, as we further admitted, was done in the opposite
way to that which was done temperately?
Yes.
And that which was done temperately was done by temperance, and that which was
done foolishly by folly?
He agreed.
And that which is done in opposite ways is done by opposites?
Yes.
And one thing is done by temperance, and quite another thing by folly?
Yes.
And in opposite ways?
Certainly.
And therefore by opposites:—then folly is the opposite of temperance?
Clearly.
And do you remember that folly has already been acknowledged by us to be the
opposite of wisdom?
He assented.
And we said that everything has only one opposite?
Yes.
Then, Protagoras, which of the two assertions shall we renounce? One says that
everything has but one opposite; the other that wisdom is distinct from temperance,
and that both of them are parts of virtue; and that they are not only distinct, but
dissimilar, both in themselves and in their functions, like the parts of a face. Which of
these two assertions shall we renounce? For both of them together are certainly not in
harmony; they do not accord or agree: for how can they be said to agree if everything is
assumed to have only one opposite and not more than one, and yet folly, which is one,
has clearly the two opposites—wisdom and temperance? Is not that true, Protagoras?
What else would you say?
He assented, but with great reluctance.
Then temperance and wisdom are the same, as before justice and holiness appeared to
us to be nearly the same. And now, Protagoras, I said, we must finish the enquiry, and
not faint. Do you think that an unjust man can be temperate in his injustice?
I should be ashamed, Socrates, he said, to acknowledge this, which nevertheless many
may be found to assert.
And shall I argue with them or with you? I replied.
I would rather, he said, that you should argue with the many first, if you will.
Whichever you please, if you will only answer me and say whether you are of their
opinion or not. My object is to test the validity of the argument; and yet the result may
be that I who ask and you who answer may both be put on our trial.
Protagoras at first made a show of refusing, as he said that the argument was not
encouraging; at length, he consented to answer.
Now then, I said, begin at the beginning and answer me. You think that some men are
temperate, and yet unjust?
Yes, he said; let that be admitted.
And temperance is good sense?
Yes.
And good sense is good counsel in doing injustice?
Granted.
If they succeed, I said, or if they do not succeed?
If they succeed.
And you would admit the existence of goods?
Yes.
And is the good that which is expedient for man?
Yes, indeed, he said: and there are some things which may be inexpedient, and yet I call
them good.
I thought that Protagoras was getting ruffled and excited; he seemed to be setting
himself in an attitude of war. Seeing this, I minded my business, and gently said:—
When you say, Protagoras, that things inexpedient are good, do you mean inexpedient
for man only, or inexpedient altogether? and do you call the latter good?
Certainly not the last, he replied; for I know of many things—meats, drinks, medicines,
and ten thousand other things, which are inexpedient for man, and some which are
expedient; and some which are neither expedient nor inexpedient for man, but only for
horses; and some for oxen only, and some for dogs; and some for no animals, but only
for trees; and some for the roots of trees and not for their branches, as for example,
manure, which is a good thing when laid about the roots of a tree, but utterly
destructive if thrown upon the shoots and young branches; or I may instance olive oil,
which is mischievous to all plants, and generally most injurious to the hair of every
animal with the exception of man, but beneficial to human hair and to the human body
generally; and even in this application (so various and changeable is the nature of the
benefit), that which is the greatest good to the outward parts of a man, is a very great
evil to his inward parts: and for this reason physicians always forbid their patients the
use of oil in their food, except in very small quantities, just enough to extinguish the
disagreeable sensation of smell in meats and sauces.
When he had given this answer, the company cheered him. And I said: Protagoras, I
have a wretched memory, and when any one makes a long speech to me I never
remember what he is talking about. As then, if I had been deaf, and you were going to
converse with me, you would have had to raise your voice; so now, having such a bad
memory, I will ask you to cut your answers shorter, if you would take me with you.
What do you mean? he said: how am I to shorten my answers? shall I make them too
short?
Certainly not, I said.
But short enough?
Yes, I said.
Shall I answer what appears to me to be short enough, or what appears to you to be
short enough?
I have heard, I said, that you can speak and teach others to speak about the same things
at such length that words never seemed to fail, or with such brevity that no one could
use fewer of them. Please therefore, if you talk with me, to adopt the latter or more
compendious method.
Socrates, he replied, many a battle of words have I fought, and if I had followed the
method of disputation which my adversaries desired, as you want me to do, I should
have been no better than another, and the name of Protagoras would have been
nowhere.
I saw that he was not satisfied with his previous answers, and that he would not play the
part of answerer any more if he could help; and I considered that there was no call upon
me to continue the conversation; so I said: Protagoras, I do not wish to force the
conversation upon you if you had rather not, but when you are willing to argue with me
in such a way that I can follow you, then I will argue with you. Now you, as is said of you
by others and as you say of yourself, are able to have discussions in shorter forms of
speech as well as in longer, for you are a master of wisdom; but I cannot manage these
long speeches: I only wish that I could. You, on the other hand, who are capable of
either, ought to speak shorter as I beg you, and then we might converse. But I see that
you are disinclined, and as I have an engagement which will prevent my staying to hear
you at greater length (for I have to be in another place), I will depart; although I should
have liked to have heard you.
Thus I spoke, and was rising from my seat, when Callias seized me by the right hand,
and in his left hand caught hold of this old cloak of mine. He said: We cannot let you go,
Socrates, for if you leave us there will be an end of our discussions: I must therefore beg
you to remain, as there is nothing in the world that I should like better than to hear you
and Protagoras discourse. Do not deny the company this pleasure.
Now I had got up, and was in the act of departure. Son of Hipponicus, I replied, I have
always admired, and do now heartily applaud and love your philosophical spirit, and I
would gladly comply with your request, if I could. But the truth is that I cannot. And
what you ask is as great an impossibility to me, as if you bade me run a race with Crison
of Himera, when in his prime, or with some one of the long or day course runners. To
such a request I should reply that I would fain ask the same of my own legs; but they
refuse to comply. And therefore if you want to see Crison and me in the same stadium,
you must bid him slacken his speed to mine, for I cannot run quickly, and he can run
slowly. And in like manner if you want to hear me and Protagoras discoursing, you must
ask him to shorten his answers, and keep to the point, as he did at first; if not, how can
there be any discussion? For discussion is one thing, and making an oration is quite
another, in my humble opinion.
But you see, Socrates, said Callias, that Protagoras may fairly claim to speak in his own
way, just as you claim to speak in yours.
Here Alcibiades interposed, and said: That, Callias, is not a true statement of the case.
For our friend Socrates admits that he cannot make a speech—in this he yields the palm
to Protagoras: but I should be greatly surprised if he yielded to any living man in the
power of holding and apprehending an argument. Now if Protagoras will make a similar
admission, and confess that he is inferior to Socrates in argumentative skill, that is
enough for Socrates; but if he claims a superiority in argument as well, let him ask and
answer—not, when a question is asked, slipping away from the point, and instead of
answering, making a speech at such length that most of his hearers forget the question
at issue (not that Socrates is likely to forget—I will be bound for that, although he may
pretend in fun that he has a bad memory). And Socrates appears to me to be more in
the right than Protagoras; that is my view, and every man ought to say what he thinks.
When Alcibiades had done speaking, some one—Critias, I believe—went on to say: O
Prodicus and Hippias, Callias appears to me to be a partisan of Protagoras: and this led
Alcibiades, who loves opposition, to take the other side. But we should not be partisans
either of Socrates or of Protagoras; let us rather unite in entreating both of them not to
break up the discussion.
Prodicus added: That, Critias, seems to me to be well said, for those who are present at
such discussions ought to be impartial hearers of both the speakers; remembering,
however, that impartiality is not the same as equality, for both sides should be
impartially heard, and yet an equal meed should not be assigned to both of them; but
to the wiser a higher meed should be given, and a lower to the less wise. And I as well as
Critias would beg you, Protagoras and Socrates, to grant our request, which is, that you
will argue with one another and not wrangle; for friends argue with friends out of goodwill,
but only adversaries and enemies wrangle. And then our meeting will be delightful;
for in this way you, who are the speakers, will be most likely to win esteem, and not
praise only, among us who are your audience; for esteem is a sincere conviction of the
hearers' souls, but praise is often an insincere expression of men uttering falsehoods
contrary to their conviction. And thus we who are the hearers will be gratified and not
pleased; for gratification is of the mind when receiving wisdom and knowledge, but
pleasure is of the body when eating or experiencing some other bodily delight. Thus
spoke Prodicus, and many of the company applauded his words.
Hippias the sage spoke next. He said: All of you who are here present I reckon to be
kinsmen and friends and fellow-citizens, by nature and not by law; for by nature like is
akin to like, whereas law is the tyrant of mankind, and often compels us to do many
things which are against nature. How great would be the disgrace then, if we, who know
the nature of things, and are the wisest of the Hellenes, and as such are met together in
this city, which is the metropolis of wisdom, and in the greatest and most glorious house
of this city, should have nothing to show worthy of this height of dignity, but should
only quarrel with one another like the meanest of mankind! I do pray and advise you,
Protagoras, and you, Socrates, to agree upon a compromise. Let us be your
peacemakers. And do not you, Socrates, aim at this precise and extreme brevity in
discourse, if Protagoras objects, but loosen and let go the reins of speech, that your
words may be grander and more becoming to you. Neither do you, Protagoras, go forth
on the gale with every sail set out of sight of land into an ocean of words, but let there
be a mean observed by both of you. Do as I say. And let me also persuade you to
choose an arbiter or overseer or president; he will keep watch over your words and will
prescribe their proper length.
This proposal was received by the company with universal approval; Callias said that he
would not let me off, and they begged me to choose an arbiter. But I said that to choose
an umpire of discourse would be unseemly; for if the person chosen was inferior, then
the inferior or worse ought not to preside over the better; or if he was equal, neither
would that be well; for he who is our equal will do as we do, and what will be the use of
choosing him? And if you say, 'Let us have a better then,'—to that I answer that you
cannot have any one who is wiser than Protagoras. And if you choose another who is
not really better, and whom you only say is better, to put another over him as though he
were an inferior person would be an unworthy reflection on him; not that, as far as I am
concerned, any reflection is of much consequence to me. Let me tell you then what I will
do in order that the conversation and discussion may go on as you desire. If Protagoras
is not disposed to answer, let him ask and I will answer; and I will endeavour to show at
the same time how, as I maintain, he ought to answer: and when I have answered as
many questions as he likes to ask, let him in like manner answer me; and if he seems to
be not very ready at answering the precise question asked of him, you and I will unite in
entreating him, as you entreated me, not to spoil the discussion. And this will require no
special arbiter—all of you shall be arbiters.
This was generally approved, and Protagoras, though very much against his will, was
obliged to agree that he would ask questions; and when he had put a sufficient number
of them, that he would answer in his turn those which he was asked in short replies. He
began to put his questions as follows:—
I am of opinion, Socrates, he said, that skill in poetry is the principal part of education;
and this I conceive to be the power of knowing what compositions of the poets are
correct, and what are not, and how they are to be distinguished, and of explaining when
asked the reason of the difference. And I propose to transfer the question which you
and I have been discussing to the domain of poetry; we will speak as before of virtue,
but in reference to a passage of a poet. Now Simonides says to Scopas the son of Creon
the Thessalian:
'Hardly on the one hand can a man become truly good, built four-square in hands and
feet and mind, a work without a flaw.'
Do you know the poem? or shall I repeat the whole?
There is no need, I said; for I am perfectly well acquainted with the ode, —I have made a
careful study of it.
Very well, he said. And do you think that the ode is a good composition, and true?
Yes, I said, both good and true.
But if there is a contradiction, can the composition be good or true?
No, not in that case, I replied.
And is there not a contradiction? he asked. Reflect.
Well, my friend, I have reflected.
And does not the poet proceed to say, 'I do not agree with the word of Pittacus, albeit
the utterance of a wise man: Hardly can a man be good'? Now you will observe that this
is said by the same poet.
I know it.
And do you think, he said, that the two sayings are consistent?
Yes, I said, I think so (at the same time I could not help fearing that there might be
something in what he said). And you think otherwise?
Why, he said, how can he be consistent in both? First of all, premising as his own
thought, 'Hardly can a man become truly good'; and then a little further on in the poem,
forgetting, and blaming Pittacus and refusing to agree with him, when he says, 'Hardly
can a man be good,' which is the very same thing. And yet when he blames him who
says the same with himself, he blames himself; so that he must be wrong either in his
first or his second assertion.
Many of the audience cheered and applauded this. And I felt at first giddy and faint, as if
I had received a blow from the hand of an expert boxer, when I heard his words and the
sound of the cheering; and to confess the truth, I wanted to get time to think what the
meaning of the poet really was. So I turned to Prodicus and called him. Prodicus, I said,
Simonides is a countryman of yours, and you ought to come to his aid. I must appeal to
you, like the river Scamander in Homer, who, when beleaguered by Achilles, summons
the Simois to aid him, saying:
'Brother dear, let us both together stay the force of the hero (Il.).'
And I summon you, for I am afraid that Protagoras will make an end of Simonides. Now
is the time to rehabilitate Simonides, by the application of your philosophy of synonyms,
which enables you to distinguish 'will' and 'wish,' and make other charming distinctions
like those which you drew just now. And I should like to know whether you would agree
with me; for I am of opinion that there is no contradiction in the words of Simonides.
And first of all I wish that you would say whether, in your opinion, Prodicus, 'being' is the
same as 'becoming.'
Not the same, certainly, replied Prodicus.
Did not Simonides first set forth, as his own view, that 'Hardly can a man become truly
good'?
Quite right, said Prodicus.
And then he blames Pittacus, not, as Protagoras imagines, for repeating that which he
says himself, but for saying something different from himself. Pittacus does not say as
Simonides says, that hardly can a man become good, but hardly can a man be good:
and our friend Prodicus would maintain that being, Protagoras, is not the same as
becoming; and if they are not the same, then Simonides is not inconsistent with himself.
I dare say that Prodicus and many others would say, as Hesiod says,
'On the one hand, hardly can a man become good, For the gods have made virtue the
reward of toil, But on the other hand, when you have climbed the height, Then, to retain
virtue, however difficult the acquisition, is easy (Works and Days).'
Prodicus heard and approved; but Protagoras said: Your correction, Socrates, involves a
greater error than is contained in the sentence which you are correcting.
Alas! I said, Protagoras; then I am a sorry physician, and do but aggravate a disorder
which I am seeking to cure.
Such is the fact, he said.
How so? I asked.
The poet, he replied, could never have made such a mistake as to say that virtue, which
in the opinion of all men is the hardest of all things, can be easily retained.
Well, I said, and how fortunate are we in having Prodicus among us, at the right
moment; for he has a wisdom, Protagoras, which, as I imagine, is more than human and
of very ancient date, and may be as old as Simonides or even older. Learned as you are
in many things, you appear to know nothing of this; but I know, for I am a disciple of his.
And now, if I am not mistaken, you do not understand the word 'hard' (chalepon) in the
sense which Simonides intended; and I must correct you, as Prodicus corrects me when I
use the word 'awful' (deinon) as a term of praise. If I say that Protagoras or any one else
is an 'awfully' wise man, he asks me if I am not ashamed of calling that which is good
'awful'; and then he explains to me that the term 'awful' is always taken in a bad sense,
and that no one speaks of being 'awfully' healthy or wealthy, or of 'awful' peace, but of
'awful' disease, 'awful' war, 'awful' poverty, meaning by the term 'awful,' evil. And I think
that Simonides and his countrymen the Ceans, when they spoke of 'hard' meant 'evil,' or
something which you do not understand. Let us ask Prodicus, for he ought to be able to
answer questions about the dialect of Simonides. What did he mean, Prodicus, by the
term 'hard'?
Evil, said Prodicus.
And therefore, I said, Prodicus, he blames Pittacus for saying, 'Hard is the good,' just as if
that were equivalent to saying, Evil is the good.
Yes, he said, that was certainly his meaning; and he is twitting Pittacus with ignorance of
the use of terms, which in a Lesbian, who has been accustomed to speak a barbarous
language, is natural.
Do you hear, Protagoras, I asked, what our friend Prodicus is saying? And have you an
answer for him?
You are entirely mistaken, Prodicus, said Protagoras; and I know very well that
Simonides in using the word 'hard' meant what all of us mean, not evil, but that which is
not easy—that which takes a great deal of trouble: of this I am positive.
I said: I also incline to believe, Protagoras, that this was the meaning of Simonides, of
which our friend Prodicus was very well aware, but he thought that he would make fun,
and try if you could maintain your thesis; for that Simonides could never have meant the
other is clearly proved by the context, in which he says that God only has this gift. Now
he cannot surely mean to say that to be good is evil, when he afterwards proceeds to
say that God only has this gift, and that this is the attribute of him and of no other. For if
this be his meaning, Prodicus would impute to Simonides a character of recklessness
which is very unlike his countrymen. And I should like to tell you, I said, what I imagine
to be the real meaning of Simonides in this poem, if you will test what, in your way of
speaking, would be called my skill in poetry; or if you would rather, I will be the listener.
To this proposal Protagoras replied: As you please;—and Hippias, Prodicus, and the
others told me by all means to do as I proposed.
Then now, I said, I will endeavour to explain to you my opinion about this poem of
Simonides. There is a very ancient philosophy which is more cultivated in Crete and
Lacedaemon than in any other part of Hellas, and there are more philosophers in those
countries than anywhere else in the world. This, however, is a secret which the
Lacedaemonians deny; and they pretend to be ignorant, just because they do not wish
to have it thought that they rule the world by wisdom, like the Sophists of whom
Protagoras was speaking, and not by valour of arms; considering that if the reason of
their superiority were disclosed, all men would be practising their wisdom. And this
secret of theirs has never been discovered by the imitators of Lacedaemonian fashions
in other cities, who go about with their ears bruised in imitation of them, and have the
caestus bound on their arms, and are always in training, and wear short cloaks; for they
imagine that these are the practices which have enabled the Lacedaemonians to
conquer the other Hellenes. Now when the Lacedaemonians want to unbend and hold
free conversation with their wise men, and are no longer satisfied with mere secret
intercourse, they drive out all these laconizers, and any other foreigners who may
happen to be in their country, and they hold a philosophical seance unknown to
strangers; and they themselves forbid their young men to go out into other cities—in
this they are like the Cretans— in order that they may not unlearn the lessons which
they have taught them. And in Lacedaemon and Crete not only men but also women
have a pride in their high cultivation. And hereby you may know that I am right in
attributing to the Lacedaemonians this excellence in philosophy and speculation: If a
man converses with the most ordinary Lacedaemonian, he will find him seldom good for
much in general conversation, but at any point in the discourse he will be darting out
some notable saying, terse and full of meaning, with unerring aim; and the person with
whom he is talking seems to be like a child in his hands. And many of our own age and
of former ages have noted that the true Lacedaemonian type of character has the love
of philosophy even stronger than the love of gymnastics; they are conscious that only a
perfectly educated man is capable of uttering such expressions. Such were Thales of
Miletus, and Pittacus of Mitylene, and Bias of Priene, and our own Solon, and Cleobulus
the Lindian, and Myson the Chenian; and seventh in the catalogue of wise men was the
Lacedaemonian Chilo. All these were lovers and emulators and disciples of the culture of
the Lacedaemonians, and any one may perceive that their wisdom was of this character;
consisting of short memorable sentences, which they severally uttered. And they met
together and dedicated in the temple of Apollo at Delphi, as the first-fruits of their
wisdom, the far-famed inscriptions, which are in all men's mouths—'Know thyself,' and
'Nothing too much.'
Why do I say all this? I am explaining that this Lacedaemonian brevity was the style of
primitive philosophy. Now there was a saying of Pittacus which was privately circulated
and received the approbation of the wise, 'Hard is it to be good.' And Simonides, who
was ambitious of the fame of wisdom, was aware that if he could overthrow this saying,
then, as if he had won a victory over some famous athlete, he would carry off the palm
among his contemporaries. And if I am not mistaken, he composed the entire poem
with the secret intention of damaging Pittacus and his saying.
Let us all unite in examining his words, and see whether I am speaking the truth.
Simonides must have been a lunatic, if, in the very first words of the poem, wanting to
say only that to become good is hard, he inserted (Greek) 'on the one hand' ('on the one
hand to become good is hard'); there would be no reason for the introduction of
(Greek), unless you suppose him to speak with a hostile reference to the words of
Pittacus. Pittacus is saying 'Hard is it to be good,' and he, in refutation of this thesis,
rejoins that the truly hard thing, Pittacus, is to become good, not joining 'truly' with
'good,' but with 'hard.' Not, that the hard thing is to be truly good, as though there were
some truly good men, and there were others who were good but not truly good (this
would be a very simple observation, and quite unworthy of Simonides); but you must
suppose him to make a trajection of the word 'truly' (Greek), construing the saying of
Pittacus thus (and let us imagine Pittacus to be speaking and Simonides answering him):
'O my friends,' says Pittacus, 'hard is it to be good,' and Simonides answers, 'In that,
Pittacus, you are mistaken; the difficulty is not to be good, but on the one hand, to
become good, four-square in hands and feet and mind, without a flaw—that is hard
truly.' This way of reading the passage accounts for the insertion of (Greek) 'on the one
hand,' and for the position at the end of the clause of the word 'truly,' and all that
follows shows this to be the meaning. A great deal might be said in praise of the details
of the poem, which is a charming piece of workmanship, and very finished, but such
minutiae would be tedious. I should like, however, to point out the general intention of
the poem, which is certainly designed in every part to be a refutation of the saying of
Pittacus. For he speaks in what follows a little further on as if he meant to argue that
although there is a difficulty in becoming good, yet this is possible for a time, and only
for a time. But having become good, to remain in a good state and be good, as you,
Pittacus, affirm, is not possible, and is not granted to man; God only has this blessing;
'but man cannot help being bad when the force of circumstances overpowers him.' Now
whom does the force of circumstance overpower in the command of a vessel?— not the
private individual, for he is always overpowered; and as one who is already prostrate
cannot be overthrown, and only he who is standing upright but not he who is prostrate
can be laid prostrate, so the force of circumstances can only overpower him who, at
some time or other, has resources, and not him who is at all times helpless. The descent
of a great storm may make the pilot helpless, or the severity of the season the
husbandman or the physician; for the good may become bad, as another poet
witnesses:—
'The good are sometimes good and sometimes bad.'
But the bad does not become bad; he is always bad. So that when the force of
circumstances overpowers the man of resources and skill and virtue, then he cannot
help being bad. And you, Pittacus, are saying, 'Hard is it to be good.' Now there is a
difficulty in becoming good; and yet this is possible: but to be good is an impossibility—
'For he who does well is the good man, and he who does ill is the bad.'
But what sort of doing is good in letters? and what sort of doing makes a man good in
letters? Clearly the knowing of them. And what sort of well- doing makes a man a good
physician? Clearly the knowledge of the art of healing the sick. 'But he who does ill is the
bad.' Now who becomes a bad physician? Clearly he who is in the first place a physician,
and in the second place a good physician; for he may become a bad one also: but none
of us unskilled individuals can by any amount of doing ill become physicians, any more
than we can become carpenters or anything of that sort; and he who by doing ill cannot
become a physician at all, clearly cannot become a bad physician. In like manner the
good may become deteriorated by time, or toil, or disease, or other accident (the only
real doing ill is to be deprived of knowledge), but the bad man will never become bad,
for he is always bad; and if he were to become bad, he must previously have been good.
Thus the words of the poem tend to show that on the one hand a man cannot be
continuously good, but that he may become good and may also become bad; and again
that
'They are the best for the longest time whom the gods love.'
All this relates to Pittacus, as is further proved by the sequel. For he adds:—
'Therefore I will not throw away my span of life to no purpose in searching after the
impossible, hoping in vain to find a perfectly faultless man among those who partake of
the fruit of the broad-bosomed earth: if I find him, I will send you word.'
(this is the vehement way in which he pursues his attack upon Pittacus throughout the
whole poem):
'But him who does no evil, voluntarily I praise and love;—not even the gods war against
necessity.'
All this has a similar drift, for Simonides was not so ignorant as to say that he praised
those who did no evil voluntarily, as though there were some who did evil voluntarily.
For no wise man, as I believe, will allow that any human being errs voluntarily, or
voluntarily does evil and dishonourable actions; but they are very well aware that all who
do evil and dishonourable things do them against their will. And Simonides never says
that he praises him who does no evil voluntarily; the word 'voluntarily' applies to
himself. For he was under the impression that a good man might often compel himself
to love and praise another, and to be the friend and approver of another; and that there
might be an involuntary love, such as a man might feel to an unnatural father or mother,
or country, or the like. Now bad men, when their parents or country have any defects,
look on them with malignant joy, and find fault with them and expose and denounce
them to others, under the idea that the rest of mankind will be less likely to take
themselves to task and accuse them of neglect; and they blame their defects far more
than they deserve, in order that the odium which is necessarily incurred by them may be
increased: but the good man dissembles his feelings, and constrains himself to praise
them; and if they have wronged him and he is angry, he pacifies his anger and is
reconciled, and compels himself to love and praise his own flesh and blood. And
Simonides, as is probable, considered that he himself had often had to praise and
magnify a tyrant or the like, much against his will, and he also wishes to imply to
Pittacus that he does not censure him because he is censorious.
'For I am satisfied' he says, 'when a man is neither bad nor very stupid; and when he
knows justice (which is the health of states), and is of sound mind, I will find no fault
with him, for I am not given to finding fault, and there are innumerable fools'
(implying that if he delighted in censure he might have abundant opportunity of finding
fault).
'All things are good with which evil is unmingled.'
In these latter words he does not mean to say that all things are good which have no
evil in them, as you might say 'All things are white which have no black in them,' for that
would be ridiculous; but he means to say that he accepts and finds no fault with the
moderate or intermediate state.
('I do not hope' he says, 'to find a perfectly blameless man among those who partake of
the fruits of the broad-bosomed earth (if I find him, I will send you word); in this sense I
praise no man. But he who is moderately good, and does no evil, is good enough for
me, who love and approve every one')
(and here observe that he uses a Lesbian word, epainemi (approve), because he is
addressing Pittacus,
'Who love and APPROVE every one VOLUNTARILY, who does no evil:'
and that the stop should be put after 'voluntarily'); 'but there are some whom I
involuntarily praise and love. And you, Pittacus, I would never have blamed, if you had
spoken what was moderately good and true; but I do blame you because, putting on
the appearance of truth, you are speaking falsely about the highest matters.'—And this, I
said, Prodicus and Protagoras, I take to be the meaning of Simonides in this poem.
Hippias said: I think, Socrates, that you have given a very good explanation of the poem;
but I have also an excellent interpretation of my own which I will propound to you, if
you will allow me.
Nay, Hippias, said Alcibiades; not now, but at some other time. At present we must
abide by the compact which was made between Socrates and Protagoras, to the effect
that as long as Protagoras is willing to ask, Socrates should answer; or that if he would
rather answer, then that Socrates should ask.
I said: I wish Protagoras either to ask or answer as he is inclined; but I would rather have
done with poems and odes, if he does not object, and come back to the question about
which I was asking you at first, Protagoras, and by your help make an end of that. The
talk about the poets seems to me like a commonplace entertainment to which a vulgar
company have recourse; who, because they are not able to converse or amuse one
another, while they are drinking, with the sound of their own voices and conversation,
by reason of their stupidity, raise the price of flute-girls in the market, hiring for a great
sum the voice of a flute instead of their own breath, to be the medium of intercourse
among them: but where the company are real gentlemen and men of education, you
will see no flute-girls, nor dancing- girls, nor harp-girls; and they have no nonsense or
games, but are contented with one another's conversation, of which their own voices are
the medium, and which they carry on by turns and in an orderly manner, even though
they are very liberal in their potations. And a company like this of ours, and men such as
we profess to be, do not require the help of another's voice, or of the poets whom you
cannot interrogate about the meaning of what they are saying; people who cite them
declaring, some that the poet has one meaning, and others that he has another, and the
point which is in dispute can never be decided. This sort of entertainment they decline,
and prefer to talk with one another, and put one another to the proof in conversation.
And these are the models which I desire that you and I should imitate. Leaving the
poets, and keeping to ourselves, let us try the mettle of one another and make proof of
the truth in conversation. If you have a mind to ask, I am ready to answer; or if you
would rather, do you answer, and give me the opportunity of resuming and completing
our unfinished argument.
I made these and some similar observations; but Protagoras would not distinctly say
which he would do. Thereupon Alcibiades turned to Callias, and said:—Do you think,
Callias, that Protagoras is fair in refusing to say whether he will or will not answer? for I
certainly think that he is unfair; he ought either to proceed with the argument, or
distinctly refuse to proceed, that we may know his intention; and then Socrates will be
able to discourse with some one else, and the rest of the company will be free to talk
with one another.
I think that Protagoras was really made ashamed by these words of Alcibiades, and
when the prayers of Callias and the company were superadded, he was at last induced
to argue, and said that I might ask and he would answer.
So I said: Do not imagine, Protagoras, that I have any other interest in asking questions
of you but that of clearing up my own difficulties. For I think that Homer was very right
in saying that
'When two go together, one sees before the other (Il.),'
for all men who have a companion are readier in deed, word, or thought; but if a man
'Sees a thing when he is alone,'
he goes about straightway seeking until he finds some one to whom he may show his
discoveries, and who may confirm him in them. And I would rather hold discourse with
you than with any one, because I think that no man has a better understanding of most
things which a good man may be expected to understand, and in particular of virtue. For
who is there, but you?—who not only claim to be a good man and a gentleman, for
many are this, and yet have not the power of making others good—whereas you are not
only good yourself, but also the cause of goodness in others. Moreover such confidence
have you in yourself, that although other Sophists conceal their profession, you proclaim
in the face of Hellas that you are a Sophist or teacher of virtue and education, and are
the first who demanded pay in return. How then can I do otherwise than invite you to
the examination of these subjects, and ask questions and consult with you? I must,
indeed. And I should like once more to have my memory refreshed by you about the
questions which I was asking you at first, and also to have your help in considering
them. If I am not mistaken the question was this: Are wisdom and temperance and
courage and justice and holiness five names of the same thing? or has each of the
names a separate underlying essence and corresponding thing having a peculiar
function, no one of them being like any other of them? And you replied that the five
names were not the names of the same thing, but that each of them had a separate
object, and that all these objects were parts of virtue, not in the same way that the parts
of gold are like each other and the whole of which they are parts, but as the parts of the
face are unlike the whole of which they are parts and one another, and have each of
them a distinct function. I should like to know whether this is still your opinion; or if not,
I will ask you to define your meaning, and I shall not take you to task if you now make a
different statement. For I dare say that you may have said what you did only in order to
make trial of me.
I answer, Socrates, he said, that all these qualities are parts of virtue, and that four out of
the five are to some extent similar, and that the fifth of them, which is courage, is very
different from the other four, as I prove in this way: You may observe that many men are
utterly unrighteous, unholy, intemperate, ignorant, who are nevertheless remarkable for
their courage.
Stop, I said; I should like to think about that. When you speak of brave men, do you
mean the confident, or another sort of nature?
Yes, he said; I mean the impetuous, ready to go at that which others are afraid to
approach.
In the next place, you would affirm virtue to be a good thing, of which good thing you
assert yourself to be a teacher.
Yes, he said; I should say the best of all things, if I am in my right mind.
And is it partly good and partly bad, I said, or wholly good?
Wholly good, and in the highest degree.
Tell me then; who are they who have confidence when diving into a well?
I should say, the divers.
And the reason of this is that they have knowledge?
Yes, that is the reason.
And who have confidence when fighting on horseback—the skilled horseman or the
unskilled?
The skilled.
And who when fighting with light shields—the peltasts or the nonpeltasts?
The peltasts. And that is true of all other things, he said, if that is your point: those who
have knowledge are more confident than those who have no knowledge, and they are
more confident after they have learned than before.
And have you not seen persons utterly ignorant, I said, of these things, and yet
confident about them?
Yes, he said, I have seen such persons far too confident.
And are not these confident persons also courageous?
In that case, he replied, courage would be a base thing, for the men of whom we are
speaking are surely madmen.
Then who are the courageous? Are they not the confident?
Yes, he said; to that statement I adhere.
And those, I said, who are thus confident without knowledge are really not courageous,
but mad; and in that case the wisest are also the most confident, and being the most
confident are also the bravest, and upon that view again wisdom will be courage.
Nay, Socrates, he replied, you are mistaken in your remembrance of what was said by
me. When you asked me, I certainly did say that the courageous are the confident; but I
was never asked whether the confident are the courageous; if you had asked me, I
should have answered 'Not all of them': and what I did answer you have not proved to
be false, although you proceeded to show that those who have knowledge are more
courageous than they were before they had knowledge, and more courageous than
others who have no knowledge, and were then led on to think that courage is the same
as wisdom. But in this way of arguing you might come to imagine that strength is
wisdom. You might begin by asking whether the strong are able, and I should say 'Yes';
and then whether those who know how to wrestle are not more able to wrestle than
those who do not know how to wrestle, and more able after than before they had
learned, and I should assent. And when I had admitted this, you might use my
admissions in such a way as to prove that upon my view wisdom is strength; whereas in
that case I should not have admitted, any more than in the other, that the able are
strong, although I have admitted that the strong are able. For there is a difference
between ability and strength; the former is given by knowledge as well as by madness or
rage, but strength comes from nature and a healthy state of the body. And in like
manner I say of confidence and courage, that they are not the same; and I argue that
the courageous are confident, but not all the confident courageous. For confidence may
be given to men by art, and also, like ability, by madness and rage; but courage comes
to them from nature and the healthy state of the soul.
I said: You would admit, Protagoras, that some men live well and others ill?
He assented.
And do you think that a man lives well who lives in pain and grief?
He does not.
But if he lives pleasantly to the end of his life, will he not in that case have lived well?
He will.
Then to live pleasantly is a good, and to live unpleasantly an evil?
Yes, he said, if the pleasure be good and honourable.
And do you, Protagoras, like the rest of the world, call some pleasant things evil and
some painful things good?—for I am rather disposed to say that things are good in as
far as they are pleasant, if they have no consequences of another sort, and in as far as
they are painful they are bad.
I do not know, Socrates, he said, whether I can venture to assert in that unqualified
manner that the pleasant is the good and the painful the evil. Having regard not only to
my present answer, but also to the whole of my life, I shall be safer, if I am not mistaken,
in saying that there are some pleasant things which are not good, and that there are
some painful things which are good, and some which are not good, and that there are
some which are neither good nor evil.
And you would call pleasant, I said, the things which participate in pleasure or create
pleasure?
Certainly, he said.
Then my meaning is, that in as far as they are pleasant they are good; and my question
would imply that pleasure is a good in itself.
According to your favourite mode of speech, Socrates, 'Let us reflect about this,' he said;
and if the reflection is to the point, and the result proves that pleasure and good are
really the same, then we will agree; but if not, then we will argue.
And would you wish to begin the enquiry? I said; or shall I begin?
You ought to take the lead, he said; for you are the author of the discussion.
May I employ an illustration? I said. Suppose some one who is enquiring into the health
or some other bodily quality of another:—he looks at his face and at the tips of his
fingers, and then he says, Uncover your chest and back to me that I may have a better
view:—that is the sort of thing which I desire in this speculation. Having seen what your
opinion is about good and pleasure, I am minded to say to you: Uncover your mind to
me, Protagoras, and reveal your opinion about knowledge, that I may know whether you
agree with the rest of the world. Now the rest of the world are of opinion that
knowledge is a principle not of strength, or of rule, or of command: their notion is that a
man may have knowledge, and yet that the knowledge which is in him may be
overmastered by anger, or pleasure, or pain, or love, or perhaps by fear,—just as if
knowledge were a slave, and might be dragged about anyhow. Now is that your view?
or do you think that knowledge is a noble and commanding thing, which cannot be
overcome, and will not allow a man, if he only knows the difference of good and evil, to
do anything which is contrary to knowledge, but that wisdom will have strength to help
him?
I agree with you, Socrates, said Protagoras; and not only so, but I, above all other men,
am bound to say that wisdom and knowledge are the highest of human things.
Good, I said, and true. But are you aware that the majority of the world are of another
mind; and that men are commonly supposed to know the things which are best, and not
to do them when they might? And most persons whom I have asked the reason of this
have said that when men act contrary to knowledge they are overcome by pain, or
pleasure, or some of those affections which I was just now mentioning.
Yes, Socrates, he replied; and that is not the only point about which mankind are in
error.
Suppose, then, that you and I endeavour to instruct and inform them what is the nature
of this affection which they call 'being overcome by pleasure,' and which they affirm to
be the reason why they do not always do what is best. When we say to them: Friends,
you are mistaken, and are saying what is not true, they would probably reply: Socrates
and Protagoras, if this affection of the soul is not to be called 'being overcome by
pleasure,' pray, what is it, and by what name would you describe it?
But why, Socrates, should we trouble ourselves about the opinion of the many, who just
say anything that happens to occur to them?
I believe, I said, that they may be of use in helping us to discover how courage is related
to the other parts of virtue. If you are disposed to abide by our agreement, that I should
show the way in which, as I think, our recent difficulty is most likely to be cleared up, do
you follow; but if not, never mind.
You are quite right, he said; and I would have you proceed as you have begun.
Well then, I said, let me suppose that they repeat their question, What account do you
give of that which, in our way of speaking, is termed being overcome by pleasure? I
should answer thus: Listen, and Protagoras and I will endeavour to show you. When men
are overcome by eating and drinking and other sensual desires which are pleasant, and
they, knowing them to be evil, nevertheless indulge in them, would you not say that
they were overcome by pleasure? They will not deny this. And suppose that you and I
were to go on and ask them again: 'In what way do you say that they are evil,—in that
they are pleasant and give pleasure at the moment, or because they cause disease and
poverty and other like evils in the future? Would they still be evil, if they had no
attendant evil consequences, simply because they give the consciousness of pleasure of
whatever nature?'—Would they not answer that they are not evil on account of the
pleasure which is immediately given by them, but on account of the after
consequences—diseases and the like?
I believe, said Protagoras, that the world in general would answer as you do.
And in causing diseases do they not cause pain? and in causing poverty do they not
cause pain;—they would agree to that also, if I am not mistaken?
Protagoras assented.
Then I should say to them, in my name and yours: Do you think them evil for any other
reason, except because they end in pain and rob us of other pleasures:—there again
they would agree?
We both of us thought that they would.
And then I should take the question from the opposite point of view, and say: 'Friends,
when you speak of goods being painful, do you not mean remedial goods, such as
gymnastic exercises, and military service, and the physician's use of burning, cutting,
drugging, and starving? Are these the things which are good but painful?'—they would
assent to me?
He agreed.
'And do you call them good because they occasion the greatest immediate suffering
and pain; or because, afterwards, they bring health and improvement of the bodily
condition and the salvation of states and power over others and wealth?'—they would
agree to the latter alternative, if I am not mistaken?
He assented.
'Are these things good for any other reason except that they end in pleasure, and get rid
of and avert pain? Are you looking to any other standard but pleasure and pain when
you call them good?'—they would acknowledge that they were not?
I think so, said Protagoras.
'And do you not pursue after pleasure as a good, and avoid pain as an evil?'
He assented.
'Then you think that pain is an evil and pleasure is a good: and even pleasure you deem
an evil, when it robs you of greater pleasures than it gives, or causes pains greater than
the pleasure. If, however, you call pleasure an evil in relation to some other end or
standard, you will be able to show us that standard. But you have none to show.'
I do not think that they have, said Protagoras.
'And have you not a similar way of speaking about pain? You call pain a good when it
takes away greater pains than those which it has, or gives pleasures greater than the
pains: then if you have some standard other than pleasure and pain to which you refer
when you call actual pain a good, you can show what that is. But you cannot.'
True, said Protagoras.
Suppose again, I said, that the world says to me: 'Why do you spend many words and
speak in many ways on this subject?' Excuse me, friends, I should reply; but in the first
place there is a difficulty in explaining the meaning of the expression 'overcome by
pleasure'; and the whole argument turns upon this. And even now, if you see any
possible way in which evil can be explained as other than pain, or good as other than
pleasure, you may still retract. Are you satisfied, then, at having a life of pleasure which
is without pain? If you are, and if you are unable to show any good or evil which does
not end in pleasure and pain, hear the consequences:—If what you say is true, then the
argument is absurd which affirms that a man often does evil knowingly, when he might
abstain, because he is seduced and overpowered by pleasure; or again, when you say
that a man knowingly refuses to do what is good because he is overcome at the
moment by pleasure. And that this is ridiculous will be evident if only we give up the use
of various names, such as pleasant and painful, and good and evil. As there are two
things, let us call them by two names— first, good and evil, and then pleasant and
painful. Assuming this, let us go on to say that a man does evil knowing that he does
evil. But some one will ask, Why? Because he is overcome, is the first answer. And by
what is he overcome? the enquirer will proceed to ask. And we shall not be able to reply
'By pleasure,' for the name of pleasure has been exchanged for that of good. In our
answer, then, we shall only say that he is overcome. 'By what?' he will reiterate. By the
good, we shall have to reply; indeed we shall. Nay, but our questioner will rejoin with a
laugh, if he be one of the swaggering sort, 'That is too ridiculous, that a man should do
what he knows to be evil when he ought not, because he is overcome by good. Is that,
he will ask, because the good was worthy or not worthy of conquering the evil'? And in
answer to that we shall clearly reply, Because it was not worthy; for if it had been worthy,
then he who, as we say, was overcome by pleasure, would not have been wrong. 'But
how,' he will reply, 'can the good be unworthy of the evil, or the evil of the good'? Is not
the real explanation that they are out of proportion to one another, either as greater
and smaller, or more and fewer? This we cannot deny. And when you speak of being
overcome—'what do you mean,' he will say, 'but that you choose the greater evil in
exchange for the lesser good?' Admitted. And now substitute the names of pleasure and
pain for good and evil, and say, not as before, that a man does what is evil knowingly,
but that he does what is painful knowingly, and because he is overcome by pleasure,
which is unworthy to overcome. What measure is there of the relations of pleasure to
pain other than excess and defect, which means that they become greater and smaller,
and more and fewer, and differ in degree? For if any one says: 'Yes, Socrates, but
immediate pleasure differs widely from future pleasure and pain'—To that I should
reply: And do they differ in anything but in pleasure and pain? There can be no other
measure of them. And do you, like a skilful weigher, put into the balance the pleasures
and the pains, and their nearness and distance, and weigh them, and then say which
outweighs the other. If you weigh pleasures against pleasures, you of course take the
more and greater; or if you weigh pains against pains, you take the fewer and the less;
or if pleasures against pains, then you choose that course of action in which the painful
is exceeded by the pleasant, whether the distant by the near or the near by the distant;
and you avoid that course of action in which the pleasant is exceeded by the painful.
Would you not admit, my friends, that this is true? I am confident that they cannot deny
this.
He agreed with me.
Well then, I shall say, if you agree so far, be so good as to answer me a question: Do not
the same magnitudes appear larger to your sight when near, and smaller when at a
distance? They will acknowledge that. And the same holds of thickness and number; also
sounds, which are in themselves equal, are greater when near, and lesser when at a
distance. They will grant that also. Now suppose happiness to consist in doing or
choosing the greater, and in not doing or in avoiding the less, what would be the saving
principle of human life? Would not the art of measuring be the saving principle; or
would the power of appearance? Is not the latter that deceiving art which makes us
wander up and down and take the things at one time of which we repent at another,
both in our actions and in our choice of things great and small? But the art of
measurement would do away with the effect of appearances, and, showing the truth,
would fain teach the soul at last to find rest in the truth, and would thus save our life.
Would not mankind generally acknowledge that the art which accomplishes this result is
the art of measurement?
Yes, he said, the art of measurement.
Suppose, again, the salvation of human life to depend on the choice of odd and even,
and on the knowledge of when a man ought to choose the greater or less, either in
reference to themselves or to each other, and whether near or at a distance; what would
be the saving principle of our lives? Would not knowledge?—a knowledge of measuring,
when the question is one of excess and defect, and a knowledge of number, when the
question is of odd and even? The world will assent, will they not?
Protagoras himself thought that they would.
Well then, my friends, I say to them; seeing that the salvation of human life has been
found to consist in the right choice of pleasures and pains, —in the choice of the more
and the fewer, and the greater and the less, and the nearer and remoter, must not this
measuring be a consideration of their excess and defect and equality in relation to each
other?
This is undeniably true.
And this, as possessing measure, must undeniably also be an art and science?
They will agree, he said.
The nature of that art or science will be a matter of future consideration; but the
existence of such a science furnishes a demonstrative answer to the question which you
asked of me and Protagoras. At the time when you asked the question, if you
remember, both of us were agreeing that there was nothing mightier than knowledge,
and that knowledge, in whatever existing, must have the advantage over pleasure and
all other things; and then you said that pleasure often got the advantage even over a
man who has knowledge; and we refused to allow this, and you rejoined: O Protagoras
and Socrates, what is the meaning of being overcome by pleasure if not this?—tell us
what you call such a state:—if we had immediately and at the time answered
'Ignorance,' you would have laughed at us. But now, in laughing at us, you will be
laughing at yourselves: for you also admitted that men err in their choice of pleasures
and pains; that is, in their choice of good and evil, from defect of knowledge; and you
admitted further, that they err, not only from defect of knowledge in general, but of that
particular knowledge which is called measuring. And you are also aware that the erring
act which is done without knowledge is done in ignorance. This, therefore, is the
meaning of being overcome by pleasure; —ignorance, and that the greatest. And our
friends Protagoras and Prodicus and Hippias declare that they are the physicians of
ignorance; but you, who are under the mistaken impression that ignorance is not the
cause, and that the art of which I am speaking cannot be taught, neither go yourselves,
nor send your children, to the Sophists, who are the teachers of these things—you take
care of your money and give them none; and the result is, that you are the worse off
both in public and private life:—Let us suppose this to be our answer to the world in
general: And now I should like to ask you, Hippias, and you, Prodicus, as well as
Protagoras (for the argument is to be yours as well as ours), whether you think that I am
speaking the truth or not?
They all thought that what I said was entirely true.
Then you agree, I said, that the pleasant is the good, and the painful evil. And here I
would beg my friend Prodicus not to introduce his distinction of names, whether he is
disposed to say pleasurable, delightful, joyful. However, by whatever name he prefers to
call them, I will ask you, most excellent Prodicus, to answer in my sense of the words.
Prodicus laughed and assented, as did the others.
Then, my friends, what do you say to this? Are not all actions honourable and useful, of
which the tendency is to make life painless and pleasant? The honourable work is also
useful and good?
This was admitted.
Then, I said, if the pleasant is the good, nobody does anything under the idea or
conviction that some other thing would be better and is also attainable, when he might
do the better. And this inferiority of a man to himself is merely ignorance, as the
superiority of a man to himself is wisdom.
They all assented.
And is not ignorance the having a false opinion and being deceived about important
matters?
To this also they unanimously assented.
Then, I said, no man voluntarily pursues evil, or that which he thinks to be evil. To prefer
evil to good is not in human nature; and when a man is compelled to choose one of two
evils, no one will choose the greater when he may have the less.
All of us agreed to every word of this.
Well, I said, there is a certain thing called fear or terror; and here, Prodicus, I should
particularly like to know whether you would agree with me in defining this fear or terror
as expectation of evil.
Protagoras and Hippias agreed, but Prodicus said that this was fear and not terror.
Never mind, Prodicus, I said; but let me ask whether, if our former assertions are true, a
man will pursue that which he fears when he is not compelled? Would not this be in flat
contradiction to the admission which has been already made, that he thinks the things
which he fears to be evil; and no one will pursue or voluntarily accept that which he
thinks to be evil?
That also was universally admitted.
Then, I said, these, Hippias and Prodicus, are our premisses; and I would beg Protagoras
to explain to us how he can be right in what he said at first. I do not mean in what he
said quite at first, for his first statement, as you may remember, was that whereas there
were five parts of virtue none of them was like any other of them; each of them had a
separate function. To this, however, I am not referring, but to the assertion which he
afterwards made that of the five virtues four were nearly akin to each other, but that the
fifth, which was courage, differed greatly from the others. And of this he gave me the
following proof. He said: You will find, Socrates, that some of the most impious, and
unrighteous, and intemperate, and ignorant of men are among the most courageous;
which proves that courage is very different from the other parts of virtue. I was surprised
at his saying this at the time, and I am still more surprised now that I have discussed the
matter with you. So I asked him whether by the brave he meant the confident. Yes, he
replied, and the impetuous or goers. (You may remember, Protagoras, that this was your
answer.)
He assented.
Well then, I said, tell us against what are the courageous ready to go— against the same
dangers as the cowards?
No, he answered.
Then against something different?
Yes, he said.
Then do cowards go where there is safety, and the courageous where there is danger?
Yes, Socrates, so men say.
Very true, I said. But I want to know against what do you say that the courageous are
ready to go—against dangers, believing them to be dangers, or not against dangers?
No, said he; the former case has been proved by you in the previous argument to be
impossible.
That, again, I replied, is quite true. And if this has been rightly proven, then no one goes
to meet what he thinks to be dangers, since the want of self-control, which makes men
rush into dangers, has been shown to be ignorance.
He assented.
And yet the courageous man and the coward alike go to meet that about which they are
confident; so that, in this point of view, the cowardly and the courageous go to meet the
same things.
And yet, Socrates, said Protagoras, that to which the coward goes is the opposite of that
to which the courageous goes; the one, for example, is ready to go to battle, and the
other is not ready.
And is going to battle honourable or disgraceful? I said.
Honourable, he replied.
And if honourable, then already admitted by us to be good; for all honourable actions
we have admitted to be good.
That is true; and to that opinion I shall always adhere.
True, I said. But which of the two are they who, as you say, are unwilling to go to war,
which is a good and honourable thing?
The cowards, he replied.
And what is good and honourable, I said, is also pleasant?
It has certainly been acknowledged to be so, he replied.
And do the cowards knowingly refuse to go to the nobler, and pleasanter, and better?
The admission of that, he replied, would belie our former admissions.
But does not the courageous man also go to meet the better, and pleasanter, and
nobler?
That must be admitted.
And the courageous man has no base fear or base confidence?
True, he replied.
And if not base, then honourable?
He admitted this.
And if honourable, then good?
Yes.
But the fear and confidence of the coward or foolhardy or madman, on the contrary, are
base?
He assented.
And these base fears and confidences originate in ignorance and uninstructedness?
True, he said.
Then as to the motive from which the cowards act, do you call it cowardice or courage?
I should say cowardice, he replied.
And have they not been shown to be cowards through their ignorance of dangers?
Assuredly, he said.
And because of that ignorance they are cowards?
He assented.
And the reason why they are cowards is admitted by you to be cowardice?
He again assented.
Then the ignorance of what is and is not dangerous is cowardice?
He nodded assent.
But surely courage, I said, is opposed to cowardice?
Yes.
Then the wisdom which knows what are and are not dangers is opposed to the
ignorance of them?
To that again he nodded assent.
And the ignorance of them is cowardice?
To that he very reluctantly nodded assent.
And the knowledge of that which is and is not dangerous is courage, and is opposed to
the ignorance of these things?
At this point he would no longer nod assent, but was silent.
And why, I said, do you neither assent nor dissent, Protagoras?
Finish the argument by yourself, he said.
I only want to ask one more question, I said. I want to know whether you still think that
there are men who are most ignorant and yet most courageous?
You seem to have a great ambition to make me answer, Socrates, and therefore I will
gratify you, and say, that this appears to me to be impossible consistently with the
argument.
My only object, I said, in continuing the discussion, has been the desire to ascertain the
nature and relations of virtue; for if this were clear, I am very sure that the other
controversy which has been carried on at great length by both of us—you affirming and
I denying that virtue can be taught—would also become clear. The result of our
discussion appears to me to be singular. For if the argument had a human voice, that
voice would be heard laughing at us and saying: 'Protagoras and Socrates, you are
strange beings; there are you, Socrates, who were saying that virtue cannot be taught,
contradicting yourself now by your attempt to prove that all things are knowledge,
including justice, and temperance, and courage,— which tends to show that virtue can
certainly be taught; for if virtue were other than knowledge, as Protagoras attempted to
prove, then clearly virtue cannot be taught; but if virtue is entirely knowledge, as you are
seeking to show, then I cannot but suppose that virtue is capable of being taught.
Protagoras, on the other hand, who started by saying that it might be taught, is now
eager to prove it to be anything rather than knowledge; and if this is true, it must be
quite incapable of being taught.' Now I, Protagoras, perceiving this terrible confusion of
our ideas, have a great desire that they should be cleared up. And I should like to carry
on the discussion until we ascertain what virtue is, whether capable of being taught or
not, lest haply Epimetheus should trip us up and deceive us in the argument, as he
forgot us in the story; I prefer your Prometheus to your Epimetheus, for of him I make
use, whenever I am busy about these questions, in Promethean care of my own life. And
if you have no objection, as I said at first, I should like to have your help in the enquiry.
Protagoras replied: Socrates, I am not of a base nature, and I am the last man in the
world to be envious. I cannot but applaud your energy and your conduct of an
argument. As I have often said, I admire you above all men whom I know, and far above
all men of your age; and I believe that you will become very eminent in philosophy. Let
us come back to the subject at some future time; at present we had better turn to
something else.
By all means, I said, if that is your wish; for I too ought long since to have kept the
engagement of which I spoke before, and only tarried because I could not refuse the
request of the noble Callias. So the conversation ended, and we went our way.
The end
MENO
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Meno, Socrates, A Slave of Meno (Boy), Anytus.
MENO: Can you tell me, Socrates, whether virtue is acquired by teaching or by practice;
or if neither by teaching nor by practice, then whether it comes to man by nature, or in
what other way?
SOCRATES: O Meno, there was a time when the Thessalians were famous among the
other Hellenes only for their riches and their riding; but now, if I am not mistaken, they
are equally famous for their wisdom, especially at Larisa, which is the native city of your
friend Aristippus. And this is Gorgias' doing; for when he came there, the flower of the
Aleuadae, among them your admirer Aristippus, and the other chiefs of the Thessalians,
fell in love with his wisdom. And he has taught you the habit of answering questions in a
grand and bold style, which becomes those who know, and is the style in which he
himself answers all comers; and any Hellene who likes may ask him anything. How
different is our lot! my dear Meno. Here at Athens there is a dearth of the commodity,
and all wisdom seems to have emigrated from us to you. I am certain that if you were to
ask any Athenian whether virtue was natural or acquired, he would laugh in your face,
and say: 'Stranger, you have far too good an opinion of me, if you think that I can
answer your question. For I literally do not know what virtue is, and much less whether it
is acquired by teaching or not.' And I myself, Meno, living as I do in this region of
poverty, am as poor as the rest of the world; and I confess with shame that I know
literally nothing about virtue; and when I do not know the 'quid' of anything how can I
know the 'quale'? How, if I knew nothing at all of Meno, could I tell if he was fair, or the
opposite of fair; rich and noble, or the reverse of rich and noble? Do you think that I
could?
MENO: No, indeed. But are you in earnest, Socrates, in saying that you do not know
what virtue is? And am I to carry back this report of you to Thessaly?
SOCRATES: Not only that, my dear boy, but you may say further that I have never known
of any one else who did, in my judgment.
MENO: Then you have never met Gorgias when he was at Athens?
SOCRATES: Yes, I have.
MENO: And did you not think that he knew?
SOCRATES: I have not a good memory, Meno, and therefore I cannot now tell what I
thought of him at the time. And I dare say that he did know, and that you know what he
said: please, therefore, to remind me of what he said; or, if you would rather, tell me
your own view; for I suspect that you and he think much alike.
MENO: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then as he is not here, never mind him, and do you tell me: By the gods,
Meno, be generous, and tell me what you say that virtue is; for I shall be truly delighted
to find that I have been mistaken, and that you and Gorgias do really have this
knowledge; although I have been just saying that I have never found anybody who had.
MENO: There will be no difficulty, Socrates, in answering your question. Let us take first
the virtue of a man—he should know how to administer the state, and in the
administration of it to benefit his friends and harm his enemies; and he must also be
careful not to suffer harm himself. A woman's virtue, if you wish to know about that,
may also be easily described: her duty is to order her house, and keep what is indoors,
and obey her husband. Every age, every condition of life, young or old, male or female,
bond or free, has a different virtue: there are virtues numberless, and no lack of
definitions of them; for virtue is relative to the actions and ages of each of us in all that
we do. And the same may be said of vice, Socrates (Compare Arist. Pol.).
SOCRATES: How fortunate I am, Meno! When I ask you for one virtue, you present me
with a swarm of them (Compare Theaet.), which are in your keeping. Suppose that I
carry on the figure of the swarm, and ask of you, What is the nature of the bee? and you
answer that there are many kinds of bees, and I reply: But do bees differ as bees,
because there are many and different kinds of them; or are they not rather to be
distinguished by some other quality, as for example beauty, size, or shape? How would
you answer me?
MENO: I should answer that bees do not differ from one another, as bees.
SOCRATES: And if I went on to say: That is what I desire to know, Meno; tell me what is
the quality in which they do not differ, but are all alike;—would you be able to answer?
MENO: I should.
SOCRATES: And so of the virtues, however many and different they may be, they have all
a common nature which makes them virtues; and on this he who would answer the
question, 'What is virtue?' would do well to have his eye fixed: Do you understand?
MENO: I am beginning to understand; but I do not as yet take hold of the question as I
could wish.
SOCRATES: When you say, Meno, that there is one virtue of a man, another of a woman,
another of a child, and so on, does this apply only to virtue, or would you say the same
of health, and size, and strength? Or is the nature of health always the same, whether in
man or woman?
MENO: I should say that health is the same, both in man and woman.
SOCRATES: And is not this true of size and strength? If a woman is strong, she will be
strong by reason of the same form and of the same strength subsisting in her which
there is in the man. I mean to say that strength, as strength, whether of man or woman,
is the same. Is there any difference?
MENO: I think not.
SOCRATES: And will not virtue, as virtue, be the same, whether in a child or in a grownup
person, in a woman or in a man?
MENO: I cannot help feeling, Socrates, that this case is different from the others.
SOCRATES: But why? Were you not saying that the virtue of a man was to order a state,
and the virtue of a woman was to order a house?
MENO: I did say so.
SOCRATES: And can either house or state or anything be well ordered without
temperance and without justice?
MENO: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: Then they who order a state or a house temperately or justly order them
with temperance and justice?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then both men and women, if they are to be good men and women, must
have the same virtues of temperance and justice?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And can either a young man or an elder one be good, if they are
intemperate and unjust?
MENO: They cannot.
SOCRATES: They must be temperate and just?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then all men are good in the same way, and by participation in the same
virtues?
MENO: Such is the inference.
SOCRATES: And they surely would not have been good in the same way, unless their
virtue had been the same?
MENO: They would not.
SOCRATES: Then now that the sameness of all virtue has been proven, try and
remember what you and Gorgias say that virtue is.
MENO: Will you have one definition of them all?
SOCRATES: That is what I am seeking.
MENO: If you want to have one definition of them all, I know not what to say, but that
virtue is the power of governing mankind.
SOCRATES: And does this definition of virtue include all virtue? Is virtue the same in a
child and in a slave, Meno? Can the child govern his father, or the slave his master; and
would he who governed be any longer a slave?
MENO: I think not, Socrates.
SOCRATES: No, indeed; there would be small reason in that. Yet once more, fair friend;
according to you, virtue is 'the power of governing;' but do you not add 'justly and not
unjustly'?
MENO: Yes, Socrates; I agree there; for justice is virtue.
SOCRATES: Would you say 'virtue,' Meno, or 'a virtue'?
MENO: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: I mean as I might say about anything; that a round, for example, is 'a figure'
and not simply 'figure,' and I should adopt this mode of speaking, because there are
other figures.
MENO: Quite right; and that is just what I am saying about virtue—that there are other
virtues as well as justice.
SOCRATES: What are they? tell me the names of them, as I would tell you the names of
the other figures if you asked me.
MENO: Courage and temperance and wisdom and magnanimity are virtues; and there
are many others.
SOCRATES: Yes, Meno; and again we are in the same case: in searching after one virtue
we have found many, though not in the same way as before; but we have been unable
to find the common virtue which runs through them all.
MENO: Why, Socrates, even now I am not able to follow you in the attempt to get at
one common notion of virtue as of other things.
SOCRATES: No wonder; but I will try to get nearer if I can, for you know that all things
have a common notion. Suppose now that some one asked you the question which I
asked before: Meno, he would say, what is figure? And if you answered 'roundness,' he
would reply to you, in my way of speaking, by asking whether you would say that
roundness is 'figure' or 'a figure;' and you would answer 'a figure.'
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And for this reason—that there are other figures?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And if he proceeded to ask, What other figures are there? you would have
told him.
MENO: I should.
SOCRATES: And if he similarly asked what colour is, and you answered whiteness, and
the questioner rejoined, Would you say that whiteness is colour or a colour? you would
reply, A colour, because there are other colours as well.
MENO: I should.
SOCRATES: And if he had said, Tell me what they are?—you would have told him of
other colours which are colours just as much as whiteness.
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And suppose that he were to pursue the matter in my way, he would say:
Ever and anon we are landed in particulars, but this is not what I want; tell me then,
since you call them by a common name, and say that they are all figures, even when
opposed to one another, what is that common nature which you designate as figure—
which contains straight as well as round, and is no more one than the other—that would
be your mode of speaking?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And in speaking thus, you do not mean to say that the round is round any
more than straight, or the straight any more straight than round?
MENO: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: You only assert that the round figure is not more a figure than the straight,
or the straight than the round?
MENO: Very true.
SOCRATES: To what then do we give the name of figure? Try and answer. Suppose that
when a person asked you this question either about figure or colour, you were to reply,
Man, I do not understand what you want, or know what you are saying; he would look
rather astonished and say: Do you not understand that I am looking for the 'simile in
multis'? And then he might put the question in another form: Meno, he might say, what
is that 'simile in multis' which you call figure, and which includes not only round and
straight figures, but all? Could you not answer that question, Meno? I wish that you
would try; the attempt will be good practice with a view to the answer about virtue.
MENO: I would rather that you should answer, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Shall I indulge you?
MENO: By all means.
SOCRATES: And then you will tell me about virtue?
MENO: I will.
SOCRATES: Then I must do my best, for there is a prize to be won.
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Well, I will try and explain to you what figure is. What do you say to this
answer?—Figure is the only thing which always follows colour. Will you be satisfied with
it, as I am sure that I should be, if you would let me have a similar definition of virtue?
MENO: But, Socrates, it is such a simple answer.
SOCRATES: Why simple?
MENO: Because, according to you, figure is that which always follows colour.
(SOCRATES: Granted.)
MENO: But if a person were to say that he does not know what colour is, any more than
what figure is—what sort of answer would you have given him?
SOCRATES: I should have told him the truth. And if he were a philosopher of the eristic
and antagonistic sort, I should say to him: You have my answer, and if I am wrong, your
business is to take up the argument and refute me. But if we were friends, and were
talking as you and I are now, I should reply in a milder strain and more in the
dialectician's vein; that is to say, I should not only speak the truth, but I should make use
of premisses which the person interrogated would be willing to admit. And this is the
way in which I shall endeavour to approach you. You will acknowledge, will you not, that
there is such a thing as an end, or termination, or extremity?—all which words I use in
the same sense, although I am aware that Prodicus might draw distinctions about them:
but still you, I am sure, would speak of a thing as ended or terminated—that is all which
I am saying—not anything very difficult.
MENO: Yes, I should; and I believe that I understand your meaning.
SOCRATES: And you would speak of a surface and also of a solid, as for example in
geometry.
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Well then, you are now in a condition to understand my definition of figure.
I define figure to be that in which the solid ends; or, more concisely, the limit of solid.
MENO: And now, Socrates, what is colour?
SOCRATES: You are outrageous, Meno, in thus plaguing a poor old man to give you an
answer, when you will not take the trouble of remembering what is Gorgias' definition of
virtue.
MENO: When you have told me what I ask, I will tell you, Socrates.
SOCRATES: A man who was blindfolded has only to hear you talking, and he would
know that you are a fair creature and have still many lovers.
MENO: Why do you think so?
SOCRATES: Why, because you always speak in imperatives: like all beauties when they
are in their prime, you are tyrannical; and also, as I suspect, you have found out that I
have weakness for the fair, and therefore to humour you I must answer.
MENO: Please do.
SOCRATES: Would you like me to answer you after the manner of Gorgias, which is
familiar to you?
MENO: I should like nothing better.
SOCRATES: Do not he and you and Empedocles say that there are certain effluences of
existence?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And passages into which and through which the effluences pass?
MENO: Exactly.
SOCRATES: And some of the effluences fit into the passages, and some of them are too
small or too large?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And there is such a thing as sight?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And now, as Pindar says, 'read my meaning:'—colour is an effluence of form,
commensurate with sight, and palpable to sense.
MENO: That, Socrates, appears to me to be an admirable answer.
SOCRATES: Why, yes, because it happens to be one which you have been in the habit of
hearing: and your wit will have discovered, I suspect, that you may explain in the same
way the nature of sound and smell, and of many other similar phenomena.
MENO: Quite true.
SOCRATES: The answer, Meno, was in the orthodox solemn vein, and therefore was
more acceptable to you than the other answer about figure.
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And yet, O son of Alexidemus, I cannot help thinking that the other was the
better; and I am sure that you would be of the same opinion, if you would only stay and
be initiated, and were not compelled, as you said yesterday, to go away before the
mysteries.
MENO: But I will stay, Socrates, if you will give me many such answers.
SOCRATES: Well then, for my own sake as well as for yours, I will do my very best; but I
am afraid that I shall not be able to give you very many as good: and now, in your turn,
you are to fulfil your promise, and tell me what virtue is in the universal; and do not
make a singular into a plural, as the facetious say of those who break a thing, but deliver
virtue to me whole and sound, and not broken into a number of pieces: I have given you
the pattern.
MENO: Well then, Socrates, virtue, as I take it, is when he, who desires the honourable, is
able to provide it for himself; so the poet says, and I say too—
'Virtue is the desire of things honourable and the power of attaining them.'
SOCRATES: And does he who desires the honourable also desire the good?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then are there some who desire the evil and others who desire the good?
Do not all men, my dear sir, desire good?
MENO: I think not.
SOCRATES: There are some who desire evil?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Do you mean that they think the evils which they desire, to be good; or do
they know that they are evil and yet desire them?
MENO: Both, I think.
SOCRATES: And do you really imagine, Meno, that a man knows evils to be evils and
desires them notwithstanding?
MENO: Certainly I do.
SOCRATES: And desire is of possession?
MENO: Yes, of possession.
SOCRATES: And does he think that the evils will do good to him who possesses them, or
does he know that they will do him harm?
MENO: There are some who think that the evils will do them good, and others who
know that they will do them harm.
SOCRATES: And, in your opinion, do those who think that they will do them good know
that they are evils?
MENO: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: Is it not obvious that those who are ignorant of their nature do not desire
them; but they desire what they suppose to be goods although they are really evils; and
if they are mistaken and suppose the evils to be goods they really desire goods?
MENO: Yes, in that case.
SOCRATES: Well, and do those who, as you say, desire evils, and think that evils are
hurtful to the possessor of them, know that they will be hurt by them?
MENO: They must know it.
SOCRATES: And must they not suppose that those who are hurt are miserable in
proportion to the hurt which is inflicted upon them?
MENO: How can it be otherwise?
SOCRATES: But are not the miserable ill-fated?
MENO: Yes, indeed.
SOCRATES: And does any one desire to be miserable and ill-fated?
MENO: I should say not, Socrates.
SOCRATES: But if there is no one who desires to be miserable, there is no one, Meno,
who desires evil; for what is misery but the desire and possession of evil?
MENO: That appears to be the truth, Socrates, and I admit that nobody desires evil.
SOCRATES: And yet, were you not saying just now that virtue is the desire and power of
attaining good?
MENO: Yes, I did say so.
SOCRATES: But if this be affirmed, then the desire of good is common to all, and one
man is no better than another in that respect?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And if one man is not better than another in desiring good, he must be
better in the power of attaining it?
MENO: Exactly.
SOCRATES: Then, according to your definition, virtue would appear to be the power of
attaining good?
MENO: I entirely approve, Socrates, of the manner in which you now view this matter.
SOCRATES: Then let us see whether what you say is true from another point of view; for
very likely you may be right:—You affirm virtue to be the power of attaining goods?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the goods which you mean are such as health and wealth and the
possession of gold and silver, and having office and honour in the state—those are what
you would call goods?
MENO: Yes, I should include all those.
SOCRATES: Then, according to Meno, who is the hereditary friend of the great king,
virtue is the power of getting silver and gold; and would you add that they must be
gained piously, justly, or do you deem this to be of no consequence? And is any mode
of acquisition, even if unjust and dishonest, equally to be deemed virtue?
MENO: Not virtue, Socrates, but vice.
SOCRATES: Then justice or temperance or holiness, or some other part of virtue, as
would appear, must accompany the acquisition, and without them the mere acquisition
of good will not be virtue.
MENO: Why, how can there be virtue without these?
SOCRATES: And the non-acquisition of gold and silver in a dishonest manner for oneself
or another, or in other words the want of them, may be equally virtue?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: Then the acquisition of such goods is no more virtue than the nonacquisition
and want of them, but whatever is accompanied by justice or honesty is
virtue, and whatever is devoid of justice is vice.
MENO: It cannot be otherwise, in my judgment.
SOCRATES: And were we not saying just now that justice, temperance, and the like, were
each of them a part of virtue?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And so, Meno, this is the way in which you mock me.
MENO: Why do you say that, Socrates?
SOCRATES: Why, because I asked you to deliver virtue into my hands whole and
unbroken, and I gave you a pattern according to which you were to frame your answer;
and you have forgotten already, and tell me that virtue is the power of attaining good
justly, or with justice; and justice you acknowledge to be a part of virtue.
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then it follows from your own admissions, that virtue is doing what you do
with a part of virtue; for justice and the like are said by you to be parts of virtue.
MENO: What of that?
SOCRATES: What of that! Why, did not I ask you to tell me the nature of virtue as a
whole? And you are very far from telling me this; but declare every action to be virtue
which is done with a part of virtue; as though you had told me and I must already know
the whole of virtue, and this too when frittered away into little pieces. And, therefore, my
dear Meno, I fear that I must begin again and repeat the same question: What is virtue?
for otherwise, I can only say, that every action done with a part of virtue is virtue; what
else is the meaning of saying that every action done with justice is virtue? Ought I not to
ask the question over again; for can any one who does not know virtue know a part of
virtue?
MENO: No; I do not say that he can.
SOCRATES: Do you remember how, in the example of figure, we rejected any answer
given in terms which were as yet unexplained or unadmitted?
MENO: Yes, Socrates; and we were quite right in doing so.
SOCRATES: But then, my friend, do not suppose that we can explain to any one the
nature of virtue as a whole through some unexplained portion of virtue, or anything at
all in that fashion; we should only have to ask over again the old question, What is
virtue? Am I not right?
MENO: I believe that you are.
SOCRATES: Then begin again, and answer me, What, according to you and your friend
Gorgias, is the definition of virtue?
MENO: O Socrates, I used to be told, before I knew you, that you were always doubting
yourself and making others doubt; and now you are casting your spells over me, and I
am simply getting bewitched and enchanted, and am at my wits' end. And if I may
venture to make a jest upon you, you seem to me both in your appearance and in your
power over others to be very like the flat torpedo fish, who torpifies those who come
near him and touch him, as you have now torpified me, I think. For my soul and my
tongue are really torpid, and I do not know how to answer you; and though I have been
delivered of an infinite variety of speeches about virtue before now, and to many
persons—and very good ones they were, as I thought—at this moment I cannot even
say what virtue is. And I think that you are very wise in not voyaging and going away
from home, for if you did in other places as you do in Athens, you would be cast into
prison as a magician.
SOCRATES: You are a rogue, Meno, and had all but caught me.
MENO: What do you mean, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I can tell why you made a simile about me.
MENO: Why?
SOCRATES: In order that I might make another simile about you. For I know that all
pretty young gentlemen like to have pretty similes made about them—as well they
may—but I shall not return the compliment. As to my being a torpedo, if the torpedo is
torpid as well as the cause of torpidity in others, then indeed I am a torpedo, but not
otherwise; for I perplex others, not because I am clear, but because I am utterly
perplexed myself. And now I know not what virtue is, and you seem to be in the same
case, although you did once perhaps know before you touched me. However, I have no
objection to join with you in the enquiry.
MENO: And how will you enquire, Socrates, into that which you do not know? What will
you put forth as the subject of enquiry? And if you find what you want, how will you
ever know that this is the thing which you did not know?
SOCRATES: I know, Meno, what you mean; but just see what a tiresome dispute you are
introducing. You argue that a man cannot enquire either about that which he knows, or
about that which he does not know; for if he knows, he has no need to enquire; and if
not, he cannot; for he does not know the very subject about which he is to enquire
(Compare Aristot. Post. Anal.).
MENO: Well, Socrates, and is not the argument sound?
SOCRATES: I think not.
MENO: Why not?
SOCRATES: I will tell you why: I have heard from certain wise men and women who
spoke of things divine that—
MENO: What did they say?
SOCRATES: They spoke of a glorious truth, as I conceive.
MENO: What was it? and who were they?
SOCRATES: Some of them were priests and priestesses, who had studied how they
might be able to give a reason of their profession: there have been poets also, who
spoke of these things by inspiration, like Pindar, and many others who were inspired.
And they say—mark, now, and see whether their words are true—they say that the soul
of man is immortal, and at one time has an end, which is termed dying, and at another
time is born again, but is never destroyed. And the moral is, that a man ought to live
always in perfect holiness. 'For in the ninth year Persephone sends the souls of those
from whom she has received the penalty of ancient crime back again from beneath into
the light of the sun above, and these are they who become noble kings and mighty men
and great in wisdom and are called saintly heroes in after ages.' The soul, then, as being
immortal, and having been born again many times, and having seen all things that exist,
whether in this world or in the world below, has knowledge of them all; and it is no
wonder that she should be able to call to remembrance all that she ever knew about
virtue, and about everything; for as all nature is akin, and the soul has learned all things;
there is no difficulty in her eliciting or as men say learning, out of a single recollection all
the rest, if a man is strenuous and does not faint; for all enquiry and all learning is but
recollection. And therefore we ought not to listen to this sophistical argument about the
impossibility of enquiry: for it will make us idle; and is sweet only to the sluggard; but
the other saying will make us active and inquisitive. In that confiding, I will gladly
enquire with you into the nature of virtue.
MENO: Yes, Socrates; but what do you mean by saying that we do not learn, and that
what we call learning is only a process of recollection? Can you teach me how this is?
SOCRATES: I told you, Meno, just now that you were a rogue, and now you ask whether I
can teach you, when I am saying that there is no teaching, but only recollection; and
thus you imagine that you will involve me in a contradiction.
MENO: Indeed, Socrates, I protest that I had no such intention. I only asked the question
from habit; but if you can prove to me that what you say is true, I wish that you would.
SOCRATES: It will be no easy matter, but I will try to please you to the utmost of my
power. Suppose that you call one of your numerous attendants, that I may demonstrate
on him.
MENO: Certainly. Come hither, boy.
SOCRATES: He is Greek, and speaks Greek, does he not?
MENO: Yes, indeed; he was born in the house.
SOCRATES: Attend now to the questions which I ask him, and observe whether he learns
of me or only remembers.
MENO: I will.
SOCRATES: Tell me, boy, do you know that a figure like this is a square?
BOY: I do.
SOCRATES: And you know that a square figure has these four lines equal?
BOY: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And these lines which I have drawn through the middle of the square are
also equal?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: A square may be of any size?
BOY: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And if one side of the figure be of two feet, and the other side be of two
feet, how much will the whole be? Let me explain: if in one direction the space was of
two feet, and in the other direction of one foot, the whole would be of two feet taken
once?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: But since this side is also of two feet, there are twice two feet?
BOY: There are.
SOCRATES: Then the square is of twice two feet?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And how many are twice two feet? count and tell me.
BOY: Four, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And might there not be another square twice as large as this, and having like
this the lines equal?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And of how many feet will that be?
BOY: Of eight feet.
SOCRATES: And now try and tell me the length of the line which forms the side of that
double square: this is two feet—what will that be?
BOY: Clearly, Socrates, it will be double.
SOCRATES: Do you observe, Meno, that I am not teaching the boy anything, but only
asking him questions; and now he fancies that he knows how long a line is necessary in
order to produce a figure of eight square feet; does he not?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And does he really know?
MENO: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: He only guesses that because the square is double, the line is double.
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: Observe him while he recalls the steps in regular order. (To the Boy:) Tell me,
boy, do you assert that a double space comes from a double line? Remember that I am
not speaking of an oblong, but of a figure equal every way, and twice the size of this—
that is to say of eight feet; and I want to know whether you still say that a double square
comes from double line?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: But does not this line become doubled if we add another such line here?
BOY: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And four such lines will make a space containing eight feet?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: Let us describe such a figure: Would you not say that this is the figure of
eight feet?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And are there not these four divisions in the figure, each of which is equal to
the figure of four feet?
BOY: True.
SOCRATES: And is not that four times four?
BOY: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And four times is not double?
BOY: No, indeed.
SOCRATES: But how much?
BOY: Four times as much.
SOCRATES: Therefore the double line, boy, has given a space, not twice, but four times
as much.
BOY: True.
SOCRATES: Four times four are sixteen—are they not?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: What line would give you a space of eight feet, as this gives one of sixteen
feet;—do you see?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the space of four feet is made from this half line?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: Good; and is not a space of eight feet twice the size of this, and half the size
of the other?
BOY: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Such a space, then, will be made out of a line greater than this one, and less
than that one?
BOY: Yes; I think so.
SOCRATES: Very good; I like to hear you say what you think. And now tell me, is not this
a line of two feet and that of four?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then the line which forms the side of eight feet ought to be more than this
line of two feet, and less than the other of four feet?
BOY: It ought.
SOCRATES: Try and see if you can tell me how much it will be.
BOY: Three feet.
SOCRATES: Then if we add a half to this line of two, that will be the line of three. Here
are two and there is one; and on the other side, here are two also and there is one: and
that makes the figure of which you speak?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: But if there are three feet this way and three feet that way, the whole space
will be three times three feet?
BOY: That is evident.
SOCRATES: And how much are three times three feet?
BOY: Nine.
SOCRATES: And how much is the double of four?
BOY: Eight.
SOCRATES: Then the figure of eight is not made out of a line of three?
BOY: No.
SOCRATES: But from what line?—tell me exactly; and if you would rather not reckon, try
and show me the line.
BOY: Indeed, Socrates, I do not know.
SOCRATES: Do you see, Meno, what advances he has made in his power of recollection?
He did not know at first, and he does not know now, what is the side of a figure of eight
feet: but then he thought that he knew, and answered confidently as if he knew, and had
no difficulty; now he has a difficulty, and neither knows nor fancies that he knows.
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: Is he not better off in knowing his ignorance?
MENO: I think that he is.
SOCRATES: If we have made him doubt, and given him the 'torpedo's shock,' have we
done him any harm?
MENO: I think not.
SOCRATES: We have certainly, as would seem, assisted him in some degree to the
discovery of the truth; and now he will wish to remedy his ignorance, but then he would
have been ready to tell all the world again and again that the double space should have
a double side.
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: But do you suppose that he would ever have enquired into or learned what
he fancied that he knew, though he was really ignorant of it, until he had fallen into
perplexity under the idea that he did not know, and had desired to know?
MENO: I think not, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then he was the better for the torpedo's touch?
MENO: I think so.
SOCRATES: Mark now the farther development. I shall only ask him, and not teach him,
and he shall share the enquiry with me: and do you watch and see if you find me telling
or explaining anything to him, instead of eliciting his opinion. Tell me, boy, is not this a
square of four feet which I have drawn?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And now I add another square equal to the former one?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And a third, which is equal to either of them?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: Suppose that we fill up the vacant corner?
BOY: Very good.
SOCRATES: Here, then, there are four equal spaces?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And how many times larger is this space than this other?
BOY: Four times.
SOCRATES: But it ought to have been twice only, as you will remember.
BOY: True.
SOCRATES: And does not this line, reaching from corner to corner, bisect each of these
spaces?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And are there not here four equal lines which contain this space?
BOY: There are.
SOCRATES: Look and see how much this space is.
BOY: I do not understand.
SOCRATES: Has not each interior line cut off half of the four spaces?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And how many spaces are there in this section?
BOY: Four.
SOCRATES: And how many in this?
BOY: Two.
SOCRATES: And four is how many times two?
BOY: Twice.
SOCRATES: And this space is of how many feet?
BOY: Of eight feet.
SOCRATES: And from what line do you get this figure?
BOY: From this.
SOCRATES: That is, from the line which extends from corner to corner of the figure of
four feet?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And that is the line which the learned call the diagonal. And if this is the
proper name, then you, Meno's slave, are prepared to affirm that the double space is
the square of the diagonal?
BOY: Certainly, Socrates.
SOCRATES: What do you say of him, Meno? Were not all these answers given out of his
own head?
MENO: Yes, they were all his own.
SOCRATES: And yet, as we were just now saying, he did not know?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: But still he had in him those notions of his—had he not?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then he who does not know may still have true notions of that which he
does not know?
MENO: He has.
SOCRATES: And at present these notions have just been stirred up in him, as in a dream;
but if he were frequently asked the same questions, in different forms, he would know
as well as any one at last?
MENO: I dare say.
SOCRATES: Without any one teaching him he will recover his knowledge for himself, if
he is only asked questions?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And this spontaneous recovery of knowledge in him is recollection?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And this knowledge which he now has must he not either have acquired or
always possessed?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: But if he always possessed this knowledge he would always have known; or
if he has acquired the knowledge he could not have acquired it in this life, unless he has
been taught geometry; for he may be made to do the same with all geometry and every
other branch of knowledge. Now, has any one ever taught him all this? You must know
about him, if, as you say, he was born and bred in your house.
MENO: And I am certain that no one ever did teach him.
SOCRATES: And yet he has the knowledge?
MENO: The fact, Socrates, is undeniable.
SOCRATES: But if he did not acquire the knowledge in this life, then he must have had
and learned it at some other time?
MENO: Clearly he must.
SOCRATES: Which must have been the time when he was not a man?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And if there have been always true thoughts in him, both at the time when
he was and was not a man, which only need to be awakened into knowledge by putting
questions to him, his soul must have always possessed this knowledge, for he always
either was or was not a man?
MENO: Obviously.
SOCRATES: And if the truth of all things always existed in the soul, then the soul is
immortal. Wherefore be of good cheer, and try to recollect what you do not know, or
rather what you do not remember.
MENO: I feel, somehow, that I like what you are saying.
SOCRATES: And I, Meno, like what I am saying. Some things I have said of which I am
not altogether confident. But that we shall be better and braver and less helpless if we
think that we ought to enquire, than we should have been if we indulged in the idle
fancy that there was no knowing and no use in seeking to know what we do not
know;—that is a theme upon which I am ready to fight, in word and deed, to the utmost
of my power.
MENO: There again, Socrates, your words seem to me excellent.
SOCRATES: Then, as we are agreed that a man should enquire about that which he does
not know, shall you and I make an effort to enquire together into the nature of virtue?
MENO: By all means, Socrates. And yet I would much rather return to my original
question, Whether in seeking to acquire virtue we should regard it as a thing to be
taught, or as a gift of nature, or as coming to men in some other way?
SOCRATES: Had I the command of you as well as of myself, Meno, I would not have
enquired whether virtue is given by instruction or not, until we had first ascertained
'what it is.' But as you think only of controlling me who am your slave, and never of
controlling yourself,—such being your notion of freedom, I must yield to you, for you
are irresistible. And therefore I have now to enquire into the qualities of a thing of which
I do not as yet know the nature. At any rate, will you condescend a little, and allow the
question 'Whether virtue is given by instruction, or in any other way,' to be argued upon
hypothesis? As the geometrician, when he is asked whether a certain triangle is capable
being inscribed in a certain circle (Or, whether a certain area is capable of being
inscribed as a triangle in a certain circle.), will reply: 'I cannot tell you as yet; but I will
offer a hypothesis which may assist us in forming a conclusion: If the figure be such that
when you have produced a given side of it (Or, when you apply it to the given line, i.e.
the diameter of the circle (autou).), the given area of the triangle falls short by an area
corresponding to the part produced (Or, similar to the area so applied.), then one
consequence follows, and if this is impossible then some other; and therefore I wish to
assume a hypothesis before I tell you whether this triangle is capable of being inscribed
in the circle':—that is a geometrical hypothesis. And we too, as we know not the nature
and qualities of virtue, must ask, whether virtue is or is not taught, under a hypothesis:
as thus, if virtue is of such a class of mental goods, will it be taught or not? Let the first
hypothesis be that virtue is or is not knowledge,—in that case will it be taught or not?
or, as we were just now saying, 'remembered'? For there is no use in disputing about the
name. But is virtue taught or not? or rather, does not every one see that knowledge
alone is taught?
MENO: I agree.
SOCRATES: Then if virtue is knowledge, virtue will be taught?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then now we have made a quick end of this question: if virtue is of such a
nature, it will be taught; and if not, not?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: The next question is, whether virtue is knowledge or of another species?
MENO: Yes, that appears to be the question which comes next in order.
SOCRATES: Do we not say that virtue is a good?—This is a hypothesis which is not set
aside.
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Now, if there be any sort of good which is distinct from knowledge, virtue
may be that good; but if knowledge embraces all good, then we shall be right in
thinking that virtue is knowledge?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And virtue makes us good?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And if we are good, then we are profitable; for all good things are
profitable?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then virtue is profitable?
MENO: That is the only inference.
SOCRATES: Then now let us see what are the things which severally profit us. Health and
strength, and beauty and wealth—these, and the like of these, we call profitable?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And yet these things may also sometimes do us harm: would you not think
so?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And what is the guiding principle which makes them profitable or the
reverse? Are they not profitable when they are rightly used, and hurtful when they are
not rightly used?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Next, let us consider the goods of the soul: they are temperance, justice,
courage, quickness of apprehension, memory, magnanimity, and the like?
MENO: Surely.
SOCRATES: And such of these as are not knowledge, but of another sort, are sometimes
profitable and sometimes hurtful; as, for example, courage wanting prudence, which is
only a sort of confidence? When a man has no sense he is harmed by courage, but when
he has sense he is profited?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And the same may be said of temperance and quickness of apprehension;
whatever things are learned or done with sense are profitable, but when done without
sense they are hurtful?
MENO: Very true.
SOCRATES: And in general, all that the soul attempts or endures, when under the
guidance of wisdom, ends in happiness; but when she is under the guidance of folly, in
the opposite?
MENO: That appears to be true.
SOCRATES: If then virtue is a quality of the soul, and is admitted to be profitable, it must
be wisdom or prudence, since none of the things of the soul are either profitable or
hurtful in themselves, but they are all made profitable or hurtful by the addition of
wisdom or of folly; and therefore if virtue is profitable, virtue must be a sort of wisdom
or prudence?
MENO: I quite agree.
SOCRATES: And the other goods, such as wealth and the like, of which we were just now
saying that they are sometimes good and sometimes evil, do not they also become
profitable or hurtful, accordingly as the soul guides and uses them rightly or wrongly;
just as the things of the soul herself are benefited when under the guidance of wisdom
and harmed by folly?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And the wise soul guides them rightly, and the foolish soul wrongly.
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And is not this universally true of human nature? All other things hang upon
the soul, and the things of the soul herself hang upon wisdom, if they are to be good;
and so wisdom is inferred to be that which profits—and virtue, as we say, is profitable?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And thus we arrive at the conclusion that virtue is either wholly or partly
wisdom?
MENO: I think that what you are saying, Socrates, is very true.
SOCRATES: But if this is true, then the good are not by nature good?
MENO: I think not.
SOCRATES: If they had been, there would assuredly have been discerners of characters
among us who would have known our future great men; and on their showing we
should have adopted them, and when we had got them, we should have kept them in
the citadel out of the way of harm, and set a stamp upon them far rather than upon a
piece of gold, in order that no one might tamper with them; and when they grew up
they would have been useful to the state?
MENO: Yes, Socrates, that would have been the right way.
SOCRATES: But if the good are not by nature good, are they made good by instruction?
MENO: There appears to be no other alternative, Socrates. On the supposition that
virtue is knowledge, there can be no doubt that virtue is taught.
SOCRATES: Yes, indeed; but what if the supposition is erroneous?
MENO: I certainly thought just now that we were right.
SOCRATES: Yes, Meno; but a principle which has any soundness should stand firm not
only just now, but always.
MENO: Well; and why are you so slow of heart to believe that knowledge is virtue?
SOCRATES: I will try and tell you why, Meno. I do not retract the assertion that if virtue is
knowledge it may be taught; but I fear that I have some reason in doubting whether
virtue is knowledge: for consider now and say whether virtue, and not only virtue but
anything that is taught, must not have teachers and disciples?
MENO: Surely.
SOCRATES: And conversely, may not the art of which neither teachers nor disciples exist
be assumed to be incapable of being taught?
MENO: True; but do you think that there are no teachers of virtue?
SOCRATES: I have certainly often enquired whether there were any, and taken great
pains to find them, and have never succeeded; and many have assisted me in the search,
and they were the persons whom I thought the most likely to know. Here at the
moment when he is wanted we fortunately have sitting by us Anytus, the very person of
whom we should make enquiry; to him then let us repair. In the first place, he is the son
of a wealthy and wise father, Anthemion, who acquired his wealth, not by accident or
gift, like Ismenias the Theban (who has recently made himself as rich as Polycrates), but
by his own skill and industry, and who is a well- conditioned, modest man, not insolent,
or overbearing, or annoying; moreover, this son of his has received a good education, as
the Athenian people certainly appear to think, for they choose him to fill the highest
offices. And these are the sort of men from whom you are likely to learn whether there
are any teachers of virtue, and who they are. Please, Anytus, to help me and your friend
Meno in answering our question, Who are the teachers? Consider the matter thus: If we
wanted Meno to be a good physician, to whom should we send him? Should we not
send him to the physicians?
ANYTUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Or if we wanted him to be a good cobbler, should we not send him to the
cobblers?
ANYTUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And so forth?
ANYTUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Let me trouble you with one more question. When we say that we should be
right in sending him to the physicians if we wanted him to be a physician, do we mean
that we should be right in sending him to those who profess the art, rather than to
those who do not, and to those who demand payment for teaching the art, and profess
to teach it to any one who will come and learn? And if these were our reasons, should
we not be right in sending him?
ANYTUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And might not the same be said of flute-playing, and of the other arts?
Would a man who wanted to make another a flute-player refuse to send him to those
who profess to teach the art for money, and be plaguing other persons to give him
instruction, who are not professed teachers and who never had a single disciple in that
branch of knowledge which he wishes him to acquire—would not such conduct be the
height of folly?
ANYTUS: Yes, by Zeus, and of ignorance too.
SOCRATES: Very good. And now you are in a position to advise with me about my friend
Meno. He has been telling me, Anytus, that he desires to attain that kind of wisdom and
virtue by which men order the state or the house, and honour their parents, and know
when to receive and when to send away citizens and strangers, as a good man should.
Now, to whom should he go in order that he may learn this virtue? Does not the
previous argument imply clearly that we should send him to those who profess and
avouch that they are the common teachers of all Hellas, and are ready to impart
instruction to any one who likes, at a fixed price?
ANYTUS: Whom do you mean, Socrates?
SOCRATES: You surely know, do you not, Anytus, that these are the people whom
mankind call Sophists?
ANYTUS: By Heracles, Socrates, forbear! I only hope that no friend or kinsman or
acquaintance of mine, whether citizen or stranger, will ever be so mad as to allow
himself to be corrupted by them; for they are a manifest pest and corrupting influence
to those who have to do with them.
SOCRATES: What, Anytus? Of all the people who profess that they know how to do men
good, do you mean to say that these are the only ones who not only do them no good,
but positively corrupt those who are entrusted to them, and in return for this disservice
have the face to demand money? Indeed, I cannot believe you; for I know of a single
man, Protagoras, who made more out of his craft than the illustrious Pheidias, who
created such noble works, or any ten other statuaries. How could that be? A mender of
old shoes, or patcher up of clothes, who made the shoes or clothes worse than he
received them, could not have remained thirty days undetected, and would very soon
have starved; whereas during more than forty years, Protagoras was corrupting all
Hellas, and sending his disciples from him worse than he received them, and he was
never found out. For, if I am not mistaken, he was about seventy years old at his death,
forty of which were spent in the practice of his profession; and during all that time he
had a good reputation, which to this day he retains: and not only Protagoras, but many
others are well spoken of; some who lived before him, and others who are still living.
Now, when you say that they deceived and corrupted the youth, are they to be
supposed to have corrupted them consciously or unconsciously? Can those who were
deemed by many to be the wisest men of Hellas have been out of their minds?
ANYTUS: Out of their minds! No, Socrates; the young men who gave their money to
them were out of their minds, and their relations and guardians who entrusted their
youth to the care of these men were still more out of their minds, and most of all, the
cities who allowed them to come in, and did not drive them out, citizen and stranger
alike.
SOCRATES: Has any of the Sophists wronged you, Anytus? What makes you so angry
with them?
ANYTUS: No, indeed, neither I nor any of my belongings has ever had, nor would I suffer
them to have, anything to do with them.
SOCRATES: Then you are entirely unacquainted with them?
ANYTUS: And I have no wish to be acquainted.
SOCRATES: Then, my dear friend, how can you know whether a thing is good or bad of
which you are wholly ignorant?
ANYTUS: Quite well; I am sure that I know what manner of men these are, whether I am
acquainted with them or not.
SOCRATES: You must be a diviner, Anytus, for I really cannot make out, judging from
your own words, how, if you are not acquainted with them, you know about them. But I
am not enquiring of you who are the teachers who will corrupt Meno (let them be, if
you please, the Sophists); I only ask you to tell him who there is in this great city who
will teach him how to become eminent in the virtues which I was just now describing. He
is the friend of your family, and you will oblige him.
ANYTUS: Why do you not tell him yourself?
SOCRATES: I have told him whom I supposed to be the teachers of these things; but I
learn from you that I am utterly at fault, and I dare say that you are right. And now I wish
that you, on your part, would tell me to whom among the Athenians he should go.
Whom would you name?
ANYTUS: Why single out individuals? Any Athenian gentleman, taken at random, if he
will mind him, will do far more good to him than the Sophists.
SOCRATES: And did those gentlemen grow of themselves; and without having been
taught by any one, were they nevertheless able to teach others that which they had
never learned themselves?
ANYTUS: I imagine that they learned of the previous generation of gentlemen. Have
there not been many good men in this city?
SOCRATES: Yes, certainly, Anytus; and many good statesmen also there always have
been and there are still, in the city of Athens. But the question is whether they were also
good teachers of their own virtue;—not whether there are, or have been, good men in
this part of the world, but whether virtue can be taught, is the question which we have
been discussing. Now, do we mean to say that the good men of our own and of other
times knew how to impart to others that virtue which they had themselves; or is virtue a
thing incapable of being communicated or imparted by one man to another? That is the
question which I and Meno have been arguing. Look at the matter in your own way:
Would you not admit that Themistocles was a good man?
ANYTUS: Certainly; no man better.
SOCRATES: And must not he then have been a good teacher, if any man ever was a
good teacher, of his own virtue?
ANYTUS: Yes certainly,—if he wanted to be so.
SOCRATES: But would he not have wanted? He would, at any rate, have desired to make
his own son a good man and a gentleman; he could not have been jealous of him, or
have intentionally abstained from imparting to him his own virtue. Did you never hear
that he made his son Cleophantus a famous horseman; and had him taught to stand
upright on horseback and hurl a javelin, and to do many other marvellous things; and in
anything which could be learned from a master he was well trained? Have you not heard
from our elders of him?
ANYTUS: I have.
SOCRATES: Then no one could say that his son showed any want of capacity?
ANYTUS: Very likely not.
SOCRATES: But did any one, old or young, ever say in your hearing that Cleophantus,
son of Themistocles, was a wise or good man, as his father was?
ANYTUS: I have certainly never heard any one say so.
SOCRATES: And if virtue could have been taught, would his father Themistocles have
sought to train him in these minor accomplishments, and allowed him who, as you must
remember, was his own son, to be no better than his neighbours in those qualities in
which he himself excelled?
ANYTUS: Indeed, indeed, I think not.
SOCRATES: Here was a teacher of virtue whom you admit to be among the best men of
the past. Let us take another,—Aristides, the son of Lysimachus: would you not
acknowledge that he was a good man?
ANYTUS: To be sure I should.
SOCRATES: And did not he train his son Lysimachus better than any other Athenian in all
that could be done for him by the help of masters? But what has been the result? Is he a
bit better than any other mortal? He is an acquaintance of yours, and you see what he is
like. There is Pericles, again, magnificent in his wisdom; and he, as you are aware, had
two sons, Paralus and Xanthippus.
ANYTUS: I know.
SOCRATES: And you know, also, that he taught them to be unrivalled horsemen, and
had them trained in music and gymnastics and all sorts of arts—in these respects they
were on a level with the best—and had he no wish to make good men of them? Nay, he
must have wished it. But virtue, as I suspect, could not be taught. And that you may not
suppose the incompetent teachers to be only the meaner sort of Athenians and few in
number, remember again that Thucydides had two sons, Melesias and Stephanus,
whom, besides giving them a good education in other things, he trained in wrestling,
and they were the best wrestlers in Athens: one of them he committed to the care of
Xanthias, and the other of Eudorus, who had the reputation of being the most
celebrated wrestlers of that day. Do you remember them?
ANYTUS: I have heard of them.
SOCRATES: Now, can there be a doubt that Thucydides, whose children were taught
things for which he had to spend money, would have taught them to be good men,
which would have cost him nothing, if virtue could have been taught? Will you reply that
he was a mean man, and had not many friends among the Athenians and allies? Nay,
but he was of a great family, and a man of influence at Athens and in all Hellas, and, if
virtue could have been taught, he would have found out some Athenian or foreigner
who would have made good men of his sons, if he could not himself spare the time
from cares of state. Once more, I suspect, friend Anytus, that virtue is not a thing which
can be taught?
ANYTUS: Socrates, I think that you are too ready to speak evil of men: and, if you will
take my advice, I would recommend you to be careful. Perhaps there is no city in which
it is not easier to do men harm than to do them good, and this is certainly the case at
Athens, as I believe that you know.
SOCRATES: O Meno, think that Anytus is in a rage. And he may well be in a rage, for he
thinks, in the first place, that I am defaming these gentlemen; and in the second place,
he is of opinion that he is one of them himself. But some day he will know what is the
meaning of defamation, and if he ever does, he will forgive me. Meanwhile I will return
to you, Meno; for I suppose that there are gentlemen in your region too?
MENO: Certainly there are.
SOCRATES: And are they willing to teach the young? and do they profess to be
teachers? and do they agree that virtue is taught?
MENO: No indeed, Socrates, they are anything but agreed; you may hear them saying at
one time that virtue can be taught, and then again the reverse.
SOCRATES: Can we call those teachers who do not acknowledge the possibility of their
own vocation?
MENO: I think not, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And what do you think of these Sophists, who are the only professors? Do
they seem to you to be teachers of virtue?
MENO: I often wonder, Socrates, that Gorgias is never heard promising to teach virtue:
and when he hears others promising he only laughs at them; but he thinks that men
should be taught to speak.
SOCRATES: Then do you not think that the Sophists are teachers?
MENO: I cannot tell you, Socrates; like the rest of the world, I am in doubt, and
sometimes I think that they are teachers and sometimes not.
SOCRATES: And are you aware that not you only and other politicians have doubts
whether virtue can be taught or not, but that Theognis the poet says the very same
thing?
MENO: Where does he say so?
SOCRATES: In these elegiac verses (Theog.):
'Eat and drink and sit with the mighty, and make yourself agreeable to them; for from
the good you will learn what is good, but if you mix with the bad you will lose the
intelligence which you already have.'
Do you observe that here he seems to imply that virtue can be taught?
MENO: Clearly.
SOCRATES: But in some other verses he shifts about and says (Theog.):
'If understanding could be created and put into a man, then they' (who were able to
perform this feat) 'would have obtained great rewards.'
And again:—
'Never would a bad son have sprung from a good sire, for he would have heard the
voice of instruction; but not by teaching will you ever make a bad man into a good one.'
And this, as you may remark, is a contradiction of the other.
MENO: Clearly.
SOCRATES: And is there anything else of which the professors are affirmed not only not
to be teachers of others, but to be ignorant themselves, and bad at the knowledge of
that which they are professing to teach? or is there anything about which even the
acknowledged 'gentlemen' are sometimes saying that 'this thing can be taught,' and
sometimes the opposite? Can you say that they are teachers in any true sense whose
ideas are in such confusion?
MENO: I should say, certainly not.
SOCRATES: But if neither the Sophists nor the gentlemen are teachers, clearly there can
be no other teachers?
MENO: No.
SOCRATES: And if there are no teachers, neither are there disciples?
MENO: Agreed.
SOCRATES: And we have admitted that a thing cannot be taught of which there are
neither teachers nor disciples?
MENO: We have.
SOCRATES: And there are no teachers of virtue to be found anywhere?
MENO: There are not.
SOCRATES: And if there are no teachers, neither are there scholars?
MENO: That, I think, is true.
SOCRATES: Then virtue cannot be taught?
MENO: Not if we are right in our view. But I cannot believe, Socrates, that there are no
good men: And if there are, how did they come into existence?
SOCRATES: I am afraid, Meno, that you and I are not good for much, and that Gorgias
has been as poor an educator of you as Prodicus has been of me. Certainly we shall
have to look to ourselves, and try to find some one who will help in some way or other
to improve us. This I say, because I observe that in the previous discussion none of us
remarked that right and good action is possible to man under other guidance than that
of knowledge (episteme);—and indeed if this be denied, there is no seeing how there
can be any good men at all.
MENO: How do you mean, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I mean that good men are necessarily useful or profitable. Were we not right
in admitting this? It must be so.
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And in supposing that they will be useful only if they are true guides to us of
action—there we were also right?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: But when we said that a man cannot be a good guide unless he have
knowledge (phrhonesis), this we were wrong.
MENO: What do you mean by the word 'right'?
SOCRATES: I will explain. If a man knew the way to Larisa, or anywhere else, and went to
the place and led others thither, would he not be a right and good guide?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And a person who had a right opinion about the way, but had never been
and did not know, might be a good guide also, might he not?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And while he has true opinion about that which the other knows, he will be
just as good a guide if he thinks the truth, as he who knows the truth?
MENO: Exactly.
SOCRATES: Then true opinion is as good a guide to correct action as knowledge; and
that was the point which we omitted in our speculation about the nature of virtue, when
we said that knowledge only is the guide of right action; whereas there is also right
opinion.
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: Then right opinion is not less useful than knowledge?
MENO: The difference, Socrates, is only that he who has knowledge will always be right;
but he who has right opinion will sometimes be right, and sometimes not.
SOCRATES: What do you mean? Can he be wrong who has right opinion, so long as he
has right opinion?
MENO: I admit the cogency of your argument, and therefore, Socrates, I wonder that
knowledge should be preferred to right opinion—or why they should ever differ.
SOCRATES: And shall I explain this wonder to you?
MENO: Do tell me.
SOCRATES: You would not wonder if you had ever observed the images of Daedalus
(Compare Euthyphro); but perhaps you have not got them in your country?
MENO: What have they to do with the question?
SOCRATES: Because they require to be fastened in order to keep them, and if they are
not fastened they will play truant and run away.
MENO: Well, what of that?
SOCRATES: I mean to say that they are not very valuable possessions if they are at
liberty, for they will walk off like runaway slaves; but when fastened, they are of great
value, for they are really beautiful works of art. Now this is an illustration of the nature of
true opinions: while they abide with us they are beautiful and fruitful, but they run away
out of the human soul, and do not remain long, and therefore they are not of much
value until they are fastened by the tie of the cause; and this fastening of them, friend
Meno, is recollection, as you and I have agreed to call it. But when they are bound, in
the first place, they have the nature of knowledge; and, in the second place, they are
abiding. And this is why knowledge is more honourable and excellent than true opinion,
because fastened by a chain.
MENO: What you are saying, Socrates, seems to be very like the truth.
SOCRATES: I too speak rather in ignorance; I only conjecture. And yet that knowledge
differs from true opinion is no matter of conjecture with me. There are not many things
which I profess to know, but this is most certainly one of them.
MENO: Yes, Socrates; and you are quite right in saying so.
SOCRATES: And am I not also right in saying that true opinion leading the way perfects
action quite as well as knowledge?
MENO: There again, Socrates, I think you are right.
SOCRATES: Then right opinion is not a whit inferior to knowledge, or less useful in
action; nor is the man who has right opinion inferior to him who has knowledge?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And surely the good man has been acknowledged by us to be useful?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Seeing then that men become good and useful to states, not only because
they have knowledge, but because they have right opinion, and that neither knowledge
nor right opinion is given to man by nature or acquired by him—(do you imagine either
of them to be given by nature?
MENO: Not I.)
SOCRATES: Then if they are not given by nature, neither are the good by nature good?
MENO: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: And nature being excluded, then came the question whether virtue is
acquired by teaching?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: If virtue was wisdom (or knowledge), then, as we thought, it was taught?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And if it was taught it was wisdom?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And if there were teachers, it might be taught; and if there were no teachers,
not?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: But surely we acknowledged that there were no teachers of virtue?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then we acknowledged that it was not taught, and was not wisdom?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And yet we admitted that it was a good?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the right guide is useful and good?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And the only right guides are knowledge and true opinion—these are the
guides of man; for things which happen by chance are not under the guidance of man:
but the guides of man are true opinion and knowledge.
MENO: I think so too.
SOCRATES: But if virtue is not taught, neither is virtue knowledge.
MENO: Clearly not.
SOCRATES: Then of two good and useful things, one, which is knowledge, has been set
aside, and cannot be supposed to be our guide in political life.
MENO: I think not.
SOCRATES: And therefore not by any wisdom, and not because they were wise, did
Themistocles and those others of whom Anytus spoke govern states. This was the
reason why they were unable to make others like themselves—because their virtue was
not grounded on knowledge.
MENO: That is probably true, Socrates.
SOCRATES: But if not by knowledge, the only alternative which remains is that
statesmen must have guided states by right opinion, which is in politics what divination
is in religion; for diviners and also prophets say many things truly, but they know not
what they say.
MENO: So I believe.
SOCRATES: And may we not, Meno, truly call those men 'divine' who, having no
understanding, yet succeed in many a grand deed and word?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then we shall also be right in calling divine those whom we were just now
speaking of as diviners and prophets, including the whole tribe of poets. Yes, and
statesmen above all may be said to be divine and illumined, being inspired and
possessed of God, in which condition they say many grand things, not knowing what
they say.
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the women too, Meno, call good men divine—do they not? and the
Spartans, when they praise a good man, say 'that he is a divine man.'
MENO: And I think, Socrates, that they are right; although very likely our friend Anytus
may take offence at the word.
SOCRATES: I do not care; as for Anytus, there will be another opportunity of talking with
him. To sum up our enquiry—the result seems to be, if we are at all right in our view,
that virtue is neither natural nor acquired, but an instinct given by God to the virtuous.
Nor is the instinct accompanied by reason, unless there may be supposed to be among
statesmen some one who is capable of educating statesmen. And if there be such an
one, he may be said to be among the living what Homer says that Tiresias was among
the dead, 'he alone has understanding; but the rest are flitting shades'; and he and his
virtue in like manner will be a reality among shadows.
MENO: That is excellent, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then, Meno, the conclusion is that virtue comes to the virtuous by the gift of
God. But we shall never know the certain truth until, before asking how virtue is given,
we enquire into the actual nature of virtue. I fear that I must go away, but do you, now
that you are persuaded yourself, persuade our friend Anytus. And do not let him be so
exasperated; if you can conciliate him, you will have done good service to the Athenian
people.
The end
EUTHYDEMUS
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, who is the narrator of the Dialogue. Crito,
Cleinias, Euthydemus, Dionysodorus, Ctesippus.
SCENE: The Lyceum.
CRITO: Who was the person, Socrates, with whom you were talking yesterday at the
Lyceum? There was such a crowd around you that I could not get within hearing, but I
caught a sight of him over their heads, and I made out, as I thought, that he was a
stranger with whom you were talking: who was he?
SOCRATES: There were two, Crito; which of them do you mean?
CRITO: The one whom I mean was seated second from you on the right-hand side. In
the middle was Cleinias the young son of Axiochus, who has wonderfully grown; he is
only about the age of my own Critobulus, but he is much forwarder and very goodlooking:
the other is thin and looks younger than he is.
SOCRATES: He whom you mean, Crito, is Euthydemus; and on my left hand there was his
brother Dionysodorus, who also took part in the conversation.
CRITO: Neither of them are known to me, Socrates; they are a new importation of
Sophists, as I should imagine. Of what country are they, and what is their line of
wisdom?
SOCRATES: As to their origin, I believe that they are natives of this part of the world, and
have migrated from Chios to Thurii; they were driven out of Thurii, and have been living
for many years past in these regions. As to their wisdom, about which you ask, Crito,
they are wonderful— consummate! I never knew what the true pancratiast was before;
they are simply made up of fighting, not like the two Acarnanian brothers who fight with
their bodies only, but this pair of heroes, besides being perfect in the use of their
bodies, are invincible in every sort of warfare; for they are capital at fighting in armour,
and will teach the art to any one who pays them; and also they are most skilful in legal
warfare; they will plead themselves and teach others to speak and to compose speeches
which will have an effect upon the courts. And this was only the beginning of their
wisdom, but they have at last carried out the pancratiastic art to the very end, and have
mastered the only mode of fighting which had been hitherto neglected by them; and
now no one dares even to stand up against them: such is their skill in the war of words,
that they can refute any proposition whether true or false. Now I am thinking, Crito, of
placing myself in their hands; for they say that in a short time they can impart their skill
to any one.
CRITO: But, Socrates, are you not too old? there may be reason to fear that.
SOCRATES: Certainly not, Crito; as I will prove to you, for I have the consolation of
knowing that they began this art of disputation which I covet, quite, as I may say, in old
age; last year, or the year before, they had none of their new wisdom. I am only
apprehensive that I may bring the two strangers into disrepute, as I have done Connus
the son of Metrobius, the harp-player, who is still my music-master; for when the boys
who go to him see me going with them, they laugh at me and call him grandpapa's
master. Now I should not like the strangers to experience similar treatment; the fear of
ridicule may make them unwilling to receive me; and therefore, Crito, I shall try and
persuade some old men to accompany me to them, as I persuaded them to go with me
to Connus, and I hope that you will make one: and perhaps we had better take your
sons as a bait; they will want to have them as pupils, and for the sake of them willing to
receive us.
CRITO: I see no objection, Socrates, if you like; but first I wish that you would give me a
description of their wisdom, that I may know beforehand what we are going to learn.
SOCRATES: In less than no time you shall hear; for I cannot say that I did not attend—I
paid great attention to them, and I remember and will endeavour to repeat the whole
story. Providentially I was sitting alone in the dressing-room of the Lyceum where you
saw me, and was about to depart; when I was getting up I recognized the familiar divine
sign: so I sat down again, and in a little while the two brothers Euthydemus and
Dionysodorus came in, and several others with them, whom I believe to be their
disciples, and they walked about in the covered court; they had not taken more than
two or three turns when Cleinias entered, who, as you truly say, is very much improved:
he was followed by a host of lovers, one of whom was Ctesippus the Paeanian, a wellbred
youth, but also having the wildness of youth. Cleinias saw me from the entrance as
I was sitting alone, and at once came and sat down on the right hand of me, as you
describe; and Dionysodorus and Euthydemus, when they saw him, at first stopped and
talked with one another, now and then glancing at us, for I particularly watched them;
and then Euthydemus came and sat down by the youth, and the other by me on the left
hand; the rest anywhere. I saluted the brothers, whom I had not seen for a long time;
and then I said to Cleinias: Here are two wise men, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus,
Cleinias, wise not in a small but in a large way of wisdom, for they know all about war,—
all that a good general ought to know about the array and command of an army, and
the whole art of fighting in armour: and they know about law too, and can teach a man
how to use the weapons of the courts when he is injured.
They heard me say this, but only despised me. I observed that they looked at one
another, and both of them laughed; and then Euthydemus said: Those, Socrates, are
matters which we no longer pursue seriously; to us they are secondary occupations.
Indeed, I said, if such occupations are regarded by you as secondary, what must the
principal one be; tell me, I beseech you, what that noble study is?
The teaching of virtue, Socrates, he replied, is our principal occupation; and we believe
that we can impart it better and quicker than any man.
My God! I said, and where did you learn that? I always thought, as I was saying just now,
that your chief accomplishment was the art of fighting in armour; and I used to say as
much of you, for I remember that you professed this when you were here before. But
now if you really have the other knowledge, O forgive me: I address you as I would
superior beings, and ask you to pardon the impiety of my former expressions. But are
you quite sure about this, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus? the promise is so vast, that a
feeling of incredulity steals over me.
You may take our word, Socrates, for the fact.
Then I think you happier in having such a treasure than the great king is in the
possession of his kingdom. And please to tell me whether you intend to exhibit your
wisdom; or what will you do?
That is why we have come hither, Socrates; and our purpose is not only to exhibit, but
also to teach any one who likes to learn.
But I can promise you, I said, that every unvirtuous person will want to learn. I shall be
the first; and there is the youth Cleinias, and Ctesippus: and here are several others, I
said, pointing to the lovers of Cleinias, who were beginning to gather round us. Now
Ctesippus was sitting at some distance from Cleinias; and when Euthydemus leaned
forward in talking with me, he was prevented from seeing Cleinias, who was between us;
and so, partly because he wanted to look at his love, and also because he was
interested, he jumped up and stood opposite to us: and all the other admirers of
Cleinias, as well as the disciples of Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, followed his example.
And these were the persons whom I showed to Euthydemus, telling him that they were
all eager to learn: to which Ctesippus and all of them with one voice vehemently
assented, and bid him exhibit the power of his wisdom. Then I said: O Euthydemus and
Dionysodorus, I earnestly request you to do myself and the company the favour to
exhibit. There may be some trouble in giving the whole exhibition; but tell me one
thing,—can you make a good man of him only who is already convinced that he ought
to learn of you, or of him also who is not convinced, either because he imagines that
virtue is a thing which cannot be taught at all, or that you are not the teachers of it? Has
your art power to persuade him, who is of the latter temper of mind, that virtue can be
taught; and that you are the men from whom he will best learn it?
Certainly, Socrates, said Dionysodorus; our art will do both.
And you and your brother, Dionysodorus, I said, of all men who are now living are the
most likely to stimulate him to philosophy and to the study of virtue?
Yes, Socrates, I rather think that we are.
Then I wish that you would be so good as to defer the other part of the exhibition, and
only try to persuade the youth whom you see here that he ought to be a philosopher
and study virtue. Exhibit that, and you will confer a great favour on me and on every one
present; for the fact is I and all of us are extremely anxious that he should become truly
good. His name is Cleinias, and he is the son of Axiochus, and grandson of the old
Alcibiades, cousin of the Alcibiades that now is. He is quite young, and we are naturally
afraid that some one may get the start of us, and turn his mind in a wrong direction, and
he may be ruined. Your visit, therefore, is most happily timed; and I hope that you will
make a trial of the young man, and converse with him in our presence, if you have no
objection.
These were pretty nearly the expressions which I used; and Euthydemus, in a manly and
at the same time encouraging tone, replied: There can be no objection, Socrates, if the
young man is only willing to answer questions.
He is quite accustomed to do so, I replied; for his friends often come and ask him
questions and argue with him; and therefore he is quite at home in answering.
What followed, Crito, how can I rightly narrate? For not slight is the task of rehearsing
infinite wisdom, and therefore, like the poets, I ought to commence my relation with an
invocation to Memory and the Muses. Now Euthydemus, if I remember rightly, began
nearly as follows: O Cleinias, are those who learn the wise or the ignorant?
The youth, overpowered by the question blushed, and in his perplexity looked at me for
help; and I, knowing that he was disconcerted, said: Take courage, Cleinias, and answer
like a man whichever you think; for my belief is that you will derive the greatest benefit
from their questions.
Whichever he answers, said Dionysodorus, leaning forward so as to catch my ear, his
face beaming with laughter, I prophesy that he will be refuted, Socrates.
While he was speaking to me, Cleinias gave his answer: and therefore I had no time to
warn him of the predicament in which he was placed, and he answered that those who
learned were the wise.
Euthydemus proceeded: There are some whom you would call teachers, are there not?
The boy assented.
And they are the teachers of those who learn—the grammar-master and the lyre-master
used to teach you and other boys; and you were the learners?
Yes.
And when you were learners you did not as yet know the things which you were
learning?
No, he said.
And were you wise then?
No, indeed, he said.
But if you were not wise you were unlearned?
Certainly.
You then, learning what you did not know, were unlearned when you were learning?
The youth nodded assent.
Then the unlearned learn, and not the wise, Cleinias, as you imagine.
At these words the followers of Euthydemus, of whom I spoke, like a chorus at the
bidding of their director, laughed and cheered. Then, before the youth had time to
recover his breath, Dionysodorus cleverly took him in hand, and said: Yes, Cleinias; and
when the grammar-master dictated anything to you, were they the wise boys or the
unlearned who learned the dictation?
The wise, replied Cleinias.
Then after all the wise are the learners and not the unlearned; and your last answer to
Euthydemus was wrong.
Then once more the admirers of the two heroes, in an ecstasy at their wisdom, gave
vent to another peal of laughter, while the rest of us were silent and amazed.
Euthydemus, observing this, determined to persevere with the youth; and in order to
heighten the effect went on asking another similar question, which might be compared
to the double turn of an expert dancer. Do those, said he, who learn, learn what they
know, or what they do not know?
Again Dionysodorus whispered to me: That, Socrates, is just another of the same sort.
Good heavens, I said; and your last question was so good!
Like all our other questions, Socrates, he replied—inevitable.
I see the reason, I said, why you are in such reputation among your disciples.
Meanwhile Cleinias had answered Euthydemus that those who learned learn what they
do not know; and he put him through a series of questions the same as before.
Do you not know letters?
He assented.
All letters?
Yes.
But when the teacher dictates to you, does he not dictate letters?
To this also he assented.
Then if you know all letters, he dictates that which you know?
This again was admitted by him.
Then, said the other, you do not learn that which he dictates; but he only who does not
know letters learns?
Nay, said Cleinias; but I do learn.
Then, said he, you learn what you know, if you know all the letters?
He admitted that.
Then, he said, you were wrong in your answer.
The word was hardly out of his mouth when Dionysodorus took up the argument, like a
ball which he caught, and had another throw at the youth. Cleinias, he said, Euthydemus
is deceiving you. For tell me now, is not learning acquiring knowledge of that which one
learns?
Cleinias assented.
And knowing is having knowledge at the time?
He agreed.
And not knowing is not having knowledge at the time?
He admitted that.
And are those who acquire those who have or have not a thing?
Those who have not.
And have you not admitted that those who do not know are of the number of those
who have not?
He nodded assent.
Then those who learn are of the class of those who acquire, and not of those who have?
He agreed.
Then, Cleinias, he said, those who do not know learn, and not those who know.
Euthydemus was proceeding to give the youth a third fall; but I knew that he was in
deep water, and therefore, as I wanted to give him a respite lest he should be
disheartened, I said to him consolingly: You must not be surprised, Cleinias, at the
singularity of their mode of speech: this I say because you may not understand what the
two strangers are doing with you; they are only initiating you after the manner of the
Corybantes in the mysteries; and this answers to the enthronement, which, if you have
ever been initiated, is, as you will know, accompanied by dancing and sport; and now
they are just prancing and dancing about you, and will next proceed to initiate you;
imagine then that you have gone through the first part of the sophistical ritual, which, as
Prodicus says, begins with initiation into the correct use of terms. The two foreign
gentlemen, perceiving that you did not know, wanted to explain to you that the word 'to
learn' has two meanings, and is used, first, in the sense of acquiring knowledge of some
matter of which you previously have no knowledge, and also, when you have the
knowledge, in the sense of reviewing this matter, whether something done or spoken by
the light of this newly-acquired knowledge; the latter is generally called 'knowing' rather
than 'learning,' but the word 'learning' is also used; and you did not see, as they
explained to you, that the term is employed of two opposite sorts of men, of those who
know, and of those who do not know. There was a similar trick in the second question,
when they asked you whether men learn what they know or what they do not know.
These parts of learning are not serious, and therefore I say that the gentlemen are not
serious, but are only playing with you. For if a man had all that sort of knowledge that
ever was, he would not be at all the wiser; he would only be able to play with men,
tripping them up and oversetting them with distinctions of words. He would be like a
person who pulls away a stool from some one when he is about to sit down, and then
laughs and makes merry at the sight of his friend overturned and laid on his back. And
you must regard all that has hitherto passed between you and them as merely play. But
in what is to follow I am certain that they will exhibit to you their serious purpose, and
keep their promise (I will show them how); for they promised to give me a sample of the
hortatory philosophy, but I suppose that they wanted to have a game with you first. And
now, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, I think that we have had enough of this. Will you
let me see you explaining to the young man how he is to apply himself to the study of
virtue and wisdom? And I will first show you what I conceive to be the nature of the task,
and what sort of a discourse I desire to hear; and if I do this in a very inartistic and
ridiculous manner, do not laugh at me, for I only venture to improvise before you
because I am eager to hear your wisdom: and I must therefore ask you and your
disciples to refrain from laughing. And now, O son of Axiochus, let me put a question to
you: Do not all men desire happiness? And yet, perhaps, this is one of those ridiculous
questions which I am afraid to ask, and which ought not to be asked by a sensible man:
for what human being is there who does not desire happiness?
There is no one, said Cleinias, who does not.
Well, then, I said, since we all of us desire happiness, how can we be happy?—that is the
next question. Shall we not be happy if we have many good things? And this, perhaps, is
even a more simple question than the first, for there can be no doubt of the answer.
He assented.
And what things do we esteem good? No solemn sage is required to tell us this, which
may be easily answered; for every one will say that wealth is a good.
Certainly, he said.
And are not health and beauty goods, and other personal gifts?
He agreed.
Can there be any doubt that good birth, and power, and honours in one's own land, are
goods?
He assented.
And what other goods are there? I said. What do you say of temperance, justice,
courage: do you not verily and indeed think, Cleinias, that we shall be more right in
ranking them as goods than in not ranking them as goods? For a dispute might possibly
arise about this. What then do you say?
They are goods, said Cleinias.
Very well, I said; and where in the company shall we find a place for wisdom—among
the goods or not?
Among the goods.
And now, I said, think whether we have left out any considerable goods.
I do not think that we have, said Cleinias.
Upon recollection, I said, indeed I am afraid that we have left out the greatest of them
all.
What is that? he asked.
Fortune, Cleinias, I replied; which all, even the most foolish, admit to be the greatest of
goods.
True, he said.
On second thoughts, I added, how narrowly, O son of Axiochus, have you and I escaped
making a laughing-stock of ourselves to the strangers.
Why do you say so?
Why, because we have already spoken of good-fortune, and are but repeating ourselves.
What do you mean?
I mean that there is something ridiculous in again putting forward good- fortune, which
has a place in the list already, and saying the same thing twice over.
He asked what was the meaning of this, and I replied: Surely wisdom is good-fortune;
even a child may know that.
The simple-minded youth was amazed; and, observing his surprise, I said to him: Do you
not know, Cleinias, that flute-players are most fortunate and successful in performing on
the flute?
He assented.
And are not the scribes most fortunate in writing and reading letters?
Certainly.
Amid the dangers of the sea, again, are any more fortunate on the whole than wise
pilots?
None, certainly.
And if you were engaged in war, in whose company would you rather take the risk—in
company with a wise general, or with a foolish one?
With a wise one.
And if you were ill, whom would you rather have as a companion in a dangerous
illness—a wise physician, or an ignorant one?
A wise one.
You think, I said, that to act with a wise man is more fortunate than to act with an
ignorant one?
He assented.
Then wisdom always makes men fortunate: for by wisdom no man would ever err, and
therefore he must act rightly and succeed, or his wisdom would be wisdom no longer.
We contrived at last, somehow or other, to agree in a general conclusion, that he who
had wisdom had no need of fortune. I then recalled to his mind the previous state of the
question. You remember, I said, our making the admission that we should be happy and
fortunate if many good things were present with us?
He assented.
And should we be happy by reason of the presence of good things, if they profited us
not, or if they profited us?
If they profited us, he said.
And would they profit us, if we only had them and did not use them? For example, if we
had a great deal of food and did not eat, or a great deal of drink and did not drink,
should we be profited?
Certainly not, he said.
Or would an artisan, who had all the implements necessary for his work, and did not use
them, be any the better for the possession of them? For example, would a carpenter be
any the better for having all his tools and plenty of wood, if he never worked?
Certainly not, he said.
And if a person had wealth and all the goods of which we were just now speaking, and
did not use them, would he be happy because he possessed them?
No indeed, Socrates.
Then, I said, a man who would be happy must not only have the good things, but he
must also use them; there is no advantage in merely having them?
True.
Well, Cleinias, but if you have the use as well as the possession of good things, is that
sufficient to confer happiness?
Yes, in my opinion.
And may a person use them either rightly or wrongly?
He must use them rightly.
That is quite true, I said. And the wrong use of a thing is far worse than the non-use; for
the one is an evil, and the other is neither a good nor an evil. You admit that?
He assented.
Now in the working and use of wood, is not that which gives the right use simply the
knowledge of the carpenter?
Nothing else, he said.
And surely, in the manufacture of vessels, knowledge is that which gives the right way of
making them?
He agreed.
And in the use of the goods of which we spoke at first—wealth and health and beauty,
is not knowledge that which directs us to the right use of them, and regulates our
practice about them?
He assented.
Then in every possession and every use of a thing, knowledge is that which gives a man
not only good-fortune but success?
He again assented.
And tell me, I said, O tell me, what do possessions profit a man, if he have neither good
sense nor wisdom? Would a man be better off, having and doing many things without
wisdom, or a few things with wisdom? Look at the matter thus: If he did fewer things
would he not make fewer mistakes? if he made fewer mistakes would he not have fewer
misfortunes? and if he had fewer misfortunes would he not be less miserable?
Certainly, he said.
And who would do least—a poor man or a rich man?
A poor man.
A weak man or a strong man?
A weak man.
A noble man or a mean man?
A mean man.
And a coward would do less than a courageous and temperate man?
Yes.
And an indolent man less than an active man?
He assented.
And a slow man less than a quick; and one who had dull perceptions of seeing and
hearing less than one who had keen ones?
All this was mutually allowed by us.
Then, I said, Cleinias, the sum of the matter appears to be that the goods of which we
spoke before are not to be regarded as goods in themselves, but the degree of good
and evil in them depends on whether they are or are not under the guidance of
knowledge: under the guidance of ignorance, they are greater evils than their opposites,
inasmuch as they are more able to minister to the evil principle which rules them; and
when under the guidance of wisdom and prudence, they are greater goods: but in
themselves they are nothing?
That, he replied, is obvious.
What then is the result of what has been said? Is not this the result— that other things
are indifferent, and that wisdom is the only good, and ignorance the only evil?
He assented.
Let us consider a further point, I said: Seeing that all men desire happiness, and
happiness, as has been shown, is gained by a use, and a right use, of the things of life,
and the right use of them, and good- fortune in the use of them, is given by
knowledge,—the inference is that everybody ought by all means to try and make
himself as wise as he can?
Yes, he said.
And when a man thinks that he ought to obtain this treasure, far more than money,
from a father or a guardian or a friend or a suitor, whether citizen or stranger—the
eager desire and prayer to them that they would impart wisdom to you, is not at all
dishonourable, Cleinias; nor is any one to be blamed for doing any honourable service
or ministration to any man, whether a lover or not, if his aim is to get wisdom. Do you
agree? I said.
Yes, he said, I quite agree, and think that you are right.
Yes, I said, Cleinias, if only wisdom can be taught, and does not come to man
spontaneously; for this is a point which has still to be considered, and is not yet agreed
upon by you and me—
But I think, Socrates, that wisdom can be taught, he said.
Best of men, I said, I am delighted to hear you say so; and I am also grateful to you for
having saved me from a long and tiresome investigation as to whether wisdom can be
taught or not. But now, as you think that wisdom can be taught, and that wisdom only
can make a man happy and fortunate, will you not acknowledge that all of us ought to
love wisdom, and you individually will try to love her?
Certainly, Socrates, he said; I will do my best.
I was pleased at hearing this; and I turned to Dionysodorus and Euthydemus and said:
That is an example, clumsy and tedious I admit, of the sort of exhortations which I would
have you give; and I hope that one of you will set forth what I have been saying in a
more artistic style: or at least take up the enquiry where I left off, and proceed to show
the youth whether he should have all knowledge; or whether there is one sort of
knowledge only which will make him good and happy, and what that is. For, as I was
saying at first, the improvement of this young man in virtue and wisdom is a matter
which we have very much at heart.
Thus I spoke, Crito, and was all attention to what was coming. I wanted to see how they
would approach the question, and where they would start in their exhortation to the
young man that he should practise wisdom and virtue. Dionysodorus, who was the
elder, spoke first. Everybody's eyes were directed towards him, perceiving that
something wonderful might shortly be expected. And certainly they were not far wrong;
for the man, Crito, began a remarkable discourse well worth hearing, and wonderfully
persuasive regarded as an exhortation to virtue.
Tell me, he said, Socrates and the rest of you who say that you want this young man to
become wise, are you in jest or in real earnest?
I was led by this to imagine that they fancied us to have been jesting when we asked
them to converse with the youth, and that this made them jest and play, and being
under this impression, I was the more decided in saying that we were in profound
earnest. Dionysodorus said:
Reflect, Socrates; you may have to deny your words.
I have reflected, I said; and I shall never deny my words.
Well, said he, and so you say that you wish Cleinias to become wise?
Undoubtedly.
And he is not wise as yet?
At least his modesty will not allow him to say that he is.
You wish him, he said, to become wise and not, to be ignorant?
That we do.
You wish him to be what he is not, and no longer to be what he is?
I was thrown into consternation at this.
Taking advantage of my consternation he added: You wish him no longer to be what he
is, which can only mean that you wish him to perish. Pretty lovers and friends they must
be who want their favourite not to be, or to perish!
When Ctesippus heard this he got very angry (as a lover well might) and said: Stranger
of Thurii—if politeness would allow me I should say, A plague upon you! What can make
you tell such a lie about me and the others, which I hardly like to repeat, as that I wish
Cleinias to perish?
Euthydemus replied: And do you think, Ctesippus, that it is possible to tell a lie?
Yes, said Ctesippus; I should be mad to say anything else.
And in telling a lie, do you tell the thing of which you speak or not?
You tell the thing of which you speak.
And he who tells, tells that thing which he tells, and no other?
Yes, said Ctesippus.
And that is a distinct thing apart from other things?
Certainly.
And he who says that thing says that which is?
Yes.
And he who says that which is, says the truth. And therefore Dionysodorus, if he says
that which is, says the truth of you and no lie.
Yes, Euthydemus, said Ctesippus; but in saying this, he says what is not.
Euthydemus answered: And that which is not is not?
True.
And that which is not is nowhere?
Nowhere.
And can any one do anything about that which has no existence, or do to Cleinias that
which is not and is nowhere?
I think not, said Ctesippus.
Well, but do rhetoricians, when they speak in the assembly, do nothing?
Nay, he said, they do something.
And doing is making?
Yes.
And speaking is doing and making?
He agreed.
Then no one says that which is not, for in saying what is not he would be doing
something; and you have already acknowledged that no one can do what is not. And
therefore, upon your own showing, no one says what is false; but if Dionysodorus says
anything, he says what is true and what is.
Yes, Euthydemus, said Ctesippus; but he speaks of things in a certain way and manner,
and not as they really are.
Why, Ctesippus, said Dionysodorus, do you mean to say that any one speaks of things
as they are?
Yes, he said—all gentlemen and truth-speaking persons.
And are not good things good, and evil things evil?
He assented.
And you say that gentlemen speak of things as they are?
Yes.
Then the good speak evil of evil things, if they speak of them as they are?
Yes, indeed, he said; and they speak evil of evil men. And if I may give you a piece of
advice, you had better take care that they do not speak evil of you, since I can tell you
that the good speak evil of the evil.
And do they speak great things of the great, rejoined Euthydemus, and warm things of
the warm?
To be sure they do, said Ctesippus; and they speak coldly of the insipid and cold
dialectician.
You are abusive, Ctesippus, said Dionysodorus, you are abusive!
Indeed, I am not, Dionysodorus, he replied; for I love you and am giving you friendly
advice, and, if I could, would persuade you not like a boor to say in my presence that I
desire my beloved, whom I value above all men, to perish.
I saw that they were getting exasperated with one another, so I made a joke with him
and said: O Ctesippus, I think that we must allow the strangers to use language in their
own way, and not quarrel with them about words, but be thankful for what they give us.
If they know how to destroy men in such a way as to make good and sensible men out
of bad and foolish ones— whether this is a discovery of their own, or whether they have
learned from some one else this new sort of death and destruction which enables them
to get rid of a bad man and turn him into a good one—if they know this (and they do
know this—at any rate they said just now that this was the secret of their newlydiscovered
art)—let them, in their phraseology, destroy the youth and make him wise,
and all of us with him. But if you young men do not like to trust yourselves with them,
then fiat experimentum in corpore senis; I will be the Carian on whom they shall
operate. And here I offer my old person to Dionysodorus; he may put me into the pot,
like Medea the Colchian, kill me, boil me, if he will only make me good.
Ctesippus said: And I, Socrates, am ready to commit myself to the strangers; they may
skin me alive, if they please (and I am pretty well skinned by them already), if only my
skin is made at last, not like that of Marsyas, into a leathern bottle, but into a piece of
virtue. And here is Dionysodorus fancying that I am angry with him, when really I am not
angry at all; I do but contradict him when I think that he is speaking improperly to me:
and you must not confound abuse and contradiction, O illustrious Dionysodorus; for
they are quite different things.
Contradiction! said Dionysodorus; why, there never was such a thing.
Certainly there is, he replied; there can be no question of that. Do you, Dionysodorus,
maintain that there is not?
You will never prove to me, he said, that you have heard any one contradicting any one
else.
Indeed, said Ctesippus; then now you may hear me contradicting Dionysodorus.
Are you prepared to make that good?
Certainly, he said.
Well, have not all things words expressive of them?
Yes.
Of their existence or of their non-existence?
Of their existence.
Yes, Ctesippus, and we just now proved, as you may remember, that no man could
affirm a negative; for no one could affirm that which is not.
And what does that signify? said Ctesippus; you and I may contradict all the same for
that.
But can we contradict one another, said Dionysodorus, when both of us are describing
the same thing? Then we must surely be speaking the same thing?
He assented.
Or when neither of us is speaking of the same thing? For then neither of us says a word
about the thing at all?
He granted that proposition also.
But when I describe something and you describe another thing, or I say something and
you say nothing—is there any contradiction? How can he who speaks contradict him
who speaks not?
Here Ctesippus was silent; and I in my astonishment said: What do you mean,
Dionysodorus? I have often heard, and have been amazed to hear, this thesis of yours,
which is maintained and employed by the disciples of Protagoras, and others before
them, and which to me appears to be quite wonderful, and suicidal as well as
destructive, and I think that I am most likely to hear the truth about it from you. The
dictum is that there is no such thing as falsehood; a man must either say what is true or
say nothing. Is not that your position?
He assented.
But if he cannot speak falsely, may he not think falsely?
No, he cannot, he said.
Then there is no such thing as false opinion?
No, he said.
Then there is no such thing as ignorance, or men who are ignorant; for is not ignorance,
if there be such a thing, a mistake of fact?
Certainly, he said.
And that is impossible?
Impossible, he replied.
Are you saying this as a paradox, Dionysodorus; or do you seriously maintain no man to
be ignorant?
Refute me, he said.
But how can I refute you, if, as you say, to tell a falsehood is impossible?
Very true, said Euthydemus.
Neither did I tell you just now to refute me, said Dionysodorus; for how can I tell you to
do that which is not?
O Euthydemus, I said, I have but a dull conception of these subtleties and excellent
devices of wisdom; I am afraid that I hardly understand them, and you must forgive me
therefore if I ask a very stupid question: if there be no falsehood or false opinion or
ignorance, there can be no such thing as erroneous action, for a man cannot fail of
acting as he is acting—that is what you mean?
Yes, he replied.
And now, I said, I will ask my stupid question: If there is no such thing as error in deed,
word, or thought, then what, in the name of goodness, do you come hither to teach?
And were you not just now saying that you could teach virtue best of all men, to any
one who was willing to learn?
And are you such an old fool, Socrates, rejoined Dionysodorus, that you bring up now
what I said at first—and if I had said anything last year, I suppose that you would bring
that up too—but are non-plussed at the words which I have just uttered?
Why, I said, they are not easy to answer; for they are the words of wise men: and indeed
I know not what to make of this word 'nonplussed,' which you used last: what do you
mean by it, Dionysodorus? You must mean that I cannot refute your argument. Tell me if
the words have any other sense.
No, he replied, they mean what you say. And now answer.
What, before you, Dionysodorus? I said.
Answer, said he.
And is that fair?
Yes, quite fair, he said.
Upon what principle? I said. I can only suppose that you are a very wise man who comes
to us in the character of a great logician, and who knows when to answer and when not
to answer—and now you will not open your mouth at all, because you know that you
ought not.
You prate, he said, instead of answering. But if, my good sir, you admit that I am wise,
answer as I tell you.
I suppose that I must obey, for you are master. Put the question.
Are the things which have sense alive or lifeless?
They are alive.
And do you know of any word which is alive?
I cannot say that I do.
Then why did you ask me what sense my words had?
Why, because I was stupid and made a mistake. And yet, perhaps, I was right after all in
saying that words have a sense;—what do you say, wise man? If I was not in error, even
you will not refute me, and all your wisdom will be non-plussed; but if I did fall into
error, then again you are wrong in saying that there is no error,—and this remark was
made by you not quite a year ago. I am inclined to think, however, Dionysodorus and
Euthydemus, that this argument lies where it was and is not very likely to advance: even
your skill in the subtleties of logic, which is really amazing, has not found out the way of
throwing another and not falling yourself, now any more than of old.
Ctesippus said: Men of Chios, Thurii, or however and whatever you call yourselves, I
wonder at you, for you seem to have no objection to talking nonsense.
Fearing that there would be high words, I again endeavoured to soothe Ctesippus, and
said to him: To you, Ctesippus, I must repeat what I said before to Cleinias—that you do
not understand the ways of these philosophers from abroad. They are not serious, but,
like the Egyptian wizard, Proteus, they take different forms and deceive us by their
enchantments: and let us, like Menelaus, refuse to let them go until they show
themselves to us in earnest. When they begin to be in earnest their full beauty will
appear: let us then beg and entreat and beseech them to shine forth. And I think that I
had better once more exhibit the form in which I pray to behold them; it might be a
guide to them. I will go on therefore where I left off, as well as I can, in the hope that I
may touch their hearts and move them to pity, and that when they see me deeply
serious and interested, they also may be serious. You, Cleinias, I said, shall remind me at
what point we left off. Did we not agree that philosophy should be studied? and was not
that our conclusion?
Yes, he replied.
And philosophy is the acquisition of knowledge?
Yes, he said.
And what knowledge ought we to acquire? May we not answer with absolute truth—A
knowledge which will do us good?
Certainly, he said.
And should we be any the better if we went about having a knowledge of the places
where most gold was hidden in the earth?
Perhaps we should, he said.
But have we not already proved, I said, that we should be none the better off, even if
without trouble and digging all the gold which there is in the earth were ours? And if we
knew how to convert stones into gold, the knowledge would be of no value to us, unless
we also knew how to use the gold? Do you not remember? I said.
I quite remember, he said.
Nor would any other knowledge, whether of money-making, or of medicine, or of any
other art which knows only how to make a thing, and not to use it when made, be of
any good to us. Am I not right?
He agreed.
And if there were a knowledge which was able to make men immortal, without giving
them the knowledge of the way to use the immortality, neither would there be any use
in that, if we may argue from the analogy of the previous instances?
To all this he agreed.
Then, my dear boy, I said, the knowledge which we want is one that uses as well as
makes?
True, he said.
And our desire is not to be skilful lyre-makers, or artists of that sort— far otherwise; for
with them the art which makes is one, and the art which uses is another. Although they
have to do with the same, they are divided: for the art which makes and the art which
plays on the lyre differ widely from one another. Am I not right?
He agreed.
And clearly we do not want the art of the flute-maker; this is only another of the same
sort?
He assented.
But suppose, I said, that we were to learn the art of making speeches— would that be
the art which would make us happy?
I should say, no, rejoined Cleinias.
And why should you say so? I asked.
I see, he replied, that there are some composers of speeches who do not know how to
use the speeches which they make, just as the makers of lyres do not know how to use
the lyres; and also some who are of themselves unable to compose speeches, but are
able to use the speeches which the others make for them; and this proves that the art of
making speeches is not the same as the art of using them.
Yes, I said; and I take your words to be a sufficient proof that the art of making speeches
is not one which will make a man happy. And yet I did think that the art which we have
so long been seeking might be discovered in that direction; for the composers of
speeches, whenever I meet them, always appear to me to be very extraordinary men,
Cleinias, and their art is lofty and divine, and no wonder. For their art is a part of the
great art of enchantment, and hardly, if at all, inferior to it: and whereas the art of the
enchanter is a mode of charming snakes and spiders and scorpions, and other monsters
and pests, this art of their's acts upon dicasts and ecclesiasts and bodies of men, for the
charming and pacifying of them. Do you agree with me?
Yes, he said, I think that you are quite right.
Whither then shall we go, I said, and to what art shall we have recourse?
I do not see my way, he said.
But I think that I do, I replied.
And what is your notion? asked Cleinias.
I think that the art of the general is above all others the one of which the possession is
most likely to make a man happy.
I do not think so, he said.
Why not? I said.
The art of the general is surely an art of hunting mankind.
What of that? I said.
Why, he said, no art of hunting extends beyond hunting and capturing; and when the
prey is taken the huntsman or fisherman cannot use it; but they hand it over to the cook,
and the geometricians and astronomers and calculators (who all belong to the hunting
class, for they do not make their diagrams, but only find out that which was previously
contained in them)—they, I say, not being able to use but only to catch their prey, hand
over their inventions to the dialectician to be applied by him, if they have any sense in
them.
Good, I said, fairest and wisest Cleinias. And is this true?
Certainly, he said; just as a general when he takes a city or a camp hands over his new
acquisition to the statesman, for he does not know how to use them himself; or as the
quail-taker transfers the quails to the keeper of them. If we are looking for the art which
is to make us blessed, and which is able to use that which it makes or takes, the art of
the general is not the one, and some other must be found.
CRITO: And do you mean, Socrates, that the youngster said all this?
SOCRATES: Are you incredulous, Crito?
CRITO: Indeed, I am; for if he did say so, then in my opinion he needs neither
Euthydemus nor any one else to be his instructor.
SOCRATES: Perhaps I may have forgotten, and Ctesippus was the real answerer.
CRITO: Ctesippus! nonsense.
SOCRATES: All I know is that I heard these words, and that they were not spoken either
by Euthydemus or Dionysodorus. I dare say, my good Crito, that they may have been
spoken by some superior person: that I heard them I am certain.
CRITO: Yes, indeed, Socrates, by some one a good deal superior, as I should be disposed
to think. But did you carry the search any further, and did you find the art which you
were seeking?
SOCRATES: Find! my dear sir, no indeed. And we cut a poor figure; we were like children
after larks, always on the point of catching the art, which was always getting away from
us. But why should I repeat the whole story? At last we came to the kingly art, and
enquired whether that gave and caused happiness, and then we got into a labyrinth,
and when we thought we were at the end, came out again at the beginning, having still
to seek as much as ever.
CRITO: How did that happen, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I will tell you; the kingly art was identified by us with the political.
CRITO: Well, and what came of that?
SOCRATES: To this royal or political art all the arts, including the art of the general,
seemed to render up the supremacy, that being the only one which knew how to use
what they produce. Here obviously was the very art which we were seeking—the art
which is the source of good government, and which may be described, in the language
of Aeschylus, as alone sitting at the helm of the vessel of state, piloting and governing
all things, and utilizing them.
CRITO: And were you not right, Socrates?
SOCRATES: You shall judge, Crito, if you are willing to hear what followed; for we
resumed the enquiry, and a question of this sort was asked: Does the kingly art, having
this supreme authority, do anything for us? To be sure, was the answer. And would not
you, Crito, say the same?
CRITO: Yes, I should.
SOCRATES: And what would you say that the kingly art does? If medicine were
supposed to have supreme authority over the subordinate arts, and I were to ask you a
similar question about that, you would say—it produces health?
CRITO: I should.
SOCRATES: And what of your own art of husbandry, supposing that to have supreme
authority over the subject arts—what does that do? Does it not supply us with the fruits
of the earth?
CRITO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And what does the kingly art do when invested with supreme power?
Perhaps you may not be ready with an answer?
CRITO: Indeed I am not, Socrates.
SOCRATES: No more were we, Crito. But at any rate you know that if this is the art which
we were seeking, it ought to be useful.
CRITO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And surely it ought to do us some good?
CRITO: Certainly, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And Cleinias and I had arrived at the conclusion that knowledge of some
kind is the only good.
CRITO: Yes, that was what you were saying.
SOCRATES: All the other results of politics, and they are many, as for example, wealth,
freedom, tranquillity, were neither good nor evil in themselves; but the political science
ought to make us wise, and impart knowledge to us, if that is the science which is likely
to do us good, and make us happy.
CRITO: Yes; that was the conclusion at which you had arrived, according to your report
of the conversation.
SOCRATES: And does the kingly art make men wise and good?
CRITO: Why not, Socrates?
SOCRATES: What, all men, and in every respect? and teach them all the arts,—
carpentering, and cobbling, and the rest of them?
CRITO: I think not, Socrates.
SOCRATES: But then what is this knowledge, and what are we to do with it? For it is not
the source of any works which are neither good nor evil, and gives no knowledge, but
the knowledge of itself; what then can it be, and what are we to do with it? Shall we say,
Crito, that it is the knowledge by which we are to make other men good?
CRITO: By all means.
SOCRATES: And in what will they be good and useful? Shall we repeat that they will
make others good, and that these others will make others again, without ever
determining in what they are to be good; for we have put aside the results of politics, as
they are called. This is the old, old song over again; and we are just as far as ever, if not
farther, from the knowledge of the art or science of happiness.
CRITO: Indeed, Socrates, you do appear to have got into a great perplexity.
SOCRATES: Thereupon, Crito, seeing that I was on the point of shipwreck, I lifted up my
voice, and earnestly entreated and called upon the strangers to save me and the youth
from the whirlpool of the argument; they were our Castor and Pollux, I said, and they
should be serious, and show us in sober earnest what that knowledge was which would
enable us to pass the rest of our lives in happiness.
CRITO: And did Euthydemus show you this knowledge?
SOCRATES: Yes, indeed; he proceeded in a lofty strain to the following effect: Would you
rather, Socrates, said he, that I should show you this knowledge about which you have
been doubting, or shall I prove that you already have it?
What, I said, are you blessed with such a power as this?
Indeed I am.
Then I would much rather that you should prove me to have such a knowledge; at my
time of life that will be more agreeable than having to learn.
Then tell me, he said, do you know anything?
Yes, I said, I know many things, but not anything of much importance.
That will do, he said: And would you admit that anything is what it is, and at the same
time is not what it is?
Certainly not.
And did you not say that you knew something?
I did.
If you know, you are knowing.
Certainly, of the knowledge which I have.
That makes no difference;—and must you not, if you are knowing, know all things?
Certainly not, I said, for there are many other things which I do not know.
And if you do not know, you are not knowing.
Yes, friend, of that which I do not know.
Still you are not knowing, and you said just now that you were knowing; and therefore
you are and are not at the same time, and in reference to the same things.
A pretty clatter, as men say, Euthydemus, this of yours! and will you explain how I
possess that knowledge for which we were seeking? Do you mean to say that the same
thing cannot be and also not be; and therefore, since I know one thing, that I know all,
for I cannot be knowing and not knowing at the same time, and if I know all things, then
I must have the knowledge for which we are seeking—May I assume this to be your
ingenious notion?
Out of your own mouth, Socrates, you are convicted, he said.
Well, but, Euthydemus, I said, has that never happened to you? for if I am only in the
same case with you and our beloved Dionysodorus, I cannot complain. Tell me, then,
you two, do you not know some things, and not know others?
Certainly not, Socrates, said Dionysodorus.
What do you mean, I said; do you know nothing?
Nay, he replied, we do know something.
Then, I said, you know all things, if you know anything?
Yes, all things, he said; and that is as true of you as of us.
O, indeed, I said, what a wonderful thing, and what a great blessing! And do all other
men know all things or nothing?
Certainly, he replied; they cannot know some things, and not know others, and be at the
same time knowing and not knowing.
Then what is the inference? I said.
They all know all things, he replied, if they know one thing.
O heavens, Dionysodorus, I said, I see now that you are in earnest; hardly have I got you
to that point. And do you really and truly know all things, including carpentering and
leather-cutting?
Certainly, he said.
And do you know stitching?
Yes, by the gods, we do, and cobbling, too.
And do you know things such as the numbers of the stars and of the sand?
Certainly; did you think we should say No to that?
By Zeus, said Ctesippus, interrupting, I only wish that you would give me some proof
which would enable me to know whether you speak truly.
What proof shall I give you? he said.
Will you tell me how many teeth Euthydemus has? and Euthydemus shall tell how many
teeth you have.
Will you not take our word that we know all things?
Certainly not, said Ctesippus: you must further tell us this one thing, and then we shall
know that you are speak the truth; if you tell us the number, and we count them, and
you are found to be right, we will believe the rest. They fancied that Ctesippus was
making game of them, and they refused, and they would only say in answer to each of
his questions, that they knew all things. For at last Ctesippus began to throw off all
restraint; no question in fact was too bad for him; he would ask them if they knew the
foulest things, and they, like wild boars, came rushing on his blows, and fearlessly
replied that they did. At last, Crito, I too was carried away by my incredulity, and asked
Euthydemus whether Dionysodorus could dance.
Certainly, he replied.
And can he vault among swords, and turn upon a wheel, at his age? has he got to such a
height of skill as that?
He can do anything, he said.
And did you always know this?
Always, he said.
When you were children, and at your birth?
They both said that they did.
This we could not believe. And Euthydemus said: You are incredulous, Socrates.
Yes, I said, and I might well be incredulous, if I did not know you to be wise men.
But if you will answer, he said, I will make you confess to similar marvels.
Well, I said, there is nothing that I should like better than to be self- convicted of this,
for if I am really a wise man, which I never knew before, and you will prove to me that I
know and have always known all things, nothing in life would be a greater gain to me.
Answer then, he said.
Ask, I said, and I will answer.
Do you know something, Socrates, or nothing?
Something, I said.
And do you know with what you know, or with something else?
With what I know; and I suppose that you mean with my soul?
Are you not ashamed, Socrates, of asking a question when you are asked one?
Well, I said; but then what am I to do? for I will do whatever you bid; when I do not
know what you are asking, you tell me to answer nevertheless, and not to ask again.
Why, you surely have some notion of my meaning, he said.
Yes, I replied.
Well, then, answer according to your notion of my meaning.
Yes, I said; but if the question which you ask in one sense is understood and answered
by me in another, will that please you—if I answer what is not to the point?
That will please me very well; but will not please you equally well, as I imagine.
I certainly will not answer unless I understand you, I said.
You will not answer, he said, according to your view of the meaning, because you will be
prating, and are an ancient.
Now I saw that he was getting angry with me for drawing distinctions, when he wanted
to catch me in his springes of words. And I remembered that Connus was always angry
with me when I opposed him, and then he neglected me, because he thought that I was
stupid; and as I was intending to go to Euthydemus as a pupil, I reflected that I had
better let him have his way, as he might think me a blockhead, and refuse to take me. So
I said: You are a far better dialectician than myself, Euthydemus, for I have never made a
profession of the art, and therefore do as you say; ask your questions once more, and I
will answer.
Answer then, he said, again, whether you know what you know with something, or with
nothing.
Yes, I said; I know with my soul.
The man will answer more than the question; for I did not ask you, he said, with what
you know, but whether you know with something.
Again I replied, Through ignorance I have answered too much, but I hope that you will
forgive me. And now I will answer simply that I always know what I know with
something.
And is that something, he rejoined, always the same, or sometimes one thing, and
sometimes another thing?
Always, I replied, when I know, I know with this.
Will you not cease adding to your answers?
My fear is that this word 'always' may get us into trouble.
You, perhaps, but certainly not us. And now answer: Do you always know with this?
Always; since I am required to withdraw the words 'when I know.'
You always know with this, or, always knowing, do you know some things with this, and
some things with something else, or do you know all things with this?
All that I know, I replied, I know with this.
There again, Socrates, he said, the addition is superfluous.
Well, then, I said, I will take away the words 'that I know.'
Nay, take nothing away; I desire no favours of you; but let me ask: Would you be able to
know all things, if you did not know all things?
Quite impossible.
And now, he said, you may add on whatever you like, for you confess that you know all
things.
I suppose that is true, I said, if my qualification implied in the words 'that I know' is not
allowed to stand; and so I do know all things.
And have you not admitted that you always know all things with that which you know,
whether you make the addition of 'when you know them' or not? for you have
acknowledged that you have always and at once known all things, that is to say, when
you were a child, and at your birth, and when you were growing up, and before you
were born, and before the heaven and earth existed, you knew all things, if you always
know them; and I swear that you shall always continue to know all things, if I am of the
mind to make you.
But I hope that you will be of that mind, reverend Euthydemus, I said, if you are really
speaking the truth, and yet I a little doubt your power to make good your words unless
you have the help of your brother Dionysodorus; then you may do it. Tell me now, both
of you, for although in the main I cannot doubt that I really do know all things, when I
am told so by men of your prodigious wisdom—how can I say that I know such things,
Euthydemus, as that the good are unjust; come, do I know that or not?
Certainly, you know that.
What do I know?
That the good are not unjust.
Quite true, I said; and that I have always known; but the question is, where did I learn
that the good are unjust?
Nowhere, said Dionysodorus.
Then, I said, I do not know this.
You are ruining the argument, said Euthydemus to Dionysodorus; he will be proved not
to know, and then after all he will be knowing and not knowing at the same time.
Dionysodorus blushed.
I turned to the other, and said, What do you think, Euthydemus? Does not your
omniscient brother appear to you to have made a mistake?
What, replied Dionysodorus in a moment; am I the brother of Euthydemus?
Thereupon I said, Please not to interrupt, my good friend, or prevent Euthydemus from
proving to me that I know the good to be unjust; such a lesson you might at least allow
me to learn.
You are running away, Socrates, said Dionysodorus, and refusing to answer.
No wonder, I said, for I am not a match for one of you, and a fortiori I must run away
from two. I am no Heracles; and even Heracles could not fight against the Hydra, who
was a she-Sophist, and had the wit to shoot up many new heads when one of them was
cut off; especially when he saw a second monster of a sea-crab, who was also a Sophist,
and appeared to have newly arrived from a sea-voyage, bearing down upon him from
the left, opening his mouth and biting. When the monster was growing troublesome he
called Iolaus, his nephew, to his help, who ably succoured him; but if my Iolaus, who is
my brother Patrocles (the statuary), were to come, he would only make a bad business
worse.
And now that you have delivered yourself of this strain, said Dionysodorus, will you
inform me whether Iolaus was the nephew of Heracles any more than he is yours?
I suppose that I had best answer you, Dionysodorus, I said, for you will insist on asking—
that I pretty well know—out of envy, in order to prevent me from learning the wisdom
of Euthydemus.
Then answer me, he said.
Well then, I said, I can only reply that Iolaus was not my nephew at all, but the nephew
of Heracles; and his father was not my brother Patrocles, but Iphicles, who has a name
rather like his, and was the brother of Heracles.
And is Patrocles, he said, your brother?
Yes, I said, he is my half-brother, the son of my mother, but not of my father.
Then he is and is not your brother.
Not by the same father, my good man, I said, for Chaeredemus was his father, and mine
was Sophroniscus.
And was Sophroniscus a father, and Chaeredemus also?
Yes, I said; the former was my father, and the latter his.
Then, he said, Chaeredemus is not a father.
He is not my father, I said.
But can a father be other than a father? or are you the same as a stone?
I certainly do not think that I am a stone, I said, though I am afraid that you may prove
me to be one.
Are you not other than a stone?
I am.
And being other than a stone, you are not a stone; and being other than gold, you are
not gold?
Very true.
And so Chaeredemus, he said, being other than a father, is not a father?
I suppose that he is not a father, I replied.
For if, said Euthydemus, taking up the argument, Chaeredemus is a father, then
Sophroniscus, being other than a father, is not a father; and you, Socrates, are without a
father.
Ctesippus, here taking up the argument, said: And is not your father in the same case,
for he is other than my father?
Assuredly not, said Euthydemus.
Then he is the same?
He is the same.
I cannot say that I like the connection; but is he only my father, Euthydemus, or is he the
father of all other men?
Of all other men, he replied. Do you suppose the same person to be a father and not a
father?
Certainly, I did so imagine, said Ctesippus.
And do you suppose that gold is not gold, or that a man is not a man?
They are not 'in pari materia,' Euthydemus, said Ctesippus, and you had better take care,
for it is monstrous to suppose that your father is the father of all.
But he is, he replied.
What, of men only, said Ctesippus, or of horses and of all other animals?
Of all, he said.
And your mother, too, is the mother of all?
Yes, our mother too.
Yes; and your mother has a progeny of sea-urchins then?
Yes; and yours, he said.
And gudgeons and puppies and pigs are your brothers?
And yours too.
And your papa is a dog?
And so is yours, he said.
If you will answer my questions, said Dionysodorus, I will soon extract the same
admissions from you, Ctesippus. You say that you have a dog.
Yes, a villain of a one, said Ctesippus.
And he has puppies?
Yes, and they are very like himself.
And the dog is the father of them?
Yes, he said, I certainly saw him and the mother of the puppies come together.
And is he not yours?
To be sure he is.
Then he is a father, and he is yours; ergo, he is your father, and the puppies are your
brothers.
Let me ask you one little question more, said Dionysodorus, quickly interposing, in order
that Ctesippus might not get in his word: You beat this dog?
Ctesippus said, laughing, Indeed I do; and I only wish that I could beat you instead of
him.
Then you beat your father, he said.
I should have far more reason to beat yours, said Ctesippus; what could he have been
thinking of when he begat such wise sons? much good has this father of you and your
brethren the puppies got out of this wisdom of yours.
But neither he nor you, Ctesippus, have any need of much good.
And have you no need, Euthydemus? he said.
Neither I nor any other man; for tell me now, Ctesippus, if you think it good or evil for a
man who is sick to drink medicine when he wants it; or to go to war armed rather than
unarmed.
Good, I say. And yet I know that I am going to be caught in one of your charming
puzzles.
That, he replied, you will discover, if you answer; since you admit medicine to be good
for a man to drink, when wanted, must it not be good for him to drink as much as
possible; when he takes his medicine, a cartload of hellebore will not be too much for
him?
Ctesippus said: Quite so, Euthydemus, that is to say, if he who drinks is as big as the
statue of Delphi.
And seeing that in war to have arms is a good thing, he ought to have as many spears
and shields as possible?
Very true, said Ctesippus; and do you think, Euthydemus, that he ought to have one
shield only, and one spear?
I do.
And would you arm Geryon and Briareus in that way? Considering that you and your
companion fight in armour, I thought that you would have known better...Here
Euthydemus held his peace, but Dionysodorus returned to the previous answer of
Ctesippus and said:—
Do you not think that the possession of gold is a good thing?
Yes, said Ctesippus, and the more the better.
And to have money everywhere and always is a good?
Certainly, a great good, he said.
And you admit gold to be a good?
Certainly, he replied.
And ought not a man then to have gold everywhere and always, and as much as
possible in himself, and may he not be deemed the happiest of men who has three
talents of gold in his belly, and a talent in his pate, and a stater of gold in either eye?
Yes, Euthydemus, said Ctesippus; and the Scythians reckon those who have gold in their
own skulls to be the happiest and bravest of men (that is only another instance of your
manner of speaking about the dog and father), and what is still more extraordinary, they
drink out of their own skulls gilt, and see the inside of them, and hold their own head in
their hands.
And do the Scythians and others see that which has the quality of vision, or that which
has not? said Euthydemus.
That which has the quality of vision clearly.
And you also see that which has the quality of vision? he said. (Note: the ambiguity of
(Greek), 'things visible and able to see,' (Greek), 'the speaking of the silent,' the silent
denoting either the speaker or the subject of the speech, cannot be perfectly rendered
in English. Compare Aristot. Soph. Elenchi (Poste's translation):—
'Of ambiguous propositions the following are instances:—
'I hope that you the enemy may slay.
'Whom one knows, he knows. Either the person knowing or the person known is here
affirmed to know.
'What one sees, that one sees: one sees a pillar: ergo, that one pillar sees.
'What you ARE holding, that you are: you are holding a stone: ergo, a stone you are.
'Is a speaking of the silent possible? "The silent" denotes either the speaker are the
subject of speech.
'There are three kinds of ambiguity of term or proposition. The first is when there is an
equal linguistic propriety in several interpretations; the second when one is improper
but customary; the third when the ambiguity arises in the combination of elements that
are in themselves unambiguous, as in "knowing letters." "Knowing" and "letters" are
perhaps separately unambiguous, but in combination may imply either that the letters
are known, or that they themselves have knowledge. Such are the modes in which
propositions and terms may be ambiguous.'
Yes, I do.
Then do you see our garments?
Yes.
Then our garments have the quality of vision.
They can see to any extent, said Ctesippus.
What can they see?
Nothing; but you, my sweet man, may perhaps imagine that they do not see; and
certainly, Euthydemus, you do seem to me to have been caught napping when you were
not asleep, and that if it be possible to speak and say nothing—you are doing so.
And may there not be a silence of the speaker? said Dionysodorus.
Impossible, said Ctesippus.
Or a speaking of the silent?
That is still more impossible, he said.
But when you speak of stones, wood, iron bars, do you not speak of the silent?
Not when I pass a smithy; for then the iron bars make a tremendous noise and outcry if
they are touched: so that here your wisdom is strangely mistaken; please, however, to
tell me how you can be silent when speaking (I thought that Ctesippus was put upon his
mettle because Cleinias was present).
When you are silent, said Euthydemus, is there not a silence of all things?
Yes, he said.
But if speaking things are included in all things, then the speaking are silent.
What, said Ctesippus; then all things are not silent?
Certainly not, said Euthydemus.
Then, my good friend, do they all speak?
Yes; those which speak.
Nay, said Ctesippus, but the question which I ask is whether all things are silent or
speak?
Neither and both, said Dionysodorus, quickly interposing; I am sure that you will be
'non-plussed' at that answer.
Here Ctesippus, as his manner was, burst into a roar of laughter; he said, That brother of
yours, Euthydemus, has got into a dilemma; all is over with him. This delighted Cleinias,
whose laughter made Ctesippus ten times as uproarious; but I cannot help thinking that
the rogue must have picked up this answer from them; for there has been no wisdom
like theirs in our time. Why do you laugh, Cleinias, I said, at such solemn and beautiful
things?
Why, Socrates, said Dionysodorus, did you ever see a beautiful thing?
Yes, Dionysodorus, I replied, I have seen many.
Were they other than the beautiful, or the same as the beautiful?
Now I was in a great quandary at having to answer this question, and I thought that I
was rightly served for having opened my mouth at all: I said however, They are not the
same as absolute beauty, but they have beauty present with each of them.
And are you an ox because an ox is present with you, or are you Dionysodorus, because
Dionysodorus is present with you?
God forbid, I replied.
But how, he said, by reason of one thing being present with another, will one thing be
another?
Is that your difficulty? I said. For I was beginning to imitate their skill, on which my heart
was set.
Of course, he replied, I and all the world are in a difficulty about the non-existent.
What do you mean, Dionysodorus? I said. Is not the honourable honourable and the
base base?
That, he said, is as I please.
And do you please?
Yes, he said.
And you will admit that the same is the same, and the other other; for surely the other is
not the same; I should imagine that even a child will hardly deny the other to be other.
But I think, Dionysodorus, that you must have intentionally missed the last question; for
in general you and your brother seem to me to be good workmen in your own
department, and to do the dialectician's business excellently well.
What, said he, is the business of a good workman? tell me, in the first place, whose
business is hammering?
The smith's.
And whose the making of pots?
The potter's.
And who has to kill and skin and mince and boil and roast?
The cook, I said.
And if a man does his business he does rightly?
Certainly.
And the business of the cook is to cut up and skin; you have admitted that?
Yes, I have admitted that, but you must not be too hard upon me.
Then if some one were to kill, mince, boil, roast the cook, he would do his business, and
if he were to hammer the smith, and make a pot of the potter, he would do their
business.
Poseidon, I said, this is the crown of wisdom; can I ever hope to have such wisdom of my
own?
And would you be able, Socrates, to recognize this wisdom when it has become your
own?
Certainly, I said, if you will allow me.
What, he said, do you think that you know what is your own?
Yes, I do, subject to your correction; for you are the bottom, and Euthydemus is the top,
of all my wisdom.
Is not that which you would deem your own, he said, that which you have in your own
power, and which you are able to use as you would desire, for example, an ox or a
sheep—would you not think that which you could sell and give and sacrifice to any god
whom you pleased, to be your own, and that which you could not give or sell or sacrifice
you would think not to be in your own power?
Yes, I said (for I was certain that something good would come out of the questions,
which I was impatient to hear); yes, such things, and such things only are mine.
Yes, he said, and you would mean by animals living beings?
Yes, I said.
You agree then, that those animals only are yours with which you have the power to do
all these things which I was just naming?
I agree.
Then, after a pause, in which he seemed to be lost in the contemplation of something
great, he said: Tell me, Socrates, have you an ancestral Zeus? Here, anticipating the final
move, like a person caught in a net, who gives a desperate twist that he may get away, I
said: No, Dionysodorus, I have not.
What a miserable man you must be then, he said; you are not an Athenian at all if you
have no ancestral gods or temples, or any other mark of gentility.
Nay, Dionysodorus, I said, do not be rough; good words, if you please; in the way of
religion I have altars and temples, domestic and ancestral, and all that other Athenians
have.
And have not other Athenians, he said, an ancestral Zeus?
That name, I said, is not to be found among the Ionians, whether colonists or citizens of
Athens; an ancestral Apollo there is, who is the father of Ion, and a family Zeus, and a
Zeus guardian of the phratry, and an Athene guardian of the phratry. But the name of
ancestral Zeus is unknown to us.
No matter, said Dionysodorus, for you admit that you have Apollo, Zeus, and Athene.
Certainly, I said.
And they are your gods, he said.
Yes, I said, my lords and ancestors.
At any rate they are yours, he said, did you not admit that?
I did, I said; what is going to happen to me?
And are not these gods animals? for you admit that all things which have life are
animals; and have not these gods life?
They have life, I said.
Then are they not animals?
They are animals, I said.
And you admitted that of animals those are yours which you could give away or sell or
offer in sacrifice, as you pleased?
I did admit that, Euthydemus, and I have no way of escape.
Well then, said he, if you admit that Zeus and the other gods are yours, can you sell
them or give them away or do what you will with them, as you would with other
animals?
At this I was quite struck dumb, Crito, and lay prostrate. Ctesippus came to the rescue.
Bravo, Heracles, brave words, said he.
Bravo Heracles, or is Heracles a Bravo? said Dionysodorus.
Poseidon, said Ctesippus, what awful distinctions. I will have no more of them; the pair
are invincible.
Then, my dear Crito, there was universal applause of the speakers and their words, and
what with laughing and clapping of hands and rejoicings the two men were quite
overpowered; for hitherto their partisans only had cheered at each successive hit, but
now the whole company shouted with delight until the columns of the Lyceum returned
the sound, seeming to sympathize in their joy. To such a pitch was I affected myself, that
I made a speech, in which I acknowledged that I had never seen the like of their wisdom;
I was their devoted servant, and fell to praising and admiring of them. What marvellous
dexterity of wit, I said, enabled you to acquire this great perfection in such a short time?
There is much, indeed, to admire in your words, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, but
there is nothing that I admire more than your magnanimous disregard of any opinion—
whether of the many, or of the grave and reverend seigniors—you regard only those
who are like yourselves. And I do verily believe that there are few who are like you, and
who would approve of such arguments; the majority of mankind are so ignorant of their
value, that they would be more ashamed of employing them in the refutation of others
than of being refuted by them. I must further express my approval of your kind and
public-spirited denial of all differences, whether of good and evil, white or black, or any
other; the result of which is that, as you say, every mouth is sewn up, not excepting your
own, which graciously follows the example of others; and thus all ground of offence is
taken away. But what appears to me to be more than all is, that this art and invention of
yours has been so admirably contrived by you, that in a very short time it can be
imparted to any one. I observed that Ctesippus learned to imitate you in no time. Now
this quickness of attainment is an excellent thing; but at the same time I would advise
you not to have any more public entertainments; there is a danger that men may
undervalue an art which they have so easy an opportunity of acquiring; the exhibition
would be best of all, if the discussion were confined to your two selves; but if there must
be an audience, let him only be present who is willing to pay a handsome fee;—you
should be careful of this;—and if you are wise, you will also bid your disciples discourse
with no man but you and themselves. For only what is rare is valuable; and 'water,'
which, as Pindar says, is the 'best of all things,' is also the cheapest. And now I have only
to request that you will receive Cleinias and me among your pupils.
Such was the discussion, Crito; and after a few more words had passed between us we
went away. I hope that you will come to them with me, since they say that they are able
to teach any one who will give them money; no age or want of capacity is an
impediment. And I must repeat one thing which they said, for your especial benefit,—
that the learning of their art did not at all interfere with the business of money-making.
CRITO: Truly, Socrates, though I am curious and ready to learn, yet I fear that I am not
like-minded with Euthydemus, but one of the other sort, who, as you were saying, would
rather be refuted by such arguments than use them in refutation of others. And though I
may appear ridiculous in venturing to advise you, I think that you may as well hear what
was said to me by a man of very considerable pretensions—he was a professor of legal
oratory— who came away from you while I was walking up and down. 'Crito,' said he to
me, 'are you giving no attention to these wise men?' 'No, indeed,' I said to him; 'I could
not get within hearing of them—there was such a crowd.' 'You would have heard
something worth hearing if you had.' 'What was that?' I said. 'You would have heard the
greatest masters of the art of rhetoric discoursing.' 'And what did you think of them?' I
said. 'What did I think of them?' he said:—'theirs was the sort of discourse which
anybody might hear from men who were playing the fool, and making much ado about
nothing.' That was the expression which he used. 'Surely,' I said, 'philosophy is a
charming thing.' 'Charming!' he said; 'what simplicity! philosophy is nought; and I think
that if you had been present you would have been ashamed of your friend—his conduct
was so very strange in placing himself at the mercy of men who care not what they say,
and fasten upon every word. And these, as I was telling you, are supposed to be the
most eminent professors of their time. But the truth is, Crito, that the study itself and the
men themselves are utterly mean and ridiculous.' Now censure of the pursuit, Socrates,
whether coming from him or from others, appears to me to be undeserved; but as to
the impropriety of holding a public discussion with such men, there, I confess that, in my
opinion, he was in the right.
SOCRATES: O Crito, they are marvellous men; but what was I going to say? First of all let
me know;—What manner of man was he who came up to you and censured philosophy;
was he an orator who himself practises in the courts, or an instructor of orators, who
makes the speeches with which they do battle?
CRITO: He was certainly not an orator, and I doubt whether he had ever been into court;
but they say that he knows the business, and is a clever man, and composes wonderful
speeches.
SOCRATES: Now I understand, Crito; he is one of an amphibious class, whom I was on
the point of mentioning—one of those whom Prodicus describes as on the borderground
between philosophers and statesmen—they think that they are the wisest of all
men, and that they are generally esteemed the wisest; nothing but the rivalry of the
philosophers stands in their way; and they are of the opinion that if they can prove the
philosophers to be good for nothing, no one will dispute their title to the palm of
wisdom, for that they are themselves really the wisest, although they are apt to be
mauled by Euthydemus and his friends, when they get hold of them in conversation.
This opinion which they entertain of their own wisdom is very natural; for they have a
certain amount of philosophy, and a certain amount of political wisdom; there is reason
in what they say, for they argue that they have just enough of both, and so they keep
out of the way of all risks and conflicts and reap the fruits of their wisdom.
CRITO: What do you say of them, Socrates? There is certainly something specious in that
notion of theirs.
SOCRATES: Yes, Crito, there is more speciousness than truth; they cannot be made to
understand the nature of intermediates. For all persons or things, which are
intermediate between two other things, and participate in both of them—if one of these
two things is good and the other evil, are better than the one and worse than the other;
but if they are in a mean between two good things which do not tend to the same end,
they fall short of either of their component elements in the attainment of their ends.
Only in the case when the two component elements which do not tend to the same end
are evil is the participant better than either. Now, if philosophy and political action are
both good, but tend to different ends, and they participate in both, and are in a mean
between them, then they are talking nonsense, for they are worse than either; or, if the
one be good and the other evil, they are better than the one and worse than the other;
only on the supposition that they are both evil could there be any truth in what they say.
I do not think that they will admit that their two pursuits are either wholly or partly evil;
but the truth is, that these philosopher- politicians who aim at both fall short of both in
the attainment of their respective ends, and are really third, although they would like to
stand first. There is no need, however, to be angry at this ambition of theirs— which
may be forgiven; for every man ought to be loved who says and manfully pursues and
works out anything which is at all like wisdom: at the same time we shall do well to see
them as they really are.
CRITO: I have often told you, Socrates, that I am in a constant difficulty about my two
sons. What am I to do with them? There is no hurry about the younger one, who is only
a child; but the other, Critobulus, is getting on, and needs some one who will improve
him. I cannot help thinking, when I hear you talk, that there is a sort of madness in many
of our anxieties about our children:—in the first place, about marrying a wife of good
family to be the mother of them, and then about heaping up money for them— and yet
taking no care about their education. But then again, when I contemplate any of those
who pretend to educate others, I am amazed. To me, if I am to confess the truth, they all
seem to be such outrageous beings: so that I do not know how I can advise the youth to
study philosophy.
SOCRATES: Dear Crito, do you not know that in every profession the inferior sort are
numerous and good for nothing, and the good are few and beyond all price: for
example, are not gymnastic and rhetoric and money- making and the art of the general,
noble arts?
CRITO: Certainly they are, in my judgment.
SOCRATES: Well, and do you not see that in each of these arts the many are ridiculous
performers?
CRITO: Yes, indeed, that is very true.
SOCRATES: And will you on this account shun all these pursuits yourself and refuse to
allow them to your son?
CRITO: That would not be reasonable, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Do you then be reasonable, Crito, and do not mind whether the teachers of
philosophy are good or bad, but think only of philosophy herself. Try and examine her
well and truly, and if she be evil seek to turn away all men from her, and not your sons
only; but if she be what I believe that she is, then follow her and serve her, you and your
house, as the saying is, and be of good cheer.
THE END
CRATYLUS
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Hermogenes, Cratylus.
HERMOGENES: Suppose that we make Socrates a party to the argument?
CRATYLUS: If you please.
HERMOGENES: I should explain to you, Socrates, that our friend Cratylus has been
arguing about names; he says that they are natural and not conventional; not a portion
of the human voice which men agree to use; but that there is a truth or correctness in
them, which is the same for Hellenes as for barbarians. Whereupon I ask him, whether
his own name of Cratylus is a true name or not, and he answers 'Yes.' And Socrates?
'Yes.' Then every man's name, as I tell him, is that which he is called. To this he replies—
'If all the world were to call you Hermogenes, that would not be your name.' And when I
am anxious to have a further explanation he is ironical and mysterious, and seems to
imply that he has a notion of his own about the matter, if he would only tell, and could
entirely convince me, if he chose to be intelligible. Tell me, Socrates, what this oracle
means; or rather tell me, if you will be so good, what is your own view of the truth or
correctness of names, which I would far sooner hear.
SOCRATES: Son of Hipponicus, there is an ancient saying, that 'hard is the knowledge of
the good.' And the knowledge of names is a great part of knowledge. If I had not been
poor, I might have heard the fifty-drachma course of the great Prodicus, which is a
complete education in grammar and language—these are his own words—and then I
should have been at once able to answer your question about the correctness of names.
But, indeed, I have only heard the single-drachma course, and therefore, I do not know
the truth about such matters; I will, however, gladly assist you and Cratylus in the
investigation of them. When he declares that your name is not really Hermogenes, I
suspect that he is only making fun of you;—he means to say that you are no true son of
Hermes, because you are always looking after a fortune and never in luck. But, as I was
saying, there is a good deal of difficulty in this sort of knowledge, and therefore we had
better leave the question open until we have heard both sides.
HERMOGENES: I have often talked over this matter, both with Cratylus and others, and
cannot convince myself that there is any principle of correctness in names other than
convention and agreement; any name which you give, in my opinion, is the right one,
and if you change that and give another, the new name is as correct as the old—we
frequently change the names of our slaves, and the newly-imposed name is as good as
the old: for there is no name given to anything by nature; all is convention and habit of
the users;—such is my view. But if I am mistaken I shall be happy to hear and learn of
Cratylus, or of any one else.
SOCRATES: I dare say that you may be right, Hermogenes: let us see;—Your meaning is,
that the name of each thing is only that which anybody agrees to call it?
HERMOGENES: That is my notion.
SOCRATES: Whether the giver of the name be an individual or a city?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Well, now, let me take an instance;—suppose that I call a man a horse or a
horse a man, you mean to say that a man will be rightly called a horse by me
individually, and rightly called a man by the rest of the world; and a horse again would
be rightly called a man by me and a horse by the world:—that is your meaning?
HERMOGENES: He would, according to my view.
SOCRATES: But how about truth, then? you would acknowledge that there is in words a
true and a false?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And there are true and false propositions?
HERMOGENES: To be sure.
SOCRATES: And a true proposition says that which is, and a false proposition says that
which is not?
HERMOGENES: Yes; what other answer is possible?
SOCRATES: Then in a proposition there is a true and false?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: But is a proposition true as a whole only, and are the parts untrue?
HERMOGENES: No; the parts are true as well as the whole.
SOCRATES: Would you say the large parts and not the smaller ones, or every part?
HERMOGENES: I should say that every part is true.
SOCRATES: Is a proposition resolvable into any part smaller than a name?
HERMOGENES: No; that is the smallest.
SOCRATES: Then the name is a part of the true proposition?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Yes, and a true part, as you say.
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And is not the part of a falsehood also a falsehood?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then, if propositions may be true and false, names may be true and false?
HERMOGENES: So we must infer.
SOCRATES: And the name of anything is that which any one affirms to be the name?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And will there be so many names of each thing as everybody says that there
are? and will they be true names at the time of uttering them?
HERMOGENES: Yes, Socrates, I can conceive no correctness of names other than this;
you give one name, and I another; and in different cities and countries there are
different names for the same things; Hellenes differ from barbarians in their use of
names, and the several Hellenic tribes from one another.
SOCRATES: But would you say, Hermogenes, that the things differ as the names differ?
and are they relative to individuals, as Protagoras tells us? For he says that man is the
measure of all things, and that things are to me as they appear to me, and that they are
to you as they appear to you. Do you agree with him, or would you say that things have
a permanent essence of their own?
HERMOGENES: There have been times, Socrates, when I have been driven in my
perplexity to take refuge with Protagoras; not that I agree with him at all.
SOCRATES: What! have you ever been driven to admit that there was no such thing as a
bad man?
HERMOGENES: No, indeed; but I have often had reason to think that there are very bad
men, and a good many of them.
SOCRATES: Well, and have you ever found any very good ones?
HERMOGENES: Not many.
SOCRATES: Still you have found them?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And would you hold that the very good were the very wise, and the very evil
very foolish? Would that be your view?
HERMOGENES: It would.
SOCRATES: But if Protagoras is right, and the truth is that things are as they appear to
any one, how can some of us be wise and some of us foolish?
HERMOGENES: Impossible.
SOCRATES: And if, on the other hand, wisdom and folly are really distinguishable, you
will allow, I think, that the assertion of Protagoras can hardly be correct. For if what
appears to each man is true to him, one man cannot in reality be wiser than another.
HERMOGENES: He cannot.
SOCRATES: Nor will you be disposed to say with Euthydemus, that all things equally
belong to all men at the same moment and always; for neither on his view can there be
some good and others bad, if virtue and vice are always equally to be attributed to all.
HERMOGENES: There cannot.
SOCRATES: But if neither is right, and things are not relative to individuals, and all things
do not equally belong to all at the same moment and always, they must be supposed to
have their own proper and permanent essence: they are not in relation to us, or
influenced by us, fluctuating according to our fancy, but they are independent, and
maintain to their own essence the relation prescribed by nature.
HERMOGENES: I think, Socrates, that you have said the truth.
SOCRATES: Does what I am saying apply only to the things themselves, or equally to the
actions which proceed from them? Are not actions also a class of being?
HERMOGENES: Yes, the actions are real as well as the things.
SOCRATES: Then the actions also are done according to their proper nature, and not
according to our opinion of them? In cutting, for example, we do not cut as we please,
and with any chance instrument; but we cut with the proper instrument only, and
according to the natural process of cutting; and the natural process is right and will
succeed, but any other will fail and be of no use at all.
HERMOGENES: I should say that the natural way is the right way.
SOCRATES: Again, in burning, not every way is the right way; but the right way is the
natural way, and the right instrument the natural instrument.
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: And this holds good of all actions?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And speech is a kind of action?
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: And will a man speak correctly who speaks as he pleases? Will not the
successful speaker rather be he who speaks in the natural way of speaking, and as
things ought to be spoken, and with the natural instrument? Any other mode of
speaking will result in error and failure.
HERMOGENES: I quite agree with you.
SOCRATES: And is not naming a part of speaking? for in giving names men speak.
HERMOGENES: That is true.
SOCRATES: And if speaking is a sort of action and has a relation to acts, is not naming
also a sort of action?
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: And we saw that actions were not relative to ourselves, but had a special
nature of their own?
HERMOGENES: Precisely.
SOCRATES: Then the argument would lead us to infer that names ought to be given
according to a natural process, and with a proper instrument, and not at our pleasure: in
this and no other way shall we name with success.
HERMOGENES: I agree.
SOCRATES: But again, that which has to be cut has to be cut with something?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And that which has to be woven or pierced has to be woven or pierced with
something?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And that which has to be named has to be named with something?
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: What is that with which we pierce?
HERMOGENES: An awl.
SOCRATES: And with which we weave?
HERMOGENES: A shuttle.
SOCRATES: And with which we name?
HERMOGENES: A name.
SOCRATES: Very good: then a name is an instrument?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Suppose that I ask, 'What sort of instrument is a shuttle?' And you answer, 'A
weaving instrument.'
HERMOGENES: Well.
SOCRATES: And I ask again, 'What do we do when we weave?'—The answer is, that we
separate or disengage the warp from the woof.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: And may not a similar description be given of an awl, and of instruments in
general?
HERMOGENES: To be sure.
SOCRATES: And now suppose that I ask a similar question about names: will you answer
me? Regarding the name as an instrument, what do we do when we name?
HERMOGENES: I cannot say.
SOCRATES: Do we not give information to one another, and distinguish things
according to their natures?
HERMOGENES: Certainly we do.
SOCRATES: Then a name is an instrument of teaching and of distinguishing natures, as
the shuttle is of distinguishing the threads of the web.
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the shuttle is the instrument of the weaver?
HERMOGENES: Assuredly.
SOCRATES: Then the weaver will use the shuttle well—and well means like a weaver?
and the teacher will use the name well—and well means like a teacher?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And when the weaver uses the shuttle, whose work will he be using well?
HERMOGENES: That of the carpenter.
SOCRATES: And is every man a carpenter, or the skilled only?
HERMOGENES: Only the skilled.
SOCRATES: And when the piercer uses the awl, whose work will he be using well?
HERMOGENES: That of the smith.
SOCRATES: And is every man a smith, or only the skilled?
HERMOGENES: The skilled only.
SOCRATES: And when the teacher uses the name, whose work will he be using?
HERMOGENES: There again I am puzzled.
SOCRATES: Cannot you at least say who gives us the names which we use?
HERMOGENES: Indeed I cannot.
SOCRATES: Does not the law seem to you to give us them?
HERMOGENES: Yes, I suppose so.
SOCRATES: Then the teacher, when he gives us a name, uses the work of the legislator?
HERMOGENES: I agree.
SOCRATES: And is every man a legislator, or the skilled only?
HERMOGENES: The skilled only.
SOCRATES: Then, Hermogenes, not every man is able to give a name, but only a maker
of names; and this is the legislator, who of all skilled artisans in the world is the rarest.
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: And how does the legislator make names? and to what does he look?
Consider this in the light of the previous instances: to what does the carpenter look in
making the shuttle? Does he not look to that which is naturally fitted to act as a shuttle?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And suppose the shuttle to be broken in making, will he make another,
looking to the broken one? or will he look to the form according to which he made the
other?
HERMOGENES: To the latter, I should imagine.
SOCRATES: Might not that be justly called the true or ideal shuttle?
HERMOGENES: I think so.
SOCRATES: And whatever shuttles are wanted, for the manufacture of garments, thin or
thick, of flaxen, woollen, or other material, ought all of them to have the true form of the
shuttle; and whatever is the shuttle best adapted to each kind of work, that ought to be
the form which the maker produces in each case.
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the same holds of other instruments: when a man has discovered the
instrument which is naturally adapted to each work, he must express this natural form,
and not others which he fancies, in the material, whatever it may be, which he employs;
for example, he ought to know how to put into iron the forms of awls adapted by nature
to their several uses?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And how to put into wood forms of shuttles adapted by nature to their
uses?
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: For the several forms of shuttles naturally answer to the several kinds of
webs; and this is true of instruments in general.
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then, as to names: ought not our legislator also to know how to put the true
natural name of each thing into sounds and syllables, and to make and give all names
with a view to the ideal name, if he is to be a namer in any true sense? And we must
remember that different legislators will not use the same syllables. For neither does
every smith, although he may be making the same instrument for the same purpose,
make them all of the same iron. The form must be the same, but the material may vary,
and still the instrument may be equally good of whatever iron made, whether in Hellas
or in a foreign country;—there is no difference.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: And the legislator, whether he be Hellene or barbarian, is not therefore to be
deemed by you a worse legislator, provided he gives the true and proper form of the
name in whatever syllables; this or that country makes no matter.
HERMOGENES: Quite true.
SOCRATES: But who then is to determine whether the proper form is given to the
shuttle, whatever sort of wood may be used? the carpenter who makes, or the weaver
who is to use them?
HERMOGENES: I should say, he who is to use them, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And who uses the work of the lyre-maker? Will not he be the man who
knows how to direct what is being done, and who will know also whether the work is
being well done or not?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And who is he?
HERMOGENES: The player of the lyre.
SOCRATES: And who will direct the shipwright?
HERMOGENES: The pilot.
SOCRATES: And who will be best able to direct the legislator in his work, and will know
whether the work is well done, in this or any other country? Will not the user be the
man?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And this is he who knows how to ask questions?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And how to answer them?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And him who knows how to ask and answer you would call a dialectician?
HERMOGENES: Yes; that would be his name.
SOCRATES: Then the work of the carpenter is to make a rudder, and the pilot has to
direct him, if the rudder is to be well made.
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: And the work of the legislator is to give names, and the dialectician must be
his director if the names are to be rightly given?
HERMOGENES: That is true.
SOCRATES: Then, Hermogenes, I should say that this giving of names can be no such
light matter as you fancy, or the work of light or chance persons; and Cratylus is right in
saying that things have names by nature, and that not every man is an artificer of
names, but he only who looks to the name which each thing by nature has, and is able
to express the true forms of things in letters and syllables.
HERMOGENES: I cannot answer you, Socrates; but I find a difficulty in changing my
opinion all in a moment, and I think that I should be more readily persuaded, if you
would show me what this is which you term the natural fitness of names.
SOCRATES: My good Hermogenes, I have none to show. Was I not telling you just now
(but you have forgotten), that I knew nothing, and proposing to share the enquiry with
you? But now that you and I have talked over the matter, a step has been gained; for we
have discovered that names have by nature a truth, and that not every man knows how
to give a thing a name.
HERMOGENES: Very good.
SOCRATES: And what is the nature of this truth or correctness of names? That, if you
care to know, is the next question.
HERMOGENES: Certainly, I care to know.
SOCRATES: Then reflect.
HERMOGENES: How shall I reflect?
SOCRATES: The true way is to have the assistance of those who know, and you must pay
them well both in money and in thanks; these are the Sophists, of whom your brother,
Callias, has—rather dearly—bought the reputation of wisdom. But you have not yet
come into your inheritance, and therefore you had better go to him, and beg and
entreat him to tell you what he has learnt from Protagoras about the fitness of names.
HERMOGENES: But how inconsistent should I be, if, whilst repudiating Protagoras and
his truth ('Truth' was the title of the book of Protagoras; compare Theaet.), I were to
attach any value to what he and his book affirm!
SOCRATES: Then if you despise him, you must learn of Homer and the poets.
HERMOGENES: And where does Homer say anything about names, and what does he
say?
SOCRATES: He often speaks of them; notably and nobly in the places where he
distinguishes the different names which Gods and men give to the same things. Does he
not in these passages make a remarkable statement about the correctness of names?
For the Gods must clearly be supposed to call things by their right and natural names;
do you not think so?
HERMOGENES: Why, of course they call them rightly, if they call them at all. But to what
are you referring?
SOCRATES: Do you not know what he says about the river in Troy who had a single
combat with Hephaestus?
'Whom,' as he says, 'the Gods call Xanthus, and men call Scamander.'
HERMOGENES: I remember.
SOCRATES: Well, and about this river—to know that he ought to be called Xanthus and
not Scamander—is not that a solemn lesson? Or about the bird which, as he says,
'The Gods call Chalcis, and men Cymindis:'
to be taught how much more correct the name Chalcis is than the name Cymindis—do
you deem that a light matter? Or about Batieia and Myrina? (Compare Il. 'The hill which
men call Batieia and the immortals the tomb of the sportive Myrina.') And there are
many other observations of the same kind in Homer and other poets. Now, I think that
this is beyond the understanding of you and me; but the names of Scamandrius and
Astyanax, which he affirms to have been the names of Hector's son, are more within the
range of human faculties, as I am disposed to think; and what the poet means by
correctness may be more readily apprehended in that instance: you will remember I dare
say the lines to which I refer? (Il.)
HERMOGENES: I do.
SOCRATES: Let me ask you, then, which did Homer think the more correct of the names
given to Hector's son—Astyanax or Scamandrius?
HERMOGENES: I do not know.
SOCRATES: How would you answer, if you were asked whether the wise or the unwise
are more likely to give correct names?
HERMOGENES: I should say the wise, of course.
SOCRATES: And are the men or the women of a city, taken as a class, the wiser?
HERMOGENES: I should say, the men.
SOCRATES: And Homer, as you know, says that the Trojan men called him Astyanax
(king of the city); but if the men called him Astyanax, the other name of Scamandrius
could only have been given to him by the women.
HERMOGENES: That may be inferred.
SOCRATES: And must not Homer have imagined the Trojans to be wiser than their
wives?
HERMOGENES: To be sure.
SOCRATES: Then he must have thought Astyanax to be a more correct name for the boy
than Scamandrius?
HERMOGENES: Clearly.
SOCRATES: And what is the reason of this? Let us consider:—does he not himself
suggest a very good reason, when he says,
'For he alone defended their city and long walls'?
This appears to be a good reason for calling the son of the saviour king of the city which
his father was saving, as Homer observes.
HERMOGENES: I see.
SOCRATES: Why, Hermogenes, I do not as yet see myself; and do you?
HERMOGENES: No, indeed; not I.
SOCRATES: But tell me, friend, did not Homer himself also give Hector his name?
HERMOGENES: What of that?
SOCRATES: The name appears to me to be very nearly the same as the name of
Astyanax—both are Hellenic; and a king (anax) and a holder (ektor) have nearly the
same meaning, and are both descriptive of a king; for a man is clearly the holder of that
of which he is king; he rules, and owns, and holds it. But, perhaps, you may think that I
am talking nonsense; and indeed I believe that I myself did not know what I meant when
I imagined that I had found some indication of the opinion of Homer about the
correctness of names.
HERMOGENES: I assure you that I think otherwise, and I believe you to be on the right
track.
SOCRATES: There is reason, I think, in calling the lion's whelp a lion, and the foal of a
horse a horse; I am speaking only of the ordinary course of nature, when an animal
produces after his kind, and not of extraordinary births;—if contrary to nature a horse
have a calf, then I should not call that a foal but a calf; nor do I call any inhuman birth a
man, but only a natural birth. And the same may be said of trees and other things. Do
you agree with me?
HERMOGENES: Yes, I agree.
SOCRATES: Very good. But you had better watch me and see that I do not play tricks
with you. For on the same principle the son of a king is to be called a king. And whether
the syllables of the name are the same or not the same, makes no difference, provided
the meaning is retained; nor does the addition or subtraction of a letter make any
difference so long as the essence of the thing remains in possession of the name and
appears in it.
HERMOGENES: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: A very simple matter. I may illustrate my meaning by the names of letters,
which you know are not the same as the letters themselves with the exception of the
four epsilon, upsilon, omicron, omega; the names of the rest, whether vowels or
consonants, are made up of other letters which we add to them; but so long as we
introduce the meaning, and there can be no mistake, the name of the letter is quite
correct. Take, for example, the letter beta—the addition of eta, tau, alpha, gives no
offence, and does not prevent the whole name from having the value which the
legislator intended—so well did he know how to give the letters names.
HERMOGENES: I believe you are right.
SOCRATES: And may not the same be said of a king? a king will often be the son of a
king, the good son or the noble son of a good or noble sire; and similarly the offspring
of every kind, in the regular course of nature, is like the parent, and therefore has the
same name. Yet the syllables may be disguised until they appear different to the
ignorant person, and he may not recognize them, although they are the same, just as
any one of us would not recognize the same drugs under different disguises of colour
and smell, although to the physician, who regards the power of them, they are the same,
and he is not put out by the addition; and in like manner the etymologist is not put out
by the addition or transposition or subtraction of a letter or two, or indeed by the
change of all the letters, for this need not interfere with the meaning. As was just now
said, the names of Hector and Astyanax have only one letter alike, which is tau, and yet
they have the same meaning. And how little in common with the letters of their names
has Archepolis (ruler of the city)—and yet the meaning is the same. And there are many
other names which just mean 'king.' Again, there are several names for a general, as, for
example, Agis (leader) and Polemarchus (chief in war) and Eupolemus (good warrior);
and others which denote a physician, as Iatrocles (famous healer) and Acesimbrotus
(curer of mortals); and there are many others which might be cited, differing in their
syllables and letters, but having the same meaning. Would you not say so?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: The same names, then, ought to be assigned to those who follow in the
course of nature?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And what of those who follow out of the course of nature, and are
prodigies? for example, when a good and religious man has an irreligious son, he ought
to bear the name not of his father, but of the class to which he belongs, just as in the
case which was before supposed of a horse foaling a calf.
HERMOGENES: Quite true.
SOCRATES: Then the irreligious son of a religious father should be called irreligious?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: He should not be called Theophilus (beloved of God) or Mnesitheus (mindful
of God), or any of these names: if names are correctly given, his should have an opposite
meaning.
HERMOGENES: Certainly, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Again, Hermogenes, there is Orestes (the man of the mountains) who
appears to be rightly called; whether chance gave the name, or perhaps some poet who
meant to express the brutality and fierceness and mountain wildness of his hero's
nature.
HERMOGENES: That is very likely, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And his father's name is also according to nature.
HERMOGENES: Clearly.
SOCRATES: Yes, for as his name, so also is his nature; Agamemnon (admirable for
remaining) is one who is patient and persevering in the accomplishment of his resolves,
and by his virtue crowns them; and his continuance at Troy with all the vast army is a
proof of that admirable endurance in him which is signified by the name Agamemnon. I
also think that Atreus is rightly called; for his murder of Chrysippus and his exceeding
cruelty to Thyestes are damaging and destructive to his reputation—the name is a little
altered and disguised so as not to be intelligible to every one, but to the etymologist
there is no difficulty in seeing the meaning, for whether you think of him as ateires the
stubborn, or as atrestos the fearless, or as ateros the destructive one, the name is
perfectly correct in every point of view. And I think that Pelops is also named
appropriately; for, as the name implies, he is rightly called Pelops who sees what is near
only (o ta pelas oron).
HERMOGENES: How so?
SOCRATES: Because, according to the tradition, he had no forethought or foresight of all
the evil which the murder of Myrtilus would entail upon his whole race in remote ages;
he saw only what was at hand and immediate, —or in other words, pelas (near), in his
eagerness to win Hippodamia by all means for his bride. Every one would agree that the
name of Tantalus is rightly given and in accordance with nature, if the traditions about
him are true.
HERMOGENES: And what are the traditions?
SOCRATES: Many terrible misfortunes are said to have happened to him in his life—last
of all, came the utter ruin of his country; and after his death he had the stone suspended
(talanteia) over his head in the world below—all this agrees wonderfully well with his
name. You might imagine that some person who wanted to call him Talantatos (the
most weighted down by misfortune), disguised the name by altering it into Tantalus;
and into this form, by some accident of tradition, it has actually been transmuted. The
name of Zeus, who is his alleged father, has also an excellent meaning, although hard to
be understood, because really like a sentence, which is divided into two parts, for some
call him Zena, and use the one half, and others who use the other half call him Dia; the
two together signify the nature of the God, and the business of a name, as we were
saying, is to express the nature. For there is none who is more the author of life to us
and to all, than the lord and king of all. Wherefore we are right in calling him Zena and
Dia, which are one name, although divided, meaning the God through whom all
creatures always have life (di on zen aei pasi tois zosin uparchei). There is an irreverence,
at first sight, in calling him son of Cronos (who is a proverb for stupidity), and we might
rather expect Zeus to be the child of a mighty intellect. Which is the fact; for this is the
meaning of his father's name: Kronos quasi Koros (Choreo, to sweep), not in the sense
of a youth, but signifying to chatharon chai acheraton tou nou, the pure and garnished
mind (sc. apo tou chorein). He, as we are informed by tradition, was begotten of Uranus,
rightly so called (apo tou oran ta ano) from looking upwards; which, as philosophers tell
us, is the way to have a pure mind, and the name Uranus is therefore correct. If I could
remember the genealogy of Hesiod, I would have gone on and tried more conclusions
of the same sort on the remoter ancestors of the Gods,—then I might have seen
whether this wisdom, which has come to me all in an instant, I know not whence, will or
will not hold good to the end.
HERMOGENES: You seem to me, Socrates, to be quite like a prophet newly inspired, and
to be uttering oracles.
SOCRATES: Yes, Hermogenes, and I believe that I caught the inspiration from the great
Euthyphro of the Prospaltian deme, who gave me a long lecture which commenced at
dawn: he talked and I listened, and his wisdom and enchanting ravishment has not only
filled my ears but taken possession of my soul,and to-day I shall let his superhuman
power work and finish the investigation of names—that will be the way; but to-morrow,
if you are so disposed, we will conjure him away, and make a purgation of him, if we can
only find some priest or sophist who is skilled in purifications of this sort.
HERMOGENES: With all my heart; for am very curious to hear the rest of the enquiry
about names.
SOCRATES: Then let us proceed; and where would you have us begin, now that we have
got a sort of outline of the enquiry? Are there any names which witness of themselves
that they are not given arbitrarily, but have a natural fitness? The names of heroes and
of men in general are apt to be deceptive because they are often called after ancestors
with whose names, as we were saying, they may have no business; or they are the
expression of a wish like Eutychides (the son of good fortune), or Sosias (the Saviour), or
Theophilus (the beloved of God), and others. But I think that we had better leave these,
for there will be more chance of finding correctness in the names of immutable
essences;—there ought to have been more care taken about them when they were
named, and perhaps there may have been some more than human power at work
occasionally in giving them names.
HERMOGENES: I think so, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Ought we not to begin with the consideration of the Gods, and show that
they are rightly named Gods?
HERMOGENES: Yes, that will be well.
SOCRATES: My notion would be something of this sort:—I suspect that the sun, moon,
earth, stars, and heaven, which are still the Gods of many barbarians, were the only Gods
known to the aboriginal Hellenes. Seeing that they were always moving and running,
from their running nature they were called Gods or runners (Theous, Theontas); and
when men became acquainted with the other Gods, they proceeded to apply the same
name to them all. Do you think that likely?
HERMOGENES: I think it very likely indeed.
SOCRATES: What shall follow the Gods?
HERMOGENES: Must not demons and heroes and men come next?
SOCRATES: Demons! And what do you consider to be the meaning of this word? Tell me
if my view is right.
HERMOGENES: Let me hear.
SOCRATES: You know how Hesiod uses the word?
HERMOGENES: I do not.
SOCRATES: Do you not remember that he speaks of a golden race of men who came
first?
HERMOGENES: Yes, I do.
SOCRATES: He says of them—
'But now that fate has closed over this race They are holy demons upon the earth,
Beneficent, averters of ills, guardians of mortal men.' (Hesiod, Works and Days.)
HERMOGENES: What is the inference?
SOCRATES: What is the inference! Why, I suppose that he means by the golden men, not
men literally made of gold, but good and noble; and I am convinced of this, because he
further says that we are the iron race.
HERMOGENES: That is true.
SOCRATES: And do you not suppose that good men of our own day would by him be
said to be of golden race?
HERMOGENES: Very likely.
SOCRATES: And are not the good wise?
HERMOGENES: Yes, they are wise.
SOCRATES: And therefore I have the most entire conviction that he called them demons,
because they were daemones (knowing or wise), and in our older Attic dialect the word
itself occurs. Now he and other poets say truly, that when a good man dies he has
honour and a mighty portion among the dead, and becomes a demon; which is a name
given to him signifying wisdom. And I say too, that every wise man who happens to be a
good man is more than human (daimonion) both in life and death, and is rightly called a
demon.
HERMOGENES: Then I rather think that I am of one mind with you; but what is the
meaning of the word 'hero'? (Eros with an eta, in the old writing eros with an epsilon.)
SOCRATES: I think that there is no difficulty in explaining, for the name is not much
altered, and signifies that they were born of love.
HERMOGENES: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: Do you not know that the heroes are demigods?
HERMOGENES: What then?
SOCRATES: All of them sprang either from the love of a God for a mortal woman, or of a
mortal man for a Goddess; think of the word in the old Attic, and you will see better that
the name heros is only a slight alteration of Eros, from whom the heroes sprang: either
this is the meaning, or, if not this, then they must have been skilful as rhetoricians and
dialecticians, and able to put the question (erotan), for eirein is equivalent to legein. And
therefore, as I was saying, in the Attic dialect the heroes turn out to be rhetoricians and
questioners. All this is easy enough; the noble breed of heroes are a tribe of sophists
and rhetors. But can you tell me why men are called anthropoi?—that is more difficult.
HERMOGENES: No, I cannot; and I would not try even if I could, because I think that you
are the more likely to succeed.
SOCRATES: That is to say, you trust to the inspiration of Euthyphro.
HERMOGENES: Of course.
SOCRATES: Your faith is not vain; for at this very moment a new and ingenious thought
strikes me, and, if I am not careful, before to-morrow's dawn I shall be wiser than I
ought to be. Now, attend to me; and first, remember that we often put in and pull out
letters in words, and give names as we please and change the accents. Take, for
example, the word Dii Philos; in order to convert this from a sentence into a noun, we
omit one of the iotas and sound the middle syllable grave instead of acute; as, on the
other hand, letters are sometimes inserted in words instead of being omitted, and the
acute takes the place of the grave.
HERMOGENES: That is true.
SOCRATES: The name anthropos, which was once a sentence, and is now a noun,
appears to be a case just of this sort, for one letter, which is the alpha, has been omitted,
and the acute on the last syllable has been changed to a grave.
HERMOGENES: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: I mean to say that the word 'man' implies that other animals never examine,
or consider, or look up at what they see, but that man not only sees (opope) but
considers and looks up at that which he sees, and hence he alone of all animals is rightly
anthropos, meaning anathron a opopen.
HERMOGENES: May I ask you to examine another word about which I am curious?
SOCRATES: Certainly.
HERMOGENES: I will take that which appears to me to follow next in order. You know
the distinction of soul and body?
SOCRATES: Of course.
HERMOGENES: Let us endeavour to analyze them like the previous words.
SOCRATES: You want me first of all to examine the natural fitness of the word psuche
(soul), and then of the word soma (body)?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: If I am to say what occurs to me at the moment, I should imagine that those
who first used the name psuche meant to express that the soul when in the body is the
source of life, and gives the power of breath and revival (anapsuchon), and when this
reviving power fails then the body perishes and dies, and this, if I am not mistaken, they
called psyche. But please stay a moment; I fancy that I can discover something which will
be more acceptable to the disciples of Euthyphro, for I am afraid that they will scorn this
explanation. What do you say to another?
HERMOGENES: Let me hear.
SOCRATES: What is that which holds and carries and gives life and motion to the entire
nature of the body? What else but the soul?
HERMOGENES: Just that.
SOCRATES: And do you not believe with Anaxagoras, that mind or soul is the ordering
and containing principle of all things?
HERMOGENES: Yes; I do.
SOCRATES: Then you may well call that power phuseche which carries and holds nature
(e phusin okei, kai ekei), and this may be refined away into psuche.
HERMOGENES: Certainly; and this derivation is, I think, more scientific than the other.
SOCRATES: It is so; but I cannot help laughing, if I am to suppose that this was the true
meaning of the name.
HERMOGENES: But what shall we say of the next word?
SOCRATES: You mean soma (the body).
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: That may be variously interpreted; and yet more variously if a little
permutation is allowed. For some say that the body is the grave (sema) of the soul which
may be thought to be buried in our present life; or again the index of the soul, because
the soul gives indications to (semainei) the body; probably the Orphic poets were the
inventors of the name, and they were under the impression that the soul is suffering the
punishment of sin, and that the body is an enclosure or prison in which the soul is
incarcerated, kept safe (soma, sozetai), as the name soma implies, until the penalty is
paid; according to this view, not even a letter of the word need be changed.
HERMOGENES: I think, Socrates, that we have said enough of this class of words. But
have we any more explanations of the names of the Gods, like that which you were
giving of Zeus? I should like to know whether any similar principle of correctness is to be
applied to them.
SOCRATES: Yes, indeed, Hermogenes; and there is one excellent principle which, as men
of sense, we must acknowledge,—that of the Gods we know nothing, either of their
natures or of the names which they give themselves; but we are sure that the names by
which they call themselves, whatever they may be, are true. And this is the best of all
principles; and the next best is to say, as in prayers, that we will call them by any sort or
kind of names or patronymics which they like, because we do not know of any other.
That also, I think, is a very good custom, and one which I should much wish to observe.
Let us, then, if you please, in the first place announce to them that we are not enquiring
about them; we do not presume that we are able to do so; but we are enquiring about
the meaning of men in giving them these names,—in this there can be small blame.
HERMOGENES: I think, Socrates, that you are quite right, and I would like to do as you
say.
SOCRATES: Shall we begin, then, with Hestia, according to custom?
HERMOGENES: Yes, that will be very proper.
SOCRATES: What may we suppose him to have meant who gave the name Hestia?
HERMOGENES: That is another and certainly a most difficult question.
SOCRATES: My dear Hermogenes, the first imposers of names must surely have been
considerable persons; they were philosophers, and had a good deal to say.
HERMOGENES: Well, and what of them?
SOCRATES: They are the men to whom I should attribute the imposition of names. Even
in foreign names, if you analyze them, a meaning is still discernible. For example, that
which we term ousia is by some called esia, and by others again osia. Now that the
essence of things should be called estia, which is akin to the first of these (esia = estia),
is rational enough. And there is reason in the Athenians calling that estia which
participates in ousia. For in ancient times we too seem to have said esia for ousia, and
this you may note to have been the idea of those who appointed that sacrifices should
be first offered to estia, which was natural enough if they meant that estia was the
essence of things. Those again who read osia seem to have inclined to the opinion of
Heracleitus, that all things flow and nothing stands; with them the pushing principle
(othoun) is the cause and ruling power of all things, and is therefore rightly called osia.
Enough of this, which is all that we who know nothing can affirm. Next in order after
Hestia we ought to consider Rhea and Cronos, although the name of Cronos has been
already discussed. But I dare say that I am talking great nonsense.
HERMOGENES: Why, Socrates?
SOCRATES: My good friend, I have discovered a hive of wisdom.
HERMOGENES: Of what nature?
SOCRATES: Well, rather ridiculous, and yet plausible.
HERMOGENES: How plausible?
SOCRATES: I fancy to myself Heracleitus repeating wise traditions of antiquity as old as
the days of Cronos and Rhea, and of which Homer also spoke.
HERMOGENES: How do you mean?
SOCRATES: Heracleitus is supposed to say that all things are in motion and nothing at
rest; he compares them to the stream of a river, and says that you cannot go into the
same water twice.
HERMOGENES: That is true.
SOCRATES: Well, then, how can we avoid inferring that he who gave the names of
Cronos and Rhea to the ancestors of the Gods, agreed pretty much in the doctrine of
Heracleitus? Is the giving of the names of streams to both of them purely accidental?
Compare the line in which Homer, and, as I believe, Hesiod also, tells of
'Ocean, the origin of Gods, and mother Tethys (Il.—the line is not found in the extant
works of Hesiod.).'
And again, Orpheus says, that
'The fair river of Ocean was the first to marry, and he espoused his sister Tethys, who
was his mother's daughter.'
You see that this is a remarkable coincidence, and all in the direction of Heracleitus.
HERMOGENES: I think that there is something in what you say, Socrates; but I do not
understand the meaning of the name Tethys.
SOCRATES: Well, that is almost self-explained, being only the name of a spring, a little
disguised; for that which is strained and filtered (diattomenon, ethoumenon) may be
likened to a spring, and the name Tethys is made up of these two words.
HERMOGENES: The idea is ingenious, Socrates.
SOCRATES: To be sure. But what comes next?—of Zeus we have spoken.
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then let us next take his two brothers, Poseidon and Pluto, whether the
latter is called by that or by his other name.
HERMOGENES: By all means.
SOCRATES: Poseidon is Posidesmos, the chain of the feet; the original inventor of the
name had been stopped by the watery element in his walks, and not allowed to go on,
and therefore he called the ruler of this element Poseidon; the epsilon was probably
inserted as an ornament. Yet, perhaps, not so; but the name may have been originally
written with a double lamda and not with a sigma, meaning that the God knew many
things (Polla eidos). And perhaps also he being the shaker of the earth, has been named
from shaking (seiein), and then pi and delta have been added. Pluto gives wealth
(Ploutos), and his name means the giver of wealth, which comes out of the earth
beneath. People in general appear to imagine that the term Hades is connected with the
invisible (aeides) and so they are led by their fears to call the God Pluto instead.
HERMOGENES: And what is the true derivation?
SOCRATES: In spite of the mistakes which are made about the power of this deity, and
the foolish fears which people have of him, such as the fear of always being with him
after death, and of the soul denuded of the body going to him (compare Rep.), my
belief is that all is quite consistent, and that the office and name of the God really
correspond.
HERMOGENES: Why, how is that?
SOCRATES: I will tell you my own opinion; but first, I should like to ask you which chain
does any animal feel to be the stronger? and which confines him more to the same
spot,—desire or necessity?
HERMOGENES: Desire, Socrates, is stronger far.
SOCRATES: And do you not think that many a one would escape from Hades, if he did
not bind those who depart to him by the strongest of chains?
HERMOGENES: Assuredly they would.
SOCRATES: And if by the greatest of chains, then by some desire, as I should certainly
infer, and not by necessity?
HERMOGENES: That is clear.
SOCRATES: And there are many desires?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And therefore by the greatest desire, if the chain is to be the greatest?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And is any desire stronger than the thought that you will be made better by
associating with another?
HERMOGENES: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: And is not that the reason, Hermogenes, why no one, who has been to him,
is willing to come back to us? Even the Sirens, like all the rest of the world, have been
laid under his spells. Such a charm, as I imagine, is the God able to infuse into his words.
And, according to this view, he is the perfect and accomplished Sophist, and the great
benefactor of the inhabitants of the other world; and even to us who are upon earth he
sends from below exceeding blessings. For he has much more than he wants down
there; wherefore he is called Pluto (or the rich). Note also, that he will have nothing to
do with men while they are in the body, but only when the soul is liberated from the
desires and evils of the body. Now there is a great deal of philosophy and reflection in
that; for in their liberated state he can bind them with the desire of virtue, but while they
are flustered and maddened by the body, not even father Cronos himself would suffice
to keep them with him in his own far-famed chains.
HERMOGENES: There is a deal of truth in what you say.
SOCRATES: Yes, Hermogenes, and the legislator called him Hades, not from the unseen
(aeides)—far otherwise, but from his knowledge (eidenai) of all noble things.
HERMOGENES: Very good; and what do we say of Demeter, and Here, and Apollo, and
Athene, and Hephaestus, and Ares, and the other deities?
SOCRATES: Demeter is e didousa meter, who gives food like a mother; Here is the lovely
one (erate)—for Zeus, according to tradition, loved and married her; possibly also the
name may have been given when the legislator was thinking of the heavens, and may be
only a disguise of the air (aer), putting the end in the place of the beginning. You will
recognize the truth of this if you repeat the letters of Here several times over. People
dread the name of Pherephatta as they dread the name of Apollo,—and with as little
reason; the fear, if I am not mistaken, only arises from their ignorance of the nature of
names. But they go changing the name into Phersephone, and they are terrified at this;
whereas the new name means only that the Goddess is wise (sophe); for seeing that all
things in the world are in motion (pheromenon), that principle which embraces and
touches and is able to follow them, is wisdom. And therefore the Goddess may be truly
called Pherepaphe (Pherepapha), or some name like it, because she touches that which
is in motion (tou pheromenon ephaptomene), herein showing her wisdom. And Hades,
who is wise, consorts with her, because she is wise. They alter her name into Pherephatta
now-a-days, because the present generation care for euphony more than truth. There is
the other name, Apollo, which, as I was saying, is generally supposed to have some
terrible signification. Have you remarked this fact?
HERMOGENES: To be sure I have, and what you say is true.
SOCRATES: But the name, in my opinion, is really most expressive of the power of the
God.
HERMOGENES: How so?
SOCRATES: I will endeavour to explain, for I do not believe that any single name could
have been better adapted to express the attributes of the God, embracing and in a
manner signifying all four of them,—music, and prophecy, and medicine, and archery.
HERMOGENES: That must be a strange name, and I should like to hear the explanation.
SOCRATES: Say rather an harmonious name, as beseems the God of Harmony. In the
first place, the purgations and purifications which doctors and diviners use, and their
fumigations with drugs magical or medicinal, as well as their washings and lustral
sprinklings, have all one and the same object, which is to make a man pure both in body
and soul.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: And is not Apollo the purifier, and the washer, and the absolver from all
impurities?
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then in reference to his ablutions and absolutions, as being the physician
who orders them, he may be rightly called Apolouon (purifier); or in respect of his
powers of divination, and his truth and sincerity, which is the same as truth, he may be
most fitly called Aplos, from aplous (sincere), as in the Thessalian dialect, for all the
Thessalians call him Aplos; also he is aei Ballon (always shooting), because he is a master
archer who never misses; or again, the name may refer to his musical attributes, and
then, as in akolouthos, and akoitis, and in many other words the alpha is supposed to
mean 'together,' so the meaning of the name Apollo will be 'moving together,' whether
in the poles of heaven as they are called, or in the harmony of song, which is termed
concord, because he moves all together by an harmonious power, as astronomers and
musicians ingeniously declare. And he is the God who presides over harmony, and
makes all things move together, both among Gods and among men. And as in the
words akolouthos and akoitis the alpha is substituted for an omicron, so the name
Apollon is equivalent to omopolon; only the second lambda is added in order to avoid
the ill-omened sound of destruction (apolon). Now the suspicion of this destructive
power still haunts the minds of some who do not consider the true value of the name,
which, as I was saying just now, has reference to all the powers of the God, who is the
single one, the everdarting, the purifier, the mover together (aplous, aei Ballon,
apolouon, omopolon). The name of the Muses and of music would seem to be derived
from their making philosophical enquiries (mosthai); and Leto is called by this name,
because she is such a gentle Goddess, and so willing (ethelemon) to grant our requests;
or her name may be Letho, as she is often called by strangers—they seem to imply by it
her amiability, and her smooth and easy-going way of behaving. Artemis is named from
her healthy (artemes), well-ordered nature, and because of her love of virginity, perhaps
because she is a proficient in virtue (arete), and perhaps also as hating intercourse of the
sexes (ton aroton misesasa). He who gave the Goddess her name may have had any or
all of these reasons.
HERMOGENES: What is the meaning of Dionysus and Aphrodite?
SOCRATES: Son of Hipponicus, you ask a solemn question; there is a serious and also a
facetious explanation of both these names; the serious explanation is not to be had
from me, but there is no objection to your hearing the facetious one; for the Gods too
love a joke. Dionusos is simply didous oinon (giver of wine), Didoinusos, as he might be
called in fun,—and oinos is properly oionous, because wine makes those who drink,
think (oiesthai) that they have a mind (noun) when they have none. The derivation of
Aphrodite, born of the foam (aphros), may be fairly accepted on the authority of Hesiod.
HERMOGENES: Still there remains Athene, whom you, Socrates, as an Athenian, will
surely not forget; there are also Hephaestus and Ares.
SOCRATES: I am not likely to forget them.
HERMOGENES: No, indeed.
SOCRATES: There is no difficulty in explaining the other appellation of Athene.
HERMOGENES: What other appellation?
SOCRATES: We call her Pallas.
HERMOGENES: To be sure.
SOCRATES: And we cannot be wrong in supposing that this is derived from armed
dances. For the elevation of oneself or anything else above the earth, or by the use of
the hands, we call shaking (pallein), or dancing.
HERMOGENES: That is quite true.
SOCRATES: Then that is the explanation of the name Pallas?
HERMOGENES: Yes; but what do you say of the other name?
SOCRATES: Athene?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: That is a graver matter, and there, my friend, the modern interpreters of
Homer may, I think, assist in explaining the view of the ancients. For most of these in
their explanations of the poet, assert that he meant by Athene 'mind' (nous) and
'intelligence' (dianoia), and the maker of names appears to have had a singular notion
about her; and indeed calls her by a still higher title, 'divine intelligence' (Thou noesis),
as though he would say: This is she who has the mind of God (Theonoa);—using alpha
as a dialectical variety for eta, and taking away iota and sigma (There seems to be some
error in the MSS. The meaning is that the word theonoa = theounoa is a curtailed form
of theou noesis, but the omitted letters do not agree.). Perhaps, however, the name
Theonoe may mean 'she who knows divine things' (Theia noousa) better than others.
Nor shall we be far wrong in supposing that the author of it wished to identify this
Goddess with moral intelligence (en ethei noesin), and therefore gave her the name
ethonoe; which, however, either he or his successors have altered into what they
thought a nicer form, and called her Athene.
HERMOGENES: But what do you say of Hephaestus?
SOCRATES: Speak you of the princely lord of light (Phaeos istora)?
HERMOGENES: Surely.
SOCRATES: Ephaistos is Phaistos, and has added the eta by attraction; that is obvious to
anybody.
HERMOGENES: That is very probable, until some more probable notion gets into your
head.
SOCRATES: To prevent that, you had better ask what is the derivation of Ares.
HERMOGENES: What is Ares?
SOCRATES: Ares may be called, if you will, from his manhood (arren) and manliness, or if
you please, from his hard and unchangeable nature, which is the meaning of arratos: the
latter is a derivation in every way appropriate to the God of war.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: And now, by the Gods, let us have no more of the Gods, for I am afraid of
them; ask about anything but them, and thou shalt see how the steeds of Euthyphro can
prance.
HERMOGENES: Only one more God! I should like to know about Hermes, of whom I am
said not to be a true son. Let us make him out, and then I shall know whether there is
any meaning in what Cratylus says.
SOCRATES: I should imagine that the name Hermes has to do with speech, and signifies
that he is the interpreter (ermeneus), or messenger, or thief, or liar, or bargainer; all that
sort of thing has a great deal to do with language; as I was telling you, the word eirein is
expressive of the use of speech, and there is an often-recurring Homeric word emesato,
which means 'he contrived'—out of these two words, eirein and mesasthai, the legislator
formed the name of the God who invented language and speech; and we may imagine
him dictating to us the use of this name: 'O my friends,' says he to us, 'seeing that he is
the contriver of tales or speeches, you may rightly call him Eirhemes.' And this has been
improved by us, as we think, into Hermes. Iris also appears to have been called from the
verb 'to tell' (eirein), because she was a messenger.
HERMOGENES: Then I am very sure that Cratylus was quite right in saying that I was no
true son of Hermes (Ermogenes), for I am not a good hand at speeches.
SOCRATES: There is also reason, my friend, in Pan being the double-formed son of
Hermes.
HERMOGENES: How do you make that out?
SOCRATES: You are aware that speech signifies all things (pan), and is always turning
them round and round, and has two forms, true and false?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Is not the truth that is in him the smooth or sacred form which dwells above
among the Gods, whereas falsehood dwells among men below, and is rough like the
goat of tragedy; for tales and falsehoods have generally to do with the tragic or goatish
life, and tragedy is the place of them?
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then surely Pan, who is the declarer of all things (pan) and the perpetual
mover (aei polon) of all things, is rightly called aipolos (goat- herd), he being the twoformed
son of Hermes, smooth in his upper part, and rough and goatlike in his lower
regions. And, as the son of Hermes, he is speech or the brother of speech, and that
brother should be like brother is no marvel. But, as I was saying, my dear Hermogenes,
let us get away from the Gods.
HERMOGENES: From these sort of Gods, by all means, Socrates. But why should we not
discuss another kind of Gods—the sun, moon, stars, earth, aether, air, fire, water, the
seasons, and the year?
SOCRATES: You impose a great many tasks upon me. Still, if you wish, I will not refuse.
HERMOGENES: You will oblige me.
SOCRATES: How would you have me begin? Shall I take first of all him whom you
mentioned first—the sun?
HERMOGENES: Very good.
SOCRATES: The origin of the sun will probably be clearer in the Doric form, for the
Dorians call him alios, and this name is given to him because when he rises he gathers
(alizoi) men together or because he is always rolling in his course (aei eilein ion) about
the earth; or from aiolein, of which the meaning is the same as poikillein (to variegate),
because he variegates the productions of the earth.
HERMOGENES: But what is selene (the moon)?
SOCRATES: That name is rather unfortunate for Anaxagoras.
HERMOGENES: How so?
SOCRATES: The word seems to forestall his recent discovery, that the moon receives her
light from the sun.
HERMOGENES: Why do you say so?
SOCRATES: The two words selas (brightness) and phos (light) have much the same
meaning?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: This light about the moon is always new (neon) and always old (enon), if the
disciples of Anaxagoras say truly. For the sun in his revolution always adds new light,
and there is the old light of the previous month.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: The moon is not unfrequently called selanaia.
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: And as she has a light which is always old and always new (enon neon aei)
she may very properly have the name selaenoneoaeia; and this when hammered into
shape becomes selanaia.
HERMOGENES: A real dithyrambic sort of name that, Socrates. But what do you say of
the month and the stars?
SOCRATES: Meis (month) is called from meiousthai (to lessen), because suffering
diminution; the name of astra (stars) seems to be derived from astrape, which is an
improvement on anastrope, signifying the upsetting of the eyes (anastrephein opa).
HERMOGENES: What do you say of pur (fire) and udor (water)?
SOCRATES: I am at a loss how to explain pur; either the muse of Euthyphro has deserted
me, or there is some very great difficulty in the word. Please, however, to note the
contrivance which I adopt whenever I am in a difficulty of this sort.
HERMOGENES: What is it?
SOCRATES: I will tell you; but I should like to know first whether you can tell me what is
the meaning of the pur?
HERMOGENES: Indeed I cannot.
SOCRATES: Shall I tell you what I suspect to be the true explanation of this and several
other words?—My belief is that they are of foreign origin. For the Hellenes, especially
those who were under the dominion of the barbarians, often borrowed from them.
HERMOGENES: What is the inference?
SOCRATES: Why, you know that any one who seeks to demonstrate the fitness of these
names according to the Hellenic language, and not according to the language from
which the words are derived, is rather likely to be at fault.
HERMOGENES: Yes, certainly.
SOCRATES: Well then, consider whether this pur is not foreign; for the word is not easily
brought into relation with the Hellenic tongue, and the Phrygians may be observed to
have the same word slightly changed, just as they have udor (water) and kunes (dogs),
and many other words.
HERMOGENES: That is true.
SOCRATES: Any violent interpretations of the words should be avoided; for something
to say about them may easily be found. And thus I get rid of pur and udor. Aer (air),
Hermogenes, may be explained as the element which raises (airei) things from the earth,
or as ever flowing (aei rei), or because the flux of the air is wind, and the poets call the
winds 'air- blasts,' (aetai); he who uses the term may mean, so to speak, air-flux
(aetorroun), in the sense of wind-flux (pneumatorroun); and because this moving wind
may be expressed by either term he employs the word air (aer = aetes rheo). Aither
(aether) I should interpret as aeitheer; this may be correctly said, because this element is
always running in a flux about the air (aei thei peri tou aera reon). The meaning of the
word ge (earth) comes out better when in the form of gaia, for the earth may be truly
called 'mother' (gaia, genneteira), as in the language of Homer (Od.) gegaasi means
gegennesthai.
HERMOGENES: Good.
SOCRATES: What shall we take next?
HERMOGENES: There are orai (the seasons), and the two names of the year, eniautos
and etos.
SOCRATES: The orai should be spelt in the old Attic way, if you desire to know the
probable truth about them; they are rightly called the orai because they divide
(orizousin) the summers and winters and winds and the fruits of the earth. The words
eniautos and etos appear to be the same,— 'that which brings to light the plants and
growths of the earth in their turn, and passes them in review within itself (en eauto
exetazei)': this is broken up into two words, eniautos from en eauto, and etos from
etazei, just as the original name of Zeus was divided into Zena and Dia; and the whole
proposition means that his power of reviewing from within is one, but has two names,
two words etos and eniautos being thus formed out of a single proposition.
HERMOGENES: Indeed, Socrates, you make surprising progress.
SOCRATES: I am run away with.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: But am not yet at my utmost speed.
HERMOGENES: I should like very much to know, in the next place, how you would
explain the virtues. What principle of correctness is there in those charming words—
wisdom, understanding, justice, and the rest of them?
SOCRATES: That is a tremendous class of names which you are disinterring; still, as I
have put on the lion's skin, I must not be faint of heart; and I suppose that I must
consider the meaning of wisdom (phronesis) and understanding (sunesis), and judgment
(gnome), and knowledge (episteme), and all those other charming words, as you call
them?
HERMOGENES: Surely, we must not leave off until we find out their meaning.
SOCRATES: By the dog of Egypt I have a not bad notion which came into my head only
this moment: I believe that the primeval givers of names were undoubtedly like too
many of our modern philosophers, who, in their search after the nature of things, are
always getting dizzy from constantly going round and round, and then they imagine
that the world is going round and round and moving in all directions; and this
appearance, which arises out of their own internal condition, they suppose to be a
reality of nature; they think that there is nothing stable or permanent, but only flux and
motion, and that the world is always full of every sort of motion and change. The
consideration of the names which I mentioned has led me into making this reflection.
HERMOGENES: How is that, Socrates?
SOCRATES: Perhaps you did not observe that in the names which have been just cited,
the motion or flux or generation of things is most surely indicated.
HERMOGENES: No, indeed, I never thought of it.
SOCRATES: Take the first of those which you mentioned; clearly that is a name indicative
of motion.
HERMOGENES: What was the name?
SOCRATES: Phronesis (wisdom), which may signify phoras kai rhou noesis (perception of
motion and flux), or perhaps phoras onesis (the blessing of motion), but is at any rate
connected with pheresthai (motion); gnome (judgment), again, certainly implies the
ponderation or consideration (nomesis) of generation, for to ponder is the same as to
consider; or, if you would rather, here is noesis, the very word just now mentioned,
which is neou esis (the desire of the new); the word neos implies that the world is always
in process of creation. The giver of the name wanted to express this longing of the soul,
for the original name was neoesis, and not noesis; but eta took the place of a double
epsilon. The word sophrosune is the salvation (soteria) of that wisdom (phronesis) which
we were just now considering. Epioteme (knowledge) is akin to this, and indicates that
the soul which is good for anything follows (epetai) the motion of things, neither
anticipating them nor falling behind them; wherefore the word should rather be read as
epistemene, inserting epsilon nu. Sunesis (understanding) may be regarded in like
manner as a kind of conclusion; the word is derived from sunienai (to go along with),
and, like epistasthai (to know), implies the progression of the soul in company with the
nature of things. Sophia (wisdom) is very dark, and appears not to be of native growth;
the meaning is, touching the motion or stream of things. You must remember that the
poets, when they speak of the commencement of any rapid motion, often use the word
esuthe (he rushed); and there was a famous Lacedaemonian who was named Sous
(Rush), for by this word the Lacedaemonians signify rapid motion, and the touching
(epaphe) of motion is expressed by sophia, for all things are supposed to be in motion.
Good (agathon) is the name which is given to the admirable (agasto) in nature; for,
although all things move, still there are degrees of motion; some are swifter, some
slower; but there are some things which are admirable for their swiftness, and this
admirable part of nature is called agathon. Dikaiosune (justice) is clearly dikaiou sunesis
(understanding of the just); but the actual word dikaion is more difficult: men are only
agreed to a certain extent about justice, and then they begin to disagree. For those who
suppose all things to be in motion conceive the greater part of nature to be a mere
receptacle; and they say that there is a penetrating power which passes through all this,
and is the instrument of creation in all, and is the subtlest and swiftest element; for if it
were not the subtlest, and a power which none can keep out, and also the swiftest,
passing by other things as if they were standing still, it could not penetrate through the
moving universe. And this element, which superintends all things and pierces (diaion) all,
is rightly called dikaion; the letter k is only added for the sake of euphony. Thus far, as I
was saying, there is a general agreement about the nature of justice; but I, Hermogenes,
being an enthusiastic disciple, have been told in a mystery that the justice of which I am
speaking is also the cause of the world: now a cause is that because of which anything is
created; and some one comes and whispers in my ear that justice is rightly so called
because partaking of the nature of the cause, and I begin, after hearing what he has
said, to interrogate him gently: 'Well, my excellent friend,' say I, 'but if all this be true, I
still want to know what is justice.' Thereupon they think that I ask tiresome questions,
and am leaping over the barriers, and have been already sufficiently answered, and they
try to satisfy me with one derivation after another, and at length they quarrel. For one of
them says that justice is the sun, and that he only is the piercing (diaionta) and burning
(kaonta) element which is the guardian of nature. And when I joyfully repeat this
beautiful notion, I am answered by the satirical remark, 'What, is there no justice in the
world when the sun is down?' And when I earnestly beg my questioner to tell me his
own honest opinion, he says, 'Fire in the abstract'; but this is not very intelligible.
Another says, 'No, not fire in the abstract, but the abstraction of heat in the fire.'
Another man professes to laugh at all this, and says, as Anaxagoras says, that justice is
mind, for mind, as they say, has absolute power, and mixes with nothing, and orders all
things, and passes through all things. At last, my friend, I find myself in far greater
perplexity about the nature of justice than I was before I began to learn. But still I am of
opinion that the name, which has led me into this digression, was given to justice for the
reasons which I have mentioned.
HERMOGENES: I think, Socrates, that you are not improvising now; you must have heard
this from some one else.
SOCRATES: And not the rest?
HERMOGENES: Hardly.
SOCRATES: Well, then, let me go on in the hope of making you believe in the originality
of the rest. What remains after justice? I do not think that we have as yet discussed
courage (andreia),—injustice (adikia), which is obviously nothing more than a hindrance
to the penetrating principle (diaiontos), need not be considered. Well, then, the name of
andreia seems to imply a battle;—this battle is in the world of existence, and according
to the doctrine of flux is only the counterflux (enantia rhon): if you extract the delta from
andreia, the name at once signifies the thing, and you may clearly understand that
andreia is not the stream opposed to every stream, but only to that which is contrary to
justice, for otherwise courage would not have been praised. The words arren (male) and
aner (man) also contain a similar allusion to the same principle of the upward flux (te
ano rhon). Gune (woman) I suspect to be the same word as goun (birth): thelu (female)
appears to be partly derived from thele (the teat), because the teat is like rain, and
makes things flourish (tethelenai).
HERMOGENES: That is surely probable.
SOCRATES: Yes; and the very word thallein (to flourish) seems to figure the growth of
youth, which is swift and sudden ever. And this is expressed by the legislator in the
name, which is a compound of thein (running), and allesthai (leaping). Pray observe how
I gallop away when I get on smooth ground. There are a good many names generally
thought to be of importance, which have still to be explained.
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: There is the meaning of the word techne (art), for example.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: That may be identified with echonoe, and expresses the possession of mind:
you have only to take away the tau and insert two omichrons, one between the chi and
nu, and another between the nu and eta.
HERMOGENES: That is a very shabby etymology.
SOCRATES: Yes, my dear friend; but then you know that the original names have been
long ago buried and disguised by people sticking on and stripping off letters for the
sake of euphony, and twisting and bedizening them in all sorts of ways: and time too
may have had a share in the change. Take, for example, the word katoptron; why is the
letter rho inserted? This must surely be the addition of some one who cares nothing
about the truth, but thinks only of putting the mouth into shape. And the additions are
often such that at last no human being can possibly make out the original meaning of
the word. Another example is the word sphigx, sphiggos, which ought properly to be
phigx, phiggos, and there are other examples.
HERMOGENES: That is quite true, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And yet, if you are permitted to put in and pull out any letters which you
please, names will be too easily made, and any name may be adapted to any object.
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: Yes, that is true. And therefore a wise dictator, like yourself, should observe
the laws of moderation and probability.
HERMOGENES: Such is my desire.
SOCRATES: And mine, too, Hermogenes. But do not be too much of a precisian, or 'you
will unnerve me of my strength (Iliad.).' When you have allowed me to add mechane
(contrivance) to techne (art) I shall be at the top of my bent, for I conceive mechane to
be a sign of great accomplishment —anein; for mekos has the meaning of greatness,
and these two, mekos and anein, make up the word mechane. But, as I was saying, being
now at the top of my bent, I should like to consider the meaning of the two words arete
(virtue) and kakia (vice); arete I do not as yet understand, but kakia is transparent, and
agrees with the principles which preceded, for all things being in a flux (ionton), kakia is
kakos ion (going badly); and this evil motion when existing in the soul has the general
name of kakia, or vice, specially appropriated to it. The meaning of kakos ienai may be
further illustrated by the use of deilia (cowardice), which ought to have come after
andreia, but was forgotten, and, as I fear, is not the only word which has been passed
over. Deilia signifies that the soul is bound with a strong chain (desmos), for lian means
strength, and therefore deilia expresses the greatest and strongest bond of the soul; and
aporia (difficulty) is an evil of the same nature (from a (alpha) not, and poreuesthai to
go), like anything else which is an impediment to motion and movement. Then the word
kakia appears to mean kakos ienai, or going badly, or limping and halting; of which the
consequence is, that the soul becomes filled with vice. And if kakia is the name of this
sort of thing, arete will be the opposite of it, signifying in the first place ease of motion,
then that the stream of the good soul is unimpeded, and has therefore the attribute of
ever flowing without let or hindrance, and is therefore called arete, or, more correctly,
aeireite (ever-flowing), and may perhaps have had another form, airete (eligible),
indicating that nothing is more eligible than virtue, and this has been hammered into
arete. I daresay that you will deem this to be another invention of mine, but I think that
if the previous word kakia was right, then arete is also right.
HERMOGENES: But what is the meaning of kakon, which has played so great a part in
your previous discourse?
SOCRATES: That is a very singular word about which I can hardly form an opinion, and
therefore I must have recourse to my ingenious device.
HERMOGENES: What device?
SOCRATES: The device of a foreign origin, which I shall give to this word also.
HERMOGENES: Very likely you are right; but suppose that we leave these words and
endeavour to see the rationale of kalon and aischron.
SOCRATES: The meaning of aischron is evident, being only aei ischon roes (always
preventing from flowing), and this is in accordance with our former derivations. For the
name-giver was a great enemy to stagnation of all sorts, and hence he gave the name
aeischoroun to that which hindered the flux (aei ischon roun), and that is now beaten
together into aischron.
HERMOGENES: But what do you say of kalon?
SOCRATES: That is more obscure; yet the form is only due to the quantity, and has been
changed by altering omicron upsilon into omicron.
HERMOGENES: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: This name appears to denote mind.
HERMOGENES: How so?
SOCRATES: Let me ask you what is the cause why anything has a name; is not the
principle which imposes the name the cause?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And must not this be the mind of Gods, or of men, or of both?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Is not mind that which called (kalesan) things by their names, and is not
mind the beautiful (kalon)?
HERMOGENES: That is evident.
SOCRATES: And are not the works of intelligence and mind worthy of praise, and are not
other works worthy of blame?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Physic does the work of a physician, and carpentering does the works of a
carpenter?
HERMOGENES: Exactly.
SOCRATES: And the principle of beauty does the works of beauty?
HERMOGENES: Of course.
SOCRATES: And that principle we affirm to be mind?
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then mind is rightly called beauty because she does the works which we
recognize and speak of as the beautiful?
HERMOGENES: That is evident.
SOCRATES: What more names remain to us?
HERMOGENES: There are the words which are connected with agathon and kalon, such
as sumpheron and lusiteloun, ophelimon, kerdaleon, and their opposites.
SOCRATES: The meaning of sumpheron (expedient) I think that you may discover for
yourself by the light of the previous examples,—for it is a sister word to episteme,
meaning just the motion (pora) of the soul accompanying the world, and things which
are done upon this principle are called sumphora or sumpheronta, because they are
carried round with the world.
HERMOGENES: That is probable.
SOCRATES: Again, cherdaleon (gainful) is called from cherdos (gain), but you must alter
the delta into nu if you want to get at the meaning; for this word also signifies good, but
in another way; he who gave the name intended to express the power of admixture
(kerannumenon) and universal penetration in the good; in forming the word, however,
he inserted a delta instead of a nu, and so made kerdos.
HERMOGENES: Well, but what is lusiteloun (profitable)?
SOCRATES: I suppose, Hermogenes, that people do not mean by the profitable the
gainful or that which pays (luei) the retailer, but they use the word in the sense of swift.
You regard the profitable (lusiteloun), as that which being the swiftest thing in existence,
allows of no stay in things and no pause or end of motion, but always, if there begins to
be any end, lets things go again (luei), and makes motion immortal and unceasing: and
in this point of view, as appears to me, the good is happily denominated lusiteloun—
being that which looses (luon) the end (telos) of motion. Ophelimon (the advantageous)
is derived from ophellein, meaning that which creates and increases; this latter is a
common Homeric word, and has a foreign character.
HERMOGENES: And what do you say of their opposites?
SOCRATES: Of such as are mere negatives I hardly think that I need speak.
HERMOGENES: Which are they?
SOCRATES: The words axumphoron (inexpedient), anopheles (unprofitable), alusiteles
(unadvantageous), akerdes (ungainful).
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: I would rather take the words blaberon (harmful), zemiodes (hurtful).
HERMOGENES: Good.
SOCRATES: The word blaberon is that which is said to hinder or harm (blaptein) the
stream (roun); blapton is boulomenon aptein (seeking to hold or bind); for aptein is the
same as dein, and dein is always a term of censure; boulomenon aptein roun (wanting
to bind the stream) would properly be boulapteroun, and this, as I imagine, is improved
into blaberon.
HERMOGENES: You bring out curious results, Socrates, in the use of names; and when I
hear the word boulapteroun I cannot help imagining that you are making your mouth
into a flute, and puffing away at some prelude to Athene.
SOCRATES: That is the fault of the makers of the name, Hermogenes; not mine.
HERMOGENES: Very true; but what is the derivation of zemiodes?
SOCRATES: What is the meaning of zemiodes?—let me remark, Hermogenes, how right I
was in saying that great changes are made in the meaning of words by putting in and
pulling out letters; even a very slight permutation will sometimes give an entirely
opposite sense; I may instance the word deon, which occurs to me at the moment, and
reminds me of what I was going to say to you, that the fine fashionable language of
modern times has twisted and disguised and entirely altered the original meaning both
of deon, and also of zemiodes, which in the old language is clearly indicated.
HERMOGENES: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: I will try to explain. You are aware that our forefathers loved the sounds iota
and delta, especially the women, who are most conservative of the ancient language,
but now they change iota into eta or epsilon, and delta into zeta; this is supposed to
increase the grandeur of the sound.
HERMOGENES: How do you mean?
SOCRATES: For example, in very ancient times they called the day either imera or emera
(short e), which is called by us emera (long e).
HERMOGENES: That is true.
SOCRATES: Do you observe that only the ancient form shows the intention of the giver
of the name? of which the reason is, that men long for (imeirousi) and love the light
which comes after the darkness, and is therefore called imera, from imeros, desire.
HERMOGENES: Clearly.
SOCRATES: But now the name is so travestied that you cannot tell the meaning,
although there are some who imagine the day to be called emera because it makes
things gentle (emera different accents).
HERMOGENES: Such is my view.
SOCRATES: And do you know that the ancients said duogon and not zugon?
HERMOGENES: They did so.
SOCRATES: And zugon (yoke) has no meaning,—it ought to be duogon, which word
expresses the binding of two together (duein agoge) for the purpose of drawing;—this
has been changed into zugon, and there are many other examples of similar changes.
HERMOGENES: There are.
SOCRATES: Proceeding in the same train of thought I may remark that the word deon
(obligation) has a meaning which is the opposite of all the other appellations of good;
for deon is here a species of good, and is, nevertheless, the chain (desmos) or hinderer
of motion, and therefore own brother of blaberon.
HERMOGENES: Yes, Socrates; that is quite plain.
SOCRATES: Not if you restore the ancient form, which is more likely to be the correct
one, and read dion instead of deon; if you convert the epsilon into an iota after the old
fashion, this word will then agree with other words meaning good; for dion, not deon,
signifies the good, and is a term of praise; and the author of names has not contradicted
himself, but in all these various appellations, deon (obligatory), ophelimon
(advantageous), lusiteloun (profitable), kerdaleon (gainful), agathon (good), sumpheron
(expedient), euporon (plenteous), the same conception is implied of the ordering or allpervading
principle which is praised, and the restraining and binding principle which is
censured. And this is further illustrated by the word zemiodes (hurtful), which if the zeta
is only changed into delta as in the ancient language, becomes demiodes; and this
name, as you will perceive, is given to that which binds motion (dounti ion).
HERMOGENES: What do you say of edone (pleasure), lupe (pain), epithumia (desire), and
the like, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I do not think, Hermogenes, that there is any great difficulty about them—
edone is e (eta) onesis, the action which tends to advantage; and the original form may
be supposed to have been eone, but this has been altered by the insertion of the delta.
Lupe appears to be derived from the relaxation (luein) which the body feels when in
sorrow; ania (trouble) is the hindrance of motion (alpha and ienai); algedon (distress), if I
am not mistaken, is a foreign word, which is derived from aleinos (grievous); odune
(grief) is called from the putting on (endusis) sorrow; in achthedon (vexation) 'the word
too labours,' as any one may see; chara (joy) is the very expression of the fluency and
diffusion of the soul (cheo); terpsis (delight) is so called from the pleasure creeping
(erpon) through the soul, which may be likened to a breath (pnoe) and is properly
erpnoun, but has been altered by time into terpnon; eupherosune (cheerfulness) and
epithumia explain themselves; the former, which ought to be eupherosune and has been
changed euphrosune, is named, as every one may see, from the soul moving
(pheresthai) in harmony with nature; epithumia is really e epi ton thumon iousa
dunamis, the power which enters into the soul; thumos (passion) is called from the
rushing (thuseos) and boiling of the soul; imeros (desire) denotes the stream (rous)
which most draws the soul dia ten esin tes roes— because flowing with desire
(iemenos), and expresses a longing after things and violent attraction of the soul to
them, and is termed imeros from possessing this power; pothos (longing) is expressive
of the desire of that which is not present but absent, and in another place (pou); this is
the reason why the name pothos is applied to things absent, as imeros is to things
present; eros (love) is so called because flowing in (esron) from without; the stream is
not inherent, but is an influence introduced through the eyes, and from flowing in was
called esros (influx) in the old time when they used omicron for omega, and is called
eros, now that omega is substituted for omicron. But why do you not give me another
word?
HERMOGENES: What do you think of doxa (opinion), and that class of words?
SOCRATES: Doxa is either derived from dioxis (pursuit), and expresses the march of the
soul in the pursuit of knowledge, or from the shooting of a bow (toxon); the latter is
more likely, and is confirmed by oiesis (thinking), which is only oisis (moving), and
implies the movement of the soul to the essential nature of each thing—just as boule
(counsel) has to do with shooting (bole); and boulesthai (to wish) combines the notion
of aiming and deliberating—all these words seem to follow doxa, and all involve the
idea of shooting, just as aboulia, absence of counsel, on the other hand, is a mishap, or
missing, or mistaking of the mark, or aim, or proposal, or object.
HERMOGENES: You are quickening your pace now, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Why yes, the end I now dedicate to God, not, however, until I have explained
anagke (necessity), which ought to come next, and ekousion (the voluntary). Ekousion is
certainly the yielding (eikon) and unresisting—the notion implied is yielding and not
opposing, yielding, as I was just now saying, to that motion which is in accordance with
our will; but the necessary and resistant being contrary to our will, implies error and
ignorance; the idea is taken from walking through a ravine which is impassable, and
rugged, and overgrown, and impedes motion—and this is the derivation of the word
anagkaion (necessary) an agke ion, going through a ravine. But while my strength lasts
let us persevere, and I hope that you will persevere with your questions.
HERMOGENES: Well, then, let me ask about the greatest and noblest, such as aletheia
(truth) and pseudos (falsehood) and on (being), not forgetting to enquire why the word
onoma (name), which is the theme of our discussion, has this name of onoma.
SOCRATES: You know the word maiesthai (to seek)?
HERMOGENES: Yes;—meaning the same as zetein (to enquire).
SOCRATES: The word onoma seems to be a compressed sentence, signifying on ou
zetema (being for which there is a search); as is still more obvious in onomaston
(notable), which states in so many words that real existence is that for which there is a
seeking (on ou masma); aletheia is also an agglomeration of theia ale (divine
wandering), implying the divine motion of existence; pseudos (falsehood) is the
opposite of motion; here is another ill name given by the legislator to stagnation and
forced inaction, which he compares to sleep (eudein); but the original meaning of the
word is disguised by the addition of psi; on and ousia are ion with an iota broken off;
this agrees with the true principle, for being (on) is also moving (ion), and the same may
be said of not being, which is likewise called not going (oukion or ouki on = ouk ion).
HERMOGENES: You have hammered away at them manfully; but suppose that some one
were to say to you, what is the word ion, and what are reon and doun?— show me their
fitness.
SOCRATES: You mean to say, how should I answer him?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: One way of giving the appearance of an answer has been already suggested.
HERMOGENES: What way?
SOCRATES: To say that names which we do not understand are of foreign origin; and
this is very likely the right answer, and something of this kind may be true of them; but
also the original forms of words may have been lost in the lapse of ages; names have
been so twisted in all manner of ways, that I should not be surprised if the old language
when compared with that now in use would appear to us to be a barbarous tongue.
HERMOGENES: Very likely.
SOCRATES: Yes, very likely. But still the enquiry demands our earnest attention and we
must not flinch. For we should remember, that if a person go on analysing names into
words, and enquiring also into the elements out of which the words are formed, and
keeps on always repeating this process, he who has to answer him must at last give up
the enquiry in despair.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: And at what point ought he to lose heart and give up the enquiry? Must he
not stop when he comes to the names which are the elements of all other names and
sentences; for these cannot be supposed to be made up of other names? The word
agathon (good), for example, is, as we were saying, a compound of agastos (admirable)
and thoos (swift). And probably thoos is made up of other elements, and these again of
others. But if we take a word which is incapable of further resolution, then we shall be
right in saying that we have at last reached a primary element, which need not be
resolved any further.
HERMOGENES: I believe you to be in the right.
SOCRATES: And suppose the names about which you are now asking should turn out to
be primary elements, must not their truth or law be examined according to some new
method?
HERMOGENES: Very likely.
SOCRATES: Quite so, Hermogenes; all that has preceded would lead to this conclusion.
And if, as I think, the conclusion is true, then I shall again say to you, come and help me,
that I may not fall into some absurdity in stating the principle of primary names.
HERMOGENES: Let me hear, and I will do my best to assist you.
SOCRATES: I think that you will acknowledge with me, that one principle is applicable to
all names, primary as well as secondary—when they are regarded simply as names, there
is no difference in them.
HERMOGENES: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: All the names that we have been explaining were intended to indicate the
nature of things.
HERMOGENES: Of course.
SOCRATES: And that this is true of the primary quite as much as of the secondary
names, is implied in their being names.
HERMOGENES: Surely.
SOCRATES: But the secondary, as I conceive, derive their significance from the primary.
HERMOGENES: That is evident.
SOCRATES: Very good; but then how do the primary names which precede analysis
show the natures of things, as far as they can be shown; which they must do, if they are
to be real names? And here I will ask you a question: Suppose that we had no voice or
tongue, and wanted to communicate with one another, should we not, like the deaf and
dumb, make signs with the hands and head and the rest of the body?
HERMOGENES: There would be no choice, Socrates.
SOCRATES: We should imitate the nature of the thing; the elevation of our hands to
heaven would mean lightness and upwardness; heaviness and downwardness would be
expressed by letting them drop to the ground; if we were describing the running of a
horse, or any other animal, we should make our bodies and their gestures as like as we
could to them.
HERMOGENES: I do not see that we could do anything else.
SOCRATES: We could not; for by bodily imitation only can the body ever express
anything.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: And when we want to express ourselves, either with the voice, or tongue, or
mouth, the expression is simply their imitation of that which we want to express.
HERMOGENES: It must be so, I think.
SOCRATES: Then a name is a vocal imitation of that which the vocal imitator names or
imitates?
HERMOGENES: I think so.
SOCRATES: Nay, my friend, I am disposed to think that we have not reached the truth as
yet.
HERMOGENES: Why not?
SOCRATES: Because if we have we shall be obliged to admit that the people who imitate
sheep, or cocks, or other animals, name that which they imitate.
HERMOGENES: Quite true.
SOCRATES: Then could I have been right in what I was saying?
HERMOGENES: In my opinion, no. But I wish that you would tell me, Socrates, what sort
of an imitation is a name?
SOCRATES: In the first place, I should reply, not a musical imitation, although that is also
vocal; nor, again, an imitation of what music imitates; these, in my judgment, would not
be naming. Let me put the matter as follows: All objects have sound and figure, and
many have colour?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: But the art of naming appears not to be concerned with imitations of this
kind; the arts which have to do with them are music and drawing?
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: Again, is there not an essence of each thing, just as there is a colour, or
sound? And is there not an essence of colour and sound as well as of anything else
which may be said to have an essence?
HERMOGENES: I should think so.
SOCRATES: Well, and if any one could express the essence of each thing in letters and
syllables, would he not express the nature of each thing?
HERMOGENES: Quite so.
SOCRATES: The musician and the painter were the two names which you gave to the
two other imitators. What will this imitator be called?
HERMOGENES: I imagine, Socrates, that he must be the namer, or name-giver, of whom
we are in search.
SOCRATES: If this is true, then I think that we are in a condition to consider the names
ron (stream), ienai (to go), schesis (retention), about which you were asking; and we may
see whether the namer has grasped the nature of them in letters and syllables in such a
manner as to imitate the essence or not.
HERMOGENES: Very good.
SOCRATES: But are these the only primary names, or are there others?
HERMOGENES: There must be others.
SOCRATES: So I should expect. But how shall we further analyse them, and where does
the imitator begin? Imitation of the essence is made by syllables and letters; ought we
not, therefore, first to separate the letters, just as those who are beginning rhythm first
distinguish the powers of elementary, and then of compound sounds, and when they
have done so, but not before, they proceed to the consideration of rhythms?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Must we not begin in the same way with letters; first separating the vowels,
and then the consonants and mutes (letters which are neither vowels nor semivowels),
into classes, according to the received distinctions of the learned; also the semivowels,
which are neither vowels, nor yet mutes; and distinguishing into classes the vowels
themselves? And when we have perfected the classification of things, we shall give them
names, and see whether, as in the case of letters, there are any classes to which they
may be all referred (cf. Phaedrus); and hence we shall see their natures, and see, too,
whether they have in them classes as there are in the letters; and when we have well
considered all this, we shall know how to apply them to what they resemble—whether
one letter is used to denote one thing, or whether there is to be an admixture of several
of them; just, as in painting, the painter who wants to depict anything sometimes uses
purple only, or any other colour, and sometimes mixes up several colours, as his method
is when he has to paint flesh colour or anything of that kind—he uses his colours as his
figures appear to require them; and so, too, we shall apply letters to the expression of
objects, either single letters when required, or several letters; and so we shall form
syllables, as they are called, and from syllables make nouns and verbs; and thus, at last,
from the combinations of nouns and verbs arrive at language, large and fair and whole;
and as the painter made a figure, even so shall we make speech by the art of the namer
or the rhetorician, or by some other art. Not that I am literally speaking of ourselves, but
I was carried away— meaning to say that this was the way in which (not we but) the
ancients formed language, and what they put together we must take to pieces in like
manner, if we are to attain a scientific view of the whole subject, and we must see
whether the primary, and also whether the secondary elements are rightly given or not,
for if they are not, the composition of them, my dear Hermogenes, will be a sorry piece
of work, and in the wrong direction.
HERMOGENES: That, Socrates, I can quite believe.
SOCRATES: Well, but do you suppose that you will be able to analyse them in this way?
for I am certain that I should not.
HERMOGENES: Much less am I likely to be able.
SOCRATES: Shall we leave them, then? or shall we seek to discover, if we can, something
about them, according to the measure of our ability, saying by way of preface, as I said
before of the Gods, that of the truth about them we know nothing, and do but entertain
human notions of them. And in this present enquiry, let us say to ourselves, before we
proceed, that the higher method is the one which we or others who would analyse
language to any good purpose must follow; but under the circumstances, as men say,
we must do as well as we can. What do you think?
HERMOGENES: I very much approve.
SOCRATES: That objects should be imitated in letters and syllables, and so find
expression, may appear ridiculous, Hermogenes, but it cannot be avoided—there is no
better principle to which we can look for the truth of first names. Deprived of this, we
must have recourse to divine help, like the tragic poets, who in any perplexity have their
gods waiting in the air; and must get out of our difficulty in like fashion, by saying that
'the Gods gave the first names, and therefore they are right.' This will be the best
contrivance, or perhaps that other notion may be even better still, of deriving them from
some barbarous people, for the barbarians are older than we are; or we may say that
antiquity has cast a veil over them, which is the same sort of excuse as the last; for all
these are not reasons but only ingenious excuses for having no reasons concerning the
truth of words. And yet any sort of ignorance of first or primitive names involves an
ignorance of secondary words; for they can only be explained by the primary. Clearly
then the professor of languages should be able to give a very lucid explanation of first
names, or let him be assured he will only talk nonsense about the rest. Do you not
suppose this to be true?
HERMOGENES: Certainly, Socrates.
SOCRATES: My first notions of original names are truly wild and ridiculous, though I
have no objection to impart them to you if you desire, and I hope that you will
communicate to me in return anything better which you may have.
HERMOGENES: Fear not; I will do my best.
SOCRATES: In the first place, the letter rho appears to me to be the general instrument
expressing all motion (kinesis). But I have not yet explained the meaning of this latter
word, which is just iesis (going); for the letter eta was not in use among the ancients,
who only employed epsilon; and the root is kiein, which is a foreign form, the same as
ienai. And the old word kinesis will be correctly given as iesis in corresponding modern
letters. Assuming this foreign root kiein, and allowing for the change of the eta and the
insertion of the nu, we have kinesis, which should have been kieinsis or eisis; and stasis
is the negative of ienai (or eisis), and has been improved into stasis. Now the letter rho,
as I was saying, appeared to the imposer of names an excellent instrument for the
expression of motion; and he frequently uses the letter for this purpose: for example, in
the actual words rein and roe he represents motion by rho; also in the words tromos
(trembling), trachus (rugged); and again, in words such as krouein (strike), thrauein
(crush), ereikein (bruise), thruptein (break), kermatixein (crumble), rumbein (whirl): of all
these sorts of movements he generally finds an expression in the letter R, because, as I
imagine, he had observed that the tongue was most agitated and least at rest in the
pronunciation of this letter, which he therefore used in order to express motion, just as
by the letter iota he expresses the subtle elements which pass through all things. This is
why he uses the letter iota as imitative of motion, ienai, iesthai. And there is another
class of letters, phi, psi, sigma, and xi, of which the pronunciation is accompanied by
great expenditure of breath; these are used in the imitation of such notions as psuchron
(shivering), xeon (seething), seiesthai, (to be shaken), seismos (shock), and are always
introduced by the giver of names when he wants to imitate what is phusodes (windy).
He seems to have thought that the closing and pressure of the tongue in the utterance
of delta and tau was expressive of binding and rest in a place: he further observed the
liquid movement of lambda, in the pronunciation of which the tongue slips, and in this
he found the expression of smoothness, as in leios (level), and in the word oliothanein
(to slip) itself, liparon (sleek), in the word kollodes (gluey), and the like: the heavier
sound of gamma detained the slipping tongue, and the union of the two gave the
notion of a glutinous clammy nature, as in glischros, glukus, gloiodes. The nu he
observed to be sounded from within, and therefore to have a notion of inwardness;
hence he introduced the sound in endos and entos: alpha he assigned to the expression
of size, and nu of length, because they are great letters: omicron was the sign of
roundness, and therefore there is plenty of omicron mixed up in the word goggulon
(round). Thus did the legislator, reducing all things into letters and syllables, and
impressing on them names and signs, and out of them by imitation compounding other
signs. That is my view, Hermogenes, of the truth of names; but I should like to hear what
Cratylus has more to say.
HERMOGENES: But, Socrates, as I was telling you before, Cratylus mystifies me; he says
that there is a fitness of names, but he never explains what is this fitness, so that I
cannot tell whether his obscurity is intended or not. Tell me now, Cratylus, here in the
presence of Socrates, do you agree in what Socrates has been saying about names, or
have you something better of your own? and if you have, tell me what your view is, and
then you will either learn of Socrates, or Socrates and I will learn of you.
CRATYLUS: Well, but surely, Hermogenes, you do not suppose that you can learn, or I
explain, any subject of importance all in a moment; at any rate, not such a subject as
language, which is, perhaps, the very greatest of all.
HERMOGENES: No, indeed; but, as Hesiod says, and I agree with him, 'to add little to
little' is worth while. And, therefore, if you think that you can add anything at all,
however small, to our knowledge, take a little trouble and oblige Socrates, and me too,
who certainly have a claim upon you.
SOCRATES: I am by no means positive, Cratylus, in the view which Hermogenes and
myself have worked out; and therefore do not hesitate to say what you think, which if it
be better than my own view I shall gladly accept. And I should not be at all surprized to
find that you have found some better notion. For you have evidently reflected on these
matters and have had teachers, and if you have really a better theory of the truth of
names, you may count me in the number of your disciples.
CRATYLUS: You are right, Socrates, in saying that I have made a study of these matters,
and I might possibly convert you into a disciple. But I fear that the opposite is more
probable, and I already find myself moved to say to you what Achilles in the 'Prayers'
says to Ajax,—
'Illustrious Ajax, son of Telamon, lord of the people, You appear to have spoken in all
things much to my mind.'
And you, Socrates, appear to me to be an oracle, and to give answers much to my mind,
whether you are inspired by Euthyphro, or whether some Muse may have long been an
inhabitant of your breast, unconsciously to yourself.
SOCRATES: Excellent Cratylus, I have long been wondering at my own wisdom; I cannot
trust myself. And I think that I ought to stop and ask myself What am I saying? for there
is nothing worse than self-deception—when the deceiver is always at home and always
with you—it is quite terrible, and therefore I ought often to retrace my steps and
endeavour to 'look fore and aft,' in the words of the aforesaid Homer. And now let me
see; where are we? Have we not been saying that the correct name indicates the nature
of the thing:—has this proposition been sufficiently proven?
CRATYLUS: Yes, Socrates, what you say, as I am disposed to think, is quite true.
SOCRATES: Names, then, are given in order to instruct?
CRATYLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And naming is an art, and has artificers?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And who are they?
CRATYLUS: The legislators, of whom you spoke at first.
SOCRATES: And does this art grow up among men like other arts? Let me explain what I
mean: of painters, some are better and some worse?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: The better painters execute their works, I mean their figures, better, and the
worse execute them worse; and of builders also, the better sort build fairer houses, and
the worse build them worse.
CRATYLUS: True.
SOCRATES: And among legislators, there are some who do their work better and some
worse?
CRATYLUS: No; there I do not agree with you.
SOCRATES: Then you do not think that some laws are better and others worse?
CRATYLUS: No, indeed.
SOCRATES: Or that one name is better than another?
CRATYLUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: Then all names are rightly imposed?
CRATYLUS: Yes, if they are names at all.
SOCRATES: Well, what do you say to the name of our friend Hermogenes, which was
mentioned before:—assuming that he has nothing of the nature of Hermes in him, shall
we say that this is a wrong name, or not his name at all?
CRATYLUS: I should reply that Hermogenes is not his name at all, but only appears to be
his, and is really the name of somebody else, who has the nature which corresponds to
it.
SOCRATES: And if a man were to call him Hermogenes, would he not be even speaking
falsely? For there may be a doubt whether you can call him Hermogenes, if he is not.
CRATYLUS: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: Are you maintaining that falsehood is impossible? For if this is your meaning
I should answer, that there have been plenty of liars in all ages.
CRATYLUS: Why, Socrates, how can a man say that which is not?—say something and
yet say nothing? For is not falsehood saying the thing which is not?
SOCRATES: Your argument, friend, is too subtle for a man of my age. But I should like to
know whether you are one of those philosophers who think that falsehood may be
spoken but not said?
CRATYLUS: Neither spoken nor said.
SOCRATES: Nor uttered nor addressed? For example: If a person, saluting you in a
foreign country, were to take your hand and say: 'Hail, Athenian stranger, Hermogenes,
son of Smicrion'—these words, whether spoken, said, uttered, or addressed, would have
no application to you but only to our friend Hermogenes, or perhaps to nobody at all?
CRATYLUS: In my opinion, Socrates, the speaker would only be talking nonsense.
SOCRATES: Well, but that will be quite enough for me, if you will tell me whether the
nonsense would be true or false, or partly true and partly false:—which is all that I want
to know.
CRATYLUS: I should say that he would be putting himself in motion to no purpose; and
that his words would be an unmeaning sound like the noise of hammering at a brazen
pot.
SOCRATES: But let us see, Cratylus, whether we cannot find a meeting- point, for you
would admit that the name is not the same with the thing named?
CRATYLUS: I should.
SOCRATES: And would you further acknowledge that the name is an imitation of the
thing?
CRATYLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And you would say that pictures are also imitations of things, but in another
way?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: I believe you may be right, but I do not rightly understand you. Please to
say, then, whether both sorts of imitation (I mean both pictures or words) are not
equally attributable and applicable to the things of which they are the imitation.
CRATYLUS: They are.
SOCRATES: First look at the matter thus: you may attribute the likeness of the man to
the man, and of the woman to the woman; and so on?
CRATYLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And conversely you may attribute the likeness of the man to the woman,
and of the woman to the man?
CRATYLUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: And are both modes of assigning them right, or only the first?
CRATYLUS: Only the first.
SOCRATES: That is to say, the mode of assignment which attributes to each that which
belongs to them and is like them?
CRATYLUS: That is my view.
SOCRATES: Now then, as I am desirous that we being friends should have a good
understanding about the argument, let me state my view to you: the first mode of
assignment, whether applied to figures or to names, I call right, and when applied to
names only, true as well as right; and the other mode of giving and assigning the name
which is unlike, I call wrong, and in the case of names, false as well as wrong.
CRATYLUS: That may be true, Socrates, in the case of pictures; they may be wrongly
assigned; but not in the case of names—they must be always right.
SOCRATES: Why, what is the difference? May I not go to a man and say to him, 'This is
your picture,' showing him his own likeness, or perhaps the likeness of a woman; and
when I say 'show,' I mean bring before the sense of sight.
CRATYLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And may I not go to him again, and say, 'This is your name'?— for the name,
like the picture, is an imitation. May I not say to him— 'This is your name'? and may I
not then bring to his sense of hearing the imitation of himself, when I say, 'This is a
man'; or of a female of the human species, when I say, 'This is a woman,' as the case may
be? Is not all that quite possible?
CRATYLUS: I would fain agree with you, Socrates; and therefore I say, Granted.
SOCRATES: That is very good of you, if I am right, which need hardly be disputed at
present. But if I can assign names as well as pictures to objects, the right assignment of
them we may call truth, and the wrong assignment of them falsehood. Now if there be
such a wrong assignment of names, there may also be a wrong or inappropriate
assignment of verbs; and if of names and verbs then of the sentences, which are made
up of them. What do you say, Cratylus?
CRATYLUS: I agree; and think that what you say is very true.
SOCRATES: And further, primitive nouns may be compared to pictures, and in pictures
you may either give all the appropriate colours and figures, or you may not give them
all—some may be wanting; or there may be too many or too much of them—may there
not?
CRATYLUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: And he who gives all gives a perfect picture or figure; and he who takes
away or adds also gives a picture or figure, but not a good one.
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: In like manner, he who by syllables and letters imitates the nature of things,
if he gives all that is appropriate will produce a good image, or in other words a name;
but if he subtracts or perhaps adds a little, he will make an image but not a good one;
whence I infer that some names are well and others ill made.
CRATYLUS: That is true.
SOCRATES: Then the artist of names may be sometimes good, or he may be bad?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And this artist of names is called the legislator?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then like other artists the legislator may be good or he may be bad; it must
surely be so if our former admissions hold good?
CRATYLUS: Very true, Socrates; but the case of language, you see, is different; for when
by the help of grammar we assign the letters alpha or beta, or any other letters to a
certain name, then, if we add, or subtract, or misplace a letter, the name which is written
is not only written wrongly, but not written at all; and in any of these cases becomes
other than a name.
SOCRATES: But I doubt whether your view is altogether correct, Cratylus.
CRATYLUS: How so?
SOCRATES: I believe that what you say may be true about numbers, which must be just
what they are, or not be at all; for example, the number ten at once becomes other than
ten if a unit be added or subtracted, and so of any other number: but this does not
apply to that which is qualitative or to anything which is represented under an image. I
should say rather that the image, if expressing in every point the entire reality, would no
longer be an image. Let us suppose the existence of two objects: one of them shall be
Cratylus, and the other the image of Cratylus; and we will suppose, further, that some
God makes not only a representation such as a painter would make of your outward
form and colour, but also creates an inward organization like yours, having the same
warmth and softness; and into this infuses motion, and soul, and mind, such as you
have, and in a word copies all your qualities, and places them by you in another form;
would you say that this was Cratylus and the image of Cratylus, or that there were two
Cratyluses?
CRATYLUS: I should say that there were two Cratyluses.
SOCRATES: Then you see, my friend, that we must find some other principle of truth in
images, and also in names; and not insist that an image is no longer an image when
something is added or subtracted. Do you not perceive that images are very far from
having qualities which are the exact counterpart of the realities which they represent?
CRATYLUS: Yes, I see.
SOCRATES: But then how ridiculous would be the effect of names on things, if they were
exactly the same with them! For they would be the doubles of them, and no one would
be able to determine which were the names and which were the realities.
CRATYLUS: Quite true.
SOCRATES: Then fear not, but have the courage to admit that one name may be
correctly and another incorrectly given; and do not insist that the name shall be exactly
the same with the thing; but allow the occasional substitution of a wrong letter, and if of
a letter also of a noun in a sentence, and if of a noun in a sentence also of a sentence
which is not appropriate to the matter, and acknowledge that the thing may be named,
and described, so long as the general character of the thing which you are describing is
retained; and this, as you will remember, was remarked by Hermogenes and myself in
the particular instance of the names of the letters.
CRATYLUS: Yes, I remember.
SOCRATES: Good; and when the general character is preserved, even if some of the
proper letters are wanting, still the thing is signified;—well, if all the letters are given; not
well, when only a few of them are given. I think that we had better admit this, lest we be
punished like travellers in Aegina who wander about the street late at night: and be
likewise told by truth herself that we have arrived too late; or if not, you must find out
some new notion of correctness of names, and no longer maintain that a name is the
expression of a thing in letters or syllables; for if you say both, you will be inconsistent
with yourself.
CRATYLUS: I quite acknowledge, Socrates, what you say to be very reasonable.
SOCRATES: Then as we are agreed thus far, let us ask ourselves whether a name rightly
imposed ought not to have the proper letters.
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the proper letters are those which are like the things?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Enough then of names which are rightly given. And in names which are
incorrectly given, the greater part may be supposed to be made up of proper and
similar letters, or there would be no likeness; but there will be likewise a part which is
improper and spoils the beauty and formation of the word: you would admit that?
CRATYLUS: There would be no use, Socrates, in my quarrelling with you, since I cannot
be satisfied that a name which is incorrectly given is a name at all.
SOCRATES: Do you admit a name to be the representation of a thing?
CRATYLUS: Yes, I do.
SOCRATES: But do you not allow that some nouns are primitive, and some derived?
CRATYLUS: Yes, I do.
SOCRATES: Then if you admit that primitive or first nouns are representations of things,
is there any better way of framing representations than by assimilating them to the
objects as much as you can; or do you prefer the notion of Hermogenes and of many
others, who say that names are conventional, and have a meaning to those who have
agreed about them, and who have previous knowledge of the things intended by them,
and that convention is the only principle; and whether you abide by our present
convention, or make a new and opposite one, according to which you call small great
and great small—that, they would say, makes no difference, if you are only agreed.
Which of these two notions do you prefer?
CRATYLUS: Representation by likeness, Socrates, is infinitely better than representation
by any chance sign.
SOCRATES: Very good: but if the name is to be like the thing, the letters out of which
the first names are composed must also be like things. Returning to the image of the
picture, I would ask, How could any one ever compose a picture which would be like
anything at all, if there were not pigments in nature which resembled the things
imitated, and out of which the picture is composed?
CRATYLUS: Impossible.
SOCRATES: No more could names ever resemble any actually existing thing, unless the
original elements of which they are compounded bore some degree of resemblance to
the objects of which the names are the imitation: And the original elements are letters?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Let me now invite you to consider what Hermogenes and I were saying
about sounds. Do you agree with me that the letter rho is expressive of rapidity, motion,
and hardness? Were we right or wrong in saying so?
CRATYLUS: I should say that you were right.
SOCRATES: And that lamda was expressive of smoothness, and softness, and the like?
CRATYLUS: There again you were right.
SOCRATES: And yet, as you are aware, that which is called by us sklerotes, is by the
Eretrians called skleroter.
CRATYLUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: But are the letters rho and sigma equivalents; and is there the same
significance to them in the termination rho, which there is to us in sigma, or is there no
significance to one of us?
CRATYLUS: Nay, surely there is a significance to both of us.
SOCRATES: In as far as they are like, or in as far as they are unlike?
CRATYLUS: In as far as they are like.
SOCRATES: Are they altogether alike?
CRATYLUS: Yes; for the purpose of expressing motion.
SOCRATES: And what do you say of the insertion of the lamda? for that is expressive not
of hardness but of softness.
CRATYLUS: Why, perhaps the letter lamda is wrongly inserted, Socrates, and should be
altered into rho, as you were saying to Hermogenes and in my opinion rightly, when you
spoke of adding and subtracting letters upon occasion.
SOCRATES: Good. But still the word is intelligible to both of us; when I say skleros (hard),
you know what I mean.
CRATYLUS: Yes, my dear friend, and the explanation of that is custom.
SOCRATES: And what is custom but convention? I utter a sound which I understand, and
you know that I understand the meaning of the sound: this is what you are saying?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And if when I speak you know my meaning, there is an indication given by
me to you?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: This indication of my meaning may proceed from unlike as well as from like,
for example in the lamda of sklerotes. But if this is true, then you have made a
convention with yourself, and the correctness of a name turns out to be convention,
since letters which are unlike are indicative equally with those which are like, if they are
sanctioned by custom and convention. And even supposing that you distinguish custom
from convention ever so much, still you must say that the signification of words is given
by custom and not by likeness, for custom may indicate by the unlike as well as by the
like. But as we are agreed thus far, Cratylus (for I shall assume that your silence gives
consent), then custom and convention must be supposed to contribute to the indication
of our thoughts; for suppose we take the instance of number, how can you ever
imagine, my good friend, that you will find names resembling every individual number,
unless you allow that which you term convention and agreement to have authority in
determining the correctness of names? I quite agree with you that words should as far
as possible resemble things; but I fear that this dragging in of resemblance, as
Hermogenes says, is a shabby thing, which has to be supplemented by the mechanical
aid of convention with a view to correctness; for I believe that if we could always, or
almost always, use likenesses, which are perfectly appropriate, this would be the most
perfect state of language; as the opposite is the most imperfect. But let me ask you,
what is the force of names, and what is the use of them?
CRATYLUS: The use of names, Socrates, as I should imagine, is to inform: the simple
truth is, that he who knows names knows also the things which are expressed by them.
SOCRATES: I suppose you mean to say, Cratylus, that as the name is, so also is the thing;
and that he who knows the one will also know the other, because they are similars, and
all similars fall under the same art or science; and therefore you would say that he who
knows names will also know things.
CRATYLUS: That is precisely what I mean.
SOCRATES: But let us consider what is the nature of this information about things which,
according to you, is given us by names. Is it the best sort of information? or is there any
other? What do you say?
CRATYLUS: I believe that to be both the only and the best sort of information about
them; there can be no other.
SOCRATES: But do you believe that in the discovery of them, he who discovers the
names discovers also the things; or is this only the method of instruction, and is there
some other method of enquiry and discovery.
CRATYLUS: I certainly believe that the methods of enquiry and discovery are of the same
nature as instruction.
SOCRATES: Well, but do you not see, Cratylus, that he who follows names in the search
after things, and analyses their meaning, is in great danger of being deceived?
CRATYLUS: How so?
SOCRATES: Why clearly he who first gave names gave them according to his conception
of the things which they signified—did he not?
CRATYLUS: True.
SOCRATES: And if his conception was erroneous, and he gave names according to his
conception, in what position shall we who are his followers find ourselves? Shall we not
be deceived by him?
CRATYLUS: But, Socrates, am I not right in thinking that he must surely have known; or
else, as I was saying, his names would not be names at all? And you have a clear proof
that he has not missed the truth, and the proof is—that he is perfectly consistent. Did
you ever observe in speaking that all the words which you utter have a common
character and purpose?
SOCRATES: But that, friend Cratylus, is no answer. For if he did begin in error, he may
have forced the remainder into agreement with the original error and with himself; there
would be nothing strange in this, any more than in geometrical diagrams, which have
often a slight and invisible flaw in the first part of the process, and are consistently
mistaken in the long deductions which follow. And this is the reason why every man
should expend his chief thought and attention on the consideration of his first
principles:—are they or are they not rightly laid down? and when he has duly sifted
them, all the rest will follow. Now I should be astonished to find that names are really
consistent. And here let us revert to our former discussion: Were we not saying that all
things are in motion and progress and flux, and that this idea of motion is expressed by
names? Do you not conceive that to be the meaning of them?
CRATYLUS: Yes; that is assuredly their meaning, and the true meaning.
SOCRATES: Let us revert to episteme (knowledge) and observe how ambiguous this
word is, seeming rather to signify stopping the soul at things than going round with
them; and therefore we should leave the beginning as at present, and not reject the
epsilon, but make an insertion of an iota instead of an epsilon (not pioteme, but
epiisteme). Take another example: bebaion (sure) is clearly the expression of station and
position, and not of motion. Again, the word istoria (enquiry) bears upon the face of it
the stopping (istanai) of the stream; and the word piston (faithful) certainly indicates
cessation of motion; then, again, mneme (memory), as any one may see, expresses rest
in the soul, and not motion. Moreover, words such as amartia and sumphora, which
have a bad sense, viewed in the light of their etymologies will be the same as sunesis
and episteme and other words which have a good sense (compare omartein, sunienai,
epesthai, sumpheresthai); and much the same may be said of amathia and akolasia, for
amathia may be explained as e ama theo iontos poreia, and akolasia as e akolouthia tois
pragmasin. Thus the names which in these instances we find to have the worst sense,
will turn out to be framed on the same principle as those which have the best. And any
one I believe who would take the trouble might find many other examples in which the
giver of names indicates, not that things are in motion or progress, but that they are at
rest; which is the opposite of motion.
CRATYLUS: Yes, Socrates, but observe; the greater number express motion.
SOCRATES: What of that, Cratylus? Are we to count them like votes? and is correctness
of names the voice of the majority? Are we to say of whichever sort there are most,
those are the true ones?
CRATYLUS: No; that is not reasonable.
SOCRATES: Certainly not. But let us have done with this question and proceed to
another, about which I should like to know whether you think with me. Were we not
lately acknowledging that the first givers of names in states, both Hellenic and
barbarous, were the legislators, and that the art which gave names was the art of the
legislator?
CRATYLUS: Quite true.
SOCRATES: Tell me, then, did the first legislators, who were the givers of the first names,
know or not know the things which they named?
CRATYLUS: They must have known, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Why, yes, friend Cratylus, they could hardly have been ignorant.
CRATYLUS: I should say not.
SOCRATES: Let us return to the point from which we digressed. You were saying, if you
remember, that he who gave names must have known the things which he named; are
you still of that opinion?
CRATYLUS: I am.
SOCRATES: And would you say that the giver of the first names had also a knowledge of
the things which he named?
CRATYLUS: I should.
SOCRATES: But how could he have learned or discovered things from names if the
primitive names were not yet given? For, if we are correct in our view, the only way of
learning and discovering things, is either to discover names for ourselves or to learn
them from others.
CRATYLUS: I think that there is a good deal in what you say, Socrates.
SOCRATES: But if things are only to be known through names, how can we suppose that
the givers of names had knowledge, or were legislators before there were names at all,
and therefore before they could have known them?
CRATYLUS: I believe, Socrates, the true account of the matter to be, that a power more
than human gave things their first names, and that the names which are thus given are
necessarily their true names.
SOCRATES: Then how came the giver of the names, if he was an inspired being or God,
to contradict himself? For were we not saying just now that he made some names
expressive of rest and others of motion? Were we mistaken?
CRATYLUS: But I suppose one of the two not to be names at all.
SOCRATES: And which, then, did he make, my good friend; those which are expressive of
rest, or those which are expressive of motion? This is a point which, as I said before,
cannot be determined by counting them.
CRATYLUS: No; not in that way, Socrates.
SOCRATES: But if this is a battle of names, some of them asserting that they are like the
truth, others contending that THEY are, how or by what criterion are we to decide
between them? For there are no other names to which appeal can be made, but
obviously recourse must be had to another standard which, without employing names,
will make clear which of the two are right; and this must be a standard which shows the
truth of things.
CRATYLUS: I agree.
SOCRATES: But if that is true, Cratylus, then I suppose that things may be known without
names?
CRATYLUS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: But how would you expect to know them? What other way can there be of
knowing them, except the true and natural way, through their affinities, when they are
akin to each other, and through themselves? For that which is other and different from
them must signify something other and different from them.
CRATYLUS: What you are saying is, I think, true.
SOCRATES: Well, but reflect; have we not several times acknowledged that names rightly
given are the likenesses and images of the things which they name?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Let us suppose that to any extent you please you can learn things through
the medium of names, and suppose also that you can learn them from the things
themselves—which is likely to be the nobler and clearer way; to learn of the image,
whether the image and the truth of which the image is the expression have been rightly
conceived, or to learn of the truth whether the truth and the image of it have been duly
executed?
CRATYLUS: I should say that we must learn of the truth.
SOCRATES: How real existence is to be studied or discovered is, I suspect, beyond you
and me. But we may admit so much, that the knowledge of things is not to be derived
from names. No; they must be studied and investigated in themselves.
CRATYLUS: Clearly, Socrates.
SOCRATES: There is another point. I should not like us to be imposed upon by the
appearance of such a multitude of names, all tending in the same direction. I myself do
not deny that the givers of names did really give them under the idea that all things
were in motion and flux; which was their sincere but, I think, mistaken opinion. And
having fallen into a kind of whirlpool themselves, they are carried round, and want to
drag us in after them. There is a matter, master Cratylus, about which I often dream, and
should like to ask your opinion: Tell me, whether there is or is not any absolute beauty
or good, or any other absolute existence?
CRATYLUS: Certainly, Socrates, I think so.
SOCRATES: Then let us seek the true beauty: not asking whether a face is fair, or
anything of that sort, for all such things appear to be in a flux; but let us ask whether the
true beauty is not always beautiful.
CRATYLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And can we rightly speak of a beauty which is always passing away, and is
first this and then that; must not the same thing be born and retire and vanish while the
word is in our mouths?
CRATYLUS: Undoubtedly.
SOCRATES: Then how can that be a real thing which is never in the same state? for
obviously things which are the same cannot change while they remain the same; and if
they are always the same and in the same state, and never depart from their original
form, they can never change or be moved.
CRATYLUS: Certainly they cannot.
SOCRATES: Nor yet can they be known by any one; for at the moment that the observer
approaches, then they become other and of another nature, so that you cannot get any
further in knowing their nature or state, for you cannot know that which has no state.
CRATYLUS: True.
SOCRATES: Nor can we reasonably say, Cratylus, that there is knowledge at all, if
everything is in a state of transition and there is nothing abiding; for knowledge too
cannot continue to be knowledge unless continuing always to abide and exist. But if the
very nature of knowledge changes, at the time when the change occurs there will be no
knowledge; and if the transition is always going on, there will always be no knowledge,
and, according to this view, there will be no one to know and nothing to be known: but
if that which knows and that which is known exists ever, and the beautiful and the good
and every other thing also exist, then I do not think that they can resemble a process or
flux, as we were just now supposing. Whether there is this eternal nature in things, or
whether the truth is what Heracleitus and his followers and many others say, is a
question hard to determine; and no man of sense will like to put himself or the
education of his mind in the power of names: neither will he so far trust names or the
givers of names as to be confident in any knowledge which condemns himself and other
existences to an unhealthy state of unreality; he will not believe that all things leak like a
pot, or imagine that the world is a man who has a running at the nose. This may be true,
Cratylus, but is also very likely to be untrue; and therefore I would not have you be too
easily persuaded of it. Reflect well and like a man, and do not easily accept such a
doctrine; for you are young and of an age to learn. And when you have found the truth,
come and tell me.
CRATYLUS: I will do as you say, though I can assure you, Socrates, that I have been
considering the matter already, and the result of a great deal of trouble and
consideration is that I incline to Heracleitus.
SOCRATES: Then, another day, my friend, when you come back, you shall give me a
lesson; but at present, go into the country, as you are intending, and Hermogenes shall
set you on your way.
CRATYLUS: Very good, Socrates; I hope, however, that you will continue to think about
these things yourself.
THE END
PHAEDO
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Phaedo, who is the narrator of the dialogue to Echecrates
of Phlius. Socrates, Apollodorus, Simmias, Cebes, Crito and an Attendant of the Prison.
SCENE: The Prison of Socrates.
PLACE OF THE NARRATION: Phlius.
ECHECRATES: Were you yourself, Phaedo, in the prison with Socrates on the day when
he drank the poison?
PHAEDO: Yes, Echecrates, I was.
ECHECRATES: I should so like to hear about his death. What did he say in his last hours?
We were informed that he died by taking poison, but no one knew anything more; for
no Phliasian ever goes to Athens now, and it is a long time since any stranger from
Athens has found his way hither; so that we had no clear account.
PHAEDO: Did you not hear of the proceedings at the trial?
ECHECRATES: Yes; some one told us about the trial, and we could not understand why,
having been condemned, he should have been put to death, not at the time, but long
afterwards. What was the reason of this?
PHAEDO: An accident, Echecrates: the stern of the ship which the Athenians send to
Delos happened to have been crowned on the day before he was tried.
ECHECRATES: What is this ship?
PHAEDO: It is the ship in which, according to Athenian tradition, Theseus went to Crete
when he took with him the fourteen youths, and was the saviour of them and of himself.
And they were said to have vowed to Apollo at the time, that if they were saved they
would send a yearly mission to Delos. Now this custom still continues, and the whole
period of the voyage to and from Delos, beginning when the priest of Apollo crowns the
stern of the ship, is a holy season, during which the city is not allowed to be polluted by
public executions; and when the vessel is detained by contrary winds, the time spent in
going and returning is very considerable. As I was saying, the ship was crowned on the
day before the trial, and this was the reason why Socrates lay in prison and was not put
to death until long after he was condemned.
ECHECRATES: What was the manner of his death, Phaedo? What was said or done? And
which of his friends were with him? Or did the authorities forbid them to be present—so
that he had no friends near him when he died?
PHAEDO: No; there were several of them with him.
ECHECRATES: If you have nothing to do, I wish that you would tell me what passed, as
exactly as you can.
PHAEDO: I have nothing at all to do, and will try to gratify your wish. To be reminded of
Socrates is always the greatest delight to me, whether I speak myself or hear another
speak of him.
ECHECRATES: You will have listeners who are of the same mind with you, and I hope
that you will be as exact as you can.
PHAEDO: I had a singular feeling at being in his company. For I could hardly believe that
I was present at the death of a friend, and therefore I did not pity him, Echecrates; he
died so fearlessly, and his words and bearing were so noble and gracious, that to me he
appeared blessed. I thought that in going to the other world he could not be without a
divine call, and that he would be happy, if any man ever was, when he arrived there, and
therefore I did not pity him as might have seemed natural at such an hour. But I had not
the pleasure which I usually feel in philosophical discourse (for philosophy was the
theme of which we spoke). I was pleased, but in the pleasure there was also a strange
admixture of pain; for I reflected that he was soon to die, and this double feeling was
shared by us all; we were laughing and weeping by turns, especially the excitable
Apollodorus—you know the sort of man?
ECHECRATES: Yes.
PHAEDO: He was quite beside himself; and I and all of us were greatly moved.
ECHECRATES: Who were present?
PHAEDO: Of native Athenians there were, besides Apollodorus, Critobulus and his father
Crito, Hermogenes, Epigenes, Aeschines, Antisthenes; likewise Ctesippus of the deme of
Paeania, Menexenus, and some others; Plato, if I am not mistaken, was ill.
ECHECRATES: Were there any strangers?
PHAEDO: Yes, there were; Simmias the Theban, and Cebes, and Phaedondes; Euclid and
Terpison, who came from Megara.
ECHECRATES: And was Aristippus there, and Cleombrotus?
PHAEDO: No, they were said to be in Aegina.
ECHECRATES: Any one else?
PHAEDO: I think that these were nearly all.
ECHECRATES: Well, and what did you talk about?
PHAEDO: I will begin at the beginning, and endeavour to repeat the entire conversation.
On the previous days we had been in the habit of assembling early in the morning at the
court in which the trial took place, and which is not far from the prison. There we used
to wait talking with one another until the opening of the doors (for they were not
opened very early); then we went in and generally passed the day with Socrates. On the
last morning we assembled sooner than usual, having heard on the day before when we
quitted the prison in the evening that the sacred ship had come from Delos, and so we
arranged to meet very early at the accustomed place. On our arrival the jailer who
answered the door, instead of admitting us, came out and told us to stay until he called
us. 'For the Eleven,' he said, 'are now with Socrates; they are taking off his chains, and
giving orders that he is to die to-day.' He soon returned and said that we might come in.
On entering we found Socrates just released from chains, and Xanthippe, whom you
know, sitting by him, and holding his child in her arms. When she saw us she uttered a
cry and said, as women will: 'O Socrates, this is the last time that either you will converse
with your friends, or they with you.' Socrates turned to Crito and said: 'Crito, let some
one take her home.' Some of Crito's people accordingly led her away, crying out and
beating herself. And when she was gone, Socrates, sitting up on the couch, bent and
rubbed his leg, saying, as he was rubbing: How singular is the thing called pleasure, and
how curiously related to pain, which might be thought to be the opposite of it; for they
are never present to a man at the same instant, and yet he who pursues either is
generally compelled to take the other; their bodies are two, but they are joined by a
single head. And I cannot help thinking that if Aesop had remembered them, he would
have made a fable about God trying to reconcile their strife, and how, when he could
not, he fastened their heads together; and this is the reason why when one comes the
other follows, as I know by my own experience now, when after the pain in my leg which
was caused by the chain pleasure appears to succeed.
Upon this Cebes said: I am glad, Socrates, that you have mentioned the name of Aesop.
For it reminds me of a question which has been asked by many, and was asked of me
only the day before yesterday by Evenus the poet —he will be sure to ask it again, and
therefore if you would like me to have an answer ready for him, you may as well tell me
what I should say to him:—he wanted to know why you, who never before wrote a line
of poetry, now that you are in prison are turning Aesop's fables into verse, and also
composing that hymn in honour of Apollo.
Tell him, Cebes, he replied, what is the truth—that I had no idea of rivalling him or his
poems; to do so, as I knew, would be no easy task. But I wanted to see whether I could
purge away a scruple which I felt about the meaning of certain dreams. In the course of
my life I have often had intimations in dreams 'that I should compose music.' The same
dream came to me sometimes in one form, and sometimes in another, but always
saying the same or nearly the same words: 'Cultivate and make music,' said the dream.
And hitherto I had imagined that this was only intended to exhort and encourage me in
the study of philosophy, which has been the pursuit of my life, and is the noblest and
best of music. The dream was bidding me do what I was already doing, in the same way
that the competitor in a race is bidden by the spectators to run when he is already
running. But I was not certain of this, for the dream might have meant music in the
popular sense of the word, and being under sentence of death, and the festival giving
me a respite, I thought that it would be safer for me to satisfy the scruple, and, in
obedience to the dream, to compose a few verses before I departed. And first I made a
hymn in honour of the god of the festival, and then considering that a poet, if he is
really to be a poet, should not only put together words, but should invent stories, and
that I have no invention, I took some fables of Aesop, which I had ready at hand and
which I knew—they were the first I came upon—and turned them into verse. Tell this to
Evenus, Cebes, and bid him be of good cheer; say that I would have him come after me
if he be a wise man, and not tarry; and that to-day I am likely to be going, for the
Athenians say that I must.
Simmias said: What a message for such a man! having been a frequent companion of his
I should say that, as far as I know him, he will never take your advice unless he is
obliged.
Why, said Socrates,—is not Evenus a philosopher?
I think that he is, said Simmias.
Then he, or any man who has the spirit of philosophy, will be willing to die, but he will
not take his own life, for that is held to be unlawful.
Here he changed his position, and put his legs off the couch on to the ground, and
during the rest of the conversation he remained sitting.
Why do you say, enquired Cebes, that a man ought not to take his own life, but that the
philosopher will be ready to follow the dying?
Socrates replied: And have you, Cebes and Simmias, who are the disciples of Philolaus,
never heard him speak of this?
Yes, but his language was obscure, Socrates.
My words, too, are only an echo; but there is no reason why I should not repeat what I
have heard: and indeed, as I am going to another place, it is very meet for me to be
thinking and talking of the nature of the pilgrimage which I am about to make. What
can I do better in the interval between this and the setting of the sun?
Then tell me, Socrates, why is suicide held to be unlawful? as I have certainly heard
Philolaus, about whom you were just now asking, affirm when he was staying with us at
Thebes: and there are others who say the same, although I have never understood what
was meant by any of them.
Do not lose heart, replied Socrates, and the day may come when you will understand. I
suppose that you wonder why, when other things which are evil may be good at certain
times and to certain persons, death is to be the only exception, and why, when a man is
better dead, he is not permitted to be his own benefactor, but must wait for the hand of
another.
Very true, said Cebes, laughing gently and speaking in his native Boeotian.
I admit the appearance of inconsistency in what I am saying; but there may not be any
real inconsistency after all. There is a doctrine whispered in secret that man is a prisoner
who has no right to open the door and run away; this is a great mystery which I do not
quite understand. Yet I too believe that the gods are our guardians, and that we are a
possession of theirs. Do you not agree?
Yes, I quite agree, said Cebes.
And if one of your own possessions, an ox or an ass, for example, took the liberty of
putting himself out of the way when you had given no intimation of your wish that he
should die, would you not be angry with him, and would you not punish him if you
could?
Certainly, replied Cebes.
Then, if we look at the matter thus, there may be reason in saying that a man should
wait, and not take his own life until God summons him, as he is now summoning me.
Yes, Socrates, said Cebes, there seems to be truth in what you say. And yet how can you
reconcile this seemingly true belief that God is our guardian and we his possessions,
with the willingness to die which we were just now attributing to the philosopher? That
the wisest of men should be willing to leave a service in which they are ruled by the
gods who are the best of rulers, is not reasonable; for surely no wise man thinks that
when set at liberty he can take better care of himself than the gods take of him. A fool
may perhaps think so—he may argue that he had better run away from his master, not
considering that his duty is to remain to the end, and not to run away from the good,
and that there would be no sense in his running away. The wise man will want to be ever
with him who is better than himself. Now this, Socrates, is the reverse of what was just
now said; for upon this view the wise man should sorrow and the fool rejoice at passing
out of life.
The earnestness of Cebes seemed to please Socrates. Here, said he, turning to us, is a
man who is always inquiring, and is not so easily convinced by the first thing which he
hears.
And certainly, added Simmias, the objection which he is now making does appear to me
to have some force. For what can be the meaning of a truly wise man wanting to fly
away and lightly leave a master who is better than himself? And I rather imagine that
Cebes is referring to you; he thinks that you are too ready to leave us, and too ready to
leave the gods whom you acknowledge to be our good masters.
Yes, replied Socrates; there is reason in what you say. And so you think that I ought to
answer your indictment as if I were in a court?
We should like you to do so, said Simmias.
Then I must try to make a more successful defence before you than I did when before
the judges. For I am quite ready to admit, Simmias and Cebes, that I ought to be grieved
at death, if I were not persuaded in the first place that I am going to other gods who are
wise and good (of which I am as certain as I can be of any such matters), and secondly
(though I am not so sure of this last) to men departed, better than those whom I leave
behind; and therefore I do not grieve as I might have done, for I have good hope that
there is yet something remaining for the dead, and as has been said of old, some far
better thing for the good than for the evil.
But do you mean to take away your thoughts with you, Socrates? said Simmias. Will you
not impart them to us?—for they are a benefit in which we too are entitled to share.
Moreover, if you succeed in convincing us, that will be an answer to the charge against
yourself.
I will do my best, replied Socrates. But you must first let me hear what Crito wants; he
has long been wishing to say something to me.
Only this, Socrates, replied Crito:—the attendant who is to give you the poison has been
telling me, and he wants me to tell you, that you are not to talk much, talking, he says,
increases heat, and this is apt to interfere with the action of the poison; persons who
excite themselves are sometimes obliged to take a second or even a third dose.
Then, said Socrates, let him mind his business and be prepared to give the poison twice
or even thrice if necessary; that is all.
I knew quite well what you would say, replied Crito; but I was obliged to satisfy him.
Never mind him, he said.
And now, O my judges, I desire to prove to you that the real philosopher has reason to
be of good cheer when he is about to die, and that after death he may hope to obtain
the greatest good in the other world. And how this may be, Simmias and Cebes, I will
endeavour to explain. For I deem that the true votary of philosophy is likely to be
misunderstood by other men; they do not perceive that he is always pursuing death and
dying; and if this be so, and he has had the desire of death all his life long, why when his
time comes should he repine at that which he has been always pursuing and desiring?
Simmias said laughingly: Though not in a laughing humour, you have made me laugh,
Socrates; for I cannot help thinking that the many when they hear your words will say
how truly you have described philosophers, and our people at home will likewise say
that the life which philosophers desire is in reality death, and that they have found them
out to be deserving of the death which they desire.
And they are right, Simmias, in thinking so, with the exception of the words 'they have
found them out'; for they have not found out either what is the nature of that death
which the true philosopher deserves, or how he deserves or desires death. But enough
of them:—let us discuss the matter among ourselves: Do we believe that there is such a
thing as death?
To be sure, replied Simmias.
Is it not the separation of soul and body? And to be dead is the completion of this;
when the soul exists in herself, and is released from the body and the body is released
from the soul, what is this but death?
Just so, he replied.
There is another question, which will probably throw light on our present inquiry if you
and I can agree about it:—Ought the philosopher to care about the pleasures—if they
are to be called pleasures—of eating and drinking?
Certainly not, answered Simmias.
And what about the pleasures of love—should he care for them?
By no means.
And will he think much of the other ways of indulging the body, for example, the
acquisition of costly raiment, or sandals, or other adornments of the body? Instead of
caring about them, does he not rather despise anything more than nature needs? What
do you say?
I should say that the true philosopher would despise them.
Would you not say that he is entirely concerned with the soul and not with the body?
He would like, as far as he can, to get away from the body and to turn to the soul.
Quite true.
In matters of this sort philosophers, above all other men, may be observed in every sort
of way to dissever the soul from the communion of the body.
Very true.
Whereas, Simmias, the rest of the world are of opinion that to him who has no sense of
pleasure and no part in bodily pleasure, life is not worth having; and that he who is
indifferent about them is as good as dead.
That is also true.
What again shall we say of the actual acquirement of knowledge?—is the body, if
invited to share in the enquiry, a hinderer or a helper? I mean to say, have sight and
hearing any truth in them? Are they not, as the poets are always telling us, inaccurate
witnesses? and yet, if even they are inaccurate and indistinct, what is to be said of the
other senses?—for you will allow that they are the best of them?
Certainly, he replied.
Then when does the soul attain truth?—for in attempting to consider anything in
company with the body she is obviously deceived.
True.
Then must not true existence be revealed to her in thought, if at all?
Yes.
And thought is best when the mind is gathered into herself and none of these things
trouble her—neither sounds nor sights nor pain nor any pleasure,—when she takes
leave of the body, and has as little as possible to do with it, when she has no bodily
sense or desire, but is aspiring after true being?
Certainly.
And in this the philosopher dishonours the body; his soul runs away from his body and
desires to be alone and by herself?
That is true.
Well, but there is another thing, Simmias: Is there or is there not an absolute justice?
Assuredly there is.
And an absolute beauty and absolute good?
Of course.
But did you ever behold any of them with your eyes?
Certainly not.
Or did you ever reach them with any other bodily sense?—and I speak not of these
alone, but of absolute greatness, and health, and strength, and of the essence or true
nature of everything. Has the reality of them ever been perceived by you through the
bodily organs? or rather, is not the nearest approach to the knowledge of their several
natures made by him who so orders his intellectual vision as to have the most exact
conception of the essence of each thing which he considers?
Certainly.
And he attains to the purest knowledge of them who goes to each with the mind alone,
not introducing or intruding in the act of thought sight or any other sense together with
reason, but with the very light of the mind in her own clearness searches into the very
truth of each; he who has got rid, as far as he can, of eyes and ears and, so to speak, of
the whole body, these being in his opinion distracting elements which when they infect
the soul hinder her from acquiring truth and knowledge—who, if not he, is likely to
attain the knowledge of true being?
What you say has a wonderful truth in it, Socrates, replied Simmias.
And when real philosophers consider all these things, will they not be led to make a
reflection which they will express in words something like the following? 'Have we not
found,' they will say, 'a path of thought which seems to bring us and our argument to
the conclusion, that while we are in the body, and while the soul is infected with the
evils of the body, our desire will not be satisfied? and our desire is of the truth. For the
body is a source of endless trouble to us by reason of the mere requirement of food;
and is liable also to diseases which overtake and impede us in the search after true
being: it fills us full of loves, and lusts, and fears, and fancies of all kinds, and endless
foolery, and in fact, as men say, takes away from us the power of thinking at all. Whence
come wars, and fightings, and factions? whence but from the body and the lusts of the
body? wars are occasioned by the love of money, and money has to be acquired for the
sake and in the service of the body; and by reason of all these impediments we have no
time to give to philosophy; and, last and worst of all, even if we are at leisure and betake
ourselves to some speculation, the body is always breaking in upon us, causing turmoil
and confusion in our enquiries, and so amazing us that we are prevented from seeing
the truth. It has been proved to us by experience that if we would have pure knowledge
of anything we must be quit of the body—the soul in herself must behold things in
themselves: and then we shall attain the wisdom which we desire, and of which we say
that we are lovers, not while we live, but after death; for if while in company with the
body, the soul cannot have pure knowledge, one of two things follows—either
knowledge is not to be attained at all, or, if at all, after death. For then, and not till then,
the soul will be parted from the body and exist in herself alone. In this present life, I
reckon that we make the nearest approach to knowledge when we have the least
possible intercourse or communion with the body, and are not surfeited with the bodily
nature, but keep ourselves pure until the hour when God himself is pleased to release
us. And thus having got rid of the foolishness of the body we shall be pure and hold
converse with the pure, and know of ourselves the clear light everywhere, which is no
other than the light of truth.' For the impure are not permitted to approach the pure.
These are the sort of words, Simmias, which the true lovers of knowledge cannot help
saying to one another, and thinking. You would agree; would you not?
Undoubtedly, Socrates.
But, O my friend, if this is true, there is great reason to hope that, going whither I go,
when I have come to the end of my journey, I shall attain that which has been the
pursuit of my life. And therefore I go on my way rejoicing, and not I only, but every
other man who believes that his mind has been made ready and that he is in a manner
purified.
Certainly, replied Simmias.
And what is purification but the separation of the soul from the body, as I was saying
before; the habit of the soul gathering and collecting herself into herself from all sides
out of the body; the dwelling in her own place alone, as in another life, so also in this, as
far as she can;—the release of the soul from the chains of the body?
Very true, he said.
And this separation and release of the soul from the body is termed death?
To be sure, he said.
And the true philosophers, and they only, are ever seeking to release the soul. Is not the
separation and release of the soul from the body their especial study?
That is true.
And, as I was saying at first, there would be a ridiculous contradiction in men studying
to live as nearly as they can in a state of death, and yet repining when it comes upon
them.
Clearly.
And the true philosophers, Simmias, are always occupied in the practice of dying,
wherefore also to them least of all men is death terrible. Look at the matter thus:—if
they have been in every way the enemies of the body, and are wanting to be alone with
the soul, when this desire of theirs is granted, how inconsistent would they be if they
trembled and repined, instead of rejoicing at their departure to that place where, when
they arrive, they hope to gain that which in life they desired—and this was wisdom—and
at the same time to be rid of the company of their enemy. Many a man has been willing
to go to the world below animated by the hope of seeing there an earthly love, or wife,
or son, and conversing with them. And will he who is a true lover of wisdom, and is
strongly persuaded in like manner that only in the world below he can worthily enjoy
her, still repine at death? Will he not depart with joy? Surely he will, O my friend, if he be
a true philosopher. For he will have a firm conviction that there and there only, he can
find wisdom in her purity. And if this be true, he would be very absurd, as I was saying, if
he were afraid of death.
He would, indeed, replied Simmias.
And when you see a man who is repining at the approach of death, is not his reluctance
a sufficient proof that he is not a lover of wisdom, but a lover of the body, and probably
at the same time a lover of either money or power, or both?
Quite so, he replied.
And is not courage, Simmias, a quality which is specially characteristic of the
philosopher?
Certainly.
There is temperance again, which even by the vulgar is supposed to consist in the
control and regulation of the passions, and in the sense of superiority to them—is not
temperance a virtue belonging to those only who despise the body, and who pass their
lives in philosophy?
Most assuredly.
For the courage and temperance of other men, if you will consider them, are really a
contradiction.
How so?
Well, he said, you are aware that death is regarded by men in general as a great evil.
Very true, he said.
And do not courageous men face death because they are afraid of yet greater evils?
That is quite true.
Then all but the philosophers are courageous only from fear, and because they are
afraid; and yet that a man should be courageous from fear, and because he is a coward,
is surely a strange thing.
Very true.
And are not the temperate exactly in the same case? They are temperate because they
are intemperate—which might seem to be a contradiction, but is nevertheless the sort
of thing which happens with this foolish temperance. For there are pleasures which they
are afraid of losing; and in their desire to keep them, they abstain from some pleasures,
because they are overcome by others; and although to be conquered by pleasure is
called by men intemperance, to them the conquest of pleasure consists in being
conquered by pleasure. And that is what I mean by saying that, in a sense, they are
made temperate through intemperance.
Such appears to be the case.
Yet the exchange of one fear or pleasure or pain for another fear or pleasure or pain,
and of the greater for the less, as if they were coins, is not the exchange of virtue. O my
blessed Simmias, is there not one true coin for which all things ought to be
exchanged?—and that is wisdom; and only in exchange for this, and in company with
this, is anything truly bought or sold, whether courage or temperance or justice. And is
not all true virtue the companion of wisdom, no matter what fears or pleasures or other
similar goods or evils may or may not attend her? But the virtue which is made up of
these goods, when they are severed from wisdom and exchanged with one another, is a
shadow of virtue only, nor is there any freedom or health or truth in her; but in the true
exchange there is a purging away of all these things, and temperance, and justice, and
courage, and wisdom herself are the purgation of them. The founders of the mysteries
would appear to have had a real meaning, and were not talking nonsense when they
intimated in a figure long ago that he who passes unsanctified and uninitiated into the
world below will lie in a slough, but that he who arrives there after initiation and
purification will dwell with the gods. For 'many,' as they say in the mysteries, 'are the
thyrsus- bearers, but few are the mystics,'—meaning, as I interpret the words, 'the true
philosophers.' In the number of whom, during my whole life, I have been seeking,
according to my ability, to find a place;—whether I have sought in a right way or not,
and whether I have succeeded or not, I shall truly know in a little while, if God will, when
I myself arrive in the other world—such is my belief. And therefore I maintain that I am
right, Simmias and Cebes, in not grieving or repining at parting from you and my
masters in this world, for I believe that I shall equally find good masters and friends in
another world. But most men do not believe this saying; if then I succeed in convincing
you by my defence better than I did the Athenian judges, it will be well.
Cebes answered: I agree, Socrates, in the greater part of what you say. But in what
concerns the soul, men are apt to be incredulous; they fear that when she has left the
body her place may be nowhere, and that on the very day of death she may perish and
come to an end—immediately on her release from the body, issuing forth dispersed like
smoke or air and in her flight vanishing away into nothingness. If she could only be
collected into herself after she has obtained release from the evils of which you are
speaking, there would be good reason to hope, Socrates, that what you say is true. But
surely it requires a great deal of argument and many proofs to show that when the man
is dead his soul yet exists, and has any force or intelligence.
True, Cebes, said Socrates; and shall I suggest that we converse a little of the
probabilities of these things?
I am sure, said Cebes, that I should greatly like to know your opinion about them.
I reckon, said Socrates, that no one who heard me now, not even if he were one of my
old enemies, the Comic poets, could accuse me of idle talking about matters in which I
have no concern:—If you please, then, we will proceed with the inquiry.
Suppose we consider the question whether the souls of men after death are or are not
in the world below. There comes into my mind an ancient doctrine which affirms that
they go from hence into the other world, and returning hither, are born again from the
dead. Now if it be true that the living come from the dead, then our souls must exist in
the other world, for if not, how could they have been born again? And this would be
conclusive, if there were any real evidence that the living are only born from the dead;
but if this is not so, then other arguments will have to be adduced.
Very true, replied Cebes.
Then let us consider the whole question, not in relation to man only, but in relation to
animals generally, and to plants, and to everything of which there is generation, and the
proof will be easier. Are not all things which have opposites generated out of their
opposites? I mean such things as good and evil, just and unjust—and there are
innumerable other opposites which are generated out of opposites. And I want to show
that in all opposites there is of necessity a similar alternation; I mean to say, for example,
that anything which becomes greater must become greater after being less.
True.
And that which becomes less must have been once greater and then have become less.
Yes.
And the weaker is generated from the stronger, and the swifter from the slower.
Very true.
And the worse is from the better, and the more just is from the more unjust.
Of course.
And is this true of all opposites? and are we convinced that all of them are generated
out of opposites?
Yes.
And in this universal opposition of all things, are there not also two intermediate
processes which are ever going on, from one to the other opposite, and back again;
where there is a greater and a less there is also an intermediate process of increase and
diminution, and that which grows is said to wax, and that which decays to wane?
Yes, he said.
And there are many other processes, such as division and composition, cooling and
heating, which equally involve a passage into and out of one another. And this
necessarily holds of all opposites, even though not always expressed in words—they are
really generated out of one another, and there is a passing or process from one to the
other of them?
Very true, he replied.
Well, and is there not an opposite of life, as sleep is the opposite of waking?
True, he said.
And what is it?
Death, he answered.
And these, if they are opposites, are generated the one from the other, and have there
their two intermediate processes also?
Of course.
Now, said Socrates, I will analyze one of the two pairs of opposites which I have
mentioned to you, and also its intermediate processes, and you shall analyze the other
to me. One of them I term sleep, the other waking. The state of sleep is opposed to the
state of waking, and out of sleeping waking is generated, and out of waking, sleeping;
and the process of generation is in the one case falling asleep, and in the other waking
up. Do you agree?
I entirely agree.
Then, suppose that you analyze life and death to me in the same manner. Is not death
opposed to life?
Yes.
And they are generated one from the other?
Yes.
What is generated from the living?
The dead.
And what from the dead?
I can only say in answer—the living.
Then the living, whether things or persons, Cebes, are generated from the dead?
That is clear, he replied.
Then the inference is that our souls exist in the world below?
That is true.
And one of the two processes or generations is visible—for surely the act of dying is
visible?
Surely, he said.
What then is to be the result? Shall we exclude the opposite process? And shall we
suppose nature to walk on one leg only? Must we not rather assign to death some
corresponding process of generation?
Certainly, he replied.
And what is that process?
Return to life.
And return to life, if there be such a thing, is the birth of the dead into the world of the
living?
Quite true.
Then here is a new way by which we arrive at the conclusion that the living come from
the dead, just as the dead come from the living; and this, if true, affords a most certain
proof that the souls of the dead exist in some place out of which they come again.
Yes, Socrates, he said; the conclusion seems to flow necessarily out of our previous
admissions.
And that these admissions were not unfair, Cebes, he said, may be shown, I think, as
follows: If generation were in a straight line only, and there were no compensation or
circle in nature, no turn or return of elements into their opposites, then you know that
all things would at last have the same form and pass into the same state, and there
would be no more generation of them.
What do you mean? he said.
A simple thing enough, which I will illustrate by the case of sleep, he replied. You know
that if there were no alternation of sleeping and waking, the tale of the sleeping
Endymion would in the end have no meaning, because all other things would be asleep,
too, and he would not be distinguishable from the rest. Or if there were composition
only, and no division of substances, then the chaos of Anaxagoras would come again.
And in like manner, my dear Cebes, if all things which partook of life were to die, and
after they were dead remained in the form of death, and did not come to life again, all
would at last die, and nothing would be alive—what other result could there be? For if
the living spring from any other things, and they too die, must not all things at last be
swallowed up in death? (But compare Republic.)
There is no escape, Socrates, said Cebes; and to me your argument seems to be
absolutely true.
Yes, he said, Cebes, it is and must be so, in my opinion; and we have not been deluded
in making these admissions; but I am confident that there truly is such a thing as living
again, and that the living spring from the dead, and that the souls of the dead are in
existence, and that the good souls have a better portion than the evil.
Cebes added: Your favorite doctrine, Socrates, that knowledge is simply recollection, if
true, also necessarily implies a previous time in which we have learned that which we
now recollect. But this would be impossible unless our soul had been in some place
before existing in the form of man; here then is another proof of the soul's immortality.
But tell me, Cebes, said Simmias, interposing, what arguments are urged in favour of this
doctrine of recollection. I am not very sure at the moment that I remember them.
One excellent proof, said Cebes, is afforded by questions. If you put a question to a
person in a right way, he will give a true answer of himself, but how could he do this
unless there were knowledge and right reason already in him? And this is most clearly
shown when he is taken to a diagram or to anything of that sort. (Compare Meno.)
But if, said Socrates, you are still incredulous, Simmias, I would ask you whether you may
not agree with me when you look at the matter in another way;—I mean, if you are still
incredulous as to whether knowledge is recollection.
Incredulous, I am not, said Simmias; but I want to have this doctrine of recollection
brought to my own recollection, and, from what Cebes has said, I am beginning to
recollect and be convinced; but I should still like to hear what you were going to say.
This is what I would say, he replied:—We should agree, if I am not mistaken, that what a
man recollects he must have known at some previous time.
Very true.
And what is the nature of this knowledge or recollection? I mean to ask, Whether a
person who, having seen or heard or in any way perceived anything, knows not only
that, but has a conception of something else which is the subject, not of the same but of
some other kind of knowledge, may not be fairly said to recollect that of which he has
the conception?
What do you mean?
I mean what I may illustrate by the following instance:—The knowledge of a lyre is not
the same as the knowledge of a man?
True.
And yet what is the feeling of lovers when they recognize a lyre, or a garment, or
anything else which the beloved has been in the habit of using? Do not they, from
knowing the lyre, form in the mind's eye an image of the youth to whom the lyre
belongs? And this is recollection. In like manner any one who sees Simmias may
remember Cebes; and there are endless examples of the same thing.
Endless, indeed, replied Simmias.
And recollection is most commonly a process of recovering that which has been already
forgotten through time and inattention.
Very true, he said.
Well; and may you not also from seeing the picture of a horse or a lyre remember a
man? and from the picture of Simmias, you may be led to remember Cebes?
True.
Or you may also be led to the recollection of Simmias himself?
Quite so.
And in all these cases, the recollection may be derived from things either like or unlike?
It may be.
And when the recollection is derived from like things, then another consideration is sure
to arise, which is—whether the likeness in any degree falls short or not of that which is
recollected?
Very true, he said.
And shall we proceed a step further, and affirm that there is such a thing as equality, not
of one piece of wood or stone with another, but that, over and above this, there is
absolute equality? Shall we say so?
Say so, yes, replied Simmias, and swear to it, with all the confidence in life.
And do we know the nature of this absolute essence?
To be sure, he said.
And whence did we obtain our knowledge? Did we not see equalities of material things,
such as pieces of wood and stones, and gather from them the idea of an equality which
is different from them? For you will acknowledge that there is a difference. Or look at
the matter in another way:—Do not the same pieces of wood or stone appear at one
time equal, and at another time unequal?
That is certain.
But are real equals ever unequal? or is the idea of equality the same as of inequality?
Impossible, Socrates.
Then these (so-called) equals are not the same with the idea of equality?
I should say, clearly not, Socrates.
And yet from these equals, although differing from the idea of equality, you conceived
and attained that idea?
Very true, he said.
Which might be like, or might be unlike them?
Yes.
But that makes no difference; whenever from seeing one thing you conceived another,
whether like or unlike, there must surely have been an act of recollection?
Very true.
But what would you say of equal portions of wood and stone, or other material equals?
and what is the impression produced by them? Are they equals in the same sense in
which absolute equality is equal? or do they fall short of this perfect equality in a
measure?
Yes, he said, in a very great measure too.
And must we not allow, that when I or any one, looking at any object, observes that the
thing which he sees aims at being some other thing, but falls short of, and cannot be,
that other thing, but is inferior, he who makes this observation must have had a
previous knowledge of that to which the other, although similar, was inferior?
Certainly.
And has not this been our own case in the matter of equals and of absolute equality?
Precisely.
Then we must have known equality previously to the time when we first saw the material
equals, and reflected that all these apparent equals strive to attain absolute equality, but
fall short of it?
Very true.
And we recognize also that this absolute equality has only been known, and can only be
known, through the medium of sight or touch, or of some other of the senses, which are
all alike in this respect?
Yes, Socrates, as far as the argument is concerned, one of them is the same as the other.
From the senses then is derived the knowledge that all sensible things aim at an
absolute equality of which they fall short?
Yes.
Then before we began to see or hear or perceive in any way, we must have had a
knowledge of absolute equality, or we could not have referred to that standard the
equals which are derived from the senses?—for to that they all aspire, and of that they
fall short.
No other inference can be drawn from the previous statements.
And did we not see and hear and have the use of our other senses as soon as we were
born?
Certainly.
Then we must have acquired the knowledge of equality at some previous time?
Yes.
That is to say, before we were born, I suppose?
True.
And if we acquired this knowledge before we were born, and were born having the use
of it, then we also knew before we were born and at the instant of birth not only the
equal or the greater or the less, but all other ideas; for we are not speaking only of
equality, but of beauty, goodness, justice, holiness, and of all which we stamp with the
name of essence in the dialectical process, both when we ask and when we answer
questions. Of all this we may certainly affirm that we acquired the knowledge before
birth?
We may.
But if, after having acquired, we have not forgotten what in each case we acquired, then
we must always have come into life having knowledge, and shall always continue to
know as long as life lasts—for knowing is the acquiring and retaining knowledge and
not forgetting. Is not forgetting, Simmias, just the losing of knowledge?
Quite true, Socrates.
But if the knowledge which we acquired before birth was lost by us at birth, and if
afterwards by the use of the senses we recovered what we previously knew, will not the
process which we call learning be a recovering of the knowledge which is natural to us,
and may not this be rightly termed recollection?
Very true.
So much is clear—that when we perceive something, either by the help of sight, or
hearing, or some other sense, from that perception we are able to obtain a notion of
some other thing like or unlike which is associated with it but has been forgotten.
Whence, as I was saying, one of two alternatives follows:—either we had this knowledge
at birth, and continued to know through life; or, after birth, those who are said to learn
only remember, and learning is simply recollection.
Yes, that is quite true, Socrates.
And which alternative, Simmias, do you prefer? Had we the knowledge at our birth, or
did we recollect the things which we knew previously to our birth?
I cannot decide at the moment.
At any rate you can decide whether he who has knowledge will or will not be able to
render an account of his knowledge? What do you say?
Certainly, he will.
But do you think that every man is able to give an account of these very matters about
which we are speaking?
Would that they could, Socrates, but I rather fear that to-morrow, at this time, there will
no longer be any one alive who is able to give an account of them such as ought to be
given.
Then you are not of opinion, Simmias, that all men know these things?
Certainly not.
They are in process of recollecting that which they learned before?
Certainly.
But when did our souls acquire this knowledge?—not since we were born as men?
Certainly not.
And therefore, previously?
Yes.
Then, Simmias, our souls must also have existed without bodies before they were in the
form of man, and must have had intelligence.
Unless indeed you suppose, Socrates, that these notions are given us at the very
moment of birth; for this is the only time which remains.
Yes, my friend, but if so, when do we lose them? for they are not in us when we are
born—that is admitted. Do we lose them at the moment of receiving them, or if not at
what other time?
No, Socrates, I perceive that I was unconsciously talking nonsense.
Then may we not say, Simmias, that if, as we are always repeating, there is an absolute
beauty, and goodness, and an absolute essence of all things; and if to this, which is now
discovered to have existed in our former state, we refer all our sensations, and with this
compare them, finding these ideas to be pre-existent and our inborn possession—then
our souls must have had a prior existence, but if not, there would be no force in the
argument? There is the same proof that these ideas must have existed before we were
born, as that our souls existed before we were born; and if not the ideas, then not the
souls.
Yes, Socrates; I am convinced that there is precisely the same necessity for the one as for
the other; and the argument retreats successfully to the position that the existence of
the soul before birth cannot be separated from the existence of the essence of which
you speak. For there is nothing which to my mind is so patent as that beauty, goodness,
and the other notions of which you were just now speaking, have a most real and
absolute existence; and I am satisfied with the proof.
Well, but is Cebes equally satisfied? for I must convince him too.
I think, said Simmias, that Cebes is satisfied: although he is the most incredulous of
mortals, yet I believe that he is sufficiently convinced of the existence of the soul before
birth. But that after death the soul will continue to exist is not yet proven even to my
own satisfaction. I cannot get rid of the feeling of the many to which Cebes was
referring—the feeling that when the man dies the soul will be dispersed, and that this
may be the extinction of her. For admitting that she may have been born elsewhere, and
framed out of other elements, and was in existence before entering the human body,
why after having entered in and gone out again may she not herself be destroyed and
come to an end?
Very true, Simmias, said Cebes; about half of what was required has been proven; to wit,
that our souls existed before we were born:—that the soul will exist after death as well
as before birth is the other half of which the proof is still wanting, and has to be
supplied; when that is given the demonstration will be complete.
But that proof, Simmias and Cebes, has been already given, said Socrates, if you put the
two arguments together—I mean this and the former one, in which we admitted that
everything living is born of the dead. For if the soul exists before birth, and in coming to
life and being born can be born only from death and dying, must she not after death
continue to exist, since she has to be born again?—Surely the proof which you desire
has been already furnished. Still I suspect that you and Simmias would be glad to probe
the argument further. Like children, you are haunted with a fear that when the soul
leaves the body, the wind may really blow her away and scatter her; especially if a man
should happen to die in a great storm and not when the sky is calm.
Cebes answered with a smile: Then, Socrates, you must argue us out of our fears—and
yet, strictly speaking, they are not our fears, but there is a child within us to whom death
is a sort of hobgoblin; him too we must persuade not to be afraid when he is alone in
the dark.
Socrates said: Let the voice of the charmer be applied daily until you have charmed
away the fear.
And where shall we find a good charmer of our fears, Socrates, when you are gone?
Hellas, he replied, is a large place, Cebes, and has many good men, and there are
barbarous races not a few: seek for him among them all, far and wide, sparing neither
pains nor money; for there is no better way of spending your money. And you must seek
among yourselves too; for you will not find others better able to make the search.
The search, replied Cebes, shall certainly be made. And now, if you please, let us return
to the point of the argument at which we digressed.
By all means, replied Socrates; what else should I please?
Very good.
Must we not, said Socrates, ask ourselves what that is which, as we imagine, is liable to
be scattered, and about which we fear? and what again is that about which we have no
fear? And then we may proceed further to enquire whether that which suffers dispersion
is or is not of the nature of soul—our hopes and fears as to our own souls will turn upon
the answers to these questions.
Very true, he said.
Now the compound or composite may be supposed to be naturally capable, as of being
compounded, so also of being dissolved; but that which is uncompounded, and that
only, must be, if anything is, indissoluble.
Yes; I should imagine so, said Cebes.
And the uncompounded may be assumed to be the same and unchanging, whereas the
compound is always changing and never the same.
I agree, he said.
Then now let us return to the previous discussion. Is that idea or essence, which in the
dialectical process we define as essence or true existence—whether essence of equality,
beauty, or anything else—are these essences, I say, liable at times to some degree of
change? or are they each of them always what they are, having the same simple selfexistent
and unchanging forms, not admitting of variation at all, or in any way, or at any
time?
They must be always the same, Socrates, replied Cebes.
And what would you say of the many beautiful—whether men or horses or garments or
any other things which are named by the same names and may be called equal or
beautiful,—are they all unchanging and the same always, or quite the reverse? May they
not rather be described as almost always changing and hardly ever the same, either with
themselves or with one another?
The latter, replied Cebes; they are always in a state of change.
And these you can touch and see and perceive with the senses, but the unchanging
things you can only perceive with the mind—they are invisible and are not seen?
That is very true, he said.
Well, then, added Socrates, let us suppose that there are two sorts of existences—one
seen, the other unseen.
Let us suppose them.
The seen is the changing, and the unseen is the unchanging?
That may be also supposed.
And, further, is not one part of us body, another part soul?
To be sure.
And to which class is the body more alike and akin?
Clearly to the seen—no one can doubt that.
And is the soul seen or not seen?
Not by man, Socrates.
And what we mean by 'seen' and 'not seen' is that which is or is not visible to the eye of
man?
Yes, to the eye of man.
And is the soul seen or not seen?
Not seen.
Unseen then?
Yes.
Then the soul is more like to the unseen, and the body to the seen?
That follows necessarily, Socrates.
And were we not saying long ago that the soul when using the body as an instrument of
perception, that is to say, when using the sense of sight or hearing or some other sense
(for the meaning of perceiving through the body is perceiving through the senses)—
were we not saying that the soul too is then dragged by the body into the region of the
changeable, and wanders and is confused; the world spins round her, and she is like a
drunkard, when she touches change?
Very true.
But when returning into herself she reflects, then she passes into the other world, the
region of purity, and eternity, and immortality, and unchangeableness, which are her
kindred, and with them she ever lives, when she is by herself and is not let or hindered;
then she ceases from her erring ways, and being in communion with the unchanging is
unchanging. And this state of the soul is called wisdom?
That is well and truly said, Socrates, he replied.
And to which class is the soul more nearly alike and akin, as far as may be inferred from
this argument, as well as from the preceding one?
I think, Socrates, that, in the opinion of every one who follows the argument, the soul
will be infinitely more like the unchangeable—even the most stupid person will not deny
that.
And the body is more like the changing?
Yes.
Yet once more consider the matter in another light: When the soul and the body are
united, then nature orders the soul to rule and govern, and the body to obey and serve.
Now which of these two functions is akin to the divine? and which to the mortal? Does
not the divine appear to you to be that which naturally orders and rules, and the mortal
to be that which is subject and servant?
True.
And which does the soul resemble?
The soul resembles the divine, and the body the mortal—there can be no doubt of that,
Socrates.
Then reflect, Cebes: of all which has been said is not this the conclusion?—that the soul
is in the very likeness of the divine, and immortal, and intellectual, and uniform, and
indissoluble, and unchangeable; and that the body is in the very likeness of the human,
and mortal, and unintellectual, and multiform, and dissoluble, and changeable. Can this,
my dear Cebes, be denied?
It cannot.
But if it be true, then is not the body liable to speedy dissolution? and is not the soul
almost or altogether indissoluble?
Certainly.
And do you further observe, that after a man is dead, the body, or visible part of him,
which is lying in the visible world, and is called a corpse, and would naturally be
dissolved and decomposed and dissipated, is not dissolved or decomposed at once, but
may remain for a for some time, nay even for a long time, if the constitution be sound at
the time of death, and the season of the year favourable? For the body when shrunk and
embalmed, as the manner is in Egypt, may remain almost entire through infinite ages;
and even in decay, there are still some portions, such as the bones and ligaments, which
are practically indestructible:—Do you agree?
Yes.
And is it likely that the soul, which is invisible, in passing to the place of the true Hades,
which like her is invisible, and pure, and noble, and on her way to the good and wise
God, whither, if God will, my soul is also soon to go,—that the soul, I repeat, if this be
her nature and origin, will be blown away and destroyed immediately on quitting the
body, as the many say? That can never be, my dear Simmias and Cebes. The truth rather
is, that the soul which is pure at departing and draws after her no bodily taint, having
never voluntarily during life had connection with the body, which she is ever avoiding,
herself gathered into herself;—and making such abstraction her perpetual study—which
means that she has been a true disciple of philosophy; and therefore has in fact been
always engaged in the practice of dying? For is not philosophy the practice of death?—
Certainly—
That soul, I say, herself invisible, departs to the invisible world—to the divine and
immortal and rational: thither arriving, she is secure of bliss and is released from the
error and folly of men, their fears and wild passions and all other human ills, and for ever
dwells, as they say of the initiated, in company with the gods (compare Apol.). Is not this
true, Cebes?
Yes, said Cebes, beyond a doubt.
But the soul which has been polluted, and is impure at the time of her departure, and is
the companion and servant of the body always, and is in love with and fascinated by the
body and by the desires and pleasures of the body, until she is led to believe that the
truth only exists in a bodily form, which a man may touch and see and taste, and use for
the purposes of his lusts,—the soul, I mean, accustomed to hate and fear and avoid the
intellectual principle, which to the bodily eye is dark and invisible, and can be attained
only by philosophy;—do you suppose that such a soul will depart pure and unalloyed?
Impossible, he replied.
She is held fast by the corporeal, which the continual association and constant care of
the body have wrought into her nature.
Very true.
And this corporeal element, my friend, is heavy and weighty and earthy, and is that
element of sight by which a soul is depressed and dragged down again into the visible
world, because she is afraid of the invisible and of the world below—prowling about
tombs and sepulchres, near which, as they tell us, are seen certain ghostly apparitions of
souls which have not departed pure, but are cloyed with sight and therefore visible.
(Compare Milton, Comus:—
'But when lust, By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk, But most by lewd and
lavish act of sin, Lets in defilement to the inward parts, The soul grows clotted by
contagion, Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite lose, The divine property of her first
being. Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp Oft seen in charnel vaults and
sepulchres, Lingering, and sitting by a new made grave, As loath to leave the body that
it lov'd, And linked itself by carnal sensuality To a degenerate and degraded state.')
That is very likely, Socrates.
Yes, that is very likely, Cebes; and these must be the souls, not of the good, but of the
evil, which are compelled to wander about such places in payment of the penalty of
their former evil way of life; and they continue to wander until through the craving after
the corporeal which never leaves them, they are imprisoned finally in another body. And
they may be supposed to find their prisons in the same natures which they have had in
their former lives.
What natures do you mean, Socrates?
What I mean is that men who have followed after gluttony, and wantonness, and
drunkenness, and have had no thought of avoiding them, would pass into asses and
animals of that sort. What do you think?
I think such an opinion to be exceedingly probable.
And those who have chosen the portion of injustice, and tyranny, and violence, will pass
into wolves, or into hawks and kites;—whither else can we suppose them to go?
Yes, said Cebes; with such natures, beyond question.
And there is no difficulty, he said, in assigning to all of them places answering to their
several natures and propensities?
There is not, he said.
Some are happier than others; and the happiest both in themselves and in the place to
which they go are those who have practised the civil and social virtues which are called
temperance and justice, and are acquired by habit and attention without philosophy and
mind. (Compare Republic.)
Why are they the happiest?
Because they may be expected to pass into some gentle and social kind which is like
their own, such as bees or wasps or ants, or back again into the form of man, and just
and moderate men may be supposed to spring from them.
Very likely.
No one who has not studied philosophy and who is not entirely pure at the time of his
departure is allowed to enter the company of the Gods, but the lover of knowledge only.
And this is the reason, Simmias and Cebes, why the true votaries of philosophy abstain
from all fleshly lusts, and hold out against them and refuse to give themselves up to
them,—not because they fear poverty or the ruin of their families, like the lovers of
money, and the world in general; nor like the lovers of power and honour, because they
dread the dishonour or disgrace of evil deeds.
No, Socrates, that would not become them, said Cebes.
No indeed, he replied; and therefore they who have any care of their own souls, and do
not merely live moulding and fashioning the body, say farewell to all this; they will not
walk in the ways of the blind: and when philosophy offers them purification and release
from evil, they feel that they ought not to resist her influence, and whither she leads
they turn and follow.
What do you mean, Socrates?
I will tell you, he said. The lovers of knowledge are conscious that the soul was simply
fastened and glued to the body—until philosophy received her, she could only view real
existence through the bars of a prison, not in and through herself; she was wallowing in
the mire of every sort of ignorance; and by reason of lust had become the principal
accomplice in her own captivity. This was her original state; and then, as I was saying,
and as the lovers of knowledge are well aware, philosophy, seeing how terrible was her
confinement, of which she was to herself the cause, received and gently comforted her
and sought to release her, pointing out that the eye and the ear and the other senses
are full of deception, and persuading her to retire from them, and abstain from all but
the necessary use of them, and be gathered up and collected into herself, bidding her
trust in herself and her own pure apprehension of pure existence, and to mistrust
whatever comes to her through other channels and is subject to variation; for such
things are visible and tangible, but what she sees in her own nature is intelligible and
invisible. And the soul of the true philosopher thinks that she ought not to resist this
deliverance, and therefore abstains from pleasures and desires and pains and fears, as
far as she is able; reflecting that when a man has great joys or sorrows or fears or
desires, he suffers from them, not merely the sort of evil which might be anticipated—as
for example, the loss of his health or property which he has sacrificed to his lusts—but
an evil greater far, which is the greatest and worst of all evils, and one of which he never
thinks.
What is it, Socrates? said Cebes.
The evil is that when the feeling of pleasure or pain is most intense, every soul of man
imagines the objects of this intense feeling to be then plainest and truest: but this is not
so, they are really the things of sight.
Very true.
And is not this the state in which the soul is most enthralled by the body?
How so?
Why, because each pleasure and pain is a sort of nail which nails and rivets the soul to
the body, until she becomes like the body, and believes that to be true which the body
affirms to be true; and from agreeing with the body and having the same delights she is
obliged to have the same habits and haunts, and is not likely ever to be pure at her
departure to the world below, but is always infected by the body; and so she sinks into
another body and there germinates and grows, and has therefore no part in the
communion of the divine and pure and simple.
Most true, Socrates, answered Cebes.
And this, Cebes, is the reason why the true lovers of knowledge are temperate and
brave; and not for the reason which the world gives.
Certainly not.
Certainly not! The soul of a philosopher will reason in quite another way; she will not ask
philosophy to release her in order that when released she may deliver herself up again
to the thraldom of pleasures and pains, doing a work only to be undone again, weaving
instead of unweaving her Penelope's web. But she will calm passion, and follow reason,
and dwell in the contemplation of her, beholding the true and divine (which is not
matter of opinion), and thence deriving nourishment. Thus she seeks to live while she
lives, and after death she hopes to go to her own kindred and to that which is like her,
and to be freed from human ills. Never fear, Simmias and Cebes, that a soul which has
been thus nurtured and has had these pursuits, will at her departure from the body be
scattered and blown away by the winds and be nowhere and nothing.
When Socrates had done speaking, for a considerable time there was silence; he himself
appeared to be meditating, as most of us were, on what had been said; only Cebes and
Simmias spoke a few words to one another. And Socrates observing them asked what
they thought of the argument, and whether there was anything wanting? For, said he,
there are many points still open to suspicion and attack, if any one were disposed to sift
the matter thoroughly. Should you be considering some other matter I say no more, but
if you are still in doubt do not hesitate to say exactly what you think, and let us have
anything better which you can suggest; and if you think that I can be of any use, allow
me to help you.
Simmias said: I must confess, Socrates, that doubts did arise in our minds, and each of
us was urging and inciting the other to put the question which we wanted to have
answered and which neither of us liked to ask, fearing that our importunity might be
troublesome under present at such a time.
Socrates replied with a smile: O Simmias, what are you saying? I am not very likely to
persuade other men that I do not regard my present situation as a misfortune, if I
cannot even persuade you that I am no worse off now than at any other time in my life.
Will you not allow that I have as much of the spirit of prophecy in me as the swans? For
they, when they perceive that they must die, having sung all their life long, do then sing
more lustily than ever, rejoicing in the thought that they are about to go away to the
god whose ministers they are. But men, because they are themselves afraid of death,
slanderously affirm of the swans that they sing a lament at the last, not considering that
no bird sings when cold, or hungry, or in pain, not even the nightingale, nor the swallow,
nor yet the hoopoe; which are said indeed to tune a lay of sorrow, although I do not
believe this to be true of them any more than of the swans. But because they are sacred
to Apollo, they have the gift of prophecy, and anticipate the good things of another
world, wherefore they sing and rejoice in that day more than they ever did before. And I
too, believing myself to be the consecrated servant of the same God, and the fellowservant
of the swans, and thinking that I have received from my master gifts of prophecy
which are not inferior to theirs, would not go out of life less merrily than the swans.
Never mind then, if this be your only objection, but speak and ask anything which you
like, while the eleven magistrates of Athens allow.
Very good, Socrates, said Simmias; then I will tell you my difficulty, and Cebes will tell
you his. I feel myself, (and I daresay that you have the same feeling), how hard or rather
impossible is the attainment of any certainty about questions such as these in the
present life. And yet I should deem him a coward who did not prove what is said about
them to the uttermost, or whose heart failed him before he had examined them on
every side. For he should persevere until he has achieved one of two things: either he
should discover, or be taught the truth about them; or, if this be impossible, I would
have him take the best and most irrefragable of human theories, and let this be the raft
upon which he sails through life— not without risk, as I admit, if he cannot find some
word of God which will more surely and safely carry him. And now, as you bid me, I will
venture to question you, and then I shall not have to reproach myself hereafter with not
having said at the time what I think. For when I consider the matter, either alone or with
Cebes, the argument does certainly appear to me, Socrates, to be not sufficient.
Socrates answered: I dare say, my friend, that you may be right, but I should like to know
in what respect the argument is insufficient.
In this respect, replied Simmias:—Suppose a person to use the same argument about
harmony and the lyre—might he not say that harmony is a thing invisible, incorporeal,
perfect, divine, existing in the lyre which is harmonized, but that the lyre and the strings
are matter and material, composite, earthy, and akin to mortality? And when some one
breaks the lyre, or cuts and rends the strings, then he who takes this view would argue
as you do, and on the same analogy, that the harmony survives and has not perished—
you cannot imagine, he would say, that the lyre without the strings, and the broken
strings themselves which are mortal remain, and yet that the harmony, which is of
heavenly and immortal nature and kindred, has perished—perished before the mortal.
The harmony must still be somewhere, and the wood and strings will decay before
anything can happen to that. The thought, Socrates, must have occurred to your own
mind that such is our conception of the soul; and that when the body is in a manner
strung and held together by the elements of hot and cold, wet and dry, then the soul is
the harmony or due proportionate admixture of them. But if so, whenever the strings of
the body are unduly loosened or overstrained through disease or other injury, then the
soul, though most divine, like other harmonies of music or of works of art, of course
perishes at once, although the material remains of the body may last for a considerable
time, until they are either decayed or burnt. And if any one maintains that the soul,
being the harmony of the elements of the body, is first to perish in that which is called
death, how shall we answer him?
Socrates looked fixedly at us as his manner was, and said with a smile: Simmias has
reason on his side; and why does not some one of you who is better able than myself
answer him? for there is force in his attack upon me. But perhaps, before we answer him,
we had better also hear what Cebes has to say that we may gain time for reflection, and
when they have both spoken, we may either assent to them, if there is truth in what they
say, or if not, we will maintain our position. Please to tell me then, Cebes, he said, what
was the difficulty which troubled you?
Cebes said: I will tell you. My feeling is that the argument is where it was, and open to
the same objections which were urged before; for I am ready to admit that the existence
of the soul before entering into the bodily form has been very ingeniously, and, if I may
say so, quite sufficiently proven; but the existence of the soul after death is still, in my
judgment, unproven. Now my objection is not the same as that of Simmias; for I am not
disposed to deny that the soul is stronger and more lasting than the body, being of
opinion that in all such respects the soul very far excels the body. Well, then, says the
argument to me, why do you remain unconvinced?—When you see that the weaker
continues in existence after the man is dead, will you not admit that the more lasting
must also survive during the same period of time? Now I will ask you to consider
whether the objection, which, like Simmias, I will express in a figure, is of any weight. The
analogy which I will adduce is that of an old weaver, who dies, and after his death
somebody says:—He is not dead, he must be alive;—see, there is the coat which he
himself wove and wore, and which remains whole and undecayed. And then he
proceeds to ask of some one who is incredulous, whether a man lasts longer, or the coat
which is in use and wear; and when he is answered that a man lasts far longer, thinks
that he has thus certainly demonstrated the survival of the man, who is the more lasting,
because the less lasting remains. But that, Simmias, as I would beg you to remark, is a
mistake; any one can see that he who talks thus is talking nonsense. For the truth is, that
the weaver aforesaid, having woven and worn many such coats, outlived several of
them, and was outlived by the last; but a man is not therefore proved to be slighter and
weaker than a coat. Now the relation of the body to the soul may be expressed in a
similar figure; and any one may very fairly say in like manner that the soul is lasting, and
the body weak and shortlived in comparison. He may argue in like manner that every
soul wears out many bodies, especially if a man live many years. While he is alive the
body deliquesces and decays, and the soul always weaves another garment and repairs
the waste. But of course, whenever the soul perishes, she must have on her last garment,
and this will survive her; and then at length, when the soul is dead, the body will show
its native weakness, and quickly decompose and pass away. I would therefore rather not
rely on the argument from superior strength to prove the continued existence of the
soul after death. For granting even more than you affirm to be possible, and
acknowledging not only that the soul existed before birth, but also that the souls of
some exist, and will continue to exist after death, and will be born and die again and
again, and that there is a natural strength in the soul which will hold out and be born
many times—nevertheless, we may be still inclined to think that she will weary in the
labours of successive births, and may at last succumb in one of her deaths and utterly
perish; and this death and dissolution of the body which brings destruction to the soul
may be unknown to any of us, for no one of us can have had any experience of it: and if
so, then I maintain that he who is confident about death has but a foolish confidence,
unless he is able to prove that the soul is altogether immortal and imperishable. But if
he cannot prove the soul's immortality, he who is about to die will always have reason to
fear that when the body is disunited, the soul also may utterly perish.
All of us, as we afterwards remarked to one another, had an unpleasant feeling at
hearing what they said. When we had been so firmly convinced before, now to have our
faith shaken seemed to introduce a confusion and uncertainty, not only into the
previous argument, but into any future one; either we were incapable of forming a
judgment, or there were no grounds of belief.
ECHECRATES: There I feel with you—by heaven I do, Phaedo, and when you were
speaking, I was beginning to ask myself the same question: What argument can I ever
trust again? For what could be more convincing than the argument of Socrates, which
has now fallen into discredit? That the soul is a harmony is a doctrine which has always
had a wonderful attraction for me, and, when mentioned, came back to me at once, as
my own original conviction. And now I must begin again and find another argument
which will assure me that when the man is dead the soul survives. Tell me, I implore you,
how did Socrates proceed? Did he appear to share the unpleasant feeling which you
mention? or did he calmly meet the attack? And did he answer forcibly or feebly?
Narrate what passed as exactly as you can.
PHAEDO: Often, Echecrates, I have wondered at Socrates, but never more than on that
occasion. That he should be able to answer was nothing, but what astonished me was,
first, the gentle and pleasant and approving manner in which he received the words of
the young men, and then his quick sense of the wound which had been inflicted by the
argument, and the readiness with which he healed it. He might be compared to a
general rallying his defeated and broken army, urging them to accompany him and
return to the field of argument.
ECHECRATES: What followed?
PHAEDO: You shall hear, for I was close to him on his right hand, seated on a sort of
stool, and he on a couch which was a good deal higher. He stroked my head, and
pressed the hair upon my neck—he had a way of playing with my hair; and then he said:
To-morrow, Phaedo, I suppose that these fair locks of yours will be severed.
Yes, Socrates, I suppose that they will, I replied.
Not so, if you will take my advice.
What shall I do with them? I said.
To-day, he replied, and not to-morrow, if this argument dies and we cannot bring it to
life again, you and I will both shave our locks; and if I were you, and the argument got
away from me, and I could not hold my ground against Simmias and Cebes, I would
myself take an oath, like the Argives, not to wear hair any more until I had renewed the
conflict and defeated them.
Yes, I said, but Heracles himself is said not to be a match for two.
Summon me then, he said, and I will be your Iolaus until the sun goes down.
I summon you rather, I rejoined, not as Heracles summoning Iolaus, but as Iolaus might
summon Heracles.
That will do as well, he said. But first let us take care that we avoid a danger.
Of what nature? I said.
Lest we become misologists, he replied, no worse thing can happen to a man than this.
For as there are misanthropists or haters of men, there are also misologists or haters of
ideas, and both spring from the same cause, which is ignorance of the world.
Misanthropy arises out of the too great confidence of inexperience;—you trust a man
and think him altogether true and sound and faithful, and then in a little while he turns
out to be false and knavish; and then another and another, and when this has happened
several times to a man, especially when it happens among those whom he deems to be
his own most trusted and familiar friends, and he has often quarreled with them, he at
last hates all men, and believes that no one has any good in him at all. You must have
observed this trait of character?
I have.
And is not the feeling discreditable? Is it not obvious that such an one having to deal
with other men, was clearly without any experience of human nature; for experience
would have taught him the true state of the case, that few are the good and few the evil,
and that the great majority are in the interval between them.
What do you mean? I said.
I mean, he replied, as you might say of the very large and very small, that nothing is
more uncommon than a very large or very small man; and this applies generally to all
extremes, whether of great and small, or swift and slow, or fair and foul, or black and
white: and whether the instances you select be men or dogs or anything else, few are
the extremes, but many are in the mean between them. Did you never observe this?
Yes, I said, I have.
And do you not imagine, he said, that if there were a competition in evil, the worst
would be found to be very few?
Yes, that is very likely, I said.
Yes, that is very likely, he replied; although in this respect arguments are unlike men—
there I was led on by you to say more than I had intended; but the point of comparison
was, that when a simple man who has no skill in dialectics believes an argument to be
true which he afterwards imagines to be false, whether really false or not, and then
another and another, he has no longer any faith left, and great disputers, as you know,
come to think at last that they have grown to be the wisest of mankind; for they alone
perceive the utter unsoundness and instability of all arguments, or indeed, of all things,
which, like the currents in the Euripus, are going up and down in never-ceasing ebb and
flow.
That is quite true, I said.
Yes, Phaedo, he replied, and how melancholy, if there be such a thing as truth or
certainty or possibility of knowledge—that a man should have lighted upon some
argument or other which at first seemed true and then turned out to be false, and
instead of blaming himself and his own want of wit, because he is annoyed, should at
last be too glad to transfer the blame from himself to arguments in general: and for ever
afterwards should hate and revile them, and lose truth and the knowledge of realities.
Yes, indeed, I said; that is very melancholy.
Let us then, in the first place, he said, be careful of allowing or of admitting into our
souls the notion that there is no health or soundness in any arguments at all. Rather say
that we have not yet attained to soundness in ourselves, and that we must struggle
manfully and do our best to gain health of mind—you and all other men having regard
to the whole of your future life, and I myself in the prospect of death. For at this
moment I am sensible that I have not the temper of a philosopher; like the vulgar, I am
only a partisan. Now the partisan, when he is engaged in a dispute, cares nothing about
the rights of the question, but is anxious only to convince his hearers of his own
assertions. And the difference between him and me at the present moment is merely
this—that whereas he seeks to convince his hearers that what he says is true, I am rather
seeking to convince myself; to convince my hearers is a secondary matter with me. And
do but see how much I gain by the argument. For if what I say is true, then I do well to
be persuaded of the truth, but if there be nothing after death, still, during the short time
that remains, I shall not distress my friends with lamentations, and my ignorance will not
last, but will die with me, and therefore no harm will be done. This is the state of mind,
Simmias and Cebes, in which I approach the argument. And I would ask you to be
thinking of the truth and not of Socrates: agree with me, if I seem to you to be speaking
the truth; or if not, withstand me might and main, that I may not deceive you as well as
myself in my enthusiasm, and like the bee, leave my sting in you before I die.
And now let us proceed, he said. And first of all let me be sure that I have in my mind
what you were saying. Simmias, if I remember rightly, has fears and misgivings whether
the soul, although a fairer and diviner thing than the body, being as she is in the form of
harmony, may not perish first. On the other hand, Cebes appeared to grant that the soul
was more lasting than the body, but he said that no one could know whether the soul,
after having worn out many bodies, might not perish herself and leave her last body
behind her; and that this is death, which is the destruction not of the body but of the
soul, for in the body the work of destruction is ever going on. Are not these, Simmias
and Cebes, the points which we have to consider?
They both agreed to this statement of them.
He proceeded: And did you deny the force of the whole preceding argument, or of a
part only?
Of a part only, they replied.
And what did you think, he said, of that part of the argument in which we said that
knowledge was recollection, and hence inferred that the soul must have previously
existed somewhere else before she was enclosed in the body?
Cebes said that he had been wonderfully impressed by that part of the argument, and
that his conviction remained absolutely unshaken. Simmias agreed, and added that he
himself could hardly imagine the possibility of his ever thinking differently.
But, rejoined Socrates, you will have to think differently, my Theban friend, if you still
maintain that harmony is a compound, and that the soul is a harmony which is made
out of strings set in the frame of the body; for you will surely never allow yourself to say
that a harmony is prior to the elements which compose it.
Never, Socrates.
But do you not see that this is what you imply when you say that the soul existed before
she took the form and body of man, and was made up of elements which as yet had no
existence? For harmony is not like the soul, as you suppose; but first the lyre, and the
strings, and the sounds exist in a state of discord, and then harmony is made last of all,
and perishes first. And how can such a notion of the soul as this agree with the other?
Not at all, replied Simmias.
And yet, he said, there surely ought to be harmony in a discourse of which harmony is
the theme.
There ought, replied Simmias.
But there is no harmony, he said, in the two propositions that knowledge is recollection,
and that the soul is a harmony. Which of them will you retain?
I think, he replied, that I have a much stronger faith, Socrates, in the first of the two,
which has been fully demonstrated to me, than in the latter, which has not been
demonstrated at all, but rests only on probable and plausible grounds; and is therefore
believed by the many. I know too well that these arguments from probabilities are
impostors, and unless great caution is observed in the use of them, they are apt to be
deceptive —in geometry, and in other things too. But the doctrine of knowledge and
recollection has been proven to me on trustworthy grounds; and the proof was that the
soul must have existed before she came into the body, because to her belongs the
essence of which the very name implies existence. Having, as I am convinced, rightly
accepted this conclusion, and on sufficient grounds, I must, as I suppose, cease to argue
or allow others to argue that the soul is a harmony.
Let me put the matter, Simmias, he said, in another point of view: Do you imagine that a
harmony or any other composition can be in a state other than that of the elements, out
of which it is compounded?
Certainly not.
Or do or suffer anything other than they do or suffer?
He agreed.
Then a harmony does not, properly speaking, lead the parts or elements which make up
the harmony, but only follows them.
He assented.
For harmony cannot possibly have any motion, or sound, or other quality which is
opposed to its parts.
That would be impossible, he replied.
And does not the nature of every harmony depend upon the manner in which the
elements are harmonized?
I do not understand you, he said.
I mean to say that a harmony admits of degrees, and is more of a harmony, and more
completely a harmony, when more truly and fully harmonized, to any extent which is
possible; and less of a harmony, and less completely a harmony, when less truly and
fully harmonized.
True.
But does the soul admit of degrees? or is one soul in the very least degree more or less,
or more or less completely, a soul than another?
Not in the least.
Yet surely of two souls, one is said to have intelligence and virtue, and to be good, and
the other to have folly and vice, and to be an evil soul: and this is said truly?
Yes, truly.
But what will those who maintain the soul to be a harmony say of this presence of virtue
and vice in the soul?—will they say that here is another harmony, and another discord,
and that the virtuous soul is harmonized, and herself being a harmony has another
harmony within her, and that the vicious soul is inharmonical and has no harmony
within her?
I cannot tell, replied Simmias; but I suppose that something of the sort would be
asserted by those who say that the soul is a harmony.
And we have already admitted that no soul is more a soul than another; which is
equivalent to admitting that harmony is not more or less harmony, or more or less
completely a harmony?
Quite true.
And that which is not more or less a harmony is not more or less harmonized?
True.
And that which is not more or less harmonized cannot have more or less of harmony,
but only an equal harmony?
Yes, an equal harmony.
Then one soul not being more or less absolutely a soul than another, is not more or less
harmonized?
Exactly.
And therefore has neither more nor less of discord, nor yet of harmony?
She has not.
And having neither more nor less of harmony or of discord, one soul has no more vice
or virtue than another, if vice be discord and virtue harmony?
Not at all more.
Or speaking more correctly, Simmias, the soul, if she is a harmony, will never have any
vice; because a harmony, being absolutely a harmony, has no part in the inharmonical.
No.
And therefore a soul which is absolutely a soul has no vice?
How can she have, if the previous argument holds?
Then, if all souls are equally by their nature souls, all souls of all living creatures will be
equally good?
I agree with you, Socrates, he said.
And can all this be true, think you? he said; for these are the consequences which seem
to follow from the assumption that the soul is a harmony?
It cannot be true.
Once more, he said, what ruler is there of the elements of human nature other than the
soul, and especially the wise soul? Do you know of any?
Indeed, I do not.
And is the soul in agreement with the affections of the body? or is she at variance with
them? For example, when the body is hot and thirsty, does not the soul incline us
against drinking? and when the body is hungry, against eating? And this is only one
instance out of ten thousand of the opposition of the soul to the things of the body.
Very true.
But we have already acknowledged that the soul, being a harmony, can never utter a
note at variance with the tensions and relaxations and vibrations and other affections of
the strings out of which she is composed; she can only follow, she cannot lead them?
It must be so, he replied.
And yet do we not now discover the soul to be doing the exact opposite— leading the
elements of which she is believed to be composed; almost always opposing and
coercing them in all sorts of ways throughout life, sometimes more violently with the
pains of medicine and gymnastic; then again more gently; now threatening, now
admonishing the desires, passions, fears, as if talking to a thing which is not herself, as
Homer in the Odyssee represents Odysseus doing in the words—
'He beat his breast, and thus reproached his heart: Endure, my heart; far worse hast thou
endured!'
Do you think that Homer wrote this under the idea that the soul is a harmony capable of
being led by the affections of the body, and not rather of a nature which should lead
and master them—herself a far diviner thing than any harmony?
Yes, Socrates, I quite think so.
Then, my friend, we can never be right in saying that the soul is a harmony, for we
should contradict the divine Homer, and contradict ourselves.
True, he said.
Thus much, said Socrates, of Harmonia, your Theban goddess, who has graciously
yielded to us; but what shall I say, Cebes, to her husband Cadmus, and how shall I make
peace with him?
I think that you will discover a way of propitiating him, said Cebes; I am sure that you
have put the argument with Harmonia in a manner that I could never have expected. For
when Simmias was mentioning his difficulty, I quite imagined that no answer could be
given to him, and therefore I was surprised at finding that his argument could not
sustain the first onset of yours, and not impossibly the other, whom you call Cadmus,
may share a similar fate.
Nay, my good friend, said Socrates, let us not boast, lest some evil eye should put to
flight the word which I am about to speak. That, however, may be left in the hands of
those above, while I draw near in Homeric fashion, and try the mettle of your words.
Here lies the point:—You want to have it proven to you that the soul is imperishable and
immortal, and the philosopher who is confident in death appears to you to have but a
vain and foolish confidence, if he believes that he will fare better in the world below
than one who has led another sort of life, unless he can prove this; and you say that the
demonstration of the strength and divinity of the soul, and of her existence prior to our
becoming men, does not necessarily imply her immortality. Admitting the soul to be
longlived, and to have known and done much in a former state, still she is not on that
account immortal; and her entrance into the human form may be a sort of disease which
is the beginning of dissolution, and may at last, after the toils of life are over, end in that
which is called death. And whether the soul enters into the body once only or many
times, does not, as you say, make any difference in the fears of individuals. For any man,
who is not devoid of sense, must fear, if he has no knowledge and can give no account
of the soul's immortality. This, or something like this, I suspect to be your notion, Cebes;
and I designedly recur to it in order that nothing may escape us, and that you may, if
you wish, add or subtract anything.
But, said Cebes, as far as I see at present, I have nothing to add or subtract: I mean what
you say that I mean.
Socrates paused awhile, and seemed to be absorbed in reflection. At length he said: You
are raising a tremendous question, Cebes, involving the whole nature of generation and
corruption, about which, if you like, I will give you my own experience; and if anything
which I say is likely to avail towards the solution of your difficulty you may make use of
it.
I should very much like, said Cebes, to hear what you have to say.
Then I will tell you, said Socrates. When I was young, Cebes, I had a prodigious desire to
know that department of philosophy which is called the investigation of nature; to know
the causes of things, and why a thing is and is created or destroyed appeared to me to
be a lofty profession; and I was always agitating myself with the consideration of
questions such as these:—Is the growth of animals the result of some decay which the
hot and cold principle contracts, as some have said? Is the blood the element with which
we think, or the air, or the fire? or perhaps nothing of the kind— but the brain may be
the originating power of the perceptions of hearing and sight and smell, and memory
and opinion may come from them, and science may be based on memory and opinion
when they have attained fixity. And then I went on to examine the corruption of them,
and then to the things of heaven and earth, and at last I concluded myself to be utterly
and absolutely incapable of these enquiries, as I will satisfactorily prove to you. For I was
fascinated by them to such a degree that my eyes grew blind to things which I had
seemed to myself, and also to others, to know quite well; I forgot what I had before
thought self-evident truths; e.g. such a fact as that the growth of man is the result of
eating and drinking; for when by the digestion of food flesh is added to flesh and bone
to bone, and whenever there is an aggregation of congenial elements, the lesser bulk
becomes larger and the small man great. Was not that a reasonable notion?
Yes, said Cebes, I think so.
Well; but let me tell you something more. There was a time when I thought that I
understood the meaning of greater and less pretty well; and when I saw a great man
standing by a little one, I fancied that one was taller than the other by a head; or one
horse would appear to be greater than another horse: and still more clearly did I seem
to perceive that ten is two more than eight, and that two cubits are more than one,
because two is the double of one.
And what is now your notion of such matters? said Cebes.
I should be far enough from imagining, he replied, that I knew the cause of any of them,
by heaven I should; for I cannot satisfy myself that, when one is added to one, the one
to which the addition is made becomes two, or that the two units added together make
two by reason of the addition. I cannot understand how, when separated from the other,
each of them was one and not two, and now, when they are brought together, the mere
juxtaposition or meeting of them should be the cause of their becoming two: neither
can I understand how the division of one is the way to make two; for then a different
cause would produce the same effect,—as in the former instance the addition and
juxtaposition of one to one was the cause of two, in this the separation and subtraction
of one from the other would be the cause. Nor am I any longer satisfied that I
understand the reason why one or anything else is either generated or destroyed or is at
all, but I have in my mind some confused notion of a new method, and can never admit
the other.
Then I heard some one reading, as he said, from a book of Anaxagoras, that mind was
the disposer and cause of all, and I was delighted at this notion, which appeared quite
admirable, and I said to myself: If mind is the disposer, mind will dispose all for the best,
and put each particular in the best place; and I argued that if any one desired to find out
the cause of the generation or destruction or existence of anything, he must find out
what state of being or doing or suffering was best for that thing, and therefore a man
had only to consider the best for himself and others, and then he would also know the
worse, since the same science comprehended both. And I rejoiced to think that I had
found in Anaxagoras a teacher of the causes of existence such as I desired, and I
imagined that he would tell me first whether the earth is flat or round; and whichever
was true, he would proceed to explain the cause and the necessity of this being so, and
then he would teach me the nature of the best and show that this was best; and if he
said that the earth was in the centre, he would further explain that this position was the
best, and I should be satisfied with the explanation given, and not want any other sort of
cause. And I thought that I would then go on and ask him about the sun and moon and
stars, and that he would explain to me their comparative swiftness, and their returnings
and various states, active and passive, and how all of them were for the best. For I could
not imagine that when he spoke of mind as the disposer of them, he would give any
other account of their being as they are, except that this was best; and I thought that
when he had explained to me in detail the cause of each and the cause of all, he would
go on to explain to me what was best for each and what was good for all. These hopes I
would not have sold for a large sum of money, and I seized the books and read them as
fast as I could in my eagerness to know the better and the worse.
What expectations I had formed, and how grievously was I disappointed! As I
proceeded, I found my philosopher altogether forsaking mind or any other principle of
order, but having recourse to air, and ether, and water, and other eccentricities. I might
compare him to a person who began by maintaining generally that mind is the cause of
the actions of Socrates, but who, when he endeavoured to explain the causes of my
several actions in detail, went on to show that I sit here because my body is made up of
bones and muscles; and the bones, as he would say, are hard and have joints which
divide them, and the muscles are elastic, and they cover the bones, which have also a
covering or environment of flesh and skin which contains them; and as the bones are
lifted at their joints by the contraction or relaxation of the muscles, I am able to bend
my limbs, and this is why I am sitting here in a curved posture—that is what he would
say, and he would have a similar explanation of my talking to you, which he would
attribute to sound, and air, and hearing, and he would assign ten thousand other causes
of the same sort, forgetting to mention the true cause, which is, that the Athenians have
thought fit to condemn me, and accordingly I have thought it better and more right to
remain here and undergo my sentence; for I am inclined to think that these muscles and
bones of mine would have gone off long ago to Megara or Boeotia—by the dog they
would, if they had been moved only by their own idea of what was best, and if I had not
chosen the better and nobler part, instead of playing truant and running away, of
enduring any punishment which the state inflicts. There is surely a strange confusion of
causes and conditions in all this. It may be said, indeed, that without bones and muscles
and the other parts of the body I cannot execute my purposes. But to say that I do as I
do because of them, and that this is the way in which mind acts, and not from the
choice of the best, is a very careless and idle mode of speaking. I wonder that they
cannot distinguish the cause from the condition, which the many, feeling about in the
dark, are always mistaking and misnaming. And thus one man makes a vortex all round
and steadies the earth by the heaven; another gives the air as a support to the earth,
which is a sort of broad trough. Any power which in arranging them as they are arranges
them for the best never enters into their minds; and instead of finding any superior
strength in it, they rather expect to discover another Atlas of the world who is stronger
and more everlasting and more containing than the good;—of the obligatory and
containing power of the good they think nothing; and yet this is the principle which I
would fain learn if any one would teach me. But as I have failed either to discover
myself, or to learn of any one else, the nature of the best, I will exhibit to you, if you like,
what I have found to be the second best mode of enquiring into the cause.
I should very much like to hear, he replied.
Socrates proceeded:—I thought that as I had failed in the contemplation of true
existence, I ought to be careful that I did not lose the eye of my soul; as people may
injure their bodily eye by observing and gazing on the sun during an eclipse, unless they
take the precaution of only looking at the image reflected in the water, or in some
similar medium. So in my own case, I was afraid that my soul might be blinded
altogether if I looked at things with my eyes or tried to apprehend them by the help of
the senses. And I thought that I had better have recourse to the world of mind and seek
there the truth of existence. I dare say that the simile is not perfect— for I am very far
from admitting that he who contemplates existences through the medium of thought,
sees them only 'through a glass darkly,' any more than he who considers them in action
and operation. However, this was the method which I adopted: I first assumed some
principle which I judged to be the strongest, and then I affirmed as true whatever
seemed to agree with this, whether relating to the cause or to anything else; and that
which disagreed I regarded as untrue. But I should like to explain my meaning more
clearly, as I do not think that you as yet understand me.
No indeed, replied Cebes, not very well.
There is nothing new, he said, in what I am about to tell you; but only what I have been
always and everywhere repeating in the previous discussion and on other occasions: I
want to show you the nature of that cause which has occupied my thoughts. I shall have
to go back to those familiar words which are in the mouth of every one, and first of all
assume that there is an absolute beauty and goodness and greatness, and the like; grant
me this, and I hope to be able to show you the nature of the cause, and to prove the
immortality of the soul.
Cebes said: You may proceed at once with the proof, for I grant you this.
Well, he said, then I should like to know whether you agree with me in the next step; for
I cannot help thinking, if there be anything beautiful other than absolute beauty should
there be such, that it can be beautiful only in as far as it partakes of absolute beauty—
and I should say the same of everything. Do you agree in this notion of the cause?
Yes, he said, I agree.
He proceeded: I know nothing and can understand nothing of any other of those wise
causes which are alleged; and if a person says to me that the bloom of colour, or form,
or any such thing is a source of beauty, I leave all that, which is only confusing to me,
and simply and singly, and perhaps foolishly, hold and am assured in my own mind that
nothing makes a thing beautiful but the presence and participation of beauty in
whatever way or manner obtained; for as to the manner I am uncertain, but I stoutly
contend that by beauty all beautiful things become beautiful. This appears to me to be
the safest answer which I can give, either to myself or to another, and to this I cling, in
the persuasion that this principle will never be overthrown, and that to myself or to any
one who asks the question, I may safely reply, That by beauty beautiful things become
beautiful. Do you not agree with me?
I do.
And that by greatness only great things become great and greater greater, and by
smallness the less become less?
True.
Then if a person were to remark that A is taller by a head than B, and B less by a head
than A, you would refuse to admit his statement, and would stoutly contend that what
you mean is only that the greater is greater by, and by reason of, greatness, and the less
is less only by, and by reason of, smallness; and thus you would avoid the danger of
saying that the greater is greater and the less less by the measure of the head, which is
the same in both, and would also avoid the monstrous absurdity of supposing that the
greater man is greater by reason of the head, which is small. You would be afraid to
draw such an inference, would you not?
Indeed, I should, said Cebes, laughing.
In like manner you would be afraid to say that ten exceeded eight by, and by reason of,
two; but would say by, and by reason of, number; or you would say that two cubits
exceed one cubit not by a half, but by magnitude?-for there is the same liability to error
in all these cases.
Very true, he said.
Again, would you not be cautious of affirming that the addition of one to one, or the
division of one, is the cause of two? And you would loudly asseverate that you know of
no way in which anything comes into existence except by participation in its own proper
essence, and consequently, as far as you know, the only cause of two is the participation
in duality—this is the way to make two, and the participation in one is the way to make
one. You would say: I will let alone puzzles of division and addition—wiser heads than
mine may answer them; inexperienced as I am, and ready to start, as the proverb says, at
my own shadow, I cannot afford to give up the sure ground of a principle. And if any
one assails you there, you would not mind him, or answer him, until you had seen
whether the consequences which follow agree with one another or not, and when you
are further required to give an explanation of this principle, you would go on to assume
a higher principle, and a higher, until you found a resting-place in the best of the higher;
but you would not confuse the principle and the consequences in your reasoning, like
the Eristics—at least if you wanted to discover real existence. Not that this confusion
signifies to them, who never care or think about the matter at all, for they have the wit
to be well pleased with themselves however great may be the turmoil of their ideas. But
you, if you are a philosopher, will certainly do as I say.
What you say is most true, said Simmias and Cebes, both speaking at once.
ECHECRATES: Yes, Phaedo; and I do not wonder at their assenting. Any one who has the
least sense will acknowledge the wonderful clearness of Socrates' reasoning.
PHAEDO: Certainly, Echecrates; and such was the feeling of the whole company at the
time.
ECHECRATES: Yes, and equally of ourselves, who were not of the company, and are now
listening to your recital. But what followed?
PHAEDO: After all this had been admitted, and they had that ideas exist, and that other
things participate in them and derive their names from them, Socrates, if I remember
rightly, said:—
This is your way of speaking; and yet when you say that Simmias is greater than Socrates
and less than Phaedo, do you not predicate of Simmias both greatness and smallness?
Yes, I do.
But still you allow that Simmias does not really exceed Socrates, as the words may seem
to imply, because he is Simmias, but by reason of the size which he has; just as Simmias
does not exceed Socrates because he is Simmias, any more than because Socrates is
Socrates, but because he has smallness when compared with the greatness of Simmias?
True.
And if Phaedo exceeds him in size, this is not because Phaedo is Phaedo, but because
Phaedo has greatness relatively to Simmias, who is comparatively smaller?
That is true.
And therefore Simmias is said to be great, and is also said to be small, because he is in a
mean between them, exceeding the smallness of the one by his greatness, and allowing
the greatness of the other to exceed his smallness. He added, laughing, I am speaking
like a book, but I believe that what I am saying is true.
Simmias assented.
I speak as I do because I want you to agree with me in thinking, not only that absolute
greatness will never be great and also small, but that greatness in us or in the concrete
will never admit the small or admit of being exceeded: instead of this, one of two things
will happen, either the greater will fly or retire before the opposite, which is the less, or
at the approach of the less has already ceased to exist; but will not, if allowing or
admitting of smallness, be changed by that; even as I, having received and admitted
smallness when compared with Simmias, remain just as I was, and am the same small
person. And as the idea of greatness cannot condescend ever to be or become small, in
like manner the smallness in us cannot be or become great; nor can any other opposite
which remains the same ever be or become its own opposite, but either passes away or
perishes in the change.
That, replied Cebes, is quite my notion.
Hereupon one of the company, though I do not exactly remember which of them, said:
In heaven's name, is not this the direct contrary of what was admitted before—that out
of the greater came the less and out of the less the greater, and that opposites were
simply generated from opposites; but now this principle seems to be utterly denied.
Socrates inclined his head to the speaker and listened. I like your courage, he said, in
reminding us of this. But you do not observe that there is a difference in the two cases.
For then we were speaking of opposites in the concrete, and now of the essential
opposite which, as is affirmed, neither in us nor in nature can ever be at variance with
itself: then, my friend, we were speaking of things in which opposites are inherent and
which are called after them, but now about the opposites which are inherent in them
and which give their name to them; and these essential opposites will never, as we
maintain, admit of generation into or out of one another. At the same time, turning to
Cebes, he said: Are you at all disconcerted, Cebes, at our friend's objection?
No, I do not feel so, said Cebes; and yet I cannot deny that I am often disturbed by
objections.
Then we are agreed after all, said Socrates, that the opposite will never in any case be
opposed to itself?
To that we are quite agreed, he replied.
Yet once more let me ask you to consider the question from another point of view, and
see whether you agree with me:—There is a thing which you term heat, and another
thing which you term cold?
Certainly.
But are they the same as fire and snow?
Most assuredly not.
Heat is a thing different from fire, and cold is not the same with snow?
Yes.
And yet you will surely admit, that when snow, as was before said, is under the influence
of heat, they will not remain snow and heat; but at the advance of the heat, the snow
will either retire or perish?
Very true, he replied.
And the fire too at the advance of the cold will either retire or perish; and when the fire
is under the influence of the cold, they will not remain as before, fire and cold.
That is true, he said.
And in some cases the name of the idea is not only attached to the idea in an eternal
connection, but anything else which, not being the idea, exists only in the form of the
idea, may also lay claim to it. I will try to make this clearer by an example:—The odd
number is always called by the name of odd?
Very true.
But is this the only thing which is called odd? Are there not other things which have
their own name, and yet are called odd, because, although not the same as oddness,
they are never without oddness?—that is what I mean to ask—whether numbers such as
the number three are not of the class of odd. And there are many other examples:
would you not say, for example, that three may be called by its proper name, and also
be called odd, which is not the same with three? and this may be said not only of three
but also of five, and of every alternate number—each of them without being oddness is
odd, and in the same way two and four, and the other series of alternate numbers, has
every number even, without being evenness. Do you agree?
Of course.
Then now mark the point at which I am aiming:—not only do essential opposites
exclude one another, but also concrete things, which, although not in themselves
opposed, contain opposites; these, I say, likewise reject the idea which is opposed to
that which is contained in them, and when it approaches them they either perish or
withdraw. For example; Will not the number three endure annihilation or anything
sooner than be converted into an even number, while remaining three?
Very true, said Cebes.
And yet, he said, the number two is certainly not opposed to the number three?
It is not.
Then not only do opposite ideas repel the advance of one another, but also there are
other natures which repel the approach of opposites.
Very true, he said.
Suppose, he said, that we endeavour, if possible, to determine what these are.
By all means.
Are they not, Cebes, such as compel the things of which they have possession, not only
to take their own form, but also the form of some opposite?
What do you mean?
I mean, as I was just now saying, and as I am sure that you know, that those things
which are possessed by the number three must not only be three in number, but must
also be odd.
Quite true.
And on this oddness, of which the number three has the impress, the opposite idea will
never intrude?
No.
And this impress was given by the odd principle?
Yes.
And to the odd is opposed the even?
True.
Then the idea of the even number will never arrive at three?
No.
Then three has no part in the even?
None.
Then the triad or number three is uneven?
Very true.
To return then to my distinction of natures which are not opposed, and yet do not admit
opposites—as, in the instance given, three, although not opposed to the even, does not
any the more admit of the even, but always brings the opposite into play on the other
side; or as two does not receive the odd, or fire the cold—from these examples (and
there are many more of them) perhaps you may be able to arrive at the general
conclusion, that not only opposites will not receive opposites, but also that nothing
which brings the opposite will admit the opposite of that which it brings, in that to
which it is brought. And here let me recapitulate—for there is no harm in repetition. The
number five will not admit the nature of the even, any more than ten, which is the
double of five, will admit the nature of the odd. The double has another opposite, and is
not strictly opposed to the odd, but nevertheless rejects the odd altogether. Nor again
will parts in the ratio 3:2, nor any fraction in which there is a half, nor again in which
there is a third, admit the notion of the whole, although they are not opposed to the
whole: You will agree?
Yes, he said, I entirely agree and go along with you in that.
And now, he said, let us begin again; and do not you answer my question in the words
in which I ask it: let me have not the old safe answer of which I spoke at first, but
another equally safe, of which the truth will be inferred by you from what has been just
said. I mean that if any one asks you 'what that is, of which the inherence makes the
body hot,' you will reply not heat (this is what I call the safe and stupid answer), but fire,
a far superior answer, which we are now in a condition to give. Or if any one asks you
'why a body is diseased,' you will not say from disease, but from fever; and instead of
saying that oddness is the cause of odd numbers, you will say that the monad is the
cause of them: and so of things in general, as I dare say that you will understand
sufficiently without my adducing any further examples.
Yes, he said, I quite understand you.
Tell me, then, what is that of which the inherence will render the body alive?
The soul, he replied.
And is this always the case?
Yes, he said, of course.
Then whatever the soul possesses, to that she comes bearing life?
Yes, certainly.
And is there any opposite to life?
There is, he said.
And what is that?
Death.
Then the soul, as has been acknowledged, will never receive the opposite of what she
brings.
Impossible, replied Cebes.
And now, he said, what did we just now call that principle which repels the even?
The odd.
And that principle which repels the musical, or the just?
The unmusical, he said, and the unjust.
And what do we call the principle which does not admit of death?
The immortal, he said.
And does the soul admit of death?
No.
Then the soul is immortal?
Yes, he said.
And may we say that this has been proven?
Yes, abundantly proven, Socrates, he replied.
Supposing that the odd were imperishable, must not three be imperishable?
Of course.
And if that which is cold were imperishable, when the warm principle came attacking the
snow, must not the snow have retired whole and unmelted—for it could never have
perished, nor could it have remained and admitted the heat?
True, he said.
Again, if the uncooling or warm principle were imperishable, the fire when assailed by
cold would not have perished or have been extinguished, but would have gone away
unaffected?
Certainly, he said.
And the same may be said of the immortal: if the immortal is also imperishable, the soul
when attacked by death cannot perish; for the preceding argument shows that the soul
will not admit of death, or ever be dead, any more than three or the odd number will
admit of the even, or fire or the heat in the fire, of the cold. Yet a person may say: 'But
although the odd will not become even at the approach of the even, why may not the
odd perish and the even take the place of the odd?' Now to him who makes this
objection, we cannot answer that the odd principle is imperishable; for this has not been
acknowledged, but if this had been acknowledged, there would have been no difficulty
in contending that at the approach of the even the odd principle and the number three
took their departure; and the same argument would have held good of fire and heat
and any other thing.
Very true.
And the same may be said of the immortal: if the immortal is also imperishable, then the
soul will be imperishable as well as immortal; but if not, some other proof of her
imperishableness will have to be given.
No other proof is needed, he said; for if the immortal, being eternal, is liable to perish,
then nothing is imperishable.
Yes, replied Socrates, and yet all men will agree that God, and the essential form of life,
and the immortal in general, will never perish.
Yes, all men, he said—that is true; and what is more, gods, if I am not mistaken, as well
as men.
Seeing then that the immortal is indestructible, must not the soul, if she is immortal, be
also imperishable?
Most certainly.
Then when death attacks a man, the mortal portion of him may be supposed to die, but
the immortal retires at the approach of death and is preserved safe and sound?
True.
Then, Cebes, beyond question, the soul is immortal and imperishable, and our souls will
truly exist in another world!
I am convinced, Socrates, said Cebes, and have nothing more to object; but if my friend
Simmias, or any one else, has any further objection to make, he had better speak out,
and not keep silence, since I do not know to what other season he can defer the
discussion, if there is anything which he wants to say or to have said.
But I have nothing more to say, replied Simmias; nor can I see any reason for doubt after
what has been said. But I still feel and cannot help feeling uncertain in my own mind,
when I think of the greatness of the subject and the feebleness of man.
Yes, Simmias, replied Socrates, that is well said: and I may add that first principles, even
if they appear certain, should be carefully considered; and when they are satisfactorily
ascertained, then, with a sort of hesitating confidence in human reason, you may, I think,
follow the course of the argument; and if that be plain and clear, there will be no need
for any further enquiry.
Very true.
But then, O my friends, he said, if the soul is really immortal, what care should be taken
of her, not only in respect of the portion of time which is called life, but of eternity! And
the danger of neglecting her from this point of view does indeed appear to be awful. If
death had only been the end of all, the wicked would have had a good bargain in dying,
for they would have been happily quit not only of their body, but of their own evil
together with their souls. But now, inasmuch as the soul is manifestly immortal, there is
no release or salvation from evil except the attainment of the highest virtue and wisdom.
For the soul when on her progress to the world below takes nothing with her but
nurture and education; and these are said greatly to benefit or greatly to injure the
departed, at the very beginning of his journey thither.
For after death, as they say, the genius of each individual, to whom he belonged in life,
leads him to a certain place in which the dead are gathered together, whence after
judgment has been given they pass into the world below, following the guide, who is
appointed to conduct them from this world to the other: and when they have there
received their due and remained their time, another guide brings them back again after
many revolutions of ages. Now this way to the other world is not, as Aeschylus says in
the Telephus, a single and straight path—if that were so no guide would be needed, for
no one could miss it; but there are many partings of the road, and windings, as I infer
from the rites and sacrifices which are offered to the gods below in places where three
ways meet on earth. The wise and orderly soul follows in the straight path and is
conscious of her surroundings; but the soul which desires the body, and which, as I was
relating before, has long been fluttering about the lifeless frame and the world of sight,
is after many struggles and many sufferings hardly and with violence carried away by
her attendant genius, and when she arrives at the place where the other souls are
gathered, if she be impure and have done impure deeds, whether foul murders or other
crimes which are the brothers of these, and the works of brothers in crime—from that
soul every one flees and turns away; no one will be her companion, no one her guide,
but alone she wanders in extremity of evil until certain times are fulfilled, and when they
are fulfilled, she is borne irresistibly to her own fitting habitation; as every pure and just
soul which has passed through life in the company and under the guidance of the gods
has also her own proper home.
Now the earth has divers wonderful regions, and is indeed in nature and extent very
unlike the notions of geographers, as I believe on the authority of one who shall be
nameless.
What do you mean, Socrates? said Simmias. I have myself heard many descriptions of
the earth, but I do not know, and I should very much like to know, in which of these you
put faith.
And I, Simmias, replied Socrates, if I had the art of Glaucus would tell you; although I
know not that the art of Glaucus could prove the truth of my tale, which I myself should
never be able to prove, and even if I could, I fear, Simmias, that my life would come to
an end before the argument was completed. I may describe to you, however, the form
and regions of the earth according to my conception of them.
That, said Simmias, will be enough.
Well, then, he said, my conviction is, that the earth is a round body in the centre of the
heavens, and therefore has no need of air or any similar force to be a support, but is
kept there and hindered from falling or inclining any way by the equability of the
surrounding heaven and by her own equipoise. For that which, being in equipoise, is in
the centre of that which is equably diffused, will not incline any way in any degree, but
will always remain in the same state and not deviate. And this is my first notion.
Which is surely a correct one, said Simmias.
Also I believe that the earth is very vast, and that we who dwell in the region extending
from the river Phasis to the Pillars of Heracles inhabit a small portion only about the sea,
like ants or frogs about a marsh, and that there are other inhabitants of many other like
places; for everywhere on the face of the earth there are hollows of various forms and
sizes, into which the water and the mist and the lower air collect. But the true earth is
pure and situated in the pure heaven—there are the stars also; and it is the heaven
which is commonly spoken of by us as the ether, and of which our own earth is the
sediment gathering in the hollows beneath. But we who live in these hollows are
deceived into the notion that we are dwelling above on the surface of the earth; which is
just as if a creature who was at the bottom of the sea were to fancy that he was on the
surface of the water, and that the sea was the heaven through which he saw the sun and
the other stars, he having never come to the surface by reason of his feebleness and
sluggishness, and having never lifted up his head and seen, nor ever heard from one
who had seen, how much purer and fairer the world above is than his own. And such is
exactly our case: for we are dwelling in a hollow of the earth, and fancy that we are on
the surface; and the air we call the heaven, in which we imagine that the stars move. But
the fact is, that owing to our feebleness and sluggishness we are prevented from
reaching the surface of the air: for if any man could arrive at the exterior limit, or take
the wings of a bird and come to the top, then like a fish who puts his head out of the
water and sees this world, he would see a world beyond; and, if the nature of man could
sustain the sight, he would acknowledge that this other world was the place of the true
heaven and the true light and the true earth. For our earth, and the stones, and the
entire region which surrounds us, are spoilt and corroded, as in the sea all things are
corroded by the brine, neither is there any noble or perfect growth, but caverns only,
and sand, and an endless slough of mud: and even the shore is not to be compared to
the fairer sights of this world. And still less is this our world to be compared with the
other. Of that upper earth which is under the heaven, I can tell you a charming tale,
Simmias, which is well worth hearing.
And we, Socrates, replied Simmias, shall be charmed to listen to you.
The tale, my friend, he said, is as follows:—In the first place, the earth, when looked at
from above, is in appearance streaked like one of those balls which have leather
coverings in twelve pieces, and is decked with various colours, of which the colours used
by painters on earth are in a manner samples. But there the whole earth is made up of
them, and they are brighter far and clearer than ours; there is a purple of wonderful
lustre, also the radiance of gold, and the white which is in the earth is whiter than any
chalk or snow. Of these and other colours the earth is made up, and they are more in
number and fairer than the eye of man has ever seen; the very hollows (of which I was
speaking) filled with air and water have a colour of their own, and are seen like light
gleaming amid the diversity of the other colours, so that the whole presents a single and
continuous appearance of variety in unity. And in this fair region everything that
grows—trees, and flowers, and fruits—are in a like degree fairer than any here; and
there are hills, having stones in them in a like degree smoother, and more transparent,
and fairer in colour than our highly-valued emeralds and sardonyxes and jaspers, and
other gems, which are but minute fragments of them: for there all the stones are like our
precious stones, and fairer still (compare Republic). The reason is, that they are pure, and
not, like our precious stones, infected or corroded by the corrupt briny elements which
coagulate among us, and which breed foulness and disease both in earth and stones, as
well as in animals and plants. They are the jewels of the upper earth, which also shines
with gold and silver and the like, and they are set in the light of day and are large and
abundant and in all places, making the earth a sight to gladden the beholder's eye. And
there are animals and men, some in a middle region, others dwelling about the air as we
dwell about the sea; others in islands which the air flows round, near the continent: and
in a word, the air is used by them as the water and the sea are by us, and the ether is to
them what the air is to us. Moreover, the temperament of their seasons is such that they
have no disease, and live much longer than we do, and have sight and hearing and
smell, and all the other senses, in far greater perfection, in the same proportion that air
is purer than water or the ether than air. Also they have temples and sacred places in
which the gods really dwell, and they hear their voices and receive their answers, and are
conscious of them and hold converse with them, and they see the sun, moon, and stars
as they truly are, and their other blessedness is of a piece with this.
Such is the nature of the whole earth, and of the things which are around the earth; and
there are divers regions in the hollows on the face of the globe everywhere, some of
them deeper and more extended than that which we inhabit, others deeper but with a
narrower opening than ours, and some are shallower and also wider. All have numerous
perforations, and there are passages broad and narrow in the interior of the earth,
connecting them with one another; and there flows out of and into them, as into basins,
a vast tide of water, and huge subterranean streams of perennial rivers, and springs hot
and cold, and a great fire, and great rivers of fire, and streams of liquid mud, thin or
thick (like the rivers of mud in Sicily, and the lava streams which follow them), and the
regions about which they happen to flow are filled up with them. And there is a
swinging or see-saw in the interior of the earth which moves all this up and down, and is
due to the following cause:—There is a chasm which is the vastest of them all, and
pierces right through the whole earth; this is that chasm which Homer describes in the
words,—
'Far off, where is the inmost depth beneath the earth;'
and which he in other places, and many other poets, have called Tartarus. And the seesaw
is caused by the streams flowing into and out of this chasm, and they each have the
nature of the soil through which they flow. And the reason why the streams are always
flowing in and out, is that the watery element has no bed or bottom, but is swinging
and surging up and down, and the surrounding wind and air do the same; they follow
the water up and down, hither and thither, over the earth—just as in the act of
respiration the air is always in process of inhalation and exhalation;—and the wind
swinging with the water in and out produces fearful and irresistible blasts: when the
waters retire with a rush into the lower parts of the earth, as they are called, they flow
through the earth in those regions, and fill them up like water raised by a pump, and
then when they leave those regions and rush back hither, they again fill the hollows
here, and when these are filled, flow through subterranean channels and find their way
to their several places, forming seas, and lakes, and rivers, and springs. Thence they
again enter the earth, some of them making a long circuit into many lands, others going
to a few places and not so distant; and again fall into Tartarus, some at a point a good
deal lower than that at which they rose, and others not much lower, but all in some
degree lower than the point from which they came. And some burst forth again on the
opposite side, and some on the same side, and some wind round the earth with one or
many folds like the coils of a serpent, and descend as far as they can, but always return
and fall into the chasm. The rivers flowing in either direction can descend only to the
centre and no further, for opposite to the rivers is a precipice.
Now these rivers are many, and mighty, and diverse, and there are four principal ones,
of which the greatest and outermost is that called Oceanus, which flows round the earth
in a circle; and in the opposite direction flows Acheron, which passes under the earth
through desert places into the Acherusian lake: this is the lake to the shores of which the
souls of the many go when they are dead, and after waiting an appointed time, which is
to some a longer and to some a shorter time, they are sent back to be born again as
animals. The third river passes out between the two, and near the place of outlet pours
into a vast region of fire, and forms a lake larger than the Mediterranean Sea, boiling
with water and mud; and proceeding muddy and turbid, and winding about the earth,
comes, among other places, to the extremities of the Acherusian Lake, but mingles not
with the waters of the lake, and after making many coils about the earth plunges into
Tartarus at a deeper level. This is that Pyriphlegethon, as the stream is called, which
throws up jets of fire in different parts of the earth. The fourth river goes out on the
opposite side, and falls first of all into a wild and savage region, which is all of a darkblue
colour, like lapis lazuli; and this is that river which is called the Stygian river, and
falls into and forms the Lake Styx, and after falling into the lake and receiving strange
powers in the waters, passes under the earth, winding round in the opposite direction,
and comes near the Acherusian lake from the opposite side to Pyriphlegethon. And the
water of this river too mingles with no other, but flows round in a circle and falls into
Tartarus over against Pyriphlegethon; and the name of the river, as the poets say, is
Cocytus.
Such is the nature of the other world; and when the dead arrive at the place to which
the genius of each severally guides them, first of all, they have sentence passed upon
them, as they have lived well and piously or not. And those who appear to have lived
neither well nor ill, go to the river Acheron, and embarking in any vessels which they
may find, are carried in them to the lake, and there they dwell and are purified of their
evil deeds, and having suffered the penalty of the wrongs which they have done to
others, they are absolved, and receive the rewards of their good deeds, each of them
according to his deserts. But those who appear to be incurable by reason of the
greatness of their crimes—who have committed many and terrible deeds of sacrilege,
murders foul and violent, or the like—such are hurled into Tartarus which is their
suitable destiny, and they never come out. Those again who have committed crimes,
which, although great, are not irremediable—who in a moment of anger, for example,
have done violence to a father or a mother, and have repented for the remainder of
their lives, or, who have taken the life of another under the like extenuating
circumstances—these are plunged into Tartarus, the pains of which they are compelled
to undergo for a year, but at the end of the year the wave casts them forth—mere
homicides by way of Cocytus, parricides and matricides by Pyriphlegethon—and they
are borne to the Acherusian lake, and there they lift up their voices and call upon the
victims whom they have slain or wronged, to have pity on them, and to be kind to them,
and let them come out into the lake. And if they prevail, then they come forth and cease
from their troubles; but if not, they are carried back again into Tartarus and from thence
into the rivers unceasingly, until they obtain mercy from those whom they have
wronged: for that is the sentence inflicted upon them by their judges. Those too who
have been pre-eminent for holiness of life are released from this earthly prison, and go
to their pure home which is above, and dwell in the purer earth; and of these, such as
have duly purified themselves with philosophy live henceforth altogether without the
body, in mansions fairer still which may not be described, and of which the time would
fail me to tell.
Wherefore, Simmias, seeing all these things, what ought not we to do that we may
obtain virtue and wisdom in this life? Fair is the prize, and the hope great!
A man of sense ought not to say, nor will I be very confident, that the description which
I have given of the soul and her mansions is exactly true. But I do say that, inasmuch as
the soul is shown to be immortal, he may venture to think, not improperly or unworthily,
that something of the kind is true. The venture is a glorious one, and he ought to
comfort himself with words like these, which is the reason why I lengthen out the tale.
Wherefore, I say, let a man be of good cheer about his soul, who having cast away the
pleasures and ornaments of the body as alien to him and working harm rather than
good, has sought after the pleasures of knowledge; and has arrayed the soul, not in
some foreign attire, but in her own proper jewels, temperance, and justice, and courage,
and nobility, and truth—in these adorned she is ready to go on her journey to the world
below, when her hour comes. You, Simmias and Cebes, and all other men, will depart at
some time or other. Me already, as the tragic poet would say, the voice of fate calls.
Soon I must drink the poison; and I think that I had better repair to the bath first, in
order that the women may not have the trouble of washing my body after I am dead.
When he had done speaking, Crito said: And have you any commands for us, Socrates—
anything to say about your children, or any other matter in which we can serve you?
Nothing particular, Crito, he replied: only, as I have always told you, take care of
yourselves; that is a service which you may be ever rendering to me and mine and to all
of us, whether you promise to do so or not. But if you have no thought for yourselves,
and care not to walk according to the rule which I have prescribed for you, not now for
the first time, however much you may profess or promise at the moment, it will be of no
avail.
We will do our best, said Crito: And in what way shall we bury you?
In any way that you like; but you must get hold of me, and take care that I do not run
away from you. Then he turned to us, and added with a smile:—I cannot make Crito
believe that I am the same Socrates who have been talking and conducting the
argument; he fancies that I am the other Socrates whom he will soon see, a dead
body—and he asks, How shall he bury me? And though I have spoken many words in
the endeavour to show that when I have drunk the poison I shall leave you and go to
the joys of the blessed,— these words of mine, with which I was comforting you and
myself, have had, as I perceive, no effect upon Crito. And therefore I want you to be
surety for me to him now, as at the trial he was surety to the judges for me: but let the
promise be of another sort; for he was surety for me to the judges that I would remain,
and you must be my surety to him that I shall not remain, but go away and depart; and
then he will suffer less at my death, and not be grieved when he sees my body being
burned or buried. I would not have him sorrow at my hard lot, or say at the burial, Thus
we lay out Socrates, or, Thus we follow him to the grave or bury him; for false words are
not only evil in themselves, but they infect the soul with evil. Be of good cheer, then, my
dear Crito, and say that you are burying my body only, and do with that whatever is
usual, and what you think best.
When he had spoken these words, he arose and went into a chamber to bathe; Crito
followed him and told us to wait. So we remained behind, talking and thinking of the
subject of discourse, and also of the greatness of our sorrow; he was like a father of
whom we were being bereaved, and we were about to pass the rest of our lives as
orphans. When he had taken the bath his children were brought to him—(he had two
young sons and an elder one); and the women of his family also came, and he talked to
them and gave them a few directions in the presence of Crito; then he dismissed them
and returned to us.
Now the hour of sunset was near, for a good deal of time had passed while he was
within. When he came out, he sat down with us again after his bath, but not much was
said. Soon the jailer, who was the servant of the Eleven, entered and stood by him,
saying:—To you, Socrates, whom I know to be the noblest and gentlest and best of all
who ever came to this place, I will not impute the angry feelings of other men, who rage
and swear at me, when, in obedience to the authorities, I bid them drink the poison—
indeed, I am sure that you will not be angry with me; for others, as you are aware, and
not I, are to blame. And so fare you well, and try to bear lightly what must needs be—
you know my errand. Then bursting into tears he turned away and went out.
Socrates looked at him and said: I return your good wishes, and will do as you bid. Then
turning to us, he said, How charming the man is: since I have been in prison he has
always been coming to see me, and at times he would talk to me, and was as good to
me as could be, and now see how generously he sorrows on my account. We must do as
he says, Crito; and therefore let the cup be brought, if the poison is prepared: if not, let
the attendant prepare some.
Yet, said Crito, the sun is still upon the hill-tops, and I know that many a one has taken
the draught late, and after the announcement has been made to him, he has eaten and
drunk, and enjoyed the society of his beloved; do not hurry—there is time enough.
Socrates said: Yes, Crito, and they of whom you speak are right in so acting, for they
think that they will be gainers by the delay; but I am right in not following their example,
for I do not think that I should gain anything by drinking the poison a little later; I
should only be ridiculous in my own eyes for sparing and saving a life which is already
forfeit. Please then to do as I say, and not to refuse me.
Crito made a sign to the servant, who was standing by; and he went out, and having
been absent for some time, returned with the jailer carrying the cup of poison. Socrates
said: You, my good friend, who are experienced in these matters, shall give me
directions how I am to proceed. The man answered: You have only to walk about until
your legs are heavy, and then to lie down, and the poison will act. At the same time he
handed the cup to Socrates, who in the easiest and gentlest manner, without the least
fear or change of colour or feature, looking at the man with all his eyes, Echecrates, as
his manner was, took the cup and said: What do you say about making a libation out of
this cup to any god? May I, or not? The man answered: We only prepare, Socrates, just
so much as we deem enough. I understand, he said: but I may and must ask the gods to
prosper my journey from this to the other world—even so—and so be it according to
my prayer. Then raising the cup to his lips, quite readily and cheerfully he drank off the
poison. And hitherto most of us had been able to control our sorrow; but now when we
saw him drinking, and saw too that he had finished the draught, we could no longer
forbear, and in spite of myself my own tears were flowing fast; so that I covered my face
and wept, not for him, but at the thought of my own calamity in having to part from
such a friend. Nor was I the first; for Crito, when he found himself unable to restrain his
tears, had got up, and I followed; and at that moment, Apollodorus, who had been
weeping all the time, broke out in a loud and passionate cry which made cowards of us
all. Socrates alone retained his calmness: What is this strange outcry? he said. I sent
away the women mainly in order that they might not misbehave in this way, for I have
been told that a man should die in peace. Be quiet, then, and have patience. When we
heard his words we were ashamed, and refrained our tears; and he walked about until,
as he said, his legs began to fail, and then he lay on his back, according to the
directions, and the man who gave him the poison now and then looked at his feet and
legs; and after a while he pressed his foot hard, and asked him if he could feel; and he
said, No; and then his leg, and so upwards and upwards, and showed us that he was
cold and stiff. And he felt them himself, and said: When the poison reaches the heart,
that will be the end. He was beginning to grow cold about the groin, when he
uncovered his face, for he had covered himself up, and said—they were his last words—
he said: Crito, I owe a cock to Asclepius; will you remember to pay the debt? The debt
shall be paid, said Crito; is there anything else? There was no answer to this question;
but in a minute or two a movement was heard, and the attendants uncovered him; his
eyes were set, and Crito closed his eyes and mouth.
Such was the end, Echecrates, of our friend; concerning whom I may truly say, that of all
the men of his time whom I have known, he was the wisest and justest and best.
THE END
PHAEDRUS
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Phaedrus.
SCENE: Under a plane-tree, by the banks of the Ilissus.
SOCRATES: My dear Phaedrus, whence come you, and whither are you going?
PHAEDRUS: I come from Lysias the son of Cephalus, and I am going to take a walk
outside the wall, for I have been sitting with him the whole morning; and our common
friend Acumenus tells me that it is much more refreshing to walk in the open air than to
be shut up in a cloister.
SOCRATES: There he is right. Lysias then, I suppose, was in the town?
PHAEDRUS: Yes, he was staying with Epicrates, here at the house of Morychus; that
house which is near the temple of Olympian Zeus.
SOCRATES: And how did he entertain you? Can I be wrong in supposing that Lysias gave
you a feast of discourse?
PHAEDRUS: You shall hear, if you can spare time to accompany me.
SOCRATES: And should I not deem the conversation of you and Lysias 'a thing of higher
import,' as I may say in the words of Pindar, 'than any business'?
PHAEDRUS: Will you go on?
SOCRATES: And will you go on with the narration?
PHAEDRUS: My tale, Socrates, is one of your sort, for love was the theme which
occupied us—love after a fashion: Lysias has been writing about a fair youth who was
being tempted, but not by a lover; and this was the point: he ingeniously proved that
the non-lover should be accepted rather than the lover.
SOCRATES: O that is noble of him! I wish that he would say the poor man rather than
the rich, and the old man rather than the young one;—then he would meet the case of
me and of many a man; his words would be quite refreshing, and he would be a public
benefactor. For my part, I do so long to hear his speech, that if you walk all the way to
Megara, and when you have reached the wall come back, as Herodicus recommends,
without going in, I will keep you company.
PHAEDRUS: What do you mean, my good Socrates? How can you imagine that my
unpractised memory can do justice to an elaborate work, which the greatest rhetorician
of the age spent a long time in composing. Indeed, I cannot; I would give a great deal if
I could.
SOCRATES: I believe that I know Phaedrus about as well as I know myself, and I am very
sure that the speech of Lysias was repeated to him, not once only, but again and
again;—he insisted on hearing it many times over and Lysias was very willing to gratify
him; at last, when nothing else would do, he got hold of the book, and looked at what
he most wanted to see,— this occupied him during the whole morning;—and then when
he was tired with sitting, he went out to take a walk, not until, by the dog, as I believe,
he had simply learned by heart the entire discourse, unless it was unusually long, and he
went to a place outside the wall that he might practise his lesson. There he saw a certain
lover of discourse who had a similar weakness;—he saw and rejoiced; now thought he, 'I
shall have a partner in my revels.' And he invited him to come and walk with him. But
when the lover of discourse begged that he would repeat the tale, he gave himself airs
and said, 'No I cannot,' as if he were indisposed; although, if the hearer had refused, he
would sooner or later have been compelled by him to listen whether he would or no.
Therefore, Phaedrus, bid him do at once what he will soon do whether bidden or not.
PHAEDRUS: I see that you will not let me off until I speak in some fashion or other; verily
therefore my best plan is to speak as I best can.
SOCRATES: A very true remark, that of yours.
PHAEDRUS: I will do as I say; but believe me, Socrates, I did not learn the very words—O
no; nevertheless I have a general notion of what he said, and will give you a summary of
the points in which the lover differed from the non-lover. Let me begin at the beginning.
SOCRATES: Yes, my sweet one; but you must first of all show what you have in your left
hand under your cloak, for that roll, as I suspect, is the actual discourse. Now, much as I
love you, I would not have you suppose that I am going to have your memory exercised
at my expense, if you have Lysias himself here.
PHAEDRUS: Enough; I see that I have no hope of practising my art upon you. But if I am
to read, where would you please to sit?
SOCRATES: Let us turn aside and go by the Ilissus; we will sit down at some quiet spot.
PHAEDRUS: I am fortunate in not having my sandals, and as you never have any, I think
that we may go along the brook and cool our feet in the water; this will be the easiest
way, and at midday and in the summer is far from being unpleasant.
SOCRATES: Lead on, and look out for a place in which we can sit down.
PHAEDRUS: Do you see the tallest plane-tree in the distance?
SOCRATES: Yes.
PHAEDRUS: There are shade and gentle breezes, and grass on which we may either sit
or lie down.
SOCRATES: Move forward.
PHAEDRUS: I should like to know, Socrates, whether the place is not somewhere here at
which Boreas is said to have carried off Orithyia from the banks of the Ilissus?
SOCRATES: Such is the tradition.
PHAEDRUS: And is this the exact spot? The little stream is delightfully clear and bright; I
can fancy that there might be maidens playing near.
SOCRATES: I believe that the spot is not exactly here, but about a quarter of a mile lower
down, where you cross to the temple of Artemis, and there is, I think, some sort of an
altar of Boreas at the place.
PHAEDRUS: I have never noticed it; but I beseech you to tell me, Socrates, do you
believe this tale?
SOCRATES: The wise are doubtful, and I should not be singular if, like them, I too
doubted. I might have a rational explanation that Orithyia was playing with Pharmacia,
when a northern gust carried her over the neighbouring rocks; and this being the
manner of her death, she was said to have been carried away by Boreas. There is a
discrepancy, however, about the locality; according to another version of the story she
was taken from Areopagus, and not from this place. Now I quite acknowledge that these
allegories are very nice, but he is not to be envied who has to invent them; much labour
and ingenuity will be required of him; and when he has once begun, he must go on and
rehabilitate Hippocentaurs and chimeras dire. Gorgons and winged steeds flow in apace,
and numberless other inconceivable and portentous natures. And if he is sceptical about
them, and would fain reduce them one after another to the rules of probability, this sort
of crude philosophy will take up a great deal of time. Now I have no leisure for such
enquiries; shall I tell you why? I must first know myself, as the Delphian inscription says;
to be curious about that which is not my concern, while I am still in ignorance of my
own self, would be ridiculous. And therefore I bid farewell to all this; the common
opinion is enough for me. For, as I was saying, I want to know not about this, but about
myself: am I a monster more complicated and swollen with passion than the serpent
Typho, or a creature of a gentler and simpler sort, to whom Nature has given a diviner
and lowlier destiny? But let me ask you, friend: have we not reached the plane-tree to
which you were conducting us?
PHAEDRUS: Yes, this is the tree.
SOCRATES: By Here, a fair resting-place, full of summer sounds and scents. Here is this
lofty and spreading plane-tree, and the agnus castus high and clustering, in the fullest
blossom and the greatest fragrance; and the stream which flows beneath the plane-tree
is deliciously cold to the feet. Judging from the ornaments and images, this must be a
spot sacred to Achelous and the Nymphs. How delightful is the breeze:—so very sweet;
and there is a sound in the air shrill and summerlike which makes answer to the chorus
of the cicadae. But the greatest charm of all is the grass, like a pillow gently sloping to
the head. My dear Phaedrus, you have been an admirable guide.
PHAEDRUS: What an incomprehensible being you are, Socrates: when you are in the
country, as you say, you really are like some stranger who is led about by a guide. Do
you ever cross the border? I rather think that you never venture even outside the gates.
SOCRATES: Very true, my good friend; and I hope that you will excuse me when you
hear the reason, which is, that I am a lover of knowledge, and the men who dwell in the
city are my teachers, and not the trees or the country. Though I do indeed believe that
you have found a spell with which to draw me out of the city into the country, like a
hungry cow before whom a bough or a bunch of fruit is waved. For only hold up before
me in like manner a book, and you may lead me all round Attica, and over the wide
world. And now having arrived, I intend to lie down, and do you choose any posture in
which you can read best. Begin.
PHAEDRUS: Listen. You know how matters stand with me; and how, as I conceive, this
affair may be arranged for the advantage of both of us. And I maintain that I ought not
to fail in my suit, because I am not your lover: for lovers repent of the kindnesses which
they have shown when their passion ceases, but to the non-lovers who are free and not
under any compulsion, no time of repentance ever comes; for they confer their benefits
according to the measure of their ability, in the way which is most conducive to their
own interest. Then again, lovers consider how by reason of their love they have
neglected their own concerns and rendered service to others: and when to these
benefits conferred they add on the troubles which they have endured, they think that
they have long ago made to the beloved a very ample return. But the non-lover has no
such tormenting recollections; he has never neglected his affairs or quarrelled with his
relations; he has no troubles to add up or excuses to invent; and being well rid of all
these evils, why should he not freely do what will gratify the beloved? If you say that the
lover is more to be esteemed, because his love is thought to be greater; for he is willing
to say and do what is hateful to other men, in order to please his beloved;—that, if true,
is only a proof that he will prefer any future love to his present, and will injure his old
love at the pleasure of the new. And how, in a matter of such infinite importance, can a
man be right in trusting himself to one who is afflicted with a malady which no
experienced person would attempt to cure, for the patient himself admits that he is not
in his right mind, and acknowledges that he is wrong in his mind, but says that he is
unable to control himself? And if he came to his right mind, would he ever imagine that
the desires were good which he conceived when in his wrong mind? Once more, there
are many more non-lovers than lovers; and if you choose the best of the lovers, you will
not have many to choose from; but if from the non-lovers, the choice will be larger, and
you will be far more likely to find among them a person who is worthy of your
friendship. If public opinion be your dread, and you would avoid reproach, in all
probability the lover, who is always thinking that other men are as emulous of him as he
is of them, will boast to some one of his successes, and make a show of them openly in
the pride of his heart;—he wants others to know that his labour has not been lost; but
the non-lover is more his own master, and is desirous of solid good, and not of the
opinion of mankind. Again, the lover may be generally noted or seen following the
beloved (this is his regular occupation), and whenever they are observed to exchange
two words they are supposed to meet about some affair of love either past or in
contemplation; but when non-lovers meet, no one asks the reason why, because people
know that talking to another is natural, whether friendship or mere pleasure be the
motive. Once more, if you fear the fickleness of friendship, consider that in any other
case a quarrel might be a mutual calamity; but now, when you have given up what is
most precious to you, you will be the greater loser, and therefore, you will have more
reason in being afraid of the lover, for his vexations are many, and he is always fancying
that every one is leagued against him. Wherefore also he debars his beloved from
society; he will not have you intimate with the wealthy, lest they should exceed him in
wealth, or with men of education, lest they should be his superiors in understanding;
and he is equally afraid of anybody's influence who has any other advantage over
himself. If he can persuade you to break with them, you are left without a friend in the
world; or if, out of a regard to your own interest, you have more sense than to comply
with his desire, you will have to quarrel with him. But those who are non-lovers, and
whose success in love is the reward of their merit, will not be jealous of the companions
of their beloved, and will rather hate those who refuse to be his associates, thinking that
their favourite is slighted by the latter and benefited by the former; for more love than
hatred may be expected to come to him out of his friendship with others. Many lovers
too have loved the person of a youth before they knew his character or his belongings;
so that when their passion has passed away, there is no knowing whether they will
continue to be his friends; whereas, in the case of non-lovers who were always friends,
the friendship is not lessened by the favours granted; but the recollection of these
remains with them, and is an earnest of good things to come.
Further, I say that you are likely to be improved by me, whereas the lover will spoil you.
For they praise your words and actions in a wrong way; partly, because they are afraid of
offending you, and also, their judgment is weakened by passion. Such are the feats
which love exhibits; he makes things painful to the disappointed which give no pain to
others; he compels the successful lover to praise what ought not to give him pleasure,
and therefore the beloved is to be pitied rather than envied. But if you listen to me, in
the first place, I, in my intercourse with you, shall not merely regard present enjoyment,
but also future advantage, being not mastered by love, but my own master; nor for
small causes taking violent dislikes, but even when the cause is great, slowly laying up
little wrath— unintentional offences I shall forgive, and intentional ones I shall try to
prevent; and these are the marks of a friendship which will last.
Do you think that a lover only can be a firm friend? reflect:—if this were true, we should
set small value on sons, or fathers, or mothers; nor should we ever have loyal friends, for
our love of them arises not from passion, but from other associations. Further, if we
ought to shower favours on those who are the most eager suitors,—on that principle,
we ought always to do good, not to the most virtuous, but to the most needy; for they
are the persons who will be most relieved, and will therefore be the most grateful; and
when you make a feast you should invite not your friend, but the beggar and the empty
soul; for they will love you, and attend you, and come about your doors, and will be the
best pleased, and the most grateful, and will invoke many a blessing on your head. Yet
surely you ought not to be granting favours to those who besiege you with prayer, but
to those who are best able to reward you; nor to the lover only, but to those who are
worthy of love; nor to those who will enjoy the bloom of your youth, but to those who
will share their possessions with you in age; nor to those who, having succeeded, will
glory in their success to others, but to those who will be modest and tell no tales; nor to
those who care about you for a moment only, but to those who will continue your
friends through life; nor to those who, when their passion is over, will pick a quarrel with
you, but rather to those who, when the charm of youth has left you, will show their own
virtue. Remember what I have said; and consider yet this further point: friends admonish
the lover under the idea that his way of life is bad, but no one of his kindred ever yet
censured the non-lover, or thought that he was ill-advised about his own interests.
'Perhaps you will ask me whether I propose that you should indulge every non-lover. To
which I reply that not even the lover would advise you to indulge all lovers, for the
indiscriminate favour is less esteemed by the rational recipient, and less easily hidden by
him who would escape the censure of the world. Now love ought to be for the
advantage of both parties, and for the injury of neither.
'I believe that I have said enough; but if there is anything more which you desire or
which in your opinion needs to be supplied, ask and I will answer.'
Now, Socrates, what do you think? Is not the discourse excellent, more especially in the
matter of the language?
SOCRATES: Yes, quite admirable; the effect on me was ravishing. And this I owe to you,
Phaedrus, for I observed you while reading to be in an ecstasy, and thinking that you are
more experienced in these matters than I am, I followed your example, and, like you, my
divine darling, I became inspired with a phrenzy.
PHAEDRUS: Indeed, you are pleased to be merry.
SOCRATES: Do you mean that I am not in earnest?
PHAEDRUS: Now don't talk in that way, Socrates, but let me have your real opinion; I
adjure you, by Zeus, the god of friendship, to tell me whether you think that any Hellene
could have said more or spoken better on the same subject.
SOCRATES: Well, but are you and I expected to praise the sentiments of the author, or
only the clearness, and roundness, and finish, and tournure of the language? As to the
first I willingly submit to your better judgment, for I am not worthy to form an opinion,
having only attended to the rhetorical manner; and I was doubting whether this could
have been defended even by Lysias himself; I thought, though I speak under correction,
that he repeated himself two or three times, either from want of words or from want of
pains; and also, he appeared to me ostentatiously to exult in showing how well he could
say the same thing in two or three ways.
PHAEDRUS: Nonsense, Socrates; what you call repetition was the especial merit of the
speech; for he omitted no topic of which the subject rightly allowed, and I do not think
that any one could have spoken better or more exhaustively.
SOCRATES: There I cannot go along with you. Ancient sages, men and women, who have
spoken and written of these things, would rise up in judgment against me, if out of
complaisance I assented to you.
PHAEDRUS: Who are they, and where did you hear anything better than this?
SOCRATES: I am sure that I must have heard; but at this moment I do not remember
from whom; perhaps from Sappho the fair, or Anacreon the wise; or, possibly, from a
prose writer. Why do I say so? Why, because I perceive that my bosom is full, and that I
could make another speech as good as that of Lysias, and different. Now I am certain
that this is not an invention of my own, who am well aware that I know nothing, and
therefore I can only infer that I have been filled through the ears, like a pitcher, from the
waters of another, though I have actually forgotten in my stupidity who was my
informant.
PHAEDRUS: That is grand:—but never mind where you heard the discourse or from
whom; let that be a mystery not to be divulged even at my earnest desire. Only, as you
say, promise to make another and better oration, equal in length and entirely new, on
the same subject; and I, like the nine Archons, will promise to set up a golden image at
Delphi, not only of myself, but of you, and as large as life.
SOCRATES: You are a dear golden ass if you suppose me to mean that Lysias has
altogether missed the mark, and that I can make a speech from which all his arguments
are to be excluded. The worst of authors will say something which is to the point. Who,
for example, could speak on this thesis of yours without praising the discretion of the
non-lover and blaming the indiscretion of the lover? These are the commonplaces of the
subject which must come in (for what else is there to be said?) and must be allowed and
excused; the only merit is in the arrangement of them, for there can be none in the
invention; but when you leave the commonplaces, then there may be some originality.
PHAEDRUS: I admit that there is reason in what you say, and I too will be reasonable,
and will allow you to start with the premiss that the lover is more disordered in his wits
than the non-lover; if in what remains you make a longer and better speech than Lysias,
and use other arguments, then I say again, that a statue you shall have of beaten gold,
and take your place by the colossal offerings of the Cypselids at Olympia.
SOCRATES: How profoundly in earnest is the lover, because to tease him I lay a finger
upon his love! And so, Phaedrus, you really imagine that I am going to improve upon
the ingenuity of Lysias?
PHAEDRUS: There I have you as you had me, and you must just speak 'as you best can.'
Do not let us exchange 'tu quoque' as in a farce, or compel me to say to you as you said
to me, 'I know Socrates as well as I know myself, and he was wanting to speak, but he
gave himself airs.' Rather I would have you consider that from this place we stir not until
you have unbosomed yourself of the speech; for here are we all alone, and I am
stronger, remember, and younger than you:—Wherefore perpend, and do not compel
me to use violence.
SOCRATES: But, my sweet Phaedrus, how ridiculous it would be of me to compete with
Lysias in an extempore speech! He is a master in his art and I am an untaught man.
PHAEDRUS: You see how matters stand; and therefore let there be no more pretences;
for, indeed, I know the word that is irresistible.
SOCRATES: Then don't say it.
PHAEDRUS: Yes, but I will; and my word shall be an oath. 'I say, or rather swear'—but
what god will be witness of my oath?—'By this plane- tree I swear, that unless you
repeat the discourse here in the face of this very plane-tree, I will never tell you another;
never let you have word of another!'
SOCRATES: Villain! I am conquered; the poor lover of discourse has no more to say.
PHAEDRUS: Then why are you still at your tricks?
SOCRATES: I am not going to play tricks now that you have taken the oath, for I cannot
allow myself to be starved.
PHAEDRUS: Proceed.
SOCRATES: Shall I tell you what I will do?
PHAEDRUS: What?
SOCRATES: I will veil my face and gallop through the discourse as fast as I can, for if I
see you I shall feel ashamed and not know what to say.
PHAEDRUS: Only go on and you may do anything else which you please.
SOCRATES: Come, O ye Muses, melodious, as ye are called, whether you have received
this name from the character of your strains, or because the Melians are a musical race,
help, O help me in the tale which my good friend here desires me to rehearse, in order
that his friend whom he always deemed wise may seem to him to be wiser than ever.
Once upon a time there was a fair boy, or, more properly speaking, a youth; he was very
fair and had a great many lovers; and there was one special cunning one, who had
persuaded the youth that he did not love him, but he really loved him all the same; and
one day when he was paying his addresses to him, he used this very argument—that he
ought to accept the non-lover rather than the lover; his words were as follows:—
'All good counsel begins in the same way; a man should know what he is advising
about, or his counsel will all come to nought. But people imagine that they know about
the nature of things, when they don't know about them, and, not having come to an
understanding at first because they think that they know, they end, as might be
expected, in contradicting one another and themselves. Now you and I must not be
guilty of this fundamental error which we condemn in others; but as our question is
whether the lover or non-lover is to be preferred, let us first of all agree in defining the
nature and power of love, and then, keeping our eyes upon the definition and to this
appealing, let us further enquire whether love brings advantage or disadvantage.
'Every one sees that love is a desire, and we know also that non-lovers desire the
beautiful and good. Now in what way is the lover to be distinguished from the nonlover?
Let us note that in every one of us there are two guiding and ruling principles
which lead us whither they will; one is the natural desire of pleasure, the other is an
acquired opinion which aspires after the best; and these two are sometimes in harmony
and then again at war, and sometimes the one, sometimes the other conquers. When
opinion by the help of reason leads us to the best, the conquering principle is called
temperance; but when desire, which is devoid of reason, rules in us and drags us to
pleasure, that power of misrule is called excess. Now excess has many names, and many
members, and many forms, and any of these forms when very marked gives a name,
neither honourable nor creditable, to the bearer of the name. The desire of eating, for
example, which gets the better of the higher reason and the other desires, is called
gluttony, and he who is possessed by it is called a glutton; the tyrannical desire of drink,
which inclines the possessor of the desire to drink, has a name which is only too
obvious, and there can be as little doubt by what name any other appetite of the same
family would be called;—it will be the name of that which happens to be dominant. And
now I think that you will perceive the drift of my discourse; but as every spoken word is
in a manner plainer than the unspoken, I had better say further that the irrational desire
which overcomes the tendency of opinion towards right, and is led away to the
enjoyment of beauty, and especially of personal beauty, by the desires which are her
own kindred—that supreme desire, I say, which by leading conquers and by the force of
passion is reinforced, from this very force, receiving a name, is called love (erromenos
eros).'
And now, dear Phaedrus, I shall pause for an instant to ask whether you do not think
me, as I appear to myself, inspired?
PHAEDRUS: Yes, Socrates, you seem to have a very unusual flow of words.
SOCRATES: Listen to me, then, in silence; for surely the place is holy; so that you must
not wonder, if, as I proceed, I appear to be in a divine fury, for already I am getting into
dithyrambics.
PHAEDRUS: Nothing can be truer.
SOCRATES: The responsibility rests with you. But hear what follows, and perhaps the fit
may be averted; all is in their hands above. I will go on talking to my youth. Listen:—
Thus, my friend, we have declared and defined the nature of the subject. Keeping the
definition in view, let us now enquire what advantage or disadvantage is likely to ensue
from the lover or the non-lover to him who accepts their advances.
He who is the victim of his passions and the slave of pleasure will of course desire to
make his beloved as agreeable to himself as possible. Now to him who has a mind
diseased anything is agreeable which is not opposed to him, but that which is equal or
superior is hateful to him, and therefore the lover will not brook any superiority or
equality on the part of his beloved; he is always employed in reducing him to inferiority.
And the ignorant is the inferior of the wise, the coward of the brave, the slow of speech
of the speaker, the dull of the clever. These, and not these only, are the mental defects
of the beloved;—defects which, when implanted by nature, are necessarily a delight to
the lover, and when not implanted, he must contrive to implant them in him, if he would
not be deprived of his fleeting joy. And therefore he cannot help being jealous, and will
debar his beloved from the advantages of society which would make a man of him, and
especially from that society which would have given him wisdom, and thereby he cannot
fail to do him great harm. That is to say, in his excessive fear lest he should come to be
despised in his eyes he will be compelled to banish from him divine philosophy; and
there is no greater injury which he can inflict upon him than this. He will contrive that his
beloved shall be wholly ignorant, and in everything shall look to him; he is to be the
delight of the lover's heart, and a curse to himself. Verily, a lover is a profitable guardian
and associate for him in all that relates to his mind.
Let us next see how his master, whose law of life is pleasure and not good, will keep and
train the body of his servant. Will he not choose a beloved who is delicate rather than
sturdy and strong? One brought up in shady bowers and not in the bright sun, a
stranger to manly exercises and the sweat of toil, accustomed only to a soft and
luxurious diet, instead of the hues of health having the colours of paint and ornament,
and the rest of a piece?—such a life as any one can imagine and which I need not detail
at length. But I may sum up all that I have to say in a word, and pass on. Such a person
in war, or in any of the great crises of life, will be the anxiety of his friends and also of his
lover, and certainly not the terror of his enemies; which nobody can deny.
And now let us tell what advantage or disadvantage the beloved will receive from the
guardianship and society of his lover in the matter of his property; this is the next point
to be considered. The lover will be the first to see what, indeed, will be sufficiently
evident to all men, that he desires above all things to deprive his beloved of his dearest
and best and holiest possessions, father, mother, kindred, friends, of all whom he thinks
may be hinderers or reprovers of their most sweet converse; he will even cast a jealous
eye upon his gold and silver or other property, because these make him a less easy prey,
and when caught less manageable; hence he is of necessity displeased at his possession
of them and rejoices at their loss; and he would like him to be wifeless, childless,
homeless, as well; and the longer the better, for the longer he is all this, the longer he
will enjoy him.
There are some sort of animals, such as flatterers, who are dangerous and mischievous
enough, and yet nature has mingled a temporary pleasure and grace in their
composition. You may say that a courtesan is hurtful, and disapprove of such creatures
and their practices, and yet for the time they are very pleasant. But the lover is not only
hurtful to his love; he is also an extremely disagreeable companion. The old proverb says
that 'birds of a feather flock together'; I suppose that equality of years inclines them to
the same pleasures, and similarity begets friendship; yet you may have more than
enough even of this; and verily constraint is always said to be grievous. Now the lover is
not only unlike his beloved, but he forces himself upon him. For he is old and his love is
young, and neither day nor night will he leave him if he can help; necessity and the sting
of desire drive him on, and allure him with the pleasure which he receives from seeing,
hearing, touching, perceiving him in every way. And therefore he is delighted to fasten
upon him and to minister to him. But what pleasure or consolation can the beloved be
receiving all this time? Must he not feel the extremity of disgust when he looks at an old
shrivelled face and the remainder to match, which even in a description is disagreeable,
and quite detestable when he is forced into daily contact with his lover; moreover he is
jealously watched and guarded against everything and everybody, and has to hear
misplaced and exaggerated praises of himself, and censures equally inappropriate,
which are intolerable when the man is sober, and, besides being intolerable, are
published all over the world in all their indelicacy and wearisomeness when he is drunk.
And not only while his love continues is he mischievous and unpleasant, but when his
love ceases he becomes a perfidious enemy of him on whom he showered his oaths and
prayers and promises, and yet could hardly prevail upon him to tolerate the tedium of
his company even from motives of interest. The hour of payment arrives, and now he is
the servant of another master; instead of love and infatuation, wisdom and temperance
are his bosom's lords; but the beloved has not discovered the change which has taken
place in him, when he asks for a return and recalls to his recollection former sayings and
doings; he believes himself to be speaking to the same person, and the other, not
having the courage to confess the truth, and not knowing how to fulfil the oaths and
promises which he made when under the dominion of folly, and having now grown wise
and temperate, does not want to do as he did or to be as he was before. And so he runs
away and is constrained to be a defaulter; the oyster-shell (In allusion to a game in
which two parties fled or pursued according as an oyster-shell which was thrown into
the air fell with the dark or light side uppermost.) has fallen with the other side
uppermost—he changes pursuit into flight, while the other is compelled to follow him
with passion and imprecation, not knowing that he ought never from the first to have
accepted a demented lover instead of a sensible non-lover; and that in making such a
choice he was giving himself up to a faithless, morose, envious, disagreeable being,
hurtful to his estate, hurtful to his bodily health, and still more hurtful to the cultivation
of his mind, than which there neither is nor ever will be anything more honoured in the
eyes both of gods and men. Consider this, fair youth, and know that in the friendship of
the lover there is no real kindness; he has an appetite and wants to feed upon you:
'As wolves love lambs so lovers love their loves.'
But I told you so, I am speaking in verse, and therefore I had better make an end;
enough.
PHAEDRUS: I thought that you were only half-way and were going to make a similar
speech about all the advantages of accepting the non-lover. Why do you not proceed?
SOCRATES: Does not your simplicity observe that I have got out of dithyrambics into
heroics, when only uttering a censure on the lover? And if I am to add the praises of the
non-lover what will become of me? Do you not perceive that I am already overtaken by
the Nymphs to whom you have mischievously exposed me? And therefore I will only
add that the non-lover has all the advantages in which the lover is accused of being
deficient. And now I will say no more; there has been enough of both of them. Leaving
the tale to its fate, I will cross the river and make the best of my way home, lest a worse
thing be inflicted upon me by you.
PHAEDRUS: Not yet, Socrates; not until the heat of the day has passed; do you not see
that the hour is almost noon? there is the midday sun standing still, as people say, in the
meridian. Let us rather stay and talk over what has been said, and then return in the
cool.
SOCRATES: Your love of discourse, Phaedrus, is superhuman, simply marvellous, and I
do not believe that there is any one of your contemporaries who has either made or in
one way or another has compelled others to make an equal number of speeches. I
would except Simmias the Theban, but all the rest are far behind you. And now I do
verily believe that you have been the cause of another.
PHAEDRUS: That is good news. But what do you mean?
SOCRATES: I mean to say that as I was about to cross the stream the usual sign was
given to me,—that sign which always forbids, but never bids, me to do anything which I
am going to do; and I thought that I heard a voice saying in my ear that I had been
guilty of impiety, and that I must not go away until I had made an atonement. Now I am
a diviner, though not a very good one, but I have enough religion for my own use, as
you might say of a bad writer—his writing is good enough for him; and I am beginning
to see that I was in error. O my friend, how prophetic is the human soul! At the time I
had a sort of misgiving, and, like Ibycus, 'I was troubled; I feared that I might be buying
honour from men at the price of sinning against the gods.' Now I recognize my error.
PHAEDRUS: What error?
SOCRATES: That was a dreadful speech which you brought with you, and you made me
utter one as bad.
PHAEDRUS: How so?
SOCRATES: It was foolish, I say,—to a certain extent, impious; can anything be more
dreadful?
PHAEDRUS: Nothing, if the speech was really such as you describe.
SOCRATES: Well, and is not Eros the son of Aphrodite, and a god?
PHAEDRUS: So men say.
SOCRATES: But that was not acknowledged by Lysias in his speech, nor by you in that
other speech which you by a charm drew from my lips. For if love be, as he surely is, a
divinity, he cannot be evil. Yet this was the error of both the speeches. There was also a
simplicity about them which was refreshing; having no truth or honesty in them,
nevertheless they pretended to be something, hoping to succeed in deceiving the
manikins of earth and gain celebrity among them. Wherefore I must have a purgation.
And I bethink me of an ancient purgation of mythological error which was devised, not
by Homer, for he never had the wit to discover why he was blind, but by Stesichorus,
who was a philosopher and knew the reason why; and therefore, when he lost his eyes,
for that was the penalty which was inflicted upon him for reviling the lovely Helen, he at
once purged himself. And the purgation was a recantation, which began thus,—
'False is that word of mine—the truth is that thou didst not embark in ships, nor ever go
to the walls of Troy;'
and when he had completed his poem, which is called 'the recantation,' immediately his
sight returned to him. Now I will be wiser than either Stesichorus or Homer, in that I am
going to make my recantation for reviling love before I suffer; and this I will attempt, not
as before, veiled and ashamed, but with forehead bold and bare.
PHAEDRUS: Nothing could be more agreeable to me than to hear you say so.
SOCRATES: Only think, my good Phaedrus, what an utter want of delicacy was shown in
the two discourses; I mean, in my own and in that which you recited out of the book.
Would not any one who was himself of a noble and gentle nature, and who loved or
ever had loved a nature like his own, when we tell of the petty causes of lovers'
jealousies, and of their exceeding animosities, and of the injuries which they do to their
beloved, have imagined that our ideas of love were taken from some haunt of sailors to
which good manners were unknown—he would certainly never have admitted the
justice of our censure?
PHAEDRUS: I dare say not, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Therefore, because I blush at the thought of this person, and also because I
am afraid of Love himself, I desire to wash the brine out of my ears with water from the
spring; and I would counsel Lysias not to delay, but to write another discourse, which
shall prove that 'ceteris paribus' the lover ought to be accepted rather than the nonlover.
PHAEDRUS: Be assured that he shall. You shall speak the praises of the lover, and Lysias
shall be compelled by me to write another discourse on the same theme.
SOCRATES: You will be true to your nature in that, and therefore I believe you.
PHAEDRUS: Speak, and fear not.
SOCRATES: But where is the fair youth whom I was addressing before, and who ought to
listen now; lest, if he hear me not, he should accept a non- lover before he knows what
he is doing?
PHAEDRUS: He is close at hand, and always at your service.
SOCRATES: Know then, fair youth, that the former discourse was the word of Phaedrus,
the son of Vain Man, who dwells in the city of Myrrhina (Myrrhinusius). And this which I
am about to utter is the recantation of Stesichorus the son of Godly Man (Euphemus),
who comes from the town of Desire (Himera), and is to the following effect: 'I told a lie
when I said' that the beloved ought to accept the non-lover when he might have the
lover, because the one is sane, and the other mad. It might be so if madness were
simply an evil; but there is also a madness which is a divine gift, and the source of the
chiefest blessings granted to men. For prophecy is a madness, and the prophetess at
Delphi and the priestesses at Dodona when out of their senses have conferred great
benefits on Hellas, both in public and private life, but when in their senses few or none.
And I might also tell you how the Sibyl and other inspired persons have given to many
an one many an intimation of the future which has saved them from falling. But it would
be tedious to speak of what every one knows.
There will be more reason in appealing to the ancient inventors of names (compare
Cratylus), who would never have connected prophecy (mantike) which foretells the
future and is the noblest of arts, with madness (manike), or called them both by the
same name, if they had deemed madness to be a disgrace or dishonour;—they must
have thought that there was an inspired madness which was a noble thing; for the two
words, mantike and manike, are really the same, and the letter tau is only a modern and
tasteless insertion. And this is confirmed by the name which was given by them to the
rational investigation of futurity, whether made by the help of birds or of other signs—
this, for as much as it is an art which supplies from the reasoning faculty mind (nous)
and information (istoria) to human thought (oiesis) they originally termed oionoistike,
but the word has been lately altered and made sonorous by the modern introduction of
the letter Omega (oionoistike and oionistike), and in proportion as prophecy (mantike) is
more perfect and august than augury, both in name and fact, in the same proportion, as
the ancients testify, is madness superior to a sane mind (sophrosune) for the one is only
of human, but the other of divine origin. Again, where plagues and mightiest woes have
bred in certain families, owing to some ancient blood-guiltiness, there madness has
entered with holy prayers and rites, and by inspired utterances found a way of
deliverance for those who are in need; and he who has part in this gift, and is truly
possessed and duly out of his mind, is by the use of purifications and mysteries made
whole and exempt from evil, future as well as present, and has a release from the
calamity which was afflicting him. The third kind is the madness of those who are
possessed by the Muses; which taking hold of a delicate and virgin soul, and there
inspiring frenzy, awakens lyrical and all other numbers; with these adorning the myriad
actions of ancient heroes for the instruction of posterity. But he who, having no touch of
the Muses' madness in his soul, comes to the door and thinks that he will get into the
temple by the help of art—he, I say, and his poetry are not admitted; the sane man
disappears and is nowhere when he enters into rivalry with the madman.
I might tell of many other noble deeds which have sprung from inspired madness. And
therefore, let no one frighten or flutter us by saying that the temperate friend is to be
chosen rather than the inspired, but let him further show that love is not sent by the
gods for any good to lover or beloved; if he can do so we will allow him to carry off the
palm. And we, on our part, will prove in answer to him that the madness of love is the
greatest of heaven's blessings, and the proof shall be one which the wise will receive,
and the witling disbelieve. But first of all, let us view the affections and actions of the
soul divine and human, and try to ascertain the truth about them. The beginning of our
proof is as follows:-
(Translated by Cic. Tus. Quaest.) The soul through all her being is immortal, for that
which is ever in motion is immortal; but that which moves another and is moved by
another, in ceasing to move ceases also to live. Only the self-moving, never leaving self,
never ceases to move, and is the fountain and beginning of motion to all that moves
besides. Now, the beginning is unbegotten, for that which is begotten has a beginning;
but the beginning is begotten of nothing, for if it were begotten of something, then the
begotten would not come from a beginning. But if unbegotten, it must also be
indestructible; for if beginning were destroyed, there could be no beginning out of
anything, nor anything out of a beginning; and all things must have a beginning. And
therefore the self- moving is the beginning of motion; and this can neither be destroyed
nor begotten, else the whole heavens and all creation would collapse and stand still, and
never again have motion or birth. But if the self-moving is proved to be immortal, he
who affirms that self-motion is the very idea and essence of the soul will not be put to
confusion. For the body which is moved from without is soulless; but that which is
moved from within has a soul, for such is the nature of the soul. But if this be true, must
not the soul be the self-moving, and therefore of necessity unbegotten and immortal?
Enough of the soul's immortality.
Of the nature of the soul, though her true form be ever a theme of large and more than
mortal discourse, let me speak briefly, and in a figure. And let the figure be composite—
a pair of winged horses and a charioteer. Now the winged horses and the charioteers of
the gods are all of them noble and of noble descent, but those of other races are mixed;
the human charioteer drives his in a pair; and one of them is noble and of noble breed,
and the other is ignoble and of ignoble breed; and the driving of them of necessity
gives a great deal of trouble to him. I will endeavour to explain to you in what way the
mortal differs from the immortal creature. The soul in her totality has the care of
inanimate being everywhere, and traverses the whole heaven in divers forms
appearing—when perfect and fully winged she soars upward, and orders the whole
world; whereas the imperfect soul, losing her wings and drooping in her flight at last
settles on the solid ground—there, finding a home, she receives an earthly frame which
appears to be self-moved, but is really moved by her power; and this composition of
soul and body is called a living and mortal creature. For immortal no such union can be
reasonably believed to be; although fancy, not having seen nor surely known the nature
of God, may imagine an immortal creature having both a body and also a soul which are
united throughout all time. Let that, however, be as God wills, and be spoken of
acceptably to him. And now let us ask the reason why the soul loses her wings!
The wing is the corporeal element which is most akin to the divine, and which by nature
tends to soar aloft and carry that which gravitates downwards into the upper region,
which is the habitation of the gods. The divine is beauty, wisdom, goodness, and the
like; and by these the wing of the soul is nourished, and grows apace; but when fed
upon evil and foulness and the opposite of good, wastes and falls away. Zeus, the
mighty lord, holding the reins of a winged chariot, leads the way in heaven, ordering all
and taking care of all; and there follows him the array of gods and demi-gods,
marshalled in eleven bands; Hestia alone abides at home in the house of heaven; of the
rest they who are reckoned among the princely twelve march in their appointed order.
They see many blessed sights in the inner heaven, and there are many ways to and fro,
along which the blessed gods are passing, every one doing his own work; he may follow
who will and can, for jealousy has no place in the celestial choir. But when they go to
banquet and festival, then they move up the steep to the top of the vault of heaven. The
chariots of the gods in even poise, obeying the rein, glide rapidly; but the others labour,
for the vicious steed goes heavily, weighing down the charioteer to the earth when his
steed has not been thoroughly trained:—and this is the hour of agony and extremest
conflict for the soul. For the immortals, when they are at the end of their course, go
forth and stand upon the outside of heaven, and the revolution of the spheres carries
them round, and they behold the things beyond. But of the heaven which is above the
heavens, what earthly poet ever did or ever will sing worthily? It is such as I will describe;
for I must dare to speak the truth, when truth is my theme. There abides the very being
with which true knowledge is concerned; the colourless, formless, intangible essence,
visible only to mind, the pilot of the soul. The divine intelligence, being nurtured upon
mind and pure knowledge, and the intelligence of every soul which is capable of
receiving the food proper to it, rejoices at beholding reality, and once more gazing upon
truth, is replenished and made glad, until the revolution of the worlds brings her round
again to the same place. In the revolution she beholds justice, and temperance, and
knowledge absolute, not in the form of generation or of relation, which men call
existence, but knowledge absolute in existence absolute; and beholding the other true
existences in like manner, and feasting upon them, she passes down into the interior of
the heavens and returns home; and there the charioteer putting up his horses at the
stall, gives them ambrosia to eat and nectar to drink.
Such is the life of the gods; but of other souls, that which follows God best and is likest
to him lifts the head of the charioteer into the outer world, and is carried round in the
revolution, troubled indeed by the steeds, and with difficulty beholding true being; while
another only rises and falls, and sees, and again fails to see by reason of the unruliness
of the steeds. The rest of the souls are also longing after the upper world and they all
follow, but not being strong enough they are carried round below the surface, plunging,
treading on one another, each striving to be first; and there is confusion and
perspiration and the extremity of effort; and many of them are lamed or have their
wings broken through the ill- driving of the charioteers; and all of them after a fruitless
toil, not having attained to the mysteries of true being, go away, and feed upon opinion.
The reason why the souls exhibit this exceeding eagerness to behold the plain of truth is
that pasturage is found there, which is suited to the highest part of the soul; and the
wing on which the soul soars is nourished with this. And there is a law of Destiny, that
the soul which attains any vision of truth in company with a god is preserved from harm
until the next period, and if attaining always is always unharmed. But when she is unable
to follow, and fails to behold the truth, and through some ill-hap sinks beneath the
double load of forgetfulness and vice, and her wings fall from her and she drops to the
ground, then the law ordains that this soul shall at her first birth pass, not into any other
animal, but only into man; and the soul which has seen most of truth shall come to the
birth as a philosopher, or artist, or some musical and loving nature; that which has seen
truth in the second degree shall be some righteous king or warrior chief; the soul which
is of the third class shall be a politician, or economist, or trader; the fourth shall be a
lover of gymnastic toils, or a physician; the fifth shall lead the life of a prophet or
hierophant; to the sixth the character of poet or some other imitative artist will be
assigned; to the seventh the life of an artisan or husbandman; to the eighth that of a
sophist or demagogue; to the ninth that of a tyrant—all these are states of probation, in
which he who does righteously improves, and he who does unrighteously, deteriorates
his lot.
Ten thousand years must elapse before the soul of each one can return to the place
from whence she came, for she cannot grow her wings in less; only the soul of a
philosopher, guileless and true, or the soul of a lover, who is not devoid of philosophy,
may acquire wings in the third of the recurring periods of a thousand years; he is
distinguished from the ordinary good man who gains wings in three thousand years:—
and they who choose this life three times in succession have wings given them, and go
away at the end of three thousand years. But the others (The philosopher alone is not
subject to judgment (krisis), for he has never lost the vision of truth.) receive judgment
when they have completed their first life, and after the judgment they go, some of them
to the houses of correction which are under the earth, and are punished; others to some
place in heaven whither they are lightly borne by justice, and there they live in a manner
worthy of the life which they led here when in the form of men. And at the end of the
first thousand years the good souls and also the evil souls both come to draw lots and
choose their second life, and they may take any which they please. The soul of a man
may pass into the life of a beast, or from the beast return again into the man. But the
soul which has never seen the truth will not pass into the human form. For a man must
have intelligence of universals, and be able to proceed from the many particulars of
sense to one conception of reason;—this is the recollection of those things which our
soul once saw while following God—when regardless of that which we now call being
she raised her head up towards the true being. And therefore the mind of the
philosopher alone has wings; and this is just, for he is always, according to the measure
of his abilities, clinging in recollection to those things in which God abides, and in
beholding which He is what He is. And he who employs aright these memories is ever
being initiated into perfect mysteries and alone becomes truly perfect. But, as he forgets
earthly interests and is rapt in the divine, the vulgar deem him mad, and rebuke him;
they do not see that he is inspired.
Thus far I have been speaking of the fourth and last kind of madness, which is imputed
to him who, when he sees the beauty of earth, is transported with the recollection of the
true beauty; he would like to fly away, but he cannot; he is like a bird fluttering and
looking upward and careless of the world below; and he is therefore thought to be mad.
And I have shown this of all inspirations to be the noblest and highest and the offspring
of the highest to him who has or shares in it, and that he who loves the beautiful is
called a lover because he partakes of it. For, as has been already said, every soul of man
has in the way of nature beheld true being; this was the condition of her passing into
the form of man. But all souls do not easily recall the things of the other world; they may
have seen them for a short time only, or they may have been unfortunate in their earthly
lot, and, having had their hearts turned to unrighteousness through some corrupting
influence, they may have lost the memory of the holy things which once they saw. Few
only retain an adequate remembrance of them; and they, when they behold here any
image of that other world, are rapt in amazement; but they are ignorant of what this
rapture means, because they do not clearly perceive. For there is no light of justice or
temperance or any of the higher ideas which are precious to souls in the earthly copies
of them: they are seen through a glass dimly; and there are few who, going to the
images, behold in them the realities, and these only with difficulty. There was a time
when with the rest of the happy band they saw beauty shining in brightness,—we
philosophers following in the train of Zeus, others in company with other gods; and then
we beheld the beatific vision and were initiated into a mystery which may be truly called
most blessed, celebrated by us in our state of innocence, before we had any experience
of evils to come, when we were admitted to the sight of apparitions innocent and simple
and calm and happy, which we beheld shining in pure light, pure ourselves and not yet
enshrined in that living tomb which we carry about, now that we are imprisoned in the
body, like an oyster in his shell. Let me linger over the memory of scenes which have
passed away.
But of beauty, I repeat again that we saw her there shining in company with the celestial
forms; and coming to earth we find her here too, shining in clearness through the
clearest aperture of sense. For sight is the most piercing of our bodily senses; though
not by that is wisdom seen; her loveliness would have been transporting if there had
been a visible image of her, and the other ideas, if they had visible counterparts, would
be equally lovely. But this is the privilege of beauty, that being the loveliest she is also
the most palpable to sight. Now he who is not newly initiated or who has become
corrupted, does not easily rise out of this world to the sight of true beauty in the other;
he looks only at her earthly namesake, and instead of being awed at the sight of her, he
is given over to pleasure, and like a brutish beast he rushes on to enjoy and beget; he
consorts with wantonness, and is not afraid or ashamed of pursuing pleasure in violation
of nature. But he whose initiation is recent, and who has been the spectator of many
glories in the other world, is amazed when he sees any one having a godlike face or
form, which is the expression of divine beauty; and at first a shudder runs through him,
and again the old awe steals over him; then looking upon the face of his beloved as of a
god he reverences him, and if he were not afraid of being thought a downright
madman, he would sacrifice to his beloved as to the image of a god; then while he
gazes on him there is a sort of reaction, and the shudder passes into an unusual heat
and perspiration; for, as he receives the effluence of beauty through the eyes, the wing
moistens and he warms. And as he warms, the parts out of which the wing grew, and
which had been hitherto closed and rigid, and had prevented the wing from shooting
forth, are melted, and as nourishment streams upon him, the lower end of the wing
begins to swell and grow from the root upwards; and the growth extends under the
whole soul—for once the whole was winged. During this process the whole soul is all in
a state of ebullition and effervescence,—which may be compared to the irritation and
uneasiness in the gums at the time of cutting teeth,—bubbles up, and has a feeling of
uneasiness and tickling; but when in like manner the soul is beginning to grow wings,
the beauty of the beloved meets her eye and she receives the sensible warm motion of
particles which flow towards her, therefore called emotion (imeros), and is refreshed and
warmed by them, and then she ceases from her pain with joy. But when she is parted
from her beloved and her moisture fails, then the orifices of the passage out of which
the wing shoots dry up and close, and intercept the germ of the wing; which, being shut
up with the emotion, throbbing as with the pulsations of an artery, pricks the aperture
which is nearest, until at length the entire soul is pierced and maddened and pained,
and at the recollection of beauty is again delighted. And from both of them together the
soul is oppressed at the strangeness of her condition, and is in a great strait and
excitement, and in her madness can neither sleep by night nor abide in her place by day.
And wherever she thinks that she will behold the beautiful one, thither in her desire she
runs. And when she has seen him, and bathed herself in the waters of beauty, her
constraint is loosened, and she is refreshed, and has no more pangs and pains; and this
is the sweetest of all pleasures at the time, and is the reason why the soul of the lover
will never forsake his beautiful one, whom he esteems above all; he has forgotten
mother and brethren and companions, and he thinks nothing of the neglect and loss of
his property; the rules and proprieties of life, on which he formerly prided himself, he
now despises, and is ready to sleep like a servant, wherever he is allowed, as near as he
can to his desired one, who is the object of his worship, and the physician who can
alone assuage the greatness of his pain. And this state, my dear imaginary youth to
whom I am talking, is by men called love, and among the gods has a name at which you,
in your simplicity, may be inclined to mock; there are two lines in the apocryphal
writings of Homer in which the name occurs. One of them is rather outrageous, and not
altogether metrical. They are as follows:
'Mortals call him fluttering love, But the immortals call him winged one, Because the
growing of wings (Or, reading pterothoiton, 'the movement of wings.') is a necessity to
him.'
You may believe this, but not unless you like. At any rate the loves of lovers and their
causes are such as I have described.
Now the lover who is taken to be the attendant of Zeus is better able to bear the
winged god, and can endure a heavier burden; but the attendants and companions of
Ares, when under the influence of love, if they fancy that they have been at all wronged,
are ready to kill and put an end to themselves and their beloved. And he who follows in
the train of any other god, while he is unspoiled and the impression lasts, honours and
imitates him, as far as he is able; and after the manner of his God he behaves in his
intercourse with his beloved and with the rest of the world during the first period of his
earthly existence. Every one chooses his love from the ranks of beauty according to his
character, and this he makes his god, and fashions and adorns as a sort of image which
he is to fall down and worship. The followers of Zeus desire that their beloved should
have a soul like him; and therefore they seek out some one of a philosophical and
imperial nature, and when they have found him and loved him, they do all they can to
confirm such a nature in him, and if they have no experience of such a disposition
hitherto, they learn of any one who can teach them, and themselves follow in the same
way. And they have the less difficulty in finding the nature of their own god in
themselves, because they have been compelled to gaze intensely on him; their
recollection clings to him, and they become possessed of him, and receive from him
their character and disposition, so far as man can participate in God. The qualities of
their god they attribute to the beloved, wherefore they love him all the more, and if, like
the Bacchic Nymphs, they draw inspiration from Zeus, they pour out their own fountain
upon him, wanting to make him as like as possible to their own god. But those who are
the followers of Here seek a royal love, and when they have found him they do just the
same with him; and in like manner the followers of Apollo, and of every other god
walking in the ways of their god, seek a love who is to be made like him whom they
serve, and when they have found him, they themselves imitate their god, and persuade
their love to do the same, and educate him into the manner and nature of the god as far
as they each can; for no feelings of envy or jealousy are entertained by them towards
their beloved, but they do their utmost to create in him the greatest likeness of
themselves and of the god whom they honour. Thus fair and blissful to the beloved is
the desire of the inspired lover, and the initiation of which I speak into the mysteries of
true love, if he be captured by the lover and their purpose is effected. Now the beloved
is taken captive in the following manner:—
As I said at the beginning of this tale, I divided each soul into three— two horses and a
charioteer; and one of the horses was good and the other bad: the division may remain,
but I have not yet explained in what the goodness or badness of either consists, and to
that I will now proceed. The right-hand horse is upright and cleanly made; he has a lofty
neck and an aquiline nose; his colour is white, and his eyes dark; he is a lover of honour
and modesty and temperance, and the follower of true glory; he needs no touch of the
whip, but is guided by word and admonition only. The other is a crooked lumbering
animal, put together anyhow; he has a short thick neck; he is flat-faced and of a dark
colour, with grey eyes and blood-red complexion (Or with grey and blood-shot eyes.);
the mate of insolence and pride, shag-eared and deaf, hardly yielding to whip and spur.
Now when the charioteer beholds the vision of love, and has his whole soul warmed
through sense, and is full of the prickings and ticklings of desire, the obedient steed,
then as always under the government of shame, refrains from leaping on the beloved;
but the other, heedless of the pricks and of the blows of the whip, plunges and runs
away, giving all manner of trouble to his companion and the charioteer, whom he forces
to approach the beloved and to remember the joys of love. They at first indignantly
oppose him and will not be urged on to do terrible and unlawful deeds; but at last,
when he persists in plaguing them, they yield and agree to do as he bids them. And now
they are at the spot and behold the flashing beauty of the beloved; which when the
charioteer sees, his memory is carried to the true beauty, whom he beholds in company
with Modesty like an image placed upon a holy pedestal. He sees her, but he is afraid
and falls backwards in adoration, and by his fall is compelled to pull back the reins with
such violence as to bring both the steeds on their haunches, the one willing and
unresisting, the unruly one very unwilling; and when they have gone back a little, the
one is overcome with shame and wonder, and his whole soul is bathed in perspiration;
the other, when the pain is over which the bridle and the fall had given him, having with
difficulty taken breath, is full of wrath and reproaches, which he heaps upon the
charioteer and his fellow- steed, for want of courage and manhood, declaring that they
have been false to their agreement and guilty of desertion. Again they refuse, and again
he urges them on, and will scarce yield to their prayer that he would wait until another
time. When the appointed hour comes, they make as if they had forgotten, and he
reminds them, fighting and neighing and dragging them on, until at length he on the
same thoughts intent, forces them to draw near again. And when they are near he
stoops his head and puts up his tail, and takes the bit in his teeth and pulls shamelessly.
Then the charioteer is worse off than ever; he falls back like a racer at the barrier, and
with a still more violent wrench drags the bit out of the teeth of the wild steed and
covers his abusive tongue and jaws with blood, and forces his legs and haunches to the
ground and punishes him sorely. And when this has happened several times and the
villain has ceased from his wanton way, he is tamed and humbled, and follows the will of
the charioteer, and when he sees the beautiful one he is ready to die of fear. And from
that time forward the soul of the lover follows the beloved in modesty and holy fear.
And so the beloved who, like a god, has received every true and loyal service from his
lover, not in pretence but in reality, being also himself of a nature friendly to his admirer,
if in former days he has blushed to own his passion and turned away his lover, because
his youthful companions or others slanderously told him that he would be disgraced,
now as years advance, at the appointed age and time, is led to receive him into
communion. For fate which has ordained that there shall be no friendship among the
evil has also ordained that there shall ever be friendship among the good. And the
beloved when he has received him into communion and intimacy, is quite amazed at the
good-will of the lover; he recognises that the inspired friend is worth all other friends or
kinsmen; they have nothing of friendship in them worthy to be compared with his. And
when this feeling continues and he is nearer to him and embraces him, in gymnastic
exercises and at other times of meeting, then the fountain of that stream, which Zeus
when he was in love with Ganymede named Desire, overflows upon the lover, and some
enters into his soul, and some when he is filled flows out again; and as a breeze or an
echo rebounds from the smooth rocks and returns whence it came, so does the stream
of beauty, passing through the eyes which are the windows of the soul, come back to
the beautiful one; there arriving and quickening the passages of the wings, watering
them and inclining them to grow, and filling the soul of the beloved also with love. And
thus he loves, but he knows not what; he does not understand and cannot explain his
own state; he appears to have caught the infection of blindness from another; the lover
is his mirror in whom he is beholding himself, but he is not aware of this. When he is
with the lover, both cease from their pain, but when he is away then he longs as he is
longed for, and has love's image, love for love (Anteros) lodging in his breast, which he
calls and believes to be not love but friendship only, and his desire is as the desire of the
other, but weaker; he wants to see him, touch him, kiss him, embrace him, and probably
not long afterwards his desire is accomplished. When they meet, the wanton steed of
the lover has a word to say to the charioteer; he would like to have a little pleasure in
return for many pains, but the wanton steed of the beloved says not a word, for he is
bursting with passion which he understands not;—he throws his arms round the lover
and embraces him as his dearest friend; and, when they are side by side, he is not in a
state in which he can refuse the lover anything, if he ask him; although his fellow-steed
and the charioteer oppose him with the arguments of shame and reason. After this their
happiness depends upon their self-control; if the better elements of the mind which
lead to order and philosophy prevail, then they pass their life here in happiness and
harmony—masters of themselves and orderly—enslaving the vicious and emancipating
the virtuous elements of the soul; and when the end comes, they are light and winged
for flight, having conquered in one of the three heavenly or truly Olympian victories; nor
can human discipline or divine inspiration confer any greater blessing on man than this.
If, on the other hand, they leave philosophy and lead the lower life of ambition, then
probably, after wine or in some other careless hour, the two wanton animals take the
two souls when off their guard and bring them together, and they accomplish that
desire of their hearts which to the many is bliss; and this having once enjoyed they
continue to enjoy, yet rarely because they have not the approval of the whole soul. They
too are dear, but not so dear to one another as the others, either at the time of their
love or afterwards. They consider that they have given and taken from each other the
most sacred pledges, and they may not break them and fall into enmity. At last they
pass out of the body, unwinged, but eager to soar, and thus obtain no mean reward of
love and madness. For those who have once begun the heavenward pilgrimage may not
go down again to darkness and the journey beneath the earth, but they live in light
always; happy companions in their pilgrimage, and when the time comes at which they
receive their wings they have the same plumage because of their love.
Thus great are the heavenly blessings which the friendship of a lover will confer upon
you, my youth. Whereas the attachment of the non-lover, which is alloyed with a worldly
prudence and has worldly and niggardly ways of doling out benefits, will breed in your
soul those vulgar qualities which the populace applaud, will send you bowling round the
earth during a period of nine thousand years, and leave you a fool in the world below.
And thus, dear Eros, I have made and paid my recantation, as well and as fairly as I
could; more especially in the matter of the poetical figures which I was compelled to
use, because Phaedrus would have them. And now forgive the past and accept the
present, and be gracious and merciful to me, and do not in thine anger deprive me of
sight, or take from me the art of love which thou hast given me, but grant that I may be
yet more esteemed in the eyes of the fair. And if Phaedrus or I myself said anything rude
in our first speeches, blame Lysias, who is the father of the brat, and let us have no more
of his progeny; bid him study philosophy, like his brother Polemarchus; and then his
lover Phaedrus will no longer halt between two opinions, but will dedicate himself
wholly to love and to philosophical discourses.
PHAEDRUS: I join in the prayer, Socrates, and say with you, if this be for my good, may
your words come to pass. But why did you make your second oration so much finer than
the first? I wonder why. And I begin to be afraid that I shall lose conceit of Lysias, and
that he will appear tame in comparison, even if he be willing to put another as fine and
as long as yours into the field, which I doubt. For quite lately one of your politicians was
abusing him on this very account; and called him a 'speech writer' again and again. So
that a feeling of pride may probably induce him to give up writing speeches.
SOCRATES: What a very amusing notion! But I think, my young man, that you are much
mistaken in your friend if you imagine that he is frightened at a little noise; and,
possibly, you think that his assailant was in earnest?
PHAEDRUS: I thought, Socrates, that he was. And you are aware that the greatest and
most influential statesmen are ashamed of writing speeches and leaving them in a
written form, lest they should be called Sophists by posterity.
SOCRATES: You seem to be unconscious, Phaedrus, that the 'sweet elbow' (A proverb,
like 'the grapes are sour,' applied to pleasures which cannot be had, meaning sweet
things which, like the elbow, are out of the reach of the mouth. The promised pleasure
turns out to be a long and tedious affair.) of the proverb is really the long arm of the
Nile. And you appear to be equally unaware of the fact that this sweet elbow of theirs is
also a long arm. For there is nothing of which our great politicians are so fond as of
writing speeches and bequeathing them to posterity. And they add their admirers'
names at the top of the writing, out of gratitude to them.
PHAEDRUS: What do you mean? I do not understand.
SOCRATES: Why, do you not know that when a politician writes, he begins with the
names of his approvers?
PHAEDRUS: How so?
SOCRATES: Why, he begins in this manner: 'Be it enacted by the senate, the people, or
both, on the motion of a certain person,' who is our author; and so putting on a serious
face, he proceeds to display his own wisdom to his admirers in what is often a long and
tedious composition. Now what is that sort of thing but a regular piece of authorship?
PHAEDRUS: True.
SOCRATES: And if the law is finally approved, then the author leaves the theatre in high
delight; but if the law is rejected and he is done out of his speech-making, and not
thought good enough to write, then he and his party are in mourning.
PHAEDRUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: So far are they from despising, or rather so highly do they value the practice
of writing.
PHAEDRUS: No doubt.
SOCRATES: And when the king or orator has the power, as Lycurgus or Solon or Darius
had, of attaining an immortality or authorship in a state, is he not thought by posterity,
when they see his compositions, and does he not think himself, while he is yet alive, to
be a god?
PHAEDRUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then do you think that any one of this class, however ill- disposed, would
reproach Lysias with being an author?
PHAEDRUS: Not upon your view; for according to you he would be casting a slur upon
his own favourite pursuit.
SOCRATES: Any one may see that there is no disgrace in the mere fact of writing.
PHAEDRUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: The disgrace begins when a man writes not well, but badly.
PHAEDRUS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: And what is well and what is badly—need we ask Lysias, or any other poet or
orator, who ever wrote or will write either a political or any other work, in metre or out
of metre, poet or prose writer, to teach us this?
PHAEDRUS: Need we? For what should a man live if not for the pleasures of discourse?
Surely not for the sake of bodily pleasures, which almost always have previous pain as a
condition of them, and therefore are rightly called slavish.
SOCRATES: There is time enough. And I believe that the grasshoppers chirruping after
their manner in the heat of the sun over our heads are talking to one another and
looking down at us. What would they say if they saw that we, like the many, are not
conversing, but slumbering at mid-day, lulled by their voices, too indolent to think?
Would they not have a right to laugh at us? They might imagine that we were slaves,
who, coming to rest at a place of resort of theirs, like sheep lie asleep at noon around
the well. But if they see us discoursing, and like Odysseus sailing past them, deaf to their
siren voices, they may perhaps, out of respect, give us of the gifts which they receive
from the gods that they may impart them to men.
PHAEDRUS: What gifts do you mean? I never heard of any.
SOCRATES: A lover of music like yourself ought surely to have heard the story of the
grasshoppers, who are said to have been human beings in an age before the Muses.
And when the Muses came and song appeared they were ravished with delight; and
singing always, never thought of eating and drinking, until at last in their forgetfulness
they died. And now they live again in the grasshoppers; and this is the return which the
Muses make to them—they neither hunger, nor thirst, but from the hour of their birth
are always singing, and never eating or drinking; and when they die they go and inform
the Muses in heaven who honours them on earth. They win the love of Terpsichore for
the dancers by their report of them; of Erato for the lovers, and of the other Muses for
those who do them honour, according to the several ways of honouring them;—of
Calliope the eldest Muse and of Urania who is next to her, for the philosophers, of
whose music the grasshoppers make report to them; for these are the Muses who are
chiefly concerned with heaven and thought, divine as well as human, and they have the
sweetest utterance. For many reasons, then, we ought always to talk and not to sleep at
mid-day.
PHAEDRUS: Let us talk.
SOCRATES: Shall we discuss the rules of writing and speech as we were proposing?
PHAEDRUS: Very good.
SOCRATES: In good speaking should not the mind of the speaker know the truth of the
matter about which he is going to speak?
PHAEDRUS: And yet, Socrates, I have heard that he who would be an orator has nothing
to do with true justice, but only with that which is likely to be approved by the many
who sit in judgment; nor with the truly good or honourable, but only with opinion about
them, and that from opinion comes persuasion, and not from the truth.
SOCRATES: The words of the wise are not to be set aside; for there is probably
something in them; and therefore the meaning of this saying is not hastily to be
dismissed.
PHAEDRUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: Let us put the matter thus:—Suppose that I persuaded you to buy a horse
and go to the wars. Neither of us knew what a horse was like, but I knew that you
believed a horse to be of tame animals the one which has the longest ears.
PHAEDRUS: That would be ridiculous.
SOCRATES: There is something more ridiculous coming:—Suppose, further, that in sober
earnest I, having persuaded you of this, went and composed a speech in honour of an
ass, whom I entitled a horse beginning: 'A noble animal and a most useful possession,
especially in war, and you may get on his back and fight, and he will carry baggage or
anything.'
PHAEDRUS: How ridiculous!
SOCRATES: Ridiculous! Yes; but is not even a ridiculous friend better than a cunning
enemy?
PHAEDRUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And when the orator instead of putting an ass in the place of a horse, puts
good for evil, being himself as ignorant of their true nature as the city on which he
imposes is ignorant; and having studied the notions of the multitude, falsely persuades
them not about 'the shadow of an ass,' which he confounds with a horse, but about
good which he confounds with evil,—what will be the harvest which rhetoric will be
likely to gather after the sowing of that seed?
PHAEDRUS: The reverse of good.
SOCRATES: But perhaps rhetoric has been getting too roughly handled by us, and she
might answer: What amazing nonsense you are talking! As if I forced any man to learn
to speak in ignorance of the truth! Whatever my advice may be worth, I should have told
him to arrive at the truth first, and then come to me. At the same time I boldly assert
that mere knowledge of the truth will not give you the art of persuasion.
PHAEDRUS: There is reason in the lady's defence of herself.
SOCRATES: Quite true; if only the other arguments which remain to be brought up bear
her witness that she is an art at all. But I seem to hear them arraying themselves on the
opposite side, declaring that she speaks falsely, and that rhetoric is a mere routine and
trick, not an art. Lo! a Spartan appears, and says that there never is nor ever will be a real
art of speaking which is divorced from the truth.
PHAEDRUS: And what are these arguments, Socrates? Bring them out that we may
examine them.
SOCRATES: Come out, fair children, and convince Phaedrus, who is the father of similar
beauties, that he will never be able to speak about anything as he ought to speak unless
he have a knowledge of philosophy. And let Phaedrus answer you.
PHAEDRUS: Put the question.
SOCRATES: Is not rhetoric, taken generally, a universal art of enchanting the mind by
arguments; which is practised not only in courts and public assemblies, but in private
houses also, having to do with all matters, great as well as small, good and bad alike,
and is in all equally right, and equally to be esteemed—that is what you have heard?
PHAEDRUS: Nay, not exactly that; I should say rather that I have heard the art confined
to speaking and writing in lawsuits, and to speaking in public assemblies—not extended
farther.
SOCRATES: Then I suppose that you have only heard of the rhetoric of Nestor and
Odysseus, which they composed in their leisure hours when at Troy, and never of the
rhetoric of Palamedes?
PHAEDRUS: No more than of Nestor and Odysseus, unless Gorgias is your Nestor, and
Thrasymachus or Theodorus your Odysseus.
SOCRATES: Perhaps that is my meaning. But let us leave them. And do you tell me,
instead, what are plaintiff and defendant doing in a law court— are they not
contending?
PHAEDRUS: Exactly so.
SOCRATES: About the just and unjust—that is the matter in dispute?
PHAEDRUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And a professor of the art will make the same thing appear to the same
persons to be at one time just, at another time, if he is so inclined, to be unjust?
PHAEDRUS: Exactly.
SOCRATES: And when he speaks in the assembly, he will make the same things seem
good to the city at one time, and at another time the reverse of good?
PHAEDRUS: That is true.
SOCRATES: Have we not heard of the Eleatic Palamedes (Zeno), who has an art of
speaking by which he makes the same things appear to his hearers like and unlike, one
and many, at rest and in motion?
PHAEDRUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: The art of disputation, then, is not confined to the courts and the assembly,
but is one and the same in every use of language; this is the art, if there be such an art,
which is able to find a likeness of everything to which a likeness can be found, and
draws into the light of day the likenesses and disguises which are used by others?
PHAEDRUS: How do you mean?
SOCRATES: Let me put the matter thus: When will there be more chance of deception—
when the difference is large or small?
PHAEDRUS: When the difference is small.
SOCRATES: And you will be less likely to be discovered in passing by degrees into the
other extreme than when you go all at once?
PHAEDRUS: Of course.
SOCRATES: He, then, who would deceive others, and not be deceived, must exactly
know the real likenesses and differences of things?
PHAEDRUS: He must.
SOCRATES: And if he is ignorant of the true nature of any subject, how can he detect the
greater or less degree of likeness in other things to that of which by the hypothesis he is
ignorant?
PHAEDRUS: He cannot.
SOCRATES: And when men are deceived and their notions are at variance with realities,
it is clear that the error slips in through resemblances?
PHAEDRUS: Yes, that is the way.
SOCRATES: Then he who would be a master of the art must understand the real nature
of everything; or he will never know either how to make the gradual departure from
truth into the opposite of truth which is effected by the help of resemblances, or how to
avoid it?
PHAEDRUS: He will not.
SOCRATES: He then, who being ignorant of the truth aims at appearances, will only
attain an art of rhetoric which is ridiculous and is not an art at all?
PHAEDRUS: That may be expected.
SOCRATES: Shall I propose that we look for examples of art and want of art, according
to our notion of them, in the speech of Lysias which you have in your hand, and in my
own speech?
PHAEDRUS: Nothing could be better; and indeed I think that our previous argument has
been too abstract and wanting in illustrations.
SOCRATES: Yes; and the two speeches happen to afford a very good example of the way
in which the speaker who knows the truth may, without any serious purpose, steal away
the hearts of his hearers. This piece of good- fortune I attribute to the local deities; and,
perhaps, the prophets of the Muses who are singing over our heads may have imparted
their inspiration to me. For I do not imagine that I have any rhetorical art of my own.
PHAEDRUS: Granted; if you will only please to get on.
SOCRATES: Suppose that you read me the first words of Lysias' speech.
PHAEDRUS: 'You know how matters stand with me, and how, as I conceive, they might
be arranged for our common interest; and I maintain that I ought not to fail in my suit,
because I am not your lover. For lovers repent—'
SOCRATES: Enough:—Now, shall I point out the rhetorical error of those words?
PHAEDRUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Every one is aware that about some things we are agreed, whereas about
other things we differ.
PHAEDRUS: I think that I understand you; but will you explain yourself?
SOCRATES: When any one speaks of iron and silver, is not the same thing present in the
minds of all?
PHAEDRUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: But when any one speaks of justice and goodness we part company and are
at odds with one another and with ourselves?
PHAEDRUS: Precisely.
SOCRATES: Then in some things we agree, but not in others?
PHAEDRUS: That is true.
SOCRATES: In which are we more likely to be deceived, and in which has rhetoric the
greater power?
PHAEDRUS: Clearly, in the uncertain class.
SOCRATES: Then the rhetorician ought to make a regular division, and acquire a distinct
notion of both classes, as well of that in which the many err, as of that in which they do
not err?
PHAEDRUS: He who made such a distinction would have an excellent principle.
SOCRATES: Yes; and in the next place he must have a keen eye for the observation of
particulars in speaking, and not make a mistake about the class to which they are to be
referred.
PHAEDRUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Now to which class does love belong—to the debatable or to the
undisputed class?
PHAEDRUS: To the debatable, clearly; for if not, do you think that love would have
allowed you to say as you did, that he is an evil both to the lover and the beloved, and
also the greatest possible good?
SOCRATES: Capital. But will you tell me whether I defined love at the beginning of my
speech? for, having been in an ecstasy, I cannot well remember.
PHAEDRUS: Yes, indeed; that you did, and no mistake.
SOCRATES: Then I perceive that the Nymphs of Achelous and Pan the son of Hermes,
who inspired me, were far better rhetoricians than Lysias the son of Cephalus. Alas! how
inferior to them he is! But perhaps I am mistaken; and Lysias at the commencement of
his lover's speech did insist on our supposing love to be something or other which he
fancied him to be, and according to this model he fashioned and framed the remainder
of his discourse. Suppose we read his beginning over again:
PHAEDRUS: If you please; but you will not find what you want.
SOCRATES: Read, that I may have his exact words.
PHAEDRUS: 'You know how matters stand with me, and how, as I conceive, they might
be arranged for our common interest; and I maintain I ought not to fail in my suit
because I am not your lover, for lovers repent of the kindnesses which they have shown,
when their love is over.'
SOCRATES: Here he appears to have done just the reverse of what he ought; for he has
begun at the end, and is swimming on his back through the flood to the place of
starting. His address to the fair youth begins where the lover would have ended. Am I
not right, sweet Phaedrus?
PHAEDRUS: Yes, indeed, Socrates; he does begin at the end.
SOCRATES: Then as to the other topics—are they not thrown down anyhow? Is there
any principle in them? Why should the next topic follow next in order, or any other
topic? I cannot help fancying in my ignorance that he wrote off boldly just what came
into his head, but I dare say that you would recognize a rhetorical necessity in the
succession of the several parts of the composition?
PHAEDRUS: You have too good an opinion of me if you think that I have any such
insight into his principles of composition.
SOCRATES: At any rate, you will allow that every discourse ought to be a living creature,
having a body of its own and a head and feet; there should be a middle, beginning, and
end, adapted to one another and to the whole?
PHAEDRUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Can this be said of the discourse of Lysias? See whether you can find any
more connexion in his words than in the epitaph which is said by some to have been
inscribed on the grave of Midas the Phrygian.
PHAEDRUS: What is there remarkable in the epitaph?
SOCRATES: It is as follows:—
'I am a maiden of bronze and lie on the tomb of Midas; So long as water flows and tall
trees grow, So long here on this spot by his sad tomb abiding, I shall declare to passersby
that Midas sleeps below.'
Now in this rhyme whether a line comes first or comes last, as you will perceive, makes
no difference.
PHAEDRUS: You are making fun of that oration of ours.
SOCRATES: Well, I will say no more about your friend's speech lest I should give offence
to you; although I think that it might furnish many other examples of what a man ought
rather to avoid. But I will proceed to the other speech, which, as I think, is also
suggestive to students of rhetoric.
PHAEDRUS: In what way?
SOCRATES: The two speeches, as you may remember, were unlike; the one argued that
the lover and the other that the non-lover ought to be accepted.
PHAEDRUS: And right manfully.
SOCRATES: You should rather say 'madly;' and madness was the argument of them, for,
as I said, 'love is a madness.'
PHAEDRUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And of madness there were two kinds; one produced by human infirmity,
the other was a divine release of the soul from the yoke of custom and convention.
PHAEDRUS: True.
SOCRATES: The divine madness was subdivided into four kinds, prophetic, initiatory,
poetic, erotic, having four gods presiding over them; the first was the inspiration of
Apollo, the second that of Dionysus, the third that of the Muses, the fourth that of
Aphrodite and Eros. In the description of the last kind of madness, which was also said
to be the best, we spoke of the affection of love in a figure, into which we introduced a
tolerably credible and possibly true though partly erring myth, which was also a hymn in
honour of Love, who is your lord and also mine, Phaedrus, and the guardian of fair
children, and to him we sung the hymn in measured and solemn strain.
PHAEDRUS: I know that I had great pleasure in listening to you.
SOCRATES: Let us take this instance and note how the transition was made from blame
to praise.
PHAEDRUS: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: I mean to say that the composition was mostly playful. Yet in these chance
fancies of the hour were involved two principles of which we should be too glad to have
a clearer description if art could give us one.
PHAEDRUS: What are they?
SOCRATES: First, the comprehension of scattered particulars in one idea; as in our
definition of love, which whether true or false certainly gave clearness and consistency
to the discourse, the speaker should define his several notions and so make his meaning
clear.
PHAEDRUS: What is the other principle, Socrates?
SOCRATES: The second principle is that of division into species according to the natural
formation, where the joint is, not breaking any part as a bad carver might. Just as our
two discourses, alike assumed, first of all, a single form of unreason; and then, as the
body which from being one becomes double and may be divided into a left side and
right side, each having parts right and left of the same name—after this manner the
speaker proceeded to divide the parts of the left side and did not desist until he found
in them an evil or left-handed love which he justly reviled; and the other discourse
leading us to the madness which lay on the right side, found another love, also having
the same name, but divine, which the speaker held up before us and applauded and
affirmed to be the author of the greatest benefits.
PHAEDRUS: Most true.
SOCRATES: I am myself a great lover of these processes of division and generalization;
they help me to speak and to think. And if I find any man who is able to see 'a One and
Many' in nature, him I follow, and 'walk in his footsteps as if he were a god.' And those
who have this art, I have hitherto been in the habit of calling dialecticians; but God
knows whether the name is right or not. And I should like to know what name you
would give to your or to Lysias' disciples, and whether this may not be that famous art
of rhetoric which Thrasymachus and others teach and practise? Skilful speakers they are,
and impart their skill to any who is willing to make kings of them and to bring gifts to
them.
PHAEDRUS: Yes, they are royal men; but their art is not the same with the art of those
whom you call, and rightly, in my opinion, dialecticians:— Still we are in the dark about
rhetoric.
SOCRATES: What do you mean? The remains of it, if there be anything remaining which
can be brought under rules of art, must be a fine thing; and, at any rate, is not to be
despised by you and me. But how much is left?
PHAEDRUS: There is a great deal surely to be found in books of rhetoric?
SOCRATES: Yes; thank you for reminding me:—There is the exordium, showing how the
speech should begin, if I remember rightly; that is what you mean— the niceties of the
art?
PHAEDRUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then follows the statement of facts, and upon that witnesses; thirdly, proofs;
fourthly, probabilities are to come; the great Byzantian word-maker also speaks, if I am
not mistaken, of confirmation and further confirmation.
PHAEDRUS: You mean the excellent Theodorus.
SOCRATES: Yes; and he tells how refutation or further refutation is to be managed,
whether in accusation or defence. I ought also to mention the illustrious Parian, Evenus,
who first invented insinuations and indirect praises; and also indirect censures, which
according to some he put into verse to help the memory. But shall I 'to dumb
forgetfulness consign' Tisias and Gorgias, who are not ignorant that probability is
superior to truth, and who by force of argument make the little appear great and the
great little, disguise the new in old fashions and the old in new fashions, and have
discovered forms for everything, either short or going on to infinity. I remember
Prodicus laughing when I told him of this; he said that he had himself discovered the
true rule of art, which was to be neither long nor short, but of a convenient length.
PHAEDRUS: Well done, Prodicus!
SOCRATES: Then there is Hippias the Elean stranger, who probably agrees with him.
PHAEDRUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And there is also Polus, who has treasuries of diplasiology, and gnomology,
and eikonology, and who teaches in them the names of which Licymnius made him a
present; they were to give a polish.
PHAEDRUS: Had not Protagoras something of the same sort?
SOCRATES: Yes, rules of correct diction and many other fine precepts; for the 'sorrows of
a poor old man,' or any other pathetic case, no one is better than the Chalcedonian
giant; he can put a whole company of people into a passion and out of one again by his
mighty magic, and is first-rate at inventing or disposing of any sort of calumny on any
grounds or none. All of them agree in asserting that a speech should end in a
recapitulation, though they do not all agree to use the same word.
PHAEDRUS: You mean that there should be a summing up of the arguments in order to
remind the hearers of them.
SOCRATES: I have now said all that I have to say of the art of rhetoric: have you anything
to add?
PHAEDRUS: Not much; nothing very important.
SOCRATES: Leave the unimportant and let us bring the really important question into
the light of day, which is: What power has this art of rhetoric, and when?
PHAEDRUS: A very great power in public meetings.
SOCRATES: It has. But I should like to know whether you have the same feeling as I have
about the rhetoricians? To me there seem to be a great many holes in their web.
PHAEDRUS: Give an example.
SOCRATES: I will. Suppose a person to come to your friend Eryximachus, or to his father
Acumenus, and to say to him: 'I know how to apply drugs which shall have either a
heating or a cooling effect, and I can give a vomit and also a purge, and all that sort of
thing; and knowing all this, as I do, I claim to be a physician and to make physicians by
imparting this knowledge to others,'—what do you suppose that they would say?
PHAEDRUS: They would be sure to ask him whether he knew 'to whom' he would give
his medicines, and 'when,' and 'how much.'
SOCRATES: And suppose that he were to reply: 'No; I know nothing of all that; I expect
the patient who consults me to be able to do these things for himself'?
PHAEDRUS: They would say in reply that he is a madman or a pedant who fancies that
he is a physician because he has read something in a book, or has stumbled on a
prescription or two, although he has no real understanding of the art of medicine.
SOCRATES: And suppose a person were to come to Sophocles or Euripides and say that
he knows how to make a very long speech about a small matter, and a short speech
about a great matter, and also a sorrowful speech, or a terrible, or threatening speech,
or any other kind of speech, and in teaching this fancies that he is teaching the art of
tragedy—?
PHAEDRUS: They too would surely laugh at him if he fancies that tragedy is anything but
the arranging of these elements in a manner which will be suitable to one another and
to the whole.
SOCRATES: But I do not suppose that they would be rude or abusive to him: Would they
not treat him as a musician a man who thinks that he is a harmonist because he knows
how to pitch the highest and lowest note; happening to meet such an one he would not
say to him savagely, 'Fool, you are mad!' But like a musician, in a gentle and harmonious
tone of voice, he would answer: 'My good friend, he who would be a harmonist must
certainly know this, and yet he may understand nothing of harmony if he has not got
beyond your stage of knowledge, for you only know the preliminaries of harmony and
not harmony itself.'
PHAEDRUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: And will not Sophocles say to the display of the would-be tragedian, that
this is not tragedy but the preliminaries of tragedy? and will not Acumenus say the same
of medicine to the would-be physician?
PHAEDRUS: Quite true.
SOCRATES: And if Adrastus the mellifluous or Pericles heard of these wonderful arts,
brachylogies and eikonologies and all the hard names which we have been
endeavouring to draw into the light of day, what would they say? Instead of losing
temper and applying uncomplimentary epithets, as you and I have been doing, to the
authors of such an imaginary art, their superior wisdom would rather censure us, as well
as them. 'Have a little patience, Phaedrus and Socrates, they would say; you should not
be in such a passion with those who from some want of dialectical skill are unable to
define the nature of rhetoric, and consequently suppose that they have found the art in
the preliminary conditions of it, and when these have been taught by them to others,
fancy that the whole art of rhetoric has been taught by them; but as to using the several
instruments of the art effectively, or making the composition a whole,—an application of
it such as this is they regard as an easy thing which their disciples may make for
themselves.'
PHAEDRUS: I quite admit, Socrates, that the art of rhetoric which these men teach and
of which they write is such as you describe—there I agree with you. But I still want to
know where and how the true art of rhetoric and persuasion is to be acquired.
SOCRATES: The perfection which is required of the finished orator is, or rather must be,
like the perfection of anything else; partly given by nature, but may also be assisted by
art. If you have the natural power and add to it knowledge and practice, you will be a
distinguished speaker; if you fall short in either of these, you will be to that extent
defective. But the art, as far as there is an art, of rhetoric does not lie in the direction of
Lysias or Thrasymachus.
PHAEDRUS: In what direction then?
SOCRATES: I conceive Pericles to have been the most accomplished of rhetoricians.
PHAEDRUS: What of that?
SOCRATES: All the great arts require discussion and high speculation about the truths of
nature; hence come loftiness of thought and completeness of execution. And this, as I
conceive, was the quality which, in addition to his natural gifts, Pericles acquired from
his intercourse with Anaxagoras whom he happened to know. He was thus imbued with
the higher philosophy, and attained the knowledge of Mind and the negative of Mind,
which were favourite themes of Anaxagoras, and applied what suited his purpose to the
art of speaking.
PHAEDRUS: Explain.
SOCRATES: Rhetoric is like medicine.
PHAEDRUS: How so?
SOCRATES: Why, because medicine has to define the nature of the body and rhetoric of
the soul—if we would proceed, not empirically but scientifically, in the one case to
impart health and strength by giving medicine and food, in the other to implant the
conviction or virtue which you desire, by the right application of words and training.
PHAEDRUS: There, Socrates, I suspect that you are right.
SOCRATES: And do you think that you can know the nature of the soul intelligently
without knowing the nature of the whole?
PHAEDRUS: Hippocrates the Asclepiad says that the nature even of the body can only
be understood as a whole. (Compare Charmides.)
SOCRATES: Yes, friend, and he was right:—still, we ought not to be content with the
name of Hippocrates, but to examine and see whether his argument agrees with his
conception of nature.
PHAEDRUS: I agree.
SOCRATES: Then consider what truth as well as Hippocrates says about this or about any
other nature. Ought we not to consider first whether that which we wish to learn and to
teach is a simple or multiform thing, and if simple, then to enquire what power it has of
acting or being acted upon in relation to other things, and if multiform, then to number
the forms; and see first in the case of one of them, and then in the case of all of them,
what is that power of acting or being acted upon which makes each and all of them to
be what they are?
PHAEDRUS: You may very likely be right, Socrates.
SOCRATES: The method which proceeds without analysis is like the groping of a blind
man. Yet, surely, he who is an artist ought not to admit of a comparison with the blind,
or deaf. The rhetorician, who teaches his pupil to speak scientifically, will particularly set
forth the nature of that being to which he addresses his speeches; and this, I conceive,
to be the soul.
PHAEDRUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: His whole effort is directed to the soul; for in that he seeks to produce
conviction.
PHAEDRUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then clearly, Thrasymachus or any one else who teaches rhetoric in earnest
will give an exact description of the nature of the soul; which will enable us to see
whether she be single and same, or, like the body, multiform. That is what we should call
showing the nature of the soul.
PHAEDRUS: Exactly.
SOCRATES: He will explain, secondly, the mode in which she acts or is acted upon.
PHAEDRUS: True.
SOCRATES: Thirdly, having classified men and speeches, and their kinds and affections,
and adapted them to one another, he will tell the reasons of his arrangement, and show
why one soul is persuaded by a particular form of argument, and another not.
PHAEDRUS: You have hit upon a very good way.
SOCRATES: Yes, that is the true and only way in which any subject can be set forth or
treated by rules of art, whether in speaking or writing. But the writers of the present day,
at whose feet you have sat, craftily conceal the nature of the soul which they know quite
well. Nor, until they adopt our method of reading and writing, can we admit that they
write by rules of art?
PHAEDRUS: What is our method?
SOCRATES: I cannot give you the exact details; but I should like to tell you generally, as
far as is in my power, how a man ought to proceed according to rules of art.
PHAEDRUS: Let me hear.
SOCRATES: Oratory is the art of enchanting the soul, and therefore he who would be an
orator has to learn the differences of human souls—they are so many and of such a
nature, and from them come the differences between man and man. Having proceeded
thus far in his analysis, he will next divide speeches into their different classes:—'Such
and such persons,' he will say, are affected by this or that kind of speech in this or that
way,' and he will tell you why. The pupil must have a good theoretical notion of them
first, and then he must have experience of them in actual life, and be able to follow
them with all his senses about him, or he will never get beyond the precepts of his
masters. But when he understands what persons are persuaded by what arguments, and
sees the person about whom he was speaking in the abstract actually before him, and
knows that it is he, and can say to himself, 'This is the man or this is the character who
ought to have a certain argument applied to him in order to convince him of a certain
opinion;'—he who knows all this, and knows also when he should speak and when he
should refrain, and when he should use pithy sayings, pathetic appeals, sensational
effects, and all the other modes of speech which he has learned;—when, I say, he knows
the times and seasons of all these things, then, and not till then, he is a perfect master of
his art; but if he fail in any of these points, whether in speaking or teaching or writing
them, and yet declares that he speaks by rules of art, he who says 'I don't believe you'
has the better of him. Well, the teacher will say, is this, Phaedrus and Socrates, your
account of the so-called art of rhetoric, or am I to look for another?
PHAEDRUS: He must take this, Socrates, for there is no possibility of another, and yet
the creation of such an art is not easy.
SOCRATES: Very true; and therefore let us consider this matter in every light, and see
whether we cannot find a shorter and easier road; there is no use in taking a long rough
roundabout way if there be a shorter and easier one. And I wish that you would try and
remember whether you have heard from Lysias or any one else anything which might be
of service to us.
PHAEDRUS: If trying would avail, then I might; but at the moment I can think of nothing.
SOCRATES: Suppose I tell you something which somebody who knows told me.
PHAEDRUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: May not 'the wolf,' as the proverb says, 'claim a hearing'?
PHAEDRUS: Do you say what can be said for him.
SOCRATES: He will argue that there is no use in putting a solemn face on these matters,
or in going round and round, until you arrive at first principles; for, as I said at first, when
the question is of justice and good, or is a question in which men are concerned who
are just and good, either by nature or habit, he who would be a skilful rhetorician has no
need of truth—for that in courts of law men literally care nothing about truth, but only
about conviction: and this is based on probability, to which he who would be a skilful
orator should therefore give his whole attention. And they say also that there are cases
in which the actual facts, if they are improbable, ought to be withheld, and only the
probabilities should be told either in accusation or defence, and that always in speaking,
the orator should keep probability in view, and say good-bye to the truth. And the
observance of this principle throughout a speech furnishes the whole art.
PHAEDRUS: That is what the professors of rhetoric do actually say, Socrates. I have not
forgotten that we have quite briefly touched upon this matter already; with them the
point is all-important.
SOCRATES: I dare say that you are familiar with Tisias. Does he not define probability to
be that which the many think?
PHAEDRUS: Certainly, he does.
SOCRATES: I believe that he has a clever and ingenious case of this sort: —He supposes
a feeble and valiant man to have assaulted a strong and cowardly one, and to have
robbed him of his coat or of something or other; he is brought into court, and then
Tisias says that both parties should tell lies: the coward should say that he was assaulted
by more men than one; the other should prove that they were alone, and should argue
thus: 'How could a weak man like me have assaulted a strong man like him?' The
complainant will not like to confess his own cowardice, and will therefore invent some
other lie which his adversary will thus gain an opportunity of refuting. And there are
other devices of the same kind which have a place in the system. Am I not right,
Phaedrus?
PHAEDRUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Bless me, what a wonderfully mysterious art is this which Tisias or some
other gentleman, in whatever name or country he rejoices, has discovered. Shall we say
a word to him or not?
PHAEDRUS: What shall we say to him?
SOCRATES: Let us tell him that, before he appeared, you and I were saying that the
probability of which he speaks was engendered in the minds of the many by the likeness
of the truth, and we had just been affirming that he who knew the truth would always
know best how to discover the resemblances of the truth. If he has anything else to say
about the art of speaking we should like to hear him; but if not, we are satisfied with our
own view, that unless a man estimates the various characters of his hearers and is able
to divide all things into classes and to comprehend them under single ideas, he will
never be a skilful rhetorician even within the limits of human power. And this skill he will
not attain without a great deal of trouble, which a good man ought to undergo, not for
the sake of speaking and acting before men, but in order that he may be able to say
what is acceptable to God and always to act acceptably to Him as far as in him lies; for
there is a saying of wiser men than ourselves, that a man of sense should not try to
please his fellow-servants (at least this should not be his first object) but his good and
noble masters; and therefore if the way is long and circuitous, marvel not at this, for,
where the end is great, there we may take the longer road, but not for lesser ends such
as yours. Truly, the argument may say, Tisias, that if you do not mind going so far,
rhetoric has a fair beginning here.
PHAEDRUS: I think, Socrates, that this is admirable, if only practicable.
SOCRATES: But even to fail in an honourable object is honourable.
PHAEDRUS: True.
SOCRATES: Enough appears to have been said by us of a true and false art of speaking.
PHAEDRUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: But there is something yet to be said of propriety and impropriety of writing.
PHAEDRUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Do you know how you can speak or act about rhetoric in a manner which
will be acceptable to God?
PHAEDRUS: No, indeed. Do you?
SOCRATES: I have heard a tradition of the ancients, whether true or not they only know;
although if we had found the truth ourselves, do you think that we should care much
about the opinions of men?
PHAEDRUS: Your question needs no answer; but I wish that you would tell me what you
say that you have heard.
SOCRATES: At the Egyptian city of Naucratis, there was a famous old god, whose name
was Theuth; the bird which is called the Ibis is sacred to him, and he was the inventor of
many arts, such as arithmetic and calculation and geometry and astronomy and
draughts and dice, but his great discovery was the use of letters. Now in those days the
god Thamus was the king of the whole country of Egypt; and he dwelt in that great city
of Upper Egypt which the Hellenes call Egyptian Thebes, and the god himself is called by
them Ammon. To him came Theuth and showed his inventions, desiring that the other
Egyptians might be allowed to have the benefit of them; he enumerated them, and
Thamus enquired about their several uses, and praised some of them and censured
others, as he approved or disapproved of them. It would take a long time to repeat all
that Thamus said to Theuth in praise or blame of the various arts. But when they came
to letters, This, said Theuth, will make the Egyptians wiser and give them better
memories; it is a specific both for the memory and for the wit. Thamus replied: O most
ingenious Theuth, the parent or inventor of an art is not always the best judge of the
utility or inutility of his own inventions to the users of them. And in this instance, you
who are the father of letters, from a paternal love of your own children have been led to
attribute to them a quality which they cannot have; for this discovery of yours will create
forgetfulness in the learners' souls, because they will not use their memories; they will
trust to the external written characters and not remember of themselves. The specific
which you have discovered is an aid not to memory, but to reminiscence, and you give
your disciples not truth, but only the semblance of truth; they will be hearers of many
things and will have learned nothing; they will appear to be omniscient and will
generally know nothing; they will be tiresome company, having the show of wisdom
without the reality.
PHAEDRUS: Yes, Socrates, you can easily invent tales of Egypt, or of any other country.
SOCRATES: There was a tradition in the temple of Dodona that oaks first gave prophetic
utterances. The men of old, unlike in their simplicity to young philosophy, deemed that
if they heard the truth even from 'oak or rock,' it was enough for them; whereas you
seem to consider not whether a thing is or is not true, but who the speaker is and from
what country the tale comes.
PHAEDRUS: I acknowledge the justice of your rebuke; and I think that the Theban is
right in his view about letters.
SOCRATES: He would be a very simple person, and quite a stranger to the oracles of
Thamus or Ammon, who should leave in writing or receive in writing any art under the
idea that the written word would be intelligible or certain; or who deemed that writing
was at all better than knowledge and recollection of the same matters?
PHAEDRUS: That is most true.
SOCRATES: I cannot help feeling, Phaedrus, that writing is unfortunately like painting; for
the creations of the painter have the attitude of life, and yet if you ask them a question
they preserve a solemn silence. And the same may be said of speeches. You would
imagine that they had intelligence, but if you want to know anything and put a question
to one of them, the speaker always gives one unvarying answer. And when they have
been once written down they are tumbled about anywhere among those who may or
may not understand them, and know not to whom they should reply, to whom not: and,
if they are maltreated or abused, they have no parent to protect them; and they cannot
protect or defend themselves.
PHAEDRUS: That again is most true.
SOCRATES: Is there not another kind of word or speech far better than this, and having
far greater power—a son of the same family, but lawfully begotten?
PHAEDRUS: Whom do you mean, and what is his origin?
SOCRATES: I mean an intelligent word graven in the soul of the learner, which can
defend itself, and knows when to speak and when to be silent.
PHAEDRUS: You mean the living word of knowledge which has a soul, and of which the
written word is properly no more than an image?
SOCRATES: Yes, of course that is what I mean. And now may I be allowed to ask you a
question: Would a husbandman, who is a man of sense, take the seeds, which he values
and which he wishes to bear fruit, and in sober seriousness plant them during the heat
of summer, in some garden of Adonis, that he may rejoice when he sees them in eight
days appearing in beauty? at least he would do so, if at all, only for the sake of
amusement and pastime. But when he is in earnest he sows in fitting soil, and practises
husbandry, and is satisfied if in eight months the seeds which he has sown arrive at
perfection?
PHAEDRUS: Yes, Socrates, that will be his way when he is in earnest; he will do the other,
as you say, only in play.
SOCRATES: And can we suppose that he who knows the just and good and honourable
has less understanding, than the husbandman, about his own seeds?
PHAEDRUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: Then he will not seriously incline to 'write' his thoughts 'in water' with pen
and ink, sowing words which can neither speak for themselves nor teach the truth
adequately to others?
PHAEDRUS: No, that is not likely.
SOCRATES: No, that is not likely—in the garden of letters he will sow and plant, but only
for the sake of recreation and amusement; he will write them down as memorials to be
treasured against the forgetfulness of old age, by himself, or by any other old man who
is treading the same path. He will rejoice in beholding their tender growth; and while
others are refreshing their souls with banqueting and the like, this will be the pastime in
which his days are spent.
PHAEDRUS: A pastime, Socrates, as noble as the other is ignoble, the pastime of a man
who can be amused by serious talk, and can discourse merrily about justice and the like.
SOCRATES: True, Phaedrus. But nobler far is the serious pursuit of the dialectician, who,
finding a congenial soul, by the help of science sows and plants therein words which are
able to help themselves and him who planted them, and are not unfruitful, but have in
them a seed which others brought up in different soils render immortal, making the
possessors of it happy to the utmost extent of human happiness.
PHAEDRUS: Far nobler, certainly.
SOCRATES: And now, Phaedrus, having agreed upon the premises we may decide about
the conclusion.
PHAEDRUS: About what conclusion?
SOCRATES: About Lysias, whom we censured, and his art of writing, and his discourses,
and the rhetorical skill or want of skill which was shown in them—these are the
questions which we sought to determine, and they brought us to this point. And I think
that we are now pretty well informed about the nature of art and its opposite.
PHAEDRUS: Yes, I think with you; but I wish that you would repeat what was said.
SOCRATES: Until a man knows the truth of the several particulars of which he is writing
or speaking, and is able to define them as they are, and having defined them again to
divide them until they can be no longer divided, and until in like manner he is able to
discern the nature of the soul, and discover the different modes of discourse which are
adapted to different natures, and to arrange and dispose them in such a way that the
simple form of speech may be addressed to the simpler nature, and the complex and
composite to the more complex nature—until he has accomplished all this, he will be
unable to handle arguments according to rules of art, as far as their nature allows them
to be subjected to art, either for the purpose of teaching or persuading;—such is the
view which is implied in the whole preceding argument.
PHAEDRUS: Yes, that was our view, certainly.
SOCRATES: Secondly, as to the censure which was passed on the speaking or writing of
discourses, and how they might be rightly or wrongly censured— did not our previous
argument show—?
PHAEDRUS: Show what?
SOCRATES: That whether Lysias or any other writer that ever was or will be, whether
private man or statesman, proposes laws and so becomes the author of a political
treatise, fancying that there is any great certainty and clearness in his performance, the
fact of his so writing is only a disgrace to him, whatever men may say. For not to know
the nature of justice and injustice, and good and evil, and not to be able to distinguish
the dream from the reality, cannot in truth be otherwise than disgraceful to him, even
though he have the applause of the whole world.
PHAEDRUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: But he who thinks that in the written word there is necessarily much which is
not serious, and that neither poetry nor prose, spoken or written, is of any great value, if,
like the compositions of the rhapsodes, they are only recited in order to be believed,
and not with any view to criticism or instruction; and who thinks that even the best of
writings are but a reminiscence of what we know, and that only in principles of justice
and goodness and nobility taught and communicated orally for the sake of instruction
and graven in the soul, which is the true way of writing, is there clearness and perfection
and seriousness, and that such principles are a man's own and his legitimate offspring;—
being, in the first place, the word which he finds in his own bosom; secondly, the
brethren and descendants and relations of his idea which have been duly implanted by
him in the souls of others;—and who cares for them and no others—this is the right sort
of man; and you and I, Phaedrus, would pray that we may become like him.
PHAEDRUS: That is most assuredly my desire and prayer.
SOCRATES: And now the play is played out; and of rhetoric enough. Go and tell Lysias
that to the fountain and school of the Nymphs we went down, and were bidden by
them to convey a message to him and to other composers of speeches—to Homer and
other writers of poems, whether set to music or not; and to Solon and others who have
composed writings in the form of political discourses which they would term laws—to all
of them we are to say that if their compositions are based on knowledge of the truth,
and they can defend or prove them, when they are put to the test, by spoken
arguments, which leave their writings poor in comparison of them, then they are to be
called, not only poets, orators, legislators, but are worthy of a higher name, befitting the
serious pursuit of their life.
PHAEDRUS: What name would you assign to them?
SOCRATES: Wise, I may not call them; for that is a great name which belongs to God
alone,—lovers of wisdom or philosophers is their modest and befitting title.
PHAEDRUS: Very suitable.
SOCRATES: And he who cannot rise above his own compilations and compositions,
which he has been long patching and piecing, adding some and taking away some, may
be justly called poet or speech-maker or law-maker.
PHAEDRUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Now go and tell this to your companion.
PHAEDRUS: But there is also a friend of yours who ought not to be forgotten.
SOCRATES: Who is he?
PHAEDRUS: Isocrates the fair:—What message will you send to him, and how shall we
describe him?
SOCRATES: Isocrates is still young, Phaedrus; but I am willing to hazard a prophecy
concerning him.
PHAEDRUS: What would you prophesy?
SOCRATES: I think that he has a genius which soars above the orations of Lysias, and
that his character is cast in a finer mould. My impression of him is that he will
marvellously improve as he grows older, and that all former rhetoricians will be as
children in comparison of him. And I believe that he will not be satisfied with rhetoric,
but that there is in him a divine inspiration which will lead him to things higher still. For
he has an element of philosophy in his nature. This is the message of the gods dwelling
in this place, and which I will myself deliver to Isocrates, who is my delight; and do you
give the other to Lysias, who is yours.
PHAEDRUS: I will; and now as the heat is abated let us depart.
SOCRATES: Should we not offer up a prayer first of all to the local deities?
PHAEDRUS: By all means.
SOCRATES: Beloved Pan, and all ye other gods who haunt this place, give me beauty in
the inward soul; and may the outward and inward man be at one. May I reckon the wise
to be the wealthy, and may I have such a quantity of gold as a temperate man and he
only can bear and carry.—Anything more? The prayer, I think, is enough for me.
PHAEDRUS: Ask the same for me, for friends should have all things in common.
SOCRATES: Let us go.
THE END
