Plato illustrates this truth by telling the well-known story of Gyges.1 Once upon a time, after heavy rainfalls, the earth opened asunder. Gyges went down into the chasm, and there he came upon a horse made of bronze, with a door in its side. He opened the door, and found inside the body of a dead man of superhuman stature, wearing a gold ring. Gyges took offthe ring, and placed it upon his own finger.
Later, he went to a meeting of the king’s shepherds, of whom he was one. There he found that by turning the bezel of the ring inwards – in the direction of the palm of his hand – he became invisible, though he himself continued to see perfectly; and he only became visible again by turning the ring back into the previous position. So he exploited the opportunities thus given him. He seduced the queen, and with her help murdered his royal master. Then he removed everyone whom he believed to stand in his way. In these crimes he remained entirely undetected. By using the ring in this way, he quickly rose to be king of Lydia.
Now picture this same ring in the hands of someone who is truly wise. He would not consider that its possession entitled him to do wrong any more than if it did not belong to him. For to act secretly is not what a good man aims at: what he wants to do is to act rightly.
Certain philosophers, who are not ill-intentioned but can hardly be very clever, declare that the story is a fiction invented by Plato. But that is to make Plato claim veracity, or at least possibility, for his tale -as he does not. The point of the ring and its story is this. Imagine yourself doing something in order to acquire excessive wealth or power, or tyranny, or sensual satisfaction. Suppose that no one were going to discover, or even suspect, what you had done: on the contrary, that neither gods nor men would ever have an inkling. Would you do it?
The philosophers I have just mentioned are content to reply that this could never happen. True enough – but what I want to know is this. If, in spite of their certainty, such a situation could arise, what would they do? By persisting, with boorish determination, in their repeated denials of the mere possibility, they are refusing to understand the significance of my supposition: which is this. When we inquire what they would do if they could escape detection, we are not interested in knowing whether such an escape would be practicable. What we are instead doing, metaphorically, is to put them on the rack. For if they answer that, assured of impunity, they would obey the dictates of their own selfishness, then they are admitting to a criminal attitude. A denial, on the other hand, that they would act in any such way would be tantamount to a proper rejection of any and every action that is by nature morally bad.
But I must return to my subject.
Plausible semblances of advantage are often confusing. I do not now refer to problems of sacrificing what is right in favour of some highly attractive apparent advantage, for there the immorality is beyond question. I refer to occasions when we have to decide whether the action involved in obtaining an apparent advantage may, in fact, not be morally wrong at all.
For example, when Lucius Junius Brutus deposed his fellow-consul Lucius Tarquinius Collatinus,1 this action might well have been regarded as unjust. For Collatinus had been his fellow-planner and his associate in the expulsion of the royal house. However, the leading men of Rome had decided to eliminate all the relatives of King Tarquin the Proud, along with the very name of the Tarquins and every other reminder of the kingship. That being so, then the advantageous course of action, namely the patriotic course, was so manifestly right that even Collatinus himself had to acquiesce. Here, then, advantage prevailed because of its rightness – the indispensable prerequisite of advantage.
The case of the king who founded Rome is different. He thought he saw advantage in reigning alone instead of with a colleague, so he killed his brother. But the semblance of advantage that prompted him was entirely unreal. In order to secure what he believed, wrongly, to be advantageous, he counted brotherly love and human feelings for nothing. His excuse that Remus had leapt over the wall was a mere specious show of rectitude, as unplausible as it was inappropriate. So his action was sinful – he must give me leave to say so – whether we are to call him the god Quirinus1 or the man Romulus.
That does not mean that we are bound to sacrifice our own vital interests to other people. On the contrary, in so far as we can serve our interests without harming anyone else, we should do so. Chrysippus puts the point with his usual aptness: ‘A man running a race in the stadium ought to try his best and exert himself to the utmost in order to win. In no circumstances, however, should he trip up his competitors or impede them with his hand.’ The same applies to the struggle of life. Anyone may fairly seek his own advantage, but no one has a right to do so at another’s expense.
But the field in which a man’s obligations are most liable to confusion is friendship. For if, on a friend’s behalf, you omit to do all that you properly could, that is to fail in an obligation; yet if you help him in some improper fashion, then that too is failure. However, this whole problem is governed by a short and simple rule. Apparent advantages for oneself, such as political success, wealth, sensual gratification, and so on, must never be given preference over friendship. On the other hand no man of integrity will, for the sake of a friend, act against his own country, or his honour, or his oath.
Even if someone has to sit in judgement over his friend in a lawsuit, the same will still be true: when he assumes the part of judge, he vacates the role of friend. The only legitimate concessions to friendship will then be these – to hope that his friend’s cause is right, and, in so far as the law permits, to help him to fix the hearing at a time that suits his convenience. When, however, the judge has to pronounce his sworn verdict, he must remember that his witness is God – in other words (according to my interpretation) his own soul, which is the most godlike thing that God has given to man. So I wish we still maintained the noble custom, bequeathed by our ancestors, of appealing to the judge to do whatever he can without breach of honour. This form of appeal is relevant to my discussion of what a judge can legitimately concede to a friend. For a relationship in which a friend’s every wish had to be carried out would rank not as a friendship but as a conspiracy. (I am, of course, speaking of ordinary, everyday friendships. Among men who were ideally wise, and faultless, no such situation could arise.)
There is a story about the remarkable friendship between Damon and Phintias, the followers of Pythagoras. One of them had been condemned to death by the tyrant Dionysius, and the day of his execution was appointed.1 The man asked for a few days’ grace so that he could arrange for the care of his loved ones; and the other went bail for him, on the understanding that if the prisoner did not return he himself would the in his place. But, on the appointed day, his friend duly came back. Full of admiration for their loyalty to one another, the tyrant asked to be allowed to become a partner in their friendship.
That is a further illustration of my point: when we are weighing up what appears to be advantageous against the morally right course, even in matters affecting friends it remains true that the apparent advantage should be disregarded in favour of the right. And when friendship’s demands transgress what is right, they must yield precedence to scruples and honour. That is how we shall achieve our purpose of choosing successfully between apparently conflicting obligations.
Another field in which plausible semblances of advantage very often cause wrong actions is that of international politics. Our destruction of Corinth2 is an example. An even worse atrocity was committed by the Athenians when they decreed that the people of Aegina,3 whose strength depended on their fleet, should have their thumbs cut off. This seemed to the Athenians an advantageous measure, since their harbour the Piraeus was menaced by its neighbour Aegina. But cruelty can never be of advantage, seeing how inimical this is to nature, with which our actions have to be in harmony.
Wrong is likewise done by those who ban and eject foreigners from their cities, as Marcus Junius Pennus did in the time of our fathers and Gaius Papius1 recently. True, non-citizens are not entitled to the rights of citizens: legislation to this effect was introduced by those outstandingly wise consuls Lucius Licinius Crassus and Quintus Mucius Scaevola. But the exclusion of aliens from the city’s amenities is completely opposed to natural human relations.
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There have been glorious instances of apparent, unreal advantage to a country being over-ridden in favour of what was morally right. Outstanding among many conspicuous examples in our own country’s history was an incident that took place in the Second Punic War. The news of the disaster at Cannae was received at Rome more heroically than any victory and without the slightest signs of fear. Suggestions of peace did not exist – at the time they might have seemed advantageous, but so great is the potency of right that this can eclipse such specious appearances of advantage.
Again, when the Persians invaded Greece,2 the people of Athens were not strong enough to stand against them; so they decided to abandon their city. Leaving their wives and children at Troezen, they proposed to take to their ships and defend the freedom of Greece at sea. Then a man named Cyrsilus proposed as an alternative that they should stay at Athens and admit Xerxes. But the Athenians stoned Cyrsilus to death. For any plausible advantage in what he said was entirely unreal, since right was on the other side.
After the victorious conclusion of the Persian War, Themistocles announced in the Athenian Assembly that he had a proposal to make which would be to the national advantage. But he added that its publication was inadvisable, and that the people should therefore nominate a representative to whom he might communicate his project. They appointed Aristides for this purpose. He learnt from Themistocles that the Spartan fleet, which had been hauled ashore at Gytheum, could secretly be set on fire – and the result would undoubtedly be the total destruction of Sparta’s strength. After listening to the proposal, Aristides proceeded to the Assembly, where an expectant audience awaited him. He declared to them that the scheme proposed by Themistocles would bring great material advantage, but was the reverse of right. Thereupon, the Athenians came to the conclusion that, being wrong, the proposal could not be advantageous at all; and so, at the instance of Aristides himself, they rejected Themistocles’ plan without even hearing what it was. They did better than us – we let pirates off taxes,1 but impose them on our allies!
So let us regard this as settled: what is morally wrong can never be advantageous, even when it enables you to make some gain that you believe to be to your advantage. The mere act of believing that some wrongful course of action constitutes an advantage is pernicious.
But, as I remarked earlier, circumstances often arise in which advantage and right seem to clash. So an investigation is necessary – do they really clash in such cases? or can they be reconciled?