TRANSLATED AND INTRODUCED BY ROBIN WATERFIELD
It seems a good idea to begin a presentation of Xenophon’s Socratic works with his Socrates’ Defence, for two reasons. First, I suspect it is the earliest of Xenophon’s Socratic writings. Second, it creates the opportunity to discuss the charges which were brought against Socrates at his trial; since it is Xenophon’s express purpose in his Socratic writings, especially Memoirs, to defend his mentor against these charges, it helps us to be aware of them from the start.
Socrates’ Defence is a rather scrappy little work, but not without interest. It inevitably invites comparison with Plato’s work of the same title (usually known as the Apology of Socrates). The comparison, however, does nothing to improve one’s impression of Xenophon’s piece. Plato is eloquent and often, in a wry, ironical fashion, extremely funny; he is also highly interesting philosophically. Xenophon lacks these qualities. Plato’s work is longer, but has a narrower scope: he presents a version only of Socrates’ speech at the trial. Xenophon’s piece, however, falls into three parts: (a) Socrates’ thoughts immediately before the trial; (b) some of Socrates’ speeches at the trial; (c) Socrates’ behaviour after the trial. The style, in common with much of Xenophon’s Socratic work, is anecdotal and eulogistic: it is a pamphlet rather than a philosophical tract.
To describe Xenophon’s work as inferior to Plato’s in these respects is not to say that his version of what Socrates said is necessarily less accurate than Plato’s. Indeed, the very qualities which make Plato’s Apology marvellous reading give us cause to doubt its historical accuracy. Xenophon was not in Athens at the time of the trial in 399 (see p. 5), but he takes more than the usual care to assure the reader that he is being accurate by constantly referring to Hermogenes, his source for the information. However, Xenophon’s report of Socrates’ speech at the trial is too brief and too full of Xenophontic themes to inspire confidence, and we must look to coincidences between his and Plato’s accounts for any hope of historical accuracy.
These points of coincidence are as follows:1
1 That the charges brought against Socrates were as Xenophon states (compare Plato, Apology, 24b–c; and p. 32).
2 That Socrates did not prepare a speech for the trial (compare Plato, Apology, 17c; if this is historical, then the eloquence and rhetorical flourishes in Plato’s version are clearly Platonic).
3 That, in some form or other, ‘the divine’ – Socrates’ inner voice – implied that he would benefit from the trial (compare Plato, Apology, 40a–c, 41d).
4 That Socrates attributed part of the indictment to the fact that ‘the divine’ communicated with him (compare Plato, Apology, 39c).
5 That Socrates thought it better for him to die when he did (compare Plato, Apology, 41 d).
6 That Socrates referred to Chaerephon’s consultation of the Delphic oracle about him (compare Plato, Apology, 20e–21a).
7 That Socrates engaged in dialogue with Meletus in the course of the trial (compare Plato, Apology, 24c–28a).
8 That Socrates refused, or all but refused, to propose a counter-penalty (compare Plato, Apology, 36b–37a).
9 That Socrates refused to escape from prison (compare Plato, Crito).
10 That Socrates insisted that he had never wronged anyone (compare Plato, Aplogy, 37a, for instance).
11 That Socrates made some reference to the view that those about to die gain prophetic powers (compare Plato, Apology, 39c).
12 That Socrates compared himself to the legendary hero Palamedes (compare Plato, Apology, 41b).
It is chiefly the brevity and scrappiness of Xenophon’s Defence that lead me to regard it as the earliest of his Socratic writings. There are no hard and fast objective criteria for this view, however. The following facts are relevant, but not conclusive evidence. First, there are echoes in Memoirs of Defence (but which echoes which?); in particular, whole sentences of Defence are repeated more or less verbatim in Memoirs, 4.8. Second, Memoirs, 1.1–2, constitutes a far more polished defence of Socrates. Third, Memoirs, 1.1–2, has as its target not just the charges brought against Socrates at his trial, but also (and perhaps mainly) a pamphlet written in c. 392 by a certain Polycrates,1 in which a broader range of charges were brought against him. These factors incline me to think that it is an early piece, but we must take into account the fact that Xenophon refers to other versions of Socrates’ defence (1), and to the death of Anytus, one of Socrates’ accusers (31).2 These things considered, we could tentatively date it to around 394. I believe that it is quite plausible to see Defence as a kind of trial run; it may not have started out as such, but may none the less have led Xenophon to conceive of defending Socrates on a grander scale, especially once he got hold of Polycrates’ pamphlet. It is possible that Defence was not intended for publication in any formal sense, but, rather, to be read aloud to friends and visitors (see p. 7). Its date of composition (assuming I am correct) coincides with the time when Xenophon was fighting for Sparta, and must therefore have been at the height of his unpopularity in Athens (see p. 7): he can hardly have hoped that his work would be widely circulated in Athens, although if it was intended for publication, Athenians must have been meant to be its primary audience, since Xenophon wanted to make them regret having executed Socrates.
The other issue that claims our attention is the charges against Socrates at his trial. Needless to say, these have been much discussed, and little of what I have to say on the matter is original.1 In Defence Xenophon says that the charges were as follows: Socrates was accused of ‘not recognizing the gods recognized by the State, but introducing new deities, and corrupting the young’. This version could make it sound as though the way in which Socrates corrupted the young was by his religious non-conformism; but the other versions we have of the charges (Xenophon, Memoirs, 1.1.1; Plato, Apology, 24.b-c; Diogenes Laertius, 2.40)2 make it clear that there are two separate, but interrelated, main charges: religious non-conformism, and corrupting the young.
Almost inevitably, those who write about Socrates often attempt to white wash him and claim that he could not have been guilty. However, among the shifting sands of all the issues surrounding Socrates, the hard facts stand out that he was indicted and found guilty. Of course, justice is not always done in lawcourts: juries can be swayed and the legal system may not be beyond reproach. But I do not propose to defend Socrates because I find it difficult to define guilt in a vacuum outside the society in question; we are left with the fact that Socrates was tried and found guilty according to the due process of Athenian law.
The only trouble with assuming that Socrates was guilty is that it is difficult to know why he was guilty. Plato’s and Xenophon’s portraits appear to give us no reason to convict Socrates on these charges (or on any others). Where religion is concerned, Plato’s Socrates scarcely touches on the subject, except, as might be expected, in Apology. Xenophon’s Socrates has interesting things to say (Memoirs, 1. 4, 4.3), but they are views about the traditional gods, not ‘new deities’. Neither Plato’s brilliant philosopher nor Xenophon’s moral conservative could easily be said to have corrupted anyone. Either Plato and Xenophon are involved in a massive cover-up, or there were factors peculiar to Athenian State religion which make Socrates guilty as charged. We can only hope that the former alternative is not the case, since Plato’s and Xenophon’s accounts are practically our only evidence on Socrates’ views.
In order to make the following discussion clearer, I shall break the charges down into: (1a) not recognizing the gods recognized by the State; (1b) introducing new deities; (2) corrupting the young.
(1a) Not recognizing the gods
There is important background to sketch in. In short, Greek State religion required the performance and avoidance of certain actions, but, unlike a religion such as Christianity, there were few tenets of belief by which one could accuse someone of being heterodox: orthodoxy is not a Greek religious notion. So this would be an extremely difficult charge on which to secure conviction. Moreover, our surviving evidence is that Socrates did perform and avoid the proper actions.
It is clear, then, that the brunt of the charge of religious non-conformism lies in introducing new deities (1b) rather than in not recognizing the gods (1a): (1a) simply leads up to (1b). But before leaving (1a), we should note that the charge is couched in terms which would be highly emotive for an ancient Athenian. The Greek word translated ‘recognize’ (‘acknowledge’ would do just as well) is nomizein, a verb from the noun nomos, which means ‘custom’, ‘law’, ‘convention’, ‘tradition’ or even ‘society’. Nomos, whether written down and codified as a legal system or present in the collective unconscious of the Athenian people, was the absolute foundation of Athenian society; and religion cannot be separated from the proper working of that society. By this I mean not just that religion pervaded it in the form of festivals, statues all over the city, and each individual’s daily private and public worship of the gods, but also that each individual’s worship was part of his duty as a citizen. By worshipping the gods according to nomos, the individual was keeping his community under the protection of the gods; and irreligion became a prosecutable offence because it threatened this link between the gods and the State.
(1b) Introducing new deities
It is also difficult to understand why the charge of introducing new deities was brought against Socrates. At the end of the fifth century, as often happens when a society is just beginning to undergo a transformation, Athens saw many new cults being introduced: not only were the superstitious aspects of folk religion resurrected, but the cults of Sabazios and Cybele, the Great Mother, both from the Middle East, and Bendis from Thrace, all either flourished or were introduced. Not only is there no suggestion that Socrates was involved in any such movement, but more importantly, these cults received official State recognition. Under these circumstances, how could Socrates or anyone be prosecuted for introducing new deities?
The only possible reason is Socrates’ inner voice, which Xenophon introduces in the context of rebutting this charge (Defence, 12–13, Memoirs, 1.1.2–5), as does Plato, though more vaguely (Apology, 31c–d; see also Euthyphro, 3b). Socrates calls it to daimonion, ‘the divine’, and claims that it communicates with him. It communicates mainly by warning him if he is about to do something that is not to his advantage; it seems never to have told him what to do, but only what not to do (though that, of course, can lead one to know what to do). We should be wary of assimilating it too closely to our concept of ‘conscience’, if by that we mean a moral force, because Socrates’ little voice appears to have no moral function, nor indeed to consider the future consequences of actions, but only to be an immediate intuition. The relevant references are: Xenophon, Defence, 12–13; Memoirs, 1.1.2–5, 4–3–12–13, 4.8.1, 4.8.5–6, 4.8.11; Dinner-party, 8.5; Plato, Apology, 31c–d, 40a–b, 41d; Theages, 128d–130e; Alcibiades I, 103a–b; Euthydemus, 272e; Republic, 496c; Phaedrus, 242b; Theaetetus, 151a.
Now, as we have already noted, both Plato’s and Xenophon’s versions of Socrates’ defence agree that he attributed this part of the indictment to his belief that the divine communicated with him. We are, therefore, on reasonably safe ground in regarding this claim as historical fact. No doubt, in the nature of things, this belief of Socrates would not have been known to many people prior to the trial; but, during the trial, no doubt, the prosecutors could have made great play with it.
So, given Socrates’ claim that the divine communicated with him, was he guilty as charged? Xenophon says no: he says that Socrates was doing no more or less than any conventional Greek who consulted oracles and diviners. I think, however, that the prosecutors here have a stronger case than Xenophon. We have seen that the nomos of State religion is founded on the belief that the good of the community is paramount. Socrates, however, was claiming not just to be specially favoured by the gods (as opposed to being just one member of the citizen body), but also that the communications he received were private and for his benefit alone (Defence 13, repeated at Memoirs, 1.1.4, is the only place in either Xenophon or Plato where the communications are said to be for the benefit of people other than Socrates himself, and I believe that here Xenophon is making a special plea in his eagerness to defend Socrates). To make matters worse, in a direct democracy like that of ancient Athens, it was every citizen’s duty to play a part in politics – the system depended on this. Plato and Xenophon are forced to make great play with the few occasions on which Socrates did his civic duty; nevertheless, at Apology, 31d, Plato has Socrates admit that the divine stopped him from helping the State in this respect.
(2) Corrupting the young
Suppose, given what has already been said, that the prosecutors could plausibly argue that Socrates was subversive of State nomos. It would then be even easier for them to argue that he corrupted the young. Socrates gathered around himself a circle of rich (and therefore potentially influential) young men. I have discussed at length (pp. 22–6) the difficulty of knowing what the Socratic groups did; but certain facts are clear, and centre around a single, simple core. This is that he trained people to be individuals. We have seen how he claimed to be a special individual as far as the gods were concerned, but that is less than half the story. His questioning method was (and is) designed to get people to think for themselves and to prick the illusory conceit of knowledge. And what is the most common source for thinking that one knows something? It is nomos, the unwritten conditioning that any society imposes on its members. Since Socrates was particularly concerned with morality, which is the heart of nomos, he could easily be made out to be subversive: justice was regarded as a State issue, not a matter of private knowledge. Moreover, although Socrates’ political views are as irrecoverable in detail as the rest of his views, it is clear that he had, or he inspired in his followers, little love for democracy (see p. 15). Any organization has reason to fear individuality (witness the Church and its heretics), and Athenian society in particular had a history of fearing tyranny and oligarchy.
In short, within the context of the restored democracy of 399, and within the context of Greek nomos, a good case could be made out that Socrates was guilty as charged. Presumably the prosecutors did make a good case, because Socrates was found guilty and condemned to death.
There were, almost certainly, subtexts to the trial – background factors which would have influenced its outcome. This seems inevitable, given the emotive nature of the charges. Thus we could make a distinction between ‘formal’ and ‘informal’ charges against Socrates, or, as Plato does, between the ‘old’ and the ‘new’ accusers.
The Athenian legal system was wide open to the covert entry of such subtexts. Socrates was tried by 501 of his peers (if Socrates can be said to have that many peers!): they constituted possibly 2.5 per cent of the total citizen body. A large number would have known about Socrates for many years, and made up their minds about him long ago; most of the others would have discussed him in the days immediately prior to the trial. And these people – the jurors – were also the judges: no separate judge presided over an Athenian lawcourt. Furthermore, there were no professional barristers (though there was a rising class of professional speech-writers). The State never prosecuted anyone: private individuals brought actions on behalf of the State, which was in itself a vague concept. Socrates’ prosecutor was Meletus, backed by Anytus and Lycon. We have no certain knowledge concerning Meletus and Lycon,1 but we do know that Anytus was a prominent democrat. If Arthur Scargill were to take anyone to court over any matter, that person would inevitably be seen as a political opponent.
In Socrates’ trial, there were two main subtexts – one political, the other intellectual and religious. The political subtext has already been noted in passing, namely Athens’ fear of individuals. Not only had being a member of Socrates’ circle long been linked in Athenian minds with being pro-Spartan and oligarchic (see p. 6), but also Critias, Charmides and Alcibiades, at least, had at one time or another been, and been known to have been, members of Socrates’ group. Critias was the prime mover of, and Charmides prominent in, the dreadful oligarchy of 404–403 only a few years previously. As for Alcibiades, the Athenians had a love-hate relationship with him: they felt that his undeniable talents could help them win the war, but were terrified lest his charisma, influence and egotism led him to autocracy. In Memoirs, 1.2.12–47, Xenophon defends Socrates’ association with such people at great length. At the trial this could remain only a subtext because a general political amnesty had been granted in 403, of which Anytus himself was one of the promoters. Afterwards, however, the anti-Socratic literature exemplified by the pamphlet of Poly crates (see p. 31) brought the subtext out into the open. Fifty years later the orator Aeschines could say (1.173) that Socrates was killed ‘because it was shown that he had educated Critias’.
The second subtext is intellectual and religious. Particularly because of the war, but more generally because society as a whole was in a period of transition, there was considerable questioning of the traditional values by a number of intellectuals. Yet, in any period of flux and insecurity, the majority cling for safety on to convention. Comic playwrights and orators were constantly harping on the corruption caused by the new intellectuals.1 A revolution had occurred in education. Up until c. 450, nomos – one’s parents and society – had been the teachers; but gradually (and peaking c. 420) professional teachers began to encroach. They taught those rich enough to pay their fees to argue, to govern, to speak in public as well as a host of more particular subjects ranging from music to martial arts. Inevitably, given the context, they also taught that nomos was relative, not absolute; and their teachings were thought to subvert the fabric of society.
Here are two examples of this assault on conventional morality. Critias wrote a play in which one of the characters suggested that the gods were a human invention to keep people toeing the line. And in 415 most of the statues of Hermes, which overlooked every road junction in the city, were mutilated (the statues were ithyphallic, and probably had their phalluses broken off). This desecration was attributed to Alcibiades, who promptly went over to the Spartans (with catastrophic consequences for Athens in the war). Alcibiades was already under suspicion of having mocked the Eleusinian mysteries, which were central to Athenian State religion, by having imitated them in company with some friends.1
I have, of course, picked out the parts, or alleged parts, that Critias and Alcibiades played in this period of moral turmoil. There is, however, an enormous amount of other evidence that nomos was under fire, and that intellectuals were blamed for the attack. It is noticeable that both Meletus’ remarks on pp. 45–6 stress nomos.
So the second subtext to Socrates’ trial is that he became the butt on whom the Athenians vented their pent-up fury at the assault on nomos: despite later stories to the contrary, there had probably been no earlier trials of intellectuals, although a certain Diagoras of Melos was banned from the city for his atheism. Hence both Plato and Xenophon have Socrates defend himself against the implicit charge of being a sophist or a natural scientist (see also pp. 9–10). Not only was Socrates seen as a dangerous intellectual himself, but he was also seen as the teacher of other dangerous intellectuals. As few people were aware that Socrates actually taught people to think for themselves, the common Greek belief (but of course it is not only Greek) that anything a pupil says is attributable to the teacher was of significance.
In conclusion, I believe that Socrates was guilty as charged, but his condemnation was assisted by both political and moral subtexts in the trial. It follows that in so far as Xenophon portrays Socrates in Defence (and more especially in Memoirs) as a conventional moralist, he is whitewashing him. However, I do not believe he intended a cover-up. It is probably closer to the truth to say that, like all Socratics, as far as we can tell, the limitations of his own intellectual capacities and perceptions led him to see no more in Socrates than himself reflected.
In the context of differences between Socratics, we should note that one of the most striking differences between Xenophon’s and Plato’s Socrates occurs forcefully in Defence. Anyone coming to Defence, 5, who has met only Plato’s Socrates will be astonished at the confidence – even arrogance – with which Socrates assesses his own importance. A similar difference occurs in the two versions of Chaerephon’s consultation of the Delphic oracle. In Plato’s Apology, the oracle says that there is no one wiser than Socrates, but Socrates interprets this as meaning that he is wisest because he alone knows that he is ignorant – in other words, the humblest man is the wisest; in Xenophon’s version, however, the oracle declares that Socrates is ‘the most free, upright and prudent of all people’, and Socrates goes on to justify this with little sign of humility.
It is perhaps some slight mitigation of Xenophon’s portrait in this regard that he expressly sets out in Defence to justify the ‘arrogance’ of Socrates’ tone during his trial. He does this by explaining that it was due to Socrates’ conviction that it was better for him to die at that time; given this, the selections he makes from Socrates’ speech during the trial can be seen as being guided by the principle of illustrating precisely this arrogance.
One might legitimately think that the reason Plato gives for Socrates’ conviction that death was preferable is more plausible than the reason Xenophon gives: Plato claims that Socrates did not wish to live if that entailed his being required to curb his philosophical mission; Xenophon more weakly claims that Socrates wished to avoid senility.
I think it is worth recording what Socrates thought about his defence and the end of his life, once he had been summoned for trial. Now, others have written about the trial, and they have all touched upon his arrogant tone;1 so it is clear that this is how Socrates actually spoke. But what they didn’t make clear – and without it the arrogance of his tone is bound to appear rather foolish – is this: he had already decided that for him death was preferable to life. However, Hermogenes the son of Hipponicus was a companion of Socrates and he has divulged information about him which shows that his haughtiness was in keeping with his thinking.2
Hermogenes reported that he noticed Socrates discussing anything rather than the trial, and that he said to him: ‘Really, Socrates, ought you not to be considering your defence?’
Socrates at first replied: ‘Don’t you think that my whole life has been a preparation for my defence?‘
‘How?’
‘Because I have consistently done no wrong, and this, I think, is the finest preparation for a defence.’
Hermogenes tried another tack: ‘Don’t you see that the Athenian courts have often been prevailed upon by argument to put innocent men to death, and equally have often acquitted wrong-because they‘ve been doers, either out of pity aroused by the speeches or because they‘ve been flattered?’1
‘Yes, but as a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘twice now, when I was trying to consider my defence, the divine opposed me.’2
‘That’s remarkable,’ said Hermogenes and Socrates replied: ‘Do you really think it’s remarkable that God should decide that it is better for me to die now?3 Don’t you realize that up to now I would not have conceded to anyone that he had lived a better life than I? I mean, nothing could be more pleasant than knowing that I have lived my whole life respecting the gods and acting morally towards men. And not only has this integrity of mine caused me to be extremely proud of myself, but I have also found that my associates recognize it in me. Now, if my years are prolonged, I’m sure that I shall have to pay the penalties of old age: impaired vision and hearing, and increasing slowness at learning and forgetfulness of what I have learned. And if I am aware that I am deteriorating and find fault with myself, how could I live pleasantly then?
‘Perhaps, you know,’ he went on, ‘God in his kindness may even have my interests at heart and be arranging for me to be released from life not only at exactly the right age, but also in the easiest way possible. For if I am condemned now, then obviously I will be able to die in a way which those who have studied the matter judge to afford not only the least discomfort, but also the least trouble to friends, and which most makes them miss those who have died. For when a person leaves behind in the minds of those around him no blot or ache, but passes away with a sound body and a mind capable of happiness, then it is inevitable that such a person will be missed, isn’t it?
‘The gods were right to oppose me,’ he continued, ‘and prevent me from working on my speech, when we thought that we ought to find some way to secure my acquittal, whatever it took. Suppose I had achieved this goal: clearly the result would have been that instead of facing the cessation of life as I am now, I would have guaranteed for myself a death made burdensome by illness or old age – and old age is a pit into which flows everything which is intolerable and devoid of pleasure. I swear, Hermogenes,’ he added, ‘I will not go out of my way for that, especially since the alternative, as I see it, is that I will benefit at the hands of both gods and men; and if revealing the opinion I have of myself annoys the jurors, then I will be choosing to die rather than to remain alive without freedom and beg, as an alternative to death, a vastly inferior life.’1
Hermogenes reported that those were Socrates’ thoughts and that therefore, when he was faced with his adversaries accusing him of not recognizing the gods recognized by the State, but introducing new deities, and corrupting the young, he came forward and said: ‘You know, gentlemen, the first thing I find puzzling is what evidence Meletus2 can be using to claim that I do not recognize the gods recognized by the State. For, leaving aside all the possible eyewitnesses, Meletus himself could, if he had chosen, have seen me sacrificing during the communal festivals and at the public altars. As for my claim that a divine voice comes to me and communicates what I must do, how in claiming this am I introducing new deities? Those who rely on bird-calls and the utterances of men3 are, I suppose, receiving guidance from voices. Can there be any doubt that thunder has a voice or that it is an omen of the greatest significance? And take the priestess who sits on the tripod at Pytho4 – doesn’t she too use a voice to announce messages from the god? Moreover, that God1 has knowledge of the future and communicates it in advance to whomever he wishes – this too, as I say, is a universal claim and belief. But whereas others state that it is birds and utterances and chance meetings and oracles which forewarn them, I call it divine, and I think that in using this description I am being both more accurate and more devout than those who ascribe the power of the gods to birds. Furthermore, I have evidence to show that I am not attributing things falsely to God: I have often told friends what God has advised and I have never been found to be wrong.’
There was uproar from the jurors at this speech: some of them didn’t believe what he was saying, while others were jealous that he might have had more from the gods than they. So Socrates continued: ‘Listen: if some of you are inclined to disbelieve that I have been honoured by deities, I can tell you more, to increase your disbelief. Once, when Chaerephon made an inquiry about me in Delphi, Apollo replied – and there were many witnesses – that I was the most free, upright and prudent of all people.’2
When there was, not surprisingly, even greater uproar from the jurors at these words, Socrates said: ‘But, gentlemen, what Apollo said about me is less than what he pronounced in oracular utterances about Lycurgus, who established Sparta’s laws.3 The story goes that when Lycurgus entered the shrine, Apollo said to him: “I am considering whether to call you god or man.” In my case, Apollo didn’t liken me to a god, although he thought I by far outshone the rest of mankind.
‘All the same, rather than just take the god’s word for it, you should analyse his statement and examine it. So, do you know anyone who is less of a slave to bodily desires than I am? Do you know anyone more free, since I accept no gratuities or payment from anyone? Could you plausibly regard anyone as more upright than the man who is so in tune with his immediate circumstances that he has no need of anything extraneous? Mustn’t it be reasonable to describe me as wise, seeing that, ever since I began to understand speech, I have never stopped investigating and learning any good thing I could? Don’t you think that the success of my efforts is proved by the fact that many Athenians and non-Athenians, who have made virtue their goal, choose to associate with me rather than anyone else? To what shall we attribute the fact that although everyone knows that repayment is entirely beyond my means, nevertheless people often want to give me something? What about the fact that there is not a single person to whom I owe a debt of service, but there are many people who admit that they are in my debt for services rendered? What about the fact that during the blockade,1 although others were filled with self-pity, I was no worse off than when the city’s prosperity was at its peak? What about the fact that while others acquire their shop-bought luxuries at a high price, I arrange for greater, mental luxuries at no cost at all? Suppose that all I’ve said about myself is irrefutably true: doesn’t it follow that I deserve congratulations from gods and men alike?
‘But do you still claim, Meletus, that I am corrupting the young by these practices? Now, we know, of course, what corruptions the young are liable to; so you tell me if you know of anyone who has stopped worshipping the gods because of me, or who has substituted arrogance for humility, or extravagance for economy, or drunkenness for moderate drinking, or flabbiness for exercise, or who has given in to any base indulgence because of me.’
‘No,’ said Meletus, ‘but I most certainly know of those whom you have persuaded to listen to you rather than to their parents.’
‘I admit it,’ said Socrates, ‘at least where education is concerned; people know that I have made a special study of the matter. But when health is at stake, people listen to doctors rather than their parents, and when the Assembly meets,1 all Athenians listen, as you know, to those speaking the best sense rather than to their relatives. Don’t you, after all, elect as military commanders – in preference to your fathers, in preference to your brothers, and yes, even in preference to yourselves – those who you think know the most about military matters?’2
‘True, Socrates,’ said Meletus, ‘since that is both to our advantage and in accordance with custom.’
‘So don’t you think it strange,’ Socrates continued, ‘that whereas those who are outstanding at other activities get not only appropriate compensation, but even conspicuous recognition, I am prosecuted by you on a capital charge because there are people who think I am an expert at education, which is the greatest of human goods?’
Now, obviously this was not all that he said, and his friends spoke on his behalf too. But I have not been concerned to report all the details of the trial; I am satisfied with having made it clear that, although Socrates considered it of crucial importance that he was neither irreligious towards gods nor did he give the slightest impression of being unjust towards men, he still did not believe that he should beg to be allowed to live; but indeed thought that the time had come for him to die. That this was his point of view became even clearer when the verdict went against him. In the first place, when he was told to propose a counter-penalty,3 he both refused to do so himself and forbade his friends to do so either, but claimed that to propose a counter-penalty would be an admission of guilt. In the second place, when his friends wanted to get him secretly away, he refused to go, but instead seemed to make fun of them, asking them whether they knew of some spot beyond Attica’s borders which was inaccessible to death!
At the end of the trial, he said: ‘Well, gentlemen, there are two sets of people who must be conscious in themselves of a high degree of impiety and injustice – those who instructed the witnesses that they must, though under oath, testify falsely against me and those who were prevailed upon to do so; but as for me, why should I have a lower opinion of myself now than I did before the guilty verdict? After all, it has not been proved that I committed any of the crimes mentioned in the indictment. It has not been shown that I sacrifice to any new deities, or swear by them, or recognize other deities instead of Zeus and Hera and their divine companions. Moreover, how could I corrupt the young by making endurance and economy second nature to them? Death is the prescribed penalty for acts such as temple-robbery, burglary, enslavement and high treason, but even my adversaries do not accuse me of any of these deeds. So I am left wondering how on earth you gained the impression that any action I have done merited the death penalty.
‘Nor should the injustice of my death cause me to have a lower opinion of myself, for the shame falls not on me but on those who condemned me. The example of Palamedes, whose death was similar to mine, encourages me to think like this: for even now he inspires far greater eulogies than Odysseus, who unjustly put him to death.1 I have no doubt that the future, just as the past has done, will attest that I never wronged or harmed anyone, but benefited those I conversed with by freely teaching them any good thing I could.’
After this speech he was led away; his features, the way he held himself and the way he walked were all cheerful, which was in keeping, of course, with what he’d said. When he saw tears on the faces of those who accompanied him, he said: ‘What’s this? You’re crying now? You should have realized long ago that ever since I was born I have been condemned to death by my nature. As it is, either I am facing death while blessings are still pouring in on me, in which case I and my friends obviously ought to be distressed; or I am being released from life when troubles are in store for me, in which case I think you should all be glad at my good fortune.’
One of those present was Apollodorus, who was a great devotee of Socrates, but was not particularly bright. He said, ‘But the most difficult thing for me to bear, Socrates, is that I see you being unjustly put to death.’ Socrates (as the story goes) stroked Apollodorus’ head and replied with a smile: ‘You’re a good friend, Apollodorus, but would you rather see me put to death justly or unjustly?’
Socrates is also said to have spotted Anytus1 passing by and to have said: ‘Well, here is a man who is swaggering as if he had achieved something important and excellent: he is having me put to death because when I saw that he was under consideration by the State for the most important offices, I suggested that he oughtn’t to educate his son in a tannery.2 He’s in a bad way because he apparently doesn’t realize that, of the two of us, the one whose achievements are the more beneficial and excellent is the victor, and will remain so for all time.
‘Moreover,’ he went on, ‘according to Homer, some people at the end of their lives have foreknowledge of the future.3 I too want to make a prophecy. My brief acquaintance with Anytus’ son led me to believe that he was a person of some calibre: therefore, my prediction is that he will not remain in the servile occupation his father has arranged for him; but because there is no one of principle to take him in hand, he will succumb to some base motivation and make considerable progress as a degenerate.’
This prediction of his was quite right: the young man became an alcoholic, spent his days as well as his nights drinking, and finally became utterly worthless to his country, his friends and himself.1 So Anytus, even though dead, has acquired a bad reputation – for bringing up his son badly as well as for his heartlessness.
Socrates was so arrogant in court that he invited the jurors’ ill-will and more or less forced them to condemn him. Anyway, it seems to me that his fate was proper to one loved by the gods, because he both avoided the most difficult part of life and gained the easiest of deaths. His fortitude was obvious: since he had decided that death was better for him than further life, he showed no weakness in the face of death (just as he had never turned his back on any other good thing either), but awaited it cheerfully and discharged his final duty in good spirits.
When I consider how wise the man was, and how high-minded, I am bound to remember him; and when I remember him, I am bound to admire him. If anyone in his search for virtue has encountered a more helpful person than Socrates, then he deserves, in my opinion, to be called the most fortunate of all men.