MEMOIRS OF SOCRATES

TRANSLATED BY HUGH TREDENNICK
TRANSLATION REVISED AND INTRODUCED BY
ROBIN WATERFIELD

INTRODUCTION

The Memoirs of Socrates is Xenophon’s major Socratic work. It is divided into four books of roughly equal length, which portray Socrates either conversing with one interlocutor after another or (infrequently) delivering a homily. There are signs of some organization of the material. For instance, 1.1–2 makes a suitable introduction, and 4.8 a fitting epilogue; the second book is dedicated to showing Socrates dealing with his acquaintances’ personal problems and affairs; the first seven sections of the third book are devoted to public and military matters. But otherwise, the reader is often asked to jump from topic to topic, and from style to style, as he or she moves from one section to the next. Sometimes the lack of order is disconcerting. For instance, 4.2, 3, 5 and 6 show Socrates in conversation with one of his followers, Euthydemus. 4.2 is a good introduction to this sequence, since it shows how Socrates attracted Euthydemus in the first place; 4.3, 5 and 6 could come in any order, since they merely show Socrates at work on various topics, and ‘Euthydemus’ is a stand-in for any of his followers. But the four sections all belong together, so why are they interrupted by 4.4, which is a conversation with Hippias, the sophist from Elis?¹ It may well be that the arrangement was not the work of Xenophon himself, but some later editor, who collated the anecdotes. But even if we were to rearrange the material (by theme, say), it would still read somewhat like a literary lucky dip.

This feature of the work makes it impossible to date. It is quite possible that anecdotes were jotted down by Xenophon at widely different times. However, as I have remarked elsewhere, the crusading nature of the work – to defend Socrates – argues that it was intended for publication. If so, there is nothing to prevent it having been published in two parts: Books 1 and 2 are more overtly defensive of Socrates than the last two books. Books 3 and 4 are more organized and contain more signs of borrowing from Plato; and 4.3 effectively repeats 1.4. So perhaps the first two books were published separately from the last two. That either the whole or some parts of Memoirs were written relatively late in Xenophon’s life (which again suggests historical unreliability: see pp. 21, 57–9) is shown by a singular anachronism. In 3.5 Socrates is seen conversing with the younger Pericles. This is not impossible (see p. 145, n. 1), but the background to the conversation is formed by a military event which occurred long after both Socrates’ and Pericles’ deaths: the Boeotians are threatening Attica’s northern borders. In 3.5.4 Pericles comments that the Boeotians used not to dare to face the Athenians without Spartan support: this is a reasonably accurate summary of the situation in the Peloponnesian War when Socrates and Pericles were alive. Pericles goes on, however, to say that now the Boeotians are prepared to attack by themselves. This is only relevant to the situation c. 370–362 after the battle of Leuctra (371), when Epaminondas’ Boeotian army decimated the Spartans and established Theban supremacy in southern Greece. Thebes then remained a severe threat to Athens until Epaminondas’ death in 362.¹

I have advanced the thesis (pp. 17–21) that Xenophon’s Socratic works can be described as quasi-fictional. Some slight qualification now needs to be made by comparing Memoirs (and Defence and The Dinner-party) with The Estate-manager. The latter work is more obviously fictional than the others. The biographical trimmings of The Estate-manager are hardly prominent, and Xenophon was, one hopes, not intending to fool anyone about the historicity of the conversations he records there. The biographical element, however, of Memoirs is more important. Although there are overt anachronisms and Socrates discusses topics which were undoubtedly closer to Xenophon’s heart than his, there is a residuum of genuine Socratic material (see, for example, pp. 12–17). Above all, by the very variety of the anecdotes, Xenophon presents us with a picture of Socrates at work: this is the strength of what I have called the ‘lucky-dip’ nature of the work. We see Socrates conversing with a varied sample (excluding the very lowest classes) of types of people in Athens at the time: sophists, politicians, military leaders, artisans, businessmen – even on one occasion a courtesan. As well, there are his loyal followers. We are encouraged by this variety to imagine Socrates haunting the public places of Athens, casually dressed and shoeless, being sought out by some, and himself seeking others.

However, Xenophon does not present us with a vivid picture. It is I who have to tell you to imagine Socrates in the agora; Xenophon, at the most, merely encourages us to do so. One of the charms of Plato’s Socratic writings is that he often makes the locations real and characters come alive as flesh-and-blood actors in a philosophical drama. Xenophon’s characters, however, are more often stooges for Socrates’ moral earnestness; and, no matter to whom he is talking, Socrates’ tone and method of approach change very little. But Xenophon’s defects are self-evident, and it is far easier to condemn than to praise.¹ A great many intellectual writers find that well-rounded phrases trip easily off the tongue in disparagement, whereas praise sounds somewhat insipid. So here, to correct the balance, are some examples from Memoirs of Xenophon at his best.

Memoirs, 1.1–2, whatever one may think about its historicity or the picture it presents of Socrates, constitutes a well-constructed defence. The charges – whether those of the trial or those of Poly crates – are clearly stated, and the refutation of each point is also lucid and relevant. In fact, nobody accuses Xenophon of lack of clarity; rather, his weakness is to overdo it – he tends to lack subtlety (but see below), is over-fond of repetition to get a point across, and presents us with a portrait of Socrates that is so easy to digest that it may seem bland.

Xenophon does not always lack subtlety, however. There is, for example, his nicely muted humour in 2.7. Aristarchus is depressed because of his financial difficulties: the civil war means that he is supporting a large number of refugee relatives, but has no income and cannot raise a loan. Socrates suggests that he put his relatives to work to create an income; he points out that a number of traders are doing well despite the war. The humour here liés in the obvious practical soundness of the advice, which Aristarchus had failed to think of as a solution to his problems. Aristarchus is an aristocrat: he expects a ready-made income from his estates, and that is why he had not thought of this solution himself. His attitude resembles the British aristocracy’s traditional attitude towards ‘trade’ and the nouveaux riches; trade is infra dig and it is unthinkable that one would do it oneself. Socrates gently pricks this conceit and makes Aristarchus wish to emulate traders. The underlying more serious point is that, when it comes to the crunch, aristocrats are no different from artisans. Furthermore, it is interesting to note how, although Xenophon is not in this passage overtly defending Socrates against any of the charges against him, none the less he does place him in the Piraeus at a time when this was a democratic stronghold – a clever, indirect rebuttal of the accusations that Socrates was an oligarch. Thus Xenophon’s defence of Socrates is not always crudely obvious; other elements of the defence are taken in subconsciously by the reader.

So 2.7 portrays Xenophon’s Socrates as having the provocative sense of humour which we find more obviously in Plato. It is possible, without too much effort, to take quite a few of the dialogues in this vein. The trouble is that the frequent ponderous-ness of Xenophon’s style tends to obscure such humour. But sometimes the pricking of conceits is overt, as when Socrates is dealing with the pretensions of would-be military leaders (3.1, 3.4) or Glaucon’s political aspirations (3.6).

Memoirs, 3.6, shows that Xenophon is also occasionally capable of accomplished characterization. Under Socrates’ ironic prodding, Glaucon moves from vanity to evasiveness born of uncertainty, and finally to realization of the enormity of the task he faces and his own inadequacy. He cannot even manage his uncle’s household, so how does he expect to manage the whole city? Again, of course, there is an underlying serious point – that Athenian politics requires knowledge and expertise, and not another amateur demagogue. Other good examples of characterization of the interlocutor are 2.1 (Aristippus), 3.11 (Theodote) and 4.2 (Euthydemus). Many readers of Memoirs, in fact, think that 4.2 is the pick of the entire work. It achieves an almost Platonic blend of scene-setting, characterization, wicked humour, and philosophy.

In short, a reader with a sense of humour and a little charity will probably find quite a bit to enjoy in Memoirs, if he or she does not try to read too much at a time. Indeed, it is important to appreciate that a sense of humour can change one’s reading of Xenophon. Consider, for example, Memoirs, 2.5, where Socrates suggests that the value of friends can be assessed in strict financial terms: the idea is likely to seem rather obnoxious, unless one assumes that Socrates has his tongue at least partially in his cheek.

In considering Xenophon’s style, some comment must be passed on one of the most noticeable features – his constant assurances to the reader that his information for these Socratic conversations is reliable. In Memoirs he uses several phrases to convey this impression. Sometimes he actually claims to have been present at the conversation (1.3, 1.4, 1.6.11–14, 2.4, 2.5, 4.3); more often he says something like: ‘I know that he had the following conversation with –’ Only once does he refer to a source for the information (4.8). The majority of the dialogues or homilies are simply presented as factual by the method of confidently plunging the reader straight into the conversation: ‘This is what he said to –’ is the style, and it is, of course, scarcely different from the ‘I know that –’ formula.

I have mentioned in another context (p. 21) that Xenophon’s claim to have been present at the occasion recorded in The Dinner-party is demonstrably false; this fact alone goes a long way towards undermining any confidence that these reassurances to the reader are guileless. Moreover, although Greek memories were generally better than ours (since they rarely relied on the written word), no Greek’s memory was good enough to recall so accurately that many conversations – and this applies not only to Xenophon, but also to his putative sources. There is no indication that, when Xenophon left Athens in 401, he knew he was not going to return for thirty-six years, nor can he have foreseen Socrates’ trial and death; so why, before leaving, should he have bothered to go round all Socrates’ friends and take notes on their conversations with Socrates? Is it really possible to imagine Xenophon as a silent witness to so many of the conversations, especially the more personal ones in Book 2, such as Socrates ticking off his son Lamprocles (2.2)? There is a sense in which Xenophon’s lack of characterization of the interlocutors (see p. 53 and p. 205, n. 2) suggests that they are mere literary artifices, rather than recreated participants in a historical discussion; and sometimes the interlocutor becomes anonymous – ‘one of his companions’ or the like (3.1–3, 3.14). Once the floodgates of doubt are opened, there is no stopping extreme scepticism about Xenophon’s claim to historical veracity. Nor would he be the only writer to use this literary device; recent work has suggested, for instance, that the historian Herodotus’ claims to be an eyewit ness are invariably examples of exactly the same artifice, namely to reassure the reader of the accuracy of his account.¹

Given what I have already said about the loose organization of Memoirs, it would make little sense to discuss the work chapter by chapter. A thematic discussion (‘Socrates on religion’, ‘Socrates on self-discipline’, etc.) would be possible, but I propose, for the purpose of this brief introduction, to restrict myself to a single broad topic.

A conclusion to be drawn from the discussion of pp. 9–26 is that we should not expect Xenophon’s Socrates to be anything other than Xenophon’s ideal in dramatized form. The values and character of ‘Socrates’ are really those of Xenophon.² But what are Xenophon’s moral values? The phrase which recurs throughout Memoirs and the other works in this volume, and which sums up Xenophon’s ideal, is ‘truly good’. What is it, in Xenophon’s view, to be ‘truly good’?

The Greek phrase for ‘truly good’ is kalos kagathos. But this gives us little insight, since it is as vague a phrase as the English words used to translate it. It is a compound formed of two common commendatory adjectives, kalos (‘fine’) and agathos (‘good’): the phrase literally means ‘fine and good’ (see also p. 310, n. 1). Both kalos and agathos can be used extremely widely: kalos refers to physical attractiveness, but also to moral goodness and the appropriateness of anything – animate or inanimate – in its setting; agathos does not, in Xenophon’s time, directly refer to external qualities, but has much the same extension as the English ‘good’, which we use for everything from moral goodness (‘He’s a good man’) to utilitarian value (‘That’s a good knife’). Both terms are discussed in Memoirs, 3.8 and 4.6.

Xenophon did not invent the phrase (though the abstract noun kalokagathia, ‘true goodness’, first occurs in his works); yet its past history is of little help in understanding its use in Xenophon, since, not surprisingly, what one person sees as true goodness, another does not. However, it is generally true to say that before Xenophon it was applied as much to external as to internal qualities. Until recently, a reasonable English translation was ‘gentleman’, with all its connotations of correct behaviour and a certain moral code, usually backed by wealth and standing in the community.

In order to see what Xenophon means by the phrase, then, we must see how it is spelled out. Here is a thorough, but not necessarily complete, list of its occurrences in Memoirs: 1.1.16, 1.2.2, 1.2.7, 1.2.17, 1–2.23, 1–2.29, 1.2.48, 1.3.11, 1.5.1, 1.5–14. 1.6.13, 1.6.14, 2.1.20, 2.3.16, 2.6.16–28, 2.9.8, 3–5–15, 3–9–4. 3.9.5, 4.2.23, 4.7.1, 4.8.11.

A survey of these passages in their contexts reveals that a ‘truly good’ person, like Socrates, has the following qualities:

1   Freedom (as opposed to slavishness) as a result of self-discipline.

2   Certain knowledge and a certain degree of education.

3   The ability to make good friends and get on with people.

4   The ability to do good to friends (and harm to enemies).

5   The ability to manage one’s estate and, if need be, one’s country.

6   The ability to do good to one’s country.

7   The traditional virtues, such as wisdom, justice, self-control and piety.

In Socrates’ case, there is an eighth item: the ability to teach and make others truly good.

This list constitutes a summary of Xenophon’s values. I have restricted the references to Memoirs, but the conversation with Ischomachus in The Estate-manager is important corroborative evidence: Socrates goes in search of a ‘truly good’ person, finds Ischomachus and learns from him how he has earned this description (pp. 309–38). The emphasis in The Estate-manager is inevitably on the ability to manage one’s estate, but all the other features of the list, including the ability to teach, play a part. The fact that Ischomachus is obviously the type of a country gentleman reminds us that Xenophon’s kalos kagathos is never far removed from that conception: indeed, one might almost say, were it not for Socrates’ poverty, that Xenophon is portraying him as a country gentleman!

There is a sense in which ‘freedom’ is almost synonymous with ‘true goodness’ in Xenophon’s mind. Thus, for instance, knowledge of certain truly good things is a mark of a truly good person, but ignorance of them is equated with slavishness (e.g. 1.1.16). Further, all the abilities numbered 3–6 in the list are contrasted at 2.1.18–20 with lack of self-discipline which is often described as slavishness (for example, Memoirs, 1.5, 2.6, 4.2.22, 4.5; The Estate-manager, 1.16–23). And since all the traditional virtues are knowledge, and ignorance is slavish, then a free person is virtuous and a virtuous person is free.

Freedom, we see, depends on self-discipline, and it is a refrain throughout the Memoirs that Socrates was the most self-disciplined of men. He was ruled by neither his instinctive appetites nor his emotions, but he ruled them. Self-discipline is presented as the foundation of true goodness.

The emphasis throughout is practical, prudential and result-oriented. Thus, self-discipline is important not just for itself, but because it enables a person not to be distracted by his appetites from doing his duty. Education is desirable provided it stops short of useless theoretical studies. You do good to your friends so that they stick by you, defend you from your enemies, and otherwise repay you.¹ The purpose of estate-management is to create wealth, and the purpose of benefiting one’s country is partly to achieve recognition.

Once more it must be said that anyone coming to Xenophon after having absorbed Plato’s portrait of Socrates is likely to be disappointed. As Saunders remarks (p. 16): ‘There is nothing here to make the blood race’, and, in Xenophon, Socrates’ strong point is ‘massive horse-sense, not philosophical acumen’. But it is arguable that Xenophon’s portrait provides a useful, and not entirely false, counterbalance to Plato’s. On the whole, Plato’s Socrates is otherworldly: he wants to help people to act well, but otherwise is not concerned with the things of this world. The best summary of his attitude is given in a late dialogue, Theaetetus. In the course of a long, brilliant and often savage comparison of philosophers with the worldly-wise (172c–177b), Plato has Socrates describe philosophers as free, while other men are slaves, and as unaware of trivial day-to-day events. At one point he says (175d–176a):

So there are the two types, Theodorus. There’s the one you call the philosopher, whose upbringing has been genuinely free and unhurried, and who can’t be blamed for looking simple and being useless when he is confronted with menial tasks – if, for instance, he doesn’t know how to make the bed or sweeten a sauce or a flattering speech. Then there’s the other one, who can do all these things keenly and quickly, but who doesn’t know how to strike up an elegant and free-spirited song – no, nor how to play his part in the harmony of discussion and properly celebrate the life of gods and happy men.

This, as I say, is from a late dialogue, but it is not untrue to the spirit of earlier dialogues. At Gorgias, 521c-522e, for instance, Socrates admits that he would be useless in court: if he were brought to trial, it would be like a doctor being accused by a confectioner before a jury of children!

Now, no doubt Socrates in his philosophical moments was ‘impractical’; more importantly, no doubt it was the philosophical side of Socrates that someone like Plato saw and valued, and/or that Socrates himself revealed to pupils like Plato. But there is no reason to think that Socrates was always like that, and would not have been seen by a follower like Xenophon as teaching prudential goals. It is quite possible that Xenophon’s innate conservatism has to a large extent coloured his descriptions of Socrates’ practicality; but perhaps Socrates did teach practical goals too.

If there is any reluctance to accept this, it is, I suspect, largely due to the ethical dichotomy enshrined in our Western conditioning as ‘Ye cannot serve God and Mammon’. This is certainly a view to which Plato would subscribe, and he would probably dismiss Xenophon as a Mammon-server. But there is no reason to think that Socrates accepted the dichotomy. The Socratic principle underlying both Plato’s and Xenophon’s descriptions of Socrates’ ethical thought is that virtue is knowledge of what is good for oneself. This principle, which is universally recognized by commentators on Socrates and has been called ‘moral egoism’, is, as with all Socratic principles, open to interpretation. To Plato, what is really good for oneself is to shun the world as much as possible; to Xenophon, the principle is a reflection of traditional morality.

We must, however, be wary of directly equating the God-Mammon dichotomy with the Plato-Xenophon dichotomy. There is a middle way, which, arguably, is reflected in both Plato and Xenophon, namely, to be in the world, but not of the world. This requires some explanation.

Broadly speaking, Socrates’ philosophical predecessors had, by a process of reductionism, attempted to make the world comprehensible. Instead of viewing it as the playground of fickle, or at least unintelligible, gods, they tried to see the world as explicable by as few physical elements and processes as possible. At the same time great advances were made in technology, and several fifth-century writers celebrated man’s control over his environment (see Guthrie, The Sophists, pp. 79–84).

Man’s mind was beginning to be seen as the means for under standing and then controlling the world.¹ Socrates played an important part in this process: his original contribution was to stress that the rational mind controls the world by governing the choices we make (see Snell, pp. 182 ff.). People had always made decisions, of course, but Socrates puts such decision-making firmly within the province of reason, rather than, for example, passion or appetite. This is evident particularly in his denial of akrasia (which both Plato and Xenophon describe; see pp. 12–15), and in the emphasis on self-discipline (more prominent in Xenophon than in Plato). To take a simple example, suppose I am offered a sixth glass of wine at a party. The denial of akrasia means that, whether I accept or refuse it, the choice will be dictated by what I believe to be good for me,² and self-discipline means that I will probably choose to refuse the wine!

Again, in both Plato and Xenophon, Socrates emphasizes that deliberate, knowing action is preferable to involuntary action (see, for example, Plato, Hippias Minor; Xenophon, Memoirs, 4.2.19–23), and in Xenophon, at any rate, involuntary action, which is based on ignorance, is described as slavish; and slaves, obviously, have fewer choices than free men.³ It is clearer in Plato than in Xenophon that what governs choice is the rational mind’s knowledge of oneself, which is knowledge of what is good and bad for oneself, as a human being and as an individual. Armed with this knowledge, we will always act virtuously.

If this is the ideal, what is the opposite? What constitutes involuntary, unknowing and therefore unvirtuous action? Socrates’ answer is that it is action which is governed by ig norance, which either precludes or restricts choice. Hence, his mission (see pp. 13, 17, 36) was to show people that they were ignorant by pricking the bubble of illusory knowledge. We have already seen that this is a dangerous practice, of which only tolerant societies can approve (see p. 36), because what normally governs choice is nomos, the conditioning of our society. To get people to think about their conventional rules is revolutionary.

Now, even according to Plato, it may be that an action based on knowing choice will coincide with an action based on nomos, although the difference between the two superficially identical actions is as wide as the difference between awareness and blind adherence to rules. In Plato’s Crito Socrates says that he has chosen to live in Athens: if he did not like it, he could have gone elsewhere; and the choice to stay entails a decision to obey the Athenian laws. This is the most striking Platonic evidence that knowing action may coincide with conventional action.¹ We can also consider the following: Socrates’ astonishment that Euthyphro is prepared to go against conventional morality and prosecute his father (Euthyphro, 4a-e); his insistence, even in the legal context of an Athenian lawcourt, that he has never wronged anyone (Apology, 37a), and therefore it would be his prosecutor who was wrong (Gorgias, 521d; compare Meno, 94e-95a); and the view implicit in Hippias Minor that a knowing, virtuous person will not, although he could, choose to lie and do wrong.

These are the parameters of the ‘middle way’ which I believe Socrates taught, and is reflected in both Plato and Xenophon. The Socratic ideal is to know what is good for oneself and to base one’s actions on rational choice derived from that knowledge. One’s actions are, naturally, in the world, but because they are not based on blind adherence to nomos, they are not of the world.

The point is that these speculations (as remarked on p. 23, any attempt to uncover Socrates’ thought is bound to be speculative) are based equally on the accounts of both Plato and Xenophon. As I said, even in Plato knowing action may coincide with traditionally moral action; from this point of view Xenophon’s values can appear less humdrum. Since the foundations of the ‘middle way’ – the denial of akrasia, the ideal of voluntary action and the notion that virtue is knowledge – are all present in Xenophon, it is possible that his presentation of a conservative and conventional ideal is because, for a person like himself, knowing action will always be conventional action. As Anderson says: ‘Throughout his life, Xenophon remained the sort of conservative whose acceptance of the doctrines and principles that he has inherited seems either unintelligent, or dishonest, or both, to those who do not share them.’¹ In this extract, I would be inclined to stress ‘seems’: more thought may underlie Xenophon’s values than he is often credited with.²

Two final words of warning related to the above thesis. First, Xenophon’s flat, matter-of-fact tone will tend to encourage the reader to treat as banal issues which bear thinking about, and which perhaps Xenophon had thought about. Second, it is too easy for us today to dismiss Xenophon as not much better than a bad Victorian writer. This applies not just to his style of writing, which may seem Victorian to us, accustomed as we are to racy colloquialisms in our fiction, but also to his morals. It is quite reasonable to describe his moral code as ‘Victorian’ in the lay sense given in my dictionary: ‘strict but somewhat conventional in morals, inclining to prudery and solemnity’. But the fact that this morality was reinstated in nineteenth-century Europe and is now past history to us should not make us forget that Xenophon may have reached his conventional position by original routes. Xenophon’s portrait of Socrates may be only a pale reflection of the historical Socrates, but it is still a reflection, and Socrates was killed for what he said and did.

MEMOIRS OF SOCRATES

BOOK ONE

I have often wondered what arguments Socrates’ accusers can possibly have used to convince the people of Athens that he deserved execution. The indictment against him ran something like this: Socrates is a malefactor, firstly, in that he does not recognize the gods recognized by the State, but introduces new deities; secondly, in that he corrupts the young.¹

With regard to the first charge, that he did not recognize the gods recognized by the State, on what evidence can they possibly have relied? Everyone could see that he sacrificed regularly at home and also at the public altars of the State; and he made no secret of using divination; in fact it was common gossip that Socrates claimed that the divine communicated to him.² This, I imagine, was the chief reason for accusing him of introducing new deities. Yet he was no more heretical than any other people who believe in divination and rely on portents and omens and chance meetings and sacrifices. They do not suppose that the birds they see or the people they meet know what is the right course for those who are consulting the diviner; they believe that these things are simply means used by the gods to communicate, and Socrates took the same view. But whereas most people say that it is the omen or the encounter that dissuades or encourages them, Socrates asserted what he actually believed: he said that the divine does the communicating. He often warned his associates to do this or not to do that, at the prompting of the divine, and those who took his advice benefited from it, while those who did not were sorry for it afterwards. Surely anyone would agree that Socrates did not want to seem either a fool or an impostor to his companions; and he would have been thought both if he had been manifestly mistaken in making what he claimed to be divine revelations about the future. It seems obvious, then, that he would not have predicted the future if he had not been sure that his statements would come true; and who could base this trust on anything other than a god? And if he trusted in gods, he surely must have believed in gods.¹

Besides, towards his intimate friends he adopted the following line: if an action was unavoidable, he advised them to carry it out as they thought best, but where the result of an action was uncertain, he sent them to consult a diviner to see if the action should be taken. He said that anyone who proposed to run an estate or a country efficiently needed the help of divination. Skill in carpentry or metalwork or farming or government, or critical ability in these subjects, or proficiency in mathematics or estate-management or military science – all these attainments he considered to be within the scope of human choice and judgement; but he said that the most important aspects of these subjects the gods reserved for themselves, and none of them were revealed to mortals.² A man who has sown a field well cannot tell who will reap the harvest; and a man who has built a house well cannot tell who will live in it. A general cannot tell whether it is to his advantage to hold his command, and a politician cannot tell whether it is to his advantage to be the head of the State. The man who has married a beautiful wife for his pleasure cannot tell whether she will cause him pain, and the man who has secured influential connections in his native land cannot tell whether they will result in his banishment from it. To suppose that such consequences are all a matter of human judgement and contain no element of the divine was, he said, superstition; and he also said it was superstition to consult diviners about questions which the gods had enabled us to decide by the use of our wits (for example, supposing one were to ask whether it is better to engage a qualified or an unqualified driver for a carriage, or helmsman for one’s ship), or to which the answers can be found by calculation or measuring or weighing. People who put this sort of question to the gods were, in his opinion, acting wrongly. He said that where the gods have given us power to act by the use of our intelligence, we ought to use it; but where the outcome is concealed from human beings, we should try to discover it from the gods by divination; for the gods communicate to those whom they favour.

Then again, Socrates was always in the public eye. Early in the morning he used to make his way to the covered walks and the recreation grounds, and when the agora became busy he was there in full view; and he always spent the rest of the day where he expected to find the most company. He talked most of the time, and anyone who liked could listen. But nobody ever saw Socrates do, or heard him say, anything that was heretical or irreverent. He did not discourse about the nature of the physical universe, as most other philosophers did,¹ inquiring into the constitution of the cosmos (as the sages call it)² and the causes of the various celestial phenomena; on the contrary, he pointed out the foolishness of those who concerned themselves with such questions. In the first place, he inquired whether they proceeded to these studies only when they thought they had a sufficient knowledge of human problems, or whether they felt that they were right in disregarding human problems and inquiring into divine matters.

He expressed surprise that it was not obvious to them that human minds cannot discover these secrets, inasmuch as those who claim most confidently to pronounce upon them do not hold the same theories, but disagree with one another just like lunatics. He pointed out that some lunatics don’t even fear what is fearful, and others are terrified of things that aren’t terrible; some don’t scruple to say or do anything even in a crowd, and others feel that they can’t even show themselves in public; some show no respect for temples or altars or anything else that is sacred, and others worship stones and odd pieces of wood and animals. In the same way, he said, some of those who ponder about the nature of the universe think that reality is one, and others that it is infinitely many; some think that everything is always in motion, and others that nothing can ever be moved; some think that everything comes to be and passes away, and others that nothing can come to be or pass away.¹

He also raised this further question about them: whether, just as those who study human nature expect to achieve some result from their studies for the benefit of themselves or of some other selected person, so these students of divine matters expect that, when they have discovered the laws that govern the various phenomena, they will produce at will winds and rain and changes of season and any other such required effect;² or whether they have no such expectation, but are content with the mere knowledge of how these various phenomena occur.

That is how he spoke about people who occupied themselves with these speculations. He himself always discussed human matters, trying to find out the nature of piety and impiety, honour and dishonour, right and wrong, sanity and lunacy, courage and cowardice, State and statesman, government and the capacity for government, and all other subjects the knowledge of which he thought marked truly good men, while those who were ignorant of them might fairly be called slavish.

In so far as his views were not clearly known, it is no wonder that the jury formed a wrong estimate; but is it not extraordinary that they should have taken no account of what was common knowledge? On one occasion, when he had been elected to the Council and had taken the councillor’s oath, which included the clause ‘I will act in accordance with the law’, he was chosen to preside in the Assembly.¹ The people were bent on putting Thrasyllus and Erasinides² and all their colleagues to death by a single resolution in defiance of the law. But Socrates refused to put the motion to the vote, although the people were angry with him and a number of influential men threatened him; he thought it more important to keep his oath than wrongfully to curry favour with the people and defend himself against intimidation.

He believed that the gods care for men, but not in the way that most people believe they do. They suppose that the gods know some things but not others; but Socrates believed that they know everything, both words and actions and unspoken intentions, and that they are present everywhere and communicate to people about all kinds of human affairs. So I cannot understand how the people of Athens were persuaded that Socrates was heretical in his religious beliefs, when he never said or did anything irreverent, but on the contrary, in his relationship to the gods, said and did only what was recognizably consistent with the deepest reverence.

2

It also seems extraordinary to me that any people should have been persuaded that Socrates had a bad influence upon young men. Besides what I have said already, he was in the first place the most self-disciplined of men in respect of his sexual and other appetites; then he was most tolerant of cold and heat and hardships of all kinds; and finally he had so trained himself to be moderate in his requirements that he was very easily satisfied with very few possessions. So if he himself was like this, how could he have made others irreverent or criminal or greedy or sensual or work-shy? On the contrary, he rescued many from these states by inspiring them with a desire for goodness and offering them hope that, if they took themselves in hand, they would become truly good. At the same time he never undertook to teach how this could be done; but by obviously being such a person, he made those who spent their time with him hope that, if they followed his example, they would develop the same character.

He neither neglected the body himself nor commended others for doing so. He disapproved of over-eating followed by violent exercise, but approved of taking enough exercise to work off the amount of food that the mind accepts with pleasure; he said that this was quite a healthy practice and did not hinder the cultivation of the mind. He was certainly not foppish or ostentatious either in his clothing or in his footwear or in the rest of his daily life. Nor again did he make his associates money-lovers: he rid them of all other desires except for his company, and for that he charged no fee.¹ In eschewing fees, he considered that he was protecting his own independence; those who accepted a fee in return for their services he nicknamed ‘self-enslavers’, because they were obliged to converse with those who paid the fee. He expressed surprise that a man who offered to teach goodness should demand to be paid for it and, instead of anticipating the greatest possible gain through obtaining a good friend, should be afraid that the person who has become truly good will feel less than the deepest gratitude to his supreme benefactor. Socrates never made any such offer to anyone, but he believed that those of his associates who accepted the principles which he himself approved would be good friends all their life long to himself and to one another. How, then, could such a person have a corrupting influence upon the young – unless the cultivation of goodness is a form of corruption?

But it is a fact, according to his accuser,¹ that he encouraged his associates to make light of constitutional practice by saying that it was foolish to appoint political leaders by lot,² and that nobody would employ a candidate chosen by lot as a pilot or a carpenter or a musician or for any other such post – although if these posts are badly filled, they cause far less harm than bad political appointments; and the accuser said that this sort of talk encouraged the young to despise the established constitution and made them unruly. But I think that those who exercise reason and believe that they are capable of teaching their fellow citizens what is for their good are most unlikely to become unruly, since they know that violence involves enmity and danger, whereas persuasion produces the same results without danger and in a friendly spirit; for the victims of violence feel that they have been deprived, and are resentful, while those who have yielded to persuasion are appreciative of having received a kindness. So violence is not to be expected of those who exercise reason; such conduct belongs to those who have strength without judgement. I may add that anyone who ventures to use violence will also need not a few accomplices, while the man who can persuade will need none, because he will be sure of his power to persuade even if he is single-handed. Also, such people are most unlikely to commit murder. Who would choose to kill a man rather than have him alive and acquiescent?

However, according to Socrates’ accuser, Critias and Alci-biades, who had belonged to Socrates’ circle, did more harm to their country than any other persons. Critias developed into the most avaricious and violent of all the oligarchs, and Alcibiades in his turn became the most dissolute and arrogant of all the democrats. For my part, I shall not defend any wrong that these men did to the State; I shall merely explain how their connection with Socrates came about.¹

These two men were by nature the most ambitious persons in all Athens, determined to have personal control over all State affairs and to be famous above all others. They knew that Socrates lived quite contentedly on very slender resources, and that he was absolutely self-disciplined in respect of all pleasures, and that he could do as he liked in argument with anyone who conversed with him. Given that they were aware of these facts, and were men of the kind that I have described, should one say that they courted Socrates’ society because they desired his way of life and the self-discipline which he had, or because they thought that by associating with him they would acquire the highest efficiency in speech and action? My opinion is that if God had offered them the choice between living out their lives as they saw Socrates living his, and dying, they would have preferred to die. They showed as much by their conduct: as soon as they felt superior to the rest of the company, they broke away from Socrates and took up politics, the object for which they had courted his society.

Perhaps it might be objected that Socrates should not have taught his associates politics before he taught them self-discipline. I do not dispute this, but I observe that all teachers show their pupils how they themselves practise what they preach, and lead them on by reasoned argument. I know that Socrates in the same way made it clear to his companions that he was a truly good man, and excelled in discussing ethical questions and all other human problems. And I know that both those men too were self-disciplined so long as they associated with Socrates – not because they were afraid of being punished or hit by him, but because they thought then that it was best to behave so.

No doubt many professed philosophers² would say that a just man can never become unjust, nor a self-disciplined man a bully, just as one who has learned any other subject can never become ignorant of it. But this is not my view of the matter. It seems clear to me that just as those who do not exercise their bodies cannot carry out their physical duties, so those who do not exercise their characters cannot carry out their moral duties: they can neither do what they ought to do nor avoid what they ought to avoid. That is why fathers keep their sons (even if they are right-minded) away from bad men, because they believe that the company of good people is a training in virtue, while the company of bad men is the ruin of it. Witness to this fact is borne by the poet who says:

Good company will edify you; bad

Will rob you even of the wits you had.¹

And the one who says:

But good men are by turns both base and brave.²

And I can add my testimony to this. For I observe that just as epic poetry fades from the minds of those who fail to rehearse it, so those who neglect what their teachers tell them are liable to forget it. Now, when a person forgets the advice he has been given, it means that he has also forgotten the influences that set his heart on self-discipline; and when he has forgotten these, it is not surprising that he should forget self-discipline too. I observe also that those who have developed a taste for drinking, or have become involved in love affairs, are less capable of attending to what they ought to do and of abstaining from what they ought not to do.³ I mean, often those who were able to control their spending before they were in love, after they have fallen in love, can do so no more; and when once they have run through their money, they no longer reject in disdain the sources of profit which they rejected before. So how can it be impossible for one who was self-disciplined before to be undisciplined later, or for one who was formerly able to act rightly to be unable later? On the contrary, it seems to me that every truly good thing needs to be exercised, and not least self-discipline; for the appetites that are implanted with the soul in the same body encourage it not to be self-disciplined, but to gratify both them and the body in the quickest possible way.

Critias and Alcibiades, then, as long as they kept company with Socrates, were able by his help to master their ignoble desires. But when they had parted from him, Critias was banished to Thessaly and attached himself to men who indulged more in law-breaking than in upright conduct. Alcibiades, on the other hand, was courted because of his good looks by many women of rank, and, because of his prestige in the city and among the allies, he was pampered by many influential men and held in honour by the people, and enjoyed an easily won supremacy; and just as athletes who easily achieve supremacy in athletic competitions neglect their exercises, so he neglected himself.

Since this is what happened to Alcibiades and Critias, and since they were exalted by their birth, elated by their wealth, puffed up with their power, and spoiled by many people, is it any wonder that, when they were corrupted for all these reasons and long separated from Socrates, they became overbearing? Socrates’ accuser holds him responsible for all their faults; does he find nothing creditable in the fact that in their youth, when it was natural that they should be most irresponsible and undisciplined, Socrates made them behave decently? That is not how other cases are decided. If the teacher of a wind or string instrument or of some other art has made his pupils proficient, and they then attach themselves to other teachers and deteriorate, is the first teacher blamed for this result? If a man’s son through attaching himself to some teacher becomes self-disciplined, and later through associating with somebody else becomes vicious, does the father blame the first teacher? Surely he gives him the greater credit in proportion as the son shows himself worse in the company of the latter. In fact, when fathers themselves look after their sons, if the sons go wrong, the fathers are not blamed for it, if they themselves have been impeccable in their conduct. Socrates ought to be judged in the same way. If he himself had done anything bad, he might reasonably have been regarded as a bad person; but if he was consistently scrupulous, how can he justly be held responsible for a fault which he did not possess?

However, even though he himself did nothing discreditable, if he had expressed approval of these men when he saw them behaving badly, he would have deserved censure. Well, when he noticed that Critias was in love with Euthydemus and was trying to seduce him, like one seeking to gratify his sexual appetite, Socrates tried to dissuade him by insisting that it was slavish and improper for a truly good man to solicit his favourite, to whom he wishes to appear in a creditable light, importuning him like a beggar and entreating him to grant his favours, especially since those favours are far from honourable. And when Critias paid no attention to these protests and was not diverted from his purpose, Socrates is reported to have said, in the presence of several persons including Euthydemus himself, that Critias seemed to be suffering from pig’s itch: he wanted to scratch himself against Euthydemus like a piglet scratching itself against a stone. This made Critias take a dislike to Socrates, so that when as one of the Thirty¹ he became a legislator along with Charicles, he held it against Socrates and introduced a law against teaching ‘the art of debate’. He did this out of spite towards Socrates, since he had no means of attacking him other than misrepresenting him to the public by applying to him the usual layman’s allegation against all philosophers.² I never heard Socrates do this myself, nor did I ever know anyone else claim to have heard him do so.

He made his position quite clear. When the Thirty were putting to death many of the citizens (and those not the worst among them) and were inciting many others to do wrong, Socrates observed on one occasion that it seemed extraordinary to him that a man appointed to look after a herd of cattle who made them fewer and worse than they were before should not admit that he was a bad herdsman, and still more extraordinary that a man appointed as a political leader who was making the citizens fewer and worse than they were before was not ashamed and did not consider himself a bad political leader. This was reported to the tyrants, and Critias and Charicles summoned Socrates, and, calling his attention to the law, forbade him to converse with the young. Socrates asked them if he was allowed to ask for information about anything in their proclamation that he did not understand. They said he could.

‘Well,’ said he, ‘I am prepared to obey the laws; but in order that I may not unconsciously offend through ignorance, I want you to make this point clear to me. When you order abstention from the art of debate, is it because you think it is accompanied by correctness or by incorrectness of speech? If by correctness, clearly I would have to refrain from speaking correctly; and if by incorrectness, clearly I would have to try to speak correctly.’

Charicles was annoyed with him and said, ‘As you are so dense, Socrates, we issue you this warning, which is easier to grasp: do not converse with the young at all.’

‘Well, then,’ said Socrates, ‘to prevent any misunderstanding, give me a definition of the age up to which one should regard people as young.’

Charicles replied, ‘As long as they are considered too immature to serve on the Council; on this principle you are not to converse with men below the age of thirty.’

‘Not even if I am buying something,’ asked Socrates, ‘and the seller is below the age of thirty? Can’t I even ask what the price is?’

‘Yes, of course you can ask that sort of question,’ said Charicles. ‘But Socrates, most of the questions you like to ask are ones to which you know the answers. That is the kind you must stop asking.’

‘Am I not to reply either, then,’ said Socrates, ‘when a young man asks me something, if I know the answer – like “Where does Charicles live?” or “Where’s Critias?”?’

‘Yes, of course you can answer that kind,’ said Charicles.

Critias interposed, ‘The people you will have to keep off, Socrates, are the cobblers and carpenters and smiths. They must be worn out by now with all your talk about them.’¹

‘Then must I also keep off the topics that they lead to,’ said Socrates, ‘morality and piety and so on?’

‘Certainly,’ said Charicles, ‘and from herdsmen. Otherwise you had better take care that you don’t decrease the number of the herd yourself.’

This made it plain that their hostility to Socrates was due to their having been told of his remark about the cattle.

So much for the nature of the association of Critias with Socrates and the relations between them.

I myself would deny that anyone can be instructed by a person of whom he disapproves; and it was not because they approved of him that Critias and Alcibiades associated with Socrates while they did associate with him, but because from the very first they had set out to be supreme in the State. Even while they were still in Socrates’ company, they tried to converse with the leading politicians in preference to anybody else. There is a story that when Alcibiades was still under twenty, he had the following conversation about the laws with Pericles, who was his guardian and the head of the State.

‘Tell me, Pericles,’ he said, ‘could you explain to me what law is?’

‘Most certainly,’ said Pericles.

‘Then please do so,’ said Alcibiades. ‘I hear people being praised for being law-abiding, and I presume that nobody can rightly win this praise if he does not know what law is.’

‘Well,’ said Pericles, ‘it’s not at all a difficult object that you’re seeking, Alcibiades, if you want to find out what law is. When the people, meeting together, approve and enact a proposal stating what should or should not be done, that is a law.’

‘On the assumption that good actions should be done, or bad ones?’

‘Good ones, of course, my boy, not bad ones.’

‘Supposing that instead of the whole people a small section of it (as happens when there is an oligarchy) meets and enacts what ought to be done – what is that?’

‘Everything that the powers that be in the State enact, after deliberating what should be done, is called a law.’

‘Then supposing a despot, being in power in the State, enacts what the citizens are to do, is that a law too?’

‘Yes, even the enactments of a despot in power are called laws.’

‘And what is violence and lawlessness, Pericles? Isn’t it when the stronger party compels the weaker to do what he wants by using force instead of persuasion?’

‘So I believe,’ said Pericles.

‘Then anything that a despot enacts and compels the citizens to do instead of persuading them is an example of lawlessness?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Pericles.’I retract the statement that what a despot enacts otherwise than by persuasion is law.’

‘And if the minority enacts something not by persuading the majority but by dominating it, should we call this violence or not?’

‘It seems to me,’ said Pericles, ‘that if one party, instead of persuading another, compels him to do something, whether by enactment or not, this is always violence rather than law.’

‘Then if the people as a whole uses not persuasion but its superior power to enact measures against the propertied classes, will that be violence rather than law?’

‘You know, Alcibiades,’ said Pericles, ‘when I was your age I was very clever too at this sort of thing; I used to practise just the same sort of ingenuity that I think you practise now.’

‘I wish I could have met you when you were at your cleverest, Pericles,’ said Alcibiades.

Well, as soon as they thought that they were a match for the politicians, they stopped associating with Socrates – because, apart from their general lack of sympathy with him, whenever they came into his company they had the annoyance of having their mistakes exposed – and took up politics, which was the very object for which they had attached themselves to Socrates.

But Crito was Socrates’ companion, and so were Chaerephon, Chaerecrates, Hermogenes, Simmias, Cebes, Phaedondas and others, who associated with him not because they wanted to become politicians or barristers, but because they wanted to become truly good men and to be able to behave properly towards their family, servants, relatives and friends, their State and their fellow citizens. Not one of these men at any period of his life did anything wrong, or was accused of doing so.

But Socrates, according to his accuser, taught children to treat their fathers with contempt by claiming to make those who associated with him wiser than their fathers, and asserting that it was legal to put even one’s father in confinement after first getting him certified insane, and citing as evidence that it was lawful for the ignorant to be kept under restraint by the wise. Actually, Socrates thought that anyone who imprisoned people on the ground of ignorance might fairly be confined himself by those who understood what he did not. Such reflections led him often to examine the difference between ignorance and madness; and he considered that, whereas for mad people to be confined would be an advantage both to themselves and to those who were fond of them, the right thing for those who lacked necessary knowledge would be to learn from those who had it.

Socrates’ accuser said that he lowered the regard of his associates not only for their fathers, but also for their other relatives, by saying that it is not their relatives that help the victims of disease or litigation, but doctors in the one case and competent advocates in the other. Still on the subject of friends, Socrates said, according to his accuser, that their goodwill is useless, unless there was a prospect of their being actually able to help one; and that the only friends who deserved to be esteemed were those who knew what was right and could make it clear to others. In this way, the accuser said, Socrates, by prevailing on the young to believe that he was the wisest of men and best qualified to make others wise, so influenced his associates that nobody else had any position in their eyes by comparison with himself.

I know that Socrates did express these views both about fathers and other relatives and about friends; and what is more, that he said that when the soul, which is the one and only seat of the intelligence, had departed, people lose no time in carrying out and putting away the body of the person dearest to them. He used to say that even in life, although everyone is especially fond of his body, he is ready to give up any part of it that is useless or unprofitable, either removing it himself or getting someone else to do it. People cut their own nails and hair and corns, and allow surgeons to amputate and cauterize with consequential pain and suffering, and feel bound to show them gratitude and pay a fee; and they spit out phlegm from their mouths as far as they can, because its presence there does them no good and is much more likely to harm them. It was not with the object of instructing his friends to bury their fathers alive or cut themselves to pieces that Socrates stated these facts; by showing that what is without intelligence is without value, he was appealing to people to take pains to be as intelligent and helpful as possible, so that if a person wished for the regard of father or brother or anyone else, he might not rely on the relationship and take no trouble, but try to be of service to those whose regard he wished to obtain.

Another charge against Socrates was that he used to pick out the most immoral lines of the most famous poets and by using their evidence, taught his associates to be criminals and autocrats. The line of Hesiod, ‘No work is shame, but idleness is shame,’¹ he is supposed to have explained as meaning that the poet bids us shrink from no kinds of work, not even such as are wicked or discreditable, but to do even these for the sake of gain. Actually, when Socrates had agreed that to be a worker was beneficial to a person and a good thing, while to be an idler was harmful and a bad thing – in other words that to work was good and to be idle was bad – he used to add that only those who performed a good action were working and were good workers, while those who played dice or performed any other kind of worthless and punishable action he denounced as idlers. On this basis, ‘No work is shame, but idleness is shame’ would be quite correct.

He was also accused of constantly quoting the passage from Homer¹ which says about Odysseus:

Whenever he met some king, or man of distinction,

He would stand there and try to stop him with gentle words:

‘Sir, you ought not to be scared, like any base coward;

Keep a grip on yourself and check the rest of the people…’

But when he came across a common man and found him wailing,

He would lash out with his staff and address him imperiously:

‘Sir, stop your trembling and listen to the words of others

Who are your betters – you unsoldierly weakling,

Worthless in battle and in council.’

It was alleged that he interpreted this as meaning that the poet commended the beating of commoners and poor people. But that was not what Socrates meant. If it had been, he would have thought that he ought to be beaten himself. What he did say was that any people who could neither say nor do anything useful, and who were incapable, if the need arose, of helping the army or the State or even the citizen body, ought to be placed under every kind of restraint (especially if they are presumptuous too), even if they happen to be very rich. No; on the contrary, Socrates was obviously a friend of the people and well disposed towards all mankind. Although he gained many admirers, both native and foreign, he never charged any of them a fee for his company, but shared his resources unhesitatingly with everyone. Some people, after getting some scraps of wisdom from him free, sold them to others at a high price, and were not as democratic as he was, because they refused to converse with those who could not pay. But Socrates, even in the eyes of the world at large, brought greater honour to his city than the celebrated Lichas did to Sparta. Lichas used to give a dinner to the foreigners who visited Lacedaemon for the festival of the Gymnopaedia,¹ but Socrates spent his life conferring the highest benefits at his own expense upon all who wanted them, for he never let his associates go without improving them.

Since Socrates was as I have described him, in my opinion he deserved to be honoured by the State rather than executed.²Consideration of the law would lead one to the same conclusion. According to law, death is the penalty for conviction as a thief or pickpocket or cutpurse or housebreaker or kidnapper or temple-robber: but Socrates was the last man on earth to commit these crimes. Moreover, in his public life he was never guilty of involving his country in an unsuccessful war, or in sedition or treason or any other calamity; and in his personal dealings he never deprived anyone of a benefit or got anyone into trouble, and he was never even accused of any such action. How, then, could he be guilty of the charge? So far from being an atheist, as was alleged in the indictment, he was obviously the most devout of men; and so far from corrupting the young, as he was accused of doing by his prosecutor, he obviously rid his associates of any wrong desires that they had and urged them to set their hearts on the finest and most splendid form of excellence, which makes both countries and estates well managed. By acting in this way he surely deserved high honour at the hands of his country.

3

I said above that in my opinion he actually benefited his associates, partly by practical example and partly by his conversation. I shall record as many instances as I can recall.

As regards religion, anyone can see that Socrates’ behaviour accorded exactly with the Pythia’s advice to those who inquire what they ought to do about sacrifices or showing respect to ancestors or any other such observance.¹ The Pythia replies that they will show proper piety if they act in accordance with the law of the land. Socrates both acted on this principle himself and urged others to do so; and he thought that those who acted otherwise were acting excessively and foolishly.

He prayed to the gods simply to give him what was good, recognizing that they know best what is good for us. He thought that to pray for gold or silver or unlimited power or anything of that sort was just like praying for a throw of dice or a battle or anything else with an obviously unpredictable sequel. He thought that in offering small sacrifices to the gods from small resources he was in no way falling behind those who offered ample ones from ample resources. He said that it was a poor thing for the gods if they took more pleasure in great sacrifices than in small ones, because then they would often be better pleased with the offerings of the wicked than with those of the good; and for human beings life would not be worth living if the offerings of the wicked pleased the gods better than those of the good. On the contrary, he believed that the gods appreciated most the honours paid to them by the most devout people. He also used to commend the line ‘Offer your utmost to the immortal gods’,² and he said that it was also a sound maxim to offer one’s utmost to friends and strangers and in all other departments of life. If he thought that he was receiving any communication from the gods, he could no more have been persuaded to act against it than if someone had tried to persuade him to accept a blind guide who didn’t know the way in preference to one who could see and did know it. And he denounced the folly of others whose actions go against the gods’ communications because they are trying to avoid the disapproval of men. He himself disregarded all human opinions in comparison with the advice of the gods.

He disciplined both his mind and his body by a way of life which would enable any mortal human being who followed it to live with confidence and security, and to have no difficulty in meeting his expenses. In fact, he was so economical that I doubt whether anyone could work so little as not to earn enough for Socrates’ needs. He took only so much food as he could eat with pleasure, and he was so ready for a meal when he came to it that his appetite was sauce enough. Any drink was agreeable to him, because he drank only when he was thirsty. If he ever accepted an invitation to dinner, he very easily resisted what costs most people the greatest effort – namely, the temptation to fill oneself beyond repletion. Those who could not resist this he advised to avoid anything that impelled them to eat when they were not hungry or drink when they were not thirsty; for that, he said, was what ruined stomachs and heads and characters. He used to say jokingly that he believed Circe turned people into pigs by entertaining them with this kind of fare; and that the reason why Odysseus was not turned into a pig was partly the prompting of Hermes and partly the fact that he was self-controlled and refrained from partaking of the dishes beyond the point of repletion.¹ Such were the views that he expressed on this subject humorously but seriously.

He urged resolute avoidance of sexual relations with beautiful people, because it was not easy for one who became involved with them to preserve self-control. Indeed on one occasion, when he had discovered that Critobulus the son of Crito had kissed the handsome son of Alcibiades, he said to Xenophon in Critobulus’ presence: ‘Tell me, Xenophon: didn’t you think that Critobulus was the sort of person to be more sober than reckless, and more prudent than thoughtless and foolhardy?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Xenophon.

‘Well, now you must look on him as a thorough hot-head and desperado. He would turn somersaults over sword-points¹ and jump into a fire.’

‘Why,’ said Xenophon, ‘what have you seen him do to make you accuse him of this?’

‘Isn’t it a fact,’ said Socrates, ‘that he dared to kiss Alcibiades’ very handsome and attractive son?’

‘Well, really,’ said Xenophon, ‘if that’s the type of a foolhardy act, I think I might face such a risk myself!’

‘Very rash of you,’ said Socrates. ‘What good do you think you would do yourself by kissing him? Don’t you realize that you would instantly be a slave instead of a free man, and spend a lot of money on harmful pleasures, and have no time to take an interest in anything truly good, and be forced to exert yourself for ends that not even a lunatic would bother about?’

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Xenophon. ‘What a sinister effect a kiss has, according to you!’

‘Does that really surprise you?’ asked Socrates. ‘Don’t you know that spiders not a quarter of an inch long by the mere contact of their mouths distract people with pain and drive them crazy?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Xenophon, ‘because they inject something in the act of biting.’

‘You are dense,’ said Socrates. ‘Do you think that good-looking people inject nothing in the act of kissing, just because you can’t see it? Don’t you realize that this creature which they call the bloom of youth is even more dangerous than spiders? They produce their effect by contact, but this needs no contact; if one looks at it, even from quite a distance, it can inject a kind of poison that drives one crazy. No; I advise you, Xenophon, when you see an attractive person, to take to your heels as fast as you can; and I advise you, Critobulus, to go away for a year. That may give you just enough time to recover.’

In the same way, he thought that those who are not proof against sexual attraction should confine their relations to such as the mind would not tolerate unless there were strong physical need, and such as would not disturb the mind by being needed. He himself was obviously so well schooled in this respect that he could avoid the best-looking and most attractive people more easily than others could avoid the ugliest and most unattractive.¹

This, then, was his attitude towards food, drink and sex; and he considered that in this way he would obtain no less satisfaction, and would suffer much less discomfort, than those who devoted a large part of their energy to these objects.

4

If anybody thinks, as some of the spoken and written accounts of him have held, that Socrates, though excellent at setting people on the road to goodness, was incapable of leading them to their goal, I invite him to consider not only the way in which Socrates used to question and refute (by way of correction) those who thought they knew everything, but also the way in which he used to spend the whole day in conversation with the members of his circle; and then to decide whether Socrates was capable of making his companions better men.

I shall relate first a conversation about religion which I once heard between him and Little Aristodemus, as he was called. Socrates had learned that this man was known for neither sacrificing to the gods nor praying nor using divination, and went so far as to scoff at those who did so. ‘Tell me, Aristodemus,’ he said, ‘have you ever admired any people for their artistry?’

‘Yes,’ he replied.

‘Tell us their names.’

‘Well, in epic poetry the man I have most admired is Homer, and in dithyrambic Melanippides, and in tragedy Sophocles, and in sculpture Polyclitus, and in painting Zeuxis.’²

‘Which do you think is more admirable – the artist who creates senseless and motionless images, or the one who creates things that are alive and intelligent and active?’

‘The one who creates live things, by far, provided that they are products of design and not of chance.’

‘Some things have no purpose so far as we can tell, and others are obviously useful for some end. Which class do you assign to chance and which to design?’

‘Those which are useful should be products of design.’

‘Then don’t you think that it was for their use that he who originally created men provided them with the various means of perception, such as eyes to see what is visible and ears to hear what is audible? Take the case of smells: what good would they be to us if we weren’t supplied with noses? And how should we perceive sweet and bitter tastes, and all the pleasures of the palate, if the tongue had not been fashioned in us to distinguish them? And apart from these, don’t you feel that there are other things too that look like effects of providence? For example, because our eyes are delicate, they have been shuttered with eyelids which open when we have occasion to use them, and close in sleep; and to protect them from injury by the wind, eyelashes have been made to grow as a screen; and our foreheads have been fringed with eyebrows to prevent damage even from the sweat of the head. Then our hearing takes in all sounds, yet never gets blocked up by them. And the front teeth of all animals are adapted for cutting, whereas the molars are adapted for masticating what is passed on to them. And the mouth, through which the things that living creatures like are admitted, is situated close to the eyes and nose, whereas the outlets for excrement, which is disagreeable, are directed as far as possible away from the senses. Are you in real doubt whether such provident arrangements are the result of chance or of design?’

‘No, indeed,’ he said. ‘Looked at this way, they seem very much like the contrivances of some wise and benevolent craftsman.’

‘And the implanting of the instincts to procreate, and the implanting in the female parent of the instinct to rear her young, and in the young so reared an intense desire to live and an intense fear of death?’

‘These provisions too really seem like the contrivances of someone who has determined that there shall be living creatures.’

‘Do you believe that you have some intelligence?’

‘Go on asking questions and you will get your answer!’

‘Do you suppose that there is nothing intelligent anywhere else, knowing as you do that what you have in your body is only a small portion of all the earth there is, and only a little water out of a vast volume of it, and that your share of each of the other elements of which your body is composed is minute in proportion to the whole? Do you really believe that by some lucky chance you have appropriated mind for yourself, and that it alone exists nowhere else, and that the orderliness of these vast masses of infinite multitude is due, as you say, to a kind of unintelligence?’¹

‘Yes, to be sure, for I can’t see who controls them as I can see that the processes of manufacture that go on around us are controlled by the craftsmen.’

‘You can’t see your own mind either, although it controls your body. On that principle, you can say that you do nothing by design and everything by chance.’

Aristodemus said, ‘I assure you, Socrates, it isn’t that I think little of the divine; I regard it as too magnificent to need my service.’

‘Then,’ said Socrates, ‘the more magnificent the object that deigns to serve you, the more you ought to esteem it.’

‘You can be sure,’ he said, ‘that if I thought the gods took any interest in human beings, I shouldn’t neglect them.’

‘So you don’t think they take any interest? Well, in the first place, man is the only creature that they have set erect; and his erect carriage enables him both to see further in front of him and to observe better what is above him, and to be less liable to injury. Then, to all other terrestrial creatures they have given feet, which supply only locomotion; but to man they have also given hands, which are the principal agents of our superior happiness. Again, while all animals have a tongue, the human tongue alone is so made that by touching different parts of the mouth at different times it can produce articulate sounds and enable us to communicate with one another whatever we like. And don’t forget that whereas to other animals they have granted the pleasures of sex for a limited period of the year, for us they provide them continuously, and up until old age.

‘Now, God was not content with merely caring for the body; what is far more important, he also endowed man with mind in its highest form. What other animal, in the first place, has a mind that is aware of the existence of the gods, who have set in order the greatest beauty on the grandest scale? What kind of creature except man worships the gods? What mind is better able than man’s to make provision against hunger or thirst, cold or heat, to relieve disease or cultivate bodily strength or take pains to acquire knowledge, or to keep in memory all that it has heard or seen or learned? Isn’t it quite evident to you that, compared with other creatures, men live like gods, naturally supreme both in body and in mind? A person with the mind of a man but the body of an ox would not be able to do what he wanted; and it is no advantage to have hands without intelligence. You are lucky enough to possess both these priceless gifts – how can you think that the gods have no concern for you?¹ What do you expect them to do before you believe that they care about you?’

‘Send advisers, as you claim they do,² to tell me what to do and what not to do.’

‘When they reply by means of divination to some inquiry made by the people of Athens, do you not believe that the message is intended for you as well? Or when by sending portents they give warning to the whole of Greece or to all mankind? Are you the one exception that they deliberately ignore? Do you suppose that the gods would have implanted in man the belief that they can do good and harm, if they were really unable to do so? Do you suppose that we men have been deceived all this time and never realized that fact? Can’t you see that the most enduring and wise of all human things – States and nations – are the most devout, and that the most intelligent times of life are the ones which are the most full of regard for the gods?

‘My good friend,’ he went on, ‘get it into your head that your own mind, which is inside you, controls your body as it wills; and in the same way you must believe that the intelligence which is in the universe disposes all things just as it pleases. If you accept that your vision has a range of several miles, you must not suppose that the eye of God lacks the power to see everything at once; and if you accept that your mind can take thought about affairs both here and in Egypt and in Sicily, you must not suppose that the wisdom of God is incapable of taking thought for all things at the same time. Indeed, if you make the experiment of doing services to the gods to see whether they will be willing to advise you about events concealed from human foresight-just as by doing services or favours to men you discover who are willing to do them back to you, and by seeking advice you find out who are clear-headed – you will discover that the divine is so infinitely great and potent that it can see and hear everything, and be present everywhere at the same time, and take care of everything at the same time.’

It seemed to me that by speaking in this way he made his associates abstain from irreverent and wrong and discreditable actions not only in public but also when they were by themselves, for the simple reason that they had made up their minds that none of their actions could ever escape the knowledge of the gods.

5

If self-discipline is a truly good thing for a man to possess, let us consider whether Socrates gave any impulse towards it by homilies of the following kind.

‘Gentlemen, supposing that war had broken out, and we wanted to elect a man under whose leadership we were most likely to save ourselves and subdue our enemies, should we choose someone who had no power of resistance against appetite or wine or sexual desire or sleep? How could we possibly expect that such a person would either save us or overcome the enemy? Or suppose that we have reached the end of life and want to entrust someone with the education of our sons or the guardianship of our unmarried daughters or the safe-keeping of our money: are we likely to regard a moral weakling as worthy of our confidence? Should we entrust livestock, or management, or the supervision of labour to a weak-willed slave? Should we be prepared to accept a person of this kind in the capacity of agent or buyer, even as a free gift? But if we would not put up with even a slave of weak character, surely it is proper to guard against incurring this defect oneself. It is not the case that a weak-willed man benefits himself by harming others in the way that moneylenders are supposed to enrich themselves by taking money from others; no, he injures others, but he injures himself much more, because to ruin not only one’s estate, but also one’s body and mind, is to do oneself the greatest injury of all. And who would appreciate the company of such a person at a social function, if he saw him caring more about the food and wine than about his friends, and paying more attention to the whores than to his companions? Surely every man ought to regard self-discipline as the foundation of moral goodness, and to cultivate it in his character before anything else. Without it, who could either learn anything good or practise it to a degree worth mentioning? Or who could escape degradation both of body and of mind if he is a slave to his appetites? I assure you, it seems to me that a free man ought to pray that he may never happen upon a slave of this kind, while a man who is a slave to such pleasures ought to pray to the gods that he may find good masters; for that is the only way in which such a person can be saved.’

While expressing these sentiments, Socrates showed himself to be even more self-disciplined in practice than in theory. He overcame not only his physical appetites, but also the attraction of money; for he thought that the man who accepts money indiscriminately is setting up a master over himself and submitting to a peculiarly disgraceful form of slavery.

6

It is only fair to Socrates not to leave unrecorded the conversations that he had with Antiphon the sophist.¹ On one occasion, this man, wishing to transfer Socrates’ associates to himself, went up to him in their presence and said: ‘Socrates, I always thought that people ought to become happier through the study of philosophy, but it seems to me that you have experienced the opposite effect. At any rate, you lead the sort of life that no slave would put up with if it were imposed upon him by his master. You eat and drink the worst possible food and drink, and the cloak you wear is not only of poor quality, but is the same for summer and winter; and you never wear shoes or a tunic. Then, you never accept money, the receipt of which is cheering and the possession of which enables people to live with more freedom and pleasure. So if you are going to affect your associates in the same way as the teachers of other occupations, who turn out pupils after their own pattern, you should regard yourself as a teacher of misery.’

Socrates replied, ‘You seem to have got it into your head that I live such a miserable life, Antiphon, that I really do believe you would rather die than live as I do. Come on, then: let us see what hardship you have detected in my way of life. Is it that those who accept payment are bound to do the work for which they’ve been paid, whereas I, since I don’t accept it, am not compelled to converse with a person if I don’t want to? Or do you depreciate my diet on the ground that it is less wholesome and sustaining than yours? Is it that my means of subsistence are harder to procure than yours, because they are rarer and more costly? Is it that you enjoy your provisions more than I do mine? Don’t you know that the more a man enjoys eating, the less he needs a stimulus for his appetite, and the more he enjoys drinking, the less he craves for a drink that he hasn’t got? As for cloaks, you know that people change them because of cold or hot weather, and they wear shoes to prevent things from hurting their feet and so impeding their movements. Well, have you ever known me stay indoors more than anybody else on account of the cold, or compete with anyone for the shade on account of the heat, or fail to walk wherever I wanted because my feet were sore? Don’t you know that those who are physically weakest by nature, if they train with a particular end in view, become better able to achieve that end, with less effort to themselves, than the strongest athletes who neglect their training? And if that is so, don’t you think that I, who am always training myself to put up with the things that happen to my body, find everything easier to bear than you do with your neglect of training? As for my not being a slave to my stomach, or to sleep, or to lechery, what better reason for it can you imagine than that I have other more pleasant occupations, which cheer me not only when I am engaged upon them, but also as giving me ground for hoping that they will benefit me always? Besides, you must be aware of this, that those who feel that their farming or seafaring or any other occupation that they have is going well are cheered by the consciousness of success. Now then, do you suppose that all these feelings give as much pleasure as the thought that one is becoming better oneself, and acquiring better friends? Well, I have this belief all the time. And then, if one’s friends or the State needs help, which has more leisure to attend to this duty – the man who passes his time as I do now, or the one whom you regard as fortunate? Which could more readily go on military service – the man who can’t live without an expensive diet, or the one who is content with whatever is to hand? And which would be sooner reduced to surrender in a siege – the one whose requirements are most difficult to obtain, or the one who is satisfied with whatever he comes across? It seems to me, Antiphon, that you identify happiness with luxury and extravagance; but I have always thought that to need nothing is divine, and to need as little as possible is the nearest approach to the divine; and that what is divine is best, and what is nearest to the divine is the next best.’

On another occasion, when Antiphon was talking to Socrates, he said, ‘You know, Socrates, I think that you are an honest man, but not at all a wise one. And it seems to me that you realize this yourself; at any rate, you don’t charge anyone for your company. But if you thought that your cloak or your house or any other item of your property was worth money, so far from giving it away, you wouldn’t even accept a price lower than its value. So obviously, if you thought that your company was worth anything, you would charge a fee for it no less than its value. Therefore, honest you may be, since you don’t deceive with a view to your own advantage; but wise you cannot be, if your knowledge is worthless.’

To this Socrates replied, ‘In our society, Antiphon, the same rules with regard to what is creditable and what is not are thought to apply equally to the disposal of physical attractions and of wisdom. A man who sells his favours for a price to anyone who wants them is called a catamite; but if anyone forms a love-attachment with someone whom he knows to be truly good, we regard him as perfectly respectable. In just the same way, those who sell wisdom at a price to anyone who wants it are called sophists; but if anyone, by imparting any edifying knowledge that he possesses, makes a friend of one whom he knows to be naturally gifted, we consider that he is behaving as a truly good citizen should behave. As for myself, Antiphon, I take as much pleasure in good friends as other people take in a good horse or dog or bird – in fact, I take more; and if I have anything good to teach them, I teach it, and I introduce them to any others from whom I think they will get help in the quest for goodness. And in company with my friends, I open and read from beginning to end the books in which the wise men of past times have written down and bequeathed to us their treasures; and when we see anything good, we take it for ourselves; and we regard our mutual friendship as great gain.’

When I heard him say this, it certainly seemed to me that he was a fortunate man himself, and that he was leading his audience on towards true goodness.

On another occasion, Antiphon asked him how it was that he expected to make others politicians when he himself did not take part in politics, if indeed he was capable of doing so. Socrates retorted: ‘Which would be the more effective way for me to take part in politics – by doing so alone, or by making it my business to see that as many persons as possible are capable of taking part in it?’

7

Let us also consider whether in discouraging his associates from pretence he encouraged them to apply themselves to goodness; for he always said that there was no better road to distinction than that by which one could become good at the pursuit for which one wished to be distinguished. He used to demonstrate the truth of this statement in the following way.

‘Let us consider,’ he said, ‘what a man ought to do if he wants to be thought a good musical performer although he is not. Surely he should imitate good performers in respect of the outward accessories of their art. First, as they possess imposing paraphernalia and take round with them a large retinue, he must do the same. Secondly, as there are many who express admiration of them, he must provide himself with plenty of admirers. But actual playing he must never attempt; otherwise he will immediately be exposed as a laughing-stock, and not merely a bad performer, but an impostor. And yet, if he spends a lot of money and gets no benefit from it, and has besides a bad reputation, surely his life will be laborious and unprofitable and ridiculous.

‘Similarly, supposing that someone should wish to be regarded as a good general or a good pilot without actually being one, let us consider what would happen to him. If he really wanted to be thought capable of such a line of conduct, and could not convince people, wouldn’t his position be distressing? And wouldn’t it be still more wretched if he did convince them, because obviously if a man who did not know his job were appointed as a pilot or as a general, he would destroy those whom he least wished to destroy, and the consequences for himself would be shameful and disastrous.’

On the same principle he showed that it did no good to be thought rich or brave or strong if one was not in reality, because people who were in this position were faced with obligations that were beyond their powers; and, if they could not perform them although they seemed to be capable of doing so, they would get no sympathy. It was no slight deception, he said, even to deprive another person by persuasion of a sum of money or an article of value, but it was the grossest deception of all for a good-for-nothing person to convey the false impression that he was capable of directing the State. In my opinion, by conversations of this kind, he discouraged his associates from even making pretensions.

BOOK TWO

It seems to me that Socrates also encouraged his associates to practise self-discipline with regard to food and drink and sex and sleep and heat and cold and physical exertion by discourses like the one which follows. When he observed that one of his associates was rather undisciplined in these respects, he said: ‘Tell me, Aristippus,¹ if you had to take charge of two young men and educate them, one to be capable of governing and the other not even to aspire to it, how would you educate each of them? Would you like us to consider this problem by starting with the basic question of their food?’

Aristippus replied, ‘It certainly seems to me that food is the starting-point: one can’t even live without taking food.’

‘So it’s natural that both of them should feel the desire to partake of food when the right time comes, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Which of them should we accustom to choose to press on with an urgent duty rather than gratify his belly?’

‘Definitely the one who is being educated to govern, so that the business of the State may not be neglected under his government.’

‘Then similarly when they want to drink, the same one must be endowed with the ability to restrain himself when he’s thirsty.’

‘Certainly.’

‘Which should we endow with self-discipline as regards sleep, so that he can go to bed late and get up early and stay awake if need be?’

‘The same one ought to have this too.’

‘What about not shirking hard work, but willingly putting up with it? Which should we endow with this quality?’

‘We should give this also to the one who is being educated for government.’

‘What about acquiring any kind of knowledge that is conducive to defeating one’s opponents – to which would this faculty be more appropriate?’

‘Far more, of course, to the one who is being educated for government. None of the other qualities is any good without this sort of knowledge.’

‘Don’t you think that a person so educated would be less likely than other creatures to be caught by his opponents? Some creatures, as you know, are lured on by their greed, and are often attracted to the bait, in spite of their timidity, by their craving for food, and so get caught, while others are trapped by means of drink.’

‘Quite true.’

‘And isn’t it true that others are trapped because of their lasciviousness, as for example quails and partridges are attracted by the cry of the female because of their desire and expectation of sexual intercourse and, losing all count of the risks, rush into the hunting-nets?’

He agreed that this was true too.

‘Don’t you think that it’s shameful for a man to be affected in the same way as the stupidest of creatures? I am thinking of the way in which adulterers walk into the snare, although they know that an adulterer is in danger not only of incurring the penalty threatened by the laws, but of having a trap set for him and, if he is caught, of suffering physical violence. When the adulterer is liable to all these serious and shameful consequences, and there are plenty of means to relieve his sexual appetite with impunity, nevertheless to rush headlong into the paths of danger – isn’t that the very acme of infatuation?’

‘I think so,’ he said.

‘As most of the essential human activities – such as those which relate to warfare and farming, and not the least important of the rest – are carried out in the open air, don’t you think that it is extremely irresponsible for most people to be untrained to endure cold and heat?’

He agreed to this too.

‘Then, do you think that the prospective ruler ought also to practise enduring these things easily?’

‘Certainly,’ he said.

‘Then, if we rate those who are self-disciplined in all these respects as fit to govern, shall we rate those who are incapable of such conduct as not even claiming fitness to do so?’

He agreed again.

‘Very well, then: now that you know the rating of both types, I suppose you have considered to which class you would rightly assign yourself?’

‘I have indeed,’ said Aristippus, ‘and I certainly don’t put myself in the class of those who want to govern. In fact, considering that it’s a serious task to provide for one’s own needs, it seems to me to be quite crazy not to be content with this, but to pile on top of it the task of supplying the needs of the rest of one’s fellow citizens as well. And when a person has to do without a great many things that he wants himself, surely it’s the height of folly, by assuming responsibility for his country, to render himself liable to prosecution if he doesn’t carry out all his country’s requirements. States claim the right to treat their ministers as I treat the slaves in my own household. I expect my servants to make lavish provision for me, but not to touch anything themselves; and in the same way, States think that their ministers ought to provide them with as many benefits as possible without participating in any of them personally. So if there are any people who want to have a lot of trouble themselves and cause it to others, I would educate them in that manner and set them in the category of potential rulers; but I rank myself among those who want their lives to be as easy and pleasant as possible.’

Socrates said, ‘Would you like us to consider this question too: who have the more pleasant life, the rulers or the subjects?’

‘By all means.’

‘Well, in the first place, of the peoples that we know, in Asia the Persians are rulers and the Syrians, Phrygians and Lydians are subjects. In Europe the Scythians are rulers and the Maeotians subjects. In Africa the Carthaginians are rulers and the Libyans subjects.¹ Who of these do you think have the pleasanter life? Or take the Greeks, to whom you belong yourself: who seem to you to have the pleasanter life – the conquerors or the conquered?’

‘But, you know,’ said Aristippus, ‘I don’t assign myself to the slave category either. It seems to me that there is a middle path which I am trying to follow: the path not through rule nor through servitude, but through liberty, which is the surest road to happiness.’

‘Well,’ said Socrates, ‘if this path of yours that avoids rule and servitude avoids mankind also, there may perhaps be something in what you say; but if while living among men you expect neither to rule nor to be ruled, and don’t intend to defer willingly to authority, I presume you can see that the stronger know how to make the weaker suffer both collectively and individually, and to treat them as slaves. Don’t you realize that there are people who cut the corn that others have sown, and chop down the trees that others have planted, and put every kind of pressure upon inferiors who refuse them deference, until they finally prevail on them to prefer slavery to war against a stronger power? And in private life too, don’t you know that the bold and powerful reduce the timid and powerless to slavery, and then exploit them?’

‘But I have an escape, you know,’ he said. ‘To avoid being treated this way, I don’t confine myself to a nationality at all: I am a stranger in all countries.’

Socrates replied, ‘Now, that really is a clever stroke: ever since Sinis and Sciron and Procrustes were killed,² nobody has done any harm to strangers! All the same, nowadays those who form the administration in their several countries pass laws to protect themselves against harm, and make friends, in addition to their so-called intimate friends, to give them help; they also put fortifications round their cities, acquire arms to keep off aggressors, and, besides all this, procure external allies as well. And with all these assets they, still incur harm. As for you, who have none of these assets, and spend a great deal of time in the streets, where most injuries are sustained – you who, whatever country you visit, are in a weaker position than any of the citizens, and a natural victim for intending wrongdoers – do you still imagine that you would not be harmed, because you are a stranger? Is your confidence based on official assurances of safety as you travel here and there in the country? Or is it based on the belief that you are the sort of person who would be useless as a slave to any master? I mean, who would care to have in his house a man who refuses to do any work and enjoys the most expensive diet?

‘Now let us consider another point: what sort of treatment slaves of this kind receive. Isn’t it true that their masters discipline their wantonness by starvation, and stop them from stealing by locking up any place or receptacle from which anything can be removed, and prevent them from running away by putting them in fetters, and drive out their idleness by beating them? Or what steps do you take when you discover that one of your house-slaves is behaving in this sort of way?’

‘I punish him with the utmost severity until I have made him submit. But look here, Socrates, about these people who are being educated in the art of ruling, which you seem to regard as happiness: how are they any better off than those who suffer through force of circumstances, if they are going to be hungry and thirsty and cold and sleepless and to suffer every other kind of hardship voluntarily? I don’t see that there is any difference between having the same skin flogged voluntarily and having it flogged involuntarily, or in general that there is any difference between having the same body harassed by all these trials voluntarily and having it harassed involuntarily, except that anyone who submits to painful experiences deliberately is a fool into the bargain.’

‘Come, come, Aristippus,’ said Socrates, ‘don’t you think that voluntary sufferings of this kind are preferable to involuntary ones from this point of view: that the man who is hungry or thirsty of his own free will can eat and drink when he wants to, and similarly in the other cases, whereas the man who suffers through force of circumstances can’t stop the suffering when he wants to?¹ And then the man who undergoes hardship voluntarily is encouraged in his efforts by the prospect of success, as, for example, hunters enjoy their exertions because they have a prospect of catching the animals that they are hunting. This sort of reward for effort is trivial; but when people devote their energy to acquiring good friends or worsting their enemies, or becoming physically and mentally efficient and managing their estates well and benefiting their friends and serving their country, surely we must suppose that they find pleasure in working for these ends, and enjoy life, contented with themselves and praised and envied by others. Again, easy tasks and momentary pleasures cannot produce physical fitness, as the experts in physical education remind us, or develop in the mind any knowledge worth mentioning; sustained application, however, enables us to achieve truly good results, as good men tell us. Hesiod says somewhere:²

Evil can be easily found, and freely;

Smooth is the road, and very near she dwells.

But sweat the gods have set upon the way

To goodness: long and steep is the path to it

And rough at first; but if you reach the summit

Thereafter it is easy, hard though it was.

‘Epicharmus³ testifies the same in the line “Pain’s the price the gods require us to pay for all our benefits”, and he also says in another place, “Rascal, do not crave for comfort, lest the lot you have be hard.”

‘The same view of moral goodness is also set out by the sophist Prodicus in the story of Heracles, which is one of his most popular displays; it runs like this, as far as I remember.¹ When Heracles was setting out from childhood towards manhood, at the age when the young become independent and show whether they are going to approach life by the path of goodness or by the path of wickedness, he went out to a quiet spot and sat down considering which way he should take. While he was sitting there, he thought he saw two women approach him. Both were tall, but one of them was handsome in appearance with a natural air of distinction, clean-limbed and modest in expression, and soberly dressed in a white robe, while the other was well fed to the point of fleshiness and softness, made up to have a complexion too red and white to be real, and with a carriage more upright than was natural, with a brazen expression, and robed in a way that revealed as much as possible of her charms.² She kept on examining herself, and watching to see if anyone was looking at her, and glancing at her own shadow. When they got nearer to Heracles, the first of the two continued to advance in the same way, but the other, wishing to forestall her, ran up to him and said:

‘“Heracles, I see that you can’t make up your mind which way of life to adopt. If you take me as your friend, I will lead you by the easiest and pleasantest road; you shall not miss the taste of any pleasure, and you shall live out your life without any experience of hardship. In the first place, you will not be concerned with wars or responsibilities; you shall constantly consider³ what food or drink you can find to suit your taste, and what sight or sound or scent or touch might please you, and which lover’s society will gratify you most, and how you can sleep most comfortably, and how you can achieve all these objects with the least trouble. And if there is ever any suspicion of a shortage of any of these benefits, you need not fear that I shall involve you in any physical or mental effort or distress in procuring them; you shall enjoy the fruits of other people’s labours, and you shall refrain from nothing from which you can derive any advantage, because I authorize my followers to benefit themselves from all quarters.”

‘When Heracles heard this, he asked, “What is your name, lady?” She replied, “My friends call me Happiness, but people who don’t like me nickname me Vice.”

‘Meanwhile, the other woman came forward and said, “I too have come to meet you, Heracles, because I know your parents¹ and I have carefully observed your natural qualities in the course of your education, and this knowledge makes me hope that, if you will only take the path that leads to me, you may become a very effective performer of fine and noble deeds, and I may win much greater honour still, and brighter glory for the blessings I bestow. I will not delude you with promises of future pleasure; I shall give you a true account of the facts, exactly as the gods have ordained them. Nothing that is really good and admirable is granted by the gods to men without some effort and application. If you want the gods to be gracious to you, you must worship the gods; if you wish to be loved by your friends, you must be kind to your friends; if you desire to be honoured by a State, you must help that State; if you expect to be admired for your fine qualities by the whole of Greece, you must try to benefit Greece; if you want your land to produce abundant crops, you must look after your land; if you expect to make money from your livestock, you must take care of your livestock; if you have an impulse to extend your influence by war, and want to be able to free your friends and subdue your enemies, you must both learn the actual arts of war from those who understand them, and practise the proper way of applying them; and if you want to be physically efficient, you must train your body to be subject to your reason, and develop it with hard work and sweat.”

‘Here Vice, as Prodicus tells, broke in. “Do you realize, Heracles,” she said, “what a long and difficult road to enjoyment this woman is describing to you? I will put you on a short and easy road to happiness.”

‘“Impudent creature!” said Virtue. “What good have you to offer, or what do you know of pleasure, you who refuse to do anything with a view to either? You don’t even wait for the desire for what is pleasant: you stuff yourself with everything before you want it, eating before you are hungry and drinking before you are thirsty. To make eating enjoyable you invent refinements of cookery, and to make drinking enjoyable, you provide yourself with expensive wines and rush about searching for ice in summer. To make going to sleep pleasant, you provide yourself not only with soft blankets, but also with bases for your beds, for it is not work but boredom that makes you want to go to bed. You force the gratification of your sexual impulses before they ask for it, employing all kinds of devices and treating men as women. That is the sort of training that you give your friends –exciting their passions by night, and putting them to sleep for the best part of the day. Although you are immortal, you have been turned out by the gods, and you are despised by decent men. You are denied the hearing of the sweetest of all sounds – praise of yourself – and you are denied the seeing of the sweetest of all sights, for you have never contemplated any act of yours that was admirable. Who would trust your word? Who would assist you if you needed someone? What sane person would have the face to join your devotees? When they are young, they are feeble in body, and when they get older, they are foolish in mind; they are maintained in their youth in effortless comfort, but pass their old age in laborious squalor, disgraced by their past actions and burdened by their present ones, because in their youth they have run through all that was pleasant, and laid up for their old age what is hard to bear.

‘“I associate both with gods and with good men, and no fine action, human or divine, is done independently of me. I am held in the highest honour both among gods and men who are akin to me. I am a welcome fellow worker to the craftsman, a faithful guardian to the householder, a kindly protector to the servant, an efficient helper in the tasks of peace, a staunch ally in the operations of war, and the best partner in friendship. My friends can enjoy food and drink with pleasure and without effort, because they abstain until they feel a desire for them. Their sleep is sweeter than the sleep of the easy-living, and they neither are vexed when they have to give it up, nor make it an excuse for neglecting their duty. The young enjoy the praise of their elders, and the older people are happy in the respect of the young. They recall their past achievements with pleasure, and rejoice in their present successes, because through me they are dear to the gods, loved by their friends and honoured by their country. And when their appointed end comes, they do not lie forgotten in obscurity, but flourish celebrated in memory for all time.

‘“There, Heracles,” she said, “child of good parents: if you work hard in the way that I have described, you can possess the most beatific happiness.”

‘That is roughly how Prodicus describes the education of Heracles by Virtue, except that he actually dressed up the sentiments in language still more splendid than I have used now. At any rate, Aristippus, you had better think this over and try to take some account of the factors that will affect the life that lies in front of you.’

2

Once, when Socrates noticed his eldest son Lamprocles getting angry with his mother,¹ he said, ‘Look here, my boy, you know that there are some people who are called ungrateful?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said the boy.

‘Are you clear about what it is that people do to earn this name?’

‘Yes, I am,’ he said. ‘People are called ungrateful when they have been well treated and could show gratitude in return, but don’t.’

‘Then you think that ingratitude is regarded as wrong?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Have you ever considered this question: whether perhaps ingratitude is wrong if it is shown towards friends, but right if it is shown towards enemies, in the same way that it is considered to be wrong to enslave one’s friends, but right to enslave one’s enemies?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ he replied, ‘and I think that anyone who has received a favour either from a friend or from an enemy and doesn’t attempt to show gratitude is morally wrong.’

‘Well then, if that is so, ingratitude must be unmitigated injustice.’

Lamprocles agreed.

‘Then the greater the favours that a person receives without showing gratitude in return, the more unjust he is?’

He admitted this too.

‘Well,’ said Socrates, ‘whom can we find that enjoy greater benefits than children receive from their parents? Their parents have brought them into existence from non-existence, and have enabled them to see all the beauty and share in all the good things that the gods provide for mankind – privileges which we consider so priceless that anyone would do anything rather than part with them, and States have made death the penalty for the greatest crimes, on the presumption that there could be no stronger deterrent from wrongdoing.

‘You don’t imagine that people have children just for sexual satisfaction; the streets and brothels are full of potential suppliers of that need. Besides, you can see that we look out for the sort of women who will bear us the best children, and then unite with them to produce children. The husband both supports his partner in child-bearing and provides for the children that are to be born everything that he thinks will be an asset to them in life, and he provides it as fully as he can. The wife conceives and carries this burden, bearing the weight of it, risking her life and giving up a share of her own nourishment; and after all her trouble in carrying it for the full time and bringing it to birth, she feeds and cares for it, although the child has never done her any good and does not know who his benefactor is. He cannot even communicate what he wants; his mother’s attempts to supply what will be good for him and give him pleasure depend upon her powers of guessing. And she goes on rearing him for a long time, putting up with drudgery day and night, without knowing whether she will receive any gratitude.

‘And it is not merely a matter of rearing children. When they seem to be capable of learning, their parents teach them themselves whatever they can teach that is valuable for life; but if they think that there is anything that is better taught by somebody else, they incur the expense of sending their children to that person. They leave nothing undone in their concern to see that their children’s development is as perfect as possible,’

To this the lad replied, ‘But really, even if she has done all this and a great deal more besides, nobody could put up with her temper.’

‘Which kind of ferocity do you think is harder to bear – a wild beast’s or a mother’s?’

‘A mother’s,’ he said, ‘if she’s like mine.’

‘Has she ever injured you by biting or kicking, as a good many people have suffered before now from wild animals?’

‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘but she says things that one wouldn’t want to hear every day of one’s life.’

‘And how much trouble,’ said Socrates, ‘do you think you have given her by your peevish cries and behaviour day and night ever since you were a baby, and how often have you worried her by your illnesses?’

‘Well,’ said Lamprocles, ‘I have never said or done anything to her to make her ashamed of me.’

‘Look here,’ said Socrates, ‘do you think it is harder for you to listen to the things that she says than it is for actors in tragedies when they go all out to abuse one another?‘

‘Well, they don’t imagine that the speaker who accuses them intends to punish them, or that the one who threatens them intends to injure them, so I suppose they take it quite lightly.’

‘But you get angry, although you know quite well that what your mother says to you is said not only without any unkind intention, but actually out of a desire for your especial benefit? Or do you imagine that your mother is ill-disposed towards you?’

‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘I don’t think that.’

‘So,’ said Socrates, ‘although this mother of yours is well-disposed towards you, and does her very best to see to it that you get well when you are ill and that you shan’t lack anything that you need; and besides all this, although she is constantly praying to the gods for blessings upon you and paying her vows on your account, you say that she is hard to put up with? In my opinion, if you can’t bear a mother like that, you can’t bear what is good for you. Tell me, do you think that there is anyone else who claims your respect? Or is there nobody you are prepared to try to please or obey, be he your superior officer or anyone else in authority?’

‘Of course that’s not the case,’ he said.

‘Well then,’ said Socrates, ‘do you want to be pleasant to your neighbour, so that he may give you a light for your fire when you need it, and both contribute to your success and give you prompt and friendly help if you meet with any misfortune?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Take the case of a fellow traveller or fellow voyager, or anyone else you might meet: would it make no difference to you whether he became your friend or your enemy? Do you think that you ought to concern yourself with the goodwill of people like these?’

‘I do think so.’

‘So you are prepared to concern yourself with these people, and yet see no need to show consideration for your mother, who loves you more than anyone else does? Don’t you know that the State cares nothing for any other kind of ingratitude, and prescribes no penalty for it, but turns a blind eye when beneficiaries fail to repay a favour; but if anyone shows no consideration for his parents, the State imposes a penalty upon him and disqualifies him from holding public office, on the presumption that the sacrifices could not be performed on behalf of the State with proper piety if he performed them, nor any other act be well and duly carried out if he were the agent? And what is more, if anyone fails to tend the graves of his dead parents, even this becomes the subject of a State inquiry when candidates for office are having their conduct scrutinized.

‘So if you are sensible, my boy, you will beseech the gods to pardon any disregard that you have shown towards your mother in case they count you as ungrateful and refuse to do you good; and at the same time you will take care that your fellow men don’t observe you neglecting your parents and all lose respect for you so that you stand revealed as destitute of friends; for if they once got the notion that you were ungrateful to your parents, none would expect gratitude in return for doing you a kindness.’

3

On another occasion, Chaerephon and Chaerecrates, two brothers with whom Socrates was well acquainted, were having a quarrel. Socrates became aware of this and, when he saw Chaerecrates, he said: ‘Tell me, Chaerecrates, surely you aren’t one of those who think that possessions are more useful than a brother, although they are not endowed with sense and he is, and they need protection whereas he can give it, and, what is more, they are many while he is only one? It is extraordinary, too, that anyone should regard brothers as a liability because he doesn’t possess their property as well as his own, and not regard his fellow citizens as a liability on the same ground. Since in the one case people can reason that it is better to have a secure sufficiency and live in a group than to have precarious possession of all their fellow citizens’ property and live alone, it is curious that they fail to realize the same fact in the case of their brothers. And they buy house-slaves (if they can afford it) to help them with the work, and they make friends, showing that they feel the need for support; and yet they show no interest in their brothers – as if they expected their fellow citizens to be friendly, but not their brothers. Then again, it’s a powerful incentive to affection to have been born of the same parents and brought up together; even animals develop a kind of strong attachment for members of the same litter. Besides, the rest of mankind have a greater respect for those who have brothers, and are less likely to attack them.’

Chaerecrates replied, ‘Well, Socrates, if the quarrel weren’t a serious one, very likely it would be right to bear with one’s brother and not shun him for petty reasons. As you say, a brother is an asset if he behaves as he should; but when he is deficient in every respect and the exact opposite of what he ought to be, why should one attempt the impossible?’

‘Tell me, Chaerecrates,’ said Socrates, ‘is Chaerephon as incapable of getting on with anybody as he is with you, or are there some people with whom he gets on quite well?’

‘That’s precisely my ground for disliking him, Socrates,’ he replied. ‘He can be agreeable to other people, but in all his associations with me, in word and in deed, he’s more of a liability than an asset.’

‘Well,’ said Socrates, ‘a horse is a liability to a person who tries to manage it without having enough knowledge.¹ Perhaps in the same way a brother is a liability when one tries to manage him without knowledge.’

‘How can I not have the knowledge to manage a brother,’ said Chaerecrates, ‘when I know how to speak and behave civilly to those who are civil to me? But when a man does his best to annoy me by what he says and does, I can’t speak or behave civilly to him, and I’m not going to try either.’

‘That’s a queer thing to say, Chaerecrates,’ said Socrates. ‘If you had a trained sheep-dog which was friendly to the shepherds, but resented it when you came near, you would pay no attention to its bad temper – you would try to win it over by kindness. You say that your brother would be a great asset to you if he treated you properly; you admit that you know how to behave and speak civilly; yet you don’t attempt to find a way to make him as well disposed towards you as possible.’

‘I’m afraid, Socrates,’ said Chaerecrates, ‘that I’m not enough of a genius to make Chaerephon behave properly to me.’

‘I assure you,’ said Socrates, ‘so far as I can see, you needn’t employ any subtle or novel method on him: I think you could prevail on him to have a high regard for you by using means which you understand yourself.’

‘If you have detected that I am the unconscious possessor of some magic formula,’ he replied, ‘you can’t tell me too quickly.’

‘Tell me, then,’ said Socrates, ‘if you wanted to prevail upon one of your acquaintances to invite you to dinner whenever he was holding a celebration, what would you do?’

‘Obviously I should begin by inviting him when I was celebrating.’

‘And if you wanted to induce one of your friends to take care of your property when you were away from home, what would you do?’

‘Obviously I should first try to take care of his when he was away.’

‘And if you wanted to make a foreigner give you hospitality when you visited his country, what would you do?’

‘Obviously I should first give him hospitality when he came to Athens. And if I wanted him to be eager to achieve the object of my visit for me, obviously I should have first to do the same for him.’

‘So you know all the magic spells that influence human conduct, and have kept your knowledge dark all this time! Why do you hesitate to begin? Are you afraid that you will look bad if you treat your brother well before he treats you well? Surely it is considered to be extremely creditable to take the lead in harming one’s enemies and benefiting one’s friends. If I had thought that Chaerephon was likelier than you to take the lead towards friendliness, I should have tried to persuade him first to try to win you over; but as it is, I think that you are the more likely to take the lead in achieving this result.’

Chaerecrates said, ‘It is preposterous, Socrates, and not at all like you, to urge me, the younger brother, to take the lead. Why, the universal practice is just the opposite – that the older should take the lead in everything that is said or done.’

‘Surely not,’ said Socrates. ‘Isn’t it customary in all countries for the younger to make way for the older, and to stand up when he approaches, and to show respect for him by giving him the most comfortable seat, and to allow him to speak first? Don’t hold back, my dear fellow, but try to pacify him, and he will very soon respond. Don’t you see what a noble and generous nature he has? Low types of humanity are most likely to be won over by a gift; but the best way to influence truly good people is by courtesy.’

Chaerecrates said, ‘Supposing that I do what you recommend, and he shows no improvement?’

‘In that case,’ said Socrates, ‘you will simply run the risk of demonstrating that you are a good and affectionate brother, and he is a bad one who doesn’t deserve to be treated kindly. But I don’t suppose that anything of the sort will happen. I think that when he once realizes that you are challenging him to this kind of contest, he will be very keen to outdo you in kindness both spoken and practical. At the moment your attitude towards each other is like this: as if two hands which God created to cooperate with each other were to give up doing this and turn to hindering each other; or as if two feet designed by Providence to help each other were to neglect their duty and get in each other’s way. Wouldn’t it be great folly and perversity to use for our disadvantage what was intended for our benefit? And yet, so far as I can see, brothers were intended by God to be more helpful to each other than hands or feet or eyes or any other natural pairs with which he has supplied mankind. If the hands are required to perform simultaneously two operations more than six feet apart, they cannot do it; and the feet cannot reach simultaneously two points even six feet apart; and the eyes, which are supposed to have the greatest range, cannot see at the same time two objects at a still lesser distance, if one object is in front and the other behind. But a pair of brothers, if they are on good terms, can carry out two simultaneous operations at a great distance to their mutual advantage.’

4

I once heard Socrates expressing views about friendship which I thought would be extremely helpful to anyone in the acquisition and treatment of friends. He said that although he often heard it stated that a good and sure friend was the best of all possessions, he noticed that most people gave their attention to anything rather than the acquisition of friends. He saw that they took pains to acquire houses and lands and slaves and cattle and furniture, and tried to preserve what they had; but in the case of a friend, who according to them was the greatest blessing, most of them never considered either how to acquire one or how to retain those that they had. Indeed, he noticed, he said, that some people, when their friends and servants were ill, called in the doctor and scrupulously made all the other provisions for the health of their servants, but neglected their friends; and that when friends and servants died, they grieved over their servants and felt a sense of loss, but in the case of their friends considered that they were none the worse; and that they allowed none of their other possessions to lack attention and supervision, but neglected their friends when they needed care.

Further, besides all this, he noticed, he said, that most peopl knew the quantity of their other possessions, even if they were very numerous, but as for their friends, few as they were, they not only did not know how many they had, but when they tried to furnish an inventory in answer to inquiry, they revised their opinion of those whom they had previously reckoned as friends, which showed how much they thought about friends.

Yet, if we compare a good friend with any other possession, it must be obvious that the friend is far superior. What horse or vehicle is as valuable as a staunch friend? What slave is as loyal and trusty? What other possession is so thoroughly useful? A good friend sets himself to supply all his friend’s deficiencies, whether of private property or of public service. If it is required to do someone a good turn, he lends vigorous support; if some fear is causing anxiety, he comes to the rescue. As the occasion demands, he shares expense, joins in action, helps to persuade, or uses compulsion; he is equally effective in cheering on the successful and in raising up those who stumble. A friend is just as much a benefactor to a man as are the hands that work for him, the eyes that see for him, the ears that hear for him and the feet that carry him. Often one friend supplies for another something which that other has failed to do or see or hear or carry out himself. And yet although some people try to cultivate trees for the sake of their fruit, most are indolent and negligent in taking care of the most productive of all possessions – what we call a friend.

5

One day I heard another discourse of his which I thought stimulated anyone who heard it to examine himself and see what he was worth to his friends. He saw that one of his associates was neglecting a friend who was distressed by poverty, and he questioned Antisthenes¹ in the presence of the neglectful person and of several others.

‘Antisthenes,’ he said, ‘do friends have values, in the same way that domestic slaves do? For instance, one slave, I suppose, is worth two minae, and another not as much as half a mina, and another five minae and another ten minae; and they say that Nicias² the son of Niceratus bought an overseer of his silver mine for a talent.³ What I am trying to discover is whether friends have their values too, like domestic slaves.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ replied Antisthenes. ‘At any rate, I would rather have A as my friend than two minae, while I wouldn’t rate B higher than half a mina; and I would choose C in preference to ten minae, and I wouldn’t spend any amount of money and effort to obtain the friendship of D.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Socrates, ‘if the facts are as you say, it would be well for a man to examine himself and see what he really is worth to his friends, and to try to be worth as much as possible to them, so that his friends may be less likely to let him down. You see, I have often heard one person say that a friend has let him down, and another say that a man who he thought was his friend has preferred a mina to him; and that is why I am investigating the whole question. Perhaps, just as one offers a bad slave for sale and disposes of him for what he will fetch, in the same way there is a temptation to sell a bad friend when one can get a price greater than his value. But in my experience there is no more question of giving up a good friend than of selling a good slave.’

6

I thought that in the following conversation he was giving instruction about estimating what sort of friends it was worthwhile to make.

‘Tell me, Critobulus,’ he said, ‘if we wanted a good friend, how should we set about our search? Should we first look for a man who can control his desires for food and drink and sex and sleep and idleness? For the man who is a slave to these can’t do his duty either to himself or to a friend.’

‘No, of course he can’t.’

‘So you think that one should keep away from people who are governed by their desires?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Well now,’ said Socrates, ‘if a man is extravagant and can’t meet all his expenses, but is always appealing to his neighbours, and if, when he gets a loan, he can’t repay it, and, when he doesn’t get one, he bears a grudge against the person who refused it, don’t you think that this man too is a difficult sort of friend?’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘So one should keep away from him too?’

‘Yes, one should.’

‘What about the good businessman who is bent on making a great deal of money and consequently drives a hard bargain, and who enjoys receiving money but is reluctant to part with it?’

‘In my view,’ he said, ‘this one is even worse than the last.’

‘What about the man who has such a passion for making money that he has no time for anything that won’t turn to his own profit?’

‘He should be avoided too, in my opinion; he will be no use to anyone who associates with him.’

‘What about the trouble-maker who wants to stir up a lot of bad feeling against his friends?’

‘He certainly should be given a wide berth too.’

‘And supposing that someone, although he has none of these defects, accepts any amount of kindness and never thinks of repaying a good turn?’

‘He would be no use either. But tell me, Socrates, what sort of person shall we try to make our friend?’

‘Presumably one who has the opposite qualities – who is self-disciplined with regard to physical pleasures, and who proves to be good at managing his own affairs, reliable in his dealings with others, and eager not to fall short in doing services to his benefactors, so that it is an advantage to associate with him.’

‘How can we test these qualities before we commit ourselves, Socrates?’

‘We don’t judge sculptors on the evidence of their claims,’ he said, ‘but if we see that a man’s earlier works are well executed, we assume that his future works will be of high quality too.’

‘Do you mean,’ asked Critobulus, ‘that anyone who has clearly treated his past friends well will obviously do good to his subsequent friends too?’

‘Yes,’ said Socrates, ‘because, in the case of horses, if I see that someone has treated them well in the past, I assume that he is likely to treat other horses well too.’

‘Very good,’ he said. ‘But when a man seems worthy of one’s friendship, how should one set about making friends with him?’

‘First of all,’ said Socrates, ‘you must consider the will of the gods,¹ and see whether they advise you to make friends with him.’

‘Well, then, supposing that we decide to make friends with someone and the gods raise no objection, can you tell me how to capture him?’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘certainly not by chasing him, as if he were a hare, nor by snaring him, as if he were a bird, nor by force, as one does one’s enemies – it’s hard work catching a friend against his will. And it’s also difficult to keep him shackled like a slave. That sort of treatment is more likely to make enemies than friends.’

‘But how are friends made?’ asked Critobulus.

‘They say that there are incantations which those who know them can use to win the friendship of anyone that they like; and drugs too, which can be used by those who understand them to make them loved by anyone that they like.’

‘Then how can we find out about them?’ he asked.

‘You have heard from Homer the incantation that the Sirens uttered over Odysseus, which begins something like this:² “Come hither, famed Odysseus, great glory of the Greeks.” ‘

‘Did the Sirens utter this incantation over all the other victims of their charms, too, to keep them from getting away?’ asked Critobulus.

‘No, they kept it for those who were eager for recognition of their bravery.’

‘What you’re saying amounts practically to this: that in each case one should use an incantation designed so that the hearer won’t think that he is being praised sarcastically.’

‘Yes. You would repel people and incur dislike instead of friendship, if you praised a man by calling him handsome and tall and strong, when he knew that he was short and ugly and weak.’

‘Do you know any other incantations?’

‘No, but I have heard that Pericles knew a great many, which he used to utter over the State and so won its affection.’

‘How did Themistocles win its affection?’¹

‘Not by incantations, certainly, but by conferring some benefit upon it.’

‘I suppose you mean, Socrates, that if it were our intention to secure a good friend, we ought to make ourselves good both in word and deed.’

‘Did you think,’ asked Socrates, ‘that it was possible for a bad man to acquire good friends?’

‘Well, yes,’ replied Critobulus, ‘because I have seen bad speakers on friendly terms with good orators, and incompetent commanders intimate with men of great military ability.’

‘Do you also know,’ Socrates asked, ‘in the case that we are considering, any persons who can make useful friends although they are useless themselves?’

‘No, certainly not,’ said he. ‘But if it is impossible for a bad man to make truly good friends, there’s a question that immediately arises: is it possible for a man who has shown himself truly good to be a friend, by that very fact, to those who are the same as himself?’

‘What is bothering you, Critobulus, is that you often see men who act honourably and shun anything discreditable, but instead of being friends, they quarrel and treat one another worse than if they were good for nothing.’

‘And it isn’t only individuals that do this,’ said Critobulus. ‘Even States that have the highest regard for honourable dealing and the least tolerance of anything base are often hostile in their attitude towards one another. These considerations make me very despondent about the acquisition of friends. On the one hand, I see that bad people can’t be friends with one another – how can you make friends of those who are ungrateful or irresponsible or grasping or untrustworthy or undisciplined? It seems to me that bad men are altogether more naturally inclined to be enemies than friends to one another. Then again, as you say, it is equally impossible that bad men should be suitable for friendship with men of high character; for how can evil-doers become friends of those who loathe that sort of conduct? And finally, if even those who practise goodness quarrel about pre-eminence in the State, are mutually envious and hate one another, who are there still left to be friends, and in what class of men shall we find trust and goodwill?’¹

‘Well, Critobulus,’ said Socrates, ‘this is rather a complex problem. By nature human beings have certain tendencies towards friendliness. They need one another, they feel pity, they benefit from cooperation and, realizing this, they are grateful to one another. They also have hostile tendencies. When they have the same opinions about what things are beautiful and pleasant, they fight for their possession, and, falling out, take sides. Rivalry and passion also make for hostility; the desire to overreach is a cause of ill-feeling, and envy arouses hatred. Nevertheless, friendliness finds a way through all these obstacles and unites men who are truly good. Their moral goodness makes them prefer to enjoy moderate possessions and avoid tribulation rather than gain absolute power by means of war, and enables them, when hungry and thirsty, to share their food and drink without a pang, and to control their pleasure in the sexual attraction of beauty in such a way as not to cause improper annoyance to anyone. It enables them not only to suppress greedy instincts and be content with a lawful share of wealth, but even to assist one another. It enables them to settle arguments not only without annoyance, but even to their mutual advantage, and to keep their tempers from rising to a degree that they will later regret. It rids them completely of envy, since they give their own goods into the possession of their friends, and regard their friends’ property as their own.

‘It must surely follow from this that in the sharing of political privileges too, truly good men not only do not hinder, but actually help one another. Those who desire political distinction and authority in order that they may have licence to embezzle money, employ force against people and have a good time are likely to be unscrupulous, wicked and incapable of cooperation with others; but if a person wishes for political distinction to protect himself from injustice and to be able to give legitimate help to his friends, and, by holding office, wishes to try to do some good to his country, why shouldn’t he be able to cooperate with others like himself? Will he, in company with truly good men, be less able to help his friends? Will he be more incapable of benefiting his country if he has the assistance of such men? Why, even in athletic contests it is obvious that if the strongest were allowed to band together against the weaker, they would win all the events and carry off all the prizes. In athletics, this is not allowed, but in public life, where truly good men have most influence, there is no objection to a man’s combining with anyone he likes in order to benefit the State. So surely it is profitable for a man to prepare himself for public life by acquiring the best friends, and to use them as partners and helpers in his activities rather than as opponents.

‘Then again, it is obvious that if you are at war with anyone, you will need allies, and you will need more of them if you are opposed by truly good men. Besides, you must benefit those who are prepared to be your allies, so that they may be willing to put their hearts into it; and it is far better to benefit the best, who are few, than the worst, who are many, because bad people demand much more in the way of services than good ones.

‘Don’t lose heart, Critobulus, but try to make yourself a good man, and when you have succeeded, you can set about hunting for truly good people. Perhaps even I myself might be able to lend you a hand in the search on account of my experience in love. When I take a fancy to anyone, it’s extraordinary how completely I throw myself into getting them to reciprocate my friendship, passion or craving for their society, as the case may be.¹ I can see that you will feel the same need when you set your heart on making friends with people. Well, don’t keep me in the dark about your aspirations; thanks to my efforts to please those who please me, I think I’m not without experience in capturing people.’

‘As a matter of fact, Socrates,’ said Critobulus, ‘I have been anxious for this sort of instruction for a long time, especially if the same technique will help me find both character and physical beauty.’

‘Well, Critobulus,’ said Socrates, ‘my technique doesn’t include prevailing upon good-looking people to stay by laying hands upon them. I am convinced that this is why men fled from Scylla – because she laid hands upon them;¹ whereas it is said of the Sirens that because they never laid hands upon anyone, but always sang their enchanting songs from a distance, everyone stayed to hear their singing and was charmed by it.’

‘If you’ve got a good method of making friends, tell me what it is,’ said Critobulus. ‘I promise I won’t lay hands upon them.’

‘Then will you also refrain from laying your lips upon their lips?’ asked Socrates.

‘Don’t worry!’ said Critobulus. ‘I won’t even lay my lips upon anyone’s lips – unless he is good-looking.’

‘There you go, Critobulus!’ said Socrates. ‘You have said just the opposite of what you ought. Beautiful people² don’t put up with that sort of thing, whereas ugly ones actually take pleasure in inviting it, and assume that they are called beautiful because of their characters.’

‘You can rest assured,’ said Critobulus, ‘that if I kiss the beautiful, I shall kiss the good even more. Now tell me the art of capturing friends.’

‘Well then, Critobulus,’ said Socrates, ‘when you want to become friendly with someone, will you let me inform him that you admire him and are eager to be his friend?’

‘Inform away,’ said Critobulus. ‘Nobody that I know of objects to being complimented.’

‘And if I further inform him,’ said Socrates, ‘that, because of your admiration, you are kindly disposed towards him, you won’t consider that I am misrepresenting you?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I myself feel a kindness towards anyone whom I imagine to be kindly disposed towards me.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Socrates, ‘I shall be allowed to say this about you to any persons whom you wish to make your friends. If you will grant me further permission to say of you that you care about your friends, delight in nothing so much as in good friends, rejoice no less in your friends’ good fortune than in your own, never weary in contriving that your friends may have good fortune, and believe that the best quality in a man is to outdo his friends in acts of kindness and his enemies in acts of hostility, then I think I should be a very efficient helper for you in winning good friends.’

‘Why do you talk to me like this,’ asked Critobulus, ‘as if it were not open to you to say whatever you like about me?’

‘It certainly is not, for the reason that I once heard Aspasia¹ give. She said that good matchmakers were expert at joining people together in matrimony by giving true reports of their good qualities, but refused to sing their praises falsely, because the victims of such deception hated both each other and the woman who arranged the match. Well, I am convinced that she was right, and so I don’t consider that I am entitled, in praising you, to say anything that is not true.’

‘I see, Socrates,’ said Critobulus. ‘You are the sort of friend who will cooperate provided that I myself have some aptitude for the making of friends; otherwise nothing would induce you to fabricate something to say to help me.’

‘Which do you think would be the better way of helping you, Critobulus,’ asked Socrates, ‘by praising you falsely or by persuading you to try to be a good person? If the answer isn’t clear to you from this point of view, look at it from another. Suppose that I wanted to put you on friendly terms with a shipowner and praised you to him falsely by asserting that you were a good navigator, and suppose that he believed me and entrusted his ship to you, although you knew nothing about navigation: are you optimistic enough to expect that you wouldn’t destroy both yourself and the ship? Or suppose that by making a false public declaration, I prevailed upon the State to entrust itself to you, as to a man of military and legal and political ability: what do you think the consequences would be for yourself and the State? Or suppose that I were privately to persuade some of our citizens by false representations to give you charge of their property as an able and scrupulous administrator: when it came to the test, wouldn’t you both ruin them and expose yourself to ridicule? No, Critobulus: if you want to be thought good at anything, the shortest, safest and most reputable way is to try to make yourself really good at it. If you consider the virtues that are recognized among human beings, you will find that they are all increased by study and practice. That, Critobulus, is the way in which I think we ought to proceed; but if you incline to some other opinion, tell me what it is.’

‘No, Socrates,’ said Critobulus, ‘I would be ashamed to oppose your point of view; if I did, what I said would be neither honourable nor true.’

7

When his friends had difficulties, if they were due to ignorance, he tried to remedy them by giving advice, and if to deficiency, by teaching them to help one another as much as they could. I will relate what I know about him in this connection too.

One day he saw Aristarchus looking gloomy. ‘You look as though you were weighed down by something, Aristarchus,’ he said. ‘You ought to share the burden with your friends. Perhaps we can even relieve you a little.’

Aristarchus replied, ‘Well, Socrates, I am indeed in serious difficulty. Since the civil war broke out, and large numbers withdrew to Piraeus,¹ so many refugee sisters and nieces and female cousins have gathered together under my roof that there are fourteen free persons in the house. We can get nothing from our farm, because it is in the hands of our opponents, and nothing from our house properties, because the town is practically deserted. There is no buyer for one’s belongings, and one cannot even raise a loan from anywhere; I think you would sooner find money by looking for it in the streets than get it by borrowing. It is painful, Socrates, to stand by and watch one’s family die by degrees; and it is impossible to feed so many in such difficult circumstances.’

When Socrates had heard this story, he said, ‘Tell me, how is it that Ceramon,² who has to feed a large household, not only is able to provide what is necessary for himself and them, but has so much to spare that he is actually rich, while you in feeding a large household are afraid that you will all die of want?’

‘Surely because he is feeding slaves, while I am feeding free people.’

‘Do you think that the free people in your house are better than the slaves in Ceramon’s?’ asked Socrates.

‘In my opinion,’ he said, ‘the free people in my house are the better.’

‘Isn’t it a shame, then,’ said Socrates, ‘that he should be well off because he has the worse household, while you who have a much better one are in need?’

‘That is doubtless because he is supporting artisans, while I am supporting people who’ve been raised free.’

‘Does “artisans” mean people who know how to make something useful?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Is pearl barley useful?’

‘Very.’

‘What about bread?’

‘No less so.’

‘What do you say about men’s and women’s coats, shirts, cloaks and tunics?’

‘They are all very useful too.’

‘Well then,’ said Socrates, ‘don’t your guests know how to make any of these things?’

‘On the contrary, I imagine that they know how to make all of them.’

‘Then don’t you know that from one of these trades – making barley into pearl barley – Nausicydes supports not only himself and his servants, but also a large number of pigs and cattle, and has so much to spare that he often carries out public services for the State?¹ And don’t you know that from baking Cyrebus both maintains his household in comfort and lives luxuriously, while Demeas of Collytus² keeps himself by making cloaks, and Meno by making blankets, and most of the Megarians³ by making tunics?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘because these people buy and keep foreign slaves so that they can compel them to do whatever work is convenient, but I am dealing with free people and relations.’

‘Do you really think,’ said Socrates, ‘that because they are free and related to you, they ought to do nothing but eat and sleep? What is your view about other free people? Do you find that those who live in this way have a better time, and do you regard them as happier, than those who concern themselves with things that they know are useful to life? Or do you observe that idleness and indifference help people to learn what they ought to know and remember what they have learned, to gain physical health and strength, and to acquire and keep what is useful to life, whereas energy and application are no help at all? Did these female relations of yours learn the arts which you say they understand because they regarded them as of no practical use and had no intention of practising them? Wasn’t it just the opposite? Didn’t they mean to take them seriously and get some benefit from them? Which is the more sensible conduct for a human being – to do no work at all, or to occupy oneself usefully? And which has more integrity – to work, or to ponder about the necessaries of life without working? As things are, I suppose, there is no love lost between you: you feel that they are imposing upon you: they can see that you are annoyed with them; and consequently there is a danger that the ill-feeling will grow and the former goodwill decline. But if you encourage them to work, you will feel friendly towards them, when you see that they are doing something for you, and they will like you when they realize that you are pleased with them; and as you both remember former acts of kindness with greater pleasure, you will increase the gratitude aroused by these acts with the result that the relations between you will become cordial and intimate. Now, if these women were faced with an occupation that was dishonourable, they might fairly choose to die first; but as it is, the kinds of work at which they are competent are apparently those which are considered to be most honourable and appropriate for a woman; and everybody does most easily, quickly, pleasurably and well what he understands. So don’t hesitate,’ he concluded, ‘to suggest to them a course of action that will benefit both you and them. They will probably be glad to comply.’

‘Upon my word,’ said Aristarchus, ‘your advice strikes me as being really good, Socrates. Up until now, I haven’t been anxious to borrow, because I knew that, when I had spent what I had, I shouldn’t be able to pay it back; but now I feel I can bring myself to do it so as to meet the initial outlay for the work.’

The result of this conversation was that capital was obtained and wool purchased. The women began to work before breakfast, and went on until supper-time; and they were cheerful instead of gloomy. Instead of eyeing each other askance the two parties regarded each other with pleasure: the women felt for Aristarchus the affection due to a guardian, and he grew fond of them for their practical help. In the end he went to Socrates and joyfully told him the whole story, adding that he himself was now criticized as being the only person in the house who did not work for his keep.

‘You should tell them the story about the dog,’ said Socrates. ‘They say that in the days when animals could talk, a sheep said to its master: “I don’t understand your conduct. To us, who provide you with wool and lambs and cheese, you give nothing except what we get from the earth; but to the dog, who provides you with nothing of this kind, you give a share of your own food.” The dog heard this and said, “Quite right, too: I am the one to whom you owe security from being stolen by men and carried off by wolves. If I didn’t watch over you, you wouldn’t even be able to graze for fear of being killed.” In the light of this argument, the story goes, even the sheep conceded the dog his privileges. So you should tell your women-folk that you take the place of the dog in guarding them and taking care of them; and that it is through you that they are unmolested and can live and work safely and happily.’

8

Seeing another old friend one day after a long time, Socrates said, ‘Where did you spring from, Eutherus?’

‘At the end of the war, Socrates,’ he replied, ‘I came back from abroad, but now I live near by. Since we lost our foreign property and my father left me no property in Attica, I have been forced to take up residence here and to earn a living by manual labour. It seems better to do this than to appeal to someone for help, especially as I have no security on which to borrow.’

‘And how long do you suppose your constitution is capable of supporting you by working for hire?’ asked Socrates.

‘Not very long, certainly.’

‘Besides,’ said Socrates, ‘as you get older, obviously your expenses will increase, and no one will be willing to pay you for your manual labour.’

‘That’s true,’ he said.

‘Then you had better apply yourself at once to the sort of occupation that will still be suitable for you when you are older. You should approach some owner of a large estate who needs assistance in managing it, so that, by superintending the work, helping to get in the produce and taking care of the property, you may both confer benefit on him and receive it in return.’

‘I should find it hard to give up my freedom, Socrates,’ he said.

‘But in the political sphere the fact that a man holds an official position and manages public affairs makes him regarded not as more servile, but as more free.’

‘As a general principle, Socrates,’ he said, ‘I don’t at all like being responsible to anybody.’

‘But, Eutherus,’ said Socrates, ‘it is not at all easy to find an occupation in which one cannot be called to account. It is difficult to do anything faultlessly, and it is difficult, even with a faultless performance, not to incur ill-judged criticism; indeed, even in respect of the work that you say you are now doing, I wonder if you find it easy to get through it without incurring blame. So you must try to avoid censorious people and seek the company of good-natured ones. If a job is within your power, you must put up with it; if it is not, you must avoid it; and whatever you do, you must give it your best and keenest attention. If you take this advice, I think that you will incur the least risk of blame, you will have the best prospect of finding a remedy for your difficulties, and you will live with the least trouble and anxiety, and with the amplest provision for your old age.’

9

I know that he also once heard Crito complain what a difficult thing life in Athens was for a man who wanted to mind his own business. ‘At this very moment,’ he said, ‘some people are bringing an action against me, not because they have any grievance against me, but because they believe that I would rather pay¹ than have trouble.’

Socrates said, ‘Tell me, Crito: do you keep dogs to protect your sheep from wolves?’

‘Indeed I do,’ he replied. ‘It is more profitable for me to keep them than not to.’

‘Then mightn’t you also keep a man who was willing and able to protect you from anyone who tried to do you wrong?’

‘I should be glad to,’ he said, ‘if I weren’t afraid that he might turn on me.’

‘Well,’ said Socrates, ‘can’t you see that it is much more pleasant to benefit by the goodwill of a man like yourself than by incurring his enmity? You may be sure that there are people in this city who would greatly aspire to enjoy your friendship.’

As a result of this conversation, they discovered Archedemus,²a person of considerable rhetorical and practical ability, but poor, because he was not the sort to make money indiscriminately; he was a man of strict principles, and he said it was very easy to get money from these sycophants.³ So whenever Crito was getting in crops of corn, olives, wine, wool or any other useful agricultural produce, he used to set some aside and give it to Archedemus; and, whenever he gave a dinner, he invited him; and he showed him every consideration of this kind. Archedemus regarded Crito’s house as a haven of refuge, and treated him with great respect. He very soon found out that the sycophants threatening Crito were far from innocent and had enemies, and he summoned one of them to face a public trial at which it was to be decided what punishment or penalty he must suffer. Since the sycophant was conscious of a good many misdeeds, he did everything he could to rid himself of Archedemus; but Archedemus refused to be shaken off until the man abandoned his attack on Crito and gave Archedemus a sum of money.

When Archedemus had carried out this and other similar operations, many of Crito’s friends begged him to extend the protection of Archedemus to themselves as well, just as when a shepherd has a good sheep-dog the other shepherds want to station their flocks near him, so that they too might benefit from the dog. Archedemus was pleased to gratify Crito, and not only Crito but his friends too were left in peace. If any of Archedemus’ enemies taunted him with toadying to Crito in return for benefits received, he said, ‘There are two alternatives. You can either cultivate the friendship of honest men by returning their kindness, which will make bad men your enemies; or you can make truly good men your enemies by trying to do them wrong, and, by collaborating with bad men, try to make them your friends and try to get along with them rather than good men. Which of those two alternatives is the more discreditable?’ From this time on Archedemus was one of Crito’s friends and was highly esteemed by the rest of Crito’s friends.

10

I know that Socrates had the following conversation with one of his companions, Diodorus.

‘Tell me, Diodorus,’ he said, ‘if one of your house-slaves runs away, do you see to it that you get him safely back again?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ he said, ‘and I invite the help of others by offering a reward for his recovery.’

‘Well,’ Socrates went on, ‘if one of your house-slaves is ill, do you look after him and call in doctors to guard against his dying?’

‘I certainly do.’

‘And if one of your acquaintances who is much more useful to you than your house-slaves is in danger of dying of want, don’t you think that you should see to it that he is saved? You must surely know that Hermogenes is not insensitive, and that he would feel ashamed if he didn’t return your kindness. Also, to have an assistant who is willing, loyal, reliable and able to carry out instructions – and not only that, but capable of independent action, foresight and planning – this is surely worth a good many house-slaves. Now, good estate-managers say that when you can purchase something valuable at a low price, you ought to buy it; and at the present time, owing to circumstances, it is possible to acquire good friends very reasonably.’

Diodorus said, ‘You are quite right, Socrates. Tell Hermogenes to come and see me.’

‘Certainly not!’ said Socrates. ‘To my mind it’s no more proper for you to summon him than it is to go to him yourself; and it’s no more to his advantage to have the business completed than it is to yours.’

So Diodorus went to see Hermogenes, and with a small outlay he acquired a friend who made it his business to look out for every opportunity to help Diodorus and make him happy.

BOOK THREE

I shall now describe how Socrates used to help people with honourable ambitions by making them apply themselves to the objects of those ambitions.

One day he heard that Dionysodorus¹ had come to Athens and was offering to teach the art of military command. So he said to one of his companions, who he knew was eager to attain the position of general in the State, ‘You know, my boy, it’s a poor thing for one who wants to be a general in the State to neglect the opportunity of instruction when it’s available. Such a person would be more justly liable to prosecution than one who undertook to make statues without having learned how to sculpt; for in the perils of war the whole State is entrusted to the care of the general, and the good effects of his success and the bad effects of his failures are likely to be equally far-reaching. So a man who did his best to get himself elected to this position² without troubling to learn how to discharge it would surely deserve to be penalized.’

By using arguments like these Socrates persuaded him to go and take lessons. When he came back after completing the course, Socrates began to tease him.

‘You know, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘how Homer describes Agamemnon as “majestic”.³ Don’t you think that our friend here seems more majestic now that he has learned how to be a general? A man who has learned to play a musical instrument is a musician even if he is not playing it; and someone who has learned to cure disease is a doctor even if he is not practising. In the same way, from now on our friend will always be a general, even if nobody appoints him; but the untrained person is neither a general nor a doctor, even if his appointment is unanimous. However,’ he went on, ‘in case one of us serves under you as a senior or junior officer, we ought to have a better grasp of military studies; so tell us where he began to teach you the art of military command.’

‘At the same point he stopped at,’ said the young man. ‘He taught me tactics and nothing else.’

‘But that is only a fraction of the general’s business,’ said Socrates. ‘A general must be able to get together the resources for making war and provide supplies for his men; he must be inventive, active and attentive, persevering and brilliant, both friendly and harsh, both straightforward and subtle, a good protector and a good thief, lavish and rapacious, generous and grasping, steady and aggressive; and a man must have a great many other qualities, natural and acquired, if he is to be a good general. Still, it is a fine thing to be a tactician. An orderly army is far superior to a disorderly one, just as the materials of a house – bricks and stones, timber and tiles – are no good at all when dumped at random, but when they are arranged as they are combined in a building, with the material which will neither rot nor disintegrate, the stones and tiles, underneath and on top, and with the bricks and timber in between, then the result is a valuable possession – a house.’

‘That’s a close parallel, Socrates,’ said the young man, ‘because in war too you should post the best troops in front and in the rear, and the worst in between so that they may be led on by the one lot and pushed forward by the other.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Socrates, ‘if the lecturer has taught you how to distinguish the good from the bad; but if he hasn’t, what have you gained from your lessons? I mean, if he told you to arrange the finest coinage in front and at the back, and the worst in between, without explaining to you how to tell good money from counterfeit, that would be no use to you either.’

‘He certainly didn’t teach us that, so we shall have to distinguish good and bad for ourselves.’

‘Then why not consider how we can avoid making blunders about them?’ asked Socrates.

‘I should like to,’ said the young man.

‘Well then,’ said Socrates, ‘supposing that we had to carry off some silver, wouldn’t it be sound tactics to give the first place to those who were fondest of silver?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘What about facing danger? Should we put the most ardent lovers of glory in the front rank?‘

‘They are certainly the people who are willing to take risks in order to earn praise. Of course, they aren’t hard to identify; they are conspicuous everywhere, and would be easy to pick out.’

‘Tell me,’ said Socrates, ‘did he only teach you how to arrange your troops, or did he also explain how and in what circumstances you should employ each formation?’

‘No, not at all,’ said he.

‘But there are many situations which call for quite different arrangements and movements of troops.’

‘He certainly didn’t distinguish them clearly.’

‘Then surely you ought to go back and ask him more questions,’ said Socrates. ‘If he knows his subject and has a conscience, he will be ashamed to send you away with gaps in your knowledge after taking your money.’

2

One day Socrates met a man who had just been appointed general, and he asked him: ‘Why do you think Homer called Agamemnon “shepherd of the people”?¹ Was it because it is the shepherd’s duty to see to it that his sheep are safe and have their food and that the purpose for which they are kept is achieved, and in the same way it is the general’s duty to see that his soldiers are safe and have their food and that the purpose for which they are serving is achieved – this purpose being to improve their fortune by defeating the enemy? Or what did he mean by praising Agamemnon as “Both a good king and a stout warrior”?¹ Was it that he would be a stout warrior not if he alone contended bravely with the enemy, but if he caused the whole army to do so, and a good king not if he merely directed his own life well, but if he also brought happiness to his subjects?² For a king is chosen not to take good care of his own interests, but to secure the well-being of those who chose him; and all peoples go to war with one object only, to secure the best possible living conditions for themselves, and they appoint generals for the single purpose of leading them to this goal. So it is the duty of a general to realize the aims of those who appointed him as such; and, in fact, it is not easy to find a nobler purpose than this, or a baser one than its opposite.’

By investigating in this way what is the ideal of a good leader he eliminated all other considerations and left securing the happiness of his followers.

3

I know that he also once had the following conversation with someone who had been appointed to a cavalry command.³ ‘Could you tell us, young man,’ he said, ‘why you set your heart on becoming a cavalry officer? I presume that it wasn’t that you wanted to ride at the head of the cavalry, because that is the privilege of the mounted archers – at least, they ride ahead of even the cavalry commander.’

‘That’s true,’ he said.

‘And it wasn’t publicity that you wanted either; for even lunatics are recognized by everybody.’

‘That’s true too.’

‘Well then, is it because you think that you might hand back cavalry which you have improved to the State, and that if any need for mounted troops should arise you might do our country some service as their commander?’

‘Yes, precisely,’ he said.

‘A very fine thing too,’ said Socrates, ‘if you can do this. The command for which you have been chosen is, I suppose, over both horses and riders.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Come along, then: first tell us how you propose to improve the horses.’

‘But I don’t think that is my job,’ he said. ‘Each man ought to look after his own horse.’

‘Well,’ said Socrates, ‘suppose that you find some of them turning out their horses with such bad feet or legs, or in such poor condition, or so underfed, that they can’t keep up with the rest, and you find others coming up with horses which are so fresh that they won’t keep their places or are such kickers that you can’t get them into position at all – what will be the good of your cavalry? How will you be able to do your country any service if your troopers are mounted like that?’

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I will do my best to look after the horses.’

‘Well, now, what about the horsemen? Won’t you try to improve their quality?’

‘Yes, I will.’

‘Won’t you begin by making them better at mounting their horses?’

‘I ought to, certainly, because then if one of them fell off, his chances of survival would be improved.’

‘And next, if you have to risk an engagement, will you order them to draw the enemy on to the sandy ground where you are accustomed to exercise, or will you try to carry out your training in the sort of country in which campaigns are fought?’

‘That would be better, certainly.’

‘Next, will you make it a concern of yours that as many of your men as possible can hurl weapons from horseback?’

‘That would be a good idea, too.’

‘Is it your intention to make your troopers braver warriors by whetting their courage and rousing their anger against the enemy?’

‘If it wasn’t, I will try to make it so now,’ he said.

‘Have you given any thought to the question of obedience? For without it there is no use in horses or horsemen, however good and warlike.’

‘True,’ he said. ‘But how can one best direct them towards it, Socrates?’

‘You know, I’m sure, that in every situation people are readiest to obey those whom they consider to be best. In illness they pay most attention to the man who they think has most medical knowledge; and on board ship the passengers pay most attention to the man they regard as the most experienced sailor; and in farming most attention is paid to the man who is regarded as the most experienced farmer.’

‘Quite so.’

‘Then presumably in the case of horsemanship too the man who clearly knows best what ought to be done is most likely to receive the willing obedience of the rest.’

‘Then if I am obviously better than any of them, Socrates, will that be enough to make them obey me?’

‘Yes, provided that you also let them know that obedience to you will be both more honourable and more salutary for them than disobedience.’

‘How shall I teach them that?’

‘Much more easily, I assure you, than if you had to teach them that bad conduct is better and more profitable than good conduct.’

‘Do you mean,’ said he, ‘that besides all his other duties a cavalry officer ought to cultivate the ability to speak well?’

‘Did you suppose that he had to exercise his command in silence? Haven’t you noticed that all the ideals that tradition has taught us – ideals to which we owe our knowledge of how to live – are learned through discourse, and that any other fine accomplishment anyone acquires is acquired by means of discourse; that the best teachers make the most use of discourse, and those who have the profoundest knowledge of the most important subjects are the most brilliant debaters? Now, here’s another point: haven’t you noticed that when a chorus is chosen to represent this city of ours, like the one which is sent to Delos,¹ no chorus from anywhere else can match it, and no other city can muster a display of manhood like ours?’

‘That’s true,’ he said.

‘But it’s not so much in quality of voice, or in physical size and strength that Athenians are superior to the rest, as in the love of honour, which is the keenest incentive to noble and honourable actions.’

‘That’s true too,’ he said.

‘Then don’t you think that if someone made our cavalry his concern, the Athenians would be far superior here too, both in their provision of equipment and horses, and by their discipline and readiness to venture against the enemy, if they thought that by doing so they would win praise and honour?’

‘Very likely.’

‘Then don’t hesitate any longer,’ said Socrates, ‘but try to induce your men to adopt a course which will benefit both you and, through you, the rest of our people as well.‘

‘All right,’ he said, ‘I will certainly try.’

4

One day he saw Nicomachides coming away from the elections, and asked, ‘Who have been elected as generals, Nicomachides?’²

‘Why, naturally, Socrates,’ he replied, ‘the people of Athens, being what they are, have not elected me, although I am worn out with active service as an officer, and have received all these wounds from the enemy’ – as he spoke, he drew back his clothes and exhibited the scars – ‘but they have chosen Antisthenes,¹ who has never served in the infantry and has won no distinction in the cavalry, and knows nothing except how to pile up money.’

‘Surely it’s a good thing,’ said Socrates, ‘if he will be able to provide his men with supplies?’

‘Merchants can pile up money too,’ said Nicomachides, ‘but that doesn’t qualify them to be generals.’

‘But Antisthenes is set on winning,’ replied Socrates, ‘which is an appropriate quality for a general. Haven’t you noticed that every time he has had to finance a chorus he has always won?’²

‘Yes,’ said Nicomachides, ‘but it’s one thing to have charge of a chorus, and quite another to have charge of an army.’

‘All the same,’ said Socrates, ‘although Antisthenes had no experience of singing or of training a chorus, he succeeded in finding the best people for his purpose.’

‘So in his capacity as general,’ said Nicomachides, ‘he will find other people to work out his tactics and to do the fighting.’

‘Well,’ said Socrates, ‘if he is as good at searching out and selecting the best agents in his military operations as he is in training his choruses, he will probably be successful in this case too. Besides, he would naturally be prepared to spend more to win a military victory with the whole nation than to win a choral competition with his tribe.’³

‘Do you mean, Socrates, that a good chorus-trainer would also make a good general?’

‘I mean that, when a man is given a post of responsibility, if he knows what is needed and is able to supply it, he can fill that post efficiently, whether it relates to a chorus or an estate or a country or an army.’

‘I must say, Socrates,’ said Nicomachides, ‘I never thought that

I should hear you say that good estate-managers would make good generals.’

‘Come along, then,’ he said, ‘let’s consider their respective duties, so that we may see whether they are the same or there is some difference.’

‘By all means.’

‘Isn’t it the duty of both of them to make their subordinates obedient and tractable?’

‘Certainly.’

‘What about assigning the various tasks to those who are qualified to perform them?’

‘That too.’

‘Then I suppose it is appropriate for both to punish the bad and give credit to the good.’

‘Quite so.’

‘And surely it is proper for both to make their subordinates loyal to them?’

‘That too.’

‘Do you think that it is in the interest of both to win allies and helpers, or not?’

‘It certainly is.’

‘Shouldn’t both be conservative of their possessions?’

‘Very much so.’

‘Then shouldn’t they both be careful and industrious in all their duties?’

‘All these qualities are equally applicable to both; but fighting is not.’

‘But surely both make enemies?’¹

‘That is so, certainly.’

‘Isn’t it in the interest of both to get the better of them?’

‘Quite, but you’re leaving something out of account: if fighting becomes necessary, what will be the good of estate-management?’

‘Surely then it will be more valuable than ever. The good estate-manager, knowing that nothing brings so much profit and gain as defeating one’s enemies in battle, and nothing so much loss and ruin as being defeated, will eagerly seek and prepare what is conducive to victory, and will carefully note and guard against what tends towards defeat; and if he sees that his preparations offer hope of victory, he will vigorously fight; and – not least in importance – if he is unprepared, he will avoid an engagement. You mustn’t despise estate-managers, Nicomachides. The difference between the care of private and the care of public affairs is only one of degree; in all other respects they are closely similar, especially in that neither can dispense with human agency, and the human agents are the same in both cases. Those who look after public affairs employ just the same agents as in managing their private properties; and if people understand how to use these agents, they carry out their duties successfully, whether public or private, but if they do not, then they come to grief in either case.’

5

One day Socrates was talking to Pericles the son of the famous Pericles.

‘You know, Pericles,’ he said, ‘I have high hopes that if you are appointed as a general, our city will become more efficient and renowned in warfare, and will conquer its enemies.’¹

Pericles replied, ‘I should like it to be as you say, Socrates, but I’ve no idea how it could happen.’

‘Would you like to discuss the subject, then,’ said Socrates, ‘and try to discover how it could come about?’

‘Yes, please,’ he said.

‘Very well, then: you know that the Athenians are not inferior in numbers to the Boeotians?’¹

‘Yes, I know that.’

‘Do you think that there would be more examples of physical perfection in Boeotia than in Athens?’

‘To my mind, we aren’t inferior in this respect either.’

‘And which people do you suppose is more loyal?’

‘I should say the Athenians. A good many of the Boeotians resent the aggressiveness of the Thebans, but I don’t see anything of that sort at Athens.’

‘Besides, the Athenians have a greater thirst for glory and pride than any other people; and these are no slight incentives to taking risks for the sake of honour and country.’

‘In this respect too the Athenians are above criticism.’

‘Then again, no people can claim more or greater ancestral exploits than the Athenians; and consequently many of them are inspired by these examples to cultivate virtue and show themselves brave fighters.’

‘All this is true, Socrates. But you can see that ever since the disasters suffered by Tolmides and the thousand at Lebadia, and by Hippocrates at Delium,² the prestige of Athens has been low in relation to Boeotia, and the confidence of Thebes high in relation to Athens; the result is that the Boeotians, who used not even to dare, in their own territory, to face the Athenians without the support of the Spartans and the other Peloponnesians, are now threatening to invade Attica by themselves; and the Athenians, who used to wreak havoc in Boeotia, are afraid that the Boeotians will ravage Attica.’

‘I realize that this is so,’ said Socrates, ‘but it seems to me that our city is now more amenably disposed towards a good leader. Confidence induces carelessness, indifference and disobedience, but fear makes people more inclined to be attentive, obedient and disciplined. You can see an illustration of this in what happens on board ships. When there’s nothing to fear, the crew are completely unruly; but so long as they are afraid of storm or enemy, they not only carry out all instructions, but wait for the next order in perfect silence like members of a chorus.’

‘Well,’ said Pericles, ‘assuming that now they are at their most obedient, it would be the right moment to say how we can encourage them to set their hearts again upon their former virtue, renown and happiness.’

‘If we wanted them to claim property that was in the possession of others,’ said Socrates, ‘the best way of inciting them to lay hands upon that property would be by proving to them that it belonged to them by inheritance; and since we want them to make it their object to excel in virtue, we must similarly show them that this has been their special characteristic from of old, and that if they cultivated it seriously, they could be the most powerful nation in the world.’

‘How can we teach them this lesson?’

‘I suppose by reminding them of the stories they have been told about how excellent their earliest recorded ancestors were.’

‘Do you mean the contest of the gods which Cecrops and his advisers were allowed to decide because of their goodness?’¹

‘Yes, and the birth and upbringing of Erechtheus,² and the war that broke out in his time against the inhabitants of all the adjoining mainland,³ and the war against the Peloponnesians in the days of the sons of Heracles,¹ and all the campaigns under Theseus,² in all of which our ancestors showed themselves plainly to be the best men of their time. Or again there are the feats accomplished later by their descendants not much before our time: those in which they strived unaided against an enemy who was master of the whole of Asia and of Europe as far as Macedonia, and who possessed vaster armies and resources and had carried out greater operations than any previous nation; and those in which they shared the leadership by land and sea with the Peloponnesians. These Athenians too are reputed to have far surpassed the other people of their time.’³

‘So it is said.’

‘And that is why, in spite of the many migrations that have taken place in Greece, they remained in their own country,⁴ and often answered appeals for arbitration from those disputing about their rights,⁵ and often gave sanctuary to the victims of oppression. ‘⁶

‘I can’t understand, Socrates,’ said Pericles, ‘how it was that our country ever deteriorated.’

Socrates replied, ‘You know how athletes sometimes, when they have enjoyed unchallenged superiority, through sheer lack of enterprise become no match for their opponents? My belief is that in the same way the people of Athens were so far supreme that they became negligent, and that their deterioration is due to this.’

‘Well then,’ he said, ‘what can they do now to recover their former excellence?’

Socrates replied, ‘I don’t think that the answer is anything abstruse. If they rediscovered their ancestors’ way of life and followed it as well as they did, they would prove to be just as good men as they were. Alternatively, if they took as their model the present leaders of the Greek world¹ and followed their way of life, then with equal application to the same activities they would become no worse than their models, and with greater application they would actually surpass them.’

‘You imply,’ said Pericles, ‘that our country is a long way from true goodness. Are the Athenians ever likely to equal the Spartans in showing respect for their elders, when they despise anyone older than themselves beginning with their fathers, or in developing their bodies, when they not only care nothing for physical fitness themselves but jeer at those who do care about it? Will they ever have as much obedience to authority, when they pride themselves on despising authority? Will they ever have as much unanimity, when, so far from working together for their common interest, they are more envious and abusive towards one another than towards the rest of the world, quarrel more in their meetings, both private and public, than any other people, and bring the greatest number of actions against one another; when they prefer to gain in this way at one another’s expense rather than by cooperation, and, while treating public duties as no personal concern of theirs, at the same time fight over them, taking the greatest delight in the qualities that fit them for such quarrelling? As a result of this, a great deal of harm and mischief is developing in our city, and a great deal of mutual enmity and hatred is growing in the hearts of our people; and for this reason I, for my part, am in constant dread that some intolerable disaster will fall upon our city.’

‘Really, Pericles,’ said Socrates, ‘you mustn’t imagine that the Athenians are suffering from such incurable depravity as that. Don’t you see how well-disciplined they are in the navy, and how punctiliously they obey the officials at athletic meetings, and how, when they are members of a chorus, they follow the directions of their trainers as thoroughly as anyone?’

‘Yes, that’s the strange thing, you know, that people like these should obey their superiors, while the infantry and cavalry, who are supposed to be the pick of the population in general excellence, should be the most unruly.’

Socrates said, ‘But what about the Council of the Areopagus, Pericles?¹ Isn’t it composed of men of tried character?’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘Do you know any other body that tries cases and conducts all its other business better, or more in accordance with law, honour and justice?’

‘I have nothing to say against them.’

‘Then you mustn’t despair of the Athenians as being disorderly.’

‘But on military service, where there is the greatest need for self-control, discipline and obedience, they give no thought to any of these qualities.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Socrates, ‘that is because in this sphere they have the least expert direction. Don’t you see that in the case of musicians and singers and dancers, nobody without expert knowledge attempts to give directions, and similarly with wrestlers and pancratiasts?² The authorities on all these subjects can point to the source from which they learned the arts for which they are responsible; but the great majority of military commanders are self-taught. However, I don’t imagine that you are that sort of person. I expect that you can tell me when you began to learn generalship just as easily as when you began to learn wrestling. I expect that besides keeping a stock of stratagems which you have inherited from your father, you have amassed a great many from every source from which you could learn anything useful for the art of war. And I expect that you are constantly on your guard against inadvertent ignorance of anything that is useful to this end; and that, if you become aware that there is something of this sort which you don’t know, you seek out the experts in the subject, grudging neither presents nor favours, in order to learn from them what you don’t know and have the help of qualified persons.’

Pericles replied, ‘You can’t deceive me, Socrates. Your reason for saying all this is certainly not that you think that I do take these things seriously; you are trying to show me that one ought to take them seriously, if one aspires to be a general. As a matter of fact, I quite agree with you.’

‘Have you noted the fact, Pericles, that our frontier is protected by high mountains running down into Boeotia, through which the approaches into our territory are narrow and steep, and that there is a belt of rugged mountains through the middle of Attica?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Well now, have you heard that the Mysians and Pisidians, who occupy extremely rugged country in the territories of the king of Persia,¹are able, though only lightly armed, not only to preserve their independence, but to do the Persians a good deal of damage by raiding their territory?’

‘Yes, I have heard that too.’

‘Don’t you think that, if the young and active members of the Athenian army were equipped with lighter arms and occupied the mountains that screen our frontiers, they would be able to harass our enemies and form an effective defence for our people against invasion?’ ¹

‘I think that all these are useful suggestions,’ said Pericles.

‘Well then,’ said Socrates, ‘if you approve of them, give them a trial, my good friend. If you can put any of them into practice, it will be to your credit and the benefit of your country; and if in some respects you can’t, you will neither harm your country nor bring discredit upon yourself.’

6

When Glaucon the son of Aristón² was trying to become a popular orator, because he was set on being the head of the State although he was not yet twenty years old, none of his friends and intimates could stop him; he was always getting dragged off the public platform and laughed at. The one person who prevailed upon him was Socrates, who was kindly disposed towards him for the sake of two people: Charmides the son of Glaucon,³ and Plato.⁴ Socrates happened to meet him and first won his attention by addressing him in the following way: ‘Glaucon,’ he said, ‘have you made up your mind to become the head of our State?’

‘I have, Socrates,’ he replied.

‘Yes, that is, without a doubt, a fine thing; I don’t know that there is any higher human ambition. Clearly, if you succeed in it, you will have the power to obtain whatever you desire, and be able to help your friends; you will gain distinction for your family and extend the power of your country; and you will win a name for yourself, first in our city, and then in Greece, and perhaps even, like Themistocles, among foreign powers. Wherever you are, every eye will be fixed upon you.’

This description appealed to Glaucon’s vanity, and he was glad to linger. Socrates then went on: ‘Now, it’s obvious, isn’t it, Glaucon, that if you want to be held in honour, you must help your country?‘

‘Certainly.’

‘Well then,’ he said, ‘please don’t make a secret of it, but tell us where you will start to benefit your country.’

Glaucon made no reply, as if he were considering for the first time where he should start.

‘Surely,’ asked Socrates, ‘if you wanted to make the family of a friend more important, you would try to make it wealthier. On the same principle I suppose you will try to make your country wealthier, won’t you?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Wouldn’t it be wealthier if its revenues were increased?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Tell me, then: what are our country’s present revenues derived from, and what do they amount to? No doubt you have looked into this, so that you may make up any of them that are inadequate and supply any that are lacking.’

‘Actually,’ Glaucon admitted, ‘I haven’t looked into that.’

‘Well,’ said Socrates, ‘if you have left that aside, tell us what the country’s expenditure is. You must be planning to curtail any extravagance.’

‘Actually,’ said Glaucon, ‘I haven’t had time for that yet either.’

‘Then we will defer the question of making the country wealthier. It is impossible for someone who doesn’t know what the expenditure and revenues are to look after them.’

‘But, Socrates,’ said Glaucon, ‘it is possible to enrich one’s country from the resources of its enemies.’

‘Yes, indeed, perfectly possible,’ said Socrates, ‘if you are stronger than they are. If you are weaker, you are likely to lose even what you have already.’

‘That is true.’

‘So before someone starts considering on whom to make war, he ought to know the strength both of his own country and of her opponents, so that, if his country is stronger, he may encourage her to undertake the war, and, if she is weaker, he may persuade her to be cautious.’

‘Quite right.’

‘Then tell us first what our country’s land and sea forces are, and then do the same for the enemy’s.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I can’t, of course, tell you offhand.’

‘If you’ve got the details written down, fetch them; I should very much like to hear the answer.’

‘Actually, I haven’t got them written down either.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Socrates, ‘we will put off our military discussion too for the time being. Probably, besides your being so newly in office, you haven’t yet had time to go carefully into the matter because of its magnitude. But of course I’m sure that you have already given your attention to the defence of our territory, and know how many guard-posts are well placed and how many are not, and how many of the garrisons are adequate and how many are not. And you will recommend the strengthening of those that are well placed and the abolition of those that are superfluous.’

‘Actually, I shall recommend abolishing the lot,’ said Glaucon, ‘because the result of their defence is that our crops get stolen.’

‘But if the guard-posts are abolished,’ said Socrates, ‘don’t you think that it will be open to anyone to help himself freely? By the way, have you found this out by personal inspection, or how do you know that the posts are badly manned?’

‘I assume it,’ he said.

‘Shall we wait to discuss this subject too until we have got beyond assumptions and know the facts?’

‘Perhaps that would be better,’ said Glaucon.

‘Then there are the silver mines,’¹ said Socrates. ‘I know that you haven’t visited them so that you can account for the decline of revenue from them.’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Socrates, ‘they say that it’s an unhealthy district; so when you have to state your views about it, this excuse will cover you.’

‘You’re making fun of me,’ said Glaucon.

‘But there’s another problem that I’m sure you haven’t neglected: no doubt you’ve investigated how long the country can be fed on home-produced corn, and how much extra is needed each year. You wouldn’t like your country to incur a shortage of this kind without your realizing it; you would wish to be able to advise from personal knowledge about essential supplies, and so give her help and security.’

‘That’s an enormous task you’re suggesting,’ said Glaucon, ‘if one is to be obliged to look after that sort of thing.’

‘But surely,’ said Socrates, ‘a man could never manage even his own household properly unless he knew all its deficiencies and saw to it that they were all supplied. As our city consists of more than ten thousand houses, and it is difficult to look after so many households simultaneously, why don’t you first try to look after one, your uncle’s? It needs it. And if you can cope with that, you can try your hand at more; but if you can’t do any good to one, how can you do good to many? If a man can’t carry one talent in weight, surely it’s obvious that he shouldn’t even try to carry more than one.’

‘Well,’ said Glaucon, ‘I might do something for my uncle’s household, if he would follow my advice.’

‘So although you can’t persuade your uncle,’ said Socrates, ‘you expect to be able to make the whole population of Athens, including your uncle, follow your advice? Take care, my dear Glaucon, that your craving for distinction doesn’t take you in the opposite direction. Can’t you see how risky it is to say or to do things that one doesn’t know about? Among the rest of your acquaintances, consider those whom you know to be the sort of people who obviously say and do things that they don’t know about: do you think that they are more admired or despised for this sort of conduct? And then consider the case of those who know what they are saying and what they are doing. In my opinion, you will find in every sphere of action that esteem and admiration are reserved for those who are best informed, while ignominy and contempt are the lot of the most ignorant. So if you want to be esteemed and admired in the State, try to ensure as far as possible that you know about the things that you want to do. If you have this advantage over the rest when you try your hand at politics, I shouldn’t be surprised if you realized your ambition quite easily.’

7

When he saw that Charmides the son of Glaucon, though a person of influence and much more capable than the active politicians of that time, was hesitant to enter public life and handle his country’s affairs, he said, ‘Tell me, Charmides: supposing that there was somebody capable of winning at the major athletic competitions so as to gain honour for himself and enhance his country’s reputation in Greece, and supposing that he refused to compete, what sort of man would you think he was?’

‘Obviously soft and unenterprising.’

‘And supposing that there was somebody who, though capable of handling his country’s affairs in such a way as to raise its prestige and win honour himself, was hesitant to do so – wouldn’t he reasonably be regarded as unenterprising?’

‘Probably; but why do you ask me that?’

‘Because I think you are failing to use your administrative ability, and that in a sphere where you are bound as a citizen to take part.’

‘What’s your evidence for this accusation?’ asked Charmides. ‘In what kind of activity have you studied my ability?’

‘In your relations with politicians. When they consult you, I notice that you give them good advice, and when they make mistakes, your criticism is fair and right.’

‘It’s not the same thing, Socrates,’ he protested, ‘to talk to a person privately and to debate in public.’

‘All the same,’ said Socrates, ‘a man who can count counts just as well in public as by himself, and the best private performers of music are also those who are most successful in public.’

‘But don’t you realize that humility and fear are part of human nature, and that they come out much more in public than in private gatherings?’

‘Yes, and I am anxious to show you something. You are neither overawed by the cleverest people nor afraid of the most powerful, and yet you are too modest to speak in front of the silliest and weakest. Whom are you shy of? The fullers or the shoe-makers or the carpenters or the smiths or the farmers or the merchants or the dealers in the agora, whose business it is to buy at a cheaper rate and sell at a dearer one? For all these people go to make up the Assembly. What difference do you think there is between what you are doing and someone who can beat trained athletes and is afraid of amateurs? You converse easily with our leading statesmen, some of whom look down on you, and you are far better qualified than the professional politicians; yet you shrink from speaking in front of people who have never troubled their heads about politics or formed a poor opinion of you – because you are afraid of being laughed at!’

‘Well, don’t you think,’ said Charmides, ‘that the members of the Assembly often laugh at those who advocate the right policy?’

‘Yes, and so do the others. That’s why I am surprised that although you can easily deal with the one class when they behave that way, you imagine that you will be quite incapable of facing the other. My good man, don’t be ignorant of yourself, or make the usual mistake. Most people, when they are set upon looking into other people’s affairs, never turn to examine themselves. Don’t shirk this responsibility, but make a greater effort to take yourself seriously; and don’t neglect public affairs if you can improve them in any way, because, if they are well conducted, it will benefit not only the rest of the citizen body, but your personal friends, and not least yourself.’

8

Aristippus was once trying to argue Socrates down in the same way as he had been argued down by him in the past. Socrates, whose object was to benefit the people listening, answered not like a man who is guarding against getting his argument tangled up, but like one who is fully convinced that he is doing his duty. Aristippus asked him whether he knew anything that was good; his intention was, if Socrates mentioned anything such as food or drink or money or health or strength or courage, to prove that it was sometimes bad.¹ But Socratesht knew that if anything annoys us, what we need is something to stop it, and he replied in the most effective way: ‘Are you asking if I know something good for fever?’

‘Of course not.’

‘For ophthalmia?’

‘No, not that either.’

‘For starvation?’

‘No, nor starvation either.’

‘Well, if you are asking me whether I know anything that is good for nothing, I don’t, and what’s more I don’t want to.’

Another time, Aristippus asked him whether he knew anything fine.²

‘Yes indeed, plenty of things.’

‘Well then, are they all alike?’

‘On the contrary, some are as unlike as they can be.’

‘How can a thing be fine if it is unlike what is fine?’

‘Why, because a man who is a fine runner has another unlike him who is a fine wrestler; and a shield which is fine for defence is totally unlike a spear which is fine for throwing hard and fast.’

‘You are giving me just the same sort of answer as when I asked you if you knew anything good.’

‘Do you really imagine that goodness and fineness are different? Don’t you know that things are always good and fine by the same standards? In the first place, virtue is not good for some things and fine for others; secondly, people are called “fine” and “good” on the same grounds and with the same ends in view; and people’s bodies are obviously fine and good in relation to the same end; and everything else that we use is considered to be fine and good in accordance with the same standard – namely, the end for which it is serviceable.’

‘Then is a dung-basket fine?’

‘Certainly, and a golden shield is contemptible, if the one is finely and the other badly constructed for carrying out its function.’

‘Do you mean that the same things are both fine and contemptible?’

‘Certainly, and, what’s more, both good and bad. Often what is good for starvation is bad for fever, and vice versa; and what is fine for running is contemptible for wrestling, and vice versa. Everything is good and fine in so far as it’s well adapted for its purpose, and bad and contemptible in so far as it’s ill adapted.’

Similarly, in maintaining that a fine house is one that serves its purpose well, Socrates seemed to me to be teaching the principle that buildings should satisfy practical requirements.¹ He approached the question in this sort of way:

‘If a man is to have the sort of house that he needs, ought he to contrive to make it as pleasant and convenient as possible to live in?’ When this was admitted: ‘Isn’t it pleasant to have a house which is cool in summer and warm in winter?’ When they agreed to this too: ‘Well, in houses that have a south aspect, in winter the sun shines into the verandas, while in summer it passes over our heads and over the roof and casts a shade. So, if this is the desired effect, one should build the south side higher so as not to shut off the winter sun, and the north side lower so as to avoid exposure to the cold winds. In short, the most pleasant and fine residence is likely to be that which offers at all seasons the most agreeable retreat for the owner and the safest repository for his possessions. Frescos and decorations deprive us of more amenities than they supply.’ As for temples and altars, he said that the most suitable site for them was one that was at once conspicuous and off the beaten track: it was pleasant for passers-by to say their prayers upon seeing a shrine, but it was also pleasant to approach it in a reverent frame of mind.

9

On another occasion he was asked whether courage was a matter of teaching or a natural gift.¹ ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that just as one body is born with more strength than another for doing work, so one mind is naturally endowed with greater fortitude than another for facing danger; for I observe that people who are brought up under the same laws and customs differ greatly in courage. But I think that every natural disposition can be developed in the direction of fortitude by instruction and application. It’s obvious that the Scythians and Thracians would never dare to take shields and spears and fight it out with the Spartans; and it is evident that the Spartans would refuse to join mortal combat either with light shields and javelins against the Thracians or with bows and arrows against the Scythians. My personal experience is that similarly in all other cases people both differ in natural capacity and improve greatly by the help of application. From this it clearly follows that everyone, whether his natural ability is above or below the average, ought to study and exercise any qualities for which he wishes to earn recognition.’

He did not distinguish wisdom from prudence, but judged that the man who recognizes and puts into practice what is truly good, and the man who knows and guards against what is disgraceful, are both wise and prudent. When somebody asked him if he thought that those who understood what they ought to do, but did the opposite, were wise and weak, he replied, ‘No more than I think them both unwise and weak. I presume that everyone acts by choosing from the courses open to him the one which he supposes to be most expedient. So I think that those who act wrongly are neither wise nor prudent.’¹

He used to say that not only justice, but all the other moral virtues were wisdom.² Just actions and any others proceeding from a virtuous motive were truly good; those who knew how to do them would choose to do nothing else, and those who did not understand them could not do them, and, if they tried to, failed. Thus it was the wise who performed truly good actions: those who were not wise could not, and, if they tried to, failed. So, since just actions and all other good and honourable deeds were all done from a virtuous motive, obviously both justice and all the other moral virtues were wisdom.

He also said that madness was contrary to wisdom; yet he did not think that mere lack of knowledge was madness, but to be ignorant of oneself, and to form opinions about and think that one comprehends what one does not know – this in his view was very near to madness. He said that most people did not consider that those who blundered about things that were generally unknown were crazy, but they called those crazy who were mistaken about things that were generally known. If a man thinks that he is so tall that he stoops as he goes out through the city gates, or so strong that he tries to pick up houses or attempts any other feat which is quite obviously impossible, he is called crazy, but those who are only a little mistaken are not generally considered to be crazy. Just as it is only a strong desire that is called love, so it is only a serious abnormality that is called madness.

Considering the nature of envy,¹ he concluded that it was a species of distress, but not the sort that arises over the misfortunes of friends or the good fortune of enemies; he said that only those people were envious who were distressed at the success of their friends. When some people expressed surprise that anyone who cared for a person should be vexed at his success, he reminded them that many people are so disposed towards certain others that they cannot ignore their troubles, but go to their help when they are unfortunate, and yet are annoyed when they are fortunate. This, he said, could not indeed happen to a sensible person, but was the constant experience of the foolish.

Considering the nature of leisure, he said that he found that most people occupied themselves in some way, because even playing draughts or making jokes was a kind of occupation; but all such people were, he said, ‘at leisure’, in the sense that it was possible for them to go on to do something better. But nobody had ‘leisure’ to go from better to worse; and if anyone did so, that person, he said, had no leisure and was occupying himself wrongly.

He said that it was not those who held the sceptre who were kings and rulers, nor those who were chosen by unauthorized persons, nor those who were appointed by lot, nor those who had gained their position by force or fraud, but those who knew how to rule. When anyone agreed that it was for the ruler to lay down what ought to be done and for the subject to obey, he used to point out that in a ship it is the man who knows that takes command and the owner and everybody else on board obeys the man who knows; that in farming those who possess land, in illness those who are ill, in physical training those who are exercising their bodies, and all other persons who have anything that needs attention, if they think that they have the necessary knowledge, look after themselves; but otherwise they not only follow the advice of experts, if they are on the spot, but call in their help if they are not, so that, by taking their advice, they may follow the right course. And he pointed out that in the case of wool-spinning, women actually exercise control over men, because they know how to do the work and the men do not. If anyone objected that a despot can disregard good advice, he used to reply, ‘How can he, when there is a penalty for disregarding it? For in any case where a person disregards good advice he will presumably go wrong, and in going wrong he will pay the penalty.’ And if anyone objected that a despot has the power even to put the wise man to death,¹ he said, ‘Do you suppose that the man who puts to death his most effective allies goes unpunished or pays only a trivial penalty? Which do you think that a person who acts in this way would be more likely to do: find safety or precipitate his ruin?’

When he was asked what he thought was the best occupation for a man, he replied, ‘Effective action.’ And when he was further asked whether he considered good luck to be an occupation, he replied, ‘I regard luck and action as totally opposed to each other. I consider that coming upon something that you need without looking for it is good luck, but to do a thing well after learning and practising how to do it is, I think, effective action; and it is those who make a practice of this who seem to me to be effective.’²

He used to say that in every sphere of action those people were best and most favoured by the gods who did their work effectively – whether in farming or in medicine or in politics; while the man who did nothing effectively was neither good for anything nor favoured by the gods.

10

Again, whenever he talked to those craftsmen who practise their craft professionally, he was helpful to them too. When one day he paid a call on the painter Parrhasius, he asked him: ‘Would you say, Parrhasius, that painting is representing things that one sees? You painters represent with your pigments and copy hollows and heights, darkness and light, hard and soft, rough and smooth, young bodies and old ones.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Also, when you are painting beautiful figures, as it isn’t easy to come across one single human being who is beyond criticism in every detail, you combine the best features of a number of people, and so convey the appearance of bodies which are entirely beautiful.’

‘Yes, that is what we do.’

‘Well now, do you represent the mind’s character, which is the most attractive and pleasing and appealing and desirable and lovable part of us? Or is it not a subject for representation at all?’

‘How could it be, Socrates, when it has neither shape nor colour nor any of the other qualities that you mentioned just now, and is not even visible at all?’

‘Tell me, then, can a person look at other people in a friendly or unfriendly manner?’

‘I would say so.’

‘Then can this be represented in their expressions?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Do you think that those who care about their friends’ good and bad fortune wear the same expressions on their faces as those who don’t?’

‘No, indeed: they look glad at their friends’ good fortune and dejected at their misfortune.’

‘Is it possible to depict this too?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then again, dignity and freedom, meanness and slavishness, discipline and discretion, insolence and vulgarity – all show themselves both in the face and in the gestures of still and moving subjects.’

‘True.’

‘Can one represent these too?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Do you think it’s more pleasant to see people who exhibit fine, good and admirable characters, or those who exhibit base, bad and odious ones?’¹

‘There’s really no comparison, Socrates.’

On another day he called on Clito the sculptor and got into conversation with him. ‘I can see and appreciate, Clito, the beauty you produce in your runners, wrestlers, boxers and pancratiasts;² but the quality of seeming alive–how do you produce this in your statues?’

Clito didn’t reply at once, because he didn’t know what to say.

‘Perhaps,’ said Socrates, ‘you make your statues more lifelike by reproducing the appearance of living models.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘Do you make the various parts of the body seem more lifelike and convincing by representing them as concave or convex, compressed or expanded, tautened or relaxed, according to the posture?’

‘Certainly.’

‘But doesn’t it in fact afford some pleasure also to see represented the feelings of people in action?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘So you should represent the expression of warriors as threatening, and the faces of victors should be made to look joyful?’

‘Definitely.’

‘In that case,’ concluded Socrates, ‘the sculptor ought to make his works correspond to the type of character represented.’

He called on Pistias the armourer, and on being shown some well-made corselets, he said: ‘It is most emphatically a splendid idea, Pistias, that the corselet should protect the parts of a man’s body that need protection without preventing him from using his hands. But tell me, Pistias, why is it that you charge a higher price than other makers for your corselets, although they are no stronger and cost no more to make?’

‘Because mine are better proportioned, Socrates.’

‘And do you put a higher price on your corselets because their proportion is demonstrable by their measurements or their weight? I presume that you don’t make them all in the same or even in similar proportions, if you make them to fit.’

‘Oh, yes I do,’ he said. ‘A corselet is no good without proportion.’

‘Surely some people’s bodies are well proportioned and some badly.’

‘Quite so.’

‘Then how do you make a corselet that fits a badly proportioned body well proportioned?’

‘In the same way as I make it to fit. A corselet that fits is well proportioned.’

‘It seems to me,’ said Socrates, ‘that you are using the term “well proportioned” not absolutely, but in relation to the wearer, as you might say that a shield or a cloak is well proportioned for anyone that it fits; and the same, apparently, applies to everything else by your account. But perhaps fitting implies another important advantage.’

‘Tell me, Socrates, what’s your point?’

‘A corselet that fits irks one less by its weight than an equally heavy one that doesn’t fit. A badly fitting corselet either hangs entirely from the shoulders or presses severely on some other part of the body, and that makes it clumsy and uncomfortable. A well-fitting one has its weight distributed both over the collarbone and shoulder-blades and over the shoulders, chest, back and abdomen, so that it seems almost more like an appendage than something to carry.’

‘That’s exactly why I think my products give the best value. Some people, though, prefer to buy decorated and gilded corselets.’

‘All the same,’ said Socrates, ‘if the consequence is that they buy misfits, it seems to me that they pay dearly for their decoration and gilding. But here’s another point. The body doesn’t always stay the same: sometimes it’s bent and sometimes upright. How can precisely shaped corselets always fit?’

‘They can’t possibly.’

‘When you talk of fitting, you mean not what is precisely shaped, but what is not uncomfortable to use.’

‘You take the words out of my mouth, Socrates, and your grasp of the point is quite correct.’

11

At one time there was in the city a beautiful woman called Theodote, who was of the sort to consort with anyone persuasive. One of the company had mentioned her, and remarked that her beauty was beyond description; he added that artists visited her to paint her picture, and that she let them see as much of her as was proper. ‘We ought to go and see her,’ said Socrates. ‘We can’t form a clear idea about what is beyond description from hearsay.’

‘The sooner you all come with me, the better,’ said the informant.

So they went off to Theodote, found her posing for a painter, and took a good look at her. When the painter had finished, Socrates said: ‘Gentlemen, ought we to be more grateful to Theodote for letting us see her beauty, or she to us for looking at her? I suggest that, if the display has been more to her advantage, she ought to be grateful to us, and if the sight has been more to ours, we ought to be grateful to her.’

Somebody said, ‘That’s right.’

‘Well then,’ he went on, ‘she is already enjoying the tribute of our admiration, and when we have spread our report, she will benefit still further. On the other hand, we are now desirous of touching what we have seen; we shall go away with our emotions titillated; and when we have gone, we shall feel an unsatisfied longing. The natural inference from this is that we are performing the service and she is receiving it.’

‘I must say,’ said Theodote, ‘if that’s how it is, I should have to be grateful to you for looking at me.’

Socrates could see that she was expensively got up, and that she had her mother with her, dressed and arrayed in no casual manner, and several pretty maids in attendance, who similarly showed no signs of neglect; and that the house was lavishly appointed in all other respects. So he now said, ‘Tell me, Theodote, have you got a farm?’

‘Not I,’ she said.

‘Well then, a house that brings in money?’

‘Nor a house.’

‘Perhaps you have some slaves who work at a craft?’

‘No, none.’

‘Then how do you support yourself?’

‘If anyone gets friendly with me and wants to be generous, that’s how I get my living.’

‘Good heavens, Theodote,’ said Socrates, ‘it’s a splendid asset to have a flock of friends – much better than having a flock of sheep and goats and cattle. But tell me, do you leave it to chance whether a friend wings his way towards you, like a fly, or do you devise something yourself?’

‘How could I find a device to bring that about?’ she asked.

‘You could do it much more naturally than a spider. You know how spiders hunt to support themselves: they spin fine webs and feed on anything that flies into them.’

‘Are you advising me to weave some kind of snare too?’ she asked.

‘No, you mustn’t expect to hunt friends, who are the most valuable prey of all, as simply as that. Don’t you see that even in hunting common game like hares, people use various methods? In the first place, hares feed by night, so the hunters provide themselves with hounds trained for night work, and hunt them with these. Then, because hares run away from their feeding grounds when day comes, they acquire other hounds which find them by picking up the scent from the trail that they leave from the feeding-grounds to their forms. Then, because they are swift-footed, so that they can escape by running even when sighted, the hunters further supply themselves with swift hounds to run them down. And because some of the hares escape even from these, nets are set up in their escape paths, so that the hares may run into them and get entangled.’

‘Well,’ said Theodote, ‘what method like that might I use to catch friends?’

‘Surely by providing yourself with a human hound, who will track down men of wealth and good taste, and, after finding them, devise a means of driving them into your nets.’

‘Nets!’ said she. ‘What nets have I got?’

‘One, certainly,’ said Socrates, ‘which is very close-enfolding: your body. And in it is your mind, which teaches you how to look charming and talk gaily, and tells you that you must give a warm welcome to an attentive lover, but bolt the door against a selfish one; that, if a lover falls ill, you must look after him devotedly; that, if he has a stroke of luck, you must share his pleasure enthusiastically; and that, if he cares for you deeply, you must gratify him wholeheartedly. As for loving, I am sure that you know how to love not only passively, but with real affection; and you convince your lovers that you are fond of them, I know, not by words but by deeds.’

‘Honestly,’ said Theodote, ‘I don’t use any of these methods.’

‘Then again,’ said Socrates, ‘it’s much better to keep one’s human relationships natural and right. You can’t capture or keep a friend by force; but by showing the creature kindness and giving it pleasure, you can both catch it and keep it by you.’

‘That’s true,’ she said.