THE DINNER-PARTY

We can fix the dramatic date of Xenophon’s The Dinner-party. The party is occasioned by Autolycus’ victory in the pancration at a Great Panathenaea (see p. 227). These festivals occurred every four years at known intervals. The comic playwright Eupolis mocked Autolycus’ recent victory in a play produced in 421; therefore Autolycus’ victory occurred in 422, and that is the supposed date of the party. None the less, there are plenty of anachronisms: the homosexual ‘Sacred Band’ of Theban soldiers, for instance, which is referred to in chapter 8, was not formed until c. 378 BC.

The date of composition is less easy to fix, but we can provide an upper terminus. There are several general points of similarity between Xenophon’s Symposium and Plato’s (for instance, both parties are occasioned by a victory),² but where the two coincide in detail (see pp. 242, n. 1; 242, n. 3; 263, n. 2), it is extremely likely that Xenophon is dependent on Plato rather than the other way round. The arguments for this are complex and historical, and I can only refer the reader to an article by K. J. Dover.³ Dover also argues convincingly that Plato’s work was written between 384 and 378, and that the upper terminus for Xenophon’s work is not before 378 (the formation of the Sacred Band).

The chief unifying theme is that of love. Socrates speaks at length on love; we hear about Callias’ love for Autolycus, the Syracusan’s for his boy, Critobulus’ for Clinias; at the beginning of chapter 8 we are told that all the guests present are in love with someone; finally even the entertainment which closes the evening depicts a blatantly erotic scene between Dionysus and Ariadne.

The way in which we can expect Socrates’ true goodness to emerge from the book, therefore, is through what he himself says about love, and how this contrasts with the other examples of love that are given.

The main contrast is between pure and impure (that is, physical) homosexuality. In his speech Socrates is made to condemn physically consummated homosexuality as ‘debauchery’ (8.32), and his comments on the Syracusan’s relations with his boy are extremely derisive (4.54). Critobulus is said to be obsessed with Clinias, but gradually improving as a result of his association with Socrates (4.12–26). Only Callias is commended for the non-physical nature of his relationship with Autolycus (8.11) – but then this praise turns out to be double-edged and ironic, since Hermogenes comments that Socrates is telling Callias what he ought to do, as much as or rather than praising what he actually does.

Nevertheless, in Xenophon as in Plato, there is no attempt to disguise the fact that Socrates was attracted towards his young male followers, as they were towards him. That he never physically consummated these relationships is most memorably shown by Alcibiades’ story of how Socrates spurned his advances, told in Plato’s Symposium. But we constantly hear in both Plato and Xenophon that the attraction Socrates felt for his followers is one of love (in Xenophon, see especially The Dinner-party, 8.2; and Memoirs, 2.6.28, 3.11.16, and 4.1.2), and one of the few things Socrates claims expertise in, even in Plato (which is the more remarkable, given the Platonic Socrates’ constant disavowal of knowledge), is ‘erotics’.

There are elements of play in these literary accounts, but they should not obscure the serious points. Socrates’ friends, for instance, playfully tease him for being in love with his followers: in Plato, he is teased for being in love with Alcibiades (Protagoras, 309a), and in Xenophon for being in love with Critobulus (The Dinner-party, 4.27–28).

It is possible to diminish the serious or perhaps distasteful aspects of Socrates’ relationship with his followers by arguing that their attraction for him is simply the attraction anyone is likely to feel for a person as charismatic as Socrates (despite his ugliness, on which see pp. 252–3). While this is true, it seems to me less plausible to claim that this attraction is describable as erotic love.

In short, the fact that Socrates did feel attracted towards his followers cannot be explained away. To refer again to the story of Alcibiades and Socrates, as G. M. A. Grube has remarked: ‘The story loses all point if we refuse to admit that Socrates was tempted. It is his self-control, not his indifference, that is being extolled.’¹ Whether or not there was such a physical attraction, however, it is also clear from both Plato’s and Xenophon’s accounts that Socrates used the erotic nature of the relationship to enhance his followers’ desire for moral goodness. This is the serious element underlying the erotic themes. The attraction of his followers towards Socrates is attraction towards realized goodness, and the attraction of Socrates towards his followers is attraction towards potential goodness.² It is never far from the surface in all this that the literal meaning of philosophia is ‘love of wisdom’, and this is portrayed by Greek philosophers as passionate, not insipid, love. The master–pupil relationship in philosophical training is therefore erotic (see also 4.62–64) inasmuch as the master embodies the wisdom the pupil wants. Despite their different concepts of wisdom, it is clear that for both Plato and Xenophon, Socrates was such a master. I say this not to try to explain away Socrates’ bisexuality (he was married), but to stress that the pictures we are given of Socrates insist that he exploited homosexual attraction for philosophical purposes.³

The parallels with Socrates himself are obvious. In his love-affairs with his followers he is a devotee of the Celestial Aphrodite, a lover of their minds rather than their bodies, a truly good man who can, by his example and teaching, lead the recipients of his love on to the same goal.

As I have said, since love is the main theme of the work, this is the chief means by which Socrates’ true goodness is brought out. Apart from his speech in chapter 8, there are at least three other aspects, still concerned with love, which corroborate Socrates’ true goodness.

THE DINNER-PARTY

It seems to me that in writing about the deeds of truly good men, it is proper to record not only their serious activities, but their diversions too.¹ I should like to describe something I witnessed ² I which led me to this conclusion.

There was a horse-race at the Great Panathenaic festival.³ Callias the son of Hipponicus happened to be strongly attracted to a boy called Autolycus and had brought him along to watch, fresh from his victory in the pancration.⁴ When the race had finished, Callias set off to his house in Piraeus,⁵ taking Autolycus and his father with him. He was accompanied also by Niceratus. Seeing a group consisting of Socrates, Critobulus, Hermogenes, Antisthenes and Charmides, Callias arranged for someone to show the way to Autolycus and his party, while he himself went up to Socrates and the others and said, ‘This is an opportune meeting. I’m having Autolycus and his father to dinner. I’m sure that my establishment would seem much more stately if my dining-room were graced by persons with purity of mind, like yourselves, than if my guests were generals or cavalry-commanders or ambitious politicians.’

‘You’re always teasing us,’ said Socrates. ‘You turn up your nose at us because you’ve paid a great deal of money to Protagoras, Gorgias, Prodicus ¹ and a lot of others for expert instruction, and you can see that we are, so to speak, self-taught philosophers.’

‘Well,’ said Callias, ‘up till now I’ve kept you in the dark about my powers of fluent and witty conversation, but now, if you’ll visit me, I’ll show you that I deserve your very serious attention.’

Naturally, Socrates and his friends began by thanking Callias for his invitation but excusing themselves from dining with him; but when it became clear that he really would be annoyed if they didn’t come too, they joined the party. In due course they presented themselves, some rubbed down with oil after their exercise, others freshly bathed as well. Autolycus sat down beside his father and the others, as you would expect, reclined.² An observer of the scene would at once have reflected that beauty has something naturally regal about it, especially if it is combined with modesty and self-discipline in the possessor, as it was then in Autolycus. In the first place, his good looks drew everyone’s attention to him, as surely as a light draws all eyes towards it in the dark; and secondly, there was not a man there whose feelings were not moved at the sight of him. Some became more silent, and the behaviour of others underwent a sort of transformation. Possession by a god always seems to have a remarkable effect. Those who are influenced by other gods tend to become more intimidating in their appearance, more truculent in their speech and more aggressive in their conduct; but those who are inspired by discreet Love wear a kindlier expression, speak in a gentler tone and behave in a way more befitting a free man. Such was the effect that Love had upon Callias on this occasion, as was duly noted by those who were initiates of this god. So they proceeded to dine in silence, as if they had been ordered by some superior to do so.

At this point Philippus the joker knocked at the front door, and told the servant who answered it to announce who he was and why he wanted to be let in. He said that he came fully equipped with everything he needed for dining at another person’s house, and added that his servant was quite exhausted because he had nothing to carry and hadn’t eaten.

When Callias heard this, he said, ‘Well, gentlemen, it would be a shame to grudge him shelter at any rate. Let him come in.’ As he spoke, he glanced at Autolycus, evidently looking to see how the jest had appealed to him.

Philippus paused in the doorway of the dining-room and said, ‘You all know that I’m a joker. I’ve come here on purpose, because I thought it was more of a joke to come to dinner without an invitation than with one.’

‘Sit down, then,’ said Callias. ‘The company are full of seriousness, as you see, but perhaps a little short of humour.’

They went on with the meal, and Philippus at once tried to make a joke to fulfil the usual purpose for which he was invited to dinner-parties. When he didn’t get a laugh,¹ he was obviously hurt. A little later he ventured another joke; and, when they still failed to laugh at him, he suddenly stopped in the middle of eating, covered his head ² and lay down.

‘What’s the matter, Philippus?’ asked Callias. ‘Have you got a pain?’

Philippus uttered a loud groan. ‘I certainly have, Callias, a violent one. If laughter has gone from the world, my occupation’s ruined. Up till now I have been invited to dinner-parties to entertain the company by making them laugh; but now what reason will anyone have for inviting me? I can no more be serious than I could make myself immortal; and no one will invite me in the hope of being invited back, because everyone knows that it’s quite without precedent for a dinner to be held at my house.’

As he spoke, he blew his nose, and his voice showed unmistakably that he was crying. So everybody assured him that they would laugh next time, and told him to eat his dinner; and Critobulus actually guffawed at his pitiful complaint. When Philippus heard him laugh, he uncovered his head and telling his heart to take courage,¹ because there would still be engagements,² he went on with his dinner.

When the table had been removed and they had poured libations and sung a paean, a Syracusan came in to provide entertainment. He had with him a girl who was an expert pipe-player, another who was an acrobatic dancer, and a very attractive boy who both played the lyre and danced extremely well. The man made a living by exhibiting these turns as a novelty. When the girl had played her pipes for them and the boy his lyre, and both performances seemed to give a very satisfactory amount of pleasure, Socrates said, ‘You are indeed a perfect host, Callias. You have not only served us an irreproachable dinner; you are providing us with most delightful sights and sounds.’

Callias said, ‘What about having some perfume brought in, so that our party may proceed fragrantly too?’³

‘No, please don’t,’ said Socrates. ‘You know that one kind of clothing looks well on a woman and another on a man: in the same way the smells that suit men and women are different. No man, surely, daubs himself with scent for the benefit of another man. And as for women, especially if they’re newly married, like the wives of Niceratus here and Critobulus – why should they need extra perfume, when they smell of it themselves? The smell of oil in the gymnasia gives more pleasure by its presence than perfume gives to women, and excites more longing by its absence. A daub of scent automatically makes everyone, slave or free, smell alike; but the smells that come from the efforts of free men in sport call above all for strict training over a long period, if they are to be pleasing and worthy of a free man.’

‘That may be so for the young,’ said Lycon, ‘but what about us who are too old for the gymnasia – what ought we to smell of?’

‘True goodness, of course,’ said Socrates.

‘And where can one get this lotion?’

‘Not at a perfumery, certainly.’

‘Well, where then?’

‘Where Theognis told us:

‘Good company will edify you: bad

Will rob you even of the wits you had.’¹

‘Hear that, son?’ said Lycon.

‘Of course he does,’ said Socrates, ‘and he acts upon it. At any rate when he wanted to win the pancration, he looked about with your help [for the best trainer, until he found him, and] now he will attach himself to the person who seems best qualified to give him this other kind of training.’²

Here several people spoke at once. One said, ‘Where will he find a teacher of this subject?’ Another said that goodness wasn’t a thing that could be taught at all; and someone else that, if anything was learnable, that was. But Socrates said, ‘As this is a controversial subject,³ let’s defer it to another occasion. For now, let’s finish the matter before us. I see that this dancer here has taken up her position, and somebody is bringing her some hoops.’

At this moment the other girl began to play for her on the pipes, and a man standing by the dancer handed her hoops until she had twelve. She took them and threw them spinning up into the air as she danced, judging how high to throw them so as to catch them in time with the music.

Socrates said, ‘It’s evident from this girl’s display, gentlemen, as well as on many other grounds, that women have no less natural ability than men; they only lack judgement and physical strength. So any one of you who has a wife can teach her with confidence any skill that he would like her to acquire and practise.’

‘If that’s your view, Socrates,’ said Antisthenes, ‘why don’t you train Xanthippe instead of having a wife who is of all living women – and I believe of all that ever have been or will be – the most difficult to get on with?’

‘Because I notice that people who want to become good horsemen keep not the most docile horses but ones that are high-spirited, because they think that if they can control these, they will easily manage any other horses. In the same way, since I wish to deal and associate with people, I have provided myself with this wife, because I’m quite sure that, if I can put up with her, I shall find it easy to get on with any other human being.’ This explanation was felt to be not far off the mark.

Next a circular frame was brought in, closely set around with upright sword-blades, and the dancer turned somersaults into this and out again over the blades,¹ so that the spectators were afraid that she would hurt herself; but she went through her performance confidently and safely. Socrates hailed Antisthenes and said, ‘I don’t imagine that the witnesses of this act will continue to deny that courage is a thing that can be taught, when this girl in spite of her sex throws herself so daringly over the swords.’

Antisthenes replied, ‘Don’t you think that this Syracusan had better exhibit his dancing-girl to the State, and say that, if the Athenians pay him a fee, he will make all of them bold enough to charge on to spears?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Philippus. ‘Speaking for myself, I should love to see that tub-thumper Pisander ¹ learning how to tumble on to the swords; as it is, he won’t serve in the army at all, because he can’t look a spear in the face.’

After this the boy performed a dance, and Socrates said, ‘Did you see how, beautiful as the boy is, he nevertheless looks even more beautiful in the figures of the dance than when he is keeping still?’

‘You seem to be congratulating his dancing-master,’ said Charmides.

‘I certainly am,’ said Socrates. ‘I’ve noticed something else too, that in the dance no part of his body was idle: neck, legs and arms were exercised together. It was just the sort of dancing to develop suppleness of the body. Personally, I should very much like you, my Syracusan friend, to teach me the figures.’

‘What will you do with them?’ asked the man.

‘I shall dance, of course.’

This raised a general laugh. Socrates went on, with a perfectly straight face, ‘Are you laughing at me? Is it at the idea of my wanting to take exercise to improve my health or to enjoy my food and sleep better? Or is it because I’m bent on this kind of exercise, not wanting to develop my legs at the expense of my arms like a long-distance runner, nor my arms at the expense of my legs like a boxer, but by working hard with my whole body to make it evenly proportioned all over? Or are you laughing because I shan’t have to find myself a training-partner or undress in public at my advanced age, because a seven-couch dining-room will be large enough for me to work up a sweat in, just as this room served for our young friend here, and because in cold weather I shall exercise under cover, and in a heat-wave beneath the shade? Or is this why you’re laughing, because my stomach is larger than it should be and I want to reduce it to a more normal size? Don’t you know that the other day Charmides here caught me dancing at daybreak?’

‘Yes, indeed I did,’ said Charmides, ‘and at first I was astonished and afraid that you were out of your mind, but, when I heard you explain it to me in the way that you are doing now, I went home myself and – well, I didn’t dance, because I’ve never learned how, but I waved my arms about, because I knew how to do that!’

‘Quite so,’ said Philippus, ‘and as a result you seem to have your legs so evenly matched with your arms that I believe if the market police made you weigh the lower items against the upper ones, like the loaves on a stall, they wouldn’t be able to fine you.’¹

Callias added, ‘Call me in, Socrates, when you start to take dancing-lessons, so that I can act as your partner and learn along with you.’

‘Come on, now,’ said Philippus, ‘let the girl pipe for me, so that I may dance too.’ He stood up and went through a parody of the two dances, the boy’s and the girl’s. First, because they had praised the boy for looking even more beautiful as he danced the figures, Philippus on the contrary made every part of his body as he moved it look funnier than normal; and because the girl had formed the shape of a hoop by bending over backwards, he tried to produce the same effect by bending himself forward. Finally, because they had praised the boy for exercising the whole of his body in the dance, Philippus told the girl to speed up the tempo on her pipes, and he let fly legs, arms and head all together.

When he was exhausted, he said, as he lay down again, ‘Here’s proof, gentlemen, that my dances too provide good exercise: I, at any rate, am thirsty, and I should like the servant to fill up the large bowl for me.’²

‘No, no,’ said Callias, ‘we’ll share it, because we’re thirsty too, from laughing at you.’

But Socrates said, ‘Well, gentlemen, drinking gets my approval, in so far as it’s a fact that wine refreshes the heart, and both allays worry like a sedative and feeds the flame of good cheer like oil. But it seems to me that the human body is affected in just the same way as plants are. When God gives plants too much to drink at a time, they can’t stand up or breathe in fresh air; but when they drink only as much as is pleasant, they grow up quite straight and flourish and reach the fruiting stage. In the same way, if we imbibe all the drink at once, both our bodies and our minds will quickly let us down, and we shan’t be able to breathe, much less speak. But if the servants drop for us frequent dew in goblets small, to put it as Gorgias would have,¹ then, instead of being forced into intoxication by the wine, we shall reach a more playful mood through gentle persuasion.’²

This proposal was immediately adopted, Philippus adding a rider to the effect that the wine-servants should follow the example of skilled charioteers and drive the cups round with increasing speed; and the wine-servants did so.

The boy now tuned his lyre to the pipe and sang while playing the lyre. At this everybody applauded, and Charmides further remarked, ‘It seems to me, gentlemen, just as Socrates said about the wine, that this combination of youthful beauty and music allays one’s cares and awakens thoughts of love.’

Socrates now interposed again. ‘These people, gentlemen, show that they are capable of entertaining us, but I’m sure that we believe ourselves to be much better than they are. Won’t it be a disgrace if, while we are together here, we don’t even try to improve or amuse one another?’¹

At this several people said, ‘Well, you tell us how we are most likely to succeed: what sort of subject should we discuss?’

‘What I should like best,’ he replied, ‘is to take up Callias’ offer. He said, I believe, that if we would dine with him, he would give us a display of his expertise.’

‘And so I will,’ said Callias, ‘if each one of you too will inform the company what beneficial thing he is expert in.’

‘Well,’ said Socrates, ‘nobody objects to the proposal that each of us should state what he thinks is his most valuable area of expertise.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Callias, ‘let me tell you what I am most proud of: I believe that I can make people better.’²

‘By teaching them what,’ asked Antisthenes, ‘some manual skill, or true goodness?’

‘The latter – if true goodness means morality.’

‘Of course it does,’ said Antisthenes, ‘most unquestionably. Courage and cleverness are admitted to be sometimes injurious both to one’s friends and to one’s country, but moral goodness has no connection at all with wickedness.’

‘Well, when each of you has told us what benefit is his to confer, I won’t object to telling you the art by which I produce this effect. It’s your turn, Niceratus: tell us what accomplishment you’re proud of.’

Niceratus said, ‘My father, because he was concerned to make me a good man, made me learn the whole works of Homer; and I could now repeat by heart the entire Iliad and Odyssey.’³

‘Has it escaped you,’ asked Antisthenes, ‘that the rhapsodes ⁴ all know these poems?’

‘How could it,’ he replied, ‘when I listen to them almost every day?’

‘Well, do you know any class of people sillier than they are?’

‘No, indeed,’ said Niceratus, ‘I don’t think I do.’

‘No,’ said Socrates, ‘because they obviously don’t understand the underlying ideas.¹ But you have paid a lot of money to Stesimbrotus, Anaximander and many others,² and so none of the important points has escaped you. What about you, Critobulus? What do you pride yourself on most?’

‘On my good looks,’ he replied.

‘Will you really be able to claim that you can make us better by your good looks?’

‘If I can’t, I obviously shan’t look very good!’

‘What about you, Antisthenes?’ asked Socrates. ‘What are you proud of?’

‘My wealth,’ said he.

Hermogenes asked him if he had a great deal of money, and he swore that he hadn’t so much as an obol.

‘Well, do you own a lot of land?’

‘It might be just enough to serve as a dust-bath for Autolycus here.’³

‘We shall have to hear from you too. What about you, Charmides? What are you proud of?’

‘For my part,’ he said, ‘I’m proud of my poverty.’⁴

‘Certainly a gratifying asset,’ said Socrates. ‘Nothing could provoke less jealousy or rivalry; it remains safe without protection, and neglect improves it.’

‘You now,’ said Callias. ‘What are you proud of, Socrates?’

He lengthened his face into a very serious expression and said, ‘My skill as a pimp.’¹ They laughed at him. ‘You can laugh,’ he said, ‘but I know that I could make a great deal of money if I chose to follow the profession.’

‘In your case, anyhow,’ said Lycon to Philippus, ‘it’s obvious that you pride yourself on raising laughs.’

‘And with better reason, I fancy,’ he said, ‘than the actor Callippides,² who gives himself extraordinary airs because he can set vast audiences weeping.’

‘Won’t you tell us, Lycon,’ said Antisthenes, ‘what you are proud of?’

He answered, ‘Why, surely you all know that it’s this son of mine.’

‘And he,’ said somebody, ‘is obviously proud of being a champion.’

‘Certainly not!’ said Autolycus, blushing.

Everyone looked towards him, pleased to hear him speak, and someone asked him, ‘Well, what are you proud of?’

‘My father,’ he said, leaning up against him as he spoke.

When Callias saw this, he said, ‘Do you know, Lycon, that you’re the richest man alive?’

‘No, that I certainly don’t.’

‘Don’t you realize that you wouldn’t accept all the wealth of the Great King ³ in exchange for your son?’

‘It seems to be a clear case against me,’ he said. ‘I’m the richest man in the world.’

‘You, Hermogenes,’ said Niceratus, ‘what do you delight in most?’

‘The goodness and influence of my friends,’ he said, ‘and the fact that, having these qualities, they care for me.’

This turned all eyes towards him, and several people at the same time asked if they too might be introduced to his friends. He said that he wouldn’t object.

Socrates now said, ‘I suppose it remains for each of us to demonstrate the value of what he claimed to possess.’

‘You can hear my statement first,’ said Callias. ‘While I listen to you all puzzle about what moral goodness is, I spend the time making people morally better.’

‘How, my good friend?’ asked Socrates.

‘By giving them money, of course!’

Antisthenes got up and stood over him and questioned him very critically: ‘Callias, do you think that people keep morality in their minds or in their pockets?’

‘In their minds.’

‘Then do you make their minds morally better by putting money in their pockets?’

‘Certainly.’

‘How?’

‘Because when they know they’ve got something with which to buy what they need, they don’t want to risk committing crimes.’

‘Do they repay all that they get from you?’

‘Dear me, no!’ he said. ‘Indeed they don’t.’

‘Well then, do they do you favours in return for your money?’

‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘they don’t do that either; some of them are even more hostile than they were before.’

‘It’s a curious thing,’ said Antisthenes, looking at him as if he had cornered him, ‘if you can make them act morally towards everyone else, but not towards you.’

‘What is there curious about that?’ asked Callias. ‘Don’t you realize that there are plenty of carpenters and builders who make houses for large numbers of other people but can’t do it for themselves, and live in rented homes? You really must accept that you’re confuted, professor!’

‘He must indeed,’ said Socrates. ‘Prophets too, as you know, are supposed not to foresee what is coming to themselves, although they foretell the future for others.’

That was the end of that topic. Next Niceratus said, ‘You can now hear from me how you will be improved if you associate with me. You know, I presume, that within the poems of that greatest of sages, Homer, is information about practically every aspect of human affairs; so if any one of you wants to become a good estate-manager or politician or general, or wants to become like Achilles or Ajax or Nestor or Odysseus, let him give his attention to me, because I have all this knowledge.’¹

‘Do you know how to be a king too,’ said Antisthenes, ‘just because you are aware that Homer praised Agamemnon as “both a good king and a stout warrior”?’²

‘Indeed I do,’ he said,’ and that when one is driving a chariot one must turn close to the post

and oneself lean out of the polished car

to the left, but goad the right-hand horse,

cheering him on, and slacken off his reins.³

And besides this I know something else, which you can try at this very moment. Homer said somewhere, “And onion as a savoury for their drink”.⁴ So if someone provides an onion, you can have this benefit, at least, immediately: you will enjoy your drinking more.’

‘Gentlemen,’ said Charmides, ‘Niceratus is set on going home smelling of onions, so as to convince his wife that nobody would even have thought of kissing him!’⁵

‘No doubt,’ said Socrates, ‘but I think there’s a risk of our creating another ridiculous impression too. Onion does really seem to be a kind of savoury, because it adds pleasure not only to food but to drink too. So if we munch it after dinner as well, we must be careful that someone doesn’t say that we went to Callias’ house and indulged in pleasures.’

‘That would never do,’ was the reply. ‘It’s all right for a soldier going into action to munch an onion first, just as some people feed their cocks on garlic before they set them on to fight, but we are presumably planning to give someone a kiss ¹ rather than start a battle.’

That was more or less how this topic came to an end.

‘Now I’ll tell you,’ said Critobulus, ‘why I’m proud of my good looks.’

‘Go on,’ they said.

‘Well then, if I am not good-looking, as I think I am, you could properly be sued for fraud, because you’re always, of your own free wills, swearing that I am good-looking. What’s more, I believe you, because I regard you as truly good men. But if I really am good-looking, and if you feel just the same towards me as I feel towards the person who seems beautiful to me, I swear by all the gods that I wouldn’t choose the throne of Persia in preference to being good-looking. As things are, I get more pleasure from looking at Clinias ² than from all the beauty in the world; and I would rather be blind to everything else than to this one person, Clinias. Night and sleep exasperate me, because then I can’t see him; but I overflow with gratitude to the day and the sun, because they show me Clinias.

‘There is another reason why we who are good-looking are entitled to be proud: a strong man has to exert himself to gain his ends, and a brave man to run risks, and a clever man to speak; but a handsome man can achieve all his effects without moving a muscle. For my part, although I know that it’s a pleasant thing to have money, it would please me better to give all that I have to Clinias than to receive as much from somebody else; and it would please me better to be a slave than to be free, if Clinias would be my master. Working for him would be easier than resting, and to face danger for him would be more pleasant than a life of security.¹

‘So if you, Callias, pride yourself on the ability to make people more upright, I have a better claim than you to lead them on to goodness of every kind. The inspiration that we good-looking people give to our admirers makes them less slavish with regard to money, and, in danger, gives them a greater zeal for effort and a greater thirst for glory; it also makes them more modest and self-controlled, because they feel reverence for what they most desire.

‘It is madness, too, not to choose good-looking people as military leaders. Personally, I would go through fire in Clinias’ company, and I know that all of you would do the same in mine. So you needn’t wonder any more, Socrates, whether my good looks will do people good.

‘There is no reason, either, for disparaging beauty on the ground that it quickly passes its prime; as we find a beauty of childhood, so we do of adolescence, of maturity and of old age. Here is the evidence: they choose good-looking old men to carry the olive-shoots in honour of Athena,² which shows that beauty is the accompaniment of every age. And if it is a pleasant thing to have one’s wishes granted willingly, I am sure that at this very minute, without saying a word, I could persuade this boy and girl here to kiss me more quickly than you could, Socrates, even if you spouted wisdom.’

‘What’s this?’ said Socrates. ‘You’re bragging as if you were more beautiful than I am.’

‘Of course,’ said Critobulus, ‘otherwise I should be uglier than any Silenus in the satyr-plays.’³

‘All right, then,’ said Socrates, ‘mind that you remember to settle the question of our beauty when the topics that we have tabled have gone all round. Our judge shall be not Alexander the son of Priam,¹ but these very persons who you think are eager to kiss you.’

‘Couldn’t you leave it to Clinias, Socrates?’ he asked.

‘No. I wish you’d stop thinking of Clinias!’

‘Do you suppose I think of him any the less if I don’t mention his name? Don’t you know that I have such a clear picture of him in my mind that if I were a sculptor or a painter, I could execute a portrait of him just as well from that picture as by looking at him?’

‘Well then,’ Socrates retorted, ‘if you’ve got such an accurate picture of him, why do you plague me by dragging me about to places where you can see him?’

‘Because, Socrates, the sight of Clinias himself has the effect of making me happy, but the picture in my mind gives me no pleasure – it only fills me with longing.’

Hermogenes said, ‘Look here, Socrates, I don’t think it’s at all like you to let Critobulus get so infatuated.’

‘Do you imagine,’ said Socrates, ‘that he got into this state after he came under my influence?’

‘Well, when did it happen?’

‘Don’t you see that soft hair is just creeping down by his ears, whereas on Clinias it’s now climbing up towards his back?² Well, Critobulus was fired with a violent passion for him while they were going to the same school; so when his father ³ noticed it, he handed him over to me to see if I could do anything to help him. And he is really much better now. Before, he used to gaze at Clinias with a fixed stare, as though he were looking at a Gorgon,¹ and never left his side; but now I’ve seen him actually blink! All the same, I do assure you, gentlemen, that it seems to me, just between ourselves, that he has even kissed Clinias, and nothing is a fiercer incitement to love than that. It’s an insatiable thing, and it produces a kind of delicious anticipation. That’s why I say that anyone who wants to be able to behave responsibly ought to refrain from kissing the young and attractive.’²

‘Come, come, Socrates,’ said Charmides. ‘What do you mean by trying like this to scare us, your friends, away from good-looking people, although I’ve seen you yourself, I swear, with my own eyes, when you were both in the school-room searching for something in the same book, touching Critobulus’ head with your head and his bare arm with yours?’

‘Dear me!’ said Socrates. ‘So that’s why I had a sore arm for more than five days, as if some wild beast had bitten me, and felt a sort of ache in my heart. Well, I now give you warning, Critobulus, before all these witnesses, not to touch me until your chin is as hairy as your scalp!’

In this way they combined joking with seriousness.

Callias now said, ‘It’s your turn, Charmides, to tell us why you are proud of your poverty.’

‘It’s an admitted fact,’ he said, ‘that it’s better to be confident than to be frightened, arid to be free than to be a slave, and to be courted than to court others, and to be trusted by one’s country than to be distrusted. Well, in the days when I was a rich man in this city, in the first place I used to be afraid that somebody would break into my house, take my goods and even do me myself some injury. Then, I used to make myself agreeable to the sycophants,³ knowing that I was more vulnerable than they were. Besides this, the State was always ordering me to finance something,⁴ and I was never able to leave the city. But now that I’m deprived of my

properties abroad, and get nothing out of these that I have here, and the contents of my house are sold,¹ I sleep happily and fully relaxed, I have won the confidence of my country, I am no longer threatened but now threaten others, and I am free to leave or stay in the city. Rich men now give up their seats to me and make way for me in the street. Now I am like a dictator, but then I was clearly a slave; then I used to hand over money regularly to the people, but now the State supports me out of its revenue.² They even denounced me for associating with Socrates when I was rich; but now that I’ve become poor, it doesn’t matter any more to anybody. Besides, when I had many possessions, I was always losing something thanks to the State or to fortune; but now I lose nothing (because I haven’t got anything), but I’m always expecting to get something.’

‘So you actually pray,’ said Callias, ‘never to be rich; and if you dream of any stroke of luck, you sacrifice to the gods who protect us from harm?’

‘Good heavens, no!’ he said. ‘I don’t do that. I stand my ground very heroically if I expect to get anything from anywhere!’

‘Well, come along now, Antisthenes,’ said Socrates. ‘You tell us how it is that you pride yourself on your wealth, although you have such limited means.’

‘Because, gentlemen, I believe that it’s not in their estates that people have wealth or poverty, but in their minds. I see many private persons who, although they have very great wealth, consider themselves so poor that they submit to any hardship and any hazard with a view to increasing their possessions; and I know cases too of brothers who have inherited equal shares and, although one of them has more than enough to cover his expenditure, the other is altogether indigent. And I observe some despots too who are so hungry for wealth that they commit far more dreadful crimes than the desperately poor.³ It is need, no doubt, that makes the latter steal and break into houses and kidnap; but there are some despots who destroy whole houses, commit mass murders, and often sell whole populations away into slavery for the sake of money.

‘Personally, I feel very sorry for these people in their most distressing disease: it seems to me that they are in much the same state as a man with ample provisions who eats heavily and is never satisfied. The quantity of my possessions is such that I myself can hardly discover them; but still I have quite enough to satisfy my hunger when I eat, to quench my thirst when I drink, and to clothe myself so that out of doors I am no colder than Callias here for all his great wealth. And when I get home, the walls of my house seem to me like a really warm tunic, and the roof like a really thick cloak, and my bedclothes are so adequate that it’s hard work even to wake me up! If my body ever feels the need for sexual intercourse, I am so content with what is available that any women I approach welcome me with open arms, because nobody else will go near them. And, mark you, I find such pleasure in all these things that my prayer would be to enjoy doing each of them not more, but less; I have such a feeling that some of them give me more pleasure than is good for me.

‘But I reckon that the most precious possession in my fortune is this: that if I were robbed even of what I now possess, I can imagine no kind of work so mean that it couldn’t provide me with enough to live on. For instance, when I want to have a good time, I don’t buy luxuries in the market – it costs too much; I supply myself from my own mind.¹ And it gives me far greater pleasure when I wait until I feel the need before I refresh myself, than when I enjoy some luxury – just as now I am drinking this Thasian wine ² not because I am thirsty, but because the opportunity presented itself.

‘Besides, those who are more concerned with thrift than with extravagance are likely to be far more moral in their conduct, because those who are most content with what they have are least attracted by other people’s property. And it is worth reflecting that this sort of wealth makes people generous. Socrates here, from whom I obtained it, didn’t supply me by quantity or weight, but handed over to me as much as I could carry away. And now I grudge nobody; I exhibit my generosity to all my friends, and I give a share of my mental wealth to anyone who wants it. What is more, you can see that I have always at hand that supreme luxury, spare time, so that I can see what is worth seeing and hear what is worth hearing and – what I value most – spend my days at leisure with Socrates. And he for his part doesn’t look up to those who amass the most money, but persists in keeping company with anyone he likes.’

When Antisthenes had finished this speech, Callias said, ‘By Hera, I do envy you your wealth, for two reasons especially: first, that the State doesn’t treat you like a slave by imposing tasks upon you,¹ and second, that people aren’t angry if you don’t lend them anything.’

‘No, no,’ said Niceratus, ‘don’t envy him. You’ll see me get a loan from him – of his faculty for needing nothing. Homer has taught me to amass

Seven unfired cauldrons, talents ten of gold,

Twenty bright cooking-pots, and horses twelve ²

all by weight and quantity, so I never stop craving for the utmost wealth. Consequently, some people probably think I’m rather fond of money.’ At this everyone roared with laughter, thinking that he had said no more than the truth.

Next somebody said, ‘It’s up to you now, Hermogenes, to tell us who your friends are, and to demonstrate that they have great influence and take care of you, so that your pride in them may be shown to be justified.’

‘Well, it’s quite plain that both Greeks and non-Greeks believe that the gods know everything that is and will be; at any rate all States and all peoples inquire of the gods by means of divination what they ought and ought not to do. Next, it’s also clear that we believe they can do us both good and harm; at least, everyone asks the gods to avert what is evil and grant what is good. Well, these omniscient and omnipotent gods are such good friends to me that, because of their concern for me, I am never beyond their notice night or day, wherever I am bound and whatever I intend to do. And because of their foreknowledge, they indicate to me the result of every action, sending me messages by utterances, dreams and omens to tell me what I ought to do and what I ought not; and when I obey these, I am never sorry for it, but when I have sometimes disobeyed in the past, I have been punished for it.’

‘Well,’ said Socrates, ‘there is nothing incredible in this. But I would be glad to know what sort of service you render them to keep them so friendly to you.’

‘Certainly,’ said Hermogenes, ‘a very economical kind. I praise them, which costs me nothing; I always make them a return out of what they give me; I do my best not to offend in my speech; and, when I call them to witness, I never voluntarily tell a lie.’

‘Good heavens!’ said Socrates. ‘If that’s how you keep their friendship, it seems that the gods do take pleasure in true goodness.’

The foregoing topic was treated seriously in the manner I have described.

When they came to Philippus, they asked him what he saw in making jokes that led him to pride himself upon it.

‘Why, isn’t it right that I should?’ he said. ‘Everybody knows that I make jokes and, when they have a bit of good luck, they’re glad to invite me round, but, when they’ve had a piece of bad luck, they run away without looking behind them in case they laugh against their will.’

‘Well, you certainly have a right to be proud,’ said Niceratus. ‘I find, with my friends, that it’s the lucky ones who keep themselves well out of my way, but any who have had a piece of bad luck show their family tree to prove our relationship and never leave my side.’

‘All right,’ said Charmides. ‘Now for you, my Syracusan friend: what are you proud of? I suppose it’s obviously your boy?’

‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘I am racked by fear for him; you see, I find that some people are plotting his destruction!’

When Socrates heard this, he exclaimed, ‘Good heavens! What fearful wrong do they think your boy has done them that they want to kill him?’

‘No, of course they don’t want to kill him,’ he said, ‘but to persuade him to sleep with them.’

‘And apparently you think that if that happened, it would be the ruin of him.’

‘Yes, indeed, absolutely.’

‘Don’t you sleep with him yourself, then?’

‘Certainly, all night and every night.’

‘I swear,’ said Socrates, ‘it’s great luck for you to have been born with such a body that you alone have no bad effect on those who sleep with you. So you’re entitled to be proud of your body, if nothing else.’

‘No, really,’ he protested, ‘I don’t take any pride in that.’

‘Well, in what, then?’

‘In simple-minded people, of course. They provide me with a living by gazing at my puppets.’

‘Ah,’ said Philippus, ‘that’s why I heard you the other day praying to the gods to grant, wherever you were, a glut of fruit and a dearth of wits.’

‘Very good,’ said Callias. ‘Now then, Socrates, how do you justify your claim to pride yourself on the disreputable calling that you mentioned?’

He replied, ‘Let’s decide first what the duties of a pimp are. Don‘t hesitate to answer all the questions I ask, so that we may know how far we agree. Do you approve?’

‘Certainly,’ they said; and having once said ‘Certainly’, they all kept to this same answer for the rest of the discussion.¹

‘Do you think that it’s the duty of a good pimp to represent his client to everyone he meets as a pleasing person?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Doesn’t one means of pleasing consist in having a suitable arrangement of hair and clothing?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Are we aware that it’s possible for the same person to give friendly and hostile looks with the same eyes?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Next, is it possible to speak modestly and insolently with the same voice?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Next, aren’t there some ways of talking that are offensive and others that are conciliatory?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Well, wouldn’t a good pimp inculcate such of these qualities as are conducive to pleasing?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Which would be the better – the man who can make his clients agreeable to one person or the man who can make them agreeable to many?’

Here the company was divided, some saying ‘The man who can do it to most’, and others saying ‘Certainly’!

Socrates remarked that this too was agreed, and went on, ‘Supposing that someone could represent them as pleasing to the whole city, wouldn’t that in itself make him a supremely good pimp?’

‘Yes, undoubtedly,’ they all said.

‘So if somebody could achieve this for his clients, he would be justified in feeling proud of his skill, and justified in taking large fees?’ When they all agreed to this too, he said, ‘I think Antisthenes here is just the type.’

‘Are you conceding your art to me, Socrates?’ asked Antis-thenes.

‘Of course I am,’ he replied. ‘I can see that you have carried to perfection the art that follows from it.’

‘What is that?’

‘Procuring,’ he said.

Antisthenes was very indignant. ‘And what, Socrates,’ he asked, ‘are you aware that I have done in this line?’

‘I know,’ he replied, ‘that you introduced Callias here to Prodicus when you saw that the one had a passion for philosophy and the other needed money. And I know that you introduced him to Hippias of Elis, from whom he learned the art of memorizing ¹ – which has made him more amorous than he was before, because he never forgets anything beautiful that he’s seen. And of course there was our visitor from Heraclea the other day;² you first excited my interest in him by praising him, and then brought us together. And indeed I’m grateful to you; I think he’s a truly good person. And Aeschylus of Phlius ³ – didn’t you praise us to each other so effectively that your descriptions made us fall in love and set us hunting for each other? It’s because I see that you can do these things that I think you’re a good procurer. It seems to me that a man who is able to recognize people who are likely to benefit each other, and who can make them desire each other, could develop friendship between States and arrange suitable marriages, and would be a very valuable ally for both States and individuals to possess. But you got angry, as if I’d insulted you by saying that you were a good procurer.’

‘Well, I assure you I’m not angry now,’ he said. ‘If I have those qualities, my mind will soon be absolutely crammed with wealth!’

So this round of the conversation was completed.

‘Critobulus,’ said Callias, ‘are you holding back from the beauty contest with Socrates?’¹

‘Of course he is,’ said Socrates. ‘I expect he can see that the pimp is in favour with the judges.’

‘In spite of that,’ said Critobulus, ‘I’m not backing out. If you’ve got some subtle argument, explain to me how you are more beautiful than I am. Only,’ he added, ‘I want the lamp brought up.’

‘Well now,’ said Socrates, ‘I summon you first to a preliminary investigation of the case. Answer my questions.’

‘Ask away.’

‘Do you think that beauty is found only in man, or in other things as well?’

‘I certainly believe that it’s found in horses and cattle and in many inanimate objects. At any rate, I know that a shield is beautiful, and a sword, and a spear.’

‘Why, how can all these things be beautiful, when they are nothing like one another?’²

‘Surely,’ said Critobulus, ‘anything that is well constructed for the particular function for which we possess it, or well adapted by nature to meet our needs, is also beautiful.’

‘Well, do you know what we need eyes for?’

‘Obviously to see with.’

‘Then in that case it would follow directly that my eyes are more beautiful than yours.’

‘Why?’

‘Because yours only see straight in front, but mine see sideways too, because they project.’

‘Do you mean that a crab has better eyes than any other creature?’

‘In every way, surely, since it is also naturally endowed with outstandingly strong eyes.’

‘All right,’ said Critobulus, ‘which of our noses is more beautiful – yours or mine?’

‘I think that mine is,’ said Socrates, ‘that is, if the gods have created our noses for the purpose of smelling. Your nostrils look down at the ground, but mine are opened right up so as to admit smells from every direction.’

‘Come, though: how can snubness in a nose be more beautiful than straightness?’

‘Because it doesn’t set up a barrier, but lets the eyes have a direct view of whatever they like. A high-bridged nose looks haughty and forms a dividing wall between them.’

‘As for the mouth,’ said Critobulus, ‘I give you that: if it’s made for biting, you can take a much bigger bite than I can. And the thickness of your lips makes your kiss softer, don’t you think?’

‘By your description, I seem to have an uglier mouth than a donkey’s. But don‘t you think the following is evidence that I’m more beautiful than you are – that the Naiads, who are goddesses, are mothers of the Sileni, who resemble me more than you?’¹

‘I can’t argue against you any more,’ said Critobulus. ‘Let them record their votes, so that I may know as quickly as possible what penalty or fine I’ve got to pay. Only,’ he added, ‘let it be a secret ballot, because I’m afraid of your and Antisthenes’ wealth ² dominating me.’

So the girl and the boy recorded their votes in secret. Meanwhile, Socrates made two arrangements: to have the lamp brought up in front of Critobulus, so that the judges might not be misled, and to fix as the token of victory given by the judges to the winner not garlands but kisses. When the votes were turned out of the urn and were all ¹ for Critobulus, Socrates said, ‘Tut, tut, Critobulus, your money doesn’t seem to be like Callias’. His makes people better,² but yours, like most other money, is capable of corrupting both judges and juries.’

Here some urged Critobulus to take the kisses that he had earned by his victory, others urged him to win the consent of the dancers’ master, and others uttered other pleasantries. But Hermogenes remained silent. Socrates addressed him and said, ‘Hermogenes, could you tell us what drunkenness is?’

‘I don’t know what it is,’ he said, ‘which is what you’re asking; but I could tell you what I think it is.’

‘Well, what you think will do.’

‘All right. I consider that drunkenness consists in annoying one’s companions over the wine.’

‘Do you realize, then,’ said Socrates, ‘that you’re now annoying us by your silence?’

‘Even while you’re talking?’ he asked.

‘No, but when we leave a pause.’

‘Has it escaped your notice that when you people are talking, there’s no gap to poke even a hair in, let alone a remark?’

‘Callias,’ said Socrates, ‘could you lend a hand to a man who’s losing an argument?’

‘Yes, I can,’ he replied. ‘Whenever the pipe is being played, we keep absolutely silent.’

Hermogenes said, ‘You know how the actor Nicostratus used to recite tetrameters to the accompaniment of a pipe? Do you want me to converse with you to the sound of the pipe in the same way?’

‘Yes, please, Hermogenes,’ said Socrates. ‘A pipe accompaniment makes a song more agreeable, and I presume that in the same way your remarks will be improved by the tune, especially if you gesticulate to suit the words, like the pipe-player.’

‘What shall the music be,’ asked Callias, ‘when Antisthenes here picks arguments with people at the party?’

‘I think the right music for the loser of the argument would be a hiss,’¹ said Antisthenes.

As this conversation was going on, the Syracusan saw that they were paying no attention to his displays, but entertaining one another; so he felt aggrieved with Socrates and said, ‘Socrates, are you the person that they call “the thinker”?’²

‘That’s nicer than if they call me “the thoughtless”,’ he replied.

‘Yes, if you weren’t regarded as a thinker about celestial things.’³

‘Do you know anything more celestial than the gods?’

‘No, no,’ said the man, ‘it’s not in them that you’re said to be interested, but in things which don’t benefit us at all.’

‘Even so,’ said Socrates, ‘I might be showing interest in the gods. It’s from above that they benefit us by sending rain, and from above that they give us light. If that’s a frigid answer,’ he added, ‘it’s your fault for bothering me.’⁴

‘Never mind that,’ said the man. ‘Tell me how many feet away from me a flea is; they say that you can solve these problems in geometry.’⁵

Antisthenes broke in, ‘You’re good with imitations, Philippus. Don’t you think this man is imitating an intentional slanderer?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ he said, ‘and a good many other types too.’

‘But still,’ said Socrates, ‘you’d better not describe the type, in case you too imitate a slanderer.’

‘But if I liken him to all the fine and best characters, I should be more fairly said to imitate a toady than a slanderer.’

‘You’re already imitating a slanderer if you say that he is better than everyone.’¹

‘Well, do you want me to liken him to worse types?’

‘No, not to worse ones either.’

‘Well then, to nobody?’

‘Don’t liken him to any of these types.’

‘But I don’t know how I shall earn my dinner if I say nothing.’

‘Quite easily, if you keep quiet when things are better left unsaid.’

In this way the alcoholic heat of this discussion was cooled down.

The rest now joined in, some urging Philippus to do an imitation, and others trying to prevent it. There was an uproar, and Socrates interposed again:‘As we’re all so eager to have our voices heard,’ he said, ‘perhaps this would be the right moment to sing together.’ And with these words he started a song. When it was over, a potter’s wheel was brought in for the dancing-girl, who was going to perform tricks on it. At this Socrates said, ‘My Syracusan friend, it looks as if I really am a thinker, as you say; at any rate I am now considering how this boy and girl of yours can have the easiest time, and how we can get the greatest pleasure from watching them – which, I am sure, is what you want too. Well, it seems to me that to turn somersaults over sword-blades is an exhibition of danger that is quite out of place at a party. Then again, to write or read as one spins round on the wheel is no doubt a remarkable feat, but I can’t make out what pleasure this could afford either. Nor, again, is it more pleasant to watch attractive young people twisting their bodies round into hoops than to see them in repose. In fact, it isn’t at all uncommon to find things to wonder at, if that’s what one wants: there are puzzling things right before our eyes. We can wonder why on earth it is that the lamp gives light because it has a bright flame, whereas the bronze mirror, although it’s bright, doesn’t make light, but shows the reflections of other things in itself; and how it is that oil, which is liquid, feeds the flame, but water, because it’s liquid, puts the fire out. However, even these topics don’t coincide with the aims of drinking. But, if they danced, with a pipe accompaniment, figures representing Graces and Seasons and Nymphs,¹ I believe that they would have an easier time and the party would be more graceful!’

The Syracusan said,’Yes, indeed, you’re right, Socrates, and I will put on displays which you will enjoy.’

He went out amid applause. Socrates once more introduced a new subject.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we are in the presence of a great deity, as old in time as the eternal gods, and yet most youthful in appearance, who pervades all things in his greatness and is enshrined in the heart of man: I mean Love.² Isn’t it natural that we should make some mention of him, especially since we are all his worshippers? I can’t name a time when I haven’t been continuously in love with someone;¹ I know that Charmides has acquired a number of admirers, and has lost his own heart to more than one; and Critobulus, who still has his admirers, is already setting his heart on others. Then Niceratus too, as I hear, is in love with his wife and is loved by her in return. And Hermogenes – don’t we all know that, whatever true goodness is, he is wasting away with love of it? Don’t you see how serious his brow is, how calm his countenance, how measured his speech, how gentle his voice, how cheerful his disposition? And how, although he enjoys the friendship of the most holy gods,² he shows no disdain for us mortals? Have you alone, Antisthenes, no love at all?’

‘Yes, by heaven, I have!’ he replied. ‘A violent love for you!’

Socrates replied banteringly, with mock coyness, ‘Don’t bother me just now; you can see that I’m otherwise engaged.’

Antisthenes responded: ‘How blatantly you always behave like this, pimping for your own favours! At one time you offer the divine as a pretext for not talking to me,³ and at another your reason is that you’re attracted by someone else.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Antisthenes,’ said Socrates,’all I ask is that you leave me a little bit intact. The rest of your unkindness I bear, and will continue to bear, in a friendly spirit. But let’s draw a veil over your love for me, because it’s inspired not by my mind, but by my beautiful body! That you, Callias, are in love with Autolycus is known to the whole of our city and, I expect, to a good many foreigners too, the reason being that you are both sons of famous fathers,⁴ and distinguished men yourselves. I have always admired your nature, but now I admire it much more, because I see that the person you love is not pampered by luxury or enervated by effeminacy, but displays to the eyes of all his strength, endurance, courage and self-discipline. To be attracted by these qualities is evidence of the lover’s own character.

‘Whether there is one Aphrodite or two, Celestial and Common,¹ ‘I don’t know: Zeus has many titles, although he is regarded as the same deity. But I do know that there are different altars and shrines for each of them; and that the rites are more casual for the Common, and of a devouter kind for the Celestial goddess. One might guess that the former inspires physical love, while the latter inspires love of the mind, of friendship, and of noble deeds. That, I believe, is the sort of love that possesses you, Callias. I base my belief on the true goodness of the one you love, and on the fact that I see you invite his father to be present when you are together, because there is nothing in these associations that need be concealed from the father by a truly good lover.’

‘I swear, Socrates,’ said Hermogenes, ‘the thing I admire most in you – and there are many others – is that, at the same time as paying Callias a compliment, you instruct him in how he ought to behave.’

‘Quite so,’ he replied, ‘and to increase his pleasure even more, I want to show him evidence that love for the mind is much better than physical love. We all know that without affection there can be no companionship worthy of the name. Now, the affection of those who admire the character is recognized as a pleasant and acceptable compulsion; but many of those whose desires are sensual criticize and dislike the characters of those whom they love. And even if they are fond of them in both ways, the bloom of youth, as we know, quickly passes its prime, and when this fails, the affection must fade along with it; but so long as the mind is progressing towards greater wisdom, the more lovable it becomes. Then again, involvement with physical beauty entails a sort of satiety, so that one is bound to lose interest in a favourite in just the same way as repletion makes one lose interest in food; but affection for the mind, being pure, is less liable to satiety. Yet this does not imply, as might be supposed, that Aphrodite is any the less concerned with it: on the contrary, the prayer in which we ask the goddess to imbue our speech and action with her charm is manifestly fulfilled. That a mind blooming with non-servile attractiveness and with a modest and noble character – which even among its contemporaries combines authority with friendliness – that such a nature admires and loves its beloved needs no explanation; but I shall prove to you that it is natural also for such a lover to have his love reciprocated by his beloved.

‘In the first place, who could hate a person by whom, he knows, he is considered truly good, and secondly who, he can see, is more concerned about what is good for his favourite than what is pleasant for himself, and moreover whose affection, he trusts, could not be diminished even by the calamity of a disfiguring disease? Must not those whose affection is mutual look at each other with pleasure and converse in amity; must they not trust and be trusted, be considerate to each other, share pleasure in their successes and sorrow if anything goes wrong; must they not continue in happiness so long as they are together and in good health, and, if either falls ill, must not the other keep him company much more constantly; and must they not care for each other even more in their absence than in their presence? Aren’t all these characteristics filled with Aphrodite’s charm? It’s this sort of conduct that maintains people’s mutual devotion to their friendship and their enjoyment of it even into old age.

‘As for the lover whose attachment is physical, why should the boy return his affection? Because he assigns to himself the gratification of his desires, leaving the boy to the extremity of shame? Or because the favour that he is eager to exact cuts the favourite off completely from his family and friends? Then again, the very fact that he uses not force but persuasion makes him more detestable, because a lover who uses force proves himself a villain, but one who uses persuasion ruins the character of the one who consents.¹ Again, is one who sells his youthful beauty for money any more likely to love the purchaser than one who trades in the market? Certainly, the fact that he is young and his partner is not, or that he is beautiful and his partner is so no longer, or that he is not in love and his partner is – this will not stir his affection. A boy does not even share the man’s enjoyment of sexual intercourse as a woman does: he is a sober person watching one drunk with sexual excitement. In view of all this, it is no wonder if he even develops contempt for his lover. Investigation would also show that no negative result has ever been caused by those who are loved for the sake of their characters, whereas the shameless form of intercourse has led before now to many atrocious deeds.

‘I shall now show that the association is more servile for the lover of the body than for the lover of the mind. The person who teaches you to say and do what you ought may fairly be held in honour, as Chiron and Phoenix were by Achilles,¹ but the one who has a physical craving may reasonably be treated like a mendicant, because he always follows his favourite round, begging and soliciting either a kiss or some form of physical contact.

‘Don’t be surprised if I am rather outspoken. It’s partly because the wine helps to carry me away, and partly because the love which is my constant companion spurs me on to speak out against its adversary. It seems to me that a person who concentrates on outward appearance is like one who has rented a plot of land: his object is not to increase the value of the land, but to secure for himself as many crops as he can. But the man who desires friendship is more like the owner of his own holding; at any rate, he gathers together from every quarter whatever he can get to increase the worth of the one he loves. Besides, a favourite who knows that enough outward beauty will enable him to dominate his lover is likely to take little trouble over any other quality; but if he knows that, unless he is truly good, he will not retain the friendship, then it is natural that he should care more about virtue.

‘But the supreme advantage enjoyed by one who is eager to convert his favourite into a good friend is that he is compelled to cultivate goodness himself, because, if he behaves wickedly, it is impossible for him to make his companion good; and if he shows himself shameless and dissolute, it is impossible for him to make the one he loves self-controlled and disciplined.

‘I feel moved also to invoke myth to show you, Callias, that not only men but gods and demi-gods set love of the mind above physical gratification. All the mortal women whom Zeus loved for their physical beauty he left mortal after he had had sex with them, but all those men who won his regard by their nobility of mind he made immortal. Examples of these are Heracles and the Dioscuri;¹ and we are told of others as well. I myself maintain that Ganymede ² too was carried off by Zeus to Olympus on account not of his body but of his mind. His very name supplies the evidence. Homer, as you know, has the phrase “and he is glad to hear it”, which means “and he is pleased to hear it”. And somewhere else there is the phrase “in his heart knowing shrewd counsels”. This in turn means “in his heart knowing wise advice”.³ Putting these two together, we find that Ganymede is held in honour among the gods by a name which means not “pleasing in body” but “pleasing in mind”. Besides, Niceratus,⁴ Homer has made Achilles exact his famous vengeance for Patroclus not because Patroclus was his lover, but because he was a friend and was killed.⁵ Also, Orestes and Pylades, and Theseus and Pirithous,⁶ and many others among the greatest heroes are celebrated in song for having jointly performed the greatest and noblest exploits, not because they slept together, but out of mutual admiration.

‘Take the case of noble deeds in our own day: wouldn’t you find that they are all done to win praise by men who are willing to endure hardship and danger rather than by those who are accustomed to choose pleasure before glory? And yet Pausanias, the lover of Agathon the poet,¹ in his defence of those who wallow in debauchery ² has said that an army composed of boys and their lovers would be braver than any other, because he said he thought that they would be most ashamed to desert one another – a remarkable statement, that those who make a habit of disregarding censure and acting shamelessly towards each other should be most ashamed of doing something shameful! And he adduced as evidence the fact that this was the policy of both Thebes and Elis ³ – at any rate, he said that, although they slept with their favourites, they nevertheless had them posted by their sides for battle. This was his evidence, but the cases are not equivalent, because pederasty is an accepted custom with those peoples, but with us it is a matter for reproach. Also, it seems to me that those who arrange the ranks like that are probably not sure that their favourites will acquit themselves like brave men if they are separated. The Spartans, who believe that, if a man so much as entertains a carnal desire, he can no longer attain any truly good object,⁴ train their favourites to such a perfect pitch of bravery that even among strangers, even if they are not stationed in the same rank as their lovers, they are just as much ashamed to desert the comrades at their side. This is because the goddess that they believe in is not Immodesty but Modesty.

‘It seems to me that we should all come to an agreement on the subject that I am discussing if we looked at it from this point of view: of two boys, each loved in one of the two ways, which would more confidently be entrusted with money or one’s children or favours? I imagine that even the person who is involved with the external beauty of his beloved would be more ready to commit all these things to the one who is loved for his mind.

‘As for you, Callias, I think you should be grateful to the gods for implanting in you a love of Autolycus. It’s easy to see that he is eager for honour, because he endures a great many hardships and discomforts for the sake of being proclaimed victor in the pancration.¹ Now, if he thought that he would not only distinguish himself and his father, but be enabled by his manly prowess both to help his friends and to raise the prestige of his country by winning victories over its enemies, and that he would consequently be admired and famous among both Greeks and foreigners, don’t you think he would treat with the deepest respect the person who he thought would be his most effective helper to this end? So if you want to find favour in his eyes, you should consider what sort of knowledge enabled Themistocles to liberate Greece, and what sort of wisdom it can have been that earned Pericles the reputation of being his country’s best adviser; you must consider what sort of profound reflection preceded Solon’s provision for our city of a matchless legal code;² and you must also inquire what sort of qualities the Spartans cultivate that make them regarded as the best leaders. You are their representative ³ at Athens, and the most important of them are always given hospitality at your house. You may be sure that your country would readily put itself in your charge, if that is your wish, because you have the essential qualifications. You are of noble birth, a priest of the gods who were instituted by Erechtheus and who marched with lacchus against the barbarians;¹ and now at the festival you are thought to be a more distinguished holder of that sacred office than any of your predecessors,² and you have a body which is the most attractive in the city and capable of enduring hardships. If you think that I have spoken more seriously than is appropriate over our wine, don’t be surprised at that. I have always shared my country’s love for those who are naturally good and make virtue their keen ambition.’

The others began discussing what had been said, but Autolycus kept his eyes fastened on Callias. Callias, with a glance at him, said, ‘so are you going to play the pimp, Socrates, between me and the State, so that I may engage in politics and always be in favour with the State?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ he replied, ‘if they see that your interest in goodness is not superficial but genuine. A false reputation is soon exposed when put to the test, but, unless a god interferes, true manliness by its actions always helps to make renown more glorious.’

That was the end of this discussion. Autolycus got up to walk home, because it was time for him to go. As his father Lycon was going out with him, he turned back and said, ‘I swear, Socrates, it does seem to me that you are a truly good man.’

At this point a sort of throne was set up in the room, and then the Syracusan came in and said,‘Gentlemen, Ariadne will enter her and Dionysus’ bedroom;¹ and after that Dionysus will arrive after having had a few drinks with the gods, and will go in to her; and then they will frolic with each other.’

Hereupon first Ariadne came in dressed up as a bride and sat down on the throne and, although there was still no sign of Dionysus, the Bacchic music was being played on the pipe. At this point the choreographer won admiration, because, as soon as Ariadne heard it, she acted in a way that showed unmistakably that she was delighted at it; she did not go to meet her bridegroom or even stand up, but she obviously could hardly keep still. When Dionysus caught sight of her, he came dancing across and sat down on her lap in the most affectionate way imaginable, flung his arms around her and kissed her. She conveyed the impression of shyness, but nevertheless returned his embraces lovingly.

When the guests saw this, they clapped and shouted,‘Encore!’ Dionysus got up and helped Ariadne to stand up too; and then there was an opportunity to watch the figures they danced as they kissed and embraced each other. When the guests saw that Dionysus really was handsome, and Ariadne young and pretty, and that they were not pretending but actually kissing with their lips, they were all carried away with excitement as they watched. They heard Dionysus asking her if she loved him, and the girl vowing that she did, in such a way that not only Dionysus but the whole company would have sworn with one voice that the two young people really did love each other. They did not seem to have rehearsed their movements; it seemed as if they were free at last to do what they had long desired.

When the guests eventually saw them in each other’s arms and going off as if to bed, the bachelors swore that they would get married, and the married men mounted their horses and rode away to their own wives with the same end in view. Socrates and those who were still left set out to walk with Callias to the home of Lycon and his son. That is the way in which this party came to an end.

THE DINNER-PARTY

INTRODUCTION

THE DINNER-PARTY