CONVERSATIONS OF SOCRATES

‘You’ll look to that yourself,’ he said, ‘and you’ll find a way, if you need any help from me.’

‘Well, Theodote,’ replied Socrates, poking fun at his own avoidance of public life, ‘it’s not very easy for me to find the time for it. I have a great deal of private and public business that keeps me occupied; and I have some girlfriends ² too, who will never let me leave them by day or night, because they are learning from me about love-charms and spells.’

‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be drawn to you; I want you to come to me.’

‘Yes, I’ll let you in,’ said Socrates, ‘unless I have someone with me that I like better.’

Seeing that Epigenes, one of his companions, was in poor physical condition for a young man, he said, ‘You’re out of training, Epigenes.’

‘But you ought to, just as much as a prospective competitor at the Olympian games. Or do you think that the mortal struggle against her enemies in which Athens will sooner or later involve you doesn’t matter? And yet in the hazards of war, it’s not uncommon for people to lose their lives through lack of fitness, or to save it only ignominiously. For the same reason, many are captured alive, and once captured either spend the rest of their lives, perhaps, in the bitterest servitude, or, after being subjected to the most cruel duress and paying in some cases a ransom greater than the sum of their possessions, live out their lives in want and misery. Many too win a bad reputation because their physical debility makes them seem to shirk danger. Perhaps you don’t take these penalties of unfitness seriously, and assume that you can easily put up with that sort of thing? In my view, at any rate, the prospects that await a man who cares about his physical fitness are much easier and more pleasant. Or perhaps you think that unfitness is both healthier and in general more good for you than fitness, or are scornful of the results that fitness brings? In point of fact, the consequences of keeping oneself fit are entirely contrary to those of failing to do so.

‘To give up eating. Once you’ve done that, you’ll find life not only more pleasant, but cheaper and healthier.’

On another occasion, somebody else complained that the drinking-water at his house was warm.

‘Not at all,’ said the man.’In fact, I’ve been surprised to see how contentedly they use it for both purposes.’

‘Which is warmer to drink, the water in your house or the water in the temple of Asclepius?’²

‘And which is the colder for bathing, yours or the water at the shrine of Amphiaraus?’³

‘You should reflect, then,’ said Socrates, ‘that you look like being more fussy than a slave or an invalid.’⁴

A man had punished his retainer severely, and Socrates asked why he was angry with his servant.

‘Because he’s as lazy as he is greedy, and as shy of work as he is fond of money,’ replied the man.

‘Have you ever considered which of you needs the bigger thrashing – you or your servant?’

Somebody was afraid of travelling to Olympia. ‘Why are you afraid of the journey?’ asked Socrates. ‘Don’t you spend nearly the whole day walking when you’re at home? On your way to Olympia, you will walk for a while and then have lunch; then walk for another while, have dinner and go to bed. Don’t you realize that if you joined together, end to end, the walks that you take in five or six days, you would easily cover the distance from Athens to Olympia?¹ Besides, it is pleasanter to start a day too soon than to arrive too late, because it is awkward to be forced to lengthen the stages of your journey too much; but to increase the time of the journey by one day makes for considerable ease. So it’s better to hurry over the start than on the journey.’

When someone else said that he was exhausted after making a long journey, Socrates asked him whether he was carrying baggage too. ‘Good heavens, no,’ he said, ‘only my coat.’

‘Were you travelling alone,’ asked Socrates, ‘or did you have a servant with you?’

‘Well, now,’ said Socrates, ‘if you had had to carry his luggage, what sort of state do you think you would have been in?’

‘Do you really think it’s natural for a fit man to be so much less capable of effort than a boy servant?’

When there was a communal dinner and some of the party brought more food than others, Socrates used to tell his servant either to pool the smaller contributions or to distribute them in equal shares. The result was that those who brought a large quantity felt ashamed to refuse a share of the pooled food and also felt ashamed to keep their food to themselves; so they put their food into the pool too. And since they got no more than those who brought a small quantity, they gave up spending large sums on food.

On one occasion, Socrates noticed that one of the company at dinner had stopped eating bread and was eating the savouries by themselves.¹ As the conversation was about the proper application of names to occupations, Socrates said: ‘Can we say, gentlemen, what sort of conduct gets a man called a savoury-eater?² Of course, everybody eats savouries with his bread if he’s got any, but I presume that this is not enough to earn the name of savoury-eater.’

‘Well, now,’ he went on, ‘if somebody eats savouries by themselves, without bread, not with a view to training but for pleasure, do you think he is a savoury-eater or not?’

Another member of the company said, ‘What about a man who eats a great deal of savouries with a little bread?’

‘In my view,’ said Socrates, ‘it would be fair to call him a savoury-eater too. And when everyone else is praying to the gods for plentiful crops, I suppose he would pray for plentiful savouries!’

When Socrates said this, the young man realized that the discussion had been aimed at him and, although he did not stop eating the savouries, he took bread with them. Observing this, Socrates said, ‘I want you who are sitting near him to watch and see whether he will treat the bread as savoury or the savouries as bread.’

He once saw another of his dinner-companions sampling several kinds of savoury with one piece of bread. ‘Could there be,’ he asked, ‘a form of gastronomy more extravagant or more ruinous of good food than is practised by a person who eats several dishes at once and puts all kinds of flavours into his mouth at the same time? By combining more ingredients than his cooks use he is acting rather extravagantly, and since he combines what they refuse to combine, as being incompatible, then, if they are right, he is wrong, and is desecrating their art. And yet it is surely absurd for a man to engage the most expert cooks and then interfere with their menus when he doesn’t even profess the art in question. Besides, there’s another thing that happens to a man who has made a habit of eating several kinds of food at once. If he hasn’t got several kinds, he is likely to feel discontented through missing what he is accustomed to. On the other hand, a man who had made a habit of helping down one piece of bread with one kind of savoury could be content with one kind if more were not available.’

He also used to say that in the Athenian dialect ‘good living’ was synonymous with ‘eating’, and that the qualification ‘good’ referred to eating foods which were innocuous to both mind and body, and not difficult to procure. Thus he regarded even good living as the privilege of those whose lives are well ordered.

BOOK FOUR

Socrates was so helpful in every activity and in every way that anyone who considers the matter and estimates it fairly must see that nothing was more profitable than associating with Socrates and spending one’s time with him in any place or circumstances. Indeed, even to recall him now that he is gone is no small help to those who were his habitual companions and who accept his views.

His influence on his companions was just as salutary in his lighter moments as when he was serious. He would often say that he loved somebody; but anyone could see that he was drawn not towards those endowed with physical attractiveness, but towards those endowed with mental virtue. He inferred that they had natural talent from their learning quickly anything to which they applied their minds, and remembering what they had learned; and from their eagerness for any kind of instruction that enables one to manage an estate or a community efficiently, and in general to be successful in one’s dealings with people and in one’s management of human affairs. He thought that people of this sort, when trained, would not only be happy themselves and manage their estates well, but would be able to make other persons and communities happy too.

He did not approach everyone in the same way. If people thought that they were naturally talented and were scornful of instruction, he explained to them that the natures which are regarded as the best have the greatest need of training. He pointed out that the best-bred horses are spirited and impetuous, and that if they are broken in when they are quite young, they become more manageable and better than any others; but if they grow up unbroken, they are very difficult to control and worse than any others. Again, pedigree puppies, which are tireless and eager to attack their prey, become very good hounds and most serviceable for hunting, if they are properly trained; but if they grow up untrained, they become wild and erratic and very difficult to control. In the same way, the best types of men, people with exceptional strength of mind and ability to carry through whatever they undertake, if they are educated and learn to do their duty, become excellent and most useful people, because they perform a great many important services; but if they grow up uneducated and ignorant, they turn out worse and cause more harm than anybody. Not knowing how to decide where their duty lies, they often set their hands to wicked deeds; and since they are proud and impetuous, they are difficult to restrain or divert from their course, and consequently they commit a great many serious crimes.

As for those who were proud of their wealth and thought that they had no need of education as well, but assumed that their riches would be quite enough to secure for them any result that they wanted and to win the esteem of their fellow men, he tried to put sense into them by saying that a man was a fool if he expected to be able to distinguish beneficial and harmful activities without learning how to do so; and a fool if, unable to draw this distinction, but using his wealth to procure whatever he wanted, he nevertheless thought that he would be able to act to his own advantage. And if he could not act to his own advantage, it was stupid to think that he was fortunate and well or adequately equipped for life, and also stupid to think that he would be considered good for anything because of his wealth if he had no knowledge, or that he would enjoy popularity if he was considered good for nothing.

I shall next describe what his attitude was towards those who thought that they had received the best education and prided themselves on their wisdom.

He discovered that the handsome Euthydemus ¹ had collected a great many writings of the best-known poets and sages, and that consequently he now considered himself to be more enlightened than anyone of his age-group, and entertained high hopes of becoming unrivalled in eloquence and administrative ability. So first of all, realizing that because of his youth Euthydemus did not yet go into the agora if he wanted to conduct any business, but took up his position in a saddler’s shop close by, Socrates went to the shop himself with some ofis friends. Someone opened the conversation by inquiring whether it was through association with one of the sages or by natural talent that Themistocles rose so far above his fellow citizens that the State looked to him whenever it needed a man of action. Socrates wanted to stir up Euthydemus, so he replied that it was silly to imagine that, although the lesser arts were not practised seriously without the help of competent teachers, the art of public administration, which was the greatest accomplishment of all, came to people of its own accord.

On another occasion when Euthydemus was present, Socrates noticed that he was withdrawing from the group and taking care not to seem impressed by Socrates’ wisdom. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘it is easy to see from the way in which our friend Euthydemus spends his time that, when he is old enough, he won’t refrain from advising the State on any political issue that comes up. And it seems to me that by carefully avoiding the appearance of learning anything from anybody, he has provided himself with a splendid preface to his public speeches. Evidently, when he begins to speak, he will introduce what he has to say like this: “Gentlemen of Athens, I have never learned anything from anybody, nor have I sought the company of any person whose abilities in speech and action I had heard of, nor have I troubled to acquire a teacher from among those who understand these matters. On the contrary, I have consistently avoided not only learning anything from anybody, but even giving the impression of doing so. However, I shall offer you whatever advice occurs to me of its own accord.” Such an introduction would be appropriate for candidates applying for a public medical post. They could suitably begin their speech in this way: “Gentlemen of Athens, I have never learned medicine from anyone, nor have I tried to secure any doctor as a teacher. I have consistently avoided not only learning anything from medical men, but even giving the impression of having learned this art. However, I ask you to give me this medical post. I shall try to learn by experimenting on you.”’

This introduction made everyone present laugh. It was now obvious that Euthydemus was paying attention to what Socrates was saying, although he was still careful not to say anything himself, thinking by his silence to invest himself with an air of discretion. Socrates wanted to stop him behaving like this, and said: ‘You know how people who want to be competent performers on a stringed or wind instrument, or on horseback, or in any other similar skill, try to practise the desired accomplishment as continuously as possible, not only by themselves but under the supervision of acknowledged experts, and go to all lengths and put up with anything, just so long as these experts approve of all they do, because they feel that they cannot otherwise become worthwhile practitioners of their art. I find it astonishing that, on the other hand, some of those who wish to become proficient in public speaking and administration expect to be able suddenly to do this of their own accord without preparation or application. Yet political proficiency seems to be harder to achieve than the other kinds, inasmuch as more people pursue political ends and fewer achieve them. So obviously political ambition calls for more and closer application than other kinds.’

Socrates began by making observations of this sort in the hearing of Euthydemus. When he noticed that Euthydemus was putting up with his comments more readily and listening with greater interest, he went alone to the saddler’s shop, and, when Euthydemus sat down near him, said, ‘Tell me, Euthydemus, is it true what I hear, that you have collected a large number of books by reputed experts?’

‘Indeed it is, Socrates,’ replied Euthydemus, ‘and I’m still adding to the collection, until I’ve got as many as I can.’

‘I really do admire you for preferring to stockpile wisdom rather than silver and gold,’ said Socrates. ‘Evidently you think that silver and gold make people no better, whereas the maxims of the wise enrich their possessors with moral goodness.’

Euthydemus cheered up as he heard this, thinking that Socrates approved of his method of pursuing wisdom; but when Socrates noted that he was pleased at this commendation, he said, ‘What exactly is it that you want to become good at, Euthydemus, by collecting these books?’

When Euthydemus remained silent, wondering what he should reply, Socrates went on: ‘Can it be medicine? There are a great many treatises written by doctors.’

‘That’s not my idea at all,’ said Euthydemus.

‘Perhaps you want to become an architect? That’s another profession that calls for a skilled mind.’

‘No, I don’t want to become an architect.’

‘Perhaps you are keen to become a good geometrician, like Theodorus?’¹

‘Not that either,’ he said.

‘Perhaps you want to be an astronomer?’ When he denied this too, Socrates asked, ‘Perhaps a rhapsode?² They say that you have got all the poems of Homer.’

‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘I know that rhapsodes are word-perfect, but they have very little intelligence themselves.’

At this Socrates said, ‘You don’t mean to tell me, Euthydemus, that you are aiming at the kind of proficiency that makes people politicians and administrators and capable of governing, and helpful both to others and themselves?’

‘I am very anxious to acquire this kind of proficiency,’ replied Euthydemus.

‘Good heavens!’ said Socrates. ‘It’s a most splendid and important art that you have set your heart on. It’s the province of kings, and is called the art of kingship. But have you satisfied yourself whether it is possible to become good at these things without being morally good?’

‘Certainly I have,’ he said, ‘and it’s impossible to become even a good citizen without moral goodness.’

‘Well,’ said Socrates, ‘have you achieved this?’

‘I think, Socrates, that I should prove to be as moral a man as anyone.’

‘Well then, do moral men have products in the same way that carpenters do?’

‘Yes, they have.’

‘Carpenters can display their products – can moral men give an account of theirs too?’

‘Are you suggesting,’ said Euthydemus, ‘that I can’t give an account of the products of morality? I assure you that I can do it for the products of immorality too! There are plenty of them to be seen and heard every day.’

‘Look here,’ said Socrates, ‘shall we write an R here and a W there, and then put down whatever we think is a right thing to do under R and whatever we think is wrong under W?’

‘If you think there’s any point, do it.’

Socrates wrote the letters as he had suggested, and then said, ‘Is there such a thing in human life as telling lies?’

‘Yes, there is.’

‘On which side shall we put that?’

‘Obviously under Wrong.’

‘Is there such a thing as deception?’

‘Certainly.’

‘On which side shall we put that?’

‘Obviously that too under Wrong.’

‘What about doing harm?’

‘That too.’

‘And enslaving?’

‘That too.’

‘And shall we list none of these under Right, Euthydemus?’

‘No, that would be shocking.’

‘Well now, suppose that a man who has been appointed to a military command reduces a wicked and hostile city to slavery, shall we say that he is acting wrongly?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Shall we not say that he is acting rightly?’

‘Certainly.’

‘And supposing that he deceives them in fighting against them?’

‘That is right too.’

‘And if he steals and plunders their possessions, will he not be acting rightly?’

‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘I thought at first that you were asking about these actions only in relation to friends.’

‘So perhaps all the things that we have put under Wrong ought to be put under Right too.’

‘It looks like it.’

‘Now that we have settled that, shall we revise our definition and say that it is right to do this sort of thing to enemies, but wrong to do it to friends, and that to the latter one should be as straightforward as possible. Is that what you wish?’

‘Very much so,’ said Euthydemus.

‘Well then,’ said Socrates, ‘supposing that a general sees that his force is downhearted and issues a false statement that help is approaching, and by this falsehood restores the morale of his men: on which side shall we put this deceit?’

‘I think under Right.’

‘And supposing that someone has a son who needs medical treatment and refuses to take his medicine: if the father surreptitiously gives him the medicine in his food and by this artifice restores him to health, where should we put this example of deceit?’

‘I think in the same category.’

‘Well now, supposing that someone has a friend who is in a state of depression, and is afraid that he will do away with himself; and supposing that he covertly or openly removes a sword or some other weapon from him – in which column should we put this?’

‘Surely this ought to go under Right too.’

‘Do you mean that we ought not always to deal straightforwardly even with our friends?’

‘Of course we shouldn’t,’ he said. ‘I am revising my earlier statement, if that’s all right.’

‘Well, that’s much better than putting things in the wrong categories,’ said Socrates. ‘But take the case of those who deceive their friends to their detriment (so as not to leave even this aspect unconsidered): which is the worse morally, to do it voluntarily or involuntarily?’¹

‘Well, Socrates, I’ve lost confidence in my answers. Everything that I said before seems to be different now from what I thought then. However, take it that I say that voluntary is worse than involuntary deception.’

‘Do you think that one can learn and understand morality as one can the alphabet?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Who do you consider to be more literate, the man who deliberately reads or writes wrongly, or the man who does it involuntarily?’

‘The former, I think, because he could do the same thing correctly if he wanted to.’

‘So the man who deliberately writes incorrectly would be literate, and the one who does it involuntarily would be illiterate?’

‘Of course.’

‘Who knows what is right – the man who lies and deceives voluntarily or the one who does so involuntarily?’

‘The former, obviously.’

‘You hold that the man who knows his alphabet is more literate than the one who doesn’t?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that the man who knows what is right is morally better than the one who doesn’t?’

‘Obviously. I think that is, in a sense, implied in what I said.’

‘Well now, take the man who wants to tell the truth, but never says the same about the same things: in describing the same route, he calls it sometimes eastward and sometimes westward and, in totalling up an account, he makes the same total now bigger and now smaller – what do you think of him?’

‘His is a clear case of not knowing what he thought he knew.’

‘You know that there are people whom we call slavish?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because of their wisdom or because of their ignorance?’

‘Obviously because of their ignorance.’

‘Is it because they are ignorant of metalwork that they get their description?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Ignorant of carpentry, then?’

‘Not that either.’

‘Well, of cobbling?’

‘None of those reasons; just the opposite. Most of the people who understand these crafts are slavish.’

‘Then does this name apply to those who don’t know what is honourable and good and right?’

‘So I believe.’

‘In that case, we ought to make every effort to avoid being slavish.’

‘I swear, Socrates,’ said Euthydemus, ‘I really thought that I was following a philosophy of life which would give me the right sort of education for one whose object is true goodness. But now you can’t think how depressed I feel when I see that my past efforts have left me unable to answer questions even about the most important subjects, and with no other course available by which I can make myself better.’

Socrates said, ‘Tell me, Euthydemus: have you ever been to Delphi?’

‘Yes indeed, twice.’

‘Did you notice the inscription “Know yourself” somewhere near the shrine?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Did you ignore the inscription, or did you pay attention to it and try to examine what sort of person you were?’

‘Good heavens!’ he said. ‘No, I didn’t. You see, that was one thing I thought I did know. I could hardly have known anything else if I hadn’t even been acquainted with myself.’

‘Who do you think knows himself – the man who merely knows his own name, or the one who behaves like people buying a horse? They don’t consider that they know a horse in which they are interested until they have satisfied themselves whether it’s obedient or disobedient, strong or weak, swift or slow, and how it stands with respect to all the other qualities which make a horse desirable or undesirable as regards its usefulness; and the man I am thinking of has in the same way ascertained his own ability by examining his own qualifications in respect of human relationships.’

‘To my mind, the man who doesn’t know his own ability is ignorant of himself.’

‘And isn’t this obvious,’ said Socrates, ‘that people derive most of their benefits from knowing themselves, and most of their misfortunes from being self-deceived? Those who know themselves know what is appropriate for them and can distinguish what they can and cannot do; and, by doing what they understand, they both supply their needs and enjoy success, while, by refraining from doing things that they don’t understand, they avoid making mistakes and escape misfortune. Self-knowledge also enables them to assess others; and it is through their relations with others that they provide themselves with what is good and guard against what is bad for them. Those who do not know themselves and are totally deceived about their own abilities are in the same position whether they are dealing with other people or any other aspect of human affairs. They don’t know what they want or what they are doing or what means they are using; and, through making gross mistakes about all these, they miss the good things and get into trouble. People who know what they are doing succeed in their activities and become famous and respected. Those who are like them gladly associate with them, while those who are unsuccessful in their affairs are anxious for these men to make decisions for them and to represent their interests, and pin to them their hopes of prosperity, and for all these reasons regard them with special affection. But those who don’t know what they are doing make bad choices and fail in whatever they attempt, and so not only suffer loss and retribution in respect of these actions, but damage their reputation in consequence, get themselves laughed at, and live despised and unhonoured. You can see, too, that any States which have gone to war with stronger ones through not knowing their own capability either lose their territory or exchange freedom for slavery.’

Euthydemus said, ‘You can take it from me, Socrates, that I quite recognize the importance of knowing oneself. But I am looking to you in the hope that you may be willing to explain to me at what point one should begin self-examination.’

‘You are quite clear in your mind, I suppose,’ said Socrates, ‘what things are good and what are bad?’

‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘If I don’t even know that, I should be worse off than slavish people.’

‘Come on, then, and expound them to me.’

‘Well, that’s not difficult. In the first place, I think that health is a good thing in itself, and sickness an evil. Then, the things conducive to each of these – drinks and foods and occupations that promote health – are good, and those that cause illness are bad.’

‘So even health and illness may be good things when they have a good result and bad when they have a bad one.’

‘When could health have a bad result and disease a good one?’

‘Why, to be sure,’ said Socrates, ‘in the case of a shameful expedition or a disastrous voyage or many other such events, when those who have taken part because they were able-bodied have perished, while those who have been excluded by infirmity have escaped.’¹

‘True. But you see that in the case of beneficial activities too some people participate through fitness and others are excluded by infirmity.’

‘Then, if these things are sometimes beneficial and sometimes harmful, are they any more good than bad?’

‘Not a bit, it seems, according to your argument. But surely wisdom, Socrates, is beyond all question a good thing. What action is there that a person would not perform better if he were wise than if he were ignorant?’

‘Why, haven’t you heard of Daedalus,’ said Socrates, ‘how he was captured by Minos because of his skill and compelled to serve him, and was deprived at the same time of his country and of his liberty; and how, when he tried to escape with his son, he both lost the boy and didn’t even reach safety himself, but was carried away into a foreign country and there became a slave again?’¹

‘That is certainly the story.’

‘And haven’t you heard of the fate of Palamedes? All the poets sing of how he fell a victim to Odysseus’ jealousy because of his cleverness.’²

‘That again is the story.’

‘And how many other people do you think owe it to their cleverness that they have been carried off to the king of Persia, and served there as slaves?’³

‘It looks as if the most unquestionable good is happiness, Socrates.’

‘Provided that it isn’t composed of questionable goods, Euthydemus.’

‘Why, what constituent of happiness could be questionable?’

‘None – unless we include in it beauty or strength or wealth or fame or something else of that kind.’

‘But we certainly shall include them. How could anyone be happy without them?’

‘Then I assure you that we shall be including constituents from which many unpleasant consequences follow for mankind. Beauty often brings disaster through the excitement aroused by physical attraction; strength is often the cause of no small downfall by inducing people to attempt tasks which are too much for them; wealth often causes ruin through self-indulgence or the covetousness of others; fame and political power often lead to great calamities.’

‘Really,’ said Euthydemus, ‘if I’m not right in praising happiness either, I must admit that I don’t even know what to pray to the gods for.’

‘Well,’ said Socrates, ‘probably you haven’t so much as considered the question, because you were so confident in your knowledge. But since you are proposing to be a leader in a city with a democratic government, obviously you know what a democratic government is.’

‘Perfectly, of course.’

‘Do you think it’s possible to know democratic government without knowing the people?’

‘No, indeed I don’t.’

‘So you know what the people is?’

‘I believe so.’

‘And what do you think the people is?’

‘The poor among the citizens.’

‘So you know the poor also?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then do you know the rich too?’

‘No less well than the poor.’

‘What sorts of persons do you call poor and rich?’

‘I suppose I call poor those who have not got enough to pay for what they need, and rich those who have more than enough.’

‘Have you noticed that some of those who have very little not only find it enough, but actually save out of it, and that for some a great many possessions are not enough?’¹

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Euthydemus, ‘you are quite right to remind me; I know even some despots who are driven to do wrong because they haven’t enough, just like the neediest classes.’

‘Well then,’ said Socrates, ‘granted that this is so, we shall class the despots among the people, and those who have few possessions among the rich, if they are good managers of their property.’

Euthydemus said, ‘I’m forced to admit that too. Evidently the fault lies with my own incompetence; and I am considering whether it may be best to keep my mouth shut. It looks as though I know absolutely nothing.’

He went away very much dejected, because he had come to despise himself and felt that he really was slavish.

Many of those who were treated in this way by Socrates stopped going to see him; these he considered to lack resolution. But Euthydemus decided that he would never become a person of any importance unless he associated with Socrates as much as possible; and from that time onwards, he never left him unless he was obliged to, and he even copied some of Socrates’ practices. When Socrates realized that Euthydemus was in this frame of mind, he stopped teasing him and explained as simply and precisely as he could what he thought it was necessary for Euthydemus to know, and what lines of action were best for him to follow.²

He was in no hurry for his associates to become eloquent or capable or inventive; he thought that they ought first to acquire a sense of responsibility, because he considered that without this the possession of those other faculties made them more unscrupulous and more capable of doing wrong.

In the first place, then, he tried to make his associates think sensibly about religion.¹ Different people were present at different discourses of his on this subject, and have tried to describe them; I was present when he was having the following discussion with Euthydemus.

‘Tell me, Euthydemus,’ he said, ‘has it ever occurred to you to reflect how carefully the gods have supplied all human needs?’

‘No, as a matter of fact it hasn’t,’ he replied.

‘Well, do you realize that in the first place we need light, which the gods supply us?’

‘Certainly; without it we should be no better than blind for all the good our eyes could do us.’

‘Then we also need rest; and they provide us with night as the best possible time for it.’

‘We ought to be very grateful for that too.’

‘And since the sun is bright and enables us to distinguish the times of the day, as well as everything else, while the night because of its darkness is more obscure, they have made stars shine in the night which inform us how the time is passing and so enable us to do many of the things that we need to do. Isn’t that so?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Then the moon marks for us the divisions not only of the night, but also of the month.’

‘Quite so.’

‘There is also the fact that we need food, and the gods produce this from the earth, providing for the purpose appropriate seasons, which supply us not only with all kinds of things we need but also those things in which we find enjoyment’²

‘That is very kind of them too.’

‘And then there is the fact that they give us water, which is so precious that it helps the earth and the seasons to germinate and grow everything that is useful to us, and helps also to feed us ourselves, and by combining with all the things that feed us makes them more digestible and beneficial and agreeable; and because we need a great deal of it, they supply it in the greatest possible abundance.’

‘This too shows their forethought.’

‘And what about their providing us with fire as an ally against cold and darkness, and as a partner in every art and in all the things that people prepare for their own convenience? To put it briefly, of all the aids for living with which people equip themselves not one of any importance is independent of fire.’

‘That is another outstanding example of kindness.’

‘And the fact that after the winter solstice the sun comes nearer, ripening some things and drying up others which have passed their prime; and that, after finishing this task, it comes no closer, but turns back for fear of injuring us by too much heat. And then when, as it recedes again, it reaches the point where even we can see that, if it recedes any further, we shall be frozen stiff by the cold, it turns again and approaches, so that it traverses just that part of the heavens in which it can do us most good. What about all this?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ he said, ‘this too gives a very strong impression of happening for the benefit of mankind.’

‘And then, since it is also plain that we could not endure either the heat or the cold if it came on suddenly, what about the fact that the sun approaches and recedes so gradually that we don’t notice that we are passing into either extreme of temperature?’

‘I am wondering now,’ said Euthydemus, ‘whether the gods have any function other than looking after men. My only difficulty is that the animals share these benefits as well.’

‘Naturally,’ said Socrates, ‘because it’s obvious, isn’t it, that animals too are born and reared for the benefit of mankind? What other creature enjoys so many benefits as man does from goats, sheep, cattle, horses and donkeys? More, it seems to me, than from plants. At any rate, people obtain food and profit from the former no less than from the latter; and there are many tribes which don’t use the produce of the earth for food, but support themselves on the milk, cheese and flesh of their herds; and all nations tame and domesticate useful animals and employ their help for war and for many other purposes.’

‘I agree with you about that too. I observe that even those animals which are much stronger than ourselves are brought so far under human control that people use them just as they like.’

‘And what of the fact that they have equipped us with senses appropriate to the different kinds of beautiful and beneficial objects that surround us, so that by means of these senses we can enjoy all good things? And the fact that they have implanted in us reason, which enables us to think about and remember our sensations, and so discover the beneficial effects of each class of objects and devise various means for enjoying what is good and avoiding what is bad for us? Then there is their gift of communication, which enables us through instruction to share reciprocally with others everything that is good, and to enact laws and live in organized communities.’

‘There is every reason to suppose, Socrates, that the gods show great concern for human beings.’

‘Then there is their direct assistance in a sphere in which we are incompetent – that is, in foreseeing our future interests. By means of divination they reveal to those who consult them what is going to happen, and explain how it can be turned to the best advantage.’

‘And they seem to be on even friendlier terms with you than with others, Socrates, if it is true that they forewarn you what to do and what not to do without even being asked.’¹

‘You will discover for yourself that what I say is true if, instead of waiting until you see the gods in physical form, you are content to worship and honour them on the evidence of their works. You should reflect that the gods intimate as much themselves. Other deities give us good gifts, but never reveal themselves in any act of giving; and in particular he who controls and regulates the whole universe, with all its good and beautiful contents, which he ceaselessly supplies for our use, fresh and healthy and unmarred by age, obeying his commands unfailingly and faster than thought – he can be seen to be carrying out the greatest works, but in the detailed administration he is invisible to our eyes. Reflect that the sun, which is supposed to be manifest to all, does not permit human beings to regard him directly; anyone who attempts to observe him without due respect is deprived of sight. Even the agents of the gods, you will find, are invisible. The thunderbolt is obviously discharged from above and overcomes everything that it meets; but neither in its approach nor at the moment of impact nor in its withdrawal can it be seen. Winds are themselves invisible, but their effects are plain to us, and we can perceive their approach. Moreover, there is the human mind, which partakes of divinity if anything else human does; that it is the ruling part of us is evident, but even it cannot be seen. You should take this to heart, and not despise things that are unseen, but appreciate their power from their effects, and honour the divine.’

‘Speaking for myself, Socrates,’ said Euthydemus, ‘I am quite sure that I shall not disregard the divine even to a small degree. But what depresses me is that it seems to me that no human being could ever repay the goodness of the gods towards us by adequate gratitude.’

‘Don’t feel depressed about that, Euthydemus,’ said Socrates. ‘You can see that the god at Delphi, when he is asked how one can show gratitude to the gods, replies: “By the law of the State.” And I presume that it is the law everywhere to please the gods to the best of one’s power by sacrificial offerings. Well then, how can we honour them better and more devoutly than by doing as they themselves direct? But one must not fall short of one’s capacity; when a man does this, it is surely obvious that he is not honouring the gods. So if he consistently honours the gods to the best of his power, he may feel confident and expect the greatest blessings. It wouldn’t be sensible to expect greater ones from any other source than from those who can grant the greatest benefits, or on any other ground than that of pleasing them. And how can one please them better than by the greatest possible obedience?’

By enunciating such principles as these and by putting them into practice himself, he made his associates more devout and responsible.

As for his views about what is right, so far from concealing them, he demonstrated them by his actions. In all his personal relationships he was law-abiding and helpful; in public life he obeyed the authorities in respect of their lawful requirements, both in civil affairs and on military service, so punctiliously that he was conspicuous for exceptional obedience. When he was appointed president in the Assembly,¹ he did not permit the people to pass an illegal motion, but in support of the law he resisted a popular outburst which no other man, in my opinion, could have withstood. He disobeyed the illegal orders of the Thirty: first, when they forbade him to converse with the young,² and second, when they instructed him, with some others, to arrest a citizen ³ for execution, he alone disobeyed on the ground that what he was ordered to do was illegal. When he was facing prosecution by Meletus, he rejected as illegal the usual practice in courts of law. All other accused persons used to address the jury ingratiatingly and flatter them and appeal to them illegally, and many of them by this sort of behaviour often secured an acquittal.⁴ But although Socrates might easily have been acquitted if he had made even a moderate concession to common practice, he chose to abide by the law and die, rather than break it and live.⁵

He actually expressed these convictions on many occasions to others; and in particular, I know that one day he had the following discussion about right conduct with Hippias of Elis.¹ Hippias had arrived at Athens after a long absence and joined Socrates just as he was saying to some of his friends how remarkable it was that if one wanted to have somebody taught cobbling or joinery or metalwork or horsemanship, there was no difficulty about knowing where to send him for this purpose, but if one wanted to learn oneself what is right, or to have a son or a slave taught this knowledge, one did not know where to go in order to get it. When Hippias heard this, he said playfully, ‘Dear me, Socrates, are you still saying the same things I heard you say all that time ago?’

Socrates replied, ‘Yes, and what is even stranger, Hippias, I’m not only saying the same things but saying them about the same subjects. You, no doubt, because of your wide learning, never say the same thing about the same subject.’

‘Of course,’ he said ‘I always try to say something new.’

‘Even about facts that you know? I mean, if somebody asks you how many letters there are in “Socrates”, and what they are, do you try to say something different now from what you said before? Or if you are asked about numbers, whether twice five is ten, don’t you give the same answer now as before?’

‘About things like these, Socrates, I always make the same statements, just as you do; but about what is right, I am quite confident that I have something to say that neither you nor anyone else could contradict.’²

‘Good heavens!’ said Socrates ‘This is certainly a valuable discovery you claim to have made, if it will stop jurymen from disagreeing over their verdicts, and ordinary citizens from arguing and litigating and rioting about their rights, and stop States from disputing and going to war about theirs. For my part, I don’t know how I can tear myself away from you before hearing about this priceless discovery from the man who made it.’

‘No, no,’ said Hippias, ‘you shan’t hear about it until you have told us your view about what is right. You content yourself with making fun of other people by questioning and testing them all, while you won’t state your own case or disclose your own opinions to anyone about anything.’¹

‘Why, Hippias,’ he said, ‘aren’t you aware that I never stop revealing what I think is right?’

‘I should like to know what this account of yours is.’

‘If I don’t reveal my views in a formal account, I do so by my conduct. Don’t you think that actions are more reliable evidence than words?’

‘Much more, of course. People often say what is right and do what is wrong; but nobody can be in the wrong if he is doing what is right.’

‘Well then, have you ever known me give false evidence or be a sycophant or stir up trouble between friends or in the State, or do anything else that is wrong?’²

‘No, I haven’t,’ he said.

‘And refraining from what is wrong is right, don’t you think?’

‘I can see, Socrates, that you are still trying to avoid explaining what you think “right” means. You are describing not what right-minded people do, but what they don’t do.’

‘Well,’ said Socrates, ‘I should have thought that to refuse to do wrong was a sufficient demonstration of moral rectitude. But if you don’t agree, see whether you like this better. I say that what is lawful is right.’

‘Do you mean that “lawful” and “right” are the same, Socrates?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘I ask because I don’t grasp what you mean by “lawful” and “right”.’

‘You know what is meant by a country’s laws?’ asked Socrates.

‘Yes.’

‘And what do you think they are?’

‘What the citizens have recorded after agreement about what they ought to do and what they ought to refrain from.’

‘So a law-abiding person would be one who orders his life in the community in accordance with these, and a lawless person one who transgresses them?’

‘Certainly.’

‘So a person who obeyed them would be doing what is right, and one who disobeyed them what is wrong?’

‘Certainly.’

‘So the person who did what was right would be right, and the one who did wrong would be wrong?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then a law-abiding person is right, and a lawless one wrong.’

Hippias objected, ‘How can one regard laws or obedience to them as a serious thing when the very same people who enacted them often repudiate and alter them?’¹

‘Yes,’ said Socrates, ‘and States often undertake a war and then make peace.’

‘Very true.’

‘Do you think there is any difference,’ he said, ‘between your belittling obedience to the laws on the ground that the laws may be repealed, and criticizing good discipline in time of war because peace may be made? Or do you actually find fault with those who help their country wholeheartedly in time of war?’

‘No, I certainly don’t,’ he said.

‘Are you aware,’ said Socrates, ‘that Lycurgus ² the Lacedaemonian would have made Sparta no better than any other city if he had not inculcated in it the greatest obedience to the laws? Don’t you know that the best leaders are those who are most efficient in making the people obey the laws, and that a city in which the people are most obedient to the laws has the best life in time of peace and is irresistible in war? Moreover, concord is accepted to be the greatest blessing in a State, and very commonly in a State the senate ¹ and aristocracy call upon the citizens to agree; and everywhere in Greece there is a law laid down that the citizens take an oath to agree, and everywhere this oath is taken. I presume that the purpose of this is not that the citizens may come to the same decision about plays, or praise the same musicians, or choose the same poets, or take pleasure in the same things, but that they may obey the laws; for it is when the inhabitants abide by these that countries become strongest and happiest, but without agreement a State cannot be well organized nor an estate well managed.

‘And in private life, how can anyone incur less punishment or more honour from the State than by obeying the laws? How could he be less likely to lose or more likely to win in the courts? To whom would one more confidently entrust one’s money or one’s sons and daughters? Whom would the State as a whole consider more dependable than the law-abiding man? From whom would parents, relations, servants, friends, fellow countrymen or foreigners be more likely to obtain their rights? To whom would an enemy more readily entrust the making of truces or treaties or terms of peace? To whom would people be more willing to ally themselves than to the law-abiding man? To whom would allies more readily entrust supreme command or the defence of a fortress or the protection of cities? From whom would a benefactor expect to receive more gratitude than from a law-abiding man? Whom would one be more inclined to benefit than a person from whom one anticipates a return of favour? Whom would one wish more to have for a friend, or less to have for an enemy? Whom would one be less likely to fight than the man whom one would wish most to be one’s friend and least to be one’s enemy, and to whom the largest number wished to be friends and allies, and the smallest number enemies and foes? Personally, Hippias, I express the view that lawful and right are the same. If you hold the opposite view, please explain it to me.’

‘No, really, Socrates,’ said Hippias, ‘I don’t think I do hold the opposite view to yours about what is right.’

‘Do you know what is meant by “unwritten laws”, Hippias?’ he asked.

‘Yes, those which are observed in every country with respect to the same circumstances.’

‘Can you assert that it was men who laid them down?’

‘How could it be, considering that they couldn’t all meet together and don’t speak the same language?’

‘Then who do you think are the authors of these laws?’

‘I suppose that these laws were ordained for men by gods. At any rate, among all peoples the first established custom is to worship gods.’

‘Isn’t it a custom everywhere to honour parents?’

‘Yes, that too.’

‘And that parents should not copulate with their children or children with their parents?’

‘I don’t think that this is a god-given law like the others, Socrates.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I observe that some people break it.’

‘In point of fact they break a good many other laws. But those who transgress the laws laid down by the gods pay a penalty which no man can escape in the way that some transgressors of man-made laws escape paying the penalty, either by escaping detection or by the use of force.’

‘What penalty, Socrates, cannot be escaped by parents who copulate with their children or children who copulate with their parents?’

‘The greatest of all, I can tell you. What greater misfortune could happen to human beings in the procreation of their children than to procreate badly?’

‘Why should they procreate badly,’ asked Hippias, ‘seeing that there is no reason why the fathers should not be good themselves and beget children by good mothers?’

‘Because surely the partners in procreation ought not only to be good, but at their physical prime. Or do you suppose that the seed of those who are in their prime is no different from that of those who have not yet reached it or who have already passed it?’

‘No, indeed,’ he said, ‘they’re not likely to be the same.’

‘Which is the better, then?’

‘Obviously the seed of those who are in their prime.’

‘So that of others is not of high quality.’

‘It is certainly not likely to be.’

‘Then one ought not to procreate under these conditions.’

‘No, indeed.’

‘So those who do so are procreating as they ought not.’

‘So it seems to me.’

‘What else could be bad procreation, then, if theirs isn’t?’

‘I accept your view about this too.’

‘Well now, isn’t it customary everywhere to repay benefits?’

‘Yes, it is, but this is transgressed too.’

‘Don’t those who transgress it pay a penalty as well, by being deprived of good friends and being compelled to pursue the company of people who dislike them? Isn’t it a fact that those who do good to their associates are good friends, whereas those who don’t repay their debts are disliked for their ingratitude, but still try with all their might to form such associations because of the profit to be gained from them?’

‘Certainly, Socrates,’ he said, ‘all this looks like the work of the gods. That the laws themselves should entail penalties for their transgressors seems to me to imply a law-giver of more than human excellence.’

‘Well then, Hippias, do you think that the gods’ legislation is right or not?’

‘It must be right: it’s hard to see how anyone else could lay down what is right if a god couldn’t.’

‘So it follows, Hippias, that the gods are satisfied that “right” and “lawful” mean the same.’

By this sort of conversation and conduct, he made those who came into contact with him better men.

I shall now tell how he made his associates more efficient. Believing that self-discipline was a good thing for anyone to have who intended to achieve a creditable result, in the first place he let his companions see clearly that he himself kept the strictest training that anyone could; and in the second place, in his conversation he used to urge his companions on to self-discipline above all. He was constantly mindful himself, and was always reminding his companions, of the things that are conducive to moral goodness; and I know that he once had a discussion about self-discipline with Euthydemus to the following effect.

‘Tell me, Euthydemus,’ he said, ‘do you think that liberty is a fine and splendid possession both for an individual and for a State?’

‘Yes, beyond the slightest shadow of a doubt.’

‘If a man is governed by the pleasures of the body and because of them cannot act as is best, do you think that he is a free man?’

‘Far from it.’

‘Presumably you say that because you think it is the mark of a free man to act in the best way; and consequently to have masters who prevent you from so acting is slavish.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘So it seems to you that those who have no self-discipline are absolutely slavish.’

‘It does indeed, naturally.’

‘Do you think that these people are merely prevented from acting in the best way, or that they are actually forced to do the most disgraceful things?’

‘In my opinion, they arejust as much compelled to do the one as they are prevented from doing the other.’

‘And what sort of masters do you think those are who prevent the best actions and compel the worst?’

‘Surely the worst possible.’

‘And what do you consider to be the worst form of slavery?’

‘I think it is slavery under the worst masters.’

‘So self-indulgent people endure the worst form of slavery?’

‘That is my opinion.’

‘Don’t you think that self-indulgence debars people from wisdom, which is the greatest good, and drives them into the opposite state? Don’t you think that, by dragging them off in pursuit of pleasure, it prevents them from studying and apprehending their real interests; and that it often confuses their perception of good and bad and makes them choose the worse instead of the better?’

‘That does happen.’

‘And who, Euthydemus, can we say has less concern with self-discipline than the self-indulgent man? For surely the effects of self-discipline and self-indulgence are directly opposed.’

‘I admit that too.’

‘Do you think that anything is more likely to hinder one from devoting oneself to the proper objects than self-indulgence?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Do you think there is anything worse for a man than that which makes him choose what is bad for him instead of what is good, and persuades him to cultivate the former and disregard the latter, and compels him to behave in the opposite way to that which is adopted by disciplined people?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘Isn’t it likely that self-discipline brings results for those who practise it, which are opposite to those of self-indulgence?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Isn’t it also likely that the cause of these opposite results is supremely good?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘So doesn’t it look as if self-discipline were the best thing for a man?’

‘Very likely, Socrates,’ he said.

‘Have you ever reflected on this, Euthydemus?’

‘On what?’

‘The fact that although self-indulgence is supposed to be the sole guide to pleasure, it cannot even take us there itself; it is self-discipline, above all, which causes pleasure.’

‘How so?’

‘Self-indulgence doesn’t allow us to endure hunger or thirst or sexual desire or sleeplessness, which are the only things that make eating and drinking and sexual intercourse pleasurable, and likewise rest and sleep. It doesn’t permit us to hold out and wait for the moment of maximum enjoyment; and consequently it prevents us from getting any appreciable pleasure from the most necessary and regularly recurrent acts.¹ On the other hand, self-discipline, which is the only thing that gives us endurance in the cases I have described, is also the only thing that in these cases gives us any pleasure worth mentioning.’

‘What you say is absolutely true.’

‘Then again, there is the process of learning something really good, and taking an interest in one of those activities by means of which a man can govern his body well and manage his estate efficiently and make himself useful to his friends and to the State, and get the better of his enemies – activities which offer not only the greatest benefits, but also the greatest pleasures. The self-disciplined practise these activities and enjoy them, but the self-indulgent have no part in any of them. Whom could we call worse qualified for such activities than the man who is least capable of performing them, obsessed as he is by his eagerness for the pleasures that are nearest to hand?’

‘It seems to me, Socrates,’ replied Euthydemus, ‘that you are saying that a man who can’t resist physical pleasure is quite incapable of any goodness at all.’

‘Yes, Euthydemus, because how can a man without self-discipline be any better than the most ignorant beast? If a person doesn’t consider what is best, but tries by every means to do what is most pleasant, how can he be any better than the most senseless animals? Only the self-disciplined have the capacity to consider what are the best objects of action and, by both theoretically and practically categorizing good and bad, to choose the former and abstain from the latter.’

This was the way, he said, in which people became best and happiest, and also most capable of philosophical discussion. He said that discussion was so called because, when people join together for deliberation, they divide their subject-matter into categories.¹ Hence one should try to prepare oneself as fully as possible for this activity, and apply oneself to it above all; for it was through it that people developed the highest qualities of character and leadership, as well as becoming excellent philosophers.

I shall now try to describe how Socrates made his associates better at philosophical discussion. He believed that those who understood the nature of any given thing would be able to explain it to others as well, whereas it was no wonder, he said, if those who did not understand made mistakes themselves and misled others. Consequently, he never stopped investigating with the help of his companions the meaning of every single term. It would be a laborious task to describe fully all the distinctions that he drew; I shall mention only a few examples, which I think will serve to illustrate his method of inquiry.

First of all, he examined the meaning of piety in some such way as this‘Tell me, Euthydemus,’ he said, ‘what sort of thing do you think religiousness is?’²

‘A very fine thing, to be sure.’

‘Can you say what sort of person a religious man is?’

‘I think he is a man who worships the gods.’

‘Can one worship the gods in any way one likes?’

‘No, there are laws which must be observed in worshipping.’

‘Then a person who knows these laws would know how one ought to worship the gods.’

‘That is my opinion.’

‘Does a man who knows how one ought to worship the gods think that one ought not to worship them in a different way from the way that he knows?’

‘Surely.’

‘Does anyone worship the gods in a different way from that in which he thinks he ought to worship?’

‘I imagine not.’

‘So the man who knows what is lawful with regard to the gods is likely to worship them lawfully.’

‘Certainly.’

‘Does the man who worships lawfully worship as he ought?’

‘Of course.’

‘And the man who worships as he ought is religious?’

‘Certainly.’

‘So we may take it that the man who knows what is lawful with regard to the gods would be correctly defined as religious.’

‘That is how it seems to me.’

‘What about people? Is one allowed to treat them just as one likes?’

‘No, here again there are points of law in accordance with which people have to be treated.’

‘Do people who treat one another in accordance with these treat one another as they ought?’

‘Of course.’

‘Do those who treat people as they ought treat them well?’

‘Certainly,’ he said.

‘Do those who treat people well conduct their human affairs well?’

‘Presumably,’ he said.

‘Do those who obey the laws do what is right?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Do you know what is meant by “right”?’

‘What the law commands.’¹

‘So those who do what the law commands do what is right and what they ought to do?’

‘Of course.’

‘Are those who do what is right moral?’

‘I presume so.’

‘Do you think that any people obey the laws without knowing what the laws command?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Do you think that any people who know what they ought to do think that they ought not to do it?’

‘I imagine not.’

‘Do you know of any people who do things other than what they think they ought?’²

‘No, I don’t.’

‘So those who know what is lawful with regard to men do what is right?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Are those who do what is right moral?’

‘Yes, who else could be?’

‘So we should be correct if we defined moral people as those who know what is lawful with regard to men.’

‘I think so.’

‘And how can we define wisdom? Tell me, do you think that a wise man is wise in relation to what he knows, or are some people wise in relation to what they don’t know?’³

‘Obviously they are wise in relation to what they know,’ he replied’How could anyone be wise in relation to what he doesn’t know?’

‘Then are the wise wise because of their knowledge?’

‘What else could make one wise if not knowledge?’

‘And do you think that wisdom is anything other than what makes people wise?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘So wisdom is knowledge.’

‘So it seems to me.’

‘Do you think that it is possible for a human being to know everything that there is?’

‘No, indeed, not even the minutest portion of it.’

‘So it isn’t possible for a human being to be wise in respect of everything?’

‘No, certainly not.’

‘Then every man is wise only in respect of that which he knows.’

‘So it seems to me.’

‘So shall we also investigate goodness, Euthydemus, starting as follows?.’¹

‘How?’ he asked.

‘Do you think that the same thing is beneficial to everyone?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Don’t you think, in fact, that what is beneficial to one person is sometimes harmful to another?’

‘I do indeed.’

‘Would you say that “good” is different from “beneficial”?’

‘No.’

‘So what is beneficial is good for anyone to whom it is beneficial?’

‘I think so.’

‘Can we give any different account of fineness? Can you name a fine body or article or anything else which you know to be fine for all purposes?’

‘No, indeed I can’t,’ he said.

‘Is it proper to use everything for the purpose for which it is useful?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Is a thing fine for any purpose other than that for which it is proper to use it?’

‘No, in relation to nothing else.’

‘So what is useful is fine for the purpose for which it is useful?’

‘So it seems to me.’

‘Next, courage, Euthydemus: do you think that it is a fine thing?’¹

‘I should say that it is a very fine thing.’

‘You don’t consider, then, that courage is useful for the most trivial things?’

‘On the contrary,’ he said, ‘for the most important things.’

‘Does it seem to you that it is useful in relation to dangers and perils to be unaware of them?’

‘Not at all.’

‘So those who are not afraid of such things because they don’t know what they are are not brave?’

‘No, indeed. On that basis a great many lunatics and cowards would be brave.’

‘What about those who fear even what is not dangerous?’

‘Surely, they are even less brave.’

‘Then do you consider that those who are good in relation to perils and dangers are brave, and those who are bad in relation to them are cowardly?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Do you think that anyone is good at these things apart from those who can deal with them well?’

‘No, only those.’

‘And the bad are those who are of the kind to deal with them badly?’

‘Yes, who else?’

‘Do both types deal with them as they think they should?’

‘Yes, how else?’

‘Do those who can’t deal with them well know how they ought to deal with them?’

‘Of course not.’

‘So those who know how they ought to deal with them also have the ability to deal with them?’

‘Yes, and they are the only ones who have.’

‘Well now, do those who are not completely mistaken deal with these situations badly?’

‘I think not,’ he said.

‘So it is those who deal with them badly that are completely mistaken?’

‘Presumably.’

‘So those who know how to deal well with dreadful and dangerous situations are brave, and those who are completely mistaken are cowardly?’

‘So it seems to me,’ he said.

Socrates considered that kingship and despotism were both forms of authority, but differed from each other. He thought that authority with the consent of the people and in accordance with the laws of the State was kingship, whereas authority without consent and in accordance not with the laws but with the whim of the ruler was despotism. Where offices were filled by men who satisfied the legal requirements, he considered the constitution to be an aristocracy; where they were filled in accordance with a property qualification, a plutocracy; and where they were filled by anybody, a democracy.

If anyone was arguing with him about something and had nothing definite to say, but claimed, without proof, that the person he was talking about was the wiser or more statesmanlike or more courageous or – superior in some other such quality, Socrates used to refer the whole argument back to first principles in this sort of way: ‘Do you maintain that the person you are praising is a better citizen than mine?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Then hadn’t we better first consider what is the function of a good citizen?’

‘Let’s do that.’

‘If it were a matter of financial administration, wouldn’t the better man be the one who increased the public revenue?’

‘Certainly.’

‘And in war he would be the one who gave his country the upper hand over its opponents?’

‘Of course.’

‘And in diplomacy the man who makes friends instead of enemies?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Then in politics he is the one who stops civil strife and creates a spirit of unity?’

‘So it seems tome.’

When the argument was referred back to first principles in this way, the truth became apparent to his opponents too. And when he himself was setting out a detailed argument, he used to proceed by such stages as were generally agreed, because he thought that this was the infallible method of argument. Consequently, when he was talking, he used to win the agreement of his audience more than anyone else that I have known. He used to say that Homer himself attributed to Odysseus the quality of being an infallible speaker,¹ because he could base his arguments on the accepted beliefs of his hearers.

It is obvious, I think, from the foregoing account, that Socrates used to reveal his opinions candidly to his companions. I shall now show that he also tried to ensure that they should be self-sufficient in their appropriate activities.

Of all the people that I have known, he was the most concerned to know the extent of any of his associates’ special knowledge, and the most enthusiastic to teach, so far as he was competent, the subjects which a truly good man should know; and where he himself was not well qualified, he put them in touch with experts.

He also instructed them how far a properly educated person should be informed about each subject. For example, he thought that geometry should be learned so far as to enable one, if the occasion arose, to receive or convey or apportion land accurately in point of measurement,¹ or to carry out a task. This, he said, was so easy to learn that a man who applied his mind to the calculation could at one and the same moment know the extent of the ground and carry away the knowledge of how it was measured. But he deprecated taking the learning of geometry as far as figures which are difficult to comprehend. He said that he didn’t see the use of them – although he was not unacquainted with them – and he said that these studies were capable of wasting a man’s life and keeping him from learning many other useful things.

He told them to become acquainted also with astronomy, but here again only so far as to be able to recognize the time of night or month or year, so that by distinguishing their phases they might have evidence to use for a journey or a voyage or guard-duty, or for any other business that is carried out during a night or month or year. This too, he said, was easy to learn from night hunters and pilots and many others whose business it was to know such things. But to learn astronomy to the extent of even acquiring a knowledge of bodies moving in different orbits, such as the planets and other irregularly moving bodies, and to wear oneself out with trying to discover their distances from the earth and their paths and the causes of these – from this he vigorously tried to dissuade them. He said that in these studies too he saw no utility (although he was not uninstructed in them either);² and they too, he said, could waste a man’s life and keep him from much that was profitable.

In general, he dissuaded them from concerning themselves with the way in which God regulates the various heavenly bodies;¹ he thought that these facts were not discoverable by human beings, and he did not consider that a man would please the gods if he pried into things that they had chosen not to reveal. He said that a person who bothered about these things would run the risk of going just as crazy as Anaxagoras,² who prided himself enormously on his exposition of the workings of the gods. When Anaxagoras said that fire and the sun were identical, he was failing to take into account the fact that men can easily look at fire, but cannot fix their gaze upon the sun; and that exposure to the sun makes their skins darker, but exposure to fire does not. He failed also to take into account the fact that no plant can grow properly without sunlight, whereas all plants die when they are heated by fire. And when he said that the sun was a red-hot stone, he also failed to appreciate the fact that, if a stone is placed in a fire, it neither shines nor persists for any length of time, whereas the sun remains all the time the brightest of all things.

Socrates recommended the study of arithmetic; but here too, just as in the case of the other subjects, he told his companions to guard against purposeless research; and he himself helped them in their investigations and explanations only so far as was useful.

He also strongly encouraged his companions to be careful about their health, and not only to learn all that they could about it from those who knew, but also to study their own constitutions throughout life to see what food or drink or what kind of exercise was good for them individually, and by what use of these they could live the healthiest lives. He said that anyone who observed himself in this way would find it hard to discover a doctor who could recognize what was good for his health better than he could himself.³

If anyone wanted help beyond the resources of human wisdom, he advised him to take up divination. A man who knew the means by which the gods communicated to men about events, he said, was never in lack of divine counsel.

If anyone thinks that Socrates was convicted of making a false claim about the divine because he was condemned to death by the jury even although he claimed that the divine communicated to him in advance what he ought and ought not to do,¹ let him reflect, first, that Socrates was already so far advanced in age that he would soon have reached the end of his life, even if he had not done so then; and second, that he escaped the most disagreeable part of life, in which everybody’s intellect deteriorates, and instead of this displayed his strength of mind and won distinction by pleading his cause with unparalleled veracity, dignity and integrity, and by facing the death-sentence with the utmost serenity and fortitude.

It is generally agreed that no one in the memory of man has ever met his death more nobly. He had to live on for thirty days after his trial, because the festival of Delos ² fell in that month, and the law does not permit any publicly sanctioned execution until the mission has returned from Delos. It was evident to his intimate friends that during this time he did not deviate at all from his former way of life – and he had previously been remarkable above all men for the cheerfulness and equanimity of his life. How could anyone die more nobly than this? What death could be nobler than a death most nobly accepted? What death could be more happy than the noblest? And who could be more beloved of the gods than the happiest?

I shall relate also what I heard about him from Hermogenes the son of Hipponicus. He said that, after Meletus had already laid his indictment, he heard Socrates discussing anything rather than the trial and told him that he ought to be considering his defence. At first Socrates said, ‘Don’t you think that my whole life has been a preparation for it?’ And when Hermogenes asked him how, he replied that he had spent all his time in studying nothing but questions of right and wrong, doing what was right and refraining from what was wrong; and he considered that this was the finest preparation for a defence. Then Hermogenes tried another tack: ‘Don’t you see, Socrates, that the jurors at Athens have often before now been prevailed upon by argument to put innocent men to death and to acquit guilty ones?’

‘Yes, but as a matter of fact, Hermogenes,’ he said, ‘when I was trying to consider my defence before the jury, the divine opposed me straight away.’

‘That’s remarkable,’ said Hermogenes.

Socrates answered, ‘Do you think it’s remarkable that God should decide that it is better for me to end my life now? Don’t you realize that up to now I would not have conceded to anyone that he had lived a better or more pleasant life than I? For I believe that the best life is lived by those who take the best care to make themselves as good as possible, and the pleasantest life by those who are most conscious that they are becoming better. Up to the present time I have felt that this was happening to me, and, in my contacts with other people and in comparing myself with others, I have invariably come to this conclusion about myself. And not only I, but my friends have always come to this conclusion, not because they love me (because if that were all, everyone who is fond of someone else would come to the same conclusion about his friends), but because they believe that they are likely to improve most by associating with me. But if I go on living, I shall probably have to pay the penalties of old age: my vision, hearing and intelligence will become impaired; I shall become in consequence slower to learn and more forgetful, and inferior to those to whom I used to be superior. Now, even if one were unconscious of this, life would not be worth living; and when one is conscious of it, surely it must make one’s life worse and more disagreeable. Then again, if I am wrongly executed, this may be discreditable to those who wrongly put me to death, because if it is shameful to do wrong, it is surely shameful to do anything wrongly; but what disgrace is it to me if other people fail to decide or act rightly with regard to me? I see also that the reputation left to posterity by the dead is not the same for the doers as for the sufferers of wrong. I know that, even if I die now, people will regard me and those who put me to death in different lights; for I know that it will always be testified of me that I never wronged anybody or made anybody a worse person, but always tried to make my associates better people.’

This was what he said in conversation with Hermogenes and the rest. Of those who knew what Socrates was like, all who have virtue as their goal continue still to miss him more than anything, because they feel that he was their greatest help in the cultivation of virtue.

In my experience, Socrates was, as I have described him, so devout that he never did anything without the sanction of the gods; so upright that he never did the slightest harm to anybody, but conferred the greatest benefits upon those who associated with him; so self-disciplined that he never chose the more pleasant course instead of the better; so wise that he never made a mistake in deciding between better and worse, and needed no advice, but was self-sufficient for such decisions; he was capable of explaining and defining such matters, and capable moreover of both assessing and refuting errors and encouraging people towards virtue and true goodness. In view of these qualities, he seemed to me to be the perfect example of goodness and happiness.

If anyone disapproves of this assessment, let him compare other people’s characters with these qualities, and then make his own decision.