confidence, and the vital heat returned. Such, Charmides, I said, is the
nature of the charm, which I learned when serving with the army from one
of the physicians of the Thracian king Zamolxis, who are said to be so
skilful that they can even give immortality. This Thracian told me that
in these notions of theirs, which I was just now mentioning, the Greek
physicians are quite right as far as they go; but Zamolxis, he added,
our king, who is also a god, says further, 'that as you ought not to
attempt to cure the eyes without the head, or the head without the body,
so neither ought you to attempt to cure the body without the soul; and
this,' he said, 'is the reason why the cure of many diseases is unknown
to the physicians of Hellas, because they are ignorant of the whole,
which ought to be studied also; for the part can never be well unless
the whole is well.' For all good and evil, whether in the body or in
human nature, originates, as he declared, in the soul, and overflows
from thence, as if from the head into the eyes. And therefore if the
head and body are to be well, you must begin by curing the soul; that is
the first thing. And the cure, my dear youth, has to be effected by
the use of certain charms, and these charms are fair words; and by them
temperance is implanted in the soul, and where temperance is, there
health is speedily imparted, not only to the head, but to the whole
body. And he who taught me the cure and the charm at the same time added
a special direction: 'Let no one,' he said, 'persuade you to cure the
head, until he has first given you his soul to be cured by the charm.
For this,' he said, 'is the great error of our day in the treatment of
the human body, that physicians separate the soul from the body.' And he
added with emphasis, at the same time making me swear to his words, 'Let
no one, however rich, or noble, or fair, persuade you to give him the
cure, without the charm.' Now I have sworn, and I must keep my oath, and
therefore if you will allow me to apply the Thracian charm first to your
soul, as the stranger directed, I will afterwards proceed to apply the
cure to your head. But if not, I do not know what I am to do with you,
my dear Charmides.
Critias, when he heard this, said: The headache will be an unexpected
gain to my young relation, if the pain in his head compels him to
improve his mind: and I can tell you, Socrates, that Charmides is not
only pre-eminent in beauty among his equals, but also in that quality
which is given by the charm; and this, as you say, is temperance?
Yes, I said.
Then let me tell you that he is the most temperate of human beings, and
for his age inferior to none in any quality.
Yes, I said, Charmides; and indeed I think that you ought to excel
others in all good qualities; for if I am not mistaken there is no one
present who could easily point out two Athenian houses, whose union
would be likely to produce a better or nobler scion than the two from
which you are sprung. There is your father's house, which is descended
from Critias the son of Dropidas, whose family has been commemorated
in the panegyrical verses of Anacreon, Solon, and many other poets,
as famous for beauty and virtue and all other high fortune: and your
mother's house is equally distinguished; for your maternal uncle,
Pyrilampes, is reputed never to have found his equal, in Persia at the
court of the great king, or on the continent of Asia, in all the places
to which he went as ambassador, for stature and beauty; that whole
family is not a whit inferior to the other. Having such ancestors you
ought to be first in all things, and, sweet son of Glaucon, your outward
form is no dishonour to any of them. If to beauty you add temperance,
and if in other respects you are what Critias declares you to be, then,
dear Charmides, blessed art thou, in being the son of thy mother. And
here lies the point; for if, as he declares, you have this gift of
temperance already, and are temperate enough, in that case you have no
need of any charms, whether of Zamolxis or of Abaris the Hyperborean,
and I may as well let you have the cure of the head at once; but if you
have not yet acquired this quality, I must use the charm before I give
you the medicine. Please, therefore, to inform me whether you admit the
truth of what Critias has been saying;--have you or have you not this
quality of temperance?
Charmides blushed, and the blush heightened his beauty, for modesty is
becoming in youth; he then said very ingenuously, that he really could
not at once answer, either yes, or no, to the question which I had
asked: For, said he, if I affirm that I am not temperate, that would be
a strange thing for me to say of myself, and also I should give the
lie to Critias, and many others who think as he tells you, that I am
temperate: but, on the other hand, if I say that I am, I shall have to
praise myself, which would be ill manners; and therefore I do not know
how to answer you.
I said to him: That is a natural reply, Charmides, and I think that
you and I ought together to enquire whether you have this quality about
which I am asking or not; and then you will not be compelled to say what
you do not like; neither shall I be a rash practitioner of medicine:
therefore, if you please, I will share the enquiry with you, but I will
not press you if you would rather not.
There is nothing which I should like better, he said; and as far as I am
concerned you may proceed in the way which you think best.
I think, I said, that I had better begin by asking you a question; for
if temperance abides in you, you must have an opinion about her; she
must give some intimation of her nature and qualities, which may enable
you to form a notion of her. Is not that true?
Yes, he said, that I think is true.
You know your native language, I said, and therefore you must be able to
tell what you feel about this.
Certainly, he said.
In order, then, that I may form a conjecture whether you have temperance
abiding in you or not, tell me, I said, what, in your opinion, is
Temperance?
At first he hesitated, and was very unwilling to answer: then he said
that he thought temperance was doing things orderly and quietly, such
things for example as walking in the streets, and talking, or anything
else of that nature. In a word, he said, I should answer that, in my
opinion, temperance is quietness.
Are you right, Charmides? I said. No doubt some would affirm that the
quiet are the temperate; but let us see whether these words have any
meaning; and first tell me whether you would not acknowledge temperance
to be of the class of the noble and good?
Yes.
But which is best when you are at the writing-master's, to write the
same letters quickly or quietly?
Quickly.
And to read quickly or slowly?
Quickly again.
And in playing the lyre, or wrestling, quickness or sharpness are far
better than quietness and slowness?
Yes.
And the same holds in boxing and in the pancratium?
Certainly.
And in leaping and running and in bodily exercises generally, quickness
and agility are good; slowness, and inactivity, and quietness, are bad?
That is evident.
Then, I said, in all bodily actions, not quietness, but the greatest
agility and quickness, is noblest and best?
Yes, certainly.
And is temperance a good?
Yes.
Then, in reference to the body, not quietness, but quickness will be the
higher degree of temperance, if temperance is a good?
True, he said.
And which, I said, is better--facility in learning, or difficulty in
learning?
Facility.
Yes, I said; and facility in learning is learning quickly, and
difficulty in learning is learning quietly and slowly?
True.
And is it not better to teach another quickly and energetically, rather
than quietly and slowly?
Yes.
And which is better, to call to mind, and to remember, quickly and
readily, or quietly and slowly?
The former.
And is not shrewdness a quickness or cleverness of the soul, and not a
quietness?
True.
And is it not best to understand what is said, whether at the
writing-master's or the music-master's, or anywhere else, not as quietly
as possible, but as quickly as possible?
Yes.
And in the searchings or deliberations of the soul, not the quietest,
as I imagine, and he who with difficulty deliberates and discovers, is
thought worthy of praise, but he who does so most easily and quickly?
Quite true, he said.
And in all that concerns either body or soul, swiftness and activity are
clearly better than slowness and quietness?
Clearly they are.
Then temperance is not quietness, nor is the temperate life
quiet,--certainly not upon this view; for the life which is temperate is
supposed to be the good. And of two things, one is true,--either never,
or very seldom, do the quiet actions in life appear to be better than
the quick and energetic ones; or supposing that of the nobler actions,
there are as many quiet, as quick and vehement: still, even if we grant
this, temperance will not be acting quietly any more than acting quickly
and energetically, either in walking or talking or in anything else;
nor will the quiet life be more temperate than the unquiet, seeing that
temperance is admitted by us to be a good and noble thing, and the quick
have been shown to be as good as the quiet.
I think, he said, Socrates, that you are right.
Then once more, Charmides, I said, fix your attention, and look within;
consider the effect which temperance has upon yourself, and the nature
of that which has the effect. Think over all this, and, like a brave
youth, tell me--What is temperance?
After a moment's pause, in which he made a real manly effort to think,
he said: My opinion is, Socrates, that temperance makes a man ashamed or
modest, and that temperance is the same as modesty.
Very good, I said; and did you not admit, just now, that temperance is
noble?
Yes, certainly, he said.
And the temperate are also good?
Yes.
And can that be good which does not make men good?
Certainly not.
And you would infer that temperance is not only noble, but also good?
That is my opinion.
Well, I said; but surely you would agree with Homer when he says,
'Modesty is not good for a needy man'?
Yes, he said; I agree.
Then I suppose that modesty is and is not good?
Clearly.
But temperance, whose presence makes men only good, and not bad, is
always good?
That appears to me to be as you say.
And the inference is that temperance cannot be modesty--if temperance is
a good, and if modesty is as much an evil as a good?
All that, Socrates, appears to me to be true; but I should like to know
what you think about another definition of temperance, which I just
now remember to have heard from some one, who said, 'That temperance is
doing our own business.' Was he right who affirmed that?
You monster! I said; this is what Critias, or some philosopher has told
you.
Some one else, then, said Critias; for certainly I have not.
But what matter, said Charmides, from whom I heard this?
No matter at all, I replied; for the point is not who said the words,
but whether they are true or not.
There you are in the right, Socrates, he replied.
To be sure, I said; yet I doubt whether we shall ever be able to
discover their truth or falsehood; for they are a kind of riddle.
What makes you think so? he said.
Because, I said, he who uttered them seems to me to have meant one
thing, and said another. Is the scribe, for example, to be regarded as
doing nothing when he reads or writes?
I should rather think that he was doing something.
And does the scribe write or read, or teach you boys to write or read,
your own names only, or did you write your enemies' names as well as
your own and your friends'?
As much one as the other.
And was there anything meddling or intemperate in this?
Certainly not.
And yet if reading and writing are the same as doing, you were doing
what was not your own business?
But they are the same as doing.
And the healing art, my friend, and building, and weaving, and doing
anything whatever which is done by art,--these all clearly come under
the head of doing?
Certainly.
And do you think that a state would be well ordered by a law which
compelled every man to weave and wash his own coat, and make his own
shoes, and his own flask and strigil, and other implements, on this
principle of every one doing and performing his own, and abstaining from
what is not his own?
I think not, he said.
But, I said, a temperate state will be a well-ordered state.
Of course, he replied.
Then temperance, I said, will not be doing one's own business; not at
least in this way, or doing things of this sort?
Clearly not.
Then, as I was just now saying, he who declared that temperance is a man
doing his own business had another and a hidden meaning; for I do not
think that he could have been such a fool as to mean this. Was he a fool
who told you, Charmides?
Nay, he replied, I certainly thought him a very wise man.
Then I am quite certain that he put forth his definition as a riddle,
thinking that no one would know the meaning of the words 'doing his own
business.'
I dare say, he replied.
And what is the meaning of a man doing his own business? Can you tell
me?
Indeed, I cannot; and I should not wonder if the man himself who used
this phrase did not understand what he was saying. Whereupon he laughed
slyly, and looked at Critias.
Critias had long been showing uneasiness, for he felt that he had a
reputation to maintain with Charmides and the rest of the company. He
had, however, hitherto managed to restrain himself; but now he could no
longer forbear, and I am convinced of the truth of the suspicion which
I entertained at the time, that Charmides had heard this answer about
temperance from Critias. And Charmides, who did not want to answer
himself, but to make Critias answer, tried to stir him up. He went on
pointing out that he had been refuted, at which Critias grew angry, and
appeared, as I thought, inclined to quarrel with him; just as a poet
might quarrel with an actor who spoiled his poems in repeating them; so
he looked hard at him and said--
Do you imagine, Charmides, that the author of this definition of
temperance did not understand the meaning of his own words, because you
do not understand them?
Why, at his age, I said, most excellent Critias, he can hardly be
expected to understand; but you, who are older, and have studied, may
well be assumed to know the meaning of them; and therefore, if you agree
with him, and accept his definition of temperance, I would much rather
argue with you than with him about the truth or falsehood of the
definition.
I entirely agree, said Critias, and accept the definition.
Very good, I said; and now let me repeat my question--Do you admit, as I
was just now saying, that all craftsmen make or do something?
I do.
And do they make or do their own business only, or that of others also?
They make or do that of others also.
And are they temperate, seeing that they make not for themselves or
their own business only?
Why not? he said.
No objection on my part, I said, but there may be a difficulty on his
who proposes as a definition of temperance, 'doing one's own business,'
and then says that there is no reason why those who do the business of
others should not be temperate.
Nay (The English reader has to observe that the word 'make' (Greek),
in Greek, has also the sense of 'do' (Greek).), said he; did I ever
acknowledge that those who do the business of others are temperate? I
said, those who make, not those who do.
What! I asked; do you mean to say that doing and making are not the
same?
No more, he replied, than making or working are the same; thus much I
have learned from Hesiod, who says that 'work is no disgrace.' Now do
you imagine that if he had meant by working and doing such things as
you were describing, he would have said that there was no disgrace in
them--for example, in the manufacture of shoes, or in selling pickles,
or sitting for hire in a house of ill-fame? That, Socrates, is not to be
supposed: but I conceive him to have distinguished making from doing
and work; and, while admitting that the making anything might sometimes
become a disgrace, when the employment was not honourable, to have
thought that work was never any disgrace at all. For things nobly and
usefully made he called works; and such makings he called workings, and
doings; and he must be supposed to have called such things only man's
proper business, and what is hurtful, not his business: and in that
sense Hesiod, and any other wise man, may be reasonably supposed to call
him wise who does his own work.
O Critias, I said, no sooner had you opened your mouth, than I pretty
well knew that you would call that which is proper to a man, and that
which is his own, good; and that the makings (Greek) of the good
you would call doings (Greek), for I am no stranger to the endless
distinctions which Prodicus draws about names. Now I have no objection
to your giving names any signification which you please, if you will
only tell me what you mean by them. Please then to begin again, and be
a little plainer. Do you mean that this doing or making, or whatever is
the word which you would use, of good actions, is temperance?
I do, he said.
Then not he who does evil, but he who does good, is temperate?
Yes, he said; and you, friend, would agree.
No matter whether I should or not; just now, not what I think, but what
you are saying, is the point at issue.
Well, he answered; I mean to say, that he who does evil, and not good,
is not temperate; and that he is temperate who does good, and not evil:
for temperance I define in plain words to be the doing of good actions.
And you may be very likely right in what you are saying; but I am
curious to know whether you imagine that temperate men are ignorant of
their own temperance?
I do not think so, he said.
And yet were you not saying, just now, that craftsmen might be temperate
in doing another's work, as well as in doing their own?
I was, he replied; but what is your drift?
I have no particular drift, but I wish that you would tell me whether a
physician who cures a patient may do good to himself and good to another
also?
I think that he may.
And he who does so does his duty?
Yes.
And does not he who does his duty act temperately or wisely?
Yes, he acts wisely.
But must the physician necessarily know when his treatment is likely to
prove beneficial, and when not? or must the craftsman necessarily know
when he is likely to be benefited, and when not to be benefited, by the
work which he is doing?
I suppose not.
Then, I said, he may sometimes do good or harm, and not know what he
is himself doing, and yet, in doing good, as you say, he has done
temperately or wisely. Was not that your statement?
Yes.
Then, as would seem, in doing good, he may act wisely or temperately,
and be wise or temperate, but not know his own wisdom or temperance?
But that, Socrates, he said, is impossible; and therefore if this is, as
you imply, the necessary consequence of any of my previous admissions,
I will withdraw them, rather than admit that a man can be temperate or
wise who does not know himself; and I am not ashamed to confess that I
was in error. For self-knowledge would certainly be maintained by me
to be the very essence of knowledge, and in this I agree with him who
dedicated the inscription, 'Know thyself!' at Delphi. That word, if I
am not mistaken, is put there as a sort of salutation which the god
addresses to those who enter the temple; as much as to say that the
ordinary salutation of 'Hail!' is not right, and that the exhortation
'Be temperate!' would be a far better way of saluting one another. The
notion of him who dedicated the inscription was, as I believe, that the
god speaks to those who enter his temple, not as men speak; but, when
a worshipper enters, the first word which he hears is 'Be temperate!'
This, however, like a prophet he expresses in a sort of riddle, for
'Know thyself!' and 'Be temperate!' are the same, as I maintain, and as
the letters imply (Greek), and yet they may be easily misunderstood;
and succeeding sages who added 'Never too much,' or, 'Give a pledge, and
evil is nigh at hand,' would appear to have so misunderstood them; for
they imagined that 'Know thyself!' was a piece of advice which the god
gave, and not his salutation of the worshippers at their first coming
in; and they dedicated their own inscription under the idea that they
too would give equally useful pieces of advice. Shall I tell you,
Socrates, why I say all this? My object is to leave the previous
discussion (in which I know not whether you or I are more right, but, at
any rate, no clear result was attained), and to raise a new one in which
I will attempt to prove, if you deny, that temperance is self-knowledge.
Yes, I said, Critias; but you come to me as though I professed to know
about the questions which I ask, and as though I could, if I only would,
agree with you. Whereas the fact is that I enquire with you into the
truth of that which is advanced from time to time, just because I do not
know; and when I have enquired, I will say whether I agree with you or
not. Please then to allow me time to reflect.
Reflect, he said.
I am reflecting, I replied, and discover that temperance, or wisdom, if
implying a knowledge of anything, must be a science, and a science of
something.
Yes, he said; the science of itself.
Is not medicine, I said, the science of health?
True.
And suppose, I said, that I were asked by you what is the use or effect
of medicine, which is this science of health, I should answer that
medicine is of very great use in producing health, which, as you will
admit, is an excellent effect.
Granted.
And if you were to ask me, what is the result or effect of architecture,
which is the science of building, I should say houses, and so of other
arts, which all have their different results. Now I want you, Critias,
to answer a similar question about temperance, or wisdom, which,
according to you, is the science of itself. Admitting this view, I ask
of you, what good work, worthy of the name wise, does temperance or
wisdom, which is the science of itself, effect? Answer me.
That is not the true way of pursuing the enquiry, Socrates, he said; for
wisdom is not like the other sciences, any more than they are like one
another: but you proceed as if they were alike. For tell me, he said,
what result is there of computation or geometry, in the same sense as a
house is the result of building, or a garment of weaving, or any other
work of any other art? Can you show me any such result of them? You
cannot.
That is true, I said; but still each of these sciences has a subject
which is different from the science. I can show you that the art of
computation has to do with odd and even numbers in their numerical
relations to themselves and to each other. Is not that true?
Yes, he said.
And the odd and even numbers are not the same with the art of
computation?
They are not.
The art of weighing, again, has to do with lighter and heavier; but the
art of weighing is one thing, and the heavy and the light another. Do
you admit that?
Yes.
Now, I want to know, what is that which is not wisdom, and of which
wisdom is the science?
You are just falling into the old error, Socrates, he said. You come
asking in what wisdom or temperance differs from the other sciences, and
then you try to discover some respect in which they are alike; but they
are not, for all the other sciences are of something else, and not of
themselves; wisdom alone is a science of other sciences, and of itself.
And of this, as I believe, you are very well aware: and that you are
only doing what you denied that you were doing just now, trying to
refute me, instead of pursuing the argument.
And what if I am? How can you think that I have any other motive in
refuting you but what I should have in examining into myself? which
motive would be just a fear of my unconsciously fancying that I knew
something of which I was ignorant. And at this moment I pursue the
argument chiefly for my own sake, and perhaps in some degree also for
the sake of my other friends. For is not the discovery of things as they
truly are, a good common to all mankind?
Yes, certainly, Socrates, he said.
Then, I said, be cheerful, sweet sir, and give your opinion in answer to
the question which I asked, never minding whether Critias or Socrates is
the person refuted; attend only to the argument, and see what will come
of the refutation.
I think that you are right, he replied; and I will do as you say.
Tell me, then, I said, what you mean to affirm about wisdom.
I mean to say that wisdom is the only science which is the science of
itself as well as of the other sciences.
But the science of science, I said, will also be the science of the
absence of science.
Very true, he said.