Then he, or any man who has the spirit of philosophy, will be willing to
die, but he will not take his own life, for that is held to be unlawful.
Here he changed his position, and put his legs off the couch on to the
ground, and during the rest of the conversation he remained sitting.
Why do you say, enquired Cebes, that a man ought not to take his own
life, but that the philosopher will be ready to follow the dying?
Socrates replied: And have you, Cebes and Simmias, who are the disciples
of Philolaus, never heard him speak of this?
Yes, but his language was obscure, Socrates.
My words, too, are only an echo; but there is no reason why I should not
repeat what I have heard: and indeed, as I am going to another place,
it is very meet for me to be thinking and talking of the nature of
the pilgrimage which I am about to make. What can I do better in the
interval between this and the setting of the sun?
Then tell me, Socrates, why is suicide held to be unlawful? as I have
certainly heard Philolaus, about whom you were just now asking, affirm
when he was staying with us at Thebes: and there are others who say the
same, although I have never understood what was meant by any of them.
Do not lose heart, replied Socrates, and the day may come when you will
understand. I suppose that you wonder why, when other things which are
evil may be good at certain times and to certain persons, death is to
be the only exception, and why, when a man is better dead, he is not
permitted to be his own benefactor, but must wait for the hand of
another.
Very true, said Cebes, laughing gently and speaking in his native
Boeotian.
I admit the appearance of inconsistency in what I am saying; but
there may not be any real inconsistency after all. There is a doctrine
whispered in secret that man is a prisoner who has no right to open
the door and run away; this is a great mystery which I do not quite
understand. Yet I too believe that the gods are our guardians, and that
we are a possession of theirs. Do you not agree?
Yes, I quite agree, said Cebes.
And if one of your own possessions, an ox or an ass, for example, took
the liberty of putting himself out of the way when you had given no
intimation of your wish that he should die, would you not be angry with
him, and would you not punish him if you could?
Certainly, replied Cebes.
Then, if we look at the matter thus, there may be reason in saying that
a man should wait, and not take his own life until God summons him, as
he is now summoning me.
Yes, Socrates, said Cebes, there seems to be truth in what you say. And
yet how can you reconcile this seemingly true belief that God is our
guardian and we his possessions, with the willingness to die which we
were just now attributing to the philosopher? That the wisest of men
should be willing to leave a service in which they are ruled by the gods
who are the best of rulers, is not reasonable; for surely no wise man
thinks that when set at liberty he can take better care of himself than
the gods take of him. A fool may perhaps think so--he may argue that he
had better run away from his master, not considering that his duty is
to remain to the end, and not to run away from the good, and that there
would be no sense in his running away. The wise man will want to be ever
with him who is better than himself. Now this, Socrates, is the reverse
of what was just now said; for upon this view the wise man should sorrow
and the fool rejoice at passing out of life.
The earnestness of Cebes seemed to please Socrates. Here, said he,
turning to us, is a man who is always inquiring, and is not so easily
convinced by the first thing which he hears.
And certainly, added Simmias, the objection which he is now making does
appear to me to have some force. For what can be the meaning of a truly
wise man wanting to fly away and lightly leave a master who is better
than himself? And I rather imagine that Cebes is referring to you; he
thinks that you are too ready to leave us, and too ready to leave the
gods whom you acknowledge to be our good masters.
Yes, replied Socrates; there is reason in what you say. And so you think
that I ought to answer your indictment as if I were in a court?
We should like you to do so, said Simmias.
Then I must try to make a more successful defence before you than I
did when before the judges. For I am quite ready to admit, Simmias and
Cebes, that I ought to be grieved at death, if I were not persuaded in
the first place that I am going to other gods who are wise and good (of
which I am as certain as I can be of any such matters), and secondly
(though I am not so sure of this last) to men departed, better than
those whom I leave behind; and therefore I do not grieve as I might have
done, for I have good hope that there is yet something remaining for the
dead, and as has been said of old, some far better thing for the good
than for the evil.
But do you mean to take away your thoughts with you, Socrates? said
Simmias. Will you not impart them to us?--for they are a benefit
in which we too are entitled to share. Moreover, if you succeed in
convincing us, that will be an answer to the charge against yourself.
I will do my best, replied Socrates. But you must first let me hear what
Crito wants; he has long been wishing to say something to me.
Only this, Socrates, replied Crito:--the attendant who is to give you
the poison has been telling me, and he wants me to tell you, that you
are not to talk much, talking, he says, increases heat, and this is
apt to interfere with the action of the poison; persons who excite
themselves are sometimes obliged to take a second or even a third dose.
Then, said Socrates, let him mind his business and be prepared to give
the poison twice or even thrice if necessary; that is all.
I knew quite well what you would say, replied Crito; but I was obliged
to satisfy him.
Never mind him, he said.
And now, O my judges, I desire to prove to you that the real philosopher
has reason to be of good cheer when he is about to die, and that after
death he may hope to obtain the greatest good in the other world. And
how this may be, Simmias and Cebes, I will endeavour to explain. For I
deem that the true votary of philosophy is likely to be misunderstood
by other men; they do not perceive that he is always pursuing death and
dying; and if this be so, and he has had the desire of death all his
life long, why when his time comes should he repine at that which he has
been always pursuing and desiring?
Simmias said laughingly: Though not in a laughing humour, you have made
me laugh, Socrates; for I cannot help thinking that the many when they
hear your words will say how truly you have described philosophers, and
our people at home will likewise say that the life which philosophers
desire is in reality death, and that they have found them out to be
deserving of the death which they desire.
And they are right, Simmias, in thinking so, with the exception of the
words 'they have found them out'; for they have not found out either
what is the nature of that death which the true philosopher deserves,
or how he deserves or desires death. But enough of them:--let us discuss
the matter among ourselves: Do we believe that there is such a thing as
death?
To be sure, replied Simmias.
Is it not the separation of soul and body? And to be dead is the
completion of this; when the soul exists in herself, and is released
from the body and the body is released from the soul, what is this but
death?
Just so, he replied.
There is another question, which will probably throw light on our
present inquiry if you and I can agree about it:--Ought the philosopher
to care about the pleasures--if they are to be called pleasures--of
eating and drinking?
Certainly not, answered Simmias.
And what about the pleasures of love--should he care for them?
By no means.
And will he think much of the other ways of indulging the body, for
example, the acquisition of costly raiment, or sandals, or other
adornments of the body? Instead of caring about them, does he not rather
despise anything more than nature needs? What do you say?