And those who have chosen the portion of injustice, and tyranny, and
violence, will pass into wolves, or into hawks and kites;--whither else
can we suppose them to go?
Yes, said Cebes; with such natures, beyond question.
And there is no difficulty, he said, in assigning to all of them places
answering to their several natures and propensities?
There is not, he said.
Some are happier than others; and the happiest both in themselves and
in the place to which they go are those who have practised the civil and
social virtues which are called temperance and justice, and are acquired
by habit and attention without philosophy and mind. (Compare Republic.)
Why are they the happiest?
Because they may be expected to pass into some gentle and social kind
which is like their own, such as bees or wasps or ants, or back again
into the form of man, and just and moderate men may be supposed to
spring from them.
Very likely.
No one who has not studied philosophy and who is not entirely pure at
the time of his departure is allowed to enter the company of the Gods,
but the lover of knowledge only. And this is the reason, Simmias and
Cebes, why the true votaries of philosophy abstain from all fleshly
lusts, and hold out against them and refuse to give themselves up to
them,--not because they fear poverty or the ruin of their families, like
the lovers of money, and the world in general; nor like the lovers of
power and honour, because they dread the dishonour or disgrace of evil
deeds.
No, Socrates, that would not become them, said Cebes.
No indeed, he replied; and therefore they who have any care of their
own souls, and do not merely live moulding and fashioning the body, say
farewell to all this; they will not walk in the ways of the blind: and
when philosophy offers them purification and release from evil, they
feel that they ought not to resist her influence, and whither she leads
they turn and follow.
What do you mean, Socrates?
I will tell you, he said. The lovers of knowledge are conscious that
the soul was simply fastened and glued to the body--until philosophy
received her, she could only view real existence through the bars of
a prison, not in and through herself; she was wallowing in the mire of
every sort of ignorance; and by reason of lust had become the principal
accomplice in her own captivity. This was her original state; and
then, as I was saying, and as the lovers of knowledge are well aware,
philosophy, seeing how terrible was her confinement, of which she was
to herself the cause, received and gently comforted her and sought to
release her, pointing out that the eye and the ear and the other senses
are full of deception, and persuading her to retire from them, and
abstain from all but the necessary use of them, and be gathered up and
collected into herself, bidding her trust in herself and her own pure
apprehension of pure existence, and to mistrust whatever comes to her
through other channels and is subject to variation; for such things
are visible and tangible, but what she sees in her own nature is
intelligible and invisible. And the soul of the true philosopher thinks
that she ought not to resist this deliverance, and therefore abstains
from pleasures and desires and pains and fears, as far as she is
able; reflecting that when a man has great joys or sorrows or fears or
desires, he suffers from them, not merely the sort of evil which might
be anticipated--as for example, the loss of his health or property which
he has sacrificed to his lusts--but an evil greater far, which is the
greatest and worst of all evils, and one of which he never thinks.
What is it, Socrates? said Cebes.
The evil is that when the feeling of pleasure or pain is most intense,
every soul of man imagines the objects of this intense feeling to be
then plainest and truest: but this is not so, they are really the things
of sight.
Very true.
And is not this the state in which the soul is most enthralled by the
body?
How so?
Why, because each pleasure and pain is a sort of nail which nails
and rivets the soul to the body, until she becomes like the body, and
believes that to be true which the body affirms to be true; and from
agreeing with the body and having the same delights she is obliged to
have the same habits and haunts, and is not likely ever to be pure at
her departure to the world below, but is always infected by the body;
and so she sinks into another body and there germinates and grows,
and has therefore no part in the communion of the divine and pure and
simple.
Most true, Socrates, answered Cebes.
And this, Cebes, is the reason why the true lovers of knowledge are
temperate and brave; and not for the reason which the world gives.
Certainly not.
Certainly not! The soul of a philosopher will reason in quite another
way; she will not ask philosophy to release her in order that when
released she may deliver herself up again to the thraldom of pleasures
and pains, doing a work only to be undone again, weaving instead of
unweaving her Penelope's web. But she will calm passion, and follow
reason, and dwell in the contemplation of her, beholding the true
and divine (which is not matter of opinion), and thence deriving
nourishment. Thus she seeks to live while she lives, and after death she
hopes to go to her own kindred and to that which is like her, and to be
freed from human ills. Never fear, Simmias and Cebes, that a soul which
has been thus nurtured and has had these pursuits, will at her departure
from the body be scattered and blown away by the winds and be nowhere
and nothing.
When Socrates had done speaking, for a considerable time there was
silence; he himself appeared to be meditating, as most of us were, on
what had been said; only Cebes and Simmias spoke a few words to one
another. And Socrates observing them asked what they thought of the
argument, and whether there was anything wanting? For, said he, there
are many points still open to suspicion and attack, if any one were
disposed to sift the matter thoroughly. Should you be considering
some other matter I say no more, but if you are still in doubt do not
hesitate to say exactly what you think, and let us have anything better
which you can suggest; and if you think that I can be of any use, allow
me to help you.
Simmias said: I must confess, Socrates, that doubts did arise in our
minds, and each of us was urging and inciting the other to put the
question which we wanted to have answered and which neither of us liked
to ask, fearing that our importunity might be troublesome under present
at such a time.
Socrates replied with a smile: O Simmias, what are you saying? I am
not very likely to persuade other men that I do not regard my present
situation as a misfortune, if I cannot even persuade you that I am no
worse off now than at any other time in my life. Will you not allow that
I have as much of the spirit of prophecy in me as the swans? For they,
when they perceive that they must die, having sung all their life long,
do then sing more lustily than ever, rejoicing in the thought that
they are about to go away to the god whose ministers they are. But men,
because they are themselves afraid of death, slanderously affirm of the
swans that they sing a lament at the last, not considering that no bird
sings when cold, or hungry, or in pain, not even the nightingale, nor
the swallow, nor yet the hoopoe; which are said indeed to tune a lay of
sorrow, although I do not believe this to be true of them any more than
of the swans. But because they are sacred to Apollo, they have the gift
of prophecy, and anticipate the good things of another world, wherefore
they sing and rejoice in that day more than they ever did before. And I
too, believing myself to be the consecrated servant of the same God, and
the fellow-servant of the swans, and thinking that I have received from
my master gifts of prophecy which are not inferior to theirs, would not
go out of life less merrily than the swans. Never mind then, if this be
your only objection, but speak and ask anything which you like, while
the eleven magistrates of Athens allow.
Very good, Socrates, said Simmias; then I will tell you my difficulty,
and Cebes will tell you his. I feel myself, (and I daresay that you have
the same feeling), how hard or rather impossible is the attainment of
any certainty about questions such as these in the present life. And yet
I should deem him a coward who did not prove what is said about them to
the uttermost, or whose heart failed him before he had examined them
on every side. For he should persevere until he has achieved one of two
things: either he should discover, or be taught the truth about them;
or, if this be impossible, I would have him take the best and most
irrefragable of human theories, and let this be the raft upon which he
sails through life--not without risk, as I admit, if he cannot find some
word of God which will more surely and safely carry him. And now, as
you bid me, I will venture to question you, and then I shall not have to
reproach myself hereafter with not having said at the time what I think.
For when I consider the matter, either alone or with Cebes, the argument
does certainly appear to me, Socrates, to be not sufficient.
Socrates answered: I dare say, my friend, that you may be right, but I
should like to know in what respect the argument is insufficient.
In this respect, replied Simmias:--Suppose a person to use the same
argument about harmony and the lyre--might he not say that harmony is
a thing invisible, incorporeal, perfect, divine, existing in the lyre
which is harmonized, but that the lyre and the strings are matter and
material, composite, earthy, and akin to mortality? And when some one
breaks the lyre, or cuts and rends the strings, then he who takes this
view would argue as you do, and on the same analogy, that the harmony
survives and has not perished--you cannot imagine, he would say, that
the lyre without the strings, and the broken strings themselves which
are mortal remain, and yet that the harmony, which is of heavenly and
immortal nature and kindred, has perished--perished before the mortal.
The harmony must still be somewhere, and the wood and strings will decay
before anything can happen to that. The thought, Socrates, must have
occurred to your own mind that such is our conception of the soul;
and that when the body is in a manner strung and held together by the
elements of hot and cold, wet and dry, then the soul is the harmony or
due proportionate admixture of them. But if so, whenever the strings of
the body are unduly loosened or overstrained through disease or other
injury, then the soul, though most divine, like other harmonies of music
or of works of art, of course perishes at once, although the material
remains of the body may last for a considerable time, until they are
either decayed or burnt. And if any one maintains that the soul, being
the harmony of the elements of the body, is first to perish in that
which is called death, how shall we answer him?
Socrates looked fixedly at us as his manner was, and said with a smile:
Simmias has reason on his side; and why does not some one of you who
is better able than myself answer him? for there is force in his attack
upon me. But perhaps, before we answer him, we had better also hear what
Cebes has to say that we may gain time for reflection, and when they
have both spoken, we may either assent to them, if there is truth in
what they say, or if not, we will maintain our position. Please to tell
me then, Cebes, he said, what was the difficulty which troubled you?
Cebes said: I will tell you. My feeling is that the argument is where it
was, and open to the same objections which were urged before; for I am
ready to admit that the existence of the soul before entering into
the bodily form has been very ingeniously, and, if I may say so, quite
sufficiently proven; but the existence of the soul after death is still,
in my judgment, unproven. Now my objection is not the same as that of
Simmias; for I am not disposed to deny that the soul is stronger and
more lasting than the body, being of opinion that in all such respects
the soul very far excels the body. Well, then, says the argument to me,
why do you remain unconvinced?--When you see that the weaker continues
in existence after the man is dead, will you not admit that the more
lasting must also survive during the same period of time? Now I will
ask you to consider whether the objection, which, like Simmias, I will
express in a figure, is of any weight. The analogy which I will adduce
is that of an old weaver, who dies, and after his death somebody
says:--He is not dead, he must be alive;--see, there is the coat which
he himself wove and wore, and which remains whole and undecayed. And
then he proceeds to ask of some one who is incredulous, whether a man
lasts longer, or the coat which is in use and wear; and when he is
answered that a man lasts far longer, thinks that he has thus certainly
demonstrated the survival of the man, who is the more lasting, because
the less lasting remains. But that, Simmias, as I would beg you to
remark, is a mistake; any one can see that he who talks thus is talking
nonsense. For the truth is, that the weaver aforesaid, having woven and
worn many such coats, outlived several of them, and was outlived by the
last; but a man is not therefore proved to be slighter and weaker than
a coat. Now the relation of the body to the soul may be expressed in a
similar figure; and any one may very fairly say in like manner that the
soul is lasting, and the body weak and shortlived in comparison. He may
argue in like manner that every soul wears out many bodies, especially
if a man live many years. While he is alive the body deliquesces and
decays, and the soul always weaves another garment and repairs the
waste. But of course, whenever the soul perishes, she must have on her
last garment, and this will survive her; and then at length, when
the soul is dead, the body will show its native weakness, and quickly
decompose and pass away. I would therefore rather not rely on the
argument from superior strength to prove the continued existence of the
soul after death. For granting even more than you affirm to be possible,
and acknowledging not only that the soul existed before birth, but also
that the souls of some exist, and will continue to exist after death,
and will be born and die again and again, and that there is a
natural strength in the soul which will hold out and be born many
times--nevertheless, we may be still inclined to think that she will
weary in the labours of successive births, and may at last succumb in
one of her deaths and utterly perish; and this death and dissolution of
the body which brings destruction to the soul may be unknown to any of
us, for no one of us can have had any experience of it: and if so,
then I maintain that he who is confident about death has but a foolish
confidence, unless he is able to prove that the soul is altogether
immortal and imperishable. But if he cannot prove the soul's
immortality, he who is about to die will always have reason to fear that
when the body is disunited, the soul also may utterly perish.
All of us, as we afterwards remarked to one another, had an unpleasant
feeling at hearing what they said. When we had been so firmly convinced
before, now to have our faith shaken seemed to introduce a confusion and
uncertainty, not only into the previous argument, but into any future
one; either we were incapable of forming a judgment, or there were no
grounds of belief.
ECHECRATES: There I feel with you--by heaven I do, Phaedo, and when you
were speaking, I was beginning to ask myself the same question: What
argument can I ever trust again? For what could be more convincing than
the argument of Socrates, which has now fallen into discredit? That
the soul is a harmony is a doctrine which has always had a wonderful
attraction for me, and, when mentioned, came back to me at once, as my
own original conviction. And now I must begin again and find another
argument which will assure me that when the man is dead the soul
survives. Tell me, I implore you, how did Socrates proceed? Did he
appear to share the unpleasant feeling which you mention? or did he
calmly meet the attack? And did he answer forcibly or feebly? Narrate
what passed as exactly as you can.
PHAEDO: Often, Echecrates, I have wondered at Socrates, but never more
than on that occasion. That he should be able to answer was nothing,
but what astonished me was, first, the gentle and pleasant and approving
manner in which he received the words of the young men, and then his
quick sense of the wound which had been inflicted by the argument, and
the readiness with which he healed it. He might be compared to a general
rallying his defeated and broken army, urging them to accompany him and
return to the field of argument.
ECHECRATES: What followed?
PHAEDO: You shall hear, for I was close to him on his right hand, seated
on a sort of stool, and he on a couch which was a good deal higher.
He stroked my head, and pressed the hair upon my neck--he had a way of
playing with my hair; and then he said: To-morrow, Phaedo, I suppose
that these fair locks of yours will be severed.
Yes, Socrates, I suppose that they will, I replied.
Not so, if you will take my advice.
What shall I do with them? I said.
To-day, he replied, and not to-morrow, if this argument dies and we
cannot bring it to life again, you and I will both shave our locks; and
if I were you, and the argument got away from me, and I could not hold
my ground against Simmias and Cebes, I would myself take an oath, like
the Argives, not to wear hair any more until I had renewed the conflict
and defeated them.
Yes, I said, but Heracles himself is said not to be a match for two.
Summon me then, he said, and I will be your Iolaus until the sun goes
down.
I summon you rather, I rejoined, not as Heracles summoning Iolaus, but
as Iolaus might summon Heracles.
That will do as well, he said. But first let us take care that we avoid
a danger.
Of what nature? I said.
Lest we become misologists, he replied, no worse thing can happen to a
man than this. For as there are misanthropists or haters of men, there
are also misologists or haters of ideas, and both spring from the same
cause, which is ignorance of the world. Misanthropy arises out of the
too great confidence of inexperience;--you trust a man and think him
altogether true and sound and faithful, and then in a little while he
turns out to be false and knavish; and then another and another, and
when this has happened several times to a man, especially when it
happens among those whom he deems to be his own most trusted and
familiar friends, and he has often quarreled with them, he at last hates
all men, and believes that no one has any good in him at all. You must
have observed this trait of character?