_Phæd._ No: for they were said to be at Ægina.
_Ech._ Was any one else there?
_Phæd._ I think that these were nearly all who were present.
_Ech._ Well now: what do you say was the subject of conversation?
_Phæd._ I will endeavour to relate the whole to you from the beginning.
On the preceding days I and the others were constantly in the habit of
visiting Socrates, meeting early in the morning at the court-house where
the trial took place, for it was near the prison. 8. Here then we waited
every day till the prison was opened, conversing with each other; for it
was not opened very early, but, as soon as it was opened we went in to
Socrates, and usually spent the day with him. On that occasion however,
we met earlier than usual; for on the preceding day, when we left the
prison in the evening, we heard that the ship had arrived from Delos. We
therefore urged each other to come as early as possible to the
accustomed place; accordingly we came, and the porter, who used to admit
us, coming out, told us to wait, and not enter until he called us.
“For,” he said, “the Eleven are now freeing Socrates from his bonds, and
announcing to him that he must die to-day.” But in no long time he
returned, and bade us enter.
9. When we entered, we found Socrates just freed from his bonds, and
Xantippe, you know her, holding his little boy and sitting by him. As
soon as Xantippe saw us, she wept aloud and said such things as women
usually do on such occasions, as “Socrates, your friends will now
converse with you for the last time and you with them.” But Socrates,
looking towards Crito, said, “Crito, let some one take her home.” Upon
which some of Crito’s attendants led her away, wailing and beating
herself.
But Socrates sitting up in bed, drew up his leg, and rubbed it with his
hand, and as he rubbed it, said; “What an unaccountable thing, my
friends, that seems to be, which men call pleasure; and how wonderfully
is it related towards that which appears to be its contrary, pain; in
that they will not both be present to a man at the same time, yet, if
any one pursues and attains the one, he is almost always compelled to
receive the other, as if they were both united together from one head.
10. “And it seems to me,” he said, “that if Æsop had observed this he
would have made a fable from it, how the deity, wishing to reconcile
these warring principles, when he could not do so, united their heads
together, and from hence whomsoever the one visits the other attends
immediately after; as appears to be the case with me, since I suffered
pain in my leg before from the chain, but now pleasure seems to have
succeeded.”
Hereupon Cebes, interrupting him, said, “By Jupiter, Socrates, you have
done well in reminding me: with respect to the poems which you made, by
putting into metre those Fables of Æsop and the hymn to Apollo, several
other persons asked me, and especially Evenus recently, with what design
you made them after you came here, whereas before you had never made
any. 11. If, therefore, you care at all that I should be able to answer
Evenus, when he asks me again, for I am sure he will do so, tell me what
I must say to him.”
“Tell him the truth then, Cebes,” he replied, “that I did not make them
from a wish to compete with him, or his poems, for I knew that this
would be no easy matter; but that I might discover the meaning of
certain dreams, and discharge my conscience, if this should happen to be
the music which they have often ordered me to apply myself to. For they
were to the following purport: often in my past life the same dream
visited me, appearing at different times in different forms, yet always
saying the same thing, ‘Socrates,’ it said, ‘apply yourself to and
practise music.’ 12. And I formerly supposed that it exhorted and
encouraged me to continue the pursuit I was engaged in, as those who
cheer on racers, so that the dream encouraged me to continue the pursuit
I was engaged in, namely, to apply myself to music, since philosophy is
the highest music, and I was devoted to it. But now since my trial took
place, and the festival of the god retarded my death, it appeared to me
that, if by chance the dream so frequently enjoined me to apply myself
to popular music, I ought not to disobey it but do so, for that it would
be safer for me not to depart hence before I had discharged my
conscience by making some poems in obedience to the dream. Thus, then, I
first of all composed a hymn to the god whose festival was present, and
after the god, considering that a poet, if he means to be a poet, ought
to make fables and not discourses, and knowing that I was not skilled in
making fables, I therefore put into verse those fables of Æsop, which
were at hand, and were known to me, and which first occurred to me.
13. Tell this then to Evenus, Cebes, and bid him farewell, and, if he is
wise, to follow me as soon as he can. But I depart, as it seems, to-day;
for so the Athenians order.”
To this Simmias said; “What is this, Socrates, which you exhort Evenus
to do? for I often meet with him; and from what I know of him, I am
pretty certain that he will not at all be willing to comply with your
advice.”
“What then,” said he, “is not Evenus a philosopher?”
“To me he seems to be so,” said Simmias.
“Then he will be willing,” rejoined Socrates, “and so will every one who
worthily engages in this study; perhaps indeed he will not commit
violence on himself, for that they say is not allowable.” And as he said
this he let down his leg from the bed on the ground, and in this posture
continued during the remainder of the discussion.
Cebes then asked him, “What do you mean, Socrates, by saying that it is
not lawful to commit violence on one’s-self, but that a philosopher
should be willing to follow one who is dying?”
14. “What, Cebes, have not you and Simmias, who have conversed
familiarly with Philolaus[26] on this subject, heard?”
-----
Footnote 26:
A Pythagorean of Crotona.
-----
“Nothing very clearly, Socrates.”
“I however speak only from hearsay; what then I have heard I have no
scruple in telling. And perhaps it is most becoming for one who is about
to travel there, to enquire and speculate about the journey thither,
what kind we think it is. What else can one do in the interval before
sunset?”
“Why then, Socrates, do they say that it is not allowable to kill
one’s-self? for I, as you asked just now, have heard both Philolaus,
when he lived with us, and several others say that it was not right to
do this; but I never heard any thing clear upon the subject from any
one.”
15. “Then you should consider it attentively,” said Socrates, “for
perhaps you may hear: probably however, it will appear wonderful to you,
if this alone of all other things is an universal truth[27], and it
never happens to a man, as is the case in all other things, that at
sometimes and to some persons only it is better to die than to live; yet
that these men for whom it is better to die—this probably will appear
wonderful to you—may not without impiety do this good to themselves, but
must await another benefactor.”
-----
Footnote 27:
Namely, “that it is better to die than live.”
-----
16. Then Cebes, gently smiling, said, speaking in his own dialect[28],
“Jove be witness.”
-----
Footnote 28:
Ἴττω Bœotian for ἴστω.
-----
“And indeed,” said Socrates, “it would appear to be unreasonable, yet
still perhaps it has some reason on its side. The maxim indeed given on
this subject in the mystical doctrines[29], that we men are in a kind of
prison, and that we ought not to free ourselves from it and escape,
appears to me difficult to be understood, and not easy to penetrate.
This however appears to me, Cebes, to be well said, that the gods take
care of us, and that we men are one of their possessions. Does it not
seem so to you?”
-----
Footnote 29:
Of Pythagoras.
-----
“It does,” replied Cebes.
“Therefore,” said he, “if one of your slaves were to kill himself,
without your having intimated that you wished him to die, should you not
be angry with him, and should you not punish him if you could?”
“Certainly,” he replied.
“Perhaps then in this point of view, it is not unreasonable to assert,
that a man ought not to kill himself before the deity lays him under a
necessity of doing so, such as that now laid on me.”
17. “This, indeed,” said Cebes, “appears to be probable. But what you
said just now, Socrates, that philosophers should be very willing to
die, appears to be an absurdity, if what we said just now is agreeable
to reason, that it is God who takes care of us, and that we are his
property. For that the wisest men should not be grieved at leaving that
service in which they govern them who are the best of all masters,
namely the gods, is not consistent with reason. For surely he cannot
think that he will take better care of himself when he has become free:
but a foolish man might perhaps think thus, that he should fly from his
master, and would not reflect that he ought not to fly from a good one,
but should cling to him as much as possible, therefore he would fly
against all reason: but a man of sense would desire to be constantly
with one better than himself. Thus, Socrates, the contrary of what you
just now said is likely to be the case; for it becomes the wise to be
grieved at dying, but the foolish to rejoice.”
18. Socrates, on hearing this, appeared to me to be pleased with the
pertinacity of Cebes, and looking towards us, said, “Cebes, you see,
always searches out arguments, and is not at all willing to admit at
once any thing one has said.”
Whereupon Simmias replied; “But indeed, Socrates, Cebes appears to me,
now, to say something to the purpose: for with what design should men
really wise fly from masters who are better than themselves, and so
readily leave them? And Cebes appears to me to direct his argument
against you, because you so easily endure to abandon both us, and those
good rulers, as you yourself confess, the gods.”
“You speak justly,” said Socrates, “for I think you mean that I ought to
make my defence to this charge, as if I were in a court of justice.”
“Certainly,” replied Simmias.
19. “Come then,” said he, “I will endeavour to defend myself more
successfully before you than before the judges. For,” he proceeded,
“Simmias and Cebes, if I did not think that I should go first of all
amongst other deities who are both wise and good, and, next, amongst men
who have departed this life, better than any here, I should be wrong in
not grieving at death: but now be assured, I hope to go amongst good
men, though I would not positively assert it; that, however, I shall go
amongst gods who are perfectly good masters, be assured I can positively
assert this, if I can any thing of the kind. So that, on this account, I
am not so much troubled, but I entertain a good hope that something
awaits those who die, and that, as was said long since, it will be far
better for the good than the evil.”
20. “What then, Socrates,” said Simmias, “would you go away keeping this
persuasion to yourself, or would you impart it to us? For this good
appears to me to be also common to us; and at the same time it will be
an apology for you, if you can persuade us to believe what you say.”
“I will endeavour to do so,” he said. “But first let us attend to Crito
here, and see what it is he seems to have for some time wished to say.”
“What else, Socrates,” said Crito, “but what he who is to give you the
poison told me some time ago, that I should tell you to speak as little
as possible? For he says that men become too much heated by speaking,
and that nothing of this kind ought to interfere with the poison, and
that otherwise, those who did so were sometimes compelled to drink two
or three times.”
To which Socrates replied, “Let him alone, and let him attend to his own
business, and prepare to give it me twice, or, if occasion requires,
even thrice.”
21. “I was almost certain what you would say,” answered Crito, “but he
has been some time pestering me.”
“Never mind him,” he rejoined.
“But now I wish to render an account to you, my judges, of the reason
why a man who has really devoted his life to philosophy, when he is
about to die, appears to me, on good grounds, to have confidence, and to
entertain a firm hope that the greatest good will befal him in the other
world, when he has departed this life. How then this comes to pass,
Simmias and Cebes, I will endeavour to explain.
“For as many as rightly apply themselves to philosophy seem to have left
all others in ignorance, that they aim at nothing else than to die and
be dead. If this then is true, it would surely be absurd to be anxious
about nothing else than this during their whole life, but, when it
arrives, to be grieved at what they have been long anxious about and
aimed at.”
22. Upon this, Simmias, smiling, said, “By Jupiter, Socrates, though I
am not now at all inclined to smile, you have made me do so; for I think
that the multitude, if they heard this, would think it was very well
said in reference to philosophers, and that our countrymen particularly
would agree with you, that true philosophers do desire death, and that
they are by no means ignorant that they deserve to suffer it.”
“And indeed, Simmias, they would speak the truth, except in asserting
that they are not ignorant; for they are ignorant of the sense in which
true philosophers desire to die, and in what sense they deserve death,
and what kind of death. But,” he said, “let us take leave of them, and
speak to one another. Do we think that death is any thing?”
“Certainly,” replied Simmias.
23. “Is it any thing else than the separation of the soul from the body?
and is not this to die, for the body to be apart by itself separated
from the soul, and for the soul to subsist apart by itself separated
from the body? Is death any thing else than this?”
“No, but this,” he replied.
“Consider then, my good friend, whether you are of the same opinion as
me; for thus I think we shall understand better the subject we are
considering. Does it appear to you to be becoming in a philosopher to be
anxious about pleasures, as they are called, such as meats and drinks?”
“By no means, Socrates,” said Simmias.
“But what? about the pleasures of love?”
“Not at all.”
24. “What then? does such a man appear to you to think other bodily
indulgences of value? for instance, does he seem to you to value or
despise the possession of magnificent garments and sandals, and other
ornaments of the body, except so far as necessity compels him to use
them?”
“The true philosopher,” he answered, “appears to me to despise them.”
“Does not then,” he continued, “the whole employment of such a man
appear to you to be, not about the body, but to separate himself from it
as much as possible, and be occupied about his soul?”
“It does.”
“First of all then, in such matters, does not the philosopher, above all
other men, evidently free his soul as much as he can from communion with
the body?”
“It appears so.”
25. “And it appears, Simmias, to the generality of men, that he who
takes no pleasure in such things, and who does not use them, does not
deserve to live; but that he nearly approaches to death who cares
nothing for the pleasures that subsist through the body.”
“You speak very truly.”
“But what with respect to the acquisition of wisdom, is the body an
impediment or not, if any one takes it with him as a partner in the
search? What I mean is this: Do sight and hearing convey any truth to
men, or are they such as the poets constantly sing, who say that we
neither hear nor see any thing with accuracy? If however these bodily
senses are neither accurate nor clear, much less can the others be so:
for they are all far inferior to these. Do they not seem so to you?”
“Certainly,” he replied.
26. “When then,” said he, “does the soul light on the truth? for, when
it attempts to consider any thing in conjunction with the body, it is
plain that it is then led astray by it.”
“You say truly.”
“Must it not then be by reasoning, if at all, that any of the things
that really are become known to it?”
“Yes.”
“And surely the soul then reasons best when none of these things disturb
it, neither hearing, nor sight, nor pain, nor pleasure of any kind, but
it retires as much as possible within itself, taking leave of the body,
and, as far as it can, not communicating or being in contact with it, it
aims at the discovery of that which is.”
“Such is the case.”
“Does not then the soul of the philosopher, in these cases, despise the
body, and flee from it, and seek to retire within itself?”
“It appears so.”
“But what as to such things as these, Simmias? Do we say that justice
itself is something or nothing?”
“We say it is something, by Jupiter.”
“And that beauty and goodness are something?”
“How not?”
“Now then have you ever seen any thing of this kind with your eyes?”
“By no means,” he replied.
“Did you ever lay hold of them by any other bodily sense? but I speak
generally, as of magnitude, health, strength, and, in a word, of the
essence of every thing, that is to say, what each is. Is then the exact
truth of these perceived by means of the body, or is it thus, whoever
amongst us habituates himself to reflect most deeply and accurately on
each several thing about which he is considering, he will make the
nearest approach to the knowledge of it?”
“Certainly.”
28. “Would not he, then, do this with the utmost purity, who should in
the highest degree approach each subject by means of the mere mental
faculties, neither employing the sight in conjunction with the
reflective faculty, nor introducing any other sense together with
reasoning; but who, using pure reflection by itself, should attempt to
search out each essence purely by itself, freed as much as possible from
the eyes and ears, and, in a word, from the whole body, as disturbing
the soul, and not suffering it to acquire truth and wisdom, when it is
in communion with it. Is not he the person, Simmias, if any one can, who
will arrive at the knowledge of that which is?”