“Of these, then,” he said, “are not they the most happy, and do they not
go to the best place, who have practised that social and civilized
virtue, which they call temperance and justice, and which is produced
from habit and exercise, without philosophy and reflection?”
“In what respect are these the most happy?”
“Because it is probable that these should again migrate into a
corresponding civilized and peaceable kind of animals, such as bees
perhaps, or wasps, or ants, or even into the same human species again,
and from these become moderate men.”
“It is probable.”
“But it is not lawful for any one, who has not studied philosophy and
departed this life perfectly pure, to pass into the rank of gods, but
only for the true lover of wisdom. And on this account, my friends
Simmias and Cebes, those who philosophize rightly abstain from all
bodily desires, and persevere in doing so, and do not give themselves up
to them, not fearing the loss of property and poverty, as the generality
of men and the lovers of wealth; nor again dreading disgrace and
ignominy like those who are lovers of power and honour, do they then
abstain from them.”
“For it would not become them to do so, Socrates,” says Cebes.
72. “It would not, by Jupiter,” he rejoined. “Wherefore, Cebes, they who
care at all for their soul, and do not spend their lives in the culture
of their bodies, despising all these, proceed not in the same way with
them, as being ignorant whither they are going, but being convinced that
they ought not to act contrary to philosophy, but in accordance with the
freedom and purification she affords, they give themselves up to her
direction, following her wherever she leads.”
“How, Socrates?”
“I will tell you,” he replied. “The lovers of wisdom know, that
philosophy receiving their soul plainly bound and glued to the body, and
compelled to view things through this, as through a prison, and not
directly by herself, and sunk in utter ignorance, and perceiving too the
strength of the prison, that it arises from desire, so that he that is
bound as much as possible assists in binding himself. 73. I say, then,
the lovers of wisdom know that philosophy, receiving their soul in this
state, gently exhorts it, and endeavours to free it, by shewing that the
view of things by means of the eyes is full of deception, as also is
that through the ears and the other senses, persuading an abandonment of
these so far as it is not absolutely necessary to use them, and advising
the soul to be collected and concentrated within itself, and to believe
nothing else but herself, with respect to what she herself understands
of things that have a real subsistence, and to consider nothing true
which she views through the medium of others, and which differ under
different aspects[33]; for that a thing of this kind is sensible and
visible, but that what she herself perceives is intelligible and
invisible. The soul of the true philosopher, therefore, thinking that
she ought not to oppose this deliverance, accordingly abstains as much
as possible from pleasures and desires, griefs and fears, considering
that when any one is exceedingly delighted or alarmed, grieved or
influenced by desire, he does not merely suffer such evil from these
things as one might suppose, such as either being sick or wasting his
property, through indulging his desires; but that which is the greatest
evil, and the worst of all, this he suffers and is not conscious of it.”
-----
Footnote 33:
By this I understand him to mean that the soul alone can perceive the
truth, but the senses, as they are different, receive and convey
different impressions of the same thing; thus the eye receives one
impression of an object, the ear a totally different one.
-----
“But what is this evil, Socrates?” said Cebes.
74. “That the soul of every man is compelled to be either vehemently
delighted or grieved about some particular thing, and at the same time
to consider that the thing about which it is thus strongly affected is
most real and most true, though it is not so. But these are chiefly
visible objects; are they not?”
“Certainly.”
“In this state of affection, then, is not the soul especially shackled
by the body?”
“How so?”
“Because each pleasure and pain, having a nail as it were, nails the
soul to the body, and fastens it to it, and causes it to become
corporeal, deeming those things to be true whatever the body asserts to
be so. For, in consequence of its forming the same opinions with the
body, and delighting in the same things, it is compelled, I think, to
possess similar manners, and to be similarly nourished, so that it can
never pass into Hades in a pure state, but must ever depart polluted by
the body, and so quickly falls again into another body, and grows up as
if it were sown, and consequently is deprived of all association with
that which is divine, and pure, and uniform.”
“You speak most truly, Socrates,” said Cebes.
75. “For these reasons, therefore, Cebes, those who are truly lovers of
wisdom are moderate and resolute, and not for the reasons that most
people say. Do you think as they do?”
“Assuredly not.”
“No, truly. But the soul of a philosopher would reason thus, and would
not think that philosophy ought to set it free, and that when it is
freed it should give itself up again to pleasures and pains, to bind it
down again, and make her work void, weaving a kind of Penelope’s web the
reverse way. On the contrary, effecting a calm of the passions, and
following the guidance of reason, and being always intent on this,
contemplating that which is true and divine, and not subject to opinion,
and being nourished by it, it thinks that it ought to live in this
manner as long as it does live, and that when it dies it shall go to a
kindred essence, and one like itself, and shall be freed from human
evils. From such a regimen as this the soul has no occasion to fear,
Simmias and Cebes, while it strictly attends to these things, lest being
torn to pieces at its departure from the body it should be blown about
and dissipated by the winds, and no longer have an existence any where.”
76. When Socrates had thus spoken, a long silence ensued; and Socrates
himself was pondering upon what had been said, as he appeared, and so
did most of us: but Cebes and Simmias were conversing a little while
with each other. At length Socrates perceiving them, said, “What think
you of what has been said? does it appear to you to have been proved
sufficiently? for many doubts and objections still remain if any one
will examine them thoroughly. If, then, you are considering some other
subject, I have nothing to say; but if you are doubting about this, do
not hesitate both yourselves to speak and express your opinion, if it
appears to you in any respect that it might have been argued better, and
to call me in again to your assistance, if you think you can be at all
benefited by my help.”
Upon this Simmias said, “Indeed, Socrates, I will tell you the truth:
for some time each of us, being in doubt, has been urging and exhorting
the other to question you, from a desire to hear our doubts solved, but
we were afraid of giving you trouble, lest it should be disagreeable to
you in your present circumstances.”
77. But he, upon hearing this, gently smiled, and said, “Bless me,
Simmias; with difficulty indeed, could I persuade other men that I do
not consider my present condition a calamity, since I am not able to
persuade even you; but you are afraid lest I should be more morose now
than during the former part of my life. And, as it seems, I appear to
you to be inferior to swans with respect to divination, who, when they
perceive that they must needs die, though they have been used to sing
before, sing then more than ever, rejoicing that they are about to
depart to that deity whose servants they are. But men, through their own
fear of death, belie the swans too, and say that, they lamenting their
death, sing their last song through grief, and they do not consider that
no bird sings when it is hungry or cold, or is afflicted with any other
pain, not even the nightingale, or swallow, or the hoopoes, which they
say sing lamenting through grief. But neither do these birds appear to
me to sing through sorrow, nor yet do swans; but in my opinion,
belonging to Apollo, they are prophetic, and foreseeing the blessings of
Hades, they sing and rejoice on that day more excellently than at any
preceding time. 78. But I too consider myself to be a fellow-servant of
the swans, and sacred to the same god, and that I have received the
power of divination from our common master no less than they, and that I
do not depart from this life with less spirits than they. On this
account, therefore, it is right that you should both speak and ask
whatever you please, as long as the Athenian Eleven permit.”
“You say well,” said Simmias, “and both I will tell you what are my
doubts, and he in turn how far he does not assent to what has been said.
For it appears to me, Socrates, probably as it does to you with respect
to these matters, that to know them clearly in the present life is
either impossible, or very difficult: on the other hand, however, not to
test what has been said of them in every possible way, so as not to
desist until on examining them in every point of view, one has exhausted
every effort, is the part of a very weak man. For we ought with respect
to these things, either to learn from others how they stand, or to
discover them for one’s-self, or, if both these are impossible, then,
taking the best of human reasonings and that which is the most difficult
to be confuted, and embarking on this, as one who risks himself on a
raft, so to sail through life, unless one could be carried more safely,
and with less risk, on a surer conveyance or some divine reason. 79. I,
therefore, shall not now be ashamed to question you, since you bid me do
so, nor shall I blame myself hereafter, for not having now told you what
I think; for to me, Socrates, when I consider the matter, both with
myself and with Cebes, what has been said does not appear to have been
sufficiently proved.”
Then said Socrates, “Perhaps, my friend, you have the truth on your
side; but tell me in what respect it was not sufficiently proved.”
“In this,” he answered, “because any one might use the same argument
with respect to harmony, and a lyre, and its chords, that harmony is
something invisible and incorporeal, very beautiful and divine, in a
well-modulated lyre: but the lyre and its chords are bodies, and of
corporeal form, compounded and earthly, and akin to that which is
mortal. When any one, then, has either broken the lyre, or cut or burst
the chords, he might maintain from the same reasoning as yours, that it
is necessary the harmony should still exist and not be destroyed; for
there could be no possibility that the lyre should subsist any longer
when the chords are burst, and that the chords which are of a mortal
nature should subsist, but that the harmony, which is of the same nature
and akin to that which is divine and immortal, should become extinct,
and perish before that which is mortal; but he might say that the
harmony must needs subsist somewhere, and that the wood and chords must
decay, before it can undergo any change. 80. For I think, Socrates, that
you yourself have arrived at this conclusion, that we consider the soul
to be pretty much of this kind, namely, that our body being compacted
and held together by heat and cold, dryness and moisture, and other such
qualities, our soul is the fusion and harmony of these, when they are
well and duly combined with each other. If then, the soul is a kind of
harmony, it is evident that when our body is unduly relaxed or strained
through diseases and other maladies, the soul must of necessity
immediately perish, although it is most divine, just as other harmonies
which subsist in sounds or in the various works of artizans, but that
the remains of the body of each person last for a long time, till they
are either burnt or decayed. Consider then what we shall say to this
reasoning, if any one should maintain that the soul being a fusion of
the several qualities in the body, perishes first in that which is
called death.”
81. Socrates, therefore, looking stedfastly at us, as he was generally
accustomed to do, and smiling, said, “Simmias indeed speaks justly. If
then, any one of you is more prompt than I am, why does he not answer?
for he seems to have handled my argument not badly. It appears to me,
however, that before we make our reply we should first hear from Cebes,
what he too objects to our argument, in order that, some time
intervening, we may consider what we shall say, and then when we have
heard them, we may give up to them, if they appear to speak agreeably to
truth, or if not, we may then uphold our own argument. Come then,
Cebes,” he continued, “say what it is that disturbs you, so as to cause
your unbelief.”
“I will tell you,” said Cebes; “the argument seems to me to rest where
it was, and to be liable to the same objection that we mentioned before.
For, that our soul existed even before it came into this present form, I
do not deny has been very elegantly, and, if it is not too much to say
so, very fully demonstrated: but that it still exists any where when we
are dead, does not appear to me to have been clearly proved; nor do I
give in to the objection of Simmias, that the soul is not stronger and
more durable than the body, for it appears to me to excel very far all
things of this kind. 82. ‘Why then,’ reason might say, ‘do you still
disbelieve? for, since you see that when a man dies his weaker part
still exists, does it not appear to you to be necessary that the more
durable part should still be preserved during this period?’ Consider
then, whether I say any thing to the purpose in reply to this. For I
too, as well as Simmias, as it seems, stand in need of an illustration:
for the argument appears to me to have been put thus, as if any one
should advance this argument about an aged weaver who had died, that the
man has not yet perished, but perhaps still exists somewhere; and as a
proof, should exhibit the garment which he wore and had woven himself,
that it is entire and has not perished; and if any one should disbelieve
him he would ask, whether of the two is the more durable, the species of
a man or of a garment, that is constantly in use and being worn; then
should any one answer, that the species of man is much more durable, he
would think it demonstrated, that beyond all question the man is
preserved, since that which is less durable has not perished. 83. But I
do not think, Simmias, that this is the case, and do you consider what I
say, for every one must think that he who argues thus argues foolishly.
For this weaver, having worn and woven many such garments, perished
after almost all of them, but before the last I suppose, and yet it does
not on this account follow any the more that a man is inferior to or
weaker than a garment. And I think the soul might admit this same
illustration with respect to the body, and he who should say the same
things concerning them would appear to me to speak correctly, that the
soul is more durable, but the body weaker and less durable; for he would
say that each soul wears out many bodies, especially if it lives many
years; for, if the body wastes and is dissolved while the man still
lives, but the soul continually weaves anew what is worn out, it must
necessarily follow that when the soul is dissolved it must then have on
its last garment, and perish before this alone; but when the soul has
perished the body would shew the weakness of its nature, and quickly rot
and vanish. 84. So that it is not by any means right to place implicit
reliance on this argument, and to believe that when we die our soul
still exists somewhere. For, if any one should concede to him who admits
even more than you do, and should grant to him that not only did our
soul exist before we were born, but that even when we die nothing
hinders the souls of some of us from still existing, and continuing to
exist hereafter, and from being often born, and dying again; for so
strong is it by nature, that it can hold out against repeated births; if
he granted this, he would not yet concede that it does not exhaust
itself in its many births, and at length perish altogether in some one
of the deaths. But he would say that no one knows this death and
dissolution of the body, which brings destruction to the soul; for it is
impossible for any one of us to perceive it. If however, this be the
case, it follows that every one who is confident at the approach of
death is foolishly confident, unless he is able to prove that the soul
is absolutely immortal and imperishable: otherwise it necessarily
follows that he who is about to die must be alarmed for his soul, lest
in its present disunion from the body it should entirely perish.”
85. Upon this, all of us who had heard them speaking were disagreeably
affected, as we afterwards mentioned to each other; because, after we
had been fully persuaded by the former arguments, they seemed to disturb
us anew, and to cast us into a distrust, not only of the arguments
already adduced, but of such as might afterwards be urged, for fear lest
we should not be fit judges of any thing, or lest the things themselves
should be incredible.
_Echec._ By the gods, Phædo, I can readily excuse you: for, while I am
now hearing you, it occurs to me to ask myself some such question as
this, What arguments can we any longer believe? since the argument which
Socrates advanced, and which was exceedingly credible, has now fallen
into discredit. For this argument, that our soul is a kind of harmony,
produces a wonderful impression on me, both now and always, and in being
mentioned, it has reminded me, as it were, that I too was formerly of
the same opinion: so that I stand in need again, as if from the very
beginning, of some other argument which may persuade me that the soul of
one who dies does not die with the body. Tell me therefore, by Jupiter,
how Socrates followed up the argument; and whether he too, as you
confess was the case with yourselves, seemed disconcerted at all, or
not, but calmly maintained his position; and maintained it sufficiently,
or defectively. Relate every thing to me as accurately as you can.
_Phæd._ Indeed, Echecrates, though I have often admired Socrates, I was
never more delighted than at being with him on that occasion. That he
should be able to say something is perhaps not at all surprising; but I
especially admired this in him, first of all that he listened to the
argument of the young men so sweetly, affably, and approvingly; in the
next place, that he so quickly perceived how we were affected by their
arguments; and lastly, that he cured us so well and recalled us, when we
were put to flight as it were and vanquished, and encouraged us to
accompany him, and consider the argument with him.
_Echec._ How was that?
_Phæd._ I will tell you: I happened to be sitting at his right hand,
near the bed, upon a low seat, but he himself sat much higher than I.
Stroking my head, then, and laying hold of the hair that hung on my
neck, for he used, often, to play with my hairs, “To-morrow,” he said,
“perhaps, Phædo, you will cut off these beautiful locks?”
“It seems likely, Socrates,” said I.