_Socr._ What then? Do you not think that Love is son of Venus, and a
god?
_Phæ._ So it is said.
_Socr._ Yet not by Lysias, nor by that speech of yours which was uttered
through my mouth when bewitched by you. But if Love be, as indeed he is,
a god, or something divine, he cannot be in any respect evil; yet both
our late speeches spoke of him as such. In this therefore they committed
an offence against Love, besides their silliness was very amusing, in
that they said nothing sound or true, yet they prided themselves as if
they were something, because they might perhaps impose on some
simpletons and gain their approbation. It is necessary, therefore, my
friend, that I should purify myself. But there is an ancient
purification for those who offend in matters relating to mythology,
which Homer was not acquainted with, but Stesichorus was. For, being
deprived of sight for defaming Helen, he was not ignorant like Homer,
but as a friend of the Muses, knew the cause, and immediately composed
the following lines: “This tale is not true, thou didst not go on board
the well-benched ships, nor reach the towers of Troy.” Thus having
composed this entire recantation as it is called, he immediately
recovered his sight. I however, will be wiser than them in this respect;
for before I suffer any harm for defaming Love, I will endeavour to
present him my recantation, with my head bare, and not, as before,
covered through shame.
45. _Phæ._ There is nothing, Socrates, that you could say to me more
agreeable than this.
_Socr._ For, my good Phædrus, you must be sensible how shamelessly both
our speeches were composed, as well mine as that which was read from the
book. For, if any generous man, and of mild disposition, who is either
now in love with, or has formerly been enamoured of another like
himself, had happened to hear us say that lovers contract violent
enmities for trifling causes, and are envious of, and detrimental to,
their favourites, can you suppose that he would do otherwise than think
he was listening to men brought up among sailors, and who had never
witnessed an ingenuous love, and would be far from assenting to the
censures we cast upon Love?
_Phæ._ Probably he would, by Jupiter, Socrates.
_Socr._ Out of respect to him, then, and fear of Love himself, I am
anxious to wash out as it were the brackish taste by a sweet speech. And
I advise Lysias, too, to write as soon as possible, that it is proper,
under similar circumstances, to favour a lover rather than one who is
not in love.
46. _Phæ._ You may be well assured that this will be done; for, when you
have spoken in praise of the lover, Lysias must needs be compelled by me
to write another speech on the same subject.
_Socr._ This I believe, while you continue the man you are.
_Phæ._ Speak then with confidence.
_Socr._ But where is my boy, to whom I spoke? that he may hear this too,
and may not, from not hearing it, hastily grant favours to one who is
not in love.
_Phæ._ Here he is always very near to you, whenever you want him.
_Socr._ Understand then, my beautiful boy, that the former speech was
that of Phædrus, son of Pythocles, a man of Myrrhinus; but that which I
am now about to deliver is the speech of Stesichorus, son of Euphemus,
of Himera. It must begin thus:
“The assertion is not true which declares that when a lover is present
favour ought rather to be shewn to one who is not in love, because the
one is mad and the other in his sober senses. 47. For if it were
universally true that madness is evil, the assertion would be correct.
But now the greatest blessings we have spring from madness, when granted
by divine bounty. For the prophetess at Delphi, and the priestesses at
Dodona, have, when mad, done many and noble services for Greece, both
privately and publicly, but in their sober senses, little or nothing.
And if we were to speak of the Sybil and others, who, employing
prophetic inspiration, have correctly predicted many things to many
persons respecting the future, we should be too prolix in relating what
is known to every one. 48. This, however, deserves to be adduced by way
of testimony, that such of the ancients as gave names to things did not
consider madness as disgraceful or a cause of reproach: for they would
not have attached this very name to that most noble art by which the
future is discerned, and have called it a mad art; but considering it
noble when it happens by the divine decree, they gave it this name; but
the men of the present day, by ignorantly inserting the letter τ, have
called it the prophetic art[122]. Since also with respect to the
investigation of the future by people in their senses, which is made by
means of birds and other signs, inasmuch as men by means of reflection,
furnished themselves by human thought with intelligence and information,
they gave it the name of prognostication[123], which the moderns, by
using the emphatic long õ, now call augury. But how much more perfect
and valuable, then, prophecy is than augury, one name than the other,
and one effect than the other, by so much did the ancients testify that
madness is more noble than sound sense, that which comes from God than
that which proceeds from men. 49. Moreover, for those dire diseases and
afflictions, which continued in some families in consequence of ancient
crimes committed by some or other of them, madness springing up and
prophesying to those to whom it was proper, discovered a remedy, fleeing
for refuge to prayers and services of the gods, whence obtaining
purifications and atoning rites, it made him who possessed it sound,
both for the present and the future, by discovering to him, who was
rightly mad and possessed, a release from present evils. There is a
third possession and madness proceeding from the Muses, which seizing
upon a tender and chaste soul, and rousing and inspiring it to the
composition of odes and other species of poetry, by adorning the
countless deeds of antiquity, instructs posterity. But he who without
the madness of the Muses approaches the gates of poesy under the
persuasion that by means of art he can become an efficient poet, both
himself fails in his purpose, and his poetry, being that of a sane man,
is thrown into the shade by the poetry of such as are mad.
-----
Footnote 122:
It is impossible, in an English version, to retain Plato’s explanation
of the progressive application of kindred words; if the unlearned
reader can decypher the following Greek letters he may possibly
understand our author’s meaning; μανία is _madness_, μανική, _the mad
art_, μαντική, the _prophetic art_.
Footnote 123:
οἰονιστική, _prognostication_, οἰωνιστική, _augury_.
-----
50. So great and even more noble effects of madness proceeding from the
gods I am able to mention to you. Let us not, therefore, be afraid of
this, nor let any argument disturb and frighten us so as to persuade us
that we ought to prefer a sane man as our friend in preference to one
who is under the influence of a divine impulse; but let him carry all
the victory when he was shewn this in addition, that love is sent by the
gods for no benefit to the lover and the beloved. But we, on the other
hand, must prove that such madness is given by the gods, for the purpose
of producing the highest happiness. Now the proof will be incredible to
the subtle, but credible to the wise. It is necessary, therefore, first
of all to understand the truth with respect to the nature of the soul
both divine and human, by observing its affections and operations. 51.
This then is the beginning of the demonstration.
Every soul is immortal: for whatever is continually moved is immortal;
but that which moves another and is moved by another, when it ceases to
move, ceases to live. Therefore that only which moves itself, since it
does not quit itself, never ceases to be moved, but is also the source
and beginning of motion to all other things that are moved. But a
beginning is uncreate: for every thing that is created must necessarily
be created from a beginning, but a beginning itself from nothing
whatever; for if a beginning were created from any thing, it would not
be a beginning. 52. Since then it is uncreate it must also of necessity
be indestructible; for should a beginning perish, it could neither
itself be ever created from any thing, nor any thing else from it, since
all things must be created from a beginning. Thus then the beginning of
motion is that which moves itself: and this can neither perish nor be
created, or all heaven and all creation must collapse and come to a
stand-still, and never again have any means whereby it may be moved and
created. 53. Since then it appears that that which is moved by itself is
immortal, no one will be ashamed to say that this is the very essence
and true notion of soul. For every body which is moved from without, is
soulless, but that which is moved from within of itself, possesses a
soul, since this is the very nature of soul. But if this be the case,
that there is nothing else which moves itself except soul, soul must
necessarily be both uncreate and immortal. This then may suffice for its
immortality.
But respecting its idea we must speak as follows: what it is, would in
every way require a divine and lengthened exposition to tell, but what
it is like, a human and a shorter one: in this way then we will describe
it. 54. Let it then be likened to the combined power of a pair of winged
steeds and a charioteer. Now the horses and charioteers of the gods are
all both good themselves and of good extraction, but all others are
mixed. In the first place, then, our ruling power drives a pair of
steeds, in the next place, of these horses it has one that is beautiful
and noble, and of similar extraction, but the other is of opposite
extraction, and opposite character; our driving therefore is necessarily
difficult and troublesome. But we must endeavour to explain in what
respect an animal is called mortal or immortal. All soul takes care of
all that is without soul, and goes about all heaven, appearing at
different times in different forms. 55. While it is perfect, then, and
winged, it soars aloft and governs the universe: but when it has lost
its wings it is borne downward, until it meets with something solid, in
which having taken up its abode, by assuming an earthly body, which
appears to move itself by means of its own power, the whole together is
called an animal, soul and body compounded, and takes the appellation of
mortal. But the immortal derives its name from no deduction of
reasoning, but as we neither see, nor sufficiently understand God, we
represent him as an immortal animal possessed of soul, and possessed of
body, and these united together throughout all time. Let these things,
however, so be and be described as God pleases. But let us now discover
the cause of the loss of the wings, why they fall off from the soul. It
is something of the following kind:
56. The natural power of a wing, is to carry up heavy substances by
raising them aloft to the regions where the race of the gods dwells; and
of the parts connected with the body, it probably partakes most largely
of that which is divine. But that which is divine is beautiful, wise,
good, and every thing of that kind. By these then the wings of the soul
are chiefly nourished and increased, but by what is base and vile, and
other similar contraries, it falls to decay and perishes. Now the mighty
chief in heaven, Jupiter, goes first, driving a winged chariot, ordering
and taking care of all things; and there follows him a host of gods and
demons, distributed into eleven divisions, for Vesta remains alone in
the dwelling of the gods: but of the others all that have been assigned
a station as chief gods in the number of the twelve, lead in the order
to which they have been severally appointed. 57. But there are many
delightful sights and paths within heaven among which the race of the
blessed gods move, each performing his own proper work; and whoso has
both will and power accompanies them; for envy stands aloof from the
heavenly choir. But when they proceed to a banquet and feast, they now
ascend by an up-hill path to the highest arch of heaven: and the
chariots of the gods, which from being equally poised are obedient to
the rein, move easily, but all others with difficulty; for the horse
that partakes of vice weighs them down, leaning and pressing heavily
towards the earth, if he happens not to have been well trained by his
charioteer. Here then the severest toil and trial is laid upon the soul.
For those that are called immortal, when they reach the summit,
proceeding outside, stand on the back of heaven, and while they are
stationed here, its revolution carries them round, and they behold the
external regions of heaven. 58. But the region above heaven no poet here
has ever yet sung of, nor ever will sing of, as it deserves. It is,
however, as follows: for surely I may venture to speak the truth,
especially as my subject is truth. For essence, that really exists,
colourless, formless and intangible, is visible only to intelligence
that guides the soul, and around it the family of true science have this
for their abode. As then the mind of deity is nourished by intelligence
and pure science, so the mind of every soul that is about to receive
what properly belongs to it, when it sees after a long time that which
is, is delighted, and by contemplating the truth, is nourished and
thrives, until the revolution of heaven brings it round again to the
same point. And during this circuit it beholds justice herself, it
beholds temperance, it beholds science, not that to which creation is
annexed, nor that which is different in different things of those which
we call real, but that which is science in what really is. And in like
manner, having beheld all other things that really are, and having
feasted on them, it again enters into the interior of heaven, and
returns home. 59. And on its return, the charioteer having taken his
horses to the manger, sets ambrosia before them, and afterwards gives
them nectar to drink. And this is the life of the gods.
But, with respect to other souls, that which best follows and imitates a
god, raises the head of its charioteer to the outer region, and is
carried round with the rest in the revolution, yet is confused by its
horses, and scarcely able to behold real existences; but another at one
time rises, at another sinks, and owing to the violence of the horses,
partly sees, and partly not. The rest follow, all eager for the upper
region, but being unable to reach it they are carried round sunk beneath
the surface, trampling on and striking against each other, in
endeavouring to get one before another. Hence the tumult, and
struggling, and sweating is extreme; and here through the fault of the
charioteers many are maimed, and many break many of their feathers; and
all of them having undergone much toil depart without having succeeded
in getting a view of that which is, and after their departure they make
use of the food of mere opinion. 60. And this is the reason for the
great anxiety to behold the field of truth, where it is; the proper
pasture for the best part of the soul happens to be in the meadow there,
and it is the nature of the wing by which the soul is borne aloft, to be
nourished by it; and this is a law of Adrastia[124], that whatever soul,
in accompanying a deity, has beheld any of the true essences, it shall
be free from harm until the next revolution, and if it can always
accomplish this, it shall be always free from harm: but whenever from
inability to keep up it has not seen any of them, and from meeting with
some misfortune, has been filled with oblivion and vice, and so weighed
down, and from being weighed down has lost its wings, and fallen to the
earth, then there is a law that this soul should not be implanted in any
brutal nature in its first generation, but that the soul which has seen
most, should enter into the germ of a man who will become a philosopher
or a lover of the beautiful, or a votary of the Muses and Love; but that
the second should enter into the form of a constitutional king, or a
warrior and commander, the third into that of a statesman, or economist,
or merchant, the fourth into one who loves the toil of gymnastic
exercises, or who will be employed in healing the body, the fifth will
have a prophetic life or one connected with the mysteries, to the sixth
the poetic life or some other of those employed in imitation will be
best adapted, to the seventh a mechanical or agricultural life, to the
eighth the life of a sophist or mob-courtier, to the ninth that of a
tyrant. 61. But among all these, whosoever passes his life justly
afterwards obtains a better lot, but who unjustly, a worse one. For to
the same place, whence each soul comes, it does not return till the
expiration of ten thousand years; for it does not recover its wings for
so long a period, except it is the soul of a sincere lover of wisdom, or
of one who has made philosophy his favourite[125]. But these in the
third period of a thousand years, if they have chosen this life thrice
in succession, thereupon depart, with their wings restored in the three
thousandth year. But the others, when they have ended their first life,
are brought to trial; and being sentenced, some go to places of
punishment beneath the earth and there suffer for their sins, but
others, being borne upwards by their sentence to some region in heaven,
pass their time in a manner worthy of the life they have lived in human
form. But in the thousandth year, both kinds coming back again for the
allotment and choice of their second life, choose that which they
severally please. And here a human soul passes into the life of a beast,
and from a beast he who was once a man passes again into a man. 62. For
the soul which has never seen the truth, cannot come into this form: for
it is necessary that a man should understand according to a generic
form, as it is called, which proceeding from many perceptions is by
reasoning combined into one. And this is a recollection of those things
which our soul formerly saw when journeying with deity, despising the
things which we now say are, and looking up to that which really is.
Wherefore, with justice, the mind of the philosopher is alone furnished
with wings; for, to the best of his power, his memory dwells on those
things, by the contemplation of which even deity is divine. But a man
who makes a right use of such memorials as these, by constantly
perfecting himself in perfect mysteries, alone becomes truly perfect.
And by keeping aloof from human pursuits, and dwelling on that which is
divine, he is found fault with by the multitude as out of his senses,
but it escapes the notice of the multitude that he is inspired.
-----
Footnote 124:
That is, “an inevitable law.”
Footnote 125:
παιδεραστήσαντος μετὰ φιλοσοφίας. So in the Gorgias (§ 82) Socrates
calls “philosophy his favourite,” τὴν φιλοσοφίαν, τὰ ἐμὰ παιδικά.
-----
63. To this then comes our whole argument respecting the fourth kind of
madness, on account of which any one, who, on seeing beauty in this
lower world, being reminded of the true, begins to recover his wings,
and, having recovered them, longs to soar aloft, but being unable to do
it, looks upwards like a bird, and despising things below, is deemed to
be affected with madness. Our argument comes to this then, that this is
the best of all enthusiasms, and of the best origin, both for him who
possesses and for him who partakes of it, and that he who loves
beautiful objects, by having a share of this madness, is called a lover.
For, as we have mentioned, every soul of man has, from its very nature,
beheld real existences, or it would not have entered into this human
form; for it is not easy for every one to call to mind former things
from the present, neither for those who then had but a brief view of the
things there, nor for those who after their fall hither, were so
unfortunate as to be turned aside by evil associations to injustice, and
so to have forgotten the sacred things they formerly beheld. Few
therefore are left who have sufficient memory. But these, when they see
any resemblance of the things there, are amazed and no longer masters of
themselves, and they know not what this affection is, because they do
not thoroughly perceive it. 64. Now of justice and temperance and
whatever else souls deem precious, there is no brightness in the
resemblances here, but by means of dull instruments with difficulty a
few only, on approaching the images, are able to discern the character
of that which is represented. But beauty was then splendid to look on,
when with that happy choir, we in company with Jupiter, and others with
some other of the gods, beheld that blissful sight and spectacle, and
were initiated into that which may be rightly called the most blessed of
all mysteries, which we celebrated when we were whole and unaffected by
the evils that awaited us in time to come, and moreover when we were
initiated in, and beheld in the pure light, perfect, simple, calm, and
blessed visions, being ourselves pure, and as yet unmasked with this
which we now carry about with us and call the body, fettered to it like
an oyster to its shell.
65. Let this much be said out of regard to memory, on account of which,
from a longing for former things, I have now spoken at greater length
than I ought. But with respect to beauty, as we observed, she both shone
among things there, and on our coming hither we found her, through the
clearest of our senses, shining most clearly. For sight is the keenest
of our bodily senses, though wisdom is not seen by it. For vehement
would be the love she would inspire, if she came before our sight and
shewed us any such clear image of herself, and so would all other
loveable things; but now beauty only has this privilege of being most
manifest and most lovely. 66. He, then, who has not been recently
initiated, or who has become corrupted, is not speedily carried hence
thither to beauty itself, by beholding here that which takes its name
from it. So that he does not reverence it when he beholds it, but,
giving himself up to pleasure, like a beast he attempts to mount it and
to have intercourse with it, and in his wanton advances he is neither
afraid nor ashamed of this unnatural pursuit of pleasure. But he who has
been recently initiated, and who formerly beheld many things, when he
sees a god-like countenance, or some bodily form that presents a good
imitation of beauty, at first shudders and some of the former terrors
come over him, then as he looks stedfastly at it, he reverences it as a
god, and if he did not dread the imputation of excessive madness, he
would sacrifice to his favourite, as to a statue or a god. 67. But after
he has beheld it, as commonly happens, after shuddering, a change, a
sweating and unusual heat comes over him. For having received the
emanation of beauty through his eyes, he has become heated, so that the
wings that are natural to him are refreshed; and by his being heated,
the parts where they grow are softened, which having been long closed up
through hardness prevented them from shooting out. But when this
nutriment flows in, the quill of the wing begins to swell, and makes an
effort to burst from the root, beneath the whole form of the soul; for
of old it was all winged. In this state, then, the whole boils and
throbs violently, and as is the case with infants cutting their teeth,
when they are just growing out there is a pricking and soreness of the
gums, in the same way the soul is affected of one who is beginning to
put forth his wings, it boils and is sore, and itches as it puts them
forth. 68. When, therefore, by beholding the beauty of a boy, and
receiving particles that proceed and flow from thence, which are for
that reason called desire, it becomes refreshed and heated; it is
relieved from pain and filled with joy: but when it is separated and
becomes parched, the orifices of the passages through which the wing
shoots forth, become closed through drought and shut up the germ of the
wing. But it being shut in together with desire, leaping like throbbing
veins, strikes against each passage that is shut against it, so that the
whole soul, being pricked all round, is frantic and in agony; but again
retaining the memory of the beautiful one, it is filled with joy. 69.
And from both these mingled together, it is tormented by the strangeness
of the affection, and not knowing what to do becomes frenzied, and being
in this frantic state it can neither sleep at night, nor remain quiet by
day, but runs about with longing wherever it may hope to see the
possessor of the beauty. And on beholding him and drawing in fresh
supplies of desire, it loosens the parts that were closed up, and
recovering breath has a respite from stings and throes, and again for
the present enjoys this most exquisite pleasure. Wherefore, it never
willingly leaves him, nor values any one more than the beautiful one,
but forgets mothers and brothers and friends all alike, and if its
substance is wasting through neglect, it reckons that as of no
consequence, and despising all customs and decorums in which it formerly
prided itself, it is ready to be a slave and to lie down wherever any
one will allow it as near as possible to the object of its longing. For
in addition to its reverence for the possessor of beauty, it has found
that he is the only physician for its severest troubles.
70. Now this affection, my beautiful boy, you I mean to whom I am
speaking, men call love, but when you hear what the gods designate it,
you will probably laugh, on account of your youth. Some Homerics, I
think, adduce out of their secret poems two verses on love, of which the
second is very insolent, and not altogether delicate: they sing as
follows: “Him mortals indeed call winged Eros, but immortals Pteros
(Flyer) for his flighty nature[126].”
-----
Footnote 126:
I must own myself indebted to Mr. Wright’s version of this dialogue
for this happy translation of these two lines.
-----
These verses then, you are at liberty to believe, or not; however, this
assuredly is the cause and the condition of lovers. 71. Now when one of
the attendants upon Jupiter is seized, he is able to bear with greater
firmness the burden of the wing-named god; but such as are in the
service of Mars and went round heaven with him, when they are caught by
Love, and think that they are at all injured by the object of their
love, are blood-thirsty, and ready to immolate both themselves and their
favourite. And so with respect to each several god, whose choir each
followed, he spends his life in honouring and imitating him to the best
of his power, so long as he remains free from corruption, and is living
here his first generation; and in this way he associates with and
behaves to his beloved and all others. 72. Every one, therefore, chooses
his love out of the objects of beauty according to his own taste, and,
as if he were a god to him, he fashions and adorns him like a statue, as
if for the purpose of reverencing him and celebrating orgies in his
honour. They then that are followers of Jupiter seek for some one who
resembles Jupiter in his soul, to be the object of his love. They
therefore consider whether he is by nature a lover of wisdom, and fitted
to command; and when, on finding one, they have become enamoured of him,
they do every thing in their power to make him such. If, then, they have
not already entered upon this study, they now set about it, and learn it
from whatever source they can, and themselves pursue it; and by
endeavouring to discover of themselves the nature of their own deity,
they succeed by being compelled to look stedfastly on their god, and
when they grasp him with their memory, being inspired by him, they
receive from him their manners and pursuits, as far it is possible for
man to participate of deity. 73. And considering the object of their
love as the cause of all this, they love him still more, and if they
have drawn their inspiration from Jupiter, like the Bacchanals, they
pour it into the soul of their beloved, and make him as much as possible
resemble their own god. But such as attended Juno seek after a royal
favourite, and when they have found one, they act towards him in
precisely the same manner. And such as attended Apollo, and each of the
other gods, following the example of their several deities, desire that
their favourite may have a corresponding character, and when they have
gained such an one, both by imitation on their own part, and by
persuading and alluring their favourite, they lead him to the peculiar
pursuit and character of that god; not, indeed, by employing envy or
illiberal severity towards their favourite, but endeavouring by every
means in their power to lead him to a perfect resemblance of themselves
and their god, they act accordingly. 74. A zeal, then, on the part of
those who truly love, and an initiation, as I call it, if they succeed
in what they desire, so beautiful and blessed, falls to the lot of the
beloved one at the hands of him that is maddened by love, if only he be
won. But he that is won, is won in the following manner.
As in the beginning of this account I divided each soul into three
parts, two of them having the form of horses, and the third that of a
charioteer, so let us still maintain that division: but of the horses,
one, we said, was good and the other not: what however is the virtue of
the good one, or the vice of the bad one, we have not yet explained, but
must now declare. That one of them, then, which is in the nobler
condition, is in form erect, finely-moulded, high-necked, hook-nosed,
white-coloured, black-eyed, a lover of honour, with temperance and
modesty, and a companion of true glory, without the whip is driven by
word of command and voice only: the other, on the other hand, is
crooked, thick set, clumsily put together, strong-necked,
short-throated, flat-faced, black-coloured, gray-eyed, hot-blooded, a
companion of insolence and swaggering, shaggy about the ears, deaf,
scarcely obedient to whip and spur together. 75. When, therefore, the
charioteer beholds the love-inspiring sight, his whole soul becoming
heated by sensation, he is filled with irritation and the stings of
desire, the horse that is obedient to the charioteer, then as ever,
overpowered by shame restrains himself from leaping on the beloved
object: but the other, no longer heeds either the whip or the spurs of
the charioteer, but bounding forward is carried violently along, and
giving every kind of trouble to his yoke-fellow and the charioteer,
compels them to hurry to the favourite, and to indulge in the delights
of love. They at first resist from indignation at being compelled to
such a dreadful and lawless course: but at length, when there is no end
to the evil, they go on as they are led, having submitted and consented
to do what they are ordered; and now they come up to him and behold the
gleaming countenance of the favourite. 76. But the memory of the
charioteer when he beholds him is carried back to the nature of absolute
beauty, and again sees her together with temperance standing on a chaste
pedestal. And, on beholding, it[127] shudders, and awe-struck falls down
backward, and at the same time is compelled to draw back the reins so
violently, as to throw both the horses on their haunches, the one indeed
willingly, from his not resisting, but the insolent one very much
against his will. When they have withdrawn to some distance, the former
through shame and amazement drenches the whole soul with sweat, but the
other, having got rid of the pain which he suffered from the bit and the
fall, when he has scarcely recovered his breath, bursts out into
passionate revilings, vehemently reproaches the charioteer and his
yoke-fellow, for having abandoned their station and compact from
cowardice and effeminacy. And again compelling them against their wills
to approach, he with difficulty yields to their entreaties to defer it
to a future time. 77. But when the time agreed on comes, reminding them
who pretend to forget it, plunging, neighing, and dragging forward, he
compels them again to approach the favourite for the same purpose. And
when they are near, bending down his head and extending his spear, he
champs the bit and drags them on with wantonness. But the charioteer
being affected as before, though more strongly, as if he were falling
back from the starting rope, pulls back the bit with still greater
violence from the teeth of the insolent horse, and covers his railing
tongue and jaws with blood, and forcing his legs and haunches to the
ground, tortures him with pain. 78. But when by being often treated in
the same way, the vicious horse has laid aside his insolence, being
humbled he henceforth follows the directions of the charioteer, and when
he beholds the beautiful object, he swoons through fear. So that it
comes to pass, that thenceforth the soul of the lover follows its
favourite with reverence and awe. Since then he is worshipped with all
observance as if he were a god, not by a lover who feigns the passion,
but who really feels it, and since he is by nature inclined to
friendship, he directs his affection to accord with that of his
worshipper, even though in past times he may have been misled by his
associates or some others, who told him that it was disgraceful to allow
a lover to approach him, and he may for this reason have rejected his
lover, yet in process of time his age and destiny induce him to admit
his lover to familiarity. 79. For surely it was never decreed by fate,
that the evil should be a friend to the evil, or the good not a friend
to the good. When, therefore, he has admitted him and accepted his
conversation and society, the benevolence of the lover being brought
into close contact astonishes the beloved, when he perceives that all
his other friends and relatives together exhibited no friendship at all
towards him in comparison with his inspired friend. But when he has
spent some time in doing this, and has approached so near as to come in
contact in the gymnastic schools and other places of social intercourse,
then the fountain of that stream to which Jupiter, when in love with
Ganymede, gave the name of desire, streaming in great abundance upon the
lover, partly sinks into him, and partly flows out from him when he is
full. And as a wind or any sound rebounding from smooth and hard
substances, is borne back again to the place from whence it proceeded,
so this stream of beauty, flowing back again to the beautiful one
through the eyes, by which way it naturally enters the soul, and having
returned thither and fledged itself anew, refreshes the outlets of the
feathers, and moves him to put forth wings, and in turn fills the soul
of the beloved one with love. 80. Accordingly he is in love, but with
whom he knows not; neither is he aware nor is he able to tell what has
happened to him, but like a person who has caught a disease in the eyes
from another, he is unable to assign the cause, and is not aware that he
beholds himself in his lover, as in a mirror. And when the lover is
present, he is freed from pain in the same way as the lover is; but,
when he is absent, he in turn longs for him in the same manner that he
is longed for, possessing love’s image, love returned; but he calls it
and considers it to be not love but friendship. And he desires, in the
same way as the lover, though more feebly, to see, to touch, to kiss, to
lie down with him; and, as is probable, he soon afterwards does all
this. 81. In this lying down together, then, the unbridled horse of the
lover has something to say to its charioteer, and begs to be allowed
some small enjoyment in recompence for his many toils, but the same
horse of the favourite has nothing to say, but swelling with love and in
doubt, embraces the lover, and kisses him as he would kiss a very dear
friend, and when they are laid down together, he is unable to refuse, as
far as in his power, to gratify his lover in whatever he requires. But
his yoke-fellow, together with the charioteer, resists this familiarity
with shame and reason. If, then, the better parts of their mind have
prevailed so as to lead them to a well-regulated mode of living and
philosophy, they pass their life here in bliss and concord, having
obtained the mastery over themselves, and being orderly, through having
brought into subjection that part of the soul in which vice was
engendered, and having set free that in which was virtue: and when they
depart this life, becoming winged and light, they have been victorious
in one of the three truly Olympic contests, a greater good than which
neither human prudence nor divine madness can possibly bestow on man.
82. If, however, they have adopted a coarser and less philosophic mode
of living, yet still honourable, but perhaps in a fit of drunkenness or
some other thoughtless moment, their two unbridled beasts finding their
souls unguarded, and bringing them together to one place, have made and
consummated that choice which most men deem blissful; and having once
consummated it they continue to practise it for the future, though
rarely, in that they are doing what is not approved by their whole mind.
These too, then, pass their life dear to each other, but less so than
the others, both during the period of love and after it, thinking that
they have both given to and received from each other the strongest
pledges, which it were impious to violate, and so at any time become
alienated. 83. But in the end, without wings indeed, yet making an
effort to become winged, they quit the body, so as to carry off no
trifling prize of impassioned madness: for there is a law that those who
have already set out in the heavenward path should never again enter on
darkness and the paths beneath the earth, but that, passing a splendid
life, they should be happy walking with each other, and that, for their
love’s sake, whenever they become winged, they should be winged
together.
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Footnote 127:
“It,” memory.
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These so great and divine things, my boy, will the affection of a lover
confer on you. But the familiarity of one who is not in love, being
mingled with mortal prudence, and dispensing mortal and niggardly gifts,
generating in the beloved soul an illiberality which is praised by the
multitude as virtue, will cause it to be tossed about the earth and
beneath the earth for nine thousand years, devoid of intelligence. 84.
To thee, beloved Love, this recantation, the most beautiful and the
best, according to my ability, is presented and duly paid, both in other
respects and by certain poetical phrases, of necessity, adorned for the
sake of Phædrus. But do thou, pardoning my former speech, and graciously
accepting this, propitiously and benignly, neither take from me the art
of love which thou hast given me, nor maim it in thy wrath, but grant
that even more than now I may be honoured by the beautiful. And if, in
our former speech, Phædrus and I have said any thing offensive to thee,
blaming Lysias as the author of the speech, make him desist from such
speeches in future, and convert him to philosophy, as his brother
Polemarchus has been converted, so that this lover of his may no longer
remain neutral as now, but may wholly devote his life to love, in
conjunction with philosophic discourses.
_Phæ._ I join with you in praying, Socrates, that if this is better for
us, so it may be. 85. But I have been long wondering at your speech, how
much more beautiful you have made it than the former one; so that I am
afraid that Lysias will appear to me but poor, even if he should be
willing to produce another in opposition to it. For only the other day,
my admirable friend, one of our public men, as he was attacking him,
upbraided him with this very thing, and throughout the whole of his
attack called him a writer of speeches. Perhaps, therefore, for
ambition’s sake he will refrain from writing any more.
_Socr._ The opinion you express, my youth, is ridiculous; and you very
much mistake your friend, if you imagine him to be so easily frightened.
Perhaps, too, you think that his assailant really meant what he said.
86. _Phæ._ He seemed to do so, Socrates; and you are doubtless yourself
aware, that the most powerful and considerable men in a city are ashamed
to write speeches, and to leave their own compositions behind them,
through fear of the opinion of posterity, lest they should be called
sophists.
_Socr._ It has escaped your notice, Phædrus, that the proverb “a sweet
bend” is derived from that long bend in the Nile: and as well as the
bend, it escapes your notice, that these public men who think most
highly of themselves are most fond of writing speeches, and of leaving
their compositions behind them; and moreover, whenever they write a
speech, they so love its supporters, that they prefix their names who on
each occasion commend them.