[Sidenote: _The first great argument concluded._]
[Sidenote: The soul which has been emancipated from pleasures and pains
will not be blown away at death.]
Certainly not! The soul of a philosopher will reason in
quite another way; she will not ask philosophy to release
her in order that then 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.
[Sidenote: Simmias and Cebes have their doubts, but think that this is
not the time to express them.]
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 but which neither of us liked to ask, fearing that
our importunity might be troublesome at such a time.
[Sidenote: Socrates rebukes their want of confidence in him.]
[Sidenote: What is the meaning of the swans’ singing?]
[Sidenote: _Simmias and Cebes have still their difficulties._]
[Sidenote: They do not lament, as men suppose, at their approaching
death; but they rejoice because they are going to the God, whose servants
they are.]
[Sidenote: Socrates, who is their fellow-servant, will not leave the
world less cheerily.]
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 85
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 ever they 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.
[Sidenote: Simmias insists that they must probe truth to the bottom.]
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.
[Sidenote: _The doubt of Simmias._]
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.
[Sidenote: The harmony does not survive the lyre; how then can the soul,
which is also a harmony, survive the body?]
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 86
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 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?
[Sidenote: _The doubt of Cebes._]
[Sidenote: A weaver may outlive many coats and himself be outlived by the
last: so the soul which has passed through many bodies may in the end be
worn out.]
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 87
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 short-lived 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 88
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.
[Sidenote: _The dejection of the audience._]
[Sidenote: The despair of the audience at hearing the overthrow of the
argument.]
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.
_Ech._ 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.
[Sidenote: _Socrates comes to the rescue._]
[Sidenote: The wonderful manner in which Socrates soothes his
disappointed hearers and rehabilitates the argument.]
_Phaed._ Often, Echecrates, I have wondered at Socrates,
but never more than on that occasion. That he should be 89
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.
_Ech._ What followed?
_Phaed._ 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.
[Sidenote: _We must not become misologists._]
Of what nature? I said.
[Sidenote: The danger of becoming haters of ideas greater than of
becoming haters of men.]
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 quarrelled 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?