SOCRATES.
Callias lost no time in cultivating the acquaintance of his new friend.
The very next day he called upon him at as early an hour as etiquette
permitted, and was lucky enough to find him at home. He had lately
returned, indeed, from drilling with the troop of Knights to which he
belonged, and was just finishing his breakfast, which had been delayed
till his military duties had been performed.
“Will you drink a cup to our new friendship--if you will allow me to
call it so?” said Xenophon, to the young man as he entered the room.
“Excuse me,” replied Callias, “if I decline.”
“You are right,” said Xenophon, “this is one of the offers which
formality commands us to make--whether rightly or wrongly, I cannot
say--but which I always myself refuse, and am glad to see refused by
others. But what will you? A game of koltabos, or a walk to the springs
of the Ilissus?”
“Either,” replied Callias, “would be agreeable, but first now I have set
my heart on something else. You are a disciple of Socrates, I am told.
Can you manage that I may have the privilege of hearing him? I have
never had the chance of doing so before.”
Xenophon’s face brightened with pleasure when he heard the request.
“Excellent, my dear sir, you could not have suggested anything that
would have pleased me better. We shall certainly be good friends. I
always judge a man by what he thinks of Socrates. You are ready, I know,
to admire and love him, and I offer you my friendship in advance. Now
let us go and find him. It will not be difficult, for I know his ways
pretty well. There is a sacrifice in the Temple of Theseus, and he will
probably be there. There is no more diligent attendant at such
functions, and yet the fools and knaves say that he is an atheist. We
shall catch him just as he is leaving.”
The subject of conversation between the two young men as they walked
along was naturally the character of this philosopher whom they were
about to see. Callias had much to ask, and Xenophon had still more to
tell.
“As you are going to see this man for the first time,” said the latter,
“you will be interested in hearing how I first came to make his
acquaintance. It was about nine years ago, very soon, I remember, after
the first expedition sailed for Syracuse. I had been hearing a course of
lectures by Prodicus of Ceos, who was then all the fashion in Athens,
and was hurrying home to be in time for the midday meal. Socrates met us
in a narrow alley, and put his staff across it to bar the way. What a
strange figure he was, I thought. I had never seen him before, you must
know; for we had been living for some years on my father’s estate in
Euboea. Certainly he looked more like a Silenus than an Apollo.
‘Well,’ my son, he said, looking at me with a smile that made him look
quite beautiful, ‘can you tell me where a good tunic is to be
bought?’ I thought it was an odd question, though certainly he might
want a tunic for himself, for his own was exceedingly shabby. However I
answered it to the best of my ability. ‘And a good sword--where may that
be purchased?’ That I told him also as well as I could. Some half-dozen
more things he asked me about, and I did my best to reply. At last he
said, ‘Tell me then, my son, since you know so well where so many good
things are to be procured, tell me where the true gentleman[34] is to be
found?’ That puzzled me exceedingly, and I could only lift my eyebrows
and shrug my shoulders. How could I answer such a question? Then he
said, ‘follow me my son, and be taught.’ I never went near Prodicus
again, you may be sure. My father was somewhat vexed, for he had paid a
quarter of a talent as fee for the course of lectures. However it did
not cost him anything, for Socrates will never take a fee. From that day
to this I have never missed an opportunity when I was not campaigning of
hearing him. But see there he is!”
[Illustration: THE TEMPLE OF THESEUS.]
Socrates was standing in the open space in front of the Temple of
Poseidon, with the customary group of listeners round him. As the two
young men came up the discussion which had been going on came to an end,
and the philosopher turned to greet the new comers. “Hail! Xenophon,” he
cried, “and you, too, sir, for the friends of Xenophon are always
welcome.” “You, sir,” he went on addressing Callias, “are recently back
from the war; now tell me this.” And he asked questions which showed
that military details were perfectly well known to him, better known to
him in fact than they were to Callias himself. These questions were
becoming a little perplexing, for Socrates had an inveterate habit of
driving into a corner, it may be said, every one with whom he conversed.
Luckily for Callias, another friend came up at the moment, and the great
examiner’s attention was diverted.
“Ho! Aristarchus,” he cried to the new comer, “how fare you?”
“But poorly, Socrates,” was the reply. “Things are going very ill with
me.”
“And indeed,” said the philosopher, “I thought that you had a somewhat
gloomy look. But tell me--what is your trouble? Xenophon here is your
kinsman, I know, and you will not mind speaking before him, and he will
answer for the discretion of his friend. Or would you prefer that we
should go apart and talk, for to that too, I doubt not, these two
gentlemen will consent?”
“Nay,” said the man who had been addressed as Aristarchus, “I am not
ashamed or unwilling to speak before Xenophon and his friend Callias, in
whom I have the pleasure of recognizing a kinsman of my own. For that
from which I am suffering, though it troubles me, has nothing shameful
in it.”
“Speak on then,” said Socrates, “and, perhaps, among us we shall be able
to find some remedy for your trouble. For surely it is of some use to
share a burden if it be too heavy for one.”
“Listen then, Socrates,” said Aristarchus, “I have been compelled for
kindred’s sake to take into my home not a few ladies, sisters, and
nieces, and cousins, whose husbands or fathers, or other lawful
protectors, have either perished in the war, or have been banished.
There are fourteen of them in all. Now, as you know, nothing comes in
from my country estate, for who will farm that which at any time the
enemy may ravage? And from my houses in the city there comes but very
little, for how few are they who are able to pay rent? And no business
is being done in the city, nor can I borrow any money. Verily there is
more chance of finding money in the street, than of borrowing. O,
Socrates, ’tis a grievous thing to see my own flesh and blood perish of
hunger, and yet, when things are as they are, I cannot find food for so
many.”
“’Tis grievous indeed,” said Socrates. “But tell me--how comes it to
pass that Keramon feeds many persons in his name, and yet can not only
provide what is needful for himself and his inmates, but has so much
over that he grows rich while you are afraid of perishing of hunger?”
“Nay, Socrates, why ask such a question? The many persons whom he so
keeps are slaves, while the inmates of my house are free.”
“Which then, think you, are the worthier, your free persons, or
Keramon’s slaves?”
“Doubtless my free persons.”
“But, surely, it is a shame, that he having the less worthy should
prosper, and you with the more worthy, be in poverty.”
“Doubtless ’tis because his folk are artisans while mine have been
liberally educated.”
“By artisans you mean such as know how to make useful things.”
“Certainly.”
“Barley meal is a useful thing, for instance?”
“Very much so.”
“And bread?”
“Very much so.”
“And men’s and women’s cloaks, and short frocks, and mantles, and
vests?”
“Very much so.”
“But your folk don’t know how to make any of these things. Is it so?”
“Nay, but they know how to make them all.”
“Do you not know then, how Nausicydes not only supports himself and his
household by making barley meal, and has become so rich that he is often
called upon to make special contributions to the State[35] and how
Coroelus, the baker, lives in fine style on the profits of
bread-making, and Demias on mantle-making, and Menon on cloak-making,
and nearly every one in Megara on the making of vests?”
“That is very true, Socrates. But all these buy barbarians for slaves,
and make them work; but my people are free by birth and kinsfolk of my
own.”
“And because they are free and kinsfolk of yours must they do nothing
but eat and sleep? Do you suppose that other free people are happier
when they live in this indolent fashion, or when they employ themselves
in useful occupations? What about your kinsfolk, my friend? At present I
take it, you do not love them, and they do not love you, for you think
them a great trouble and loss to you, and they see that you feel them to
be a burden. It is only too likely that all natural affection will turn
under these circumstances to positive dislike. But if you will put them
in the way of making their own livelihood, every thing will go right;
you will have a kindly feeling for them because they will be helping
you, and they will have as much regard for you, because they will see
that you are pleased with them. They know, you say, how to do the things
that are a woman’s becoming work; don’t hesitate therefore to set them
in the way of doing it. I am sure that they will be glad enough to
follow.”
“By all the gods, Socrates, you are right. I dare say I could borrow a
little money to set the thing going; but to tell you the truth, I did
not like to run into debt, when all the money would simply be eaten. It
is a different thing, now that there will be a chance of paying it back,
and I have no doubt that there will be some way of managing it.”
Just at this point a little boy came up with a message for Socrates. “My
mistress bids me say,” he cried in a somewhat undertone, “that the
dinner is waiting, and that you must come at once.” “There are commands
which all must obey,” said the philosopher with a smile, “and this is
one of them. And indeed it would be ungrateful to the excellent
Xanthippe, if after hearing she has taken so much pains to prepare one’s
dinner, one was to refuse the very easy return of eating it. Farewell,
my friends.”
And the philosopher went his way.
To Callias the conversation which he had just heard was peculiarly
interesting, because the theory in his family was that which was
probably accepted in almost every upper class house in Athens, that it
was a disgrace for a free-born woman to work for her living, and that
all handicrafts, even in those who constantly exercised them, were
degrading and lowering to the character. Xenophon already knew what his
master thought upon these points, but to his younger friend this “gospel
of work,” as it may be called, was a positive revelation. He did not
value it even when, a few days later, he heard from Aristarchus that the
experiment had succeeded to admiration. “I only had to buy a few pounds
of wool,” he said; “the women are as happy as queens, and I have not got
to think all day and night, but never find out, how to make both ends
meet.”
FOOTNOTES:
[34] The “Kalokagathos” (literally handsome and good), combining the two
Greek ideals, beauty of mind and beauty of body.
[35] See note page 22.