THE LAST CONVERSATION.
Callias, as may be supposed, did not fail to keep his appointment with
the utmost punctuality. He found at Crito’s house very nearly the same
company that had been assembled the day before at Xenophon’s. After the
usual greetings had been interchanged, the host said, “I propose, if it
is agreeable to you all, to hold the conversation which we are to have
to-day at the house of our friend Plato. He has written to invite us,
not because he can himself see us, for he is not sufficiently recovered
from his late illness, but because we shall thus be able to talk with
his friend Phaedo; for as all know there is no more fitting person than
Phaedo to tell our young friend Callias the things that he desires to
hear. For though we were all present, Xenophon only excepted, on that
day when the Master left us, having given us his last instructions, yet
there is no one who so well remembers and is so well able to describe
all that was then said or done. I propose, therefore, that we transfer
ourselves to his house.”
The proposition met with general assent and the party set out.
Crito naturally took charge of Callias as being his special guest. As
the two were walking, the young man said, “Tell me, Crito, if it is not
unpleasing to you, whether in the thirty days during which the Master
was held in prison, any efforts were made to save his life?”
“I am glad,” said Crito, “that you have asked me that question privately
and not before others, for, indeed, this is a matter which has caused me
no little amount of trouble and shame. Some people blame me because,
they say, though a rich man I did not bribe the jailer of the prison in
which Socrates was confined, and thus enable him to escape. I am
blameable, indeed, but for an exactly opposite reason. I did bribe the
man--this of course is in absolute confidence between you and me--and in
this, as the Master showed me, I was wrong. Indeed I never received from
him so severe a rebuke as I did concerning this matter. But let me tell
you what happened. I had arranged everything. The jailer was to let him
escape. There were people ready to carry him out of the country. I went
to him early in the morning of the day when the ship was expected to
return. I told him what I had done. I made light of the money that the
affair was to cost. I could well afford it, I said, and if I could not
there were others ready to contribute. And then I attacked him, it was
an impudent thing to do, but I felt as if I could do anything that we
should not lose him. I told him that it was wrong of him to do his best
to let his enemies get their way. I said to him, ‘Thus acting you desert
your children, whom you might bring up and educate. But if you die you
will leave them orphans and friendless. Either you ought not to have
children or you ought to take some trouble about them. Surely this does
not become one who has made virtue his study throughout his life. And
remember what a disgrace will fall upon us, for it will certainly be
said that we did not do our best to save your life.’
“Well, I cannot tell you now a tenth part of what he said. I have it all
written down at home, but I may say what you will easily believe that I
was as helpless in his hands as the veriest pretender whom he has ever
cross-examined. I know that he ended by making me thoroughly ashamed of
myself. One of his chief arguments was this:
“‘Suppose, Crito, that as I was in the act of escaping, the State itself
were to say to me: Are you not seeking to destroy by so acting the laws
of the State itself? Is not that State already dissolved wherein public
sentences are set aside by private persons? What should I answer to such
questions? And if the laws were to say, What complaint have you got to
make against us that you seek to destroy us? Do you not owe your being
to us, seeing that your father and mother married according to our
ordering? Have we not given you nurture, education, all the good things
that you possess as being an Athenian? Have you not acknowledged us by
living in the city, by having children in it? And if they were further
to say, Verily, he who acts in this way in which you are about to act is
a corrupter of youth--what could I answer?
“‘And tell me, Crito,’ he went on, ‘whither would you have me betake
myself? Not surely to any well-ordered city seeing that I had shown
myself the enemy of such order, but rather to some abode of riot, which
would indeed ill become one who had professed to be a lover of virtue
and righteousness. And as for my children, how shall I benefit them? By
taking them elsewhere and bringing them up not as citizens of Athens,
but as citizens of some other State which I myself here have judged
inferior, seeing that all my life long I have deliberately preferred
Athens to it?’ Verily, Callias, when he said this, I had no answer. But
here we are at Phaedo’s house.”
Callias was not a little surprised when he was introduced to the man
whom he had been brought to see. Phaedo was a man much younger than
himself; indeed he had scarcely completed his eighteenth year. His
appearance was singularly attractive, and his manners had all the grace
and ease of a well-born and well-bred man. That he was not an Athenian
was evident from his speech, which was somewhat tinged with a Doric
accent. Altogether Callias was at a loss to think who or what he could
be, and how he came to be regarded as the best interpreter of the
Master’s last words. An opportunity, however, arrived for enlightening
him. After a few minutes’ conversation, a slave appeared with a message
for the master of the house. Plato who had been compelled to absent
himself from the last interview with Socrates, as has been said, was
still so unwell that his physician forbade the excitement of seeing
visitors. He now sent for Phaedo to entrust him with a message of
apology for his fellow disciples whom he was unable to entertain, and
partly to set him free to act the part of host in his stead.
Crito seized the opportunity of his temporary absence from the room to
give some particulars about him. “He comes of a very good family in
Elis, and was taken prisoner about this time last year when Athens and
Sparta were allies and acting against that country. He was sold in the
slave market here, and I cannot tell the cruelties that he endured from
the wretch who bought him. Somehow he heard of Socrates, ran away from
his owner and begged for the Master’s protection. Of course, the only
thing was to buy him, and equally of course, Socrates was wholly unable
to do this. But the Master, if he had no wealth of his own, happily had
wealthy friends. He went to Plato and, by great good luck, Plato had a
very powerful hold over the poor fellow’s owner; the man owed him a
large sum of money, the interest of which was overdue. He was purchased,
and at once set free. Plato found that he had been remarkably well
educated and that he showed an extraordinary aptitude for philosophy.
The lad’s devotion to Socrates was unbounded. He never lost a chance of
being near him; he was present of course at the last day, and he watched
and listened with an intense earnestness that seemed to engrave
everything on his mind as one engraves letters upon marble or bronze.
But, see, he is coming back. Now you will understand why I have brought
you to see him.”
The young man, at this moment, returned to the room.
“Tell me, Phaedo,” said Crito, “what you saw and heard on the last day
of the Master’s life. My friend Callias here, who has just come back
from campaigning against the Great King, desires to hear it from you,
and, indeed, though we all were present on that day, you seem to
remember it more accurately than any.”
“I will do my best,” said the youth modestly. “I do not know,” he went
on, addressing himself especially to Callias, “whether you will wholly
understand me when I say that I did not feel compassion as one might
feel for one who was dying--he was so calm and so happy. Neither, on the
other hand, did I feel the pleasure that commonly followed from his
discourses, for I knew that he would soon cease to be.”
“It was just so with all of us,” said Crito, “but go on.”
“We had been to visit Socrates daily through the time of his
imprisonment, assembling very early in the morning, and waiting till the
doors of the prison were opened, and so we did on this day, only earlier
than usual, because we knew that the Sacred Ship had arrived the evening
before. The jailer came out. ‘You must wait, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘the
Eleven[89] are with him. They are taking off his chains, and are telling
him that he must die to-day.’ After a little while the man came out
again, and said that we might go in. When we went in, we found Socrates
sitting on the side of his bed, and his wife, Xanthippe, near him,
holding one of his children in her arms. As soon as she saw us, she
began to lament and say, ‘O Socrates, here are your friends come to see
you for the last time.’ Then Socrates, looking at her, said to Crito,
‘Let some one take her home.’ So one of Crito’s servants led her away.
After a while, for of course I must leave out many things, the Master
said, ‘I have a message for Evenus, who seeks to know, I am told, why I
have taken to writing verses in prison. Tell him that a god appeared to
me in a dream and told me to cultivate the muses. Tell him also that if
he is wise he will follow me as speedily as possible, for it seems that
the Athenians command that I depart to-day.’
“‘But, Socrates,’ said Simmias, ‘this is a strange piece of advice, and
one which Evenus is not likely to take.’
“‘Why so,’ said Socrates, ‘is he not a philosopher? Surely he should be
ready to go the road which I am going. Only he must not kill himself.’
‘Why do you say this?’ said Cebes.
“You will correct me,” said Phaedo, turning to the company, “if I
misrepresent anything that you said.”
“Speak on without fear,” said Simmias, “you seem to have the memory of
all the muses.”
Phaedo resumed, “Socrates said, ‘You ask me why a man may not kill
himself? Well, there is first this reason that we are as sentinels set
at a post, which we must not leave until we are bidden; then again if
men be servants of the gods, as seems likely, how can they withdraw from
this service without leave? Would you not be angry if one of your
servants were to do it?’
“‘True,’ said Cebes, ‘but if we are the servants of the gods, and
therefore in the best guardianship, should we not be sorry to quit it?
If so, is it not for the foolish to desire death and for the wise to
regret it?’ ‘You are right,’ replied the Master, ‘and if I did not
expect when I depart hence to go to the realms of the wise and good gods
and to the company of righteous men, I should indeed grieve at death.
And that I am right in so expecting let me now seek to prove to you, for
what better could I do on this the last day of my life? But stay; Crito
wishes to say something. What is it?’ Crito said, ‘He who has to give
the poison says that you must talk as little as possible, for that if a
man so excites himself he has to drink sometimes two potions or even
three.’ ‘Let him take his course,’ said the master, ‘and prepare what he
thinks needful. And now to the matter in hand. Death, then, is nothing
but a separation of the soul from the body. That you concede. And you
concede further that a philosopher should care little for the things of
the body, and that when he is most free from the body, then he sees most
clearly the highest and best things, perceiving, for instance, right and
justice and honor and goodness, veritable things all of them, but such
as cannot be discerned with the eyes or handled with the hands. For the
body with its desires and wants hinders us, and makes us waste our time
on the things that it covets, so that we have neither time nor temper
for wisdom. If then we are ever to reach absolute Truth we must get rid
of the hindrance. While we live we do this to the best of our ability,
and he is the wisest man and best philosopher who does it most
completely; but wholly we cannot do it, till the god shall liberate us
from the control of this companion--And this is done by Death, which is
the complete separation of soul and body. Shall then the philosopher,
who has all his life been striving for such partial separation as may be
possible, complain when the gods send him this separation that is
complete? And this is my defence, my friends, for holding it to be a
good thing to die.’ ‘Yes,’ replied Cebes, ‘but many fear that when the
soul is thus parted from the body, it may be nowhere, being dissipated
like a breath or a puff of smoke when the body with which it has been
united dies.’ ‘You desire, then,’ said Socrates, ‘that I should prove to
you that the soul does not perish when it is thus separated from the
body?’ ‘Yes,’ we all said, ‘that is what we all wish.’ ‘First then,’ he
went on, ‘is it not true that every thing implies that which is opposite
to it, as Right implies Wrong, and Fair implies Foul, and _to sleep_ is
the opposite of _to wake_? If so does not _to die_ imply its opposite
_to live again_?
“‘Secondly, is it not true that the highest part of our knowledge is a
remembering again? For there are things which we know not through our
senses. How then do we know them? Surely because we had this knowledge
of them at some previous time.’
“‘But,’ said Cebes, ‘may it not be true that the soul has been made
beforehand to enter the body; and having entered it lives therein, and
yet perishes when its dwelling is dissolved?’
“‘Being of a frail nature, I suppose,’ said the Master, ‘it’s all to be
blown away by the wind, so that a man should be especially afraid to die
on a stormy day.’
“At this we all laughed, for we did laugh many times and heartily that
day, though now this may seem to others and indeed to ourselves almost
incredible, seeing what we were about to lose.
“‘Well,’ the Master went on, ‘I will seek to relieve you of this fear.
Is it not true that things that are made up of parts are liable to be
separated? And is it not also true that the soul is not made up of
parts, but is simple and not compounded? Also it is visible things that
perish; but the soul is not visible. Again the soul is the ruler, and
the body the servant. Is it not true that the divine and immortal rule
the human and mortal senses?’
“To this we all agreed.
“The Master began again, for he now, as I may say, had to put before us
the conclusion of the whole matter. ‘We may think thus, then, may we
not? If the soul depart from the body in a state of purity, not taking
with it any of the uncleannesses of the body, from which indeed it has
kept itself free during life as far as was possible--for this is true
philosophy--then it departs into that invisible region which is of its
own nature, and being freed from all fears and desires and other evils
of mortality, spends the rest of its existence with the gods and the
spirits of the good that are like unto itself. But if it depart,
polluted and impure, having served the body, and suffered itself to be
bewitched by its pleasures and desires, then it cannot attain to this
pure and heavenly region, but must abide in some place that is more
fitted for it.’
“Much else he said on this point to which we listened as though it were
another Orpheus that was singing to us. And when he had ended and sat
wrapt in thought, we were silent, fearing to disturb him. And so we
remained for no little space of time in silence, he sitting on the bed,
as if he neither saw nor heeded any of the things that were about him,
and we regarded him most earnestly.
“After a while he woke up, as it were, from his reverie and said, ‘You
have agreed with me so far; yet it may be that you have yet fears and
doubts in your minds which I have not yet dispersed. If so let me hear
them, that I may, if it be possible, rid you of them, for indeed I
cannot, as I conceive, leave behind me a greater gift for you than such
a riddance. Speak then, if there is anything that you would say.’
“Simmias said--I put, you will perceive, his argument in a few words:
‘May it not be that the soul is in the body as a harmony is in a harp?
For the harmony is invisible and beautiful and divine, and the harp is
visible and material and mortal. Yet when the harp perishes, then the
harmony also, of necessity, ceases to be.’
“When Simmias had ended, Cebes began: ‘I do indeed believe that the soul
is more durable than the body. Just so; the wearer is more durable than
the thing which he wears. Yet at the last, one thing that he weaves
proves to be more durable than he. So may the soul outlast many bodies,
and yet perish finally, worn out, so to speak, by having gone through so
many births.’
“Have I put these things rightly, O Simmias and Cebes?” said the young
philosopher, addressing them, “though indeed I have made them very
brief.”
“You have put them rightly,” the two agreed.
“When we heard these things,” Phaedo went on, “we were also greatly
disturbed; for we desired to believe that which the Master was seeking
to prove, and seemed to have attained certainly, and now we were thrown
back again into confusion and doubt.”
“And how did the Master take it, O Phaedo?” said Callias; “for indeed I
feel much as you describe yourselves as having felt. Having reached a
certain hope, not to say conviction, I am now disturbed by fears.”
“Nothing could be more admirable than his behavior. That he should be
able to answer, was to be expected; but that he should receive these
objections so sweetly, so gently, and perceiving our dismay, quickly
encourage us, and, so to speak, reform our broken ranks--this indeed was
beyond all praise.
“I myself was sitting on a low seat by the side of his bed. He dropped
his hand, and stroked my head and the hair which lay upon my neck, I
wore it long in those days,[90] for he was often wont to play with my
hair. Then he said, ‘I suppose, Phaedo, that you intend to cut off these
beautiful locks to-morrow, as mourners are wont to do.’
“‘I suppose so,’ I said.
“‘But you must cut them off to-day and not to-morrow if our doctrine be
stricken to death, and we cannot bring it to life again.’ Then he turned
to Simmias and Cebes, and said, ‘Hear now what I have to say, but while
you hear, think much of the truth but little of Socrates; and be on your
guard lest in my eagerness I deceive not myself only but you also, and
leave my sting behind me when I die even as does a bee. You, Simmias,
think that the soul may be but as a harmony in the body. But do you not
remember what we said about all knowledge being a remembering, and that
what the soul knows it has before learnt? It existed then before the
body; but a harmony cannot exist before the things are put together of
which it proceeds. Then again harmony may be more or less; but one soul
cannot be more a soul than another. And if, as the wise men say, virtue
is harmony and vice discord, we have a harmony of a discord, which
cannot be; finally one part of the soul often opposes another, as
reason opposes appetite; how then is the soul a harmony? You, Cebes,
hold, indeed, that the soul is durable, but may not be immortal. Hear
then my answer. You believe that there are ideas or principles of
things, and that these ideas, being invisible, are the real causes of
things that are visible.’ Cebes acknowledged that he did so believe. ‘Is
not now the soul the principle of life, and is not this principle the
opposite of death? In its essence, therefore, it is immortal; but that
which is immortal cannot be destroyed, no, even though there are things
which seem to threaten its existence.’
“In this we all agreed. After this Socrates discoursed in many words
about the abodes and dwelling-places of the dead both good and bad, and
of the manner in which they are dealt with by the powers thereunto
appointed. But of this I will speak on some other occasion, if you will.
At present time is short, for I must not leave the sick man any longer,
only I will relate the very end of the Master’s discourse and the things
that happened after.
“‘To affirm positively about such matters,’ he said, ‘is not the part of
a wise man. Yet what I have said seems reasonable. And anyhow he who has
scorned the body and its pleasures during life, and has adorned the soul
with her proper virtues, justice and courage and truth, may surely await
his passage to the other world with a good hope. But now destiny calls
me, and I must obey. But I will bathe before I take the poison, that the
women may not have the trouble of washing my body.’
“Then Crito asked: ‘Have you any directions to give us?’
“‘Nothing now; if you rightly order your own lives, you will do the
best for me and my children; but if you do not, then whatever you may
promise, you will fail.’
“‘But,’ Crito asked, ‘how shall we bury you?’
“‘As you will,’ said he, ‘provided only you can catch me and that I do
not slip out of your hands.’ Then he smiled, and said, ‘Crito here will
not be persuaded that I am saying the truth. He thinks that _I_ am the
dead body that he will soon see here, and asks how he shall bury me.
Assure him then that when this dead body is laid in the grave or put
upon the pyre to be burnt it is not Socrates that he sees. For to speak
in this way, O Crito, is not only absurd but harmful.’
“After this he bathed, remaining in the bath-chamber for some time. This
being ended, his children were brought to him, and the women of his
family also. With these he talked awhile in the presence of Crito, and
afterward commanded that some one should take the women and children
away. And it was now near sunset. Hereupon the servant of the Eleven
came in, and said, ‘O Socrates, you will not be angry with me and curse
me when I tell you, as the magistrates constrained me to do, that you
must drink the poison. I have always found you most gentle and generous,
the best by far of all that have come into this place. You will be
angry, not with me, for you know that I am blameless, but with those
whom you know to be in fault. And now, for you know what I am come to
tell you, bear what must be borne as cheerfully as may be.’ And saying
this the man turned away his face and wept.
“‘Farewell!’ said Socrates, ‘I will do as you bid,’ and looking to us he
said, ‘How courteous he is! All the time he has been so, sometimes
talking to me, and showing himself the best of fellows. And now see how
generously he weeps for me! But we must do what he says. Let some one
bring the poison, if it has been pounded; if not, let the man pound it.’
“‘But,’ said Crito, ‘the sun is still upon the mountains. I have known
some who would prolong the day eating and drinking till it was quite
late before they drank. Anyhow do not be in a hurry. There is still
plenty of time.’
“‘Ah!’ said Socrates, ‘these men were quite consistent. They thought
that they were gaining so much time. But I too must be consistent. I
believe that I shall gain nothing by dying an hour or two later, except
indeed the making of myself a laughing stock by clinging to life when
there is really nothing left of it to cling to.’
“Then Crito made a sign to the slave that was standing by; he went out,
and after some time had passed brought in the man whose duty it was to
give the poison, and who brought it in ready mixed in a cup. When
Socrates caught sight of him, he said:
“‘Well, my friend, you know all about these matters. What must I do?’
“‘You will only have to walkabout after you have drunk the poison, till
you feel a sort of weight in your legs. Then you should lie down, and
the poison will do the rest.’
“So saying, he reached the cup to the Master, who took it. His hand did
not shake; there was not the least change in his color or his look. Only
he put his head forward in the way he had, and said to the man:
“‘How about making a libation from the cup? May we do it?’
“‘Socrates,’ said the man, ‘we pound just so much as we think
sufficient.’
“‘I understand,’ said the Master. ‘Still we may, nay we must, pray to
the gods that my removal hence to that place may be fortunate. The gods
grant this! Amen!’ And as he said this he put the cup to his lips and
drank it off in the easiest, quietest way possible.
“Up to that time we had all been fairly well able to keep from tears.
But when we saw him drinking the poison, when we knew that he had
finished it, we could restrain them no longer. As for myself I covered
my face with my mantle, and wept to myself. Not for him did I weep, but
for myself, thinking what a friend I had lost. And others were still
more overcome than I was. Only Socrates was quite unmoved.
“‘Why all this,’ he said, ‘my dear friends? I sent the women away for
this very reason, that they might not vex us in this fashion. I have
heard it said that a man ought to die with good words in his ears. Be
quiet, I beseech, and bear yourselves like men.’
“When we heard this we were not a little ashamed of ourselves, and kept
back our tears. He walked about till he felt the weight in his legs, and
then lay down on his back--this was what the man bade him do. Then the
man who administered the poison squeezed his foot pretty strongly, and
asked him whether he felt anything. He said no. Then the man showed us
how the numbness was going higher and higher.
“‘When it reaches his heart,’ he said, ‘he will die.’
“When the groin was cold the Master uncovered his face--for he had
covered it before--and said, ‘Crito, we owe a cock to Æsculapius; pay
it, do not forget.’
“These were the last words he said.
“‘I will,’ said Crito, ‘is there anything more?’
“But he made no answer. A little time after, we saw him move. Then the
man uncovered the face, and we saw that his eyes were set. Then Crito
closed his mouth and his eyes.”
Phaedo left the room hastily when he had finished his narrative. For
some time there was silence. Then Apollodorus spoke.
“You know, my friends,” he said, “that I am not very wise nor at all
learned; but he bore with me and my foolishness, and you will also
because you know I loved him. Let me say then one thing. Much that
Socrates said that day I did not understand, nor do I understand it now
when I hear it again. Yet no one could be more fully persuaded than I
was that he spoke the truth. And what persuaded me was the sight of the
man. So brave was he, so cheerful, so wholly convinced in his own mind,
that no one could doubt that he was indeed about to depart to a better
place.”
FOOTNOTES:
[89] The Eleven were the executioners of the law rather taking the place
of the sheriff and the under-sheriff than that of the hangman. The
vagueness of its name is an interesting example of the Greek distaste
for naming anything terrible.
[90] A young Greek wore his hair long till he reached the age of
eighteen. This little detail is a proof of Phaedo’s extreme youth at
this time.