The wonderful series of dialogues in which Socrates takes the
leading part are at once the foundation and the crown of all
idealistic philosophy, and as literary masterpieces remain
unmatched. Certain of Plato's disciples would claim that his
highest achievement is "The Timaeus"; there are some who set their
affections on "The Phaedo"; but a general vote of all Platonists
would probably give the first position to "The Republic," and this
is undoubtedly the work which has had the widest general influence.
In "The Republic" itself Socrates is, professedly engaged in a
disputation, of which the object is to discover what Justice means;
and this leads to the description of the building up of that ideal
state or commonwealth from which the dialogue derives its title of
"The Republic."
_I.--How the Argument Arose_
I had gone with Glaucon to attend the celebration of the festival of
Bendis--the Thracian Artemis--a picturesque affair, and we were just
leaving, when Polemarchus insisted on carrying us off by main force to
the house of his father, Cephalus. There we found a small company
assembled. The old gentleman received us with hearty geniality; he is
ageing, but would not see any hardship in that, if you take age
good-humouredly. Of course, he owned that being wealthy makes a
difference, but not all the difference. The best of wealth is that you
need not do things which anger the gods and entail punishment in the
hereafter; you need not lie, or be in debt to gods or men. And this
consciousness of your own justice is a great consolation.
"But," said I, "what is justice? Is it always to speak the truth, and
always to let a man have his property? There are circumstances----"
"I must go," said he. "Polemarchus shall do the arguing."
This set us discussing the nature of justice. Glaucon took up the
cudgels, after a preliminary skirmish with Thrasymachus.
Assuming justice to be desirable--is it so for itself and by itself, or
only for its results; or both? The world at large puts it in the second
category as an inconvenient necessity. To suffer injustice is an evil,
and to protect themselves from that the weak combine to prevent
injustice from being done. But if anyone had the ring of Gyges, which
made him invisible, so that he could go his own way without let or
hindrance, he would get all the pleasures he could out of life without
troubling about the justice of it. Again, imagine on the one hand your
really consummate rogue who gets credit for all the virtues and is
surrounded by all the material factors of happiness; and, on the other
hand, a man of utter rectitude, on whom circumstances combine to fix the
stigma of iniquity. He will be rejected, scourged, crucified; while the
other is enjoying wealth, honour, everything, and can afford to make his
peace with the gods into the bargain.
Then Adeimantus took the field in support of his brother. "The poets,"
he said, "hold forth about the rewards of virtue here and hereafter. But
we see the unrighteous prospering mightily; and the religious mendicants
come to rich folks and offer to sell them indulgences on easy terms. A
keen-witted lad is bound to argue that it is only the appearance of
justice that is needed for prosperity; while the gods can be reconciled
cheaply. This dwelling on the temporal rewards of justice is fatal. What
we expect of you is to show us the inherent value of justice--justice
itself, not the appearance of it."
"Well argued," said I, "especially as you reject your own conclusion. I
can but try, though the task be hard. But my weak sight may enable me to
read large characters better than small. Justice is the virtue of the
state as well as of the individual; finding it in the state, the
greater, may help us to find it in the individual, the less."
_II.--The Socratic Utopia_
Society arises because different people are the better skilled to supply
different wants, and the wants of each are supplied by mutual
arrangement and division of labour. Wants multiply; the community grows;
it exchanges its own foreign products; merchants and markets are added
to the producers; and when folk begin to hire servants you have a
complete city or state living a life of simplicity. "A city of pigs,"
said Glaucon, "with no refinements." We will go on and develop every
luxury of civilisation. But then our city and its neighbours will be
wanting each other's lands. We must have soldiers. Our best guardians
will be a select band, those who are of the right temper and thoroughly
trained; fierce to foes but gentle to friends, like that true
philosopher, the dog, to whom knowledge is the test. The known are
friends, the unknown foes--knowledge begets gentleness.
So our guardians must be trained to knowledge; we must educate them.
Music and gymnastic, our national intellectual and physical training,
must be taught. Literature comes first, and really we teach things that
are not true before we teach things that are true--fables before facts.
But over these we must exercise a rigid censorship, excluding what is
essentially false.
We must have no stories which attribute harmful doings to the gods. God
must be represented as He is--the author of good always, of evil never;
also as having in him no variableness, neither shadow of turning. God
has no need of disguises. The lie in the soul--essential falsehood--is
to Him abhorrent, and He has no need of such deceptions as may be
innocent or even laudable for men. God must be shown always as utterly
true.
Similarly, we must not have stories which inspire dread of death; no
Achilles saying in the under-world that it were better to be a slave in
the flesh than Lord of the Shades. And again, no heroes--and gods still
less--giving way to frantic lamentations and uncontrolled emotions, even
uncontrolled laughter. Truth must be inculcated; medicinal untruths, so
to speak, are the prerogative of our rulers alone, and must be permitted
to no one else. Temperance, which means self-control and obedience to
authority, is essential, and is not always characteristic of Homer's
gods and heroes! We must exclude a long list of most unedifying passages
on this score. As for pictures of the afflictions of the righteous and
the prosperity of the unjust, we must wait, as we have not yet defined
justice. We turn to the poetical forms in which the stories should be
embodied.
The possible forms are the simply descriptive, the imitative, and the
mixture of the two: narrative drama, and narrative mixed with dialogue.
Our guardians ought to eschew imitation altogether, or at least to
imitate only the good and noble. The act of imitating an evil character
is demoralising, just as no self-respecting person will imitate the
lower animals, and so on. Imitation must be restricted within the
narrowest practicable limits.
But who are to be our actual rulers? The best of the elders, whose
firmness and consistency have stood the test of temptation. To them we
transfer the title of guardians, calling the younger men auxiliaries.
And we must try to induce everyone--guardians, soldiers, citizens--to
believe in one quite magnificent lie: that they were like the men in the
Cadmus myth, fashioned in the ground, their common mother.
"I don't wonder at your blushing," said Glaucon.
That they are brothers and sisters, but of different metals--gold,
silver, brass, iron; not necessarily of the same metal as their parents
in the flesh; and must take rank according to the metal whereof they are
made. No doubt it will take a generation or two to get them to believe
it.
And now our soldiers must pitch their camp for the defence of the city.
Soldiering is their business, not money-making. They must live in
common, supported efficiently by the state, having no private property.
The gold and silver in their souls is of God. For them, though not for
the other citizens, the earthly dross called gold is the accursed thing.
Once let them possess it, and they will cease to be guardians, and
become oppressors and tyrants.