The works of Plato · Plato
ARGUMENT.
CHAP. I.—I went down yesterday to the Piræus, with Glaucon,[25] son of Ariston, to pay my devotion to the goddess,—and wishing, at the same time, to observe in what manner they would celebrate the festival, as they were now to do so for the first time.[26] The procession of the natives themselves, indeed, seemed beautiful; yet that which the Thracians conducted appeared not less elegant. After we had paid our devotions, and seen the solemnity, we were going back to the city, when Polemarchus, son of Cephalus, observing us from a distance, hurrying home, bid his boy run and tell us to wait for him; and the boy, taking hold of my robe behind, said:—Polemarchus desires you to wait. I turned then and asked, where he was. He is coming after you, answered he: but pray wait for him. Yes, we will wait, said Glaucon; and just afterwards came Polemarchus and Adimantus, the brother of Glaucon, and Niceratus, son of Nicias[27], and some others, as from the procession. Then said Polemarchus, Socrates, you seem to me to be hurrying to the city, as on your return. Aye, you do not make a bad guess, said I. See you, then, said he, how many we are? Yes, of course.
Well, then, said he, you must either prove yourselves stronger than these, or else remain here. One expedient, said I, is still left; namely, to persuade you that you should let us go. How can you possibly persuade such as will not hear? By no means, said Glaucon. Make up your mind then, that we will not hear. But know you not, said Adimantus, that in the evening there is to be a torch-race on horseback to the goddess?[28] On horseback, said I; surely, this is a novelty. Are they to have torches, and to hand them to one another, contending together on horseback;—or how do you mean? Just so, replied Polemarchus. And besides, they will perform a nocturnal solemnity well worth seeing;—for we shall rise after supper and see it [the night festival,][29] and shall be there with many of our young [friends,] and have a chat. Do you also stay and do the same. It is right, I think, said Glaucon, that we should stay. Well,—if you please, said I, we will so. ----- Footnote 24: See the opening of the Timæus. Footnote 25: Glaucon and Adimantus were the brothers of Plato. Comp. Xen. Mem. iii. 6. Footnote 26: The festival here alluded to is the Βενδίδεια, in which Artemis or Bendis was worshipped agreeably to the custom of the Thracians.
CHAP. II.—We went home therefore to Polemarchus’s [house,] and there we found, both Lysias and Euthydemus, brothers of Polemarchus,—likewise Thrasymachus the Chalcedonian, Charmantides the Pæoneian, and Clitiphon the son of Aristonymus. Cephalus, the father of Polemarchus, was likewise in the house; and he seemed to me to have become a good deal aged, for I had not seen him for a long time. He was sitting crowned on a cushioned seat; for he had been offering sacrifice in the inner court. So we sat down by him; for some seats stood there in a circle. Immediately, therefore, on seeing me, Cephalus saluted me, and said: Socrates, you do not often come down to us to the Piræus, though you ought; for, could I still easily go up to the city, there would have been no need for you to come hither, but we should have gone up to you. As it is, however, you should come hither more frequently; for be assured that with me, the more bodily pleasures decay, the more also do the desires and pleasures of conversation increase. Do not then fail us, but accompany these youths, and resort hither, as to friends, and very dear friends too. As for me, Cephalus, said I, I am delighted to converse with persons well advanced in years; for it appears to me a duty to learn from them, as from persons who have gone before us, on a road which we too must necessarily travel, what kind of road it is——whether rough and difficult, or level and easy. Moreover, I would gladly learn from you (as you are now at that time of life which the poets call the threshold of old age), what your opinion of it is, whether it be a burdensome part of life, or how you describe it.
CHAP. III.—By Zeus![30] said he, I will tell you, Socrates, what I, for my part, think of it; for several of us, who are of the same age, frequently meet together in the same place, observing the old proverb.[31] Most of us, therefore, when we are together, complain of missing the pleasures of youth, calling to remembrance the pleasures of love, those of drinking and feasting, and such like: and they are mightily in dudgeon, as being bereaved of some great things,—having once lived happily, but now scarce living at all. Some of them, too, bemoan the contempt which old age meets with from intimate friends: and, on this account, they whine about old age, as being the cause of so many of their ills. To me, however, Socrates, these men seem not to blame the [real] cause; for, if this were the cause, I myself likewise should have suffered these very same things through old age,—and all others, likewise, who have come to these years. Now I have met with several not thus affected; and particularly I was once in company with Sophocles the poet, when he was asked by some one: How, said he, do you feel, Sophocles, as to the pleasures of love; are you still able to enjoy them? Softly, friend, replied he;—most gladly, indeed, have I escaped from these pleasures, as from some furious and savage master.[32] To me, then, he, at that time, seemed to speak well, and now not less so: for, on the whole, as respects such things there is in old age great peace and freedom; because, when the appetites cease to be vehement and have let go their hold, what Sophocles said, most certainly happens; we are delivered from very many, and those too, furious masters. With relation to these things, however, and what concerns our intimates, there is one and the same cause; which is, not old age, Socrates, but the disposition of [different] men: for, if they be discreet and moderate, even old age is but moderately burdensome: but if not, Socrates,—to such an one, both old age and youth are grievous.
As Pindar says: for this, Socrates, he has beautifully expressed, that whoever lives a life of justice and holiness, With him to cheer his heart, the nurse of age, Sweet hope abides, companion blest, that sways With power supreme the changeful mind of man.[36] In this he speaks well, and with great elegance. In conformity with this thought, therefore, I deem the possession of riches to be chiefly valuable, not to every man indeed, but to the man of worth: for as respects liberating us from the temptation of cheating or deceiving against our will,—or again from departing thither in fear, because we owe either sacrifices to God, or money to man,—for this, indeed, the possession of money has great advantages. It has many other also;—but for my part, Socrates, that seems not the least, among all others, which proves its high advantage to a man of understanding.
You speak admirably, Cephalus, replied I:—but this very thing, _Justice_,—shall we call it Truth, simply, and the restoring what one has received from another,—or shall we say, that it is possible to do the very same things at one time justly and at another unjustly? My meaning is somewhat as follows: Every one would probably be of opinion, that if a man received arms from a friend in sound mind, and that person should demand them back when mad, it would not be proper to restore such articles, nor would the restorer be just;[37] nor again, [would he] who, to a man so situated, should willingly tell the whole truth. Right, replied he. This, then, is not the definition of justice, [namely,] to speak the truth, and restore what one has received. Of course it is, Socrates, replied Polemarchus taking up the subject, if at least we are to believe Simonides. However that be, said Cephalus, I leave this conversation to you; for I must now go to attend to the sacred rites.[38] Well then, is not Polemarchus, said I, the heir of your [argument?] Certainly, replied he, smiling, and went off to the sacred rites. ----- Footnote 36: This passage will be found in Boeckh’s Fragm. Pind. 243, vol. ii. p. 2, p. 682. Footnote 37: Comp. Cicero de Off. iii. 25.
Footnote 38: Cicero very elegantly refers to this passage in his Epistles to Atticus, iv. 16. ----- CHAP. VI.—Tell me, then, said I, you who are heir in the conversation, what is it, that you affirm Simonides to have correctly alleged about justice? That to restore to each his due, is just, replied he: in saying this, he seems, to me at least, to speak correctly. Aye, indeed, said I, we cannot easily discredit Simonides; for he is a wise and divine man:—but as to his meaning in this passage, you, Polemarchus, are probably acquainted with it, but I am not; for it is plain he does not mean what we were saying just now,—that, when one has deposited any thing with us, we should return it to him, even if he demand it in his insanity: and yet the thing deposited is in some sense due, is it not? It is. At least, then, [you will grant] it must on no account whatever be restored, when a man asks for it in his insanity? True, replied he. Simonides then, it would seem, has some other meaning than this, in saying that to deliver up what is due, is just? Yes,—one quite different, replied he: for he is of opinion, that friends ought to do their friends good—not ill. I understand, said I;—that man does not give back what is due, who restores money deposited with him, if the repayment and receipt be really hurtful, and the receiver and restorer be friends:—is not this what you allege Simonides to say? Surely. What then?—are we to give our enemies, also, what may chance to be their due? By all means, said he, what is really due to them; and from an enemy to an enemy, there is due, I imagine, what is fitting too,—namely some evil.
CHAP. VII.—Simonides, then, it would seem, replied I, defined the nature of justice somewhat enigmatically, and after the manner of the poets; for it seems he had a notion, that justice consists in giving every one what was expedient for him; and this he called his due. But what is your opinion? said he. By Zeus, replied I, if any one then should ask him thus,—Simonides, what is the art, which, dispensing to certain persons something fitting and due, is called medicine, what, think you, would he answer us? That art, surely, replied he, which dispenses drugs to the body, and also meats and drinks. And what is the art, which, dispensing to certain things something fitting and due, is called cookery? The art which gives seasonings to victuals. Granted. What then, is that art, which may be called justice, as dispensing to certain persons something fitting and due? If we ought to be at all directed, Socrates, by what has been said above, [it is] the art which dispenses good offices to friends, and injuries to enemies. To do good, then, to friends, and ill to enemies, he calls justice? It seems so. Who then can best serve his friends, when they are sick, and most ill to his enemies, as either in sickness or health? A physician.
And who to those at sea, as respects danger on the sea? A pilot. But what as to the just man? In what business, and with respect to what action, can he most serve his friends and harm his foes? In fighting in alliance with the one, and against the other,—so far as I think. Just so; but at any rate, to those who are not sick, Polemarchus, the physician is useless? Aye. And the pilot, to those who do not sail? He is. And is the just man, in like manner, useless to those not engaged in war? This, at any rate, is not at all my opinion. Is justice, then, useful also in time of peace? Yes, useful, too. And so is agriculture, is it not? Yes. Towards the getting in of crops? Yes. And is not shoemaking useful too? Yes. Towards the possession of shoes, methinks you will say? Certainly. But what then? For the use or possession of what is it, that would you say justice were useful in time of peace? For contracts, Socrates! By these contracts do you mean copartnerships, or what else? Copartnerships, certainly. Well then; is the just man or the dice-player, a good and useful copartner for playing at dice? The dice-player.
But, in the laying of tiles or stones, is the just man a more useful and a better partner than the builder? By no means. In what copartnership then, is the just man a better copartner than the harper, as the harper is better than the just man for touching the strings of a harp? In one about money, as I imagine. And yet perhaps, with regard to the use of money, Polemarchus, when it is necessary jointly to buy or sell a horse, then, I should think, the jockey is the better copartner, is he not? He would appear so. And with respect to a ship, the shipwright or pilot? It seems so. When is it, then, with respect to the joint application of money, that the just man is more useful than others? When it is to be deposited and be safe, Socrates! Do you not mean when there is no need to use it, but to leave it in deposit? Certainly. When money then, is useless, justice is still useful with regard to it? It seems likely. When, therefore, one wants to put by a pruning-hook, justice is useful, both for a community and for a particular person: but when one wants to use it, then the art of vine-dressing [is useful.] It seems so. You will say, likewise, that when a shield or a lyre is to be kept and not used, then justice is useful; but when they are to be used, then the arts of warfare and music? Of course. And with reference to all other things, when they are to be used, justice is useless; but when they are not to be used, it is useful? It seems so.
CHAP. VIII.—Justice, then, my friend, can be no very important matter, if it is useful only in respect of things not to be used. But let us consider this matter:—is not he who is the cleverest at striking in a fight, whether with the fists or some other way, the cleverest likewise, in self-defence? Certainly. And as to the person who is clever in warding off and escaping from a distemper, is he not very clever also in bringing it on? So I suppose. And he too the best guardian of a camp, who can steal the counsels, and the other operations of the enemy? Certainly. Of whatever, then, any one is a good guardian, of that likewise he is a clever thief. It seems so. If, therefore, the just man be clever in guarding money, he is clever likewise in stealing. So it would seem, said he, from this reasoning.
The just man, then, has been shewn to be a sort of thief; and it is likely you have learned this from Homer; for he not only admires Autolycus, the maternal grandfather of Ulysses, but says, that he was distinguished beyond all men for thievishness and swearing.[39] Justice, then, seems in your opinion as well as in that of Homer and Simonides, to be a sort of thieving carried on for the benefit of our friends on the one hand, and for the injury of our enemies on the other:—did not you say so? No, by Zeus, I did not; nor, indeed, do I any longer know what I was saying:—yet it is still my opinion, that justice benefits friends, but injures foes. But [tell me,] whether you pronounce such to be friends, as seem to be honest; or such merely as are so, though not seeming so;—and in the same way as to enemies? It is reasonable, said he, to love those whom one deems honest, and to hate those [one deems] wicked. But do not men fall into error on this point, so that many appear to them honest who are not so, and many the contrary? Yes, they do. To such as these, then, the good are enemies, and the bad friends? Certainly.
But still is it, in that case, just for them to benefit the wicked, and hurt the good? So it seems. The good, moreover, are just, and incapable of doing any ill. True. According to your argument, then, is it just to do those harm, who do no harm [themselves?] By no means [think that,] Socrates, replied he; for that opinion seems to be vicious. With respect to the unjust, then, said I, is it right to injure these, but to do good to the just? This opinion seems fairer than the other. To many, then, it will occur [to think,] Polemarchus,—that is, to as many as have formed wrong opinions of men,—that they may justly hurt their friends (for they are wicked to them), and, on the other hand, benefit their enemies, inasmuch as they are good:—and thus we shall state the very reverse of what we alleged Simonides to say. That is precisely the case, said he:—but, let us change our definition; for we seem not to have rightly defined a friend and a foe. How were they defined, Polemarchus? That he who seems honest, is a friend. How then are we now to alter our definition, said I?
CHAP. IX.—Is it the just man’s part, then, said I, to hurt any one mortal whatever? By all means, said he; the wicked at least, and his enemies, he ought certainly to injure. And horses, when hurt, do they become better or worse? Worse. Do they so, as regards the virtue of dogs or horses? That of horses. And, do not dogs, when hurt, become worse as regards the virtue of dogs, but not of horses? Necessarily so. As to men, then, friend, may we not likewise say, that when hurt, they become worse with reference to man’s virtue? Certainly. But is not justice a human virtue? This too we must [allow.] It follows, then, friend, that those men who are hurt become more unjust? It seems so. Can musicians, then, by music, make men unmusical? Impossible.—Or horsemen, by horsemanship, make men unskilled in horsemanship? They cannot. Is it possible, either, that by justice the just [can make men] unjust; or in general that by virtue, the good can make men wicked? It is impossible. [Yes,] for it is not, methinks, the effect of heat to make cold, but [the effect] of its contrary? Yes. Nor of drought to make moist, but that of its contrary? Certainly.
Neither is it the part of a good man to hurt, but that of his contrary? It appears so. But, at any rate, the just is good? Certainly. Neither, then, is it the part of a just man, Polemarchus, to hurt either friend or any other, but [that] of his contrary, the unjust man. In all respects, Socrates, said he, you seem to reason truly. If, then, any one affirms it just to give every one his due, and consequently thinks this within himself, that injury is due from a just man to enemies, but service to friends,—he was not wise who said so, for he spoke not the truth:—for in no case has the justice been proved of injuring any one at all. I agree, said he. You and I then will jointly dispute the point, said I, if any one allege, that Simonides, or Bias, or Pittacus, or any other of those wise and happy men said so. I am ready, for my part, said he, to take part in this discussion. But know you, said I, whose saying I conceive it to be,—that it is just to serve friends, and hurt enemies? Whose, said he? I conceive it to be Periander’s, or Perdiccas’s, or Xerxes’s, or Ismenius’s, the Theban, or of some other rich man, who thought himself mightily important. You say most truly, said he. Be it so, said I:—but as this has not been shewn to be justice nor the just, what else may one say it is?
CHAP. X.—Now Thrasymachus had frequently during our discourse been on the point of breaking in upon the discussion with some objection,[40] but was hindered by the sitters-by, who wanted to hear out the conversation. When, however, we came to a pause, and after my making these last remarks, he could no longer keep quiet; but, taking his spring like a wild beast, attacked us, as if he would tear us in pieces. Both myself and Polemarchus were frightened and terror-struck. But he, raising his voice in the midst, cried out:—What is this, Socrates, which has so long possessed you; and why do you thus play the fool together, conceding mutually to one another? But if in particular you really want to know the nature of justice, do not only ask questions, and value yourself in refuting the answers you may get, well knowing that it is easier to ask than to answer; but answer yourself, and state your own view of the nature of justice. And [take care] that you do not tell me that it is what is fit, or what is due, or what is profitable, or what is gainful, or what is expedient; but, whatever you mean, express it plainly and accurately; for I will not allow you to utter such trifles as these.
I was astounded on hearing this; and when I looked at him, I was frightened; and, methinks, had I not perceived him before he perceived me, I should have become speechless.[41] But just when he began to grow fierce under our discussion, I observed him first, so that I was now able to answer him, and said, somewhat in a flutter:—Be not hard on us, Thrasymachus; if I and he [Polemarchus] err in the working out of our arguments, be well assured we err unwittingly: for, think not, that if we were searching for gold, we would ever wittingly yield to one another in the search, thus frustrating all chance of discovering it, and yet searching for justice,—a matter far more valuable than gold, foolishly make concessions to each other, and not labour with the utmost ardour for its discovery:—think you so, friend? Nay, methinks, we could not. That we should be sympathized with by your clever[42] persons is far more to be expected then, than that we should be treated with contempt. ----- Footnote 40: For this sense of ἀντιλαμβάνεσθαι, comp. book vi. p. 497 d, and p. 504; also Gorgias, 506 a. Footnote 41: This alludes to the popular belief that men were rendered speechless by the fixed look of a wolf; but this, they thought, was not the case, if they saw the wolf first.
Footnote 42: ὑφ’ ὑμῶν τῶν δεινῶν, alluding of course to the Sophists, who deemed themselves emphatically δεινοί. Comp. Protagor. p. 341 a. ----- CHAP. XI.—On hearing this he [Thrasymachus] gave a disdainful sort of laugh, and said:—By Heracles, this is Socrates’s wonted irony; and this I both knew, and foretold to these here,—that you never incline to answer, but use your irony, and do any thing rather than answer, if any one asks you any thing. Aye; you are a wise man, Thrasymachus, said I; for you knew well, that if you asked any one, how many make twelve; and, if asking, you should tell him, you must not tell me, man, that twelve are twice six,—or three times four,—or four times three; because I will not admit it, if you are such a trifler; it was plain to you, methinks, that no man would answer one so inquiring. But if he should say to you, What mean you, Thrasymachus, may I not answer in any of these ways you have told me,—not even though the real answer happen to be one of them; but am I rather to say something else than the truth? Or, how is it you mean? What would you say to him in reply to these things? If they were alike, I should give an answer; for the one, forsooth, is like the other.
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