Book 2

In other conversations I thought that he exhorted his companions to practise self-control in the matter of eating and drinking, and sexual indulgence, and sleeping, and endurance of cold and heat and toil. Aware that one of his companions was rather intemperate in such matters, he said: Tell me, Aristippus, if you were required to take charge of two youths and educate them so that the one would be fit to rule and the other would never think of putting himself forward, how would you educate them? Shall we consider it, beginning with the elementary question of food?

Oh yes, replied Aristippus, food does seem to come first; for one can’t live without food.

Well, now, will not a desire for food naturally arise in both at certain times?

Yes, naturally.

Now which of the two should we train in the habit of transacting urgent business before he satisfies his hunger?

The one who is being trained to rule, undoubtedly; else State business might be neglected during his tenure.

And must not the same one be given power to resist thirst when both want to drink?

Certainly.

And to which shall we give the power of limiting his sleep so that he can go late to bed and get up early, and do without sleep if need be?

To the same again.

And the power to control his passions, so that he may not be hindered in doing necessary work?

To the same again.

And to which shall we give the habit of not shirking a task, but undertaking it willingly?

That too will go to the one who is being trained to rule.

And to which would the knowledge needful for overcoming enemies be more appropriately given?

Without doubt to the one who is being trained to rule; for the other lessons would be useless without such knowledge.

Don’t you think that with this education he will be less likely to be caught by his enemy than other creatures? Some of them, you know, are so greedy, that in spite of extreme timidity in some cases, they are drawn irresistibly to the bait to get food, and are caught; and others are snared by drink.

Yes, certainly.

Others again — quails and partridges, for instance — are so amorous, that when they hear the cry of the female, they are carried away by desire and anticipation, throw caution to the winds and blunder into the nets. Is it not so?

He agreed again. Now, don’t you think it disgraceful that a man should be in the same plight as the silliest of wild creatures? Thus an adulterer enters the women’s quarters, knowing that by committing adultery he is in danger of incurring the penalties threatened by the law, and that he may be trapped, caught and ill-treated. When such misery and disgrace hang over the adulterer’s head, and there are many remedies to relieve him of his carnal desire without risk, is it not sheer lunacy to plunge headlong into danger?

Yes, I think it is.

And considering that the great majority of essential occupations, warfare, agriculture and very many others, are carried on in the open air, don’t you think it gross negligence that so many men are untrained to withstand cold and heat?

He agreed again. Don’t you think then, that one who is going to rule must adapt himself to bear them lightly?

Certainly.

If then we classify those who control themselves in all these matters as fit to rule, shall we not classify those who cannot behave so as men with no claim to be rulers?

He agreed again. Well now, as you know the category to which each of these species belongs, have you ever considered in which category you ought to put yourself?

I have; and I do not for a moment put myself in the category of those who want to be rulers. For considering how hard a matter it is to provide for one’s own needs, I think it absurd not to be content to do that, but to shoulder the burden of supplying the wants of the community as well. That anyone should sacrifice a large part of his own wishes and make himself accountable as head of the state for the least failure to carry out all the wishes of the community is surely the height of folly.

For states claim to treat their rulers just as I claim to treat my servants. I expect my men to provide me with necessaries in abundance, but not to touch any of them; and states hold it to be the business of the ruler to supply them with all manner of good things, and to abstain from all of them himself. And so, should anyone want to bring plenty of trouble on himself and others, I would educate him as you propose and number him with those fitted to be rulers: but myself I classify with those who wish for a life of the greatest ease and pleasure that can be had.

Here Socrates asked:

Shall we then consider whether the rulers or the ruled live the pleasanter life?

Certainly, replied Aristippus. To take first the nations known to us. In Asia the rulers are the Persians; the Syrians, Lydians and Phrygians are the ruled. In Europe the Scythians rule, and the Maeotians are ruled. In Africa the Carthaginians rule, and the Libyans are ruled. Which of the two classes, think you, enjoys the pleasanter life? Or take the Greeks, of whom you yourself are one; do you think that the controlling or the controlled communities enjoy the pleasanter life?

Nay, replied Aristippus, for my part I am no candidate for slavery; but there is, as I hold, a middle path in which I am fain to walk. That way leads neither through rule nor slavery, but through liberty, which is the royal road to happiness.

Ah, said Socrates, if only that path can avoid the world as well as rule and slavery, there may be something in what you say. But, since you are in the world, if you intend neither to rule nor to be ruled, and do not choose to truckle to the rulers

— I think you must see that the stronger have a way of making the weaker rue their lot both in public and in private life, and treating them like slaves. You cannot be unaware that where some have sown and planted, others cut their corn and fell their trees, and in all manner of ways harass the weaker if they refuse to bow down, until they are persuaded to accept slavery as an escape from war with the stronger. So, too, in private life do not brave and mighty men enslave and plunder the cowardly and feeble folk?

Yes, but my plan for avoiding such treatment is this. I do not shut myself up in the four corners of a community, but am a stranger in every land.

A very cunning trick, that!

cried Socrates, for ever since the death of Sinis and Sceiron and Procrustes no one injures strangers! And yet nowadays those who take a hand in the affairs of their homeland pass laws to protect themselves from injury, get friends to help them over and above those whom nature has given them, encompass their cities with fortresses, get themselves weapons to ward off the workers of mischief; and besides all this seek to make allies in other lands; and in spite of all these precautions, they are still wronged.

But you, with none of these advantages, spend much time on the open road, where so many come to harm; and into whatever city you enter, you rank below all its citizens, and are one of those specially marked down for attack by intending wrongdoers; and yet, because you are a stranger, do you expect to escape injury? What gives you confidence? Is it that the cities by proclamation guarantee your safety in your coming and going? Or is it the thought that no master would find you worth having among his slaves? For who would care to have a man in his house who wants to do no work and has a weakness for high living?

But now let us see how masters treat such servants. Do they not starve them to keep them from immorality, lock up the stores to stop their stealing, clap fetters on them so that they can’t run away, and beat the laziness out of them with whips? What do you do yourself to cure such faults among your servants?

I make their lives a burden to them until I reduce them to submission. But how about those who are trained in the art of kingship, Socrates, which you appear to identify with happiness? How are they better off than those whose sufferings are compulsory, if they must bear hunger, thirst, cold, sleeplessness, and endure all these tortures willingly? For if the same back gets the flogging whether its owner kicks or consents, or, in short, if the same body, consenting or objecting, is besieged by all these torments, I see no difference, apart from the folly of voluntary suffering.

What, Aristippus, exclaimed Socrates, don’t you think that there is just this difference between these voluntary and involuntary sufferings, that if you bear hunger or thirst willingly, you can eat, drink, or what not, when you choose, whereas compulsory suffering is not to be ended at will? Besides, he who endures willingly enjoys his work because he is comforted by hope; hunters, for instance, toil gladly in hope of game.

Rewards like these are indeed of little worth after all the toil; but what of those who toil to win good friends, or to subdue enemies, or to make themselves capable in body and soul of managing their own homes well, of helping their friends and serving their country? Surely these toil gladly for such prizes and live a joyous life, well content with themselves, praised and envied by everyone else?

Moreover, indolence and present enjoyment can never bring the body into good condition, as trainers say, neither do they put into the soul knowledge of any value, but strenuous effort leads up to good and noble deeds, as good men say. And so says Hesiod somewhere: Wickedness can be had in abundance easily: smooth is the road and very nigh she dwells. But in front of virtue the gods immortal have put sweat: long and steep is the path to her and rough at first; but when you reach the top, then at length the road is easy, hard though it was.

And we have the testimony of Epicharmus too in the line: The gods demand of us toil as the price of all good things.

And elsewhere he says: Knave, yearn not for the soft things, lest thou earn the hard.

Aye, and Prodicus the wise expresses himself to the like effect concerning Virtue in the essay On Heracles that he recites to throngs of listeners. This, so far as I remember, is how he puts it: When Heracles was passing from boyhood to youth’s estate, wherein the young, now becoming their own masters, show whether they will approach life by the path of virtue or the path of vice, he went out into a quiet place, and sat pondering which road to take. And there appeared two women of great stature making towards him. The one was fair to see and of high bearing; and her limbs were adorned with purity, her eyes with modesty; sober was her figure, and her robe was white. The other was plump and soft, with high feeding. Her face was made up to heighten its natural white and pink, her figure to exaggerate her height. Open-eyed was she; and dressed so as to disclose all her charms. Now she eyed herself; anon looked whether any noticed her; and often stole a glance at her own shadow.

When they drew nigh to Heracles, the first pursued the even tenor of her way: but the other, all eager to outdo her, ran to meet him, crying: Heracles, I see that you are in doubt which path to take towards life. Make me your friend; follow me, and I will lead you along the pleasantest and easiest road. You shall taste all the sweets of life; and hardship you shall never know.

First, of wars and worries you shall not think, but shall ever be considering what choice food or drink you can find, what sight or sound will delight you, what touch or perfume; what tender love can give you most joy, what bed the softest slumbers; and how to come by all these pleasures with least trouble.

And should there arise misgiving that lack of means may stint your enjoyments, never fear that I may lead you into winning them by toil and anguish of body and soul. Nay; you shall have the fruits of others’ toil, and refrain from nothing that can bring you gain. For to my companions I give authority to pluck advantage where they will.

Now when Heracles heard this, he asked, Lady, pray what is your name?

My friends call me Happiness, she said, but among those that hate me I am nicknamed Vice.

Meantime the other had drawn near, and she said: I, too, am come to you, Heracles: I know your parents and I have taken note of your character during the time of your education. Therefore I hope that, if you take the road that leads to me, you will turn out a right good doer of high and noble deeds, and I shall be yet more highly honoured and more illustrious for the blessings I bestow. But I will not deceive you by a pleasant prelude: I will rather tell you truly the things that are, as the gods have ordained them.

For of all things good and fair, the gods give nothing to man without toil and effort. If you want the favour of the gods, you must worship the gods: if you desire the love of friends, you must do good to your friends: if you covet honour from a city, you must aid that city: if you are fain to win the admiration of all Hellas for virtue, you must strive to do good to Hellas: if you want land to yield you fruits in abundance, you must cultivate that land: if you are resolved to get wealth from flocks, you must care for those flocks: if you essay to grow great through war and want power to liberate your friends and subdue your foes, you must learn the arts of war from those who know them and must practise their right use: and if you want your body to be strong, you must accustom your body to be the servant of your mind, and train it with toil and sweat.

And Vice, as Prodicus tells, answered and said: Heracles, mark you how hard and long is that road to joy, of which this woman tells? but I will lead you by a short and easy road to happiness.

And Virtue said:

What good thing is thine, poor wretch, or what pleasant thing dost thou know, if thou wilt do nought to win them? Thou dost not even tarry for the desire of pleasant things, but fillest thyself with all things before thou desirest them, eating before thou art hungry, drinking before thou art thirsty, getting thee cooks, to give zest to eating, buying thee costly wines and running to and fro in search of snow in summer, to give zest to drinking; to soothe thy slumbers it is not enough for thee to buy soft coverlets, but thou must have frames for thy beds. For not toil, but the tedium of having nothing to do, makes thee long for sleep. Thou dost rouse lust by many a trick, when there is no need, using men as women: thus thou trainest thy friends, waxing wanton by night, consuming in sleep the best hours of day.

Immortal art thou, yet the outcast of the gods, the scorn of good men. Praise, sweetest of all things to hear, thou hearest not: the sweetest of all sights thou beholdest not, for never yet hast thou beheld a good work wrought by thyself. Who will believe what thou dost say? who will grant what thou dost ask? Or what sane man will dare join thy throng? While thy votaries are young their bodies are weak, when they wax old, their souls are without sense; idle and sleek they thrive in youth, withered and weary they journey through old age, and their past deeds bring them shame, their present deeds distress. Pleasure they ran through in their youth: hardship they laid up for their old age.

But I company with gods and good men, and no fair deed of god or man is done without my aid. I am first in honour among the gods and among men that are akin to me: to craftsmen a beloved fellow-worker, to masters a faithful guardian of the house, to servants a kindly protector: good helpmate in the toils of peace, staunch ally in the deeds of war, best partner in friendship.

To my friends meat and drink bring sweet and simple enjoyment: for they wait till they crave them. And a sweeter sleep falls on them than on idle folk: they are not vexed at awaking from it, nor for its sake do they neglect to do their duties. The young rejoice to win the praise of the old; the elders are glad to be honoured by the young; with joy they recall their deeds past, and their present well-doing is joy to them, for through me they are dear to the gods, lovely to friends, precious to their native land. And when comes the appointed end, they lie not forgotten and dishonoured, but live on, sung and remembered for all time. O Heracles, thou son of goodly parents, if thou wilt labour earnestly on this wise, thou mayest have for thine own the most blessed happiness.

Such, in outline, is Prodicus’ story of the training of Heracles by Virtue; only he has clothed the thoughts in even finer phrases than I have done now. But anyhow, Aristippus, it were well that you should think on these things and try to show some regard for the life that lies before you.

On noticing that his eldest son, Lamprocles, was out of humour with his mother, he said: Tell me, my boy, do you know that some men are called ungrateful?

Indeed I do, replied the young man. Do you realise how they come to have this bad name?

I do; the word is used of those who do not show the gratitude that it is in their power to show for benefits received.

You take it, then, that the ungrateful are reckoned among the unjust?

Yes.

Now, seeing that enslavement is considered a just or an unjust act according as the victims are friends or enemies, have you ever considered whether the case of ingratitude is analogous, ingratitude being unjust towards friends, but just towards enemies?

Indeed I have; and I think that it is always unjust not to show gratitude for a favour from whomsoever it is received, be he friend or enemy.

If that is so, must not ingratitude be injustice pure and simple?

He assented. Therefore the greater the benefits received the greater the injustice of not showing gratitude?

He agreed again. Now what deeper obligation can we find than that of children to their parents? To their parents children owe their being and their portion of all fair sights and all blessings that the gods bestow on men — gifts so highly prized by us that all will sacrifice anything rather than lose them; and the reason why governments have made death the penalty for the greatest crimes is that the fear of it is the strongest deterrent against crime.

Of course you don’t suppose that lust provokes men to beget children, when the streets and the stews are full of means to satisfy that? We obviously select for wives the women who will bear us the best children, and then marry them to raise a family.

The man supports the woman who is to share with him the duty of parentage and provides for the expected children whatever he thinks will contribute to their benefit in life, and accumulates as much of it as he can. The woman conceives and bears her burden in travail, risking her life, and giving of her own food; and, with much labour, having endured to the end and brought forth her child, she rears and cares for it, although she has not received any good thing, and the babe neither recognises its benefactress nor can make its wants known to her: still she guesses what is good for it and what it likes, and seeks to supply these things, and rears it for a long season, enduring toil day and night, nothing knowing what return she will get.

Nor are the parents content just to supply food, but so soon as their children seem capable of learning they teach them what they can for their good, and if they think that another is more competent to teach them anything, they send them to him at a cost, and strive their utmost that the children may turn out as well as possible.

To this the young man replied:

Nay, but even if she has done all this and far more than this, no one could put up with her vile temper.

Which, think you, asked Socrates, is the harder to bear, a wild beast’s brutality or a mother’s?

I should say a mother’s, when she is like mine.

Well now, many people get bitten or kicked by wild beasts; has she ever done you an injury of that sort?

Oh no, but she says things one wouldn’t listen to for anything in the world.

Well, how much trouble do you think you have given her by your peevish words and froward acts day and night since you were a little child; and how much pain when you were ill?

But I have never yet said or done anything to cause her shame.

Now do you really think it harder for you to listen to what she says than for actors when they abuse one another in a tragedy?

But an actor, I suppose, doesn’t think that a question put to him will lead to punishment, or that a threat means any harm: and so he makes light of it.

And why should you be annoyed? You know well that there is no malice in what your mother says to you; on the contrary, she wishes you to be blessed above all other beings — unless, indeed, you suppose that your mother is maliciously set against you?

Oh no, I don’t think that.

Then Socrates exclaimed:

So this mother of yours is kindly disposed towards you; she nurses you devotedly in sickness and sees that you want for nothing; more than that, she prays the gods to bless you abundantly and pays vows on your behalf; and yet you say she is a trial! It seems to me that, if you can’t endure a mother like her, you can’t endure a good thing.

Now tell me, is there any other being whom you feel bound to regard? Or are you set on trying to please nobody, and obeying neither general nor other ruler?

Of course not!

Do you want to please your neighbour, for instance, so that he may kindle a fire for you at your need, may support you in prosperity, and in case of accident or failure may be ready to hold out a helping hand?

Yes, I do.

When you find yourself with a travelling companion on land or at sea, or happen to meet anyone, is it a matter of indifference to you whether he prove a friend or an enemy? Or do you think his goodwill worth cultivating?

Yes, I do.

And yet, when you are resolved to cultivate these, you don’t think courtesy is due to your mother, who loves you more than all? Don’t you know that even the state ignores all other forms of ingratitude and pronounces no judgment on them, caring nothing if the recipient of a favour neglects to thank his benefactor, but inflicts penalties on the man who is discourteous to his parents and rejects him as unworthy of office, holding that it would be a sin for him to offer sacrifices on behalf of the state and that he is unlikely to do anything else honourably and rightly? Aye, and if one fail to honour his parents’ graves, the state inquires into that too, when it examines the candidates for office.

Therefore, my boy, if you are prudent, you will pray the gods to pardon your neglect of your mother, lest they in turn refuse to be kind to you, thinking you an ingrate; and you will beware of men, lest all cast you out, perceiving that you care nothing for your parents, and in the end you are found to be without a friend. For, should men suppose you to be ungrateful to your parents, none would think you would be grateful for any kindness he might show you.

On another occasion he found that two brothers, Chaerophon and Chaerecrates, whom he knew well, were quarrelling. On seeing the latter, he cried, Surely, Chaerecrates, you are not one of those who hold that there is more value in goods and chattels than in a brother, when they are senseless but he is sensible; they are helpless but he is helpful; when, moreover, you have many goods, but only one brother.

It is strange too that a man should think he loses by his brothers because he cannot have their possessions as well as his own, and yet should not think that he loses by his fellow-citizens because their possessions are not his; and whereas in this case men can reflect that it is better to belong to a community, secure in the possession of a sufficiency, than to dwell in solitude with a precarious hold on all the property of their fellow-citizens, they fail to see that the same principle applies to brothers.

Again, those who have the means by servants to relieve them of work, and make friends because they feel the need of help; but they care nothing for their brothers, as though friendship can exist between fellow-citizens, but not between brothers!

Yet common parentage and common upbringing are strong ties of affection, for even brute beasts reared together feel a natural yearning for one another. Besides, our fellow-men respect those of us who have brothers more than those who have none, and are less ready to quarrel with them.

If only the difference between us were a slight one, Socrates, replied Chaerecrates, it might perhaps be my duty to put up with my brother and not allow trifles to separate us. For a brother who behaves like a brother is, as you say, a blessing; but if his conduct is nothing like that, and is, in fact, just the opposite of what it should be, what is the use of attempting impossibilities?

Does everyone find Chaerophon as disagreeable as you do, Chaerecrates, or do some people think him very pleasant?

Ah, Socrates, replied he, this is precisely my reason for hating him: he is pleasant enough to other people, but whenever he is near me, he invariably says and does more to hurt than to help me.

Well now, said Socrates, if you try to manage a horse without knowing the right way, he hurts you. Is it so with a brother? Does he hurt if you try to deal with him when you don’t know the way?

What, exclaimed Chaerecrates, don’t I know how to deal with a brother, when I know how to requite a kind word and a generous deed? But I can’t speak or act kindly to one who tries to annoy me by his words and actions — and what’s more, I won’t try.

Chaerecrates, you astonish me!

Had you a sheep dog that was friendly to the shepherds, but growled when you came near him, it would never occur to you to get angry, but you would try to tame him by kindness. You say that, if your brother treated you like a brother, he would be a great blessing, and you confess that you know how to speak and act kindly: yet you don’t set yourself to contriving that he shall be the greatest possible blessing to you.

I fear, Socrates, that I lack the wisdom to make Chaerophon treat me as he should.

And yet, said Socrates, there is no need, so far as I see, of any subtle or strange contriving on your part: I think you know the way to win him and to get his good opinion.

If you have observed that I know some spell without being conscious of my knowledge, pray tell me at once.

Then tell me, now; if you wanted to get an invitation to dine with an acquaintance when he offers sacrifice, what would you do?

Of course I should begin by inviting him myself when I offered sacrifice.

And suppose you wanted to encourage one of your friends to look after your affairs during your absence from home, what would you do?

Of course I should first undertake to look after his affairs in his absence.

And suppose you wanted a stranger to entertain you when you visited his city, what would you do?

Obviously I should first entertain him when he came to Athens. Yes, and if I wanted him to show himself eager in forwarding the business on which I had come, it is obvious that I should first have to do the same by him.

It seems that you have long concealed a knowledge of all spells that were ever discovered. Or is it that you hesitate to make a beginning, for fear of disgracing yourself by first showing kindness to your brother? Yet it is generally thought worthy of the highest praise to anticipate the malevolence of an enemy and the benevolence of a friend. So if I thought Chaerophon more capable than you of showing the way to this friendship, I would try to persuade him to take the first step towards an understanding with you. But as things are, I think the enterprise more likely to succeed under your direction.

Strange sentiments, these, Socrates!

It’s quite unlike you to urge me, the junior, to lead the way! And surely all hold the contrary opinion, that the senior, I mean, should always act and speak first?

How so?

said Socrates.

Is it not the general opinion that a young man should make way for an older when they meet, offer his seat to him, give him a comfortable bed, let him have the first word? My good friend, don’t hesitate, but take up the task of pacifying your man, and in no time he will respond to your overtures. Don’t you see how keen and frank he is? Low fellows, it is true, yield most readily to gifts, but kindness is the weapon most likely to prevail with a gentleman.

And what, asked Chaerecrates, if all my efforts lead to no improvement?

Well, in that case, I presume you will have shown that you are honest and brotherly, he that he is base and unworthy of kindness. But I am confident that no such result will follow; for I think that, as soon as he is aware of your challenge to this contest, he will be all eagerness to outdo your kind words and actions.

What if a pair of hands refused the office of mutual help for which God made them, and tried to thwart each other; or if a pair of feet neglected the duty of working together, for which they were fashioned, and took to hampering each other? That is how you two are behaving at present.

Would it not be utterly senseless and disastrous to use for hindrance instruments that were made for help? And, moreover, a pair of brothers, in my judgment, were made by God to render better service one to the other than a pair of hands and feet and eyes and all the instruments that he meant to be used as fellows. For the hands cannot deal simultaneously with things that are more than six feet or so apart: the feet cannot reach in a single stride things that are even six feet apart: and the eyes, though they seem to have a longer range, cannot at the same moment see things still nearer than that, if some are in front and some behind. But two brothers, when they are friends, act simultaneously for mutual benefit, however far parted one from the other.

Again, I once heard him give a discourse on friendship that was likely, as I thought, to help greatly in the acquisition and use of friends. For he said that he often heard it stated that of all possessions the most precious is a good and sincere friend. And yet, he said, there is no transaction most men are so careless about as the acquisition of friends.

For I find that they are careful about getting houses and lands and slaves and cattle and furniture, and anxious to keep what they have; but though they tell one that a friend is the greatest blessing, I find that most men take no thought how to get new friends or how to keep their old ones.

Indeed, if one of their friends and one of their servants fall ill at the same time, I find that some call in the doctor to attend the servant and are careful to provide everything that may contribute to his recovery, whereas they take no heed of the friend. In the event of both dying, they are vexed at losing the servant, but don’t feel that the death of the friend matters in the least. And though none of their other possessions is uncared for and unconsidered, they are deaf to their friends’ need of attention.

And besides all this, I find that most men know the number of their other possessions, however great it may be, yet cannot tell the number of their friends, few as they are; and, if they are asked and try to make a list, they will insert names and presently remove them. So much for the thought they give to their friends!

Yet surely there is no other possession that can compare with a good friend. For what horse, what yoke of oxen is so good a servant as the good friend? What slave so loyal and constant? or what possession so serviceable?

The good friend is on the watch to supply whatever his friend wants for building up his private fortune and forwarding his public career. If generosity is called for, he does his part: if fear harasses, he comes to the rescue, shares expenses, helps to persuade, bears down opposition: he is foremost in delighting him when he is prosperous and raising him up when he falls.

Of all that a man can do with his hands, see for himself with his eyes, hear for himself with his ears or accomplish with his feet, in nothing is a friend backward in helping. Nevertheless, while some strive to cultivate a tree for its fruit, most bestow but an idle and listless care on their most fruitful possession, the name of which is friend.

Again, I once heard him exhort a listener — for so I interpreted his words — to examine himself and to ask how much he was worth to his friends. For he had noticed that one of his companions was neglecting a poverty-stricken friend; so he put a question to Antisthenes in the presence of several others, including the careless friend.

Antisthenes, he said, have friends like servants their own values? For one servant, I suppose, may be worth two minas, another less than half a mina, another five minas, another no less than ten. Nicias, son of Niceratus, is said to have given a whole talent for a manager of his silver-mine. So I am led to inquire whether friends too may not differ in value.

Oh yes, replied Antisthenes, there are men whose friendship I, at any rate, would rather have than two minas: others I should value at less than half a mina: others I would prefer to ten minas: others I would sacrifice any sum and take any trouble to have among my friends.

Then if that is so, said Socrates, were it not well that one should ask himself how much he is really worth to his friends, and try to make himself as precious as possible, in order that his friends may not be tempted to betray him? For my part, I often hear complaints of this sort: A friend betrayed me, one whom I regarded as my friend gave me up for the sake of a mina.

I think over such matters and reflect that, when a man sells a bad slave he takes anything he can get for him; and perhaps it is tempting to sell a bad friend when there is a chance of getting more than he is worth. Good servants, I find, are not offered for sale, nor are good friends betrayed.

In the following conversation I thought he gave instruction for testing the qualities that make a man’s friendship worth winning. Tell me, Critobulus, he said, if we wanted a good friend, how should we start on the quest? Should we seek first for one who is no slave to eating and drinking, lust, sleep, idleness? For the thrall of these masters cannot do his duty by himself or his friend.

No, of course not.

Then you think we should avoid one who is subject to them?

I do, certainly.

Now what about the spendthrift who is never satisfied, who is always appealing to his neighbours for help, if he receives something, makes no return, if he receives nothing, resents it? Don’t you think he too is a troublesome friend?

Certainly.

Then we must avoid him too?

We must indeed.

Again, what about the skilful man of business who is eager to make money, and consequently drives a hard bargain, who likes to receive but is disinclined to repay?

So far as I see, he is even worse than the last.

And what of the man who is such a keen man of business that he has no leisure for anything but the selfish pursuit of gain?

We must avoid him too, I think. There is no profit in knowing him.

And what of the quarrelsome person who is willing to provide his friends with plenty of enemies?

We must shun him too, of course.

Suppose that a man is free from all these faults, but stoops to receive kindness with no thought of returning it?

There is no profit in him either. But what are the qualities for which we shall try to win a man’s friendship, Socrates?

The opposite of these, I suppose.

We shall look for one who controls his indulgence in the pleasures of the body, who is truly hospitable and fair in his dealings and eager to do as much for his benefactors as he receives from them, so that he is worth knowing.

Then how can we test these qualities, Socrates, before intimacy begins?

What test do we apply to a sculptor? We don’t judge by what he says, but we look at his statues, and if we see that the works he has already produced are beautiful, we feel confident that his future works will be as good.

You mean that anyone whose good works wrought upon his old friends are manifest will clearly prove a benefactor to new friends also?

Yes; for when I find that an owner of horses has been in the habit of treating his beasts well I think that he will treat others equally well.

Granted! but when we have found a man who seems worthy of our friendship, how are we to set about making him our friend?

First we should seek guidance from the gods, whether they counsel us to make a friend of him.

And next? Supposing that we have chosen and the gods approve him, can you say how is he to be hunted?

Surely not like a hare by swift pursuit, nor like birds by cunning, nor like enemies by force. It is no light task to capture a friend against his will, and hard to keep him a prisoner like a slave. Hatred, rather than friendship, comes of that treatment.

But how does friendship come?

There are spells, they say, wherewith those who know charm whom they will and make friends of them, and drugs which those who know give to whom they choose and win their love.

How then can we learn them?

You have heard from Homer the spell that the Sirens put on Odysseus. It begins like this: Hither, come hither, renowned Odysseus, great glory of the Achaeans.

Then did the Sirens chant in this strain for other folk too, Socrates, so as to keep those who were under the spell from leaving them?

No, only for those that yearned for the fame that virtue gives.

You mean, I take it, that the spell must be fitted to the listener, so that he may not take the praise for mockery.

Yes; for to praise one for his beauty, his stature and his strength who is conscious that he is short, ugly and puny, is the way to repel him and make him dislike you more.

Do you know any other spells?

No, but I have heard that Pericles knew many and put them on the city, and so made her love him.

And how did Themistocles make the city love him?

Not by spells: no, no; but by hanging some good amulet about her.

I think you mean, Socrates, that if we are to win a good man’s friendship, we ourselves must be good in word and deed alike?

But you imagined that a bad man could win the friendship of honest men?

I did, answered Critobulus, for I saw that poor orators have good speakers among their friends, and some who are incapable of commanding an army are intimate with great generals.

Coming then to the point under discussion, do you know cases of useless persons making useful friends?

Assuredly not; but if it is impossible that the bad should gain the friendship of gentlemen, then I am anxious to know whether it is quite easy for a gentleman as a matter of course to be the friend of gentlemen?

Your trouble is, Critobulus, that you often find men who do good and shun evil not on friendly terms, but apt to quarrel and treat one another more harshly than worthless fellows.

Yes, said Critobulus, and such conduct is not confined to individuals, but even the cities that care most for the right and have least liking for the wrong are often at enmity.

These thoughts make me despair about the acquisition of friends. For I see on the one hand that rogues cannot be friends with one another — for how could the ungrateful, the careless, the selfish, the faithless, the incontinent, form friendships? I feel sure, then, that rogues are by their nature enemies rather than friends.

But then, as you point out, neither can rogues ever join in friendship with honest men, for how can wrongdoers become friendly with those who hate their conduct? And if we must add that the votaries of virtue strive with one another for headship in cities, and envy and hate one another, who then will be friends and where shall loyalty and faithfulness be found?

Ah, Critobulus, but there is a strange complication in these matters. Some elements in man’s nature make for friendship: men need one another, feel pity, work together for their common good, and, conscious of the facts, are grateful to one another. But there are hostile elements in men. For, holding the same things to be honourable and pleasant, they fight for them, fall out and take sides. Strife and anger lead to hostility, covetousness to enmity, jealousy to hatred.

Nevertheless through all these barriers friendship slips, and unites the gentle natures. For thanks to their virtue these prize the untroubled security of moderate possessions above sovereignty won by war; despite hunger and thirst, they can share their food and drink without a pang; and although they delight in the charms of beauty they can resist the lure and avoid offending those whom they should respect;

they can not only share wealth lawfully and keep from covetousness, but also supply one another’s wants; they can compose strife not only without pain, but with advantage to one another, and prevent anger from pursuing its way towards remorse: but jealousy they take away utterly, regarding their own good things as belonging to their friends, and thinking their friend’s good things to be their own.

Surely, then, it is likely that true gentlemen will share public honours too not only without harm to one another, but to their common benefit? For those who desire to win honour and to bear rule in their cities that they may have power to embezzle, to treat others with violence, to live in luxury, are bound to be unjust, unscrupulous, incapable of unity.

But if a man seeks to be honoured in a state that he may not be the victim of injustice himself and may help his friends in a just cause, and when he takes office may try to do some good to his country, why should he be incapable of union with one like himself? Will his connexion with other gentlemen render him less capable of serving his friends? Will he be less able to benefit his city with the help of other gentlemen?

Even in the public games it is clear that, if the strongest competitors were allowed to join forces against the weaker, they would win all the events, they would carry off all the prizes. True, that is not permitted in the games; but in politics, where the gentlemen are the strongest, nobody prevents anyone from forming any combination he may choose for the benefit of the state; surely, then, in public life it is a gain to make friends with the best, and to see in them partners and fellow-workers in a common cause, and not rivals.

But, again, it is equally clear that anyone who goes to war will need allies, and more of them if he is to fight an army of gentlemen. Moreover, those who are willing to fight at your side must be well treated that they may be willing to exert themselves; and it is a far sounder plan to show kindness to the best, who are fewer in number, than to the worst, who are the greater company; for the bad want many more kindnesses than the good.

Courage, Critobulus; try to be good, and when you have achieved that, set about catching your gentleman. Maybe, I myself, as an adept in love, can lend you a hand in the pursuit of gentlemen. For when I want to catch anyone it’s surprising how I strain every nerve to have my love returned, my longing reciprocated by him, in my eagerness that he shall want me as much as I want him.

I see that you too will feel this need when you want to form a friendship. So do not hide from me the names of those whom you wish to make your friends; for I am careful to please him who pleases me, and so, I think, I am not without experience in the pursuit of men.

Well, Socrates

, said Critobulus in reply, these are the lessons I have long wished to learn, especially if the same skill will serve to win a good soul and a fair face.

Ah no, Critobulus, said Socrates, it belongs not to my skill to lay hands on the fair and force them to submit. I am convinced that the reason why men fled from Scylla was that she laid hands on them; but the Sirens laid hands on no man; from far away they sang to all, and therefore, we are told, all submitted, and hearing were enchanted.

I am not going to put a hand on anyone, said Critobulus, so teach me any good plan you know for making friends.

Then won’t you put lip to lip either?

Courage!

answered Critobulus, I won’t touch a lip with mine either — unless the owner is fair!

That’s an unfortunate beginning for you, Critobulus! The fair won’t submit to such conduct; but the ugly like it, supposing that they are called fair for the beauty of their souls.

A kiss for the fair, exclaimed Critobulus, and a thousand kisses for the good! That shall be my motto, so take courage, and teach me the art of catching friends.

Well then, Critobulus, said Socrates, when you want to make a new friend, will you let me warn him that you admire him and want his friendship?

Warn him by all means: no one hates those who praise him, so far as I know.

Suppose I go on to warn him that your admiration makes you well disposed towards him, you won’t think I am slandering you, will you?

Nay; when I guess that anyone feels well disposed towards me, a like goodwill towards him is begotten in me.

Then you will permit me to say this about you to those whose friendship you desire. Now if you will give me permission to tell them besides that you are devoted to your friends and nothing gives you so much pleasure as good friends; that you take as much pride in your friends’ fair achievements as in your own, and as much pleasure in your friends’ good as in your own, and never weary of contriving it for your friend’s; and you have made up your mind that a man’s virtue consists in outdoing his friends in kindness and his enemies in mischief; then I think you will find me a useful companion in the quest of good friends.

Now why do you say this to me? as if you were not free to say what you choose about me.

Not so indeed: I can quote Aspasia against you. She once told me that good matchmakers are successful in making marriages only when the good reports they carry to and fro are true; false reports she would not recommend, for the victims of deception hate one another and the matchmaker too. I am convinced that this is sound, and so I think it is not open to me to say anything in your praise that I can’t say truthfully.

It appears, Socrates, that you are the sort of friend to help me if I am in any way qualified to make friends: but if not, you won’t make up a story to help me.

How do you think I shall help you best, Critobulus, by false praise, or by urging you to try to be a good man?

If you don’t yet see clearly, take the following cases as illustrations. Suppose that I wanted to get a shipmaster to make you his friend, and as a recommendation told him that you are a good skipper, which is untrue; and suppose that he believed me and put you in charge of his ship in spite of your not knowing how to steer it: have you any reason to hope that you would not lose the ship and your life as well? Or suppose that I falsely represented to the Assembly that you are a born general, jurist and statesman in one, and so persuaded the state to commit her fortunes to you, what do you suppose would happen to the state and to yourself under your guidance? Or again, suppose that I falsely described you to certain citizens in private as a thrifty, careful person, and persuaded them to place their affairs in your hands, wouldn’t you do them harm and look ridiculous when you came to the test?

Nay, Critobulus, if you want to be thought good at anything, you must try to be so; that is the quickest, the surest, the best way. You will find on reflection that every kind of virtue named among men is increased by study and practice. Such is the view I take of our duty, Critobulus. If you have anything to say against it, tell me.

Why, Socrates, said Critobulus, I should be ashamed to contradict you, for I should be saying what is neither honourable nor true.

To pass to another subject. The distresses of his friends that arose from ignorance he tried to cure by advice, those that were due to want by telling them how to help one another according to their power. On this subject too I will state what I know about him. One day, noticing that Aristarchus looked glum, he said: Aristarchus, you seem to have a burden on your mind. You should let your friends share it; possibly we may do something to ease you.

Ah yes, Socrates, replied Aristarchus, I am in great distress. Since the revolution there has been an exodus to the Piraeus, and a crowd of my women-folk, being left behind, are come to me, — sisters, nieces and cousins, — so that we are fourteen in the house without counting the slaves. We get nothing from our land, because our enemies have seized it, and nothing from our house property, now there are so few residents in the city. Portable property finds no buyers, and it’s quite impossible to borrow money anywhere: I really think a search in the street would have better result than an application for a loan. It’s hard, Socrates, to let one’s people die, but impossible to keep so many in times like these.

When Socrates heard this, he asked:

How is it that with so many mouths to feed Ceramon not only contrives to provide for the needs of himself and his family, but actually saves enough to make him a rich man, whereas you, with so many mouths to feed, fear you will all be starved to death?

The explanation, of course, is this: my dependants are gentlefolk, his are slaves.

And which do you think are the better, his slaves or your gentlefolk?

My gentlefolk, I think.

Then is it not disgraceful that you with your gentlefolk should be in distress, while he is kept in affluence by his meaner household?

Of course his dependants are artisans, while mine have had a liberal education.

What is an artisan? one who knows how to produce something useful?

Certainly. Are groats useful?

Yes, very.

And bread?

No less so. What about men’s and women’s cloaks, shirts, capes, smocks?

Yes, all these things too are very useful.

Then don’t the members of your household know how to make any of these?

I believe they can make all of them.

Don’t you know, then, that by manufacturing one of these commodities, namely groats, Nausicydes keeps not only himself and his family, but large herds of swine and cattle as well, and has so much to spare that he often undertakes costly public duties; that Cyrebus feeds his whole family well and lives in luxury by baking bread, Demeas of Collytus by making capes, Menon by making cloaks; and most of the Megarians make a good living out of smocks?

Yes, of course; for they buy foreign slaves and can force them to make what is convenient, but my household is made up of gentlefolk and relations.

And so, just because they are gentlefolk and related to you, you think they should do nothing but eat and sleep? Do you find that other gentlefolk who live this sort of life are better off and happier than those who are usefully employed in work that they understand? Or is it your experience that idleness and carelessness help men to learn what they ought to know and remember what they learn, to make themselves healthy and strong, and to get and keep things that are of practical use, but industry and carefulness are useless things?

When these women learned the work that you say they understand, did they regard it as of no practical use, and had they no intention of taking it up, or did they mean to occupy themselves in it and obtain some benefit from it? Which makes men more prudent, idleness or useful employment? Which makes men more just, work or idle discussions about supplies?

Besides, at present, I fancy, you don’t love these ladies and they don’t love you: you think they are a tax on you, and they see that you feel them to be a burden. And the danger in this state of things is that dislike may grow and their former gratitude fade away; but if you exert your authority and make them work, you will love them, when you find that they are profitable to you, and they will be fond of you, when they feel that you are pleased with them. Both you and they will like to recall past kindnesses and will strengthen the feeling of gratitude that these engender; thus you will be better friends and feel more at home.

To be sure, if they were going to do something disgraceful, death would be a better fate. But in point of fact the work they understand is, as it appears, the work considered the most honourable and the most suitable for a woman; and the work that is understood is always done with the greatest ease, speed, pride and pleasure. So do not hesitate to offer them work that will yield a return both to you and to them, and probably they will welcome your proposal.

Well, well, said Aristarchus, your advice seems so good, Socrates, that I think I shall now bring myself to borrow capital to make a start. Hitherto I have had no inclination to do so, knowing that when I had spent the loan I should not have the wherewithal to repay it.

The consequence was that capital was provided and wool purchased. The women worked during dinner and only stopped at the supper hour. There were happy instead of gloomy faces: suspicious glances were exchanged for pleasant smiles. They loved him as a guardian and he liked them because they were useful. Finally Aristarchus came to Socrates and told him this with delight. One objection they have to me, he added: I am the only member of the household who eats the bread of idleness.

Then why not tell them the story of the dog?

asked Socrates. It is said that when beasts could talk, a sheep said to her master: It is strange that you give us sheep nothing but what we get from the land, though we supply you with wool and lambs and cheese, and yet you share your own food with your dog, who supplies you with none of these things.

The dog heard this, and said:

Of course he does. Do not I keep you from being stolen by thieves, and carried off by wolves? Why, but for my protection you couldn’t even feed for fear of being killed.

And so, they say, the sheep admitted the dog’s claim to preference. Do you then tell these women that you are their watch-dog and keeper, and it is due to you that they live and work in safety and comfort, with none to harm them.

Again, on meeting an old comrade after long absence he said: Where do you come from, Eutherus?

I came home when the war ended, Socrates, and am now living here, he replied. Since we have lost our foreign property, and my father left me nothing in Attica, I am forced to settle down here now and work for my living with my hands. I think it’s better than begging, especially as I have no security to offer for a loan.

And how long will you have the strength, do you think, to earn your living by your work?

Oh, not long, of course.

But remember, when you get old you will have to spend money, and nobody will be willing to pay you for your labour.

True.

Then it would be better to take up some kind of work at once that will assure you a competence when you get old, and to go to somebody who is better off and wants an assistant, and get a return for your services by acting as his bailiff, helping to get in his crops and looking after his property.

I shouldn’t like to make myself a slave, Socrates.

But surely those who control their cities and take charge of public affairs are thought more respectable, not more slavish on that account.

Briefly, Socrates, I have no inclination to expose myself to any man’s censure.

But, you see, Eutherus, it is by no means easy to find a post in which one is not liable to censure. Whatever one does, it is difficult to avoid mistakes, and it is difficult to escape unfair criticism even if one makes no mistakes. I wonder if you find it easy to avoid complaints entirely even from your present employers.

You should try, therefore, to have no truck with grumblers and to attach yourself to considerate masters; to undertake such duties as you can perform and beware of any that are too much for you, and, whatever you do, to give of your best and put your heart into the business. In this way, I think, you are most likely to escape censure, find relief from your difficulties, live in ease and security, and obtain an ample competence for old age.

I remember that he once heard Criton say that life at Athens was difficult for a man who wanted to mind his own business. At this moment,

Criton added, actions are pending against me not because I have done the plaintiffs an injury, but because they think that I would sooner pay than have trouble.

Tell me, Criton, said Socrates, do you keep dogs to fend the wolves from your sheep?

Certainly, replied Criton, because it pays me better to keep them.

Then why not keep a man who may be able and willing to fend off the attempts to injure you?

I would gladly do so were I not afraid that he might turn on me.

What? don’t you see that it is much pleasanter to profit by humouring a man like you than by quarrelling with him? I assure you there are men in this city who would take pride in your friendship.

Thereupon they sought out Archedemus, an excellent speaker and man of affairs, but poor. For he was not one of those who make money unscrupulously, but an honest man, and he would say that it was easy to take forfeit from false accusers. So whenever Criton was storing corn, oil, wine, wool or other farm produce, he would make a present of a portion to Archedemus, and when he sacrificed, he invited him, and in fact lost no similar opportunity of showing courtesy.

Archedemus came to regard Criton’s house as a haven of refuge and constantly paid his respects to him. He soon found out that Criton’s false accusers had much to answer for and many enemies. He brought one of them to trial on a charge involving damages or imprisonment.

The defendant, conscious that he was guilty on many counts, did all he could to get quit of Archedemus. But Archedemus refused to let him off until he withdrew the action against Criton and compensated him.

Archedemus carried through several other enterprises of a similar kind; and now many of Criton’s friends begged him to make Archedemus their protector, just as when a shepherd has a good dog the other shepherds want to pen their flocks near his, in order to get the use of his dog.

Archedemus was glad to humour Criton, and so there was peace not only for Criton but for his friends as well. If anyone whom he had offended reproached Archedemus with flattering Criton because he found him useful, he would answer: Which, then, is disgraceful: to have honest men for your friends, by accepting and returning their favours, and to fall out with rogues; or to treat gentlemen as enemies by trying to injure them, and to make friends of rogues by siding with them, and to prefer their intimacy?

Henceforward Archedemus was respected by Criton’s friends and was himself numbered among them.

Again I recall the following conversation between him and his companion Diodorus. Tell me, Diodorus, he said, if one of your servants runs away, do you take steps to bring him back safe?

Yes, of course, he replied, and I invite others to help, by offering a reward for the recovery of the man.

And further, if one of your servants is ill, do you take care of him and call in doctors to prevent him dying?

Indeed I do.

Well, suppose that one of your acquaintance, who is much more useful than your servants, is near being ruined by want, don’t you think it worth your while to take steps to save him?

Now you know that Hermogenes is a conscientious man and would be ashamed to take a favour from you without making a return. Yet surely it is worth many servants to have a willing, loyal, staunch subordinate, capable of doing what he is told, and not only so, but able to make himself useful unbidden, to think clearly and give advice

Good householders, you know, say that the right time to buy is when a valuable article can be bought at a low price; and in these times the circumstances afford an opportunity of acquiring good friends very cheap.

Thank you, Socrates, said Diodorus, pray bid Hermogenes call on me.

No, indeed I won’t, said he; for in my opinion it is at least as good for you to go to him yourself as to invite him to come to you, and you have quite as much to gain as he by doing so.

The consequence was that Diodorus set off to visit Hermogenes; and in return for a small sum he acquired a friend who made a point of thinking how he could help and please him either by word or deed.