Book 3

I will now explain how he helped those who were eager to win distinction by making them qualify themselves for the honours they coveted. He once heard that Dionysodorus had arrived at Athens, and gave out that he was going to teach generalship. Being aware that one of his companions wished to obtain the office of general from the state, he addressed him thus:

Young man, surely it would be disgraceful for one who wishes to be a general in the state to neglect the opportunity of learning the duties, and he would deserve to be punished by the state much more than one who carved statues without having learned to be a sculptor.

For in the dangerous times of war the whole state is in the general’s hands, and great good may come from his success and great evil from his failure. Therefore anyone who exerts himself to gain the votes, but neglects to learn the business, deserves punishment.

This speech persuaded the man to go and learn.

When he had learnt his lesson and returned, Socrates chaffed him. Don’t you think, sirs, he said, that our friend looks more majestic, as Homer called Agamemnon, now that he has learnt generalship? For just as he who has learnt to play the harp is a harper even when he doesn’t play, and he who has studied medicine is a doctor even though he doesn’t practise, so our friend will be a general for ever, even if no one votes for him. But your ignoramus is neither general nor doctor, even if he gets every vote.

But, he continued, in order that any one of us who may happen to command a regiment or platoon under you may have a better knowledge of warfare, tell us the first lesson he gave you in generalship.

The first was like the last, he replied; he taught me tactics — nothing else.

But then that is only a small part of generalship. For a general must also be capable of furnishing military equipment and providing supplies for the men; he must be resourceful, active, careful, hardy and quick-witted; he must be both gentle and brutal, at once straightforward and designing, capable of both caution and surprise, lavish and rapacious, generous and mean, skilful in defence and attack; and there are many other qualifications, some natural, some acquired, that are necessary to one who would succeed as a general.

It is well to understand tactics too; for there is a wide difference between right and wrong disposition of the troops, just as stones, bricks, timber and tiles flung together anyhow are useless, whereas when the materials that neither rot nor decay, that is, the stones and tiles, are placed at the bottom and the top, and the bricks and timber are put together in the middle, as in building, the result is something of great value, a house, in fact.

Your analogy is perfect, Socrates, said the youth; for in war one must put the best men in the van and the rear, and the worst in the centre, that they may be led by the van and driven forward by the rearguard.

Well and good, provided that he taught you also to distinguish the good and the bad men. If not, what have you gained by your lessons? No more than you would have gained if he had ordered you to put the best money at the head and tail, and the worst in the middle, without telling you how to distinguish good from base coin.

I assure you he didn’t; so we should have to judge for ourselves which are the good men and which are the bad.

Then we had better consider how we may avoid mistaking them.

I want to do so, said the youth. Well now, said Socrates, if we had to lay hands on a sum of money, would not the right arrangement be to put the most covetous men in the front?

I think so.

And what should we do with those who are going to face danger? Should our first line consist of the most ambitious?

Oh yes: they are the men who will face danger for the sake of glory. About these, now, there is no mystery: they are conspicuous everywhere, and so it is easy to find them.

But, said Socrates, did he teach you only the disposition of an army, or did he include where and how to use each formation?

Not at all.

And yet there are many situations that call for a modification of tactics and strategy.

I assure you he didn’t explain that.

Then pray go back and ask him. If he knows and has a conscience, he will be ashamed to send you home ill-taught, after taking your money.

One day when he met a man who had been chosen general, he asked him, For what reason, think you, is Agamemnon dubbed Shepherd of the people by Homer? Is it because a shepherd must see that his sheep are safe and are fed, and that the object for which they are kept is attained, and a general must see that his men are safe and are fed, and that the object for which they fight is attained, or, in other words, that victory over the enemy may add to their happiness?

Or what reason can Homer have for praising Agamemnon as both a good king and a doughty warrior too’?

Is it that he would be a doughty warrior too not if he alone were a good fighter, but if he made all his men like himself; and a good king not if he merely ordered his own life aright, but if he made his subjects happy as well?

Because a king is chosen, not to take good care of himself, but for the good of those who have chosen him; and all men fight in order that they may get the best life possible, and choose generals to guide them to it.

Therefore it is the duty of a commander to contrive this for those who have chosen him for general. For anything more honourable than that is not easy to find, or anything more disgraceful than its opposite.

By these reflections on what constitutes a good leader he stripped away all other virtues, and left just the power to make his followers happy.

Again, when someone had been chosen a leader of cavalry, I remember that Socrates conversed with him in the following manner: Young man, he said, can you tell us why you hankered after a cavalry command? I presume it was not to be first of the cavalry in the charge; for that privilege belongs to the mounted archers; at any rate they ride ahead of their commanders even.

True.

Nor was it to get yourself known either. Even madmen are known to everyone.

True again.

But perhaps you think you can hand over the cavalry in better condition to the state when you retire, and can do something for the good of the state as a cavalry leader, in case there is any occasion to employ that arm?

Yes, certainly, said he. Yes, said Socrates, and no doubt it is a fine thing if you can do that. The command, I presume, for which you have been chosen, is the command of horses and riders.

Indeed it is.

Come then, tell us first how you propose to improve the horses.

Oh, but I don’t think that is my business. Every man must look after his own horse.

Then if some of your men appear on parade with their horses ailing or suffering from bad feet or sore legs, others with underfed animals that can’t go the pace, others with restive brutes that won’t keep in line, others with such bad kickers that it is impossible to line them up at all, what will you be able to make of your cavalry? how will you be able to do the state any good with a command like that?

I am much obliged to you, he replied, and I will try to look after the horses carefully.

Won’t you also try to improve the men?

said Socrates. I will.

Then will you first train them to mount better?

Oh yes, I must, so that if anyone is thrown he may have a better chance of saving himself.

Further, when there is some danger before you, will you order them to draw the enemy into the sandy ground where your manoeuvres are held, or will you try to carry out your training in the kind of country that the enemy occupy?

Oh yes, that is the better way.

And again, will you pay much attention to bringing down as many of the enemy as possible without dismounting?

Oh yes, that too is the better way.

Have you thought of fostering a keen spirit among the men and hatred of the enemy, so as to make them more gallant in action?

Well, at any rate, I will try to do so now.

And have you considered how to make the men obey you? Because without that horses and men, however good and gallant, are of no use.

True, but what is the best way of encouraging them to obey, Socrates?

Well, I suppose you know that under all conditions human beings are most willing to obey those whom they believe to be the best. Thus in sickness they most readily obey the doctor, on board ship the pilot, on a farm the farmer, whom they think to be most skilled in his business.

Yes, certainly.

Then it is likely that in horsemanship too, one who clearly knows best what ought to be done will most easily gain the obedience of the others.

If then, Socrates, I am plainly the best horseman among them, will that suffice to gain their obedience?

Yes, if you also show them that it will be safer and more honourable for them to obey you.

How, then, shall I show that?

Well, it’s far easier than if you had to show them that bad is better than good and more profitable.

Do you mean that in addition to his other duties a cavalry leader must take care to be a good speaker?

Did you suppose that a commander of cavalry should be mum? Did you never reflect that all the best we learned according to custom — the learning, I mean, that teaches us how to live — we learned by means of words, and that every other good lesson to be learned is learned by means of words; that the best teachers rely most on the spoken word and those with the deepest knowledge of the greatest subjects are the best talkers?

Did you never reflect that, whenever one chorus is selected from the citizens of this state — for instance, the chorus that is sent to Delos — no choir from any other place can compare with it, and no state can collect so goodly a company?

True.

And yet the reason is that Athenians excel all others not so much in singing or in stature or in strength, as in love of honour, which is the strongest incentive to deeds of honour and renown.

True again.

Then don’t you think that if one took the same pains with our cavalry, they too would greatly excel others in arms and horses and discipline and readiness to face the enemy, if they thought that they would win glory and honour by it?

I expect so.

Don’t hesitate then, but try to encourage this keenness among the men: both you and your fellow-citizens will benefit by the results of your efforts.

Most certainly I will try.

Once on seeing Nicomachides returning from the elections, he asked, Who have been chosen generals, Nicomachides?

Isn’t it like the Athenians?

replied he; they haven’t chosen me after all the hard work I have done, since I was called up, in the command of company or regiment, though I have been so often wounded in action

(and here he uncovered and showed his scars); yet they have chosen Antisthenes, who has never served in a marching regiment nor distinguished himself in the cavalry and understands nothing but money-making.

Isn’t that a recommendation, said Socrates, supposing he proves capable of supplying the men’s needs?

Why, retorted Nicomachides, merchants too are capable of making money, but that doesn’t make them fit to command an army.

But, cried Socrates, Antisthenes also is eager for victory, and that is a good point in a general. Whenever he has been choragus, you know, his choir has always won.

No doubt, said Nicomachides, but there is no analogy between the handling of a choir and of an army.

But, you see, said Socrates, though Antisthenes knows nothing about music or choir training, he showed himself capable of finding the best experts in these.

In the army too, then, said Nicomachides, he will find other to command for him, and others to do the fighting.

And therefore, said Socrates, if he finds out and prefers the best men in warfare as in choir training it is likely that he will be victorious in that too; and probably he will be more ready to spend on winning a battle with the whole state than on winning a choral competition with his tribe.

Do you mean to say, Socrates, that the man who succeeds with a chorus will also succeed with an army?

I mean that, whatever a man controls, if he knows what he wants and can get it he will be a good controller, whether he control a chorus, an estate, a city or an army.

Really, Socrates, cried Nicomachides, I should never have thought to hear you say that a good business man would make a good general.

Come then, let us review the duties of each that we may know whether they are the same or different.

By all means.

Is it not the duty of both to make their subordinates willing and obedient?

Decidedly.

And to put the right man in the right place?

That is so.

I suppose, moreover, that both should punish the bad and reward the good.

Yes, certainly.

Of course both will do well to win the goodwill of those under them?

That is so.

Do you think that it is to the interest of both to attract allies and helpers?

Yes, certainly.

And should not both be able to keep what they have got?

They should indeed.

And should not both be strenuous and industrious in their own work?

All these are common to both; but fighting is not.

But surely both are bound to find enemies?

Oh yes, they are.

Then is it not important for both to get the better of them?

Undoubtedly; but you don’t say how business capacity will help when it comes to fighting.

That is just where it will be most helpful. For the good business man, through his knowledge that nothing profits or pays like a victory in the field, and nothing is so utterly unprofitable and entails such heavy loss as a defeat, will be eager to seek and furnish all aids to victory, careful to consider and avoid what leads to defeat, prompt to engage the enemy if he sees he is strong enough to win, and, above all, will avoid an engagement when he is not ready.

Don’t look down on business men, Nicomachides. For the management of private concerns differs only in point of number from that of public affairs. In other respects they are much alike, and particularly in this, that neither can be carried on without men, and the men employed in private and public transactions are the same. For those who take charge of public affairs employ just the same men when they attend to their own; and those who understand how to employ them are successful directors of public and private concerns, and those who do not, fail in both.

Once when talking with the son of the great Pericles, he said: For my part, Pericles, I feel hopeful that, now you have become general, our city will be more efficient and more famous in the art of war, and will defeat our enemies.

I could wish, answered Pericles, that it might be as you say, Socrates; but how these changes are to come about I cannot see.

Should you like to discuss them with me, then, said Socrates, and consider how they can be brought about?

I should.

Do you know then, that in point of numbers the Athenians are not inferior to the Boeotians?

Yes, I know.

Do you think that the larger number of fine, well-developed men could be selected from among the Boeotians or the Athenians?

In that matter too they seem to be at no disadvantage.

Which do you think are the more united?

The Athenians, I should say, for many of the Boeotians resent the selfish behaviour of the Thebans. At Athens I see nothing of that sort.

And again, the Athenians are more ambitious and more high-minded than other peoples; and these qualities are among the strongest incentives to heroism and patriotic self-sacrifice.

Yes, in these respects too the Athenians need not fear criticism.

And besides, none have inherited a past more crowded with great deeds; and many are heartened by such a heritage and encouraged to care for virtue and prove their gallantry.

All you have said is true, Socrates.

But, you see, since the disasters sustained by Tolmides and the Thousand at Lebadea and by Hippocrates at Delium, the relations of the Athenians and Boeotians are changed: the glory of the Athenians is brought low, the pride of the Thebans is exalted; and now the Boeotians, who formerly would not venture, even in their own country, to face the Athenians without help from Sparta and the rest of the Peloponnese, threaten to invade Attica by themselves, and the Athenians, who formerly overran Boeotia, fear that the Boeotians may plunder Attica.

Ah, I am aware of that, answered Socrates; but the disposition of our city is now more to a good ruler’s liking. For confidence breeds carelessness, slackness, disobedience: fear makes men more attentive, more obedient, more amenable to discipline. The behaviour of sailors is a case in point.

So long as they have nothing to fear, they are, I believe, an unruly lot, but when they expect a storm or an attack, they not only carry out all orders, but watch in silence for the word of command like choristers.

Well, exclaimed Pericles, if they are now in the mood for obedience, it seems time to say how we can revive in them a longing for the old virtue and fame and happiness.

If then, said Socrates, we wanted them to claim money that others held, the best way of egging them on to seize it would be to show them that it was their fathers’ money and belongs to them. As we want them to strive for pre-eminence in virtue, we must show that this belonged to them in old days, and that by striving for it they will surpass all other men.

How then can we teach this?

I think by reminding them that their earliest ancestors of whom we have any account were, as they themselves have been told, the most valiant.

Do you refer to the judgment of the gods, which Cecrops delivered in his court because of his virtue?

Yes, and the care and birth of Erectheus, and the war waged in his day with all the adjacent country, and the war between the sons of Heracles and the Peloponnesians, and all the wars waged in the days of Theseus, in all of which it is manifest that they were champions among the men of their time.

You may add the victories of their descendants, who lived not long before our own day: some they gained unaided in their struggle with the lords of all Asia and of Europe as far as Macedonia, the owners of more power and wealth than the world had ever seen, who had wrought deeds that none had equalled; in others they were fellow-champions with the Peloponnesians both on land and sea. These men, like their fathers, are reported to have been far superior to all other men of their time.

Yes, that is the report of them.

Therefore, though there have been many migrations in Greece, these continued to dwell in their own land: many referred to them their rival claims, many found a refuge with them from the brutality of the oppressor.

Yes, Socrates, cried Pericles, and I wonder how our city can have become so degenerate.

My own view, replied Socrates, is that the Athenians, as a consequence of their great superiority, grew careless of themselves, and have thus become degenerate, much as athletes who are in a class by themselves and win the championship easily are apt to grow slack and drop below their rivals.

How, then, can they now recover their old virtue?

There is no mystery about it, as I think. If they find out the customs of their ancestors and practise them as well as they did, they will come to be as good as they were; or failing that, they need but to imitate those who now have the pre-eminence and to practise their customs, and if they are equally careful in observing them, they will be as good as they, and, if more careful, even better.

That means that it is a long march for our city to perfection. For when will Athenians show the Lacedaemonian reverence for age, seeing that they despise all their elders, beginning with their own fathers? When will they adopt the Lacedaemonian system of training, seeing that they not only neglect to make themselves fit, but mock at those who take the trouble to do so?

When will they reach that standard of obedience to their rulers, seeing that they make contempt of rulers a point of honour? Or when will they attain that harmony, seeing that, instead of working together for the general good, they are more envious and bitter against one another than against the rest of the world, are the most quarrelsome of men in public and private assemblies, most often go to law with one another, and would rather make profit of one another so than by mutual service, and while regarding public affairs as alien to themselves, yet fight over them too, and find their chief enjoyment in having the means to carry on such strife?

So it comes about that mischief and evil grow apace in the city, enmity and mutual hatred spring up among the people, so that I am always dreading that some evil past bearing may befall the city.

No, no, Pericles, don’t think the wickedness of the Athenians so utterly past remedy. Don’t you see what good discipline they maintain in their fleets, how well they obey the umpires in athletic contests, how they take orders from the choir-trainers as readily as any?

Ah yes, and strange indeed it is that such men submit themselves to their masters, and yet the infantry and cavalry, who are supposed to be the pick of the citizens for good character, are the most insubordinate.

Then Socrates asked, But what of the Court of the Areopagus, Pericles? Are not its members persons who have won approval?

Certainly.

Then do you know of any who decide the cases that come before them and perform all their other functions more honourably, more in accordance with law, with more dignity and justice?

I am not finding fault with the Areopagus.

Then you must not despair of Athenian discipline.

But, you see, in the army, where good conduct, discipline, submission are most necessary, our people pay no attention to these things.

This may be due to the incompetence of the officers. You must have noticed that no one attempts to exercise authority over our harpists, choristers and dancers, if he is incompetent, nor over wrestlers or wrestlers who also box? All who have authority over them can tell where they learned their business; but most of our generals are improvisors.

However, I don’t suppose you are one of this sort. I suppose you can say when you began to learn strategy as well as when you began wrestling. Many of the principles, I think, you have inherited from your father, and many others you have gathered from every source from which you could learn anything useful to a general.

I think, too, that you take much trouble that you may not unconsciously lack any knowledge useful to a general; and if you find that you don’t know anything, you seek out those who have the knowledge, grudging neither gifts nor thanks, that you may learn what you don’t know from them and may have the help of good coaching.

I can see, Socrates, that in saying this you don’t really think I study these things, but you are trying to show me that one who is going to command an army must study all of them; and of course I admit that you are right.

Have you observed, Pericles, that our frontier is protected by great mountains extending to Boeotia, through which there are steep and narrow passes leading into our land, and that the interior is cut across by rugged mountains?

Certainly.

Further, have you heard that the Mysians and Pisidians, occupying very rugged country in the Great King’s territory and lightly armed, contrive to overrun and damage the King’s territory and to preserve their own freedom?

Yes, I have heard so.

And don’t you think that active young Athenians, more lightly armed and occupying the mountains that protect our country, would prove a thorn in the side of the enemy and a strong bulwark of defence to our people?

Socrates, replied Pericles, I think all these suggestions too have a practical value.

Then, since you like them, adopt them, my good fellow. Any part of them that you carry out will bring honour to you and good to the state; and should you fail in part, you will neither harm the state nor disgrace yourself.

Ariston’s son, Glaucon, was attempting to become an orator and striving for headship in the state, though he was less than twenty years old; and none of his friends or relations could check him, though he would get himself dragged from the platform and make himself a laughing-stock. Only Socrates, who took an interest in him for the sake of Plato and Glaucon’s son Charmides, managed to check him.

For once on meeting him, he stopped him and contrived to engage his attention by saying: Glaucon, have you made up your mind to be our chief man in the state?

I have, Socrates.

Well, upon my word there’s no more honourable ambition in the world; for obviously, if you gain your object, you will be able to get whatever you want, and you will have the means of helping your friends: you will lift up your father’s house and exalt your fatherland; and you will make a name for yourself first at home, later on in Greece, and possibly, like Themistocles, in foreign lands as well; wherever you go, you will be a man of mark.

When Glaucon heard this, he felt proud and gladly lingered. Next Socrates asked, Well, Glaucon, as you want to win honour, is it not obvious that you must benefit your city?

Most certainly.

Pray don’t be reticent, then; but tell us how you propose to begin your services to the state.

As Glaucon remained dumb, apparently considering for the first time how to begin, Socrates said: If you wanted to add to a friend’s fortune, you would set about making him richer. Will you try, then, to make your city richer?

Certainly.

Would she not be richer if she had a larger revenue?

Oh yes, presumably.

Now tell me, from what sources are the city’s revenues at present derived and what is their total? No doubt you have gone into this matter, in order to raise the amount of any that are deficient and supply any that are lacking.

Certainly not, exclaimed Glaucon, I haven’t gone into that.

Well, if you have left that out, tell us the expenditure of the city. No doubt you intend to cut down any items that are excessive.

The fact is, I haven’t had time yet for that either.

Oh, then we will postpone the business of making the city richer; for how is it possible to look after income and expenditure without knowing what they are?

Well, Socrates, one can make our enemies contribute to the city’s wealth.

Yes, of course, provided he is stronger than they; but if he be weaker, he may lose what she has got instead.

True.

Therefore, in order to advise her whom to fight, it is necessary to know the strength of the city and of the enemy, so that, if the city be stronger, one may recommend her to go to war, but if weaker than the enemy, may persuade her to beware.

You are right.

First, then, tell us the naval and military strength of our city, and then that of her enemies.

No, of course I can’t tell you out of my head.

Well, if you have made notes, fetch them, for I should greatly like to hear this.

But, I tell you, I haven’t yet made any notes either.

Then we will postpone offering advice about war too for the present. You are new to power, and perhaps have not had time to investigate such big problems. But the defence of the country, now, I feel sure you have thought about that, and know how many of the garrisons are well placed and how many are not, and how many of the guards are efficient and how many are not; and you will propose to strengthen the well-placed garrisons and to do away with those that are superfluous.

No, no; I shall propose to do away with them all, for the only effect of maintaining them is that our crops are stolen.

But if you do away with the garrisons, don’t you think that anyone will be at liberty to rob us openly? However, have you been on a tour of inspection, or how do you know that they are badly maintained?

By guess-work.

Then shall we wait to offer advice on this question too until we really know, instead of merely guessing?

Perhaps it would be better.

Now for the silver mines.

I am sure you have not visited them, and so cannot tell why the amount derived from them has fallen.

No, indeed, I have not been there.

To be sure: the district is considered unhealthy, and so when you have to offer advice on the problem, this excuse will serve.

You’re chaffing me.

Ah, but there’s one problem I feel sure you haven’t overlooked: no doubt you have reckoned how long the corn grown in the country will maintain the population, and how much is needed annually, so that you may not be caught napping, should the city at any time be short, and may come to the rescue and relieve the city by giving expert advice about food.

What an overwhelming task, if one has got to include such things as that in one’s duties!

But, you know, no one will ever manage even his own household successfully unless he knows all its needs and sees that they are all supplied. Seeing that our city contains more than ten thousand houses, and it is difficult to look after so many families at once, you must have tried to make a start by doing something for one, I mean your uncle’s? It needs it; and if you succeed with that one, you can set to work on a larger number. But if you can’t do anything for one, how are you going to succeed with many? If a man can’t carry one talent, it’s absurd for him to try to carry more than one, isn’t it?

Well, I could do something for uncle’s household if only he would listen to me.

What? You can’t persuade your uncle, and yet you suppose you will be able to persuade all the Athenians, including your uncle, to listen to you?

Pray take care, Glaucon, that your daring ambition doesn’t lead to a fall! Don’t you see how risky it is to say or do what you don’t understand? Think of others whom you know to be the sort of men who say and do what they obviously don’t understand. Do you think they get praise or blame by it?

And think of those who understand what they say and what they do. You will find, I take it, that the men who are famous and admired always come from those who have the widest knowledge, and the infamous and despised from the most ignorant.

Therefore, if you want to win fame and admiration in public life, try to get a thorough knowledge of what you propose to do. If you enter on a public career with this advantage over others, I should not be surprised if you gained the object of your ambition quite easily.

Seeing that Glaucon’s son, Charmides, was a respectable man and far more capable than the politicians of the day, and nevertheless shrank from speaking in the assembly and taking a part in politics, he said: Tell me, Charmides, what would you think of a man who was capable of gaining a victory in the great games and consequently of winning honour for himself and adding to his country’s fame in the Greek world, and yet refused to compete?

I should think him a poltroon and a coward, of course.

Then if a man were to shrink from state business though capable of discharging it with advantage to the state and honour to himself, wouldn’t it be reasonable to think him a coward?

Perhaps; but why ask me that?

Because I fancy that you shrink from work that is within your powers, work in which it is your duty as a citizen to take a hand.

What makes you think so?

In what sort of work have you discovered my powers?

In your intercourse with public men. Whenever they take counsel with you, I find that you give excellent advice, and whenever they make a mistake, your criticism is sound.

A private conversation is a very different thing from a crowded debate, Socrates.

But, you know, a man who is good at figures counts as well in a crowd as in solitude; and those who play the harp best in private excel no less in a crowd.

But surely you see that bashfulness and timidity come natural to a man, and affect him far more powerfully in the presence of a multitude than in private society?

Yes, and I mean to give you a lesson. The wisest do not make you bashful, and the strongest do not make you timid; yet you are ashamed to address an audience of mere dunces and weaklings. Who are they that make you ashamed?

The fullers or the cobblers or the builders or the smiths or the farmers or the merchants, or the traffickers in the market-place who think of nothing but buying cheap and selling dear? For these are the people who make up the Assembly.

You behave like a man who can beat trained athletes and is afraid of amateurs! You are at your ease when you talk with the first men in the state, some of whom despise you, and you are a far better talker than the ordinary run of politicians; and yet you are shy of addressing men who never gave a thought to public affairs and haven’t learnt to despise you — all because you fear ridicule!

Well, don’t you think the Assembly often laughs at sound argument?

Yes, and so do the others; and that’s why I am surprised that you, who find it easy to manage them when they do it, think you will be quite unable to deal with the Assembly.

My good man, don’t be ignorant of yourself: don’t fall into the common error. For so many are in such a hurry to pry into other people’s business that they never turn aside to examine themselves. Don’t refuse to face this duty then: strive more earnestly to pay heed to yourself; and don’t neglect public affairs, if you have the power to improve them. If they go well, not only the people, but your friends and you yourself at least as much as they will profit.

When Aristippus attempted to cross-examine Socrates in the same fashion as he had been cross-examined by him in their previous encounter, Socrates, wishing to benefit his companions, answered like a man who is resolved to do what is right, and not like a debater guarding against any distortion of the argument.

Aristippus asked if he knew of anything good, in order that if Socrates mentioned some good thing, such as food, drink, money, health, strength, or daring, he might show that it is sometimes bad. But he, knowing that when anything troubles us we need what will put an end to the trouble, gave the best answer:

Are you asking me, he said, whether I know of anything good for a fever?

No, not that.

For ophthalmia?

No, nor that.

For hunger?

No, not for hunger either.

Well, but if you are asking me whether I know of anything good in relation to nothing, I neither know nor want to know.

Again Aristippus asked him whether he knew of anything beautiful: Yes, many things, he replied. All like one another?

On the contrary, some are as unlike as they can be.

How then can that which is unlike the beautiful be beautiful?

The reason, of course, is that a beautiful wrestler is unlike a beautiful runner, a shield beautiful for defence is utterly unlike a javelin beautiful for swift and powerful hurling.

That is the same answer as you gave to my question whether you knew of anything good.

You think, do you, that good is one thing and beautiful another? Don’t you know that all things are both beautiful and good in relation to the same things? In the first place, Virtue is not a good thing in relation to some things and a beautiful thing in relation to others. Men, again, are called beautiful and good in the same respect and in relation to the same things: it is in relation to the same things that men’s bodies look beautiful and good and that all other things men use are thought beautiful and good, namely, in relation to those things for which they are useful.

Is a dung basket beautiful then?

Of course, and a golden shield is ugly, if the one is well made for its special work and the other badly.

Do you mean that the same things are both beautiful and ugly?

Of course — and both good and bad.

For what is good for hunger is often bad for fever, and what is good for fever bad for hunger; what is beautiful for running is often ugly for wrestling, and what is beautiful for wrestling ugly for running. For all things are good and beautiful in relation to those purposes for which they are well adapted, bad and ugly in relation to those for which they are ill adapted.

Again his dictum about houses, that the same house is both beautiful and useful, was a lesson in the art of building houses as they ought to be. He approached the problem thus: When one means to have the right sort of house, must he contrive to make it as pleasant to live in and as useful as can be?

And this being admitted, Is it pleasant, he asked, to have it cool in summer and warm in winter?

And when they agreed with this also, Now in houses with a south aspect, the sun’s rays penetrate into the porticoes in winter, but in summer the path of the sun is right over our heads and above the roof, so that there is shade. If, then, this is the best arrangement, we should build the south side loftier to get the winter sun and the north side lower to keep out the cold winds.

To put it shortly, the house in which the owner can find a pleasant retreat at all seasons and can store his belongings safely is presumably at once the pleasantest and the most beautiful. As for paintings and decorations, they rob one of more delights than they give.

For temples and altars the most suitable position, he said, was a conspicuous site remote from traffic; for it is pleasant to breathe a prayer at the sight of them, and pleasant to approach them filled with holy thoughts.

When asked again whether Courage could be taught or came by nature, he replied: I think that just as one man’s body is naturally stronger than another’s for labour, so one man’s soul is naturally braver than another’s in danger. For I notice that men brought up under the same laws and customs differ widely in daring.

Nevertheless, I think that every man’s nature acquires more courage by learning and practice. Of course Scythians and Thracians would not dare to take bronze shield and spear and fight Lacedaemonians; and of course Lacedaemonians would not be willing to face Thracians with leather shields and javelins, nor Scythians with bows for weapons.

And similarly in all other points, I find that human beings naturally differ one from another and greatly improve by application. Hence it is clear that all men, whatever their natural gifts, the talented and the dullards alike, must learn and practise what they want to excel in.

Between Wisdom and Prudence he drew no distinction; but if a man knows and practises what is beautiful and good, knows and avoids what is base, that man he judged to be both wise and prudent. When asked further whether he thought that those who know what they ought to do and yet do the opposite are at once wise and vicious, he answered: No; not so much that, as both unwise and vicious. For I think that all men have a choice between various courses, and choose and follow the one which they think conduces most to their advantage. Therefore I hold that those who follow the wrong course are neither wise nor prudent.

He said that Justice and every other form of Virtue is Wisdom. For just actions and all forms of virtuous activity are beautiful and good. He who knows the beautiful and good will never choose anything else, he who is ignorant of them cannot do them, and even if he tries, will fail. Hence the wise do what is beautiful and good, the unwise cannot and fail if they try. Therefore since just actions and all other forms of beautiful and good activity are virtuous actions, it is clear that Justice and every other form of Virtue is Wisdom.

Madness, again, according to him, was the opposite of Wisdom. Nevertheless he did not identify Ignorance with Madness; but not to know yourself, and to assume and think that you know what you do not, he put next to Madness. Most men, however, he declared, do not call those mad who err in matters that lie outside the knowledge of ordinary people: madness is the name they give to errors in matters of common knowledge.

For instance, if a man imagines himself to be so tall as to stoop when he goes through the gateways in the Wall, or so strong as to try to lift houses or to perform any other feat that everybody knows to be impossible, they say he’s mad. They don’t think a slight error implies madness, but just as they call strong desire love, so they name a great delusion madness.

Considering the nature of Envy, he found it to be a kind of pain, not, however, at a friend’s misfortune, nor at an enemy’s good fortune, but the envious are those only who are annoyed at their friends’ successes. Some expressed surprise that anyone who loves another should be pained at his success, but he reminded them that many stand in this relation towards others, that they cannot disregard them in time of trouble, but aid them in their misfortune, and yet they are pained to see them prospering. This, however, could not happen to a man of sense, but it is always the case with fools.

Considering the nature of Leisure, he said his conclusion was that almost all men do something. Even draught-players and jesters do something, but all these are at leisure, for they might go and do something better. But nobody has leisure to go from a better to a worse occupation. If anyone does so, he acts wrongly, having no leisure.

Kings and rulers, he said, are not those who hold the sceptre, nor those who are chosen by the multitude, nor those on whom the lot falls, nor those who owe their power to force or deception; but those who know how to rule.

For once it was granted that it is the business of the ruler to give orders and of the ruled to obey, he went on to show that on a ship the one who knows, rules, and the owner and all the others on board obey the one who knows: in farming the landowners, in illness the patients, in training those who are in training, in fact everybody concerned with anything that needs care, look after it themselves if they think they know how, but, if not, they obey those who know, and not only when such are present, but they even send for them when absent, that they may obey them and do the right thing. In spinning wool, again, he would point out, the women govern the men because they know how to do it and men do not.

If anyone objected that a despot may refuse to obey a good counsellor, How can he refuse, he would ask, when a penalty waits on disregard of good counsel? All disregard of good counsel is bound surely to result in error, and his error will not go unpunished.

If anyone said that a despot can kill a loyal subject, Do you think, he retorted, that he who kills the best of his allies suffers no loss, or that his loss is trifling? Do you think that this conduct brings him safety, or rather swift destruction?

When someone asked him what seemed to him the best pursuit for a man, he answered: Doing well.

Questioned further, whether he thought good luck a pursuit, he said: On the contrary, I think luck and doing are opposite poles. To hit on something right by luck without search I call good luck, to do something well after study and practice I call doing well; and those who pursue this seem to me to do well.

And the best men and dearest to the gods, he added, are those who do their work well; if it is farming, as good farmers; if medicine, as good doctors; if politics, as good politicians. He who does nothing well is neither useful in any way nor dear to the gods.

Then again, whenever he talked with artists who followed their art as a business, he was as useful to them as to others. Thus, on entering the house of Parrhasius the painter one day, he asked in the course of a conversation with him: Is painting a representation of things seen, Parrhasius? Anyhow, you painters with your colours represent and reproduce figures high and low, in light and in shadow, hard and soft, rough and smooth, young and old.

True.

And further, when you copy types of beauty, it is so difficult to find a perfect model that you combine the most beautiful details of several, and thus contrive to make the whole figure look beautiful.

Yes, we do!

Well now, do you also reproduce the character of the soul, the character that is in the highest degree captivating, delightful, friendly, fascinating, lovable? Or is it impossible to imitate that?

Oh no, Socrates; for how could one imitate that which has neither shape nor colour nor any of the qualities you mentioned just now, and is not even visible?

Do human beings commonly express the feelings of sympathy and aversion by their looks?

I think so.

Then cannot thus much be imitated in the eyes?

Undoubtedly.

Do you think that the joys and sorrows of their friends produce the same expression on men’s faces, whether they really care or not?

Oh no, of course not: they look radiant at their joys, downcast at their sorrows.

Then is it possible to represent these looks too?

Undoubtedly.

Moreover, nobility and dignity, self-abasement and servility, prudence and understanding, insolence and vulgarity, are reflected in the face and in the attitudes of the body whether still or in motion.

True.

Then these, too, can be imitated, can they not?

Undoubtedly.

Now which do you think the more pleasing sight, one whose features and bearing reflect a beautiful and good and lovable character, or one who is the embodiment of what is ugly and depraved and hateful?

No doubt there is a great difference, Socrates.

On another occasion he visited Cleiton the sculptor, and while conversing with him said: Cleiton, that your statues of runners, wrestlers, boxers and fighters are beautiful I see and know. But how do you produce in them that illusion of life which is their most alluring charm to the beholder?

As Cleiton was puzzled and did not reply at once, Is it, he added, by faithfully representing the form of living beings that you make your statues look as if they lived?

Undoubtedly.

Then is it not by accurately representing the different parts of the body as they are affected by the pose — the flesh wrinkled or tense, the limbs compressed or outstretched, the muscles taut or loose — that you make them look more like real members and more convincing?

Yes, certainly.

Does not the exact imitation of the feelings that affect bodies in action also produce a sense of satisfaction in the spectator?

Oh yes, presumably.

Then must not the threatening look in the eyes of fighters be accurately represented, and the triumphant expression on the face of conquerors be imitated?

Most certainly.

It follows, then, that the sculptor must represent in his figures the activities of the soul.

On visiting Pistias the armourer, who showed him some well-made breastplates, Socrates exclaimed: Upon my word, Pistias, it’s a beautiful invention, for the breastplate covers the parts that need protection without impeding the use of the hands.

But tell me, Pistias, he added, why do you charge more for your breastplates than any other maker, though they are no stronger and cost no more to make?

Because the proportions of mine are better, Socrates.

And how do you show their proportions when you ask a higher price — by weight or measure? For I presume you don’t make them all of the same weight or the same size, that is, if you make them to fit.

Fit? Why, of course! a breastplate is of no use without that!

Then are not some human bodies well, others ill proportioned?

Certainly.

Then if a breastplate is to fit an ill-proportioned body, how do you make it well-proportioned?

By making it fit; for if it is a good fit it is well-proportioned.

Apparently you mean well-proportioned not absolutely, but in relation to the wearer, as you might call a shield well-proportioned for the man whom it fits, or a military cape — and this seems to apply to everything according to you.

And perhaps there is another important advantage in a good fit.

Tell it me, if you know, Socrates.

The good fit is less heavy to wear than the misfit, though both are of the same weight. For the misfit, hanging entirely from the shoulders, or pressing on some other part of the body, proves uncomfortable and irksome; but the good fit, with its weight distributed over the collar-bone and shoulder-blades, the shoulders, chest, back and belly, may almost be called an accessory rather than an encumbrance.

The advantage you speak of is the very one which I think makes my work worth a big price. Some, however, prefer to buy the ornamented and the gold-plated breastplates.

Still, if the consequence is that they buy misfits, it seems to me they buy ornamented and gold-plated trash.

However, as the body is not rigid, but now bent, now straight, how can tight breastplates fit?

They can’t.

You mean that the good fits are not the tight ones, but those that don’t chafe the wearer?

That is your own meaning, Socrates, and you have hit the right nail on the head.

At one time there was in Athens a beautiful woman named Theodoté, who was ready to keep company with anyone who pleased her. One of the bystanders mentioned her name, declaring that words failed him to describe the lady’s beauty, and adding that artists visited her to paint her portrait, and she showed them as much as decency allowed. We had better go and see her, cried Socrates; of course what beggars description can’t very well be learned by hearsay.

Come with me at once, returned his informant. So off they went to Theodoté’s house, where they found her posing before a painter, and looked on. When the painter had finished, Socrates said: My friends, ought we to be more grateful to Theodoté for showing us her beauty, or she to us for looking at it? Does the obligation rest with her, if she profits more by showing it, but with us, if we profit more by looking?

When someone answered that this was a fair way of putting it, Well now, he went on, she already has our praise to her credit, and when we spread the news, she will profit yet more; whereas we already long to touch what we have seen, and we shall go away excited and shall miss her when we are gone. The natural consequence is that we become her adorers, she the adored.

Then, if that is so, exclaimed Theodoté, of course I ought to be grateful to you for looking.

At this point Socrates noticed that she was sumptuously dressed, and that her mother at her side was wearing fine clothes and jewellery; and she had many pretty maids, who also were well cared for, and her house was lavishly furnished. Tell me, Theodoté, he said, have you a farm?

Not I, she answered. Or a house, perhaps, that brings in money?

No, nor a house.

Some craftsmen, possibly?

No, none.

Then where do you get your supplies from?

I live on the generosity of any friend I pick up.

A fine property, upon my word, Theodoté, and much better than abundance of sheep and goats and oxen. But, he went on, do you trust to luck, waiting for friends to settle on you like flies, or have you some contrivance of your own?

How could I invent a contrivance for that?

Much more conveniently, I assure you, than the spiders. For you know how they hunt for a living: they weave a thin web, I believe, and feed on anything that gets into it.

And do you advise me, then, to weave a trap of some sort?

Of course not. Don’t suppose you are going to hunt friends, the noblest game in the world, by such crude methods. Don’t you notice that many tricks are employed even for hunting such a poor thing as the hare?

Since hares feed by night, hounds specially adapted for night work are provided to hunt them; and since they run away at daybreak, another pack of hounds is obtained for tracking them by the scent along the run from the feeding ground to the form; and since they are so nimble that once they are off they actually escape in the open, yet a third pack of speedy hounds is formed to catch them by hot pursuit; and as some escape even so, nets are set up in the tracks where they escape, that they may be driven into them and stopped dead.

Then can I adapt this plan to the pursuit of friends?

Of course you can, if for the hound you substitute an agent who will track and find rich men with an eye for beauty, and will then contrive to chase them into your nets.

Nets! What nets have I got?

One, surely, that clips close enough — your body! And inside it you have a soul that teaches you what glance will please, what words delight, and tells you that your business is to give a warm welcome to an eager suitor, but to slam the door upon a coxcomb; yes, and when a friend has fallen sick, to show your anxiety by visiting him; and when he has had a stroke of good fortune, to congratulate him eagerly; and if he is eager in his suit, to put yourself at his service heart and soul. As for loving, you know how to do that, I am sure, both tenderly and truly; and that your friends give you satisfaction, you convince them, I know, not by words but by deeds.

Upon my word, said Theodoté, I don’t contrive one of these things.

Nevertheless, he continued, it is very important that your behaviour to a man should be both natural and correct. For assuredly you can neither catch a friend nor keep him by violence; it is kindness and sweetness that catch the creature and hold him fast.

True, she said.

First, then, you must ask such favours of your suitors as they will grant without a moment’s hesitation; and next you must repay their favours in the same coin; for in this way they will prove most sincerely your friends, most constant in their affection and most generous.

And they will appreciate your favours most highly if you wait till they ask for them. The sweetest meats, you see, if served before they are wanted, seem sour, and to those who have had enough they are positively nauseating; but even poor fare is very welcome when offered to a hungry man.

And how can I make them hunger for my fare?

Why, in the first place, you must not offer it to them when they have had enough, nor prompt them until they have thrown off the surfeit and are beginning to want more; then, when they feel the want, you must prompt them by behaving as a model of propriety, by a show of reluctance to yield, and by holding back until they are as keen as can be; for then the same gifts are much more to the recipient than when they are offered before they are desired.

Then, Socrates, exclaimed Theodoté, why don’t you become my partner in the pursuit of friends?

By all means — if you persuade me.

And how am I to persuade you?

That you will find out and contrive for yourself, if you want my help.

Come and see me often, then.

Ah!

said Socrates, making fun of his own leisurely habits, it’s not so easy for me to find time. For I have much business to occupy me, private and public; and I have the dear girls, who won’t leave me day or night; they are studying potions with me and spells.

Indeed! do you understand these things too, Socrates?

Why, what is the reason that master Apollodorus and Antisthenes never leave me, do you suppose? And why do Cebes and Simmias come to me from Thebes? I assure you these things don’t happen without the help of many potions and spells and magic wheels.

Do lend me your wheel, that I may turn it first to draw you.

But of course I don’t want to be drawn to you: I want you to come to me.

Oh, I’ll come: only mind you welcome me.

Oh, you shall be welcome — unless there’s a dearer girl with me!

On noticing that Epigenes, one of his companions, was in poor condition, for a young man, he said: You look as if you need exercise, Epigenes.

Well, he replied, I’m not an athlete, Socrates.

Just as much as the competitors entered for Olympia, he retorted. Or do you count the life and death struggle with their enemies, upon which, it may be, the Athenians will enter, but a small thing?

Why, many, thanks to their bad condition, lose their life in the perils of war or save it disgracefully: many, just for this same cause, are taken prisoners, and then either pass the rest of their days, perhaps, in slavery of the hardest kind, or, after meeting with cruel sufferings and paying, sometimes, more than they have, live on, destitute and in misery. Many, again, by their bodily weakness earn infamy, being thought cowards.

Or do you despise these, the rewards of bad condition, and think that you can easily endure such things? And yet I suppose that what has to be borne by anyone who takes care to keep his body in good condition is far lighter and far pleasanter than these things. Or is it that you think bad condition healthier and generally more serviceable than good, or do you despise the effects of good condition?

And yet the results of physical fitness are the direct opposite of those that follow from unfitness. The fit are healthy and strong; and many, as a consequence, save themselves decorously on the battle-field and escape all the dangers of war; many help friends and do good to their country and for this cause earn gratitude; get great glory and gain very high honours, and for this cause live henceforth a pleasanter and better life, and leave to their children better means of winning a livelihood.

I tell you, because military training is not publicly recognised by the state, you must not make that an excuse for being a whit less careful in attending to it yourself. For you may rest assured that there is no kind of struggle, apart from war, and no undertaking in which you will be worse off by keeping your body in better fettle. For in everything that men do the body is useful; and in all uses of the body it is of great importance to be in as high a state of physical efficiency as possible.

Why, even in the process of thinking, in which the use of the body seems to be reduced to a minimum, it is matter of common knowledge that grave mistakes may often be traced to bad health. And because the body is in a bad condition, loss of memory, depression, discontent, insanity often assail the mind so violently as to drive whatever knowledge it contains clean out of it.

But a sound and healthy body is a strong protection to a man, and at least there is no danger then of such a calamity happening to him through physical weakness: on the contrary, it is likely that his sound condition will serve to produce effects the opposite of those that arise from bad condition. And surely a man of sense would submit to anything to obtain the effects that are the opposite of those mentioned in my list.

Besides, it is a disgrace to grow old through sheer carelessness before seeing what manner of man you may become by developing your bodily strength and beauty to their highest limit. But you cannot see that, if you are careless; for it will not come of its own accord.

On a man who was angry because his greeting was not returned: Ridiculous!

he exclaimed; you would not have been angry if you had met a man in worse health; and yet you are annoyed because you have come across someone with ruder manners!

On another who declared that he found no pleasure in eating: Acumenus, he said, has a good prescription for that ailment.

And when asked What?

he answered, Stop eating; and you will then find life pleasanter, cheaper, and healthier.

On yet another who complained that the drinking water at home was warm: Consequently, he said, when you want warm water to wash in, you will have it at hand.

But it’s too cold for washing, objected the other. Then do your servants complain when they use it both for drinking and washing?

Oh no: indeed I have often felt surprised that they are content with it for both these purposes.

Which is the warmer to drink, the water in your house or Epidaurus water?

Epidaurus water.

And which is the colder to wash in, yours or Oropus water?

Oropus water.

Then reflect that you are apparently harder to please than servants and invalids.

When someone punished his footman severely, he asked why he was angry with his man. Because he’s a glutton and he’s a fool, said the other: he’s rapacious and he’s lazy.

Have you ever considered, then, which deserves the more stripes, the master or the man?

When someone was afraid of the journey to Olympia, he said: Why do you fear the distance? When you are at home, don’t you spend most of the day in walking about? on your way there you will take a walk before lunch, and another before dinner, and then take a rest. Don’t you know that if you put together the walks you take in five or six days, you can easily cover the distance from Athens to Olympia? It is more comfortable, too, to start a day early rather than a day late, since to be forced to make the stages of the journey unduly long is unpleasant; but to take a day extra on the way makes easy going. So it is better to hurry over the start than on the road.

When another said that he was worn out after a long journey, he asked him whether he had carried a load. Oh no, said the man; only my cloak.

Were you alone, or had you a footman with you?

I had.

Empty-handed or carrying anything?

He carried the rugs and the rest of the baggage, of course.

And how has he come out of the journey?

Better than I, so far as I can tell.

Well then, if you had been forced to carry his load, how would you have felt, do you suppose?

Bad, of course; or rather, I couldn’t have done it.

Indeed! do you think a trained man ought to be so much less capable of work than his slave?

Whenever some of the members of a dining-club brought more meat than others, Socrates would tell the waiter either to put the small contribution into the common stock or to portion it out equally among the diners. So the high batteners felt obliged not only to take their share of the pool, but to pool their own supplies in return; and so they put their own supplies also into the common stock. And since they thus got no more than those who brought little with them, they gave up spending much on meat.

He observed on one occasion that one of the company at dinner had ceased to take bread, and ate the meat by itself. Now the talk was of names and the actions to which they are properly applied. Can we say, my friends, said Socrates, what is the nature of the action for which a man is called greedy? For all, I presume, eat meat with their bread when they get the chance: but I don’t think there is so far any reason for calling them greedy?

No, certainly not, said one of the company.

Well, suppose he eats the meat alone, without the bread, not because he’s in training, but to tickle his palate, does he seem a greedy fellow or not?

If not, it’s hard to say who does, was the reply. Here another of the company queried, And he who eats a scrap of bread with a large helping of meat?

He too seems to me to deserve the epithet, said Socrates. Aye, and when others pray for a good wheat harvest, he, presumably, would pray for a good meat supply.

The young man, guessing that these remarks of Socrates applied to him, did not stop eating his meat, but took some bread with it. When Socrates observed this, he cried: Watch the fellow, you who are near him, and see whether he treats the bread as his meat or the meat as his bread.

On another occasion he noticed one of the company at dinner tasting several dishes with each bite of bread. Can you imagine, he asked, a meal more extravagant and more ruinous to the victuals than his who eats many things together, and crams all sorts of sauces into his mouth at once? At any rate by mixing more ingredients than the cooks, he adds to the cost, and since he mixes ingredients that they regard as unsuitable in a mixture, if they are right, then he is wrong and is ruining their art.

Yet it is surely ridiculous for a master to obtain highly skilled cooks, and then, though he claims no knowledge of the art, to alter their confections? There’s another drawback, too, attaching to the habit of eating many things together. For if many dishes are not provided, one seems to go short because one misses the usual variety: whereas he who is accustomed to take one kind of meat along with one bit of bread can make the best of one dish when more are not forthcoming.

He used to say too that the term good feeding in Attic was a synonym for eating. The good in the compound implied the eating of food that could harm neither body nor soul and was not hard to come by. Thus he attributed even good feeding to sober livers.