Plato
translated
by Benjamin Jowett
Persons of the
Dialogue :
SOCRATES ; PHAEDRUS.
Scene : Under a
plane-tree, by the banks of the Ilissus
Socrates. My dear Phaedrus,
whence come you, and whither are you going ?
Phaedrus. I come from Lysias
the son of Cephalus, and I am going to take a walk outside the wall, for I have
been sitting with him the whole morning ; and our common friend Acumenus
tells me that it is much more refreshing to walk in the open air than to be shut
up in a cloister.
Soc. There he is right.
Lysias then, I suppose, was in the town ?
Phaedr. Yes, he was
staying with Epicrates, here at the house of Morychus ; that house which is
near the temple of Olympian Zeus.
Soc. And how did he
entertain you ? Can I be wrong in supposing that Lysias gave you a feast of
discourse ?
Phaedr. You shall hear, if
you can spare time to accompany me.
Soc. And should I not
deem the conversation of you and Lysias “a thing of higher import,” as I may say
in the words of Pindar, “than any business” ?
Phaedr. Will you go
on ?
Soc. And will you go on
with the narration ?
Phaedr. My tale, Socrates,
is one of your sort, for love was the theme which occupied us — love after a
fashion : Lysias has been writing about a fair youth who was being tempted,
but not by a lover ; and this was the point : he ingeniously proved
that the non-lover should be accepted rather than the
lover.
Soc. O that is noble of
him ! I wish that he would say the poor man rather than the rich, and the
old man rather than the young one ; then he would meet the case of me and
of many a man ; his words would be quite refreshing, and he would be a
public benefactor. For my part, I do so long to hear his speech, that if you
walk all the way to Megara, and when you have reached the wall come back, as
Herodicus recommends, without going in, I will keep you
company.
Phaedr. What do you mean,
my good Socrates ? How can you imagine that my unpractised memory can do
justice to an elaborate work, which the greatest rhetorician of the age spent a
long time in composing. Indeed, I cannot ; I would give a great deal if I
could.
Soc. I believe that I
know Phaedrus about as well as I know myself, and I am very sure that the speech
of Lysias was repeated to him, not once only, but again and again ; — he
insisted on hearing it many times over and Lysias was very willing to gratify
him ; at last, when nothing else would do, he got hold of the book, and
looked at what he most wanted to see, — this occupied him during the whole
morning ; — and then when he was tired with sitting, he went out to take a
walk, not until, by the dog, as I believe, he had simply learned by heart the
entire discourse, unless it was unusually long, and he went to a place outside
the wall that he might practise his lesson. There he saw a certain lover of
discourse who had a similar weakness ; — he saw and rejoiced ; now
thought he, “I shall have a partner in my revels.” And he invited him to come
and walk with him. But when the lover of discourse begged that he would repeat
the tale, he gave himself airs and said, “No I cannot,” as if he were
indisposed ; although, if the hearer had refused, he would sooner or later
have been compelled by him to listen whether he would or no. Therefore,
Phaedrus, bid him do at once what he will soon do whether bidden or
not.
Phaedr. I see that you
will not let me off until I speak in some fashion or other ; verily
therefore my best plan is to speak as I best can.
Soc. A very true
remark, that of yours.
Phaedr. I will do as I
say ; but believe me, Socrates, I did not learn the very words — O
no ; nevertheless I have a general notion of what he said, and will give
you a summary of the points in which the lover differed from the non-lover. Let
me begin at the beginning.
Soc. Yes, my sweet
one ; but you must first of all show what you have in your left hand under
your cloak, for that roll, as I suspect, is the actual discourse. Now, much as I
love you, I would not have you suppose that I am going to have your memory
exercised at my expense, if you have Lysias himself here.
Phaedr. Enough ; I
see that I have no hope of practising my art upon you. But if I am to read,
where would you please to sit ?
Soc. Let us turn aside
and go by the Ilissus ; we will sit down at some quiet
spot.
Phaedr. I am fortunate in
not having my sandals, and as you never have any, I think that we may go along
the brook and cool our feet in the water ; this will be the easiest way,
and at midday and in the summer is far from being
unpleasant.
Soc. Lead on, and look
out for a place in which we can sit down.
Phaedr. Do you see the
tallest plane-tree in the distance ?
Soc.
Yes.
Phaedr. There are shade
and gentle breezes, and grass on which we may either sit or lie
down.
Soc. Move
forward.
Phaedr. I should like to
know, Socrates, whether the place is not somewhere here at which Boreas is said
to have carried off Orithyia from the banks of the
Ilissus ?
Soc. Such is the
tradition.
Phaedr. And is this the
exact spot ? The little stream is delightfully clear and bright ; I
can fancy that there might be maidens playing near.
Soc. I believe that the
spot is not exactly here, but about a quarter of a mile lower down, where you
cross to the temple of Artemis, and there is, I think, some sort of an altar of
Boreas at the place.
Phaedr. I have never
noticed it ; but I beseech you to tell me, Socrates, do you believe this
tale ?
Soc. The wise are
doubtful, and I should not be singular if, like them, I too doubted. I might
have a rational explanation that Orithyia was playing with Pharmacia, when a
northern gust carried her over the neighbouring rocks ; and this being the
manner of her death, she was said to have been carried away by Boreas. There is
a discrepancy, however, about the locality ; according to another version
of the story she was taken from Areopagus, and not from this place. Now I quite
acknowledge that these allegories are very nice, but he is not to be envied who
has to invent them ; much labour and ingenuity will be required of
him ; and when he has once begun, he must go on and rehabilitate
Hippocentaurs and chimeras dire. Gorgons and winged steeds flow in apace, and
numberless other inconceivable and portentous natures. And if he is sceptical
about them, and would fain reduce them one after another to the rules of
probability, this sort of crude philosophy will take up a great deal of time.
Now I have no leisure for such enquiries ; shall I tell you why ? I
must first know myself, as the Delphian inscription says ; to be curious
about that which is not my concern, while I am still in ignorance of my own
self, would be ridiculous. And therefore I bid farewell to all this ; the
common opinion is enough for me. For, as I was saying, I want to know not about
this, but about myself : am I a monster more complicated and swollen with
passion than the serpent Typho, or a creature of a gentler and simpler sort, to
whom Nature has given a diviner and lowlier destiny ? But let me ask you,
friend : have we not reached the plane-tree to which you were conducting
us ?
Phaedr. Yes, this is the
tree.
Soc. By Here, a fair
resting-place, full of summer sounds and scents. Here is this lofty and
spreading plane-tree, and the agnus cast us high and clustering, in the fullest
blossom and the greatest fragrance ; and the stream which flows beneath the
plane-tree is deliciously cold to the feet. Judging from the ornaments and
images, this must be a spot sacred to Achelous and the Nymphs. How delightful is
the breeze : — so very sweet ; and there is a sound in the air shrill
and summerlike which makes answer to the chorus of the cicadae. But the greatest
charm of all is the grass, like a pillow gently sloping to the head. My dear
Phaedrus, you have been an admirable guide.
Phaedr. What an
incomprehensible being you are, Socrates : when you are in the country, as
you say, you really are like some stranger who is led about by a guide. Do you
ever cross the border ? I rather think that you never venture even outside
the gates.
Soc. Very true, my good
friend ; and I hope that you will excuse me when you hear the reason, which
is, that I am a lover of knowledge, and the men who dwell in the city are my
teachers, and not the trees or the country. Though I do indeed believe that you
have found a spell with which to draw me out of the city into the country, like
a hungry cow before whom a bough or a bunch of fruit is waved. For only hold up
before me in like manner a book, and you may lead me all round Attica, and over
the wide world. And now having arrived, I intend to lie down, and do you choose
any posture in which you can read best. Begin.
Phaedr.
Listen.
“You know how
matters stand with me ; and how, as I conceive, this affair may be arranged
for the advantage of both of us. And I maintain that I ought not to fail in my
suit, because I am not your lover : for lovers repent of the kindnesses
which they have shown when their passion ceases, but to the non-lovers who are
free and not under any compulsion, no time of repentance ever comes ; for
they confer their benefits according to the measure of their ability, in the way
which is most conducive to their own interest. Then again, lovers consider how
by reason of their love they have neglected their own concerns and rendered
service to others : and when to these benefits conferred they add on the
troubles which they have endured, they think that they have long ago made to the
beloved a very ample return. But the non-lover has no such tormenting
recollections ; he has never neglected his affairs or quarrelled with his
relations ; he has no troubles to add up or excuse to invent ; and
being well rid of all these evils, why should he not freely do what will gratify
the beloved ?
If you say that the
lover is more to be esteemed, because his love is thought to be greater ;
for he is willing to say and do what is hateful to other men, in order to please
his beloved ; — that, if true, is only a proof that he will prefer any
future love to his present, and will injure his old love at the pleasure of the
new. And how, in a matter of such infinite importance, can a man be right in
trusting himself to one who is afflicted with a malady which no experienced
person would attempt to cure, for the patient himself admits that he is not in
his right mind, and acknowledges that he is wrong in his mind, but says that he
is unable to control himself ? And if he came to his right mind, would he
ever imagine that the desires were good which he conceived when in his wrong
mind ? Once more, there are many more non-lovers than lovers ; and if
you choose the best of the lovers, you will not have many to choose from ;
but if from the non-lovers, the choice will be larger, and you will be far more
likely to find among them a person who is worthy of your friendship. If public
opinion be your dread, and you would avoid reproach, in all probability the
lover, who is always thinking that other men are as emulous of him as he is of
them, will boast to some one of his successes, and make a show of them openly in
the pride of his heart ; — he wants others to know that his labour has not
been lost ; but the non-lover is more his own master, and is desirous of
solid good, and not of the opinion of mankind. Again, the lover may be generally
noted or seen following the beloved (this is his regular occupation), and
whenever they are observed to exchange two words they are supposed to meet about
some affair of love either past or in contemplation ; but when non-lovers
meet, no one asks the reason why, because people know that talking to another is
natural, whether friendship or mere pleasure be the
motive.
Once more, if you
fear the fickleness of friendship, consider that in any other case a quarrel
might be a mutual calamity ; but now, when you have given up what is most
precious to you, you will be the greater loser, and therefore, you will have
more reason in being afraid of the lover, for his vexations are many, and he is
always fancying that every one is leagued against him. Wherefore also he debars
his beloved from society ; he will not have you intimate with the wealthy,
lest they should exceed him in wealth, or with men of education, lest they
should be his superiors in understanding ; and he is equally afraid of
anybody’s influence who has any other advantage over himself. If he can persuade
you to break with them, you are left without friend in the world ; or if,
out of a regard to your own interest, you have more sense than to comply with
his desire, you will have to quarrel with him. But those who are non-lovers, and
whose success in love is the reward of their merit, will not be jealous of the
companions of their beloved, and will rather hate those who refuse to be his
associates, thinking that their favourite is slighted by the latter and
benefited by the former ; for more love than hatred may be expected to come
to him out of his friendship with others. Many lovers too have loved the person
of a youth before they knew his character or his belongings ; so that when
their passion has passed away, there is no knowing whether they will continue to
be his friends ; whereas, in the case of non-lovers who were always
friends, the friendship is not lessened by the favours granted ; but the
recollection of these remains with them, and is an earnest of good things to
come.
Further, I say that
you are likely to be improved by me, whereas the lover will spoil you. For they
praise your words and actions in a wrong way ; partly, because they are
afraid of offending you, and also, their judgment is weakened by passion. Such
are the feats which love exhibits ; he makes things painful to the
disappointed which give no pain to others ; he compels the successful lover
to praise what ought not to give him pleasure, and therefore the beloved is to
be pitied rather than envied. But if you listen to me, in the first place, I, in
my intercourse with you, shall not merely regard present enjoyment, but also
future advantage, being not mastered by love, but my own master ; nor for
small causes taking violent dislikes, but even when the cause is great, slowly
laying up little wrath — unintentional offences I shall forgive, and intentional
ones I shall try to prevent ; and these are the marks of a friendship which
will last.
Do you think that a
lover only can be a firm friend ? reflect : — if this were true, we
should set small value on sons, or fathers, or mothers ; nor should we ever
have loyal friends, for our love of them arises not from passion, but from other
associations. Further, if we ought to shower favours on those who are the most
eager suitors, — on that principle, we ought always to do good, not to the most
virtuous, but to the most needy ; for they are the persons who will be most
relieved, and will therefore be the most grateful ; and when you make a
feast you should invite not your friend, but the beggar and the empty
soul ; for they will love you, and attend you, and come about your doors,
and will be the best pleased, and the most grateful, and will invoke many a
blessing on your head. Yet surely you ought not to be granting favours to those
who besiege you with prayer, but to those who are best able to reward you ;
nor to the lover only, but to those who are worthy of love ; nor to those
who will enjoy the bloom of your youth, but to those who will share their
possessions with you in age ; nor to those who, having succeeded, will
glory in their success to others, but to those who will be modest and tell no
tales ; nor to those who care about you for a moment only, but to those who
will continue your friends through life ; nor to those who, when their
passion is over, will pick a quarrel with you, but rather to those who, when the
charm of youth has left you, will show their own virtue. Remember what I have
said ; and consider yet this further point : friends admonish the
lover under the idea that his way of life is bad, but no one of his kindred ever
yet censured the non-lover, or thought that he was ill-advised about his own
interests.
Perhaps you will
ask me whether I propose that you should indulge every non-lover. To which I
reply that not even the lover would advise you to indulge all lovers, for the
indiscriminate favour is less esteemed by the rational recipient, and less
easily hidden by him who would escape the censure of the world. Now love ought
to be for the advantage of both parties, and for the injury of
neither.
I believe that I
have said enough ; but if there is anything more which you desire or which
in your opinion needs to be supplied, ask and I will
answer.”
Now, Socrates, what
do you think ? Is not the discourse excellent, more especially in the
matter of the language ?
Soc. Yes, quite
admirable ; the effect on me was ravishing. And this I owe to you,
Phaedrus, for I observed you while reading to be in an ecstasy, and thinking
that you are more experienced in these matters than I am, I followed your
example, and, like you, my divine darling, I became inspired with a
phrenzy.
Phaedr. Indeed, you are
pleased to be merry.
Soc. Do you mean that I
am not in earnest ?
Phaedr. Now don’t talk in
that way, Socrates, but let me have your real opinion ; I adjure you, by
Zeus, the god of friendship, to tell me whether you think that any Hellene could
have said more or spoken better on the same subject.
Soc. Well, but are you
and I expected to praise the sentiments of the author, or only the clearness,
and roundness, and finish, and tournure of the language ? As to the first I
willingly submit to your better judgment, for I am not worthy to form an
opinion, having only attended to the rhetorical manner ; and I was doubting
whether this could have been defended even by Lysias himself ; I thought,
though I speak under correction, that he repeated himself two or three times,
either from want of words or from want of pains ; and also, he appeared to
me ostentatiously to exult in showing how well he could say the same thing in
two or three ways.
Phaedr. Nonsense,
Socrates ; what you call repetition was the especial merit of the
speech ; for he omitted no topic of which the subject rightly allowed, and
I do not think that any one could have spoken better or more
exhaustively.
Soc. There I cannot go
along with you. Ancient sages, men and women, who have spoken and written of
these things, would rise up in judgment against me, if out of complaisance I
assented to you.
Phaedr. Who are they, and
where did you hear anything better than this ?
Soc. I am sure that I
must have heard ; but at this moment I do not remember from whom ;
perhaps from Sappho the fair, or Anacreon the wise ; or, possibly, from a
prose writer. Why do I say so ? Why, because I perceive that my bosom is
full, and that I could make another speech as good as that of Lysias, and
different. Now I am certain that this is not an invention of my own, who am well
aware that I know nothing, and therefore I can only infer that I have been
filled through the cars, like a pitcher, from the waters of another, though I
have actually forgotten in my stupidity who was my
informant.
Phaedr. That is
grand : — but never mind where you beard the discourse or from whom ;
let that be a mystery not to be divulged even at my earnest desire. Only, as you
say, promise to make another and better oration, equal in length and entirely
new, on the same subject ; and I, like the nine Archons, will promise to
set up a golden image at Delphi, not only of myself, but of you, and as large as
life.
Soc. You are a dear
golden ass if you suppose me to mean that Lysias has altogether missed the mark,
and that I can make a speech from which all his arguments are to be excluded.
The worst of authors will say something which is to the point. Who, for example,
could speak on this thesis of yours without praising the discretion of the
non-lover and blaming the indiscretion of the lover ? These are the
commonplaces of the subject which must come in (for what else is there to be
said ?) and must be allowed and excused ; the only merit is in the
arrangement of them, for there can be none in the invention ; but when you
leave the commonplaces, then there may be some
originality.
Phaedr. I admit that there
is reason in what you say, and I too will be reasonable, and will allow you to
start with the premiss that the lover is more disordered in his wits than the
non-lover ; if in what remains you make a longer and better speech than
Lysias, and use other arguments, then I say again, that a statue you shall have
of beaten gold, and take your place by the colossal offerings of the Cypselids
at Olympia.
Soc. How profoundly in
earnest is the lover, because to tease him I lay a finger upon his love !
And so, Phaedrus, you really imagine that I am going to improve upon the
ingenuity of Lysias ?
Phaedr. There I have you
as you had me, and you must just speak “as you best can.” Do not let us exchange
“tu quoque” as in a farce, or compel me to say to you as you said to me, “I know
Socrates as well as I know myself, and he was wanting to speak, but he gave
himself airs.” Rather I would have you consider that from this place we stir not
until you have unbosomed yourself of the speech ; for here are we all
alone, and I am stronger, remember, and younger than you — Wherefore perpend,
and do not compel me to use violence.
Soc. But, my sweet
Phaedrus, how ridiculous it would be of me to compete with Lysias in an
extempore speech ! He is a master in his art and I am an untaught
man.
Phaedr. You see how
matters stand ; and therefore let there be no more pretences ; for,
indeed, I know the word that is irresistible.
Soc. Then don’t say
it.
Phaedr. Yes, but I
will ; and my word shall be an oath. “I say, or rather swear” — but what
god will be witness of my oath ? — “By this plane-tree I swear, that unless
you repeat the discourse here in the face of this very plane-tree, I will never
tell you another ; never let you have word of
another !”
Soc. Villain I am
conquered ; the poor lover of discourse has no more to
say.
Phaedr. Then why are you
still at your tricks ?
Soc. I am not going to
play tricks now that you have taken the oath, for I cannot allow myself to be
starved.
Phaedr.
Proceed.
Soc. Shall I tell you
what I will do ?
Phaedr.
What ?
Soc. I will veil my
face and gallop through the discourse as fast as I can, for if I see you I shall
feel ashamed and not know what to say.
Phaedr. Only go on and you
may do anything else which you please.
Soc. Come, O ye Muses,
melodious, as ye are called, whether you have received this name from the
character of your strains, or because the Melians are a musical race, help, O
help me in the tale which my good friend here desires me to rehearse, in order
that his friend whom he always deemed wise may seem to him to be wiser than
ever.
Once upon a time
there was a fair boy, or, more properly speaking, a youth ; he was very
fair and had a great many lovers ; and there was one special cunning one,
who had persuaded the youth that he did not love him, but he really loved him
all the same ; and one day when he was paying his addresses to him, he used
this very argument — that he ought to accept the non-lover rather than the
lover ; his words were as follows :
“All good counsel
begins in the same way ; a man should know what he is advising about, or
his counsel will all come to nought. But people imagine that they know about the
nature of things, when they don’t know about them, and, not having come to an
understanding at first because they think that they know, they end, as might be
expected, in contradicting one another and themselves. Now you and I must not be
guilty of this fundamental error which we condemn in others ; but as our
question is whether the lover or non-lover is to be preferred, let us first of
all agree in defining the nature and power of love, and then, keeping our eyes
upon the definition and to this appealing, let us further enquire whether love
brings advantage or disadvantage.
“Every one sees
that love is a desire, and we know also that non-lovers desire the beautiful and
good. Now in what way is the lover to be distinguished from the non-lover ?
Let us note that in every one of us there are two guiding and ruling principles
which lead us whither they will ; one is the natural desire of pleasure,
the other is an acquired opinion which aspires after the best ; and these
two are sometimes in harmony and then again at war, and sometimes the one,
sometimes the other conquers. When opinion by the help of reason leads us to the
best, the conquering principle is called temperance ; but when desire,
which is devoid of reason, rules in us and drags us to pleasure, that power of
misrule is called excess. Now excess has many names, and many members, and many
forms, and any of these forms when very marked gives a name, neither honourable
nor creditable, to the bearer of the name. The desire of eating, for example,
which gets the better of the higher reason and the other desires, is called
gluttony, and he who is possessed by it is called a glutton — I the tyrannical
desire of drink, which inclines the possessor of the desire to drink, has a name
which is only too obvious, and there can be as little doubt by what name any
other appetite of the same family would be called ; — it will be the name
of that which happens to be eluminant. And now I think that you will perceive
the drift of my discourse ; but as every spoken word is in a manner plainer
than the unspoken, I had better say further that the irrational desire which
overcomes the tendency of opinion towards right, and is led away to the
enjoyment of beauty, and especially of personal beauty, by the desires which are
her own kindred — that supreme desire, I say, which by leading conquers and by
the force of passion is reinforced, from this very force, receiving a name, is
called love.”
And now, dear
Phaedrus, I shall pause for an instant to ask whether you do not think me, as I
appear to myself, inspired ?
Phaedr. Yes, Socrates, you
seem to have a very unusual flow of words.
Soc. Listen to me,
then, in silence ; for surely the place is holy ; so that you must not
wonder, if, as I proceed, I appear to be in a divine fury, for already I am
getting into dithyrambics.
Phaedr. Nothing can be
truer.
Soc. The responsibility
rests with you. But hear what follows, and Perhaps the fit may be averted ;
all is in their hands above. I will go on talking to my youth.
Listen :
“Thus, my friend,
we have declared and defined the nature of the subject. Keeping the definition
in view, let us now enquire what advantage or disadvantage is likely to ensue
from the lover or the non-lover to him who accepts their
advances.
He who is the
victim of his passions and the slave of pleasure will of course desire to make
his beloved as agreeable to himself as possible. Now to him who has a mind
discased anything is agreeable which is not opposed to him, but that which is
equal or superior is hateful to him, and therefore the lover Will not brook any
superiority or equality on the part of his beloved ; he is always employed
in reducing him to inferiority. And the ignorant is the inferior of the wise,
the coward of the brave, the slow of speech of the speaker, the dull of the
clever. These, and not these only, are the mental defects of the beloved ;
— defects which, when implanted by nature, are necessarily a delight to the
lover, and when not implanted, he must contrive to implant them in him, if he
would not be deprived of his fleeting joy. And therefore he cannot help being
jealous, and will debar his beloved from the advantages of society which would
make a man of him, and especially from that society which would have given him
wisdom, and thereby he cannot fail to do him great harm. That is to say, in his
excessive fear lest he should come to be despised in his eyes he will be
compelled to banish from him divine philosophy ; and there is no greater
injury which he can inflict upon him than this. He will contrive that his
beloved shall be wholly ignorant, and in everything shall look to him ; he
is to be the delight of the lover’s heart, and a curse to himself. Verily, a
lover is a profitable guardian and associate for him in all that relates to his
mind.
Let us next see how
his master, whose law of life is pleasure and not good, will keep and train the
body of his servant. Will he not choose a beloved who is delicate rather than
sturdy and strong ? One brought up in shady bowers and not in the bright
sun, a stranger to manly exercises and the sweat of toil, accustomed only to a
soft and luxurious diet, instead of the hues of health having the colours of
paint and ornament, and the rest of a piece ? — such a life as any one can
imagine and which I need not detail at length. But I may sum up all that I have
to say in a word, and pass on. Such a person in war, or in any of the great
crises of life, will be the anxiety of his friends and also of his lover, and
certainly not the terror of his enemies ; which nobody can
deny.
And now let us tell
what advantage or disadvantage the beloved will receive from the guardianship
and society of his lover in the matter of his property ; this is the next
point to be considered. The lover will be the first to see what, indeed, will be
sufficiently evident to all men, that he desires above all things to deprive his
beloved of his dearest and best and holiest possessions, father, mother,
kindred, friends, of all whom he thinks may be hinderers or reprovers of their
most sweet converse ; he will even cast a jealous eye upon his gold and
silver or other property, because these make him a less easy prey, and when
caught less manageable ; hence he is of necessity displeased at his
possession of them and rejoices at their loss ; and he would like him to be
wifeless, childless, homeless, as well ; and the longer the better, for the
longer he is all this, the longer he will enjoy him.
There are some soft
of animals, such as flatterers, who are dangerous and, mischievous enough, and
yet nature has mingled a temporary pleasure and grace in their composition. You
may say that a courtesan is hurtful, and disapprove of such creatures and their
practices, and yet for the time they are very pleasant. But the lover is not
only hurtful to his love ; he is also an extremely disagreeable companion.
The old proverb says that “birds of a feather flock together” ; I suppose
that equality of years inclines them to the same pleasures, and similarity
begets friendship ; yet you may have more than enough even of this ;
and verily constraint is always said to be grievous. Now the lover is not only
unlike his beloved, but he forces himself upon him. For he is old and his love
is young, and neither day nor night will he leave him if he can help ;
necessity and the sting of desire drive him on, and allure him with the pleasure
which he receives from seeing, hearing, touching, perceiving him in every way.
And therefore he is delighted to fasten upon him and to minister to him. But
what pleasure or consolation can the beloved be receiving all this time ?
Must he not feel the extremity of disgust when he looks at an old shrivelled
face and the remainder to match, which even in a description is disagreeable,
and quite detestable when he is forced into daily contact with his lover ;
moreover he is jealously watched and guarded against everything and everybody,
and has to hear misplaced and exaggerated praises of himself, and censures
equally inappropriate, which are intolerable when the man is sober, and, besides
being intolerable, are published all over the world in all their indelicacy and
wearisomeness when he is drunk.
And not only while
his love continues is he mischievous and unpleasant, but when his love ceases he
becomes a perfidious enemy of him on whom he showered his oaths and prayers and
promises, and yet could hardly prevail upon him to tolerate the tedium of his
company even from motives of interest. The hour of payment arrives, and now he
is the servant of another master ; instead of love and infatuation, wisdom
and temperance are his bosom’s lords ; but the beloved has not discovered
the change which has taken place in him, when he asks for a return and recalls
to his recollection former sayings and doings ; he believes himself to be
speaking to the same person, and the other, not having the courage to confess
the truth, and not knowing how to fulfil the oaths and promises which he made
when under the dominion of folly, and having now grown wise and temperate, does
not want to do as he did or to be as he was before. And so he runs away and is
constrained to be a defaulter ; the oyster-shell has fallen with the other
side uppermost — he changes pursuit into flight, while the other is compelled to
follow him with passion and imprecation not knowing that he ought never from the
first to have accepted a demented lover instead of a sensible non-lover ;
and that in making such a choice he was giving himself up to a faithless,
morose, envious, disagreeable being, hurtful to his estate, hurtful to his
bodily health, and still more hurtful to the cultivation of his mind, than which
there neither is nor ever will be anything more honoured in the eyes both of
gods and men. Consider this, fair youth, and know that in the friendship of the
lover there is no real kindness ; he has an appetite and wants to feed upon
you :
As wolves love lambs so lovers love
their loves.
But I told you so,
I am speaking in verse, and therefore I had better make an end ;
enough.
Phaedr. I thought that you
were only halfway and were going to make a similar speech about all the
advantages of accepting the non-lover. Why do you not
proceed ?
Soc. Does not your
simplicity observe that I have got out of dithyrambics into heroics, when only
uttering a censure on the lover ? And if I am to add the praises of the
non-lover, what will become of me ? Do you not perceive that I am already
overtaken by the Nymphs to whom you have mischievously exposed me ? And
therefore will only add that the non-lover has all the advantages in which the
lover is accused of being deficient. And now I will say no more ; there has
been enough of both of them. Leaving the tale to its fate, I will cross the
river and make the best of my way home, lest a worse thing be inflicted upon me
by you.
Phaedr. Not yet,
Socrates ; not until the heat of the day has passed ; do you not see
that the hour is almost noon ? there is the midday sun standing still, as
people say, in the meridian. Let us rather stay and talk over what has been
said, and then return in the cool.
Soc. Your love of
discourse, Phaedrus, is superhuman, simply marvellous, and I do not believe that
there is any one of your contemporaries who has either made or in one way or
another has compelled others to make an equal number of speeches. I would except
Simmias the Theban, but all the rest are far behind you. And now, I do verily
believe that you have been the cause of another.
Phaedr. That is good news.
But what do you mean ?
Soc. I mean to say that
as I was about to cross the stream the usual sign was given to me, — that sign
which always forbids, but never bids, me to do anything which I am going to
do ; and I thought that I heard a voice saying in my car that I had been
guilty of impiety, and. that I must not go away until I had made an atonement.
Now I am a diviner, though not a very good one, but I have enough religion for
my own use, as you might say of a bad writer — his writing is good enough for
him ; and I am beginning to see that I was in error. O my friend, how
prophetic is the human soul ! At the time I had a sort of misgiving, and,
like Ibycus, “I was troubled ; I feared that I might be buying honour from
men at the price of sinning against the gods.” Now I recognize my
error.
Phaedr. What
error ?
Soc. That was a
dreadful speech which you brought with you, and you made me utter one as
bad.
Phaedr. How
so ?
Soc. It was foolish, I
say, — to a certain extent, impious ; can anything be more
dreadful ?
Phaedr. Nothing, if the
speech was really such as you describe.
Soc. Well, and is not
Eros the son of Aphrodite, and a god ?
Phaedr. So men
say.
Soc. But that was not
acknowledged by Lysias in his speech, nor by you in that other speech which you
by a charm drew from my lips. For if love be, as he surely is, a divinity, he
cannot be evil. Yet this was the error of both the speeches. There was also a
simplicity about them which was refreshing ; having no truth or honesty in
them, nevertheless they pretended to be something, hoping to succeed in
deceiving the manikins of earth and gain celebrity among them. Wherefore I must
have a purgation. And I bethink me of an ancient purgation of mythological error
which was devised, not by Homer, for he never had the wit to discover why he was
blind, but by Stesichorus, who was a philosopher and knew the reason why ;
and therefore, when he lost his eyes, for that was the penalty which was
inflicted upon him for reviling the lovely Helen, he at once purged himself. And
the purgation was a recantation, which began thus:
False is that word of mine — the
truth is that thou didst not embark in ships, nor ever go to the walls of
Troy ;
and when he had
completed his poem, which is called “the recantation,” immediately his sight
returned to him. Now I will be wiser than either Stesichorus or Homer, in that I
am going to make my recantation for reviling love before I suffer ; and
this I will attempt, not as before, veiled and ashamed, but with forehead bold
and bare.
Phaedr. Nothing could be
more agreeable to me than to hear you say so.
Soc. Only think, my
good Phaedrus, what an utter want of delicacy was shown in the two
discourses ; I mean, in my own and in that which you recited out of the
book. Would not any one who was himself of a noble and gentle nature, and who
loved or ever had loved a nature like his own, when we tell of the petty causes
of lovers’ jealousies, and of their exceeding animosities, and of the injuries
which they do to their beloved, have imagined that our ideas of love were taken
from some haunt of sailors to which good manners were unknown — he would
certainly never have admitted the justice of our
censure ?
Phaedr. I dare say not,
Socrates.
Soc. Therefore, because
I blush at the thought of this person, and also because I am afraid of Love
himself, I desire to wash the brine out of my ears with water from the
spring ; and I would counsel Lysias not to delay, but to write another
discourse, which shall prove that ceteris paribus the lover ought to be accepted
rather than the non-lover.
Phaedr. Be assured that he
shall. You shall speak the praises of the lover, and Lysias shall be compelled
by me to write another discourse on the same theme.
Soc. You will be true
to your nature in that, and therefore I believe you.
Phaedr. Speak, and fear
not.
Soc. But where is the
fair youth whom I was addressing before, and who ought to listen now ;
lest, if he hear me not, he should accept a non-lover before he knows what he is
doing ?
Phaedr. He is close at
hand, and always at your service.
Soc. Know then, fair
youth, that the former discourse was the word of Phaedrus, the son of Vain Man,
who dwells in the city of Myrrhina (Myrrhinusius). And this which I am about to
utter is the recantation of Stesichorus the son of Godly Man (Euphemus), who
comes from the town of Desire (Himera), and is to the following
effect :
“I told a lie when
I said that the beloved ought to accept the non-lover when he might have the
lover, because the one is sane, and the other mad. It might be so if madness
were simply an evil ; but there is also a madness which is a divine gift,
and the source of the chiefest blessings granted to men. For prophecy is a
madness, and the prophetess at Delphi and the priestesses at Dodona when out of
their senses have conferred great benefits on Hellas, both in public and private
life, but when in their senses few or none. And I might also tell you how the
Sibyl and other inspired persons have given to many an one many an intimation of
the future which has saved them from falling. But it would be tedious to speak
of what every one knows.
There will be more
reason in appealing to the ancient inventors of names, who would never have
connected prophecy (mantike) which foretells the future and is the noblest of
arts, with madness (manike), or called them both by the same name, if they had
deemed madness to be a disgrace or dishonour ; — they must have thought
that there was an inspired madness which was a noble thing ; for the two
words, mantike and manike, are really the same, and the letter t is only a
modern and tasteless insertion. And this is confirmed by the name which was
given by them to the rational investigation of futurity, whether made by the
help of birds or of other signs — this, for as much as it is an art which
supplies from the reasoning faculty mind (nous) and information (istoria) to
human thought (oiesis) they originally termed oionoistike, but the word has been
lately altered and made sonorous by the modern introduction of the letter Omega
(oionoistike and oionistike), and in proportion prophecy (mantike) is more
perfect and august than augury, both in name and fact, in the same proportion,
as the ancients testify, is madness superior to a sane mind (sophrosune) for the
one is only of human, but the other of divine origin. Again, where plagues and
mightiest woes have bred in certain families, owing to some ancient
blood-guiltiness, there madness has entered with holy prayers and rites, and by
inspired utterances found a way of deliverance for those who are in need ;
and he who has part in this gift, and is truly possessed and duly out of his
mind, is by the use of purifications and mysteries made whole and except from
evil, future as well as present, and has a release from the calamity which was
afflicting him. The third kind is the madness of those who are possessed by the
Muses ; which taking hold of a delicate and virgin soul, and there
inspiring frenzy, awakens lyrical and all other numbers ; with these
adorning the myriad actions of ancient heroes for the instruction of posterity.
But he who, having no touch of the Muses’ madness in his soul, comes to the door
and thinks that he will get into the temple by the help of art — he, I say, and
his poetry are not admitted ; the sane man disappears and is nowhere when
he enters into rivalry with the madman.
I might tell of
many other noble deeds which have sprung from inspired madness. And therefore,
let no one frighten or flutter us by saying that the temperate friend is to be
chosen rather than the inspired, but let him further show that love is not sent
by the gods for any good to lover or beloved ; if he can do so we will
allow him to carry off the palm. And we, on our part, will prove in answer to
him that the madness of love is the greatest of heaven’s blessings, and the
proof shall be one which the wise will receive, and the witling disbelieve. But
first of all, let us view the affections and actions of the soul divine and
human, and try to ascertain the truth about them. The beginning of our proof is
as follows :
The soul through
all her being is immortal, for that which is ever in motion is immortal ;
but that which moves another and is moved by another, in ceasing to move ceases
also to live. Only the self-moving, never leaving self, never ceases to move,
and is the fountain and beginning of motion to all that moves besides. Now, the
beginning is unbegotten, for that which is begotten has a beginning ; but
the beginning is begotten of nothing, for if it were begotten of something, then
the begotten would not come from a beginning. But if unbegotten, it must also be
indestructible ; for if beginning were destroyed, there could be no
beginning out of anything, nor anything out of a beginning ; and all things
must have a beginning. And therefore the self-moving is the beginning of
motion ; and this can neither be destroyed nor begotten, else the whole
heavens and all creation would collapse and stand still, and never again have
motion or birth. But if the self-moving is proved to be immortal, he who affirms
that self-motion is the very idea and essence of the soul will not be put to
confusion. For the body which is moved from without is soulless ; but that
which is moved from within has a soul, for such is the nature of the soul. But
if this be true, must not the soul be the self-moving, and therefore of
necessity unbegotten and immortal ? Enough of the soul’s
immortality.
Of the nature of
the soul, though her true form be ever a theme of large and more than mortal
discourse, let me speak briefly, and in a figure. And let the figure be
composite — a pair of winged horses and a charioteer. Now the winged horses and
the charioteers of the gods are all of them noble and of noble descent, but
those of other races are mixed ; the human charioteer drives his in a
pair ; and one of them is noble and of noble breed, and the other is
ignoble and of ignoble breed ; and the driving of them of necessity gives a
great deal of trouble to him. I will endeavour to explain to you in what way the
mortal differs from the immortal creature. The soul in her totality has the care
of inanimate being everywhere, and traverses the whole heaven in divers forms
appearing — when perfect and fully winged she soars upward, and orders the whole
world ; whereas the imperfect soul, losing her wings and drooping in her
flight at last settles on the solid ground — there, finding a home, she receives
an earthly frame which appears to be self-moved, but is really moved by her
power ; and this composition of soul and body is called a living and mortal
creature. For immortal no such union can be reasonably believed to be ;
although fancy, not having seen nor surely known the nature of God, may imagine
an immortal creature having both a body and also a soul which are united
throughout all time. Let that, however, be as God wills, and be spoken of
acceptably to him. And now let us ask the reason why the soul loses her
wings !
The wing is the
corporeal element which is most akin to the divine, and which by nature tends to
soar aloft and carry that which gravitates downwards into the upper region,
which is the habitation of the gods. The divine is beauty, wisdom, goodness, and
the like ; and by these the wing of the soul is nourished, and grows
apace ; but when fed upon evil and foulness and the opposite of good,
wastes and falls away. Zeus, the mighty lord, holding the reins of a winged
chariot, leads the way in heaven, ordering all and taking care of all ; and
there follows him the array of gods and demigods, marshalled in eleven
bands ; Hestia alone abides at home in the house of heaven ; of the
rest they who are reckoned among the princely twelve march in their appointed
order. They see many blessed sights in the inner heaven, and there are many ways
to and fro, along which the blessed gods are passing, every one doing his own
work ; he may follow who will and can, for jealousy has no place in the
celestial choir. But when they go to banquet and festival, then they move up the
steep to the top of the vault of heaven. The chariots of the gods in even poise,
obeying the rein, glide rapidly ; but the others labour, for the vicious
steed goes heavily, weighing down the charioteer to the earth when his steed has
not been thoroughly trained : — and this is the hour of agony and extremest
conflict for the soul. For the immortals, when they are at the end of their
course, go forth and stand upon the outside of heaven, and the revolution of the
spheres carries them round, and they behold the things beyond. But of the heaven
which is above the heavens, what earthly poet ever did or ever will sing
worthily ? It is such as I will describe ; for I must dare to speak
the truth, when truth is my theme. There abides the very being with which true
knowledge is concerned ; the colourless, formless, intangible essence,
visible only to mind, the pilot of the soul. The divine intelligence, being
nurtured upon mind and pure knowledge, and the intelligence of every soul which
is capable of receiving the food proper to it, rejoices at beholding reality,
and once more gazing upon truth, is replenished and made glad, until the
revolution of the worlds brings her round again to the same place. In the
revolution she beholds justice, and temperance, and knowledge absolute, not in
the form of generation or of relation, which men call existence, but knowledge
absolute in existence absolute ; and beholding the other true existences in
like manner, and feasting upon them, she passes down into the interior of the
heavens and returns home ; and there the charioteer putting up his horses
at the stall, gives them ambrosia to eat and nectar to
drink.
Such is the life of
the gods ; but of other souls, that which follows God best and is likest to
him lifts the head of the charioteer into the outer world, and is carried round
in the revolution, troubled indeed by the steeds, and with difficulty beholding
true being ; while another only rises and falls, and sees, and again fails
to see by reason of the unruliness of the steeds. The rest of the souls are also
longing after the upper world and they all follow, but not being strong enough
they are carried round below the surface, plunging, treading on one another,
each striving to be first ; and there is confusion and perspiration and the
extremity of effort ; and many of them are lamed or have their wings broken
through the ill-driving of the charioteers ; and all of them after a
fruitless toil, not having attained to the mysteries of true being, go away, and
feed upon opinion. The reason why the souls exhibit this exceeding eagerness to
behold the plain of truth is that pasturage is found there, which is suited to
the highest part of the soul ; and the wing on which the soul soars is
nourished with this. And there is a law of Destiny, that the soul which attains
any vision of truth in company with a god is preserved from harm until the next
period, and if attaining always is always unharmed. But when she is unable to
follow, and fails to behold the truth, and through some ill-hap sinks beneath
the double load of forgetfulness and vice, and her wings fall from her and she
drops to the ground, then the law ordains that this soul shall at her first
birth pass, not into any other animal, but only into man ; and the soul
which has seen most of truth shall come to the birth as a philosopher, or
artist, or some musical and loving nature ; that which has seen truth in
the second degree shall be some righteous king or warrior chief ; the soul
which is of the third class shall be a politician, or economist, or
trader ; the fourth shall be lover of gymnastic toils, or a
physician ; the fifth shall lead the life of a prophet or hierophant ;
to the sixth the character of poet or some other imitative artist will be
assigned ; to the seventh the life of an artisan or husbandman ; to
the eighth that of a sophist or demagogue ; to the ninth that of a tyrant —
all these are states of probation, in which he who does righteously improves,
and he who does unrighteously, improves, and he who does unrighteously,
deteriorates his lot.
Ten thousand years
must elapse before the soul of each one can return to the place from whence she
came, for she cannot grow her wings in less ; only the soul of a
philosopher, guileless and true, or the soul of a lover, who is not devoid of
philosophy, may acquire wings in the third of the recurring periods of a
thousand years ; he is distinguished from the ordinary good man who gains
wings in three thousand years : — and they who choose this life three times
in succession have wings given them, and go away at the end of three thousand
years. But the others receive judgment when they have completed their first
life, and after the judgment they go, some of them to the houses of correction
which are under the earth, and are punished ; others to some place in
heaven whither they are lightly borne by justice, and there they live in a
manner worthy of the life which they led here when in the form of men. And at
the end of the first thousand years the good souls and also the evil souls both
come to draw lots and choose their second life, and they may take any which they
please. The soul of a man may pass into the life of a beast, or from the beast
return again into the man. But the soul which has never seen the truth will not
pass into the human form. For a man must have intelligence of universals, and be
able to proceed from the many particulars of sense to one conception of
reason ; — this is the recollection of those things which our soul once saw
while following God — when regardless of that which we now call being she raised
her head up towards the true being. And therefore the mind of the philosopher
alone has wings ; and this is just, for he is always, according to the
measure of his abilities, clinging in recollection to those things in which God
abides, and in beholding which He is what He is. And he who employs aright these
memories is ever being initiated into perfect mysteries and alone becomes truly
perfect. But, as he forgets earthly interests and is rapt in the divine, the
vulgar deem him mad, and rebuke him ; they do not see that he is
inspired.
Thus far I have
been speaking of the fourth and last kind of madness, which is imputed to him
who, when he sees the beauty of earth, is transported with the recollection of
the true beauty ; he would like to fly away, but he cannot ; he is
like a bird fluttering and looking upward and careless of the world below ;
and he is therefore thought to be mad. And I have shown this of all inspirations
to be the noblest and highest and the offspring of the highest to him who has or
shares in it, and that he who loves the beautiful is called a lover because he
partakes of it. For, as has been already said, every soul of man has in the way
of nature beheld true being ; this was the condition of her passing into
the form of man. But all souls do not easily recall the things of the other
world ; they may have seen them for a short time only, or they may have
been unfortunate in their earthly lot, and, having had their hearts turned to
unrighteousness through some corrupting influence, they may have lost the memory
of the holy things which once they saw. Few only retain an adequate remembrance
of them ; and they, when they behold here any image of that other world,
are rapt in amazement ; but they are ignorant of what this rapture means,
because they do not clearly perceive. For there is no light of justice or
temperance or any of the higher ideas which are precious to souls in the earthly
copies of them : they are seen through a glass dimly ; and there are
few who, going to the images, behold in them the realities, and these only with
difficulty. There was a time when with the rest of the happy band they saw
beauty shining in brightness — we philosophers following in the train of Zeus,
others in company with other gods ; and then we beheld the beatific vision
and were initiated into a mystery which may be truly called most blessed,
celebrated by us in our state of innocence, before we had any experience of
evils to come, when we were admitted to the sight of apparitions innocent and
simple and calm and happy, which we beheld shining impure light, pure ourselves
and not yet enshrined in that living tomb which we carry about, now that we are
imprisoned in the body, like an oyster in his shell. Let me linger over the
memory of scenes which have passed away.
But of beauty, I
repeat again that we saw her there shining in company with the celestial
forms ; and coming to earth we find her here too, shining in clearness
through the clearest aperture of sense. For sight is the most piercing of our
bodily senses ; though not by that is wisdom seen ; her loveliness
would have been transporting if there had been a visible image of her, and the
other ideas, if they had visible counterparts, would be equally lovely. But this
is the privilege of beauty, that being the loveliest she is also the most
palpable to sight. Now he who is not newly initiated or who has become
corrupted, does not easily rise out of this world to the sight of true beauty in
the other ; he looks only at her earthly namesake, and instead of being
awed at the sight of her, he is given over to pleasure, and like a brutish beast
he rushes on to enjoy and beget ; he consorts with wantonness, and is not
afraid or ashamed of pursuing pleasure in violation of nature. But he whose
initiation is recent, and who has been the spectator of many glories in the
other world, is amazed when he sees any one having a godlike face or form, which
is the expression of divine beauty ; and at first a shudder runs through
him, and again the old awe steals over him ; then looking upon the face of
his beloved as of a god he reverences him, and if he were not afraid of being
thought a downright madman, he would sacrifice to his beloved as to the image of
a god ; then while he gazes on him there is a sort of reaction, and the
shudder passes into an unusual heat and perspiration ; for, as he receives
the effluence of beauty through the eyes, the wing moistens and he warms. And as
he warms, the parts out of which the wing grew, and which had been hitherto
closed and rigid, and had prevented the wing from shooting forth, are melted,
and as nourishment streams upon him, the lower end of the wings begins to swell
and grow from the root upwards ; and the growth extends under the whole
soul — for once the whole was winged.
During this process
the whole soul is all in a state of ebullition and effervescence, — which may be
compared to the irritation and uneasiness in the gums at the time of cutting
teeth, — bubbles up, and has a feeling of uneasiness and tickling ; but
when in like manner the soul is beginning to grow wings, the beauty of the
beloved meets her eye and she receives the sensible warm motion of particles
which flow towards her, therefore called emotion (imeros), and is refreshed and
warmed by them, and then she ceases from her pain with joy. But when she is
parted from her beloved and her moisture fails, then the orifices of the passage
out of which the wing shoots dry up and close, and intercept the germ of the
wing ; which, being shut up with the emotion, throbbing as with the
pulsations of an artery, pricks the aperture which is nearest, until at length
the entire soul is pierced and maddened and pained, and at the recollection of
beauty is again delighted. And from both of them together the soul is oppressed
at the strangeness of her condition, and is in a great strait and excitement,
and in her madness can neither sleep by night nor abide in her place by day. And
wherever she thinks that she will behold the beautiful one, thither in her
desire she runs. And when she has seen him, and bathed herself in the waters of
beauty, her constraint is loosened, and she is refreshed, and has no more pangs
and pains ; and this is the sweetest of all pleasures at the time, and is
the reason why the soul of the lover will never forsake his beautiful one, whom
he esteems above all ; he has forgotten mother and brethren and companions,
and he thinks nothing of the neglect and loss of his property ; the rules
and proprieties of life, on which he formerly prided himself, he now despises,
and is ready to sleep like a servant, wherever he is allowed, as near as he can
to his desired one, who is the object of his worship, and the physician who can
alone assuage the greatness of his pain. And this state, my dear imaginary youth
to whom I am talking, is by men called love, and among the gods has a name at
which you, in your simplicity, may be inclined to mock ; there are two
lines in the apocryphal writings of Homer in which the name occurs. One of them
is rather outrageous, and not altogether metrical. They are as
follows :
Mortals call him fluttering
love,
But the immortals call him winged
one,
Because the growing of wings is a
necessity to him.
You may believe
this, but not unless you like. At any rate the loves of lovers and their causes
are such as I have described.
Now the lover who
is taken to be the attendant of Zeus is better able to bear the winged god, and
can endure a heavier burden ; but the attendants and companions of Ares,
when under the influence of love, if they fancy that they have been at all
wronged, are ready to kill and put an end to themselves and their beloved. And
he who follows in the train of any other god, while he is unspoiled and the
impression lasts, honours and imitates him, as far as he is able ; and
after the manner of his god he behaves in his intercourse with his beloved and
with the rest of the world during the first period of his earthly existence.
Every one chooses his love from the ranks of beauty according to his character,
and this he makes his god, and fashions and adorns as a sort of image which he
is to fall down and worship. The followers of Zeus desire that their beloved
should have a soul like him ; and therefore they seek out some one of a
philosophical and imperial nature, and when they have found him and loved him,
they do all they can to confirm such a nature in him, and if they have no
experience of such a disposition hitherto, they learn of any one who can teach
them, and themselves follow in the same way. And they have the less difficulty
in finding the nature of their own god in themselves, because they have been
compelled to gaze intensely on him ; their recollection clings to him, and
they become possessed of him, and receive from him their character and
disposition, so far as man can participate in God. The qualities of their god
they attribute to the beloved, wherefore they love him all the more, and if,
like the Bacchic Nymphs, they draw inspiration from Zeus, they pour out their
own fountain upon him, wanting to make him as like as possible to their own god.
But those who are the followers of Here seek a royal love, and when they have
found him they do just the same with him ; and in like manner the followers
of Apollo, and of every other god walking in the ways of their god, seek a love
who is to be made like him whom they serve, and when they have found him, they
themselves imitate their god, and persuade their love to do the same, and
educate him into the manner and nature of the god as far as they each can ;
for no feelings of envy or jealousy are entertained by them towards their
beloved, but they do their utmost to create in him the greatest likeness of
themselves and of the god whom they honour. Thus fair and blissful to the
beloved is the desire of the inspired lover, and the initiation of which I speak
into the mysteries of true love, if he be captured by the lover and their
purpose is effected. Now the beloved is taken captive in the following
manner : —
As I said at the
beginning of this tale, I divided each soul into three — two horses and a
charioteer ; and one of the horses was good and the other bad : the
division may remain, but I have not yet explained in what the goodness or
badness of either consists, and to that I will proceed. The right-hand horse is
upright and cleanly made ; he has a lofty neck and an aquiline nose ;
his colour is white, and his eyes dark ; he is a lover of honour and
modesty and temperance, and the follower of true glory ; he needs no touch
of the whip, but is guided by word and admonition only. The other is a crooked
lumbering animal, put together anyhow ; he has a short thick neck ; he
is flat-faced and of a dark colour, with grey eyes and blood-red
complexion ; the mate of insolence and pride, shag-eared and deaf, hardly
yielding to whip and spur. Now when the charioteer beholds the vision of love,
and has his whole soul warmed through sense, and is full of the prickings and
ticklings of desire, the obedient steed, then as always under the government of
shame, refrains from leaping on the beloved ; but the other, heedless of
the pricks and of the blows of the whip, plunges and runs away, giving all
manner of trouble to his companion and the charioteer, whom he forces to
approach the beloved and to remember the joys of love. They at first indignantly
oppose him and will not be urged on to do terrible and unlawful deeds ; but
at last, when he persists in plaguing them, they yield and agree to do as he
bids them.
And now they are at
the spot and behold the flashing beauty of the beloved ; which when the
charioteer sees, his memory is carried to the true beauty, whom he beholds in
company with Modesty like an image placed upon a holy pedestal. He sees her, but
he is afraid and falls backwards in adoration, and by his fall is compelled to
pull back the reins with such violence as to bring both the steeds on their
haunches, the one willing and unresisting, the unruly one very unwilling ;
and when they have gone back a little, the one is overcome with shame and
wonder, and his whole soul is bathed in perspiration ; the other, when the
pain is over which the bridle and the fall had given him, having with difficulty
taken breath, is full of wrath and reproaches, which he heaps upon the
charioteer and his fellow-steed, for want of courage and manhood, declaring that
they have been false to their agreement and guilty of desertion. Again they
refuse, and again he urges them on, and will scarce yield to their prayer that
he would wait until another time. When the appointed hour comes, they make as if
they had forgotten, and he reminds them, fighting and neighing and dragging them
on, until at length he, on the same thoughts intent, forces them to draw near
again. And when they are near he stoops his head and puts up his tail, and takes
the bit in his teeth. and pulls shamelessly. Then the charioteer is worse off
than ever ; he falls back like a racer at the barrier, and with a still
more violent wrench drags the bit out of the teeth of the wild steed and covers
his abusive tongue and jaws with blood, and forces his legs and haunches to the
ground and punishes him sorely. And when this has happened several times and the
villain has ceased from his wanton way, he is tamed and humbled, and follows the
will of the charioteer, and when he sees the beautiful one he is ready to die of
fear. And from that time forward the soul of the lover follows the beloved in
modesty and holy fear.
And so the beloved
who, like a god, has received every true and loyal service from his lover, not
in pretence but in reality, being also himself of a nature friendly to his
admirer, if in former days he has blushed to own his passion and turned away his
lover, because his youthful companions or others slanderously told him that he
would be disgraced, now as years advance, at the appointed age and time, is led
to receive him into communion. For fate which has ordained that there shall be
no friendship among the evil has also ordained that there shall ever be
friendship among the good. And the beloved when he has received him into
communion and intimacy, is quite amazed at the good-will of the lover ; he
recognises that the inspired friend is worth all other friends or kinsmen ;
they have nothing of friendship in them worthy to be compared with his. And when
his feeling continues and he is nearer to him and embraces him, in gymnastic
exercises and at other times of meeting, then the fountain of that stream, which
Zeus when he was in love with Ganymede named Desire, overflows upon the lover,
and some enters into his soul, and some when he is filled flows out again ;
and as a breeze or an echo rebounds from the smooth rocks and returns whence it
came, so does the stream of beauty, passing through the eyes which are the
windows of the soul, come back to the beautiful one ; there arriving and
quickening the passages of the wings, watering. them and inclining them to grow,
and filling the soul of the beloved also with love. And thus he loves, but he
knows not what ; he does not understand and cannot explain his own
state ; he appears to have caught the infection of blindness from
another ; the lover is his mirror in whom he is beholding himself, but he
is not aware of this. When he is with the lover, both cease from their pain, but
when he is away then he longs as he is longed for, and has love’s image, love
for love (Anteros) lodging in his breast, which he calls and believes to be not
love but friendship only, and his desire is as the desire of the other, but
weaker ; he wants to see him, touch him, kiss him, embrace him, and
probably not long afterwards his desire is accomplished. When they meet, the
wanton steed of the lover has a word to say to the charioteer ; he would
like to have a little pleasure in return for many pains, but the wanton steed of
the beloved says not a word, for he is bursting with passion which he
understands not ; — he throws his arms round the lover and embraces him as
his dearest friend ; and, when they are side by side, he is not in it state
in which he can refuse the lover anything, if he ask him ; although his
fellow-steed and the charioteer oppose him with the arguments of shame and
reason.
After this their
happiness depends upon their self-control ; if the better elements of the
mind which lead to order and philosophy prevail, then they pass their life here
in happiness and harmony — masters of themselves and orderly — enslaving the
vicious and emancipating the virtuous elements of the soul ; and when the
end comes, they are light and winged for flight, having conquered in one of the
three heavenly or truly Olympian victories ; nor can human discipline or
divine inspiration confer any greater blessing on man than this. If, on the
other hand, they leave philosophy and lead the lower life of ambition, then
probably, after wine or in some other careless hour, the two wanton animals take
the two souls when off their guard and bring them together, and they accomplish
that desire of their hearts which to the many is bliss ; and this having
once enjoyed they continue to enjoy, yet rarely because they have not the
approval of the whole soul. They too are dear, but not so dear to one another as
the others, either at the time of their love or afterwards. They consider that
they have given and taken from each other the most sacred pledges, and they may
not break them and fall into enmity. At last they pass out of the body,
unwinged, but eager to soar, and thus obtain no mean reward of love and madness.
For those who have once begun the heavenward pilgrimage may not go down again to
darkness and the journey beneath the earth, but they live in light always ;
happy companions in their pilgrimage, and when the time comes at which they
receive their wings they have the same plumage because of their
love.
Thus great are the
heavenly blessings which the friendship of a lover will confer upon you, my
youth. Whereas the attachment of the non-lover, which is alloyed with a worldly
prudence and has worldly and niggardly ways of doling out benefits, will breed
in your soul those vulgar qualities which the populace applaud, will send you
bowling round the earth during a period of nine thousand years, and leave, you a
fool in the world below.
And thus, dear
Eros, I have made and paid my recantation, as well and as fairly as I
could ; more especially in the matter of the poetical figures which I was
compelled to use, because Phaedrus would have them. And now forgive the past and
accept the present, and be gracious and merciful to me, and do not in thine
anger deprive me of sight, or take from me the art of love which thou hast given
me, but grant that I may be yet more esteemed in the eyes of the fair. And if
Phaedrus or I myself said anything rude in our first speeches, blame Lysias, who
is the father of the brat, and let us have no more of his progeny ; bid him
study philosophy, like his brother Polemarchus ; and then his lover
Phaedrus will no longer halt between two opinions, but will dedicate himself
wholly to love and to philosophical discourses.
Phaedr. I join in the
prayer, Socrates, and say with you, if this be for my good, may your words come
to pass. But why did you make your second oration so much finer than the
first ? I wonder why. And I begin to be afraid that I shall lose conceit of
Lysias, and that he will appear tame in comparison, even if he be willing to put
another as fine and as long as yours into the field, which I doubt. For quite
lately one of your politicians was abusing him on this very account ; and
called him a “speech writer” again and again. So that a feeling of pride may
probably induce him to give up writing speeches.
Soc. What a very
amusing notion ! But I think, my young man, that you are much mistaken in
your friend if you imagine that he is frightened at a little noise ; and
possibly, you think that his assailant was in
earnest ?
Phaedr. I thought,
Socrates, that he was. And you are aware that the greatest and most influential
statesmen are ashamed of writing speeches and leaving them in a written form,
lest they should be called Sophists by posterity.
Soc. You seem to be
unconscious, Phaedrus, that the “sweet elbow” of the proverb is really the long
arm of the Nile. And you appear to be equally unaware of the fact that this
sweet elbow of theirs is also a long arm. For there is nothing of which our
great politicians are so fond as of writing speeches and bequeathing them to
posterity. And they add their admirers’ names at the top of the writing, out of
gratitude to them.
Phaedr. What do you
mean ? I do not understand.
Soc. Why, do you not
know that when a politician writes, he begins with the names of his
approvers ?
Phaedr. How
so ?
Soc. Why, he begins in
this manner : “Be it enacted by the senate, the people, or both, on the
motion of a certain person,” who is our author ; and so putting on a
serious face, he proceeds to display his own wisdom to his admirers in what is
often a long and tedious composition. Now what is that sort of thing but a
regular piece of authorship ?
Phaedr.
True.
Soc. And if the law is
finally approved, then the author leaves the theatre in high delight ; but
if the law is rejected and he is done out of his speech-making, and not thought
good enough to write, then he and his party are in
mourning.
Phaedr. Very
true.
Soc. So far are they
from despising, or rather so highly do they value the practice of
writing.
Phaedr. No
doubt.
Soc. And when the king
or orator has the power, as Lycurgus or Solon or Darius had, of attaining an
immortality or authorship in a state, is he not thought by posterity, when they
see his compositions, and does he not think himself, while he is yet alive, to
be a god ?
Phaedr. Very
true.
Soc. Then do you think
that any one of this class, however ill-disposed, would reproach Lysias with
being an author ?
Phaedr. Not upon your
view ; for according to you he would be casting a slur upon his own
favourite pursuit.
Soc. Any one may see
that there is no disgrace in the mere fact of writing.
Phaedr. Certainly
not.
Soc. The disgrace
begins when a man writes not well, but badly.
Phaedr.
Clearly.
Soc. And what is well
and what is badly — need we ask Lysias, or any other poet or orator, who ever
wrote or will write either a political or any other work, in metre or out of
metre, poet or prose writer, to teach us this ?
Phaedr. Need we ? For
what should a man live if not for the pleasures of discourse ? Surely not
for the sake of bodily pleasures, which almost always have previous pain as a
condition of them, and therefore are rightly called
slavish.
Soc. There is time
enough. And I believe that the grasshoppers chirruping after their manner in the
heat of the sun over our heads are talking to one another and looking down at
us. What would they say if they saw that we, like the many, are not conversing,
but slumbering at mid-day, lulled by their voices, too indolent to think ?
Would they not have a right to laugh at us ? They might imagine that we
were slaves, who, coming to rest at a place of resort of theirs, like sheep lie
asleep at noon around the well. But if they see us discoursing, and like
Odysseus sailing past them, deaf to their siren voices, they may perhaps, out of
respect, give us of the gifts which they receive from the gods that they may
impart them to men.
Phaedr. What gifts do you
mean ? I never heard of any.
Soc. A lover of music
like yourself ought surely to have heard the story of the grasshoppers, who are
said to have been human beings in an age before the Muses. And when the Muses
came and song appeared they were ravished with delight ; and singing
always, never thought of eating and drinking, until at last in their
forgetfulness they died. And now they live again in the grasshoppers ; and
this is the return which the Muses make to them — they neither hunger, nor
thirst, but from the hour of their birth are always singing, and never eating or
drinking ; and when they die they go and inform the Muses in heaven who
honours them on earth. They win the love of Terpsichore for the dancers by their
report of them ; of Erato for the lovers, and of the other Muses for those
who do them honour, according to the several ways of honouring them of Calliope
the eldest Muse and of Urania who is next to her, for the philosophers, of whose
music the grasshoppers make report to them ; for these are the Muses who
are chiefly concerned with heaven and thought, divine as well as human, and they
have the sweetest utterance. For many reasons, then, we ought always to talk and
not to sleep at mid-day.
Phaedr. Let us
talk.
Soc. Shall we discuss
the rules of writing and speech as we were
proposing ?
Phaedr. Very
good.
Soc. In good speaking
should not the mind of the speaker know the truth of the matter about which he
is going to speak ?
Phaedr. And yet, Socrates,
I have heard that he who would be an orator has nothing to do with true justice,
but only with that which is likely to be approved by the many who sit in
judgment ; nor with the truly good or honourable, but only with opinion
about them, and that from opinion comes persuasion, and not from the
truth.
Soc. The words of the
wise are not to be set aside ; for there is probably something in
them ; and therefore the meaning of this saying is not hastily to be
dismissed.
Phaedr. Very
true.
Soc. Let us put the
matter thus : — Suppose that I persuaded you to buy a horse and go to the
wars. Neither of us knew what a horse was like, but I knew that you believed a
horse to be of tame animals the one which has the longest
ears.
Phaedr. That would be
ridiculous.
Soc. There is something
more ridiculous coming : — Suppose, further, that in sober earnest I,
having persuaded you of this, went and composed a speech in honour of an ass,
whom I entitled a horse beginning : “A noble animal and a most useful
possession, especially in war, and you may get on his back and fight, and he
will carry baggage or anything.”
Phaedr. How
ridiculous !
Soc. Ridiculous !
Yes ; but is not even a ridiculous friend better than a cunning
enemy ?
Phaedr.
Certainly.
Soc. And when the
orator instead of putting an ass in the place of a horse puts good for evil
being himself as ignorant of their true nature as the city on which he imposes
is ignorant ; and having studied the notions of the multitude, falsely
persuades them not about “the shadow of an ass,” which he confounds with a
horse, but about good which he confounds with evily — what will be the harvest
which rhetoric will be likely to gather after the sowing of that
seed ?
Phaedr. The reverse of
good.
Soc. But perhaps
rhetoric has been getting too roughly handled by us, and she might answer :
What amazing nonsense you are talking ! As if I forced any man to learn to
speak in ignorance of the truth ! Whatever my advice may be worth, I should
have told him to arrive at the truth first, and then come to me. At the same
time I boldly assert that mere knowledge of the truth will not give you the art
of persuasion.
Phaedr. There is reason in
the lady’s defence of herself.
Soc. Quite true ;
if only the other arguments which remain to be brought up bear her witness that
she is an art at all. But I seem to hear them arraying themselves on the
opposite side, declaring that she speaks falsely, and that rhetoric is a mere
routine and trick, not an art. Lo ! a Spartan appears, and says that there
never is nor ever will be a real art of speaking which is divorced from the
truth.
Phaedr. And what are these
arguments, Socrates ? Bring them out that we may examine
them.
Soc. Come out, fair
children, and convince Phaedrus, who is the father of similar beauties, that he
will never be able to speak about anything as he ought to speak unless he have a
knowledge of philosophy. And let Phaedrus answer you.
Phaedr. Put the
question.
Soc. Is not rhetoric,
taken generally, a universal art of enchanting the mind by arguments ;
which is practised not only in courts and public assemblies, but in private
houses also, having to do with all matters, great as well as small, good and bad
alike, and is in all equally right, and equally to be esteemed — that is what
you have heard ?
Phaedr. Nay, not exactly
that ; I should say rather that I have heard the art confined to speaking
and writing in lawsuits, and to speaking in public assemblies — not extended
farther.
Soc. Then I suppose
that you have only heard of the rhetoric of Nestor and Odysseus, which they
composed in their leisure hours when at Troy, and never of the rhetoric of
Palamedes ?
Phaedr. No more than of
Nestor and Odysseus, unless Gorgias is your Nestor, and Thrasymachus or
Theodorus your Odysseus.
Soc. Perhaps that is my
meaning. But let us leave them. And do you tell me, instead, what are plaintiff
and defendant doing in a law court — are they not
contending ?
Phaedr. Exactly
so.
Soc. About the just and
unjust — that is the matter in dispute ?
Phaedr.
Yes.
Soc. And a professor of
the art will make the same thing appear to the same persons to be at one time
just, at another time, if he is so inclined, to be
unjust ?
Phaedr.
Exactly.
Soc. And when he speaks
in the assembly, he will make the same things seem good to the city at one time,
and at another time the reverse of good ?
Phaedr. That is
true.
Soc. Have we not heard
of the Eleatic Palamedes (Zeno), who has an art of speaking by which he makes
the same things appear to his hearers like and unlike, one and many, at rest and
in motion ?
Phaedr. Very
true.
Soc. The art of
disputation, then, is not confined to the courts and the assembly, but is one
and the same in every use of language ; this is the art, if there be such
an art, which is able to find a likeness of everything to which a likeness can
be found, and draws into the light of day the likenesses and disguises which are
used by others ?
Phaedr. How do you
mean ?
Soc. Let me put the
matter thus : When will there be more chance of deception — when the
difference is large or small ?
Phaedr. When the
difference is small.
Soc. And you will be
less likely to be discovered in passing by degrees into the other extreme than
when you go all at once ?
Phaedr. Of
course.
Soc. He, then, who
would. deceive others, and not be deceived, must exactly know the real
likenesses and differences of things ?
Phaedr. He
must.
Soc. And if he is
ignorant of the true nature of any subject, how can he detect the greater or
less degree of likeness in other things to that of which by the hypothesis he is
ignorant ?
Phaedr. He
cannot.
Soc. And when men are
deceived and their notions are at variance with realities, it is clear that the
error slips in through resemblances ?
Phaedr. Yes, that is the
way.
Soc. Then he who would
be a master of the art must understand the real nature of everything ; or
he will never know either how to make the gradual departure from truth into the
opposite of truth which is effected by the help of resemblances, or how to avoid
it ?
Phaedr. He will
not.
Soc. He then, who being
ignorant of the truth aims at appearances, will only attain an art of rhetoric
which is ridiculous and is not an art at all ?
Phaedr. That may be
expected.
Soc. Shall I propose
that we look for examples of art and want of art, according to our notion of
them, in the speech of Lysias which you have in your hand, and in my own
speech ?
Phaedr. Nothing could be
better ; and indeed I think that our previous argument has been too
abstract and wanting in illustrations.
Soc. Yes ; and the
two speeches happen to afford a very good example of the way in which the
speaker who knows the truth may, without any serious purpose, steal away the
hearts of his hearers. This piece of good-fortune I attribute to the local
deities ; and perhaps, the prophets of the Muses who are singing over our
heads may have imparted their inspiration to me. For I do not imagine that I
have any rhetorical art of my own.
Phaedr. Granted ; if
you will only please to get on.
Soc. Suppose that you
read me the first words of Lysias’ speech.
Phaedr. “You know how
matters stand with me, and how, as I conceive, they might be arranged for our
common interest ; and I maintain that I ought not to fail in my suit,
because I am not your lover. For lovers repent — ”
Soc. Enough : —
Now, shall I point out the rhetorical error of those
words ?
Phaedr.
Yes.
Soc. Every one is aware
that about some things we are agreed, whereas about other things we
differ.
Phaedr. I think that I
understand you ; but will you explain yourself ?
Soc. When any one
speaks of iron and silver, is not the same thing present in the minds of
all ?
Phaedr.
Certainly.
Soc. But when any one
speaks of justice and goodness we part company and are at odds with one another
and with ourselves ?
Phaedr.
Precisely.
Soc. Then in some
things we agree, but not in others ?
Phaedr. That is
true.
Soc. In which are we
more likely to be deceived, and in which has rhetoric the greater
power ?
Phaedr. Clearly, in the
uncertain class.
Soc. Then the
rhetorician ought to make a regular division, and acquire a distinct notion of
both classes, as well of that in which the many err, as of that in which they do
not err ?
Phaedr. He who made such a
distinction would have an excellent principle.
Soc. Yes ; and in
the next place he must have a keen eye for the observation of particulars in
speaking, and not make a mistake about the class to which they are to be
referred.
Phaedr.
Certainly.
Soc. Now to which class
does love belong — to the debatable or to the undisputed
class ?
Phaedr. To the debatable,
clearly ; for if not, do you think that love would have allowed you to say
as you did, that he is an evil both to the lover and the beloved, and also the
greatest possible good ?
Soc. Capital. But will
you tell me whether I defined love at the beginning of my speech ? for,
having been in an ecstasy, I cannot well remember.
Phaedr. Yes, indeed ;
that you did, and no mistake.
Soc. Then I perceive
that the Nymphs of Achelous and Pan the son of Hermes, who inspired me, were far
better rhetoricians than Lysias the son of Cephalus. Alas ! how inferior to
them he is ! But perhaps I am mistaken ; and Lysias at the
commencement of his lover’s speech did insist on our supposing love to be
something or other which he fancied him to be, and according to this model he
fashioned and framed the remainder of his discourse. Suppose we read his
beginning over again :
Phaedr. If you
please ; but you will not find what you want.
Soc. Read, that I may
have his exact words.
Phaedr. “You know how
matters stand with and how, as I conceive, they might be arranged for our common
interest ; and I maintain I ought not to fail in my suit because I am not
your lover, for lovers repent of the kindnesses which they have shown, when
their love is over.”
Soc. Here he appears to
have done just the reverse of what he ought ; for he has begun at the end,
and is swimming on his back through the flood to the place of starting. His
address to the fair youth begins where the lover would have ended. Am I not
right, sweet Phaedrus ?
Phaedr. Yes, indeed,
Socrates ; he does begin at the end.
Soc. Then as to the
other topics — are they not thrown down anyhow ? Is there any principle in
them ? Why should the next topic follow next in order, or any other
topic ? I cannot help fancying in my ignorance that he wrote off boldly
just what came into his head, but I dare say that you would recognize a
rhetorical necessity in the succession of the several parts of the
composition ?
Phaedr. You have too good
an opinion of me if you think that I have any such insight into his principles
of composition.
Soc. At any rate, you
will allow that every discourse ought to be a living creature, having a body of
its own and a head and feet ; there should be a middle, beginning, and end,
adapted to one another and to the whole ?
Phaedr.
Certainly.
Soc. Can this be said
of the discourse of Lysias ? See whether you can find any more connexion in
his words than in the epitaph which is said by some to have been inscribed on
the grave of Midas the Phrygian.
Phaedr. What is there
remarkable in the epitaph ?
Soc. It is as
follows : —
I am a maiden of bronze and lie on the tomb of
Midas ;
So long as water flows and tall trees
grow,
So long here on this spot by his sad tomb
abiding,
I shall declare to passers-by that
Midas sleeps below.
Now in this rhyme
whether a line comes first or comes last, as you will perceive, makes no
difference.
Phaedr. You are making fun
of that oration of ours.
Soc. Well, I will say
no more about your friend’s speech lest I should give offence to you ;
although I think that it might furnish many other examples of what a man ought
rather to avoid. But I will proceed to the other speech, which, as I think, is
also suggestive to students of rhetoric.
Phaedr. In what
way ?
Soc. The two speeches,
as you may remember, were unlike — I the one argued that the lover and the other
that the non-lover ought to be accepted.
Phaedr. And right
manfully.
Soc. You should rather
say “madly” ; and madness was the argument of them, for, as I said, “love
is a madness.”
Phaedr.
Yes.
Soc. And of madness
there were two kinds ; one produced by human infirmity, the other was a
divine release of the soul from the yoke of custom and
convention.
Phaedr.
True.
Soc. The divine madness
was subdivided into four kinds, prophetic, initiatory, poetic, erotic, having
four gods presiding over them ; the first was the inspiration of Apollo,
the second that of Dionysus, the third that of the Muses, the fourth that of
Aphrodite and Eros. In the description of the last kind of madness, which was
also said to be the best, we spoke of the affection of love in a figure, into
which we introduced a tolerably credible and possibly true though partly erring
myth, which was also a hymn in honour of Love, who is your lord and also mine,
Phaedrus, and the guardian of fair children, and to him we sung the hymn in
measured and solemn strain.
Phaedr. I know that I had
great pleasure in listening to you.
Soc. Let us take this
instance and note how the transition was made from blame to
praise.
Phaedr. What do you
mean ?
Soc. I mean to say that
the composition was mostly playful. Yet in these chance fancies of the hour were
involved two principles of which we should be too glad to have a clearer
description if art could give us one.
Phaedr. What are
they ?
Soc. First, the
comprehension of scattered particulars in one idea ; as in our definition
of love, which whether true or false certainly gave clearness and consistency to
the discourse, the speaker should define his several notions and so make his
meaning clear.
Phaedr. What is the other
principle, Socrates ?
Soc. The second
principle is that of division into species according to the natural formation,
where the joint is, not breaking any part as a bad carver might. Just as our two
discourses, alike assumed, first of all, a single form of unreason ; and
then, as the body which from being one becomes double and may be divided into a
left side and right side, each having parts right and left of the same name —
after this manner the speaker proceeded to divide the parts of the left side and
did not desist until he found in them an evil or left-handed love which he
justly reviled ; and the other discourse leading us to the madness which
lay on the right side, found another love, also having the same name, but
divine, which the speaker held up before us and applauded and affirmed to be the
author of the greatest benefits.
Phaedr. Most
true.
Soc. I am myself a
great lover of these processes of division and generalization ; they help
me to speak and to think. And if I find any man who is able to see “a One and
Many” in nature, him I follow, and “walk in his footsteps as if he were a god.”
And those who have this art, I have hitherto been in the habit of calling
dialecticians ; but God knows whether the name is right or not. And I
should like to know what name you would give to your or to Lysias’ disciples,
and whether this may not be that famous art of rhetoric which Thrasymachus and
others teach and practise ? Skilful speakers they are, and impart their
skill to any who is willing to make kings of them and to bring gifts to
them.
Phaedr. Yes, they are
royal men ; but their art is not the same with the art of those whom you
call, and rightly, in my opinion, dialecticians : — Still we are in the
dark about rhetoric.
Soc. What do you
mean ? The remains of it, if there be anything remaining which can be
brought under rules of art, must be a fine thing ; and, at any rate, is not
to be despised by you and me. But how much is left ?
Phaedr. There is a great
deal surely to be found in books of rhetoric ?
Soc. Yes ; thank
you for reminding me : — There is the exordium, showing how the speech
should begin, if I remember rightly ; that is what you mean — the niceties
of the art ?
Phaedr.
Yes.
Soc. Then follows the
statement of facts, and upon that witnesses ; thirdly, proofs ;
fourthly, probabilities are to come ; the great Byzantian word-maker also
speaks, if I am not mistaken, of confirmation and further
confirmation.
Phaedr. You mean the
excellent Theodorus.
Soc. Yes ; and he
tells how refutation or further refutation is to be managed, whether in
accusation or defence. I ought also to mention the illustrious Parian, Evenus,
who first invented insinuations and indirect praises ; and also indirect
censures, which according to some he put into verse to help the memory. But
shall I “to dumb forgetfulness consign” Tisias and Gorgias, who are not ignorant
that probability is superior to truth, and who by : force of argument make
the little appear great and the great little, disguise the new in old fashions
and the old in new fashions, and have discovered forms for everything, either
short or going on to infinity. I remember Prodicus laughing when I told him of
this ; he said that he had himself discovered the true rule of art, which
was to be neither long nor short, but of a convenient
length.
Phaedr. Well done,
Prodicus !
Soc. Then there is
Hippias the Elean stranger, who probably agrees with him.
Phaedr.
Yes.
Soc. And there is also
Polus, who has treasuries of diplasiology, and gnomology, and eikonology, and
who teaches in them the names of which Licymnius made him a present ; they
were to give a polish.
Phaedr. Had not Protagoras
something of the same sort ?
Soc. Yes, rules of
correct diction and many other fine precepts ; for the “sorrows of a poor
old man,” or any other pathetic case, no one is better than the Chalcedonian
giant ; he can put a whole company of people into a passion and out of one
again by his mighty magic, and is first-rate at inventing or disposing of any
sort of calumny on any grounds or none. All of them agree in asserting that a
speech should end in a recapitulation, though they do not all agree to use the
same word.
Phaedr. You mean that
there should be a summing up of the arguments in order to remind the hearers of
them.
Soc. I have now said
all that I have to say of the art of rhetoric : have you anything to
add ?
Phaedr. Not much ;
nothing very important.
Soc. Leave the
unimportant and let us bring the really important question into the light of
day, which is : What power has this art of rhetoric, and
when ?
Phaedr. A very great power
in public meetings.
Soc. It has. But I
should like to know whether you have the same feeling as I have about the
rhetoricians ? To me there seem to be a great many holes in their
web.
Phaedr. Give an
example.
Soc. I will. Suppose a
person to come to your friend Eryximachus, or to his father Acumenus, and to say
to him : “I know how to apply drugs which shall have either a heating or a
cooling effect, and I can give a vomit and also a purge, and all that sort of
thing ; and knowing all this, as I do, I claim to be a physician and to
make physicians by imparting this knowledge to others,” — what do you suppose
that they would say ?
Phaedr. They would be sure
to ask him whether he knew “to whom” he would give his medicines, and “when,”
and “how much.”
Soc. And suppose that
he were to reply : “No ; I know nothing of all that ; I expect
the patient who consults me to be able to do these things for
himself” ?
Phaedr. They would say in
reply that he is a madman or pedant who fancies that he is a physician because
he has read something in a book, or has stumbled on a prescription or two,
although he has no real understanding of the art of
medicine.
Soc. And suppose a
person were to come to Sophocles or Euripides and say that he knows how to make
a very long speech about a small matter, and a short speech about a great
matter, and also a sorrowful speech, or a terrible, or threatening speech, or
any other kind of speech, and in teaching this fancies that he is teaching the
art of tragedy ?
Phaedr. They too would
surely laugh at him if he fancies that tragedy is anything but the arranging of
these elements in a manner which will be suitable to one another and to the
whole.
Soc. But I do not
suppose that they would be rude or abusive to him : Would they not treat
him as a musician would a man who thinks that he is a harmonist because he knows
how to pitch the highest and lowest notes ; happening to meet such an one
he would not say to him savagely, “Fool, you are mad !” But like a
musician, in a gentle and harmonious tone of voice, he would answer : “My
good friend, he who would be a harmonist must certainly know this, and yet he
may understand nothing of harmony if he has not got beyond your stage of
knowledge, for you only know the preliminaries of harmony and not harmony
itself.”
Phaedr. Very
true.
Soc. And will not
Sophocles say to the display of the would-be tragedian, that this is not tragedy
but the preliminaries of tragedy ? and will not Acumenus say the same of
medicine to the would-be physician ?
Phaedr. Quite
true.
Soc. And if Adrastus
the mellifluous or Pericles heard of these wonderful arts, brachylogies and
eikonologies and all the hard names which we have been endeavouring to draw into
the light of day, what would they say ? Instead of losing temper and
applying uncomplimentary epithets, as you and I have been doing, to the authors
of such an imaginary art, their superior wisdom would rather censure us, as well
as them. “Have a little patience, Phaedrus and Socrates, they would say ;
you should not be in such a passion with those who from some want of dialectical
skill are unable to define the nature of rhetoric, and consequently suppose that
they have found the art in the preliminary conditions of it, and when these have
been taught by them to others, fancy that the whole art of rhetoric has been
taught by them ; but as to using the several instruments of the art
effectively, or making the composition a whole, — an application of it such as
this is they regard as an easy thing which their disciples may make for
themselves.”
Phaedr. I quite admit,
Socrates, that the art of rhetoric which these men teach and of which they write
is such as you describe — there I agree with you. But I still want to know where
and how the true art of rhetoric and persuasion is to be
acquired.
Soc. The perfection
which is required of the finished orator is, or rather must be, like the
perfection of anything else ; partly given by nature, but may also be
assisted by art. If you have the natural power and add to it knowledge and
practice, you will be a distinguished speaker ; if you fall short in either
of these, you will be to that extent defective. But the art, as far as there is
an art, of rhetoric does not lie in the direction of Lysias or
Thrasymachus.
Phaedr. In what direction
then ?
Soc. I conceive
Pericles to have been the most accomplished of
rhetoricians.
Phaedr. What of
that ?
Soc. All the great arts
require discussion and high speculation about the truths of nature ; hence
come loftiness of thought and completeness of execution. And this, as I
conceive, was the quality which, in addition to his natural gifts, Pericles
acquired from his intercourse with Anaxagoras whom he happened to know. He was
thus imbued with the higher philosophy, and attained the knowledge of Mind and
the negative of Mind, which were favourite themes of Anaxagoras, and applied
what suited his purpose to the art of speaking.
Phaedr.
Explain.
Soc. Rhetoric is like
medicine.
Phaedr. How
so ?
Soc. Why, because
medicine has to define the nature of the body and rhetoric of the soul — if we
would proceed, not empirically but scientifically, in the one case to impart
health and strength by giving medicine and food in the other to implant the
conviction or virtue which you desire, by the right application of words and
training.
Phaedr. There, Socrates, I
suspect that you are right.
Soc. And do you think
that you can know the nature of the soul intelligently without knowing the
nature of the whole ?
Phaedr. Hippocrates the
Asclepiad says that the nature even of the body can only be understood as a
whole.
Soc. Yes, friend, and
he was right : — still, we ought not to be content with the name of
Hippocrates, but to examine and see whether his argument agrees with his
conception of nature.
Phaedr. I
agree.
Soc. Then consider what
truth as well as Hippocrates says about this or about any other nature. Ought we
not to consider first whether that which we wish to learn and to teach is a
simple or multiform thing, and if simple, then to enquire what power it has of
acting or being acted upon in relation to other things, and if multiform, then
to number the forms ; and see first in the case of one of them, and then
in. case of all of them, what is that power of acting or being acted upon which
makes each and all of them to be what they are ?
Phaedr. You may very
likely be right, Socrates.
Soc. The method which
proceeds without analysis is like the groping of a blind man. Yet, surely, he
who is an artist ought not to admit of a comparison with the blind, or deaf. The
rhetorician, who teaches his pupil to speak scientifically, will particularly
set forth the nature of that being to which he addresses his speeches ; and
this, I conceive, to be the soul.
Phaedr.
Certainly.
Soc. His whole effort
is directed to the soul ; for in that he seeks to produce
conviction.
Phaedr.
Yes.
Soc. Then clearly,
Thrasymachus or any one else who teaches rhetoric in earnest will give an exact
description of the nature of the soul ; which will enable us to see whether
she be single and same, or, like the body, multiform. That is what we should
call showing the nature of the soul.
Phaedr.
Exactly.
Soc. He will explain,
secondly, the mode in which she acts or is acted upon.
Phaedr.
True.
Soc. Thirdly, having
classified men and speeches, and their kinds and affections, and adapted them to
one another, he will tell the reasons of his arrangement, and show why one soul
is persuaded by a particular form of argument, and another
not.
Phaedr. You have hit upon
a very good way.
Soc. Yes, that is the
true and only way in which any subject can be set forth or treated by rules of
art, whether in speaking or writing. But the writers of the present day, at
whose feet you have sat, craftily, conceal the nature of the soul which they
know quite well. Nor, until they adopt our method of reading and writing, can we
admit that they write by rules of art ?
Phaedr. What is our
method ?
Soc. I cannot give you
the exact details ; but I should like to tell you generally, as far as is
in my power, how a man ought to proceed according to rules of
art.
Phaedr. Let me
hear.
Soc. Oratory is the art
of enchanting the soul, and therefore he who would be an orator has to learn the
differences of human souls — they are so many and of such a nature, and from
them come the differences between man and man. Having proceeded thus far in his
analysis, he will next divide speeches into their different classes : —
“Such and such persons,” he will say, “are affected by this or that kind of
speech in this or that way,” and he will tell you why. The pupil must have a
good theoretical notion of them first, and then he must have experience of them
in actual life, and be able to follow them with all his senses about him, or he
will never get beyond the precepts of his masters. But when he understands what
persons are persuaded by what arguments, and sees the person about whom he was
speaking in the abstract actually before him, and knows that it is he, and can
say to himself, “This is the man or this is the character who ought to have a
certain argument applied to him in order to convince him of a certain
opinion” ; — he who knows all this, and knows also when he should speak and
when he should refrain, and when he should use pithy sayings, pathetic appeals,
sensational effects, and all the other modes of speech which he has
learned ; — when, I say, he knows the times and seasons of all these
things, then, and not till then, he is a perfect master of his art ; but if
he fail in any of these points, whether in speaking or teaching or writing them,
and yet declares that he speaks by rules of art, he who says “I don’t believe
you” has the better of him. Well, the teacher will say, is this, and Socrates,
your account of the so-called art of rhetoric, or am I to look for
another ?
Phaedr. He must take this,
Socrates for there is no possibility of another, and yet the creation of such an
art is not easy.
Soc. Very true ;
and therefore let us consider this matter in every light, and see whether we
cannot find a shorter and easier road ; there is no use in taking a long
rough round-about way if there be a shorter and easier one. And I wish that you
would try and remember whether you have heard from Lysias or any one else
anything which might be of service to us.
Phaedr. If trying would
avail, then I might ; but at the moment I can think of
nothing.
Soc. Suppose I tell you
something which somebody who knows told me.
Phaedr.
Certainly.
Soc. May not “the
wolf,” as the proverb says, “claim a hearing” ?
Phaedr. Do you say what
can be said for him.
Soc. He will argue that
is no use in putting a solemn face on these matters, or in going round and
round, until you arrive at first principles ; for, as I said at first, when
the question is of justice and good, or is a question in which men are concerned
who are just and good, either by nature or habit, he who would be a skilful
rhetorician has ; no need of truth — for that in courts of law men
literally care nothing about truth, but only about conviction : and this is
based on probability, to which who would be a skilful orator should therefore
give his whole attention. And they say also that there are cases in which the
actual facts, if they are improbable, ought to be withheld, and only the
probabilities should be told either in accusation or defence, and that always in
speaking, the orator should keep probability in view, and say good-bye to the
truth. And the observance, of this principle throughout a speech furnishes the
whole art.
Phaedr. That is what the
professors of rhetoric do actually say, Socrates. I have not forgotten that we
have quite briefly touched upon this matter already ; with them the point
is all-important.
Soc. I dare say that
you are familiar with Tisias. Does he not define probability to be that which
the many think ?
Phaedr. Certainly, he
does.
Soc. I believe that he
has a clever and ingenious case of this sort : — He supposes a feeble and
valiant man to have assaulted a strong and cowardly one, and to have robbed him
of his coat or of something or other ; he is brought into court, and then
Tisias says that both parties should tell lies : the coward should say that
he was assaulted by more men than one ; the other should prove that they
were alone, and should argue thus : “How could a weak man like me have
assaulted a strong man like him ?” The complainant will not like to confess
his own cowardice, and will therefore invent some other lie which his adversary
will thus gain an opportunity of refuting. And there are other devices of the
same kind which have a place in the system. Am I not right,
Phaedrus ?
Phaedr.
Certainly.
Soc. Bless me, what a
wonderfully mysterious art is this which Tisias or some other gentleman, in
whatever name or country he rejoices, has discovered. Shall we say a word to him
or not ?
Phaedr. What shall we say
to him ?
Soc. Let us tell him
that, before he appeared, you and I were saying that the probability of which he
speaks was engendered in the minds of the many by the likeness of the truth, and
we had just been affirming that he who knew the truth would always know best how
to discover the resemblances of the truth. If he has anything else to say about
the art of speaking we should like to hear him ; but if not, we are
satisfied with our own view, that unless a man estimates the various characters
of his heaters and is able to divide all things into classes and to comprehend
them under single ideas he will never be a skilful rhetorician even within the
limits of human power. And this skill he will not attain without a great deal of
trouble, which a good man ought to undergo, not for the sake of speaking and
acting before men, but in order that he may be able to say what is acceptable to
God and always to act acceptably to Him as far as in him lies ; for there
is a saying of wiser men than ourselves, that a man of sense should not try to
please his fellow-servants (at least this should not be his first object) but
his good and noble masters ; and therefore if the way is long and
circuitous, marvel not at this, for, where the end is great, there we may take
the longer road, but not for lesser ends such as yours. Truly, the argument may
say, Tisias, that if you do not mind going so far, rhetoric has a fair beginning
here.
Phaedr. I think, Socrates,
that this is admirable, if only practicable.
Soc. But even to fail
in an honourable object is honourable.
Phaedr.
True.
Soc. Enough appears to
have been said by us of a true and false art of speaking.
Phaedr.
Certainly.
Soc. But there is
something yet to be said of propriety and impropriety of
writing.
Phaedr.
Yes.
Soc. Do you know how
you can speak or act about rhetoric in a manner which will be acceptable to
God ?
Phaedr. No, indeed. Do
you ?
Soc. I have heard a
tradition of the ancients, whether true or not they only know ; although if
we had found the truth ourselves, do you think that we should care much about
the opinions of men ?
Phaedr. Your question
needs no answer ; but I wish that you would tell me what you say that you
have heard.
Soc. At the Egyptian
city of Naucratis, there was a famous old god, whose name was Theuth ; the
bird which is called the Ibis is sacred to him, and he was the inventor of many
arts, such as arithmetic and calculation and geometry and astronomy and draughts
and dice, but his great discovery was the use of letters. Now in those days the
god Thamus was the king of the whole country of Egypt ; and he dwelt in
that great city of Upper Egypt which the Hellenes call Egyptian Thebes, and the
god himself is called by them Ammon. To came Theuth and showed his inventions,
desiring that the other Egyptians might be allowed to have the benefit of the he
enumerated them, and Thamus enquired about their several uses, and praised some
of them and censured others, as he approved or disapproved of them. It would
take a long time to repeat all that Thamus said to Theuth in praise or blame of
the various arts. But when they came to letters, This, said Theuth, will make
the Egyptians wiser and give them better memories ; it is a specific both
for the memory and for the wit. Thamus replied : O most ingenious Theuth,
the parent or inventor of an art is not always the best judge of the utility or
inutility of his own inventions to the users of them. And in this instance, you
who are the father of letters, from a paternal love of your own children have
been led to attribute to them a quality which they cannot have ; for this
discovery of yours will create forgetfulness in the learners’ souls, because
they will not use their memories ; they will trust to the external written
characters and not remember of themselves. The specific which you have
discovered is an aid not to memory, but to reminiscence, and you give your
disciples not truth, but only the semblance of truth ; they will be hearers
of many things and will have learned nothing ; they will appear to be
omniscient and will generally know nothing ; they will be tiresome company,
having the show of wisdom without the reality.
Phaedr. Yes, Socrates, you
can easily invent tales of Egypt, or of any other country.
Soc. There was a
tradition in the temple of Dodona that oaks first gave prophetic utterances. The
men of old, unlike in their simplicity to young philosophy, deemed that if they
heard the truth even from “oak or rock,” it was enough for them ; whereas
you seem to consider not whether a thing is or is not true, but who the speaker
is and from what country the tale comes.
Phaedr. I acknowledge the
justice of your rebuke ; and I think that the Theban is right in his view
about letters.
Soc. He would be a very
simple person, and quite a stranger to the oracles of Thamus or Ammon, who
should leave in writing or receive in writing any art under the idea that the
written word would be intelligible or certain ; or who deemed that writing
was at all better than knowledge and recollection of the same
matters ?
Phaedr. That is most
true.
Soc. I cannot help
feeling, Phaedrus, that writing is unfortunately like painting ; for the
creations of the painter have the attitude of life, and yet if you ask them a
question they preserve a solemn silence. And the same may be said of speeches.
You would imagine that they had intelligence, but if you want to know anything
and put a question to one of them, the speaker always gives one unvarying
answer. And when they have been once written down they are tumbled about
anywhere among those who may or may not understand them, and know not to whom
they should reply, to whom not : and, if they are maltreated or abused,
they have no parent to protect them ; and they cannot protect or defend
themselves.
Phaedr. That again is most
true.
Soc. Is there not
another kind of word or speech far better than this, and having far greater
power — a son of the same family, but lawfully
begotten ?
Phaedr. Whom do you mean,
and what is his origin ?
Soc. I mean an
intelligent word graven in the soul of the learner, which can defend itself, and
knows when to speak and when to be silent.
Phaedr. You mean the
living word of knowledge which has a soul, and of which written word is properly
no more than an image ?
Soc. Yes, of course
that is what I mean. And now may I be allowed to ask you a question : Would
a husbandman, who is a man of sense, take the seeds, which he values and which
he wishes to bear fruit, and in sober seriousness plant them during the heat of
summer, in some garden of Adonis, that he may rejoice when he sees them in eight
days appearing in beauty ? at least he would do so, if at all, only for the
sake of amusement and pastime. But when he is in earnest he sows in fitting
soil, and practises husbandry, and is satisfied if in eight months the seeds
which he has sown arrive at perfection ?
Phaedr. Yes, Socrates,
that will be his way when he is in earnest ; he will do the other, as you
say, only in play.
Soc. And can we suppose
that he who knows the just and good and honourable has less understanding, than
the husbandman, about his own seeds ?
Phaedr. Certainly
not.
Soc. Then he will not
seriously incline to “write” his thoughts “in water” with pen and ink, sowing
words which can neither speak for themselves nor teach the truth adequately to
others ?
Phaedr. No, that is not
likely.
Soc. No, that is not
likely — in the garden of letters he will sow and plant, but only for the sake
of recreation and amusement ; he will write them down as memorials to be
treasured against the forgetfulness of old age, by himself, or by any other old
man who is treading the same path. He will rejoice in beholding their tender
growth ; and while others are refreshing their souls with banqueting and
the like, this will be the pastime in which his days are
spent.
Phaedr. A pastime,
Socrates, as noble as the other is ignoble, the pastime of a man who can be
amused by serious talk, and can discourse merrily about justice and the
like.
Soc. True, Phaedrus.
But nobler far is the serious pursuit of the dialectician, who, finding a
congenial soul, by the help of science sows and plants therein words which are
able to help themselves and him who planted them, and are not unfruitful, but
have in them a seed which others brought up in different soils render immortal,
making the possessors of it happy to the utmost extent of human
happiness.
Phaedr. Far nobler,
certainly.
Soc. And now, Phaedrus,
having agreed upon the premises we decide about the
conclusion.
Phaedr. About what
conclusion ?
Soc. About Lysias, whom
we censured, and his art of writing, and his discourses, and the rhetorical
skill or want of skill which was shown in them — these are the questions which
we sought to determine, and they brought us to this point. And I think that we
are now pretty well informed about the nature of art and its
opposite.
Phaedr. Yes, I think with
you ; but I wish that you would repeat what was said.
Soc. Until a man knows
the truth of the several particulars of which he is writing or speaking, and is
able to define them as they are, and having defined them again to divide them
until they can be no longer divided, and until in like manner he is able to
discern the nature of the soul, and discover the different modes of discourse
which are adapted to different natures, and to arrange and dispose them in such
a way that the simple form of speech may be addressed to the simpler nature, and
the complex and composite to the more complex nature — until he has accomplished
all this, he will be unable to handle arguments according to rules of art, as
far as their nature allows them to be subjected to art, either for the purpose
of teaching or persuading ; — such is the view which is implied in the
whole preceding argument.
Phaedr. Yes, that was our
view, certainly.
Soc. Secondly, as to
the censure which was passed on the speaking or writing of discourses, and how
they might be rightly or wrongly censured — did not our previous argument
show ? —
Phaedr. Show
what ?
Soc. That whether
Lysias or any other writer that ever was or will be, whether private man or
statesman, proposes laws and so becomes the author of a political treatise,
fancying that there is any great certainty and clearness in his performance, the
fact of his so writing is only a disgrace to him, whatever men may say. For not
to know the nature of justice and injustice, and good and evil, and not to be
able to distinguish the dream from the reality, cannot in truth be otherwise
than disgraceful to him, even though he have the applause of the whole
world.
Phaedr.
Certainly.
Soc. But he who thinks
that in the written word there is necessarily much which is not serious, and
that neither poetry nor prose, spoken or written, is of any great value, if,
like the compositions of the rhapsodes, they are only recited in order to be
believed, and not with any view to criticism or instruction ; and who
thinks that even the best of writings are but a reminiscence of what we know,
and that only in principles of justice and goodness and nobility taught and
communicated orally for the sake of instruction and graven in the soul, which is
the true way of writing, is there clearness and perfection and seriousness, and
that such principles are a man’s own and his legitimate offspring ; —
being, in the first place, the word which he finds in his own bosom ;
secondly, the brethren and descendants and relations of his others ; — and
who cares for them and no others — this is the right sort of man ; and you
and I, Phaedrus, would pray that we may become like him.
Phaedr. That is most
assuredly my desire and prayer.
Soc. And now the play
is played out ; and of rhetoric enough. Go and tell Lysias that to the
fountain and school of the Nymphs we went down, and were bidden by them to
convey a message to him and to other composers of speeches — to Homer and other
writers of poems, whether set to music or not ; and to Solon and others who
have composed writings in the form of political discourses which they would term
laws — to all of them we are to say that if their compositions are based on
knowledge of the truth, and they can defend or prove them, when they are put to
the test, by spoken arguments, which leave their writings poor in comparison of
them, then they are to be called, not only poets, orators, legislators, but are
worthy of a higher name, befitting the serious pursuit of their
life.
Phaedr. What name would
you assign to them ?
Soc. Wise, I may not
call them ; for that is a great name which belongs to God alone, — lovers
of wisdom or philosophers is their modest and befitting
title.
Phaedr. Very
suitable.
Soc. And he who cannot
rise above his own compilations and compositions, which he has been long
patching, and piecing, adding some and taking away some, may be justly called
poet or speech-maker or law-maker.
Phaedr.
Certainly.
Soc. Now go and tell
this to your companion.
Phaedr. But there is also
a friend of yours who ought not to be forgotten.
Soc. Who is
he ?
Phaedr. Isocrates the
fair : — What message will you send to him, and how shall we describe
him ?
Soc. Isocrates is still
young, Phaedrus ; but I am willing to hazard a prophecy concerning
him.
Phaedr. What would you
prophesy ?
Soc. I think that he
has a genius which soars above the orations of Lysias, and that his character is
cast in a finer mould. My impression of him is that he will marvelously improve
as he grows older, and that all former rhetoricians will be as children in
comparison of him. And I believe that he will not be satisfied with rhetoric,
but that there is in him a divine inspiration which will lead him to things
higher still. For he has an element of philosophy in his nature. This is the
message of the gods dwelling in this place, and which I will myself deliver to
Isocrates, who is my delight ; and do you give the other to Lysias, who is
yours.
Phaedr. I will ; and
now as the heat is abated let us depart.
Soc. Should we not
offer up a prayer first of all to the local deities ?
Phaedr. By all
means.
Soc. Beloved Pan, and
all ye other gods who haunt this place, give me beauty in the inward soul ;
and may the outward and inward man be at one. May I reckon the wise to be the
wealthy, and may I have such a quantity of gold as a temperate man and he only
can bear and carry. — Anything more ? The prayer, I think, is enough for
me.
Phaedr. Ask the same for
me, for friends should have all things in common.
Soc. Let us
go.