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Part I.
Part I.
Persons Of The Dialogue
Phaedo, who is the narrator of
the dialogue to Echecrates
of Phlius
Apollodorus
Simmias
Cebes
Socrates
Crito
Attendant of the Prison
Scene: The Prison of Socrates
Place of the Narration: Phlius
Echecrates
Were you yourself, Phaedo, in the prison with Socrates on the day when he
drank the poison?
Phaedo. Yes, Echecrates, I was.
Ech. I wish that you would tell me about his death. What did he say in
his last hours? We were informed that he died by taking poison, but no one
knew anything more; for no Phliasian ever goes to Athens now, and a long time
has elapsed since any Athenian found his way to Phlius, and therefore we had
no clear account.
Phaed. Did you not hear of the proceedings at the trial?
Ech. Yes; someone told us about the trial, and we could not understand
why, having been condemned, he was put to death, as appeared, not at the time,
but long afterwards. What was the reason of this?
Phaed. An accident, Echecrates. The reason was that the stern of the ship
which the Athenians send to Delos happened to have been crowned on the day
before he was tried.
Ech. What is this ship?
Phaed. This is the ship in which, as the Athenians say, Theseus went to
Crete when he took with him the fourteen youths, and was the saviour of them
and of himself. And they were said to have vowed to Apollo at the time, that
if they were saved they would make an annual pilgrimage to Delos. Now this
custom still continues, and the whole period of the voyage to and from Delos,
beginning when the priest of Apollo crowns the stern of the ship, is a holy
season, during which the city is not allowed to be polluted by public
executions; and often, when the vessel is detained by adverse winds, there may
be a very considerable delay. As I was saying, the ship was crowned on the day
before the trial, and this was the reason why Socrates lay in prison and was
not put to death until long after he was condemned.
Ech. What was the manner of his death, Phaedo? What was said or done? And
which of his friends had he with him? Or were they not allowed by the
authorities to be present? And did he die alone?
Phaed. No; there were several of his friends with him.
Ech. If you have nothing to do, I wish that you would tell me what
passed, as exactly as you can.
Phaed. I have nothing to do, and will try to gratify your wish. For to
me, too, there is no greater pleasure than to have Socrates brought to my
recollection, whether I speak myself or hear another speak of him.
Ech. You will have listeners who are of the same mind with you, and I
hope that you will be as exact as you can.
Phaed. I remember the strange feeling which came over me at being with
him. For I could hardly believe that I was present at the death of a friend,
and therefore I did not pity him, Echecrates; his mien and his language were
so noble and fearless in the hour of death that to me he appeared blessed. I
thought that in going to the other world he could not be without a divine
call, and that he would be happy, if any man ever was, when he arrived there,
and therefore I did not pity him as might seem natural at such a time. But
neither could I feel the pleasure which I usually felt in philosophical
discourse (for philosophy was the theme of which we spoke). I was pleased, and
I was also pained, because I knew that he was soon to die, and this strange
mixture of feeling was shared by us all; we were laughing and weeping by
turns, especially the excitable Apollodorus - you know the sort of man?
Ech. Yes.
Phaed. He was quite overcome; and I myself and all of us were greatly
moved.
Ech. Who were present?
Phaed. Of native Athenians there were, besides Apollodorus, Critobulus
and his father Crito, Hermogenes, Epigenes, Aeschines, and Antisthenes;
likewise Ctesippus of the deme of Paeania, Menexenus, and some others; but
Plato, if I am not mistaken, was ill.
Ech. Were there any strangers?
Phaed. Yes, there were; Simmias the Theban, and Cebes, and Phaedondes;
Euclid and Terpison, who came from Megara.
Ech. And was Aristippus there, and Cleombrotus?
Phaed. No, they were said to be in Aegina.
Ech. Anyone else?
Phaed. I think that these were about all.
Ech. And what was the discourse of which you spoke?
Phaed. I will begin at the beginning, and endeavor to repeat the entire
conversation. You must understand that we had been previously in the habit of
assembling early in the morning at the court in which the trial was held, and
which is not far from the prison. There we remained talking with one another
until the opening of the prison doors (for they were not opened very early),
and then went in and generally passed the day with Socrates. On the last
morning the meeting was earlier than usual; this was owing to our having heard
on the previous evening that the sacred ship had arrived from Delos, and
therefore we agreed to meet very early at the accustomed place. On our going
to the prison, the jailer who answered the door, instead of admitting us, came
out and bade us wait and he would call us. "For the Eleven," he said, "are now
with Socrates; they are taking off his chains, and giving orders that he is to
die to - day." He soon returned and said that we might come in. On entering we
found Socrates just released from chains, and Xanthippe, whom you know,
sitting by him, and holding his child in her arms. When she saw us she uttered
a cry and said, as women will: "O Socrates, this is the last time that either
you will converse with your friends, or they with you." Socrates turned to
Crito and said: "Crito, let someone take her home." Some of Crito`s people
accordingly led her away, crying out and beating herself. And when she was
gone, Socrates, sitting up on the couch, began to bend and rub his leg,
saying, as he rubbed: "How singular is the thing called pleasure, and how
curiously related to pain, which might be thought to be the opposite of it;
for they never come to a man together, and yet he who pursues either of them
is generally compelled to take the other. They are two, and yet they grow
together out of one head or stem; and I cannot help thinking that if Aesop had
noticed them, he would have made a fable about God trying to reconcile their
strife, and when he could not, he fastened their heads together; and this is
the reason why when one comes the other follows, as I find in my own case
pleasure comes following after the pain in my leg, which was caused by the
chain."
Upon this Cebes said: I am very glad indeed, Socrates, that you mentioned
the name of Aesop. For that reminds me of a question which has been asked by
others, and was asked of me only the day before yesterday by Evenus the poet,
and as he will be sure to ask again, you may as well tell me what I should say
to him, if you would like him to have an answer. He wanted to know why you who
never before wrote a line of poetry, now that you are in prison are putting
Aesop into verse, and also composing that hymn in honor of Apollo.
Tell him, Cebes, he replied, that I had no idea of rivalling him or his
poems; which is the truth, for I knew that I could not do that. But I wanted
to see whether I could purge away a scruple which I felt about certain dreams.
In the course of my life I have often had intimations in dreams "that I should
make music." The same dream came to me sometimes in one form, and sometimes in
another, but always saying the same or nearly the same words: Make and
cultivate music, said the dream. And hitherto I had imagined that this was
only intended to exhort and encourage me in the study of philosophy, which has
always been the pursuit of my life, and is the noblest and best of music. The
dream was bidding me to do what I was already doing, in the same way that the
competitor in a race is bidden by the spectators to run when he is already
running. But I was not certain of this, as the dream might have meant music in
the popular sense of the word, and being under sentence of death, and the
festival giving me a respite, I thought that I should be safer if I satisfied
the scruple, and, in obedience to the dream, composed a few verses before I
departed. And first I made a hymn in honor of the god of the festival, and
then considering that a poet, if he is really to be a poet or maker, should
not only put words together but make stories, and as I have no invention, I
took some fables of Aesop, which I had ready at hand and knew, and turned them
into verse. Tell Evenus this, and bid him be of good cheer; say that I would
have him come after me if he be a wise man, and not tarry; and that to - day I
am likely to be going, for the Athenians say that I must.
Simmias said: What a message for such a man! having been a frequent
companion of his, I should say that, as far as I know him, he will never take
your advice unless he is obliged.
Why, said Socrates, - is not Evenus a philosopher?
I think that he is, said Simmias.
Then he, or any man who has the spirit of philosophy, will be willing to
die, though he will not take his own life, for that is held not to be right.
Here he changed his position, and put his legs off the couch on to the
ground, and during the rest of the conversation he remained sitting.
Why do you say, inquired Cebes, that a man ought not to take his own
life, but that the philosopher will be ready to follow the dying?
Socrates replied: And have you, Cebes and Simmias, who are acquainted
with Philolaus, never heard him speak of this?
I never understood him, Socrates.
My words, too, are only an echo; but I am very willing to say what I have
heard: and indeed, as I am going to another place, I ought to be thinking and
talking of the nature of the pilgrimage which I am about to make. What can I
do better in the interval between this and the setting of the sun?
Then tell me, Socrates, why is suicide held not to be right? as I have
certainly heard Philolaus affirm when he was staying with us at Thebes: and
there are others who say the same, although none of them has ever made me
understand him.
But do your best, replied Socrates, and the day may come when you will
understand. I suppose that you wonder why, as most things which are evil may
be accidentally good, this is to be the only exception (for may not death,
too, be better than life in some cases?), and why, when a man is better dead,
he is not permitted to be his own benefactor, but must wait for the hand of
another.
By Jupiter! yes, indeed, said Cebes, laughing, and speaking in his native
Doric.
I admit the appearance of inconsistency, replied Socrates, but there may
not be any real inconsistency after all in this. There is a doctrine uttered
in secret that man is a prisoner who has no right to open the door of his
prison and run away; this is a great mystery which I do not quite understand.
Yet I, too, believe that the gods are our guardians, and that we are a
possession of theirs. Do you not agree?
Yes, I agree to that, said Cebes.
And if one of your own possessions, an ox or an ass, for example took the
liberty of putting himself out of the way when you had given no intimation of
your wish that he should die, would you not be angry with him, and would you
not punish him if you could?
Certainly, replied Cebes.
Then there may be reason in saying that a man should wait, and not take
his own life until God summons him, as he is now summoning me.
Yes, Socrates, said Cebes, there is surely reason in that. And yet how
can you reconcile this seemingly true belief that God is our guardian and we
his possessions, with that willingness to die which we are attributing to the
philosopher? That the wisest of men should be willing to leave this service in
which they are ruled by the gods who are the best of rulers is not reasonable,
for surely no wise man thinks that when set at liberty he can take better care
of himself than the gods take of him. A fool may perhaps think this - he may
argue that he had better run away from his master, not considering that his
duty is to remain to the end, and not to run away from the good, and that
there is no sense in his running away. But the wise man will want to be ever
with him who is better than himself. Now this, Socrates, is the reverse of
what was just now said; for upon this view the wise man should sorrow and the
fool rejoice at passing out of life.
The earnestness of Cebes seemed to please Socrates. Here, said he,
turning to us, is a man who is always inquiring, and is not to be convinced
all in a moment, nor by every argument.
And in this case, added Simmias, his objection does appear to me to have
some force. For what can be the meaning of a truly wise man wanting to fly
away and lightly leave a master who is better than himself? And I rather
imagine that Cebes is referring to you; he thinks that you are too ready to
leave us, and too ready to leave the gods who, as you acknowledge, are our
good rulers.
Yes, replied Socrates; there is reason in that. And this indictment you
think that I ought to answer as if I were in court?
That is what we should like, said Simmias.
Then I must try to make a better impression upon you than I did when
defending myself before the judges. For I am quite ready to acknowledge,
Simmias and Cebes, that I ought to be grieved at death, if I were not
persuaded that I am going to other gods who are wise and good (of this I am as
certain as I can be of anything of the sort) and to men departed (though I am
not so certain of this), who are better than those whom I leave behind; and
therefore I do not grieve as I might have done, for I have good hope that
there is yet something remaining for the dead, and, as has been said of old,
some far better thing for the good than for the evil.
But do you mean to take away your thoughts with you, Socrates? said
Simmias. Will you not communicate them to us? - the benefit is one in which we
too may hope to share. Moreover, if you succeed in convincing us, that will be
an answer to the charge against yourself.
I will do my best, replied Socrates. But you must first let me hear what
Crito wants; he was going to say something to me.
Only this, Socrates, replied Crito: the attendant who is to give you the
poison has been telling me that you are not to talk much, and he wants me to
let you know this; for that by talking heat is increased, and this interferes
with the action of the poison; those who excite themselves are sometimes
obliged to drink the poison two or three times.
Then, said Socrates, let him mind his business and be prepared to give
the poison two or three times, if necessary; that is all.
I was almost certain that you would say that, replied Crito; but I was
obliged to satisfy him.
Never mind him, he said.
And now I will make answer to you, O my judges, and show that he who has
lived as a true philosopher has reason to be of good cheer when he is about to
die, and that after death he may hope to receive the greatest good in the
other world. And how this may be, Simmias and Cebes, I will endeavor to
explain. For I deem that the true disciple of philosophy is likely to be
misunderstood by other men; they do not perceive that he is ever pursuing
death and dying; and if this is true, why, having had the desire of death all
his life long, should he repine at the arrival of that which he has been
always pursuing and desiring?
Simmias laughed and said: Though not in a laughing humor, I swear that I
cannot help laughing when I think what the wicked world will say when they
hear this. They will say that this is very true, and our people at home will
agree with them in saying that the life which philosophers desire is truly
death, and that they have found them out to be deserving of the death which
they desire.
And they are right, Simmias, in saying this, with the exception of the
words "They have found them out"; for they have not found out what is the
nature of this death which the true philosopher desires, or how he deserves or
desires death. But let us leave them and have a word with ourselves: Do we
believe that there is such a thing as death?
To be sure, replied Simmias.
And is this anything but the separation of soul and body? And being dead
is the attainment of this separation; when the soul exists in herself, and is
parted from the body and the body is parted from the soul - that is death?
Exactly: that and nothing else, he replied.
And what do you say of another question, my friend, about which I should
like to have your opinion, and the answer to which will probably throw light
on our present inquiry: Do you think that the philosopher ought to care about
the pleasures - if they are to be called pleasures - of eating and drinking?
Certainly not, answered Simmias.
And what do you say of the pleasures of love - should he care about them?
By no means.
And will he think much of the other ways of indulging the body - for
example, the acquisition of costly raiment, or sandals, or other adornments of
the body? Instead of caring about them, does he not rather despise anything
more than nature needs? What do you say?
I should say the true philosopher would despise them.
Would you not say that he is entirely concerned with the soul and not
with the body? He would like, as far as he can, to be quit of the body and
turn to the soul.
That is true.
In matters of this sort philosophers, above all other men, may be
observed in every sort of way to dissever the soul from the body.
That is true.
Whereas, Simmias, the rest of the world are of opinion that a life which
has no bodily pleasures and no part in them is not worth having; but that he
who thinks nothing of bodily pleasures is almost as though he were dead.
That is quite true.
What again shall we say of the actual acquirement of knowledge? - is the
body, if invited to share in the inquiry, a hinderer or a helper? I mean to
say, have sight and hearing any truth in them? Are they not, as the poets are
always telling us, inaccurate witnesses? and yet, if even they are inaccurate
and indistinct, what is to be said of the other senses? - for you will allow
that they are the best of them?
Certainly, he replied.
Then when does the soul attain truth? - for in attempting to consider
anything in company with the body she is obviously deceived.
Yes, that is true.
Then must not existence be revealed to her in thought, if at all?
Yes.
And thought is best when the mind is gathered into herself and none of
these things trouble her - neither sounds nor sights nor pain nor any pleasure
- when she has as little as possible to do with the body, and has no bodily
sense or feeling, but is aspiring after being?
That is true.
And in this the philosopher dishonors the body; his soul runs away from
the body and desires to be alone and by herself?
That is true.
Well, but there is another thing, Simmias: Is there or is there not an
absolute justice?
Assuredly there is.
And an absolute beauty and absolute good?
Of course.
But did you ever behold any of them with your eyes?
Certainly not.
Or did you ever reach them with any other bodily sense? (and I speak not
of these alone, but of absolute greatness, and health, and strength, and of
the essence or true nature of everything). Has the reality of them ever been
perceived by you through the bodily organs? or rather, is not the nearest
approach to the knowledge of their several natures made by him who so orders
his intellectual vision as to have the most exact conception of the essence of
that which he considers?
Certainly.
And he attains to the knowledge of them in their highest purity who goes
to each of them with the mind alone, not allowing when in the act of thought
the intrusion or introduction of sight or any other sense in the company of
reason, but with the very light of the mind in her clearness penetrates into
the very light of truth in each; he has got rid, as far as he can, of eyes and
ears and of the whole body, which he conceives of only as a disturbing
element, hindering the soul from the acquisition of knowledge when in company
with her - is not this the sort of man who, if ever man did, is likely to
attain the knowledge of existence?
There is admirable truth in that, Socrates, replied Simmias.
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