The Portable Plato

by Plato

  Is not Polemarchus your heir? I said.

  To be sure, he answered, and went away laughing to the sacrifices.

  Tell me then, O thou heir of the argument, what did Simonides say, and according to you truly say, about justice?

  He said that the repayment of a debt is just, and in saying so he appears to me to be right.

  I should be sorry to doubt the word of such a wise and inspired man, but his meaning, though probably clear to you, is the reverse of clear to me. For he certainly does not mean, as we were just now saying, that I ought to return a deposit of arms or of anything else to one who asks for it when he is not in his right senses; and yet a deposit cannot be denied to be a debt.

  True.

  Then when the person who asks me is not in his right mind I am by no means to make the return?

  Certainly not.

  When Simonides said that the repayment of a debt was justice, he did not mean to include that case?

  Certainly not; for he thinks that a friend ought always to do good to a friend and never evil.

  You mean that the return of a deposit of gold which is to the injury of the receiver, if the two parties are friends, is not the repayment of a debt,—that is what you would imagine him to say?

  Yes.

  And are enemies also to receive what we owe to them?

  To be sure, he said, they are to receive what we owe them, and an enemy, as I take it, owes to an enemy that which is due or proper to him—that is to say, evil.

  Simonides, then, after the manner of poets, would seem to have spoken darkly of the nature of justice; for he really meant to say that justice is the giving to each man what is proper to him, and this he termed a debt.

  That must have been his meaning, he said.

  By heaven! I replied; and if we asked him what due or proper thing is given by medicine, and to whom, what answer do you think that he would make to us?

  He would surely reply that medicine gives drugs and meat and drink to human bodies.

  And what due or proper thing is given by cookery, and to what?

  Seasoning to food.

  And what is that which justice gives, and to whom?

  If, Socrates, we are to be guided at all by the analogy of the preceding instances, then justice is the art which gives good to friends and evil to enemies.

  That is his meaning then?

  I think so.

  And who is best able to do good to his friends and evil to his enemies in time of sickness?

  The physician.

  Or when they are on a voyage, amid the perils of the sea?

  The pilot.

  And in what sort of actions or with a view to what result is the just man most able to do harm to his enemy and good to his friend?

  In going to war against the one and in making alliances with the other.

  But when a man is well, my dear Polemarchus, there is no need of a physician?

  No.

  And he who is not on a voyage has no need of a pilot?

  No.

  Then in time of peace justice will be of no use?

  I am very far from thinking so.

  You think that justice may be of use in peace as well as in war?

  Yes.

  Like husbandry for the acquisition of corn?

  Yes.

  Or like shoemaking for the acquisition of shoes,—that is what you mean?

  Yes.

  And what similar use or power of acquisition has justice in time of peace?

  In contracts, Socrates, justice is of use.

  And by contracts you mean partnerships?

  Exactly.

  But is the just man or the skilful player a more useful and better partner at a game of draughts?

  The skilful player.

  And in the laying of bricks and stones is the just man a more useful or better partner than the builder?

  Quite the reverse.

  Then in what sort of partnership is the just man a better partner than the harp-player, as in playing the harp the harp-player is certainly a better partner than the just man?

  In a money partnership.

  Yes, Polemarchus, but surely not in the use of money; for you do not want a just man to be your counsellor in the purchase or sale of a horse; a man who is knowing about horses would be better for that, would he not?

  Certainly.

  And when you want to buy a ship, the shipwright or the pilot would be better?

  True.

  Then what is that joint use of silver or gold in which the just man is to be preferred?

  When you want a deposit to be kept safely.

  You mean when money is not wanted, but allowed to lie?

  Precisely.

  That is to say, justice is useful when money is useless?

  That is the inference.

  And when you want to keep a pruning-hook safe, then justice is useful to the individual and to the state; but when you want to use it, then the art of the vine-dresser?

  Clearly.

  And when you want to keep a shield or a lyre, and not to use them, you would say that justice is useful; but when you want to use them, then the art of the soldier or of the musician?

  Certainly.

  And so of all the other things,—justice is useful when they are useless, and useless when they are useful?

  That is the inference.

  Then justice is not good for much. But let us consider this further point: Is not he who can best strike a blow in a boxing match or in any kind of fighting best able to ward off a blow?

  Certainly.

  And he who is most skilful in preventing or escaping40 from a disease is best able to create one?

  True.

  And he is the best guard of a camp who is best able to steal a march upon the enemy?

  Certainly.

  Then he who is a good keeper of anything is also a good thief?

  That, I suppose, is to be inferred.

  Then if the just man is good at keeping money, he is good at stealing it.

  That is implied in the argument.

  Then after all the just man has turned out to be a thief. And this is a lesson which I suspect you must have learnt out of Homer; for he, speaking of Autolycus, the maternal grandfather of Odysseus, who is a favourite of his, affirms that“He was excellent above all men in theft and perjury.”

  And so, you and Homer and Simonides are agreed that justice is an art of theft; to be practised however “for the good of friends and for the harm of enemies,”—that was what you were saying?

  No, certainly not that, though I do not now know what I did say; but I still stand by the latter words.

  Well, there is another question: By friends and enemies do we mean those who are so really, or only in seeming?

  Surely, he said, a man may be expected to love those whom he thinks good, and to hate those whom he thinks evil.

  Yes, but do not persons often err about good and evil: many who are not good seem to be so, and conversely?

  That is true.

  Then to them the good will be enemies and the evil will be their friends?

  True.

  And in that case they will be right in doing good to the evil and evil to the good?

  Clearly.

  But the good are just and would not do an injustice?

  True.

  Then according to your argument it is just to injure those who do no wrong?

  Nay, Socrates; the doctrine is immoral.

  Then I suppose that we ought to do good to the just and harm to the unjust?

  I like that better.

  But see the consequence:—Many a man who is ignorant of human nature has friends who are bad friends, and in that case he ought to do harm to them; and he has good enemies whom he ought to benefit; but, if so, we shall be saying the very opposite of that which we affirmed to be the meaning of Simonides.

  Very true, he said; and I think that we had better correct an error into which we seem to have fallen in the use of
the words “friend” and “enemy.”

  What was the error, Polemarchus? I asked.

  We assumed that he is a friend who seems to be or who is thought good.

  And how is the error to be corrected?

  We should rather say that he is a friend who is, as well as seems, good; and that he who seems only, and is not good, only seems to be and is not a friend; and of an enemy the same may be said.

  You would argue that the good are our friends and the bad our enemies?

  Yes.

  And instead of saying simply as we did at first, that it is just to do good to our friends and harm to our enemies, we should further say: It is just to do good to our friends when they are good and harm to our enemies when they are evil?

  Yes, that appears to me to be the truth.

  But ought the just to injure any one at all?

  Undoubtedly he ought to injure those who are both wicked and his enemies.

  When horses are injured, are they improved or deteriorated?

  The latter.

  Deteriorated, that is to say, in the good qualities of horses, not of dogs?

  Yes, of horses.

  And dogs are deteriorated in the good qualities of dogs, and not of horses?

  Of course.

  And will not men who are injured be deteriorated in that which is the proper virtue of man?

  Certainly.

  And that human virtue is justice?

  To be sure.

  Then men who are injured are of necessity made unjust?

  That is the result.

  But can the musician by his art make men unmusical?

  Certainly not.

  Or the horseman by his art make them bad horsemen?

  Impossible.

  And can the just by justice make men unjust, or speaking generally, can the good by virtue make them bad?

  Assuredly not.

  Any more than heat can produce cold?

  It cannot.

  Or drought moisture?

  Clearly not.

  Nor can the good harm any one?

  Impossible.

  And the just is the good?

  Certainly.

  Then to injure a friend or any one else is not the act of a just man, but of the opposite, who is the unjust?

  I think that what you say is quite true, Socrates.

  Then if a man says that justice consists in the repayment of debts, and that good is the debt which a man owes to his friends, and evil the debt which he owes to his enemies,—to say this is not wise; for it is not true, if, as has been clearly shown, the injuring of another can be in no case just.

  I agree with you, said Polemarchus.

  Then you and I are prepared to take up arms against any one who attributes such a saying to Simonides or Bias or Pittacus, or any other wise man or seer?

  I am quite ready to do battle at your side, he said.

  Shall I tell you whose I believe the saying to be?

  Whose?

  I believe that Periander or Perdiccas or Xerxes or Ismenias the Theban, or some other rich and mighty man, who had a great opinion of his own power, was the first to say that justice is “doing good to your friends and harm to your enemies.”

  Most true, he said.

  Yes, I said; but if this definition of justice also breaks down, what other can be offered?

  Several times in the course of the discussion Thrasymachus had made an attempt to get the argument into his own hands, and had been put down by the rest of the company, who wanted to hear the end. But when Polemarchus and I had done speaking and there was a pause, he could no longer hold his peace; and, gathering himself up, he came at us like a wild beast, seeking to devour us. We were quite panic-stricken at the sight of him.

  He roared out to the whole company: What folly, Socrates, has taken possession of you all? And why, silly-billies, do you knock under to one another? I say that if you want really to know what justice is, you should not only ask but answer, and you should not seek honour to yourself from the refutation of an opponent, but have your own answer; for there is many a one who can ask and cannot answer. And now I will not have you say that justice is duty or advantage or profit or gain or interest, for this sort of nonsense will not do for me; I must have clearness and accuracy.

  I was panic-stricken at his words, and could not look at him without trembling. Indeed I believe that if I had not fixed my eye upon him, I should have been struck dumb: but when I saw his fury rising, I looked at him first, and was therefore able to reply to him.

  Thrasymachus, I said, with a quiver, don’t be hard upon us. Polemarchus and I may have been guilty of a little mistake in the argument, but I can assure you that the error was not intentional. If we were seeking for a piece of gold, you would not imagine that we were “knocking under to one another,” and so losing our chance of finding it. And why, when we are seeking for justice, a thing more precious than many pieces of gold, do you say that we are weakly yielding to one another and not doing our utmost to get at the truth? Nay, my good friend, we are most willing and anxious to do so, but the fact is that we cannot. And if so, you people who know all things should pity us and not be angry with us.

  How characteristic of Socrates! he replied, with a bitter laugh;—that’s your ironical style! Did I not foresee—have I not already told you, that whatever he was asked he would refuse to answer, and try irony or any other shuffle, in order that he might avoid answering?

  You are a philosopher, Thrasymachus, I replied, and well know that if you ask a person what numbers make up twelve, taking care to prohibit him whom you ask from answering twice six, or three times four, or six times two, or four times three, “for this sort of nonsense will not do for me,”—then obviously, if that is your way of putting the question, no one can answer you. But suppose that he were to retort, “Thrasymachus, what do you mean? If one of these numbers which you interdict be the true answer to the question, am I falsely to say some other number which is not the right one?—is that your meaning?”—How would you answer him?

  Just as if the two cases were at all alike! he said.

  Why should they not be? I replied; and even if they are not, but only appear to be so to the person who is asked, ought he not to say what he thinks, whether you and I forbid him or not?

  I presume then that you are going to make one of the interdicted answers?

  I dare say that I may, notwithstanding the danger, if upon reflection I approve of any of them.

  But what if I give you an answer about justice other and better, he said, than any of these? What do you deserve to have done to you?

  Done to me!—as becomes the ignorant, I must learn from the wise—that is what I deserve to have done to me.

  What, and no payment! a pleasant notion!

  I will pay when I have the money, I replied.

  But you have, Socrates, said Glaucon: and you, Thrasymachus, need be under no anxiety about money, for we will all make a contribution for Socrates.

  Yes, he replied, and then Socrates will do as he always does—refuse to answer himself, but take and pull to pieces the answer of some one else.

  Why, my good friend, I said, how can any one answer who knows, and says that he knows, just nothing; and who, even if he has some faint notions of his own, is told by a man of authority not to utter them? The natural thing is, that the speaker should be some one like yourself who professes to know and can tell what he knows. Will you then kindly answer, for the edification of the company and of myself?

  Glaucon and the rest of the company joined in my request and Thrasymachus, as any one might see, was in reality eager to speak; for he thought that he had an excellent answer, and would distinguish himself. But at first he affected to insist on my answering; at length he consented to begin. Behold, he said, the wisdom of Socrates; he refuses to teach himself, and goes about learning of others, to whom he never even says Thank you.

  That I learn of others, I replied, is quite true; but that I am ungrateful I wh
olly deny. Money I have none, and therefore I pay in praise, which is all I have; and how ready I am to praise any one who appears to me to speak well you will very soon find out when you answer; for I expect that you will answer well.

  Listen, then, he said; I proclaim that justice is nothing else than the interest of the stronger. And now why do you not praise me? But of course you won’t.

  Let me first understand you, I replied. Justice, as you say, is the interest of the stronger. What, Thrasymachus, is the meaning of this? You cannot mean to say that because Polydamas, the pancratiast, is stronger than we are, and finds the eating of beef conducive to his bodily strength, that to eat beef is therefore equally for our good who are weaker than he is, and right and just for us?

  That’s abominable of you, Socrates; you take the words in the sense which is most damaging to the argument.

  Not at all, my good sir, I said; I am trying to understand them; and I wish that you would be a little clearer.

  Well, he said, have you never heard that forms of government differ; there are tyrannies, and there are democracies, and there are aristocracies?

  Yes, I know.

  And the government is the ruling power in each state?

  Certainly.

  And the different forms of government make laws democratical, aristocratical, tyrannical, with a view to their several interests; and these laws, which are made by them for their own interests, are the justice which they deliver to their subjects, and him who transgresses them they punish as a breaker of the law, and unjust. And that is what I mean when I say that in all states there is the same principle of justice, which is the interest of the government; and as the government must be supposed to have power, the only reasonable conclusion is, that everywhere there is one principle of justice, which is the interest of the stronger.

  Now I understand you, I said; and whether you are right or not I will try to discover. But let me remark, that in defining justice you have yourself used the word “interest” which you forbade me to use. It is true, however, that in your definition the words “of the stronger” are added.

  A small addition, you must allow, he said.

  Great or small, never mind about that: we must first enquire whether what you are saying is the truth. Now we are both agreed that justice is interest of some sort, but you go on to say “of the stronger”; about this addition I am not so sure, and must therefore consider further.