Complete Works

by Plato, Cooper, John M. , Hutchinson, D. S.

  “This is certainly what we mean,” he said.

  “But now you see,” I replied, “that no science of this sort has put in an appearance.”

  “I see that,” he said.

  “Well then,” I said, “is this the advantage of the knowledge of science [b] and absence of science, which we are now finding out to be temperance—that the man who has this science will learn whatever he learns more easily, and everything will appear to him in a clearer light since, in addition to what he learns, he will perceive the science? And he will examine others on the subjects he himself knows in a more effective fashion, whereas those without the science will conduct their examinations in a weaker and less fruitful way. And are not these, my friend, the kind of benefits we [c] shall reap from temperance? Or are we regarding it as something greater, and demanding that it be greater than it really is?”

  “Perhaps that may be so,” he said.

  “Perhaps,” I said, “and perhaps we have been demanding something useless. I say this because certain odd things become clear about temperance if it has this nature. If you are willing, let us investigate the matter by admitting both that it is possible to know a science and also what we assumed temperance to be in the beginning: to know what one knows and [d] does not know—let us grant this and not deny it. And, having granted all these things, let us investigate more thoroughly whether, if it is like this, it will benefit us in any way. Because what we were saying just now, about temperance being regarded as of great benefit (if it were like this) in the governing of households and cities, does not seem to me, Critias, to have been well said.”

  “In what way?” he asked.

  “Because,” I said, “we carelessly agreed that it would be a great good for men if each of us should perform the things he knows and should hand over what he does not know to those others who do.”

  “And weren’t we right in agreeing on this?” he said. [e]

  “I don’t think we were,” I replied.

  “You certainly say some queer things, Socrates,” he said.

  “By the dog,” I said, “they seem queer to me too, and that is why, when I became aware of this a moment ago, I said that some strange things would come to light and that I was afraid we were not conducting the examination correctly. Because truly, even if there were no doubt that [173] temperance is like this, it appears in no way clear to me that it does us any good.”

  “How so?” he said. “Tell me, so that we can both understand what you are saying.”

  “I think I am making a fool of myself,” I said, “but all the same it is necessary to investigate what occurs to us and not to proceed at random, if we are going to have the least care for ourselves.”

  “You are right,” he said.

  “Listen then,” I said, “to my dream, to see whether it comes through horn or through ivory.9 If temperance really ruled over us and were as [b] we now define it, surely everything would be done according to science: neither would anyone who says he is a pilot (but is not) deceive us, nor would any doctor or general or anyone else pretending to know what he does not know escape our notice. This being the situation, wouldn’t we have greater bodily health than we do now, and safety when we are in danger at sea or in battle, and wouldn’t we have dishes and all our clothes [c] and shoes and things skillfully made for us, and many other things as well, because we would be employing true craftsmen? And, if you will, let us even agree that the mantic art is knowledge of what is to be and that temperance, directing her, keeps away deceivers and sets up the true [d] seers as prophets of the future. I grant that the human race, if thus equipped, would act and live in a scientific way—because temperance, watching over it, would not allow the absence of science to creep in and become our accomplice. But whether acting scientifically would make us fare well and be happy, this we have yet to learn, my dear Critias.”

  “But on the other hand,” he said, “you will not readily gain the prize of faring well by any other means if you eliminate scientific action.”

  “Instruct me on just one more small point,” I said. “When you say that [e] something is scientifically done, are you talking about the science of cutting out shoes?”

  “Good heavens no!”

  “Of bronze working, then?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then of wool or wood or some similar thing?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then,” I said, “we no longer keep to the statement that the man who lives scientifically is happy. Because those who live in the ways we mentioned are not admitted by you to be happy, but rather you seem to me to define the happy man as one who lives scientifically concerning certain specific things. And perhaps you mean the person I mentioned a moment ago, the man who knows what all future events will be, namely the seer. [174] Are you referring to this man or some other?”

  “Both to this one,” he said, “and another.”

  “Which one?” I said. “Isn’t it the sort of man who, in addition to the future, knows everything that has been and is now and is ignorant of nothing? Let us postulate the existence of such a man. Of this man I think you would say that there was no one living who was more scientific.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “There is one additional thing I want to know: which one of the sciences makes him happy? Do all of them do this equally?”

  “No, very unequally,” he said.

  “Well, which one in particular makes him happy? The one by which he [b] knows which one of the things are and have been and are to come? Will it be the one by which he knows checker playing?”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake,” he said.

  “Well, the one by which he knows calculation?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, will it be that by which he knows health?”

  “That’s better,” he said.

  “But the most likely case,” I said, “is that by which he knows what?”

  “By which he knows good,” he said, “and evil.”

  “You wretch,” said I, “all this time you’ve been leading me right round in a circle and concealing from me that it was not living scientifically that [c] was making us fare well and be happy, even if we possessed all the sciences put together, but that we have to have this one science of good and evil. Because, Critias, if you consent to take away this science from the other sciences, will medicine any the less produce health, or cobbling produce shoes, or the art of weaving produce clothes, or will the pilot’s art any the less prevent us from dying at sea or the general’s art in war?”

  “They will do it just the same,” he said.

  “But my dear Critias, our chance of getting any of these things well and [d] beneficially done will have vanished if this is lacking.”

  “You are right.”

  “Then this science, at any rate, is not temperance, as it seems, but that one of which the function is to benefit us. For it is not a science of science and absence of science but of good and evil. So that, if this latter one is beneficial, temperance would be something else for us.”

  “But why should not temperance be beneficial?” he said. “Because if temperance really is a science of sciences and rules over the other sciences, [e] then I suppose it would rule over this science of the good and would benefit us.”

  “And would this science make us healthy,” I said, “and not the art of medicine? And would it perform the tasks of the other arts rather than each of them performing its own task? Didn’t we protest solemnly just a moment ago that it is a science of science and absence of science only and of nothing else? We did, didn’t we?”

  “It seems so, at any rate.”

  “Then it will not be the craftsman of health?”

  “Certainly not.”

  [175] “Because health belonged to some other art, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, to another.”

  “Then it will be of no benefit, my friend. Because we have just awarded this work to another art, isn’t that so?�
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  “Yes indeed.”

  “Then how will temperance be beneficial when it is the craftsman of no beneficial thing?”

  “Apparently it won’t be any benefit at all, Socrates.”

  “You see then, Critias, that my earlier fears were reasonable and that I was right to blame myself for discerning nothing useful in temperance? [b] Because I don’t suppose that the thing we have agreed to be the finest of all would have turned out to be of no benefit if I had been of any use in making a good search. But now we have got the worst of it in every way and are unable to discover to which one of existing things the lawgiver gave this name, temperance. Furthermore, we gave our joint assent to many things which did not follow from our argument.10 For instance, we conceded that there was a science of science when the argument did not allow us to make this statement. Again, we conceded that this science knew the tasks of the other sciences, when the argument did not allow us to say this either, so that our temperate man should turn out to be knowing, [c] both that he knows things he knows and does not know things he does not know. And we made this concession in the most prodigal manner, quite overlooking the impossibility that a person should in some fashion know what he does not know at all—because our agreement amounts to saying he knows things he does not know. And yet, I think, there could [d] be nothing more irrational than this. But in spite of the fact that the inquiry has shown us to be both complacent and easy, it is not a whit more capable of discovering the truth. It has, in fact, made fun of the truth to this extent, that it has very insolently exposed as useless the definition of temperance which we agreed upon and invented earlier. I am not so much vexed on my own account, but on yours, Charmides,” I said, “I am very vexed [e] indeed, if, with such a body and, in addition, a most temperate soul, you should derive no benefit from this temperance nor should it be of any use to you in this present life. And I am still more vexed on behalf of the charm I took so much trouble to learn from the Thracian, if it should turn out to be worthless. I really do not believe this to be the case; rather I [176] think that I am a worthless inquirer. Because I think that temperance is a great good, and if you truly have it, that you are blessed. So see whether you do have it and are in no need of the charm—because if you do have it, my advice to you would rather be to regard me as a babbler, incapable of finding out anything whatsoever by means of argument, and yourself as being exactly as happy as you are temperate.”

  And Charmides said, “But good heavens, Socrates, I don’t know whether I have it or whether I don’t—because how would I know the nature of a thing when neither you nor Critias is able to discover it, as you say? [b] However, I don’t really believe you, Socrates, but I think I am very much in need of the charm, and as far as I am concerned I am willing to be charmed by you every day until you say I have had enough.”

  “Very well, Charmides,” said Critias, “if you do this, it will convince me of your temperance—if you submit yourself to be charmed by Socrates and let nothing great or small dissuade you from it.”

  “This is the course I shall follow,” he said, “and I shall not give it up. [c] I would be acting badly if I failed to obey my guardian and did not carry out your commands.”

  “Well then,” said Critias, “these are my instructions.”

  “And I shall execute them,” he said, “from this day forward.”

  “Look here,” I said, “what are you two plotting?”

  “Nothing,” said Charmides—“our plotting is all done.”

  “Are you going to use force,” I asked, “and don’t I get a preliminary hearing?”

  “We shall have to use force,” said Charmides, “seeing that this fellow here has given me my orders. So you had better take counsel as to your own procedure.”

  “What use is counsel?” said I. “Because when you undertake to do [d] anything by force, no man living can oppose you.”

  “Well then,” he said, “don’t oppose me.”

  “Very well, I shan’t,” said I.

  1. Socrates’ devoted friend, who put the question to the Delphic Oracle reported at Apology 21a.

  2. Cydias: an obscure lyric poet.

  3. This Critias is the grandfather of our Critias. (See Timaeus 20e.)

  4. The Greek word hēsuchei (“quietly”) connotes slowness as well.

  5. Odyssey xvii.347.

  6. Works and Days 311.

  7. Literally, “the third [cup] to [Zeus] the Savior.” The third cup was regularly drunk thus, especially at the start of a voyage, and became thought of as lucky.

  8. See 167a.

  9. The reference is to Odyssey xix.564–67. True dreams come through the horn gate, deceitful ones through the gate of ivory.

  10. Socrates recalls the assumptions granted hypothetically at 169d and 173a–d.

  LACHES

  Translated by Rosamond Kent Sprague.

  In Greek, the subject of this dialogue is andreia, literally ‘manliness’, a personal quality of wide scope, covering all the sorts of unwavering, active leadership in and on behalf of the community that were traditionally expected in Greek cities of true men. Its special connotation of military prowess makes ‘courage’ a suitable, even inevitable, translation, but its broader scope should be borne in mind. Here Socrates probes the traditional conception of such courage as the primary quality a young man should be brought up to possess. His fellow discussants include two distinguished Athenian generals, Laches and Nicias, active in the Peloponnesian War (Nicias was captured and put to death in the disastrous Athenian withdrawal from Sicily in 413). The other two parties to the discussion are elderly and undistinguished sons of distinguished statesmen and generals of earlier times—Lysimachus, son of Aristides ‘the Just’, a famous leader during the Persian War, and Melesias, son of Thucydides, son of Melesias, a principal early opponent of Pericles in his policy of imperial expansion. Laches has an unusually full and extensive ‘prologue’ before Socrates takes over the reins of the discussion and seeks and refutes first Laches’ and then Nicias’ ideas about the nature of courage. Its function is at least in part to provide opportunities for these four representatives of the traditional conception to give it some preliminary articulation, thus bringing out some of the tensions and divergent ways of thinking about courage and related matters that the tradition harbors and that Socrates exploits in his own questioning later on.

  As always in Plato’s ‘Socratic’ dialogues, neither general’s answers to Socrates’ question ‘What is courage?’ prove satisfactory. Much of the discussion focuses upon the element of knowledge—of reasoned, nuanced responsiveness to the detailed circumstances for action—that on reflection Laches and Nicias both agree is an essential, though perhaps somewhat submerged, part of the traditional conception to which they themselves are committed. It is because of this that Nicias and Socrates agree (Laches is slow to accept the point, but it is clearly implied in what he has already said about courage’s involving ‘wisdom’) that no dumb animal, and not even children, can correctly be called courageous— however much people may ordinarily speak that way. Nicias, indeed, wants to define courage simply as a kind of wisdom—wisdom about what is to be feared and what, on the contrary, to be buoyed up by and made hopeful as one pursues one’s objectives. He intimates that this fits well with things he has heard Socrates say on other occasions, and in fact toward the end of Protagoras Socrates does adopt just this formulation of courage. Here, however, whether this was a genuinely ‘Socratic’ idea or not, he and the two generals find difficulties in it that they seem to see no immediate way to resolve, and the discussion breaks off.

  J.M.C.

  LYSIMACHUS: You have seen the man fighting in armor, Nicias and Laches. [178] When Melesias and I invited you to see him with us, we neglected to give the reason why, but now we shall explain, because we think it especially right to be frank with you. Now there are some people who make fun of frankness and if anyone asks their advice, they don’t say what they think, [b] but they make a shot a
t what the other man would like to hear and say something different from their own opinion. But you we considered capable not only of forming a judgment but also, having formed one, of saying exactly what you think, and this is why we have taken you into our confidence about what we are going to communicate to you. Now the [179] matter about which I have been making such a long preamble is this: we have these two sons here—this one is the son of my friend Melesias here, and he is called Thucydides after his grandfather, and this one is my son, who also goes by his grandfather’s name—we call him Aristides after my father. We have made up our minds to take as good care of them as we possibly can and not to behave like most parents, who, when their children start to grow up, permit them to do whatever they wish. No, we think that now is the time to make a real beginning, so far as we can. Since we [b] knew that both of you had sons too, we thought that you, if anyone, would have been concerned about the sort of training that would make the best men of them. And if by any chance you have not turned your attention to this kind of thing very often, let us remind you that you ought not to neglect it, and let us invite you to care for your sons along with ours. How we reached this conclusion, Nicias and Laches, you must hear, even if it means my talking a bit longer. Now you must know that Melesias and I [c] take our meals together, and the boys eat with us. We shall be frank with you, exactly as I said in the beginning: each of us has a great many fine things to say to the young men about his own father, things they achieved both in war and in peace in their management of the affairs both of their allies and of the city here. But neither of us has a word to say about his own accomplishments. This is what shames us in front of them, and we [d] blame our fathers for allowing us to take things easy when we were growing up, while they were busy with other people’s affairs. And we point these same things out to the young people here, saying that if they are careless of themselves and disobedient to us, they will turn out to be nobodies, but if they take pains, perhaps they may become worthy of the names they bear.1 Now the boys promise to be obedient, so we are looking into the question what form of instruction or practice would make them [e] turn out best. Somebody suggested this form of instruction to us, saying that it would be a fine thing for a young man to learn fighting in armor. And he praised this particular man whom you have just seen giving a display and proceeded to encourage us to see him. So we thought we ought to go to see the man and to take you with us, not only as fellow spectators but also as fellow counsellors and partners, if you should be willing, in the care of our sons. This is what we wanted to share with you. [180] So now is the time for you to give us your advice, not only about this form of instruction—whether you think it should be learned or not—but also about any other sort of study or pursuit for a young man which you admire. Tell us too, what part you will take in our joint enterprise.