Did you inherit most of your wealth, Cephalus, I asked, or did you make it for yourself?
What did I make for myself, Socrates, you ask. As a money-maker I’m [b] in a sort of mean between my grandfather and my father. My grandfather and namesake inherited about the same amount of wealth as I possess but multiplied it many times. My father, Lysanias, however, diminished that amount to even less than I have now. As for me, I’m satisfied to leave my sons here not less but a little more than I inherited.
The reason I asked is that you don’t seem to love money too much. And those who haven’t made their own money are usually like you. But those [c] who have made it for themselves are twice as fond of it as those who haven’t. Just as poets love their poems and fathers love their children, so those who have made their own money don’t just care about it because it’s useful, as other people do, but because it’s something they’ve made themselves. This makes them poor company, for they haven’t a good word to say about anything except money.
That’s true.
It certainly is. But tell me something else. What’s the greatest good [d] you’ve received from being very wealthy?
What I have to say probably wouldn’t persuade most people. But you know, Socrates, that when someone thinks his end is near, he becomes frightened and concerned about things he didn’t fear before. It’s then that the stories we’re told about Hades, about how people who’ve been unjust here must pay the penalty there—stories he used to make fun of—twist his soul this way and that for fear they’re true. And whether because of [e] the weakness of old age or because he is now closer to what happens in Hades and has a clearer view of it, or whatever it is, he is filled with foreboding and fear, and he examines himself to see whether he has been unjust to anyone. If he finds many injustices in his life, he awakes from sleep in terror, as children do, and lives in anticipation of bad things to come. But someone who knows that he hasn’t been unjust has sweet good [331] hope as his constant companion—a nurse to his old age, as Pindar4 says, for he puts it charmingly, Socrates, when he says that when someone lives a just and pious life
Sweet hope is in his heart,
Nurse and companion to his age.
Hope, captain of the ever-twisting
Minds of mortal men.
How wonderfully well he puts that. It’s in this connection that wealth is most valuable, I’d say, not for every man but for a decent and orderly one. Wealth can do a lot to save us from having to cheat or deceive someone [b] against our will and from having to depart for that other place in fear because we owe sacrifice to a god or money to a person. It has many other uses, but, benefit for benefit, I’d say that this is how it is most useful to a man of any understanding.
A fine sentiment, Cephalus, but, speaking of this very thing itself, namely, justice, are we to say unconditionally that it is speaking the truth [c] and paying whatever debts one has incurred? Or is doing these things sometimes just, sometimes unjust? I mean this sort of thing, for example: Everyone would surely agree that if a sane man lends weapons to a friend and then asks for them back when he is out of his mind, the friend shouldn’t return them, and wouldn’t be acting justly if he did. Nor should anyone be willing to tell the whole truth to someone who is out of his mind.
[d] That’s true.
Then the definition of justice isn’t speaking the truth and repaying what one has borrowed.
It certainly is, Socrates, said Polemarchus, interrupting, if indeed we’re to trust Simonides at all.5 Well, then, Cephalus said, I’ll hand over the argument to you, as I have to look after the sacrifice.
So, Polemarchus said, am I then to be your heir in everything?
You certainly are, Cephalus said, laughing, and off he went to the sacrifice.
Then tell us, heir to the argument, I said, just what Simonides stated [e] about justice that you consider correct.
He stated that it is just to give to each what is owed to him. And it’s a fine saying, in my view.
Well, now, it isn’t easy to doubt Simonides, for he’s a wise and godlike man. But what exactly does he mean? Perhaps you know, Polemarchus, but I don’t understand him. Clearly, he doesn’t mean what we said a moment ago, that it is just to give back whatever a person has lent to you, even if he’s out of his mind when he asks for it. And yet what he has lent [332] to you is surely something that’s owed to him, isn’t it?
Yes.
But it is absolutely not to be given to him when he’s out of his mind?
That’s true.
Then it seems that Simonides must have meant something different when he says that to return what is owed is just.
Something different indeed, by god. He means that friends owe it to their friends to do good for them, never harm.
I follow you. Someone doesn’t give a lender back what he’s owed by giving him gold, if doing so would be harmful, and both he and the lender [b] are friends. Isn’t that what you think Simonides meant?
It is.
But what about this? Should one also give one’s enemies whatever is owed to them?
By all means, one should give them what is owed to them. And in my view what enemies owe to each other is appropriately and precisely—something bad.
It seems then that Simonides was speaking in riddles—just like a poet!—when he said what justice is, for he thought it just to give to each what [c] is appropriate to him, and this is what he called giving him what is owed to him.
What else did you think he meant?
Then what do you think he’d answer if someone asked him: “Simonides, which of the things that are owed or that are appropriate for someone or something to have does the craft6 we call medicine give, and to whom or what does it give them?”
It’s clear that it gives medicines, food, and drink to bodies.
And what owed or appropriate things does the craft we call cooking give, and to whom or what does it give them?
It gives seasonings to food. [d]
Good. Now, what does the craft we call justice give, and to whom or what does it give it?
If we are to follow the previous answers, Socrates, it gives benefits to friends and does harm to enemies.
Simonides means, then, that to treat friends well and enemies badly is justice?
I believe so.
And who is most capable of treating friends well and enemies badly in matters of disease and health?
A doctor.
And who can do so best in a storm at sea? [e]
A ship’s captain.
What about the just person? In what actions and what work is he most capable of benefiting friends and harming enemies?
In wars and alliances, I suppose.
All right. Now, when people aren’t sick, Polemarchus, a doctor is useless to them?
True.
And so is a ship’s captain to those who aren’t sailing?
Yes.
And to people who aren’t at war, a just man is useless?
No, I don’t think that at all.
Justice is also useful in peacetime, then?
It is. [333]
And so is farming, isn’t it?
Yes.
For getting produce?
Yes.
And shoemaking as well?
Yes.
For getting shoes, I think you’d say?
Certainly.
Well, then, what is justice useful for getting and using in peacetime?
Contracts, Socrates.
And by contracts do you mean partnerships, or what?
I mean partnerships.
Is someone a good and useful partner in a game of checkers because [b] he’s just or because he’s a checkers player?
Because he’s a checkers player.
And in laying bricks and stones, is a just person a better and more useful partner than a builder?
Not at all.
In what kind of partnership, then, is a just person a better partner than a builder or a lyre-player, in the way t
hat a lyre-player is better than a just person at hitting the right notes?
In money matters, I think.
Except perhaps, Polemarchus, in using money, for whenever one needs to buy a horse jointly, I think a horse breeder is a more useful partner, [c] isn’t he?
Apparently.
And when one needs to buy a boat, it’s a boatbuilder or a ship’s captain?
Probably.
In what joint use of silver or gold, then, is a just person a more useful partner than the others?
When it must be deposited for safekeeping, Socrates.
You mean whenever there is no need to use them but only to keep them?
That’s right.
Then it is when money isn’t being used that justice is useful for it?
[d] I’m afraid so.
And whenever one needs to keep a pruning knife safe, but not to use it, justice is useful both in partnerships and for the individual. When you need to use it, however, it is skill at vine pruning that’s useful?
Apparently.
You’ll agree, then, that when one needs to keep a shield or a lyre safe and not to use them, justice is a useful thing, but when you need to use them, it is soldiery or musicianship that’s useful?
Necessarily.
And so, too, with everything else, justice is useless when they are in use but useful when they aren’t?
It looks that way.
[e] In that case, justice isn’t worth much, since it is only useful for useless things. But let’s look into the following point. Isn’t the person most able to land a blow, whether in boxing or any other kind of fight, also most able to guard against it?
Certainly.
And the one who is most able to guard against disease is also most able to produce it unnoticed?
So it seems to me, anyway.
And the one who is the best guardian of an army is the very one who [334] can steal the enemy’s plans and dispositions?
Certainly.
Whenever someone is a clever guardian, then, he is also a clever thief.
Probably so.
If a just person is clever at guarding money, therefore, he must also be clever at stealing it.
According to our argument, at any rate.
A just person has turned out then, it seems, to be a kind of thief. Maybe you learned this from Homer, for he’s fond of Autolycus, the maternal grandfather of Odysseus, whom he describes as better than everyone at [b] lying and stealing.7 According to you, Homer, and Simonides, then, justice seems to be some sort of craft of stealing, one that benefits friends and harms enemies. Isn’t that what you meant?
No, by god, it isn’t. I don’t know any more what I did mean, but I still believe that to benefit one’s friends and harm one’s enemies is justice.
Speaking of friends, do you mean those a person believes to be good and useful to him or those who actually are good and useful, even if he [c] doesn’t think they are, and similarly with enemies?
Probably, one loves those one considers good and useful and hates those one considers bad and harmful.
But surely people often make mistakes about this, believing many people to be good and useful when they aren’t, and making the opposite mistake about enemies?
They do indeed.
And then good people are their enemies and bad ones their friends?
That’s right.
And so it’s just to benefit bad people and harm good ones? [d]
Apparently.
But good people are just and able to do no wrong?
True.
Then, according to your account, it’s just to do bad things to those who do no injustice.
No, that’s not just at all, Socrates; my account must be a bad one.
It’s just, then, is it, to harm unjust people and benefit just ones?
That’s obviously a more attractive view than the other one, anyway.
Then, it follows, Polemarchus, that it is just for the many, who are mistaken in their judgment, to harm their friends, who are bad, and benefit their enemies, who are good. And so we arrive at a conclusion opposite [e] to what we said Simonides meant.
That certainly follows. But let’s change our definition, for it seems that we didn’t define friends and enemies correctly.
How did we define them, Polemarchus?
We said that a friend is someone who is believed to be useful.
And how are we to change that now?
Someone who is both believed to be useful and is useful is a friend; someone who is believed to be useful but isn’t, is believed to be a friend but isn’t. And the same for the enemy. [335]
According to this account, then, a good person will be a friend and a bad one an enemy.
Yes.
So you want us to add something to what we said before about justice, when we said that it is just to treat friends well and enemies badly. You want us to add to this that it is just to treat well a friend who is good and to harm an enemy who is bad?
[b] Right. That seems fine to me.
Is it, then, the role of a just man to harm anyone?
Certainly, he must harm those who are both bad and enemies.
Do horses become better or worse when they are harmed?
Worse.
With respect to the virtue8 that makes dogs good or the one that makes horses good?
The one that makes horses good.
And when dogs are harmed, they become worse in the virtue that makes dogs good, not horses?
Necessarily.
Then won’t we say the same about human beings, too, that when they [c] are harmed they become worse in human virtue?
Indeed.
But isn’t justice human virtue?
Yes, certainly.
Then people who are harmed must become more unjust?
So it seems.
Can musicians make people unmusical through music?
They cannot.
Or horsemen make people unhorsemanlike through horsemanship?
No.
Well, then, can those who are just make people unjust through justice? [d] In a word, can those who are good make people bad through virtue?
They cannot.
It isn’t the function of heat to cool things but of its opposite?
Yes.
Nor the function of dryness to make things wet but of its opposite?
Indeed.
Nor the function of goodness to harm but of its opposite?
Apparently.
And a just person is good?
Indeed.
Then, Polemarchus, it isn’t the function of a just person to harm a friend or anyone else, rather it is the function of his opposite, an unjust person?
In my view that’s completely true, Socrates.
If anyone tells us, then, that it is just to give to each what he’s owed [e] and understands by this that a just man should harm his enemies and benefit his friends, he isn’t wise to say it, since what he says isn’t true, for it has become clear to us that it is never just to harm anyone?
I agree.
You and I shall fight as partners, then, against anyone who tells us that Simonides, Bias, Pittacus, or any of our other wise and blessedly happy men said this.
I, at any rate, am willing to be your partner in the battle.
Do you know to whom I think the saying belongs that it is just to benefit [336] friends and harm enemies?
Who?
I think it belongs to Periander, or Perdiccas, or Xerxes, or Ismenias of Corinth, or some other wealthy man who believed himself to have great power.9 That’s absolutely true.
All right, since it has become apparent that justice and the just aren’t what such people say they are, what else could they be?
While we were speaking, Thrasymachus had tried many times to take over the discussion but was restrained by those sitting near him, who [b] wanted to hear our argument to the end. When we paused after what I’d just said, however, he couldn’t keep quiet any longer. He coil
ed himself up like a wild beast about to spring, and he hurled himself at us as if to tear us to pieces.
Polemarchus and I were frightened and flustered as he roared into our midst: What nonsense have you two been talking, Socrates? Why do you act like idiots by giving way to one another? If you truly want to know [c] what justice is, don’t just ask questions and then refute the answers simply to satisfy your competitiveness or love of honor. You know very well that it is easier to ask questions than answer them. Give an answer yourself, and tell us what you say the just is. And don’t tell me that it’s the right, the beneficial, the profitable, the gainful, or the advantageous, but tell me [d] clearly and exactly what you mean; for I won’t accept such nonsense from you.
His words startled me, and, looking at him, I was afraid. And I think that if I hadn’t seen him before he stared at me, I’d have been dumbstruck. But as it was, I happened to look at him just as our discussion began to exasperate him, so I was able to answer, and, trembling a little, I said: [e] Don’t be too hard on us, Thrasymachus, for if Polemarchus and I made an error in our investigation, you should know that we did so unwillingly. If we were searching for gold, we’d never willingly give way to each other, if by doing so we’d destroy our chance of finding it. So don’t think that in searching for justice, a thing more valuable than even a large quantity of gold, we’d mindlessly give way to one another or be less than completely serious about finding it. You surely mustn’t think that, but rather—as I do—that we’re incapable of finding it. Hence it’s surely far more appropriate for [337] us to be pitied by you clever people than to be given rough treatment.
When he heard that, he gave a loud, sarcastic laugh. By Heracles, he said, that’s just Socrates’ usual irony. I knew, and I said so to these people earlier, that you’d be unwilling to answer and that, if someone questioned you, you’d be ironical and do anything rather than give an answer.
That’s because you’re a clever fellow, Thrasymachus. You knew very well that if you ask someone how much twelve is, and, as you ask, you [b] warn him by saying “Don’t tell me, man, that twelve is twice six, or three times four, or six times two, or four times three, for I won’t accept such nonsense,” then you’ll see clearly, I think, that no one could answer a question framed like that. And if he said to you: “What are you saying, Thrasymachus, am I not to give any of the answers you mention, not even if twelve happens to be one of those things? I’m amazed. Do you want me to say something other than the truth? Or do you mean something [c] else?” What answer would you give him?
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