[b] FRIEND: Yes.
SOCRATES: Did you realize that Themistocles taught his son to be an expert horseman—he could ride standing upright on his horse, he could throw a javelin from this position, and he could perform many other remarkable feats—his father taught him and made him an expert in many other things that require good teachers. Haven’t you heard that from the older generation?
FRIEND: I have.
[c] SOCRATES: So no one could criticize his son’s natural ability as bad.
FRIEND: Not rightly, at least from what you say.
SOCRATES: What about this? Have you ever heard anyone—young or old—say that Cleophantus, the son of Themistocles, was a wise and good man in the way that his father was wise?
FRIEND: Never.
SOCRATES: Are we to suppose, then, that he wanted to teach his son those things, but he didn’t want to make him better than any of his neighbors in the wisdom that he himself enjoyed, if virtue can indeed be taught?
[d] FRIEND: That isn’t very likely.
SOCRATES: And yet he was just the sort of teacher of virtue that you suggested. But let’s consider another man, Aristides, who raised Lysimachus. He gave his son the best Athenian education in matters which require teachers, but he made him no better than anyone else. Both you and I know this, for we’ve spent time with him.
FRIEND: Yes.
SOCRATES: And you know that Pericles, too, raised his sons Paralus and Xanthippus—in fact, I think you were in love with one of them. As you [e] know, he taught them horsemanship—and they were as good as any Athenian—the liberal arts, and athletic games; he brought them up to be as good as anyone at every skill for which there are teachers; and yet he didn’t want to make them good men?
FRIEND: But perhaps they would have been, Socrates, if they hadn’t died young.
SOCRATES: You’re coming to the aid of your boyfriend, which is fair enough. But if virtue were teachable and if it were possible to make men good, Pericles would certainly have made his sons expert in his own virtue rather than in the liberal arts or athletic games. But it doesn’t seem to [378] be teachable, since Thucydides, as well, raised two sons, Melesias and Stephanus, and you cannot say about them what you said about the sons of Pericles, for you know very well that one lived to a ripe old age, and the other much longer. Indeed, their father taught them well, especially to be the finest wrestlers in Athens. He sent one to Xanthias and the other to Eudorus—weren’t they supposed to be the finest wrestlers of the day?
FRIEND: Yes.
SOCRATES: So it’s clear that he would never have taught his sons what [b] he had to spend money on, when he could have made them good without spending anything—wouldn’t he have taught them to be good, if it could be taught?
FRIEND: That seems likely.
SOCRATES: But perhaps Thucydides was a commoner, and he didn’t have many friends among the Athenians and their allies? No, but he was from a great household, and he was able to do great things here in Athens and in other Greek cities. So, if virtue could be taught, he would have found [c] someone—either locally or abroad—who could have made his sons good, if he himself didn’t have the time because of his political affairs. No, my friend, it looks as if virtue can’t be taught.
FRIEND: No, probably not.
SOCRATES: Well then, if virtue isn’t teachable, are men naturally good? If we examine this in the following way, perhaps we might find out. Now then, do we think that good horses have particular natures?
FRIEND: They do.
SOCRATES: And aren’t there some men who have a skill by which they know the natures of the good horses, those physically fit for racing and [d] mentally spirited or else lethargic?
FRIEND: Yes.
SOCRATES: What, then, is this skill? What name does it have?
FRIEND: Horsemanship.
SOCRATES: And likewise for hunting dogs, is there some skill by which men can discern the good and bad natures of the dogs?
FRIEND: There is.
SOCRATES: What is it?
FRIEND: Huntsmanship.
SOCRATES: And what about gold and silver? Do we think there are moneychangers who separate the good coins from the bad by looking at them?
[e] FRIEND: There are.
SOCRATES: What do you call them?
FRIEND: Assayers.
SOCRATES: And again athletic coaches know by looking which traits of the human body are good or bad for each of the events, and in older or younger boys which are going to be their most valuable traits, where they have high hopes for them to succeed in what their bodies can perform well.
FRIEND: That’s true.
SOCRATES: Which of these is more important for cities: good horses, good [379] dogs, and so on, or good men?
FRIEND: Good men.
SOCRATES: Well? Don’t you think, if men had innate characters good for virtue, that people would make every effort to recognize them?
FRIEND: Very likely.
SOCRATES: Now can you tell me which skill is dedicated to, and capable of judging, the natural qualities of good men?
FRIEND: No, I can’t.
SOCRATES: And yet it would surely be worth a great deal, as would those [b] who possess it, for they could show us which of the young, while still boys, are going to be good. We would take them and guard them in the acropolis at public expense, like silver, only more carefully, so that no harm would come to them, from battle or any other danger. They would be stored up for the city as guards and benefactors when they came of age.
But really, I dare say that it’s neither by nature nor by teaching that men become virtuous.
[c] FRIEND: How then do you suppose, Socrates, that they become virtuous, if it’s neither by nature nor teaching? How else could they become good?
SOCRATES: I don’t think it’s very easy to explain this. My guess, however, is that the possession of virtue is very much a divine gift and that men become good just as the divine prophets and oracle-mongers do. For they become what they are neither by nature nor skill: it’s through the inspiration of the gods that they become what they are. Likewise, good men announce [d] to their cities the likely outcome of events and what is going to happen, by the inspiration of god, much better and much more clearly than the fortune-tellers. Even the women, I think, say that this sort of man is divine, and the Spartans, whenever they applaud someone in high style, say that he is divine. And often Homer uses this same compliment, as do other poets. Indeed, whenever a god wishes a city to become successful, he places good men in it, and whenever a city is slated to fail, the god takes the good men away from that city. So it seems that virtue is neither teachable nor natural, but comes by divine allotment to those who possess it.
DEMODOCUS
Translated by Jonathan Barnes.
What has come down to us under the title Demodocus seems to be a combination of two separate works: a monologue (addressed to Demodocus) which argues against collective decision-making (part I), and a trilogy of dialogues which raise doubts about three elements of common sense (parts II–IV). The trilogy may have been among the Platonic works said in antiquity to be ‘without a heading’, together with On Justice and On Virtue. At some point a scribe seems to have attached the trilogy to the end of Demodocus I by accident, which caused all subsequent copies to have the expanded format.
In Demodocus I, Socrates refuses Demodocus’ request to give advice on a matter soon to be discussed in a public meeting. He argues instead that the whole collective decision procedure (offering advice, listening to advice, and deciding the question by voting) is absurd. Both the content (which overlaps with that of Sisyphus) and the style of argument (which proceeds largely by dilemma) are Platonic enough, though the monologue form is unusual. The addressee, Demodocus, also appears in Theages, where he agrees with Socrates that advice is something sacred. The piece is probably later than mid-fourth century B.C., perhaps much later.
In Demodocus II–IV, the narrator (we are probably meant to assume that he is Socrates)
reports three conversations, between unnamed third parties, which call into question certain principles of common sense; he is left in doubt about these principles, a doubt which the reader is expected to share. The common-sense principles are plausible, but arguments in the other direction are developed in order to balance their plausibility and leave the reader with an open mind. This is a technique practiced by adherents of the Academy under the sceptical philosopher Arcesilaus and after, which suggests that the dialogues are from the middle of the third century B.C., or later.
D.S.H.
I
You invite me,1 Demodocus, to give you advice on the matters you are [380] meeting to discuss; but I am inclined rather to ask what is the point of your assembly and of the readiness of those who think to give you advice and of the vote which each of you intends to cast.
Suppose, on the one hand, that it is impossible to give good and informed advice on the matters you are meeting to discuss: then surely it is ridiculous [b] to meet to discuss matters on which it is impossible to give good advice. Suppose, on the other hand, that it is possible to give good and informed advice on such matters: then surely it would be absurd if there were no knowledge on the basis of which it is possible to give good and informed advice on these matters—and if there is some knowledge on the basis of which it is possible to give good advice about such matters, then there must be some people who in fact know how to give good advice on such matters; and if there are some people who know how to give advice on [c] the matters you are meeting to discuss, then necessarily in your own case either you know how to give advice on these matters, or you do not know how to do so, or else some of you know and others do not know. Now if you all know, why do you still need to meet to discuss the question? Each one of you is competent to give advice. If none of you know, then how can you discuss the question? And what will you gain from this assembly [d] if you cannot discuss the question? If some of you know and others do not know, and if the latter need advice, then—supposing that it is possible for a man of sense to give advice to those who are uninformed—surely one man is enough to give advice to those of you who lack knowledge?2 For presumably those who know how to give advice all give the same advice, so that you ought to hear one man and then be done with it. But this is not what you are actually doing: rather, you want to hear several advisers. You are assuming that those who are undertaking to give you advice do not know about the matters on which they are giving advice; for if you assumed that your advisers did know, then you would be [381] satisfied when you had heard just one of them. Now it is surely absurd to meet to hear people who do not know about these matters, with the thought that you will thereby gain something.
This, then, is what perplexes me about your assembly. As for the readiness of those who think to give you advice, there is the following perplexity.
Suppose that, although they are giving advice on the same matters, they do not give the same advice: then how can all of them be giving sound advice if they are not giving the advice given by someone who gives good [b] advice? And is it not absurd for people to be ready to give advice on matters about which they are uninformed? For if they are informed they will not choose to give advice which is not good. But if they give the same advice, why need they all give advice? It will be enough for one of them to give this advice.3 Now surely it is absurd to be ready to do something which will gain nothing. Thus the readiness of those who are uninformed [c] cannot fail to be absurd, given what it is; while men of sense will not be ready in such a case, knowing as they do that any one of their number will have the same effect if he gives advice as he ought to. Hence I am at a loss to discover how4 the readiness of those who think to give you advice can be anything but ridiculous.
I am particularly perplexed to grasp the point of the votes which you intend to cast. Are you judging men who know how to give advice?—No more than one of them will give advice, nor will they give different advice on the same matters. Hence you will not need to cast any votes about them. Or5 are you judging men who are uninformed and do not give the [d] advice they should?—You ought not to allow such people, any more than madmen, to give advice. But if you are going to judge neither the informed nor the uninformed, then who are you judging?
In any case, why need other men give you advice at all if you are competent to judge such matters? And if you are not competent, what is the point of your votes? Surely it is ridiculous for you to meet to take advice, [e] which implies that you need advice and are not yourselves competent, and then, having met, to think that you ought to vote, which implies that you are competent to judge. For it can hardly be the case that as individuals you are ignorant and yet having met you become wise; or that in private you are perplexed and yet having come to the same place you are no longer perplexed but become competent to see what you ought to do—all this without learning from anyone or finding things out for yourselves. This is the most extraordinary thing of all: given that you cannot see what [382] ought to be done, you will not be competent to judge anyone who gives you good advice on these matters. Nor will this adviser of yours, being just one man, say that he will teach you to see6 what you ought to do and also to judge those who give you bad or good advice, given that he has so little time and you are so numerous—this would plainly be no less extraordinary than the previous supposition. But if neither the meeting nor your adviser makes you competent to judge, what is the use of your votes?
Surely your meeting is inconsistent with your voting and your voting [b] with the readiness of your advisers? For your meeting implies that you are not competent but need advisers, while the casting of votes implies that you do not need advisers but are capable of judging and of giving advice. And the readiness of your advisers implies that they have knowledge, while your casting votes implies that the advisers do not have knowledge.
Moreover, suppose that, after you had voted and after he had given [c] you advice on whatever you were voting about, someone were to ask whether you knew if the goal for the sake of which you intended to put into action what you had voted on would come about: I do not think that you would say that you did know. Again, if the goal for the sake of which you intend to act were to come about, do you know that it would be in your interest? I do not think that either you or your adviser would say that you do. And if someone were to ask you further whether7 you thought that any man knew anything of these matters, I do not think you would admit that you did.
[d] Now when the sort of matters about which you are giving advice are unclear to you, and when the voters and the advisers are uninformed, it stands to reason, as you yourselves will agree, that men often lose confidence and change their minds about whatever they took advice on and voted about. But such a thing ought not to happen to good men. For they know what the matters on which they are giving advice are like, and that those whom they have persuaded will surely attain8 the goal for the sake of which they give advice, and that neither they nor those whom they [e] have persuaded will ever change their minds.
Thus I thought that it was proper9 for a sensible man to give advice on topics of this sort and not on the matters on which you invite me to give advice. For advice on the former topics ends in success, nonsense on the latter in failure.
II
I witnessed a man upbraiding his companion because he believed the plaintiff when he had not heard the defendant but only the plaintiff. He said that he was doing something appalling: he was condemning the man [383] in advance10 when he had neither witnessed the affair himself nor heard the man’s friends who had witnessed it and whose words he might reasonably trust; and, without hearing both sides he had rashly trusted11 the plaintiff. Justice required hearing the defendant, too, as well as the plaintiff, before giving praise or blame. How could anyone decide a case fairly or [b] judge men properly if he had not heard both parties? As with purple, or with gold coins, so with arguments it was good to judge by comparison. And why was time allotted to both parties, or why did the jurors swear to hear both impartially,
unless the lawgiver had thought that cases would be more justly and better judged by the jurors in this way?
“You seem to me not even to have heard the popular saying.”
[c] “Which one?” he asked.
“ ‘O, never judge in a case until you have heard both the stories’.12This would hardly circulate so widely if it were not a right and proper saying. So I advise you,” he said, “in the future not to blame or praise men so rashly.”
His companion replied that it seemed quite clear to him that it would be absurd if it were impossible to tell whether one speaker was speaking truly or falsely and yet possible to tell whether two speakers were; or if [d] it were impossible to learn from someone who spoke the truth and yet possible to be instructed in the same matters by the same man together with someone else who spoke falsely; or if one man who spoke correctly and truly could not make clear what he was saying and yet two men, one of whom spoke falsely and not correctly, could make clear what the man who spoke correctly could not make clear.
“I am perplexed,” he said, “by the following point too: how will they ever make the matter clear? By being silent or by speaking? If they make it clear by being silent, then there will be no need to hear either, let alone both. If they both make it clear by speaking and yet certainly do not both [e] speak together (each is required to speak in turn), how can they both make it clear at the same time? If they are both to make it clear at the same time, then they will speak at the same time—and this is not allowed. Hence if they make it clear by speaking, it can only be that each of them makes it clear by speaking, and that when each of them speaks, each of them then makes it clear. Hence one will speak first and the other second, and one will make it clear first and the other second. Yet if each in turn makes the same thing clear, why do you still need to hear the later speaker? The matter will already have been cleared up by the man who spoke first. [384] Moreover,” he said, “if both make it clear, then surely each of them makes it clear. For if one of a pair does not make something clear, how could they both make it clear? But if each of them makes it clear, plainly the one who13 speaks first will also make it clear first. So isn’t it possible to tell how things stand after listening to him alone?”14
Complete Works Page 259