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360 BC

PHAEDO

by Plato

translated by Benjamin Jowett

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE

PHAEDO, who is the narrator of the dialogue to ECHECRATES of Phlius

SOCRATES

APOLLODORUS

SIMMIAS

CEBES

CRITO

ATTENDANT OF THE PRISON

PHAEDO

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 esop, which

I had ready at hand and knew, and turned them into verse. Tell

Evenus this, and bid him be of good cheer; 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

were 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.

Plato - Phaedo.pdf

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