Chapter XI: Part 11

_Ech._ There I feel with you—by heaven I do, Phaedo, and
when you were speaking, I was beginning to ask myself the
same question: What argument can I ever trust again? For
what could be more convincing than the argument of Socrates,
which has now fallen into discredit? That the soul is a harmony
is a doctrine which has always had a wonderful attraction
for me, and, when mentioned, came back to me at once,
as my own original conviction. And now I must begin again
and find another argument which will assure me that when
the man is dead the soul survives. Tell me, I implore
you, how did Socrates proceed? Did he appear to share
the unpleasant feeling which you mention? or did he calmly
meet the attack? And did he answer forcibly or feebly?
Narrate what passed as exactly as you can.

[Sidenote: _Socrates comes to the rescue._]

[Sidenote: The wonderful manner in which Socrates soothes his disappointed hearers and rehabilitates the argument.]

_Phaed._ Often, Echecrates, I have wondered at Socrates,
but never more than on that occasion. That he should be 89
able to answer was nothing, but what astonished me was,
first, the gentle and pleasant and approving manner in which
he received the words of the young men, and then his quick
sense of the wound which had been inflicted by the argument,
and the readiness with which he healed it. He might be
compared to a general rallying his defeated and broken
army, urging them to accompany him and return to the field
of argument.

_Ech._ What followed?

_Phaed._ You shall hear, for I was close to him on his right
hand, seated on a sort of stool, and he on a couch which was
a good deal higher. He stroked my head, and pressed the
hair upon my neck—he had a way of playing with my hair;
and then he said: To-morrow, Phaedo, I suppose that these
fair locks of yours will be severed.

Yes, Socrates, I suppose that they will, I replied.

Not so, if you will take my advice.

What shall I do with them? I said.

To-day, he replied, and not to-morrow, if this argument dies
and we cannot bring it to life again, you and I will both
shave our locks: and if I were you, and the argument got
away from me, and I could not hold my ground against
Simmias and Cebes, I would myself take an oath, like the
Argives, not to wear hair any more until I had renewed the
conflict and defeated them.

Yes, I said; but Heracles himself is said not to be a match
for two.

Summon me then, he said, and I will be your Iolaus until
the sun goes down.

I summon you rather, I rejoined, not as Heracles summoning
Iolaus, but as Iolaus might summon Heracles.

That will do as well, he said. But first let us take care
that we avoid a danger.

[Sidenote: _We must not become misologists._]

Of what nature? I said.

[Sidenote: The danger of becoming haters of ideas greater than of becoming haters of men.]

Lest we become misologists, he replied: no worse thing
can happen to a man than this. For as there are misanthropists
or haters of men, there are also misologists or
haters of ideas, and both spring from the same cause, which
is ignorance of the world. Misanthropy arises out of the too
great confidence of inexperience;—you trust a man and think
him altogether true and sound and faithful, and then in a
little while he turns out to be false and knavish; and then
another and another, and when this has happened several
times to a man, especially when it happens among those
whom he deems to be his own most trusted and familiar
friends, and he has often quarrelled with them, he at last
hates all men, and believes that no one has any good in him
at all. You must have observed this trait of character?

I have.

[Sidenote: There are few very bad or very good men; (although bad arguments may be more numerous than bad men); the main point is that he who has been often deceived by either is apt to lose faith in them.]

And is not the feeling discreditable? Is it not obvious
that such an one having to deal with other men, was clearly
without any experience of human nature; for experience
would have taught him the true state of the case, that few are
the good and few the evil, and that the great majority are in 90
the interval between them.

What do you mean? I said.

I mean, he replied, as you might say of the very large and
very small—that nothing is more uncommon than a very
large or very small man; and this applies generally to all
extremes, whether of great and small, or swift and slow, or
fair and foul, or black and white: and whether the instances
you select be men or dogs or anything else, few are the
extremes, but many are in the mean between them. Did you
never observe this?

Yes, I said, I have.

And do you not imagine, he said, that if there were a competition
in evil, the worst would be found to be very few?

Yes, that is very likely, I said.

Yes, that is very likely, he replied; although in this
respect arguments are unlike men—there I was led on by
you to say more than I had intended; but the point of comparison
was, that when a simple man who has no skill in
dialectics believes an argument to be true which he afterwards
imagines to be false, whether really false or not, and then
another and another, he has no longer any faith left, and
great disputers, as you know, come to think at last that they
have grown to be the wisest of mankind; for they alone perceive
the utter unsoundness and instability of all arguments,
or indeed, of all things, which, like the currents in the
Euripus, are going up and down in never-ceasing ebb and
flow.

[Sidenote: _Avoid scepticism._]

That is quite true, I said.

Yes, Phaedo, he replied, and how melancholy, if there be
such a thing as truth or certainty or possibility of knowledge—that
a man should have lighted upon some argument or
other which at first seemed true and then turned out to be
false, and instead of blaming himself and his own want of
wit, because he is annoyed, should at last be too glad to
transfer the blame from himself to arguments in general: and
for ever afterwards should hate and revile them, and lose
truth and the knowledge of realities.

Yes, indeed, I said; that is very melancholy.

[Sidenote: Socrates, who is soon to die, has too much at stake on the argument to be a fair judge. Simmias and Cebes must help him to consider the matter impartially.]

Let us then, in the first place, he said, be careful of allowing
or of admitting into our souls the notion that there is no
health or soundness in any arguments at all. Rather say that
we have not yet attained to soundness in ourselves, and that
we must struggle manfully and do our best to gain health of
mind—you and all other men having regard to the whole of
your future life, and I myself in the prospect of death. For
at this moment I am sensible that I have not the temper of 91
a philosopher; like the vulgar, I am only a partisan. Now
the partisan, when he is engaged in a dispute, cares nothing
about the rights of the question, but is anxious only to convince
his hearers of his own assertions. And the difference
between him and me at the present moment is merely this—that
whereas he seeks to convince his hearers that what he
says is true, I am rather seeking to convince myself; to
convince my hearers is a secondary matter with me. And
do but see how much I gain by the argument. For if what I
say is true, then I do well to be persuaded of the truth; but
if there be nothing after death, still, during the short time
that remains, I shall not distress my friends with lamentations,
and my ignorance will not last, but will die with me,
and therefore no harm will be done. This is the state of
mind, Simmias and Cebes, in which I approach the argument.
And I would ask you to be thinking of the truth and not of
Socrates: agree with me, if I seem to you to be speaking the
truth; or if not, withstand me might and main, that I may
not deceive you as well as myself in my enthusiasm, and like
the bee, leave my sting in you before I die.

[Sidenote: _Simmias and Cebes reassured and answered._]

[Sidenote: Simmias and Cebes are inclined to fear that the soul may perish before the body, but they still hold to the doctrine of reminiscence.]

And now let us proceed, he said. And first of all let me
be sure that I have in my mind what you were saying.
Simmias, if I remember rightly, has fears and misgivings
whether the soul, although a fairer and diviner thing than
the body, being as she is in the form of harmony, may not
perish first. On the other hand, Cebes appeared to grant
that the soul was more lasting than the body, but he said that
no one could know whether the soul, after having worn out
many bodies, might not perish herself and leave her last
body behind her; and that this is death, which is the
destruction not of the body but of the soul, for in the body
the work of destruction is ever going on. Are not these,
Simmias and Cebes, the points which we have to consider?

They both agreed to this statement of them.

He proceeded: And did you deny the force of the whole
preceding argument, or of a part only?

Of a part only, they replied.

And what did you think, he said, of that part of the
argument in which we said that knowledge was recollection,
and hence inferred that the soul must have previously
existed somewhere else before she was enclosed in the 92
body?

Cebes said that he had been wonderfully impressed by that
part of the argument, and that his conviction remained
absolutely unshaken. Simmias agreed, and added that he
himself could hardly imagine the possibility of his ever
thinking differently.

[Sidenote: The elements of harmony are prior to harmony, but the body is not prior to the soul.]

But, rejoined Socrates, you will have to think differently,
my Theban friend, if you still maintain that harmony is a
compound, and that the soul is a harmony which is made out
of strings set in the frame of the body; for you will surely
never allow yourself to say that a harmony is prior to the
elements which compose it.

[Sidenote: _Harmony not prior to the elements of harmony._]

Never, Socrates.

But do you not see that this is what you imply when you
say that the soul existed before she took the form and body
of man, and was made up of elements which as yet had no
existence? For harmony is not like the soul, as you
suppose; but first the lyre, and the strings, and the sounds
exist in a state of discord, and then harmony is made last of
all, and perishes first. And how can such a notion of the
soul as this agree with the other?

Not at all, replied Simmias.

And yet, he said, there surely ought to be harmony in a
discourse of which harmony is the theme?

There ought, replied Simmias.

But there is no harmony, he said, in the two propositions
that knowledge is recollection, and that the soul is a harmony.
Which of them will you retain?

[Sidenote: Simmias acknowledges that his argument does not harmonize with the proposition that knowledge is recollection.]

I think, he replied, that I have a much stronger faith,
Socrates, in the first of the two, which has been fully
demonstrated to me, than in the latter, which has not been
demonstrated at all, but rests only on probable and plausible
grounds; and is therefore believed by the many. I know
too well that these arguments from probabilities are impostors,
and unless great caution is observed in the use of
them, they are apt to be deceptive—in geometry, and in
other things too. But the doctrine of knowledge and recollection
has been proven to me on trustworthy grounds: and
the proof was that the soul must have existed before she
came into the body, because to her belongs the essence of
which the very name implies existence. Having, as I am
convinced, rightly accepted this conclusion, and on sufficient
grounds, I must, as I suppose, cease to argue or allow others
to argue that the soul is a harmony.

Let me put the matter, Simmias, he said, in another point
of view: Do you imagine that a harmony or any other 93
composition can be in a state other than that of the elements,
out of which it is compounded?

Certainly not.

Or do or suffer anything other than they do or suffer?

He agreed.

Then a harmony does not, properly speaking, lead the
parts or elements which make up the harmony, but only
follows them.

[Sidenote: _Harmony is an effect, not a cause._]

He assented.

For harmony cannot possibly have any motion, or sound,
or other quality which is opposed to its parts.

That would be impossible, he replied.

And does not the nature of every harmony depend upon
the manner in which the elements are harmonized?

I do not understand you, he said.

[Sidenote: Harmony admits of degrees, but in the soul there are no degrees; and therefore there cannot be a soul or harmony within a soul.]

I mean to say that a harmony admits of degrees, and is
more of a harmony, and more completely a harmony, when
more truly and fully harmonized, to any extent which is
possible; and less of a harmony, and less completely a
harmony, when less truly and fully harmonized.

True.

But does the soul admit of degrees? or is one soul in the
very least degree more or less, or more or less completely, a
soul than another?

Not in the least.

Yet surely of two souls, one is said to have intelligence
and virtue, and to be good, and the other to have folly and
vice, and to be an evil soul: and this is said truly?

Yes, truly.

But what will those who maintain the soul to be a harmony
say of this presence of virtue and vice in the soul?—will
they say that here is another harmony, and another discord,
and that the virtuous soul is harmonized, and herself being
a harmony has another harmony within her, and that the
vicious soul is inharmonical and has no harmony within her?

I cannot tell, replied Simmias; but I suppose that something
of the sort would be asserted by those who say that
the soul is a harmony.

And we have already admitted that no soul is more a soul
than another; which is equivalent to admitting that harmony
is not more or less harmony, or more or less completely a
harmony?

Quite true.

And that which is not more or less a harmony is not more
or less harmonized?

True.

[Sidenote: _The soul not a harmony._]

And that which is not more or less harmonized cannot
have more or less of harmony, but only an equal harmony?

Yes, an equal harmony.

Then one soul not being more or less absolutely a soul
than another, is not more or less harmonized?

Exactly.

And therefore has neither more nor less of discord, nor
yet of harmony?

She has not.

And having neither more nor less of harmony or of discord,
one soul has no more vice or virtue than another, if
vice be discord and virtue harmony?

Not at all more.

Or speaking more correctly, Simmias, the soul, if she is a 94
harmony, will never have any vice; because a harmony,
being absolutely a harmony, has no part in the inharmonical.

No.

[Sidenote: If the soul is a harmony, all souls must be equally good.]

And therefore a soul which is absolutely a soul has no
vice?

How can she have, if the previous argument holds?

Then, if all souls are equally by their nature souls, all
souls of all living creatures will be equally good?

I agree with you, Socrates, he said.

And can all this be true, think you? he said; for these
are the consequences which seem to follow from the assumption
that the soul is a harmony?

It cannot be true.

Once more, he said, what ruler is there of the elements of
human nature other than the soul, and especially the wise
soul? Do you know of any?

Indeed, I do not.

And is the soul in agreement with the affections of the
body? or is she at variance with them? For example, when
the body is hot and thirsty, does not the soul incline us
against drinking? and when the body is hungry, against
eating? And this is only one instance out of ten thousand of
the opposition of the soul to the things of the body.

Very true.

[Sidenote: _Enough of Harmonia._]

But we have already acknowledged that the soul, being a
harmony, can never utter a note at variance with the tensions
and relaxations and vibrations and other affections of the
strings out of which she is composed; she can only follow,
she cannot lead them?

It must be so, he replied.

[Sidenote: The soul leads and does not follow. She constrains and reprimands the passions.]

And yet do we not now discover the soul to be doing the
exact opposite—leading the elements of which she is believed
to be composed; almost always opposing and coercing them
in all sorts of ways throughout life, sometimes more violently
with the pains of medicine and gymnastic; then again more
gently; now threatening, now admonishing the desires,
passions, fears, as if talking to a thing which is not herself,
as Homer in the Odyssey represents Odysseus doing in the
words—

‘He beat his breast, and thus reproached his heart:
Endure, my heart; far worse hast thou endured!’

Do you think that Homer wrote this under the idea that the
soul is a harmony capable of being led by the affections of
the body, and not rather of a nature which should lead and
master them—herself a far diviner thing than any harmony?

Yes, Socrates, I quite think so.

Then, my friend, we can never be right in saying that the
soul is a harmony, for we should contradict the divine 95
Homer, and contradict ourselves.

True, he said.

Thus much, said Socrates, of Harmonia, your Theban
goddess, who has graciously yielded to us; but what shall I
say, Cebes, to her husband Cadmus, and how shall I make
peace with him?

I think that you will discover a way of propitiating him,
said Cebes; I am sure that you have put the argument with
Harmonia in a manner that I could never have expected.
For when Simmias was mentioning his difficulty, I quite
imagined that no answer could be given to him, and therefore
I was surprised at finding that his argument could not
sustain the first onset of yours, and not impossibly the other,
whom you call Cadmus, may share a similar fate.

[Sidenote: Recapitulation of the argument of Cebes.]

[Sidenote: _Let us now proceed to the Theban Cadmus._]

Nay, my good friend, said Socrates, let us not boast, lest
some evil eye should put to flight the word which I am about
to speak. That, however, may be left in the hands of those
above; while I draw near in Homeric fashion, and try the
mettle of your words. Here lies the point:—You want to
have it proven to you that the soul is imperishable and immortal,
and the philosopher who is confident in death appears
to you to have but a vain and foolish confidence, if he believes
that he will fare better in the world below than one who has
led another sort of life, unless he can prove this: and you
say that the demonstration of the strength and divinity of
the soul, and of her existence prior to our becoming men,
does not necessarily imply her immortality. Admitting the
soul to be longlived, and to have known and done much in a
former state, still she is not on that account immortal; and
her entrance into the human form may be a sort of disease
which is the beginning of dissolution, and may at last, after
the toils of life are over, end in that which is called death.
And whether the soul enters into the body once only or
many times, does not, as you say, make any difference in
the fears of individuals. For any man, who is not devoid of
sense, must fear, if he has no knowledge and can give no
account of the soul’s immortality. This, or something like
this, I suspect to be your notion, Cebes; and I designedly
recur to it in order that nothing may escape us, and that
you may, if you wish, add or subtract anything.

But, said Cebes, as far as I see at present, I have nothing
to add or subtract: I mean what you say that I mean.

Socrates paused awhile, and seemed to be absorbed in
reflection. At length he said: You are raising a tremendous
question, Cebes, involving the whole nature of
generation and corruption, about which, if you like, I will 96
give you my own experience; and if anything which I say is
likely to avail towards the solution of your difficulty you may
make use of it.

I should very much like, said Cebes, to hear what you have
to say.

[Sidenote: The speculations of Socrates about physics made him forget the commonest things.]

[Sidenote: _Socrates incapable of enquiring into nature._]

Then I will tell you, said Socrates. When I was young,
Cebes, I had a prodigious desire to know that department of
philosophy which is called the investigation of nature; to
know the causes of things, and why a thing is and is
created or destroyed appeared to me to be a lofty profession;
and I was always agitating myself with the consideration
of questions such as these:—Is the growth of
animals the result of some decay which the hot and cold
principle contracts, as some have said? Is the blood the
element with which we think, or the air, or the fire? or
perhaps nothing of the kind—but the brain may be the
originating power of the perceptions of hearing and sight
and smell, and memory and opinion may come from them,
and science may be based on memory and opinion when they
have attained fixity. And then I went on to examine the
corruption of them, and then to the things of heaven and
earth, and at last I concluded myself to be utterly and absolutely
incapable of these enquiries, as I will satisfactorily
prove to you. For I was fascinated by them to such a degree
that my eyes grew blind to things which I had seemed to
myself, and also to others, to know quite well; I forgot what
I had before thought self-evident truths; e. g. such a fact as
that the growth of man is the result of eating and drinking;
for when by the digestion of food flesh is added to flesh and
bone to bone, and whenever there is an aggregation of congenial
elements, the lesser bulk becomes larger and the small
man great. Was not that a reasonable notion?

Yes, said Cebes, I think so.

[Sidenote: Difficulty of explaining relative notions.]

Well; but let me tell you something more. There was a
time when I thought that I understood the meaning of greater
and less pretty well; and when I saw a great man standing
by a little one, I fancied that one was taller than the other by
a head; or one horse would appear to be greater than
another horse: and still more clearly did I seem to perceive
that ten is two more than eight, and that two cubits are more
than one, because two is the double of one.

And what is now your notion of such matters? said Cebes.

I should be far enough from imagining, he replied, that I
knew the cause of any of them, by heaven I should; for I
cannot satisfy myself that, when one is added to one, the one
to which the addition is made becomes two, or that the two 97
units added together make two by reason of the addition. I
cannot understand how, when separated from the other, each
of them was one and not two, and now, when they are
brought together, the mere juxtaposition or meeting of them
should be the cause of their becoming two: neither can I
understand how the division of one is the way to make two;
for then a different cause would produce the same effect,—as
in the former instance the addition and juxtaposition of one
to one was the cause of two, in this the separation and subtraction
of one from the other would be the cause. Nor am
I any longer satisfied that I understand the reason why one
or anything else is either generated or destroyed or is at all,
but I have in my mind some confused notion of a new
method, and can never admit the other.

[Sidenote: _The inconsistency of Anaxagoras._]

[Sidenote: The great expectations which Socrates had from the doctrine of Anaxagoras, that all was Mind.]

Then I heard some one reading, as he said, from a book
of Anaxagoras, that mind was the disposer and cause of all,
and I was delighted at this notion, which appeared quite
admirable, and I said to myself: If mind is the disposer,
mind will dispose all for the best, and put each particular in
the best place; and I argued that if any one desired to find
out the cause of the generation or destruction or existence of
anything, he must find out what state of being or doing or
suffering was best for that thing, and therefore a man had only
to consider the best for himself and others, and then he
would also know the worse, since the same science comprehended
both. And I rejoiced to think that I had found in
Anaxagoras a teacher of the causes of existence such as I desired,
and I imagined that he would tell me first whether the
earth is flat or round; and whichever was true, he would
proceed to explain the cause and the necessity of this being
so, and then he would teach me the nature of the best and
show that this was best; and if he said that the earth was in
the centre, he would further explain that this position was
the best, and I should be satisfied with the explanation
given, and not want any other sort of cause. And I thought 98
that I would then go on and ask him about the sun and moon
and stars, and that he would explain to me their comparative
swiftness, and their returnings and various states, active and
passive, and how all of them were for the best. For I could
not imagine that when he spoke of mind as the disposer of
them, he would give any other account of their being as they
are, except that this was best; and I thought that when he
had explained to me in detail the cause of each and the
cause of all, he would go on to explain to me what was best
for each and what was good for all. These hopes I would
not have sold for a large sum of money, and I seized the
books and read them as fast as I could in my eagerness to
know the better and the worse.

[Sidenote: _Confusion of the causes and conditions of actions._]

[Sidenote: The greatness of his disappointment.]

What expectations I had formed, and how grievously was
I disappointed! As I proceeded, I found my philosopher
altogether forsaking mind or any other principle of order,
but having recourse to air, and ether, and water, and other
eccentricities. I might compare him to a person who began
by maintaining generally that mind is the cause of the
actions of Socrates, but who, when he endeavoured to explain
the causes of my several actions in detail, went on to
show that I sit here because my body is made up of bones
and muscles; and the bones, as he would say, are hard and
have joints which divide them, and the muscles are elastic,
and they cover the bones, which have also a covering or
environment of flesh and skin which contains them; and as
the bones are lifted at their joints by the contraction or
relaxation of the muscles, I am able to bend my limbs, and
this is why I am sitting here in a curved posture—that is
what he would say; and he would have a similar explanation
of my talking to you, which he would attribute to sound, and
air, and hearing, and he would assign ten thousand other
causes of the same sort, forgetting to mention the true cause,
which is, that the Athenians have thought fit to condemn me,
and accordingly I have thought it better and more right to
remain here and undergo my sentence; for I am inclined to
think that these muscles and bones of mine would have gone 99
off long ago to Megara or Boeotia—by the dog they would,
if they had been moved only by their own idea of what was
best, and if I had not chosen the better and nobler part,
instead of playing truant and running away, of enduring any
punishment which the state inflicts. There is surely a
strange confusion of causes and conditions in all this. It
may be said, indeed, that without bones and muscles and the
other parts of the body I cannot execute my purposes. But
to say that I do as I do because of them, and that this is the
way in which mind acts, and not from the choice of the best,
is a very careless and idle mode of speaking. I wonder that
they cannot distinguish the cause from the condition, which
the many, feeling about in the dark, are always mistaking
and misnaming. And thus one man makes a vortex all
round, and steadies the earth by the heaven; another gives
the air as a support to the earth, which is a sort of broad
trough. Any power which in arranging them as they are
arranges them for the best never enters into their minds;
and instead of finding any superior strength in it, they rather
expect to discover another Atlas of the world who is stronger
and more everlasting and more containing than the good;—of
the obligatory and containing power of the good they think
nothing; and yet this is the principle which I would fain
learn if any one would teach me. But as I have failed either
to discover myself, or to learn of any one else, the nature of
the best, I will exhibit to you, if you like, what I have found
to be the second best mode of enquiring into the cause.

I should very much like to hear, he replied.

[Sidenote: _The power of the best._]

[Sidenote: The eye of the soul.]

[Sidenote: The abstract as plain or plainer than the concrete.]

Socrates proceeded:—I thought that as I had failed in the
contemplation of true existence, I ought to be careful that I
did not lose the eye of my soul; as people may injure their
bodily eye by observing and gazing on the sun during an
eclipse, unless they take the precaution of only looking at
the image reflected in the water, or in some similar medium.
So in my own case, I was afraid that my soul might be
blinded altogether if I looked at things with my eyes or tried
to apprehend them by the help of the senses. And I thought
that I had better have recourse to the world of mind and
seek there the truth of existence. I dare say that the simile 100
is not perfect—for I am very far from admitting that he who
contemplates existences through the medium of thought, sees
them only ‘through a glass darkly,’ any more than he who
considers them in action and operation. However, this was
the method which I adopted: I first assumed some principle
which I judged to be the strongest, and then I affirmed as
true whatever seemed to agree with this, whether relating to
the cause or to anything else; and that which disagreed I regarded
as untrue. But I should like to explain my meaning
more clearly, as I do not think that you as yet understand
me.

No indeed, replied Cebes, not very well.

[Sidenote: _The ideas._]

[Sidenote: If the ideas have an absolute existence, the soul is immortal.]

There is nothing new, he said, in what I am about to tell
you; but only what I have been always and everywhere
repeating in the previous discussion and on other occasions:
I want to show you the nature of that cause which has
occupied my thoughts. I shall have to go back to those
familiar words which are in the mouth of every one, and first
of all assume that there is an absolute beauty and goodness
and greatness, and the like; grant me this, and I hope to be
able to show you the nature of the cause, and to prove the
immortality of the soul.

Cebes said: You may proceed at once with the proof, for
I grant you this.

Well, he said, then I should like to know whether you
agree with me in the next step; for I cannot help thinking,
if there be anything beautiful other than absolute beauty
should there be such, that it can be beautiful only in so far
as it partakes of absolute beauty—and I should say the same
of everything. Do you agree in this notion of the cause?

Yes, he said, I agree.

[Sidenote: All things exist by participation in general ideas.]

He proceeded: I know nothing and can understand
nothing of any other of those wise causes which are alleged;
and if a person says to me that the bloom of colour, or form,
or any such thing is a source of beauty, I leave all that,
which is only confusing to me, and simply and singly, and
perhaps foolishly, hold and am assured in my own mind that
nothing makes a thing beautiful but the presence and
participation of beauty in whatever way or manner obtained;
for as to the manner I am uncertain, but I stoutly contend
that by beauty all beautiful things become beautiful. This
appears to me to be the safest answer which I can give,
either to myself or to another, and to this I cling, in the
persuasion that this principle will never be overthrown, and
that to myself or to any one who asks the question, I may safely
reply, That by beauty beautiful things become beautiful. Do
you not agree with me?

I do.

And that by greatness only great things become great and
greater greater, and by smallness the less become less?

True.

[Sidenote: We thus escape certain contradictions of relation.]

[Sidenote: _The puzzles of relation._]

Then if a person were to remark that A is taller by a head
than B, and B less by a head than A, you would refuse to 101
admit his statement, and would stoutly contend that what
you mean is only that the greater is greater by, and by
reason of, greatness, and the less is less only by, and by
reason of, smallness; and thus you would avoid the danger
of saying that the greater is greater and the less less by the
measure of the head, which is the same in both, and would
also avoid the monstrous absurdity of supposing that the
greater man is greater by reason of the head, which is small.
You would be afraid to draw such an inference, would
you not?

Indeed, I should, said Cebes, laughing.

In like manner you would be afraid to say that ten
exceeded eight by, and by reason of, two; but would
say by, and by reason of, number; or you would say
that two cubits exceed one cubit not by a half, but by
magnitude?—for there is the same liability to error in all
these cases.

Very true, he said.

Again, would you not be cautious of affirming that the
addition of one to one, or the division of one, is the cause of
two? And you would loudly asseverate that you know of no
way in which anything comes into existence except by participation
in its own proper essence, and consequently, as far
as you know, the only cause of two is the participation in
duality—this is the way to make two, and the participation in
one is the way to make one. You would say: I will let
alone puzzles of division and addition—wiser heads than
mine may answer them; inexperienced as I am, and ready to
start, as the proverb says, at my own shadow, I cannot afford
to give up the sure ground of a principle. And if any one
assails you there, you would not mind him, or answer him,
until you had seen whether the consequences which follow
agree with one another or not, and when you are further
required to give an explanation of this principle, you would
go on to assume a higher principle, and a higher, until you
found a resting-place in the best of the higher; but you
would not confuse the principle and the consequences in
your reasoning, like the Eristics—at least if you wanted to
discover real existence. Not that this confusion signifies to
them, who never care or think about the matter at all, for
they have the wit to be well pleased with themselves however
great may be the turmoil of their ideas. But you, if you are 102
a philosopher, will certainly do as I say.

[Sidenote: _The effect of the argument on the company._]

What you say is most true, said Simmias and Cebes, both
speaking at once.

_Ech._ Yes, Phaedo; and I do not wonder at their assenting.
Any one who has the least sense will acknowledge the
wonderful clearness of Socrates’ reasoning.

_Phaed._ Certainly, Echecrates; and such was the feeling
of the whole company at the time.

_Ech._ Yes, and equally of ourselves, who were not of the
company, and are now listening to your recital. But what
followed?

_Phaed._ After all this had been admitted, and they had
agreed that ideas exist, and that other things participate in
them and derive their names from them, Socrates, if I
remember rightly, said:—

[Sidenote: There may still remain the contradiction of the same person being both greater and less, but this is only because he has greatness or smallness relatively to another person.]

This is your way of speaking; and yet when you say that
Simmias is greater than Socrates and less than Phaedo, do
you not predicate of Simmias both greatness and smallness?

Yes, I do.

But still you allow that Simmias does not really exceed
Socrates, as the words may seem to imply, because he is
Simmias, but by reason of the size which he has; just as
Simmias does not exceed Socrates because he is Simmias,
any more than because Socrates is Socrates, but because
he has smallness when compared with the greatness of
Simmias?

True.

And if Phaedo exceeds him in size, this is not because
Phaedo is Phaedo, but because Phaedo has greatness relatively
to Simmias, who is comparatively smaller?

That is true.

And therefore Simmias is said to be great, and is also
said to be small, because he is in a mean between them,
exceeding the smallness of the one by his greatness, and
allowing the greatness of the other to exceed his smallness.
He added, laughing, I am speaking like a book, but I
believe that what I am saying is true.

Simmias assented.

[Sidenote: _Greatness absolute and relative._]

[Sidenote: The idea of greatness can never be small; and the greatness in us drives out smallness.]

I speak as I do because I want you to agree with me in
thinking, not only that absolute greatness will never be
great and also small, but that greatness in us or in the concrete
will never admit the small or admit of being exceeded:
instead of this, one of two things will happen, either the
greater will fly or retire before the opposite, which is the
less, or at the approach of the less has already ceased to
exist; but will not, if allowing or admitting of smallness, be
changed by that; even as I, having received and admitted
smallness when compared with Simmias, remain just as I
was, and am the same small person. And as the idea of
greatness cannot condescend ever to be or become small, in
like manner the smallness in us cannot be or become great;
nor can any other opposite which remains the same ever
be or become its own opposite, but either passes away or 103
perishes in the change.

That, replied Cebes, is quite my notion.

[Sidenote: Yet the greater comes from the less, and the less from the greater.]

Hereupon one of the company, though I do not exactly
remember which of them, said: In heaven’s name, is not
this the direct contrary of what was admitted before—that
out of the greater came the less and out of the less the
greater, and that opposites were simply generated from
opposites; but now this principle seems to be utterly denied.

[Sidenote: Distinguish:—The things in which the opposites inhere generate into and out of one another: never the opposites themselves.]

Socrates inclined his head to the speaker and listened. I
like your courage, he said, in reminding us of this. But
you do not observe that there is a difference in the two
cases. For then we were speaking of opposites in the
concrete, and now of the essential opposite which, as is
affirmed, neither in us nor in nature can ever be at variance
with itself; then, my friend, we were speaking of things in
which opposites are inherent and which are called after
them, but now about the opposites which are inherent in
them and which give their name to them; and these
essential opposites will never, as we maintain, admit of
generation into or out of one another. At the same time,
turning to Cebes, he said: Are you at all disconcerted,
Cebes, at our friend’s objection?

No, I do not feel so, said Cebes; and yet I cannot deny
that I am often disturbed by objections.

Then we are agreed after all, said Socrates, that the opposite
will never in any case be opposed to itself?

[Sidenote: _A seeming contradiction solved._]

To that we are quite agreed, he replied.

[Sidenote: Snow may be converted into water at the approach of heat, but not cold into heat.]

Yet once more let me ask you to consider the question
from another point of view, and see whether you agree with
me:—There is a thing which you term heat, and another
thing which you term cold?

Certainly.

But are they the same as fire and snow?

Most assuredly not.

Heat is a thing different from fire, and cold is not the
same with snow?

Yes.

And yet you will surely admit, that when snow, as was
before said, is under the influence of heat, they will not
remain snow and heat; but at the advance of the heat, the
snow will either retire or perish?

Very true, he replied.

And the fire too at the advance of the cold will either
retire or perish; and when the fire is under the influence of
the cold, they will not remain as before, fire and cold.

That is true, he said.

And in some cases the name of the idea is not only
attached to the idea in an eternal connection, but anything
else which, not being the idea, exists only in the form of the
idea, may also lay claim to it. I will try to make this
clearer by an example:—The odd number is always called
by the name of odd?

Very true.

But is this the only thing which is called odd? Are there
not other things which have their own name, and yet are 104
called odd, because, although not the same as oddness, they
are never without oddness?—that is what I mean to ask—whether
numbers such as the number three are not of the
class of odd. And there are many other examples: would
you not say, for example, that three may be called by its
proper name, and also be called odd, which is not the same
with three? and this may be said not only of three but also
of five, and of every alternate number—each of them without
being oddness is odd; and in the same way two and four,
and the other series of alternate numbers, has every number
even, without being evenness. Do you agree?

[Sidenote: _Essential opposites and things which admit opposites._]

Of course.

[Sidenote: Not only essential opposites, but some concrete things which contain opposites, exclude each other.]

Then now mark the point at which I am aiming:—not
only do essential opposites exclude one another, but also
concrete things, which, although not in themselves opposed,
contain opposites; these, I say, likewise reject the idea
which is opposed to that which is contained in them, and
when it approaches them they either perish or withdraw.
For example; Will not the number three endure annihilation
or anything sooner than be converted into an even number,
while remaining three?

Very true, said Cebes.

And yet, he said, the number two is certainly not opposed
to the number three?

It is not.

Then not only do opposite ideas repel the advance of one
another, but also there are other natures which repel the
approach of opposites.

Very true, he said.

Suppose, he said, that we endeavour, if possible, to determine
what these are.

By all means.

[Sidenote: That is to say the opposites which give an impress to other things.]

Are they not, Cebes, such as compel the things of which
they have possession, not only to take their own form, but
also the form of some opposite?

What do you mean?

I mean, as I was just now saying, and as I am sure that
you know, that those things which are possessed by the
number three must not only be three in number, but must
also be odd.

Quite true.

And on this oddness, of which the number three has the
impress, the opposite idea will never intrude?

No.

And this impress was given by the odd principle?

Yes.

And to the odd is opposed the even?

True.

Then the idea of the even number will never arrive at
three?

No.

[Sidenote: _Recapitulation._]

Then three has no part in the even?

None.

Then the triad or number three is uneven?

Very true.

[Sidenote: Natures may not be opposed, and yet may not admit of opposites; e. g. three is not opposed to two, and yet does not admit the even any more than two admits of the odd.]

To return then to my distinction of natures which are
not opposed, and yet do not admit opposites—as, in the
instance given, three, although not opposed to the even,
does not any the more admit of the even, but always brings
the opposite into play on the other side; or as two does not
receive the odd, or fire the cold—from these examples (and 105
there are many more of them) perhaps you may be able to
arrive at the general conclusion, that not only opposites will
not receive opposites, but also that nothing which brings the
opposite will admit the opposite of that which it brings, in
that to which it is brought. And here let me recapitulate—for
there is no harm in repetition. The number five will
not admit the nature of the even, any more than ten, which
is the double of five, will admit the nature of the odd. The
double has another opposite, and is not strictly opposed to
the odd, but nevertheless rejects the odd altogether. Nor
again will parts in the ratio 3:2, nor any fraction in which
there is a half, nor again in which there is a third, admit
the notion of the whole, although they are not opposed to
the whole: You will agree?

Yes, he said, I entirely agree and go along with you in that.

[Sidenote: The merely verbal truth may be replaced by a higher one.]

And now, he said, let us begin again; and do not you
answer my question in the words in which I ask it: let me
have not the old safe answer of which I spoke at first, but
another equally safe, of which the truth will be inferred by
you from what has been just said. I mean that if any one
asks you ‘what that is, of which the inherence makes the
body hot,’ you will reply not heat (this is what I call the
safe and stupid answer), but fire, a far superior answer,
which we are now in a condition to give. Or if any one
asks you ‘why a body is diseased,’ you will not say from
disease, but from fever; and instead of saying that oddness
is the cause of odd numbers, you will say that the monad is
the cause of them: and so of things in general, as I dare
say that you will understand sufficiently without my adducing
any further examples.

[Sidenote: _Application of the argument to the soul._]

Yes, he said, I quite understand you.

Tell me, then, what is that of which the inherence will
render the body alive?

[Sidenote: We may now say, not life makes alive, but the soul makes alive; and the soul has a life-giving power which does not admit of death and is therefore immortal.]

The soul, he replied.

And is this always the case?

Yes, he said, of course.

Then whatever the soul possesses, to that she comes
bearing life?

Yes, certainly.

And is there any opposite to life?

There is, he said.

And what is that?

Death.

Then the soul, as has been acknowledged, will never
receive the opposite of what she brings.

Impossible, replied Cebes.

And now, he said, what did we just now call that principle
which repels the even?

The odd.

And that principle which repels the musical or the just?

The unmusical, he said, and the unjust.

And what do we call that principle which does not admit
of death?

The immortal, he said.

And does the soul admit of death?

No.

Then the soul is immortal?

Yes, he said.

And may we say that this has been proven?

Yes, abundantly proven, Socrates, he replied.

[Sidenote: Illustrations.]

Supposing that the odd were imperishable, must not three 106
be imperishable?

Of course.

And if that which is cold were imperishable, when the
warm principle came attacking the snow, must not the snow
have retired whole and unmelted—for it could never have
perished, nor could it have remained and admitted the heat?

True, he said.

Again, if the uncooling or warm principle were imperishable,
the fire when assailed by cold would not have perished
or have been extinguished, but would have gone away unaffected?

Certainly, he said.

[Sidenote: _The mortal and immortal principles._]

And the same may be said of the immortal: if the immortal
is also imperishable, the soul when attacked by death cannot
perish; for the preceding argument shows that the soul will
not admit of death, or ever be dead, any more than three or
the odd number will admit of the even, or fire, or the heat in
the fire, of the cold. Yet a person may say: ‘But although
the odd will not become even at the approach of the even,
why may not the odd perish and the even take the place of
the odd?’ Now to him who makes this objection, we cannot
answer that the odd principle is imperishable; for this has
not been acknowledged, but if this had been acknowledged,
there would have been no difficulty in contending that at the
approach of the even the odd principle and the number three
took their departure; and the same argument would have
held good of fire and heat and any other thing.

Very true.

[Sidenote: The immortal is imperishable, and therefore the soul is imperishable.]

And the same may be said of the immortal: if the immortal
is also imperishable, then the soul will be imperishable as well
as immortal; but if not, some other proof of her imperishableness
will have to be given.

No other proof is needed, he said; for if the immortal, being
eternal, is liable to perish, then nothing is imperishable.