No More Learning

Doubtless some good thing, O men of Athens,
if he has his reward; and the good should be of a kind suitable to
him. What would be a reward suitable to a poor man who is your benefactor,
who desires leisure that he may instruct you? There can be no more
fitting reward than maintenance in the Prytaneum, O men of Athens,
a reward which he deserves far more than the citizen who has won the
prize at Olympia in the horse or chariot race, whether the chariots
were drawn by two horses or by many. For I am in want, and he has
enough; and he only gives you the appearance of happiness, and I give
you the reality. And if I am to estimate the penalty justly, I say
that maintenance in the Prytaneum is the just return.

Perhaps you may think that I am braving you in saying this, as in
what I said before about the tears and prayers. But that is not the
case. I speak rather because I am convinced that I never intentionally
wronged anyone, although I cannot convince you of that - for we have
had a short conversation only; but if there were a law at Athens,
such as there is in other cities, that a capital cause should not
be decided in one day, then I believe that I should have convinced
you; but now the time is too short. I cannot in a moment refute great
slanders; and, as I am convinced that I never wronged another, I will
assuredly not wrong myself. I will not say of myself that I deserve
any evil, or propose any penalty. Why should I? Because I am afraid
of the penalty of death which Meletus proposes? When I do not know
whether death is a good or an evil, why should I propose a penalty
which would certainly be an evil? Shall I say imprisonment? And why
should I live in prison, and be the slave of the magistrates of the
year - of the Eleven? Or shall the penalty be a fine, and imprisonment
until the fine is paid? There is the same objection. I should have
to lie in prison, for money I have none, and I cannot pay. And if
I say exile (and this may possibly be the penalty which you will affix),
I must indeed be blinded by the love of life if I were to consider
that when you, who are my own citizens, cannot endure my discourses
and words, and have found them so grievous and odious that you would
fain have done with them, others are likely to endure me. No, indeed,
men of Athens, that is not very likely. And what a life should I lead,
at my age, wandering from city to city, living in ever-changing exile,
and always being driven out! For I am quite sure that into whatever
place I go, as here so also there, the young men will come to me;
and if I drive them away, their elders will drive me out at their
desire: and if I let them come, their fathers and friends will drive
me out for their sakes.

Someone will say: Yes, Socrates, but cannot you hold your tongue,
and then you may go into a foreign city, and no one will interfere
with you? Now I have great difficulty in making you understand my
answer to this. For if I tell you that this would be a disobedience
to a divine command, and therefore that I cannot hold my tongue, you
will not believe that I am serious; and if I say again that the greatest
good of man is daily to converse about virtue, and all that concerning
which you hear me examining myself and others, and that the life which
is unexamined is not worth living - that you are still less likely
to believe. And yet what I say is true, although a thing of which
it is hard for me to persuade you. Moreover, I am not accustomed to
think that I deserve any punishment. Had I money I might have proposed
to give you what I had, and have been none the worse. But you see
that I have none, and can only ask you to proportion the fine to my
means. However, I think that I could afford a minae, and therefore
I propose that penalty; Plato, Crito, Critobulus, and Apollodorus,
my friends here, bid me say thirty minae, and they will be the sureties.
Well then, say thirty minae, let that be the penalty; for that they
will be ample security to you.

(The jury condemns Socrates to death. )

Socrates' Comments on his Sentence

Not much time will be gained, O Athenians, in return for the evil
name which you will get from the detractors of the city, who will
say that you killed Socrates, a wise man; for they will call me wise
even although I am not wise when they want to reproach you. If you
had waited a little while, your desire would have been fulfilled in
the course of nature. For I am far advanced in years, as you may perceive,
and not far from death. I am speaking now only to those of you who
have condemned me to death. And I have another thing to say to them:
You think that I was convicted through deficiency of words - I mean,
that if I had thought fit to leave nothing undone, nothing unsaid,
I might have gained an acquittal. Not so; the deficiency which led
to my conviction was not of words - certainly not. But I had not the
boldness or impudence or inclination to address you as you would have
liked me to address you, weeping and wailing and lamenting, and saying
and doing many things which you have been accustomed to hear from
others, and which, as I say, are unworthy of me. But I thought that
I ought not to do anything common or mean in the hour of danger: nor
do I now repent of the manner of my defence, and I would rather die
having spoken after my manner, than speak in your manner and live.
For neither in war nor yet at law ought any man to use every way of
escaping death. For often in battle there is no doubt that if a man
will throw away his arms, and fall on his knees before his pursuers,
he may escape death; and in other dangers there are other ways of
escaping death, if a man is willing to say and do anything. The difficulty,
my friends, is not in avoiding death, but in avoiding unrighteousness;
for that runs faster than death. I am old and move slowly, and the
slower runner has overtaken me, and my accusers are keen and quick,
and the faster runner, who is unrighteousness, has overtaken them.
And now I depart hence condemned by you to suffer the penalty of death,
and they, too, go their ways condemned by the truth to suffer the
penalty of villainy and wrong; and I must abide by my award - let
them abide by theirs. I suppose that these things may be regarded
as fated, - and I think that they are well.

And now, O men who have condemned me, I would fain prophesy to you;
for I am about to die, and that is the hour in which men are gifted
with prophetic power. And I prophesy to you who are my murderers,
that immediately after my death punishment far heavier than you have
inflicted on me will surely await you. Me you have killed because
you wanted to escape the accuser, and not to give an account of your
lives. But that will not be as you suppose: far otherwise. For I say
that there will be more accusers of you than there are now; accusers
whom hitherto I have restrained: and as they are younger they will
be more severe with you, and you will be more offended at them. For
if you think that by killing men you can avoid the accuser censuring
your lives, you are mistaken; that is not a way of escape which is
either possible or honorable; the easiest and noblest way is not to
be crushing others, but to be improving yourselves. This is the prophecy
which I utter before my departure, to the judges who have condemned
me.

Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would like also to talk with
you about this thing which has happened, while the magistrates are
busy, and before I go to the place at which I must die. Stay then
awhile, for we may as well talk with one another while there is time.
You are my friends, and I should like to show you the meaning of this
event which has happened to me. O my judges - for you I may truly
call judges - I should like to tell you of a wonderful circumstance.
Hitherto the familiar oracle within me has constantly been in the
habit of opposing me even about trifles, if I was going to make a
slip or error about anything; and now as you see there has come upon
me that which may be thought, and is generally believed to be, the
last and worst evil. But the oracle made no sign of opposition, either
as I was leaving my house and going out in the morning, or when I
was going up into this court, or while I was speaking, at anything
which I was going to say; and yet I have often been stopped in the
middle of a speech; but now in nothing I either said or did touching
this matter has the oracle opposed me. What do I take to be the explanation
of this? I will tell you. I regard this as a proof that what has happened
to me is a good, and that those of us who think that death is an evil
are in error. This is a great proof to me of what I am saying, for
the customary sign would surely have opposed me had I been going to
evil and not to good.

Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that there is great
reason to hope that death is a good, for one of two things: - either
death is a state of nothingness and utter unconsciousness, or, as
men say, there is a change and migration of the soul from this world
to another. Now if you suppose that there is no consciousness, but
a sleep like the sleep of him who is undisturbed even by the sight
of dreams, death will be an unspeakable gain. For if a person were
to select the night in which his sleep was undisturbed even by dreams,
and were to compare with this the other days and nights of his life,
and then were to tell us how many days and nights he had passed in
the course of his life better and more pleasantly than this one, I
think that any man, I will not say a private man, but even the great
king, will not find many such days or nights, when compared with the
others. Now if death is like this, I say that to die is gain; for
eternity is then only a single night. But if death is the journey
to another place, and there, as men say, all the dead are, what good,
O my friends and judges, can be greater than this? If indeed when
the pilgrim arrives in the world below, he is delivered from the professors
of justice in this world, and finds the true judges who are said to
give judgment there, Minos and Rhadamanthus and Aeacus and Triptolemus,
and other sons of God who were righteous in their own life, that pilgrimage
will be worth making. What would not a man give if he might converse
with Orpheus and Musaeus and Hesiod and Homer? Nay, if this be true,
let me die again and again. I, too, shall have a wonderful interest
in a place where I can converse with Palamedes, and Ajax the son of
Telamon, and other heroes of old, who have suffered death through
an unjust judgment; and there will be no small pleasure, as I think,
in comparing my own sufferings with theirs. Above all, I shall be
able to continue my search into true and false knowledge; as in this
world, so also in that; I shall find out who is wise, and who pretends
to be wise, and is not. What would not a man give, O judges, to be
able to examine the leader of the great Trojan expedition; or Odysseus
or Sisyphus, or numberless others, men and women too! What infinite
delight would there be in conversing with them and asking them questions!
For in that world they do not put a man to death for this; certainly
not. For besides being happier in that world than in this, they will
be immortal, if what is said is true.

Wherefore, O judges, be of good cheer about death, and know this of
a truth - that no evil can happen to a good man, either in life or
after death. He and his are not neglected by the gods; nor has my
own approaching end happened by mere chance. But I see clearly that
to die and be released was better for me; and therefore the oracle
gave no sign. For which reason also, I am not angry with my accusers,
or my condemners; they have done me no harm, although neither of them
meant to do me any good; and for this I may gently blame them.

Still I have a favor to ask of them. When my sons are grown up, I
would ask you, O my friends, to punish them; and I would have you
trouble them, as I have troubled you, if they seem to care about riches,
or anything, more than about virtue; or if they pretend to be something
when they are really nothing, - then reprove them, as I have reproved
you, for not caring about that for which they ought to care, and thinking
that they are something when they are really nothing. And if you do
this, I and my sons will have received justice at your hands.

The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways - I to die,
and you to live. Which is better God only knows.

THE END

---

Charmides, or Temperance
By Plato


Translated by Benjamin Jowett

Persons of the Dialogue
SOCRATES, who is the narrator
CHARMIDES
CHAEREPHON
CRITIAS

Scene
The Palaestra of Taureas, which is near the Porch of the King
Archon.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Yesterday evening I returned from the army at Potidaea, and having
been a good while away, I thought that I should like to go and look
at my old haunts. So I went into the palaestra of Taureas, which is
over against the temple adjoining the porch of the King Archon, and
there I found a number of persons, most of whom I knew, but not all.
My visit was unexpected, and no sooner did they see me entering than
they saluted me from afar on all sides; and Chaerephon, who is a kind
of madman, started up and ran to me, seizing my hand, and saying,
How did you escape, Socrates? -(I should explain that an engagement
had taken place at Potidaea not long before we came away, of which
the news had only just reached Athens. )

You see, I replied, that here I am.
There was a report, he said, that the engagement was very severe,
and that many of our acquaintance had fallen.

That, I replied, was not far from the truth.
I suppose, he said, that you were present.
I was.
Then sit down, and tell us the whole story, which as yet we have only
heard imperfectly.

I took the place which he assigned to me, by the side of Critias the
son of Callaeschrus, and when I had saluted him and the rest of the
company, I told them the news from the army, and answered their several
enquiries.

Then, when there had been enough of this, I, in my turn, began to
make enquiries about matters at home-about the present state of philosophy,
and about the youth. I asked whether any of them were remarkable for
wisdom or beauty, or both. Critias, glancing at the door, invited
my attention to some youths who were coming in, and talking noisily
to one another, followed by a crowd. Of the beauties, Socrates, he
said, I fancy that you will soon be able to form a judgment. For those
who are just entering are the advanced guard of the great beauty,
as he is thought to be, of the day, and he is likely to be not far
off himself.

Who is he, I said; and who is his father?
Charmides, he replied, is his name; he is my cousin, and the son of
my uncle Glaucon: I rather think that you know him too, although he
was not grown up at the time of your departure.

Certainly, I know him, I said, for he was remarkable even then when
he was still a child, and I should imagine that by this time he must
be almost a young man.

You will see, he said, in a moment what progress he has made and what
he is like. He had scarcely said the word, when Charmides entered.

Now you know, my friend, that I cannot measure anything, and of the
beautiful, I am simply such a measure as a white line is of chalk;
for almost all young persons appear to be beautiful in my eyes. But
at that moment, when I saw him coming in, I confess that I was quite
astonished at his beauty and stature; all the world seemed to be enamoured
of him; amazement and confusion reigned when he entered; and a troop
of lovers followed him. That grown-up men like ourselves should have
been affected in this way was not surprising, but I observed that
there was the same feeling among the boys; all of them, down to the
very least child, turned and looked at him, as if he had been a statue.

Chaerephon called me and said: What do you think of him, Socrates?
Has he not a beautiful face?

Most beautiful, I said.
But you would think nothing of his face, he replied, if you could
see his naked form: he is absolutely perfect.

And to this they all agreed.
By Heracles, I said, there never was such a paragon, if he has only
one other slight addition.

What is that? said Critias.
If he has a noble soul; and being of your house, Critias, he may be
expected to have this.

He is as fair and good within, as he is without, replied Critias.

Then, before we see his body, should we not ask him to show us his
soul, naked and undisguised? he is just of an age at which he will
like to talk.

That he will, said Critias, and I can tell you that he is a philosopher
already, and also a considerable poet, not in his own opinion only,
but in that of others.

That, my dear Critias, I replied, is a distinction which has long
been in your family, and is inherited by you from Solon. But why do
you not call him, and show him to us? for even if he were younger
than he is, there could be no impropriety in his talking to us in
the presence of you, who are his guardian and cousin.

Very well, he said; then I will call him; and turning to the attendant,
he said, Call Charmides, and tell him that I want him to come and
see a physician about the illness of which he spoke to me the day
before yesterday. Then again addressing me, he added: He has been
complaining lately of having a headache when he rises in the morning:
now why should you not make him believe that you know a cure for the
headache?

Why not, I said; but will he come?
He will be sure to come, he replied.
He came as he was bidden, and sat down between Critias and me. Great
amusement was occasioned by every one pushing with might and main
at his neighbour in order to make a place for him next to themselves,
until at the two ends of the row one had to get up and the other was
rolled over sideways. Now my friend, was beginning to feel awkward;
former bold belief in my powers of conversing with him had vanished.
And when Critias told him that I was the person who had the cure,
he looked at me in such an indescribable manner, and was just going
to ask a question. And at that moment all the people in the palaestra
crowded about us, and, O rare! I caught a sight of the inwards of
his garment, and took the flame. Then I could no longer contain myself.
I thought how well Cydias understood the nature of love, when, in
speaking of a fair youth, he warns some one "not to bring the fawn
in the sight of the lion to be devoured by him," for I felt that I
had been overcome by a sort of wild-beast appetite. But I controlled
myself, and when he asked me if I knew the cure of the headache, I
answered, but with an effort, that I did know.

And what is it? he said.
I replied that it was a kind of leaf, which required to be accompanied
by a charm, and if a person would repeat the charm at the same time
that he used the cure, he would be made whole; but that without the
charm the leaf would be of no avail.

Then I will write out the charm from your dictation, he said.

With my consent? I said, or without my consent?
With your consent, Socrates, he said, laughing.
Very good, I said; and are you quite sure that you know my name?

I ought to know you, he replied, for there is a great deal said about
you among my companions; and I remember when I was a child seeing
you in company with my cousin Critias.

I am glad to find that you remember me, I said; for I shall now be
more at home with you and shall be better able to explain the nature
of the charm, about which I felt a difficulty before. For the charm
will do more, Charmides, than only cure the headache. I dare say that
you have heard eminent physicians say to a patient who comes to them
with bad eyes, that they cannot cure his eyes by themselves, but that
if his eyes are to be cured, his head must be treated; and then again
they say that to think of curing the head alone, and not the rest
of the body also, is the height of folly. And arguing in this way
they apply their methods to the whole body, and try to treat and heal
the whole and the part together. Did you ever observe that this is
what they say?

Yes, he said.
And they are right, and you would agree with them?
Yes, he said, certainly I should.
His approving answers reassured me, and I began by degrees to regain
confidence, and the vital heat returned. Such, Charmides, I said,
is the nature of the charm, which I learned when serving with the
army from one of the physicians of the Thracian king Zamolxis, who
are to be so skilful that they can even give immortality. This Thracian
told me that in these notions of theirs, which I was just now mentioning,
the Greek physicians are quite right as far as they go; but Zamolxis,
he added, our king, who is also a god, says further, "that as you
ought not to attempt to cure the eyes without the head, or the head
without the body, so neither ought you to attempt to cure the body
without the soul; and this," he said, "is the reason why the cure
of many diseases is unknown to the physicians of Hellas, because they
are ignorant of the whole, which ought to be studied also; for the
part can never be well unless the whole is well. " For all good and
evil, whether in the body or in human nature, originates, as he declared,
in the soul, and overflows from thence, as if from the head into the
eyes. And therefore if the head and body are to be well, you must
begin by curing the soul; that is the first thing. And the cure, my
dear youth, has to be effected by the use of certain charms, and these
charms are fair words; and by them temperance is implanted in the
soul, and where temperance is, there health is speedily imparted,
not only to the head, but to the whole body. And he who taught me
the cure and the charm at the same time added a special direction:
"Let no one," he said, "persuade you to cure the head, until he has
first given you his soul to be cured by the charm. For this," he said,
"is the great error of our day in the treatment of the human body,
that physicians separate the soul from the body. " And he added with
emphasis, at the same time making me swear to his words, "Let no one,
however rich, or noble, or fair, persuade you to give him the cure,
without the charm. " Now I have sworn, and I must keep my oath, and
therefore if you will allow me to apply the Thracian charm first to
your soul, as the stranger directed, I will afterwards proceed to
apply the cure to your head. But if not, I do not know what I am to
do with you, my dear Charmides.

Critias, when he heard this, said: The headache will be an unexpected
gain to my young relation, if the pain in his head compels him to
improve his mind: and I can tell you, Socrates, that Charmides is
not only pre-eminent in beauty among his equals, but also in that
quality which is given by the charm; and this, as you say, is temperance?

Yes, I said.
Then let me tell you that he is the most temperate of human beings,
and for his age inferior to none in any quality.

Yes, I said, Charmides; and indeed I think that you ought to excel
others in all good qualities; for if I am not mistaken there is no
one present who could easily point out two Athenian houses, whose
union would be likely to produce a better or nobler scion than the
two from which you are sprung. There is your father's house, which
is descended from Critias the son of Dropidas, whose family has been
commemorated in the panegyrical verses of Anacreon, Solon, and many
other poets, as famous for beauty and virtue and all other high fortune:
and your mother's house is equally distinguished; for your maternal
uncle, Pyrilampes, is reputed never to have found his equal, in Persia
at the court of the great king, or on the continent of Asia, in all
the places to which he went as ambassador, for stature and beauty;
that whole family is not a whit inferior to the other. Having such
ancestors you ought to be first in all things, and, sweet son of Glaucon,
your outward form is no dishonour to any of them. If to beauty you
add temperance, and if in other respects you are what Critias declares
you to be, then, dear Charmides, blessed art thou, in being the son
of thy mother. And here lies the point; for if, as he declares, you
have this gift of temperance already, and are temperate enough, in
that case you have no need of any charms, whether of Zamolxis or of
Abaris the Hyperborean, and I may as well let you have the cure of
the head at once; but if you have not yet acquired this quality, I
must use the charm before I give you the medicine. Please, therefore,
to inform me whether you admit the truth of what Critias has been
saying;-have you or have you not this quality of temperance?

Charmides blushed, and the blush heightened his beauty, for modesty
is becoming in youth; he then said very ingenuously, that he really
could not at once answer, either yes, or no, to the question which
I had asked: For, said he, if I affirm that I am not temperate, that
would be a strange thing for me to say of myself, and also I should
give the lie to Critias, and many others who think as he tells you,
that I am temperate: but, on the other hand, if I say that I am, I
shall have to praise myself, which would be ill manners; and therefore
I do not know how to answer you.

I said to him: That is a natural reply, Charmides, and I think that
you and I ought together to enquire whether you have this quality
about which I am asking or not; and then you will not be compelled
to say what you do not like; neither shall I be a rash practitioner
of medicine: therefore, if you please, I will share the enquiry with
you, but I will not press you if you would rather not.

There is nothing which I should like better, he said; and as far as
I am concerned you may proceed in the way which you think best.

I think, I said, that I had better begin by asking you a question;
for if temperance abides in you, you must have an opinion about her;
she must give some intimation of her nature and qualities, which may
enable you to form a notion of her. Is not that true?

Yes, he said, that I think is true.
You know your native language, I said, and therefore you must be able
to tell what you feel about this.

Certainly, he said.
In order, then, that I may form a conjecture whether you have temperance
abiding in you or not, tell me, I said, what, in your opinion, is
Temperance?

At first he hesitated, and was very unwilling to answer: then he said
that he thought temperance was doing things orderly and quietly, such
things for example as walking in the streets, and talking, or anything
else of that nature. In a word, he said, I should answer that, in
my opinion, temperance is quietness.

Are you right, Charmides? I said. No doubt some would affirm that
the quiet are the temperate; but let us see whether these words have
any meaning; and first tell me whether you would not acknowledge temperance
to be of the class of the noble and good?

Yes.
But which is best when you are at the writing-master's, to write the
same letters quickly or quietly?

Quickly.
And to read quickly or slowly?
Quickly again.
And in playing the lyre, or wrestling, quickness or sharpness are
far better than quietness and slowness?

Yes.
And the same holds in boxing and in the pancratium?
Certainly.
And in leaping and running and in bodily exercises generally, quickness
and agility are good; slowness, and inactivity, and quietness, are
bad?

That is evident.
Then, I said, in all bodily actions, not quietness, but the greatest
agility and quickness, is noblest and best?

Yes, certainly.
And is temperance a good?
Yes.
Then, in reference to the body, not quietness, but quickness will
be the higher degree of temperance, if temperance is a good?

True, he said.
And which, I said, is better-facility in learning, or difficulty in
learning?

Facility.
Yes, I said; and facility in learning is learning quickly, and difficulty
in learning is learning quietly and slowly?

True.
And is it not better to teach another quickly and energetically, rather
than quietly and slowly?

Yes.
And which is better, to call to mind, and to remember, quickly and
readily, or quietly and slowly?

The former.
And is not shrewdness a quickness or cleverness of the soul, and not
a quietness?

True.
And is it not best to understand what is said, whether at the writing-master's
or the music-master's, or anywhere else, not as quietly as possible,
but as quickly as possible?

Yes.
And in the searchings or deliberations of the soul, not the quietest,
as I imagine, and he who with difficulty deliberates and discovers,
is thought worthy of praise, but he who does so most easily and quickly?

Quite true, he said.
And in all that concerns either body or soul, swiftness and activity
are clearly better than slowness and quietness?

Clearly they are.
Then temperance is not quietness, nor is the temperate life quiet,-certainly
not upon this view; for the life which is temperate is supposed to
be the good. And of two things, one is true, either never, or very
seldom, do the quiet actions in life appear to be better than the
quick and energetic ones; or supposing that of the nobler actions,
there are as many quiet, as quick and vehement: still, even if we
grant this, temperance will not be acting quietly any more than acting
quickly and energetically, either in walking or talking or in anything
else; nor will the quiet life be more temperate than the unquiet,
seeing that temperance is admitted by us to be a good and noble thing,
and the quick have been shown to be as good as the quiet.

I think, he said, Socrates, that you are right.
Then once more, Charmides, I said, fix your attention, and look within;
consider the effect which temperance has upon yourself, and the nature
of that which has the effect. Think over all this, and, like a brave
youth, tell me-What is temperance?

After a moment's pause, in which he made a real manly effort to think,
he said: My opinion is, Socrates, that temperance makes a man ashamed
or modest, and that temperance is the same as modesty.

Very good, I said; and did you not admit, just now, that temperance
is noble?

Yes, certainly, he said.
And the temperate are also good?
Yes.
And can that be good which does not make men good?
Certainly not.
And you would infer that temperance is not only noble, but also good?

That is my opinion.
Well, I said; but surely you would agree with Homer when he says,

Modesty is not good for a needy man?

Yes, he said; I agree.
Then I suppose that modesty is and is not good?
Clearly.
But temperance, whose presence makes men only good, and not bad, is
always good?

That appears to me to be as you say.
And the inference is that temperance cannot be modesty-if temperance
is a good, and if modesty is as much an evil as a good?

All that, Socrates, appears to me to be true; but I should like to
know what you think about another definition of temperance, which
I just now remember to have heard from some one, who said, "That temperance
is doing our own business. " Was he right who affirmed that?

You monster! I said; this is what Critias, or some philosopher has
told you.

Some one else, then, said Critias; for certainly I have not.

But what matter, said Charmides, from whom I heard this?

No matter at all, I replied; for the point is not who said the words,
but whether they are true or not.

There you are in the right, Socrates, he replied.
To be sure, I said; yet I doubt whether we shall ever be able to discover
their truth or falsehood; for they are a kind of riddle.

What makes you think so? he said.
Because, I said, he who uttered them seems to me to have meant one
thing, and said another. Is the scribe, for example, to be regarded
as doing nothing when he reads or writes?

I should rather think that he was doing something.
And does the scribe write or read, or teach you boys to write or read,
your own names only, or did you write your enemies' names as well
as your own and your friends'?

As much one as the other.
And was there anything meddling or intemperate in this?
Certainly not.
And yet if reading and writing are the same as doing, you were doing
what was not your own business?

But they are the same as doing.
And the healing art, my friend, and building, and weaving, and doing
anything whatever which is done by art,-these all clearly come under
the head of doing?

Certainly.
And do you think that a state would be well ordered by a law which
compelled every man to weave and wash his own coat, and make his own
shoes, and his own flask and strigil, and other implements, on this
principle of every one doing and performing his own, and abstaining
from what is not his own?

I think not, he said.
But, I said, a temperate state will be a well ordered state.

Of course, he replied.
Then temperance, I said, will not be doing one's own business; not
at least in this way, or doing things of this sort?

Clearly not.
Then, as I was just now saying, he who declared that temperance is
a man doing his own business had another and a hidden meaning; for
I do not think that he could have been such a fool as to mean this.
Was he a fool who told you, Charmides?

Nay, he replied, I certainly thought him a very wise man.

Then I am quite certain that he put forth his definition as a riddle,
thinking that no one would know the meaning of the words "doing his
own business. "

I dare say, he replied.
And what is the meaning of a man doing his own business? Can you tell
me?

Indeed, I cannot; and I should not wonder if the man himself who used
this phrase did not understand what he was saying. Whereupon he laughed
slyly, and looked at Critias.

Critias had long been showing uneasiness, for he felt that he had
a reputation to maintain with Charmides and the rest of the company.
He had, however, hitherto managed to restrain himself; but now he
could no longer forbear, and I am convinced of the truth of the suspicion
which I entertained at the time, that Charmides had heard this answer
about temperance from Critias. And Charmides, who did not want to
answer himself, but to make Critias answer, tried to stir him up.
He went on pointing out that he had been refuted, at which Critias
grew angry, and appeared, as I thought, inclined to quarrel with him;
just as a poet might quarrel with an actor who spoiled his poems in
repeating them; so he looked hard at him and said--

Do you imagine, Charmides, that the author of this definition of temperance
did not understand the meaning of his own words, because you do not
understand them?

Why, at his age, I said, most excellent Critias, he can hardly be
expected to understand; but you, who are older, and have studied,
may well be assumed to know the meaning of them; and therefore, if
you agree with him, and accept his definition of temperance, I would
much rather argue with you than with him about the truth or falsehood
of the definition.

I entirely agree, said Critias, and accept the definition.

Very good, I said; and now let me repeat my question-Do you admit,
as I was just now saying, that all craftsmen make or do something?

I do.
And do they make or do their own business only, or that of others
also?

They make or do that of others also.
And are they temperate, seeing that they make not for themselves or
their own business only?

Why not? he said.
No objection on my part, I said, but there may be a difficulty on
his who proposes as a definition of temperance, "doing one's own business,"
and then says that there is no reason why those who do the business
of others should not be temperate.

Nay, said he; did I ever acknowledge that those who do the business
of others are temperate? I said, those who make, not those who do.

What! I asked; do you mean to say that doing and making are not the
same?

No more, he replied, than making or working are the same; thus much
I have learned from Hesiod, who says that "work is no disgrace. " Now
do you imagine that if he had meant by working and doing such things
as you were describing, he would have said that there was no disgrace
in them-for example, in the manufacture of shoes, or in selling pickles,
or sitting for hire in a house of ill-fame? That, Socrates, is not
to be supposed: but I conceive him to have distinguished making from
doing and work; and, while admitting that the making anything might
sometimes become a disgrace, when the employment was not honourable,
to have thought that work was never any disgrace at all. For things
nobly and usefully made he called works; and such makings he called
workings, and doings; and he must be supposed to have called such
things only man's proper business, and what is hurtful, not his business:
and in that sense Hesiod, and any other wise man, may be reasonably
supposed to call him wise who does his own work.

O Critias, I said, no sooner had you opened your mouth, than I pretty
well knew that you would call that which is proper to a man, and that
which is his own, good; and that the markings of the good you would
call doings, for I am no stranger to the endless distinctions which
Prodicus draws about names. Now I have no objection to your giving
names any signification which you please, if you will only tell me
what you mean by them. Please then to begin again, and be a little
plainer. Do you mean that this doing or making, or whatever is the
word which you would use, of good actions, is temperance?

I do, he said.
Then not he who does evil, but he who does good, is temperate?

Yes, he said; and you, friend, would agree.
No matter whether I should or not; just now, not what I think, but
what you are saying, is the point at issue.

Well, he answered; I mean to say, that he who does evil, and not good,
is not temperate; and that he is temperate who does good, and not
evil: for temperance I define in plain words to be the doing of good
actions.

And you may be very likely right in what you are saying; but I am
curious to know whether you imagine that temperate men are ignorant
of their own temperance?

I do not think so, he said.
And yet were you not saying, just now, that craftsmen might be temperate
in doing another's work, as well as in doing their own?

I was, he replied; but what is your drift?
I have no particular drift, but I wish that you would tell me whether
a physician who cures a patient may do good to himself and good to
another also?

I think that he may.
And he who does so does his duty?
Yes.
And does not he who does his duty act temperately or wisely?

Yes, he acts wisely.
But must the physician necessarily know when his treatment is likely
to prove beneficial, and when not? or must the craftsman necessarily
know when he is likely to be benefited, and when not to be benefited,
by the work which he is doing?

I suppose not.
Then, I said, he may sometimes do good or harm, and not know what
he is himself doing, and yet, in doing good, as you say, he has done
temperately or wisely. Was not that your statement?

Yes.
Then, as would seem, in doing good, he may act wisely or temperately,
and be wise or temperate, but not know his own wisdom or temperance?

But that, Socrates, he said, is impossible; and therefore if this
is, as you imply, the necessary consequence of any of my previous
admissions, I will withdraw them, rather than admit that a man can
be temperate or wise who does not know himself; and I am not ashamed
to confess that I was in error. For self-knowledge would certainly
be maintained by me to be the very essence of knowledge, and in this
I agree with him who dedicated the inscription, "Know thyself! " at
Delphi. That word, if I am not mistaken, is put there as a sort of
salutation which the god addresses to those who enter the temple;
as much as to say that the ordinary salutation of "Hail! " is not right,
and that the exhortation "Be temperate! " would be a far better way
of saluting one another. The notion of him who dedicated the inscription
was, as I believe, that the god speaks to those who enter his temple,
not as men speak; but, when a worshipper enters, the first word which
he hears is "Be temperate! " This, however, like a prophet he expresses
in a sort of riddle, for "Know thyself! " and "Be temperate! " are the
same, as I maintain, and as the letters imply, and yet they may be
easily misunderstood; and succeeding sages who added "Never too much,"
or, "Give a pledge, and evil is nigh at hand," would appear to have
so misunderstood them; for they imagined that "Know thyself! " was
a piece of advice which the god gave, and not his salutation of the
worshippers at their first coming in; and they dedicated their own
inscription under the idea that they too would give equally useful
pieces of advice. Shall I tell you, Socrates, why I say all this?
My object is to leave the previous discussion (in which I know not
whether you or I are more right, but, at any rate, no clear result
was attained), and to raise a new one in which I will attempt to prove,
if you deny, that temperance is self-knowledge.

Yes, I said, Critias; but you come to me as though I professed to
know about the questions which I ask, and as though I could, if I
only would, agree with you. Whereas the fact is that I enquire with
you into the truth of that which is advanced from time to time, just
because I do not know; and when I have enquired, I will say whether
I agree with you or not. Please then to allow me time to reflect.

Reflect, he said.
I am reflecting, I replied, and discover that temperance, or wisdom,
if implying a knowledge of anything, must be a science, and a science
of something.

Yes, he said; the science of itself.
Is not medicine, I said, the science of health?
True.
And suppose, I said, that I were asked by you what is the use or effect
of medicine, which is this science of health, I should answer that
medicine is of very great use in producing health, which, as you will
admit, is an excellent effect.

Granted.
And if you were to ask me, what is the result or effect of architecture,
which is the science of building, I should say houses, and so of other
arts, which all have their different results. Now I want you, Critias,
to answer a similar question about temperance, or wisdom, which, according
to you, is the science of itself. Admitting this view, I ask of you,
what good work, worthy of the name wise, does temperance or wisdom,
which is the science of itself, effect? Answer me.

That is not the true way of pursuing the enquiry, Socrates, he said;
for wisdom is not like the other sciences, any more than they are
like one another: but you proceed as if they were alike. For tell
me, he said, what result is there of computation or geometry, in the
same sense as a house is the result of building, or a garment of weaving,
or any other work of any other art? Can you show me any such result
of them? You cannot.

That is true, I said; but still each of these sciences has a subject
which is different from the science. I can show you that the art of
computation has to do with odd and even numbers in their numerical
relations to themselves and to each other. Is not that true?

Yes, he said.
And the odd and even numbers are not the same with the art of computation?

They are not.
The art of weighing, again, has to do with lighter and heavier; but
the art of weighing is one thing, and the heavy and the light another.
Do you admit that?

Yes.
Now, I want to know, what is that which is not wisdom, and of which
wisdom is the science?

You are just falling into the old error, Socrates, he said. You come
asking in what wisdom or temperance differs from the other sciences,
and then you try to discover some respect in which they are alike;
but they are not, for all the other sciences are of something else,
and not of themselves; wisdom alone is a science of other sciences,
and of itself. And of this, as I believe, you are very well aware:
and that you are only doing what you denied that you were doing just
now, trying to refute me, instead of pursuing the argument.

And what if I am? How can you think that I have any other motive in
refuting you but what I should have in examining into myself? which
motive would be just a fear of my unconsciously fancying that I knew
something of which I was ignorant. And at this moment I pursue the
argument chiefly for my own sake, and perhaps in some degree also
for the sake of my other friends. For is not the discovery of things
as they truly are, a good common to all mankind?

Yes, certainly, Socrates, he said.
Then, I said, be cheerful, sweet sir, and give your opinion in answer
to the question which I asked, never minding whether Critias or Socrates
is the person refuted; attend only to the argument, and see what will
come of the refutation.

I think that you are right, he replied; and I will do as you say.

Tell me, then, I said, what you mean to affirm about wisdom.

I mean to say that wisdom is the only science which is the science
of itself as well as of the other sciences.

But the science of science, I said, will also be the science of the
absence of science.

Very true, he said.
Then the wise or temperate man, and he only, will know himself, and
be able to examine what he knows or does not know, and to see what
others know and think that they know and do really know; and what
they do not know, and fancy that they know, when they do not. No other
person will be able to do this. And this is wisdom and temperance
and self-knowledge-for a man to know what he knows, and what he does
not know. That is your meaning?

Yes, he said.
Now then, I said, making an offering of the third or last argument
to Zeus the Saviour, let us begin again, and ask, in the first place,
whether it is or is not possible for a person to know that he knows
and does not know what he knows and does not know; and in the second
place, whether, if perfectly possible, such knowledge is of any use.

That is what we have to consider, he said.
And here, Critias, I said, I hope that you will find a way out of
a difficulty into which I have got myself. Shall I tell you the nature
of the difficulty?

By all means, he replied.
Does not what you have been saying, if true, amount to this: that
there must be a single science which is wholly a science of itself
and of other sciences, and that the same is also the science of the
absence of science?

Yes.
But consider how monstrous this proposition is, my friend: in any
parallel case, the impossibility will be transparent to you.

How is that? and in what cases do you mean?