Another (from the same source) is the story of how Ulysses stayed the Greeks from hurrying to their ships and leaving the siege of Troy. The common men he struck, but if he found a chief in the crowd he only remonstrated with him,
"But if he saw perchance, some common man Blinded with panic, clamorous of tongue, With staff he smote him, adding blow to blame."
[86] The priestess of Apollo at Delphi.
[87] It was the curious custom in the Athenian courts of criminal justice that the accused, if found guilty, was required to name a counter penalty to that proposed by the prosecutor. The prosecutor, as has been seen, had proposed death. Socrates, under the circ.u.mstances, could hardly have proposed anything less than banishment, if he had any wish that it should be accepted by the court.
[88] Rather more than $600.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE LAST CONVERSATION.
Callias, as may be supposed, did not fail to keep his appointment with the utmost punctuality. He found at Crito"s house very nearly the same company that had been a.s.sembled the day before at Xenophon"s. After the usual greetings had been interchanged, the host said, "I propose, if it is agreeable to you all, to hold the conversation which we are to have to-day at the house of our friend Plato. He has written to invite us, not because he can himself see us, for he is not sufficiently recovered from his late illness, but because we shall thus be able to talk with his friend Phaedo; for as all know there is no more fitting person than Phaedo to tell our young friend Callias the things that he desires to hear. For though we were all present, Xenophon only excepted, on that day when the Master left us, having given us his last instructions, yet there is no one who so well remembers and is so well able to describe all that was then said or done. I propose, therefore, that we transfer ourselves to his house."
The proposition met with general a.s.sent and the party set out.
Crito naturally took charge of Callias as being his special guest. As the two were walking, the young man said, "Tell me, Crito, if it is not unpleasing to you, whether in the thirty days during which the Master was held in prison, any efforts were made to save his life?"
"I am glad," said Crito, "that you have asked me that question privately and not before others, for, indeed, this is a matter which has caused me no little amount of trouble and shame. Some people blame me because, they say, though a rich man I did not bribe the jailer of the prison in which Socrates was confined, and thus enable him to escape. I am blameable, indeed, but for an exactly opposite reason. I did bribe the man--this of course is in absolute confidence between you and me--and in this, as the Master showed me, I was wrong. Indeed I never received from him so severe a rebuke as I did concerning this matter. But let me tell you what happened. I had arranged everything. The jailer was to let him escape. There were people ready to carry him out of the country. I went to him early in the morning of the day when the ship was expected to return. I told him what I had done. I made light of the money that the affair was to cost. I could well afford it, I said, and if I could not there were others ready to contribute. And then I attacked him, it was an impudent thing to do, but I felt as if I could do anything that we should not lose him. I told him that it was wrong of him to do his best to let his enemies get their way. I said to him, "Thus acting you desert your children, whom you might bring up and educate. But if you die you will leave them orphans and friendless. Either you ought not to have children or you ought to take some trouble about them. Surely this does not become one who has made virtue his study throughout his life. And remember what a disgrace will fall upon us, for it will certainly be said that we did not do our best to save your life."
"Well, I cannot tell you now a tenth part of what he said. I have it all written down at home, but I may say what you will easily believe that I was as helpless in his hands as the veriest pretender whom he has ever cross-examined. I know that he ended by making me thoroughly ashamed of myself. One of his chief arguments was this:
""Suppose, Crito, that as I was in the act of escaping, the State itself were to say to me: Are you not seeking to destroy by so acting the laws of the State itself? Is not that State already dissolved wherein public sentences are set aside by private persons? What should I answer to such questions? And if the laws were to say, What complaint have you got to make against us that you seek to destroy us? Do you not owe your being to us, seeing that your father and mother married according to our ordering? Have we not given you nurture, education, all the good things that you possess as being an Athenian? Have you not acknowledged us by living in the city, by having children in it? And if they were further to say, Verily, he who acts in this way in which you are about to act is a corrupter of youth--what could I answer?
""And tell me, Crito," he went on, "whither would you have me betake myself? Not surely to any well-ordered city seeing that I had shown myself the enemy of such order, but rather to some abode of riot, which would indeed ill become one who had professed to be a lover of virtue and righteousness. And as for my children, how shall I benefit them? By taking them elsewhere and bringing them up not as citizens of Athens, but as citizens of some other State which I myself here have judged inferior, seeing that all my life long I have deliberately preferred Athens to it?" Verily, Callias, when he said this, I had no answer. But here we are at Phaedo"s house."
Callias was not a little surprised when he was introduced to the man whom he had been brought to see. Phaedo was a man much younger than himself; indeed he had scarcely completed his eighteenth year. His appearance was singularly attractive, and his manners had all the grace and ease of a well-born and well-bred man. That he was not an Athenian was evident from his speech, which was somewhat tinged with a Doric accent. Altogether Callias was at a loss to think who or what he could be, and how he came to be regarded as the best interpreter of the Master"s last words. An opportunity, however, arrived for enlightening him. After a few minutes" conversation, a slave appeared with a message for the master of the house. Plato who had been compelled to absent himself from the last interview with Socrates, as has been said, was still so unwell that his physician forbade the excitement of seeing visitors. He now sent for Phaedo to entrust him with a message of apology for his fellow disciples whom he was unable to entertain, and partly to set him free to act the part of host in his stead.
Crito seized the opportunity of his temporary absence from the room to give some particulars about him. "He comes of a very good family in Elis, and was taken prisoner about this time last year when Athens and Sparta were allies and acting against that country. He was sold in the slave market here, and I cannot tell the cruelties that he endured from the wretch who bought him. Somehow he heard of Socrates, ran away from his owner and begged for the Master"s protection. Of course, the only thing was to buy him, and equally of course, Socrates was wholly unable to do this. But the Master, if he had no wealth of his own, happily had wealthy friends. He went to Plato and, by great good luck, Plato had a very powerful hold over the poor fellow"s owner; the man owed him a large sum of money, the interest of which was overdue. He was purchased, and at once set free. Plato found that he had been remarkably well educated and that he showed an extraordinary apt.i.tude for philosophy.
The lad"s devotion to Socrates was unbounded. He never lost a chance of being near him; he was present of course at the last day, and he watched and listened with an intense earnestness that seemed to engrave everything on his mind as one engraves letters upon marble or bronze.
But, see, he is coming back. Now you will understand why I have brought you to see him."
The young man, at this moment, returned to the room.
"Tell me, Phaedo," said Crito, "what you saw and heard on the last day of the Master"s life. My friend Callias here, who has just come back from campaigning against the Great King, desires to hear it from you, and, indeed, though we all were present on that day, you seem to remember it more accurately than any."
"I will do my best," said the youth modestly. "I do not know," he went on, addressing himself especially to Callias, "whether you will wholly understand me when I say that I did not feel compa.s.sion as one might feel for one who was dying--he was so calm and so happy. Neither, on the other hand, did I feel the pleasure that commonly followed from his discourses, for I knew that he would soon cease to be."
"It was just so with all of us," said Crito, "but go on."
"We had been to visit Socrates daily through the time of his imprisonment, a.s.sembling very early in the morning, and waiting till the doors of the prison were opened, and so we did on this day, only earlier than usual, because we knew that the Sacred Ship had arrived the evening before. The jailer came out. "You must wait, gentlemen," he said, "the Eleven[89] are with him. They are taking off his chains, and are telling him that he must die to-day." After a little while the man came out again, and said that we might go in. When we went in, we found Socrates sitting on the side of his bed, and his wife, Xanthippe, near him, holding one of his children in her arms. As soon as she saw us, she began to lament and say, "O Socrates, here are your friends come to see you for the last time." Then Socrates, looking at her, said to Crito, "Let some one take her home." So one of Crito"s servants led her away.
After a while, for of course I must leave out many things, the Master said, "I have a message for Evenus, who seeks to know, I am told, why I have taken to writing verses in prison. Tell him that a G.o.d appeared to me in a dream and told me to cultivate the muses. Tell him also that if he is wise he will follow me as speedily as possible, for it seems that the Athenians command that I depart to-day."
""But, Socrates," said Simmias, "this is a strange piece of advice, and one which Evenus is not likely to take."
""Why so," said Socrates, "is he not a philosopher? Surely he should be ready to go the road which I am going. Only he must not kill himself."
"Why do you say this?" said Cebes.
"You will correct me," said Phaedo, turning to the company, "if I misrepresent anything that you said."
"Speak on without fear," said Simmias, "you seem to have the memory of all the muses."
Phaedo resumed, "Socrates said, "You ask me why a man may not kill himself? Well, there is first this reason that we are as sentinels set at a post, which we must not leave until we are bidden; then again if men be servants of the G.o.ds, as seems likely, how can they withdraw from this service without leave? Would you not be angry if one of your servants were to do it?"
""True," said Cebes, ""but if we are the servants of the G.o.ds, and therefore in the best guardianship, should we not be sorry to quit it?
If so, is it not for the foolish to desire death and for the wise to regret it?" "You are right," replied the Master, "and if I did not expect when I depart hence to go to the realms of the wise and good G.o.ds and to the company of righteous men, I should indeed grieve at death.
And that I am right in so expecting let me now seek to prove to you, for what better could I do on this the last day of my life? But stay; Crito wishes to say something. What is it?" Crito said, "He who has to give the poison says that you must talk as little as possible, for that if a man so excites himself he has to drink sometimes two potions or even three." "Let him take his course," said the master, "and prepare what he thinks needful. And now to the matter in hand. Death, then, is nothing but a separation of the soul from the body. That you concede. And you concede further that a philosopher should care little for the things of the body, and that when he is most free from the body, then he sees most clearly the highest and best things, perceiving, for instance, right and justice and honor and goodness, veritable things all of them, but such as cannot be discerned with the eyes or handled with the hands. For the body with its desires and wants hinders us, and makes us waste our time on the things that it covets, so that we have neither time nor temper for wisdom. If then we are ever to reach absolute Truth we must get rid of the hindrance. While we live we do this to the best of our ability, and he is the wisest man and best philosopher who does it most completely; but wholly we cannot do it, till the G.o.d shall liberate us from the control of this companion--And this is done by Death, which is the complete separation of soul and body. Shall then the philosopher, who has all his life been striving for such partial separation as may be possible, complain when the G.o.ds send him this separation that is complete? And this is my defence, my friends, for holding it to be a good thing to die." "Yes," replied Cebes, "but many fear that when the soul is thus parted from the body, it may be nowhere, being dissipated like a breath or a puff of smoke when the body with which it has been united dies." "You desire, then," said Socrates, "that I should prove to you that the soul does not perish when it is thus separated from the body?" "Yes," we all said, "that is what we all wish." "First then," he went on, "is it not true that every thing implies that which is opposite to it, as Right implies Wrong, and Fair implies Foul, and _to sleep_ is the opposite of _to wake_? If so does not _to die_ imply its opposite _to live again_?
""Secondly, is it not true that the highest part of our knowledge is a remembering again? For there are things which we know not through our senses. How then do we know them? Surely because we had this knowledge of them at some previous time."
""But," said Cebes, "may it not be true that the soul has been made beforehand to enter the body; and having entered it lives therein, and yet perishes when its dwelling is dissolved?"
""Being of a frail nature, I suppose," said the Master, "it"s all to be blown away by the wind, so that a man should be especially afraid to die on a stormy day."
"At this we all laughed, for we did laugh many times and heartily that day, though now this may seem to others and indeed to ourselves almost incredible, seeing what we were about to lose.
""Well," the Master went on, "I will seek to relieve you of this fear.
Is it not true that things that are made up of parts are liable to be separated? And is it not also true that the soul is not made up of parts, but is simple and not compounded? Also it is visible things that perish; but the soul is not visible. Again the soul is the ruler, and the body the servant. Is it not true that the divine and immortal rule the human and mortal senses?"
"To this we all agreed.
"The Master began again, for he now, as I may say, had to put before us the conclusion of the whole matter. "We may think thus, then, may we not? If the soul depart from the body in a state of purity, not taking with it any of the uncleannesses of the body, from which indeed it has kept itself free during life as far as was possible--for this is true philosophy--then it departs into that invisible region which is of its own nature, and being freed from all fears and desires and other evils of mortality, spends the rest of its existence with the G.o.ds and the spirits of the good that are like unto itself. But if it depart, polluted and impure, having served the body, and suffered itself to be bewitched by its pleasures and desires, then it cannot attain to this pure and heavenly region, but must abide in some place that is more fitted for it."
"Much else he said on this point to which we listened as though it were another Orpheus that was singing to us. And when he had ended and sat wrapt in thought, we were silent, fearing to disturb him. And so we remained for no little s.p.a.ce of time in silence, he sitting on the bed, as if he neither saw nor heeded any of the things that were about him, and we regarded him most earnestly.
"After a while he woke up, as it were, from his reverie and said, "You have agreed with me so far; yet it may be that you have yet fears and doubts in your minds which I have not yet dispersed. If so let me hear them, that I may, if it be possible, rid you of them, for indeed I cannot, as I conceive, leave behind me a greater gift for you than such a riddance. Speak then, if there is anything that you would say."
"Simmias said--I put, you will perceive, his argument in a few words: "May it not be that the soul is in the body as a harmony is in a harp?
For the harmony is invisible and beautiful and divine, and the harp is visible and material and mortal. Yet when the harp perishes, then the harmony also, of necessity, ceases to be."
"When Simmias had ended, Cebes began: "I do indeed believe that the soul is more durable than the body. Just so; the wearer is more durable than the thing which he wears. Yet at the last, one thing that he weaves proves to be more durable than he. So may the soul outlast many bodies, and yet perish finally, worn out, so to speak, by having gone through so many births."
"Have I put these things rightly, O Simmias and Cebes?" said the young philosopher, addressing them, "though indeed I have made them very brief."
"You have put them rightly," the two agreed.
"When we heard these things," Phaedo went on, "we were also greatly disturbed; for we desired to believe that which the Master was seeking to prove, and seemed to have attained certainly, and now we were thrown back again into confusion and doubt."
"And how did the Master take it, O Phaedo?" said Callias; "for indeed I feel much as you describe yourselves as having felt. Having reached a certain hope, not to say conviction, I am now disturbed by fears."
"Nothing could be more admirable than his behavior. That he should be able to answer, was to be expected; but that he should receive these objections so sweetly, so gently, and perceiving our dismay, quickly encourage us, and, so to speak, reform our broken ranks--this indeed was beyond all praise.
"I myself was sitting on a low seat by the side of his bed. He dropped his hand, and stroked my head and the hair which lay upon my neck, I wore it long in those days,[90] for he was often wont to play with my hair. Then he said, "I suppose, Phaedo, that you intend to cut off these beautiful locks to-morrow, as mourners are wont to do."