Plato: The Symposium
TRANSLATED BY BENJAMIN JOWETT, 1892
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE
- APOLLODORUS, who repeats to his companion the dialogue which
he had heard from Aristodemus, and had already once narrated to
Glaucon
- PHAEDRUS
- PAUSANIAS
- ERYXIMACHUS
- ARISTOPHANES
- AGATHON
- SOCRATES
- ALCIBIADES
- A TROOP OF REVELLERS.
Scene: -- The House of Agathon.
Concerning the things about which you
ask to be informed I believe that I am not ill-prepared with an
answer. For the day before yesterday I was coming from my own
home at Phalerum to the city, and one of my acquaintance, who
had caught a sight of me from behind, hind, out playfully in the
distance, said: Apollodorus, O thou Phalerian man, halt! So I
did as I was bid; and then he said, I was looking for you, Apollodorus,
only just now, that I might ask you about the speeches in praise
of love, which were delivered by Socrates, Alcibiades, and others,
at Agathon's supper. Phoenix, the son of Philip, told another
person who told me of them; his narrative was very indistinct,
but he said that you knew, and I wish that you would give me an
account of them. Who, if not you, should be the reporter of the
words of your friend? And first tell me, he said, were you present
at this meeting?
Your informant, Glaucon, I said, must have been very
indistinct indeed, if you imagine that the occasion was recent;
or that I could have been of the party.
Why, yes, he replied, I thought so.
Impossible: I said. Are you ignorant that for many
years Agathon has not resided at Athens; and not three have elapsed
since I became acquainted with Socrates, and have made it my daily
business to know all that he says and does. There was a time when
I was running about the world, fancying myself to be well employed,
but I was really a most wretched thing, no better than you are
now. I thought that I ought to do anything rather than be a philosopher.
Well, he said, jesting apart, tell me when the meeting
occurred.
In our boyhood, I replied, when Agathon won the prize
with his first tragedy, on the day after that on which he and
his chorus offered the sacrifice of victory.
Then it must have been a long while ago, he said;
and who told you -- did Socrates?
No indeed, I replied, but the same person who told
Phoenix; -- he was a little fellow, who never wore any shoes Aristodemus,
of the deme of Cydathenaeum. He had been at Agathon's feast; and
I think that in those days there was no one who was a more devoted
admirer of Socrates. Moreover, I have asked Socrates about the
truth of some parts of his narrative, and he confirmed them. Then,
said Glaucon, let us have the tale over again; is not the road
to Athens just made for conversation? And so we walked, and talked
of the discourses on love; and therefore, as I said at first,
I am not ill-prepared to comply with your request, and will have
another rehearsal of them if you like. For to speak or to hear
others speak of philosophy always gives me the greatest pleasure,
to say nothing of the profit. But when I hear another strain,
especially that of you rich men and traders, such conversation
displeases me; and I pity you who are my companions, because you
think that you are doing something when in reality you are doing
nothing. And I dare say that you pity me in return, whom you regard
as an unhappy creature, and very probably you are right. But I
certainly know of you what you only think of me -- there is the
difference.
Companion. I see, Apollodorus,
that you are just the same -- always speaking evil of yourself,
and of others; and I do believe that you pity all mankind, with
the exception of Socrates, yourself first of all, true in this
to your old name, which, however deserved I know how you acquired,
of Apollodorus the madman; for you are always raging against yourself
and everybody but Socrates.
Apollodorus. Yes, friend,
and the reason why I am said to be mad, and out of my wits, is
just because I have these notions of myself and you; no other
evidence is required.
Com. No more of that,
Apollodorus; but let me renew my request that you would repeat
the conversation.
Apoll. Well, the tale
of love was on this wise: -- But perhaps I had better begin at
the beginning, and endeavour to give you the exact words of Aristodemus:
He said that he met Socrates fresh from the bath
and sandalled; and as the sight of the sandals was unusual, he
asked him whither he was going that he had been converted into
such a beau: --
To a banquet at Agathon's, he replied, whose invitation
to his sacrifice of victory I refused yesterday, fearing a crowd,
but promising that I would come to-day instead; and so I have
put on my finery, because he is such a fine man. What say you
to going with me unasked?
I will do as you bid me, I replied.
Follow then, he said, and let us demolish the proverb:
'To the feasts of inferior men the good unbidden go;'
instead of which our proverb will run: --
'To the feasts of the good the good unbidden go;'
and this alteration may be supported by the authority
of Homer himself, who not only demolishes but literally outrages
the proverb. For, after picturing Agamemnon as the most valiant
of men, he makes Menelaus, who is but a fainthearted warrior,
come unbidden to the banquet of Agamemnon, who is feasting and
offering sacrifices, not the better to the worse, but the worse
to the better.
I rather fear, Socrates, said Aristodemus, lest this
may still be my case; and that, like Menelaus in Homer, I shall
be the inferior person, who
'To the leasts of the wise unbidden goes.'
But I shall say that I was bidden of you, and then
you will have to make an excuse.
'Two going together,'
he replied, in Homeric fashion, one or other of them
may invent an excuse by the way.
This was the style of their conversation as they
went along. Socrates dropped behind in a fit of abstraction, and
desired Aristodemus, who was waiting, to go on before him. When
he reached the house of Agathon he found the doors wide open,
and a comical thing happened. A servant coming out met him, and
led him at once into the banqueting-hall in which the guests were
reclining, for the banquet was about to begin.
Welcome, Aristodemus, said Agathon, as soon as he
appeared -- you are just in time to sup with us; if you come on
any other matter put it off, and make one of us, as I was looking
for you yesterday and meant to have asked you, if I could have
found you. But what have you done with Socrates?
I turned round, but Socrates was nowhere to be seen;
and I had to explain that he had been with me a moment before,
and that I came by his invitation to the supper.
You were quite right in coming, said Agathon; but
where is he himself? He was behind me just now, as I entered,
he said, and I cannot think what has become of him.
Go and look for him, boy, said Agathon, and bring
him in; and do you, Aristodemus, meanwhile take the place by Eryximachus.
The servant then assisted him to wash, and he lay
down, and presently another servant came in and reported that
our friend Socrates had retired into the portico of the neighbouring
house. "There he is fixed," said he, "and when
I call to him he will not stir."
How strange, said Agathon; then you must call him
again, and keep calling him.
Let him alone, said my informant; he has a way of
stopping anywhere and losing himself without any reason. I believe
that he will soon appear; do not therefore disturb him.
Well, if you think so, I will leave him, said Agathon.
And then, turning to the servants, he added,
"Let us have supper without waiting for
him. Serve up whatever you please, for there; is no one to give
you orders; hitherto I have never left you to yourselves.
But on this occasion imagine that you art
our hosts, and that I and the company are
your guests; treat us well, and then we shall commend you."
After this, supper was served, but still no
Socrates; and during the meal Agathon several
times expressed a wish to send for him, but Aristodemus
objected; and at last when the feast was about half over
-- for the fit, as usual, was not of long duration
-- Socrates entered; Agathon, who was reclining
alone at the end of the table, begged that
he would take the place next to him; that "I may touch
you," he said, "and have the benefit of
that wise thought which came into your mind
in the portico, and is now in your possession; for I am
certain that you would not have come away until you
had found what you sought."
How I wish, said Socrates, taking his place as he
was desired, that wisdom could be infused
by touch, out of the fuller the emptier man, as
water runs through wool out of a fuller cup into an emptier one;
if that were so, how greatly should I value
the privilege of reclining at your side! For
you would have filled me full with a stream of wisdom plenteous
and fair; whereas my own is of a very mean and questionable
sort, no better than a dream. But yours is bright
and full of promise, and was manifested forth
in all the splendour of youth the day before yesterday,
in the presence of more than thirty thousand Hellenes.
You are mocking, Socrates, said Agathon, and ere
long you and I will have to determine who
bears off the palm of wisdom -- of this Dionysus shall
be the judge; but at present you are better occupied with
supper.
Socrates took his place on the couch, and supped
with the rest; and then libations were offered,
and after a hymn had been sung to the god,
and there had been the usual ceremonies, they were about to
commence drinking, when Pausanias said, And now,
my friends, how can we drink with least injury
to ourselves? I can assure you that I feel severely
the effect of yesterday's potations, and must have time to
recover; and I suspect that most of you are in the
same predicament, for you were of the party
yesterday. Consider then: How can the drinking
be made easiest?
I entirely agree, said Aristophanes, that we should,
by all means, avoid hard drinking, for I was
myself one of those who were yesterday drowned
in drink.
I think that you are right, said Eryximachus, the
son of Acumenus; but I should still like to
hear one other person speak: Is Agathon able to drink
hard?
I am not equal to it, said Agathon.
Then, the Eryximachus, the weak heads like myself,
Aristodemus, Phaedrus, and others who never
can drink, are fortunate in finding that the
stronger ones are not in a drinking mood. (I do not include
Socrates, who is able either to drink or to abstain,
and will not mind, whichever we do.) Well,
as of none of the company seem disposed to
drink much, I may be forgiven for saying, as a physician, that
drinking deep is a bad practice, which I never follow,
if I can help, and certainly do not recommend
to another, least of all to any one who still
feels the effects of yesterday's carouse.
I always do what you advise, and especially what
you prescribe as a physician, rejoined Phaedrus
the Myrrhinusian, and the rest of the company,
if they are wise, will do the same.
It was agreed that drinking was not to be the order
of the day, but that they were all to drink
only so much as they pleased.
Then, said Eryximachus, as you are all agreed that
drinking is to be voluntary, and that there
is to be no compulsion, I move, in the next place,
that the flute-girl, who has just made her appearance, be told
to go away and play to herself, or, if she likes,
to the women who are within. To-day let us
have conversation instead; and, if you will allow
me, I will tell you what sort of conversation. This proposal
having been accepted, Eryximachus proceeded as follows:-
I will begin, he said, after the manner of Melanippe
in Euripides,
'Not mine the word'
which I am about to speak, but that of Phaedrus.
For often he says to me in an indignant tone:
"What a strange thing it is, Eryximachus, that,
whereas other gods have poems and hymns made in their honour,
the great and glorious god, Love, has no encomiast
among all the poets who are so many. There
are the worthy sophists too -- the excellent Prodicus
for example, who have descanted in prose on the virtues of
Heracles and other heroes; and, what is still more
extraordinary, I have met with a philosophical
work in which the utility of salt has been
made the theme of an eloquent discourse; and many other like
things have had a like honour bestowed upon them.
And only to think that there should have been
an eager interest created about them, and yet
that to this day no one has ever dared worthily to hymn Love's
praises! So entirely has this great deity been neglected."
Now in this Phaedrus seems to me to be quite
right, and therefore I want to offer him a
contribution; also I think that at the present moment we who are
here assembled cannot do better than honour the.
god Love. If you agree with me, there will
be no lack of conversation; for I mean to propose
that each of us in turn, going from left to right, shall make
a speech in honour of Love. Let him give us the best
which he can; and Phaedrus, because he is
sitting first on the left hand, and because he is
the father of the thought, shall begin.
No one will vote against you, Eryximachus, said Socrates.
How can I oppose your motion, who profess
to understand nothing but matters of love;
nor, I presume, will Agathon and Pausanias; and there can be no
doubt of Aristophanes, whose whole concern is with
Dionysus and Aphrodite; nor will any one disagree
of those whom I, see around me. The proposal,
as I am aware, may seem rather hard upon us whose place
is last; but we shall be contented if we hear some
good speeches first. Let Phaedrus begin the
praise of Love, and good luck to him. All
the company expressed their assent, and desired him to do as
Socrates bade him.
Aristodemus did not recollect all that was said,
nor do I recollect all that he related to
me; but I will tell you what I thought most worthy
of remembrance, and what the chief speakers said.
Phaedrus began by affirming that love is a mighty
god, and wonderful among gods and men, but
especially wonderful in his birth. For he is the
eldest of the gods, which is an honour to him; and a proof of
his claim to this honour is, that of his parents
there is no memorial; neither poet nor prose-writer
has ever affirmed that he had any. As Hesiod
says: --
'First Chaos came, and then broad-bosomed Earth,
The everlasting seat of all that is,
And Love.'
In other words, after Chaos, the Earth and Love,
these two, came into being. Also Parmenides
sings of Generation:
'First in the train of gods, he fashioned Love.'
And Acusilaus agrees with Hesiod. Thus numerous are
the witnesses who acknowledge Love to be the
eldest of the gods. And not only is he the eldest,
he is also the source of the greatest benefits to us. For I
know not any greater blessing to a young man who
is beginning life than a virtuous lover or
to the lover than a beloved youth. For the principle
which ought to be the guide of men who would nobly live --
that principle, I say, neither kindred, nor honour,
nor wealth, nor any other motive is able to
implant so well as love. Of what am I speaking?
Of the sense of honour and dishonour, without which neither
states nor individuals ever do any good or great
work. And I say that a lover who is detected
in doing any dishonourable act, or submitting through
cowardice when any dishonour is done to him by another, will
be more pained at being detected by his beloved than
at being seen by his father, or by his companions,
or by any one else. The beloved too, when
he is found in any disgraceful situation, has the same feeling
about his lover. And if there were only some way
of contriving that a state or an army should
be made up of lovers and their loves, they would
be the very best governors of their own city, abstaining from
all dishonour, and emulating one another in honour;
and when fighting at each other's side, although
a mere handful, they would overcome the world.
For what lover would not choose rather to be seen by all
mankind than by his beloved, either when abandoning
his post or throwing away his arms? He would
be ready to die a thousand deaths rather than
endure this. Or who would desert his beloved or fail him
in the hour of danger? The veriest coward would become
an inspired hero, equal to the bravest, at
such a time; Love would inspire him. That
courage which, as Homer says, the god breathes into the souls
of some heroes, Love of his own nature infuses
into the lover.
Love will make men dare to die for their beloved
-- love alone; and women as well as men. Of
this, Alcestis, the daughter of Pelias, is a monument
to all Hellas; for she was willing to lay down her life on
behalf of her husband, when no one else would, although
he had a father and mother; but the tenderness
of her love so far exceeded theirs, that she
made them seem to be strangers in blood to their own son,
and in name only related to him; and so noble did this action
of hers appear to the gods, as well as to
men, that among the many who have done virtuously
she is one of the very few to whom, in admiration of
her noble action, they have granted the privilege of returning
alive to earth; such exceeding honour is paid by
the gods to the devotion and virtue of love.
But Orpheus, the son of Oeagrus, the harper,
they sent empty away, and presented to him an apparition only
of her whom he sought, but herself they would not
give up, because he showed no spirit; he was
only a harp-player, and did not dare like Alcestis
to die for love, but was contriving how he might enter hades
alive; moreover, they afterwards caused him to suffer
death at the hands of women, as the punishment
of his cowardliness. Very different was the
reward of the true love of Achilles towards his lover Patroclus
-- his lover and not his love (the notion that Patroclus was
the beloved one is a foolish error into which Aeschylus
has fallen, for Achilles was surely the fairer
of the two, fairer also than all the other
heroes; and, as Homer informs us, he was still beardless,
and younger far). And greatly as the gods honour
the virtue of love, still the return of love
on the part of the beloved to the lover is more
admired and valued and rewarded by them, for the lover is more
divine; because he is inspired by God. Now Achilles
was quite aware, for he had been told by his
mother, that he might avoid death and return
home, and live to a good old age, if he abstained from slaying
Hector. Nevertheless he gave his life to revenge
his friend, and dared to die, not only in
his defence, but after he was dead Wherefore the gods
honoured him even above Alcestis, and sent him to the Islands
of the Blest. These are my reasons for affirming
that Love is the eldest and noblest and mightiest
of the gods; and the chiefest author and giver
of virtue in life, and of happiness after death.
This, or something like this, was the speech of Phaedrus;
and some other speeches followed which Aristodemus
did not remember; the next which he repeated
was that of Pausanias. Phaedrus, he said, the argument
has not been set before us, I think, quite in the right form;
-- we should not be called upon to praise Love in
such an indiscriminate manner. If there were
only one Love, then what you said would be
well enough; but since there are more Loves than one, you
should have begun by determining which of them was
to be the theme of our praises. I will amend
this defect; and first of all I would tell you
which Love is deserving of praise, and then try to hymn the
praiseworthy one in a manner worthy of him. For we
all know that Love is inseparable from Aphrodite,
and if there were only one Aphrodite there
would be only one Love; but as there are two goddesses there
must be two Loves.
And am I not right in asserting that there are two
goddesses? The elder one, having no mother,
who is called the heavenly Aphrodite -- you
should she is the daughter of Uranus; the younger, who is the
daughter of Zeus and Dione -- her we call common;
and the Love who is her fellow-worker is rightly
named common, as the other love is called heavenly.
All the gods ought to have praise given to them, but not
without distinction of their natures; and therefore
I must try to distinguish the characters of
the two Loves. Now actions vary according
to the manner of their performance. Take, for example, that
which we are now doing, drinking, singing and talking
these actions are not in themselves either
good or evil, but they turn out in this or
that way according to the mode of performing them; and when well
done they are good, and when wrongly done they are
evil; and in like manner not every love, but
only that which has a noble purpose, is noble
and worthy of praise. The Love who is the offspring of the
common Aphrodite is essentially common, and has no
discrimination, being such as the meaner sort
of men feel, and is apt to be of women as
well as of youths, and is of the body rather than of the soul
-- you should the most foolish beings are
the objects of this love which desires only
to gain an end, but never thinks of accomplishing the end
nobly, and therefore does good and evil quite indiscriminately.
The goddess who is his mother is far younger
than the other, and she was born of the union
of the male and female, and partakes of both.
But the offspring of the heavenly Aphrodite is derived
from a mother in whose birth the female has
no part, -- you should she is from the male
only; this is that love which is of youths, and the goddess being
older, there is nothing of wantonness in her. Those
who are inspired by this love turn to the
male, and delight in him who is the more valiant
and intelligent nature; any one may recognise the pure
enthusiasts in the very character of their attachments.
For they love not boys, but intelligent, beings
whose reason is beginning to be developed,
much about the time at which their beards begin to grow.
And in choosing young men to be their companions,
they mean to be faithful to them, and pass
their whole life in company with them, not to
take them in their inexperience, and deceive them, and play the
fool with them, or run away from one to another of
them. But the love of young boys should be
forbidden by law, because their future is uncertain;
they may turn out good or bad, either in body or soul, and
much noble enthusiasm may be thrown away upon them;
in this matter the good are a law to themselves,
and the coarser sort of lovers ought to be
restrained by force; as we restrain or attempt to restrain them
from fixing their affections on women of free birth.
These are the persons who bring a reproach
on love; and some have been led to deny the
lawfulness of such attachments because they see the impropriety
and evil of them; for surely nothing that is decorously
and lawfully done can justly be censured.
Now here and in Lacedaemon the rules about love are
perplexing, but in most cities they are simple
and easily intelligible; in Elis and Boeotia,
and in countries having no gifts of eloquence, they are very
straightforward; the law is simply in favour of these
connexions, and no one, whether young or old,
has anything to say to their discredit; the
reason being, as I suppose, that they are men of few words in
those parts, and therefore the lovers do not like
the trouble of pleading their suit. In Ionia
and other places, and generally in countries
which are subject to the barbarians, the custom is held to
be dishonourable; loves of youths share the evil
repute in which philosophy and gymnastics
are held because they are inimical to tyranny;
for the interests of rulers require that their subjects
should be poor in spirit and that there should be
no strong bond of friendship or society among
them, which love, above all other motives, is
likely to inspire, as our Athenian tyrants learned by experience;
for the love of Aristogeiton and the constancy of
Harmodius had strength which undid their power.
And, therefore, the ill-repute into which
these attachments have fallen is to be ascribed to the evil
condition of those who make them to be ill-reputed;
that is to say, to the self-seeking of the
governors and the cowardice of the governed; on
the other hand, the indiscriminate honour which is given to them
in some countries is attributable to the laziness
of those who hold this opinion of them. In
our own country a far better principle prevails, but,
as I was saying, the explanation of it is rather perplexing. For,
observe that open loves are held to be more honourable
than secret ones, and that the love of the
noblest and highest, even if their persons
are less beautiful than others, is especially honourable.
Consider, too, how great is the encouragement which
all the world gives to the lover; neither
is he supposed to be doing anything dishonourable;
but if he succeeds he is praised, and if he fail he is
blamed. And in the pursuit of his love the custom
of mankind allows him to do many strange things,
which philosophy would bitterly censure if
they were done from any motive of interest, or wish for office
or power. He may pray, and entreat, and supplicate,
and swear, and lie on a mat at the door, and
endure a slavery worse than that of any slave --
you should in any other case friends and enemies would be equally
ready to prevent him, but now there is no friend
who will be ashamed of him and admonish him,
and no enemy will charge him with meanness or flattery;
the actions of a lover have a grace which ennobles them; and
custom has decided that they are highly commendable
and that there no loss of character in them;
and, what is strangest of all, he only may swear
and forswear himself (so men say), and the gods will forgive his
transgression, for there is no such thing as a lover's
oath. Such is the entire liberty which gods
and men have allowed the lover, according
to the custom which prevails in our part of the world. From
this point of view a man fairly argues in Athens
to love and to be loved is held to be a very
honourable thing. But when parents forbid their
sons to talk with their lovers, and place them under a tutor's
care, who is appointed to see to these things, and
their companions and equals cast in their
teeth anything of the sort which they may observe,
and their elders refuse to silence the reprovers and do not
rebuke them -- you should any one who reflects on
all this will, on the contrary, think that
we hold these practices to be most disgraceful. But,
as I was saying at first, the truth as I imagine is, that whether
such practices are honourable or whether they are
dishonourable is not a simple question; they
are honourable to him who follows them honourably,
dishonourable to him who follows them dishonourably. There
is dishonour in yielding to the evil, or in an evil
manner; but there is honour in yielding to
the good, or in an honourable manner.
Evil is the vulgar lover who loves the body rather
than the soul, inasmuch as he is not even
stable, because he loves a thing which is in
itself unstable, and therefore when the bloom of youth which he
was desiring is over, he takes wing and flies
away, in spite of all his words and promises;
whereas the love of the noble disposition is life-long,
for it becomes one with the everlasting. The custom of our
country would have both of them proven well and truly,
and would have us yield to the one sort of
lover and avoid the other, and therefore encourages
some to pursue, and others to fly; testing both the lover
and beloved in contests and trials, until they show
to which of the two classes they respectively
belong. And this is the reason why, in the
first place, a hasty attachment is held to be dishonourable,
because time is the true test of this as of most
other things; and secondly there is a dishonour
in being overcome by the love of money, or
of wealth, or of political power, whether a man is frightened
into surrender by the loss of them, or, having
experienced the benefits of money and political
corruption, is unable to rise above the seductions of
them. For none of these things are of a permanent or lasting
nature; not to mention that no generous friendship
ever sprang from them. There remains, then,
only one way of honourable attachment which custom
allows in the beloved, and this is the way of virtue; for as we
admitted that any service which the lover does to
him is not to be accounted flattery or a dishonour
to himself, so the beloved has one way only
of voluntary service which is not dishonourable, and this is
virtuous service.
For we have a custom, and according to our custom
any one who does service to another under
the idea that he will be improved by him either
in wisdom, or, in some other particular of virtue -- you
shouldsuch a voluntary service, I say, is not to
be regarded as a dishonour, and is not open
to the charge of flattery. And these two customs,
one the love of youth, and the other the practice of philosophy
and virtue in general, ought to meet in one, and then the
beloved may honourably indulge the lover. For when
the lover and beloved come together, having
each of them a law, and the lover thinks that
he is right in doing any service which he can to his gracious
loving one; and the other that he is right in showing
any kindness which he can to him who is making
him wise and good; the one capable of communicating
wisdom and virtue, the other seeking to acquire them with
a view to education and wisdom, when the two laws of love are
fulfilled and meet in one -- you should then, and
then only, may the beloved yield with honour
to the lover. Nor when love is of this disinterested
sort is there any disgrace in being deceived, but in every
other case there is equal disgrace in being or not being
deceived. For he who is gracious to his lover under
the impression that he is rich, and is disappointed
of his gains because he turns out to be poor,
is disgraced all the same: for he has done his best to
show that he would give himself up to any one's "uses
base" for the sake of money; but this
is not honourable. And on the same principle he
who gives himself to a lover because he is a good man, and in
the hope that he will be improved by his company,
shows himself to be virtuous, even though
the object of his affection turn out to be a villain,
and to have no virtue; and if he is deceived he has committed
a noble error. For he has proved that for his part
he will do anything for anybody with a view
to virtue and improvement, than which there can
be nothing nobler. Thus noble in every case is the acceptance
of another for the sake of virtue. This is
that love which is the love of the heavenly
godess, and is heavenly, and of great price to individuals
and cities, making the lover and the beloved alike eager
in the work of their own improvement. But all other
loves are the offspring of the other, who
is the common goddess. To you, Phaedrus, I offer
this my contribution in praise of love, which is as good as I
could make extempore.
Pausanias came to a pause -- you should this is the
balanced way in which I have been taught by
the wise to speak; and Aristodemus said that
the turn of Aristophanes was next, but either he had eaten too
much, or from some other cause he had the hiccough,
and was obliged to change turns with Eryximachus
the physician, who was reclining on the couch
below him. Eryximachus, he said, you ought either to stop my
hiccough, or to speak in my turn until I have left
off.
I will do both, said Eryximachus: I will speak in
your turn, and do you speak in mine; and while
I am speaking let me recommend you to hold
your breath, and if after you have done so for some time the
hiccough is no better, then gargle with a little
water; and if it still continues, tickle your
nose with something and sneeze; and if you
sneeze once or twice, even the most violent hiccough is sure to
go. I will do as you prescribe, said Aristophanes,
and now get on.
Eryximachus spoke as follows: Seeing that Pausanias
made a fair beginning, and but a lame ending,
I must endeavour to supply his deficiency.
I think that he has rightly distinguished two kinds of
love. But my art further informs me that the double
love is not merely an affection of the soul
of man towards the fair, or towards anything, but
is to be found in the bodies of all animals and in productions
of the earth, and I may say in all that is;
such is the conclusion which I seem to have
gathered from my own art of medicine, whence I learn how
great and wonderful and universal is the deity of love, whose
empire extends over all things, divine as well as
human. And from medicine I would begin that
I may do honour to my art. There are in the
human body these two kinds of love, which are confessedly
different and unlike, and being unlike, they have
loves and desires which are unlike; and the
desire of the healthy is one, and the desire of
the diseased is another; and as Pausanias was just now saying
that to indulge good men is honourable, and
bad men dishonourable: -- you should so too
in the body the good and healthy elements are to be indulged,
and the bad elements and the elements of disease are not to
be indulged, but discouraged. And this is what the
physician has to do, and in this the art of
medicine consists: for medicine may be regarded
generally as the knowledge of the loves and desires of the
body, and how to satisfy them or not; and the best
physician is he who is able to separate fair
love from foul, or to convert one into the other;
and he who knows how to eradicate and how to implant love,
whichever is required, and can reconcile the most
hostile elements in the constitution and make
them loving friends, is skilful practitioner.
Now the: most hostile are the most opposite, such as hot
and cold, bitter and sweet, moist and dry, and the
like. And my ancestor, Asclepius, knowing
how to implant friendship and accord in these
elements, was the creator of our art, as our friends the poets
here tell us, and I believe them; and not only medicine
in every branch but the arts of gymnastic
and husbandry are under his dominion.
Any one who pays the least attention to the subject
will also perceive that in music there is
the same reconciliation of opposites; and I suppose
that this must have been the meaning, of Heracleitus, although,
his words are not accurate, for he says that is united by
disunion, like the harmony of bow and the lyre. Now
there is an absurdity saying that harmony
is discord or is composed of elements which
are still in a state of discord. But what he probably meant was,
that, harmony is composed of differing notes of higher
or lower pitch which disagreed once, but are
now reconciled by the art of music; for if
the higher and lower notes still disagreed, there could be there
could be no harmony, -- you should clearly not. For
harmony is a symphony, and symphony is an
agreement; but an agreement of disagreements
while they disagree there cannot be; you cannot harmonize
that which disagrees. In like manner rhythm is compounded of
elements short and long, once differing and now in
accord; which accordance, as in the former
instance, medicine, so in all these other cases,
music implants, making love and unison to grow up among them;
and thus music, too, is concerned with the principles
of love in their application to harmony and
rhythm. Again, in the essential nature of harmony
and rhythm there is no difficulty in discerning love which has
not yet become double. But when you want to use them
in actual life, either in the composition
of songs or in the correct performance of airs
or metres composed already, which latter is called education,
then the difficulty begins, and the good artist is
needed. Then the old tale has to be repeated
of fair and heavenly love -- you should the love
of Urania the fair and heavenly muse, and of the duty of
accepting the temperate, and those who are as yet
intemperate only that they may become temperate,
and of preserving their love; and again, of
the vulgar Polyhymnia, who must be used with circumspection
that the pleasure be enjoyed, but may not generate
licentiousness; just as in my own art it is
a great matter so to regulate the desires of
the epicure that he may gratify his tastes without the attendant
evil of disease. Whence I infer that in music, in
medicine, in all other things human as which
as divine, both loves ought to be noted as far
as may be, for they are both present.
The course of the seasons is also full of both these
principles; and when, as I was saying, the
elements of hot and cold, moist and dry, attain
the harmonious love of one another and blend in temperance and
harmony, they bring to men, animals, and plants health
and plenty, and do them no harm; whereas the
wanton love, getting the upper hand and affecting
the seasons of the year, is very destructive and injurious,
being the source of pestilence, and bringing many
other kinds of diseases on animals and plants;
for hoar-frost and hail and blight spring
from the excesses and disorders of these elements of love,
which to know in relation to the revolutions of the
heavenly bodies and the seasons of the year
is termed astronomy. Furthermore all sacrifices
and the whole province of divination, which is the art of
communion between gods and men -- you should these,
I say, are concerned with the preservation
of the good and the cure of the evil love.
For all manner of impiety is likely to ensue if, instead of
accepting and honouring and reverencing the harmonious
love in all his actions, a man honours the
other love, whether in his feelings towards gods
or parents, towards the living or the dead. Wherefore the
business of divination is to see to these loves and
to heal them, and divination is the peacemaker
of gods and men, working by a knowledge of
the religious or irreligious tendencies which exist in human loves.
Such is the great and mighty, or rather omnipotent
force of love in general. And the love, more
especially, which is concerned with the good,
and which is perfected in company with temperance and justice,
whether among gods or men, has the greatest power,
and is the source of all our happiness and
harmony, and makes us friends with the gods who
are above us, and with one another. I dare say that I too have
omitted several things which might be said in praise
of Love, but this was not intentional, and
you, Aristophanes, may now supply the omission
or take some other line of commendation; for I perceive that
you are rid of the hiccough.
Yes, said Aristophanes, who followed, the hiccough
is gone; not, however, until I applied the
sneezing; and I wonder whether the harmony
of the body has a love of such noises and ticklings, for I no
sooner applied the sneezing than I was cured.
Eryximachus said: Beware, friend Aristophanes, although
you are going to speak, you are making fun
of me; and I shall have to watch and see whether
I cannot have a laugh at your expense, when you might speak in
peace.
You are right, said Aristophanes, laughing. I will
unsay my words; but do you please not to watch
me, as I fear that in the speech which I am about
to make, instead of others laughing with me, which is to the
manner born of our muse and would be all the better,
I shall only be laughed at by them.
Do you expect to shoot your bolt and escape, Aristophanes?
Well, perhaps if you are very careful and
bear in mind that you will be called to account,
I may be induced to let you off.
Aristophanes professed to open another vein of discourse;
he had a mind to praise Love in another way,
unlike that either of Pausanias or Eryximachus.
Mankind; he said, judging by their neglect of him, have
never, as I think, at all understood the power of
Love. For if they had understood him they
would surely have built noble temples and altars,
and offered solemn sacrifices in his honour; but this is not
done, and most certainly ought to be done: since
of all the gods he is the best friend of men,
the helper and the healer of the ills which are
the great impediment to the happiness of the race. I will try
to describe his power to you, and you shall
teach the rest of the world what I am teaching
you. In the first place, let me treat of the nature of
man and what has happened to it; for the original human nature
was not like the present, but different. The
sexes were not two as they are now, but originally
three in number; there was man, woman, and the union
of the two, having a name corresponding to this double nature,
which had once a real existence, but is now lost,
and the word "Androgynous" is only
preserved as a term of reproach. In the second place,
the primeval man was round, his back and sides forming a
circle; and he had four hands and four feet, one
head with two faces, looking opposite ways,
set on a round neck and precisely alike; also four
ears, two privy members, and the remainder to correspond. He
could walk upright as men now do, backwards or forwards
as he pleased, and he could also roll over
and over at a great pace, turning on his four
hands and four feet, eight in all, like tumblers going over and
over with their legs in the air; this was when he
wanted to run fast. Now the sexes were three,
and such as I have described them; because the
sun, moon, and earth are three; and the man was originally the
child of the sun, the woman of the earth, and the
man-woman of the moon, which is made up of
sun and earth, and they were all round and moved
round and round: like their parents. Terrible was their might
and strength, and the thoughts of their hearts were
great, and they made an attack upon the gods;
of them is told the tale of Otys and Ephialtes
who, as Homer says, dared to scale heaven, and would have
laid hands upon the gods. Doubt reigned in the celestial
councils. Should they kill them and annihilate
the race with thunderbolts, as they had done
the giants, then there would be an end of the sacrifices
and worship which men offered to them; but, on the
other hand, the gods could not suffer their
insolence to be unrestrained.
At last, after a good deal of reflection, Zeus discovered
a way. He said: "Methinks I have a plan
which will humble their pride and improve
their manners; men shall continue to exist, but I will cut
them in two and then they will be diminished in strength
and increased in numbers; this will have the
advantage of making them more profitable to
us. They shall walk upright on two legs, and if they continue
insolent and will not be quiet, I will split them again and
they shall hop about on a single leg." He spoke
and cut men in two, like a sorb-apple which
is halved for pickling, or as you might divide an
egg with a hair; and as he cut them one after another, he bade
Apollo give the face and the half of the neck a turn
in order that the man might contemplate the
section of himself: he would thus learn a lesson
of humility. Apollo was also bidden to heal their wounds and
compose their forms. So he gave a turn to the face
and pulled the skin from the sides all over
that which in our language is called the belly,
like the purses which draw in, and he made one mouth at the
centre, which he fastened in a knot (the same which
is called the navel); he also moulded the
breast and took out most of the wrinkles, much
as a shoemaker might smooth leather upon a last; he left a few,
however, in the region of the belly and navel, as
a memorial of the primeval state. After the
division the two parts of man, each desiring his
other half, came together, and throwing their arms about one
another, entwined in mutual embraces, longing to
grow into one, they were on the point of dying
from hunger and self-neglect, because they did
not like to do anything apart; and when one of the halves died
and the other survived, the survivor sought
another mate, man or woman as we call them,
-- being the sections of entire men or women, -- and clung
to that. They were being destroyed, when Zeus in pity of them
invented a new plan: he turned the parts of generation
round to the front, for this had not been
always their position and they sowed the seed
no longer as hitherto like grasshoppers in the ground, but in
one another; and after the transposition the
male generated in the female in order that
by the mutual embraces of man and woman they might breed,
and the race might continue; or if man came to man they might
be satisfied, and rest, and go their ways to the
business of life: so ancient is the desire
of one another which is implanted in us, reuniting
our original nature, making one of two, and healing the
state of man.
Each of us when separated, having one side only,
like a flat fish, is but the indenture of
a man, and he is always looking for his other half.
Men who are a section of that double nature which was once
called Androgynous are lovers of women; adulterers
are generally of this breed, and also adulterous
women who lust after men: the women who are
a section of the woman do not care for men, but have female
attachments; the female companions are of this sort.
But they who are a section of the male follow
the male, and while they are young, being slices
of the original man, they hang about men and embrace them, and
they are themselves the best of boys and youths,
because they have the most manly nature. Some
indeed assert that they are shameless, but this
is not true; for they do not act thus from any want of shame,
but because they are valiant and manly, and
have a manly countenance, and they embrace
that which is like them. And these when they grow up become
our statesmen, and these only, which is a great proof of the
truth of what I am saving. When they reach manhood
they are loves of youth, and are not naturally
inclined to marry or beget children, -- if
at all, they do so only in obedience to the law; but they are
satisfied if they may be allowed to live with one
another unwedded; and such a nature is prone
to love and ready to return love, always embracing
that which is akin to him. And when one of them meets with
his other half, the actual half of himself, whether
he be a lover of youth or a lover of another
sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love
and friendship and intimacy, and would not be out of the other's
sight, as I may say, even for a moment: these are
the people who pass their whole lives together;
yet they could not explain what they desire
of one another. For the intense yearning which each of them has
towards the other does not appear to be the desire
of lover's intercourse, but of something else
which the soul of either evidently desires
and cannot tell, and of which she has only a dark and doubtful
presentiment. Suppose Hephaestus, with his instruments,
to come to the pair who are lying side, by
side and to say to them, "What do you people
want of one another?" they would be unable to explain. And
suppose further, that when he saw their perplexity
he said: "Do you desire to be wholly
one; always day and night to be in one another's company?
for if this is what you desire, I am ready to melt you into
one and let you grow together, so that being two
you shall become one, and while you live a
common life as if you were a single man, and after
your death in the world below still be one departed soul instead
of two -- I ask whether this is what you lovingly
desire, and whether you are satisfied to attain
this?" -- there is not a man of them who when
he heard the proposal would deny or would not acknowledge that
this meeting and melting into one another, this becoming
one instead of two, was the very expression
of his ancient need. And the reason is that
human nature was originally one and we were a whole, and the
desire and pursuit of the whole is called love. There
was a time, I say, when we were one, but now
because of the wickedness of mankind God has
dispersed us, as the Arcadians were dispersed into villages by
the Lacedaemonians. And if we are not obedient to
the gods, there is a danger that we shall
be split up again and go about in basso-relievo, like
the profile figures having only half a nose which are sculptured
on monuments, and that we shall be like tallies.
Wherefore let us exhort all men to piety, that we
may avoid evil, and obtain the good, of which
Love is to us the lord and minister; and let no
one oppose him -- he is the enemy of the gods who oppose him.
For if we are friends of the God and at peace
with him we shall find our own true loves,
which rarely happens in this world at present. I am serious,
and therefore I must beg Eryximachus not to make fun or to
find any allusion in what I am saying to Pausanias
and Agathon, who, as I suspect, are both of
the manly nature, and belong to the class which
I have been describing. But my words have a wider application
-- they include men and women everywhere;
and I believe that if our loves were perfectly
accomplished, and each one returning to his primeval nature
had his original true love, then our race would be happy. And
if this would be best of all, the best in the next
degree and under present circumstances must
be the nearest approach to such an union; and
that will be the attainment of a congenial love. Wherefore, if
we would praise him who has given to us the
benefit, we must praise the god Love, who
is our greatest benefactor, both leading us in this life
back to our own nature, and giving us high hopes
for the future, for he promises that if we
are pious, he will restore us to our original state,
and heal us and make us happy and blessed. This, Eryximachus,
is my discourse of love, which, although different
to yours, I must beg you to leave unassailed
by the shafts of your ridicule, in order that
each may have his turn; each, or rather either, for Agathon and
Socrates are the only ones left.
Indeed, I am not going to attack you, said Eryximachus,
for I thought your speech charming, and did
I not know that Agathon and Socrates are masters
in the art of love, I should be really afraid that they would
have nothing to say, after the world of things which
have been said already. But, for all that,
I am not without hopes.
Socrates said: You played your part well, Eryximachus;
but if you were as I am now, or rather as
I shall be when Agathon has spoken, you would,
indeed, be in a great strait.
You want to cast a spell over me, Socrates, said
Agathon, in the hope that I may be disconcerted
at the expectation raised among the audience
that I shall speak well.
I should be strangely forgetful, Agathon replied
Socrates, of the courage and magnanimity which
you showed when your own compositions were
about to be exhibited, and you came upon the stage with the
actors and faced the vast theatre altogether undismayed,
if I thought that your nerves could be fluttered
at a small party of friends.
Do you think, Socrates, said Agathon, that my head
is so full of the theatre as not to know how
much more formidable to a man of sense a few
good judges are than many fools?
Nay, replied Socrates, I should be very wrong in
attributing to you, Agathon, that or any other
want of refinement. And I am quite aware that
if you happened to meet with any whom you thought wise, you would
care for their opinion much more than for that of
the many. But then we, having been a part
of the foolish many in the theatre, cannot be regarded
as the select wise; though I know that if you chanced to be
in the presence, not of one of ourselves, but of
some really wise man, you would be ashamed
of disgracing yourself before him -- would you not?
Yes, said Agathon.
But before the many you would not be ashamed, if
you thought that you were doing something
disgraceful in their presence?
Here Phaedrus interrupted them, saying: not answer
him, my dear Agathon; for if he can only get
a partner with whom he can talk, especially
a good-looking one, he will no longer care about the completion
of our plan. Now I love to hear him talk; but just at present
I must not forget the encomium on Love which I ought to
receive from him and from every one. When you and
he have paid your tribute to the god, then
you may talk.
Very good, Phaedrus, said Agathon; I see no reason
why I should not proceed with my speech, as
I shall have many other opportunities of conversing
with Socrates. Let me say first how I ought to speak, and then
speak: --
The previous speakers, instead of praising the god
Love, or unfolding his nature, appear to have
congratulated mankind on the benefits which he
confers upon them. But I would rather praise the god first, and
then speak of his gifts; this is always the right
way of praising everything. May I say without
impiety or offence, that of all the blessed
gods he is the most blessed because he is the fairest and
best? And he is the fairest: for, in the first place,
he is the youngest, and of his youth he is
himself the witness, fleeing out of the way
of age, who is swift enough, swifter truly than most of us
like: -- Love hates him and will not come near him;
but youth and love live and move together
-- like to like, as the proverb says. Many things
were said by Phaedrus about Love in which I agree with him; but
I cannot agree that he is older than Iapetus and
Kronos: -- not so; I maintain him to be the
youngest of the gods, and youthful ever. The ancient
doings among the gods of which Hesiod and Parmenides spoke, if
the tradition of them be true, were done of Necessity
and not Love; had Love been in those days,
there would have been no chaining or mutilation
of the gods, or other violence, but peace and sweetness, as
there is now in heaven, since the rule of Love began.
Love is young and also tender; he ought to have a
poet like Homer to describe his tenderness,
as Homer says of Ate, that she is a goddess and
tender: --
'Her feet are tender, for she sets her steps, Not on the ground
but on the heads of men:'
herein is an excellent proof of her tenderness that,
-- she walks not upon the hard but upon the
soft. Let us adduce a similar proof of the tenderness
of Love; for he walks not upon the earth, nor yet upon
skulls of men, which are not so very soft, but in
the hearts and souls of both god, and men,
which are of all things the softest: in them he walks
and dwells and makes his home. Not in every soul without
exception, for Where there is hardness he departs,
where there is softness there he dwells; and
nestling always with his feet and in all manner
of ways in the softest of soft places, how can he be other than
the softest of all things? Of a truth he is the tenderest
as well as the youngest, and also he is of
flexible form; for if he were hard and without
flexure he could not enfold all things, or wind his way into
and out of every soul of man undiscovered. And a
proof of his flexibility and symmetry of form
is his grace, which is universally admitted
to be in an especial manner the attribute of Love; ungrace
and love are always at war with one another. The
fairness of his complexion is revealed by
his habitation among the flowers; for he dwells
not amid bloomless or fading beauties, whether of body or soul
or aught else, but in the place of flowers and scents,
there he sits and abides. Concerning the beauty
of the god I have said enough; and yet there
remains much more which I might say. Of his virtue I have
now to speak: his greatest glory is that he can neither
do nor suffer wrong to or from any god or
any man; for he suffers not by force if he suffers;
force comes not near him, neither when he acts does he act by
force. For all men in all things serve him of their
own free will, and where there is voluntary
agreement, there, as the laws which are the lords
of the city say, is justice. And not only is he just but
exceedingly temperate, for Temperance is the acknowledged
ruler of the pleasures and desires, and no
pleasure ever masters Love; he is their master
and they are his servants; and if he conquers them he must be
temperate indeed. As to courage, even the God of
War is no match for him; he is the captive
and Love is the lord, for love, the love of Aphrodite,
masters him, as the tale runs; and the master is stronger
than the servant. And if he conquers the bravest
of all others, he must be himself the bravest.
Of his courage and justice and temperance I have
spoken, but I have yet to speak of his wisdom;
and according to the measure of my ability I
must try to do my best. In the first place he is a poet (and here,
like Eryximachus, I magnify my art), and he is also
the source of poesy in others, which he could
not be if he were not himself a poet. And
at the touch of him every one becomes a poet, even though he had
no music in him before; this also is a proof that
Love is a good poet and accomplished in all
the fine arts; for no one can give to another that
which he has not himself, or teach that of which he has no
knowledge. Who will deny that the creation of the
animals is his doing? Are they not all the
works his wisdom, born and begotten of him?
And as to the artists, do we not know that he only of them whom
love inspires has the light of fame? -- he whom Love
touches riot walks in darkness. The arts of
medicine and archery and divination were discovered
by Apollo, under the guidance of love and desire; so that
he too is a disciple of Love. Also the melody of the Muses, the
metallurgy of Hephaestus, the weaving of Athene,
the empire of Zeus over gods and men, are
all due to Love, who was the inventor of them. And
so Love set in order the empire of the gods -- the love of beauty,
as is evident, for with deformity Love has no concern.
In the days of old, as I began by saying,
dreadful deeds were done among the gods, for
they were ruled by Necessity; but now since the birth of Love,
and from the Love of the beautiful, has sprung
every good in heaven and earth. Therefore,
Phaedrus, I say of Love that he is the fairest and best
in himself, and the cause of what is fairest and best in all
other things. And there comes into my mind a line
of poetry in which he is said to be the god
who
'Gives peace on earth and calms the stormy deep,
Who stills the winds and bids the sufferer sleep.'
This is he who empties men of disaffection and fills
them with affection, who makes them to meet
together at banquets such as these: in sacrifices,
feasts, dances, he is our lord -- who sends courtesy and
sends away discourtesy, who gives kindness ever and never gives
unkindness; the friend of the good, the wonder of
the wise, the amazement of the gods; desired
by those who have no part in him, and precious
to those who have the better part in him; parent of delicacy,
luxury, desire, fondness, softness, grace; regardful
of the good, regardless of the evil: in every
word, work, wish, fear -- saviour, pilot,
comrade, helper; glory of gods and men, leader best and
brightest: in whose footsteps let every man follow,
sweetly singing in his honour and joining
in that sweet strain with which love charms the souls
of gods and men. Such is the speech, Phaedrus, half-playful, yet
having a certain measure of seriousness, which, according
to my ability, I dedicate to the god.
When Agathon had done speaking, Aristodemus said
that there was a general cheer; the young man was thought to have
spoken in a manner worthy of himself, and
of the god. And Socrates, looking at Eryximachus,
said: Tell me, son of Acumenus, was there not reason in
my fears? and was I not a true prophet when I said
that Agathon would make a wonderful oration,
and that I should be in a strait?
The part of the prophecy which concerns Agathon,
replied Eryximachus, appears to me to be true;
but, not the other part -- that you will be in
a strait.
Why, my dear friend, said Socrates, must not I or
any one be in a strait who has to speak after
he has heard such a rich and varied discourse?
I am especially struck with the beauty of the concluding
words -- who could listen to them without amazement?
When I reflected on the immeasurable inferiority
of my own powers, I was ready to run away
for shame, if there had been a possibility of escape. For I was
reminded of Gorgias, and at the end of his speech
I fancied that Agathon was shaking at me the
Gorginian or Gorgonian head of the great master
of rhetoric, which was simply to turn me and my speech, into
stone, as Homer says, and strike me dumb. And then
I perceived how foolish I had been in consenting
to take my turn with you in praising love,
and saying that I too was a master of the art, when I really had
no conception how anything ought to be praised. For
in my simplicity I imagined that the topics
of praise should be true, and that this being presupposed,
out of the true the speaker was to choose the best and
set them forth in the best manner. And I felt quite
proud, thinking that I knew the nature of
true praise, and should speak well. Whereas I
now see that the intention was to attribute to Love every species
of greatness and glory, whether really belonging
to him not, without regard to truth or falsehood
-- that was no matter; for the original, proposal
seems to have been not that each of you should really praise
Love, but only that you should appear to praise him.
And so you attribute to Love every imaginable
form of praise which can be gathered anywhere;
and you say that "he is all this," and "the cause
of all that," making him appear the fairest
and best of all to those who know him not,
for you cannot impose upon those who know him. And a noble
and solemn hymn of praise have you rehearsed. But as I
misunderstood the nature of the praise when I said
that I would take my turn, I must beg to be
absolved from the promise which I made in ignorance,
and which (as Euripides would say) was a promise of the
lips and not of the mind. Farewell then to such a
strain: for I do not praise in that way; no,
indeed, I cannot. But if you like to here the truth
about love, I am ready to speak in my own manner, though I will
not make myself ridiculous by entering into any rivalry
with you. Say then, Phaedrus, whether you
would like, to have the truth about love, spoken
in any words and in any order which may happen to come into my
mind at the time. Will that be agreeable to you?
Aristodemus said that Phaedrus and the company bid
him speak in any manner which he thought best.
Then, he added, let me have your permission
first to ask Agathon a few more questions, in order that I
may take his admissions as the premisses of my discourse.
I grant the permission, said Phaedrus: put your questions.
Socrates then proceeded as follows: --
In the magnificent oration which you have just uttered,
I think that you were right, my dear Agathon,
in proposing to speak of the nature of Love
first and afterwards of his works -- that is a way of beginning
which I very much approve. And as you have spoken so eloquently
of his nature, may I ask you further, Whether love is the
love of something or of nothing? And here I must
explain myself: I do not want you to say that
love is the love of a father or the love of a mother
-- that would be ridiculous; but to answer as you would, if I
asked is a father a father of something? to which
you would find no difficulty in replying,
of a son or daughter: and the answer would be right.
Very true, said Agathon.
And you would say the same of a mother?
He assented.
Yet let me ask you one more question in order to
illustrate my meaning: Is not a brother to
be regarded essentially as a brother of something?
Certainly, he replied.
That is, of a brother or sister?
Yes, he said.
And now, said Socrates, I will ask about Love: --
Is Love of something or of nothing?
Of something, surely, he replied.
Keep in mind what this is, and tell me what I want
to know -- whether Love desires that of which
love is.
Yes, surely.
And does he possess, or does he not possess, that
which he loves and desires?
Probably not, I should say.
Nay, replied Socrates, I would have you consider
whether "necessarily" is not rather
the word. The inference that he who desires something is
in want of something, and that he who desires nothing
is in want ofnothing, is in my judgment, Agathon absolutely and
necessarily true. What do you think?
I agree with you, said Agathon.
Very good. Would he who is great, desire to be great,
or he who is strong, desire to be strong?
That would be inconsistent with our previous admissions.
True. For he who is anything cannot want to be that
which he is?
Very true.
And yet, added Socrates, if a man being strong desired
to be strong, or being swift desired to be
swift, or being healthy desired to be healthy,
in that case he might be thought to desire something which he
already has or is. I give the example in order that
we may avoid misconception. For the possessors
of these qualities, Agathon, must be supposed
to have their respective advantages at the time, whether they
choose or not; and who can desire that which he has?
Therefore when a person says, I am well and
wish to be well, or I am rich and wish to be
rich, and I desire simply to have what I have -- to him we shall
reply: "You, my friend, having wealth and health
and strength, want to have the continuance
of them; for at this moment, whether you choose or
no, you have them. And when you say, I desire that which I have
and nothing else, is not your meaning that
you want to have what you now have in the
future? "He must agree with us -- must he not?
He must, replied Agathon.
Then, said Socrates, he desires that what he has
at present may be preserved to him in the
future, which is equivalent to saying that he desires
something which is non-existent to him, and which as yet he
has not got.
Very true, he said.
Then he and every one who desires, desires that which
he has not already, and which is future and
not present, and which he has not, and is
not, and of which he is in want; -- these are the sort of
things which love and desire seek?
Very true, he said.
Then now, said Socrates, let us recapitulate the
argument. First, is not love of something,
and of something too which is wanting to a man?
Yes, he replied.
Remember further what you said in your speech, or
if you do not remember I will remind you:
you said that the love of the beautiful set
in order the empire of the gods, for that of deformed things there
is no love -- did you not say something of that kind?
Yes, said Agathon.
Yes, my friend, and the remark was a just one. And
if this is true, Love is the love of beauty
and not of deformity?
He assented.
And the admission has been already made that Love
is of something which a man wants and has
not?
True, he said.
Then Love wants and has not beauty?
Certainly, he replied.
And would you call that beautiful which wants and
does not possess beauty?
Certainly not.
Then would you still say that love is beautiful?
Agathon replied: I fear that I did not understand
what I was saying.
You made a very good speech, Agathon, replied Socrates;
but there is yet one small question which I would fain ask: --
Is not the good also the beautiful?
Yes.
Then in wanting the beautiful, love wants also the
good?
I cannot refute you, Socrates, said Agathon: -- Let
us assume that what you say is true.
Say rather, beloved Agathon, that you cannot refute
the truth; for Socrates is easily refuted.
And now, taking my leave of you, I would rehearse
a tale of love which I heard from Diotima
of Mantineia, a woman wise in this and in many other
kinds of knowledge, who in the days of old, when the Athenians
offered sacrifice before the coming of the plague,
delayed the disease ten years. She was my
instructress in the art of love, and I shall repeat
to you what she said to me, beginning with the admissions made
by Agathon, which are nearly if not quite the same
which I made to the wise woman when she questioned
me: I think that this will be the easiest
way, and I shall take both parts myself as well as I can. As
you, Agathon, suggested, I must speak first of the
being and nature of Love, and then of his
works. First I said to her in nearly the same words
which he used to me, that Love was a mighty god, and likewise
fair and she proved to me as I proved to him that,
by my own showing, Love was neither fair nor
good. "What do you mean, Diotima," I said, "is
love then evil and foul?" "Hush," she cried; "must
that be foul which is not fair?" "Certainly,"
I said. "And is that which is not wise,
ignorant? do you not see that there is a mean between wisdom and
ignorance?" "And what may that be?"
I said. "Right opinion," she replied;
"which, as you know, being incapable of giving a reason,
is not knowledge (for how can knowledge be
devoid of reason? nor again, ignorance, for
neither can ignorance attain the truth), but is clearly
something which is a mean between ignorance and wisdom."
"Quite true," I replied. "Do
not then insist," she said, "that what is not fair is
of necessity foul, or what is not good evil; or infer
that because love is not fair and good he
is therefore foul and evil; for he is in a
mean between them." "Well," I said, "Love
is surely admitted by all to be a great god."
"By those who know or by those who do not know?""By all." "And how, Socrates,"
she said with a smile, "can Love be acknowledged
to be a great god by those who say that he is not a god
at all?" "And who are they?" I said.
"You and I are two of them," she replied.
"How can that be?" I said. "It is quite intelligible,"
she replied; "for you yourself would
acknowledge that the gods are happy and fair
-- of course you would -- would to say that any god was not?""Certainly not," I replied. "And you
mean by the happy, those who are the possessors
of things good or fair?" "Yes." "And you admitted
that Love, because he was in want, desires
those good and fair things of which he is
in want?" "Yes, I did." "But how can he be
a god who has no portion in what is either
good or fair?" "Impossible." "Then you see that you also deny the divinity of Love."
"What then is Love?" I asked; "Is
he mortal?" "No." "What then?" "As
in the former instance, he is neither mortal nor
immortal, but in a mean between the two."
"What is he, Diotima?" "He is a great spirit
(daimon), and like all spirits he is intermediate
between the divine and the mortal." "And
what," I said, "is his power?" "He interprets,"
she replied, "between gods and men, conveying
and taking across to the gods the prayers
and sacrifices of men, and to men the commands and replies
of the gods; he is the mediator who spans the chasm which
divides them, and therefore in him all is bound together,
and through him the arts of the prophet and
the priest, their sacrifices and mysteries
and charms, and all, prophecy and incantation, find their
way. For God mingles not with man; but through Love.
all the intercourse, and converse of god with
man, whether awake or asleep, is carried on.
The wisdom which understands this is spiritual; all other
wisdom, such as that of arts and handicrafts, is
mean and vulgar. Now these spirits or intermediate
powers are many and diverse, and one of them
is Love. "And who," I said, "was his father, and
who his mother?" "The tale,"
she said, "will take time; nevertheless I will tell you.
On the birthday of Aphrodite there was a feast of
the gods, at which the god Poros or Plenty,
who is the son of Metis or Discretion, was one
of the guests. When the feast was over, Penia or Poverty, as the
manner is on such occasions, came about the doors
to beg. Now Plenty who was the worse for nectar
(there was no wine in those days), went into
the garden of Zeus and fell into a heavy sleep, and Poverty
considering her own straitened circumstances, plotted
to have a child by him, and accordingly she
lay down at his side and conceived love, who
partly because he is naturally a lover of the beautiful, and
because Aphrodite is herself beautiful, and also
because he was born on her birthday, is her
follower and attendant. And as his parentage is,
so also are his fortunes. In the first place he is always poor,
and anything but tender and fair, as the many imagine
him; and he is rough and squalid, and has
no shoes, nor a house to dwell in; on the bare
earth exposed he lies under the open heaven, in the streets, or
at the doors of houses, taking his rest; and like
his mother he is always in distress. Like
his father too, whom he also partly resembles,
he is always plotting against the fair and good; he is
bold, enterprising, strong, a mighty hunter, always
weaving some intrigue or other, keen in the
pursuit of wisdom, fertile in resources; a
philosopher at all times, terrible as an enchanter, sorcerer,
sophist. He is by nature neither mortal nor immortal, but
alive and flourishing at one moment when he is in
plenty, and dead at another moment, and again
alive by reason of his father's nature. But that
which is always flowing in is always flowing out, and so he is
never in want and never in wealth; and, further,
he is in a mean between ignorance and knowledge.
The truth of the matter is this: No god is
a philosopher. or seeker after wisdom, for he is wise already;
nor does any man who is wise seek after wisdom. Neither
do the ignorant seek after Wisdom. For herein
is the evil of ignorance, that he who is neither
good nor wise is nevertheless satisfied with himself:
he has no desire for that of which he feels no want." "But
who then, Diotima," I said, "are the lovers
of wisdom, if they are neither the wise nor
the foolish?" "A child may answer that question,"
she replied; "they are those who are in a mean
between the two; Love is one of them. For
wisdom is a most beautiful thing, and Love is of the
beautiful; and therefore Love is also a philosopher: or lover
of wisdom, and being a lover of wisdom is
in a mean between the wise and the ignorant.
And of this too his birth is the cause; for his father
is wealthy and wise, and his mother poor and foolish.
Such, my dear Socrates, is the nature of the
spirit Love. The error in your conception
of him was very natural, and as I imagine from what you
say, has arisen out of a confusion of love and the
beloved, which made you think that love was
all beautiful. For the beloved is the truly beautiful,
and delicate, and perfect, and blessed; but the principle of love is of another nature, and is such as I have
described."
I said, "O thou stranger woman, thou sayest
well; but, assuming Love to be such as you
say, what is the use of him to men?" "That, Socrates,"
she replied, "I will attempt to unfold: of his nature and
birth I have already spoken; and you acknowledge
that love is of the beautiful. But some one
will say: Of the beautiful in what, Socrates and
Diotima? -- or rather let me put the question more dearly, and
ask: When a man loves the beautiful, what does he
desire?" I answered her "That the
beautiful may be his." "Still," she said, "the
answer suggests a further question: What is
given by the possession of beauty?" "To
what you have asked," I replied, "I have no answer
ready." "Then," she said, "Let
me put the word 'good' in the place of the
beautiful, and repeat the question once more: If he who loves
good, what is it then that he loves? "The possession
of the good," I said. "And what
does he gain who possesses the good?" "Happiness,"
I replied; "there is less difficulty
in answering that question." "Yes," she
said, "the happy are made happy by the acquisition of good
things. Nor is there any need to ask why a
man desires happiness; the answer is already
final." "You are right." I said. "And is this
wish and this desire common to all? and do
all men always desire their own good, or only
some men? -- what say you?" "All men," I replied;
"the desire is common to all." "Why,
then," she rejoined, "are not all men, Socrates,
said to love, but only some them? whereas you say
that all men are always loving the same things."
"I myself wonder," I said, "why this is."
"There is nothing to wonder at," she replied; "the
reason is that one part of love is separated
off and receives the name of the whole, but
the other parts have other names." "Give an illustration,"
I said. She answered me as follows: "There
is poetry, which, as you know, is complex;
and manifold. All creation or passage of non-being into being
is poetry or making, and the processes of all art
are creative; and the masters of arts are
all poets or makers." "Very true." "Still,"
she said, "you know that they are not called
poets, but have other names; only that portion
of the art which is separated off from the rest,
and is concerned with music and metre, is termed poetry, and they who possess poetry in this sense of the word
are called poets." "Very true,"
I said. "And the same holds of love. For you may say
generally that all desire of good and happiness is
only the great and subtle power of love; but
they who are drawn towards him by any other path,
whether the path of money-making or gymnastics or philosophy,
are not called lovers -- the name of the whole is
appropriated to those whose affection takes
one form only -- they alone are said to love,
or to be lovers." "I dare say," I replied, "that
you are right." "Yes," she
added, "and you hear people say that lovers are seeking for
their other half; but I say that they are seeking
neither for the half of themselves, nor for
the whole, unless the half or the whole be also a
good. And they will cut off their own hands and feet and cast
them away, if they are evil; for they love
not what is their own, unless perchance there
be some one who calls what belongs to him the good, and
what belongs to another the evil. For there is nothing which men
love but the good. Is there anything?" "Certainly,
I should say, that there is nothing."
"Then," she said, "the simple truth is, that men
love the good." "Yes," I said. "To
which must be added that they love the possession
of the good? "Yes, that must be added." "And not
only the possession, but the everlasting possession
of the good?" "That must be added
too." "Then love," she said, "may be described
generally as the love of the everlasting possession
of the good?" "That is most true."
"Then if this be the nature of love, can you
tell me further," she said, "what
is the manner of the pursuit? what are they doing who show
all this eagerness and heat which is called love?
and what is the object which they have in
view? Answer me." "Nay, Diotima," I replied, "if I had known, I should not have wondered
at your wisdom, neither should I have come
to learn from you about this very matter." "Well,"
she said, "I will teach you: -- The object which
they have in view is birth in beauty, whether
of body or, soul." "I do not understand you,"
I said; "the oracle requires an explanation."
"I will make my meaning dearer,"
she replied. "I mean to say, that all men are bringing to
the birth in their bodies and in their souls.
There is a certain age at which human nature
is desirous of procreation -- procreation which must
be in beauty and not in deformity; and this procreation is the
union of man and woman, and is a divine thing; for
conception and generation are an immortal
principle in the mortal creature, and in the
inharmonious they can never be. But the deformed is always
inharmonious with the divine, and the beautiful harmonious.
Beauty, then, is the destiny or goddess of
parturition who presides at birth, and therefore,
when approaching beauty, the conceiving power is propitious,
and diffusive, and benign, and begets and bears fruit: at
the sight of ugliness she frowns and contracts and
has a sense of pain, and turns away, and shrivels
up, and not without a pang refrains from conception.
And this is the reason why, when the hour of conception
arrives, and the teeming nature is full, there is such a
flutter and ecstasy about beauty whose approach is
the alleviation of the pain of travail. For
love, Socrates, is not, as you imagine, the love
of the beautiful only." "What then?" "The
love of generation and of birth in beauty."
"Yes," I said. "Yes, indeed," she replied.
"But why of generation?" "Because
to the mortal creature, generation is a sort
of eternity and immortality," she replied; "and if,
as has been already admitted, love is of the
everlasting possession of the good, all men
will necessarily desire immortality together with good: Wherefore love is of immortality."
All this she taught me at various times when she
spoke of love. And I remember her once saying
to me, "What is the cause, Socrates, of love, and
the attendant desire? See you not how all animals, birds, as well
as beasts, in their desire of procreation, are in
agony when they take the infection of love,
which begins with the desire of union; whereto is
added the care of offspring, on whose behalf the weakest are ready
to battle against the strongest even to the uttermost,
and to die for them, and will, let themselves
be tormented with hunger or suffer anything
in order to maintain their young. Man may be supposed to act
thus from reason; but why should animals have these
passionate feelings? Can you tell me why?"
Again I replied that I did not know. She said
to me: "And do you expect ever to become a master in the
art of love, if you do not know this?"
"But I have told you already, Diotima,
that my ignorance is the reason why I come to you; for I am
conscious that I want a teacher; tell me then the
cause of this and of the other mysteries of
love." "Marvel not," she said, "if you believe
that love is of the immortal, as we have several
times acknowledged; for here again, and on
the same principle too, the mortal nature is seeking
as far as is possible to be everlasting and immortal: and this
is only to be attained by generation, because generation
always leaves behind a new existence in the
place of the old. Nay even in the life, of
the same individual there is succession and not absolute unity:
a man is called the same, and yet in the short
interval which elapses between youth and age,
and in which every animal is said to have life and
identity, he is undergoing a perpetual process of loss and
reparation -- hair, flesh, bones, blood, and the
whole body are always changing. Which is true
not only of the body, but also of the soul, whose
habits, tempers, opinions, desires, pleasures, pains, fears,
never remain the same in any one of us, but are always
coming and going; and equally true of knowledge,
and what is still more surprising to us mortals,
not only do the sciences in general spring up
and decay, so that in respect of them we are never the same; but
each of them individually experiences a like change.
For what is implied in the word 'recollection,'
but the departure of knowledge, which is ever
being forgotten, and is renewed and preserved by recollection,
and appears to be the same although in reality new, according
to that law of succession by which all mortal things are
preserved, not absolutely the same, but by substitution,
the old worn-out mortality leaving another
new and similar existence behind -- unlike
the divine, which is always the same and not another? And in
this way, Socrates, the mortal body, or mortal anything,
partakes of immortality; but the immortal
in another way. Marvel not then at the love
which all men have of their offspring; for that universal love and interest is for the sake of immortality."
I was astonished at her words, and said: "Is
this really true, O thou wise Diotima?"
And she answered with all the authority of an accomplished
sophist: "Of that, Socrates, you may be assured; -- think
only of the ambition of men, and you will wonder
at the senselessness of their ways, unless
you consider how they are stirred by the love of an
immortality of fame. They are ready to run all risks greater far
than they would have for their children, and to spend
money and undergo any sort of toil, and even
to die, for the sake of leaving behind them
a name which shall be eternal. Do you imagine that Alcestis
would have died to save Admetus, or Achilles to avenge
Patroclus, or your own Codrus in order to preserve
the kingdom for his sons, if they had not
imagined that the memory of their virtues, which still
survives among us, would be immortal? Nay," she said, "I
am persuaded that all men do all things, and
the better they are the more they do them,
in hope of the glorious fame of immortal virtue; for they
desire the immortal.
"Those who are pregnant in the body only, betake
themselves to women and beget children --
this is the character of their love; their offspring,
as they hope, will preserve their memory and giving them
the blessedness and immortality which they desire
in the future. But souls which are pregnant
-- for there certainly are men who are more creative
in their souls than in their bodies conceive that which is
proper for the soul to conceive or contain. And what
are these conceptions? -- wisdom and virtue
in general. And such creators are poets and
all artists who are deserving of the name inventor. But the
greatest and fairest sort of wisdom by far is that
which is concerned with the ordering of states
and families, and which is called temperance
and justice. And he who in youth has the seed of these
implanted in him and is himself inspired, when he
comes to maturity desires to beget and generate.
He wanders about seeking beauty that he may
beget offspring -- for in deformity he will beget nothing -- and
naturally embraces the beautiful rather than the
deformed body; above all when he finds fair
and noble and well-nurtured soul, he embraces the
two in one person, and to such an one he is full of speech about
virtue and the nature and pursuits of a good man;
and he tries to educate him; and at the touch
of the beautiful which is ever present to
his memory, even when absent, he brings forth that which he had
conceived long before, and in company with him tends
that which he brings forth; and they are married
by a far nearer tie and have a closer friendship
than those who beget mortal children, for the children
who are their common offspring are fairer and more immortal.
Who, when he thinks of Homer and Hesiod and other
great poets, would not rather have their children
than ordinary human ones? Who would not emulate
them in the creation of children such as theirs, which have
preserved their memory and given them everlasting
glory? Or who would not have such children
as Lycurgus left behind him to be the saviours, not
only of Lacedaemon, but of Hellas, as one may say? There is Solon,
too, who is the revered father of Athenian laws;
and many others there are in many other places,
both among hellenes and barbarians, who have given
to the world many noble works, and have been the parents of
virtue of every kind; and many temples have been
raised in their honour for the sake of children
such as theirs; which were never raised in
honour of any one, for the sake of his mortal children.
"These are the lesser mysteries of love, into
which even you, Socrates, may enter; to the
greater and more hidden ones which are the crown
of these, and to which, if you pursue them in a right spirit,
they will lead, I know not whether you will be able
to attain. But I will do my utmost to inform
you, and do you follow if you can. For he who
would proceed aright in this matter should begin in youth to visit
beautiful forms; and first, if he be guided by his
instructor aright, to love one such form only
-- out of that he should create fair thoughts;
and soon he will of himself perceive that the beauty of one
form is akin to the beauty of another; and then if
beauty of form in general is his pursuit,
how foolish would he be not to recognize that the
beauty in every form is and the same! And when he perceives this
he will abate his violent love of the one, which
he will despise and deem a small thing, and
will become a lover of all beautiful forms; in the
next stage he will consider that the beauty of the mind is more
honourable than the beauty of the outward form. So
that if a virtuous soul have but a little
comeliness, he will be content to love and tend him,
and will search out and bring to the birth thoughts which may
improve the young, until he is compelled to contemplate
and see the beauty of institutions and laws,
and to understand that the beauty of them
all is of one family, and that personal beauty is a trifle; and
after laws and institutions he will go on to the
sciences, that he may see their beauty, being
not like a servant in love with the beauty of one
youth or man or institution, himself a slave mean and narrow-minded,
but drawing towards and contemplating the vast sea of beauty,
he will create many fair and noble thoughts and notions in
boundless love of wisdom; until on that shore he
grows and waxes strong, and at last the vision
is revealed to him of a single science, which
is the science of beauty everywhere. To this I will proceed;
please to give me your very best attention:
"He who has been instructed thus far in the
things of love, and who has learned to see
the beautiful in due order and succession, when he comes
toward the end will suddenly perceive a nature of wondrous
beauty (and this, Socrates, is the final cause of
all our former toils) -- a nature which in
the first place is everlasting, not growing
and decaying, or waxing and waning; secondly, not fair in one
point of view and foul in another, or at one time
or in one relation or at one place fair, at
another time or in another relation or at another
place foul, as if fair to some and foul to others, or in the
likeness of a face or hands or any other part of
the bodily frame, or in any form of speech
or knowledge, or existing in any other being, as for
example, in an animal, or in heaven or in earth, or in any other
place; but beauty absolute, separate, simple, and
everlasting, which without diminution and
without increase, or any change, is imparted to the
ever-growing and perishing beauties of all other things. He who
from these ascending under the influence of true
love, begins to perceive that beauty, is not
far from the end. And the true order of going,
or being led by another, to the things of love, is to begin
from the beauties of earth and mount upwards for
the sake of that other beauty, using these
as steps only, and from one going on to two, and
from two to all fair forms, and from fair forms to fair practices,
and from fair practices to fair notions, until from
fair notions he arrives at the notion of absolute
beauty, and at last knows what the essence
of beauty is. This, my dear Socrates," said the stranger
of Mantineia, "is that life above all
others which man should live, in the contemplation
of beauty absolute; a beauty which if you once beheld,
you would see not to be after the measure of gold, and
garments, and fair boys and youths, whose presence
now entrances you; and you and many a one
would be content to live seeing them only and conversing
with them without meat or drink, if that were possible --
you only want to look at them and to be with them.
But what if man had eyes to see the true beauty
-- the divine beauty, I mean, pure and dear
and unalloyed, not clogged with the pollutions of mortality and
all the colours and vanities of human life -- thither
looking, and holding converse with the true
beauty simple and divine? Remember how in
that communion only, beholding beauty with the eye of the mind,
he will be enabled to bring forth, not images
of beauty, but realities (for he has hold
not of an image but of a reality), and bringing forth and
nourishing true virtue to become the friend of God and be immortal, if mortal man may. Would that be an ignoble
life?"
Such, Phaedrus -- and I speak not only to you, but
to all of you -- were the words of Diotima;
and I am persuaded of their truth. And being
persuaded of them, I try to persuade others, that in the
attainment of this end human nature will not easily
find a helper better than love: And therefore,
also, I say that every man ought to honour
him as I myself honour him, and walk in his ways, and exhort
others to do the same, and praise the power and spirit
of love according to the measure of my ability
now and ever.
The words which I have spoken, you, Phaedrus, may
call an encomium of love, or anything else
which you please.
When Socrates had done speaking, the company applauded,
and Aristophanes was beginning to say something
in answer to the allusion which Socrates had
made to his own speech, when suddenly there was a great
knocking at the door of the house, as of revellers, and the
sound of a flute-girl was heard. Agathon told the
attendants to go and see who were the intruders.
"If they are friends of ours," he said, "invite
them in, but if not, say that the drinking is over." A little
while afterwards they heard the voice of Alcibiades
resounding in the court; he was in a great
state of intoxication and kept roaring and shouting
"Where is Agathon? Lead me to Agathon," and at length,
supported by the flute-girl and some of his attendants,
he found his way to them. "Hail, friends,"
he said, appearing at the door crown, with
a massive garland of ivy and violets, his head flowing with
ribands. "Will you have a very drunken man as
a companion of your revels? Or shall I crown
Agathon, which was my intention in coming, and
go away? For I was unable to come yesterday, and therefore I am
here to-day, carrying on my head these ribands, that
taking them from my own head, I may crown
the head of this fairest and wisest of men, as
I may be allowed to call him. Will you laugh at me because I am
drunk? Yet I know very well that I am speaking the
truth, although you may laugh. But first tell
me; if I come in shall we have the understanding
of which I spoke? Will you drink with me or not?"
The company were vociferous in begging that he would
take his place among them, and Agathon specially
invited him. Thereupon he was led in by the
people who were with him; and as he was being led, intending to
crown Agathon, he took the ribands from his own head
and held them in front of his eyes; he was
thus prevented from seeing Socrates, who made
way for him, and Alcibiades took the vacant place between Agathon
and Socrates, and in taking the place he embraced
Agathon and crowned him. Take off his sandals,
said Agathon, and let him make a third on the
same couch.
By all means; but who makes the third partner in
our revels? said Alcibiades, turning round
and starting up as he caught sight of Socrates.
By Heracles, he said, what is this? here is Socrates always
lying in wait for me, and always, as his way is,
coming out at all sorts of unsuspected places:
and now, what have you to say for yourself,
and why are you lying here, where I perceive that you have
contrived to find a place, not by a joker or lover
of jokes, like Aristophanes, but by the fairest
of the company?
Socrates turned to Agathon and said: I must ask you
to protect me, Agathon; for the passion of
this man has grown quite a serious matter to
me. Since I became his admirer I have never been allowed to speak
to any other fair one, or so much as to look at them.
If I do, he goes wild with envy and jealousy,
and not only abuses me but can hardly keep
his hands off me, and at this moment he may do me some harm.
Please to see to this, and either reconcile me to
him, or, if he attempts violence, protect
me, as I am in bodily fear of his mad and passionate
attempts.
There can never be reconciliation between you and
me, said Alcibiades; but for the present I
will defer your chastisement. And I must beg you,
Agathoron, to give me back some of the ribands that I may crown
the marvellous head of this universal despot -- I
would not have him complain of me for crowning
you, and neglecting him, who in conversation
is the conqueror of all mankind; and this not only once,
as you were the day before yesterday, but always.
Whereupon, taking some of the ribands, he
crowned Socrates, and again reclined.
Then he said: You seem, my friends, to be sober,
which is a thing not to be endured; you must
drink -- for that was the agreement under which
I was admitted -- and I elect myself master of the feast until
you are well drunk. Let us have a large goblet, Agathon,
or rather, he said, addressing the attendant,
bring me that wine-cooler. The wine-cooler
which had caught his eye was a vessel holding more than
two quarts -- this he filled and emptied, and bade
the attendant fill it again for Socrates.
Observe, my friends, said Alcibiades, that this ingenious
trick of mine will have no effect on Socrates, for he can
drink any quantity of wine and not be at all nearer
being drunk. Socrates drank the cup which
the attendant filled for him.
Eryximachus said! What is this Alcibiades? Are we
to have neither conversation nor singing over
our cups; but simply to drink as if we were
thirsty?
Alcibiades replied: Hail, worthy son of a most wise
and worthy sire!
The same to you, said Eryximachus; but what shall
we do?
That I leave to you, said Alcibiades.
'The wise physician skilled our wounds to heal'
shall prescribe and we will obey. What do you want?
Well, said Eryximachus, before you appeared we had
passed a resolution that each one of us in
turn should make a speech in praise of love, and
as good a one as he could: the turn was passed round from left
to right; and as all of us have spoken, and
you have not spoken but have well drunken,
you ought to speak, and then impose upon Socrates any task
which you please, and he on his right hand neighbour, and so on.
That is good, Eryximachus, said Alcibiades; and yet
the comparison, of a drunken man's speech
with those of sober men is hardly fair; and I should
like to know, sweet friend, whether you really believe what
Socrates was just now saying; for I can assure you
that the very reverse is the fact, and that
if I praise any one but himself in his presence,
whether God or man, he will hardly keep his hands off me.
For shame, said Socrates.
Hold your tongue, said Alcibiades, for by Poseidon,
there is no one else whom I will praise when
you are of the company.
Well then, said Eryximachus, if you like praise Socrates.
What do you think, Eryximachus ? said Alcibiades:
shall I attack him: and inflict the punishment
before you all?
What are you about? said Socrates; are you going
to raise a laugh at my expense? Is that the
meaning of your praise?
I am going to speak the truth, if you will permit
me.
I not only permit, but exhort you to speak the truth.
Then I will begin at once, said Alcibiades, and if
I say anything which is not true, you may
interrupt me if you will, and say "that is a
lie," though my intention is to speak the truth. But you
must not wonder if I speak any how as things
come into my mind; for the fluent and orderly
enumeration of all your singularities is not a task which
is easy to a man in my condition.
And now, my boys, I shall praise Socrates in a figure
which will appear to him to be a caricature,
and yet I speak, not to make fun of him, but
only for the truth's sake. I say, that he is exactly like the
busts of Silenus, which are set up in the statuaries,
shops, holding pipes and flutes in their mouths;
and they are made to open in the middle, and
have images of gods inside them. I say also that hit is
like Marsyas the satyr. You yourself will not deny,
Socrates, that your face is like that of a
satyr. Aye, and there is a resemblance in other
points too. For example, you are a bully, as I can prove by
witnesses, if you will not confess. And are you not
a flute-player? That you are, and a performer
far more wonderful than Marsyas. He indeed
with instruments used to charm the souls of men by the powers
of his breath, and the players of his music do so
still: for the melodies of Olympus are derived
from Marsyas who taught them, and these, whether
they are played by a great master or by a miserable flute-girl,
have a power which no others have; they alone possess the
soul and reveal the wants of those who have need
of gods and mysteries, because they are divine.
But you produce the same effect with your
words only, and do not require the flute; that is the difference
between you and him. When we hear any other speaker, even
very good one, he produces absolutely no effect upon
us, or not much, whereas the mere fragments
of you and your words, even at second-hand, and
however imperfectly repeated, amaze and possess the souls of every
man, woman, and child who comes within hearing of
them. And if I were not, afraid that you would
think me hopelessly drunk, I would have sworn
as well as spoken to the influence which they have always had
and still have over me. For my heart leaps within
me more than that of any Corybantian reveller,
and my eyes rain tears when I hear them. And I
observe that many others are affected in the same manner. I have
heard Pericles and other great orators, and I thought
that they spoke well, but I never had any
similar feeling; my soul was not stirred by them,
nor was I angry at the thought of my own slavish state. But this
Marsyas has often brought me to such pass, that I
have felt as if I could hardly endure the
life which I am leading (this, Socrates, you will
admit); and I am conscious that if I did not shut my ears against
him, and fly as from the voice of the siren, my fate
would be like that of others, -- he would
transfix me, and I should grow old sitting at
his feet. For he makes me confess that I ought not to live as
I do, neglecting the wants of my own soul,
and busying myself with the concerns of the
Athenians; therefore I hold my ears and tear myself away
from him. And he is the only person who ever made me ashamed,
which you might think not to be in my nature, and
there is no one else who does the same. For
I know that I cannot answer him or say that I ought
not to do as he bids, but when I leave his presence the love of
popularity gets the better of me. And therefore I
run away and fly from him, and when I see
him I am ashamed of what I have confessed to him.
Many a time have I wished that he were dead, and yet I know that
I should be much more sorry than glad, if he were
to die: so that am at my wit's end.
And this is what I and many others have suffered,
from the flute-playing of this satyr. Yet
hear me once more while I show you how exact
the image is, and. how marvellous his power. For let me tell
you; none of you know him; but I will reveal him
to you; having begun, I must go on. See you
how fond he is of the fair? He is always with them
and is always being smitten by them, and then again he knows
nothing and is ignorant of all things -- such is
the appearance which he puts on. Is he not
like a Silenus in this? To be sure he is: his outer
mask is the carved head of the Silenus; but, O my companions in
drink, when he is opened, what temperance there is
residing within! Know you that beauty and
wealth and honour, at which the many wonder, are
of no account with him, and are utterly despised by him: he
regards not at all the persons who are gifted with
them; mankind are nothing to him; all his
life is spent in mocking and flouting at them. But
when I opened him, and looked within at his serious purpose, I
saw in him divine and golden images of such
fascinating beauty that I was ready to do
in a moment whatever Socrates commanded: they may have
escaped the observation of others, but I saw them.
Now I fancied that he was seriously enamoured
of my beauty, and I thought that I should therefore
have a grand opportunity of hearing him tell what he knew,
for I had a wonderful opinion of the attractions
of my youth. In the prosecution of this design,
when I next went to him, I sent away the attendant
who usually accompanied me (I will confess the whole truth,
and beg you to listen; and if I speak falsely, do
you, Socrates, expose the falsehood). Well,
he and I were alone together, and I thought
that when there was nobody with us, I should hear him speak
the language which lovers use to their loves when
they are by themselves, and I was delighted.
Nothing of the sort; he conversed as usual,
and spent the day with me and then went away. Afterwards I
challenged him to the palaestra; and he wrestled
and closed with me, several times when there
was no one present; I fancied that I might succeed
in this manner. Not a bit; I made no way with him. Lastly, as
I had failed hitherto, I thought that I must take
stronger measures and attack him boldly, and,
as I had begun, not give him up, but see how
matters stood between him and me. So I invited him to sup with
me, just as if he were a fair youth, and I
a designing lover. He was not easily persuaded
to come; he did, however, after a while accept the invitation,
and when he came the first time, he wanted to go away at
once as soon as supper was over, and I had not the
face to detain him. The second time, still
in pursuance of my design, after we had supped, I
went on conversing far into the night, and when he wanted to go
away, I pretended that the hour was late and that
he had much better remain. So he lay down
on the couch next to me, the same on which he had
supped, and there was no one but ourselves sleeping in the
apartment. All this may be told without shame to
any one. But what follows I could hardly tell
you if I were sober. Yet as the proverb says,
"In vino veritas," whether with boys, or without them;
and therefore I must speak. Nor, again, should
I be justified in concealing the lofty actions
of Socrates when I come to praise him. Moreover
I have felt the serpent's sting; and he who has suffered, as
they say, is willing to tell his fellow-sufferers
only, as they alone will be likely to understand
him, and will not be extreme in judging of
the sayings or doings which have been wrung from his agony. For
I have been bitten by a more than viper's
tooth; I have known in my soul, or in my heart,
or in some other part, that worst of pangs, more violent
in ingenuous youth than any serpent's tooth, the pang of
philosophy, which will make a man say or do anything.
And you whom I see around me, Phaedrus and
Agathon and Eryximachus and Pausanias and Aristodemus
and Aristophanes, all of you, and I need not say Socrates
himself, have had experience of the same madness
and passion in your longing after wisdom.
Therefore listen and excuse my doings then and my
sayings now. But let the attendants and other profane and
unmannered persons close up the doors of their ears.
When the lamp was put out and the servants had gone
away, I thought that I must be plain with
him and have no more ambiguity. So I gave him
a shake, and I said: "Socrates, are you asleep?" "No,"
he said. "Do you know what I am meditating?
"What are you meditating?" he said. "I
think," I replied, "that of all the lovers whom I have
ever had you are the only one who is worthy
of me, and you appear to be too modest to
speak. Now I feel that I should be a fool to refuse you this or
any other favour, and therefore I come to
lay at your feet all that I have and all that
my friends have, in the hope that you will assist me in
the way of virtue, which I desire above all things,
and in which I believe that you can help me
better than any one else. And I should certainly
have more reason to be ashamed of what wise men would say if
I were to refuse a favour to such as you, than of
what the world who are mostly fools, would
say of me if I granted it." To these words he replied
in the ironical manner which is so characteristic of him: "Alcibiades, my friend, you have indeed an elevated
aim if what you say is true, and if there
really is in me any power by which you may become
better; truly you must see in me some rare beauty of a kind
infinitely higher than any which I see in you. And
therefore, if you mean to share with me and
to exchange beauty for beauty, you will have greatly
the advantage of me; you will gain true beauty in return for
appearance -- like Diomede, gold in exchange for
brass. But look again, sweet friend, and see
whether you are not deceived in me. The mind
begins to grow critical when the bodily eye fails, and it will
be a long time before you get old." Hearing
this, I said: "I have told you my purpose,
which is quite serious, and do you consider what you think
best for you and me." "That is good," he said;
"at some other time then we will consider
and act as seems best about this and about other
matters." Whereupon, I fancied that was smitten, and that
the words which I had uttered like arrows
had wounded him, and so without waiting to
hear more I got up, and throwing my coat about him crept
under his threadbare cloak, as the time of year was
winter, and there I lay during the whole night
having this wonderful monster in my arms. This
again, Socrates, will not be denied by you. And yet, notwithstanding
all, he was so superior to my solicitations, so contemptuous
and derisive and disdainful of my beauty -- which really,
as I fancied, had some attractions -- hear, O judges;
for judges you shall be of the haughty virtue
of Socrates -- nothing more happened, but
in the morning when I awoke (let all the gods and goddesses be
my witnesses) I arose as from the couch of
a father or an elder brother.
What do you suppose must have been my feelings, after
this rejection, at the thought of my own dishonour?
And yet I could not help wondering at his
natural temperance and self-restraint and manliness. I never
imagined that I could have met with a man such as
he is in wisdom and endurance. And therefore
I could not be angry with him or renounce his company,
any more than I could hope to win him. For I well knew that
if Ajax could not be wounded by steel, much less
he by money; and my only chance of captivating
him by my personal attractions had faded. So
I was at my wit's end; no one was ever more hopelessly enslaved
by another. All this happened before he and
I went on the expedition to Potidaea; there
we messed together, and I had the opportunity of observing
his extraordinary power of sustaining fatigue. His endurance
was simply marvellous when, being cut off from our
supplies, we were compelled to go without
food -- on such occasions, which often happen in
time of war, he was superior not only to me but to everybody;
there was no one to be compared to him. Yet
at a festival he was the only person who had
any real powers of enjoyment; though not willing to drink,
he could if compelled beat us all at that, -- wonderful to
relate! no human being had ever seen Socrates drunk;
and his powers, if I am not mistaken, will
be tested before long. His fortitude in enduring
cold was also surprising. There was a severe frost, for the
winter in that region is really tremendous, and everybody
else either remained indoors, or if they went
out had on an amazing quantity of clothes,
and were well shod, and had their feet swathed in felt and
fleeces: in the midst of this, Socrates with his
bare feet on the ice and in his ordinary dress
marched better than the other soldiers who had
shoes, and they looked daggers at him because he seemed to despise
them.
I have told you one tale, and now I must tell you
another, which is worth hearing,
'Of the doings and sufferings of the enduring man'
while he was on the expedition. One morning he was
thinking about something which he could not
resolve; he would not give it up, but continued
thinking from early dawn until noon -- there he stood fixed
in thought; and at noon attention was drawn to him,
and the rumour ran through the wondering crowd
that Socrates had been standing and thinking
about something ever since the break of day. At last, in the
evening after supper, some Ionians out of curiosity
(I should explain that this was not in winter
but in summer), brought out their mats and slept
in the open air that they might watch him and see whether he
would stand all night. There he stood until the following
morning; and with the return of light he offered
up a prayer to the sun, and went his way.
I will also tell, if you please -- and indeed I am bound to
tell -- of his courage in battle; for who but he
saved my life? Now this was the engagement
in which I received the prize of valour: for I was
wounded and he would not leave me, but he rescued me and my arms;
and he ought to have received the prize of valour
which the generals wanted to confer on me
partly on account of my rank, and I told them so,
(this, again Socrates will not impeach or deny), but he was more
eager than the generals that I and not he should
have the prize. There was another occasion
on which his behaviour was very remarkable -- in the
flight of the army after the battle of Delium, where he served
among the heavy-armed, -- I had a better opportunity
of seeing him than at Potidaea, for I was
myself on horseback, and therefore comparatively
out of danger. He and Laches were retreating, for the troops
were in flight, and I met them and told them not to be
discouraged, and promised to remain with them; and
there you might see him, Aristophanes, as
you describe, just as he is in the streets of Athens,
stalking like a and rolling his eyes, calmly contemplating
enemies as well as friends, and making very intelligible
to anybody, even from a distance, that whoever
attacked him would be likely to meet with
a stout resistance; and in this way he and his companion
escaped -- for this is the sort of man who is never
touched in war; those only are pursued who
are running away headlong. I particularly observed
how superior he was to Laches in presence of mind. Many are
the marvels which I might narrate in praise of Socrates;
most of his ways might perhaps be paralleled
in another man, but his absolute unlikeness
to any human being that is or ever has been is perfectly
astonishing. You may imagine Brasidas and others
to have been like Achilles; or you may imagine
Nestor and Antenor to have been like Perides;
and the same may be said of other famous men, but of this
strange being you will never be able to find any
likeness, however remote, either among men
who now are or who ever have been -- other than
that which I have already suggested of Silenus and the satyrs;
and they represent in a figure not only himself,
but his words. For, although I forgot to mention
this to you before, his words are like the
images of Silenus which open; they are ridiculous when you first
hear them; he clothes himself in language that is
like the skin of the wanton satyr -- for his
talk is of pack-asses and smiths and cobblers and
curriers, and he is always repeating the same things in the same
words, so that any ignorant or inexperienced person
might feel disposed to laugh at him; but he
who opens the bust and sees what is within
will find that they are the only words which have a meaning in
them, and also the most divine, abounding in fair
images of virtue, and of the widest comprehension,
or rather extending to the whole duty of a
good and honourable man.
This, friends, is my praise of Socrates. I have added
my blame of him for his ill-treatment of me;
and he has ill-treated not only me, but Charmides
the son of Glaucon, and Euthydemus the son of Diocles, and
many others in the same way -- beginning as their
lover he has ended by making them pay their
addresses to him. Wherefore I say to you, Agathon,
"Be no deceived by him; learn from me: and take warning,
and do not be a fool and learn by experience,
as the proverb says."
When Alcibiades had finished, there was a laugh at
his outspokenness; for he seemed to be still
in love with Socrates. You are sober, Alcibiades,
said Socrates, or you would never have gone so far about
to hide the purpose of your satyr's praises, for
all this long story is only an ingenious circumlocution,
of which the point comes in by the way at
the end; you want to get up a quarrel between me and Agathon,
and your notion is that I ought to love you and nobody else,
and that you and you only ought to love Agathon.
But the plot of this Satyric or Silenic drama
has been detected, and you must not allow him,
Agathon, to set us at variance.
I believe you are right, said Agathon, and I am disposed
to think that his intention in placing himself
between you and me was only to divide us;
but he shall gain nothing by that move; for I will go and lie
on the couch next to you.
Yes, yes, replied Socrates, by all means come here
and lie on the couch below me.
Alas, said Alcibiades, how I am fooled by this man;
he is determined to get the better of me at
every turn. I do beseech you, allow Agathon to
lie between us.
Certainly not, said Socrates, as you praised me,
and I in turn ought to praise my neighbour
on the right, he will be out of order in praising
me again when he ought rather to be praised by me, and I must
entreat you to consent to this, and not be jealous,
for I have a great desire to praise the youth.
Hurrah! cried Agathon, I will rise instantly, that
I may be praised by Socrates.
The usual way, said Alcibiades; where Socrates is,
no one else has any chance with the fair;
and now how readily has he invented a specious reason
for attracting Agathon to himself.
Agathon arose in order that he might take his place
on the couch by Socrates, when suddenly a
band of revellers entered, and spoiled the order
of the banquet. Some one who was going out having left the door
open, they had found their way in, and made themselves
at home; great confusion ensued, and every
one was compelled to drink large quantities
of wine. Aristodemus said that Eryximachus, Phaedrus, and
others went away -- he himself fell asleep, and as
the nights were long took a good rest: he
was awakened towards daybreak by a crowing of
cocks, and when he awoke, the others were either asleep, or had
gone away; there remained only Socrates, Aristophanes,
and Agathon, who were drinking out of a large
goblet which they passed round, and Socrates
was discoursing to them. Aristodemus was only half awake, and
he did not hear the beginning of the discourse; the
chief thing which he remembered was Socrates
compelling the other two to acknowledge that
the genius of comedy was the same with that of tragedy, and that
the true artist in tragedy was an artist in comedy
also. To this they were constrained to assent,
being drowsy, and not quite following the argument.
And first of all Aristophanes dropped off, then, when the
day was already dawning, Agathon. Socrates, having
laid them to sleep, rose to depart; Aristodemus,
as his manner was, following him. At the Lyceum
he took a bath, and passed the day as usual. In the evening he
retired to rest at his own home.
-- THE END --
Source.
From:
This text is part of the Internet
History Sourcebooks Project. The Sourcebooks are collections of public domain and
copy-permitted texts related to all aspects of history.
Unless otherwise indicated the specific electronic form of the document is copyright.
Permission is granted for electronic copying, distribution in print form for educational
purposes and personal use. If you do reduplicate the document, indicate the source. No
permission is granted for commercial use.
© Paul Halsall, 2023
