Persons of the Dialogue
SOCRATES, who is the narrator
CHARMIDES
CHAEREPHON
CRITIAS
Scene
The Palaestra of Taureas, which is near the
Porch of the King Archon.
Yesterday evening I returned from the army
at Potidaea, and having been a good while
away, I thought that I should like to go and
look at my old haunts. So I went into the
palaestra of Taureas, which is over against
the temple adjoining the porch of the King
Archon, and there I found a number of
persons, most of whom I knew, but not all.
My visit was unexpected, and no sooner did
they see me entering than they saluted me
from afar on all sides; and Chaerephon, who
is a kind of madman, started up and ran to
me, seizing my hand, and saying, How did you
escape, Socrates?-(I should explain that an
engagement had taken place at Potidaea not
long before we came away, of which the news
had only just reached Athens.)
You see, I replied, that here I am.
There was a report, he said, that the
engagement was very severe, and that many of
our acquaintance had fallen.
That, I replied, was not far from the truth.
I suppose, he said, that you were present.
I was.
Then sit down, and tell us the whole story,
which as yet we have only heard imperfectly.
I took the place which he assigned to me, by
the side of Critias the son of Callaeschrus,
and when I had saluted him and the rest of
the company, I told them the news from the
army, and answered their several enquiries.
Then, when there had been enough of this, I,
in my turn, began to make enquiries about
matters at home-about the present state of
philosophy, and about the youth. I asked
whether any of them were remarkable for
wisdom or beauty, or both. Critias, glancing
at the door, invited my attention to some
youths who were coming in, and talking
noisily to one another, followed by a crowd.
Of the beauties, Socrates, he said, I fancy
that you will soon be able to form a
judgment. For those who are just entering
are the advanced guard of the great beauty,
as he is thought to be, of the day, and he
is likely to be not far off himself.
Who is he, I said; and who is his father?
Charmides, he replied, is his name; he is my
cousin, and the son of my uncle Glaucon: I
rather think that you know him too, although
he was not grown up at the time of your
departure.
Certainly, I know him, I said, for he was
remarkable even then when he was still a
child, and I should imagine that by this
time he must be almost a young man.
You will see, he said, in a moment what
progress he has made and what he is like. He
had scarcely said the word, when Charmides
entered.
Now you know, my friend, that I cannot
measure anything, and of the beautiful, I am
simply such a measure as a white line is of
chalk; for almost all young persons appear
to be beautiful in my eyes. But at that
moment, when I saw him coming in, I confess
that I was quite astonished at his beauty
and stature; all the world seemed to be
enamoured of him; amazement and confusion
reigned when he entered; and a troop of
lovers followed him. That grown-up men like
ourselves should have been affected in this
way was not surprising, but I observed that
there was the same feeling among the boys;
all of them, down to the very least child,
turned and looked at him, as if he had been
a statue.
Chaerephon called me and said: What do you
think of him, Socrates? Has he not a
beautiful face?
Most beautiful, I said.
But you would think nothing of his face, he
replied, if you could see his naked form: he
is absolutely perfect.
And to this they all agreed.
By Heracles, I said, there never was such a
paragon, if he has only one other slight
addition.
What is that? said Critias.
If he has a noble soul; and being of your
house, Critias, he may be expected to have
this.
He is as fair and good within, as he is
without, replied Critias.
Then, before we see his body, should we not
ask him to show us his soul, naked and
undisguised? he is just of an age at which
he will like to talk.
That he will, said Critias, and I can tell
you that he is a philosopher already, and
also a considerable poet, not in his own
opinion only, but in that of others.
That, my dear Critias, I replied, is a
distinction which has long been in your
family, and is inherited by you from Solon.
But why do you not call him, and show him to
us? for even if he were younger than he is,
there could be no impropriety in his talking
to us in the presence of you, who are his
guardian and cousin.
Very well, he said; then I will call him;
and turning to the attendant, he said, Call
Charmides, and tell him that I want him to
come and see a physician about the illness
of which he spoke to me the day before
yesterday. Then again addressing me, he
added: He has been complaining lately of
having a headache when he rises in the
morning: now why should you not make him
believe that you know a cure for the
headache?
Why not, I said; but will he come?
He will be sure to come, he replied.
He came as he was bidden, and sat down
between Critias and me. Great amusement was
occasioned by every one pushing with might
and main at his neighbour in order to make a
place for him next to themselves, until at
the two ends of the row one had to get up
and the other was rolled over sideways. Now
my friend, was beginning to feel awkward;
former bold belief in my powers of
conversing with him had vanished. And when
Critias told him that I was the person who
had the cure, he looked at me in such an
indescribable manner, and was just going to
ask a question. And at that moment all the
people in the palaestra crowded about us,
and, O rare! I caught a sight of the inwards
of his garment, and took the flame. Then I
could no longer contain myself. I thought
how well Cydias understood the nature of
love, when, in speaking of a fair youth, he
warns some one "not to bring the fawn in the
sight of the lion to be devoured by him,"
for I felt that I had been overcome by a
sort of wild-beast appetite. But I
controlled myself, and when he asked me if I
knew the cure of the headache, I answered,
but with an effort, that I did know.
And what is it? he said.
I replied that it was a kind of leaf, which
required to be accompanied by a charm, and
if a person would repeat the charm at the
same time that he used the cure, he would be
made whole; but that without the charm the
leaf would be of no avail.
Then I will write out the charm from your
dictation, he said.
With my consent? I said, or without my
consent?
With your consent, Socrates, he said,
laughing.
Very good, I said; and are you quite sure
that you know my name?
I ought to know you, he replied, for there
is a great deal said about you among my
companions; and I remember when I was a
child seeing you in company with my cousin
Critias.
I am glad to find that you remember me, I
said; for I shall now be more at home with
you and shall be better able to explain the
nature of the charm, about which I felt a
difficulty before. For the charm will do
more, Charmides, than only cure the
headache. I dare say that you have heard
eminent physicians say to a patient who
comes to them with bad eyes, that they
cannot cure his eyes by themselves, but that
if his eyes are to be cured, his head must
be treated; and then again they say that to
think of curing the head alone, and not the
rest of the body also, is the height of
folly. And arguing in this way they apply
their methods to the whole body, and try to
treat and heal the whole and the part
together. Did you ever observe that this is
what they say?
Yes, he said.
And they are right, and you would agree with
them?
Yes, he said, certainly I should.
His approving answers reassured me, and I
began by degrees to regain confidence, and
the vital heat returned. Such, Charmides, I
said, is the nature of the charm, which I
learned when serving with the army from one
of the physicians of the Thracian king
Zamolxis, who are to be so skilful that they
can even give immortality. This Thracian
told me that in these notions of theirs,
which I was just now mentioning, the Greek
physicians are quite right as far as they
go; but Zamolxis, he added, our king, who is
also a god, says further, "that as you ought
not to attempt to cure the eyes without the
head, or the head without the body, so
neither ought you to attempt to cure the
body without the soul; and this," he said,
"is the reason why the cure of many diseases
is unknown to the physicians of Hellas,
because they are ignorant of the whole,
which ought to be studied also; for the part
can never be well unless the whole is well."
For all good and evil, whether in the body
or in human nature, originates, as he
declared, in the soul, and overflows from
thence, as if from the head into the eyes.
And therefore if the head and body are to be
well, you must begin by curing the soul;
that is the first thing. And the cure, my
dear youth, has to be effected by the use of
certain charms, and these charms are fair
words; and by them temperance is implanted
in the soul, and where temperance is, there
health is speedily imparted, not only to the
head, but to the whole body. And he who
taught me the cure and the charm at the same
time added a special direction: "Let no
one," he said, "persuade you to cure the
head, until he has first given you his soul
to be cured by the charm. For this," he
said, "is the great error of our day in the
treatment of the human body, that physicians
separate the soul from the body." And he
added with emphasis, at the same time making
me swear to his words, "Let no one, however
rich, or noble, or fair, persuade you to
give him the cure, without the charm." Now I
have sworn, and I must keep my oath, and
therefore if you will allow me to apply the
Thracian charm first to your soul, as the
stranger directed, I will afterwards proceed
to apply the cure to your head. But if not,
I do not know what I am to do with you, my
dear Charmides.
Critias, when he heard this, said: The
headache will be an unexpected gain to my
young relation, if the pain in his head
compels him to improve his mind: and I can
tell you, Socrates, that Charmides is not
only pre-eminent in beauty among his equals,
but also in that quality which is given by
the charm; and this, as you say, is
temperance?
Yes, I said.
Then let me tell you that he is the most
temperate of human beings, and for his age
inferior to none in any quality.
Yes, I said, Charmides; and indeed I think
that you ought to excel others in all good
qualities; for if I am not mistaken there is
no one present who could easily point out
two Athenian houses, whose union would be
likely to produce a better or nobler scion
than the two from which you are sprung.
There is your father's house, which is
descended from Critias the son of Dropidas,
whose family has been commemorated in the
panegyrical verses of Anacreon, Solon, and
many other poets, as famous for beauty and
virtue and all other high fortune: and your
mother's house is equally distinguished; for
your maternal uncle, Pyrilampes, is reputed
never to have found his equal, in Persia at
the court of the great king, or on the
continent of Asia, in all the places to
which he went as ambassador, for stature and
beauty; that whole family is not a whit
inferior to the other. Having such ancestors
you ought to be first in all things, and,
sweet son of Glaucon, your outward form is
no dishonour to any of them. If to beauty
you add temperance, and if in other respects
you are what Critias declares you to be,
then, dear Charmides, blessed art thou, in
being the son of thy mother. And here lies
the point; for if, as he declares, you have
this gift of temperance already, and are
temperate enough, in that case you have no
need of any charms, whether of Zamolxis or
of Abaris the Hyperborean, and I may as well
let you have the cure of the head at once;
but if you have not yet acquired this
quality, I must use the charm before I give
you the medicine. Please, therefore, to
inform me whether you admit the truth of
what Critias has been saying;-have you or
have you not this quality of temperance?
Charmides blushed, and the blush heightened
his beauty, for modesty is becoming in
youth; he then said very ingenuously, that
he really could not at once answer, either
yes, or no, to the question which I had
asked: For, said he, if I affirm that I am
not temperate, that would be a strange thing
for me to say of myself, and also I should
give the lie to Critias, and many others who
think as he tells you, that I am temperate:
but, on the other hand, if I say that I am,
I shall have to praise myself, which would
be ill manners; and therefore I do not know
how to answer you.
I said to him: That is a natural reply,
Charmides, and I think that you and I ought
together to enquire whether you have this
quality about which I am asking or not; and
then you will not be compelled to say what
you do not like; neither shall I be a rash
practitioner of medicine: therefore, if you
please, I will share the enquiry with you,
but I will not press you if you would rather
not.
There is nothing which I should like better,
he said; and as far as I am concerned you
may proceed in the way which you think best.
I think, I said, that I had better begin by
asking you a question; for if temperance
abides in you, you must have an opinion
about her; she must give some intimation of
her nature and qualities, which may enable
you to form a notion of her. Is not that
true?
Yes, he said, that I think is true.
You know your native language, I said, and
therefore you must be able to tell what you
feel about this.
Certainly, he said.
In order, then, that I may form a conjecture
whether you have temperance abiding in you
or not, tell me, I said, what, in your
opinion, is Temperance?
At first he hesitated, and was very
unwilling to answer: then he said that he
thought temperance was doing things orderly
and quietly, such things for example as
walking in the streets, and talking, or
anything else of that nature. In a word, he
said, I should answer that, in my opinion,
temperance is quietness.
Are you right, Charmides? I said. No doubt
some would affirm that the quiet are the
temperate; but let us see whether these
words have any meaning; and first tell me
whether you would not acknowledge temperance
to be of the class of the noble and good?
Yes.
But which is best when you are at the
writing-master's, to write the same letters
quickly or quietly?
Quickly.
And to read quickly or slowly?
Quickly again.
And in playing the lyre, or wrestling,
quickness or sharpness are far better than
quietness and slowness?
Yes.
And the same holds in boxing and in the
pancratium?
Certainly.
And in leaping and running and in bodily
exercises generally, quickness and agility
are good; slowness, and inactivity, and
quietness, are bad?
That is evident.
Then, I said, in all bodily actions, not
quietness, but the greatest agility and
quickness, is noblest and best?
Yes, certainly.
And is temperance a good?
Yes.
Then, in reference to the body, not
quietness, but quickness will be the higher
degree of temperance, if temperance is a
good?
True, he said.
And which, I said, is better-facility in
learning, or difficulty in learning?
Facility.
Yes, I said; and facility in learning is
learning quickly, and difficulty in learning
is learning quietly and slowly?
True.
And is it not better to teach another
quickly and energetically, rather than
quietly and slowly?
Yes.
And which is better, to call to mind, and to
remember, quickly and readily, or quietly
and slowly?
The former.
And is not shrewdness a quickness or
cleverness of the soul, and not a quietness?
True.
And is it not best to understand what is
said, whether at the writing-master's or the
music-master's, or anywhere else, not as
quietly as possible, but as quickly as
possible?
Yes.
And in the searchings or deliberations of
the soul, not the quietest, as I imagine,
and he who with difficulty deliberates and
discovers, is thought worthy of praise, but
he who does so most easily and quickly?
Quite true, he said.
And in all that concerns either body or
soul, swiftness and activity are clearly
better than slowness and quietness?
Clearly they are.
Then temperance is not quietness, nor is the
temperate life quiet,-certainly not upon
this view; for the life which is temperate
is supposed to be the good. And of two
things, one is true, either never, or very
seldom, do the quiet actions in life appear
to be better than the quick and energetic
ones; or supposing that of the nobler
actions, there are as many quiet, as quick
and vehement: still, even if we grant this,
temperance will not be acting quietly any
more than acting quickly and energetically,
either in walking or talking or in anything
else; nor will the quiet life be more
temperate than the unquiet, seeing that
temperance is admitted by us to be a good
and noble thing, and the quick have been
shown to be as good as the quiet.
I think, he said, Socrates, that you are
right.
Then once more, Charmides, I said, fix your
attention, and look within; consider the
effect which temperance has upon yourself,
and the nature of that which has the effect.
Think over all this, and, like a brave
youth, tell me-What is temperance?
After a moment's pause, in which he made a
real manly effort to think, he said: My
opinion is, Socrates, that temperance makes
a man ashamed or modest, and that temperance
is the same as modesty.
Very good, I said; and did you not admit,
just now, that temperance is noble?
Yes, certainly, he said.
And the temperate are also good?
Yes.
And can that be good which does not make men
good?
Certainly not.
And you would infer that temperance is not
only noble, but also good?
That is my opinion.
Well, I said; but surely you would agree
with Homer when he says,
Modesty is not good for a needy man?
Yes, he said; I agree.
Then I suppose that modesty is and is not
good?
Clearly.
But temperance, whose presence makes men
only good, and not bad, is always good?
That appears to me to be as you say.
And the inference is that temperance cannot
be modesty-if temperance is a good, and if
modesty is as much an evil as a good?
All that, Socrates, appears to me to be
true; but I should like to know what you
think about another definition of
temperance, which I just now remember to
have heard from some one, who said, "That
temperance is doing our own business." Was
he right who affirmed that?
You monster! I said; this is what Critias,
or some philosopher has told you.
Some one else, then, said Critias; for
certainly I have not.
But what matter, said Charmides, from whom I
heard this?
No matter at all, I replied; for the point
is not who said the words, but whether they
are true or not.
There you are in the right, Socrates, he
replied.
To be sure, I said; yet I doubt whether we
shall ever be able to discover their truth
or falsehood; for they are a kind of riddle.
What makes you think so? he said.
Because, I said, he who uttered them seems
to me to have meant one thing, and said
another. Is the scribe, for example, to be
regarded as doing nothing when he reads or
writes?
I should rather think that he was doing
something.
And does the scribe write or read, or teach
you boys to write or read, your own names
only, or did you write your enemies' names
as well as your own and your friends'?
As much one as the other.
And was there anything meddling or
intemperate in this?
Certainly not.
And yet if reading and writing are the same
as doing, you were doing what was not your
own business?
But they are the same as doing.
And the healing art, my friend, and
building, and weaving, and doing anything
whatever which is done by art,-these all
clearly come under the head of doing?
Certainly.
And do you think that a state would be well
ordered by a law which compelled every man
to weave and wash his own coat, and make his
own shoes, and his own flask and strigil,
and other implements, on this principle of
every one doing and performing his own, and
abstaining from what is not his own?
I think not, he said.
But, I said, a temperate state will be a
well ordered state.
Of course, he replied.
Then temperance, I said, will not be doing
one's own business; not at least in this
way, or doing things of this sort?
Clearly not.
Then, as I was just now saying, he who
declared that temperance is a man doing his
own business had another and a hidden
meaning; for I do not think that he could
have been such a fool as to mean this. Was
he a fool who told you, Charmides?
Nay, he replied, I certainly thought him a
very wise man.
Then I am quite certain that he put forth
his definition as a riddle, thinking that no
one would know the meaning of the words
"doing his own business."
I dare say, he replied.
And what is the meaning of a man doing his
own business? Can you tell me?
Indeed, I cannot; and I should not wonder if
the man himself who used this phrase did not
understand what he was saying. Whereupon he
laughed slyly, and looked at Critias.
Critias had long been showing uneasiness,
for he felt that he had a reputation to
maintain with Charmides and the rest of the
company. He had, however, hitherto managed
to restrain himself; but now he could no
longer forbear, and I am convinced of the
truth of the suspicion which I entertained
at the time, that Charmides had heard this
answer about temperance from Critias. And
Charmides, who did not want to answer
himself, but to make Critias answer, tried
to stir him up. He went on pointing out that
he had been refuted, at which Critias grew
angry, and appeared, as I thought, inclined
to quarrel with him; just as a poet might
quarrel with an actor who spoiled his poems
in repeating them; so he looked hard at him
and said--
Do you imagine, Charmides, that the author
of this definition of temperance did not
understand the meaning of his own words,
because you do not understand them?
Why, at his age, I said, most excellent
Critias, he can hardly be expected to
understand; but you, who are older, and have
studied, may well be assumed to know the
meaning of them; and therefore, if you agree
with him, and accept his definition of
temperance, I would much rather argue with
you than with him about the truth or
falsehood of the definition.
I entirely agree, said Critias, and accept
the definition.
Very good, I said; and now let me repeat my
question-Do you admit, as I was just now
saying, that all craftsmen make or do
something?
I do.
And do they make or do their own business
only, or that of others also?
They make or do that of others also.
And are they temperate, seeing that they
make not for themselves or their own
business only?
Why not? he said.
No objection on my part, I said, but there
may be a difficulty on his who proposes as a
definition of temperance, "doing one's own
business," and then says that there is no
reason why those who do the business of
others should not be temperate.
Nay, said he; did I ever acknowledge that
those who do the business of others are
temperate? I said, those who make, not those
who do.
What! I asked; do you mean to say that doing
and making are not the same?
No more, he replied, than making or working
are the same; thus much I have learned from
Hesiod, who says that "work is no disgrace."
Now do you imagine that if he had meant by
working and doing such things as you were
describing, he would have said that there
was no disgrace in them-for example, in the
manufacture of shoes, or in selling pickles,
or sitting for hire in a house of ill-fame?
That, Socrates, is not to be supposed: but I
conceive him to have distinguished making
from doing and work; and, while admitting
that the making anything might sometimes
become a disgrace, when the employment was
not honourable, to have thought that work
was never any disgrace at all. For things
nobly and usefully made he called works; and
such makings he called workings, and doings;
and he must be supposed to have called such
things only man's proper business, and what
is hurtful, not his business: and in that
sense Hesiod, and any other wise man, may be
reasonably supposed to call him wise who
does his own work.
O Critias, I said, no sooner had you opened
your mouth, than I pretty well knew that you
would call that which is proper to a man,
and that which is his own, good; and that
the markings of the good you would call
doings, for I am no stranger to the endless
distinctions which Prodicus draws about
names. Now I have no objection to your
giving names any signification which you
please, if you will only tell me what you
mean by them. Please then to begin again,
and be a little plainer. Do you mean that
this doing or making, or whatever is the
word which you would use, of good actions,
is temperance?
I do, he said.
Then not he who does evil, but he who does
good, is temperate?
Yes, he said; and you, friend, would agree.
No matter whether I should or not; just now,
not what I think, but what you are saying,
is the point at issue.
Well, he answered; I mean to say, that he
who does evil, and not good, is not
temperate; and that he is temperate who does
good, and not evil: for temperance I define
in plain words to be the doing of good
actions.
And you may be very likely right in what you
are saying; but I am curious to know whether
you imagine that temperate men are ignorant
of their own temperance?
I do not think so, he said.
And yet were you not saying, just now, that
craftsmen might be temperate in doing
another's work, as well as in doing their
own?
I was, he replied; but what is your drift?
I have no particular drift, but I wish that
you would tell me whether a physician who
cures a patient may do good to himself and
good to another also?
I think that he may.
And he who does so does his duty?
Yes.
And does not he who does his duty act
temperately or wisely?
Yes, he acts wisely.
But must the physician necessarily know when
his treatment is likely to prove beneficial,
and when not? or must the craftsman
necessarily know when he is likely to be
benefited, and when not to be benefited, by
the work which he is doing?
I suppose not.
Then, I said, he may sometimes do good or
harm, and not know what he is himself doing,
and yet, in doing good, as you say, he has
done temperately or wisely. Was not that
your statement?
Yes.
Then, as would seem, in doing good, he may
act wisely or temperately, and be wise or
temperate, but not know his own wisdom or
temperance?
But that, Socrates, he said, is impossible;
and therefore if this is, as you imply, the
necessary consequence of any of my previous
admissions, I will withdraw them, rather
than admit that a man can be temperate or
wise who does not know himself; and I am not
ashamed to confess that I was in error. For
self-knowledge would certainly be maintained
by me to be the very essence of knowledge,
and in this I agree with him who dedicated
the inscription, "Know thyself!" at Delphi.
That word, if I am not mistaken, is put
there as a sort of salutation which the god
addresses to those who enter the temple; as
much as to say that the ordinary salutation
of "Hail!" is not right, and that the
exhortation "Be temperate!" would be a far
better way of saluting one another. The
notion of him who dedicated the inscription
was, as I believe, that the god speaks to
those who enter his temple, not as men
speak; but, when a worshipper enters, the
first word which he hears is "Be temperate!"
This, however, like a prophet he expresses
in a sort of riddle, for "Know thyself!" and
"Be temperate!" are the same, as I maintain,
and as the letters imply, and yet they may
be easily misunderstood; and succeeding
sages who added "Never too much," or, "Give
a pledge, and evil is nigh at hand," would
appear to have so misunderstood them; for
they imagined that "Know thyself!" was a
piece of advice which the god gave, and not
his salutation of the worshippers at their
first coming in; and they dedicated their
own inscription under the idea that they too
would give equally useful pieces of advice.
Shall I tell you, Socrates, why I say all
this? My object is to leave the previous
discussion (in which I know not whether you
or I are more right, but, at any rate, no
clear result was attained), and to raise a
new one in which I will attempt to prove, if
you deny, that temperance is self-knowledge.
Yes, I said, Critias; but you come to me as
though I professed to know about the
questions which I ask, and as though I
could, if I only would, agree with you.
Whereas the fact is that I enquire with you
into the truth of that which is advanced
from time to time, just because I do not
know; and when I have enquired, I will say
whether I agree with you or not. Please then
to allow me time to reflect.
Reflect, he said.
I am reflecting, I replied, and discover
that temperance, or wisdom, if implying a
knowledge of anything, must be a science,
and a science of something.
Yes, he said; the science of itself.
Is not medicine, I said, the science of
health?
True.
And suppose, I said, that I were asked by
you what is the use or effect of medicine,
which is this science of health, I should
answer that medicine is of very great use in
producing health, which, as you will admit,
is an excellent effect.
Granted.
And if you were to ask me, what is the
result or effect of architecture, which is
the science of building, I should say
houses, and so of other arts, which all have
their different results. Now I want you,
Critias, to answer a similar question about
temperance, or wisdom, which, according to
you, is the science of itself. Admitting
this view, I ask of you, what good work,
worthy of the name wise, does temperance or
wisdom, which is the science of itself,
effect? Answer me.
That is not the true way of pursuing the
enquiry, Socrates, he said; for wisdom is
not like the other sciences, any more than
they are like one another: but you proceed
as if they were alike. For tell me, he said,
what result is there of computation or
geometry, in the same sense as a house is
the result of building, or a garment of
weaving, or any other work of any other art?
Can you show me any such result of them? You
cannot.
That is true, I said; but still each of
these sciences has a subject which is
different from the science. I can show you
that the art of computation has to do with
odd and even numbers in their numerical
relations to themselves and to each other.
Is not that true?
Yes, he said.
And the odd and even numbers are not the
same with the art of computation?
They are not.
The art of weighing, again, has to do with
lighter and heavier; but the art of weighing
is one thing, and the heavy and the light
another. Do you admit that?
Yes.
Now, I want to know, what is that which is
not wisdom, and of which wisdom is the
science?
You are just falling into the old error,
Socrates, he said. You come asking in what
wisdom or temperance differs from the other
sciences, and then you try to discover some
respect in which they are alike; but they
are not, for all the other sciences are of
something else, and not of themselves;
wisdom alone is a science of other sciences,
and of itself. And of this, as I believe,
you are very well aware: and that you are
only doing what you denied that you were
doing just now, trying to refute me, instead
of pursuing the argument.
And what if I am? How can you think that I
have any other motive in refuting you but
what I should have in examining into myself?
which motive would be just a fear of my
unconsciously fancying that I knew something
of which I was ignorant. And at this moment
I pursue the argument chiefly for my own
sake, and perhaps in some degree also for
the sake of my other friends. For is not the
discovery of things as they truly are, a
good common to all mankind?
Yes, certainly, Socrates, he said.
Then, I said, be cheerful, sweet sir, and
give your opinion in answer to the question
which I asked, never minding whether Critias
or Socrates is the person refuted; attend
only to the argument, and see what will come
of the refutation.
I think that you are right, he replied; and
I will do as you say.
Tell me, then, I said, what you mean to
affirm about wisdom.
I mean to say that wisdom is the only
science which is the science of itself as
well as of the other sciences.
But the science of science, I said, will
also be the science of the absence of
science.
Very true, he said.
Then the wise or temperate man, and he only,
will know himself, and be able to examine
what he knows or does not know, and to see
what others know and think that they know
and do really know; and what they do not
know, and fancy that they know, when they do
not. No other person will be able to do
this. And this is wisdom and temperance and
self-knowledge-for a man to know what he
knows, and what he does not know. That is
your meaning?
Yes, he said.
Now then, I said, making an offering of the
third or last argument to Zeus the Saviour,
let us begin again, and ask, in the first
place, whether it is or is not possible for
a person to know that he knows and does not
know what he knows and does not know; and in
the second place, whether, if perfectly
possible, such knowledge is of any use.
That is what we have to consider, he said.
And here, Critias, I said, I hope that you
will find a way out of a difficulty into
which I have got myself. Shall I tell you
the nature of the difficulty?
By all means, he replied.
Does not what you have been saying, if true,
amount to this: that there must be a single
science which is wholly a science of itself
and of other sciences, and that the same is
also the science of the absence of science?
Yes.
But consider how monstrous this proposition
is, my friend: in any parallel case, the
impossibility will be transparent to you.
How is that? and in what cases do you mean?
In such cases as this: Suppose that there is
a kind of vision which is not like ordinary
vision, but a vision of itself and of other
sorts of vision, and of the defect of them,
which in seeing sees no colour, but only
itself and other sorts of vision: Do you
think that there is such a kind of vision?
Certainly not.
Or is there a kind of hearing which hears no
sound at all, but only itself and other
sorts of hearing, or the defects of them?
There is not.
Or take all the senses: can you imagine that
there is any sense of itself and of other
senses, but which is incapable of perceiving
the objects of the senses?
I think not.
Could there be any desire which is not the
desire of any pleasure, but of itself, and
of all other desires?
Certainly not.
Or can you imagine a wish which wishes for
no good, but only for itself and all other
wishes?
I should answer, No.
Or would you say that there is a love which
is not the love of beauty, but of itself and
of other loves?
I should not.
Or did you ever know of a fear which fears
itself or other fears, but has no object of
fear?
I never did, he said.
Or of an opinion which is an opinion of
itself and of other opinions, and which has
no opinion on the subjects of opinion in
general?
Certainly not.
But surely we are assuming a science of this
kind, which, having no subject-matter, is a
science of itself and of the other sciences?
Yes, that is what is affirmed.
But how strange is this, if it be indeed
true: must not however as yet absolutely
deny the possibility of such a science; let
us rather consider the matter.
You are quite right.
Well then, this science of which we are
speaking is a science of something, and is
of a nature to be a science of something?
Yes.
Just as that which is greater is of a nature
to be greater than something else?
Yes.
Which is less, if the other is conceived to
be greater?
To be sure.
And if we could find something which is at
once greater than itself, and greater than
other great things, but not greater than
those things in comparison of which the
others are greater, then that thing would
have the property of being greater and also
less than itself?
That, Socrates, he said, is the inevitable
inference.
Or if there be a double which is double of
itself and of other doubles, these will be
halves; for the double is relative to the
half?
That is true.
And that which is greater than itself will
also be less, and that which is heavier will
also be lighter, and that which is older
will also be younger: and the same of other
things; that which has a nature relative to
self will retain also the nature of its
object: I mean to say, for example, that
hearing is, as we say, of sound or voice. Is
that true?
Yes.
Then if hearing hears itself, it must hear a
voice; for there is no other way of hearing.
Certainly.
And sight also, my excellent friend, if it
sees itself must see a colour, for sight
cannot see that which has no colour.
No.
Do you remark, Critias, that in several of
the examples which have been recited the
notion of a relation to self is altogether
inadmissible, and in other cases hardly
credible-inadmissible, for example, in the
case of magnitudes, numbers, and the like?
Very true.
But in the case of hearing and sight, or in
the power of self-motion, and the power of
heat to burn, this relation to self will be
regarded as incredible by some, but perhaps
not by others. And some great man, my
friend, is wanted, who will satisfactorily
determine for us, whether there is nothing
which has an inherent property of relation
to self, or some things only and not others;
and whether in this class of self-related
things, if there be such a class, that
science which is called wisdom or temperance
is included. I altogether distrust my own
power of determining these matters: I am not
certain whether there is such a science of
science at all; and even if there be, I
should not acknowledge this to be wisdom or
temperance, until I can also see whether
such a science would or would not do us any
good; for I have an impression that
temperance is a benefit and a good. And
therefore, O son of Callaeschrus, as you
maintain that temperance or wisdom is a
science of science, and also of the absence
of science, I will request you to show in
the first place, as I was saying before, the
possibility, and in the second place, the
advantage, of such a science; and then
perhaps you may satisfy me that you are
right in your view of temperance.
Critias heard me say this, and saw that I
was in a difficulty; and as one person when
another yawns in his presence catches the
infection of yawning from him, so did he
seem to be driven into a difficulty by my
difficulty. But as he had a reputation to
maintain, he was ashamed to admit before the
company that he could not answer my
challenge or determine the question at
issue; and he made an unintelligible attempt
to hide his perplexity. In order that the
argument might proceed, I said to him, Well
then Critias, if you like, let us assume
that there is this science of science;
whether the assumption is right or wrong may
hereafter be investigated. Admitting the
existence of it, will you tell me how such a
science enables us to distinguish what we
know or do not know, which, as we were
saying, is self-knowledge or wisdom: so we
were saying?
Yes, Socrates, he said; and that I think is
certainly true: for he who has this science
or knowledge which knows itself will become
like the knowledge which he has, in the same
way that he who has swiftness will be swift,
and he who has beauty will be beautiful, and
he who has knowledge will know. In the same
way he who has that knowledge which is
self-knowing, will know himself.
I do not doubt, I said, that a man will know
himself, when he possesses that which has
self-knowledge: but what necessity is there
that, having this, he should know what he
knows and what he does not know?
Because, Socrates, they are the same.
Very likely, I said; but I remain as stupid
as ever; for still I fail to comprehend how
this knowing what you know and do not know
is the same as the knowledge of self.
What do you mean? he said.
This is what I mean, I replied: I will admit
that there is a science of science;-can this
do more than determine that of two things
one is and the other is not science or
knowledge?
No, just that.
But is knowledge or want of knowledge of
health the same as knowledge or want of
knowledge of justice?
Certainly not.
The one is medicine, and the other is
politics; whereas that of which we are
speaking is knowledge pure and simple.
Very true.
And if a man knows only, and has only
knowledge of knowledge, and has no further
knowledge of health and justice, the
probability is that he will only know that
he knows something, and has a certain
knowledge, whether concerning himself or
other men.
True.
Then how will this knowledge or science
teach him to know what he knows? Say that he
knows health;-not wisdom or temperance, but
the art of medicine has taught it to him;
and he has learned harmony from the art of
music, and building from the art of
building, neither, from wisdom or
temperance: and the same of other things.
That is evident.
How will wisdom, regarded only as a
knowledge of knowledge or science of
science, ever teach him that he knows
health, or that he knows building?
It is impossible.
Then he who is ignorant of these things will
only know that he knows, but not what he
knows?
True.
Then wisdom or being wise appears to be not
the knowledge of the things which we do or
do not know, but only the knowledge that we
know or do not know?
That is the inference.
Then he who has this knowledge will not be
able to examine whether a pretender knows or
does not know that which he says that he
knows: he will only know that he has a
knowledge of some kind; but wisdom will not
show him of what the knowledge is?
Plainly not.
Neither will he be able to distinguish the
pretender in medicine from the true
physician, nor between any other true and
false professor of knowledge. Let us
consider the matter in this way: If the wise
man or any other man wants to distinguish
the true physician from the false, how will
he proceed? He will not talk to him about
medicine; and that, as we were saying, is
the only thing which the physician
understands.
True.
And, on the other hand, the physician knows
nothing of science, for this has been
assumed to be the province of wisdom.
True.
And further, since medicine is science, we
must infer that he does not know anything of
medicine.
Exactly.
Then the wise man may indeed know that the
physician has some kind of science or
knowledge; but when he wants to discover the
nature of this he will ask, What is the
subject-matter? For the several sciences are
distinguished not by the mere fact that they
are sciences, but by the nature of their
subjects. Is not that true?
Quite true.
And medicine is distinguished from other
sciences as having the subject-matter of
health and disease?
Yes.
And he who would enquire into the nature of
medicine must pursue the enquiry into health
and disease, and not into what is
extraneous?
True.
And he who judges rightly will judge of the
physician as a physician in what relates to
these?
He will.
He will consider whether what he says is
true, and whether what he does is right, in
relation to health and disease?
He will.
But can any one attain the knowledge of
either unless he have a of medicine?
He cannot.
No one at all, it would seem, except the
physician can have this knowledge; and
therefore not the wise man; he would have to
be a physician as well as a wise man.
Very true.
Then, assuredly, wisdom or temperance, if
only a science of science, and of the
absence of science or knowledge, will not be
able to distinguish the physician who knows
from one who does not know but pretends or
thinks that he knows, or any other professor
of anything at all; like any other artist,
he will only know his fellow in art or
wisdom, and no one else.
That is evident, he said.
But then what profit, Critias, I said, is
there any longer in wisdom or temperance
which yet remains, if this is wisdom? If,
indeed, as we were supposing at first, the
wise man had been able to distinguish what
he knew and did not know, and that he knew
the one and did not know the other, and to
recognize a similar faculty of discernment
in others, there would certainly have been a
great advantage in being wise; for then we
should never have made a mistake, but have
passed through life the unerring guides of
ourselves and of those who are under us; and
we should not have attempted to do what we
did not know, but we should have found out
those who knew, and have handed the business
over to them and trusted in them; nor should
we have allowed those who were under us to
do anything which they were not likely to do
well and they would be likely to do well
just that of which they had knowledge; and
the house or state which was ordered or
administered under the guidance of wisdom,
and everything else of which wisdom was the
lord, would have been well ordered; for
truth guiding, and error having been
eliminated, in all their doings, men would
have done well, and would have been happy.
Was not this, Critias, what we spoke of as
the great advantage of wisdom to know what
is known and what is unknown to us?
Very true, he said.
And now you perceive, I said, that no such
science is to be found anywhere.
I perceive, he said.
May we assume then, I said, that wisdom,
viewed in this new light merely as a
knowledge of knowledge and ignorance, has
this advantage:-that he who possesses such
knowledge will more easily learn anything
which he learns; and that everything will be
clearer to him, because, in addition to the
knowledge of individuals, he sees the
science, and this also will better enable
him to test the knowledge which others have
of what he knows himself; whereas the
enquirer who is without this knowledge may
be supposed to have a feebler and weaker
insight? Are not these, my friend, the real
advantages which are to be gained from
wisdom? And are not we looking and seeking
after something more than is to be found in
her?
That is very likely, he said.
That is very likely, I said; and very
likely, too, we have been enquiring to no
purpose; as I am led to infer, because I
observe that if this is wisdom, some strange
consequences would follow. Let us, if you
please, assume the possibility of this
science of sciences, and further admit and
allow, as was originally suggested, that
wisdom is the knowledge of what we know and
do not know. Assuming all this, still, upon
further consideration, I am doubtful,
Critias, whether wisdom, such as this, would
do us much good. For we were wrong, I think,
in supposing, as we were saying just now,
that such wisdom ordering the government of
house or state would be a great benefit.
How so? he said.
Why, I said, we were far too ready to admit
the great benefits which mankind would
obtain from their severally doing the things
which they knew, and committing the things
of which they are ignorant to those who were
better acquainted with them.
Were we not right in making that admission?
I think not.
How very strange, Socrates!
By the dog of Egypt, I said, there I agree
with you; and I was thinking as much just
now when I said that strange consequences
would follow, and that I was afraid we were
on the wrong track; for however ready we may
be to admit that this is wisdom, I certainly
cannot make out what good this sort of thing
does to us.
What do you mean? he said; I wish that you
could make me understand what you mean.
I dare say that what I am saying is
nonsense, I replied; and yet if a man has
any feeling of what is due to himself, he
cannot let the thought which comes into his
mind pass away unheeded and unexamined.
I like that, he said.
Hear, then, I said, my own dream; whether
coming through the horn or the ivory gate, I
cannot tell. The dream is this: Let us
suppose that wisdom is such as we are now
defining, and that she has absolute sway
over us; then each action will be done
according to the arts or sciences, and no
one professing to be a pilot when he is not,
or any physician or general, or any one else
pretending to know matters of which he is
ignorant, will deceive or elude us; our
health will be improved; our safety at sea,
and also in battle, will be assured; our
coats and shoes, and all other instruments
and implements will be skilfully made,
because the workmen will be good and true.
Aye, and if you please, you may suppose that
prophecy, which is the knowledge of the
future, will be under the control of wisdom,
and that she will deter deceivers and set up
the true prophets in their place as the
revealers of the future. Now I quite agree
that mankind, thus provided, would live and
act according to knowledge, for wisdom would
watch and prevent ignorance from intruding
on us. But whether by acting according to
knowledge we shall act well and be happy, my
dear Critias,-this is a point which we have
not yet been able to determine.
Yet I think, he replied, that if you discard
knowledge, you will hardly find the crown of
happiness in anything else.
But of what is this knowledge? I said. Just
answer me that small question. Do you mean a
knowledge of shoemaking?
God forbid.
Or of working in brass?
Certainly not.
Or in wool, or wood, or anything of that
sort?
No, I do not.
Then, I said, we are giving up the doctrine
that he who lives according to knowledge is
happy, for these live according to
knowledge, and yet they are not allowed by
you to be happy; but I think that you mean
to confine happiness to particular
individuals who live according to knowledge,
such for example as the prophet, who, as I
was saying, knows the future. Is it of him
you are speaking or of some one else?
Yes, I mean him, but there are others as
well.
Yes, I said, some one who knows the past and
present as well as the future, and is
ignorant of nothing. Let us suppose that
there is such a person, and if there is, you
will allow that he is the most knowing of
all living men.
Certainly he is.
Yet I should like to know one thing more:
which of the different kinds of knowledge
makes him happy? or do all equally make him
happy?
Not all equally, he replied.
But which most tends to make him happy? the
knowledge of what past, present, or future
thing? May I infer this to be the knowledge
of the game of draughts?
Nonsense about the game of draughts.
Or of computation?
No.
Or of health?
That is nearer the truth, he said.
And that knowledge which is nearest of all,
I said, is the knowledge of what?
The knowledge with which he discerns good
and evil.
Monster! I said; you have been carrying me
round in a circle, and all this time hiding
from me the fact that the life according to
knowledge is not that which makes men act
rightly and be happy, not even if knowledge
include all the sciences, but one science
only, that of good and evil. For, let me ask
you, Critias, whether, if you take away
this, medicine will not equally give health,
and shoemaking equally produce shoes, and
the art of the weaver clothes?-whether the
art of the pilot will not equally save our
lives at sea, and the art of the general in
war?
Quite so.
And yet, my dear Critias, none of these
things will be well or beneficially done, if
the science of the good be wanting.
True.
But that science is not wisdom or
temperance, but a science of human
advantage; not a science of other sciences,
or of ignorance, but of good and evil: and
if this be of use, then wisdom or temperance
will not be of use.
And why, he replied, will not wisdom be of
use? For, however much we assume that wisdom
is a science of sciences, and has a sway
over other sciences, surely she will have
this particular science of the good under
her control, and in this way will benefit
us.
And will wisdom give health? I said; is not
this rather the effect of medicine? Or does
wisdom do the work any of the other arts, do
they not each of them do their own work?
Have we not long ago asseverated that wisdom
is only the knowledge of knowledge and of
ignorance, and of nothing else?
That is obvious.
Then wisdom will not be the producer of
health.
Certainly not.
The art of health is different.
Yes, different.
Nor does wisdom give advantage, my good
friend; for that again we have just now been
attributing to another art.
Very true.
How then can wisdom be advantageous, when
giving no advantage?
That, Socrates, is certainly inconceivable.
You see then, Critias, that I was not far
wrong in fearing that I could have no sound
notion about wisdom; I was quite right in
depreciating myself; for that which is
admitted to be the best of all things would
never have seemed to us useless, if I had
been good for anything at an enquiry. But
now I have been utterly defeated, and have
failed to discover what that is to which the
imposer of names gave this name of
temperance or wisdom. And yet many more
admissions were made by us than could be
fairly granted; for we admitted that there
was a science of science, although the
argument said No, and protested against us;
and we admitted further, that this science
knew the works of the other sciences
(although this too was denied by the
argument), because we wanted to show that
the wise man had knowledge of what he knew
and did not know; also we nobly disregarded,
and never even considered, the impossibility
of a man knowing in a sort of way that which
he does not know at all; for our assumption
was, that he knows that which he does not
know; than which nothing, as I think, can be
more irrational. And yet, after finding us
so easy and good-natured, the enquiry is
still unable to discover the truth; but
mocks us to a degree, and has gone out of
its way to prove the inutility of that which
we admitted only by a sort of supposition
and fiction to be the true definition of
temperance or wisdom: which result, as far
as I am concerned, is not so much to be
lamented, I said. But for your sake,
Charmides, I am very sorry-that you, having
such beauty and such wisdom and temperance
of soul, should have no profit or good in
life from your wisdom and temperance. And
still more am I grieved about the charm
which I learned with so much pain, and to so
little profit, from the Thracian, for the
sake of a thing which is nothing worth. I
think indeed that there is a mistake, and
that I must be a bad enquirer, for wisdom or
temperance I believe to be really a great
good; and happy are you, Charmides, if you
certainly possess it. Wherefore examine
yourself, and see whether you have this gift
and can do without the charm; for if you
can, I would rather advise you to regard me
simply as a fool who is never able to reason
out anything; and to rest assured that the
more wise and temperate you are, the happier
you will be.
Charmides said: I am sure that I do not
know, Socrates, whether I have or have not
this gift of wisdom and temperance; for how
can I know whether I have a thing, of which
even you and Critias are, as you say, unable
to discover the nature?-(not that I believe
you.) And further, I am sure, Socrates, that
I do need the charm, and as far as I am
concerned, I shall be willing to be charmed
by you daily, until you say that I have had
enough.
Very good, Charmides, said Critias; if you
do this I shall have a proof of your
temperance, that is, if you allow yourself
to be charmed by Socrates, and never desert
him at all.
You may depend on my following and not
deserting him, said Charmides: if you who
are my guardian command me, I should be very
wrong not to obey you.
And I do command you, he said.
Then I will do as you say, and begin this
very day.
You sirs, I said, what are you conspiring
about?
We are not conspiring, said Charmides, we
have conspired already.
And are you about to use violence, without
even going through the forms of justice?
Yes, I shall use violence, he replied, since
he orders me; and therefore you had better
consider well.
But the time for consideration has passed, I
said, when violence is employed; and you,
when you are determined on anything, and in
the mood of violence, are irresistible.
Do not you resist me then, he said.
I will not resist you, I replied.
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