CHARMIDES, OR TEMPERANCE

380 BC

translated by Benjamin Jowett

New York, C. Scribner's Sons, [1871]

  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.

                             -THE END-