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