Phaedo
by Plato
Written c. 360 B.C.
Translated by Benjamin Jowett
Persons of the Dialogue:
PHAEDO, who is the narrator of the dialogue to ECHECRATES of Phlius
SOCRATES
APOLLODORUS
SIMMIAS
CEBES
CRITO
ATTENDANT OF THE PRISON
Scene: The Prison of Socrates.
Place of the Narration: Phlius.
Echecrates. Were you yourself, Phaedo, in the prison with Socrates on
the day when he drank the poison?
Phaedo. Yes, Echecrates, I was.
Ech. I wish that you would tell me about his death. What did he say in
his last hours? We were informed that he died by taking poison, but no
one knew anything more; for no Phliasian ever goes to Athens now, and a
long time has elapsed since any Athenian found his way to Phlius, and
therefore we had no clear account.
Phaed. Did you not hear of the proceedings at the trial?
Ech. Yes; someone told us about the trial, and we could not understand
why, having been condemned, he was put to death, as appeared, not at the
time, but long afterwards. What was the reason of this?
Phaed. An accident, Echecrates. The reason was that the stern of the
ship which the Athenians send to Delos happened to have been crowned on
the day before he was tried.
Ech. What is this ship?
Phaed. This is the ship in which, as the Athenians say, Theseus went to
Crete when he took with him the fourteen youths, and was the saviour of
them and of himself. And they were said to have vowed to Apollo at the
time, that if they were saved they would make an annual pilgrimage to
Delos. Now this custom still continues, and the whole period of the
voyage to and from Delos, beginning when the priest of Apollo crowns the
stern of the ship, is a holy season, during which the city is not
allowed to be polluted by public executions; and often, when the vessel
is detained by adverse winds, there may be a very considerable delay. As
I was saying, the ship was crowned on the day before the trial, and this
was the reason why Socrates lay in prison and was not put to death until
long after he was condemned.
Ech. What was the manner of his death, Phaedo? What was said or done?
And which of his friends had he with him? Or were they not allowed by
the authorities to be present? And did he die alone?
Phaed. No; there were several of his friends with him.
Ech. If you have nothing to do, I wish that you would tell me what
passed, as exactly as you can.
Phaed. I have nothing to do, and will try to gratify your wish. For to
me, too, there is no greater pleasure than to have Socrates brought to
my recollection, whether I speak myself or hear another speak of him.
Ech. You will have listeners who are of the same mind with you, and I
hope that you will be as exact as you can.
Phaed. I remember the strange feeling which came over me at being with
him. For I could hardly believe that I was present at the death of a
friend, and therefore I did not pity him, Echecrates; his mien and his
language were so noble and fearless in the hour of death that to me he
appeared blessed. I thought that in going to the other world he could
not be without a divine call, and that he would be happy, if any man
ever was, when he arrived there, and therefore I did not pity him as
might seem natural at such a time. But neither could I feel the pleasure
which I usually felt in philosophical discourse (for philosophy was the
theme of which we spoke). I was pleased, and I was also pained, because
I knew that he was soon to die, and this strange mixture of feeling was
shared by us all; we were laughing and weeping by turns, especially the
excitable Apollodorus -- you know the sort of man?
Ech. Yes.
Phaed. He was quite overcome; and I myself and all of us were greatly
moved.
Ech. Who were present?
Phaed. Of native Athenians there were, besides Apollodorus, Critobulus
and his father Crito, Hermogenes, Epigenes, Aeschines, and Antisthenes;
likewise Ctesippus of the deme of Paeania, Menexenus, and some others;
but Plato, if I am not mistaken, was ill.
Ech. Were there any strangers?
Phaed. Yes, there were; Simmias the Theban, and Cebes, and Phaedondes;
Euclid and Terpison, who came from Megara.
Ech. And was Aristippus there, and Cleombrotus?
Phaed. No, they were said to be in Aegina.
Ech. Anyone else?
Phaed. I think that these were about all.
Ech. And what was the discourse of which you spoke?
Phaed. I will begin at the beginning, and endeavor to repeat the entire
conversation. You must understand that we had been previously in the
habit of assembling early in the morning at the court in which the trial
was held, and which is not far from the prison. There we remained
talking with one another until the opening of the prison doors (for they
were not opened very early), and then went in and generally passed the
day with Socrates. On the last morning the meeting was earlier than
usual; this was owing to our having heard on the previous evening that
the sacred ship had arrived from Delos, and therefore we agreed to meet
very early at the accustomed place. On our going to the prison, the
jailer who answered the door, instead of admitting us, came out and bade
us wait and he would call us. "For the Eleven," he said, "are now with
Socrates; they are taking off his chains, and giving orders that he is
to die to-day." He soon returned and said that we might come in. On
entering we found Socrates just released from chains, and Xanthippe,
whom you know, sitting by him, and holding his child in her arms. When
she saw us she uttered a cry and said, as women will: "O Socrates, this
is the last time that either you will converse with your friends, or
they with you." Socrates turned to Crito and said: "Crito, let someone
take her home." Some of Crito's people accordingly led her away, crying
out and beating herself. And when she was gone, Socrates, sitting up on
the couch, began to bend and rub his leg, saying, as he rubbed: "How
singular is the thing called pleasure, and how curiously related to
pain, which might be thought to be the opposite of it; for they never
come to a man together, and yet he who pursues either of them is
generally compelled to take the other. They are two, and yet they grow
together out of one head or stem; and I cannot help thinking that if
Aesop had noticed them, he would have made a fable about God trying to
reconcile their strife, and when he could not, he fastened their heads
together; and this is the reason why when one comes the other follows,
as I find in my own case pleasure comes following after the pain in my
leg, which was caused by the chain."
Upon this Cebes said: I am very glad indeed, Socrates, that you
mentioned the name of Aesop. For that reminds me of a question which has
been asked by others, and was asked of me only the day before yesterday
by Evenus the poet, and as he will be sure to ask again, you may as well
tell me what I should say to him, if you would like him to have an
answer. He wanted to know why you who never before wrote a line of
poetry, now that you are in prison are putting Aesop into verse, and
also composing that hymn in honor of Apollo.
Tell him, Cebes, he replied, that I had no idea of rivalling him or his
poems; which is the truth, for I knew that I could not do that. But I
wanted to see whether I could purge away a scruple which I felt about
certain dreams. In the course of my life I have often had intimations in
dreams "that I should make music." The same dream came to me sometimes
in one form, and sometimes in another, but always saying the same or
nearly the same words: Make and cultivate music, said the dream. And
hitherto I had imagined that this was only intended to exhort and
encourage me in the study of philosophy, which has always been the
pursuit of my life, and is the noblest and best of music. The dream was
bidding me to do what I was already doing, in the same way that the
competitor in a race is bidden by the spectators to run when he is
already running. But I was not certain of this, as the dream might have
meant music in the popular sense of the word, and being under sentence
of death, and the festival giving me a respite, I thought that I should
be safer if I satisfied the scruple, and, in obedience to the dream,
composed a few verses before I departed. And first I made a hymn in
honor of the god of the festival, and then considering that a poet, if
he is really to be a poet or maker, should not only put words together
but make stories, and as I have no invention, I took some fables of
esop, which I had ready at hand and knew, and turned them into verse.
Tell Evenus this, and bid him be of good cheer; that I would have him
come after me if he be a wise man, and not tarry; and that to-day I am
likely to be going, for the Athenians say that I must.
Simmias said: What a message for such a man! having been a frequent
companion of his, I should say that, as far as I know him, he will never
take your advice unless he is obliged.
Why, said Socrates, is not Evenus a philosopher?
I think that he is, said Simmias.
Then he, or any man who has the spirit of philosophy, will be willing to
die, though he will not take his own life, for that is held not to be
right.
Here he changed his position, and put his legs off the couch on to the
ground, and during the rest of the conversation he remained sitting.
Why do you say, inquired Cebes, that a man ought not to take his own
life, but that the philosopher will be ready to follow the dying?
Socrates replied: And have you, Cebes and Simmias, who are acquainted
with Philolaus, never heard him speak of this?
I never understood him, Socrates.
My words, too, are only an echo; but I am very willing to say what I
have heard: and indeed, as I am going to another place, I ought to be
thinking and talking of the nature of the pilgrimage which I am about to
make. What can I do better in the interval between this and the setting
of the sun?
Then tell me, Socrates, why is suicide held not to be right? as I have
certainly heard Philolaus affirm when he was staying with us at Thebes:
and there are others who say the same, although none of them has ever
made me understand him.
But do your best, replied Socrates, and the day may come when you will
understand. I suppose that you wonder why, as most things which are evil
may be accidentally good, this is to be the only exception (for may not
death, too, be better than life in some cases?), and why, when a man is
better dead, he is not permitted to be his own benefactor, but must wait
for the hand of another.
By Jupiter! yes, indeed, said Cebes, laughing, and speaking in his
native Doric.
I admit the appearance of inconsistency, replied Socrates, but there may
not be any real inconsistency after all in this. There is a doctrine
uttered in secret that man is a prisoner who has no right to open the
door of his prison and run away; this is a great mystery which I do not
quite understand. Yet I, too, believe that the gods are our guardians,
and that we are a possession of theirs. Do you not agree?
Yes, I agree to that, said Cebes.
And if one of your own possessions, an ox or an ass, for example took
the liberty of putting himself out of the way when you had given no
intimation of your wish that he should die, would you not be angry with
him, and would you not punish him if you could?
Certainly, replied Cebes.
Then there may be reason in saying that a man should wait, and not take
his own life until God summons him, as he is now summoning me.
Yes, Socrates, said Cebes, there is surely reason in that. And yet how
can you reconcile this seemingly true belief that God is our guardian
and we his possessions, with that willingness to die which we were
attributing to the philosopher? That the wisest of men should be willing
to leave this service in which they are ruled by the gods who are the
best of rulers is not reasonable, for surely no wise man thinks that
when set at liberty he can take better care of himself than the gods
take of him. A fool may perhaps think this -- he may argue that he had
better run away from his master, not considering that his duty is to
remain to the end, and not to run away from the good, and that there is
no sense in his running away. But the wise man will want to be ever with
him who is better than himself. Now this, Socrates, is the reverse of
what was just now said; for upon this view the wise man should sorrow
and the fool rejoice at passing out of life.
The earnestness of Cebes seemed to please Socrates. Here, said he,
turning to us, is a man who is always inquiring, and is not to be
convinced all in a moment, nor by every argument.
And in this case, added Simmias, his objection does appear to me to have
some force. For what can be the meaning of a truly wise man wanting to
fly away and lightly leave a master who is better than himself? And I
rather imagine that Cebes is referring to you; he thinks that you are
too ready to leave us, and too ready to leave the gods who, as you
acknowledge, are our good rulers.
Yes, replied Socrates; there is reason in that. And this indictment you
think that I ought to answer as if I were in court?
That is what we should like, said Simmias.
Then I must try to make a better impression upon you than I did when
defending myself before the judges. For I am quite ready to acknowledge,
Simmias and Cebes, that I ought to be grieved at death, if I were not
persuaded that I am going to other gods who are wise and good (of this I
am as certain as I can be of anything of the sort) and to men departed
(though I am not so certain of this), who are better than those whom I
leave behind; and therefore I do not grieve as I might have done, for I
have good hope that there is yet something remaining for the dead, and,
as has been said of old, some far better thing for the good than for the
evil.
But do you mean to take away your thoughts with you, Socrates? said
Simmias. Will you not communicate them to us? -- the benefit is one in
which we too may hope to share. Moreover, if you succeed in convincing
