                                     360 BC

                                   SYMPOSIUM

                                    by Plato

                         translated by Benjamin Jowett

SYMPOSIUM

  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-

.



