Chapter XI: Book IV: Argument (2)

CHAP. XIV.—Well then,—nodding an assent, said I, and making a sign of dissent, desiring to take a thing and refusing it, attracting or repelling—will you reckon all such things contraries respectively, whether actions or passions;—for it matters not which? Contraries, certainly, said he. What then, said I,—thirst, hunger, and the desires generally,—and further, to wish and to will, may not all these be considered as of the same kind with the species just mentioned?—As for instance, will you not always say of a man who desires, that his soul aims after what it desires, or attracts to itself what it wishes to have?—-Or again, so far as the soul wishes something to be given to it, does it not make a sign for it, as if a person were asking for it, through desire of acquiring its possession? I should say so. But what?—to be unwilling, not to wish, and not to desire,—shall we not deem them synonymous with repelling and driving off from the soul, and so all things else that are contrary of the former? Of course. This being the case, shall we say that there is a certain species of desires, and that the most conspicuous are those which we call thirst and hunger? We shall say so, he replied. Is not one the desire of drinking, the other of eating? Yes. In the case of thirst then, is it, so far as it is thirst, a desire in the soul of anything more than what we were saying; and as far as thirst goes,—is there a thirst for hot drink, or cold, for much or little, or in short for some particular kind of drink?—or again, if heat be added to the thirst, will it not readily occasion a desire for cold drink; but if cold [be added to it,] then [a desire] for warm drink: and if the thirst be great, owing to numerous causes, will it not occasion a desire for much drink, but if small, [a desire] for little; while as for the desire of thirst itself, it never becomes the desire of anything else, but of that only to which it naturally belongs,—and so, also, of hunger with reference to meat? Just so, said he, every desire belongs in itself to that alone of which it is the desire; but whether they be desires of such or such a particular kind, are adventitious circumstances. Let no one then, said I, trouble us, as if we were inadvertent, [by objecting to us] that no one desires drink, but good drink,—nor meat, but good meat;—inasmuch as all men desire what is good. If then thirst be a desire, it is one of something good; whether it be of drink, or anything else whatever,—and in the same way with all the other desires. Aye, perhaps, replied he, the man who says this may be deemed to say something to the purpose. But in truth, said I, things naturally relative, refer in each particular, as I think, to this or that object, to which they belong, while in their individual character they refer only to themselves individually. I do not understand, said he. Do not you understand, said I, that greater is relatively greater than something? Certainly. Is it not greater than the lesser? Yes. And that which is much greater than that which is much less; is it not? Yes. And that which was formerly greater than that which was formerly less, and that which is to be greater than that which is to be less? Of course, said he. And in like manner, the more numerous has reference to the less numerous, and the double to the half, and so in all such-like cases;—and further, the heavier to the lighter, and the swifter to the slower; and further still, the hot to the cold; and all such like, are they not thus related? Entirely so. But what as to the sciences;—is not the case the same?—for, science itself is the science of pure learning, or of whatever else one sees fit to make it the science; while, on the other hand, a certain particular science, of a particular kind, refers to a certain particular kind, and also to a particular object. My meaning is as follows:—when the science of building houses arose, was it not so far separated from the other sciences, as to acquire the name of architecture? Of course. Was it not so, because it was of a kind like none else? Yes. Was it not then from its being the art of such a particular thing, that it became itself such a particular art;—and are not all other arts and sciences in like manner? They are so.

CHAP. XV.—Consider then, said I, that this is what I wanted to express, if you now understand me; namely, that things which are relative, taken by themselves alone, relate to themselves alone, but considered as of such a quality, relate to particular objects. I do not say, however, that a science altogether resembles that of which it is the science; (as if, for example, the science of healthy and sickly were itself healthy and sickly, or the science of good and evil itself good and evil;) but as science is not constituted the science of that generally of which it is the science, but only of a certain quality of it (that is, of its healthy and sickly state), so it comes to be itself a particular science; and hence it is no longer called simply a science, but the medicinal science, the particular class to which it belongs being superadded. I understand you, said he; and I think it is so. As for thirst then, said I, will you not class it among those things which have relation to something else, so far as it is what it is? and is not thirst a thirst for something? I should, certainly, said he, for drink. And does not a particular thirst desire a particular drink?—whereas thirst in general is neither of much nor of little, nor of good nor bad, nor, in one word, of any particular kind; but abstractly and in general, the natural desire of drink. Assuredly. The soul of the man then who thirsts, so far as he thirsts, wishes nothing further than to drink; and this he covets, and to this he hurries? Clearly so. If therefore, when the soul is athirst, anything draws it back, must it not be some different principle from that which excites thirst, and leads it as a wild beast to drink;—since it is impossible, we say, for the same thing, by itself, and at the same time, to produce contrary results from the same cause? It is indeed impossible. Just as it is not proper, methinks, to say of an archer, that his hands at once propel and draw in the bow, but that one of his hands propels it, and the other draws it in? Assuredly, said he. Can we say, then, that there are some, who when athirst are not willing to drink? Certainly, said he, many, and often. What then, said I, is one to say of these persons?—Might it not be said, that there is something in their soul that prompts them to drink, and likewise something that restrains them, quite different, and that prevails over the prompting principle? I think so, said he. Does not the restraining principle then, whenever it arises, arise from reason; while those that lead and urge men onwards, proceed from affections and ailments? It appears so. We shall not then, said I, be unreasonable in defining these as distinctly two, and separate from one another, if we call that with which one reasons, the rational part of the soul, but that part with which it loves, and hungers, and thirsts, and is carried away by desires, the irrational and concupiscent part, as associated with certain gratifications and pleasures. We shall not, said he; but we may reasonably regard them in this light. Let these two then, said I, be defined as distinct principles in the soul. But as to that of anger, and by which we are angry, is it a third principle, or is it of like nature with one or other of these two? Perhaps, said he, with one of them, the concupiscent. But I believe, said I, what I have somewhere heard:—Leontius, son of Aglaion, as he was returning from the Piræus, along the outside of the northern wall, perceiving some dead bodies lying close to the place of public punishment,[157] had a desire to look at them, but yet at the same time revolted therefrom and turned away; and for a while he resisted, and covered his eyes, but, at last, overcome by his desire, ran with eyes wide open towards the dead bodies, and said: “Here now, ye wretched eyes of mine! glut yourselves with this fine spectacle.” I too have heard it, said he. This story now shows, said I, that anger sometimes opposes the desires, as being distinct from each other. Yes, said he, it does show it.

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Footnote 157:

Gr. παρὰ τῷ δημείῳ, which admits of no concise rendering.

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CHAP. XVI.—Do we not then in other cases, and very frequently, perceive, said I, when the appetites compel any one against his reason, that he reproaches himself, and is angry at the compelling principle within him; and that like two persons at variance, the anger of such a person becomes an ally to reason; but that it sides with the desires when reason decides that no opposition is to be offered, you will say, I think, that you have never perceived anything of this kind either in yourself, nor yet in any other? No, by Zeus, replied he. What then, said I, is it not the case, when a man imagines he is doing a wrong, that the more generous he is, the less is he apt to be angry, however he may suffer hunger or cold, or other like privations, from one, who, as he thinks, inflicts them with justice?—And, as I have said, his anger will not incline him to rise up against such an one. True, said he. But what;—when a man thinks himself injured, does he not in this case boil with rage and become indignant and ally himself on the side of what seems just; and under all the sufferings of hunger, cold, and the like, does he not bear up and strive to conquer; nor does he cease from his generous toils, until he has either accomplished them, or dies, or, like a dog by the shepherd, is called off and pacified by the rational principle within him? Certainly, said he, it is precisely like what you say; for, in our state, we appointed the auxiliaries to be obedient, like dogs, to the state rulers, as being shepherds of the state. You quite understand, said I, what I mean to say:—but have you considered this also? What? That here apparently, as regards the irascible, the reverse takes place from what took place in the former instance,—for then we reckoned it the same as the concupiscent; but now we say it is far from it, or rather that, in the sedition of the soul, it more willingly arrays itself on the side of the rational part. Entirely so, said he. Is it then as something entirely distinct, or as a species of the rational;—so as that there are not three species, but only two in the soul, the rational and concupiscent?—or, as there were three species which completed the city, the money-getting, the auxiliary, the deliberative; so, in the soul, is this irascible a third natural principle, auxiliary to the rational, when not corrupted by bad education? Of course, it must, said he, be a third. Yes, said I, if at least it seem at all different from the rational, just as it seemed to be distinct from the concupiscent. Aye, that is not hard to see, said he;—and as a proof of this, one may see, even in little children, that quite from their infancy they are full of anger, while some of them, at least in my opinion, never have any share in reason, the majority indeed only arriving at it but late in life. Aye, truly, said I, you are right. And in the brute beasts, too, one may observe yet further, that what you say is really the case; and besides this, it is attested also by what we formerly cited from Homer[158]—

His breast he struck, and thus his heart reproved;—

for, in this passage, Homer has plainly made one part reprove the other; that part, namely, which reasons about good and evil, to reprove the part which is unreasonably angry. You are quite right, said he.

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Footnote 158:

Hom. Odyss. lib. xx. v. 17.

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CHAP. XVII.—These things, said I, we have agreed to after some difficulty; and it is now sufficiently acknowledged, that the same sort of principles that are in a state reside also in the soul of every individual, and equal in number. Must it not, then, necessarily follow, that in whatever manner the state is wise, and in whatever respect, after the same manner and in the same respect, the individual is so also? Of course. And in whatever respects, and after whatever manner, the individual is brave, in the same respect, and after the same manner, a state is brave also? and so in all other respects, both are the same as regards virtue? Necessarily so. And I think, Glaucon, it may be said that a man is so just in the same way as a state is so. This also must needs be the case. Aye; but have we not somehow or other forgotten this, that the state is just, when every one of the three species in it does its own particular work? No, said he, I do not think we have forgotten that point. We must remember then likewise, that each of us will be just, and do his own work, each part of whose soul does its own proper duty. Aye, said he, we must be sure to recollect that. Is it not proper, then, that the rational part should govern, as being wise, and charged with the care of the whole soul; and that the spirited part should obey and ally itself to the other? Certainly. Will not the mixture then, as we said, of music and gymnastics, make the two to harmonize by exalting and nurturing the one with excellent arguments and good discipline, while it unbends the other by soothing and rendering it mild through harmony and rhythm? Assuredly, said he. And when these two are thus nurtured and have been truly taught and practised in their own affairs, they will preside over the concupiscent part, which in every one occupies the largest part of the soul, and by its nature is insatiable of wealth; and they will take care, lest, having acquired growth and strength by being filled with bodily pleasures, as they are termed, it become discontented with its own work, and so attempt to enslave and rule over those it ought not, and thus wholly upset the entire system of life. Certainly, said he. And by this principle, said I, will not the two maintain a good guard against enemies from without, owing to their joint influence over both soul and body, the one laying down the plans, and the other fighting in obedience to its leader, and executing with fortitude the plans laid down? Such is the case. And I think we call a man brave, when, through all the pains and pleasures of life, the spirit maintains the opinion dictated by reason about what is terrible, and what is not so. Right, said he. And we call a man wise, from that small part which governs him, and dictates this, inasmuch as it possesses the knowledge of what is expedient for each separately, and for the whole of the three together. Certainly. And, do we not moreover term a man temperate, from the association and harmony of these very principles, when the governing and governed agree in one,—namely, when reason governs, and when the others are not at variance therewith? Temperance, said he, is no other than this, either as respects the state or the individual. But he will be just, owing to those causes and in the manner which we have often before mentioned? He must. What then, said I; has anything blunted us, that we should regard justice as anything else than what it is seen to be in a state? Not in my opinion at least, said he. In this manner then (if there yet remain any doubt in the soul), let us, by all means, satisfy ourselves by bringing the man into difficult circumstances. As what? For instance, if we be compelled to declare, concerning such a state and a man born and educated conformably thereto, whether such a man, if intrusted with gold or silver, is likely to embezzle it,—who do you think would imagine, that such an one would do it sooner than those of a different character? No one would, said he. Will not such an one then be free from sacrileges, thefts, and treacheries, either privately against his friends, or publicly against the state? He will. Nor will he ever, in any shape, be faithless, either as to his oaths, or other compacts? How should he. Adulteries, neglect of parents, and impiety against the gods, will be found then in any one rather than such a man as this? Aye, in any one else, truly, said he. And is not this the cause of all these things,—that, of all the parts within him each separate one does its own work, as to governing and being governed? This is it, and nothing else. What else do you wish justice to be, except such a power as produces men and states like these? Not I, truly, said he, for my part.

CHAP. XVIII.—Our dream then, which we conjectured, is at last accomplished; that on our very first attempt to found our state we have apparently arrived by divine assistance at a principle and pattern of justice? Quite so. And that, Glaucon, was a certain image of justice, that the man naturally fitted for the office of a shoemaker, should make shoes properly, and do nothing else; and that he also, who is a carpenter, should do that work,—and so also, of the rest. It appears so. In truth, then, of such a kind was justice, as it seems; nor does it regard merely a man’s external action, but what is really internal, relating to the man himself, and what is properly his own; not allowing any principle in him to attempt what is another’s province, or to meddle and interfere with what does not belong to it; but really well establishing his own proper affairs, and maintaining proper self-government, keeping due order, becoming his own friend, and most naturally attuning these three principles, as three musical strings, base, tenor, and treble, or whatever others may intervene:—thus will he be led to combine all these together, and out of many to form one whole, temperate, attuned, and able to perform whatever is to be done, either in acquiring wealth, or managing the body, or any public affair or private bargain, and in all these cases reckoning that action to be just and good, which always sustains and promotes this habit; and so also calling the knowledge which presides over this action wisdom,—and on the contrary, calling that an unjust action, which destroys this habit,—and the opinion which presides over this, folly. Perfectly true, Socrates, said he. Be it so, said I:—if then we should say, that we have found out a just man and state, and the nature of justice in both, I think we should not be considered altogether in error. No, by Zeus, said he. May we assume it, then? We may.

CHAP. XIX.—Be it so, said I. But we were next, I think, to consider injustice? Clearly so. Is it not then necessarily a kind of variance between the three principles, a kind of meddling and interfering spirit in things foreign to their proper business, and an insurrection of some one principle against the whole soul, to govern where it is not its province, though it be really of such a nature, that it ought to be in subjection to the governing principle? I imagine then we are to call this tumult and error by some such names as these,—injustice, intemperance, cowardice, folly, and in a word, all vices? Just so, said he. To commit injustice then, said I, and to be injurious, and likewise to act justly, all these must be very manifest, if indeed injustice and justice are so. How? Because, said I, they do not differ from what is salutary or noxious;—as the latter are in the body, so are the former in the soul. In what way? said he. Such things as are healthy produce health, and such as are noxious, disease. Yes. And does not acting justly produce justice,—and acting unjustly, injustice? Necessarily so. To produce health, however, is to establish everything in the body, so that they shall mutually govern and be governed, conformably to nature,—while the production of disease, on the other hand, consists in one part governing and being governed by another, contrary to nature. It is indeed. Then again, said I, to produce justice, is it not to establish all in the soul, so that its parts shall mutually govern and be governed according to nature;—and does not injustice consist in governing and being governed by one another contrary to nature? Plainly so, said he. Virtue then, as it seems, is a kind of health, beauty, and good habit of the soul; and vice its disease, deformity, and infirmity? It is so. Do not honourable pursuits then lead to the attainment of virtue, but dishonourable to that of vice? They must. What remains for us to consider then is,—whether it be profitable to act justly, and pursue what is honourable, and to be just, and whether a man can be of such a character unconsciously or not;—or to act unjustly, and to be unjust, though one be never punished, or reformed by correction? But, said he, Socrates, this inquiry seems, to me at least, quite ridiculous;—that if in a corrupt state of the body life be deemed not worth possession, not even though accompanied by all kinds of meats and drinks, and all wealth and power, yet when the nature of the vital principle is disordered and thoroughly corrupted, life will then be worth having, though a man were to do everything else that he likes, except ascertaining how he shall get released from vice and injustice, and cultivate justice and virtue,—since both these things have been proved such as we have represented them. Aye, it would be truly ridiculous, said I. However, since we have arrived at such a point as enables us most distinctly to perceive that these things are so, we must not get weary. On no account, by Zeus, said he, must we be weary. Come then, said I, and let us see also how many principles vice possesses,—principles indeed that are worthy of attention. I am all attention, said he;—only tell me. And truly now, said I;—since we have reached this part of our discourse, it appears to me, as to one looking from a height, that there is but one principle of virtue, while those of vice are infinite:—and of these there are four, particularly deserving of mention. How say you? replied he. There seem to be as many classes of the soul as there are forms of government. How many then? Five, said I, of governments, and five of the soul. Name them, said he. What we have just described, replied I, is one species of government; and it may have a twofold appellation; for, if among the rulers one prevails over the rest, it may be termed a Monarchy,—but if there be several, an Aristocracy. True, said he. I call this then, said I, one species; for, whether there be several, or whether it be but one who governs, they will never alter the principal laws of the state,—because they will observe the nature and education we have described. It is not likely, said he.

THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK.