Chapter XIX: Book IX: Argument

In the _ninth book_ the discussion of tyranny is concluded with a view
of its origin and nature in the individual man, who, when thus
affected, is given up to all kinds of disordered passions that
effectually exclude him from all chance of happiness. Hence is it,
that, as good and healthy monarchical government is pre-eminently
conducive to the highest happiness of the citizens,—so also tyranny
is unfailingly productive of the most intense and general misery.
This is proved also from an analysis of the mental faculties, and a
pretty full account is here given of the desires, pleasures, and
indulgences by which they are affected, and which must be kept in
constant subjection by the dominance of reason.

CHAP. I.—We have yet, said I, to consider the tyrannical man himself, how he arises out of the democratic,—and, when he does arise, what is his nature, and what kind of life he leads, whether wretched or happy. Yes, we have, said he. Know you, said I, what I still want? What? We do not seem to have sufficiently distinguished as regards the desires; what is their nature and amount; and how many; and while there is any defect in this, the inquiry we make will not be very clear. Is it not good time for that yet? I wish to know about them;—for it is this. Of pleasures and desires that are not necessary, some seem to me contrary to law,—which indeed seem engendered in all men:—though owing to the correction of the laws, and of improved desires aided by reason, they either forsake some men altogether, or are less numerous and feeble, while in others they are more powerful and more numerous. Will you inform me what these are? said he. Such, said I, as are excited in sleep, when the rest of the soul—which is rational, mild, and its governing principle, is asleep, and when that part which is savage and rude, being sated with food and drink, frisks about, drives away sleep, and seeks to go and accomplish its practices;—in such an one, you know, it dares to do everything, because it is loosed and disengaged from all modesty and prudence: for, if it pleases, it scruples not at the embraces, even of a mother, or any one else, whether gods, men, or beasts; nor to commit murder, nor abstain from any sort of meat,—and in one word, it is wanting neither in folly nor shamelessness. You speak most truly, replied he. But when a man is in good health, methinks, and lives temperately, and goes to sleep, after exciting his reason, and feasting it with noble reasonings and investigations, having thus attained to an internal harmony, and given up the appetites neither to want nor repletion, that they may be at rest, and not disturb that part which is best, either by joy or grief, but suffer it by itself alone without interruption to inquire and long to apprehend what it knows not,—either something of what has existed, or now exists, or will exist hereafter; and so also, having soothed the spirited part of the soul, and not allowed it to be hurried into transports of anger, or to fall asleep with agitated passion;—but after having quieted these two parts of the soul, and roused to action that third part, in which wisdom dwells, he will thus take his rest;—you know, that by such an one the truth is best apprehended, and the visions of his dreams are then least of all portrayed contrary to the law. I am quite of this opinion, said he. We have digressed indeed a little too far in talking of these things;—but what we want to be known is this, that in every one resides a certain species of desires that are terrible, savage, and irregular, even in some that we deem ever so moderate:—and this indeed becomes manifest in sleep.—Now consider, if I seem to be speaking to the purpose, and whether you agree with me. Aye, indeed, do.

CHAP. II.—As for the people’s man then, recollect how we described him, as being brought up somehow from infancy under a parsimonious father, who valued avaricious desires only; and despised all such as were unnecessary, arising only out of a love of amusement and finery.[242] Was he not? Yes. But getting acquainted with the more refined, who are full of the desires just mentioned, running into all sorts of insolence, and imbibing their manners through detestation of his father’s parsimony;—and yet having a better natural temper than his corrupters, and being drawn opposite ways, he at length settles down into a mode of life equi-distant from either, and so in his opinion, participating moderately of each, leads a life neither illiberal nor lawless, after having thus become a democrat instead of an oligarchist. Yes,—this, said he, was and is our opinion of such an one. Suppose now again, that, when such an one has become old, he has a young son educated according to his own habits. I suppose it. And suppose, too, that the same happens to him as to his father;—that he is drawn into all lawlessness, which his seducers call all freedom; and that his father and his domestics are aiding those intermediate desires;—and that others also lend their assistance (when these clever conjurers and tyrant-makers have no hopes of otherwise keeping youth in their power), and so contrive to excite in him a certain love which is to preside over the passive desires, which distribute what may be at hand to all the rest,—a certain large-winged drone;[243]—or what else think you, is that kind of love? For my part, said he, I think, it is no other than this. Well,—when the rest of the desires buzz about him, full of their odours and perfumes, and crowns and wines, and the dissolute pleasures belonging to such associations,—and at last by their increase and nurture, add to the drone a sting of desire, then truly he is sentinelled by madness as a life-guard, and this president of the soul becomes frenzied; and even should he find in himself any opinions or desires which are deemed good and modest, he kills them and pushes them from him, till he has ridded himself of temperance and has become brimful of madness. You perfectly describe, said he, the formation of a tyrannical man. Is it not for some such reason as this, said I, that love has of old been said to be a tyrant? It seems so, replied he. Well, my friend, said I, and is not a drunken man likewise somewhat of a tyrannical spirit? He is indeed. And besides that, he that is mad and disturbed in his mind, undertakes and hopes to be able to govern not only men, but the gods as well. Entirely so, said he. The tyrannical character then, happy man! becomes so in full perfection, when either by temper or pursuits, or both, he becomes drunken and given up to love and melancholy. Perfectly so, indeed.

-----

Footnote 242:

This refers to the description of the δημοκρατικὸς in book viii. ch.
12.

Footnote 243:

Gr. προστάτην τῶν ἀργῶν καὶ τὰ ἕτοιμα διανεμομένων ἐπιθυμιῶν,
ὑπόπτερον καὶ μέγαν κηφῆνά τινα. This is perhaps the best
rendering;—but the passage is somewhat obscure.

-----

CHAP. III.—Such an one, it seems, then, is thus engendered,—but how does he pass his life?—Just as they say in their games, replied he;—“this you shall tell me too.” I will tell you then, said I;—for I think, that in the next place, they have feastings and revellings and banquetings and mistresses, and all such things as may be expected among those with whom dwells the tyrant love, and governing all in the soul. Necessarily so, said he. Will there not then, each day and night, blossom forth numerous fierce desires, eagerly in want of many things? Many indeed. And if they get any supplies [of their wishes,] these are soon spent? Of course. And after this there are borrowings and forfeitures of property?[244] Of course. And when everything fails them, must it not follow, that while the numerous and powerful desires nestled in the mind, will on the one hand raise a clamour, the men, on the other hand, who are driven and goaded by the rest of the passions, but especially by love itself, which commands all the others as its life-guards, will rage with phrensy, and seek after people’s property, to see if they can plunder it either by fraud or violence? Quite so, said he. Of necessity, then, they must either plunder from all quarters, or else be hampered with great pain and anguish. Necessarily so. And as in such a man his new pleasures are greater than those he had before, and depreciate the value of the others, will he not similarly deem it right for himself, however young, to have more than his father and mother, and to take away from them, when he has spent his own portion, applying to his own use what belongs to his parents? Of course he will, replied he. And if they will not give it up to him, will he not at first try to pilfer or defraud his parents? By all means. And should he be unable to do this, he will next use rapine and violence? I think so, replied he. But supposing, my fine fellow, that the old man and woman fall out and fight, will he not be very cautious and wary of doing what is tyrannical? I, for my part, said he, am not quite sure about the safety of such a person’s parents. But by Zeus, Adimantus, think you, that for the sake of a newly beloved and unnecessary mistress, such a person would abandon his long loved and closely connected mother; or for the sake of a youth newly loved and with whom he has no ties, give up to stripes his withered but time-honoured father, and the most ancient of all his friends, suffering them to be the slaves of these others, by bringing them into the same house? Yes, by Zeus, I do, said he. It seems indeed, said I, a vastly blessed thing to be the father of a tyrannical son! Not at all so, said he. But what, when the father and mother’s riches are beginning to fail such an one, and when the great swarm of pleasures has been already collected within him, will he not be the first to scale the wall of some house, or strip some one of his coat late at night, and after that rifle some temple?—And in all these acts, as respects the opinions which he formerly held from boyhood, and which guided his decisions concerning good and evil, the passions, that are newly loosed from slavery and placed as the body-guards of Love, will prevail therewith;—and these indeed had only just been loosed from their dreamy sleep, when he was himself still under the law and governed by his father, as under a democracy:—yet afterwards, when tyrannized over by love, such as he rarely was when in his dreams, he will ever be when awake, nor will he abstain from slaughter, however horrid, or food, or any deed whatever:—but that tyrant love within him, living without restraint of law or government, as if it were sole monarch, will lead on the man it possesses, as it would a state, to every act of madness, whereby he can support himself and the mob of passions about him, which partly entering from without, through evil company, and partly through the manners of the man and his associates, have been unchained and set at liberty: now is not this the life of such an one? It is this truly, said he. And if, said I, there be, only a few such in the state, and the rest of the people are sober, they go out and serve as guards to other tyrants, or assist them for hire in case of war: but remain at home during peace and quiet, giving rise in the state to a great many minor evils. What mean you? Such as these: they steal, break open houses, cut purses, strip people of their clothes, rifle temples, make people slaves, and, where they can speak, sometimes turn false informers, give false testimony, and take bribes.[245] These then you call minor mischiefs, said he,—if there be but a few such persons. What is small, said I, is small in comparison to the great; and all these things with regard to the tyrant, when compared with the wickedness and misery of the state, do not, as the saying is, come near the mark; for when the state has many such, and others for their companions, and when they perceive their own number, then these are the persons who, led by the people’s folly, elevate to the tyranny the man among them who has within his soul most of the tyrant, and in the greatest strength. Probably so, indeed, said he; for he will be most suited for a tyrant. Of course, if they voluntarily submit to him:—but if the state will not allow him to use the violence towards them, with which he formerly treated his father and mother, so he will now again, if he can, chastise his country by bringing in his youthful associates, and enslaving under them, as the Cretans say, his once dear mother-land and father-land:—and this will of course be the issue of such a man’s desire. Entirely so, said he. Do not these then behave thus in private life, said I;—even before becoming rulers; first with the company they keep, either associating with their own flatterers and those who are ready to supply their every want; or if they ask one for anything, falling down as suppliants, and deigning to assume the disguise of friends; but after they have gained their own purposes, acting as foes? Quite so. Throughout life then they live as real friends to no one whatever, but always either as masters or slaves to another;—because for liberty and true friendship the tyrant’s nature has no relish whatever. Quite so. May we not rightly call these men faithless? Of course. And as unjust, moreover, as they possibly can be, if indeed we, in what we said before were rightly agreed as to the nature of justice? Aye, we were quite right, said he. Let us then give a summary account, said I, of this worst man of ours; he is the same kind of person, awake perhaps, whom we just described as asleep. Entirely so. And does not that man become such, who with a tyrannical nature holds the sovereign sway, and the longer he lives in tyrant-life become so more and more? Necessarily so, replied Glaucon, taking up the discourse.

-----

Footnote 244:

Gr. δανεισμοὶ καὶ τῆς οὐσίας παραιρέσεις, lit. _the borrowing of money
on usury, and the seizure of property for non-payment_.

Footnote 245:

These grave crimes are almost similarly enumerated in the Gorgias, p.
508 e, and also by Xenophon, Mem. i. ch. 2, s. 62.

-----

CHAP. IV.—And will not the man, said I, who appears the most wicked, appear likewise the most wretched; and will not he who holds the tyranny longest and exercises it most, be really such in the greatest measure and for the longest time?—but many as are men, so many are their minds. Of necessity, said he, these things must be so. And would not the tyrant man, said I, as closely resemble a state under tyranny, as the democratic man resembles the state under democracy, and so likewise as respects the others? Of course. As state then is to state with regard to virtue and happiness, so surely will man be to man likewise? Of course. What then is the state governed by a tyrant as compared with one under a kingly government,—such as we first described? The exact contrary, said he; for the one is best, and the other the worst. I will not ask, said I, which you mean, for that is plain; but do you judge is it thus or otherwise, that you judge of their happiness and misery?—and let us not be struck with admiration when considering the tyrant himself, or the few about him; but let us, as we ought, enter into the whole state, and declare our opinion, after going through and viewing every part. You propose what is right, said he:—and it is clear to all that no state is more wretched than one under tyranny, and none more happy than that under regal power. Well then, said I, in proposing these same things with respect to individual men, should I rightly propose, if I accounted that man a suitable judge of them, who can by intellectual power penetrate into and inspect a man’s disposition, and is not, as a child looking at exteriors, astounded by the pomp, which tyrants exhibit to those without, but has the power of looking properly through him? If then I thought that we should all listen to the man, who from having dwelt with him in the same house, and been joined in his family transactions, is able to judge how he behaves to each of his domestics, [in which most especially a man appears stripped of his actor’s finery,] and so also in public dangers; and if when he has observed all this, I were to bid him declare how the tyrant stands, as regards happiness and misery, in comparison with others.[246] You would be quite right in proposing this, observed he. Are you willing then, said I, that we should set up to be of the number of those who are able to judge, and who have already fallen in with such characters, so that we may have some one to answer our questions? By all means.

-----

Footnote 246:

Euripides, Jon. v. 621-4, has a similar sentiment beautifully
expressed:—

τυραννίδος δὲ τῆς μάτην αἰνουμένης
τὸ μὲν πρόσωπον ἡδὺ τἀν δόμοισι δὲ
λυπηρά· τίς γὰρ μακάριος τίς εὐτυχής,
ὅστις δεδοικὼς καὶ περιβλέπων βίαν
αἰῶνα τείνει;

-----

CHAP. V.—Come then, said I, thus consider it:—call to mind the mutual resemblance of the state and individual man; and thus, considering each by turns, describe to us the passions of each. What passions? said he. To begin first, said I, with the state;—do you call the one under tyranny, free or enslaved? Enslaved, said he, in the greatest degree possible. And moreover, you see in it some who are masters and freemen? I see some indeed, said he, but exceedingly few:—but the greatest and best part therein generally is shamefully and wretchedly enslaved. If then, said I, the individual man resembles the state, will he not necessarily be placed under like circumstances, and his soul be filled with slavery and illiberality, and those parts of it too be enslaved which were the most noble, and that small part of it too assume the mastery, which is the most wicked and insane of all? Quite so, said he. What then,—will you say, that such a soul is slavish or free? Slavish perhaps, I say. But is not the state that is slavish, and governed by tyranny, least of all able to do what it likes? Aye,—quite so. And speaking of a soul generally, will it not, when governed by tyranny, least of all do what it likes,—but being constantly hurried by some stinging passion, be full of tumult and inconstancy? Of course it must be so. But will the state governed by tyranny be necessarily rich or poor? Poor. And must a soul under a tyranny then be ever penurious and insatiable? Just so, said he. But what,—must not such a state and such an individual be necessarily full of fear? It must be so. As for lamentations, and groans, and weepings, and torments, think you that you would find more in any other kind of state? By no means. And in a man, think you that such things exist in any one to a greater extent than in this tyrannical one who is maddened by his desires and lusts? How can they? said he. It is with reference, I suppose, then to all these, and other such like things, that you have deemed this the most wretched of all states? Was I not right then in doing so? said he. Certainly, said I. But what say you again as respects the tyrannical man, with regard to these same things? That he is by far, said he, the most wretched of all in the world. This, replied I, you are not quite correct in saying. How? said he. He is not as yet, methinks, said I, as unhappy as he can be. But who is so? The following person probably you will deem even yet more miserable than the other. Which? That man, said I, who being naturally tyrannical, remains not in private life, but is unfortunate enough to be induced by his destiny to become a tyrant. From what has been formerly observed, said he, I presume that what you say is true. Yes, said I;—but we ought not merely to conjecture about matters so important as these, but to sift them to the bottom, in the way we are now about to do;[247] for most momentous is the inquiry about a good life and a bad one. Quite right, said he. Consider, then, whether there be anything in what I say; for, in considering this question, it is my opinion that we ought to perceive it from what follows. From what? From every individual private man, among such as are rich, and possess many slaves; for these have at least this resemblance to tyrants, that they rule over many,—the difference being in the multitude of the latter. Aye,—there is some difference. Are you sure then that these live securely, without dread of their domestics? Aye.—for what should they fear? Nothing, said I; but do you understand the reason? Yes;—because the whole state assists each particular individual. You say right, replied I:—but what,—if one of the gods were to take a man who had fifty slaves or upwards out of the state,—both himself, his wife, and children,—and set them down in a desert with the rest of his property, and his domestics, where no freemen would be likely to lend him aid,—what kind of fear, think you, he would entertain about himself, his children, and his wife, of being destroyed by the domestics? The greatest possible, methinks, replied he. Would he not be obliged to flatter some of his very slaves and make them many promises, and set them at liberty without need, and so appear to be himself the flatterer of servants? He must of course be compelled to do so, said he, or else be destroyed. But what, said I;—if the god were to place round him many other neighbours who could not endure for any one to pretend to lord it over another,—and, wherever they find such an one, punished him with extreme rigour? Methinks, he would be still more distressed, said he, when thus beset by a whole host of foes. And is not the tyrant bound in such a prison-house, if he be of such disposition as we have described,—full of many and all kinds of aversions and desires; and whilst he is most eager in his soul, he alone of all in the state is not allowed to go abroad, or to see what others love to see, but huddles himself at home, and lives mostly as a woman, envying the other citizens, whenever they travel abroad, and see what is good? Wholly so, of course, replied he.

-----

Footnote 247:

Gr. οὐκ οἴεσθαι χρὴ τὰ τοιαῦτα, ἀλλ’ εὖ μάλα τῷ τοιούτῳ λόγῳ σκοπεῖν;

-----

CHAP. VI.—Well, then, through such evils as these, does not the man reap still more, who, being ill-governed within himself, [a person whom you just now deemed to be the most of all wretched,] remains not in private station, but through some fortune or other is obliged to act the tyrant, and, though unable to control himself, attempts to govern others, as if with a body diseased, and unable to support itself, one were compelled to live not in a state of privacy, but in wrestling and fighting against other bodies? What you say, Socrates, replied he, is altogether most probable and true. Is not this condition, then, dear Glaucon, said I, altogether wretched; and does not the tyrant live more wretchedly even than the man that you conceive to live the most wretchedly of all? Quite so, replied he. True is it, then, though one may fancy otherwise, that the really tyrannical man is really a slave to the greatest flatteries and slaveries, and a flatterer of the most abandoned men; and without ever in the smallest degree satisfying his desires, he is of all men most in want of most things, and poor indeed, if one could but look into his whole soul, and full of fear throughout life, filled with terrors and griefs,—if, indeed, he resembles the constitution of the state he rules:—and he does resemble it; does he not? Extremely, said he.

And in addition to this, shall we not ascribe also to the tyrant-man what we formerly mentioned that he must necessarily be, and by governing become increasingly, envious, faithless, unjust, unfriendly, impious,—the entertainer and encourager of all vice; and from all these causes be specially happy himself, and render all about him happy likewise? No one of understanding will, said he, contradict you. Come, then, said I, as a judge who is examining the whole case; so tell me,—who, in your opinion, is first in happiness, and who second, and the rest in order, five in all; namely, the regal, the timocratic, the oligarchal, the democratic, and the tyrannic. Easy, indeed, is this decision, said he:—for as they came before us, I have judged of them as public actors, by their virtue and vice,—happiness and its contrary. Shall we then hire ourselves a herald? said I; or shall I myself declare, that the son of Ariston has judged the best and justest man to be the happiest, [and that this is the man who is fittest to be as king, and as king too over himself;] and that the worst and the most unjust is the most wretched; and that he is the most tyrannical, who in the greatest degree tyrannizes over himself and the state? So let it be pronounced by you, said he. Must I, then, state in addition, said I, whether they be unknown to be such or not, to all men, and the gods too? Pray do so, said he.

CHAP. VII.—Well then, said I;—-this would seem to be one of our proofs; and this, if you please, must be the second. Which is this? Since the soul, said I, of every individual is divided into three parts, just as we divided our state, it will, in my opinion, admit of a second illustration. What is that? It is this:—of the parts of the soul there appear to me to be three pleasures, one peculiar to each, with desires and governments in like manner. How say you? replied he. One part we say, by which a man learns, another by which he is roused to spirit; but as for the third, it is so multiform, that we cannot express it by any one word peculiar to itself, but have named it from the greatest and most impetuous part thereof; calling it the desiderative, from the impetuosity of the desires for eating and drinking, and sexual pleasures, and such-like enjoyments, and calling it money-loving also, as it is through wealth most especially that such desires are accomplished. And we said rightly, replied he. Well, then, if we are to call it the pleasure and delight in gain, shall we not do best to reduce it under one head in our discourse, so that we may have something quite clear to ourselves, when we are speaking of this part of the soul? And in calling it money-loving, and profit-loving, shall we not be giving it its proper term? Yes, I think so, said he. But what; do not we say, that the spirited principle ought to be wholly impelled to superiority, victory, and applause? Especially so. If, then, we term it the contentious and ambitious, shall we not accurately express it? Most accurately. But [as regards that part of the soul] by which we gain knowledge, it is clear to every one, that it is wholly intent on always knowing the truth, wherever it may be; and as to wealth and glory, least of all does it care for these. Just so. By terming it, then, the love of learning, and philosophy, we shall be defining it correctly? Of course. And in these people’s souls, said I, one governs in some, and the other in others, as it happens? Just so, said he. This was why we said then, that of men also there were three original species; the philosophic, the ambitious, and the avaricious? Surely so. And likewise three species of pleasures,—corresponding to each of the others? Yes, certainly. You know, then, said I, that if you were to ask these three men, by turns, which of these lives is the pleasantest, each would most commend his own; and the money-maker would say, that, compared with the pleasures of acquiring wealth, those arising from honour, or learning, are of no value, unless they bring in money? True, said he. And what says the ambitious man? said I: does not he deem the pleasure arising from money-making a sort of burden;—and again, that which arises from learning, unless it bring him honour, mere smoke and trifling? So it is, said he. And as for the philosopher, said I, we may suppose that he deems all other pleasures in comparison with that of knowing the nature of truth as a mere nothing, and that, while constantly employed in learning something of this kind, he is not far off from pleasure,—and calls them really necessary, because he wanted none else, except when compelled by necessity.[248] This, said he, you should well know.

-----

Footnote 248:

The real _spiritual_ nature of this truth is beautifully expressed in
the Phædo, p. 67 a:—καὶ ἐν ᾧ ἂν ζῶμεν, οὕτως—ἐγγυτάτω ἐσόμεθα τοῦ
εἰδέναι, ἐὰν ὅτι μάλιστα μηδὲν ὁμιλῶμεν τῷ σώματι μηδὲ κοινωνῶμεν, ὅτι
μὴ πᾶσα ἀνάγκη, μηδὲ ἀναπιμπλώμεθα τῆς τούτου φύσεως, ἀλλὰ καθαρεύωμεν
ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ, ἕως ἂν ὁ Θεὸς αὐτὸς ἀπολύσῃ ἡμᾶς.

-----

CHAP. VIII.—When these several lives then, said I, and the pleasures peculiar to each, are at variance with each other, not with reference to a mode of life, worthier or more base, worse or better,—but merely with reference to living more pleasantly or painfully;—how can we know which of the two speaks most in accordance with truth? I am not, said he, quite able to tell. But consider it thus:—by what criterion ought we to judge about matters rightly presented for our judgment;—is it not by experience, prudence, and reason,—or can we find any better criterion than these? How can we? said he. Consider now;—of the three men, who is the most experienced in all the pleasures?—Think you that the money-loving man, by learning the real nature of truth, gains more experience in the pleasure arising from knowledge, than the philosopher has in that resulting from the acquisition of wealth? There is a great difference, said he: for the philosopher must necessarily from early childhood taste the other pleasures; but what it is to know real beings, and how sweet is its pleasure, the money-getting man need not taste, or become experienced therein;—nay, indeed, it is no easy matter, even should he earnestly try to accomplish it. The philosopher then, said I, far surpasses the money-getting man, at least in experience of both the pleasures. Far indeed. But what as regards the ambitious man—has he any more experience in the pleasure arising from honour, than the philosopher in that which arises from the exercise of intellect? Honour, indeed, said he, attends them all, if each obtains his object: for the rich man is honoured by many, and so is the brave, and the wise; so all of them have experience, as to the kind of pleasure attending honour, but in the contemplation of being itself, as to the pleasure which it gives, it is impossible for any other than the philosopher to have tasted it. On the ground of experience then, said I, he of all men is the best judge. By far. And surely, including prudence also, he alone has experience. Of course. But the organ, by which these pleasures must be judged, is not the organ of the money-getter, nor of the ambitious man, but of the philosopher. Which is that? We said somewhere, that they must be judged of by reason,—did we not? Yes. But reasoning is chiefly the organ of the philosopher? Of course it is. If then the things to be determined could be best determined by riches and gain, what the money-getting man commended, or despised, would necessarily be most agreeable to truth? Quite so. And if by honour, victory, and courage,—must it not be as the ambitious and contentious man determined? It is evident. But since it is by experience, prudence, and reason, it follows of course, said he, that what is praised by the philosopher and the lover of reason must be the most true.—Of the three pleasures, then, that which belongs to that part of the soul by which we learn most is the most pleasant, and that man in whom this part of us holds the chief sway lives the pleasantest life. How can it be doubted? said he:—for the wise man, who has the supreme right to commend, commends his own life. But which life, said I, does our judge pronounce the second, and which the second pleasure? Plainly, that of the warlike and ambitious man; for this is nearer to his own than that of the money-getter. And that of the covetous, as it appears, is last of all? Of course, said he.

CHAP. IX.—These things then will succeed one another in order; and the just man will twice prevail over the unjust:—the third victory now, as at the Olympic games, is sacred to Olympian Zeus, the Saviour; for you must consider, that, with the exception of that of the wise man, the pleasure of the others is by no means genuine nor pure, but somehow shadowed over, as I think I have myself heard from one of the wise men:—and this truly would be the greatest and most complete downfal. Extremely so;—but how mean you? I will thus trace it out, said I, whilst in searching you answer my questions. Ask then, said he. Tell me then, said I, do we not say that pain is contrary to pleasure? Quite so. And do we not say likewise, that to feel neither pleasure nor pain is something? We say it is. And that the state between both of these is a certain tranquillity of the soul with reference to them;—do you not so understand it? Just so, he replied. Do you not remember, said I, the speeches of the diseased, which they utter when they are sick? What are they? That nothing is sweeter than health, but that it escaped their notice before they became sick, that it was the sweetest. I remember it, said he. And are you not wont to hear those who are under acute pain say, that there is nothing sweeter than a cessation from pain? I do hear them. And you may perceive the same thing in men, I think, when they are in other but similar circumstances, where, if in pain, they extol a freedom from pain and the tranquillity of such a state, as being most sweet, though they do not extol that of feeling joy. Because perhaps the latter, said he, becomes at that time sweet and desirable,—namely, tranquillity. And when any one ceases, said I, from feeling joy, the tranquillity of pleasure will be painful. Perhaps so, said he. This tranquillity, then, which we just now said was between the two, will at times become both pain and pleasure. It seems so. What,—is it possible, that what is neither of the two should become both? I do not think so. And moreover, when what is pleasant or painful is in the soul, both sensations are a certain excitement; are they not? Yes. But did not that which is neither painful nor pleasant appear just now to be tranquillity, and between these two? It did appear so. How is it right, then, to deem it sweet not to be in pain, or painful not to enjoy pleasure? It is by no means right. In these cases, then, tranquillity is not really so, said I; but it appears pleasant by comparison with the painful, and painful compared with the pleasant; and there is nothing genuine in these appearances as regards the truth of pleasure, but a certain magical delusion. Aye,—just as our argument proves, he replied. Consider the pleasures then, said I, which do not arise from the cessation of pain, so as not frequently during our discussion to hold the frequent notion that these two naturally thus subsist; viz., that pleasure is the cessation of pain, and pain the cessation of pleasure. How, said he, and to what pleasures do you allude? There are many others, said I, particularly if you wish to consider the pleasures that arise from smell; for these, without any preceding pain, are on a sudden immensely great, and, when they cease, they leave no pain behind them. Most true, said he. Let us not then be persuaded that pure pleasure is the removal of pain, or pain the removal of pleasure. No, we will not. But yet, said I, those which extend through the body to the soul, and which are called pleasures, the greatest part of them almost, and the most considerable, are of this species,—certain cessations from pain? They are so. And are not the preconceptions of pleasure and pain, which arise in the mind from their expectation, of the same kind? Of the same.

CHAP. X.—Do you know then, said I, of what class they are, and what they chiefly resemble? What? said he. Do you conceive, said I, there is any such thing in nature as this, the above, the below, and the middle? I do. Do you think then that any one, when brought from the below to the middle, imagines anything else than that he is brought to the above; and when he stands in the middle, and looks down whence he was brought, will he imagine that he is anywhere else than above, whilst yet he has not seen the true above? By Zeus, said he, I do not think that such an one will imagine otherwise. But if he should again, said I, be carried to the below, he would conjecture he was carried to the below, and conjecture rightly? He would of course. Would he not be thus affected from his want of experience in what is really above, and in the middle, and below? Plainly so. Would you wonder then, that while men are inexperienced in the truth, they have unsound opinions about many other things,—and that as to pleasure and pain, and what is between these, they are likewise affected in the same manner; so that, even when they are brought to what is painful, they conceive truly, and are really pained; but when from pain they are brought to the middle, they strongly imagine that they have arrived at the highest pitch of pleasure, in the same manner as those, who along with the black colour look at the gray, through inexperience of the white, and so are deceived? and just so those who consider pain along with the freedom from pain, are deceived through inexperience of pleasure. By Zeus, said he, I should not wonder, but much rather if it were not so. Consider the matter thus, said I; are not hunger and thirst, and such-like things, certain emptinesses in the bodily habit? Of course. And are not ignorance and folly an emptiness in the habit of the soul? Quite so. And is not the one filled when it receives food, and the other when it acquires intelligence? Surely. But which is the more real repletion, that of the less, or the more truly real being? It is plain, that of the more real. Which species, then, do you think, participate most of a purer essence; those which partake of bread and drink, and meat, and all such sort of nourishment; or that species which partakes of true opinion and science, and intelligence, and, in short, of all virtue?—And judge of it thus:—That which is connected with what is always similar, and immortal, and true, and is so of itself, and arises in what is of the same character, think you that it has more of the reality of being, than what is connected to what is never similar and mortal, and is such itself, and is generated in a thing of the same character? Aye, said he, this differs greatly from that which is always similar. Does then the essence of that which is always similar participate more of essence than of science? By no means. But what as regards truth? Nor of this neither. If it participate less of truth, does it not likewise do so of essence? Of necessity. In short, then, do not those species which relate to the care of the body partake less of truth and essence, than those relating to the care of the soul? By far. And the body likewise less than the soul; do you not think so? I do. Is not that which is filled with more real beings, and is itself a more real being, in reality more truly filled than that which is filled with less real beings, and is itself a less real being? Of course it is. If then it be pleasant to be filled with what is suitable to nature, that which is in reality filled, and with more real being, must be made both more really and more truly to enjoy true pleasure; but that which participates of less real being, must be less truly and solidly filled, and participates of a more uncertain and less genuine pleasure. Most necessarily, said he. Such then as are unacquainted with wisdom and virtue, and are always conversant in feastings and things of that kind, are carried, as it appears, to the below, and back again to the middle;—and there they wander during life:—but as they never pass beyond this, they do not look towards the true above, and are not carried to it; nor are they ever really filled with real being; nor have they ever tasted solid and pure pleasure; but, after the manner of brutes looking always downwards, bowed towards earth and their tables, they live feeding and coupling; and from a lust for such things, they kick and push at one another as with iron horns and hoofs, and perish through their own insatiety, just like those who are filling with unreal being that which is no real being, nor friendly to themselves. You are describing, Socrates, with quite oracular perfection, rejoined Glaucon, what is the life of the multitude. Must they not then, of necessity be conversant with pleasures mixed with pains, images of the true pleasure, shadowed in outline, and coloured by their position beside each other; so that both their pleasures and pains will appear vehement, and engender their mad passions in the foolish? Hence also they must fight about these things, as Stesichorus says those at Troy fought about the image of Helen, through ignorance of the true one. Of necessity, said he, something of this kind must take place.

CHAP. XI.—But what? must not the same things necessarily happen to the irascible part of the soul, whenever any one gratifies it, either through envy from ambition, or violence from contentiousness, or anger from moroseness, pursuing a glut of honour, of conquest, and of anger, both without reason, and without intelligence? Such things as these, said he, must necessarily happen with relation to this part of the soul. What then, said I;—can we confidently say concerning all the pleasures, both as respects the avaricious and the ambitious part, that such of them as obey science and reason, and, in conjunction therewith, pursue and obtain the pleasures of which the prudent part of the soul is the leader, that these will obtain the truest pleasures, as far as it is possible for them to attain true pleasure, and in as much as they follow truth, pleasures properly their own; if indeed what is best for each be most properly his own? Aye, it surely is most properly his own, said he. When then the whole soul is obedient to the philosophic part, and there is no sedition in it, then every part in other respects performs its proper business, and is just, and also reaps its own pleasures, and such as are the best, and as far as is possible the most genuine. Certainly, indeed. But when any of the others governs, it happens that it neither attains its own pleasures, and it compels the other parts to pursue a pleasure foreign to them, and not at all genuine. It does so, said he. Will not then those parts, which are most remote from philosophy and reason most especially effect such things? Very much so. And is not that which is most remote from law and order, most remote likewise from reason? It plainly is. And have not the amorous and the tyrannical desires appeared to be most remote from law and order? Extremely so. And the royal and the moderate ones, the least remote? Yes. The tyrant then, I think, will be the most remote from true pleasure, and such as is most properly his own, and the other will be the least. Of necessity. And the tyrant, said I, will lead a life the most unpleasant, and the king the most pleasant. Of great necessity. Do you know then, said I, how much more unpleasant a life the tyrant leads than the king? If you tell me, said he. As there are three pleasures, as it seems, one legitimate, and two illegitimate; the tyrant in carrying the legitimate to extremity, and flying from law and reason, dwells with slavish pleasures as his life-guardians, and how far he is inferior cannot easily be told, unless it be done in this manner. How? said he. The tyrant is somehow in the third degree remote from the oligarchic character; for the democratic was halfway between them. Yes. Will he not then dwell in the third picture of pleasure, distant from him as regards truth, if our former reasonings be true? Just so. But the oligarchic is the third again from the royal, if we suppose the aristocratic and the royal the same? He is the third. The tyrant then, said I, is remote from true pleasure, the third from the third? So it seems. A plain surface then, said I, may be the image of tyrannical pleasure, as to the computation of length. Certainly. But as to power, and the third augment, it is manifest by how great a distance it is remote. It is manifest, said he, to the computer at least. If now, conversely, any one shall say the king is distant from the tyrant as to truth of pleasure, as much as is the distance 9, and 20, and 700, shall he not, on completing the multiplication, find him leading the more pleasant life, and the tyrant the more wretched one, by this same distance?[249] You have heaped up, said he, a prodigious account of the difference between these two men, the just and the unjust, with reference to pleasure and pain. Yet the numbers are true, said I, and corresponding to their lives, if indeed days, and nights, and months, and years, correspond to them. But they do correspond, said he. If then the good and just man surpasses so far the evil and unjust man in pleasure, in what a prodigious degree further shall he surpass him in decorum of life, in beauty, and in virtue! Prodigious, indeed, by Zeus, he replied.

-----

Footnote 249:

The following numbers are employed by Plato in this place. He
considers the _Royal_ character as analogous to unity, the Oligarchic
to the number 3, and the Tyrannic to the number 9. As 3 therefore is
triple of unity, the Oligarchic is the third from the Royal character;
and in a similar manner the Tyrant is distant from the Oligarchist by
the triple in number; for 9 is the triple of 3, just as 3 is the
triple of 1. But 9 is a plane number, the length of which is 3, and
also its breadth. And a tyrannic, says Plato, is the last image of a
royal life. He also calls 3 a _power_, because unity being multiplied
by it, and itself by itself, and 9 by it, there will be produced 3, 9,
27. But he calls the third augment 27, arising from the multiplication
of the power 3, and producing depth or a solid number. Lastly, 27
multiplied into itself produces 729, which may be considered as a
perfect multiplication, this number being the 6th power of 3; and 6 as
is well known is a perfect number. Hence, as the King is analogous to
1, he is said, by Plato, to be 729 times distant from the Tyrant.

-----

CHAP. XII.—Well then, said I, since we have reached this part of our argument, let us recapitulate what we first said, on account of which we came hither: now it was said, if I mistake not, that it is advantageous to one who is thoroughly unjust, but who has the character of being just, to commit injustice. Was it not so said? It was indeed. Now then, said I, let us settle this point, since we have now settled the other, with reference to acting justly and unjustly, what power each of these possesses in itself. How? said he. Let us ideally fashion an image of the soul, that the man who said those things may know what he said. What kind of image? said he. One of those creatures, said I, which are fabled to have been of old, as that of Chimæra, of Scylla, of Cerberus; and many others are spoken of, where many particular natures existed together in one. They are spoken of indeed, said he. Let us form now the figure of a creature, various, and many-headed,[250] having all around heads of tame creatures, and of wild, and having power in itself of changing all these heads, and of breeding them out of itself. This is the work, said he, of a skilful modeller: however, as the formation is easier in reasoning, than in wax and such-like, let it be formed. Let there be now one other figure of a lion[251] and one of a man; but let the first be by far the greatest, and the second be the second in bulk. These are easy, said he, and they are formed. Unite now these three in one, so that they may somehow coexist. They are united, said he. Form now around them the external appearance of one of them, that of the man; so that to one who is not able to see what is within, but who perceives only the external covering, the man may appear one creature. It is formed all round, said he. Let us now tell him who asserts that it is profitable to this man to do injustice, but to do justice unprofitable, that he asserts nothing else, than that it is profitable for him to feast the multiform creature, and to make it strong; and likewise the lion, and what respects the lion, whilst the man he kills with famine, and renders weak, so as to be dragged whichever way either of those drag him; and that he will also find it advantageous never to accustom the one to live in harmony with the other, nor to make them friends, but suffer them to bite one another, and to fight and devour each other. He, said he, who commends the doing injustice, undoubtedly asserts these things. And does not he again, who says it is advantageous to act justly, say that he ought to do and to say such things by which the inner man shall come to have the most entire command of the man, and, as a tiller of the ground, shall take care of the many-headed creature, cherishing the mild ones, and nourishing them, and hindering the wild ones from growing up, taking the nature of the lion as his ally, and, having a common care for all, make them friendly to one another, and to himself, and so nourish them? He who commends justice undoubtedly says such things as these. In all respects, then, he who commends justice would seem to speak the truth, but he who commends injustice, to speak what is false; for, as respects pleasure, applause, and profit, he who commends justice speaks the truth, and he who discommends it speaks nothing genuine; nor does he discommend with understanding what he discommends. Not at all, said he, as appears to me at least. Let us then in a mild manner persuade him (for it is not willingly he errs), asking him, O blessed man! do not we say that the maxims of things beautiful and base become so upon such accounts as these? Those are good which make the brutal part of our nature most subject to the man, or rather perhaps to that which is divine; while those are evil which enslave the mild part of our nature to the brutal:—will he agree with us,—or how? He will, if he be advised by me, said he. Is there then any one, said I, whom it avails, from this reasoning, to take gold unjustly, supposing something of this kind to happen, if, while taking the money, he at the same time subjects the best part of himself to the worst? Or, if, taking gold, he should enslave a son or daughter, and that even to savage and wicked men, shall we not say this would not avail him, not though he should receive for it a prodigious sum? But if he enslaves the most divine part of himself to the most impious and most polluted part, without any pity, is he not wretched? and does he not take a gift of gold to his far more dreadful ruin, than Eriphyle did when she received the necklace for her husband’s life? By far, said Glaucon; for I will answer you for him.

-----

Footnote 250:

By this many-headed beast, _desire_ is signified.

Footnote 251:

The lion signifies _anger_, and the figure of a man _reason_; for the
whole soul is divided into reason, anger, and desire.

-----

CHAP. XIII.—Do you not, then, think that intemperance has of old been blamed on these accounts, because in such persons that terrible, great, and multiform beast was indulged more than was decent? Plainly so, said he. And are not arrogance and moroseness blamed, when the lion-like and serpentine disposition increases and stretches beyond measure? Certainly. And are not luxury and effeminacy blamed because of the remissness and looseness of this disposition, when it engenders cowardice in the man? What else? Are not flattery and illiberality blamed, when any one makes this irascible part itself subject to the brutal crew, and, for the sake of wealth and its insatiable lust, accustoms the irascible to be affronted from its youth, and instead of a lion to become an ape? Entirely so, said he. But why is it, do you think, that mechanical arts and handicrafts bring disgrace? Shall we say it is on any other account than this, that when a man has the form of that which is best in his soul naturally weak, so as not to be able to govern the creatures within himself, but ministers to them, he is able only to learn what flatters them? It is likely, said he. In order then that such an one may be governed in the same manner as the best man is, do we not say that he must be the servant of one who is the best, and who has within him the divine governing principle? not at all conceiving that he should be governed to the hurt of the subject (as Thrasymachus imagined), but, as it is best for every one to be governed, by one divine and wise, most especially possessing it as his own within him, if not subjecting himself to it externally; that as far as possible we may all resemble one another and be friends, governed by one and the same? Rightly, indeed, said he. And law at least, said I, plainly shows it intends such a thing, being an ally to all in the city; as does likewise the government of children, in not allowing them to be free till we establish in them a proper government, as in a city; and having cultivated that in them which is best, by that which is best in ourselves, we establish a similar guardian and governor for youth, and then at length we set it free. It shows it indeed, said he. In what way then shall we say, Glaucon, and according to what reasoning, that it is profitable to do injustice, to be intemperate, or to do anything base, by which a man shall indeed become more wicked, but yet shall acquire more wealth, or any kind of power? In no way, said he. But how shall we say it is profitable for the unjust to be concealed, and not to suffer punishment? or does he not indeed, who is concealed, still become more wicked? but he who is not concealed, and is punished, has the brutal part quieted, and made mild, and the mild part set at liberty. And the whole soul being settled in the best temper, in possessing temperance and justice, with wisdom, acquires a more valuable habit than the body does, in acquiring vigour and beauty, with a sound constitution; in as far as the soul is more valuable than the body. Entirely so, said he. Will not everybody then, who possesses intellect, regulate his life, first by extending hither the whole of his powers, honouring those branches of science which will render his soul of this kind, and despising all other things? It is plain, said he. And next, said I, with regard to a good habit of body and its nourishment, he will spend his life in attention to these, not that he may indulge the brutal and irrational pleasure; nor yet with a view to health, nor principally with reference to becoming strong, healthy, and beautiful, unless by these means he is to become temperate likewise: but he always appears to adjust the harmony of the body for the sake of the symphony which is in the soul. By all means, said he, if indeed he is to be truly musical. Will he not then, in acquiring wealth, maintain accord and symphony? nor moved by the congratulations of the multitude will he increase the bulk of his treasures to an infinite amount, occasioning thereby infinite evils? I think not, said he. But looking, said I, to the government of it himself, and taking care that nothing there be moved out of its place, through the greatness or smallness of his property, thus governing as far as he is able, he will add to his property, and spend out of it. Entirely so, said he. He will regard honours, likewise, in the same manner; of some he will willingly take a share, and taste of those which he judges will render him a better man, but as for those which he thinks would dissolve that habit of soul which subsists within him, he will fly from both those privately and in public. He will not be willing, then, said he, to act the politician, if he takes care of this. Yes, truly, said I, in his own state, and greatly too; but not probably in his country, unless some divine fortune befal him. I understand, said he. You mean in the state we have now established, which exists only in our reasoning, but I think has no existence on earth. But in heaven, probably,—said I, there is a model of it, for any one who inclines to contemplate it, and on contemplating to regulate himself accordingly; and to him it matters not whether it does exist anywhere, or will ever exist here:—for he would perform the duties of this city alone, and of no other. It is reasonable, said he.

THE END OF THE NINTH BOOK.