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republic.txt
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BOOK I.
I went down yesterday to the Piraeus with Glaucon the son of Ariston,
that I might offer up my prayers to the goddess (Bendis, the Thracian
Artemis.); and also because I wanted to see in what manner they would
celebrate the festival, which was a new thing. I was delighted with the
procession of the inhabitants; but that of the Thracians was equally,
if not more, beautiful. When we had finished our prayers and viewed the
spectacle, we turned in the direction of the city; and at that instant
Polemarchus the son of Cephalus chanced to catch sight of us from a
distance as we were starting on our way home, and told his servant to
run and bid us wait for him. The servant took hold of me by the cloak
behind, and said: Polemarchus desires you to wait.
I turned round, and asked him where his master was.
There he is, said the youth, coming after you, if you will only wait.
Certainly we will, said Glaucon; and in a few minutes Polemarchus
appeared, and with him Adeimantus, Glaucon's brother, Niceratus the son
of Nicias, and several others who had been at the procession.
Polemarchus said to me: I perceive, Socrates, that you and your
companion are already on your way to the city.
You are not far wrong, I said.
But do you see, he rejoined, how many we are?
Of course.
And are you stronger than all these? for if not, you will have to remain
where you are.
May there not be the alternative, I said, that we may persuade you to
let us go?
But can you persuade us, if we refuse to listen to you? he said.
Certainly not, replied Glaucon.
Then we are not going to listen; of that you may be assured.
Adeimantus added: Has no one told you of the torch-race on horseback in
honour of the goddess which will take place in the evening?
With horses! I replied: That is a novelty. Will horsemen carry torches
and pass them one to another during the race?
Yes, said Polemarchus, and not only so, but a festival will be
celebrated at night, which you certainly ought to see. Let us rise soon
after supper and see this festival; there will be a gathering of young
men, and we will have a good talk. Stay then, and do not be perverse.
Glaucon said: I suppose, since you insist, that we must.
Very good, I replied.
Accordingly we went with Polemarchus to his house; and there we found
his brothers Lysias and Euthydemus, and with them Thrasymachus the
Chalcedonian, Charmantides the Paeanian, and Cleitophon the son of
Aristonymus. There too was Cephalus the father of Polemarchus, whom I
had not seen for a long time, and I thought him very much aged. He was
seated on a cushioned chair, and had a garland on his head, for he had
been sacrificing in the court; and there were some other chairs in the
room arranged in a semicircle, upon which we sat down by him. He saluted
me eagerly, and then he said:--
You don't come to see me, Socrates, as often as you ought: If I were
still able to go and see you I would not ask you to come to me. But
at my age I can hardly get to the city, and therefore you should come
oftener to the Piraeus. For let me tell you, that the more the pleasures
of the body fade away, the greater to me is the pleasure and charm
of conversation. Do not then deny my request, but make our house your
resort and keep company with these young men; we are old friends, and
you will be quite at home with us.
I replied: There is nothing which for my part I like better, Cephalus,
than conversing with aged men; for I regard them as travellers who
have gone a journey which I too may have to go, and of whom I ought to
enquire, whether the way is smooth and easy, or rugged and difficult.
And this is a question which I should like to ask of you who have
arrived at that time which the poets call the 'threshold of old age'--Is
life harder towards the end, or what report do you give of it?
I will tell you, Socrates, he said, what my own feeling is. Men of my
age flock together; we are birds of a feather, as the old proverb says;
and at our meetings the tale of my acquaintance commonly is--I cannot
eat, I cannot drink; the pleasures of youth and love are fled away:
there was a good time once, but now that is gone, and life is no longer
life. Some complain of the slights which are put upon them by relations,
and they will tell you sadly of how many evils their old age is the
cause. But to me, Socrates, these complainers seem to blame that which
is not really in fault. For if old age were the cause, I too being old,
and every other old man, would have felt as they do. But this is not
my own experience, nor that of others whom I have known. How well I
remember the aged poet Sophocles, when in answer to the question, How
does love suit with age, Sophocles,--are you still the man you were?
Peace, he replied; most gladly have I escaped the thing of which you
speak; I feel as if I had escaped from a mad and furious master. His
words have often occurred to my mind since, and they seem as good to
me now as at the time when he uttered them. For certainly old age has
a great sense of calm and freedom; when the passions relax their hold,
then, as Sophocles says, we are freed from the grasp not of one mad
master only, but of many. The truth is, Socrates, that these regrets,
and also the complaints about relations, are to be attributed to the
same cause, which is not old age, but men's characters and tempers; for
he who is of a calm and happy nature will hardly feel the pressure of
age, but to him who is of an opposite disposition youth and age are
equally a burden.
I listened in admiration, and wanting to draw him out, that he might go
on--Yes, Cephalus, I said: but I rather suspect that people in general
are not convinced by you when you speak thus; they think that old
age sits lightly upon you, not because of your happy disposition, but
because you are rich, and wealth is well known to be a great comforter.
You are right, he replied; they are not convinced: and there is
something in what they say; not, however, so much as they imagine. I
might answer them as Themistocles answered the Seriphian who was abusing
him and saying that he was famous, not for his own merits but because he
was an Athenian: 'If you had been a native of my country or I of yours,
neither of us would have been famous.' And to those who are not rich and
are impatient of old age, the same reply may be made; for to the good
poor man old age cannot be a light burden, nor can a bad rich man ever
have peace with himself.
May I ask, Cephalus, whether your fortune was for the most part
inherited or acquired by you?
Acquired! Socrates; do you want to know how much I acquired? In the art
of making money I have been midway between my father and grandfather:
for my grandfather, whose name I bear, doubled and trebled the value of
his patrimony, that which he inherited being much what I possess now;
but my father Lysanias reduced the property below what it is at present:
and I shall be satisfied if I leave to these my sons not less but a
little more than I received.
That was why I asked you the question, I replied, because I see that you
are indifferent about money, which is a characteristic rather of those
who have inherited their fortunes than of those who have acquired them;
the makers of fortunes have a second love of money as a creation of
their own, resembling the affection of authors for their own poems, or
of parents for their children, besides that natural love of it for the
sake of use and profit which is common to them and all men. And hence
they are very bad company, for they can talk about nothing but the
praises of wealth.
That is true, he said.
Yes, that is very true, but may I ask another question?--What do you
consider to be the greatest blessing which you have reaped from your
wealth?
One, he said, of which I could not expect easily to convince others.
For let me tell you, Socrates, that when a man thinks himself to be near
death, fears and cares enter into his mind which he never had before;
the tales of a world below and the punishment which is exacted there
of deeds done here were once a laughing matter to him, but now he
is tormented with the thought that they may be true: either from the
weakness of age, or because he is now drawing nearer to that other
place, he has a clearer view of these things; suspicions and alarms
crowd thickly upon him, and he begins to reflect and consider what
wrongs he has done to others. And when he finds that the sum of his
transgressions is great he will many a time like a child start up in his
sleep for fear, and he is filled with dark forebodings. But to him who
is conscious of no sin, sweet hope, as Pindar charmingly says, is the
kind nurse of his age:
'Hope,' he says, 'cherishes the soul of him who lives in justice
and holiness, and is the nurse of his age and the companion of his
journey;--hope which is mightiest to sway the restless soul of man.'
How admirable are his words! And the great blessing of riches, I do not
say to every man, but to a good man, is, that he has had no occasion to
deceive or to defraud others, either intentionally or unintentionally;
and when he departs to the world below he is not in any apprehension
about offerings due to the gods or debts which he owes to men. Now to
this peace of mind the possession of wealth greatly contributes; and
therefore I say, that, setting one thing against another, of the many
advantages which wealth has to give, to a man of sense this is in my
opinion the greatest.
Well said, Cephalus, I replied; but as concerning justice, what is
it?--to speak the truth and to pay your debts--no more than this? And
even to this are there not exceptions? Suppose that a friend when in his
right mind has deposited arms with me and he asks for them when he is
not in his right mind, ought I to give them back to him? No one would
say that I ought or that I should be right in doing so, any more than
they would say that I ought always to speak the truth to one who is in
his condition.
You are quite right, he replied.
But then, I said, speaking the truth and paying your debts is not a
correct definition of justice.
Quite correct, Socrates, if Simonides is to be believed, said
Polemarchus interposing.
I fear, said Cephalus, that I must go now, for I have to look after the
sacrifices, and I hand over the argument to Polemarchus and the company.
Is not Polemarchus your heir? I said.
To be sure, he answered, and went away laughing to the sacrifices.
Tell me then, O thou heir of the argument, what did Simonides say, and
according to you truly say, about justice?
He said that the repayment of a debt is just, and in saying so he
appears to me to be right.
I should be sorry to doubt the word of such a wise and inspired man, but
his meaning, though probably clear to you, is the reverse of clear to
me. For he certainly does not mean, as we were just now saying, that I
ought to return a deposit of arms or of anything else to one who asks
for it when he is not in his right senses; and yet a deposit cannot be
denied to be a debt.
True.
Then when the person who asks me is not in his right mind I am by no
means to make the return?
Certainly not.
When Simonides said that the repayment of a debt was justice, he did not
mean to include that case?
Certainly not; for he thinks that a friend ought always to do good to a
friend and never evil.
You mean that the return of a deposit of gold which is to the injury of
the receiver, if the two parties are friends, is not the repayment of a
debt,--that is what you would imagine him to say?
Yes.
And are enemies also to receive what we owe to them?
To be sure, he said, they are to receive what we owe them, and an enemy,
as I take it, owes to an enemy that which is due or proper to him--that
is to say, evil.
Simonides, then, after the manner of poets, would seem to have spoken
darkly of the nature of justice; for he really meant to say that justice
is the giving to each man what is proper to him, and this he termed a
debt.
That must have been his meaning, he said.
By heaven! I replied; and if we asked him what due or proper thing is
given by medicine, and to whom, what answer do you think that he would
make to us?
He would surely reply that medicine gives drugs and meat and drink to
human bodies.
And what due or proper thing is given by cookery, and to what?
Seasoning to food.
And what is that which justice gives, and to whom?
If, Socrates, we are to be guided at all by the analogy of the preceding
instances, then justice is the art which gives good to friends and evil
to enemies.
That is his meaning then?
I think so.
And who is best able to do good to his friends and evil to his enemies
in time of sickness?
The physician.
Or when they are on a voyage, amid the perils of the sea?
The pilot.
And in what sort of actions or with a view to what result is the just
man most able to do harm to his enemy and good to his friend?
In going to war against the one and in making alliances with the other.
But when a man is well, my dear Polemarchus, there is no need of a
physician?
No.
And he who is not on a voyage has no need of a pilot?
No.
Then in time of peace justice will be of no use?
I am very far from thinking so.
You think that justice may be of use in peace as well as in war?
Yes.
Like husbandry for the acquisition of corn?
Yes.
Or like shoemaking for the acquisition of shoes,--that is what you mean?
Yes.
And what similar use or power of acquisition has justice in time of
peace?
In contracts, Socrates, justice is of use.
And by contracts you mean partnerships?
Exactly.
But is the just man or the skilful player a more useful and better
partner at a game of draughts?
The skilful player.
And in the laying of bricks and stones is the just man a more useful or
better partner than the builder?
Quite the reverse.
Then in what sort of partnership is the just man a better partner than
the harp-player, as in playing the harp the harp-player is certainly a
better partner than the just man?
In a money partnership.
Yes, Polemarchus, but surely not in the use of money; for you do not
want a just man to be your counsellor in the purchase or sale of a
horse; a man who is knowing about horses would be better for that, would
he not?
Certainly.
And when you want to buy a ship, the shipwright or the pilot would be
better?
True.
Then what is that joint use of silver or gold in which the just man is
to be preferred?
When you want a deposit to be kept safely.
You mean when money is not wanted, but allowed to lie?
Precisely.
That is to say, justice is useful when money is useless?
That is the inference.
And when you want to keep a pruning-hook safe, then justice is useful to
the individual and to the state; but when you want to use it, then the
art of the vine-dresser?
Clearly.
And when you want to keep a shield or a lyre, and not to use them, you
would say that justice is useful; but when you want to use them, then
the art of the soldier or of the musician?
Certainly.
And so of all other things;--justice is useful when they are useless,
and useless when they are useful?
That is the inference.
Then justice is not good for much. But let us consider this further
point: Is not he who can best strike a blow in a boxing match or in any
kind of fighting best able to ward off a blow?
Certainly.
And he who is most skilful in preventing or escaping from a disease is
best able to create one?
True.
And he is the best guard of a camp who is best able to steal a march
upon the enemy?
Certainly.
Then he who is a good keeper of anything is also a good thief?
That, I suppose, is to be inferred.
Then if the just man is good at keeping money, he is good at stealing
it.
That is implied in the argument.
Then after all the just man has turned out to be a thief. And this is
a lesson which I suspect you must have learnt out of Homer; for he,
speaking of Autolycus, the maternal grandfather of Odysseus, who is a
favourite of his, affirms that
'He was excellent above all men in theft and perjury.'
And so, you and Homer and Simonides are agreed that justice is an art of
theft; to be practised however 'for the good of friends and for the harm
of enemies,'--that was what you were saying?
No, certainly not that, though I do not now know what I did say; but I
still stand by the latter words.
Well, there is another question: By friends and enemies do we mean those
who are so really, or only in seeming?
Surely, he said, a man may be expected to love those whom he thinks
good, and to hate those whom he thinks evil.
Yes, but do not persons often err about good and evil: many who are not
good seem to be so, and conversely?
That is true.
Then to them the good will be enemies and the evil will be their
friends? True.
And in that case they will be right in doing good to the evil and evil
to the good?
Clearly.
But the good are just and would not do an injustice?
True.
Then according to your argument it is just to injure those who do no
wrong?
Nay, Socrates; the doctrine is immoral.
Then I suppose that we ought to do good to the just and harm to the
unjust?
I like that better.
But see the consequence:--Many a man who is ignorant of human nature
has friends who are bad friends, and in that case he ought to do harm to
them; and he has good enemies whom he ought to benefit; but, if so, we
shall be saying the very opposite of that which we affirmed to be the
meaning of Simonides.
Very true, he said: and I think that we had better correct an error
into which we seem to have fallen in the use of the words 'friend' and
'enemy.'
What was the error, Polemarchus? I asked.
We assumed that he is a friend who seems to be or who is thought good.
And how is the error to be corrected?
We should rather say that he is a friend who is, as well as seems, good;
and that he who seems only, and is not good, only seems to be and is not
a friend; and of an enemy the same may be said.
You would argue that the good are our friends and the bad our enemies?
Yes.
And instead of saying simply as we did at first, that it is just to do
good to our friends and harm to our enemies, we should further say: It
is just to do good to our friends when they are good and harm to our
enemies when they are evil?
Yes, that appears to me to be the truth.
But ought the just to injure any one at all?
Undoubtedly he ought to injure those who are both wicked and his
enemies.
When horses are injured, are they improved or deteriorated?
The latter.
Deteriorated, that is to say, in the good qualities of horses, not of
dogs?
Yes, of horses.
And dogs are deteriorated in the good qualities of dogs, and not of
horses?
Of course.
And will not men who are injured be deteriorated in that which is the
proper virtue of man?
Certainly.
And that human virtue is justice?
To be sure.
Then men who are injured are of necessity made unjust?
That is the result.
But can the musician by his art make men unmusical?
Certainly not.
Or the horseman by his art make them bad horsemen?
Impossible.
And can the just by justice make men unjust, or speaking generally, can
the good by virtue make them bad?
Assuredly not.
Any more than heat can produce cold?
It cannot.
Or drought moisture?
Clearly not.
Nor can the good harm any one?
Impossible.
And the just is the good?
Certainly.
Then to injure a friend or any one else is not the act of a just man,
but of the opposite, who is the unjust?
I think that what you say is quite true, Socrates.
Then if a man says that justice consists in the repayment of debts, and
that good is the debt which a just man owes to his friends, and evil the
debt which he owes to his enemies,--to say this is not wise; for it is
not true, if, as has been clearly shown, the injuring of another can be
in no case just.
I agree with you, said Polemarchus.
Then you and I are prepared to take up arms against any one who
attributes such a saying to Simonides or Bias or Pittacus, or any other
wise man or seer?
I am quite ready to do battle at your side, he said.
Shall I tell you whose I believe the saying to be?
Whose?
I believe that Periander or Perdiccas or Xerxes or Ismenias the Theban,
or some other rich and mighty man, who had a great opinion of his own
power, was the first to say that justice is 'doing good to your friends
and harm to your enemies.'
Most true, he said.
Yes, I said; but if this definition of justice also breaks down, what
other can be offered?
Several times in the course of the discussion Thrasymachus had made an
attempt to get the argument into his own hands, and had been put down
by the rest of the company, who wanted to hear the end. But when
Polemarchus and I had done speaking and there was a pause, he could no
longer hold his peace; and, gathering himself up, he came at us like a
wild beast, seeking to devour us. We were quite panic-stricken at the
sight of him.
He roared out to the whole company: What folly, Socrates, has taken
possession of you all? And why, sillybillies, do you knock under to
one another? I say that if you want really to know what justice is,
you should not only ask but answer, and you should not seek honour to
yourself from the refutation of an opponent, but have your own answer;
for there is many a one who can ask and cannot answer. And now I will
not have you say that justice is duty or advantage or profit or gain
or interest, for this sort of nonsense will not do for me; I must have
clearness and accuracy.
I was panic-stricken at his words, and could not look at him without
trembling. Indeed I believe that if I had not fixed my eye upon him, I
should have been struck dumb: but when I saw his fury rising, I looked
at him first, and was therefore able to reply to him.
Thrasymachus, I said, with a quiver, don't be hard upon us. Polemarchus
and I may have been guilty of a little mistake in the argument, but I
can assure you that the error was not intentional. If we were seeking
for a piece of gold, you would not imagine that we were 'knocking under
to one another,' and so losing our chance of finding it. And why, when
we are seeking for justice, a thing more precious than many pieces of
gold, do you say that we are weakly yielding to one another and not
doing our utmost to get at the truth? Nay, my good friend, we are most
willing and anxious to do so, but the fact is that we cannot. And if so,
you people who know all things should pity us and not be angry with us.
How characteristic of Socrates! he replied, with a bitter laugh;--that's
your ironical style! Did I not foresee--have I not already told you,
that whatever he was asked he would refuse to answer, and try irony or
any other shuffle, in order that he might avoid answering?
You are a philosopher, Thrasymachus, I replied, and well know that if
you ask a person what numbers make up twelve, taking care to prohibit
him whom you ask from answering twice six, or three times four, or six
times two, or four times three, 'for this sort of nonsense will not do
for me,'--then obviously, if that is your way of putting the
question, no one can answer you. But suppose that he were to retort,
'Thrasymachus, what do you mean? If one of these numbers which you
interdict be the true answer to the question, am I falsely to say some
other number which is not the right one?--is that your meaning?'--How
would you answer him?
Just as if the two cases were at all alike! he said.
Why should they not be? I replied; and even if they are not, but only
appear to be so to the person who is asked, ought he not to say what he
thinks, whether you and I forbid him or not?
I presume then that you are going to make one of the interdicted
answers?
I dare say that I may, notwithstanding the danger, if upon reflection I
approve of any of them.
But what if I give you an answer about justice other and better, he
said, than any of these? What do you deserve to have done to you?
Done to me!--as becomes the ignorant, I must learn from the wise--that
is what I deserve to have done to me.
What, and no payment! a pleasant notion!
I will pay when I have the money, I replied.
But you have, Socrates, said Glaucon: and you, Thrasymachus, need be
under no anxiety about money, for we will all make a contribution for
Socrates.
Yes, he replied, and then Socrates will do as he always does--refuse to
answer himself, but take and pull to pieces the answer of some one else.
Why, my good friend, I said, how can any one answer who knows, and says
that he knows, just nothing; and who, even if he has some faint notions
of his own, is told by a man of authority not to utter them? The
natural thing is, that the speaker should be some one like yourself
who professes to know and can tell what he knows. Will you then kindly
answer, for the edification of the company and of myself?
Glaucon and the rest of the company joined in my request, and
Thrasymachus, as any one might see, was in reality eager to speak;
for he thought that he had an excellent answer, and would distinguish
himself. But at first he affected to insist on my answering; at length
he consented to begin. Behold, he said, the wisdom of Socrates; he
refuses to teach himself, and goes about learning of others, to whom he
never even says Thank you.
That I learn of others, I replied, is quite true; but that I am
ungrateful I wholly deny. Money I have none, and therefore I pay in
praise, which is all I have; and how ready I am to praise any one who
appears to me to speak well you will very soon find out when you answer;
for I expect that you will answer well.
Listen, then, he said; I proclaim that justice is nothing else than
the interest of the stronger. And now why do you not praise me? But of
course you won't.
Let me first understand you, I replied. Justice, as you say, is the
interest of the stronger. What, Thrasymachus, is the meaning of this?
You cannot mean to say that because Polydamas, the pancratiast, is
stronger than we are, and finds the eating of beef conducive to his
bodily strength, that to eat beef is therefore equally for our good who
are weaker than he is, and right and just for us?
That's abominable of you, Socrates; you take the words in the sense
which is most damaging to the argument.
Not at all, my good sir, I said; I am trying to understand them; and I
wish that you would be a little clearer.
Well, he said, have you never heard that forms of government differ;
there are tyrannies, and there are democracies, and there are
aristocracies?
Yes, I know.
And the government is the ruling power in each state?
Certainly.
And the different forms of government make laws democratical,
aristocratical, tyrannical, with a view to their several interests;
and these laws, which are made by them for their own interests, are the
justice which they deliver to their subjects, and him who transgresses
them they punish as a breaker of the law, and unjust. And that is what
I mean when I say that in all states there is the same principle of
justice, which is the interest of the government; and as the government
must be supposed to have power, the only reasonable conclusion is, that
everywhere there is one principle of justice, which is the interest of
the stronger.
Now I understand you, I said; and whether you are right or not I will
try to discover. But let me remark, that in defining justice you have
yourself used the word 'interest' which you forbade me to use. It is
true, however, that in your definition the words 'of the stronger' are
added.
A small addition, you must allow, he said.
Great or small, never mind about that: we must first enquire whether
what you are saying is the truth. Now we are both agreed that justice
is interest of some sort, but you go on to say 'of the stronger'; about
this addition I am not so sure, and must therefore consider further.
Proceed.
I will; and first tell me, Do you admit that it is just for subjects to
obey their rulers?
I do.
But are the rulers of states absolutely infallible, or are they
sometimes liable to err?
To be sure, he replied, they are liable to err.
Then in making their laws they may sometimes make them rightly, and
sometimes not?
True.
When they make them rightly, they make them agreeably to their interest;
when they are mistaken, contrary to their interest; you admit that?
Yes.
And the laws which they make must be obeyed by their subjects,--and that
is what you call justice?
Doubtless.
Then justice, according to your argument, is not only obedience to the
interest of the stronger but the reverse?
What is that you are saying? he asked.
I am only repeating what you are saying, I believe. But let us consider:
Have we not admitted that the rulers may be mistaken about their own
interest in what they command, and also that to obey them is justice?
Has not that been admitted?
Yes.
Then you must also have acknowledged justice not to be for the interest
of the stronger, when the rulers unintentionally command things to be
done which are to their own injury. For if, as you say, justice is the
obedience which the subject renders to their commands, in that case, O
wisest of men, is there any escape from the conclusion that the weaker
are commanded to do, not what is for the interest, but what is for the
injury of the stronger?
Nothing can be clearer, Socrates, said Polemarchus.
Yes, said Cleitophon, interposing, if you are allowed to be his witness.
But there is no need of any witness, said Polemarchus, for Thrasymachus
himself acknowledges that rulers may sometimes command what is not for
their own interest, and that for subjects to obey them is justice.
Yes, Polemarchus,--Thrasymachus said that for subjects to do what was
commanded by their rulers is just.
Yes, Cleitophon, but he also said that justice is the interest of the
stronger, and, while admitting both these propositions, he further
acknowledged that the stronger may command the weaker who are his
subjects to do what is not for his own interest; whence follows that
justice is the injury quite as much as the interest of the stronger.
But, said Cleitophon, he meant by the interest of the stronger what the
stronger thought to be his interest,--this was what the weaker had to
do; and this was affirmed by him to be justice.
Those were not his words, rejoined Polemarchus.
Never mind, I replied, if he now says that they are, let us accept his
statement. Tell me, Thrasymachus, I said, did you mean by justice what
the stronger thought to be his interest, whether really so or not?
Certainly not, he said. Do you suppose that I call him who is mistaken
the stronger at the time when he is mistaken?
Yes, I said, my impression was that you did so, when you admitted that
the ruler was not infallible but might be sometimes mistaken.
You argue like an informer, Socrates. Do you mean, for example, that he
who is mistaken about the sick is a physician in that he is mistaken?
or that he who errs in arithmetic or grammar is an arithmetician or
grammarian at the time when he is making the mistake, in respect of the
mistake? True, we say that the physician or arithmetician or grammarian
has made a mistake, but this is only a way of speaking; for the fact is
that neither the grammarian nor any other person of skill ever makes a
mistake in so far as he is what his name implies; they none of them
err unless their skill fails them, and then they cease to be skilled
artists. No artist or sage or ruler errs at the time when he is what
his name implies; though he is commonly said to err, and I adopted the
common mode of speaking. But to be perfectly accurate, since you are
such a lover of accuracy, we should say that the ruler, in so far as he
is a ruler, is unerring, and, being unerring, always commands that which
is for his own interest; and the subject is required to execute his
commands; and therefore, as I said at first and now repeat, justice is
the interest of the stronger.
Indeed, Thrasymachus, and do I really appear to you to argue like an
informer?
Certainly, he replied.
And do you suppose that I ask these questions with any design of
injuring you in the argument?
Nay, he replied, 'suppose' is not the word--I know it; but you will be
found out, and by sheer force of argument you will never prevail.
I shall not make the attempt, my dear man; but to avoid any
misunderstanding occurring between us in future, let me ask, in what
sense do you speak of a ruler or stronger whose interest, as you were
saying, he being the superior, it is just that the inferior should
execute--is he a ruler in the popular or in the strict sense of the
term?
In the strictest of all senses, he said. And now cheat and play the
informer if you can; I ask no quarter at your hands. But you never will
be able, never.
And do you imagine, I said, that I am such a madman as to try and cheat,
Thrasymachus? I might as well shave a lion.
Why, he said, you made the attempt a minute ago, and you failed.
Enough, I said, of these civilities. It will be better that I should ask
you a question: Is the physician, taken in that strict sense of which
you are speaking, a healer of the sick or a maker of money? And remember
that I am now speaking of the true physician.
A healer of the sick, he replied.
And the pilot--that is to say, the true pilot--is he a captain of
sailors or a mere sailor?
A captain of sailors.
The circumstance that he sails in the ship is not to be taken into
account; neither is he to be called a sailor; the name pilot by which he
is distinguished has nothing to do with sailing, but is significant of
his skill and of his authority over the sailors.
Very true, he said.
Now, I said, every art has an interest?
Certainly.
For which the art has to consider and provide?
Yes, that is the aim of art.
And the interest of any art is the perfection of it--this and nothing
else?
What do you mean?
I mean what I may illustrate negatively by the example of the body.
Suppose you were to ask me whether the body is self-sufficing or has
wants, I should reply: Certainly the body has wants; for the body may
be ill and require to be cured, and has therefore interests to which
the art of medicine ministers; and this is the origin and intention of
medicine, as you will acknowledge. Am I not right?
Quite right, he replied.
But is the art of medicine or any other art faulty or deficient in any
quality in the same way that the eye may be deficient in sight or the
ear fail of hearing, and therefore requires another art to provide
for the interests of seeing and hearing--has art in itself, I say, any
similar liability to fault or defect, and does every art require another
supplementary art to provide for its interests, and that another and
another without end? Or have the arts to look only after their
own interests? Or have they no need either of themselves or of
another?--having no faults or defects, they have no need to correct
them, either by the exercise of their own art or of any other; they have
only to consider the interest of their subject-matter. For every art
remains pure and faultless while remaining true--that is to say, while
perfect and unimpaired. Take the words in your precise sense, and tell
me whether I am not right.
Yes, clearly.
Then medicine does not consider the interest of medicine, but the
interest of the body?
True, he said.
Nor does the art of horsemanship consider the interests of the art of
horsemanship, but the interests of the horse; neither do any other arts
care for themselves, for they have no needs; they care only for that
which is the subject of their art?
True, he said.
But surely, Thrasymachus, the arts are the superiors and rulers of their
own subjects?
To this he assented with a good deal of reluctance.
Then, I said, no science or art considers or enjoins the interest of the
stronger or superior, but only the interest of the subject and weaker?
He made an attempt to contest this proposition also, but finally
acquiesced.
Then, I continued, no physician, in so far as he is a physician,
considers his own good in what he prescribes, but the good of his
patient; for the true physician is also a ruler having the human body as
a subject, and is not a mere money-maker; that has been admitted?
Yes.
And the pilot likewise, in the strict sense of the term, is a ruler of
sailors and not a mere sailor?
That has been admitted.
And such a pilot and ruler will provide and prescribe for the interest
of the sailor who is under him, and not for his own or the ruler's
interest?
He gave a reluctant 'Yes.'
Then, I said, Thrasymachus, there is no one in any rule who, in so far
as he is a ruler, considers or enjoins what is for his own interest, but
always what is for the interest of his subject or suitable to his art;
to that he looks, and that alone he considers in everything which he
says and does.
When we had got to this point in the argument, and every one saw that
the definition of justice had been completely upset, Thrasymachus,
instead of replying to me, said: Tell me, Socrates, have you got a
nurse?
Why do you ask such a question, I said, when you ought rather to be
answering?
Because she leaves you to snivel, and never wipes your nose: she has not
even taught you to know the shepherd from the sheep.
What makes you say that? I replied.
Because you fancy that the shepherd or neatherd fattens or tends the
sheep or oxen with a view to their own good and not to the good of
himself or his master; and you further imagine that the rulers of
states, if they are true rulers, never think of their subjects as sheep,
and that they are not studying their own advantage day and night. Oh,
no; and so entirely astray are you in your ideas about the just and
unjust as not even to know that justice and the just are in reality
another's good; that is to say, the interest of the ruler and stronger,
and the loss of the subject and servant; and injustice the opposite; for
the unjust is lord over the truly simple and just: he is the stronger,
and his subjects do what is for his interest, and minister to his
happiness, which is very far from being their own. Consider further,
most foolish Socrates, that the just is always a loser in comparison
with the unjust. First of all, in private contracts: wherever the unjust
is the partner of the just you will find that, when the partnership is
dissolved, the unjust man has always more and the just less. Secondly,
in their dealings with the State: when there is an income-tax, the just
man will pay more and the unjust less on the same amount of income;
and when there is anything to be received the one gains nothing and the
other much. Observe also what happens when they take an office; there is
the just man neglecting his affairs and perhaps suffering other losses,
and getting nothing out of the public, because he is just; moreover he
is hated by his friends and acquaintance for refusing to serve them in
unlawful ways. But all this is reversed in the case of the unjust man.
I am speaking, as before, of injustice on a large scale in which the
advantage of the unjust is most apparent; and my meaning will be most
clearly seen if we turn to that highest form of injustice in which the
criminal is the happiest of men, and the sufferers or those who refuse
to do injustice are the most miserable--that is to say tyranny, which by
fraud and force takes away the property of others, not little by little