Complete Works of Xenophon (Illustrated) (Delphi Ancient Classics)

by Xenophon

  “Is a dung basket beautiful then?”

  “Of course, and a golden shield is ugly, if the one is well made for its special work and the other badly.”

  “Do you mean that the same things are both beautiful and ugly?”

  “Of course — and both good and bad. [7] For what is good for hunger is often bad for fever, and what is good for fever bad for hunger; what is beautiful for running is often ugly for wrestling, and what is beautiful for wrestling ugly for running. For all things are good and beautiful in relation to those purposes for which they are well adapted, bad and ugly in relation to those for which they are ill adapted.” [8]

  Again his dictum about houses, that the same house is both beautiful and useful, was a lesson in the art of building houses as they ought to be.

  He approached the problem thus:

  “When one means to have the right sort of house, must he contrive to make it as pleasant to live in and as useful as can be?” [9]

  And this being admitted, “Is it pleasant,” he asked, “to have it cool in summer and warm in winter?”

  And when they agreed with this also, “Now in houses with a south aspect, the sun’s rays penetrate into the porticoes in winter, but in summer the path of the sun is right over our heads and above the roof, so that there is shade. If, then, this is the best arrangement, we should build the south side loftier to get the winter sun and the north side lower to keep out the cold winds. [10] To put it shortly, the house in which the owner can find a pleasant retreat at all seasons and can store his belongings safely is presumably at once the pleasantest and the most beautiful. As for paintings and decorations, they rob one of more delights than they give.”

  For temples and altars the most suitable position, he said, was a conspicuous site remote from traffic; for it is pleasant to breathe a prayer at the sight of them, and pleasant to approach them filled with holy thoughts.

  9. When asked again whether Courage could be taught or came by nature, he replied: “I think that just as one man’s body is naturally stronger than another’s for labour, so one man’s soul is naturally braver than another’s in danger. For I notice that men brought up under the same laws and customs differ widely in daring. [2] Nevertheless, I think that every man’s nature acquires more courage by learning and practice. Of course Scythians and Thracians would not dare to take bronze shield and spear and fight Lacedaemonians; and of course Lacedaemonians would not be willing to face Thracians with leather shields and javelins, nor Scythians with bows for weapons. [3] And similarly in all other points, I find that human beings naturally differ one from another and greatly improve by application. Hence it is clear that all men, whatever their natural gifts, the talented and the dullards alike, must learn and practise what they want to excel in.” [4]

  Between Wisdom and Prudence he drew no distinction; but if a man knows and practises what is beautiful and good, knows and avoids what is base, that man he judged to be both wise and prudent. When asked further whether he thought that those who know what they ought to do and yet do the opposite are at once wise and vicious, he answered: “No; not so much that, as both unwise and vicious. For I think that all men have a choice between various courses, and choose and follow the one which they think conduces most to their advantage. Therefore I hold that those who follow the wrong course are neither wise nor prudent.” [5]

  He said that Justice and every other form of Virtue is Wisdom. “For just actions and all forms of virtuous activity are beautiful and good. He who knows the beautiful and good will never choose anything else, he who is ignorant of them cannot do them, and even if he tries, will fail. Hence the wise do what is beautiful and good, the unwise cannot and fail if they try. Therefore since just actions and all other forms of beautiful and good activity are virtuous actions, it is clear that Justice and every other form of Virtue is Wisdom.” [6]

  Madness, again, according to him, was the opposite of Wisdom. Nevertheless he did not identify Ignorance with Madness; but not to know yourself, and to assume and think that you know what you do not, he put next to Madness. “Most men, however,” he declared, “do not call those mad who err in matters that lie outside the knowledge of ordinary people: madness is the name they give to errors in matters of common knowledge. [7] For instance, if a man imagines himself to be so tall as to stoop when he goes through the gateways in the Wall, or so strong as to try to lift houses or to perform any other feat that everybody knows to be impossible, they say he’s mad. They don’t think a slight error implies madness, but just as they call strong desire love, so they name a great delusion madness.” [8]

  Considering the nature of Envy, he found it to be a kind of pain, not, however, at a friend’s misfortune, nor at an enemy’s good fortune, but the envious are those only who are annoyed at their friends’ successes. Some expressed surprise that anyone who loves another should be pained at his success, but he reminded them that many stand in this relation towards others, that they cannot disregard them in time of trouble, but aid them in their misfortune, and yet they are pained to see them prospering. This, however, could not happen to a man of sense, but it is always the case with fools. [9]

  Considering the nature of Leisure, he said his conclusion was that almost all men do something. Even draught-players and jesters do something, but all these are at leisure, for they might go and do something better. But nobody has leisure to go from a better to a worse occupation. If anyone does so, he acts wrongly, having no leisure. [10]

  Kings and rulers, he said, are not those who hold the sceptre, nor those who are chosen by the multitude, nor those on whom the lot falls, nor those who owe their power to force or deception; but those who know how to rule. [11] For once it was granted that it is the business of the ruler to give orders and of the ruled to obey, he went on to show that on a ship the one who knows, rules, and the owner and all the others on board obey the one who knows: in farming the landowners, in illness the patients, in training those who are in training, in fact everybody concerned with anything that needs care, look after it themselves if they think they know how, but, if not, they obey those who know, and not only when such are present, but they even send for them when absent, that they may obey them and do the right thing. In spinning wool, again, he would point out, the women govern the men because they know how to do it and men do not. [12]

  If anyone objected that a despot may refuse to obey a good counsellor, “How can he refuse,” he would ask, “when a penalty waits on disregard of good counsel? All disregard of good counsel is bound surely to result in error, and his error will not go unpunished.” [13]

  If anyone said that a despot can kill a loyal subject, “Do you think,” he retorted, “that he who kills the best of his allies suffers no loss, or that his loss is trifling? Do you think that this conduct brings him safety, or rather swift destruction?” [14]

  When someone asked him what seemed to him the best pursuit for a man, he answered: “Doing well.” Questioned further, whether he thought good luck a pursuit, he said: “On the contrary, I think luck and doing are opposite poles. To hit on something right by luck without search I call good luck, to do something well after study and practice I call doing well; and those who pursue this seem to me to do well. [15] And the best men and dearest to the gods,” he added, “are those who do their work well; if it is farming, as good farmers; if medicine, as good doctors; if politics, as good politicians. He who does nothing well is neither useful in any way nor dear to the gods.”

  10. Then again, whenever he talked with artists who followed their art as a business, he was as useful to them as to others.

  Thus, on entering the house of Parrhasius the painter one day, he asked in the course of a conversation with him: “Is painting a representation of things seen, Parrhasius? Anyhow, you painters with your colours represent and reproduce figures high and low, in light and in shadow, hard and soft, rough and smooth, young and old.”

  “True.” [2]

  “And further, when you copy
types of beauty, it is so difficult to find a perfect model that you combine the most beautiful details of several, and thus contrive to make the whole figure look beautiful.” [3]

  “Yes, we do!”

  “Well now, do you also reproduce the character of the soul, the character that is in the highest degree captivating, delightful, friendly, fascinating, lovable? Or is it impossible to imitate that?”

  “Oh no, Socrates; for how could one imitate that which has neither shape nor colour nor any of the qualities you mentioned just now, and is not even visible?” [4]

  “Do human beings commonly express the feelings of sympathy and aversion by their looks?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then cannot thus much be imitated in the eyes?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Do you think that the joys and sorrows of their friends produce the same expression on men’s faces, whether they really care or not?”

  “Oh no, of course not: they look radiant at their joys, downcast at their sorrows.”

  “Then is it possible to represent these looks too?”

  “Undoubtedly.” [5]

  “Moreover, nobility and dignity, self-abasement and servility, prudence and understanding, insolence and vulgarity, are reflected in the face and in the attitudes of the body whether still or in motion.”

  “True.”

  “Then these, too, can be imitated, can they not?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Now which do you think the more pleasing sight, one whose features and bearing reflect a beautiful and good and lovable character, or one who is the embodiment of what is ugly and depraved and hateful?”

  “No doubt there is a great difference, Socrates.” [6]

  On another occasion he visited Cleiton the sculptor, and while conversing with him said: “Cleiton, that your statues of runners, wrestlers, boxers and fighters are beautiful I see and know. But how do you produce in them that illusion of life which is their most alluring charm to the beholder?” [7]

  As Cleiton was puzzled and did not reply at once, “Is it,” he added, “by faithfully representing the form of living beings that you make your statues look as if they lived?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Then is it not by accurately representing the different parts of the body as they are affected by the pose — the flesh wrinkled or tense, the limbs compressed or outstretched, the muscles taut or loose — that you make them look more like real members and more convincing?”

  “Yes, certainly.” [8]

  “Does not the exact imitation of the feelings that affect bodies in action also produce a sense of satisfaction in the spectator?”

  “Oh yes, presumably.”

  “Then must not the threatening look in the eyes of fighters be accurately represented, and the triumphant expression on the face of conquerors be imitated?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “It follows, then, that the sculptor must represent in his figures the activities of the soul.” [9]

  On visiting Pistias the armourer, who showed him some well-made breastplates, Socrates exclaimed: “Upon my word, Pistias, it’s a beautiful invention, for the breastplate covers the parts that need protection without impeding the use of the hands. [10] But tell me, Pistias,” he added, “why do you charge more for your breastplates than any other maker, though they are no stronger and cost no more to make?”

  “Because the proportions of mine are better, Socrates.”

  “And how do you show their proportions when you ask a higher price — by weight or measure? For I presume you don’t make them all of the same weight or the same size, that is, if you make them to fit.”

  “Fit? Why, of course! a breastplate is of no use without that!” [11]

  “Then are not some human bodies well, others ill proportioned?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then if a breastplate is to fit an ill-proportioned body, how do you make it well-proportioned?”

  “By making it fit; for if it is a good fit it is well-proportioned.” [12]

  “Apparently you mean well-proportioned not absolutely, but in relation to the wearer, as you might call a shield well-proportioned for the man whom it fits, or a military cape — and this seems to apply to everything according to you. [13] And perhaps there is another important advantage in a good fit.”

  “Tell it me, if you know, Socrates.”

  “The good fit is less heavy to wear than the misfit, though both are of the same weight. For the misfit, hanging entirely from the shoulders, or pressing on some other part of the body, proves uncomfortable and irksome; but the good fit, with its weight distributed over the collar-bone and shoulder-blades, the shoulders, chest, back and belly, may almost be called an accessory rather than an encumbrance.” [14]

  “The advantage you speak of is the very one which I think makes my work worth a big price. Some, however, prefer to buy the ornamented and the gold-plated breastplates.”

  “Still, if the consequence is that they buy misfits, it seems to me they buy ornamented and gold-plated trash. [15] However, as the body is not rigid, but now bent, now straight, how can tight breastplates fit?”

  “They can’t.”

  “You mean that the good fits are not the tight ones, but those that don’t chafe the wearer?”

  “That is your own meaning, Socrates, and you have hit the right nail on the head.”

  11. At one time there was in Athens a beautiful woman named Theodote/, who was ready to keep company with anyone who pleased her. One of the bystanders mentioned her name, declaring that words failed him to describe the lady’s beauty, and adding that artists visited her to paint her portrait, and she showed them as much as decency allowed. “We had better go and see her,” cried Socrates; “of course what beggars description can’t very well be learned by hearsay.” [2]

  “Come with me at once,” returned his informant. So off they went to Theodote/’s house, where they found her posing before a painter, and looked on.

  When the painter had finished, Socrates said: “My friends, ought we to be more grateful to Theodote/ for showing us her beauty, or she to us for looking at it? Does the obligation rest with her, if she profits more by showing it, but with us, if we profit more by looking?” [3]

  When someone answered that this was a fair way of putting it, “Well now,” he went on, “she already has our praise to her credit, and when we spread the news, she will profit yet more; whereas we already long to touch what we have seen, and we shall go away excited and shall miss her when we are gone. The natural consequence is that we become her adorers, she the adored.”

  “Then, if that is so,” exclaimed Theodote/, “of course I ought to be grateful to you for looking.” [4]

  At this point Socrates noticed that she was sumptuously dressed, and that her mother at her side was wearing fine clothes and jewellery; and she had many pretty maids, who also were well cared for, and her house was lavishly furnished.

  “Tell me, Theodote/,” he said, “have you a farm?”

  “Not I,” she answered.

  “Or a house, perhaps, that brings in money?”

  “No, nor a house.”

  “Some craftsmen, possibly?”

  “No, none.”

  “Then where do you get your supplies from?”

  “I live on the generosity of any friend I pick up.” [5]

  “A fine property, upon my word, Theodote/, and much better than abundance of sheep and goats and oxen. But,” he went on, “do you trust to luck, waiting for friends to settle on you like flies, or have you some contrivance of your own?” [6]

  “How could I invent a contrivance for that?”

  “Much more conveniently, I assure you, than the spiders. For you know how they hunt for a living: they weave a thin web, I believe, and feed on anything that gets into it.” [7]

  “And do you advise me, then, to weave a trap of some sort?”

  “Of course not. Don’t suppose you are going
to hunt friends, the noblest game in the world, by such crude methods. Don’t you notice that many tricks are employed even for hunting such a poor thing as the hare? [8] Since hares feed by night, hounds specially adapted for night work are provided to hunt them; and since they run away at daybreak, another pack of hounds is obtained for tracking them by the scent along the run from the feeding ground to the form; and since they are so nimble that once they are off they actually escape in the open, yet a third pack of speedy hounds is formed to catch them by hot pursuit; and as some escape even so, nets are set up in the tracks where they escape, that they may be driven into them and stopped dead.” [9]

  “Then can I adapt this plan to the pursuit of friends?”

  “Of course you can, if for the hound you substitute an agent who will track and find rich men with an eye for beauty, and will then contrive to chase them into your nets.” [10]

  “Nets! What nets have I got?”

  “One, surely, that clips close enough — your body! And inside it you have a soul that teaches you what glance will please, what words delight, and tells you that your business is to give a warm welcome to an eager suitor, but to slam the door upon a coxcomb; yes, and when a friend has fallen sick, to show your anxiety by visiting him; and when he has had a stroke of good fortune, to congratulate him eagerly; and if he is eager in his suit, to put yourself at his service heart and soul. As for loving, you know how to do that, I am sure, both tenderly and truly; and that your friends give you satisfaction, you convince them, I know, not by words but by deeds.”

  “Upon my word,” said Theodote/, “I don’t contrive one of these things.” [11]

  “Nevertheless,” he continued, “it is very important that your behaviour to a man should be both natural and correct. For assuredly you can neither catch a friend nor keep him by violence; it is kindness and sweetness that catch the creature and hold him fast.”

  “True,” she said. [12]

  “First, then, you must ask such favours of your suitors as they will grant without a moment’s hesitation; and next you must repay their favours in the same coin; for in this way they will prove most sincerely your friends, most constant in their affection and most generous. [13] And they will appreciate your favours most highly if you wait till they ask for them. The sweetest meats, you see, if served before they are wanted, seem sour, and to those who have had enough they are positively nauseating; but even poor fare is very welcome when offered to a hungry man.” [14]