11. Reading pragmateias in d8.
12. On Aristides and Thucydides see Laches 178a ff. and Theaetetus 150d ff.
13. Accepting the conjectural deletion of to in b7.
CHARMIDES
Translated by Rosamond Kent Sprague.
Charmides was Plato’s uncle, on his mother’s side. He is seen here as a teenager in conversation with Socrates in 432 B.C. on the latter’s return to Athens from service in the battle at Potidaea, the battle that initiated the Peloponnesian War. Socrates’ other interlocutor is an older kinsman, first cousin of both Charmides and Plato’s mother—Critias. It was a very distinguished family, tracing its descent from Solon, the great poet and statesman of the beginning of the sixth century, with distinguished forebears even before that. The subject of discussion is the virtue of ‘sōphrosunē’, here translated ‘temperance’—but there is no adequate translation in modern European languages. Sōphrosunē means a well-developed consciousness of oneself and one’s legitimate duties in relation to others (where it will involve self-restraint and showing due respect) and in relation to one’s own ambitions, social standing, and the relevant expectations as regards one’s own behavior. It is an aristocrat’s virtue par excellence, involving a sense of dignity and self-command. At the time Plato was writing, both Charmides and Critias were notorious for involvement with the Thirty Tyrants (Critias was their leader). These were rich antidemocrats appointed by the Spartan king in 404 B.C. to draw up a new constitution after the defeat of Athens in the Peloponnesian War, who however seized power and established a reign of terror against their political and class enemies (Socrates alludes in Apology to his own behavior during this sorry episode). They both died in 403 in the fighting that overthrew them and restored the democracy. Their behavior was the antithesis of what could be expected of ‘temperate’ (sōphrōn) gentlemen.
For an ancient reader, these historic overtones would have played vividly against the bright surface of the dialogue. Charmides comes on stage here as a beautiful, thoughtful, much-admired youth, very modest and self-possessed— for Critias and the others present, the model of aristocratic excellence in the making. Only at the very end of the dialogue does Plato, very delicately, reveal another side of his character: advised by Critias to attach himself to Socrates so as to learn sōphrosunē through repeated discussion with him, Charmides tells Socrates he will do that by force, since his guardian Critias has commanded it, without allowing Socrates to say yea or nay. That ominous sour note aside, we get here a rich and subtle portrait of Socrates in conversation with an adolescent male, beautiful in body, but (infinitely more important) giving signs of beauty of soul and character—just the sort of person he was so constantly attracted to. Equally rich and subtle is the complementary portrayal in Lysis, on friendship, with which this dialogue should be compared.
Questioned by Socrates, Charmides attempts to say what this virtue of ‘temperance’ is, of which Critias and others think him a paragon. He offers three successive accounts, the last being something he has gathered from some respected adult (Critias, it turns out), but without being able to explain it satisfactorily either to himself or to Socrates. That by itself should suggest (anyhow to Socrates) that he does not possess the virtue, but out of consideration for his age, Socrates does not press the point. Instead, Critias takes over the defense of this last account—that ‘temperance’ is (equivalently) ‘minding one’s own business’, or behaving in a way that suits the person who one is, or behaving with self-knowledge. Critias, too, is unable to develop and defend this idea satisfactorily, and the dialogue ends, as usual with Plato’s ‘Socratic’ dialogues, in perplexity. Both Charmides’ and Critias’ proposals, and some of Socrates’ criticisms, may strike us as oddly off base as accounts of whatever it is we mean by temperance; matters may be put to rights if we bear in mind the wider scope of the Greek virtue, as explained above.
J.M.C.
[153] We got back the preceding evening from the camp at Potidaea, and since I was arriving after such a long absence I sought out my accustomed haunts with special pleasure. To be more specific, I went straight to the palaestra of Taureas (the one directly opposite the temple of Basile), and there I found a good number of people, most of whom were familiar, [b] though there were some, too, whom I didn’t know. When they saw me coming in unexpectedly, I was immediately hailed at a distance by people coming up from all directions, and Chaerephon,1 like the wild man he is, sprang up from the midst of a group of people and ran towards me and, seizing me by the hand, exclaimed, “Socrates! how did you come off in the battle?” (A short time before we came away there had been a battle at Potidaea and the people at home had only just got the news.)
And I said in reply, “Exactly as you see me.”
[c] “The way we heard it here,” he said, “the fighting was very heavy and many of our friends were killed.”
“The report is pretty accurate,” I said.
“Were you actually in the battle?” he said.
“Yes, I was there.”
“Well, come sit down and give us a complete account, because we’ve had very few details so far.” And while he was still talking he brought me over to Critias, the son of Callaeschrus, and sat me down there.
When I took my seat I greeted Critias and the rest and proceeded to [d] relate the news from the camp in answer to whatever questions anyone asked, and they asked plenty of different ones.
When they had had enough of these things, I in my turn began to question them with respect to affairs at home, about the present state of philosophy and about the young men, whether there were any who had become distinguished for wisdom or beauty or both. Whereupon Critias, glancing towards the door and seeing several young men coming in and [154] laughing with each other, with a crowd of others following behind, said “As far as beauty goes, Socrates, I think you will be able to make up your mind straight away, because those coming in are the advance party and the admirers of the one who is thought to be the handsomest young man of the day, and I think that he himself cannot be far off.”
“But who is he,” I said, “and who is his father?”
“You probably know him,” he said, “but he was not yet grown up when [b] you went away. He is Charmides, the son of my mother’s brother Glaucon, and my cousin.”
“Good heavens, of course I know him,” I said, “because he was worth noticing even when he was a child. By now I suppose he must be pretty well grown up.”
“It won’t be long,” he said, “before you discover how grown up he is and how he has turned out.” And while he was speaking Charmides came in.
You mustn’t judge by me, my friend. I’m a broken yardstick as far as handsome people are concerned, because practically everyone of that age strikes me as beautiful. But even so, at the moment Charmides came in [c] he seemed to me to be amazing in stature and appearance, and everyone there looked to me to be in love with him, they were so astonished and confused by his entrance, and many other lovers followed in his train. That men of my age should have been affected this way was natural enough, but I noticed that even the small boys fixed their eyes upon him and no one of them, not even the littlest, looked at anyone else, but all gazed at him as if he were a statue. And Chaerephon called to me and said, “Well, Socrates, what do you think of the young man? Hasn’t he a [d] splendid face?”
“Extraordinary,” I said.
“But if he were willing to strip,” he said, “you would hardly notice his face, his body is so perfect.”
Well, everyone else said the same things as Chaerephon, and I said, “By Heracles, you are describing a man without an equal—if he should happen to have one small thing in addition.”
“What’s that?” asked Critias.
“If he happens to have a well-formed soul,” I said. “It would be appropriate if he did, Critias, since he comes from your family.”
“He is very distinguished in that respect, too,” he said.
“Then why don’t we undress
this part of him and have a look at it before we inspect his body? Surely he has already reached the age when he is willing to discuss things.”
“Very much so,” said Critias, “since he is not only a philosopher but [155] also, both in his own opinion and that of others, quite a poet.”
“This is a gift, my dear Critias,” I said, “which has been in your family as far back as Solon. But why not call the young man over and put him through his paces? Even though he is still so young, there can be nothing wrong in talking to him when you are here, since you are both his guardian and his cousin.”
[b] “You are right,” he said; “we’ll call him.” And he immediately spoke to his servant and said, “Boy, call Charmides and tell him I want him to meet a doctor for the weakness he told me he was suffering from yesterday.” Then Critias said to me, “You see, just lately he’s complained of a headache when he gets up in the morning. Why not pretend to him that you know a remedy for it?”
“No reason why not,” I said, “if he will only come.”
“Oh, he will come,” he said.
[c] Which is just what happened. He did come, and his coming caused a lot of laughter, because every one of us who was already seated began pushing hard at his neighbor so as to make a place for him to sit down. The upshot of it was that we made the man sitting at one end get up, and the man at the other end was toppled off sideways. In the end he came and sat down between me and Critias. And then, my friend, I really was in difficulties, and although I had thought it would be perfectly easy to talk to him, I found my previous brash confidence quite gone. And when [d] Critias said that I was the person who knew the remedy and he turned his full gaze upon me in a manner beyond description and seemed on the point of asking a question, and when everyone in the palaestra surged all around us in a circle, my noble friend, I saw inside his cloak and caught on fire and was quite beside myself. And it occurred to me that Cydias2 was the wisest love-poet when he gave someone advice on the subject of beautiful boys and said that “the fawn should beware lest, while taking a look at the lion, he should provide part of the lion’s dinner,” because I felt as if I had been snapped up by such a creature. All the same, when he asked me if I knew the headache remedy, I managed somehow to answer that I did.
“What exactly is it?” he said.
[e] And I said that it was a certain leaf, and that there was a charm to go with it. If one sang the charm while applying the leaf, the remedy would bring about a complete cure, but without the charm the leaf was useless.
[156] And he said, “Well, then I shall write down the charm at your dictation.”
“With my permission,” I said, “or without it?”
“With it, of course, Socrates,” he said, laughing.
“Very well,” I said. “And are you quite sure about my name?”
“It would be disgraceful if I were not,” he said, “because you are no small topic of conversation among us boys, and besides, I remember you being with Critias here when I was a child.”
“Good for you,” I said. “Then I shall speak more freely about the nature [b] of the charm. Just now I was in difficulties about what method I would adopt in order to demonstrate its power to you. Its nature, Charmides, is not such as to be able to cure the head alone. You have probably heard this about good doctors, that if you go to them with a pain in the eyes, they are likely to say that they cannot undertake to cure the eyes by themselves, but that it will be necessary to treat the head at the same time if things are also to go well with the eyes. And again it would be very foolish to suppose that one could ever treat the head by itself without [c] treating the whole body. In keeping with this principle, they plan a regime for the whole body with the idea of treating and curing the part along with the whole. Or haven’t you noticed that this is what they say and what the situation is?”
“Yes, I have,” he said.
“Then what I have said appears true, and you accept the principle?”
“Absolutely,” he said.
And when I heard his approval, I took heart and, little by little, my [d] former confidence revived, and I began to wake up. So I said, “Well Charmides, it is just the same with this charm. I learned it while I was with the army, from one of the Thracian doctors of Zalmoxis, who are also said to make men immortal. And this Thracian said that the Greek doctors were right to say what I told you just now. ‘But our king Zalmoxis,’ he said, ‘who is a god, says that just as one should not attempt to cure [e] the eyes apart from the head, nor the head apart from the body, so one should not attempt to cure the body apart from the soul. And this, he says, is the very reason why most diseases are beyond the Greek doctors, that they do not pay attention to the whole as they ought to do, since if the whole is not in good condition, it is impossible that the part should be. Because,’ he said, ‘the soul is the source both of bodily health and bodily disease for the whole man, and these flow from the soul in the same way that the eyes are affected by the head. So it is necessary first [157] and foremost to cure the soul if the parts of the head and of the rest of the body are to be healthy. And the soul,’ he said, ‘my dear friend, is cured by means of certain charms, and these charms consist of beautiful words. It is a result of such words that temperance arises in the soul, and when the soul acquires and possesses temperance, it is easy to provide health both for the head and for the rest of the body.’ So when he taught me the [b] remedy and the charms, he also said, ‘Don’t let anyone persuade you to treat his head with this remedy who does not first submit his soul to you for treatment with the charm. Because nowadays,’ he said, ‘this is the mistake some doctors make with their patients. They try to produce health of body apart from health of soul.’ And he gave me very strict instructions [c] that I should be deaf to the entreaties of wealth, position, and personal beauty. So I (for I have given him my promise and must keep it) shall be obedient, and if you are willing, in accordance with the stranger’s instructions, to submit your soul to be charmed with the Thracian’s charms first, then I shall apply the remedy to your head. But if not, there is nothing we can do for you, my dear Charmides.”
When Critias heard me saying this, he said, “The headache will turn out to have been a lucky thing for the young man, Socrates, if, because of [d] his head, he will be forced to improve his wits. Let me tell you, though, that Charmides not only outstrips his contemporaries in beauty of form but also in this very thing for which you say you have the charm; it was temperance, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, indeed it was,” I said.
“Then you must know that not only does he have the reputation of being the most temperate young man of the day, but that he is second to none in everything else appropriate to his age.”
[e] “And it is quite right, Charmides, that you should be superior to the rest in all such things,” I replied, “because I don’t suppose that anyone else here could so readily point to two Athenian families whose union would be likely to produce a more aristocratic lineage than that from which you are sprung. Your father’s family, that of Critias, the son of [158] Dropides,3 has been praised for us by Anacreon, Solon, and many other poets for superior beauty, virtue, and everything else called happiness. It’s the same on your mother’s side. Your maternal uncle Pyrilampes has the reputation of being the finest and most influential man in the country because of his numerous embassies to the Great King and others, so that this whole side of the family is not a bit inferior to the other. As the offspring of such forebears, it is likely that you hold pride of place. In the [b] matter of visible beauty, dear son of Glaucon, you appear to me to be in no respect surpassed by those who come before. But if, in addition, you have a sufficient share of temperance and the other attributes mentioned by your friend here, then your mother bore a blessed son in you, my dear Charmides. Now this is the situation: if temperance is already present in you, as Critias here asserts, and if you are sufficiently temperate, you have no need of the charms either of Zalmoxis or of Abaris the Hyperborean, [c] and you ma
y have the remedy for the head straightaway. But if you still appear to lack these things, you must be charmed before you are given the remedy. So tell me yourself: do you agree with your friend and assert that you already partake sufficiently of temperance, or would you say that you are lacking in it?”
At first Charmides blushed and looked more beautiful than ever, and his bashfulness was becoming at his age. Then he answered in a way that was quite dignified: he said that it was not easy for him, in the present circumstances, either to agree or to disagree with what had been asked. “Because,” he said, “if I should deny that I am temperate, it would not [d] only seem an odd thing to say about oneself, but I would at the same time make Critias here a liar, and so with the many others to whom, by his account, I appear to be temperate. But if, on the other hand, I should agree and should praise myself, perhaps that would appear distasteful. So I do not know what I am to answer.”
And I said, “What you say appears to me to be reasonable, Charmides. And I think,” I said, “we ought to investigate together the question whether [e] you do or do not possess the thing I am inquiring about, so that you will not be forced to say anything against your will and I, on the other hand, shall not turn to doctoring in an irresponsible way. If this is agreeable to you, I would like to investigate the question with you, but if not, we can give it up.”
“Oh, I should like it above all things,” he said, “so go ahead and investigate the matter in whatever way you think best.”
“Well then,” I said, “in these circumstances, I think the following method would be best. Now it is clear that if temperance is present in you, you [159] have some opinion about it. Because it is necessary, I suppose, that if it really resides in you, it provides a sense of its presence, by means of which you would form an opinion not only that you have it but of what sort it is. Or don’t you think so?”
“Yes,” he said, “I do think so.”
Complete Works Page 100
