“Well, then, since you know how to speak Greek,” I said, “I suppose you could express this impression of yours in just the way it strikes you?”
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Well, to help us decide whether it resides in you or not, say what, in your opinion, temperance is,” I said.
At first he shied away and was rather unwilling to answer. Finally, [b] however, he said that in his opinion temperance was doing everything in an orderly and quiet way—things like walking in the streets, and talking, and doing everything else in a similar fashion. “So I think,” he said, “taking it all together, that what you ask about is a sort of quietness.”
“Perhaps you are right,” I said, “at least they do say, Charmides, that the quiet are temperate. Let’s see if there is anything in it. Tell me, temperance is [c] one of the admirable things, isn’t it?”
“Yes indeed,” he said.
“Now when you are at the writing master’s, is it more admirable to copy the letters quickly or quietly?”4
“Quickly.”
“What about reading? Quickly or quietly?”
“Quickly.”
“And certainly to play the lyre quickly and to wrestle in a lively fashion is much more admirable than to do these things quietly and slowly?”
“Yes.”
“Well, isn’t the same thing true about boxing and the pancration?”
“Yes indeed.”
[d] “And with running and jumping and all the movements of the body, aren’t the ones that are performed briskly and quickly the admirable ones, and those performed with difficulty and quietly the ugly ones?”
“It seems so.”
“And it seems to us that, in matters of the body, it is not the quieter movement but the quickest and most lively which is the most admirable. Isn’t it so?”
“Yes indeed.”
“But temperance was something admirable?”
“Yes.”
“Then in the case of the body it would not be quietness but quickness which is the more temperate, since temperance is an admirable thing.”
“That seems reasonable,” he said.
[e] “Well then,” I said, “is facility in learning more admirable or difficulty in learning?”
“Facility.”
“But facility in learning is learning quickly? And difficulty in learning is learning quietly and slowly?”
“Yes.”
“And to teach another person quickly—isn’t this far more admirable than to teach him quietly and slowly?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, to recall and to remember quietly and slowly—is this more admirable, or to do it vehemently and quickly?”
“Vehemently,” he said, “and quickly.”
[160] “And isn’t shrewdness a kind of liveliness of soul, and not a kind of quietness?”
“True.”
“And again this is also true of understanding what is said, at the writing master’s and at the lyre teacher’s and everywhere else: to act not as quietly but as quickly as possible is the most admirable.”
“Yes.”
“And, further, in the operations of thought and in making plans, it is not the quietest man, I think, and the man who plans and finds out things [b] with difficulty who appears to be worthy of praise but the one who does these things most easily and quickly.”
“Exactly so,” he said.
“Therefore, Charmides,” I said, “in all these cases, both of soul and body, we think that quickness and speed are more admirable than slowness and quietness?”
“It seems likely,” he said.
“We conclude then that temperance would not be a kind of quietness, nor would the temperate life be quiet, as far as this argument is concerned at any rate, since the temperate life is necessarily an admirable thing. There are two possibilities for us: either no quiet actions in life appear to be more [c] admirable than the swift and strong ones, or very few. If then, my friend, even quite a few quiet actions should turn out to be more admirable than the violent and quick ones, not even on this assumption would temperance consist in doing things quietly rather than in doing them violently and quickly, neither in walking nor in speech nor in anything else; nor would the quiet life be more temperate than its opposite, since in the course of [d] the argument we placed temperance among the admirable things, and the quick things have turned out to be no less admirable than the quiet ones.”
“What you say seems to me quite right, Socrates,” he said.
“Then start over again, Charmides,” I said, “and look into yourself with greater concentration, and when you have decided what effect the presence of temperance has upon you and what sort of thing it must be to have this effect, then put all this together and tell me clearly and bravely, what [e] does it appear to you to be?”
He paused and, looking into himself very manfully, said, “Well, temperance seems to me to make people ashamed and bashful, and so I think modesty must be what temperance really is.”
“But,” I said, “didn’t we agree just now that temperance was an admirable thing?”
“Yes, we did,” he said.
“And it would follow that temperate men are good?”
“Yes.”
“And could a thing be good that does not produce good men?”
“Of course not.”
“Then not only is temperance an admirable thing, but it is a good thing.”
“I agree.” [161]
“Well then,” I said, “you don’t agree with Homer when he said that ‘modesty is not a good mate for a needy man’?”5
“Oh, but I do,” he said.
“So it seems to be the case that modesty both is and is not a good.”
“Yes, it does.”
“But temperance must be a good if it makes those good in whom it is present and makes bad those in whom it is not.”
“Why yes, it seems to me to be exactly as you say.”
“Then temperance would not be modesty if it really is a good and if [b] modesty is no more good than bad.”
“What you say has quite convinced me, Socrates,” he said. “But give me your opinion of the following definition of temperance: I have just remembered having heard someone say that temperance is minding one’s own business. Tell me if you think the person who said this was right.”
And I said, “You wretch, you’ve picked this up from Critias or from [c] some other wise man.”
“I guess it was from some other,” said Critias, “because it was certainly not from me.”
“What difference does it make, Socrates,” said Charmides, “from whom I heard it?”
“None at all,” I answered, “since the question at issue is not who said it, but whether what he said is true or not.”
“Now I like what you say,” he said.
“Good for you,” I replied, “but if we succeed in finding out what it means, I should be surprised, because it seems to be a sort of riddle.”
“In what way?” he asked.
[d] “I mean,” I said, “that when he uttered the words, I don’t suppose the person speaking really meant that temperance was minding your own business. Or do you consider that the writing master does nothing when he writes or reads?”
“On the contrary, I do think he does something.”
“And do you think the writing master teaches you to read and write your own name only or those of the other boys as well? And do you write the names of your enemies just as much as your own names and those of your friends?”
“Just as much,” he said.
[e] “And are you a busybody and intemperate when you do this?”
“Not at all.”
“But aren’t you doing other people’s business if to read and write are to do something?”
“I suppose I am.”
“And then healing, my friend, is doing something, I suppose, and so is housebuilding and weaving and engaging in any one of the arts.”
“Yes indeed.�
�
“Well then,” I said, “do you think a city would be well governed by a law commanding each man to weave and wash his own cloak, make his [162] own shoes and oil flask and scraper, and perform everything else by this same principle of keeping his hands off of other people’s things and making and doing his own?”
“No, I don’t think it would,” he said.
“But,” said I, “if a city is going to be temperately governed, it must be governed well.”
“Of course,” he said.
“Then if temperance is ‘minding your own business’, it can’t be minding things of this sort and in this fashion.”
“Apparently not.”
“Then the person who said that temperance was ‘minding your own business’ must, apparently, have been riddling, as I pointed out just now, [b] because I don’t suppose he was quite so simpleminded. Or was it some silly fellow you heard saying this, Charmides?”
“Far from it,” he said, “he seemed very wise indeed.”
“Then I think he must certainly have tossed off a riddle, since it is difficult to know what in the world this ‘minding your own business’ can be.”
“Perhaps it is,” he said.
“Then what in the world is ‘minding your own business’? Are you able to say?”
“I’m at a total loss,” he said. “But perhaps the one who said it didn’t know what he meant either.” And when he said this he smiled and looked at Critias.
It was clear that Critias had been agitated for some time and also that [c] he was eager to impress Charmides and the rest who were there. He had held himself in with difficulty earlier, but now he could do so no longer. In my opinion, what I suspected earlier was certainly true, that Charmides had picked up this saying about temperance from Critias. And then Charmides, who wanted the author of the definition to take over the argument rather than himself, tried to provoke him to it by going on [d] pointing out that the cause was lost. Critias couldn’t put up with this but seemed to me to be angry with Charmides just the way a poet is when his verse is mangled by the actors. So he gave him a look and said, “Do you suppose, Charmides, that just because you don’t understand what in the world the man meant who said that temperance was ‘minding your own business’, the man himself doesn’t understand either?”
“Well, my dear Critias,” said I, “there would be nothing remarkable in [e] his being ignorant of the matter at his age, but you, because of your age and experience, are very likely to understand it. So if you agree that temperance is what the man said it was and take over the argument, I would be very happy to investigate with you the question whether what was said is true or not.”
“I am quite ready to agree,” he said, “and to take over the argument.”
“I admire you for it,” I said. “Now tell me: do you also agree with what I was just saying, that all craftsmen make something?”
“Yes I do.”
“And do they seem to you to make their own things only, or those of [163] other people as well?”
“Those of others as well.”
“And are they temperate in not making their own things only?”
“Is there any objection?” he asked.
“None for me,” I said, “but see whether there may not be one for the man who defines temperance as ‘minding your own business’ and then says there is no objection if those who do other people’s business are temperate too.”
“But,” said he, “have I agreed that those who do other people’s business are temperate by admitting that those making other people’s things are temperate?”
“Tell me,” I said, “don’t you call making and doing the same thing?” [b]
“Not at all,” he said, “nor do I call working and making the same. I have learned this from Hesiod, who said ‘work is no disgrace’.6 Do you suppose that Hesiod, if he referred to the sort of things you mentioned just now by both the term ‘work’ and the term ‘do’, would have said there was no disgrace in cobbling or selling salt fish or prostitution? One ought not to think this, Socrates, but rather believe, as I do, that he supposed [c] making to be something other than doing and working, and that a ‘made’ or created thing became a disgrace on those occasions when it was not accompanied by the admirable, but that work is never any sort of disgrace. Because he gave the name ‘works’ to things done admirably and usefully, and it is creations of this sort which are ‘works’ and ‘actions’. We ought to represent him as thinking that only things of this sort are ‘one’s own’ and that all the harmful ones belong to other people. The result is that we must suppose that Hesiod and any other man of sense calls the man who minds his own business temperate.”
[d] “Critias,” I said, “I understood the beginning of your speech pretty well, when you said that you called things that were ‘one’s own’ and ‘of oneself’ good and called the doing of good things actions, because I have heard Prodicus discourse upon the distinction in words a hundred times. Well, I give you permission to define each word the way you like just so long as you make clear the application of whatever word you use. Now start [e] at the beginning and define more clearly: the doing of good things or the making of them or whatever you want to call it—is this what you say temperance is?”
“Yes, it is,” he said.
“And the man who performs evil actions is not temperate, but the man who performs good ones?”
“Doesn’t it seem so to you, my friend?”
“Never mind that,” I said; “we are not investigating what I think but rather what you now say.”
“Well then, I,” he said, “deny that the man who does things that are not good but bad is temperate, and assert that the man who does things that are good but not bad is temperate. So I give you a clear definition of temperance as the doing of good things.”
[164] “And there is no reason why you should not be speaking the truth. But it certainly does surprise me,” I said, “if you believe that temperate men are ignorant of their temperance.”
“I don’t think so at all,” he said.
“But didn’t you say just a moment ago,” said I, “that there was nothing to prevent craftsmen, even while they do other people’s business, from being temperate?”
“Yes, I did say that,” he said. “But what about it?”
“Nothing, but tell me if you think that a doctor, when he makes someone healthy, does something useful both for himself and for the person he [b] cures.”
“Yes, I agree.”
“And the man who does these things does what he ought?”
“Yes.”
“And the man who does what he ought is temperate, isn’t he?”
“Of course he is temperate.”
“And does a doctor have to know when he cures in a useful way and when he does not? And so with each of the craftsmen: does he have to know when he is going to benefit from the work he performs and when he is not?”
“Perhaps not.”
“Then sometimes,” I said, “the doctor doesn’t know himself whether he [c] has acted beneficially or harmfully. Now if he has acted beneficially, then, according to your argument, he has acted temperately. Or isn’t this what you said?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then it seems that on some occasions he acts beneficially and, in so doing, acts temperately and is temperate, but is ignorant of his own temperance?”
“But this,” he said, “Socrates, would never happen. And if you think it necessary to draw this conclusion from what I admitted before, then I [d] would rather withdraw some of my statements, and would not be ashamed to admit I had made a mistake, in preference to conceding that a man ignorant of himself could be temperate. As a matter of fact, this is pretty much what I say temperance is, to know oneself, and I agree with the inscription to this effect set up at Delphi. Because this inscription appears to me to have been dedicated for the following purpose, as though it were a greeting from the god to those coming in in place of the usual ‘Hail’, as though t
o say ‘hail’ were an incorrect greeting, but we should rather urge [e] one another to ‘be temperate’. It is in this fashion, then, that the god greets those who enter his temple, not after the manner of man—or so I suppose the man thought who dedicated the inscription. What he says to the person entering is nothing else than ‘be temperate’; this is what he says. Now in saying this he speaks very darkly, as a seer would do. That ‘know thyself’ [165] and ‘be temperate’ are the same (as the inscription claims, and so do I) might be doubted by some, and this I think to be the case with those who dedicated the later inscriptions ‘Nothing too much’ and ‘Pledges lead to perdition’. Because these people thought that ‘Know thyself’ was a piece of advice and not the god’s greeting to those who enter, so, with the idea of dedicating some admonitions which were no less useful, they wrote these things and put them up. But here’s the reason why I say all this, Socrates: I concede to you everything that was said before—perhaps you [b] said something more nearly right on the subject and perhaps I did, but nothing of what we said was really clear—but now I wish to give you an explanation of this definition, unless of course you already agree that temperance is to know oneself.”
“But Critias,” I replied, “you are talking to me as though I professed to know the answers to my own questions and as though I could agree with you if I really wished. This is not the case—rather, because of my own [c] ignorance, I am continually investigating in your company whatever is put forward. However, if I think it over, I am willing to say whether I agree or not. Just wait while I consider.”
“Well, think it over,” he said.
“Yes, I’m thinking,” said I. “Well, if knowing is what temperance is, then it clearly must be some sort of science and must be of something, isn’t that so?”
“Yes—of oneself,” he said.
“Then medicine, too,” I said, “is a science and is of health?”
“Certainly.”
“Now,” I said, “if you should ask me, ‘If medicine is a science of health, [d] what benefit does it confer upon us and what does it produce?’ I would answer that it conferred no small benefit. Because health is a fine result for us, if you agree that this is what it produces.”
“I agree.”
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