Complete Works

by Plato, Cooper, John M. , Hutchinson, D. S.

  By the repeated use of all these instruments, ascending and descending [e] to each in turn, it is barely possible for knowledge to be engendered of an object naturally good, in a man naturally good; but if his nature is defective, as is that of most men, for the acquisition of knowledge and the so-called virtues, and if the qualities he has have been corrupted, then not [344] even Lynceus could make such a man see.9 In short, neither quickness of learning nor a good memory can make a man see when his nature is not akin to the object, for this knowledge never takes root in an alien nature; so that no man who is not naturally inclined and akin to justice and all other forms of excellence, even though he may be quick at learning and remembering this and that and other things, nor any man who, though akin to justice, is slow at learning and forgetful, will ever attain the truth that is attainable about virtue. Nor about vice, either, for these must be [b] learned together, just as the truth and error about any part of being must be learned together, through long and earnest labor, as I said at the beginning. Only when all of these things—names, definitions, and visual and other perceptions—have been rubbed against one another and tested, pupil and teacher asking and answering questions in good will and without envy—only then, when reason and knowledge are at the very extremity of human effort, can they illuminate the nature of any object.10

  For this reason anyone who is seriously studying high matters will be [c] the last to write about them and thus expose his thought to the envy and criticism of men. What I have said comes, in short, to this: whenever we see a book, whether the laws of a legislator or a composition on any other subject, we can be sure that if the author is really serious, this book does not contain his best thoughts; they are stored away with the fairest of his possessions. And if he has committed these serious thoughts to writing, it is because men, not the gods, “have taken his wits away.”11 [d]

  To anyone who has followed this discourse and digression it will be clear that if Dionysius or anyone else—whether more or less able than he—has written concerning the first and highest principles of nature, he has not properly heard or understood anything of what he has written about; otherwise he would have respected these principles as I do, and would not have dared to give them this discordant and unseemly publicity. Nor can he have written them down for the sake of remembrance; for there is no danger of their being forgotten if the soul has once grasped [e] them, since they are contained in the briefest of formulas. If he wrote them, it was from unworthy ambition, either to have them regarded as his own ideas, or to show that he had participated in an education of which he was unworthy if he loved only the reputation that would come from having [345] shared in it. Now if Dionysius did indeed come to understand these matters from our single conversation, how that happened, “God wot,” as the Thebans say. For as I said, I went through the matter with him once only, never afterwards. Whoever cares to understand the course of subsequent events should consider why it was that we did not go over the matter a second or a third time, or even oftener. Was it that Dionysius, after this [b] one hearing, thought he understood well enough and really did understand, either because he had already found these principles himself or had previously learned them from others? Or did he think that what I said was of no value? Or, a third possibility, did he realize that this teaching was beyond him, and that truly he would not be able to live in constant pursuit of virtue and wisdom? If he thought my teachings of no value he contradicts many witnesses who say the opposite and who are probably much more capable judges of such matters than Dionysius. And if he had already discovered or learned these doctrines and regarded them as fitted [c] for educating a liberal mind, how—unless he is a very strange creature indeed—could he have so lightly brought ignominy upon their teacher and guardian? But this is what he did, as I shall now tell you.

  Shortly after the above occurrence, although Dionysius had previously allowed Dion to retain possession of his property and to enjoy its revenues, he gave orders to Dion’s stewards not to send anything more to the Peloponnesus, as if he had completely forgotten his letter, saying that this property belonged not to Dion but to Dion’s son, who was his nephew [d] and under his legal guardianship. Matters then had come to this, in so short a time. From this action I saw precisely the character of Dionysius’ desire for philosophy, and in spite of myself I was indignant, and with good reason. It was summer at the time, and ships were leaving the port. Though it was clear to me that I ought not to be more angry with Dionysius than with myself and the others who had compelled me to come a third [e] time to this strait of Scylla, “To measure again the length of deadly Charybdis,”12 yet I thought I ought to tell Dionysius that it was impossible for me to remain after this scurvy treatment of Dion. He tried to placate me and begged me to remain, thinking it would not go well with him if I should set out immediately as the personal bearer of this news; but when he could not persuade me, he said that he would himself make the [346] preparations for my departure. For in my anger I thought of going on board one of the vessels ready to set sail and suffering the consequences, whatever they might be, of being detained, since it was clearly evident that I had done no wrong but was the victim of wrongdoing. Seeing that nothing could induce me to remain, he devised a scheme for keeping me until the ships could no longer leave port. The following day he came to me with this persuasive speech: “Let us dispose of this matter of Dion [b] and Dion’s property which has been the cause of frequent disagreement between you and me. For your sake I will do this for Dion. Let him have his property and live in the Peloponnesus, not as an exile, but as one permitted to return here as soon as he and I and you his friends have come to an understanding—all this upon condition that he is not to conspire against me; you and your relatives and the relatives of Dion here shall be sureties to me, and he shall give you pledges of good faith. Let the property he takes be deposited in the Peloponnesus and at Athens in the keeping of any persons you please, and let Dion enjoy the revenues from it, but [c] be without power to dispose of the principal without your consent. For it will be a large sum and I have little faith that if he had this wealth at his disposal he would act justly towards me; but in you and your friends I have more confidence. See now whether these proposals please you, and if they do, stay for the year on these terms and when spring comes depart [d] with this property. Dion, I know, will be very grateful to you if you do this for him.”

  I was angered when I heard this proposal, nevertheless I said I would consider the matter and bring him my opinion on it the following day. This then was agreed upon. Later, when I had got to my own quarters and was thinking the matter over, I found myself in great perplexity; but this was the dominant thought in my deliberations: “Beware! Dionysius [e] may not intend to keep a single one of his promises; but what if he should write to Dion after I have gone, telling him what he has just said to me? And should persuade a number of Dion’s friends to write also, intimating plausibly that it was not his refusal but mine that prevented his doing what he promised, and making me out altogether indifferent to Dion’s interests? Besides this, if he does not want to see me go and, without issuing definite orders to any ship’s captain, should let it be generally known, as he easily could, that he was unwilling for me to sail, would [347] any captain take me as a passenger, even if I could get out of the palace of Dionysius?” For besides the other disadvantages of my situation, I was living in the garden surrounding the palace, and the gatekeeper would not have let me out without an express command from Dionysius. “But if I remain for the year, I can write to Dion what my situation is and what I am doing; and then if Dionysius keeps any part of his promises, what I have done will not seem altogether ridiculous,” for the property of Dion, [b] if estimated rightly, was probably worth not less than a hundred talents. “On the other hand, if the contrary comes to pass,13 as is most likely, I don’t see what course I can then take. Nevertheless, it seems that I must probably hold out one more year and put these schemes of Dionysius to the test of events.”

/>   Having come to this decision, I told Dionysius the next day that I had decided to remain. “But,” I said, “you must not think that I can bind Dion. [c] Let us send him a joint letter explaining the agreement we have just made and ask whether its terms satisfy him, telling him that if he is not satisfied and wishes to modify them in any way to write us at once; and in the meantime I ask that you take no new steps affecting him.” These were my words and these were the terms we agreed upon, almost exactly as I have stated them. Now the boats had set sail and it was no longer possible for [d] me to leave, when Dionysius mentioned to me that half the property should be Dion’s and half his son’s. He said he was going to sell it and give me half the proceeds to take to Dion; the other half he would keep here for the son, for this was clearly the most equitable procedure. I was stunned by this statement, but thought it foolish to make any further protest; yet I did say that we should await the letter from Dion and advise him of these new conditions. Immediately thereafter he sold the whole of Dion’s [e] property in the most audacious manner, selling it on whatever terms and to whomever he pleased, and said not a word to me about it. And likewise I refrained from saying anything more to him about Dion’s affairs, for I thought any further effort would be useless.

  This then was the result of my efforts in aid of philosophy and my friends. From this time on Dionysius and I lived, I like a bird looking out [348] of its cage and longing to fly away, he scheming how to frighten me14 without turning over any of Dion’s property; yet before all Sicily we professed to be friends.

  Now Dionysius, contrary to the practice of his father, tried to reduce the pay of his older mercenaries. The soldiers, infuriated, gathered in a [b] mob and declared they would not permit it. He tried to hold out against them by closing the gates of the citadel, but they straightway moved against the walls, chanting a barbarian war cry; and this so frightened Dionysius that he yielded and granted even more than they demanded to the peltasts assembled there. Now a rumor quickly got about that Heraclides had been the cause of all this disturbance. Upon hearing it, Heraclides took flight and concealed himself; and Dionysius, being at a loss how to apprehend [c] him, summoned Theodotes to the palace garden, where I happened to be walking at the time. I do not know what else they talked about, for I could not hear them; but I know and recall what Theodotes said to Dionysius in my presence. “Plato,” he said, “I am trying to persuade Dionysius here that if I can bring Heraclides before us to answer the charges that have just been made against him, and if in consequence it seems necessary for him to leave Sicily, to let15 him take his wife and child and sail to the [d] Peloponnesus and live there, enjoying the revenue from his property so long as he does no harm to Dionysius. I have already summoned him and will do so now again, and one or the other of these messages should bring him. And I ask and beseech Dionysius, if he should happen upon Heraclides anywhere, either here or in the country, to do nothing more [e] than banish him from the land during his present displeasure. Do you consent to this?” he asked, turning to Dionysius. “I consent,” he said; “even if he should be found in your own house he will suffer nothing beyond what you have said.” The evening of the following day Eurybius and Theodotes came to me in haste, greatly troubled. Theodotes spoke for them. “Plato,” he said, “you were a witness yesterday to the promise Dionysius made to you and me about Heraclides?” “Indeed I was,” I replied. “But now,” he continued, “there are peltasts running all about trying to take Heraclides, and it is likely that he is somewhere near here. You must with all speed go with us to Dionysius,” he said. So we set out, [349] and when we came into his presence the two men stood weeping silently, and I said: “They are afraid that you have changed your mind regarding Heraclides and are acting contrary to what was agreed upon yesterday. For it appears that he has taken refuge nearby.” At this he became angry and turned various colors, as is the way with an angry man. Falling before him, Theodotes seized his hand and implored him, with tears in his eyes, [b] not to do such a thing. “Cheer up, Theodotes,” I interrupted, trying to encourage him; “Dionysius will not presume to do anything contrary to the promise he made yesterday.” And Dionysius looked at me and, like a true tyrant, “To you,” he said, “I made no promise whatever.” “By the gods,” I replied, “you at least made a promise, not to do what Theodotes is now imploring you not to do.” With these words I turned and went out. After this Dionysius continued to hunt for Heraclides, while Theodotes sent messengers warning him to flee; and though Tisias and a band of [c] peltasts were sent in pursuit, Heraclides, it was reported, having a few hours the start of them, got safely into Carthaginian territory.

  After this, Dionysius conceived that my resistance to his long-standing plot not to restore Dion’s money could now be plausibly made the ground for enmity toward me. His first step was to send me out of the citadel on the pretext that the women were to hold a ten-day sacrifice in the garden [d] where I dwelt, and directed me to live outside during this period at the home of Archedemus. While I was there Theodotes sent for me and poured out his complaints and his anger against Dionysius for what he had done. When Dionysius heard that I had visited Theodotes he used this as another pretext, similar to the earlier one, for quarreling with me. He sent to inquire [e] whether I had in fact visited Theodotes at his invitation. “Certainly,” I replied. “Then he bade me say,” said the messenger, “that you are not doing right in always preferring Dion and Dion’s friends to himself.” After this message he never again summoned me back to the palace, it being now clear that I was the friend of Heraclides and Theodotes, and consequently his enemy, and he knew also that I was not pleased at the complete dissipation of Dion’s goods. From that time on, then, I lived outside the [350] acropolis among the mercenaries. Some of the rowers in the fleet were from Athens and fellow citizens of mine; they and others came to me with the report that I had an evil name among the peltasts and that some of them were threatening to kill me if they ever got hold of me. I began then to plan the following means of escape. I sent letters to Archytas and my other friends in Tarentum telling them of my plight, and they found some pretext for an embassy from their city, dispatching Lamiscus, one of their [b] number, with a thirty-oared vessel. When he arrived he besought Dionysius on my behalf, saying that I wished to depart and begging him not to prevent it. Dionysius complied and released me, giving me travel money; but for Dion’s property I made no further demand, nor did anyone deliver it to me.

  Upon my return to the Peloponnesus I encountered Dion among the spectators at Olympia and recounted to him what had occurred. Calling upon Zeus to witness, he straightway summoned me and my relatives [c] and friends to prepare for vengeance against Dionysius, demanding satisfaction to me for breach of hospitality (these were his words and this is what he thought), and to himself for his unjust dismissal and exile. When I heard this I told him to call upon my friends, if they wished to help him. “But as for me,” I said, “you and the others compelled me, in a way, to become a guest at the table and hearth of Dionysius and a participant in his sacrifices; and he perhaps believed, from the many reports circulated against me, that I was plotting with you against him and the tyranny—[d] yet he did not put me to death, but respected my person. Nor am I any longer at the age for helping anyone carry on war, though I am with you if ever you desire one another’s friendship and wish to accomplish something good. But as long as you are intent on harm, look elsewhere for your allies.” I said this in disgust at my Sicilian “adventure” and its lack of success. But they did not listen to me; and in failing to heed my attempts at reconciliation they are themselves responsible for all the misfortunes that have come upon them. None of them would ever have [e] occurred, humanly speaking, if Dionysius had restored his property to Dion or become fully reconciled with him, for I would have been willing and easily able to restrain Dion; but as it is they have attacked one another and brought about universal disaster.

  [351] Dion’s purpose, however, with respect to his native city and to th
e power he sought for himself and his friends, was exactly what I should say any moderate man, myself or anyone else, ought to have; such a man would think of enjoying great power and honor only because he is conferring great benefits. I do not mean such benefits as are conferred by an impecunious agitator, lacking in self-control, the weak victim of his passions, who enriches himself and his partisans and his city by organizing plots and [b] conspiracies, and puts to death the men of wealth on the pretext that they are enemies, and distributes their property, and charges his fellow conspirators and followers not to blame him if they are poor; nor do I mean the honors enjoyed by a man who “benefits” his city in this way, by dividing the goods of the few among the many by public decree, or who, as head of a great city ruling over many lesser ones, unjustly assigns [c] the wealth of the smaller ones to his own city. Neither Dion nor anyone else in his right mind would seek power for these ends, power that would be a plague to himself and his family for all time; but rather would seek it for the purpose of creating, without murder or bloodshed, the best and most just constitution and system of laws. This is what Dion was aiming at, preferring to be the victim of wickedness rather than the agent of it, though he endeavored to protect himself. In spite of all this he fell, just as he had come to the summit of triumph over his enemies. There is nothing surprising in what he experienced. For although a good man who [d] is also prudent and sagacious cannot be altogether deceived about the character of wicked men, it would not be surprising if he should suffer the misfortune of the skilled captain who, though not unaware of the approach of a storm, may not foresee its extraordinary and unexpected violence, and be swamped by its force. This is the mistake that Dion made. Those who caused him to fall were men whom he well knew to be villains, but he did not suspect the depths of their ignorance and villainy and greed. [e] By this error he is fallen, and Sicily is overwhelmed with grief.