Book 1, Chapter 6

In this context some discussions with Antiphon the sophist ¹ deserve record. Antiphon approaches Socrates in hope of drawing away his associates, and in their presence thus accosts him.

In this context, some discussions with Antiphon the sophist ¹ are worth recording. Hoping to draw Socrates’ associates away from him, Antiphon approaches him and speaks to him in their presence.

Antiphon. Why, Socrates, I always thought it was expected of students of philosophy to grow in happiness daily; but you seem to have reaped other fruits from your philosophy. At any rate, you exist, I do not say live, in a style such as no slave serving under a master would put up with. Your meat and your drink are of the cheapest sort, and as to clothes, you cling to one wretched cloak which serves you for summer and winter alike; and so you go the whole year round, without shoes to your feet or a shirt to your back. Then again, you are not for taking or making money, the mere seeking of which is a pleasure, even as the possession of it adds to the sweetness and independence of existence. I do not know whether you follow the common rule of teachers, who try to fashion their pupils in imitation of themselves, ² and propose to mould the characters of your companions; but if you do you ought to dub yourself professor of the art of wretchedness. ³

Antiphon. Socrates, I always thought students of philosophy were supposed to grow happier every day. But your philosophy seems to have brought you different results. In any case, you exist, I won't say live, in conditions no slave would tolerate from a master. Your food and drink are the cheapest kind. You wear one miserable cloak in both summer and winter. So you go all year without shoes or a shirt. And you don't accept or earn money. Simply seeking money is a pleasure, and having it makes life sweeter and more independent. I don't know whether you follow the usual practice of teachers, who try to make their students like themselves, ² and intend to shape your companions' characters. But if you do, you should call yourself a professor of the art of misery. ³

Thus challenged, Socrates replied: One thing to me is certain, Antiphon; you have conceived so vivid an idea of my life of misery that for yourself you would choose death sooner than live as I do. Suppose now we turn and consider what it is you find so hard in my life. Is it that he who takes payment must as a matter of contract finish the work for which he is paid, whereas I, who do not take it, lie under no constraint to discourse except with whom I choose? Do you despise my dietary on the ground that the food which I eat is less wholesome and less stengthening than yours, or that the articles of my consumption are so scarce and so much costlier to procure than yours? Or have the fruits of your marketing a flavour denied to mine? Do you not know the sharper the appetite the less the need of sauces, the keener the thirst the less the desire for out-of-the-way drinks? And as to raiment, clothes, you know, are changed on account of cold or else of heat. People only wear boots and shoes in order not to gall their feet and be prevented walking. Now I ask you, have you ever noticed that I keep more within doors than others on account of the cold? Have you ever seen me battling with any one for shade on account of the heat? Do you not know that even a weakling by nature may, by dint of exercise and practice, come to outdo a giant who neglects his body? He will beat him in the particular point of training, and bear the strain more easily. But you apparently will not have it that I, who am for ever training myself to endure this, that, and the other thing which may befall the body, can brave all hardships more easily than yourself for instance, who perhaps are not so practised. And to escape slavery to the belly or to sleep or lechery, can you suggest more effective means than the possession of some powerful attraction, some counter-charm which shall gladden not only in the using, but by the hope enkindled of its lasting usefulness? And yet this you do know; joy is not to him who feels that he is doing well in nothing—it belongs to one who is persuaded that things are progressing with him, be it tillage or the working of a vessel, ⁴ or any of the thousand and one things on which a man may chance to be employed. To him it is given to rejoice as he reflects, "I am doing well." But is the pleasured derived from all these put together half as joyous as the consciousness of becoming better oneself, of acquiring better and better friends? That, for my part, is the belief I continue to cherish.

Challenged in this way, Socrates replied: One thing is certain to me, Antiphon. You have such a vivid picture of my life of misery that you would rather die than live as I do. Let us consider what you find so hard about my life. Is it that someone who takes payment is bound by contract to finish the work? I take no payment, so I am free to talk with anyone I choose. Do you look down on my diet because my food is less healthy and nourishing than yours? Or because the things I eat are scarcer and much more expensive to obtain than yours? Or does the food you buy taste better than mine? Don't you know that the hungrier you are, the less you need sauces? And the thirstier you are, the less you want unusual drinks? As for clothing, people change clothes because of cold or heat. They wear shoes and boots only to keep their feet from being rubbed sore and stopping them from walking. So tell me, have you ever noticed me staying indoors more than other people because of the cold? Have you ever seen me fighting anyone for a place in the shade because of the heat? Don't you know that even someone naturally weak can, through exercise and practice, outperform a giant who neglects his body? The weaker person will beat the giant at whatever he has trained for and bear the strain more easily. Yet apparently you refuse to believe that I can endure hardships more easily than you, for instance, who may not be as well trained. I am always training myself to endure the various things that can happen to the body. And what better way is there to escape slavery to food, sleep, or lust than to have some powerful attraction to counter them? It must be something that gives pleasure not only when you engage in it, but also through the hope that it will remain useful. Yet you know that someone who feels he is doing nothing well finds no joy. Joy belongs to someone who believes he is making progress, whether in farming, operating a vessel, ⁴ or any of the countless other things a person might do. He can rejoice and say to himself, "I am doing well." But is the pleasure of all these things combined half as great as knowing you are becoming a better person and gaining better and better friends? For my part, I continue to believe that it is not.

Again, if it be a question of helping one's friends or country, which of the two will have the larger leisure to devote to these objects—he who leads the life which I lead to-day, or he who lives in the style which you deem so fortunate? Which of the two will adopt a soldier's life more easily—the man who cannot get on without expensive living, or he to whom whatever comes to hand suffices? Which will be the readier to capitulate and cry "mercy" in a siege—the man of elaborate wants, or he who can get along happily with the readiest things to hand? You, Antiphon, would seem to suggest that happiness consists of luxury and extravagance; I hold a different creed. To have no wants at all is, to my mind, an attribute of Godhead; ⁵ to have as few wants as possible the nearest approach to Godhead; and as that which is divine is mightiest, so that is next mightiest which comes closest to the divine.

Again, if the question is helping friends or country, who will have more time to devote to them? The man who lives as I do today, or the man who lives in the style you consider so fortunate? Who will find it easier to live as a soldier? The man who cannot manage without expensive comforts, or the man who is satisfied with whatever is at hand? Who will be more ready to surrender and cry "mercy" during a siege? The man with elaborate needs, or the man who can live happily with whatever is readily available? Antiphon, you seem to suggest that happiness consists in luxury and extravagance. I believe otherwise. In my view, having no needs at all is an attribute of the divine. ⁵ Having as few needs as possible brings us closest to the divine. And just as the divine is mightiest, so what comes closest to the divine is next mightiest.

Returning to the charge at another time, this same Antiphon engaged Socrates in conversation thus.

On another occasion, Antiphon tried again and began a conversation with Socrates as follows.

Ant. Socrates, for my part, I believe you to be a good and upright man; but for your wisdom I cannot say much. I fancy you would hardly dispute the verdict yourself, since, as I remark, you do not ask a money payment for your society; and yet if it were your cloak now, or your house, or any other of your possessions, you would set some value upon it, and never dream, I will not say of parting with it gratis, but of exchanging it for less than its worth. A plain proof, to my mind, that if you thought your society worth anything, you would ask for it not less than its equivalent in gold. ⁶ Hence the conclusion to which I have come, as already stated: good and upright you may be, since you do not cheat people from pure selfishness; but wise you cannot be, since your knowledge is not worth a cent.

Ant. Socrates, I believe you are a good and upright man. But I cannot say much for your wisdom. I doubt you would even dispute my judgment. After all, I notice that you do not charge people to spend time with you. Yet you would put a value on your cloak, your house, or any other possession. You would never dream of giving one away, let alone exchanging it for less than it was worth. To my mind, this plainly proves that if you thought your company was worth anything, you would charge its full value in gold. ⁶ So I have reached the conclusion I already stated: you may be good and upright, since you do not cheat people out of pure selfishness. But you cannot be wise, since your knowledge is not worth a cent.

To this onslaught Socrates: Antiphon, it is a tenet which we cling to that beauty and wisdom have this in common, that there is a fair way and a foul way in which to dispose of them. The vendor of beauty purchases an evil name, but supposing the same person has discerned a soul of beauty in his lover and makes that man his friend, we regard his choice as sensible. ⁷ So is it with wisdom; he who sells it for money to the first bidder we name a sophist, ⁸ as though one should say a man who prostitutes his wisdom; but if the same man, discerning the noble nature of another, shall teach that other every good thing, and make him his friend, of such a one we say he does that which it is the duty of every good citizen of gentle soul to do. In accordance with this theory, I too, Antiphon, having my tastes, even as another finds pleasure in his horse and his hounds, ⁹ and another in his fighting cocks, so I too take my pleasure in good friends; and if I have any good thing myself I teach it them, or I commend them to others by whom I think they will be helped forwards on the path of virtue. The treasures also of the wise of old, written and bequeathed in their books, ¹⁰ I unfold and peruse in common with my friends. If our eye light upon any good thing we cull it eagerly, and regard it as great gain if we may but grow in friendship with one another.

Socrates responded to this attack: Antiphon, we believe that beauty and wisdom have something in common. There is an honorable way and a dishonorable way to offer each of them to others. Anyone who sells beauty earns a bad reputation. But suppose someone sees a beautiful soul in his lover and makes that man his friend. We consider his choice sensible. ⁷ The same is true of wisdom. We call anyone who sells wisdom for money to the first bidder a sophist, ⁸ as if to say he prostitutes his wisdom. But suppose a man recognizes another’s noble nature, teaches him every good thing, and makes him his friend. We say that man is doing what every good citizen with a generous soul should do. In keeping with this belief, Antiphon, I too have my pleasures. One person enjoys his horse and hounds, ⁹ another his fighting cocks, and I enjoy good friends. If I have any good thing myself, I teach it to them. Or I recommend them to others who I think will help them advance on the path of virtue. I also open and read with my friends the treasures that wise people of old left us in their books. ¹⁰ If we find any good thing in them, we eagerly gather it. And we consider it a great gain if we can grow in friendship with one another.

As I listened to this talk I could not but reflect that he, the master, was a person to be envied, and that we, his hearers, were being led by him to beauty and nobility of soul.

As I listened to this conversation, I could not help thinking that the master was someone to be envied. He was leading us, his listeners, toward beauty and nobility of soul.

Again on some occasion the same Antiphon asked Socrates how he expected to make politicians of others when, even if he had the knowledge, he did not engage in politics himself.

On another occasion, Antiphon asked Socrates how he expected to train others as politicians. Even if Socrates had the knowledge, he did not take part in politics himself.

Socrates replied: I will put to you a question, Antiphon: Which were the more statesmanlike proceeding, to practise politics myself single-handed, or to devote myself to making as many others as possible fit to engage in that pursuit?

Socrates replied: Let me ask you a question, Antiphon. Which would show better statesmanship? Should I engage in politics alone, or devote myself to preparing as many others as possible to take part?