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That Socrates stood in close relationship to Euripides in the tendency of his teaching, did not escape the notice of contemporaneous antiquity; the most eloquent expression of this felicitous insight being the tale current in Athens, that Socrates was accustomed to help Euripides in poetising. Both names were mentioned in one breath by the adherents of the "good old time," whenever they came to enumerating the popular agitators of the day: to whose influence they attributed the fact that the old Marathonian stalwart capacity of body and soul was more and more being sacrificed to a dubious enlightenment, involving progressive degeneration of the physical and mental powers. It is in this tone, half indignantly and half contemptuously, that Aristophanic comedy is wont to speak of both of them—to the consternation of modern men, who would indeed be willing enough to give up Euripides, but cannot suppress their amazement that Socrates should appear in Aristophanes as the first and head sophist, as the mirror and epitome of all sophistical tendencies; in connection with which it offers the single consolation of putting Aristophanes himself in the pillory, as a rakish, lying Alcibiades of poetry. Without here defending the profound instincts of Aristophanes against such attacks, I shall now indicate, by means of the sentiments of the time, the close connection between Socrates and Euripides. With this purpose in view, it is especially to be remembered that Socrates, as an opponent of tragic art, did not ordinarily patronise tragedy, but only appeared among the spectators when a new play of Euripides was performed. The most noted thing, however, is the close juxtaposition of the two names in the Delphic oracle, which designated Socrates as the wisest of men, but at the same time decided that the second prize in the contest of wisdom was due to Euripides.

People in antiquity noticed that Socrates and Euripides were closely linked in the direction of their teachings. The most eloquent expression of this fortunate insight was a story circulating in Athens. It claimed that Socrates regularly helped Euripides write his plays. Supporters of the "good old time" named them together whenever they listed the popular agitators of the day. They blamed the two men for the growing sacrifice of the old Marathonian strength of body and soul. In its place came a dubious enlightenment, along with a steady decline in physical and mental powers. Aristophanic comedy usually speaks of both men in this tone, half indignant and half contemptuous. This appalls modern readers, who would readily enough give up Euripides. But they cannot hide their amazement that Aristophanes presents Socrates as the first and chief sophist, the very embodiment of all sophistical tendencies. Their only consolation is to put Aristophanes himself in the pillory, as a dissolute, lying Alcibiades of poetry. I will not defend Aristophanes’ profound instincts against such attacks here. Instead, I will use the views of the time to show the close connection between Socrates and Euripides. For this purpose, we should remember that Socrates opposed tragic art and did not usually attend tragedies. He appeared among the spectators only when a new play by Euripides was performed. Most notable, however, is how closely the Delphic oracle placed their two names together. It named Socrates the wisest of men, but also awarded Euripides second prize in the contest of wisdom.

Sophocles was designated as the third in this scale of rank; he who could pride himself that, in comparison with Æschylus, he did what was right, and did it, moreover, because he knew what was right. It is evidently just the degree of clearness of this knowledge, which distinguishes these three men in common as the three "knowing ones" of their age.

Sophocles ranked third on this scale. He could take pride in doing what was right, unlike Æschylus, and in doing it because he knew what was right. Evidently, the clarity of their knowledge is what distinguishes all three as the "knowing ones" of their age.

The most decisive word, however, for this new and unprecedented esteem of knowledge and insight was spoken by Socrates when he found that he was the only one who acknowledged to himself that he knew nothing while in his critical pilgrimage through Athens, and calling on the greatest statesmen, orators, poets, and artists, he discovered everywhere the conceit of knowledge. He perceived, to his astonishment, that all these celebrities were without a proper and accurate insight, even with regard to their own callings, and practised them only by instinct. "Only by instinct": with this phrase we touch upon the heart and core of the Socratic tendency. Socratism condemns therewith existing art as well as existing ethics; wherever Socratism turns its searching eyes it beholds the lack of insight and the power of illusion; and from this lack infers the inner perversity and objectionableness of existing conditions. From this point onwards, Socrates believed that he was called upon to, correct existence; and, with an air of disregard and superiority, as the precursor of an altogether different culture, art, and morality, he enters single-handed into a world, of which, if we reverently touched the hem, we should count it our greatest happiness.

Socrates, however, made the most decisive statement about this new and unprecedented respect for knowledge and understanding. As he traveled through Athens questioning people, he found that he alone admitted to himself that he knew nothing. He visited the greatest statesmen, orators, poets, and artists, and everywhere he found people who believed they knew. To his astonishment, he saw that all these famous people lacked a proper and accurate understanding, even of their own professions. They practiced them only by instinct. "Only by instinct": this phrase brings us to the heart of the Socratic tendency. On this basis, Socratism condemns both the art and the ethics of its time. Wherever Socratism turns its searching eyes, it sees a lack of understanding and the power of illusion. From this lack of understanding, it concludes that existing conditions are corrupt and objectionable at their core. From then on, Socrates believed he was called upon to correct existence. With an air of disregard and superiority, he entered this world alone, as the forerunner of an entirely different culture, art, and morality. Yet if we could reverently touch the hem of that world, we would count it our greatest happiness.

Here is the extraordinary hesitancy which always seizes upon us with regard to Socrates, and again and again invites us to ascertain the sense and purpose of this most questionable phenomenon of antiquity. Who is it that ventures single-handed to disown the Greek character, which, as Homer, Pindar, and Æschylus, as Phidias, as Pericles, as Pythia and Dionysus, as the deepest abyss and the highest height, is sure of our wondering admiration? What demoniac power is it which would presume to spill this magic draught in the dust? What demigod is it to whom the chorus of spirits of the noblest of mankind must call out: "Weh! Weh! Du hast sie zerstört, die schöne Welt, mit mächtiger Faust; sie stürzt, sie zerfällt!"¹⁷

This is the extraordinary hesitation Socrates always arouses in us. Again and again, it prompts us to ask about the meaning and purpose of this most questionable figure of antiquity. Who dares to reject the Greek character single-handedly? It inspires our wondering admiration in its deepest depths and greatest heights. We see it in Homer, Pindar, and Æschylus, in Phidias, in Pericles, and in Pythia and Dionysus. What demonic power would dare spill this magic drink into the dust? What demigod is this, to whom the chorus of spirits of the noblest human beings must cry out: "Alas! Alas! You have destroyed the beautiful world with a mighty fist. It collapses, it falls apart!"¹⁷

A key to the character of Socrates is presented to us by the surprising phenomenon designated as the "daimonion" of Socrates. In special circumstances, when his gigantic intellect began to stagger, he got a secure support in the utterances of a divine voice which then spake to him. This voice, whenever it comes, always dissuades. In this totally abnormal nature instinctive wisdom only appears in order to hinder the progress of conscious perception here and there. While in all productive men it is instinct which is the creatively affirmative force, consciousness only comporting itself critically and dissuasively; with Socrates it is instinct which becomes critic; it is consciousness which becomes creator—a perfect monstrosity per defectum! And we do indeed observe here a monstrous defectus of all mystical aptitude, so that Socrates might be designated as the specific non-mystic, in whom the logical nature is developed, through a superfoetation, to the same excess as instinctive wisdom is developed in the mystic. On the other hand, however, the logical instinct which appeared in Socrates was absolutely prohibited from turning against itself; in its unchecked flow it manifests a native power such as we meet with, to our shocking surprise, only among the very greatest instinctive forces. He who has experienced even a breath of the divine naïveté and security of the Socratic course of life in the Platonic writings, will also feel that the enormous driving-wheel of logical Socratism is in motion, as it were, behind Socrates, and that it must be viewed through Socrates as through a shadow. And that he himself had a boding of this relation is apparent from the dignified earnestness with which he everywhere, and even before his judges, insisted on his divine calling. To refute him here was really as impossible as to approve of his instinct-disintegrating influence. In view of this indissoluble conflict, when he had at last been brought before the forum of the Greek state, there was only one punishment demanded, namely exile; he might have been sped across the borders as something thoroughly enigmatical, irrubricable and inexplicable, and so posterity would have been quite unjustified in charging the Athenians with a deed of ignominy. But that the sentence of death, and not mere exile, was pronounced upon him, seems to have been brought about by Socrates himself, with perfect knowledge of the circumstances, and without the natural fear of death: he met his death with the calmness with which, according to the description of Plato, he leaves the symposium at break of day, as the last of the revellers, to begin a new day; while the sleepy companions remain behind on the benches and the floor, to dream of Socrates, the true eroticist. The dying Socrates became the new ideal of the noble Greek youths,—an ideal they had never yet beheld,—and above all, the typical Hellenic youth, Plato, prostrated himself before this scene with all the fervent devotion of his visionary soul.

The surprising phenomenon known as the "daimonion" of Socrates gives us a key to his character. At special moments, when his gigantic intellect began to falter, he found sure support in a divine voice that spoke to him. Whenever the voice came, it always warned him against acting. In this completely abnormal nature, instinctive wisdom appears only to hinder conscious thought here and there. In all productive people, instinct is the creative force that says yes, while consciousness only criticizes and warns against action. But in Socrates, instinct becomes the critic, and consciousness the creator. This is a perfect monstrosity per defectum! We do indeed see a monstrous defectus of all mystical ability here. So Socrates might be called the specific non-mystic. In him, the logical nature has developed through excessive growth, just as instinctive wisdom has developed to excess in the mystic. On the other hand, the logical instinct that appeared in Socrates was absolutely forbidden to turn against itself. In its unchecked course, it displays an innate power we find, to our shocked surprise, only among the very greatest instinctive forces. Anyone who has sensed even a trace of the divine innocence and confidence of Socrates' way of life in Plato's writings will feel something else too. The enormous driving wheel of logical Socratism is turning, as it were, behind Socrates. We must look through Socrates to see it, as if he were a shadow. Socrates himself seems to have sensed this relationship. We can see this in the dignified seriousness with which he insisted on his divine calling everywhere, even before his judges. It was really as impossible to refute him on this point as it was to approve of his influence, which broke down instinct. Given this irreconcilable conflict, once he was finally brought before the court of the Greek state, only one punishment was called for: exile. He might have been sent across the borders as something utterly puzzling, impossible to classify or explain. Then later generations would have had no grounds to accuse the Athenians of a shameful deed. But Socrates himself seems to have brought about the sentence of death rather than mere exile. He did so with full knowledge of the circumstances and without the natural fear of death. He met death as calmly as he leaves the symposium in Plato's account. There, he is the last of the revelers to leave at daybreak and begin a new day. His sleepy companions remain behind on the benches and the floor, dreaming of Socrates, the true eroticist. The dying Socrates became a new ideal for noble Greek youths, an ideal they had never seen before. Above all, Plato, the typical Hellenic youth, bowed before this scene with all the passionate devotion of his visionary soul.