Chapter Chapter 17 · Many things pleased me in the order of our State, but there was（8）

Yes.

And are enemies also to receive what we owe to them?

To be sure, he said, they are to receive what we owe them, and an

enemy, as I take it, owes to an enemy that which is due or proper to

him—that is to say, evil.

Simonides, then, after the manner of poets, would seem to have spoken

darkly of the nature of justice; for he really meant to say that

justice is the giving to each man what is proper to him, and this he

termed a debt.

That must have been his meaning, he said.

By heaven! I replied; and if we asked him what due or proper thing is

given by medicine, and to whom, what answer do you think that he would

make to us?

He would surely reply that medicine gives drugs and meat and drink to

human bodies.

And what due or proper thing is given by cookery, and to what?

Seasoning to food.

And what is that which justice gives, and to whom?

If, Socrates, we are to be guided at all by the analogy of the

preceding instances, then justice is the art which gives good to

friends and evil to enemies.

That is his meaning then?

I think so.

And who is best able to do good to his friends and evil to his enemies

in time of sickness?

The physician.

Or when they are on a voyage, amid the perils of the sea?

The pilot.

And in what sort of actions or with a view to what result is the just

man most able to do harm to his enemy and good to his friend?

In going to war against the one and in making alliances with the other.

But when a man is well, my dear Polemarchus, there is no need of a

physician?

No.

And he who is not on a voyage has no need of a pilot?

No.

Then in time of peace justice will be of no use?

I am very far from thinking so.

You think that justice may be of use in peace as well as in war?

Yes.

Like husbandry for the acquisition of corn?

Yes.

Or like shoemaking for the acquisition of shoes,—that is what you mean?

Yes.

And what similar use or power of acquisition has justice in time of

peace?

In contracts, Socrates, justice is of use.

And by contracts you mean partnerships?

Exactly.

But is the just man or the skilful player a more useful and better

partner at a game of draughts?

The skilful player.

And in the laying of bricks and stones is the just man a more useful or

better partner than the builder?

Quite the reverse.

Then in what sort of partnership is the just man a better partner than

the harp-player, as in playing the harp the harp-player is certainly a

better partner than the just man?

In a money partnership.

Yes, Polemarchus, but surely not in the use of money; for you do not

want a just man to be your counsellor in the purchase or sale of a

horse; a man who is knowing about horses would be better for that,

would he not?

Certainly.

And when you want to buy a ship, the shipwright or the pilot would be

better?

True.

Then what is that joint use of silver or gold in which the just man is

to be preferred?

When you want a deposit to be kept safely.

You mean when money is not wanted, but allowed to lie?

Precisely.

That is to say, justice is useful when money is useless?

That is the inference.

And when you want to keep a pruning-hook safe, then justice is useful

to the individual and to the state; but when you want to use it, then

the art of the vine-dresser?

Clearly.

And when you want to keep a shield or a lyre, and not to use them, you

would say that justice is useful; but when you want to use them, then

the art of the soldier or of the musician?

Certainly.

And so of all other things;—justice is useful when they are useless,

and useless when they are useful?

That is the inference.

Then justice is not good for much. But let us consider this further

point: Is not he who can best strike a blow in a boxing match or in any

kind of fighting best able to ward off a blow?

Certainly.

And he who is most skilful in preventing or escaping from a disease is

best able to create one?

True.

And he is the best guard of a camp who is best able to steal a march

upon the enemy?

Certainly.

Then he who is a good keeper of anything is also a good thief?

That, I suppose, is to be inferred.

Then if the just man is good at keeping money, he is good at stealing

it.

That is implied in the argument.

Then after all the just man has turned out to be a thief. And this is a

lesson which I suspect you must have learnt out of Homer; for he,

speaking of Autolycus, the maternal grandfather of Odysseus, who is a

favourite of his, affirms that

‘He was excellent above all men in theft and perjury.’

And so, you and Homer and Simonides are agreed that justice is an art

of theft; to be practised however ‘for the good of friends and for the

harm of enemies,’—that was what you were saying?

No, certainly not that, though I do not now know what I did say; but I

still stand by the latter words.

Well, there is another question: By friends and enemies do we mean

those who are so really, or only in seeming?

Surely, he said, a man may be expected to love those whom he thinks

good, and to hate those whom he thinks evil.

Yes, but do not persons often err about good and evil: many who are not

good seem to be so, and conversely?

That is true.

Then to them the good will be enemies and the evil will be their

friends? True.

And in that case they will be right in doing good to the evil and evil

to the good?

Clearly.

But the good are just and would not do an injustice?

True.

Then according to your argument it is just to injure those who do no

wrong?

Nay, Socrates; the doctrine is immoral.

Then I suppose that we ought to do good to the just and harm to the

unjust?

I like that better.

But see the consequence:—Many a man who is ignorant of human nature has

friends who are bad friends, and in that case he ought to do harm to

them; and he has good enemies whom he ought to benefit; but, if so, we

shall be saying the very opposite of that which we affirmed to be the

meaning of Simonides.

Very true, he said: and I think that we had better correct an error

into which we seem to have fallen in the use of the words ‘friend’ and

‘enemy.’

What was the error, Polemarchus? I asked.

We assumed that he is a friend who seems to be or who is thought good.

And how is the error to be corrected?

We should rather say that he is a friend who is, as well as seems,

good; and that he who seems only, and is not good, only seems to be and

is not a friend; and of an enemy the same may be said.

You would argue that the good are our friends and the bad our enemies?

Yes.

And instead of saying simply as we did at first, that it is just to do

good to our friends and harm to our enemies, we should further say: It

is just to do good to our friends when they are good and harm to our

enemies when they are evil?

Yes, that appears to me to be the truth.

But ought the just to injure any one at all?

Undoubtedly he ought to injure those who are both wicked and his

enemies.

When horses are injured, are they improved or deteriorated?

The latter.

Deteriorated, that is to say, in the good qualities of horses, not of

dogs?

Yes, of horses.

And dogs are deteriorated in the good qualities of dogs, and not of

horses?

Of course.

And will not men who are injured be deteriorated in that which is the

proper virtue of man?

Certainly.

And that human virtue is justice?

To be sure.

Then men who are injured are of necessity made unjust?

That is the result.

But can the musician by his art make men unmusical?

Certainly not.

Or the horseman by his art make them bad horsemen?

Impossible.

And can the just by justice make men unjust, or speaking generally, can

the good by virtue make them bad?

Assuredly not.

Any more than heat can produce cold?

It cannot.

Or drought moisture?

Clearly not.

Nor can the good harm any one?

Impossible.

And the just is the good?

Certainly.

Then to injure a friend or any one else is not the act of a just man,

but of the opposite, who is the unjust?

I think that what you say is quite true, Socrates.

Then if a man says that justice consists in the repayment of debts, and

that good is the debt which a just man owes to his friends, and evil

the debt which he owes to his enemies,—to say this is not wise; for it

is not true, if, as has been clearly shown, the injuring of another can

be in no case just.

I agree with you, said Polemarchus.

Then you and I are prepared to take up arms against any one who

attributes such a saying to Simonides or Bias or Pittacus, or any other

wise man or seer?

I am quite ready to do battle at your side, he said.

Shall I tell you whose I believe the saying to be?

Whose?

I believe that Periander or Perdiccas or Xerxes or Ismenias the Theban,

or some other rich and mighty man, who had a great opinion of his own

power, was the first to say that justice is ‘doing good to your friends

and harm to your enemies.’

Most true, he said.

Yes, I said; but if this definition of justice also breaks down, what

other can be offered?

Several times in the course of the discussion Thrasymachus had made an

attempt to get the argument into his own hands, and had been put down

by the rest of the company, who wanted to hear the end. But when

Polemarchus and I had done speaking and there was a pause, he could no

longer hold his peace; and, gathering himself up, he came at us like a

wild beast, seeking to devour us. We were quite panic-stricken at the

sight of him.

He roared out to the whole company: What folly, Socrates, has taken

possession of you all? And why, sillybillies, do you knock under to one

another? I say that if you want really to know what justice is, you

should not only ask but answer, and you should not seek honour to

yourself from the refutation of an opponent, but have your own answer;

for there is many a one who can ask and cannot answer. And now I will

not have you say that justice is duty or advantage or profit or gain or

interest, for this sort of nonsense will not do for me; I must have

clearness and accuracy.

I was panic-stricken at his words, and could not look at him without

trembling. Indeed I believe that if I had not fixed my eye upon him, I

should have been struck dumb: but when I saw his fury rising, I looked

at him first, and was therefore able to reply to him.

Thrasymachus, I said, with a quiver, don’t be hard upon us. Polemarchus

and I may have been guilty of a little mistake in the argument, but I

can assure you that the error was not intentional. If we were seeking

for a piece of gold, you would not imagine that we were ‘knocking under

to one another,’ and so losing our chance of finding it. And why, when

we are seeking for justice, a thing more precious than many pieces of

gold, do you say that we are weakly yielding to one another and not

doing our utmost to get at the truth? Nay, my good friend, we are most

willing and anxious to do so, but the fact is that we cannot. And if

so, you people who know all things should pity us and not be angry with

us.

How characteristic of Socrates! he replied, with a bitter laugh;—that’s

your ironical style! Did I not foresee—have I not already told you,

that whatever he was asked he would refuse to answer, and try irony or

any other shuffle, in order that he might avoid answering?

You are a philosopher, Thrasymachus, I replied, and well know that if

you ask a person what numbers make up twelve, taking care to prohibit

him whom you ask from answering twice six, or three times four, or six

times two, or four times three, ‘for this sort of nonsense will not do

for me,’—then obviously, if that is your way of putting the question,

no one can answer you. But suppose that he were to retort,

‘Thrasymachus, what do you mean? If one of these numbers which you

interdict be the true answer to the question, am I falsely to say some

other number which is not the right one?—is that your meaning?’—How

would you answer him?

Just as if the two cases were at all alike! he said.

Why should they not be? I replied; and even if they are not, but only

appear to be so to the person who is asked, ought he not to say what he

thinks, whether you and I forbid him or not?

I presume then that you are going to make one of the interdicted

answers?

I dare say that I may, notwithstanding the danger, if upon reflection I

approve of any of them.

But what if I give you an answer about justice other and better, he

said, than any of these? What do you deserve to have done to you?

Done to me!—as becomes the ignorant, I must learn from the wise—that is

what I deserve to have done to me.

What, and no payment! a pleasant notion!

I will pay when I have the money, I replied.

But you have, Socrates, said Glaucon: and you, Thrasymachus, need be

under no anxiety about money, for we will all make a contribution for

Socrates.

Yes, he replied, and then Socrates will do as he always does—refuse to

answer himself, but take and pull to pieces the answer of some one

else.

Why, my good friend, I said, how can any one answer who knows, and says

that he knows, just nothing; and who, even if he has some faint notions

of his own, is told by a man of authority not to utter them? The

natural thing is, that the speaker should be some one like yourself who

professes to know and can tell what he knows. Will you then kindly

answer, for the edification of the company and of myself?

Glaucon and the rest of the company joined in my request, and

Thrasymachus, as any one might see, was in reality eager to speak; for

he thought that he had an excellent answer, and would distinguish

himself. But at first he affected to insist on my answering; at length

he consented to begin. Behold, he said, the wisdom of Socrates; he

refuses to teach himself, and goes about learning of others, to whom he

never even says Thank you.

That I learn of others, I replied, is quite true; but that I am

ungrateful I wholly deny. Money I have none, and therefore I pay in

praise, which is all I have; and how ready I am to praise any one who

appears to me to speak well you will very soon find out when you

answer; for I expect that you will answer well.

Listen, then, he said; I proclaim that justice is nothing else than the

interest of the stronger. And now why do you not praise me? But of

course you won’t.

Let me first understand you, I replied. Justice, as you say, is the

interest of the stronger. What, Thrasymachus, is the meaning of this?

You cannot mean to say that because Polydamas, the pancratiast, is

stronger than we are, and finds the eating of beef conducive to his

bodily strength, that to eat beef is therefore equally for our good who

are weaker than he is, and right and just for us?

That’s abominable of you, Socrates; you take the words in the sense

which is most damaging to the argument.

Not at all, my good sir, I said; I am trying to understand them; and I

wish that you would be a little clearer.

Well, he said, have you never heard that forms of government differ;

there are tyrannies, and there are democracies, and there are

aristocracies?

Yes, I know.

And the government is the ruling power in each state?

Certainly.

And the different forms of government make laws democratical,

aristocratical, tyrannical, with a view to their several interests; and

these laws, which are made by them for their own interests, are the

justice which they deliver to their subjects, and him who transgresses

them they punish as a breaker of the law, and unjust. And that is what

I mean when I say that in all states there is the same principle of

justice, which is the interest of the government; and as the government

must be supposed to have power, the only reasonable conclusion is, that

everywhere there is one principle of justice, which is the interest of

the stronger.

Now I understand you, I said; and whether you are right or not I will

try to discover. But let me remark, that in defining justice you have

yourself used the word ‘interest’ which you forbade me to use. It is

true, however, that in your definition the words ‘of the stronger’ are

added.

A small addition, you must allow, he said.

Great or small, never mind about that: we must first enquire whether

what you are saying is the truth. Now we are both agreed that justice

is interest of some sort, but you go on to say ‘of the stronger’; about

this addition I am not so sure, and must therefore consider further.

Proceed.

I will; and first tell me, Do you admit that it is just for subjects to

obey their rulers?

I do.

But are the rulers of states absolutely infallible, or are they

sometimes liable to err?

To be sure, he replied, they are liable to err.

Then in making their laws they may sometimes make them rightly, and

sometimes not?

True.

When they make them rightly, they make them agreeably to their

interest; when they are mistaken, contrary to their interest; you admit

that?

Yes.

And the laws which they make must be obeyed by their subjects,—and that

is what you call justice?

Doubtless.

Then justice, according to your argument, is not only obedience to the

interest of the stronger but the reverse?

What is that you are saying? he asked.

I am only repeating what you are saying, I believe. But let us

consider: Have we not admitted that the rulers may be mistaken about

their own interest in what they command, and also that to obey them is

justice? Has not that been admitted?

Yes.

Then you must also have acknowledged justice not to be for the interest

of the stronger, when the rulers unintentionally command things to be

done which are to their own injury. For if, as you say, justice is the

obedience which the subject renders to their commands, in that case, O

wisest of men, is there any escape from the conclusion that the weaker

are commanded to do, not what is for the interest, but what is for the

injury of the stronger?

Nothing can be clearer, Socrates, said Polemarchus.

Yes, said Cleitophon, interposing, if you are allowed to be his

witness.

But there is no need of any witness, said Polemarchus, for Thrasymachus

himself acknowledges that rulers may sometimes command what is not for

their own interest, and that for subjects to obey them is justice.

Yes, Polemarchus,—Thrasymachus said that for subjects to do what was

commanded by their rulers is just.

Yes, Cleitophon, but he also said that justice is the interest of the

stronger, and, while admitting both these propositions, he further

acknowledged that the stronger may command the weaker who are his

subjects to do what is not for his own interest; whence follows that

justice is the injury quite as much as the interest of the stronger.

But, said Cleitophon, he meant by the interest of the stronger what the

stronger thought to be his interest,—this was what the weaker had to

do; and this was affirmed by him to be justice.

Those were not his words, rejoined Polemarchus.

Never mind, I replied, if he now says that they are, let us accept his

statement. Tell me, Thrasymachus, I said, did you mean by justice what

the stronger thought to be his interest, whether really so or not?

Certainly not, he said. Do you suppose that I call him who is mistaken

the stronger at the time when he is mistaken?

Yes, I said, my impression was that you did so, when you admitted that

the ruler was not infallible but might be sometimes mistaken.

You argue like an informer, Socrates. Do you mean, for example, that he

who is mistaken about the sick is a physician in that he is mistaken?

or that he who errs in arithmetic or grammar is an arithmetician or

grammarian at the time when he is making the mistake, in respect of the

mistake? True, we say that the physician or arithmetician or grammarian

has made a mistake, but this is only a way of speaking; for the fact is

that neither the grammarian nor any other person of skill ever makes a

mistake in so far as he is what his name implies; they none of them err

unless their skill fails them, and then they cease to be skilled

artists. No artist or sage or ruler errs at the time when he is what

his name implies; though he is commonly said to err, and I adopted the

common mode of speaking. But to be perfectly accurate, since you are

such a lover of accuracy, we should say that the ruler, in so far as he

is a ruler, is unerring, and, being unerring, always commands that

which is for his own interest; and the subject is required to execute

his commands; and therefore, as I said at first and now repeat, justice

is the interest of the stronger.

Indeed, Thrasymachus, and do I really appear to you to argue like an

informer?

Certainly, he replied.

And do you suppose that I ask these questions with any design of

injuring you in the argument?

Nay, he replied, ‘suppose’ is not the word—I know it; but you will be

found out, and by sheer force of argument you will never prevail.

I shall not make the attempt, my dear man; but to avoid any

misunderstanding occurring between us in future, let me ask, in what

sense do you speak of a ruler or stronger whose interest, as you were

saying, he being the superior, it is just that the inferior should

execute—is he a ruler in the popular or in the strict sense of the

term?

In the strictest of all senses, he said. And now cheat and play the

informer if you can; I ask no quarter at your hands. But you never will

be able, never.

And do you imagine, I said, that I am such a madman as to try and

cheat, Thrasymachus? I might as well shave a lion.

Why, he said, you made the attempt a minute ago, and you failed.

Enough, I said, of these civilities. It will be better that I should

ask you a question: Is the physician, taken in that strict sense of

which you are speaking, a healer of the sick or a maker of money? And

remember that I am now speaking of the true physician.

A healer of the sick, he replied.

And the pilot—that is to say, the true pilot—is he a captain of sailors

or a mere sailor?

A captain of sailors.

The circumstance that he sails in the ship is not to be taken into

account; neither is he to be called a sailor; the name pilot by which

he is distinguished has nothing to do with sailing, but is significant

of his skill and of his authority over the sailors.

Very true, he said.

Now, I said, every art has an interest?

Certainly.

For which the art has to consider and provide?

Yes, that is the aim of art.

And the interest of any art is the perfection of it—this and nothing

else?

What do you mean?

I mean what I may illustrate negatively by the example of the body.

Suppose you were to ask me whether the body is self-sufficing or has

wants, I should reply: Certainly the body has wants; for the body may

be ill and require to be cured, and has therefore interests to which

the art of medicine ministers; and this is the origin and intention of

medicine, as you will acknowledge. Am I not right?

Quite right, he replied.

But is the art of medicine or any other art faulty or deficient in any

quality in the same way that the eye may be deficient in sight or the

ear fail of hearing, and therefore requires another art to provide for

the interests of seeing and hearing—has art in itself, I say, any

similar liability to fault or defect, and does every art require

another supplementary art to provide for its interests, and that

another and another without end? Or have the arts to look only after

their own interests? Or have they no need either of themselves or of

another?—having no faults or defects, they have no need to correct

them, either by the exercise of their own art or of any other; they

have only to consider the interest of their subject-matter. For every

art remains pure and faultless while remaining true—that is to say,

while perfect and unimpaired. Take the words in your precise sense, and

tell me whether I am not right.

Yes, clearly.

Then medicine does not consider the interest of medicine, but the

interest of the body?

True, he said.

Nor does the art of horsemanship consider the interests of the art of

horsemanship, but the interests of the horse; neither do any other arts

care for themselves, for they have no needs; they care only for that

which is the subject of their art?

True, he said.

But surely, Thrasymachus, the arts are the superiors and rulers of

their own subjects?

To this he assented with a good deal of reluctance.

Then, I said, no science or art considers or enjoins the interest of

the stronger or superior, but only the interest of the subject and

weaker?

He made an attempt to contest this proposition also, but finally

acquiesced.

Then, I continued, no physician, in so far as he is a physician,

considers his own good in what he prescribes, but the good of his

patient; for the true physician is also a ruler having the human body

as a subject, and is not a mere money-maker; that has been admitted?

Yes.

And the pilot likewise, in the strict sense of the term, is a ruler of

sailors and not a mere sailor?

That has been admitted.

And such a pilot and ruler will provide and prescribe for the interest

of the sailor who is under him, and not for his own or the ruler’s

interest?

He gave a reluctant ‘Yes.’

Then, I said, Thrasymachus, there is no one in any rule who, in so far

as he is a ruler, considers or enjoins what is for his own interest,

but always what is for the interest of his subject or suitable to his

art; to that he looks, and that alone he considers in everything which

he says and does.

When we had got to this point in the argument, and every one saw that

the definition of justice had been completely upset, Thrasymachus,

instead of replying to me, said: Tell me, Socrates, have you got a

nurse?

Why do you ask such a question, I said, when you ought rather to be

answering?

Because she leaves you to snivel, and never wipes your nose: she has

not even taught you to know the shepherd from the sheep.

What makes you say that? I replied.

Because you fancy that the shepherd or neatherd fattens or tends the

sheep or oxen with a view to their own good and not to the good of

himself or his master; and you further imagine that the rulers of

states, if they are true rulers, never think of their subjects as

sheep, and that they are not studying their own advantage day and

night. Oh, no; and so entirely astray are you in your ideas about the

just and unjust as not even to know that justice and the just are in

reality another’s good; that is to say, the interest of the ruler and

stronger, and the loss of the subject and servant; and injustice the

opposite; for the unjust is lord over the truly simple and just: he is

the stronger, and his subjects do what is for his interest, and

minister to his happiness, which is very far from being their own.

Consider further, most foolish Socrates, that the just is always a

loser in comparison with the unjust. First of all, in private

contracts: wherever the unjust is the partner of the just you will find

that, when the partnership is dissolved, the unjust man has always more

and the just less. Secondly, in their dealings with the State: when

there is an income-tax, the just man will pay more and the unjust less

on the same amount of income; and when there is anything to be received

the one gains nothing and the other much. Observe also what happens

when they take an office; there is the just man neglecting his affairs

and perhaps suffering other losses, and getting nothing out of the

public, because he is just; moreover he is hated by his friends and

acquaintance for refusing to serve them in unlawful ways. But all this

is reversed in the case of the unjust man. I am speaking, as before, of

injustice on a large scale in which the advantage of the unjust is most

apparent; and my meaning will be most clearly seen if we turn to that

highest form of injustice in which the criminal is the happiest of men,

and the sufferers or those who refuse to do injustice are the most

miserable—that is to say tyranny, which by fraud and force takes away

the property of others, not little by little but wholesale;

comprehending in one, things sacred as well as profane, private and

public; for which acts of wrong, if he were detected perpetrating any

one of them singly, he would be punished and incur great disgrace—they

who do such wrong in particular cases are called robbers of temples,

and man-stealers and burglars and swindlers and thieves. But when a man

besides taking away the money of the citizens has made slaves of them,

then, instead of these names of reproach, he is termed happy and

blessed, not only by the citizens but by all who hear of his having

achieved the consummation of injustice. For mankind censure injustice,

fearing that they may be the victims of it and not because they shrink

from committing it. And thus, as I have shown, Socrates, injustice,

when on a sufficient scale, has more strength and freedom and mastery

than justice; and, as I said at first, justice is the interest of the

stronger, whereas injustice is a man’s own profit and interest.

Thrasymachus, when he had thus spoken, having, like a bath-man, deluged

our ears with his words, had a mind to go away. But the company would

not let him; they insisted that he should remain and defend his

position; and I myself added my own humble request that he would not

leave us. Thrasymachus, I said to him, excellent man, how suggestive

are your remarks! And are you going to run away before you have fairly

taught or learned whether they are true or not? Is the attempt to

determine the way of man’s life so small a matter in your eyes—to

determine how life may be passed by each one of us to the greatest

advantage?

And do I differ from you, he said, as to the importance of the enquiry?

You appear rather, I replied, to have no care or thought about us,

Thrasymachus—whether we live better or worse from not knowing what you

say you know, is to you a matter of indifference. Prithee, friend, do

not keep your knowledge to yourself; we are a large party; and any

benefit which you confer upon us will be amply rewarded. For my own

part I openly declare that I am not convinced, and that I do not

believe injustice to be more gainful than justice, even if uncontrolled

and allowed to have free play. For, granting that there may be an

unjust man who is able to commit injustice either by fraud or force,

still this does not convince me of the superior advantage of injustice,

and there may be others who are in the same predicament with myself.

Perhaps we may be wrong; if so, you in your wisdom should convince us

that we are mistaken in preferring justice to injustice.

And how am I to convince you, he said, if you are not already convinced

by what I have just said; what more can I do for you? Would you have me

put the proof bodily into your souls?