Kabanata Kabanata 1 · The Republic opens with a truly Greek scene—a festival in

honour of the goddess Bendis which is held in the Piraeus; to this is

added the promise of an equestrian torch-race in the evening. The whole

work is supposed to be recited by Socrates on the day after the

festival to a small party, consisting of Critias, Timaeus, Hermocrates,

and another; this we learn from the first words of the Timaeus.

When the rhetorical advantage of reciting the Dialogue has been gained,

the attention is not distracted by any reference to the audience; nor

is the reader further reminded of the extraordinary length of the

narrative. Of the numerous company, three only take any serious part in

the discussion; nor are we informed whether in the evening they went to

the torch-race, or talked, as in the Symposium, through the night. The

manner in which the conversation has arisen is described as

follows:—Socrates and his companion Glaucon are about to leave the

festival when they are detained by a message from Polemarchus, who

speedily appears accompanied by Adeimantus, the brother of Glaucon, and

with playful violence compels them to remain, promising them not only

the torch-race, but the pleasure of conversation with the young, which

to Socrates is a far greater attraction. They return to the house of

Cephalus, Polemarchus’ father, now in extreme old age, who is found

sitting upon a cushioned seat crowned for a sacrifice. ‘You should come

to me oftener, Socrates, for I am too old to go to you; and at my time

of life, having lost other pleasures, I care the more for

conversation.’ Socrates asks him what he thinks of age, to which the

old man replies, that the sorrows and discontents of age are to be

attributed to the tempers of men, and that age is a time of peace in

which the tyranny of the passions is no longer felt. Yes, replies

Socrates, but the world will say, Cephalus, that you are happy in old

age because you are rich. ‘And there is something in what they say,

Socrates, but not so much as they imagine—as Themistocles replied to

the Seriphian, “Neither you, if you had been an Athenian, nor I, if I

had been a Seriphian, would ever have been famous,” I might in like

manner reply to you, Neither a good poor man can be happy in age, nor

yet a bad rich man.’ Socrates remarks that Cephalus appears not to care

about riches, a quality which he ascribes to his having inherited, not

acquired them, and would like to know what he considers to be the chief

advantage of them. Cephalus answers that when you are old the belief in

the world below grows upon you, and then to have done justice and never

to have been compelled to do injustice through poverty, and never to

have deceived anyone, are felt to be unspeakable blessings. Socrates,

who is evidently preparing for an argument, next asks, What is the

meaning of the word justice? To tell the truth and pay your debts? No

more than this? Or must we admit exceptions? Ought I, for example, to

put back into the hands of my friend, who has gone mad, the sword which

I borrowed of him when he was in his right mind? ‘There must be

exceptions.’ ‘And yet,’ says Polemarchus, ‘the definition which has

been given has the authority of Simonides.’ Here Cephalus retires to

look after the sacrifices, and bequeaths, as Socrates facetiously

remarks, the possession of the argument to his heir, Polemarchus...

The description of old age is finished, and Plato, as his manner is,

has touched the key-note of the whole work in asking for the definition

of justice, first suggesting the question which Glaucon afterwards

pursues respecting external goods, and preparing for the concluding

mythus of the world below in the slight allusion of Cephalus. The

portrait of the just man is a natural frontispiece or introduction to

the long discourse which follows, and may perhaps imply that in all our

perplexity about the nature of justice, there is no difficulty in

discerning ‘who is a just man.’ The first explanation has been

supported by a saying of Simonides; and now Socrates has a mind to show

that the resolution of justice into two unconnected precepts, which

have no common principle, fails to satisfy the demands of dialectic.

...He proceeds: What did Simonides mean by this saying of his? Did he

mean that I was to give back arms to a madman? ‘No, not in that case,

not if the parties are friends, and evil would result. He meant that

you were to do what was proper, good to friends and harm to enemies.’

Every act does something to somebody; and following this analogy,

Socrates asks, What is this due and proper thing which justice does,

and to whom? He is answered that justice does good to friends and harm

to enemies. But in what way good or harm? ‘In making alliances with the

one, and going to war with the other.’ Then in time of peace what is

the good of justice? The answer is that justice is of use in contracts,

and contracts are money partnerships. Yes; but how in such partnerships

is the just man of more use than any other man? ‘When you want to have

money safely kept and not used.’ Then justice will be useful when money

is useless. And there is another difficulty: justice, like the art of

war or any other art, must be of opposites, good at attack as well as

at defence, at stealing as well as at guarding. But then justice is a

thief, though a hero notwithstanding, like Autolycus, the Homeric hero,

who was ‘excellent above all men in theft and perjury’—to such a pass

have you and Homer and Simonides brought us; though I do not forget

that the thieving must be for the good of friends and the harm of

enemies. And still there arises another question: Are friends to be

interpreted as real or seeming; enemies as real or seeming? And are our

friends to be only the good, and our enemies to be the evil? The answer

is, that we must do good to our seeming and real good friends, and evil

to our seeming and real evil enemies—good to the good, evil to the

evil. But ought we to render evil for evil at all, when to do so will

only make men more evil? Can justice produce injustice any more than

the art of horsemanship can make bad horsemen, or heat produce cold?

The final conclusion is, that no sage or poet ever said that the just

return evil for evil; this was a maxim of some rich and mighty man,

Periander, Perdiccas, or Ismenias the Theban (about B.C. 398-381)...

Thus the first stage of aphoristic or unconscious morality is shown to

be inadequate to the wants of the age; the authority of the poets is

set aside, and through the winding mazes of dialectic we make an

approach to the Christian precept of forgiveness of injuries. Similar

words are applied by the Persian mystic poet to the Divine being when

the questioning spirit is stirred within him:—‘If because I do evil,

Thou punishest me by evil, what is the difference between Thee and me?’

In this both Plato and Kheyam rise above the level of many Christian

(?) theologians. The first definition of justice easily passes into the

second; for the simple words ‘to speak the truth and pay your debts’ is

substituted the more abstract ‘to do good to your friends and harm to

your enemies.’ Either of these explanations gives a sufficient rule of

life for plain men, but they both fall short of the precision of

philosophy. We may note in passing the antiquity of casuistry, which

not only arises out of the conflict of established principles in

particular cases, but also out of the effort to attain them, and is

prior as well as posterior to our fundamental notions of morality. The

‘interrogation’ of moral ideas; the appeal to the authority of Homer;

the conclusion that the maxim, ‘Do good to your friends and harm to

your enemies,’ being erroneous, could not have been the word of any

great man, are all of them very characteristic of the Platonic

Socrates.

...Here Thrasymachus, who has made several attempts to interrupt, but

has hitherto been kept in order by the company, takes advantage of a

pause and rushes into the arena, beginning, like a savage animal, with

a roar. ‘Socrates,’ he says, ‘what folly is this?—Why do you agree to

be vanquished by one another in a pretended argument?’ He then

prohibits all the ordinary definitions of justice; to which Socrates

replies that he cannot tell how many twelve is, if he is forbidden to

say 2 x 6, or 3 x 4, or 6 x 2, or 4 x 3. At first Thrasymachus is

reluctant to argue; but at length, with a promise of payment on the

part of the company and of praise from Socrates, he is induced to open

the game. ‘Listen,’ he says, ‘my answer is that might is right, justice

the interest of the stronger: now praise me.’ Let me understand you

first. Do you mean that because Polydamas the wrestler, who is stronger

than we are, finds the eating of beef for his interest, the eating of

beef is also for our interest, who are not so strong? Thrasymachus is

indignant at the illustration, and in pompous words, apparently

intended to restore dignity to the argument, he explains his meaning to

be that the rulers make laws for their own interests. But suppose, says

Socrates, that the ruler or stronger makes a mistake—then the interest

of the stronger is not his interest. Thrasymachus is saved from this

speedy downfall by his disciple Cleitophon, who introduces the word

‘thinks;’—not the actual interest of the ruler, but what he thinks or

what seems to be his interest, is justice. The contradiction is escaped

by the unmeaning evasion: for though his real and apparent interests

may differ, what the ruler thinks to be his interest will always remain

what he thinks to be his interest.

Of course this was not the original assertion, nor is the new

interpretation accepted by Thrasymachus himself. But Socrates is not

disposed to quarrel about words, if, as he significantly insinuates,

his adversary has changed his mind. In what follows Thrasymachus does

in fact withdraw his admission that the ruler may make a mistake, for

he affirms that the ruler as a ruler is infallible. Socrates is quite

ready to accept the new position, which he equally turns against

Thrasymachus by the help of the analogy of the arts. Every art or

science has an interest, but this interest is to be distinguished from

the accidental interest of the artist, and is only concerned with the

good of the things or persons which come under the art. And justice has

an interest which is the interest not of the ruler or judge, but of

those who come under his sway.

Thrasymachus is on the brink of the inevitable conclusion, when he

makes a bold diversion. ‘Tell me, Socrates,’ he says, ‘have you a

nurse?’ What a question! Why do you ask? ‘Because, if you have, she

neglects you and lets you go about drivelling, and has not even taught

you to know the shepherd from the sheep. For you fancy that shepherds

and rulers never think of their own interest, but only of their sheep

or subjects, whereas the truth is that they fatten them for their use,

sheep and subjects alike. And experience proves that in every relation

of life the just man is the loser and the unjust the gainer, especially

where injustice is on the grand scale, which is quite another thing

from the petty rogueries of swindlers and burglars and robbers of

temples. The language of men proves this—our ‘gracious’ and ‘blessed’

tyrant and the like—all which tends to show (1) that justice is the

interest of the stronger; and (2) that injustice is more profitable and

also stronger than justice.’

Thrasymachus, who is better at a speech than at a close argument,

having deluged the company with words, has a mind to escape. But the

others will not let him go, and Socrates adds a humble but earnest

request that he will not desert them at such a crisis of their fate.

‘And what can I do more for you?’ he says; ‘would you have me put the

words bodily into your souls?’ God forbid! replies Socrates; but we

want you to be consistent in the use of terms, and not to employ

‘physician’ in an exact sense, and then again ‘shepherd’ or ‘ruler’ in

an inexact,—if the words are strictly taken, the ruler and the shepherd

look only to the good of their people or flocks and not to their own:

whereas you insist that rulers are solely actuated by love of office.

‘No doubt about it,’ replies Thrasymachus. Then why are they paid? Is

not the reason, that their interest is not comprehended in their art,

and is therefore the concern of another art, the art of pay, which is

common to the arts in general, and therefore not identical with any one

of them? Nor would any man be a ruler unless he were induced by the

hope of reward or the fear of punishment;—the reward is money or

honour, the punishment is the necessity of being ruled by a man worse

than himself. And if a State (or Church) were composed entirely of good

men, they would be affected by the last motive only; and there would be

as much ‘nolo episcopari’ as there is at present of the opposite...

The satire on existing governments is heightened by the simple and

apparently incidental manner in which the last remark is introduced.

There is a similar irony in the argument that the governors of mankind

do not like being in office, and that therefore they demand pay.

...Enough of this: the other assertion of Thrasymachus is far more

important—that the unjust life is more gainful than the just. Now, as

you and I, Glaucon, are not convinced by him, we must reply to him; but

if we try to compare their respective gains we shall want a judge to

decide for us; we had better therefore proceed by making mutual

admissions of the truth to one another.

Thrasymachus had asserted that perfect injustice was more gainful than

perfect justice, and after a little hesitation he is induced by

Socrates to admit the still greater paradox that injustice is virtue

and justice vice. Socrates praises his frankness, and assumes the

attitude of one whose only wish is to understand the meaning of his

opponents. At the same time he is weaving a net in which Thrasymachus

is finally enclosed. The admission is elicited from him that the just

man seeks to gain an advantage over the unjust only, but not over the

just, while the unjust would gain an advantage over either. Socrates,

in order to test this statement, employs once more the favourite

analogy of the arts. The musician, doctor, skilled artist of any sort,

does not seek to gain more than the skilled, but only more than the

unskilled (that is to say, he works up to a rule, standard, law, and

does not exceed it), whereas the unskilled makes random efforts at

excess. Thus the skilled falls on the side of the good, and the

unskilled on the side of the evil, and the just is the skilled, and the

unjust is the unskilled.

There was great difficulty in bringing Thrasymachus to the point; the

day was hot and he was streaming with perspiration, and for the first

time in his life he was seen to blush. But his other thesis that

injustice was stronger than justice has not yet been refuted, and

Socrates now proceeds to the consideration of this, which, with the

assistance of Thrasymachus, he hopes to clear up; the latter is at

first churlish, but in the judicious hands of Socrates is soon restored

to good-humour: Is there not honour among thieves? Is not the strength

of injustice only a remnant of justice? Is not absolute injustice

absolute weakness also? A house that is divided against itself cannot

stand; two men who quarrel detract from one another’s strength, and he

who is at war with himself is the enemy of himself and the gods. Not

wickedness therefore, but semi-wickedness flourishes in states,—a

remnant of good is needed in order to make union in action

possible,—there is no kingdom of evil in this world.

Another question has not been answered: Is the just or the unjust the

happier? To this we reply, that every art has an end and an excellence

or virtue by which the end is accomplished. And is not the end of the

soul happiness, and justice the excellence of the soul by which

happiness is attained? Justice and happiness being thus shown to be

inseparable, the question whether the just or the unjust is the happier

has disappeared.

Thrasymachus replies: ‘Let this be your entertainment, Socrates, at the

festival of Bendis.’ Yes; and a very good entertainment with which your

kindness has supplied me, now that you have left off scolding. And yet

not a good entertainment—but that was my own fault, for I tasted of too

many things. First of all the nature of justice was the subject of our

enquiry, and then whether justice is virtue and wisdom, or evil and

folly; and then the comparative advantages of just and unjust: and the

sum of all is that I know not what justice is; how then shall I know

whether the just is happy or not?...

Thus the sophistical fabric has been demolished, chiefly by appealing

to the analogy of the arts. ‘Justice is like the arts (1) in having no

external interest, and (2) in not aiming at excess, and (3) justice is

to happiness what the implement of the workman is to his work.’ At this

the modern reader is apt to stumble, because he forgets that Plato is

writing in an age when the arts and the virtues, like the moral and

intellectual faculties, were still undistinguished. Among early

enquirers into the nature of human action the arts helped to fill up

the void of speculation; and at first the comparison of the arts and

the virtues was not perceived by them to be fallacious. They only saw

the points of agreement in them and not the points of difference.

Virtue, like art, must take means to an end; good manners are both an

art and a virtue; character is naturally described under the image of a

statue; and there are many other figures of speech which are readily

transferred from art to morals. The next generation cleared up these

perplexities; or at least supplied after ages with a further analysis

of them. The contemporaries of Plato were in a state of transition, and

had not yet fully realized the common-sense distinction of Aristotle,

that ‘virtue is concerned with action, art with production’ (Nic.

Eth.), or that ‘virtue implies intention and constancy of purpose,’

whereas ‘art requires knowledge only’. And yet in the absurdities which

follow from some uses of the analogy, there seems to be an intimation

conveyed that virtue is more than art. This is implied in the reductio

ad absurdum that ‘justice is a thief,’ and in the dissatisfaction which

Socrates expresses at the final result.

The expression ‘an art of pay’ which is described as ‘common to all the

arts’ is not in accordance with the ordinary use of language. Nor is it

employed elsewhere either by Plato or by any other Greek writer. It is

suggested by the argument, and seems to extend the conception of art to

doing as well as making. Another flaw or inaccuracy of language may be

noted in the words ‘men who are injured are made more unjust.’ For

those who are injured are not necessarily made worse, but only harmed

or ill-treated.

The second of the three arguments, ‘that the just does not aim at

excess,’ has a real meaning, though wrapped up in an enigmatical form.

That the good is of the nature of the finite is a peculiarly Hellenic

sentiment, which may be compared with the language of those modern

writers who speak of virtue as fitness, and of freedom as obedience to

law. The mathematical or logical notion of limit easily passes into an

ethical one, and even finds a mythological expression in the conception

of envy (Greek). Ideas of measure, equality, order, unity, proportion,

still linger in the writings of moralists; and the true spirit of the

fine arts is better conveyed by such terms than by superlatives.

‘When workmen strive to do better than well,

They do confound their skill in covetousness.’ (King John. Act. iv. Sc.

2.)

The harmony of the soul and body, and of the parts of the soul with one

another, a harmony ‘fairer than that of musical notes,’ is the true

Hellenic mode of conceiving the perfection of human nature.

In what may be called the epilogue of the discussion with Thrasymachus,

Plato argues that evil is not a principle of strength, but of discord

and dissolution, just touching the question which has been often

treated in modern times by theologians and philosophers, of the

negative nature of evil. In the last argument we trace the germ of the

Aristotelian doctrine of an end and a virtue directed towards the end,

which again is suggested by the arts. The final reconcilement of

justice and happiness and the identity of the individual and the State

are also intimated. Socrates reassumes the character of a

‘know-nothing;’ at the same time he appears to be not wholly satisfied

with the manner in which the argument has been conducted. Nothing is

concluded; but the tendency of the dialectical process, here as always,

is to enlarge our conception of ideas, and to widen their application

to human life.

BOOK 2.